MadameTango

Anyone else following Eurovision this year? I find it inspirational! In 2018 I turned the  Danish entry into a short story  - can feel that happening this year too - there are a couple of possibilities!! Who is your favourite so far??

MadameTango

Anyone else following Eurovision this year? I find it inspirational! In 2018 I turned the  Danish entry into a short story  - can feel that happening this year too - there are a couple of possibilities!! Who is your favourite so far??

MadameTango

A new video of an old song and an old favourite story starts to resurface - in the line at Tescos with more groceries than she’d intended to buy, Freya Martin trained catlike green eyes on the tall man in front of her. 
          And yes it was the beanie she saw first before she noticed his height – somewhere over six foot. Or his frame on buff side without being a muscle-bound gym junky. 
          No, it was the knitted garment that pulled her eye, brought her attention to her grocery-line companion in front of her but not quite close enough to the cashier to put his own groceries on the conveyer belt.
          It looked oddly familiar. 
          Olive green knitted in a raised pattern and stretched over dark brown hair. 
          She’d seen it before. 
          A pang of homesickness hit her in a wave and she realised where.
          The beanie could very well have had another life as a tea cosy on the beaten-up and dinged 60s-style aluminium teapot, perched on an old wooden table in country New Zealand. During the school holidays or when her mum or dad toured kid-free, the pot was permanently filled with a scoop of no-frills tea for each of the four Martin grandkids, one for gran and the other for Pa, just in from the milking along with the obligatory one for the pot. The brew was strong enough to strip paint but it was always hot thanks to gran’s endless supply of handknitted tea cosies including her favourite green one. 
          And here it was. 
          On the head of a hipster in tight black jeans tattoed to long legs and stretched over a peachy arse, teamed with a leather jacket and probably – if he turned around to face her – a bushy hipster beard that made him look like a barista from a trendy over-priced coastal coffee shop anywhere in the world.
          Freya giggled, louder than she had planned because - to her horror - beanie boy turned wondering maybe what the mad woman behind him was suddenly laughing at, narrowing eyes every bit as green as Freya and furtively placing a finger over his lips. 
          He was shushing her.

DrunkGirl4Life

@MadameTango I’m already hooked! More, please!!
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MadameTango

@ArabianKnights it was finished with an epilogue and ten chapters into a sequel
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MadameTango

A new video of an old song and an old favourite story starts to resurface - in the line at Tescos with more groceries than she’d intended to buy, Freya Martin trained catlike green eyes on the tall man in front of her. 
          And yes it was the beanie she saw first before she noticed his height – somewhere over six foot. Or his frame on buff side without being a muscle-bound gym junky. 
          No, it was the knitted garment that pulled her eye, brought her attention to her grocery-line companion in front of her but not quite close enough to the cashier to put his own groceries on the conveyer belt.
          It looked oddly familiar. 
          Olive green knitted in a raised pattern and stretched over dark brown hair. 
          She’d seen it before. 
          A pang of homesickness hit her in a wave and she realised where.
          The beanie could very well have had another life as a tea cosy on the beaten-up and dinged 60s-style aluminium teapot, perched on an old wooden table in country New Zealand. During the school holidays or when her mum or dad toured kid-free, the pot was permanently filled with a scoop of no-frills tea for each of the four Martin grandkids, one for gran and the other for Pa, just in from the milking along with the obligatory one for the pot. The brew was strong enough to strip paint but it was always hot thanks to gran’s endless supply of handknitted tea cosies including her favourite green one. 
          And here it was. 
          On the head of a hipster in tight black jeans tattoed to long legs and stretched over a peachy arse, teamed with a leather jacket and probably – if he turned around to face her – a bushy hipster beard that made him look like a barista from a trendy over-priced coastal coffee shop anywhere in the world.
          Freya giggled, louder than she had planned because - to her horror - beanie boy turned wondering maybe what the mad woman behind him was suddenly laughing at, narrowing eyes every bit as green as Freya and furtively placing a finger over his lips. 
          He was shushing her.

MadameTango

Lost one of my favourite people to talk to and interview today - might just have some sort of music industry, music journo story brewing as a result. Vale Andrew Greedy Smith, I shall miss our chaotic interview/chats.

MadameTango

@ArabianKnights I saw that tour with the cockroaches at Seagulls.  Great pics - good find, thank you.
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MadameTango

And "It's Too Late".
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MadameTango

The wordsmith's dilemma 
          Words swirl around my head, dancing, forming, itching to be free. Desperately wanting to travel through my fingers and etch themselves on to the screen in front of me.
          But they're not the words I need or want right now. These are mine. And on a Thursday afternoon as deadlines start to rise up in front of me the words I need belong to other people, the words I need come from outside my head and are destined for newsprint.
          But those words are shy, scared off by grand ideas, big pictures and stories desperate to be told.
          I fight those strong, persistent words off with all I have but they are winning and the battle I fight is one for losers, procrastinators and people use to taking a deadline right down to the wire.
          Still, it's an honest battle and I will toil on - hoping to coax those ideas of others, the words of the interviewed on to the page.
          I fight this battle a lot.
          And in the end.
          I win.
          Always.
          It just takes a while.

MadameTango

Something has stirred today and I feel like revisiting an old friend - Beautiful Dirt - an excerpt from the chapter The Culling Season - It was now early October. For most, it's the run into the holiday season, the run into winter, to Christmas shows and openings and closings on the West End. The run down to the Doctor Who Christmas special, and the latest Christmas Day tragedy in Walford.
          
          For journalists, for those with ink running in their veins and words running through their heads, October had become a season all of its own.
          
          October was the killing season.
          
          The annual cull.
          
          The culling season.
          
          The season of change and not for the better – each year more and more journalists prepared to learn that new saying, the one they'd become very familiar with very fast "Do you want fries with that?"
          
          It wasn't usually writers though, in recent times with more and more technology pouring in, technical jobs were needed less and less. Compositors and typesetters had long gone the way of the dodo. There was no need to put little metal letters in a printing press or the words of journalists into a typesetting machine. Computers and automated print presses had killed half the jobs in our industry and now the other half were under threat. Who needs sub-editors when you have spell checks and templates to follow or you can send your papers to a far off location with cheap labour and have it come back ready for checking and printing just an hour or two later. Who needs photographers when everyone has an iPhone.

MadameTango

Just want to give a shoutout to all of the readers and writers on here who don't feel like you fit the main demographic of this site- the world needs outliers - it needs all different wonderful voices no matter your age or location or style. Keep writing, keep posting - write for yourself, your stories because you will connect with someone - and it's not quantity that matters it's the story, it's the writing and it's the connection. And comment when you love something even if you don't think it's trendy - if you connect with a story tell the writer! I remember the comments I got from aspie mums when I first finished with Ill Conceived, I cherish the conversations I've had with people who have been touched by depression after I wrote Waitress and with dementia after I wrote Heat. They mean more to me than anything else. Tell your stories - if you get millions of readers great but if you connect to someone else who finds solace in your writing - even better.

MadameTango

@Jdogspal thank you for being so supportive of my work
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MadameTango

@Christine_Owen that would be very cool
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Christine_Owen

@MadameTango OMG LETS MEET
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MadameTango

Thank you to everyone who is giving Football, Droughts etc a read and some love. It's number 20 in sports stories, in the 300 in humour and teachers (both big categories) and number 1 in farmers. You don't have to know anything about Australian Football this is ultimately a romance and a love letter to smalltowns, small town people and smalltown life every where in the world.