Readers… they liked it!

Greetings all,

Roving reporter Richmond coming to you from beautifully sunny Wales, where (amongst other things) I completed a 2700-word short story and gave a poetry reading (of my own stuff, a ‘terrible triptych of truth’) to much laughter and applause! I kid you not.

Anyway, we told you last time of a magazine commission which had come in and on which we duly executed a Richmond/Dawes double-act. Anyway, they liked it and I’m told it’ll be out imminently. What a relief, cos, well, you never know do you?

As for the burst of holiday-driven creativity, I reckon its something to do with the place I’m in. For those acquainted with Mr D Thomas and the small, strange town of Llareggub, you’ll know exactly what I mean and although it may not be the best photography in the world, here’s a quick look at what for me is the very best view.

Until the next time, my lovelies, I bid you a fond farewell.




Sorry for the silence, chaps.. or, when Living Life and Writing gets in the way of LiveLifeWrite…

What’s that about empty barrels making more noise? No, I’m not hungry…more like trying to find a suitably witty way of explaining what we’ve been a bit quiet.

Chickens, children, clients, commuting and real-life writing all prevail. Not necessarily in that order. This weekend we’re on point (or is it en pointe? Must look it up..) for a magazine piece in the launch edition of a brand new publication. This is all good.

If you know our stuff you’re probably up to date with Liz’s exploits – domestic or otherwise – on Fighting Fifty. If you’re not, do take a look as, quite frankly, it’s bloody good and mostly very funny. She’s also been working on corporate copy for a professional services client. My novel continues, slowly. ‘Nuff said!

Adieu for now, my friends. We’ll see you soon xxx

Did I mention…..

…. that you can buy the best selling anthology featuring a fabulous short story by Liz? Go to our shop for a speedy link. It’s a perfect stocking filler for Christmas, though I should probably add the health warning that it is really only readable by your more *ahem* raucous friends and relatives…..


Wonderful Wales, Lovely Laugharne..

Hi all – Hatty here. I’m writing from the bar of the brilliant Brown’s Hotel – – former haunt of Laugharne local, Dylan Thomas. To be honest, I’ve spent most of my days here this week, absorbing the way things just ‘are’ here. Even though its high season for holidays, you’d never really know it. Everyone just mixes in and I can honestly say I’ve never felt so welcome as a stranger in town.

When I started my original blog, Everyday Alchemy, my intent was to capture the moments that can pass us by; to celebrate the minor miracles of everyday that often go unnoticed. If there was ever a place that captures that idea, its here. I’m not sure I can do it justice in words, but even though I’m still here, the memories of magic move me, and I am already regretting tomorrow’s departure.

If you look online for images of Laugharne, you’ll get the magnificent ruined castle, Dylan’s boathouse, the receding tide revealing the flats and salt marshes, the densely wooded headland above the unique town that’s the likely inspiration for Under Milk Wood. You’ll see all that and more and indeed I have such photographs of my own. For me, though, this is the picture that captures it. When I took it, Mr Gibson said “that’s it, Twitterbird. That’s the picture of our time here”.

We’d just been sitting on Dylan’s Walk, dangling our feet over the flats when the tide had come in so fast we were ankle deep in a matter of minutes. The clouds were forming and reforming overhead, creating an ever-changing landscape in front of our eyes. To be moved by simple beauty to quiet tears of happiness is a rare and wonderful thing.

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On the beauty of friendship…whenever it comes your way.

I’ve spent the past week in Fairfax, Virginia, on a course to qualify in something that I thought I knew how to do before. Turns out I didn’t, but that’s another story. I do now, so that’s OK.

I was the sole Brit in the class and – in the face of the unknown – feeling very true to type (INFJ for those in the know). Anyway, we were there to learn about personality type, how to test for it and how to facilitate groups and individuals in understanding themselves and others in a more enlightened way. As you might imagine, in this, as in all such things, self-discovery comes first.

On day 2 I met Janet. Well, I say met. Technically we’d met the previous day (the class numbered but 17 in total) but had been sitting apart. I’m trying to pinpoint the part where I just ‘knew’ we were destined to be friends. It might well have been a exchanged glance at the comment of someone else. Very likely, in fact. There were a few of those throughout the week and a shared wavelength is almost irresistible, particularly when it feels like conspiracy. Get to the back of the class!!

We spent the latter part of the week sitting together after being paired for some activity or other. There seemed no need to change the arrangement after that. On the last day we connected online having shared stories of friends and relationships, politics and values, children (hers – I have none) and grandchildren (hers again – I have none of those either. Obviously).

Now, going home, I know without doubt that regardless of how often we see each other, she is one of my People.

The rest of you select and special ones know who exactly you are and I love you.

In memory

I wrote this in two years ago – how quickly time passes. RIP darling:

“The city is as loud and as ever it was, filled with traffic and footsteps, the chaos and hurry of the early morning commute to offices in skyscrapers and desks behind glass walls.

Strong sunshine bounces off the glass of her building, as she opens one of its windows, steps off the ledge, and releases herself into the air outside. She falls, arms whirring like a mechanical doll, flailing and clawing at the sky. The air rushes through her ears, still ringing from the sound of sirens and screams. She feels the adrenaline, the panic, the responsibility of her life slip away, and then, mercifully, silence. She is limp. An old toy, flung from a car window.

The only child of Serbian immigrant parents, my beautiful friend was born on 10th November 1968. She died in Brisbane on a sunny day in April, 2011.

Scholar, Lawyer, Daughter, Author. Friend.

I miss her, so very much.”

A poem

the only way to love is to cut your heart
into sections,
like the slices of celebration cake you hand out each year,
straining to hear whether the time has finally come,
and so many have asked,
that you are left with only
with which to feed yourself.


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