Serendipity

Serendipity! my favourite word and my word of the week. When it comes to being a writer or an artist of any kind you have to believe in Serendipity.
ser·en·dip·ity (ser′ən dip′ə tē)
noun
a seeming gift for finding something good accidentally
luck, or good fortune, in finding something good accidentally

You have to believe that at some point in your artistic career that someone just so happens upon your work and wants to buy it, sell it or promote it. They believe that their discovery of your talent is a stroke of luck or good fortune and their only mission in life becomes you, or your work and making sure it is shared with the world. Serendipity! you've gotta believe in it. One day it will fall into the hands of the right person at the right time in the right way and the rest.....will be your history.

So don't give up, when the road seems long, and the fight is too tough, don't give up, always believe there is someone somewhere out there who loves your art as much as you do and will want to shout if from the highest rooftops. If you keep on I promise you, Serendipity will make it happen.

Chapter 14 'Honour Thyself'

I shook my head giving him my 'are you crazy? I don't want to die' look.
"Oh you are like the rest of the people, the tourists, they ride slowly, yes slowly" he lowered his head and sighed clearly disappointed.

It was all the insult I needed before my ego vehemently protested his remarks. I took hold of the reigns. If Ali was eager to break the tour guide mould and actually ride with someone properly, I was going to make his day. I nervously gulped down a mouthful of dry dusty air, held onto the reigns tightly and gave Wardah a gentle nudge with the heel of my sandal, she started to walk again. Ali moved behind me allowing me to lead. The pressure was on, there was no turning back. I dug my heels in firmer and pushed her on, she picked up the pace and began to trot. My body bounced up and down uncontrollably and I immediately regretted my prideful decision to rise to his challenge. I wasn't ready. Ali sensed my anxiety and steered Nesma to the left hand side of me 'are you OK? we can stop if you want'.
I shook my head, No I had to do this it was now or never. I took a deep breath and began to relax into the familiar sit-up sit-down rhythm that came naturally to an experienced rider. I kicked her again and she responded with a faster pace. I was beginning to remember and I moved in unison with her. An excited energy began to rise each time I ordered her to trot on. We were moving in sync, I wanted to go faster and so did she, I kicked her harder and she broke into a canter. The force momentarily threw my body back and I grabbed hold of the front of the saddle with one hand and the reigns with the other. Pulling myself forward, I clung to her body with my thighs, lowered my head and told her to ride faster. She double kicked her hind legs stomping her hooves in agreement and with a three beat gait propelled us forward into a new existence consisting of only Naomi and Wardah. We left Ali behind, a cloud of dust the only indication that we had once been there. We tore through the Egyptian desert, the hot wind stung my eyes, my heart was in my mouth and I could hear nothing but the sound of her hooves pound the floor mercilessly. I felt an electric hum from the base of my spine pitch through my body. She had taken charge, this was her home, her manor and I was her humbled guest. I knew my only option was to hold onto her with all of my strength, give in to her frighteningly powerful greatness and let her take me wherever she wanted to go. The fear of being thrown again possessed my thoughts, I took another deep breath and an exhilarating liberating rush quickly paralysed them, I relinquished control. I knew I was safe. Stripped of any pretence Wardah wanted me to know myself as a rider again, this was her gift to me. It was working and with each deep breath a primitive subconscious took over where I existed in a space of no past, no future, no family, no friends, no memories, no nothing, just me, the real true me. Naomi Jacobs.

Excerpt from Chapter 3- Enchanté

I took a step closer to him, the golden light behind me illuminated his soft brown liquid centre eyes, his ecru complexion reminded me of a sweet milky latte that once drunk could warm the heart of even the most frozen cynic. He gave me another understanding smile and the snowball of fear, which had grown bigger with each passing hour, immediately melted away. It wasn't the uniform, he could have been wearing a bin bag, it didn't matter. I instantly felt like I had known this man for years and more importantly that I could trust him. 'Do you speak English?' I enquired. I didn't wait for an answer and through tears started to tell him what had happened that night. Not being able to understand me he held his hands up and shook his head 'I speak little English'.

The flood gates opened, I started to sob, he took a step closer to me, we were in each other's space, close enough to feel his warmth I took a deep breath inhaling his presence, a faint mix of tobacco and a sweet musky scent made me want to bury my face into his neck. I exhaled and stared intently into his eyes. Was he feeling this?

'Calm, calm, tranquille' his hands dropped to the side, his brow furrowed and he brought a gloved finger to his lip staring intently at me while trying to figure something out. I took another breath, lip quivering, I allowed his tender command to instruct my tears to stop, they obeyed. A wave of calm washed over me, I mentally dubbed him my Angel.

'One moment please' he said in perfectly formed French, I nodded and watched as he went and fetched another police officer. Moments later, they both approached me, he pointed to his colleague and indicated I speak to him. In broken French and English I told his friend what had happened. He interpreted to the Angel and his expression grew more and more worried. This wasn't good. They both looked at each other and spoke for a while in French, from their faces I began to suspect that there was nothing they could do for me. The colleague confirmed this and my response was to leave my shore of safety and spiral into another wave of fear and panic. I nodded accepting my fate, took one last look at the Angel, he was instantly apologetic and took a step back. I felt doomed. If the French police couldn't help me no body could. it was all over, I envisioned a life destined to walk the streets of Paris, destitute and homeless, with no money, no bag and no phone. The Angel somehow received my telepathic messages of distress as he didn't walk away with his colleague. He stood looking at me pensive, bringing his finger to his lip again, he nodded his head. 'You stay here, for ten minutes, stay here and I will come for you'

Excerpt from Chapter 24-The Beginning

My life became a maelstrom of misunderstandings and desperate discoveries of a future I had not envisioned all those years ago. My thoughts oscillated between fears of brain tumours and and tears of longing for the simple life of school. My loved ones omitted the tragic parts of deaths and disappearances, easing me into the narratives of those no longer. Why had life as I'd known it no longer existed? In agreement with my Doctor they insisted I didn't read newspapers, watch television or force myself to remember anything from the past seventeen years. My adolescent self-preserving stubbornness rebelled. I wanted to see how the world had turned out. I was mortified, digital television projected cartoonish images from a flat screen television, a varicoloured wonder to the pale and boring analogue my eyes were used to. Reality TV was a complete enigma, it seemed to churn out this fatuous vat of desperate and unhappy people enslaved to the fantasy that fame would bring their often meaningless lives some semblance of purpose. Men Women and Children lost in a life of lusting after the lens searching for celebrity and recognition. My Sister painstakingly took the time to explain 911 and 7/7, the war on terror and the worlds scramble for diminishing oil reserves. As the reality of the ever increasing technological, biological and psychological threat to the planet dawned on me, I had to stop her before I threw up my possibly genetically modified dinner. I had fallen asleep dreaming of a world full of endless opportunities and Utopian peace and had woken up in a dark Blade Runner-esque nightmare, where someone was always watching you.

HEAD SPACE

I woke up this morning with a head full of thought traffic all trying to find a place to park! This led me to reach for my notebook and pen till the engines quietened to a low rumble and the noise eventually died down. Sometimes you find yourself with way too much going on in your head and the last thing you can think about is writing. My thoughts this morning ranged from the dream I had about my blog (I kid you not) having a Child free Christmas (he's sunning it up with his Aunt) and whether it will snow again, all to the background music of 'Check it Out'. Now trust me I am no fan of the Pink Barbie (I find her music to be autotuned to death and her image slightly contrived) but it just goes to show how the brain like a radio can pick up so much useless static. My solution to unstick the unwanted is to keep a notebook by my bed and as soon as a I wake up I write all of the nonsense dancing around my head (usually to its own theme tune) until its exhausted and staggers out of 'Club Naomi J'. I write anything that comes to mind and when I am finished I take a deep breath feel a wave of calm wash over me and know I am ready to step into the zone with a blissfully blank brain. I have twisted the dial of my mind searched through the random thoughts, fine tuned my brain to a station playing 'The Writers Hour' and here Is where I find THE HEAD SPACE a place in my head to let the creative flow and write it all down. I love this space, I find peace in this space, its my own writers paradise and there's not a Mattel toy in sight!

UNDER THE DUVET

I recently received an email from the publishers and although I am not going to reveal the contents of this email (loose lips sink ships my Mama always said) I want to confess ever since reading this mail I have been acting strange. Let me explain, well as all writers know it is important if you want to get a book written and be consistence you must have some form of routine. Working from home provides positives and negatives in equal amount but to save yourself from procrastination and indulging in too much daytime t.v you must have 1. A list of goals or deadlines for chapters. re-writes etc. 2. A piece of clothing you write in (a uniform of sorts but you can be excused if its that old comfy fisherman jumper you haven't washed in aeon's and smells like cat and coffee) and most importantly 3. Somewhere to write. Mine is (usually) a big beautiful teal blue chair with matching foot stool next to my window, where I can look out to blue skies and monster evergreens towering over a large park. However since the email, I have found the best place for me to write is in my bed?! under my duvet (me not the laptop) and well at first I fought it and made all attempts to sit in my chair, but in Goldilocks-esque dissatisfaction I have found myself gravitating back towards my bed. My blog today is to state that I give in! give in to the lure of the 24 tog and concede defeat to the duck down life of a writer under the duvet. It being winter and very cold in the rest of this house is my excuse and I'm sticking to it, but hey I'm getting a considerable amount of work done here and when I think of those sat in an office wishing they were where I am right now, I can do nothing but smile and feel like the luckiest gal in the cosmos. Am thinking I'll emerge some time around spring!

Share what you love

I write in complete isolation. I have a media fast, no books, no magazines, no television, no internet and I switch off my phones and hang the 'do not disturb' sign on the door. Telling stories is what I do and I love what I do. However, I have just read that the more something is shared the more overall wealth it produces and sometime In my isolation I forget that although I am doing what I love, it encourages escapism and selfishness. Sharing what I love on the other hand engenders greater awareness and selfless service to others and my mission is to share what I love through my art. People have always said do what you love and the money will follow, but I think it should be share what you love and the money will follow as it is through the sharing of what you love that value is brought into the world -the doing is only a fraction of the process. This brings me to the original purpose of this blog which I think may have got lost along the literary path I walk down. To share my work, to share my story I Woke Up In The Future. If anything I have treated this blog as more of an observational diary of my life as a writer rather than actually sharing my writing per se. This will change and as of next week I will post excerpts from different chapters of the book. To quote Garret Loporto 'your opportunity as an artist is to create what you love to behold . For through that creation you are making more of what you love and sharing it with the world'