This is the "blurb" for novel written by a friend of mine, Gary Murning.
"Price is used to living within the shadow of threatening friend George - forever in the fear that not to follow his lead will end with a beating. However, new developments mean his life finally seems to be moving from the dormant and gaining some positive development. Before long, though, George is back and Price finds himself following his friend once more. But this time it is different - secrets are discovered, decisions are to be made and life and perspective will never be the same again. "If I Never" is a novel about asking questions but being unsure if you want to know the answers."
It is to be published at the end of August by Legend Press Ltd and can be pre-ordered on http://tinyurl.com/mklp6e from www.amazon.co.uk
ISBN-10: 1906558140
ISBN-13: 978-1906558147
Gary is a very talented new author, with a lively mind and fantastic perception of the human condition. From extracts that I have read of his writing, I can't wait for this book to come out - I'm sure that it will be wonderful read!
Thursday 4 June 2009
Sunday 31 May 2009
My Secret Garden
Writing Adventure Group Exercise
“WAG #14: Do-Overs” Thanks to Carol for the topic idea! (This one is more of a mental/emotional exercise than observational, but you get bonus points if you can somehow tie this to a person you can see and describe OR a physical object.) Think of a time where you’d like to change what happened - whether it’s to get that witty retort in or to say something you never got the chance to say. Write how it should have been and compare it to the reality.
My Secret Garden
I have just rescued my potted fig tree from under a blanket of convulvulus, and moved it to a space next to the front porch. This represents an admission of defeat. It was meant to be the centre-piece of a little hideaway garden between the side of the house and my neighbour's fence, screened from the rest of the back garden by bushes, and from the prying eyes of passers-by with some bamboo fencing. The plan was to create a little Mediterranean haven in rural Worcestershire where I could sit, protected from the world, luxuriating in the perfume of honeysuckle and lavender.
Sadly, the dream has never become a reality. The lavender bushes died in one of the wettest summers on record. The bamboo fence blew down in the winter gales, and it half stands, half lies on the ground, a monument to my idleness in not removing it. Beyond it the little square of ground, for which I had such great plans, has been taken over by nettles, feral aquilegias and the smothering convulvulus. Only the honeysuckle climbing up the fence blooms bravely amid the chaos, and I can take no credit for that; it was planted by a previous occupant of the house, and survives in spite of not because of the present one.
I should not be surprised at yet another failure to realise my plans for a garden. I have an unbroken record of horticultural disaster stretching back nearly four decades, but I continue to live in hope that, one day, things may be different.
“WAG #14: Do-Overs” Thanks to Carol for the topic idea! (This one is more of a mental/emotional exercise than observational, but you get bonus points if you can somehow tie this to a person you can see and describe OR a physical object.) Think of a time where you’d like to change what happened - whether it’s to get that witty retort in or to say something you never got the chance to say. Write how it should have been and compare it to the reality.
My Secret Garden
I have just rescued my potted fig tree from under a blanket of convulvulus, and moved it to a space next to the front porch. This represents an admission of defeat. It was meant to be the centre-piece of a little hideaway garden between the side of the house and my neighbour's fence, screened from the rest of the back garden by bushes, and from the prying eyes of passers-by with some bamboo fencing. The plan was to create a little Mediterranean haven in rural Worcestershire where I could sit, protected from the world, luxuriating in the perfume of honeysuckle and lavender.
Sadly, the dream has never become a reality. The lavender bushes died in one of the wettest summers on record. The bamboo fence blew down in the winter gales, and it half stands, half lies on the ground, a monument to my idleness in not removing it. Beyond it the little square of ground, for which I had such great plans, has been taken over by nettles, feral aquilegias and the smothering convulvulus. Only the honeysuckle climbing up the fence blooms bravely amid the chaos, and I can take no credit for that; it was planted by a previous occupant of the house, and survives in spite of not because of the present one.
I should not be surprised at yet another failure to realise my plans for a garden. I have an unbroken record of horticultural disaster stretching back nearly four decades, but I continue to live in hope that, one day, things may be different.
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