Welcome to the blogspot of Melbourne writer, Elizabeth Jane

Welcome to the blogspot of Melbourne writer, Elizabeth Jane

Sunday, November 10, 2013

Goodbye Hannercymraes...

Okay, this is written with a tear in my eye. Today we will say goodbye to hannercymraes.

'Why?' I hear you ask. 'It's a great blog. Such an original name.'

Original, yes. Granted. But can you say hannercymraes? Spell it? Can anyone outside of Welsh wales even know what it means?

Exactly. I am moving on.

This has been my first blog but it has come to a slow and natural end. I have purchased a domain name (yes, I know pretty grown up) and signed up with Wordpress. From now on, you will find me at (drumroll).


Yes, thank you, thank you. I appreciate your applause.

The name will be no less forgettable, granted. But it does have the advantage of being spell-able and pronounceable.

For those of you who have been good enough to subscribe to hannercymraes and to comment and send emails (you know who you are - all three of you) please follow me over to elizabethjanecorbett.com

While you are there, please notice all the wonderful social media buttons I've inserted. They took me ages. I'm feeling thoroughly modern (and exhausted). Please excuse lack of interesting graphics (I'm can't code and have purchased a template). But it's mine - and I love it. I hope to blog more frequently and more fervently. So keep your eyes peeled.

Hwyl fawr! Wela i chi yno - see you there!

Tuesday, November 5, 2013

Biskit's report card...

My dog spent his first ever dog-kennel long-weekend. I didn't call to check on him though I considered it multiple times (sad, I know).

Anyway, I just picked him up bathed, happy and with a report card!

Andrew says it's just marketing but I don't care.

I'm sold on the experience.

Thursday, October 31, 2013

Why not join the library?

This is not original it turned up in my email in-box a few weeks ago. The original graffiti said:

Join the IRA.

I prefer the doctored version. It never hurts anyone to join the library. :-)

Wednesday, October 23, 2013

The Book Thief

This was a great book and promises to be a great movie.

Friday, September 6, 2013

Diana Gabaldon - The writer's road

A fascinating interview about the writing process.

Tuesday, August 27, 2013

Famous authors rejection letters...

Some excerpts from famous author's rejection letters as posted by Billy Marshall Stoneking on Facebook:

Sylvia Plath: 
There certainly isn’t enough genuine talent for us to take notice.

Rudyard Kipling: 
I’m sorry Mr. Kipling, but you just don’t know how to use the English language.

Emily Dickinson: 
[Your poems] are quite as remarkable for defects as for beauties and are generally devoid of true poetical qualities.

Ernest Hemingway (on The Torrents of Spring): 
It would be extremely rotten taste, to say nothing of being horribly cruel, should we want to publish it.

Dr. Seuss: 
Too different from other juveniles on the market to warrant its selling.

The Diary of Anne Frank: 
The girl doesn’t, it seems to me, have a special perception or feeling which would lift that book above the ‘curiosity’ level.

H.G. Wells (on The War of the Worlds): 
An endless nightmare. I do not believe it would “take”…I think the verdict would be ‘Oh don’t read that horrid book’. And (on The Time Machine): It is not interesting enough for the general reader and not thorough enough for the scientific reader.

Herman Melville (on Moby Dick): 
We regret to say that our united opinion is entirely against the book as we do not think it would be at all suitable for the Juvenile Market in [England]. It is very long, rather old-fashioned…

Stephen King (on Carrie): We are not interested in science fiction which deals with negative utopias. They do not sell.

Joseph Heller (on Catch–22): 
I haven’t really the foggiest idea about what the man is trying to say… Apparently the author intends it to be funny – possibly even satire – but it is really not funny on any intellectual level … From your long publishing experience you will know that it is less disastrous to turn down a work of genius than to turn down talented mediocrities.

George Orwell (on Animal Farm): 
It is impossible to sell animal stories in the USA.

Oscar Wilde (on Lady Windermere’s Fan): My dear sir, I have read your manuscript. Oh, my dear sir.

Vladimir Nabokov (on Lolita): 
… overwhelmingly nauseating, even to an enlightened Freudian … the whole thing is an unsure cross between hideous reality and improbable fantasy. It often becomes a wild neurotic daydream … I recommend that it be buried under a stone for a thousand years.

The Tale of Peter Rabbit was turned down so many times, Beatrix Potter initially self-published it
Gertrude Stein spent 22 years submitting before getting a single poem accepted.
Frank Herbert’s Dune was rejected 20 times.
Carrie by Stephen King received 30 rejections.
The Diary of Anne Frank received 16 rejections.
Harry Potter and The Philosopher’s Stone by J.K. Rolling was rejected 12 times.
Dr. Seuss received 27 rejection letters

I'm not sure who Billy Marshall Stoneking is or how I came to be friends with him on Facebook. But he's a keeper. His quotes are always interesting.

Sunday, July 28, 2013

Sweet enough...

Zucchini cheesecakes from Sarah Wilson's, I quit sugar cookbook.

Banana bread from David Gillespie's, Sweet poison quit plan cookbook.

Life is sweet enough for me. :-)

Friday, July 12, 2013

Tipyn bach o hwyl - a little bit of fun!

Jiw! Jiw! Os dych chi'n dysgu Cymraeg, mae rhaid i chi wylio hon - dear, dear, if you learn Welsh, you must watch this!

Rhod Gilbert at the Royal Variety Performance 2008

What do you think? Any resemblance?

My dad - David John Edward Dicks

Charlie Andrew Corbett.

Both pretty cute :-)

Thursday, July 11, 2013

Bin Sbwriel

'Beth sy'n digwydd gyda fy nofel i?' what's happening with your novel?

'Wel, diolch am ofyn' - well, thanks for asking.

Beth? Wnaethoch chi ddim gofyn - what? You didn't ask?

O, bechod achos dw i'n mynd i ddweud wrthot ti - oh, shame, because I'm going to tell you.

1) yn gyntaf, dw i'n dal ysgrifennu - firstly, I am still writing
2) yn ail, dw i'n mynd i enill gwobr am y ysgrifennwr arafa yn y byd - secondly, I am going to win a prize for the slowest writer in the world
3) vi'n rhoi llawer o olygfeydd yn y bin sbwriel - third, I am putting lots of scenes in the rubbish bin.

Dyma golygfa arall - here is another scene:

Lucy Locket had a pocket and so did Lucy Griggs, except she wore it outside of her clothing. It was an old one of her mother’s, Annie judged by its appearance, quite adequate for a small girl’s treasures, but not up to the hoarding of precious pennies. Within were the jewels of childhood: a smooth pebble, a peg doll, a chipped button, the handle of an old teacup and a host of other sundry items.

Lucy and Tom played a game with the pocket, a simple hide-and-seek game that seemed rather risky to Annie, considering the confines of their accommodation. But, Pam wasn’t worried. She simply pushed the dirty dinner dishes to the middle of the table, and sent Bridie to fetch water for the tea.

Annie peered along the deck, letting the stream of after dinner conversation flow around her. She saw Grace standing amid a group of single girls. An empty kettle swung from her hand. She was on her way to the galley but had, no doubt become caught up in a deliberation over which young man was the handsomest or most athletic. Who had the kindest eyes or the drollest face? It was all the girls talked about. Their affections swirled like a weather-vane. Annie enjoyed their gossip. She had even made her own silent assessment of their subjects. Though she was too shy to venture a comment, fearing the girls would only pity her later in the privacy of their bunks.

Conditions were choppy this afternoon. Plates shifted with the roll of the ship. Cutlery clattered noisily. Every now and then, a large wave sent Annie sprawling from her seat. She couldn’t help feeling a twinge of unease, as Tom’s nursery rhyme phrasing signalled the beginning of the next round.

‘What’s in the pocket, Lucy Locket?’

Lucy shut her eyes, giggling and squirming, as Tom reached into the pocket, removed an item and tucked it behind his collar.

Eyes closed, Lucy felt inside the pocket. ‘Is it the Pebble?’

‘Not the pebble,’ Billy, sitting alongside, piped in like a song.

Lucy’s eyelids fluttered as her fingers groped about the pocket, the temptation to peek almost getting the better of her. But Billy, the self-appointed referee, took his role very seriously.

‘She’s peeping!’

‘Am not!’ Lucy’s eyes flew open.

‘Never mind, Billy,’ their father grinned. ‘What’s missing?’

‘Green felt?’

‘Not the green felt.’

‘The doll?’

Billy squirmed, his booted feet swinging wildly. Eyes darting from Lucy’s face, to Tom’s collar, and back again. He didn’t join in the guessing part of the game. The few familiar items were of no challenge to him. But he enjoyed being the referee and, once Lucy had identified the missing item, he launched wholeheartedly into the tussle for its possession.

Annie had grown fond of Billy. He was faster than a whippet and unpredictable as an India-rubber ball. But she derived a great deal of satisfaction from learning to anticipate his tricks. She laughed now, to see his intent hazel eyes alert to any sign of Lucy cheating. As if he had never broken the rules!

Annie smiled at Lucy’s tightly scrunched eyes, her fingers fumbling around in the pocket, as she lisped through its contents. From her sudden smile, Annie knew the exact moment she guessed the missing item.

‘It’s the cup handle!’ Lucy cried, and opened her eyes.

‘Where’s the handle?’ Tom chuckled as children began to search him all over.

At this point, Pam, who had witnessed the game on many occasions, began to clear the table.

'Careful,’ she warned. ‘It’s dangerous playing games on board ship.’

Annie rose to help stack the plates. The salt beef had been gristly today but, apart from that, there were very few scraps. She kept an eye on Lucy, as she scraped congealed gravy into the bin.

The game proved rather boisterous as Tom moved the handle, up and down a number of times, and the children clambered over him in a melee of warm hands, soft gasps and sweaty faces. It was all so close and comfortable, so achingly familiar. Annie felt a bud of contentment swell inside her. She loved these children, as if they were her own, and she was happy.

‘Try his boot, Lu!’ Billy jumped up and down on the bench.

Lucy dived down, but Tom was too quick. He moved the handle under his armpit. Up and over him, Lucy climbed in a frenzy of excitement, the unpredictable sway of the vessel adding to the confusion of the game.

‘Hold tight,’ Tom reminded Lucy, as the ship lurched and shuddered. ‘Daddy can’t always catch you.’

‘You’re getting hot,’ Billy called, his young voice shrill. ‘Here, watch this I’ll tickle him.’
Lucy squealed, Billy tickled and Tom roared, as the children, red faced and exuberant, burrowed under his arm.

The handle was found.

Tom hung the handle on his ear, balanced a spoon behind the other ear and placed a fork on top of his head. Beside him, Lucy, all rosy cheeks and little white teeth, laughed aloud.
Annie found herself arrested by the brightness of their tableau.

She had set out to make a life for herself on board ship, and succeeded. But now, as she watched this simple game of hide-and-seek, she knew it wasn’t enough. She wanted her own daughter to laugh and play games with, her own freckle-faced boy to scold and chase and, above all, she wanted a husband to lie with at night.

Desire made a tight whorl in her abdomen.

Annie’s daydream almost broke down at the sight of Tom. He looked like a scarecrow, with his clothing tousled and his buttons popping, his coarse tufted hair standing on end. But he was a good man and a good father. If only she could find someone poor and homely, who would overlook her scarring?

Annie was so caught up in her reverie. She didn’t notice Grace coming alongside.

‘Watching your babies again, Annie?’

Annie turned, smiling. ‘Yes, I like children.’

‘You’ll be keen to have your own?’

Annie’s smile faded. It was one thing to dream of having a family. Quite another to have people guess her longing. ‘Oh, I’m in no hurry.’

‘You’re so good with them.’

‘Thanks, I want to work as a nursemaid.’

‘Grace nodded. ‘That’s what I said. But you’re that mad for babies, the other girls said you’d be right desperate to marry.’

Desperate — Annie sat down with a bump, the ugly word thrumming in her ears.

She knew the girls talked. Their days were long and boring. Gossip filled the hours. But … desperate … mad for babies! She was no madder than the other girls. They talked of nothing but marriage. Annie had always been so careful, kept all thoughts to herself. She had never mentioned her aunt, or elaborated on her reasons for emigrating. She hadn’t breathed a word of her hopes or fears.

She closed her eyes, overwhelmed by the unfairness of the situation. If she hadn’t been scarred, no one would have noticed. She would have been able to play with the children, talk freely about her prospects, without fearing comment.

As Grace continued along the deck, another unpleasant thought struck Annie. Perhaps they all thought her desperate — the single girls, the young men, even the families? The Griggs’ probably discussed it in her absence. Mary indulged her attempts at cookery and sewing, all the while thinking: poor desperate Annie.

Her cheeks burned. She should have realized.

‘Tea time,’ Bridie’s cheery voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘Here, Annie, hold the pot for me.’
Annie smiled weakly as Bridie held up a steaming kettle. Boiling water was a hazard, especially with a game going on in the background. A number of people had already been scalded since they left port.

She reached out to steady the teapot as Bridie balanced the kettle and poured. Once the pot was filled, she glanced from Tom, red-faced and sweating, to Lucy, jiggling and jumping, and pushed the teapot to the far side of the table.

‘Careful, Tom! There’s hot tea,’ Pam reached out to catch the steaming pot as it began to slide.

Next out of the bag was a pebble. There were so many places to hide a smooth, white pebble. This one sat neatly in Tom’s ear. Billy’s eyes bulged at Lucy’s chubby-handed attempts to locate it. Tom moved the pebble from his ear to his stocking. Lucy’s eye caught the movement. She slithered down but wasn’t quick enough, her father moved the pebble from stocking to cap. Lucy scrambled onto the bench and jumped, snatching at the cap, squealing with pleasure.

Pam issued another warning. ‘Enough’s, enough, Tom, there’s tea!’

The ship lunged as a gust of wind snatched at the sails and seamen went thundering along the deck.

Annie jumped up. There would be an accident. Could no one see it? Pam was Lucy’s mother. She should stop the game. Tom was an adult. Why didn’t he respond?

She gripped the table edge, her eyes fixed on the teapot.

Standing high on her father’s lap, Lucy seemed to move slowly, like a toy winding down. Billy clutched one of Tom’s hands. Tom guffawed, his free hand tickling and poking, fending him off. Head bare, kerchief undone, the last of his buttons long-since rolled along the deck. Like a great human jelly, he wobbled and wheezed as tears coursed his work-roughened cheeks.

‘The pot,’ Annie cried out. ‘Grab the pot!’

They couldn’t possibly hear.

The wind whistled high in the rigging as lashed timbers braced themselves grinding and creaking overhead. Somewhere a chain clanked and a seabird’s muted cries joined the squeals of laughter between decks. Lucy jumped, grabbed and toppled sideways. Annie lunged for the pot. But wasn’t quick enough. It spun across the table, catching on the raised edge, and turned, spilling its scalding infusion onto Lucy’s hand.

Pam shrieked. Lucy wailed. Billy drummed his feet on the deck as Tom bellowed, to no one in particular, that it was game over for the day.

Stooping to pick up the empty pot, Annie cradled it in her hands. Was this desperation, she wondered. To watch and wait, hoping to keep Lucy safe? Or did it make her a suitable employee? Was it madness to find satisfaction in other people’s children, knowing she’d grow to love them, as her own, though they never would be? Maybe it was? But Annie didn’t see any alternative. She stood watching the welt on Lucy’s hand grow livid, and prayed it wouldn’t cause scarring.

Friday, June 28, 2013

Charlie's entourage

It's been an interesting week to be in Canberra with the toppling of our first woman Prime Minister for a white middle-class male with a reputation for being a bit of a bully boy. Unfortunately, the opposition is no better. Why is it that we teach our children patience, honesty and fairness but do not seek or celebrate these traits in our national leaders?

Anyway, that's my rant. I'm in Canberra - this place gets to you.

Onto the most important event of the week - meeting Charlie.

I must say, when I first heard I was going to be a grandmother I wasn't sure. I mean, doesn't that mean I am officially old? Fortunately, the South Welsh word for grandmother - mam-gu - means fond or dear mother. Lovely, don't you think? Nothing grand or old or decrepit in that.

Charlie has heard his first spoken Welsh this week (albeit with an Aussie accent). It has tested my vocabulary to come up with previously unused words like hiccups - yr igion - or burp. I still haven't worked out burp. Anyone know? At the moment we are codi gwynt which crudely translated means raising wind. Fortunately, no one here can detect my mistakes. It is amazing what such freedom does to your linguistic confidence. :-)

Anyway, Charlie is gorgeous. Did I mention that yet? It's been great fun being part of his entourage for a week (that's Canberra speak). Jack and Ness are doing so well. I can't ever remember being that together when my babies were little (not sure that I am now. But that's another story). You forget how much time tiny babies take. Every burp is an event. Every sneeze, every hiccup, every tiny panting breath. I know it's a cliche but it was lovely to hold Charlie, rock him, change him and bathe him. It was also nice to be able to walk out at the end of the day.

So, apart from burps and feed times, what have we been up to?

- We have been for walks with the new red pram. The trees are leafless and skeletal in Canberra at this time of year. I've enjoyed the feel of them crunching underfoot.

- We sat in on Charlie's first church service (hard to focus on with a baby in his carry case at your feet).

- We've been out for dinner twice. It's amazing what can be achieved with one baby and an entourage of willing helpers.

- We went to Grandma's Little Bakery for lunch. We were the only ones there without grey hair (actually, I cheated we'll keep that to ourselves, okay).

- Today Ness and I went armchair shopping.

- Tonight we're having gourmet chicken burgers and watching a DVD

Altogether it's been a very enjoyable week.

But I'm looking forward to being back in Coburg walking my dog and riding my bike through the red-cheeked-eyes-watering winter wind.

Saturday, June 15, 2013

Killing me Softly

Today I launched launched Leisl Leighton's romance novel Killing me Softly

Here is the launch speech:

Friends, this is a day that has been coming for a long time.

And as many of you have known Leisl longer than me, I expect you could well and truly out remember me in just how long this journey has actually been - through schooling and drama, through a degree in English literature and then on to writing scripts for her own theatre restaurant, Leisl has always been a novelist waiting in the wings.

But as you have not been asked to make this speech and I have, I will start today's memories in 2008. And as Leisl is the first member of our writing group to have a full length manuscript published, I hope you will excuse me for indulging in a little nostalgia along the route.

I first met Leisl in 2008. She turned up at Balwyn writers clutching her notebook to her chest and, from the outset, she knew what she wanted to achieve. She'd been writing romanic suspense and fantasy for some time, she explained, and had received a number of encouraging rejection letters. She wanted to be part of a writing group to improve her craft and hoped to make a living as a romance writer.

Now, Balwyn writers was a bit of an odd writing group. It was run by me who knew very little about writing and attended by a motley assortment of characters who knew even less. We met once a month for the sheer thrill of reading our work aloud and receiving feedback. I don't remember who was there that first night. Were you there Laura? I do remember that we didn't even let Leisl read her work because she didn't have the requisite number of printed copies. I often wonder why she came back at all? At the time, she was writing the early drafts of a romantic suspense novel called Sounding the Heart.

Over the months she became a regular attendee at Balwyn writers. Always with comments to make. Always with work to share. And although she was writing romance and I wasn't and although she wrote prolifically and I plodded along at the pace of a turtle, I soon worked out hers were the comments worth listening to. I think she decided the same about me. It wasn't long before we were reading, writing and exchanging work between meetings.

Looking back, it was a bit like the blind leading the blind. But we worked that out too. Somewhere around 2010 we broke away from Balwyn Writers and formed our own small writing group, with Laura, Denis and Chris.

We have been working together ever since.

And, Leisl, on behalf of the others, I think I can say that we have appreciated your support in the times of rejection and your generosity in times of success. We have also enjoyed watching you take these momentous steps along the path to publication with Destiny eRomance.

Leisl joined Romance Writers Australia in the same year she joined Balwyn Writers and began attending their conferences. She picked up critique partners in New Zealand the USA and in other parts of Australia. She started judging and organising RWA competitions and writing articles for HeartsTalk magazine. Joined another more romance focussed writing group, some of whose members are here today. She also started entering competitions. I'm not going to list your successes here, Leisl. There are too many. But in summary You've had five outright wins, made ten placings and been in the final round of about eleven Romance Writers competitions.

As I said, this is day that has been coming for a very long time.

But although, we, your writing buddies all knew you were going to make it, and, although you've had publishers expressing interest in your work, it all kind of happened by accident in the end, didn't it?

You'd submitted a paranormal urban fantasy to Destiny, Penguin's new ebook imprint, and though they they liked your work, they weren't willing to commit to that particular novel. Almost as an after thought they asked, 'do you have anything else to show us?'

'Oh, well, I used to write romantic suspense,' you admitted.

'Really? They asked. 'We're looking for romantic suspense. Can you send us something?'

That's when you pulled Sounding the Heart out of the drawer.

It had been placed in the Emerald Awards a few years back and won the Central Florida Romance writers touch of magic competition but never been picked up by a publisher until now, in 2013. For of course, Destiny loved Sounding the Heart.

We celebrate its release as Killing me Softly this afternoon.

But it hadn't just been sitting in the drawer, had it Leisl? I doubt it needed too much dusting off at all? As I read the pre-release copy of Killing me Softly earlier this week, I realised how much work she'd done.

She'd started with a different scene, that's the first thing I noticed. And it works really well by the way. She'd also sharpened your dialogue and given it a tangible sense of place. I'm breaking the writers golden rule here by not being specific about those changes because I don't want to give too much away. But the setting is vivid and evocative. This gets a huge tick with me. As a reader and writer of historical fiction, I like to feel where a book is set. The novel's action scenes are compelling. It's romance scenes include all the hallmarks of her genre - but that is a given. Leisl never seems to have any trouble with plot or description. Her muse seems to follow the lead of strong images. You write towards an overarching sense of plot and story - all essential elements of suspense and epic fantasy writing.

But the change that stood out to me most in Killing me Softly, is how well you'd nailed the character motivations.

Ah...those old goals, motivations and conflicts. Or as Michael Hague put it the tug of war between a character's essence and identity. Hard to do in any novel. But particularly hard in a romance novel when, let's face, we all know the score. A couple are going to meet, have a mutual attraction, and then all sorts of obstacles are going to get in their way, but at the end of the novel, we know the main character is going to get laid.

The challenge for the romance writer, is to do this in a new and interesting way so that the same story, the same old primally important story of love and belonging seems fresh and new. So that the obstacles don't feel like something made up by the writer but seem to somehow originate in the heart of the character.

You have achieved that in Killing me Softly. Your main character Alexia is a perfect mix of fear and fragility.

And having seen this novel in its inception and having walked part of that blind leading the blind journey with, Leisl, and having watched her enter competition after competition, seen her pick herself up and dust herself off after disappointments, watched her apply herself, and then re-apply herself, I know that this has been a day hard won.

It is also a day that she truly deserve.

We meet today to celebrate Leisl's hard work and commitment, to toast to her success in Killing me Softly, and to invoke the continued leading of her muse in the coming years. For this is not the end of the journey, is it Leisl? Only the beginning of what you hope will be a long and fruitful writing career.

So, you've heard the speech. Now it's time to buy the book. Just follow the link below.

Killing me Softly

Friday, June 7, 2013

I am Taliesin

Just in case you ever doubted the beauty of the Welsh language.

Follow the link below:

I am Taliesin

Dyma y cerdd yn Saesneg - here is the poem in English:

I Am Taliesin

I am Taliesin. I sing perfect metre,
Which will last to the end of the world.

My patron is Elphin...

I know why there is an echo in a hollow;
Why silver gleams; why breath is black; why liver is bloody;
Why a cow has horns; why a woman is affectionate;
Why milk is white; why holly is green;
Why a kid is bearded; why the cow-parsnip is hollow;
Why brine is salt; why ale is bitter;
Why the linnet is green and berries red;
Why a cuckoo complains; why it sings;
I know where the cuckoos of summer are in winter.
I know what beasts there are at the bottom of the sea;
How many spears in battle; how many drops in a shower;
Why a river drowned Pharaoh's people;
Why fishes have scales,
Why a white swan has black feet...

I have been a blue salmon,
I have been a dog, a stag, a roebuck on the mountain,
A stock, a spade, an axe in the hand,
A stallion, a bull, a buck,
A grain which grew on a hill,
I was reaped and placed in an oven,
I fell to the ground when I was being roasted
And a hen swallowed me.
For nine nights was I in her crop.
I have been dead, I have been alive,
I am Taliesin.

Thursday, April 25, 2013


Helo! Dw i ddim yn ysgrifennu fy mlog i yn aml yn ddiweddar - Hello! I haven't written my blog much lately. Mae'r achosi? - the cause? Wel, dw i wedi bod yn trio canolbwntio ar fy nofel i - well, I have been trying to focus on my novel. 

Dw i ddim yn gwybod os bydd y nofel erioed yn cael ei chyhoeddi - I don't know whether the novel will ever be published. Ond mae rhaid i fi ei orffen hi - but, I have to finish it. Mae rhaid i fi ddweud wrth y stori - I have to tell the story. A dw i'n moyn fy nofel i i bod y nofel wella iddi hi'n gallu bod - and I want my novel to be the best novel it can be. 

Felly, dw i'n gweithio yn galed - therefore, I am working hard. Gwna i llawer o newidiau - I am making many changes. Weithiau, ffindiais i fy mod i'n gorfod i dorri darnau o'r nofel - sometimes, I find that I am forced to cut parts of the novel.  Darnau mawr - big parts. Darnau llawn of ysgrifennu eitha neis - bits full of quite nice writing (wel, dw i'n meddwl - well, I think so). 

Felly, meddwlais i, efallai, bydda i'n newid y blog 'ma tu fewn bin sbwriel - therefore, I thought, perhaps, I will change this blog into a rubbish bin. Felly, nid rhywbeth bydd yn gwastraffu - therefore nothing will be wasted. :-) 

Syniad da? Good idea? Dw i'n gobeithio - I hope so.

Mwynheuwch! Enjoy!

Bridie sat waiting for Rhys. She had something to ask him. Something important. She’d been trying to catch him all week. Finding him alone wasn’t a problem. He often spent time by himself. But whenever Bridie had been almost ready to approach, Alf had made one of his clumsy attempts at friendship, or Ma had set another foolish task, and the moment passed. 
But no one was going to stop her this afternoon. 
Doctor Roberts had called a cleaners meeting and Ma rested. Rhys sat alone. Bridie had a queer skittering feeling in her tummy, half excitement, half nerves. She was determined not to lose her resolve.
Rhys sat behind the horse-box. Bridie had seen him squeeze in between the two small boats. She would like to have joined him, but it wasn’t a place for two. It didn’t matter. She had plenty of time. Alf would be hours
Laying her dad’s notebook on the deck, Bridie leaned against the horsebox. The sun felt warm on her bonnet. Its heat prickled the skin of her neck. Sweat teased and tickled beneath her bodice too. But there was nothing she could do about that. 
She wriggled her toes in their encasing of stout black leather. Ma insisted she wear her boots between decks and, generally, Bridie didn’t mind. The floor of steerage was damp, almost composting. It would have felt slimy beneath her feet. But here on the main deck, it was different. The timber was airy, sun-soaked and clean. It would be nice to take her boots off, to feel the breeze on her sweltering feet.  
Bridie tugged at the laces of her boots. Glancing about to make sure no one was looking, she slipped her hands up to the garters above her knees. Two quick movements, and her feet were free. Rolling stockings into a ball, she shoved them into her empty boots, allowing her toes to bend and flex in the sun. 
They had been at sea for almost a month. Alf was knotting each day into a length of string. The first two weeks they zigzagged back and forth between England and France. Last week they had passed the Bay of Biscay. Now they were somewhere, way off the coast of Morocco, where the skies were blue, bluer than blue, the clouds a whisper on the breath of God. Strange birds wheeled in the skies overhead. Sleek grey dolphins swam beside their ship, arching and dipping, in the white froth at their prow. It was a holiday, a summer picnic, cucumber and cress. It was raspberries, sweet blackberries and plums.
Tilting her head back, Bridie squinted up at the man in the crow’s-nest. He was looking for Corvo, the northern most island of the Azores. Alf said they would pass it any day now, so long as the winds remained favourable. 
Bridie couldn’t fault the wind at the moment. The ship fairly danced along its yards of canvas bowing and bucking like shirts on washing day. After Corvo, they would pass a host of other little Portuguese islands, followed by the Canary Isles, which were Spanish. It seemed to Bridie the sea was filled with small scattered islands, like a giant’s hopscotch, all belonging to different players. It would have been interesting, if only Alf were not so intent on turning it into a geography lesson. 
From the Canary Isles, the captain hoped to pick up the northeast trade winds that would carry them down to the Equator at which point Neptune might pay them a visit. Bridie hoped he would. 
A scuffling on the other side of the horsebox caught her attention. 
Maybe Rhys was finished already! 
Further scuffles and a whine, told her it wasn’t Rhys, while a cold wet nose confirmed it was a puppy, a black puppy, with a patch of white around one eye and splashes of brown across its tub-of-lard body. Its mother, on the other side of the horsebox whined and scolded, alarmed by her offspring’s daring. 
Bridie picked up the pup. He was warm and soft with folds of ready-to-grow skin. Smiling, she held him close, enjoying the tickle of his downy new-puppy fur against her cheek. ‘Go back to your ma, little one. Can’t you hear her call?’
If the puppy did, he wasn’t listening. He opened a miniature snout, full of pinpricking teeth, and gnawed her hand.
‘Ouch,’ Bridie adjusted her grip, holding him at arms length. The puppy gave a small annoyed yap and squirmed in her hands. ‘You’re a tinker,’ she said. ‘But if you don’t go back there will be trouble. Trust me, I know.’
She put the puppy down and clicked her fingers, pointing towards the horsebox. The puppy wasn’t interested. He plonked his bottom on the boards and raised his tiny, teddy bear’s nose, sniffing. 
The yelping and scrabbling on the other side of the timber panels intensified.
‘Naughty pup, listen to your ma, she’s worried about you.’
The puppy wasn’t going anywhere. Bridie pushed him along the smooth wooden surface towards the sound of his mother’s distress. He turned, cuffing playfully at her arm. It was sweet, his paws being so chubby and uncoordinated. She could have played with him for hours but his mother barked, thumping heavily against her pen. She would have to take him back. 
Scooping the wriggling pup into her arms, Bridie crawled towards to end of the horsebox, rounded the corner, and came face to face with Rhys.

Saturday, April 6, 2013

Lluniau o'r priodas Seth a Monique - that's right wedding snaps!

Dw i wedi bod yn araf gyda y dasg hon - I have been slow with this task. 
Ond roedd esgus da gyda fi - but I had a good excuse.  Dyn ni newydd derbyn y lluniau o'r ffotograffydd - we have only just received the photos from the photographer. 

Dyma rhai ohonyn nhw - here are some of them!

Tuesday, January 29, 2013

A few weddings snaps

Seth and Monique: gan ddymuno i chi:

Cartref yn llawn heulwen
Calonnau yn llawn llawennydd
Cariad sy'n dyfnhau
Bob diwrnod o'r flwyddyn.

That is:

We wish you a home full of sunshine,
Hearts full of cheer,
A love that grows deeper
Each day of the year.