Love, Peace and All of That

The world is full of pain, ills and wrongs, and I am far from naive. The suffering could consume me, the anger that swells deep in the gut, and I have been in desperate agony and rampant with rage from what I’ve experienced and witnessed. This world is full of sharp edges. It can be ruthless and cruel more often than not. But that cannot and shouldn’t make a home inside the soul. At least not for long. It has to be managed, processed and let the fuck go. We’re only here for a little while. It simmers down to choice. Today, what do you choose?

Lead with love.

I have no right to judge you.

You have no right to judge me.

We don’t need to understand to accept.

Lead with love, not hate.

Lead with an open mind, not a closed one.

Lead with peace, not war.

Lead with love always.

Broken Home

This term was mentioned to me when my kids’ father and I split up. I knew it would come up but I’ve considered it a lot since. Honestly, I considered it many times before that. Here are my thoughts:

‘Broken Home’ when used as a label towards kids that don’t grow up with birth parents who are in a relationship or married to one another is mostly bullshit. I’ve experienced and know of many far more broken homes where the parents remain unhappily together. They stay together with sticky notes of excuses, ‘for the kids’, ‘for the vows of better and worse’, to ‘prove a point’, to not ‘disappoint family’, because they’ve become unhealthily co-dependent. They stay together for fear of loneliness, judgment, the unknown, financial reasons, practical excuses, and lies they tell themselves that it ‘might get better’ and ‘things will change’. They trap themselves and their kids into true broken homes. Even though I knew better, I did that too for a time. Kids see that. They feel it, even if they don’t say it to their parents, though, sometimes they do. And when they do, it hurts hard.

My kids are not of a broken home—we fixed that when we chose to raise them in two happy homes instead of one unhappy one.

Break those toxic fucking cycles and fuck those ignorant labels.

Geese Overhead

I’ve recently become painfully aware of patterns I need to destroy. Upon this realisation, I am vulnerable. I hate that. Even as my muscles twist into firmer roots, I’m dwelling in absences between the letters. Sidestepping silences in the peace. I’ve lost my logical mind to other neglected pieces. I swapped suffocation for drowning. The dry field of broken branches and trampled flowers is filling up with rain. A swamp will be made of this ill witch of ill wishes. It’s soul-shattering to consider. The pieces I tried to squash down deep, bury, ignore, I was a party in their neglect; my neglect.

“Hurt me.” That’s what I told each of them with my eyes. “I exist for you to take and never give.” “Use me up.” “Suck me dry.” I meant to say, “protect me”, “hold me”, “let me go”, “love me”.

The bones are rising from beneath the dirt, the undergrowth is thinning. And I cannot pretend not to see them. The gouged-out skulls at the corner of my eye. Did that one furnish me with a wink? Don’t make eye-socket contact. I shiver, bat off the midgies catching in my hair. I shake it off and turn up the volume. It’s a trick. It did wink. And the record spins again—this is a trick.

I’m shrinking. I watch the horizon rise. The trees are getting taller. Paper-death limbs elongate with the shadows; books that I’ll never read. I sink. Mud envelopes my boots, the thick brown goop sticks to my skin, moulds itself around my calves and sucks me down. Geese honk overhead as the mud invades my nostrils.

Presence over Presents

Autumn into winter is my favourite time of year. I love how nature sheds her skin; wild things stockpile life essentials to coorie down in quiet dens, and the stasis of bulbs and trees. I’m inspired by the fall, the bands of light, the nip in the air. The quiet inspires.

Anyone who knows me knows how much I detest the hyper-commercialised consumerist calendar. It kills my soul knowing how profoundly distant we’ve become from the roots. It’s devolution, not evolution.

It’s a challenge to blot out that noise, and soak up the beauty beneath the tinsel, plastic, the abundance of waste and inhale the earth’s quiet song. It’s what I’ve always wanted to impart to my children, to appreciate and take stock of the real gifts and not presents that contribute to so many wrongs. Presence over presents. Appreciation of life not stuff. That noise has always fed my depression significantly.

As much as I’ve always been drawn that way, when I had the privilege of having my children, some folks expected that would change. And suddenly, I’d be all in for—Santa, Christmas, consuming and following the masses in the noise, the greed, the expectations, the stress. It’s depressing. It’s started early this year. My family’s den isn’t far enough away from the noise.

Ghost

A wee blog

It’s October already, and, I’ve been saying this for a few years now and will echo again—time is a slippery beast, and it’s quickening intensely.

I wonder if it, too, is the ‘season’, like my elongated season of being sick. As a mother of young, fast-developing, high-energy, curious kids, the daily pace is rapid, and I always feel like I’m spinning too many plates. My bones hurt from it. I don’t have someone to comfortably hand a few plates to—their breaking is a certainty. And I’d flail myself for being stupid enough to trust while I pick up the shattered pieces and keep the others spinning. I’m tired. They get heavier or I’m weakening.

Perhaps it’s both.

Folks keep talking to me about the past and sharing old ‘memories’ oftentimes, those memories aren’t theirs. They’re selected by technology. I am bored of the nostalgic mindset. I’m fed up with many things that feel like they’re haemorrhaging time (life). It’s so finite. There are so many breaths filled with too many greedy, empty words. For children, for folks we love and spend time with (when we can squeeze that in this fast-paced race to death), being present is of far more value than daydreaming of yesterday. I’m glad yesterday is over. There’s more pain there than anything else. And all the pictures are imprinted in my non-digital head. My heart beats differently because of some of them. I wish folks would be present more. Have their feet on this ground and not prancing in yesterday’s dust. Be present today and grow for better, happier, stronger tomorrows. Nostalgia is a waste of today unless you’re a ghost.

It’s July already!

As we enter the 7th month of 2023, and I realise that my next module results for my degree are due this month, I’m pausing for a quick recap of the year so far. I’m pausing, not panicking.

Health-wise, I hate to admit that it’s been another trying year. Since contracting covid last July, then again in January, my lungs have struggled, and fatigue has plagued my body and mind. Of course, the nature of my life—caring for and educating young children, caring for the adopted animals, and running a home and business, means there’s little time for proper rest and solid sleep, but that sickness has added another weight. And, lest we forget, there’s this writing gig!

Nonetheless, I still breathe, even through crackles, pain and coughs. The wheel keeps turning, and for now, I’m still on it.

January’s focus was liaising with early readers of Delevan House and grinding over those pre-publication checks to ensure a smooth release of digital and print editions.

February saw the launch of that debut novel, Delevan House, co-written with Ruthann Jagge.

Delevan House synopsis

With the development of our collaborative Brazen Folk Horror brand, I’ve tightened up our logo design. I continue to work tirelessly on refining the website and managing both solo sites to reflect the work.

Ruthann and I have co-written a few short stories for select invites, which will be published later this year.

My literary partner in Brazen Folk Horror was keen for us to develop a newsletter, something that I wasn’t entirely on board with, but one day I began designing, and the Brazen Folk Horror zine was born. Our quarterly #bebrazen launched on June 21st digitally exclusively for subscribers, with the print edition releasing to the public on July 5th.

Discount applicable at ClanWitchShop until July 5th

Weekly updates on Brazen Folk Horror have continued throughout the year (which are also shared here). However, these will now wind down with the newsletter launch and focus sharpening on The Delevan Diaries, which releases late this year.

The Delevan Diaries

I have been selective with the Word Refinery workload, taking on smaller editorial, copywriting and graphic projects only, so that clients get the attention their projects deserve. I may open my diary for a couple of larger manuscripts next year, but spaces will be limited. Clients are encouraged to contact me now. Spaces are not guaranteed.

I have also had little space to accept invites to external projects, as I have done previously. An exception was made for KJK Publishing’s Kevin J. Kennedy when he invited me to write a short piece for Inside the World of Indie Horror, which is out now.

My home has welcomed a few adoptees this year—two ex-caged hens (Yvie Oddly and Brooke Lyn Hytes) adopted from British Hen Welfare Trust joined us in March and have now merged happily with the existing flock for their retirement. Supporting their transition can be a lot of work and requires patience, but it is worth every second. Since taking on our first rescue hens a year ago, I have learnt so much about this wonderful avian species and still am. Unfortunately, because of how they are bred and commodified in the animal agriculture industry, they can experience many health complications that can quickly become fatal. For the most part, I’ve effectively managed issues at home. However, loss is inevitable at times, and one of our girls, sweet Bimini, had to be euthanised due to a severe prolapse and irreparable issues in her overworked reproductive system. It was devastating but also a relief that we could end her suffering.

Ginger Minj—flock leader

We also had to say goodbye last month to one of the most beautiful souls I’ve ever known, one of our adopted rabbits, Sally. This left our boy bun, Presley, without the companionship of his species. This companionship is vital for rabbit health—physical and emotional. Therefore, we adopted another rabbit needing her forever home from the wonderful volunteer-run charity Beloved Rabbits. Our newest family member, Fraoch (readers of Delevan House may recognise her name?), has added fresh energy to the household. She has settled in wonderfully, with full-on Giant Continental confidence and youthful sass. I’m excited to bond Presley and Fraoch after her spay.

Fraoch

I’ll be vending at several markets in Glasgow, which has required a lot of preparation in stock and design. I will have limited hardcovers on hand unless preordered through me in advance to pick up on the day. The same goes for T-shirts and hoodies on my Etsy store. I won’t be carrying stock of those not ordered in advance. If you fancy something from there, check out the market deals and get your order in for collection. Prints were designed by me, and all garments are sourced and made in the U.K. and are vegan.

Market dates 2023

#BeBrazen Autumn Edition releases September. Again, the zine is delivered digitally, free to subscribers only. And only subscribers are entered into the quarterly prize draw. If you aren’t signed up, join us today! The print edition is available for purchase after the subscriber-only digital release and draw.

I begin studying for my next university module in October! I am seriously swamped and planned on delaying my next module. However, I have set goals, and the next intake for this particular module is over a year away. Even with everything booking up for next year, I couldn’t defer for that long.

I have some beautiful cover art waiting their time for when I can invest energy into solo work that’s simmering. Perhaps, I’ll find some hours in 2025!

I must run now. The pause is over. Full speed ahead!

#BeBrazen Natasha )O(

Birthday

I hate my birthday. I’ve never understood the point. For as long as I can remember, I’ve never enjoyed it. Ill mental health plays a part—yes, even as a very young child. Perhaps growing up with little and seeing how overstretched gift-givers could become and materialistic and spoiled behaviour from receivers and givers alike added to this discomfort with such anniversaries. I’ve never really desired ‘things’.

As a child, I felt like a burden. They were so young, and my grandfather’s death fast followed my birth. And I feel for that. ‘One in and one out’ is what they say, and something unwanted took the place of my mother’s father. Me. To celebrate my birthday? An obligation instead of a celebration is what I felt. So, I’ve never liked my birthday.

I’m a mother. And birth merits celebration. Life merits gratitude. Existence is miraculous. The coming together and multiplying of cells to form new life? It’s astounding. Wanted or not. Accidental or with the desired purpose.

Without mine, my children would not exist. I acknowledge my birth for them. Life is the gift.

Anyway, this year, I hung out with Paul and the smalls in a park, reading quietly and feeding crackers to crows while the kids played. And we enjoyed ice cream and The Little Mermaid together—a magical summer release.

Appreciate the little moments. They are the big things. That’s what makes up this chaotic life. The seemingly small is where the magick resides.

Cheers to surviving another day. )O(

City Kill House

As a child, I used to beg my parents not to drive by it. “Please, can we take another road to get there?” I’d plead.

I’d have a visceral reaction on approaching this place. My insides would fill up with a sickening feeling like the air was choked with poison. My skin would prickle. Terror. Revulsion. Anger. Pain. Screaming. I could feel them scream. And how no one cared to stop it. What a world we live in. We turn so many blind eyes; it’s a wonder we see anything at all.

I hated being anywhere near this part of town because of the abattoir. On the edge of the east of Glasgow city centre — less than a mile away. It even had its own cattle ramp for the animals arriving by train at night.

The abattoir and meat market was in operation from 1911 to 2001. I can’t go through this area without thinking of the slaughter.

Since its closure, part of the site was used as a city car auctioneer, but that has long since moved too. Some of the facades remain intact and front a modern apartment development, which was part of the area’s regeneration. Behind those, overgrowth tries to reclaim the bones of remaining structures. New developers will move in soon.

It may look a certain way on the surface… I can still hear them.

The inscription on the calf sculpture reads:

Animals came from over the horizon

They belonged there & here likewise

They were mortal & immortal

Each lion was lion & each ox was ox.

2022: The Year of Birds

Hogmanay nears, as does what can barely be avoided — the annual consolidation, the ‘review’ as we step over the next threshold.

It’s been another year of tumultuous news and events stabbing the air in-house and in close proximity. Health issues have arisen in many, some near and dear, some farther but no less dear to me—several with fatal implications, where time somehow runs faster on the clock. My heart has shattered a few times. Such is the way it goes.

Covid hit my house with a bang. I was pregnant, and the baby, Averey, died inside my womb when I had the worst symptoms. Since our second bout in July, long Covid symptoms have persisted, including with my young children. The year that we hoped to grab some social normality has demanded much push.

One of the many benefits of home educating (not home-schooling) is that the pressure and stress on children not to ‘fall behind’ on a prescribed curriculum and being ‘marked’ by ‘poor attendance’ due to health issues beyond control is absent, avoiding undue pressure on my kids’ mental health, to which almost anyone who has been schooled and has health issues can relate. All public services in the U.K., including schools, seem to be on a steep downward slope, faster than ever before. The unrest is palpable. That being said, home educating isn’t all skipping through the daisies! Many days have their challenges, and being the literal full-time parent and educator is tiring — and that was before the long-covid fatigue. Still, we get each other through, and the alternative isn’t an option.

As always, writing has been a constant. Separate from my creative writing, it’s been my introvert-central-management system since childhood. Sketching is too.

Professionally, I have had the pleasure of editing works by some fantastic writers this year — some serious jaw-dropping, inspiring talent. One of the last short stories I edited had me reaching for my inhaler! That author painted a vivid anxiety, paranoia-ridden piece in their protagonist — I felt it all! The subversive angle of the work while playing off the backdrop was skilfully moving. I was in awe. In the massive catalogue of literary genres, the immense skill some horror writers portray is hugely underrated, all due to that simple label ‘horror’. You’ll find the asthma attack-inducing story in KJK Publishing’s The Horror Collection: Sapphire Edition.

This year Ruthann Jagge and I joined forces and created Brazen Folk Horror to share our collaborative works. We have been sharing weekly updates there and have many more ideas for the future. As with this site, readers can subscribe to receive those updates directly in their mailbox. The debut collaborative novel under our exclusive in-house imprint, Delevan House, releases on the 1st of February 2023, and the second book in that series is underway. I’ve shared before about how I adore working with her. We’ve each had much to contend with this year. At times, we’ve both been swimming against a ferocious tide, but we have prevailed and have created something unique from Scottish and Celtic folk inspiration. You better believe my girl and I are indeed Brazen as fuck.

Getting back into academic study has been challenging to make space for, but somehow It’s been working out, in sacrifice of sleep! I passed my first module and started my second towards my English Language and Literature degree. The second part has been immensely inspiring. I am enjoying it far more than I anticipated. It’s ignited old and new passions for my own language, those that I’ve been surrounded with and the broader scope of the world. I’ve been evaluating how this entwines cultural and individual identity. This leg of the course has lit a few fires.

Onto the books published under Clan Witch this year:

Asylum Daughter — my psychological horror novella set in Glasgow, Scotland. I’m proud of how this piece turned out. I loved writing it and got to exorcise the asylum.

The Crash of Verses by Rafik Romdhani — this is Romdhani’s second published collection. His poetry is among my favourites of recent years. If you have not read him, pick up this book. He is an exceptionally skilled modern poet.

Incesticide: Collected Horror — my second collection of short horror fiction. It includes nine stories featuring urban folk horror, a touch of splatterpunk and fairytale horror twisted with BDSM, among other assorted flavours for those who enjoy a taste of different things.

Clan Witch: Found Shadows, my collection of free verse poetry and drabbles. This brings together small pieces scattered with other publishers and some never before published poems. Not all truth and not all fiction.

There have been other written pieces published throughout 2022 in the form of short stories, poetry, articles, forewords and copy for other titles.

What about the birds? Birds have been a significant and symbolic component in my year. Before the baby was born, magpies started frequenting my garden. They never had before. In truth, I was never a fan of the species. (Largely due to a childhood memory or a magpie killing sparrow chicks in a neighbour’s garden. It was such a brutal attack, not for a meal or anything. It seemed to enjoy causing the suffering and instigating horror in the flock of sparrows screaming at the beautiful beastly creature.) Other corvids, such as their cousin, jackdaws, yes. But never the magpie. Of course, going through pregnancy and loss again, this felt strikingly symbolic. For the longest time, there would be one—a dark omen. One for sorrow… as the months have passed, groups of them now frequent the garden along with the smaller birds, which have their daily routines flying in for a feed and natter. Adopting ex-commercial laying hens scheduled to be slaughtered has been tremendously healing. We brought them home less than two weeks after our loss. Building for them and supporting their transition to domestic retirement felt like a productive and helpful use of grief energy. Then the hens have taken in robins. The birds have been inescapable and have become a significant feature of Delevan House too.

Life and creativity can be inseparable, at least elements of each. Twisting tendrils that reach out to be touched and woven into new patterns.

I am wrapping up, as I didn’t intend on doing this kind of update this year! There you have it, a wee mixed-bag summary of 2022. I best be off again, I’m currently hauled up with an unwell small. Her feverish chattering dreams spill out into the dark in a torrent, and I wish, as many parents do — I wish I could soak up the fever and take all the pains away, for always. But life has so much more of that in store. I will have to be content with holding her for as long as I can and as long as she needs.

The darkness is drawing in, approaching the longest of nights, and I wish for what I always do here and the world over, peace.

Natasha )O(

Balanced Discrimination?

In this world of hyped-up political correctness, labelling and the push for artists to emotionally support, woo, and pamper the egos of a (potential) audience even before they have set foot in an exhibition, opened a book or hit play on that movie. Direct Discrimination thrives loud and proud with every cry for mythical balance through forced diversity.

Charades masquerading as ‘discussions’ that only bend one way do nothing but deepen discrimination such cryers profess to want to correct.

I wonder, once the arbitrary scale tips, what would they go for next?

Honestly, in the real world, there are far more significant problems to be concerned with. Still, my little blether to the void here will focus on the area that prompted my little rant- horror literature – eventually.

Before that, though, be warned, according to an online stranger who was ignorantly assumptive, judgmental, sexist and racist towards me, I was also thrown the mighty slur of the day with regard to my input in a ‘discussion’ (see point above. I know better, but we all fuck up sometimes) about female horror authors. The insult that screams (of the thrower) a lack of discussion skills and intellect… a ‘Karen’.

Yes. Because I disagreed, I’m a Karen….

First time I’ve had that one. Which made me ponder, was this nameless individual compounding the sexism they had already expressed? A Karen? Is it like calling someone a Cunt as a slur, specifically for a female? And female to female, that reeks of anti-feminism. Somewhat backwards for folk screaming for ‘progress’.

Anyway, I decided to ‘look it up’. Since it’s slang, I had a wee look on Wikipedia. Given the context, I really had no desire to do any real academic research with this, even as a student of linguistics. Wikipedia describes ‘Karen is a pejorative term for a white woman perceived as entitled or demanding.… The term is often portrayed…depicting white women who use their white privilege to demand their own way.’ It goes on, ‘the term increasingly appeared in media and social media as a general criticism of middle class white women,’ – so racist, sexist and classist! A bit much, eh?

If my name was Karen, I might be extra peeved at this derogatory and discriminatory slang. Since this person made assumptions about my race, class and gender that had the nameless sharpen their pitchfork and wield the mighty ‘Karen’, it says far more about them than it does me.

The insult also reeks of that well-documented American arrogance and ignorance — one that seems indiscriminate of gender, race, socioeconomic status, political and religious affiliation. Breaking news to those that fall into that bracket: your country is not the centre of the universe, the world is bigger than your echo-chamber. Funny, apparently those that disagree must “do better”. Being from one of the most deprived areas of Scotland, where poverty, crime, gang and drug problems flourish and the lifespan of the female is lower than anywhere else in the U.K. Having fought and lived through prejudice and discrimination from both ‘my own’ and beyond, and that’s only a tiny peek of the tip of the iceberg. Well, to say I scoffed would be an understatement. And I’m not going to go into the rest concerning the cultural and sexual trials. Because none of the personal anecdotes should matter in this context, none of it makes one person’s viewpoint more or less valid than another’s when it comes to how we choose art. Such blatant judgment and ignorance certainly detracts credibility; the nameless ‘wordsmith’ made a right fool of themselves. But hey, that’s the majority of social media, right. Hmmm, a scale that needs correcting?

Don’t make the mistake of thinking I’m overly sensitive to name-calling. My history has ensured my thick-skin. I am just a bit of a wormhole thinker. As I mentioned, another term often used in the U.K. is – Cunt, another pejorative. As a slang word for vulva, it naturally wields strong female connotations that are intended to be derogatory. I used to cringe if I read or heard the word ‘cunt’. But that was a long time ago. My consideration and view has changed; being a woman, a feminist and sexual, I can’t see anything derogatory about the female anatomy. It’s a marvel. The cunt is a damn mighty and beautiful piece of our biology. The cunt is to be respected. She is a place of many wonderful things — life’s most intense pleasures and, indeed, a gateway to life itself. In other words, All hail the cunt!

I can’t deny that my turn on the word was also influenced by seeing the Vagina Monologues in Edinburgh many years ago.

The following is a post I shared on social media that echoes the points fuelling the anti-feminist, racist, classist and sexist ‘insult’:

More often than not, when I view a painting — I see the painting BEFORE the artist who created it. This applies to photography, sculpture, literature, music etc.

I want to see what someone is portraying with their art first. Then I may be intrigued to want to know more about the creator behind the art – information that they choose to make available. As a consumer of art, I’m not entitled. None of us are.

I don’t look for the personal details of the creator before deciding if they are worthy for me to look at their art. Most folks don’t. Hell, imagine if we all ‘researched’ every creative involved in a movie before hitting play…

I am not going to seek out an artist based on what they look like, their gender, sex, cultural background, beliefs, heritage, politics, religion, who they fuck…

Now, I’m not saying that these things don’t filter into what is created, but none of those details makes a person’s art ‘good’! Nor does knowing them make you a ‘better’ consumer or person, even if it feeds your ego to think that it does.

Oh, and I am ‘part’ of several ‘marginalised’ groups; I will never use any of that to get eyes on anything I create because not everything is public property.

Now it’s an opinion, a fact of how I consume art. Life is extremely short. When reaching into something such as horror fiction for fun, leisure, enjoyment, and escapism, why is there this sudden expectation to ‘balance my reading list’ for personal attributes of author ‘diversity’ sake? I want to be entertained. Perhaps if I wanted to fuck them, I’d be more concerned with their sex, gender and orientation. Then it would hold relevance.

Perhaps art and artists need anonymity to thrive in a world that feels increasingly entitled to more personal details to feed this absurd mythical ethical balancing act for little egos.