Tag: blogging

If May can have more than one Moon

I haven’t been around here. Life has been so busy. I’ve focused (as much as I can) on developing a routine for things that require one. And simultaneously weaving the layers of life around and through those routines has been an ever-evolving challenge. As is the season of my life, it’s been all-consuming of this fickle and finite thing we’ve named time.

I don’t have any serious complaints about what’s most important. Life is what we make of the pieces we find and create, the energies we choose to connect and make new colours with. And those that leave a story on departing.

I haven’t been writing to publish, that’s why some of us are here, right? I’m sorry for that. It gnaws at my brain.

I’ve not committed to deadlines or accepted opportunities because I knew I’d unlikely be able to fulfil any promises, so I haven’t made what I’d break. A pause has been accepted for a time. I may not be completely on board —I sometimes think, ‘I’ll have time here!’, but it’s never so. The decision has been out of my hands. I’ve taken a while to accept that, actually—that I won’t be writing a new novella this week. But I will another day, the wheel is always turning.

You’ve heard my complaints of AI being used too deeply as writing tools, and with the movement there, how anyone can fire a line into a bot and publish what (surface level) appears to be a fairly decent constructed piece of ‘work’ via an article, poem, story, review, book by doing sweet fuck all is disheartening to say the very least. It kills a piece of my soul. A huge piece. This place is full of cheats, liars, manipulators—lazy, talentless, attention-grabbing fools masquerading as mentors, creators, artists—with their borrowed paragraphs kidding themselves that they could or would have created the piece—if they had the time or some other shit they tell themselves. Void of skill, void of an original fucking thought of their own, they’ll sign off a lie with pride, stamping their name to it. I’m not buying it. I never have. Perhaps that’s another reason why I’ve not found the energy to pour into the craft I love, nor had the drive to share—they’d steal your face if they could, as well as the real stories. Change a word here and there, and grin with a face full of stolen cream, declaring ‘mine’. Fuck off. I may be in a ranty place… it’s a human place though. You can trust that.

So, shall we have a sort of old-school bloggy lifey update? Yes, fuck it, let’s draw back the curtain for a peek.

I’ll start with this—since the close of my monogamous relationship, I’ve had the freedom to be myself more than I have in quite some time. Elements that had been neglected for a long time rose to the surface, needing nurturing and satiation, and those core needs have taken time and energy from other things—like writing, where my focus was already struggling. I recently shared some insight elsewhere into my life as far as my sexuality and relationship style(s) go, as these elements seem to spark curiosity, and have at points throughout my life, been used to pitch attacks. Growing up fairly openly pansexual (though bisexual was the term in my younger days) wasn’t all sunshine and groovy rainbows—have I shared the story here of when my parents realised that I wasn’t straight? That’s a belter. They were terrified I’d corrupt my younger sibling with my perverted ways—there were bible quotes and all sorts of hypocritical hilarity, and of course, what will people think of them to have spawned a queer daughter! The horror! And in those teen years, I was essentially made out to be ‘greedy’, and even ‘dirty’ for my sexuality. One of the people I trusted most at that time shuddered at the idea of dating someone who wasn’t ’straight’ or ‘gay’—‘pick one!’—because it’s a ‘choice’, right?

Sharing much in the way of specifics of friendships and romantic partnerships is something I’ve been reminded to be guarded with. People have a way of giving insights with a rusty blade straight to the gut (again, from my experience). Like they forget I feel anything at all. I’m not entitled to that—apparently. If I tell them it hurts, it’s twisted all about, (they may even raise an army by flashing a delusional doodle), and they say it’s me holding the knife—it’s bigger and hurts more. I’m (was) the doormat to drag their shitty boots on, who should remain mute for the privilege—perhaps that’s just family—mine at least. The fact that I have an abundance of self-acceptance and confidence in those aspects of my character has very much held steadfast against the grain of early criticism, judgment, and emotional attacks from ‘home’ outwards. How we process peace internally is of far greater value to one’s wellbeing and how we then engage with others than outside judgment and influences (even blood). Maybe that’s around about way of saying—fuck what anyone else thinks; it’s how you make peace and accept yourself, and how you treat others that really matters. Don’t be defined by how they treat you. 

Outside the ‘joys’ of the blood, I’ve always been questioned about my sexuality—some can’t read me—the gaydar might be screaming then I show up with a guy and my friends are like “oh, I forgot you like that too”. And alongside that, more recently, as I’m (happily) poly saturated, I get asked about my relationships too. I don’t hide who I am, but for the most part, I share what’s relevant to the conversation, and I’m mostly private about the one-to-ones. With that being said, I’m openly pansexual and polyamorous—closets are for shame, and I’m not ashamed of those parts of me. And yes, my children know too. As a parent, it’s important to demonstrate confident self-awareness, acceptance and diversity across the spectrums of sexuality and relationships, so I’d be a hypocrite if I ever concealed these aspects of me from the people I’m raising. I’ve never even considered that as optional. Why would I? I’m confident it enriches the dialogue and connection we share—they know they can come to me with anything, and of that I’m fairly certain. I only hope it sticks and helps them accept themselves as they experience their own path of getting to know themselves with confidence and acceptance. We cannot escape ourselves—inner peace and respect have to be priority (armour) against the outside noise.

My sexuality and attraction to another person are predominantly energy-centric. The evolution of my natural relationship style(s) is much the same. I’m very much of the mind that we should move in ways that enrich and enhance one another, lift each other, support, accept, love honestly—if that’s not the core energies, if any of that is opposite, then it’s not going anywhere but out of my life. Movement needs to flow mutually, respectfully and with communication that is clear in the particular connection—this, of course, has a natural variation of style. I’m also much a do as you say type; I trust action above words. I remind myself of this, as I’ve at times questioned my gut instinct when presented with lies from a mouth I believed I should trust, which creates a conflict between what we want to believe and the truth. Always go with truth, even when it hurts. My instinct is rarely wrong; I remind myself of this when something feels off. So many of us (sometimes with the best intentions) lie to ourselves—what we do and how we carry ourselves when we think no one is looking is the truth of the story. To quote a recent read from Bessel van der Kolk, “The greatest source of our suffering is the lies we tell ourselves”. I’m not keen on being in the fallout from such things. Though it happens with this human condition we’re afflicted with. I’m grateful to have communicative partners—even when we’ve faced some challenges (and will do again)—the developments have been enriching, as I’m sure they will continue to be. I’m grateful for each of them. 

I do not subscribe hierarchy in my relationships. It’s simply not in my nature. Each relationship deserves its own autonomy and room to breathe, move and develop its own rhythm. And I include my relationship with myself in those I consider—I now recognise, understand and respect my personal needs, specifically my need for physical space, alone time, and quiet. My energy needs time to reset and rest between just about every interaction—the amazing, the terrible and even the mundane. I am perhaps the textbook example of solo-polyamorous. When I use the term, it is in respect of my need for complete solo-autonomy; my relationship with myself is as important as those I have with my others. And with my current paramours and matamoros, I’m of a Kitchen Table Poly style overall. That fills my hippy heart with a massive hit of happy. I love and crave my partners’ happiness and fulfilment in their lives and other relationships. And it’s a privilege to know and experience the care they share with their others through their eyes—even when just a little.

We have different capacities when it comes to relationships. We have different capacities for time, for holding love, for being present. If we set aside the romantic and/or sexual for a moment and consider friendships. Some folks thrive and maintain many friendships, while others prefer a smaller circle—one that may or may not be connected. I prefer small circles. 

With my need to respect the autonomy of myself and other relationships, it is interesting the differences I’ve connected with—there are differing values across the board, which may or may not work out long-term—of that I am aware and accepting of. My style differs to each of my paramours (apart from one who shares a strikingly similar mindset and approach), with those that differ—one is open but of a romantically monogamous mind (for me, I’m very aware that at some point they could decide being with a pansexual polyamorous person is not within their capacity, and that monogamy or being with others who work with hierarchical values may be their natural default). And another is hierarchical with the primary relationship holding (the often controversial) veto power over others (again, I’m aware that’s another axe hanging over my head). With both of those differing items, I guess there’s a certain uncertainty—does that make sense to you? What I’m trying to say, is that there’s a comfort in knowing what it’ll be if one of those axes falls, and in either case it’s outside of my control—it’s  ‘not me’, and most definitely a them thing. Though we could argue getting involved in the first place was in part well within mine—they are things I’ve chosen to accept as I’ve gotten more emotionally involved. What I’m trying to get across is that in romantic relationships, just as it is holding space for multiple meaningful friendships, we can have differing approaches and values, but in those connections, we carve out our own design that can be profoundly fulfilling. 

I may pop back in, since this became more singularly focused than I first thought it would. And my waffling isn’t entirely finished but I have other things pulling my attention now.

Later!

Organic; Now or I’ll Forget

I can’t believe it’s been this long since I’ve shared anything here. I’ve meant to, but the intention has slipped several times. Perhaps so often, I thought I had already paid these pages a visit. This year, I’ve not written in solid form beyond spatterings of ideas, character notes, and stray poetry swirls—none shareable in any fashion. I’ve written extracts from things I can’t yet give the time and sustenance to nurture and grow. The spatterings of poetic lines, sequences, and numeric strings from the noises that cause my eyes to fly open from technicolour dreamscapes to muted grey silence. Rest? What is that? The threads make sense in how they weave into knots, and those taut threads melt, strengthening into chain links that rattle the posts. I’m awake! I can see constellations within them just as I do with every inspiring bruise, but they’d be senseless to anyone else. A showcase of some insanity; the hyperactivity of the mind fighting against the bloody dripping bones to focus! Ooo, did you see that pretty bird? I wander off direction, tired of the paths I’ve seen and all those damn arrows. Fuck the arrows. I veer off the tracks of tedium, where all the stories have been over-shared; they’re overtrodden, smooshed into the dirt with so many lost details.

New faces, old eyes, same stories. I’ve heard them before, but I’m quiet while they speak. Sometimes, a word will be yanked from among the twigs with blurry intentions, “It’s new!” they’ll cry. It’s never new. They’ve just jumbled up the old letters and pretended to be founder finders. I yawn, say nothing, smile. They declare titles on their stickers and pins like it means something. A statement of what they are—just children role-playing. I prefer the details—the answers to questions, but they don’t allow space to be asked.

I need the wounds that I can still taste the blood from when I draw the air in and pennies dance on my tongue; my mouth waters for more. That taste shows what you are. What you do when all the words are gone is what you truly are. Maybe that craving is why I’ve been painting with blood again. It’s just mine. The aroma has changed. I need the stories that make my core tingle. I’m listening for that. The details can’t be found on the tracks I’ve seen. And I’ve no interest in walking in anyone else’s shoes. I’ll stick to my bleeding bare feet. I like to feel the mud shift from wet to dry and back again. I like the way she sucks my toes after bleeding them. I am in a bloodthirst right now—something else that was entombed. Then I have some pouring when it shouldn’t—life literally bleeding away—an obvious other factor of distraction. I’m not sure what I’m doing here. I’ve been stung by labels and tags in the ear—too tired and tedious to repeat. They are distractions or some showy bunch of rosettes I’m supposed to wave to be part of a series of communities, cults, some dire, suffocating populous that I’ve never trusted. It’s uninspiring, and I’m bored of looking or more so, I’m bored of seeing since looking implies I’m seeking what I’m not. Perhaps that’s why I can’t write how I want. That, along with the lack of time, too many distractions, and desires weeding out falsehoods and fantasisers to find substance that, perhaps, doesn’t exist.

I’m not publishing anything of note right now; I’ve been undoing things that have undid me. I’ve been unburying myself with one handful of earth at a time, and I’ve been remembering, waking, accepting, breathing, working it out, growing, forgiving, and trying to ‘be’. That’s the most challenging part when life is so busy, and it’s not just mine in my hands—it never was. And my mind is cluttered with so many to-dos and the ever-humming starving pieces that have risen from the dirt I’ve been steadily shifting. I drink, and I drink, and my skin is still dry, but I’m not as dead as I thought I was. They’ve been singing to me in some survival revival—those little canopic jars of my organs thrum. The dirt is under my nails, and I’ll keep digging. I’m an archaeologist, and there are revelations from all these old discarded pieces reforming. It’s all in the details. It’s all in the context. I didn’t intend to lack eloquence quite as much as this, but no one can say it isn’t organic. 

I’ll come back with more sense in a few days.

She’s Hysterical

Emotional immaturity, lack of self-awareness and lack of accountability. When he calls her crazy, wheels out his stories of psychos and other such variants — ask of his actions that instigated her reactions. He’ll not be able to answer, at least not truthfully, because that would mean being honest with himself. The ego prefers those lights off. Instead, believe that he is so desirable; simply existing drives any woman crazy. If asked, though, he may anger at the audacity of being questioned. He’s even the victim in his mind, and he’ll tell himself another story — how dare she, another fucking psycho.

Years later, he’ll return, peering around corners, lurking behind a screen, fingering old pictures, wondering where she went. He’s alone in his asylum of echos.

Of course, he/she is interchangeable, but it dominates, as noted. Just consider even recent 19th-century history, with a pandemic of sorts and a surge of women being diagnosed with Hysteria and other so-called ‘mental disorders’ for not meeting man’s mark of what is considered reasonable, sane, and well-behaved.

But back to the top, flip the narrative and consider each in equal measure. The truth is often somewhere between — hanging in tatters of opposing communication styles, the shredded ribbons of whys, and paragraphs wedged between the lines. 

Suppose we scrape back a little and admit the chemical truth; that although of the same species, the sexes are inherently wired differently. It’s not just physiological; it’s chemical (hormonal) and psychological. We’re not the same. We are not equal. Understanding and empathy can go a long way, but tired, pre-conditioned, defensive, and damaging routes are sadly still more frequently trodden. Footprints smash and merge on that sad muddy path. Nothing grows there.

Popular culture, including methods of control wheeled out by religious and governments, have fed into the tropes that categorise the ill-expressed emotionless and logical male as somehow strong and superior and the overly emotional, sensitive female as unreasonable and, yes, psychotic. And within our sexes, we even betray ourselves. Yes, the external gaslighting happens within the borders too. It’s a fucked up mess to untangle and rework. Neither perpetrator likes to be called out, but that does not mean they shouldn’t.

Unless one is willing to open their eyes and look through a few other lenses, what’s the point? There’s no use in rinsing if one is doomed to repeat.

Mono No

The problem with monogamy is everything.

As with monotheism, the narrow, single-track pathway does not stimulate growth, enlightenment, wisdom, and fulfilment. I line those things up side-by-side because love and sex are profoundly spiritual and primal. Minimising and restricting the human experiences of those things is developmentally devastating to the brief human experience. It dumbs us down, numbs us. The nuances of our needs in love and sexual desires are too complex to be satisfied and advanced in a mono union (confinement).

When openness and confident communication are embraced, there’s no room for liars, mistrust, or cheats; there’s just love and true evolving connection. 

I need to run in the woods—to feel the earth caress and cut my feet, the bark scratch his claws down my pale back, the rain pat at my face and tangle my hair, and the air lash my body with a thousand desperate kisses.

Rosslyn Chapel

It’s been a couple of years since I visited this spot.  Rosslyn Chapel, and Roslin Glen is one of my favourite places to spend time.  There’s an immense peace around this area. It’s a cleansing meander where time could stop—of course, it never does; what we spend can never be made back. This setting has inspired many poets, storytellers, novelists and artists for hundreds of years, if not more. I admit it inspired a fictional setting in one of my short stories. I wonder if any of my readers could spot it? That story has more to it in the pipeline — don’t they always.

Today, after another restless night, I took a slow venture to Roslin village in Edinburgh. My journey was flanked with sorrow from the moment I left the house; a lone magpie was almost constant in my sights. Different individuals, but always a solitary sorrow. I penned some notes. At the village, I paid a visit to the chapel first. I asked after William — anyone who has known Rosslyn in recent years may know of the black cat often found around and inside the chapel. My heart hurt to hear of his passing in 2021. The first time I visited, he sat by my side in the chapel. The cool cat left a strong impression. When inside, I took a moment on that pew with a memory of that energy. We’re all just passing through.

Rosslyn Chapel was founded in 1446 by Sir William St Clair (Sinclair) as a family chapel. (Like the name? As a Sinclair, I have a blood draw to the place like many from our rich Scottish/French/Scandinavian line). The founder died before the building’s completion 40 years later. It was not finished to William’s original design. As with many such buildings, following the 16th-century reformations, the little chapel fell into disrepair. Cromwell’s men later used it during their attack in the 17th-century to stable their horses. In the 19th-century, the chapel underwent some Victorian restoration, and services began again. Unfortunately, the work performed to protect the sandstone carvings, along with the high humidity within the chapel, was discovered to have a deteriorating effect, and major restoration works began in the late 20th-century by The Rosslyn Chapel Trust.

Read more about the chapel by visiting here.

I find it interesting how peaceful the building itself is. Silence enveloped my bones the first time I stepped inside it; silence and comfort. I have sometimes felt visceral unrest in Christian buildings — the energy poured into their design is distinctly to pay worship to their single god—a god whose people I’ve had conflict with. I feel the judgment and persecution beneath its serenely carved masks and outward message of peace. Peace that’s splattered in blood. I can feel dirty, hateful hands squeezing my throat. I’ve never felt a whisper of that at Rosslyn Chapel. One could shelter there under all those carved eyes, flowers, stars, and green men. Rosslyn feels more spiritual than religious. I love that about her. Perhaps she was designed for monotheism, but she feels far more polytheistic to this pagan. And you don’t have to look far online for information and theories on the glorious tapestry of symbolism carved into the sandstone inside and out of this divine little gothic gem. But, if you’ve never been, I suggest not reading a single thing — visit her, sit in her cradle of silence and tell me what you feel.

The chapel sits above Roslin Glen. A wee wander down beneath and by the ruins of Roslin Castle is a divine way to cap off or sandwich a visit to the chapel. The ancient woodlands along the glorious River Esk are perfect for a quiet contemplation walk and just as good for a fun day out with the kids. I needed the former, and I will no doubt be taking my little monsters on the next trip over.

Oh! As I left the chapel grounds, I was approached by a confident and curious ginger cat. We exchanged pleasantries, maybe I’ll see him next time on the pews.

Crumbs

Into the sea of a billion similar blog posts on the state of ‘dating’, here’s my crumb to be dissolved in the salt. I’m sore, so I’m hitting the innie hard, which usually means I go out of direct contact except for a teeny few for a bit. 

I’ve spent most of my teen and adult life in a relationship thus my experience with being single is limited. There have only been a few small windows. It seems that there are many of us in my generation (middle-aged, single), and I don’t believe it’s because people lack anything from previous generations for LTRs to stick. I think it’s more that we’re developing more self-respect for personal needs than being sacrificed to unhappy, uncommunicative, sometimes abusive, neglectful, and unfulfilling institutions, of which there seem to be many. My last relationship spanned 16 years, of which I was monogamous, so it had been a fair while since I dipped my toes into the pool!

I had a brief flurry on a particular app — chatted to a few folks; some seemed decent, but others were a fucking shambles. I’m not sure when it became acceptable to ask if a woman wants to eat your ass in a greeting, but there seems to be more of those clods than decent folks on the apps. The way they speak over text would never happen in real life. It’s fucking nuts. And there are the time wasters who are bored, probably married (and not open), and want to chat but never meet. (I understand why pages like ‘Are we dating the same guy/girl exist?’. Sadly, they have to and probably create as many problems as they highlight.) And, of course, there’s the torrential onslaught of egomania DPs and selfies—men being more visual, this seemed more a male thing. Women connect differently. Many seem slow to learn that—that’s one to teach our sons.

I didn’t go more than ankle deep and quickly decided—fuck that, and shut it down. I don’t imagine ever returning to those avenues (I may get more chickens). In theory, it’s such a fun and efficient idea to meet folks looking for the same things, but it’s riddled with liars.

What the actual fuck?

Anyway, after that, there was an accident, not from the dating apps. We actually met in person, and I stupidly caught feelings and hurt myself. Is this a right of passage? Does it mean I’m now totally part of the 21st century and the death of human connection? Where heavy contact and mixed signals, then nothing are the norm?

I might have been a boredom breaker, like you’d give to a dog—chewed up, spat out, tossed to be forgotten under the sofa, now onto the next shiny toy to rip apart.

It’s depressing the state human connection and communication has gotten into with regards to romance, sex, and any new relationship (or situationship now?) that involves exploring and engaging with one or both of those things. 

It’s fucked, isn’t it? It’s not even a question. I know it is.

Personally, being of a HSP, empathic, introverted nature—it is hell, and we are screwed. Quick! Grab all the books and head to the woods! I either feel nothing or I feel it all intensely, and I read and soak in the emotional energy of others with whom I directly connect. With this, I am immensely lucky in the very close friendships I have. Unlucky in the other.

My nature has been weaponised against me in the past, particularly in relationships. I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve allowed emotional manipulation to steal years of my life. Time is life; it’s all we get. The quality and authenticity of the connections we make matter. When there are shifts in emotional energy, there’s a very direct impact. Those three personality traits interlink heavily with the physical. When HSPs are emotionally messed around, we feel it everywhere: we can’t sleep, how we feel is deafening and consuming, we get stuck in conversations in our heads (even ones that haven’t happened. The words unuttered become haunting ghosts), and we beat ourselves up.

Over recent years, I’ve been trying to manage these things better, and this year, I made a conscious effort to try to implement self-care and regulation so I can support better mental health. That self-work really is so important for all of us. The more sensitively, empathetic natured tend to sacrifice that naturally to support the energy of those we feel connected to. It’s not an easy trait to snap out of. Work is continuous.

It’s not about being ‘too sensitive’ or having to ‘harden up’ as I, and I know others of a similar cut, would have heard growing up. Honestly, I’m not 100% sure what the solution is because right now, I’m in ‘shut everything down!’, ‘raise the drawbridge!’, ‘flood the fucking moat!’, and ‘stay away from all people!’ mode. Defensive. But we shouldn’t have to live that way. And I know that mindset creates trouble when the fort is battened down too hard….

Fuck. I hate this feeling.

‘The mouth of the wolf, the eyes of the lamb’ —Rain, SleepToken

Art or Blood

When I become entangled viewing a piece of art, enraptured by the skilful technique and inspired by the story being depicted, through the palate, the stroke of the instrument, the shapes, the words, I don’t much consider the artist—at least not at first.

If art speaks to me, at that moment, that’s all that matters.

I cannot get on board with this peculiar demand for so-called diversity by being selective of the artists’ personal attributes before viewing the art. Let art speak up for itself. Separate the creation from the creator, just for a bit. An artist’s nationality, sex, sexuality, gender, health, colour, heritage, politics, experiences, age, family and all else has nothing to do with the viewer unless they choose to share it.

The demand for artists to expose themselves so consumers can feel good about being selectively diverse should stop. And no, I’m not what ‘they’ think I am either—as a writer and artist, I could expose and exploit personal details for targeted diversity marketing, as too many seem to do at this strange juncture. But, not everything is for sale. I don’t offer my body and who I am for vultures to peck to the bone. I’m not for sale; my books and art are.

Want to diversify the art being consumed?

Step outside your comfort genres, go to an exhibit ‘just because’, grab a book because you’ve never heard of the author or publisher, or because the cover’s texture made you want to run your hands all over it, or because it had that ‘read me’ smell.

Enjoy the art without baying for the artists’ blood.

Jenna McCray’s Taste of Scotland

Jenna McCray’s first drink in Scotland. When the New Yorker find herself in the coastal village of Anand is a pint of Scottish-brewed heather ale, …

Jenna McCray’s Taste of Scotland

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(

The month of Samhain 2022

Witches’ New Year approaches. With that, I’m Autumn cleaning, creatively speaking, at least. Washing away the dust of the summer fires, sweeping this germ-ridden circle clogged with ash. I say this with every positive intention, which in the current climate of my sick house, it’s not so simple. Some things are outwith control, but I try flow with, around, through it. (I may have recited ‘We’re Going on a Bear Hunt’ a few too many times).
Starting with the writing. I’ve taken part in only a few invite-only opportunities. This year, it has been difficult to say no, but something I’ve had to learn to do fast. It’s been challenging; each opportunity offered has been for a great project, and I am profoundly grateful to be asked. Short fiction writing has been on the back burner, which was always this year’s plan to invest in my degree studies and researching/writing longer works. Moving on, a quick recap of my own books released and scheduled to tie up 2023:

Asylum Daughter
Novella
5th May 2022

Incesticide: Collected Horror
Short Fiction Collection
14th December 2022

Clan Witch: Found Shadows
Poetry and Drabble Collection
31st December 2022

There has been lots of work going on in Brazen Folk Horror, which I launched with Ruthann Jagge this year. Here we share regular updates on ‘The Making of Delevan House’. We have many plans to execute, so it’s a great space to follow. You are cordially invited! We expect you to put in some effort—get tight-lacing, break out the good cloak, your best finery, and you better buy an extravagant hat while you’re at it. It’ll be one hell of a ride! You will want to be watching for that pre-order date as soon as we announce it. In the meantime, come enjoy the brazen tease and seduction.

Well, it’s been tumultuous and stable on the homestead with no middle ground— a seesaw over starving shark-infested waters more than a rollercoaster. The pendulum never stops. My kids and I have been struggling with fresh ongoing health issues since the start of the year when we contracted that virus. It then came in for a second hit in July, which haven’t recovered from. Between chronic coughs requiring prescription medications, chronic fatigue and opportunistic germs that keep jumping on board because of compromised immune systems, it’s been a royal shitshow. With medical support services (the NHS) being abysmal. My family (I) also suffered another pregnancy loss. During the second bout of that virus, my baby’s heart stopped beating, and I gave birth four weeks later. We were (are) devastated.

Grief so intimate is a profound journey we carry with us throughout our time on the rock. Lives that were given a second chance coincided with the loss of my last baby, Averey. My family adopted a small flock of ex-commercial layers (Hens) from The British Hen Welfare Trust. I have shared little updates on their settling-in and shenanigans on social media. The ladies (our little Queens, as we call them. On account of naming them after Drag Queens: Jinkx Monsoon, Bimini bon boulash, Raja and Ginger Minj) are so very full of stories and have settled in as though they’ve always been part of the family. They are part of the clan. Some things are meant to be, and these Queens were never meant for slaughter.

Something about coming from 2021 into 2022 held promise and a thirst for change. More than a thirst, it was a drouth of dry agony. So many I know felt it—a need for rewiring, redirection, reinvention, or simply getting back on track. The year hasn’t quite lived up to the promise. Instead, it’s been more like treading water. Trying to stay afloat, and more, fighting to survive. I guess that’s life for the most part. An ongoing battle, with Jack-in-the-box obstacles springing forth at any given moment. Damn clowns. Tomorrow will be better.

The veil is thinning as the gears continue to cycle. There’s much reflection as we dare to lift the veil and step through the shadows, opening locked doors to visit with ghosts. This season welcomes the shadows, where the light and dark dance. It’s almost Samhain. Listen… whose voice can you hear calling from the ether?

Sweep the circle, burn the candles, lay out the feast, and set out coveted photographs and letters from the dead. They’ll be here soon. )O(