http://cargocollective.com Julia Bell Sun, 10 Jan 2010 21:37:13 +0000 http://cargocollective.com en http://cargocollective.com/juliabell/Poetry http://cargocollective.com/juliabell/following/juliabell/Poetry Sun, 10 Jan 2010 21:37:13 +0000 Julia Bell 93520 I also write poetry. A list of forthcoming publications coming soon. In the meanwhile - here are two new ones and further down the page links to some poetry films on the streets of my neighbourhood commissioned by the Bernie Grant Arts Centre as a part of the Great Book of Tottenham. Bits in the Carpet Blot out all mine iniquities, create in me a clean heart. Psalm 51 Would you do that again, please? There’s still bits in the carpet. Look! Can’t you see? The devil lurks in dusty places, especially under the settee. I tell you a terrible darkness has taken hold of this country. – you missed a bit – If only people would stop bringing dirt into the house. If only they would learn to tidy up after themselves, remember they are fallen, weak, pay attention to the need for self control. If only they were more like me. Pomegranate God grant Margaret a pomegranate The poem of fruits, a praise of jewels come to rest by this hospital bed. God grant Margaret a pomegranate for she has been asking after Persephone tricked by Hades to eat when starving, the six seeds of the berried pulp. God grant Margaret a pomegranate Because inside this seeded apple is a beating heart, a hymn, blood against the tongue. Street Poems The Excellent The Front Gardens of Langham Road http://cargocollective.com/juliabell/Contact-me http://cargocollective.com/juliabell/following/juliabell/Contact-me Fri, 25 Sep 2009 20:13:42 +0000 Julia Bell 93673 Get in touch! You can email me at juliabell@juliabell.net <img src="http://badge.facebook.com/badge/732273637.118.519857227.png" width="120" height="140" style="border: 0px;" /> * There are quite a few of us out there . . . what an amazing coincidence . . . if you're called Julia Bell and have a website you want me to feature - let me know! Julia Bell Photography: http://www.juliabell.co.uk Julia Bell English human geneticist: http://www.whonamedit.com/doctor.cfm/1853.html The Bell School of Irish Dance: http://www.bellschool.com/about_b.html <img src="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/0/9572/93673/DSC00199.JPG" border="0" width="640" height="480" width_o="640" height_o="480" src_o="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/0/9572/93673/DSC00199_o.JPG" align="left" /> http://cargocollective.com/juliabell/Links http://cargocollective.com/juliabell/following/juliabell/Links Fri, 25 Sep 2009 20:13:39 +0000 Julia Bell 93669 <img src="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/0/9572/93669/DSC00120.jpg" border="0" width="480" height="640" width_o="480" height_o="640" src_o="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/0/9572/93669/DSC00120_o.jpg" align="left" /> stuff I like: Magazines The Believer New Yorker Fiction McSweeneys Granta Litro Paris Review Aesthetica Ploughshares Narrative Poets and Writers Mslexia Writers Colum McCann Rebecca Solnit Sophie Woolley Per Petterson Kevin Barry Tove Jansson Nii Ayikwei Parkes Roald Dahl Itinerant Poetry Librarian Places 826 Valencia School of Life Shakespeare and Co City Lights Poet Sandalmaker of Athens FreeWord Centre Writing Bloodaxe Books Tindal Street Press Short Story Poetcasting One Sentence Short Story Sheer Poetry Resources Websites for Writers The Literary Consultancy Everyone Who's Anyone The Writer's Workshop Arvon Courses BBC Writers' Room Writing Prompts Blogs Notes from the Road Badass of the Week Fun Jules Underwater Hotel Punk 77 Sanna Annukka Future Me Calvin and Hobbes Wonderland Web Urbanist Jeff Bridges South Park Studios http://cargocollective.com/juliabell/The-Coursebook http://cargocollective.com/juliabell/following/juliabell/The-Coursebook Fri, 25 Sep 2009 18:03:43 +0000 Julia Bell 93562 <img src="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/0/9572/93562/cwcoursebook2.jpg" border="0" width="337" height="475" width_o="337" height_o="475" src_o="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/0/9572/93562/cwcoursebook2_o.jpg" align="left" /> Maybe you don’t need The Creative Writing Coursebook. Maybe you can just get on with it. Writing, though, is a solitary business, and the voices in this book are intelligent, companionable and thoughtful. A good book to have around when loneliness — or writer’s block — strikes.Erica Wagner The Times This is a book that I wrote and edited while I was teaching and working at the University of East Anglia in Norwich. It follows the structure of a twelve week creative writing course with advice and exercises from forty different writers. Here's an extract to get you started: Clearing Your Throat Julia Bell From The Creative Writing Cousebook Ed. Julia Bell and Paul Magrs Good writing depends on practice, like sports, the more limbered up you are the better you perform. But how do you pass through that first, often terrifying, encounter with the blank page and find a voice that will carry your thoughts and feelings with eloquence and flair? You have lots of ideas, but little confidence in your ability to express them.What if it comes out wrong? What if it makes you look childish or naive? What if you can’t do it? The blank page seems to taunt you with your own under confidence; it points to all the great works that have gone before and says - you can’t do that, or, what’s the point? It’sall been said already. The reams of sentences, the characters, and the ideas that drove you to the page in the first place wither into nothing. Suddenly the whole project becomes impossible and your desire to write remains just that. The only way to overcome this problem is to write. Get some material down on paper, however rough and ready. Start off with notes, fragments, half sentences, until the stuttering stops and you find yourself writing whole sentences, paragraphs, pages. Often the first hurdle is the writer’s own self-consciousness about the act of writing itself. And that hurdle might well take a few pages to clear, like an old car with a dirty petrol tank, the first few miles will be a juddering, stop-start journey. Be prepared for this. You are engaging with something unfamiliar to you, don’t expect to produce a masterpiece in your first attempt. Start off with what you had for tea, the last phone call you made, the colour of your lover’s eyes, your favourite CD. Give yourself a subject and write about it without stopping or correcting yourself for five minutes. Just generate some pages, a bodyof work. Then read it back to yourself. This will be hard: a first-time encounter with your own work is not dissimilar to watching yourself on TV or hearing your recorded voice for the first time – do I really sound like that? Oh no, I never knew I looked like that. You might well be embarrassed or disappointed. Don’t stop. This is a rite of passage. Good radio presenters listen to their own voices over and over so they can control and improve their pitch and delivery. In the same way, good writers will read through their own writing looking for sentences that can be improved, pushed further,expanded, cut. It is only when you have developed a sense of your own fictional voice that you will really have the confidence to jump in and write a story. However, paradoxically, it is only through writing that you will develop a sense of what your voice really is. Your fictional voice is not a million miles away from how you speak. A good storytelling voice is a more honed and structured version of speech, and it is as individual to you as your fingerprints. Look at the books you read. What kinds of voices are clamouring for your attention on your bookshelf? You are likely to find lots of disparate voices talking, all with different, accents, references, cadences, obsessions. Voice in fiction or poetry can be interpreted as perspective or personality. It is different from style which is something that you can develop later to create effects. A poem I wrote when I was thirteen still sounds like me at twenty-nine. Perhaps it’s a sad reflection on my continuing juvenility, or, more seriously, it is the thread of me-ness that runs through my work, the personality that inhabits all the words I write. Try the following exercise either by yourself or in a group. Write down five sounds that you can hear. Then list the things that you associate with those sounds. A car engine may remind you of being picked up after school, clanking crockery of that summer you worked at Pizza Pie, an aeroplane of your holiday to Ibiza. This exercise is especially effective in class because in the institutional hush of university buildings there are very few sounds to be heard: air con, buzzing strip lights, heels down the corridor outside, the droning of the lecturer next door. Everyone in the group hears the same or similar things, but they all use different words to express what they have heard, and the sounds have very different associations for them. These associations are unique, born out of individual experience; no one else has these particular stories to tell with these words. These associations and words are, very embryonically, the writer’s voice. If you have done this exercise on your own, look at the words you have chosen to describe the things you have heard and the associations you have made with those sounds. These are your stories, this is your language, this is the beginning of your fictional voice. ©JuliaBell From The Creative Writing Coursebook Ed. Julia Bell and Paul Magrs http://cargocollective.com/juliabell/About-Julia-Bell http://cargocollective.com/juliabell/following/juliabell/About-Julia-Bell Fri, 25 Sep 2009 17:29:24 +0000 Julia Bell 93527 <img src="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/0/9572/93527/9526_157728708637_732273637_3508393_1149592_n.jpg" border="0" width="604" height="453" width_o="604" height_o="453" src_o="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/0/9572/93527/9526_157728708637_732273637_3508393_1149592_n_o.jpg" align="left" /> Welcome to my website! Here you can find out all about me, my books, the Birkbeck Writing Programme as well as watch some of my films and read some of my work. I was born in Bristol but raised in Wales (I can speak Welsh!) and have published two novels for young adults - Massive and Dirty Work, both published by Macmillan in the UK. In the US Massive is published by Simon and Schuster and Dirty Work by Walker Books. Massive has also been translated into ten languages, including Thai. I also wrote and co-edited the bestselling Creative Writing Coursebook while I was working at the University of East Anglia, which is also published by Macmillan. I am a Senior Lecturer at Birkbeck, University College of London where I teach on the MA Creative Writing and co-ordinate the annual publication The Mechanics' Institute Review and the new web portal The Birkbeck Writers' Hub. I am currently working on my fourth novel - Bad Faith - collaborating on work for the screen, taking photos and writing poems. Come back for regular updates and project portfolios. Art wants to pass into life, to lift it. Art wants to enchant, to transform, to make life more meaningful or bearable in its own small and mysterious way. We need more stillness. More of a sense of wonder. We need more deep listening. More deep giving. Ben Okri - Birds of Heaven http://cargocollective.com/juliabell/Massive http://cargocollective.com/juliabell/following/juliabell/Massive Fri, 25 Sep 2009 17:29:10 +0000 Julia Bell 93526 <img src="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/0/9572/93526/10011079.jpg" border="0" width="340" height="479" width_o="340" height_o="479" src_o="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/0/9572/93526/10011079_o.jpg" align="left" /> Weight is a big issue in Carmen's life - not surprising when her mother is obsessed with dieting and is determined that her daughter will be thin. But with a long list of failed diets behind her and a mountain of empty wrappers under the bed. Carmen knows the comfort of forbidden food. Swept off to Birmingham by her mum. Carmen finds her old life disappearing - her home, her friends and her father. With everything to gain and nothing to lose Carmen starts to ask: if she were thin, very thin, could it all be different? Reviews of Massive ' . . .boldly yet sensitively explores complex interactions between emotional and nutritional needs . . . perceptive and disturbing . . .' The Bookseller '. . . told with sympathy and humour and somehow manages to be enjoyable as well as thought-provoking.' Big Issue ' . . .examines the pressures being yourself and trying to fit in. Big, bold and brave.' J17 'Novels for teenagers about eating disorders can be tricky. Bell's debut novel is tough, grimy and truthful as it looks at three women in the same family with food problems. For Carmen's mum Maria, thin equals success. She despairs of her podgy teenage daughter and, when a job opportunity arises in Birmingham, she whisks Carmen away to the big city. Soon Carmen is discovering her roots, including a grandmother who equates food with affection. Bell comes at her subject with a clever obliqueness, using the dislocated experience of the strange city to reflect Maria's and Carmen's fixations on food. A small chink of hope at the end suggests that Carmen will break the vicious circle and that the legacy will not be passed on.' The Guardian And my favorite review from Alison from Canada who wrote on Amazon: 'An Amazing Mistake: I was leaving for a family vacation, so as usual I stopped by the book store and library. I happened upon this book because it was one of the few I hadn't read in the section I wandered into. I was pleasantly surprised. This is an amazing book with a really good story, I would recommend it to anyone who likes the works of Francesca Lia Block, or suffers with an eating disorder or family problems.' <img src="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/0/9572/93526/prt_DSC01773_1.JPG" border="0" width="200" height="134" width_o="200" height_o="134" src_o="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/0/9572/93526/prt_DSC01773_1_o.JPG" align="left" /> http://cargocollective.com/juliabell/Dirty-Work http://cargocollective.com/juliabell/following/juliabell/Dirty-Work Fri, 25 Sep 2009 17:28:54 +0000 Julia Bell 93525 <img src="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/0/9572/93525/DirtyWorkTPB.jpg" border="0" width="298" height="479" width_o="298" height_o="479" src_o="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/0/9572/93525/DirtyWorkTPB_o.jpg" align="left" /> 'Like Patricia McCormick’s Sold, this novel gives headlines about sexual slavery a human face.' Booklist‘Bell’s debut, Massive, was a powerful exploration of body dysmorphia and Dirty Work, published on the bicentenary of Parliament’s vote to abolish the salve trade is as timely as it is punchy.’ The Times'Gritty . . . pitch perfect . . . provocative.' The Observer‘Follows in an illustrious literary tradition of taking readers, through story, into the seedier side of a reality that cannot be ignored even if most people would rather avoid it’ The Guardian Dirty Work is about Oksana and what happens to her when she leaves her home in Russia thinking she’s going to Italy to work as a waitress. And what happens to Hope, an English girl, when she finds a strange Russian stowed away in her camper van. Here’s the Prologue, anyway. Scroll down the page for a list of online resources: links, campaigns and information about human trafficking. Dirty Work © Julia Bell Prologue: Oksana “‘When I wake up, she is gone.’ That’s what I tell him, over and over. It’s the truth, even though I know, right now, he doesn’t believe me. He stamps around the room, kicking the furniture and shouting. Don’t I know how much money he will lose? Don’t I know how much she’s worth? I shouldn’t have been sleeping! I should have been watching! And by then he’s given himself enough reasons, and he punches me in the arm and then he slaps me across the face. Tomorrow we are supposed to be going to London. Zergei has made a good deal with his contacts. Ten thousand for two, delivery included. First class, he said, laughing, to the man on the phone. We’ve only been in Amsterdam for a week, just so he can sort out some paperwork, and then we get the ferry to England. When we get there Zergei’s going to help me escape, that’s what he says, and we’re going to run away from ‘all this shit’ and start a new life some place. But ten thousand isn’t enough in any currency to run away with me and starta new life. The moment he gets that money in his hands, he’s going towalk away and fly to Rio where the girls hang out on the beaches in bikinis and you can get all the tits you want for free. I’m not stupid, I can see how life works. Which is why, if Marie had found a way to run away, I wish she told me, because I would have gone with her too. He comes back later, rushing up the steep stairs to the top of the house. He’s swearing and shouting my name, which is bad news. ‘We’ve got to go. Quick!’ He throws a bag at me. ‘Get your stuff.’ When I ask him why, he won’t look at me. ‘Did you find her?’ He nods. ‘Where is she?’ He takes his time, rubbing a heavy hand over his face. ‘She is dead, Oksana. In– in the canal.’” ©All Rights Reserved http://cargocollective.com/juliabell/Class-Work http://cargocollective.com/juliabell/following/juliabell/Class-Work Fri, 25 Sep 2009 17:28:48 +0000 Julia Bell 93523 An exclusive extract from my new novel, Class Work. Martin gave his coat and satchel to a small brunette with a lumpy figure and scanned the crowd for someone he recognised. He saw a few familiar faces from the Groucho and the Supplement and a woman that he couldn’t place who was staring at him fiercely. Publicity, probably, although he couldn’t remember which event or which encounter. It wasn’t the one who had thrown herself at him after the last launch party at the September Gallery, he was sure of that, she’d had blonde hair and a red dress. He took a glass of champagne from the waiter and ducked behind the coat rail, pretending to tie his shoes He hoped she wasn’t expecting to make a scene. That was all he needed. ‘I say, Martin! What are you doing down there?’ He looked up to see Henry Sharp, sometime editor of the Literary Review standing over him, his foppish fringe falling into his eyes. ‘Cassandra’s over there! She’s just been telling me all about your promotion.’ Martin stood up looked over Henry’s thinning hair into the throng. Cassandra was most certainly there, regal in a black cocktail frock, a subtle blue flower tucked into her hair. And the publicity girl seemed to have disappeared into the crowd, thank god. ‘Professor eh? Rather well done I say.’ ‘Thank you Henry.’ Martin hadn’t thought of East Albion for weeks. He knew he would have to go down there next week but was putting off looking at the piles of envelopes Cassandra had put on his desk. He had spent all day rewriting a paragraph that he thought might make the beginning of the new novel only to end up deleting it in a fit of pique at about five thirty. ‘You’ve done very well with that job. We literary types need a port in the storm don’t you think?’ Henry flicked his head over his shoulder at a grungy looking young man in dirty jeans and with straggly, greasy hair, who was holding court to a giggling circle of blonde publicity girls. ‘Irwin’s here. He just got another six figure deal for a book about his drug habit.’ He hissed in a stage whisper. ‘Looks like he’s still on them too, he’s got disgusting fingernails.’ Martin felt his ulcer twinge. Irwin McKenzie was an ex-offender turned chronicler of working class Edinburgh. Although not exactly a rival, his books had had notably more commercial success than Martin could ever dream of. His characters were drunks and scammers and addicts and prostitutes, and based on real people he used to know, before his novels got made into movies and he bought a flat in Fulham and a farm in Ireland. He seemed to really live life, like a rock star or something, he didn’t labour away for years behind his desk for a few hundred pages of exquisitely wrought prose, he wrote novels in two weeks, Kerouac-style with the aid of lots of pharmaceuticals. ‘Martin?’ ‘Eh?’ 'You drifted off.’ ‘Oh. Yes. Sorry Henry. Long day.’ Martin felt his energy seeping through his shoes. ‘Ah. Yes. Das kinder. I know all about that.’ Henry’s longtime girlfriend had recently given birth to twins. ‘How are they?’ ‘Well, you know how it is, up all night feeding and changing.’ Martin sighed. ‘Oh yes.’ He gave him a clap on the back. ‘Courage my friend.’ ‘In fact I’m on my way out. I promised I’d be back by seven thirty and it’s eight already.’ Martin was disappointed, he had half hoped he could get away with skulking in the corner with Henry and not have to stand next to Cassandra and be shown up by her dazzling light. He could see her coiling around the party like a plume of smoke. He needed a drink. He squeezed his way around the walls to the bar at the back of the room. Here there were pretty waitresses serving glasses of warm white wine. He could see man of the hour Hanif Salman in the corner with his hot-shot agent and last year’s Booker winner. He thought perhaps he should make his way towards them mutter some obligatory congratulations, be seen. But for once he didn’t want to be visible. Written up in Londoner’s Diary, snapped with some famous chums for the Bookseller. He made his way outside to the courtyard garden, which was packed with smokers, but at least in the gathering dusk it was easier to lurk and drink wine without having to concentrate on everything he said. ‘Hello Martin! Or should I say Professor Martin.’ He turned round. Nicholas Thomas from the Standard. Fuck. Nicholas Thomas from the Standard used to date Cassandra way back in day before Martin had even met her. And as a consequence, whenever they met in public Nicholas always treated Martin as if they had some kind of familial relationship. If he were a different kind of man, perhaps the man that Cassandra secretly wanted him to be, he would have punched Nicholas’s lights out a long time ago. Instead, for the sake of good politics he tolerated him and firmly grabbed his offered hand. ‘Nicholas.’ ‘What are you doing out here?’ ‘Just getting a little air.’ ‘Hard day at the office? Cassandra’s been telling us all about your promotion.’ ‘Oh?’ Martin studied Nicholas’s long nose and pinched forehead and thinning sandy hair and wondered what it was about some of the self-styled critics that made them look so, well, critical. ‘So how is your little Creative Writing course? Discovered any new talent? Sounds like the seventh circle of hell to me. Dusty profs and spotty students and all that hot air. Can’t say I’ve ever wanted to live inside a campus novel. Dreary as faded corduroy.’ Nicholas burst a pistachio shell with his fingernails. ‘Still, I suppose it’s a relief to Cassandra now you’ve got a proper salary coming in. What’s the going rate for a Prof these days?’ One day, Martin resolved, he really would punch Nicholas Thomas. He took a deep breath and counted the seconds, imagining the satisfying connection his fist would make with that classical nose that looked as if it were permanently smelling shit. Knock him flying, properly, blood everywhere, he might even get a kick to the ribs before some of the others restrained him and he was ejected from the gathering and bundled into a taxi with an hysterical Cassandra who would be mortified by the social shame and the column inches not to mention the threat of criminal charges which Nicholas would be sure to pursue . . . ‘Martin? You all right?’ ‘Oh. Yes, fine. Thanks.’ He managed a watery smile. ‘Anyway, as I was saying, I don’t really think it’s possible to teach . . .’ But he was interrupted by the arrival of Tony Long, a film director who had recently won some big prize. Smoking an ostentatious smelling cheroot and wearing a black and white jacket with inky Moschino branding all over it. Nicholas rearranged his face, his eyebrows lifted, his lips curled in a smile. ‘Tony. Great to see you.’ Squashed into a corner under some metal stairs with Nicolas and Tony blocking his escape, Martin’s awkwardness was further compounded by the fact that Nicholas had now turned his back on him and he was forced into staring out at the party through the gaps in the metal stairs. He could see a throng of people all smoking, drinking, glittering under the outdoor lighting. There were photographs being taken, cards being exchanged, deals initiated. And for a moment he felt a sense of extreme alienation from his life. He no longer really knew who these people were to him or what he was doing there. When he saw Cassandra, hovering by the doorway, unlit cigarette dangling between her manicured fingers he knew he had to make his escape. ‘Excuse me.’ He pushed Nicholas in the back, making him stumble and spill his drink over Tony’s jacket. ‘Fuck!’ Tony took a step back. ‘Careful.’ ‘Sorry. Sorry.’ Martin didn’t look back. ‘I need some air.’ ‘But you’re already outside.’ He heard Nicholas say, but he didn’t bother to reply. He took the most direct route through the courtyard to the front door without stopping for his bag and coat. In the alleyway, out of the crush, the October air was cooling, moist with the promise of rain. He leant against the wall and took grateful gulps of air. ‘How’re ye? Alright there?’ ‘Eh?’ Martin looked up, Irwin Mackenzie was looking at him, not unkindly, from behind the straggles of his fringe. ‘Oh. OK thanks.’ ‘A wee bit too much of the auld wine, eh?’ ‘Yeah.’ Martin wondered vaguely why he wasn’t surrounded by his entourage. ‘Aye. Ahm no cut out to be wi em yuppie wankers. All that, yoo hoo kiss kiss, meks me wantae boak.’ ‘Oh.’ Martin wasn’t exactly sure what he just said, but it sounded like he was fed up with the party too. Irwin unbuttoned the pocket of his denim jacket and took out a packet of Embassy cigarettes. ‘Wantae smoke?’ ‘Thanks.’ ‘Good man.’ But instead of offering him a cigarette, Irwin took out a large joint from his Embassy packet. ‘Ah goat this oaf a Rasta in Brixton. White Widow. Finest Bob Hope yie can get.’ Martin was initially a little perturbed by the prospect of smoking illegal drugs in the street. But for the first time that evening he felt a small flutter of something, excitement? Vitality? He wasn’t sure. Irwin lit his spliff and took a deep drag. ‘Ahhhhh. Ah gie'd it the full bhoona.’ He passed it to Martin who paused before he took a short quick puff which made him immediately start coughing. ‘Tek it easy pal. Tek long slow puffs, eh?’ Martin tried again, this time keeping the smoke in his lungs until his legs started to turn soft. ‘What’s your name, pal?’ Irwin’s voice seemed as if it were coming from underwater. ‘Martin, er Martin Wooden.’ ‘Oh aye, so what do yie do Martin?’ ‘I’m a writer. I write books.’ He handed the joint back to Irwin. He felt woozy and ill and his stomach was churning as if he were experiencing heavy turbulence. ‘Aye? Are yie now?’ Irwin was suddenly enthusiastically shaking his hand. ‘Ah’ve just published a book n aw.’ ‘Oh.’ Martin didn’t know what to say. ‘Aye. Their aw big balloons doon here I tell yie. Four hundred grand! Ah’m no eejit, ah know it isnae worth that much!’ ‘What’s it about?’ But Martin couldn’t make out his reply. Something about drug monkeys and Ibiza and Scotland . . . ‘Hey pal, you OK?’ He was most certainly not OK, in fact, he was sure, as she started to slide down the wall, that he was about to die. ‘Hey Martin! Dinnae do this to me, man. Breathe deep.’ But the drug had done something very funny to his head. Irwin seemed to be waving at him from far far above him. He was aware that he was trying to speak, but all that emerged was a kind of groan. His lips felt thick and unnatural, and– ‘Martin! Martin!’ She was shaking his shoulder. ‘Are you all right? Wake up!’ For once she sounded genuinely concerned. ‘Cassandra?’ His eyes would only open into little slits. He could see legs, and trousers, other people outside, no sign of Irwin. He had no idea how long he had been passed out. ‘Martin! What have you done?’ He was overwhelmed with the urge to laugh at this question. The absurdity of it, what had he done? And what do you do? And how do you do what you do? He thought this last question to be rather profound and tried to fumble in his pocket for a piece of paper to write it on, except his hand just encountered the ground and a pool of sticky residue. ‘Egh.’ ‘Martin. You’ve been sick.’ Cassandra was holding him by the shoulders now and speaking to him very slowly. ‘I’ve got a taxi coming. Can you stand up? Do you think you can do that for me?’ A glass of water appeared which she made him drink. In a few hours, the fuzz in his head would clear and be replaced by an intense paranoia about what had just happened, but for the moment, he gripped on to Cassandras hand, and because he couldn’t remember Irwin’s name kept asking where the drug monkey was over and over again. ©Julia Bell 2011 <img src="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/0/9572/93523/DSC00422.jpg" border="0" width="670" height="502" width_o="2048" height_o="1536" src_o="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/0/9572/93523/DSC00422_o.jpg" align="left" /> http://cargocollective.com/juliabell/News http://cargocollective.com/juliabell/following/juliabell/News Fri, 25 Sep 2009 17:28:47 +0000 Julia Bell 93522 You can find Julia Bell at: In 2012 I will be teaching at Lumb Bank with Yemisi Blake and at Ty Newydd with Peter Benson further details coming soon . . . On the Writers' Hub <img src="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/0/9572/93522/home_icon_image_12608925318186250207.jpg" border="0" width="148" height="162" width_o="148" height_o="162" src_o="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/0/9572/93522/home_icon_image_12608925318186250207_o.jpg" align="left" /> www.writershub.net Run out of the Birkbeck Writing Programme - this is a website for fiction, poetry, features, reviews and opinion on the world of writing. On my photoblog: http://diary39.wordpress.com/ In my garden shed . . . the story is here: http://www.logcabins.co.uk/cs-006.asp Reading at Poltroon. And of course you can always find me at Birkbeck <img src="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/0/9572/93522/100_0058.JPG" border="0" width="670" height="502" width_o="2048" height_o="1536" src_o="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/0/9572/93522/100_0058_o.JPG" align="left" /> http://cargocollective.com/juliabell/The-Birkbeck-Writing-Programme http://cargocollective.com/juliabell/following/juliabell/The-Birkbeck-Writing-Programme Fri, 25 Sep 2009 17:28:35 +0000 Julia Bell 93513 <img src="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/0/9572/93513/bbklogo.jpg" border="0" width="200" height="63" width_o="200" height_o="63" src_o="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/0/9572/93513/bbklogo_o.jpg" align="left" /> The Birkbeck Writers' Hub The new Writers' Hub website from the Birkbeck Writing Programme. Birkbeck Writing Programme We offer writing courses at all levels from Certificate in Higher Education to BA and MA. Visit the Birkbeck website for more details. Birkbeck Alumni Students from our courses often go on to successfully publish their work. Here are links to a few MA Alumni with recently published work: Emma Henderson Sally Hinchcliffe Nii Ayikwei Parkes Jill McGivering Niki Aguirre David Savill Birkbeck MA Creative Writing Here's the course information about the MA Creative Writing at Birkbeck. The course is run by the School of English and Humanities and any course-related queries should be directed to the course secretary Anne-Marie Taylor. *PLEASE NOTE: We accept applications for academic year 2011/12 from January 2011 for interviews in Spring and early Summer. We are usually full by end of June, although there are sometimes a few places available in late August early September. The MA programme will enable talented and experienced writers to develop their craft through workshops, seminars and one-to-one tutorials and to complete with the guidance of published writers, a dissertation in either: Fiction, or Biography and Life Writing. This MA programme, with its well established reputation for teaching fiction writing, is now expanding to include provision for biographical and life writing. Students who chose the life writing/biography genre will be given an analytical introduction to the disciplinary history, theory and techniques of writing non-fiction. Staff will provide skills training in research methodology and life-writing narrative in biography, memoir, and the non-fiction novel. The programme will also focus on contemporary writing and the literary marketplace. The Master's Programme in Creative Writing produces annual literary magazine, called The Mechanics' Institute Review. Students are eligible to take part in two extensions of the programme: writLOUD, a monthly readings event showcasing both new authors from Birkbeck’s creative writing courses and established writers; and workshops on reading their work aloud in front of an audience. Also take a look at the new web portal the Birkbeck Writers' Hub. Duration Two years part-time or one year full-time. Attendance One evening a week part-time; two evenings a week full-time. October–September. Entry requirements Applicants should have a good honours degree. This requirement may be waived if students can demonstrate exceptional talent. Applicants must submit a portfolio of work and a personal statement in which they discuss their current writing, present ideas for future projects and place their work in the context of contemporary writing. Students are selected on the basis of their portfolio and statement, an interview and their degree. If English is not your first language, an IELTS score of 7.0 or equivalent is required. When to apply You should apply as early as possible. How to apply Online applications for 2011/2012 entry available on the Birkbeck website.. Contact Anne Marie Taylor School of English and Humanities tel: 020 7079 0689 email: office@eng.bbk.ac.uk www.bbk.ac.uk/eh/