RURAL WRITES WRAPS UP THE YEAR WITH A CHRISTMAS WISH

The run up to Christmas has been busy for the Rural Writes groups - after the launches, all the groups have continued to meet and write - Swaffham has had a visit from poet and short story writer Kathryn Simmonds who delivered their first masterclass thanks to funding from Norfolk's Arts Project Fund with more masterclasses scheduled for January and February.

The beautiful book, Gull Stones and Cuckoos can be borrowed from every library in Norfolk now...but is also available to buy - and what better Christmas present than a copy stuffed into a stocking for friends and family.  This is a book of life writing and a social history document bringing contemporary country life to the fore.

Below is a very long link but click on it and it will take you to where you can order the book online!










https://wordery.com/gull-stones-and-cuckoos-lynne-bryan-9781910061411?cTrk=MzI2OTc1Nzl8NTg0ZWQ1ZWRiNjE1YToxOjE6NTg0ZWQ1ZDdmMzQyODguNDczMTk1Mjg6YjJhMTcyNGU%3D

Keep watching this blog for new writing in the new year.

OUR LOVELY LAUNCHES...

It's official and it's out! Gull Stones and Cuckoos has been launched at events in Watton, Gorleston and Swaffham, hosted by the three local libraries.  Here are some of the readers.

WATTON

M.C. Gardner at Watton

Jayne Winterbone

Nichola Lovell

Gill Ashton

It has always been a special project and the launch events just seemed to bring out the unique warmth and supportive ethos of the groups even more.  The community librarians supporting Rural Writes have been marvellous, especially Kathryn Jennings who oversaw both Watton and Swaffham - but everyone involved in the project has given time, energy and goodwill. This project has been generously supported by the Arts Council and Norfolk County Council.  This project illustrates how creative libraries are, how critical they can be for creating material change in the heart of rural communities. Women have discovered new things about themselves, developed their skills, made new and lasting friendships and had that adventure of writing and publication.

GORLESTON

Hilary Hanbury at Gorleton

Jane Rudd

Our first launch was in a very well-attended Watton - just as many of the women were first time writers, almost all of the writers had never read in public before  either - but it would have been hard to tell.  Gorleston brought in some surprise audience members mesmerised by what was going on next door to their meeting, Swaffham was packed.  It was really inspiring.  It takes courage to write about your life and then read it publicly and so our Rural Writes women are all brave. The proceeds from the sale of books will all go back to the libraries to continue to support the women's groups. 

The book is out but this isn't the end of the project - the beauty of the experience lies in the continued existence of the groups, all of which are continuing to meet, all the women are continuing to write and their first masterclasses with a poet and novelist will start in November and early December. Their work will feature on this blog over the coming year.  Please come back and read their words. 

Cynthia Gallogo

Lyn McKinney

SWAFFHAM

Julia Howarth

Leah Spencer

Jurgita Stipiniene

Camilla Balshaw

Katrina Stockdale

Charlie Dearden

Larie Danson

Rhonda Peake

Text of the press release going out about our lovely launches...

NORFOLK LIBRARIES AND WORDS AND WOMEN LAUNCH GULL STONES AND CUCKOOS – A BOOK OF CONTEMPORARY RURAL LIFE WRITING.

An anthology of compelling and passionate stories, Gull Stones and Cuckoos is to be launched in three local libraries in Norfolk this October; celebrating the results of a unique creative opportunity for women living in rural and coastal communities.

The anthology has grown out of Rural Writes, a partnership between Norfolk Library and Information Service and Words and Women supported by Arts Council England. Women of all ages and backgrounds from Gorleston, Watton and Swaffham were invited to attend 10 weeks of life-writing sessions in their local libraries led by two professional writers, Belona Greenwood, co-organiser of Words and Women and award-winning poet, Heidi Williamson.

The result, illustrated by Rose Cowan and edited by Lynne Bryan and Belona Greenwood is a bold, honest and vivid narrative of local lives. Published by Unthank Books, it tells of lost halls, early morning walks, stillness, fairy-light skies, telescopes on allotments, the loneliness of grief and the adventure of new places in rural Norfolk. The writers in this book are new to writing but their stories and observations are compellingly authentic.

The collection will be available to borrow from all Norfolk's libraries and to buy. 

‘This project shows how vital libraries are in bringing communities and people together.  The women who joined were strangers until they signed up to try their hand at writing. They have made friends, supported and inspired each other. The book itself, is fantastic but the fact the women’s writing groups are continuing is enormously important and heart-warming’ said Belona Greenwood from Words and Women

The book launches will take place in Watton Library at 6.00 pm on October 26^th, Gorleston Library, 6.30 pm on the 27^th and Swaffham Library, 6.30 pm on the 28^th,

Rural Writes doesn’t end with the book, all three writing groups continue to meet in their local libraries and to post on the Rural Writes blog.

www.ruralwrites.blogspot.co.uk

Launching Soon...

Next week it's launch time...three libraries, three events and compelling prose...

Our first event kicks off in Watton at 6 pm in the library on 26th October. Gorleston on the

27th at 6.30 pm  - and finally, Swaffham on Friday 28th.

Watch this space for news.....meanwhile here's the blurb on the back of the book...

Gull Stones and Cuckoos is a clear-eyed, passionate and honest book of life-writing about contemporary country living in Norfolk.

Lost halls, early morning walks, stillness, fairy-light skies, telescopes on allotments, the loneliness of grief and the adventure of new places in rural Norfolk. The writers in this book are new to writing but their stories and observations are compellingly authentic.

This book has grown out of an Arts Council England project, Rural Writes, a partnership between Norfolk Library and Information Service and Words and Women.

Contributions from: Gill Ashton, Camilla Balshaw, Chanel Richenda Carlyon, Enid Clarke, Larie Danson, Charlie Dearden, Cynthia Gallogo, M.C.  Gardner, Jan Godfrey, M.B.E., Hilary Hanbury, Julia Howarth, Nichola Lovell, Lyn Mckinnon, Rhonda Peak, Maxine Robertson, Jane Rudd, Leah Spencer, Jurgita Stipiniene, Katrina Stockdale and Jayne Winterbone.

A preview of our cover...

The design goes all around the book, past the spine onto the back cover...

Update - It won't be long...

It's been a long, old process, editing and producing the book  but we are almost there...as soon as the cover has been finalised and finessed sometime this week, I will post it.
It is a great cover.

The launches of the book are all scheduled for one week in October:
26th October, Watton
27th October, Gorleston
28th October, Swaffham

all at 6.30 start (but feel free to come earlier and if you are reading please be there at 6 pm).

I think the launches should be happy, informal affairs and anyone who wants to read their work, please get in touch with me...Words and Women have a tradition of short readings - so nothing above 5 minutes. Invite your friends and families! There will be an invitation that can be sent out - that too, is in production.

I hope you have all had a wonderful summer and that your groups have met or are in this good old month - I will be in touch to schedule your masterclasses soon - poet Julia Webb is going to take you all on a poetic journey, our prose writer is yet to be confirmed.

I hope too, that you are still writing - and if you have takena  summer break, you get pretty busy now the autumn is standing just outside the back door...

Clouds over Norwich Market

A sudden grey sky 

turns noon to dusk.

Rain plunges down,

people swarm

to reach the cover

of brightly painted

striped roofs.

Murmurs and groans

smother the air.

Squawks and wails 

from unhappy tots

pierce through the 

fast, heavy pitter-patter

as water pounds

the metallic canopies.

Herded through a maze

of darkened alleys,

jackets rub

elbows and shoulders. 

Toes kick heels.

Squish, push, 

bump and poke.

Feet shuffle,

side-swiped 

by rolling wheels.

Wet handbags

smack into chests.

Stray droplets, 

from soaked hair 

and saturated hoods,

splash faces.

Aromas of 

chilled brine

pungent copper 

sweet malt 

dewy-botanical 

saccharine citrus 

bitter sulfur 

salt and vinegar,

swirl and waft out 

behind a sea of backs.

Steam rises 

as kettles boil,

bacon sizzles,

sausages spit. 

Scarves and baskets 

hang on hooks 

up high, 

a wicker coffin?  

Could it be?

Search for a pocket 

of space to breathe. 

© Nichola Lovell 

I Am West Runton

I am West Runton

I am the old nag that your father lifted up placing you high on my back, flies buzzing all around.

I am the fossil found by your children, as they wander in and out of my cold wet puddles, with coarse sand sticking to their feet.

I am the cold flint that you turn over to reveal the pattern and smooth bottom of a 2 million year old sea urchin.

I am the cold east wind that blows, lifting the sand and blasting your face, in your eyes, and up your nose.

I am the sea with my waves rushing and crashing onto the shore, retreating with a mouthful of pebbles only to throw them down in the next wave.  

I am the smell of hot chocolate that wafts down my shore, from the café half way up the hill, delivered in white china mugs, to warm your hand. 

I am where you can stand and watch the wind turbines turning slowly in the wind, waves crashing around them circled by gulls.

I am West Runton, I was here long before man walked upon my shores, and I will be here long after man stops walking upon these earthly shores.

Gill Ashton

In My Dream of Absolute

I am in a dream

I am a flame

I see my home

as the lawgiver’s lease

comes to an end.

I am confused

by buds and wild fungi

I can taste the leaves

in the blue arboretum.

I am an imprint…

I can hear his violin

in the baroque grassland

of imitation colours.

I am in a barouche

across the barley fields

under a riot of blue

I can smell summer –

I am with our dingo

I hover in the mirror

of my dream into the absolute -

And I fall.

By ©M.C. Gardner 08-06-2016

A CROWDED SHELF

Oh, that one's my favourite of Bert

Next to him, our youngest child, Eve.

Something to do with her heart -

They did all they could, but

 She went before him.

Tommy now, he was a lad,

Big and strong, and much taller than me,

He went off to learn farming,

And never came home

To Norfolk.

He live s up in Yorkshire now,

Selling animal feed in the Dales,

He’s married with sons of his own,

I don’t like to push,

He’s so busy.

Bert and me on our wedding day,

‘Course no frills, it was war time.

He was my soldier boy, and

 I was his sunshine girl.

Tommy was on the way.

My friend Dot on an outing to Cromer,

Such a wind! It blew up our skirts,

We had ice cream and I broke a heel.

Me and her were really close,

But she’s gone now.

Here’s one of my brother Reg,

Came to me when wife Ivy died,

But he was already quite poorly,

We buried him near Bert,

For the company.

That’s my niece June, lovely girl,

Came over a few months ago.

Said I should get a computer,

To stay in touch – I said June,

In touch with who?

She said, with the world Aunty May,

I said June, that’s a wonderful thing,

But I talk to my pictures each morning,

And what’s more,

They don’t go away.

©Lyn McKinney 20^th July, 2016

Santa

I stormed in through the back door to find my mom in the kitchen.  Steam was rising from boiling pans on the stove.  She bent down to check whatever was in the oven.  Absently, without turning around, she said, “Dinner will be about 10 minutes, go and wash up.”

In a tone that demanded attention, I said, “First, I need to ask you something.”

My mom turned to look at me, as I leaned my kite up against the wall near the door.  

“Uh oh, have you and Gabe had a fight?”

I swung around to meet her gaze.  “No!  Well ... sort of.  We were talking about Santa and he said Santa wasn’t real.  I told him he was, and he told me that everyone in the second grade knew Santa wasn’t real.  And he was laughing at me!” 

My mom made a sort of humming sound, bit her lip as she pulled out a dining chair and turned it to sit down in front of me.  I had a bad feeling, especially when she leaned forward and grabbed one of my hands in hers. 

“Nikki, we’ve been wondering when to tell you, we should have told you before anyone else could, uh, how can I put this ...” 

She took a deep breath and my mouth flew open. 

“Oh my gosh!  Santa Isn’t real?”  The words came out barely a whisper. 

My mom shook her head. “No, I’m sorry, he isn’t.”

“What!  Why say that he is then?  Why are there stories about him, movies and presents and cookies?”

Her arm came up and snaked around my waist and pulled me closer to her. 

“Santa is for little kids, Nik.  You’re growing up and sooner or later you were going to have to be told the truth and I guess today’s the day.”

The shock horror forgotten for the moment, pain and anger welled up inside me. “Why lie in the first place?  Why make kids think that Santa’s real when he’s not?  I don’t understand that!”

“It’s a shock when you find out, I know.  Everyone goes through this.  I believed in Santa when I was little too, but I had to find out, when I was old enough, that he wasn’t real.”

“That’s mean!”  Tears started to fill my eyes, and my throat tightened. 

I couldn’t believe I’d been lied to by my parents and ... well, everyone!

“Oh Nik, you’re growing so fast.  I wish I didn’t have to tell you this.  But, Santa is a way to explain to small children about Christmas and to get them excited about Christmas.  Just because Santa isn’t real, doesn’t mean you stop getting presents.”  Her eyebrows lifted, a soft smile touched her lips and she wiggled my hand as she tried to coax a smile out of me.  

I didn’t feel much like smiling.  I was devastated.  

Then another thought occurred to me.  “Is the tooth fairy real?”

She grimaced, “No, sweetheart, I’m afraid not.” 

“So ... Tinkerbell and ... the forest fairies?”

She shook her head, with a sadness in her eyes.

A shuttering gasp escaped me as tears started to fall down my cheeks.  I stepped back and pulled my hand from my mothers and slunk off to my room.  Feeling bewildered and betrayed by everyone I knew.  I could hear Gabe’s voice echoing in my head, Everyone in the second grade knows that Santa isn’t real, moron!

I was so upset my insides hurt.  No Santa Claus, no Tooth Fairy or Tinkerbell ... what was there left to dream about?

© Nichola Lovell  July 17th 2016

The Book

The Book

The binding is split, idly, by a ragged thumbnail.

Lazy in the corner, the ladybird's

echo on every slim, neatly stacked book.

Peter has a ball. Jane sees the ball. I see

 a blue ribbon and a white sun dress, a neat centre parting

and a fixed grin; an idyll in pastel.

Monday morning on her lap

safe, curled amidst the scent of laundry

and home baking.

The jumbled shapes rearrange beneath a determined finger

into sounds and words and finally

into whole worlds

Rhonda July 2016

The Blue Scooter

THE BLUE SCOOTER

Lizzie whizzed around the block on her blue metal scooter. She loved it so much, and there was nothing to beat going at speed and feeling the wind through her hair.  She felt free and alive.  She knew the rules though, her mum had told her as she left the house ‘Don’t go over the road away from the block or you will go to bed early.’ From where Lizze was, spinning round and round on the pavement on her side of the road, the houses on the other side looked new and exciting.

Lizzie arrived at the back gate. She was so thirsty, she barely paused to prop the scooter against the outside wall before she ran down the path.  The gate slammed behind her leaving her precious scooter completely out of sight.

Lizzie opened the door with such vigour it made her mum cross. ‘I’ve told you not to come in the door like that – you’ll have it off its hinges! For goodness sake, slow down!’

Lizzie grabbed the glass off the worktop and hung on the taps as she was so parched she guzzled the water. Then, newly on fire, she banged the glass down and skipped to the back gate, anxious to return to her scooter.

Lizzie flung open the gate. She looked left and right. There was no scooter. Devastated, she ran to the corner of the road, expecting to see a neighbourhood child playing a joke on her but there was no one, nothing. She ran back to her mum, crying, red-faced, her clothes damp from her tears.

‘Someone’s taken my scooter,’ she wept.  Her mum’s tone changed instantly, ‘Oh dear, love, I expect you’ve left it somewhere.’ If this was meant to be comforting, it wasn’t. Taking Lizzie by the hand, she led her of the back gate. They both looked out expectantly. No scooter. ‘Perhaps someone’s borrowed it,’ she said encouragingly. ‘Let’s hope it will turn up.’

Back in the kitchen, Lizzie’s mum sat her in a chair and gave her a rare chocolate biscuit to pacify her.

Jane July 2016

My Rabbit

My Rabbit

He went everywhere with me, even appearing on wedding photos.  I loved this strange looking thing, with his large red cylinder shape bottom, tubed body with little stubby arms at right angles, a head out of proportion with crosses as eyes and nose.  But the most important thing were the ears worn out and replaced many times, they were everything.  Long and comforting, wrapperable around my fingers, my security.  I could face anything that my world threw at me as long as I was able to weave my fingers around those ears, and rub them gently on my cheek while sucking my thumb.  I felt complete, confident and secure, bold and fearless, even off the spiders that ran around my room at night.  As long as I had my rabbit’s ears in my hand.

I still remember the day, I was made to throw him away, ‘but big girls don’t need things like that’ my mother informed me, but I didn’t feel grown up.  I still need my security, it was the only thing that had stayed with me, that was still mine. But there she stood with the bin opened waiting for me to cast away my rabbit, and with it my protection.  The hand was now placed on her hip and the foot started to tap, ‘come on that smell thing has to go, or do I have to do it?’  It’s my rabbit, if anyone was going to cast it way, it would be me.  So I gentle and carefully placed him in the bin, slam went the top ‘good’ she turned and strutted away.  A single tear ran down my cheek, I mustn’t cry, but how was I going to survive without him.

Gill

And...

Rembrandt

Night Life

I have a primitive fear of darkness and know that I will soon regret this solitary walk into the village and wish myself safely back home.  Hedgerow rustling, a distant bark, wind stirring the leaves in the trees all conspire to fire my imagination and quicken my footsteps.  Once I used to walk the city streets at night without fear, overflowing with the confidence of youth, unaware of dangers waiting in the shadows and concealed threateningly around the corners.  Now pigeons noisily flapping from their roost at my approaching steps, can make my heart thump.  

And later I must reverse all this, make my way back to the lights of home, where I will close the gate, pause and gaze up at the blue-black sky.  Orion, the Plough and the North Star shine bright in the galaxy - far away, dazzling and belittling.  The owl’s screech brings me back to my own small safe space, the present and home. 

Leah Spencer June 2016

Being Here!

Seaside

I let myself join the wind

And my mouth is open with the laugh…

How nice it is to be here –

My hair goes mad, I am careless…

Jurgita

GREAT NEWS!

We have been awarded £450 from Norfolk County Council's Arts Project Fund to provide masterclasses and continuing support to our three groups of writing women!

This is marvellous news and means that after the anthology has been published and launched, the writing groups can continue to meet and run the blog with  not only the generous support of Norfolk's Library Service but also Norfolk County Council's Arts Project Fund.

All our writers have been on a huge learning curve and have been challenged to produce more and more text.  There is a heap of fantastic poetry on the table, as well as thoughts about country living. The writing is really coming to life.  The groups are full of chat, laughter and new friendships.

It is wonderful to have the support of Norfolk County Council. Thank you.

A Child's Morning in Lithuania

I can smell the scent of spring flowers and soft lips touch my forehead. I can feel the gentle stroke on my face and after few seconds the room door closes quietly...

My mum has left to go to work but the smell of her perfume still hangs around me. My mum goes to work very early every morning but I know I will see her after my school day and yum yum - she will smell like delicious homemade food then. 

I open my heavy sleepy eyes and slowly glance around the room.

On my left hand side stands the tall, big, old fashioned wardrobe. A warm feeling goes through my little body - I know my mum hides a few chocolate bars on one of the shelves in a wardrobe.

My mum has no idea that I know the secret place - I found it when I was looking for my clothes and instead of the odour of fresh clothes odour I managed to smell chocolate. I definitely have a good sense of smell.

On the top of the wardrobe are the photos of my mum and dad. My mum looks at me and smiles from the photo. Dad looks very serious and manly, he wears his army uniform.

I remember that photo from an early stage of my childhood. My dad was on army duty when I was born, so every time when someone ask me where is my dad I would point my finger to the picture on the wardrobe. My mum said it was so funny when my dad finally came back home after his military service and I was nearly one year old. She asked me to 'go and say hi to your dad' and I did, I said hi my dad's photo.

Further in the room I can see the shadow of my parents' sofa bed and my desk where I sit every evening to do my homework.

Opposite my desk is a window.  The red curtains are still closed and the yellow tulips on the curtains look like dancing slowly while a mild breeze enters the room.

On the right hand side, a black and white TV stands on the TV table. I wonder what is on the kid’s channel tonight. Fingers crossed it will be my favourite 'Nu Pogodi' ('Just Wait') series and I can watch it before I go to bed tonight.

On the top on the TV stands my dad’s precious thing - a belt recorder. We have such a good times dancing all together when dad switches it on the weekends! Mama-Mia!

I can hear my little brother sigh deeply in his baby sleep in his cot.  My heart fills up with a huge wave of love! I cannot wait for him to wake so I can sing his favourite songs and watch him laughing with his big brown eyes and toothless mouth.

I stretch my body slowly and the bright orange colour catches my eye. I realise I lie there in an orange cloud and feel soft cotton covers hold my body gently. I love my bed sheets - orange with red smiley Russian dolls figures called Matryoshka dolls. I always had a feeling they kept my dreams safe from nightmares. I slowly immerse myself in sleep again.

Far far away I can hear steps and a quiet click. Suddenly, COCK-A-DOODLE-DO! (kakarieku!,) the rooster sings on the radio!

Oh Dear! It wakes me up!

My dad with his fresh after shave smell slowly bends towards me and whispers in my ear 'Good morning my beautiful daughter - time to get up and get ready for school.’ A gentle kiss and little tickle on my funny bones and I am ready for a new day.

© Jurgita Stipiniene July 2016

Jurgita

26/05/2016

Nightlife in Wayland

Nightlife

It is December, it is midnight and it is very cold. I have been carol-singing in the village and despite freezing hands, feet and nose I feel warm inside from the pleasure of the evening and, perhaps, the mulled wine. I look up at the sky; it is intensely black behind the confusion of stars and a thin slice of new moon. I know if I turn to face the west the stars will be lost in the glow of street lights from the town which creeps closer and closer as the town eats up the green fields. So I continue to look to the north and east over the village where a deep darkness and the stars prevail. 

It is June, it is three in the morning and it is very warm and very still. Unable to sleep for the heat I am sitting on the front terrace, watching a new day rouse from sleep. A fox barks in the distance, a hedgehog bustles across the lawn, and a Barn owl sweeps along the dusky hedge. A blackbird gives his first tentative call and suddenly the garden is awake, full of chattering birds, from the gentle cooing of the collared doves to the joyous singing of the blackbirds. In the east the soft golden glow has turned to vibrant red as the minutes pass and the sun pops up over the cottage roof next door. Then the gentle sounds of the garden are overwhelmed by the distant, but insistent roar of the traffic as the working day begins. 

©Jan Godfrey, June 27, 2016

The Red Pillow

I grew up in a small town called Borongan in the Eastern part of the Philippines. Borongan was a small fishing village at the time, and fishing was a source of living for most people. Everyone else, worked for the Government and my father was one of them. As the main breadwinner, he worked hard to support us. He bought essential items and he bought us books and taught us to read. I can’t remember whether he bought my red pillow. But it doesn’t matter. My red pillow was part of my childhood and I loved it dearly.

I see it in a bedroom which I shared with my sister. On sleepovers, I insisted on bringing my own pillow, otherwise, I would have difficulty sleeping anywhere. I loved my pillow on its own, without a pillow case. I loved its fresh smell and the warm feel of it on my cheeks on cold nights, and its coolness in the summer. When I was sad, I cried into my pillow and I thought, it cheered me up and provided company. When I went to Uni, I brought my pillow with me and still, it was my comfort in good and bad times.

Now, I’m a mother of two. My oldest son is nearly ten years old, while my youngest is nearly two. The age gap is challenging as both have different needs and interests. My husband works away from home most of the time, and therefore I juggle my time as a lone parent. Do I find comfort in my pillows? They are as comfortable as my old pillow, but I guess I’m a grown up woman now and I find comfort in many things like my family and friends, books and writing to name a few. 

Interestingly, my son has a favourite pillow. He insists on having it every night and does not want me to put it in the wash. When we moved house, it was in his top priority list. As they say, history repeats itself. Perhaps, this is to remind myself to chill, unwind and remember the simple pleasures of my happy and loving childhood. But I wonder how my son’s pillow provides comfort to him.

Today, as I drove him to school, I told him we have a homework in my writing class. Think of an object in my childhood bedroom and I asked him to guess. He said, ‘your favourite red pillow’. I smiled and saw myself in my son.  

Cynthia (Gorleston)

THIRTY WOMEN, THREE LIBRARIES, COUNTLESS STORIES...

Rural Writes is the name of a project to encourage women of all ages in Watton, Swaffham and the Magdalen Estate in Gorleston to write about their experiences of living in rural and coastal communities. 

Thirty women are attending 10 weeks of free creative writing workshops led by two professional writers after Norfolk's Library and Information Service received funding from Arts Council England.

Our aim is to create a bold, honest and vivid narrative of lives lived in the landscape in an anthology published by independent press, Unthank Books. The collection of life-writing will be available to borrow from all Norfolk's libraries and to buy. 

The project is led by Belona Greenwood, co-organiser of Words and Women which supports and celebrates women writers in the East of England and a winner of the Decibel/Penguin prize for Life-Writing alongside award-winning poet Heidi Williamson, a former Swaffham girl whose latest collection of poetry, The Print Museum, has just been launched by Bloodaxe Books.  The anthology will be illustrated by local artist Rose Cowan and edited by novelist Lynne Bryan, and the other half of Words and Women. The project is managed by Anna Brett of Create Projects.  

Rural Writes would simply not be possible without the unstinting support of Norfolk Library and Information Service and the community librarians who are energetically engaged in the project and provide digital and computer skills support to those whose only idea of a mouse is of the furred kind.

This blog is part of the project, it is a place where women from all three groups can post their writing.  It is an opportunity to provide a platform from the writing generated on the course and a way of bringing the women in the groups together and uniting them in common purpose, not only the creation of an amazing book but also a platform to make women's experience of living in rural or coastal areas known.