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Happy New Year.

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Happy New Year, and what better way to begin than with some lucky white heather? Every January I tell myself I am going to do something different during the year. Usually I get to September/October, with nothing having been done and I decide it is too late to start for that year, but promise to get down to things once another new year is upon us.  Will this year be any different? Possibly not, but I do have some incentive. I have a new publisher for my next novel, which is due out around October - a dark fantasy/horror set during an Arts Festival on a remote Scottish island. (Not sure where I get my inspirations from). I have a marketing guru friend who tells me the best time to begin marketing a book is before it is written, so I've missed the boat on that one, but I am already thinking up a strategy. Visiting the States isn't quite on the schedule, although perhaps Helmsdale, Auchterarder and Monrose. You may find some little snippets of the story find their way into a few of

Literary Skulduggery from Shetland, courtesy of poet Chris Tait

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  I am excited and delighted that poet Chris Tait has agreed to contribute to the Quill. Chris is not only an outstanding poet, but is also a playwright, fantasy writer and spoken word supremo. She currently lives in Glasgow, but her writing still very much flows from her Shetland roots. The poems are from her anthology Literary Skulduggery.  https://amzn.eu/d/11yOlvM The Stone Solitaire Islands A skull in a blistered helmet Called from the Nordic crews His bones marched streets in amulets And sailed seas like a bruise His ruined croft was Camelot A golden egg by a goose Rings on cushions from rats Bonds for the guizer jarl's house The ruffled manes of hamlets In a rock measured radius Crofters jousted for their plots Tassels are handcuffs and a noose Beelzebub and his Minions Patrick's criminal fingerprints He clumsily slipped the sovereign At the castle with razor points The carriage burst to a pumpkin The little match girl was a servant Learning spells with cauldrons Banquet

Travels with my Neighbour

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                                   Our first trip, so to speak, was a quick jaunt to Birsay for a tea/coffee in the tearoom there and a look out to sea. It wasn't until after our second 'joy ride' - a sunny drive to the round church in Orphir, en route encountering a distinctly uncooperative set of traffic lights, and admiring a preening seal in the shallow waters of Stenness loch - that the idea for a journal took root. Although neither my neighbour nor I are reduced to wearing purple (well, maybe sometimes) we are both of an age to laugh in the face of self-consciousness, which augured well for hearty adventures. Two things came to mind when planning this blog. The first is that due to declining eyesight and reduced mobility my neighbour no longer drives herself. During our trip she observed with wonder the cloud patterns over Hoy and the sun ripples on the water of the loch, and declared how beautiful Orkney is. My neighbour has lived on Orkney for many years, but not ge

Irish Folklore by Nina Oram

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  I am delighted to welcome Irish based writer Nina Oram to the Quoyloo Quill. Nina's books are bulging treasure chests of Celtic folklore, some of which are not too far removed from Orcadian folk legends. When Babs offered me the chance to talk about my writing and Irish mythology and folklore, I was thrilled and honoured. I thought it would be so easy, after all, my trilogy and many of my stories are immersed in Ireland’s rich tradition, and yet the more I tried to put my thoughts down, the more elusive they became. It was like unpicking a knot. My YA Dark Fantasy Trilogy started with a trip to the Carrowkeel Tombs, five neolithic tombs perched on top of a hill in County Sligo in the province of Connacht. Being able to sit inside stone walls that had been built millennia ago, listening to the wind shriek past, was for me, sublime. Evoking, as it always does, that strangely wonderous feeling of having connected with something magical. But old magic. The magic of the crow,

Saving Private Diaries by Orkney Scriever Alison Miller

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Thanks to Orkney Scriever, Alison Miller, for her reflections in this blog piece. Would I like my personal diaries and letters to be read by other people when I’m dead and gone? Would I like them mined for works of fiction? It’s not an easy question to answer. Sure, while I’m still on the planet, the thought of somebody raking through private letters and journals feels somewhat uncomfortable. What did I say? What did I reveal about myself that I would rather keep hidden? Did I malign people? Was any of it actionable? I could ensure this scenario never happens by getting rid of diaries and letters while I still have time. On the other hand, when I’m dead, I don’t imagine I’ll give a stuff.   I recall a writer friend telling me she’d destroyed all her journals, written over decades of her life because she didn’t want her daughters-in-law to read them when she’s gone. The pang I felt when she said this was visceral. How could she consign years of details of her life, years of thoughts, ye

Picture this, a day in December

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An odd title for the, belated, first blog of the year (and apologies to Blondie), but there is a reason. One of my New Year's resolutions is to take a photograph every day of something pertinent. So far, so good, although some are more interesting than others and I have had to revert to photographing my cats on quieter days, but I wonder if, come December, I shall still be clicking away, or will have long forgotten my January resolve. My other resolution, inspired by fab notelets I received for Christmas, is to write a 'proper' letter once a month and send it by Royal Mail to a friend or family member. Having long got out of the way of writing letters, this is not an easy task and seems a stupid one, given the convenience of email. No need to buy stamps and find a postbox, instant delivery and possible reply within minutes. However, there is something nice about receiving a letter or card in the post. My daughter did advise me, once, that there was no point getting a card u

Fifty Nine and Four Quarters

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The middle of this month saw a significant birthday arrive for me and I decided to celebrate for a week rather than just a day. My celebrations started the weekend before the actual day with a trip to Royal Leamington Spa for a Murder Weekend (Joy Swift's Original Murder Weekends) I first went to one of these events in 1986 and over the years I have been to a few. As well as a chance to exercise the little grey cells, the weekends are an excellent chance to dress up, pretend to be someone you're not and meet some fantastic people. For the fancy dress dinner, with a theme of 'T', myself and my sister dressed as beer cans and went as two cans (toucans). No spoilers, but the plot was fiendishly complicated and very apposite. A great time was had by all. Following the weekend, I joined other members of my family at Gleneagles to continue the celebrations, which included a trip to Edinburgh to hear an organ recital in Greyfriars, with pieces by Bach, Buxtehude and Franck.  F