#FiveMinuteFriday, March 8th, MORE

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MORE

“Please Mr Bumble, can I have some more...” Oliver asked in a small, quivering squeak.

“MORE !” thundered Mr Bumble

In the Yemen, women, men and children need more to eat.
In Cameroon, men, women and children need more health care, more public infrastructures and more political freedom.
In Dubai, immigrant workers need more basic rights, more labor protection and more permanent houses and shops. Not the shanty towns where they are left to slumb their lives away in squalor, while the rich get richer in their glass and metal towers, oblivious to their plight.

To cite but a  smithering of the issues the forgotten populations of the world are facing. And they are many and live far and wide across the planet.

So when the rich Northern countries cry for more of everything, I shout back at them :
“ Shut Up and look around you. The world needs more of your Attention, more of your Care, more of your Engagement, more of your Financial Help and more of your Love if we, as a species are to survive !”

An extract from the musical Oliver, that painted a fairytale version of Charles Dicken’s grim novel.

Here

⌗IWSG MARCH 2019

It's the Insecure Writers Support Group day. Every first Wednesday of the month. Post your answer to the question of the month. Share with other insecure writers, comment on their posts, and spread the word. If you would like to join click on the landing page

The question for the 6th of March is

 Whose perspective do you like to write from best, the hero (protagonist) or the villain (antagonist)? And why?

Good Morning, fellow members.

Unfortunately I don't have much experience with novels, as I am writing my first novel.

My narrator is 3rd person omniscient and he/she is writing from the point of view of the two main characters, each with their own voice, and their own story as they don't evolve in the same setting. Different countries and they do not know each other. I suppose they are both the heroes of their own adventures.

In my short stories, my narrator is mostly 3rd person omniscient and writes from the point of view of the main character, usually, a hero. Sometimes the point of view can shift from one character to another, but in a short story, rarely...It's to short to be able to pull it off !

In my poems, the perspective is often mine. So I suppose I consider myself the hero but maybe I'm the villain sometimes. Then you could argue that there are no heroes or villains in poetry ! No, in narrative poems there are plenty. In Paradise Lost, Satan is the villain and Milton writes long passages from his point of view. In Keats' La Belle Dame sans Merci, the narrator is interviewing the knight, so the the poem is written from the knight's perspective who is not really a hero, more a victim of the Belle Dame, the clear villain.

Some of my poetry include narrative poems and in these cases, I like to write more from the perspective of a witness than the hero or villain. It enables the narrative to unfold more objectively.

Sorry I'm going off on a tangent here....

Today, as the question refers mostly to novels, I am feeling insecure about my novel in progress. It is not in progress as I am stalling ! I think about it a lot in my head but I am not writing. I started it in 2007 and wrote two chapters from the perspective of one of the characters. Then I wrote the third chapter in February 2013, adding to it in May 2014 but this third chapter is not finished. So what have I been doing ? Writing short stories and poetry, going to writing workshops, taking creative writing and poetry courses. 

In my novel's notebook, I have amassed research.

What is the novel about ? It's a two-fold Bildungsroman of sorts with one omniscient narrator and two characters, two stories and two point of views. Ambitious ? Yes, and you bet I'm feeling insecure about that. Has the novel any villains? I don't know, I haven't outlined my character list yet.

The research is on setting and occupations of the two main characters. 

Bartholomé is a 24 year-old Cameroonese from Douala who teaches Mathematics at the University of Yaoundé. His father lives in Douala and is the Head Receptionist of the Novotel there. His mother is from the English-speaking Bamiléké area. Bartholomé is fascinated by Mathematics. It is a subject which appears to fulfill all his intellectual needs. His Grandfather suddenly dies and he takes a trip up North to Maroua for his funeral. so my research hinges on Cameroon, country and history; advanced mathematics; Muslim traditions in North Cameroon; the Fang, Bamiléké and Fulani cultures and languages.

I spent a year in Equatorial Guinea, a hispanic country between Cameroon and Gabon and travelled between the three countries. So I already have quite a lot of books, my photographs and diaries. I have contacts still living in Cameroon, Cameroonese, and some Cameroonese friends living in France. I have kept up with the country's history, politics, news and culture over the years even if I haven't been back since 1989. This story starts in 1988.

I studied advanced mathematics until I was 20 and also have a friend who is an American researcher and has travelled the world.

I am not feeling too insecure about this story because I think I possess a sound foundation of knowledge.

The second story is the tricky part. Mathilda is an African-American who lives in New York City and studies the history of "Black" ( no offence ) music and how it has merged with other American music to create new genres. For her research, she will travel to the South Eastern States and there start to question her own family roots.

My research on this second story englobes New York City; African American music; the South Eastern States; studying at University in NYC, living in New York; the history of African-American who migrated/fled from the slave States to the North Eastern coast; literature and arts beyond music.

There again, I do know quite a lot. I lived in New York in my childhood, in Staten Island, and visited many times since 1971; the last time in 2013. I keep up with history, politics, the news, literature, music and culture from all over the States. But I know nothing about the University system in NYC nor even if you can study the history of African-American music in New York. So I 'm feeling very insecure about this.

I know quite a lot about the South Eastern States, having travelled there several times. I have my books, photographs and diaries. I went to a Gospel Church service on my birthday in 2008 and am still in contact with the parish. But I'm uneasy about the fact that my own family history in no way intersects with that of my character's. I'm afraid that I will not be able to grasp my character's point of view in an authentic manner. I've read the main African-American authors of the 19th century and a few who wrote in the first half of the 20th century but not many since so I need to close that enormous gap. I've read a lot about the civil rights movement and witnessed the incidents that made the news, through TV and magazines, in the States and Europe. I visited several museums in Georgia and Alabama, recording names and dates in order to be able to reconstruct an authentic, though fictional, family tree for Mathilda.

As a European, I'm concerned that I won't be able to write convincingly about racism in the United States from the Point of View of my African-American character. I recently read Jodi Picoult's Small Great Things and according to the reviews, realise that Mrs Picoult didn't really pull off a 'believable Ruth', the African-American nurse, heroine of the novel, despite 'rigorous research and good intentions'. The racial problematic seemed well captured but what do I know ? Anyone read this book ? What do you think ?

Sorry I strayed from the question but I'm far from being able to answer it from experience.

Thank you for reading to the end. If you still have some energy, please feel free to comment, discuss, argue... And I'll be sure to reply.

Have a nice IWSG Day.

a little something to end my post.

HEROES, David Bowie. Live Wembley Stadium, 1985

⌗FMF Challenge, SEARCH

Hello fellow writers. I am partipating in the FMF Challenge for the first time after the WEP-IWSG 28 days challenge. If you would like to join the 

⌗FMF Challenge, go to this link :

here

SEARCH

I keep forgetting things, dates, names . So when I remember that I'VE FORGOTTEN something, I write it down, usually in my daily notebook. Then when I re-read my entries, I'm in for a lovely time of searching for information : in my records, in my books, in my films....And more often than not on Wikipedia.
As my late Auntie Ann would say, you can't trust everything their articles say - but anyway I Love researching on Wikipedia. I check a date or a name then start learning something new and thread on from there. Very time consuming but it always gives me pleasure and I hook up with new books, music, authors, actors, films, historical figures....and ENJOY.


6 minutes, sorry.


An example of a search. I was wondering when David Bowie wrote SPACE ODDITY, in regard to the 1969 landing on the moon, while listening to the song the other day.
It turns out, the song was released in June 1969, a month before the Moon Landing but of course, once they had already left Earth, and there were probably reports on the launch and trip; as the event was amply televised. And then I listened to the song again in light of the information.
If you would like to listen to the song, click below

HERE

What did SEARCH evoke for you today ?

Leave a comment and I'll have a look at your post.

Thank you for reading. Have a pleasant day.

⌗28 days, February 27th, COMMIT

To My Sister

Kathleen with my middle daughter Emma, 7, in 2005.

You will never see the sky again.

We shall not quarrel anymore.

You have set yourself free, left me

behind, to experience

the aches of solitude.

To see the sun sink

beyond the rooftops.

You took up all the room

but it was not your fault.

I cowered, hidden away

in the eaves, grabbing at crumbs.

You would fill the kitchen

with words and I would hurry

out of sight, not wanted,

no place for me.

©susanbauryrouchard

My sister Kathleen, committed suicide in 2011, at the age of 49. I was 3 years younger.

Here are some songs we used to listen to together during our childhood in the '70.

Nino Ferrer, LE SUD and THE GARDEN. Two of her favourites.

here
and here

UP, UP AND AWAY   Music for pleasure. My first personal record that I listened to from age 6. And I still do.

a song by Jimmy Webb, 1967, sung by Enchanted Escape. Albuquerque, Balloon Festival every year in October. Here.
Peter Skellern, MANIFESTO and YOU'RE A LADY.  The second, my all-time favourite.

Vinyl album 1972

John Spencer, MAMY BLUE. One of our favourites, she and I.

1971 version by the Pop Tops

Kris Kringle, SUSIE. My little private song.

On the album Memphis

And to finish on a joyful note,

GUANTANAMERA, performed by The Sandpipers.

here

⌗28 days, February 26th, PRUNE

PRUNE

The Cherry Tree

We prune the cherry tree in November, 

the rose bush in December.Then, I trim the bush 

all year round: discarding sick leaves, 

faded flowers. I cut the dried stalks.

The raspberries need extra care:

I snip and clip.

I clear the weeds so they don't

choke the delicate stems.

The fig tree captures our attention

every October, as does the pear tree.

The nut- and apple trees at Elie du Bois

are disregarded for years.

They keep producing bountiful crops.

One has been battered and bashed

by the autumn and summer storms.

The apples don't have far to drop,

The branches kiss the ground.

The roots are still firmly entrenched.

The trunk is angle-ironed.

When wind and water unleash,

The setting sun robes the clouds

and heavens with a prune hew.

©susanbauryrouchard

Toulouse April 2014

Pear Tree, Toulouse

Cherry tree, Toulouse

Rose bush, Elie du Bois, Dordogne, May 2014

On the Road, Dordogne

Cherry tree, Elie du Bois, December 2014

The Meadow, Elie du Bois

⌗28 days, February 24th, MOURN

MOURN

My Father in my Bones

Again he is in my head. In his armchair, he mutters;

reads the paper, politics. From his lips flows

contempt for a boss from his past.

He is smoking. Curls of grey climb and stain

the ceiling, the walls. A yellow light lingers.

The radio bellows: cymbals clash and trumpets roar.

I hear angry shouting through the door.We share

the same nightmares. Piranesi staircases wind up

and roller-coast down. Now he is gone.

In my own house there's a drizzle. Cruises my bones.

Weaves a path between flesh and veins.

A patter of rain falls on the panes. It slithers

in broken lanes. On iron railings it drips, drops.

On the window rim it seeps into stone. Pools of icy

water sketch landscapes. A map of the world.

We share the geography he loved. He used to pore 

over an atlas, fighting forgotten battles. He dreamt

of perfect quests into unknown lands, I dream too.

We share a passion for history. When I think, whimpers

of wash creep up over cutting moss, I shudder.

Aches skate across my shoulder blades.

I remember him in his chair. A garden seat in the shade

of the hazelnut tree. Even in warm weather

he shivered beneath a tight woolly.

His small boned hands at the end of my arms are numb.

I have blisters bobbing bubbles, bruised chins

and shins. We share a razor sharp blood line.

We share the notes of a tune tumbling

into bass booms and silent grumbling.

©susanbauryrouchard

published Paragram Anthology, Remember, December 2014.

My father died in September 2005. I wrote this poem in January 2009. It was twice this size. I edited it a first time between February and May 2009; then again in 2012 and 2013. After it was published, I didn't touch it again. My mourning was complete.

⌗28 days, February 25th, THRIVE

Thrive

Baby Alice thrived on her mummy's milk. 

Blowing bubbles to the clouds. 

Wee lass, a smile, a banana mouth with full blooming lips. 

A sparkle in her eye. So trusting, so helpless.

The fawn walks within minutes. 

We hold our head, roll over, sit, crawl. 

Baby Alice heaved herself onto her feet, 

clinging to the coffee table, 

the bookcase shelf.

She thrived on the puréed fruit: 

media manzana, media platano, media naranja. 

On the mashed vegetables, potato, carotte, spinach 

mixed with a mince of red meat, fish or chicken.

Baby Alice thrived on the Barcelona sunshine, 

the sweet air of Elie du Bois. 

She took her first steps at a wedding in Sitges. 

Baby Alice was lazy. 

She wanted the pushchair to ride to Square Nougaro, 

Les Minimes, in Toulouse.

So she had it, but she wasn't in it ! 

She walked behind it, 

held on to the sides and rolled it to the park. 

Little Alice thrived on the games, 

the swing by the seaside, 

at the Robert Louis Stevenson park on the beach at Alum Chine.

Little Alice dug holes and fashioned forts. 

She buried herself in the sand, 

her head sticking out like a rugby tee. 

Little Alice jumped in the waves and 

sat on the edge, toes wriggling among the seashells.

The tide gently lapped at her legs. 

And suddenly, it turned a trick, 

slapped her full in the face. 

'Spurt, spurt, sting, sputter. Pouah! 

The gigantic shark-carrying waves in La Reunion

 were far too threatening.But little Alice thrived winding in and out, 

rushing through the bambou maze. 

Behold her first meeting with the mosquitoes. 

A spotted dick, more like a pea-spattered bean !

Little Alice thrived singing 

Here we go round the Mulberry Bush, a fat conniver. 

She stomped up the mound shouting, 

'The Grand old Duke of York...' 

And then, in late spring, who should come along ?

Baby Emma: a playmate, a companion, a doll... 

And the merry-go-round thrived on a brand new tune.