<![CDATA[Mick Davidson: Words & Pictures - Captain's Blog]]>Tue, 13 Nov 2012 00:45:11 -0800Weebly<![CDATA[Inspire, Perspire, Expire]]>Sun, 14 Oct 2012 12:09:32 -0800http://mickdavidsonpicturesword.weebly.com/6/post/2012/10/inspire-perspire-expire.htmlPicture
As of now my It's All About You blog will be monthly. I've decided to go this way for several reasons. One is my personal situation at the moment means I don't have the time (or the energy) to keep chasing people to take part.

The second is that finding people is ten times harder than I imagined. While I wasn't expecting to be awash in people volunteering themselves, the fact is there's been hardly any who've done so: I've had to ask almost everyone so far. And that takes time and energy, things I don't always have at the moment.

Of course I knew from the start that I'd be spending a fair amount of time looking for creative people and chasing them up. Most have been kind enough to consent, a few didn't want to, and there's a few more that have said yes but are too busy right now. 

This may not be rocket science, but it is all a bit of an adventure so one must expect ups and downs. One thing that does surprise me is that more people don't want to get involved. Actually I'm quite disappointed by this as I thought that most creative people would jump at the chance of getting themselves some free publicity. Of course, people don't have to join in, and they also have to decide whether the effort they put in is worth the rewards. When I first started this there were no numbers, but I can tell you now that the average viewing figures for unique visitors is anywhere between 500-800 per posting, which isn't bad at all. 

Some people believe that they can't write for toffee, so have to overcome all sorts of negative feelings before they can put pen to paper, so there's clearly psychological barriers too. That said, I don't think most of us would struggle to write 500 words or so about our inspiration and work. Being creative means working hard, much harder than non-creative people imagine. You'd think that those of us who decide to take on the art and publishing worlds single-handidly are not afraid of writing so little. But you'd be surprised at how many very talented people have said that they'd struggle with the writing. Writers have no such excuse though - so I'm keen to find out why more writers don't jump in.

If you review the people who have taken part and the quality of their writing and their thinking, I think you'll see that anyone who participates is among good company. I do try to maintain a certain editorial standard but I am always keen to maintain the original work as much as possible. Allowing the writer to say pretty much what they want in their own way are key points for me.

One thing's for sure, the world of blogging is a live and on-going experiment. Yes, there are setbacks and frustrations, but there's also a lot of positives. It's been an interesting experiment so far, and I've learnt a lot from doing it. But the best bits have been reading about what inspires other creative people and knowing that the IAAY has benefited and encouraged other people with their creative activities. Which is all the inspiration I need to carry on.
Cheers.

P.S. it's never too late to join the IAAY, so get in touch if you'd like to be featured in the next posting. See the guidelines for more details.
]]><![CDATA[Take Them Back]]>Sat, 06 Oct 2012 13:59:36 -0800http://mickdavidsonpicturesword.weebly.com/6/post/2012/10/take-them-back.htmlPicture
A short poem about music and loneliness.

Take Them Back
Sat in a cafe, Saturday night, on my own waiting for the band in the wrong bar. Dark candles burn under the ambient jazz; the warm murmuring of a sea of conversations barely heard wash over me. I stir them into my coffee and practise being alone.

Fragments of words break out across the room: I hear but am already deep within elsewhere. People, safe within their groups and warm cameraderie, look with cold interest at the singles on the stools.

The sax floats above us all. The sax, it has to be the sax; nothing else can float and curl around the unlisteners and snare them with its tales of love, or the melancholy of its Blues.

Outside redlight bikes plough through the rain and smokers freeze as their grey death haze floats away into a night sky that watches us all; the lonely and the players, the drunks and those whose only purpose is to walk and wonder if the world will ever take them back.
]]><![CDATA[The Fine Colour Of Rust - Review]]>Sun, 23 Sep 2012 05:04:12 -0800http://mickdavidsonpicturesword.weebly.com/6/post/2012/09/the-fine-colour-of-rust-review.htmlPicture
The Fine Colour Of Rust
by P.A. O'Reilly
Published by Blue Door/HarperCollins
I was fortunate enough to recieve an autographed copy of this book as a gift from my Antipodean literary advisor. Despite having both a free book and a personal message from the author, I shan't let either cloud my opinion here. 

But if you're looking for a good read about a group of not-quite-ordinary people struggling to carve a life out of a small town half way between Melbourne and and a great big open space, then you'd do well to pick up a copy. 

On the other hand, if you're looking for something fast-paced and where the action explodes off the page, this isn't for you: this story moves at it own pace, it unfolds gradually and gives you the time to savour the grains and dust that make up so much of our lives.

The story revolves around Loretta Boskovic, a single mother among a sea of single mothers who daydreams of capturing the heart of a reliable and hopefully (though always imaginary) well-heeled man, whilst inspiring the rest of the town of Gunapan's population to do battle with big and small government. Her much dreamed of man also has to come with a pretty decent car because her own, as we explore in great detail, is always en-route to the scrapyard.

The town is, by and large, forgotten by everyone bar the locals and is thus ripe to be shafted by unscrupulous property dealers. Not only do they plan to nick the local water supply, they see the town as a sort of feeder factory of workers for the resort they plan to build (with help from some obliging members of the local council). That's battle No 2.

Battle No 1 involves dragging the Minister for Education, Elderly Care and Gaming into Gunapan to talk to the residents about their never-going-to-give-up battle to save their children's school from closure.

And if the minister's title brings a smile to your lips then you'll be happy to know that the book is laced with this kind of humour. It's not quite black, but for every situation Loretta and the town finds themselves in, there's nearly always a humorous lining. For me, one of the great lol moments was the hospital scene between Loretta, her sick mother and Loretta's children, which is both bizarre and sharply dark.

The characters, their lives and experiences are all well written and believeable - you warm to them all (except the scattering of baddies). If, like me, you read foreign literature to gain something of an insight into how other nations think and act, then you won't be disappointed, though it'd probably be wise not to imagine that the Gunapanians represent all of Oz. On the other hand, the issues being dealt with here are universal, the sort of things we read about wherever we are.

One of the things I like about reading books in non-British English is to discover how the langauge used differs to mine. So would I say that it is typically Ozzie in voice and circumstance?

I can't say I know enough about Australia and her people to comment, but it does reflect a certain gritiness, a willingness to get on with life without much moaning about what it's throwing at them. The language is undoubtedly Aussie, but given that Oz English is by and large British English, you only notice the difference in the details. In a way I'm a little disappointed by this: I know that if I read an American novel the English will be very different to British English. But this isn't a criticism of the book, it just shows how close Oz and British English still are.

My only real criticism is there is a long-ish build up to a fairly important event which we jump over, to land in the aftermath of an explanation of how it had unravelled and been dealt with. I felt slightly cheated because I wanted one or two of the baddies to get their come uppance, and I wanted the satisfaction of witnessing it.

On the other hand, O'Reilly twists and binds the ups and downs with so much humour and humanity that it's pretty easy to forgive her for not satisfying my expectations in that department.

It isn't a difficult book to read: the pages turn almost by themselves as O'Reilly's easy style of writing and the laughs keep you wanting more. Overall, I really enjoyed this snapshot of middle-of-nowhere Australia, a place populated with every-day people struggling to bring happines into some pretty tough lives, and not giving up on this despite the commercial and political skulduggery. Personally, I'd like to find out what happens next, but failing this, will settle for reading the rest of O'Reilly's back-catalogue.

You can order the book from Amazon, and while you're waiting, you can read the excellent interview with the author on her website.
]]><![CDATA[September 16th, 2012]]>Sun, 16 Sep 2012 15:43:05 -0800http://mickdavidsonpicturesword.weebly.com/6/post/2012/09/september-16th-2012.htmlPicture
My blog this week is a jumble of words collectively known as  Sometimes, an attempt to write down what goes on in my head at 
times.

Sometimes
Sometimes it feels like you've got all day; others like you're just about to die and you know that every last second is more  precious than liquid gold, and that you cannot wast a drop of that pure, sweet water.

Sometimes you can look in the mirror and hear the sparkling  optimism of the child you were and ignore the shambling wreck you've become; all grubby colours and stains that penetrate decaying shirts to settle on your soul: the badges of guilt and failure.

Sometimes all you can hear is a long screaming silence, as if all  the gaps between your atoms had unfolded, stretching you across space, running you away towards the edge of time and back to the beginning, where you sparkle and fluoresce and transcend and break 
free of the dirt, erupting into an existence beyond life.
]]><![CDATA[Poetry or Death?]]>Sun, 09 Sep 2012 15:22:55 -0800http://mickdavidsonpicturesword.weebly.com/6/post/2012/09/poetry-or-death.htmlPicture
One of the driving forces behind my writing is the desire to express myself in any way I choose. So I'm not going to limit my words and imagery because it might be, to some, a little too unreal or or unconventional and break accepted writing conventions or go against current publishing fashions.

I think that to be a writer, in fact to be any kind of artist, you have to be breaking rules on a daily basis. If you're not, you're not really trying; you're staying within the boundaries set by other people and your/our own limitations.

Art is not about following rules.

Or is it? 

It's easy enough to say that I will break the rules and not give a damn - but at the same time I also want enough commercial success to retire from being an employee and regain control of my life.

Can I do that and break the rules? Surely staying within the rules is the fast path to success? I suppose it can be, but that's about the best I can say.

What about breaking the rules to succeed? Loads of poeple have done it this way. Many have stayed true to themselves and their art and won. Given that there is no garantee of success either way, why should we bother to stay safe?

One of the problems we face nowadays is that the marketing depts of publishers are very focussed on what sells, so they like genres, something that is easy to sell, something that slots straight into the current template - fast and easy, bang, bang, bang and it's done.

You can't blame them for that. But it's not all they do. There are reams of books out there that break the rules or aren't a safe read - and the first that leaps to mind is The Road by Cormac McCarthy. 

It's not exactly a comfortable read is it? It's grey and dirty and depressing from start to finish, but I still think it's great, as are all his other books.

So, given that publishers are willing to stick their necks out, why do we as writers/artists stay within the rules, within our own comfort zones?

This is a question I ask myself again and again as I dream of writing the sort of story that I really want to write, whilst doing my best to ignore the demons that crawl around inside my head urging me into pastel green pastures with paths, easily accessed and well worn, with no surprises and no food for the soul.

So my advice, assuming I'm qualified to give any, is to follow what you think is right; write what you want and write it for you. Bring poetry into your work and dare to find your own images and way. You should also gather a few supporting friends, friends who will speak the truth and want you to achieve the best you can.

I'm still struggling with this, and I expect that struggle to go on for a long time. My thanks and love go to those who help me to realise better things, it's because of you that it will happen.
Cheers.
]]><![CDATA[Parachuting Into the Unknown with an Open Mind]]>Sun, 02 Sep 2012 05:31:42 -0800http://mickdavidsonpicturesword.weebly.com/6/post/2012/09/parachuting-into-the-unknown-with-an-open-mind.htmlPicture
(Or Death to Preconceptions and the Expected!)

Today I was directed via Twitter to a website featuring a writer's work, one who, as the publication says, forces the reader to head to the dictionairy "more than once per poem."

This is supposed to be a good thing, but in my view it isn't. And it isn't because, for me at least, I want to enjoy the whole experience of reading a poem in one go, without interuption. 

If I have to get the dictionary out (more than once), then the flow is lost and the joy of discovering and reacting to it from the clean sheet of my mind, is lost. And that is something you cannot get back.

For example, imagine you are going to an exhibition featuring work by your favourite artist. You know there is work you've never seen in the flesh before. Perhaps you'll be lucky enough to see something you never seen before, even in photos. Imagine that moment when you see it, when your heart stops and everything you see squeezes its way into your eyes and your psyche.

What is that feeling and how powerful is it? 

This is what I like to get out of all art, whether it be visual, aural or written.

Another example, travelling. When I go somewhere for the first time, I want to experience it in the most open way I can - which means with as little prior knowledge as possible (tricky in this information-driven age, but as we all know, reading about somewhere is nothing like being there).

I don't want to be told it is this old or made by this person and why: I want to feel its impact on my psyche without preconceptions, or at least with as few as possible. And even with the best intentions, prior knowledge from guides etc is biased in some way - even if its just doing it's best to give you the basics.

This is what I try to avoid: I want to explore it with my own eyes and feelings and eventually thoughts. After that, I'm happy to know whatever people think I ought to.

This is the same with poetry. I don't want to have to sit with a dictionairy by my side, I don't want to be tripped up by new words or forced off course by words that are being bent into a new shape that isn't readily understandable.

This isn't to say that these things are wrong, they just don't suit me. Et vive la difference!
]]><![CDATA[Masterpiece, or Not?]]>Sun, 26 Aug 2012 06:26:41 -0800http://mickdavidsonpicturesword.weebly.com/6/post/2012/08/masterpiece-or-not.htmlPicture
I've just finished reading Julian Barnes novel, The Sense of an Ending, which I really enjoyed for a number of reasons. One of the reviews listed on the back cover describes it as a masterpiece.

Which made me start wondering just what is a masterpiece. We all have our own opions and it is a matter of taste, but one thing's for sure, book reviewers have to be really careful about using such words (they're entitled to their opinion of course), because such high praise can only lead to high expectations among readers. 

And if these are not met, you are not only disappointed with the read but also then question its validity and potentially any other reviews from the same source.

That said, I really enjoyed the book, which is published by Vintage Press, it's a simple story and deceptively easy to read. It's told from the perspective of a man who's looking back on his life and dealing with things that happened at university (by and large) and the impact of those times on him (and a few other people) now. 

It's also to do with memories, and how these change with time, and how they become less certain as we age. Amateur writers such as myself can learn a lot from how the book's written. For example, you don't have to write 100k words to tell a story or for your work to be valid; the story can be low key - you don't have to have tons of actions or plot twist: simplicity can be your friend.

But as much as I enjoyed it, it's not a masterpiece in my opinion. A couple of indisputable masterpieces for me are Cormac McCarthy's The Border Trilogy and Mervyn Peake's Gormenghast.

These books take you deep inside the story, far, far away from the here and now. Then they bury you in words and ideas, they are poetic and imaginative in ways that take you can never expect. They lead you away from yourself whilst simultaneously taking you deep inside yourself. 

And when you've finished reading you are changed: the book is tattooed on your psyche. You are still savouring and thinking about them a year later and wondering how much more time has to pass before you've forgotten enough to start reading them again.

That, for me, is the difference between a masterpiece and a damn good read.
Cheers.
]]><![CDATA[It's All About Inspiration]]>Thu, 23 Aug 2012 13:09:23 -0800http://mickdavidsonpicturesword.weebly.com/6/post/2012/08/its-all-about-inspiration1.htmlPicture
Welcome to IAAY number ten!

This week it's all about Australian guitarist Lincoln Brady, someone who not only performs other people's work (and pushes the boundaries of the classical repertoire off the edge of the planet), but also composes his own work. As a guitarist myself, I take my hat off to anyone who does both.

IAAY is published every Wednesday (yes, all of them), so there's plenty of time for you to join in too! Contact me via the comments section or via Twitter: @mickdavidson.

It’s All About Lincoln Brady
It’s All About Jan Freidlin

Hello, my name is Lincoln Brady and I am a classical guitarist living and working in Adelaide, South Australia. I’d like to talk about several artistic projects I’ve been involved with over the past four years.

During this time I’ve worked with the excellent Russian-born,Israeli composer - Jan Freidlin - premiering several of his new compositions for guitar:


Freidlin is a very prolific composer with a very poetic but accessible style. The above compositions are very different in terms of emotional content revealing a broad-ranging imagination and a great technical proficiency.

’Moon Triptych’ is kind of ‘serenade’ to the moon but with a deeply ‘existential’ feel. ‘TangO’ Clock’ is a musical description of ‘a day in the life of a tango dance teacher’, as revealed in the titles of the 5 movements: ‘Entrada at Sunrise’, ‘Morning Milonga’, ‘Tanghitta at Noon’, ‘Evening Tango-Vals’, and ‘Final at Night’.

“Five Venetian Glass Poems” is yet another contrasting piece – a meditation on the special poetry of the amazing glass-Art exhibits of Venice. The video clip of this suite is hosted on the website of the "Murano  Museo del Vetro” (a museum in Venice).

Each of my interpretations of these pieces appear on Youtube with exquisite picture sequences organised by the composer himself.

Last year, at my request, Freidlin generously composed and dedicated a piece for my guitar & flute duo (DUO ORFEO) called “Delphic Music Games in Three Events” for guitar & flute  & woodblocks - it was premiered at the Adelaide International Guitar Festival on 9th August, 2012.

It’s All About Me

This year I’ve also resumed writing a composition project of my own – “Six Preludios” for solo guitar. They are written in a mainly traditional and romantic style. Although they have fairly formal musical structures they have a ‘personal’  tone – written more for pleasure  rather than attempting to make a big statement. I gave them Italian titles which just seemed appropriate and which alluded to classical music tradition:


‘Preludio Misterioso’ is probably the best one and it is my favourite. This piece uses a rapid right hand arpeggio technique which is used in many classical guitar compositions.

It was inspired by a piece by the American progressive- Rock band ‘Spastic Ink’ which only uses two pitches and lasts for an amazing four minutes! This technique is also used in classical music composition.

It’s called ‘Limited Pitch Class Set’ - the composer restricts himself to a small selection of pitches forcing himself to rely on other musical parameters such as rhythm, harmony, tone colour to create interest. My piece, though, employs five pitches, two chords, and lasts only two minutes!

You can find links to more of Lincoln's performances of pieces by other composers on his website.
]]><![CDATA[It's All About Inspiration]]>Wed, 15 Aug 2012 12:03:36 -0800http://mickdavidsonpicturesword.weebly.com/6/post/2012/08/its-all-about-inspiration.htmlPicture
Welcome to IAAY number nine!

This week it's all about British writer and editor, Marian Newell, whose first novel was inspired by childhood memories of the Cinque Ports and their lurid smuggling folklore.

IAAY is published every Wednesday (yes, all of them), so there's plenty of time for you to join in too! Contact me via the comments section or via Twitter: @mickdavidson.

It’s All About Marian Newell
It’s All About Charles Dickens

A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens (1859)

 It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.’

This must be one of the greatest closing lines in fiction, quite an achievement when you remember that the book has a cracking opening line too. The words moved me to tears when I first read them in my late teens, and the nobility of the protagonist’s sacrifice retains its power for me still.

This book shaped my taste in fiction, making me seek grand themes and psychological depth.  Most of all, it piqued my interest in motivation. I want to get to know characters as if they were real people, and I want to understand what they want and why they act as they do.

One of the grand themes in this story is redemption. It asks whether a worthless life can be redeemed by a single noble act. It also invites us to consider whether the sacrifice has less value because the life is worthless, a burden to the man who sacrifices it.

The quoted words are finely crafted, using the literary device anaphora — the repetition of a word or phrase at the beginning of successive clauses. This occurs throughout the book and underlines the recurring theme of doubles. There are the two cities of the title and the two characters so alike that they can be repeatedly mistaken for one another.

For me, though, the power of the quote is in the satisfying resolution it gives to the story. An ending that might have been unbearably sad is lifted by the fact that death holds no fear. There is utter confidence that the path taken will leave everyone, including the man who forfeits his life, better off.

A sense of closure remains important to me. I often find stories that end ambiguously to be unsatisfying. While recognising that there is value in personal interpretation, I usually prefer to know what the storyteller means rather than to discover my own meaning in their work.

It’s All About Me

A Devil’s Dozen by Marian Newell (2012)

This, my debut novel, is a fictionalised account of real events. It describes the rise and fall of a smuggling gang that operated on the Kent coast in the 1820s. The tale demanded a strong focus on historical detail and actual incidents but my own interest was more in the nature of the fourteen viewpoint characters. I wanted to use fiction as a tool to look beyond the recorded facts.

It struck me that any group of that size includes a variety of people, doing similar things but for a range of reasons. Having read as much as I could about the time and place, I considered how the men might have differed in their backgrounds and circumstances. The motivations of the characters that I created range from need to greed, from the wildly irrational to the coldly calculated.

My story is unlike A Tale of Two Cities in that it has a factual core and doesn’t impose specific themes on what took place. However, and with no comparison to Dickens’ mastery of the form, I do see ways in which my work was influenced by his. Much of the impact of the sacrifice in A Tale of Two Cities comes from its unexpected source. Our expectations are often confounded: people we consider reliable may let us down, while people we dismiss may surprise us. I tried to cast against type when I allocated actions derived from contemporary local rumours to the individuals I had characterised.

Returning to endings, the optimism of mine certainly owes a debt to his. I was mindful of the importance of opening and closing chapters and considered my personal favourites. It was Rebecca (‘Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.’) and A Tale of Two Cities that sprang to mind.

My manuscript originally ended on a reflective and slightly sad note. During the editing process, I revised it to conclude in a more forward-looking way:

‘You sees that, boys? Paul? Tommy? You sees it?’

Tommy looked at Pierce, who closed his mouth and swallowed. They all stared at each other for a moment or two, then Pierce cleared his throat and shouted back.

‘We see it. By Christ, Quacks, we all see it.’

I had lacked the confidence to stop at this point but feedback made me realise that cutting what came afterwards would make the ending stronger. Readers would be able to see what the future held, just as my characters were seeing it.

I wonder if Dickens knew all along that his story would end with the uplifting sentiment we read in the final version. I suspect he probably did.

Picture
]]><![CDATA[It's All About You]]>Wed, 08 Aug 2012 15:15:04 -0800http://mickdavidsonpicturesword.weebly.com/6/post/2012/08/its-all-about-you7.htmlPicture
Welcome to IAAY number eight!

This week it's all about British writer, Christina Cummings, who is one of the driving forces behind the Winchester writing group Pencils And What-Not.

IAAY is published every Wednesday (yes, all of them), so there's plenty of time for you to join in too! Contact me via the comments section or via Twitter: @mickdavidson.

It's All About Christina Cummings
It’s all about Everything
When I agreed to take part in IAAY, I hadn't predicted that, to my frustration, I would discover that everything I thought I knew and everything I’ve known would vie for my attention, so that to take just one aspect and offer it up as my inspiration would be to dishonour all the rest. It’s definitely part of my nature to want to gather up life’s wonders, like so many flowers and then not let go.

On deeper thought, some of the stems have fallen from my grasp and petals that once brought joy or solace, have dried up, lost to that place inside that exists just beyond memory. There are recollections more fresh than some, but nevertheless integral to my soul where inspiration nourishes me like rainfall.

I am not going to opt out altogether, or dodge this question for one simple reason: To know that which has driven me thus far. In questioning what inspires me, I question myself. 

So, where does my inspiration lie? My answer is this: in everything.

Because I am a writer, however, I think mention here of just three of the many works I’ve read that have over my lifetime allowed the quiet seed to grow, is to give tribute to the symbiotic love affair which only writers and readers know.  
  • The Women’s Room by Marilyn French
  • If you give a Mouse a Cookie by Laura Numeroff
  • The Tie that Binds by Kent Haruf

It’s All About Me
My first manuscript is entombed upon a floppy disc. It dates back from the early 90’s when I was living in Philadelphia’s now hip and trendy Northern Liberties. Typing with fumbled fingers, I began the purge that underpins the need to tell a story. As the word count whirled, it was as though I were the captain of a ship, steering my crew to a safe harbour. Each tiny bit of action, each character was at the mercy of my helm. Or so I thought. What actually occurred was a mutiny. The moment they were christened, or given a voice, they guided me until on a ‘good writing day’ we were all in it together. 

The synopsis wasn’t something I’d really thought about, but it was to be a story of unrequited love set in the deserts of Jordan. It seemed right to base the plot on what I knew, and the memory of spending a night near Petra with stars for blankets and a pillow of stone was the catalyst for what was the opening scene. 

However this unfinished first manuscript remains hidden even from me now, as I can’t view it and had never printed it off. Of this fact, I'm glad – I’m sure the naivety of my prose would make me blush.

The piece of writing I have chosen for IAAY, however, is a more recent foray. The years in the interim have been rich with extremes and there have been days I’d forgotten how to write. But there are good days too. This excerpt is from a novel that I'm working on, for which my daily inspiration is the resolute and unwavering regard for life that I have, over time, learned from my mother, in order to survive. 

“Autumn is for mushroom picking. Eidel wandered the woods, keeping her eyes down. The basket she carried, was the one her mother used to keep the laundry in once she’d unpegged it from the line ~ she used to tie the rope from the cornice of the caravan to a nearby tree or fencepost, and for as long as they camped in that spot, clothes would flutter like bunting along the length of it. Now, over half a century later, on a warm day, if Eidel leaned in close, she liked to imagine that she could still inhale the floral pleats of her mother’s skirts and with that breath she would picture her mother folding cotton sheets and smoothing down hems with hennaed fingers, smiling, happy at work. Her mother had never known how to feel otherwise.“
©Christina Cummings 2012

You can find out more about Christina at the following: 
Bio:
Chester-born Christina nursed, taught and sang her way around the world. Now living in Winchester, she is the mother of two amazing children, who still listen to her stories. She is currently wrestling with a novel.
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