#rosie geelen

[prettylittlelyres]

Dear Reader,

it has happened at last! The world's saltiest bisexual (since Grantaire in Les Mis) has just met the world's pepperiest pansexual! Which is my condimenty way of saying that Florian Fleet has just met Rosie Geelen (yes, all my stories (so far) do take place in the same universe, with the notable exception of The Manylove Quarter, which is on hold anyway).

[jail-pat]

Final casting announcement for concert version of Camelot

London Musical Theatre Orchestra is proud to announce casting for their forthcoming concert version of Camelot at the London Palladium.

Lerner and Loewe’s majestic Camelot, winner of four Tony Awards, returns to the West End for the first time in over thirty years. Packed with some of musical theatre’s best songs, LMTO’s concert version with full orchestra will celebrate the centenary of Alan Jay Lerner’s birth at the West End’s favourite theatre, the London Palladium.

The role of Arthur will be played by Olivier Award-winner David Thaxton (Passion / Les Misérables / Jesus Christ Superstar), Guenevere will be played by Savannah Stevenson (Wicked / Aspects of Love / Follies), and Lancelot will be played by internationally renowned opera star Charles Rice (Mozart’s Requiem / The Barber of Seville / Candide).

Sam Swann (Jekyll & Hyde / Mr Selfridge / Vicious / Wendy & Peter Pan) will play Mordred, Clive Carter (Mamma Mia: Here We Go Again / Oklahoma! / Priscilla, Queen Of The Desert / We Will Rock You / Into the Woods) will play both roles of Pellinore and Merlyn, Nimue will be played by Celinde Schoenmaker (Barnum / The Phantom of the Opera / Les Misérables), Matthew McKenna (Sunset Boulevard / Starlight Express / We Will Rock You / Legally Blonde / The Phantom of the Opera) will play Sir Dinadan, Sir Lionel will be played by Emmanuel Kojo (Girl From the North Country / Show Boat / The Scottsboro Boys), Sir Sagramore will be played by Oliver Savile (Wicked / LMTO’s State Fair / The Phantom Of The Opera) and Raphael Higgins-Humes (Lion King / Motown The Musical / Matilda The Musical) will play Tom of Warwick.

The LMTO Chorus includes: Jake Byrom, Elissa Churchill, Charlotte Clitherow, Ed Court, Emma Fraser, Lee van Geelen, Erin Hair, Daniel Hall, Adam Hepworth, Matthew McDonald, Emma Oliver, Cameron Potts, Lydia Shaw, Rosie Williamson, Lizzie Wofford and Thomas Wright.

The London Musical Theatre Orchestra is conducted by founder Freddie Tapner, who said: “I’m extraordinarily excited to have this sensational cast join LMTO at the London Palladium for Camelot, led by Olivier Award-winner David Thaxton and Savannah Stevenson. I’m particularly thrilled to introduce opera star, Charles Rice, to musical theatre fans – I know you’ll fall in love with his voice, just as we did at LMTO HQ when we found him. Camelot hasn’t been seen in the West End for 30 years, and we can’t wait to share this glorious score with you on Saturday 6th October.”

This much-loved musical brings the legend of King Arthur to vivid life with an extraordinary score and book based on T.H. White’s novel The Once and Future King. When Guenevere falls for Lancelot, one of the Knights of the Round Table, Arthur’s loyalties and beliefs are tested, and the fate of his beloved Camelot hangs in the balance.

Camelot includes the songs “If Ever I Would Leave You”, “How To Handle A Woman”, “The Lusty Month of May” and “Camelot”.

REATIVE TEAM Conductor: Freddie Tapner Director: Shaun Kerrison Sound Designer: Simon Sayer for Autograph Lighting Designer: Mike Robertson Orchestra Leader: Debs White Executive Producer: Clive Chenery

Listings Information: Dates: Saturday 6th October Show: London Musical Theatre Orchestra: Camelot Venue: London Palladium Theatre Address: 8 Argyll Street, London, W1F 7TF Time: 7.30pm (2:30 hrs – including 20-minute interval. Doors open at 6.30pm)

[prettylittlelyres]

Happy Blorbo Blursday! Which one of your characters would benefit from modern medication the most? If your characters are modern, what medication would help them that they're not on?

Oh, thank you for the ask! Great question, and the answer is easy! (Perhaps an obvious trigger warning, but I think a necessary one.)

Trigger Warning: Medical Trauma, Serious Illness.

If Marianne Stafford from Vogeltje lived today, she would be diagnosed with Hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome and POTS, but, unfortunately for her, she lives in 1788.

Some of her descendants - including Rosie Geelen from "She Has No Name" (WIP title subject to change!) - have been diagnosed with it, as Rosie in particular lives in the 2020s.

Marianne has a beautiful eighteenth century wheelchair, built for her by her boyfriend (later husband) Gijs Geelen, but their great-great(etc) granddaughter Rosie has a modern lightweight wheelchair with an aluminium frame and power assist! Rosie also has a coordinated care plan under London hEDS specialists, so she sees a physiotherapist to help with her joint problems (Marianne suffered from these all her life, but thanks to modern medicine, Rosie will not), and has had surgery to repair a bowel prolapse (which would not have been possible in Marianne's era). POTS is now treatable!

Although Marianne's life was made easier by her socio-economic circumstances (the daughter of aristocrats, ward to King George III and Queen Charlotte of England, married to a carpenter-luthier, but keeping royal favour because spoilers!), the best physician in the country didn't know how to help her; there was no diagnosis to give her at the time, much less a prognosis to help her know what to expect. As things turned out, Marianne was still severely ill and in a lot of pain for most of her life. We don't know how many people lived with EDS before it was first recognised properly, but we know most of them had far fewer resources to help them than Marianne Stafford did. They are the people who would benefit most from modern medicine.

I have a similar illness to hEDS, Hypermobility Spectrum Disorder. It may even be the same illness, or I may have been misdiagnosed. There had always been something wrong with me when I was growing up, but HSD as a diagnosis didn't exist when I was a child; I spent more than two decades with my body literally falling apart, with no idea what was happening or why. In 2018 I was misdiagnosed with fibromyalgia, and believed I would always be sick and in pain (we still don't know what to do about fibromyalgia but we have just discovered it's autoimmune, so leaps are being made in research all the time). I followed the recommendations to exercise gently and rest when necessary, but never felt much improvement in my condition. Fast forward to 2021, when a colleague sent me to her physiotherapist, and he spotted the signs of hypermobility that had previously been missed (or perhaps ignored, I'm not sure). That triggered a chain of medical investigations that confirmed HSD (explaining the joint problems, manageable with physiotherapy) and hypothyroidism (explaining the fatigue, treatable with HRT). I also know I have to be careful about my skin as it's fragile, and I can loosely predict the problems I might have in the future, using information about hypermobility that is now easily available on the internet.

The internet would have helped Marianne (and her physician!) so much! Every day I see people with conditions like mine and hers talking to each other online. I've been part of these conversations and I've been able to learn from and teach others who are going through the same things as I am. It's not medicine, but it is a miracle, and it would have made Marianne's life so much easier.

I'm excited to see how research into hEDS, HSD and other chronic illnesses develops. I only wish that we could take that knowledge back in time and help people who suffered in the past, who wouldn't need to suffer now.

[prettylittlelyres]

Trapeze artists in iridescent leotards flew through the air overhead, and above them, delicate dancers clad in short chiffon dresses tiptoed to and fro on tightropes stretched between lampposts. The white fabric fluttered on the autumn breeze like crepe paper, draped over the graceful arms of the tightrope walkers so that they appeared to have wings, paper cranes in the smoky night.

from Rosie Geelen's book (currently untitled) by Hilary Hale

[prettylittlelyres]

She Has No Name (update)

I’m very happy to announce that I��ve written 3,500 words today, and that, with 27,182 words written so far for Camp NaNoWriMo, She Has No Name now sits at 41,186 words in total. Celebratory excerpt!

And I do have a good time with Suzette. We go out for coffee as soon as our last classes of the day have finished, and then we hop onto the next bus into town, riding to the mall.

There’s a little shop on the second floor, right next to a milkshake bar, that sells all kinds of incense and crystals and talismans, and it’s not the sort of place my parents would ever have allowed me to visit without teasing me for going into the bong shop, but my parents are not here, and it’s actually Suzette that suggests we take a look inside. I was right about to ask if we could, as well!

“Ooh, how have we been in Freymouth for over a month without seeing this place?” she signs, eyes lighting up as she skips towards the door. She turns around and holds out her hand to me. “Can we go in?”

“No, of course not; I forbid it,” I reply, grinning as I follow her in. And then I’m in. “Oh!”

I gaze around me at the racks of quartz-bead necklaces, at the tree-of-life pendants and the chip-bracelets, agates and opalites, citrines and amethysts, obsidians and jaspers all glittering in the amber light spilling from the stained-glass ceiling lamp. The whole shop is decked out in dark wood, polished mahogany floorboards reflecting every sparkle, every shimmer—and there must be thousands—as we approach the centre display. Semi-precious stones drip from fine metal arms, tumble stones in silver-wire cages dangling from black leather thong-strings, but just one in particular catches my eye.

Cherry quartz, carved into a heart just a little bigger than a grape, winks at me, draws me in, begs me to reach out and touch it. It’s so Rosie that I can almost see her face reflected in it, looking back at me with her beautiful smile.

Something touches my arm, and I look down at my elbow, to see Suzette’s warm brown fingers brushing gently against the sleeve of my china-blue sweater. Meeting her eye, I see her grinning at me, and knowing she’s come to exactly the same conclusion as I have.

We buy the necklace for Rosie—no matter that she said not to bring her anything for her flu; this has nothing to do with her flu and everything to do with wanting to treat our friend to something lovely—and as we’re paying, going halvesies, I spot a dish full of pin badges.

Rainbow pin-badges. Pride pin badges.

And I tap Suzette on the shoulder.

She’s caught up in smelling all the different kinds of incense the shop sells, but she spins on her heel and raises her eyebrows, fingers still clutching a box of patchouli joss sticks.

Grinning, I point to her, and then to myself. “Shall we get these as well?”

Suzette nods so vigorously that I worry for a moment she’ll hurt her neck. “God, yes.”

[prettylittlelyres]

She Has No Name (excerpt)

Hey, there, writeblr pals! Here’s Tiffany. We hate her. There will (maybe) be a song about it. But for the time being, let’s call her Stink Tiffany. Here she is at her absolute worst. So far. In her first scene. I wish I could say I made her dialogue up from scratch but it’s more or less word for word comprised ot things people have said to me, as far as I can tell, for the sole purpose of being exceedingly janky and gross.

(CW: casual, patronising and just plain rude audism below the cut (from the villain; the hero’s Deaf and has zero time for any of it))

Once I’ve changed, I prop my door open, but there’s no sign of the fourth girl after almost half an hour, so I go back to the kitchen and make myself a fresh cup of tea. Rosie comes in too, a moment later, parking her wheelchair at the table and unfolding her walking stick so that she can come and do the same.

She fills a tea strainer with a flowery blend, sets it up with a large mug, and leans against the counter, grinning slightly as she gazes at me,. “What’s your tomorrow looking like?”

I look at my phone for the timetable uni sent me. “I’ve got a bunch of introductory lectures, but I’m free from about two o’clock. What about you?”

“Ah, I don’t finish until three,” Rosie says, looking glumly at the floor. “But, hey, if you want to meet up afterwards, we could go and look around the city, get to know it a little?”

“Sure thing,” I say, “Have you ever been to Freymouth before?”

She doesn’t have time to answer before the door falls open and the same squat girl with the same emaciated ponytail shoves her way In. She jerks her chin at us, says, “Hi, I’m Tiffany,” and walks over to the nearest cupboard, setting down a crate on the kitchen floor and yanking the door open.

I see Rosie start to gesture to her, but don’t catch what she says.

“Oh, this is your cupboard?” Tiffany says, “Oh. OK. I thought we’d decide together who had which cupboard, but I guess not! Oh, well!” She gets up, and toes her crate—which is full of pots and pans and what I guess must be mugs wrapped in newspaper—into the middle of the kitchen. “Which cupboards are free?”

There are only four cupboards in the kitchen. Four cupboards, four drawers. I don’t know what to tell her about free cupboards, plural, since she actually just opened Doria’s cupboard, but I shrug apologetically and point to the single one that is, tucked away in the corner. “There’s that one,” I say, “Sorry it’s not very big.”

Tiffany’s shoulders slump and she trudges towards it, muttering something else I don’t catch, because she’s got her head in the cupboard and she’s clattering around with her kitchen things.

“What was that, sorry?” I ask, pointing vaguely at my ears and shaking my head. “I didn’t quite--”

Without looking up, Tiffany groans, but at least she stops crashing about. “I said, “this is why we should have talked about cupboards together,”” she repeats, “Are you deaf or something?”

Rosie and I exchange grimaces, and she watches me for my reaction.

I say, with a stroke of absolute genius, “Pardon?”

Scowling, Tiffany finally looks up, and sees my implants. Her face falls, and her mouth drops open. “Oh, my God,” she shouts, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—” She stands up and tries to stroke my shoulder, but I step away from her at the last moment, a bemused look on my face. I’m not bemused, though. I know exactly what she’s doing. I’ve dealt with this so many times before.

But I have no idea. I have no idea.

“If I’d known you were hearing impaired,” says Tiffany, still standing closer to me than I’d like, still speaking at the top of her voice, “I wouldn’t have—“ She shakes her head. “You understand. I didn’t mean to… I’m so sorry. I think it’s amazing that you’re here, really, I do. It must be so hard for you.”

I wonder if she realises how much harder I’m having to work to understand her, now that she’s shouting. Lip-reading… it’s not the best thing in the world… and it’s decidedly worse when someone’s contorting their face into the horrific shapes Tiffany’s making with her mouth. Surely it’s not meant to open that wide? I shouldn’t judge her. I know I shouldn’t judge her, and yet… There is something… that I have to clear up. Don’t I? It needs saying.

“It’s… amazing that I’m here… in this kitchen?” I say, knowing damn well I’m being a cheeky sod. Rosie knows it, too, and I can see her press her lips together out of the corner of my eye, trying to conceal her mirth, and… honestly? Not getting very far.

“At university!” Tiffany says, “All the hearing impaired kids at my school were really stupid.”

Now, we don’t have time to unpack all that. But… Jesus… Who does this girl think she is? “I’m sure they weren’t,” I say, “They probably just didn’t have access to the same opportunities as you did. Deaf kids aren’t stupid, mate. It’s just that most of us get let down by the school system.”

Tiffany nods. “Yeah, whatever. You probably know more about it than I do, I mean… But even so, it’s amazing.”

[prettylittlelyres]

She Has No Name (update)

I’ve written 3,800 words today, and I’ve pushed my Camp NaNoWriMo count up to 21,000+, so I’m back on track after a few days of being too sleepy to write much! I have enjoyed recent travel a lot, but it hasn’t left much energy for other things, unfortunately. But I’m very happy to say my total for She Has No Name since I very first started it on 14th February is now 35,557 and counting! Celebratory excerpt!

For once Rosie goes out with her faculty’s society, rather than with me and Suzette. EngSoc holds a lot of socials, but they’re usually fairly spontaneous, only announced after Rosie’s said she’ll come out with us, for ice cream, or a night of clubbing. So she’s not exactly a familiar face there.

We meet in the corridor, both on our way out for the evening.

“How do I look?” she asks, sitting up smartly in her chair and straightening out her vermillion leather jacket. It matches her lipstick, and she’s paired it with a blood orange eye shadow and sharp wings of black eyeliner. Her blonde hair falls around her shoulders in long, straight spikes, and she’s wearing a set of finger braces made from scarlet anodised steel. And black jeggings. She’s also wearing black jeggings.

“Extremely nice,” I say. I’m going to a pub near campus with Suzette, and I give Rosie a little twirl, so she can see my outfit: my patch-badge denim jacket, a pale blue chiffon dress that comes down to my mid-thigh, and navy boots that just go over my knees. “And me? How am I?”

“Terrible,” Rosie says, grinning, “Absolutely terrible.”

“Thank you, darling.” I bend to kiss her on the cheek. “You have a lovely evening, now.”

“You, too.”

[prettylittlelyres]

She Has No Name (excerpt)

I know, I know, I know, I said I’d leave She Has No Name on the back burner for the moment, but I accidentally did a little bit of writing while I was waiting for a lecture to start today, and it turned out quite prettily, so, because I just finished my project proposal and I’m now waiting for approval from my supervisor, I do feel a large amount less guilty about sharing with you a little celebratory excerpt! Here’s Rosie’s bedroom.

Rosie’s wheelchair’s parked under her desk, and as she closes the door behind us I look around. There’s a large poster of a ladybird, painted in watercolours, on the wall by her bed, which she’s made up with a velvety red blanket, embroidered with gold thread, flowers and vines snaking all over the fabric. On her windowsill, there’s a cut glass vase full of carmine roses, colour as bold as lipstick, and as I peer at them from the spot where I’m standing, I realise that they’re made of satin ribbon. Very cool.

[prettylittlelyres]

She Has No Name (update)

I’ve just finished Chapter Three of the first draft, and I’m currently at 9,000+ so here’s a fun little celebratory excerpt!

Our kitchen window faces south, so we can’t really see much of the sunset, but the sky’s turning reddish-orange, gold embers of a fire dwindling behind a glass of red wine, candlelight flickering against the lustrous pile of a swath of scarlet velvet.

I check my watch. It’s well past six p.m., and we’re the only ones in the flat. Doria’s out, of course, but… where is the other person? Perhaps she just arrived without me knowing about it.

I did have my door closed for a little while, after all, while I changed out of my dusty clothes (because sometimes you just have to crawl under a new bed to see if you can) and into fresh ones, cable-knit navy tights and a denim skirt with a cobalt blue sweater.

I take another sip of soup and look at Rosie. “Has anyone else arrived? After you, I mean.”

Rosie shakes her head. “Someone else is coming, though. There’s a door still locked on the corridor.”

[prettylittlelyres]

She Has No Name (update)

I’m going to sleep now, but I’ve just passed 1,600 words for the day, bringing my Camp NaNoWriMo total to 23,680, and my full wordcount for She Has No Name up to 37,684. And I’m extra-happy because my friend’s coming to stay with me for the next few days, and it’s been two years since we’ve seen each other. I’m very excited!

Here’s a celebratory excerpt! (continued below the cut with a Tiffany-esque show of massive patronising foolery, based on my own experience of being reduced to an “inspirational!!!” disabled person (fibromyalgia and lax joints among other things, hooray))

Tiffany hammers on Rosie’s door. “Rosie? Rosie! Open the door; I need to talk to you!” When there’s no answer—because of course there isn’t—she thumps her fist against the wooden panelling. “Rosie!”

“She’s not in her room,” I say, smiling and folding my arms, and knowing exactly how smug I must look, and not caring at all. “She’s in my room, with Suzette. We were going to have tea together.”

“Who’s Suzette?”

I roll my eyes. “You know who Suzette is. Come on. Follow me, if you’re so keen to get yourself proven embarrassingly wrong.” I knock on my bedroom door, and push it open as Tiffany stamps along in my wake.

“Hey, guys, it’s me,” I sign, poking my head in, “Rosie, Tiffany wants a little word with you.”

“Ooh, a little word,” Rosie signs, bugging her eyes as if that’s something very scandalous indeed. She leans forward on the bed, craning her neck to see Tiffany standing behind me in the corridor. “What’s up?” she asks (in English).

“Celeste’s being a massive bitch,” Tiffany says, as if I’m not there, with my CIs switched on. I turn my head just enough to read her lips, without her noticing that’s what I’m doing, as she continues, “She says I’m making it up about my ankle hurting, and that I should go back to the doctor, even though they treated me like crap at the hospital. And you know they did, and you know what it’s like to be disabled, so can you? Can you back me up? Because you’re the only one who understands…”

Rosie narrows her eyes. “I understand what it’s like to be disabled from a condition I’ll have my whole life,” she replies slowly, “And know it’s never going to go away. I don’t know what it’s like to be an otherwise-healthy person with a twisted ankle. But if it’s still hurting, I agree with Celeste: you really should go back to the doctor.”

Yes, Rosie! Yes! I am going to buy your ice cream next time we go out, you absolute delight! Yes!

Tiffany gasps. “But, Rosie, you of all people should know what I’m dealing with, here! You how hard it is to get to the doctor when you can’t walk,” she says, “And I know you get out and about anyway—and, honestly, you’re such an inspiration, doing that even when you’re broken—but it’s hard, isn’t it?”

“It’s not that hard to get on the bus,” Rosie replies, “Especially on days when I have my walking sticks, not my wheelchair. It means I don’t have to put up with a snitty bus driver. I get on the bus, and I go places, just like everyone else. I don’t see how that’s “inspirational”.”

“No, but it is!” Tiffany gushes, “How you do everything that everyone else does, even though you’re in so much pain, and you go through so much, just to get out of bed in the morning. It’s incredible!”

Rosie grinds her teeth. “No, what’s incredible is how patronising you’re being. If you want to call me inspirational, point out something I’m actually proud of every time I do it. Getting A-stars across the board at A’ level? Five of them? I’m proud of that. Coming in with top grades every time I submit an assignment here? I’m proud of that. Learning enough BSL since I came to uni that I can have conversations with Celeste and Suzette? I’m proud of that! Getting out of bed in the morning? Yeah, OK, it’s nice when I can; it’s a relief, sure. But, some days, I can’t. And I know that. So why would I set myself up to feel like a failure by making it a point of pride to get up and dressed every morning? Don’t call me an inspiration for doing what I feel is the bare minimum, not when you won’t even mention my actual achievements.”

[prettylittlelyres]

Inside the Writing Process

Part 6: Writing in a Colour Scheme

This Inside the Writing Process post is all about how I’m writing my setting descriptions in She Has No Name, doing my best to bring across a certain colour in the reader’s mind.

Aesthetics are important to the visual enjoyment of a written piece, and infusing a section with colour is a good way to achieve that. For me, this isn’t particularly to do with symbolism, but I do like to assign certain characters to certain colours, so it has a lot to do with association.

We meet again later on, in the kitchen our flat shares. It would be a bright, airy sort of space, a well-lit common area for breakfasts in the sunshine, morning light streaming in through the window, a huge great pane of glass that opens the wall, floor to ceiling, for several feet. A table with four chairs sits in from of it and I can imagine the long shadows their legs would cast over the terracotta-tiled floor… if this weren’t the South-West.

As I push open the kitchen door I realise that, in spite of the gigantic window, the only real light in the room comes from the recessed lights in the ceiling, and from the lamp on the extractor fan. I feel like I could get used to it, though, to the plantpot-coloured light hanging in the room, vermillion like the skin of a pomegranate.

Rosie is standing at the hob, leaning on a lipstick-red walking stick as she cooks, but she turns around and grins as I come in. “Hey, Celeste,” she says, “I’m making some soup for supper. Do you want some? It’s tomato and lentil, with red onion.” She taps her wooden spatula against the rim of the pan, rests it on a plate on the work-surface, and digs a spoon out of her cutlery drawer. Then she offers me a mouthful, and, oh, wow, the soup smells so amazing that I couldn’t resist walking closer and sipping it off the spoon if I wanted to. And why would I want to?

I step close, and Rosie’s delicate hand cups my chin softly as she feeds me the still-steaming soup.

The bright fire of chopped onion and black pepper spreads across my tongue, and I blink as Rosie’s fingers slip away from my skin.

“Good?” she says, holding the spoon handle between her fingers like a cigarette.

“Good,” I say, grinning, “And, yes, please. Shall I go and fetch some bread? There’s a supermarket not too far away—”

Rosie twitches violently and grips her stick harder as she sways on the spot. “Could you get my wheelchair from my room quickly, please?”

“Um… Uh… Yeah, yeah. Are you OKK?” I hold her shoulders gently and try to get a look at her face, but her head’s bowed, her neck bent, and all I can tell is that she’s gone from pink to white in the last few moments. But I can feel her pulse leaping even under my hands, even in her shoulders, her arms.

“Stood up for too long,” she mumbles, and I barely catch it. But I know she’ll know more of what’s going on that I do, so I don’t ask any more questions. Gently, I let her go, and then run to her room, knocking the door open and grabbing her wheelchair from where it’s parked under the desk, like a swivel chair. I push it clumsily down the corridor back to the kitchen.

Rosie’s lying on the floor when I get in, stick beside her, limbs lax, but her eyes are open, just about, and she looks up with half a smile as I cross the room with her chair. “Thanks,” she says, lips barely moving.

“Are you OK?” I say, crouching beside her and taking hold of her hands, “Has this happened before?”

Very slowly, with my help, Rosie manages to sit up, and then to clamber from the floor into her wheelchair. “I lose count of how many times. It’s OK. I just spent too long…” She grips the arm-rests of her chair and squeezes her eyes shut, breathing deeply through her nose for a few moments. “…Too long on my feet… and had a little spell. It’s called POTS.” She fumbles for the dials on the hob controls and turns off the halogen under the soup-pan.

Rosie’s colour is, of course, red (which is also why she’s called Rosie, rather than her full name, which is actually Rosemary). Celeste’s colour is blue, and Suzette’s colour is yellow (but we haven’t met Suzette just yet).

That’s why her wheelchair’s frame is red, why she uses red walking sticks, and why this whole scene (which centers on her despite being told from Celeste’s point of view) is full of references to the colour red.

I like writing colour schemes into my descriptions, so, in my writing journal, I have a double-page spread with lists of things which are those colours, as well as the names of different shades, so that I can incorporate them into the scene I’m working on.

I started these lists looking at the colour thesauruses on WritersHelpingWriters, and then started adding my own entries to them, including some emotions the colours bring to mind.

blue: ocean - sky - robin egg - denim - cornflowers - ink - sapphires - curaçao - storm clouds - cold - forget-me-not - lavender - Delft tiles - willow-pattern - ice  topaz - hyacinth - bella luna blue tea - dawn - tartan - soft - calm - water - night

yellow: butter - sunflower - lemons - gallia melon - citrine - fallen leaves - mustard - sunbeams - rapeseed fields - honey - oil - amber - mahonia - daffodil - buttercup - gold - marigold - mango - goldfinch - cornfield - peaches - cableknit sweater - legal pads - canary - warm white fairy lights - moringa

green: pears - grass - pine trees - beize - pistachio ice cream - moss - mould - algae - courgette - lichen - aloe - river-water - ficus - peas - lentils - sage - shrubbery - holly - ivy - apples - lime - mint - mojito - matcha - herb garden - oak leaves - flower shoots - heather - rainforest - hedgerows - tea

red: pomegranate - wine - scarlet - roses - Maltese cross - blood - ruby - blood orange - apples - gerania - lipstick - red velvet cake - rosehip syrup - strawberries - raspberries - gingham - red&black notebooks - Rosie’s coat - Rosie’s wheelchair - sunset - bricks - terracotta - plantpots - cinnamon - nutmeg- ladybirds

At some point I’ll make lists of other colours, to have on hand when I want to incorporate them into other scenes, but for now I’m happy with these lists, and to keep adding to them where I can think of new entries. Once I have them set down, it’s just a case of slipping them into scenes where I want to create the sense of a particular colour, and it’s really quite a fun part of writing, because I suddenly have a way to explain that everything that goes on has a kind of aura about it.

I have lists of words for particular atmospheres as well, but I’ll get to that in another post!

[prettylittlelyres]

She Has No Name (update)

I just counted up my total so far for She Has No Name and I’m at 6785 words across three chapters; this celebratory excerpt is from the nearly-completed third! I hope you enjoy it :) <3

I’m just hanging up my string lights—I’m getting through my unpacking a lot faster than I expected to—when I think I hear a thud somewhere nearby.

I poke my head out into the corridor, and see a girl in a wheelchair coming up to the door opposite mine, next to Doria’s. She spots me, and says, “Hold on a minute. I’ll be right with you.” For a moment she disappears into her room and then comes back out again, wheeling over to my doorway.

“Hey,” she says, “Do you mind if I come in?”

“Of course you can,” I say, holding my door open for her. “I’m Celeste.”

“Rosie.” She shakes my hand. She’s wearing wrist braces, decorated with—I think—marker pens. All floral, all pink and purple, super pretty.

“Those are gorgeous,” I say, “Did you do them yourself?”

Rosie shakes her head. “My sister did them for me when I was in hospital one time.”

“Aw, they’re super pretty,” I say, “So, what are you studying?”

Rosie grins. “Civil Engineering,” she says, “At Uni of, obviously, ‘cause...” She gestures to her ears. “Yeah. For the time being, at least. God, your room’s pretty. Where’d you get…?”

I don’t hear what she says, but she points at the wall, so I look behind me. “The string lights?” I say, and I see Rosie nod as I turn back around. “Primark,” I reply, “I went a bit mad over A’ Levels, started taping all my revision notes to the bits of wire between the bulbs, and hung them all across my room.” I shrug. “Didn’t help massively, but it looked pretty. And I’m thinking I might just clip photos to them now I’m here, rather than using them for revision again.”

[prettylittlelyres]

She Has No Name (excerpt)

Rosie puts her tea aside, gets up, and reaches a handful of DVDs down from the shelf by her desk. “They all have proper captions, I checked.” Into my hands she presses a collection of Barbie films, with the reverence she’d use to handle holy scriptures. “My dear Celeste, would you like a movie night?”

I widen my eyes. “Would it be very childish of me to ask if we can watch “Princess and the Pauper”?”

“Not at all!” Rosie exclaims, looking as scandalised as if I’ve said, “Would it be very childish of me to burn down the Houses of Parliament?” (Yes, yes, it would, and, anyway, I have a whole A’ level in not burning down the Houses of Parliament. I only got a C, but still.) “Of course we can watch “Princess and the Pauper”. It’s like the second best one there is, after “Diamond Castle”.”

“Wait, holy shit, you’ve seen “Diamond Castle”?” I clap my hands and clasp them together in front of my mouth. “That’s pretty much the only one I haven’t seen.”

“Do you want to watch it instead, then?” says Rosie. One corner of her mouth twitches up, and her eyes sparkle. “Or do you want to watch it… as well?”

[prettylittlelyres]

Associating Rosie’s character with the colour red has everything to do with me liking the colour red, red being a favourite colour of the friend who inspired Rosie, and nothing to do with Rosie being a red herring at all. Or, at least, it has nothing to do with it on purpose.

[prettylittlelyres]

She Has No Name (update)

I’m very happy to say I’ve written 1,800 words today (3 of which are “lesbian pantomime horse”, in that order, all together) for She Has No Name, bringing me up to 12,600 words for Camp NaNoWriMo, and 26,600 in total! But I’ve also travelled 100 miles, so it’ll be time for me to go to sleep as soon as I’ve posted this celebratory excerpt!

The leaves on the trees lining the path down to my halls are turning yellow, little flags of amber and ochre and gold, fluttering on the autumn breeze. There’s a distinct chill in the air, despite the azure sky, and I tell myself I’ll put a jumper on as soon as I’m home. A plaid and a camisole haven’t quite sufficed today; I thought it would be warm because it was sunny, and I couldn’t have been more wrong. It’s already the middle of October, after all.

As soon as we’re indoors, Suzette wraps her arms around me, and pulls me into a hug. She doesn’t even wait until I’ve unlocked the door of our flat, just holds me to her right there in the lobby.

“You’re shivering,” she says, rubbing my back “Are you OK?”

I nod. “Of course I’m OK. Just a little cold. Come on, let’s go in. I’ll put the kettle on, make us some tea, and we can all cuddle up together, you, me and Rosie.” It’s how we’ve started doing things.

It doesn’t seem to matter that we’re not all studying the same things—or even that we’re not all at the same university—when we’re all curled up on my bed, with our tea and our textbooks.

That’s how most of our evenings have looked since the semester began in earnest, and I’ve got to say, I like being able to turn up to class with all of my reading done.

[prettylittlelyres]

She Has No Name (update)

OK, I know I said I was putting this book aside for a little bit until I was more on top of my deadlines, but I totally am, I promise, and also I’ve finished Chapter Five, so here’s a little celebratory excerpt (see if you can spot the dramatic irony, ooh, wow, yes it’s so subtle, this foreshadowing, yes):

“I figure there’s no reason to wait to learn the language, no reason to wait until I absolutely can’t cope without it,” Rosie says, “I kind of want it now, and… like… I mean, if you’d be kind enough to teach me, I’d be really, really grateful.” 

“Oh, mate, yeah, of course,” I say, “It’s a gorgeous language. I think everyone should learn it, but, you know… finding teachers is hard. Of course I’ll teach you.” I wink at her, and start signing along with my speech. “Are you ready to learn British Sign Language?” It’s not technically BSL. It’s Signed Exact English, but that’s not super important right now. Rosie needs to learn the words right now. Understanding different grammars can wait, I think. I think. I mean, I’ve never learned BSL grammar, and I’m fine, right?