Rhubarb? I am going to talk about rhubarb? Well kind of but not really. Rhubarb is a cafe/ brasserie / restaurant in Royal Leamington Spa and has become a retreat for my writer friends and I. I arrived at noon today to meet J, carrying a bag that was holding a folder of her writing that I had been reading (wonderful and original), her copy of the Bridport Prize winner’s collection from 2009, and a birthday parcel for her to open(an assortment of Moleskine journals). Our get-together was a much needed tonic; being able to talk writing and express our doubts over ever achieving our goals always gives me a renewed enthusiasm. I always come home and write.
Rhubarb has the most delectable interior: maroon walls, dried onions, garlic, chillies, flowers, large brass bowls of fruit, large candles on wax-coated pillars, red fairy lights over art work, huge mirrors, lit lanterns with two candles in each, art deco style lighting – eight globes on each chandelier, varying sized port hole mirrors, plants everywhere, ivy trailing up the oak staircase, cast-iron balustrade, dark, sultry, jazz playing, umbrella stands, papers to read, brown sugar in bowls, carafes filled with water, cream enamel jugs rimmed with black ribbon, home-made cakes under bell jars, drinking glasses in cupboards, long oak bar, croissants on elegant cake stands, candles everywhere, on wine racks, among dried teas stored in jars, casting shadows on the heavy velvet curtains. Need I go on? And the coffee is damn good too.
Had a rejection letter come through today from Mslexia for a poem I submitted to them. I was not too disappointed as it was a poem that I sent in ‘just for the hell of it’. Plus receiving letters of rejection reminds me that I am getting my writing out there and it is at least being read.
Something I must share with you: the other day a baby blue-tit flew into my window. It was somewhat stunned and my two cats were interested in having a second breakfast, so I picked it up. It sat on my hand for about ten minutes and was reluctant to leave when I tried setting it down in a safe place. Finally it stretched its wings for a minute or two then flew away. It was a lovely experience!
When I haven’t been assuming the role of Snow White, I have been brushing up on my grammar skills (please do not judge my grammar in my blog posts – these are conversational ramblings). Now I am reading split-infinitives everywhere. Also, I have begun (that is an irregular past participle you know!) writing a new short story called ‘The Purple People’. I should probably be writing more on it this evening, so I will tell you more about that next time.
My 
of a poem, only to scrap it the following day, or procrastinate over a single word for days then feel like I have won the lottery when I find the right one. Such is the writing life, and a good life it is too because when you get it right, which ultimately you do, it feels so damned good. My final assignment started as a short story but then, as many of my short stories do, it cocooned itself over night and emerged as a poem – an 84 line poem. I cannot mention content as it is an examinable piece of work, but the accompanying photographs may offer some insight.
