I keep a spreadsheet of all my short story entries. I have noticed in the years where I have entered more competitions I have won or been placed in more and successfully made it into the all-important anthologies. Upwards of 20 entries seems to be what you need for success. 

​Despite being autumn, a time when one tends to hibernate, it is a time when I return to my writing and course planning with renewed enthusiasm. The pleasant distractions of summer disappear, the garden is put to bed for winter and a quieter period ensues, one where I can think without interruption and plan. I've been checking my competition spreadsheet and deciding what to enter and where. I research the judge, usually a well-known author, I also read any of the previous winners’ stories that are sometimes posted online. If the competition has an anthology I will get hold of a back copy and read the winners stories, also I may put in two or three quite different stories because, I conclude, the judge or judges will want variety in the anthology. If it is for a literary magazine I get hold of a copy. Cost is an issue, competitions fees have increased in recent years and so I am more selective and, like everyone I know, I have cut back in the light of current fiscal conditions. The great thing about entering competitions is that it is a focus, something to aim for, in terms of length, content, style and deadlines. Stories that don't make it one year, are re-edited, re-written or left to lie fallow for a period while I consider a new approach, and most important of all your writing will be read. 

I am delighted to have been invited to run a one day creative writing workshop for the Holt Festival inspired by the Craxton - Picasso Exhibition on Wednesday 27th July 2022 10am-4pm. For booking: £65.00 (limited to ten places) https://www.holtfestival.org/fine-art-events/​
To book please email [email protected]
www.holtfestival.org #craxtonpicasso #creativewriting #artmeetsliterature #patriciamullin #holtfestival

Craxton-Picasso

In addition to a very strong visual content the Craxton-Picasso exhibition has an intriguing literary element too - involving Paddy Leigh Fermor and Horizon magazine

Workshop
Begins with a tour of the Craxton-Picasso exhibition and brief talk by curator James Glennie, after questions and coffee Patricia will lead some short exercises and discussion to get the creative juices flowing. After lunch there will the opportunity to write and craft stories, applying the ideas and techniques discussed during the morning session, along with more discussion and sharing of stories.

 A previous students writes...
I thought it was very well designed, and richly layered course. The structure was really helpful, and the teaching style was warm, supportive and very informative. There was  a nice balance between encouragement and challenge, and we were all accommodated. Every session was lively, stimulating and very enjoyable, inspiring us to go off and try things on our own.
MR
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John Craxton (1922-2009) the subject of this year’s festival exhibition Craxton-Picasso, was championed from the age of 19 as one of the great hopes of modern painting in Britain. 
He and Lucian Freud worked in adjoining London studios for much of the war, when Craxton was mentored by Graham Sutherland and John Piper.
Craxton escaped in 1946 to Greece, where he found creative inspiration for the rest of his life. The dark, melancholic images of the war years – with haunted solitary figures emblematic portraits of the artist himself – vanished as he became absorbed in the light, life and landscapes of the Aegean.
A consummate portraitist of cats, goats and people – a lover of food, wine and music in good company – John Craxton painted pleasure and lived it.

I am delighted to have been chosen as a finalist in The London Independent Short Story Prize, for my Flash Fiction piece Fact Sheet 5. It’s a lovely introduction to autumn, which is a time of year that always excites me in a back-to-school way. With summer over and guests departing, it marks a period of workshop teaching and novel editing, which I relish.

Workshops: The Writing Career Leap. Two workshops (10am-4pm) September 14th and October 12th at Anteros Arts Centre in Norwich. The first focuses on short fiction and its value in career building through competition entry as a path to publication. The second will focus developing participants own varied stable of short pieces and targeted competition entry. Both can be taken separately or together. Patricia states ‘These are the workshops I wish had existed when I was starting out as a writer.’

There are currently two places left on each workshop.
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Booking details: places are reserved by payment on a first come first booked basis.
Fees: £85 per workshop or £160 for both. Payment by online banking or cheque.
Please email Patricia to book and for payment details. [email protected]
Website: www.patriciamullin.com

Recently I responded to a post from NUA (Norwich University of the Arts) about life drawing resuming in the Munnings studio. NUA is where I studied for my Writing the Visual MA for two years, investigating visual art, creative writing, and critical culture.
The resumption of drawing in an art institution might not surprise you, indeed you may expect it, but until recently it was controversial. Drawing had been out of favour for some time and this discipline was seen as outdated and wholly unnecessary for a career in art and design. It got quite heated, the notion that a life model drawing class might be found in the building was often dismissed and derided. I am delighted to see that it has returned, because what always bothered me was how students would learn to look and to see? Because whatever discipline you develop the first key skill an artist requires is visual.

Drawing at Colchester School of Art, where I began my creative career with an art foundation course, was taken seriously. I was taught by some of the best the Art Foundation was then two years, and we moved between disciplines, from sculpture and painting, to pottery, textiles, graphics, jewellery, and industrial design. Central to all of this was our instruction in looking and seeing, through drawing. Life classes were two evenings a week and outdoor drawing one morning a week. I feel privileged to have been taught by some exceptional tutors (Richard Bawden, Phillip Ardizonne, Brian Knight, and Richard Godfrey.) Life and outdoor drawing were considered essential disciplines with a lot of time devoted to them. I am fortunate in having been taught to draw, but also how to look and how to see. Drawing itself is a fascinating gestural, visual, and interpretive process that combines, body, brain, eye, and aesthetic. 
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That close observation and critical questioning has remained in my practice as a writer. Trained to apply intense visual scrutiny to my subject it has encouraged me to become a visual and psychological archaeologist, to look behind the obvious closely observing the structure and the veiled, the unsaid and the unwittingly disclosed. Writing requires all the senses, hearing is important, patterns and rhythms of speech also matter, it is the complexity of writing that fascinates and intrigues me, and it is the visual that is my starting point.​ 

Here in rural north Norfolk the fields have lots of bouncing, biffing, bonkers hares in them, wonderful creatures that chase around and beat each other up in a mock fight reminiscent of the one between Colin Firth and Hugh Grant in Bridget Jones Diary, a lot of flailing and not much real damage. 

I caught an interesting BBC Radio 4 item called Shock Waves (you can get it online). It is about how artists and writers respond to something as shocking as the pandemic. Interesting to me, because I have found that, while I have had thoughts and ideas where the pandemic features, I have not yet felt ready to form them into a narrative. It seems I am not alone; it's going to take time to process. It also features an author who was well into her pandemic novel when the real one hit and found she had to abandon it. I love hearing creatives talk about process. It also concluded that another reason is that creatives, generally freelance and fiscally abandoned by the Chancellor have been in survival mode and that, dear reader, is stressful, exhausting, and time consuming.

As concentration is apt to be shot to pieces in these Covid times, apart from decluttering your attic, you might like to dip into some short fiction (as you know I am a huge reader of and writer of short stories). So here are some recommendations, 2 short and 2 memoirs. 

'Some Days Are Better Than Ours.' by Barbara Byar. Published by Reflex Press.
'Salt Slow' by Julia Armfield. Published by Picador.
'Notes to Self.' by Emilie Pine. Published by Penguin. Memoir/essays with high praise from just about everyone/everywhere including Anne Enright and Book of the Year 2018 Irish Book Awards.
'I Am I Am I Am.' By (one of my favourite authors) Maggie O'Farrell. Published by Tinder Press.

You may not recognise The Reflex Press, this is because they are a small indie publisher and doubtless have a website and online shop, please drop your Amazon habit for a moment and buy direct, it makes a huge difference to the publishers and to writers if you purchase either directly from them or from a small independent bookstore like The Book Hive in Norwich who will post them to you. Similarly, Salt Publishers from Cromer Norfolk, have a great website, wonderful writers, and post books promptly.

Blimy it's already February! I used to consider February the longest and cruelest month, despite its being only 28 or 29 days. In recent years I have softened as I've discovered it isn't always grey on grey with a sulking sky just hovering above my head, no, sometimes it can come through with a few days of sunshine that give the promise of spring just waiting to get the go-ahead. Yesterday I managed to complete and submit my end of year accounts to the Inland Revenue and to spruce up my system of recording income and expenses, meaning I can get ahead of myself and get 2020-2021 completed for April 5th (that'll be a first.)  It is, of course a bi-product of the Covid lockdowns because, like most freelancers, there is precious little income to show for the last trading year, although most fixed bills have to be paid despite the lack of business.

For me the lockdowns have been really busy, teaching on Zoom, mentoring and planning a way out of this mess. I lost all my data in a computer incident which left me truamatised. I have taken the opportunity to re-organize my computer files and I am trying to get on top of the endless paperwork that somehow infiltrates several rooms in the cottage. Part of the trouble is because I cut out numerous, reviews and snippets from newspapers, magazines and journals, along with items I think would/should interest my children and there are ideas written down in whatever notepad, envelope or folder that comes to hand. Then there is other peoples stuff. Grown up offspring living in tiny flats or rooms don't have room for their stuff. More sadly, there are the deceased whose own collections of files and papers now fill my study.

​I am also filling in countless literature based applications to progress my career in one way or another and they hungrily eat my time, each one requires the same information but in a wildly differing format, so they are really tricky. I am though walking more frequently, because it's pretty much all we're allowed to do and walking is great for writers, ideas come when you walk. I've already thought about re-writing a short story that could be longer or a novella. I have a few more admin tasks to complete and then it's down to writing again, the thing I love the most and which helps me forget about glum, grey February. I am also eagerly looking forward to the time when we are allowed out to play again! The meadow will come into its own for big social picnics and pot luck suppers with bunting and lanterns.

I have a reading recommendation. As you know I love short fiction, which is perfect for a time when a lot of you are struggling with concentration and memory issues. Short stories are the perfect read for these odd Covid times.  I have just read 'Dinosaurs on Other Planets' by Danielle McLaughlin, published by John Murray. I often purchase short fiction I see well reviewed and this collection has rightly garnered much praise. If you want to revel in beautifully constructed sentences and a bit of lock-down vocabulary stretching this collection is for you. Below are a couple of examples.

'Maddened, the blue bottles looped like spitfires.'
'...the ditch that separated their property from the farm next door brittle-grassed and silver.' 

I am delighted to have been a winner in the West Sussex Mind short story competition chose by the  judge and author Rosanna Ley. Coming on top of my earlier shortlisting in the 2020 Bridport Prize, this is a great boost in a glum year.

 This is the last chance to see this amazing and inspiring exhibition which closes at 4pm on Dec 5th - do go. Scroll down for the poster with details.

I am delighted to announce that I have been shortlisted in the 2020 Bridport Prize short story competition by the judge Nell Leyshon. This is the third time that I have been shortlisted for this prestigious award and coming in the top 100 short stories in an international prize with over 4,400 entries ( the top 2% or so I'm told) is a real boost. 

There are very few spaces left on my forthcoming workshop at the Groundwork Gallery, Kings Lynn  www.groundwork.com
This is a fabulous exhibition, really inspiring and we will spend the day working from close observation and leaning how to craft a multi-layered fiction.
see the flyer below for more information and go to their website for booking.

It's National Poetry Day and here is a link to the wonderful Cafe Writers competition  
http://www.cafewriters.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2020/08/Cafe-Writers-Competition-2020.pdf
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​The frustrations of the Covid pandemic conditions have necessitated a change in my working practice, particularly teaching. As the lock-down began I sent out an invitation to my database, a call to creativity. We are social beings and isolation is difficult; although, as a writer, I am used to being alone and anyway, when you write you are in the company of your characters, which is a good place to be. For those living alone, solitary confinement and fear of this frightening virus was hard to deal with, the financial toll was also a massive aftershock. For the creative industries this has been a tumultuous time, in many cases  income ceased overnight and around 3 million creatives fell through the cracks of government support.  
 
My course, Online Corona Creative, filled a gap in those first ten weeks of lock-down and it forced me to embrace Zoom and learn on the job about the technical issues related to running courses online with participants in their homes. I learnt when the students are not in the same room I no longer had the teacherly authority that I do when teaching face to face. I also learnt that body language cannot be read on screen and methods to make sure everyone has an equal speaking opportunities had to be instituted. I found that eleven participants is too many (smaller groups are the answer) and that some people struggle with this way of working, while others have by necessity embraced it and found it a social and educational lifeline. I have also been a student myself on Zoom with the Society of Authors. In October I will be again, by taking part in an online writing retreat hosted by the author Jill Dawson. As one would expect, creatives have been remarkably adept at find new and inventive ways of adapting to this 'new normal' and presenting their work in new ways and seeking out new audiences.
 
As a teacher, this time of year always gives me that back to school sensation, it is the beginning of the academic year and, like New Year, it is a time for reflection and renewal. I have long wanted to make some video content about my artistic and literary practice and Covid has given me the push I needed, and with an Arts Council grant to buy technical equipment I am taking that leap, scary? yes a bit, but positive too; it’s exciting to find a new method of reaching out to fellow practitioners and students. Creative Progression, my online course for creatives of any discipline has begun, but there will be  another opportunity for a face to face course at Anteros, Norwich, when Covid restrictions lift hopefully next spring. More online courses are in the pipeline, one to one mentoring continues on Zoom if you would like to book please get in touch www.mullinpatricia.com 

Have a safe, happy and creative autumn.

It is with immense sadness that I  have to inform you that Graham passed away on Friday 17th April at Priscilla Bacon Lodge, Norwich. Graham was one of the first Cathedral writing students who went on to lead Ex-Cathedra writing group for many years. He headed the student committee in charge of the anthology Voicing Visions and was the M,C. at its launch. Apart from his many talents and attributes Graham was all round lovely man and I know that many of the student cohort will greatly mourn his passing as I do. Patricia 20.04.2020

Please read this free short story after you have purchased your copy of Gene Genie from https://www.amazon.co.uk/Gene-Genie-Patricia-Mullin-ebook/dp/B00AK9NWT2?fbclid=IwAR0lonqWpkVueOnnoZpsL6hLvSy5qes8iBdtZXmIbNm1HrL5Baq4kT6M090 

Thank you, your support for Patricia as a writer in these difficult times is very much appreciated.  

The Sitting
 
I used to sit by the fire, below the family portrait.  I liked to watch the little strips of fabric as they spun around the orange light bulbs, creating the theatrical, heatless flames. Now, looking up at the painting I see it is as artificial as the fire.  My brother, Stephen, who had been sorting through the books, asked what we should do with the portrait. Burn it, I replied. He made no protest. Then he asked me if I remembered going to the studio. I did.
 
                                                                                                      *
 
            I had picked out a green dress; it had a little fish blowing a bubble on the front.  Mother’s cotton frock was nipped in at the waist with a very wide skirt. It was a picture dress. The blocks of colour contained images of Spanish design; castanets, a flamenco dancer and a Toreador. Julie wore a dirndl skirt with an off the shoulder gypsy-style blouse, a choice that exaggerated every roll of puppy fat and pasty limb. There were six sittings at the artist’s studio; we all went to the first, but after that it was just mummy and me.
            At that first sitting the artist, Lucas Mirren, spent a lot of time composing the family group and then taking photographs. I was ticked off for fidgeting by Stephen who caught somewhere between boyhood and manhood, was going through an unpleasant bossy phase. My father, who was used to having his picture taken, seemed to know what to do, how to sit, where to look. My mother spent a long time re-arranging her skirt; finally the artist stepped forward and helped adjust the wayward fabric. His hands were tanned, large and square, with a scattering of freckles, as if he spent a lot of time somewhere sunny. When I looked down at his shoes, they were covered with multi-coloured flecks of paint and his corduroy trousers had smudges of colour on them. I remembered the pungent smells; turpentine and linseed oil.
            Subtle adjustments were made to the lighting and pose. Shoulders were gently manipulated, chins were held between his thumb and forefinger and tipped up or down. Lucas Mirren plucked mother’s gloves from her lap and then he made a joke of not knowing where to put them down, everywhere being so dirty covered in paint, canvases or brushes. He made great play of leaving the room with the gloves and then returning in a clownish manner. I remember him as a tall sandy-haired man, craggy, charming and urbane. I remember him as different.
            His studio can’t have been far from our own house, because my mother and I walked if it was fine and only took a bus if it were raining. Although it was far enough for my legs to ache. The banisters were rich mahogany and when we got to the third floor the carpet and brass rods were replaced by thick red linoleum, with tough rubber strips bent over the edge of each step.  Small dabs of paint, like a paper trail, showed the way to the studio door.  I don’t recall being let into the house; no one came to the door or greeted us. Perhaps the front door was left on the latch, or did my mother have a key? Once I heard music floating up from downstairs, it was turned off abruptly when a telephone rang. I slipped out of the studio and lent over the balustrade straining to hear the distant muffled voice, then a door closed. That autumn I started school.
            When I saw the finished portrait I was confused and upset.  Where were my little fish and mummy’s pictures on her skirt? I thought it was a dreadful mistake; I thought daddy would be cross. In the finished painting we were all in muted shades, except for our father in his dark suit. At first I thought my parents were too polite to mention the missing textile patterns, they seemed so genuinely delighted with the painting. Years later, when I asked, daddy explained artistic license to me. Artistic license had also shrunk Julie to a slender and attractive form.
 
                                                                                                    *
 
I was visiting Julie in Islington; she had agreed to look after my demanding toddler, Chloe. Julie was childless and a generous aunt. Seldom free to roam, I relished my freedom and spent the day in Covent Garden popping in an out of shops and watching street entertainers. I bought a frivolous skirt that matched my skittish mood. By three o’clock, I was hot and I was tired. I settled at a pavement café for an iced coffee, on the opposite side of the street canvases where being carried into a gallery.  The gallery owner was fussing and waving his arms. A young woman with spiky red hair was pasting the letters that formed the name of the artist on the window. I looked on as the letter L unfurled, then the U. By the time the name Lucas was complete I felt an odd foreboding. She came outside to check the alignment and returned to complete the surname. The next letter was an M.
            I watched the pair inside the gallery deliberating over the hanging of the pictures, then went over. The owner glanced at me and flicked his foppish hair back. Immaculately dressed, he rested somewhere between suave and camp.  He glanced over at me expressing mild disinterest, no doubt evaluating the size of my wallet and quickly dismissing me as a potential buyer. I thought I might be asked to leave; the exhibition was clearly not ready, so I asked if Lucas Mirren was still alive and was told he had died a year ago. The gallery owner unwrapped another painting, it was a reclining nude. It was my mother. 
            I stepped backwards; my shoulder caught the edge of the door. I took an urgent breath, recovered and continued my walk around the edge of the gallery. From the canvases my mother stared back at me, holding my gaze, blatant and cool, with an undeniable sexual frisson. A fleeting memory followed; the tender removal of her coat, Lucas burying his face in my mother’s silk scarf.  The gallery lights glared white and hot, I became lightheaded and weak. That they were lovers was clear to me. When did that start, before the family portrait or later? Was the portrait just a ruse, a way of spending time together? As I progressed around the gallery so too did the images of my mother. I stared at her aging flesh, the inky rope of her veins, the translucent soft tissue and historical tan marks; a relic of our family holidays in Brittany.
            I wondered when she could have posed. I guessed it was during the school day when daddy was abroad.  Her nakedness was unsettling. Our mother was sensuous, elegant and self-contained. Our mother, who made Victoria sponge and fish paste sandwiches and met me from school everyday. Who asked about what I had been doing in Miss Eliot’s class, and when I was old enough and polite enough to enquire about her day, would reply, nothing much, housework…baking. Sometimes she would sing or hum a tune, while I skipped home beside her. I always thought she was happy.
            My scrutiny of the paintings aroused the curiosity of the gallery owner, who asked if I was an admirer of Lucas Mirren? I found myself telling him that Mirren had painted a group portrait of my family, I told him it was mawkish, he flinched at the word. He went on to explain that artists have to eat, he was trying to be charming, but underneath I sensed his contempt. He asked if I knew the model. I lied and said I did not. I knew he had detected this lie. He explained that Mirren had not presented a canvas of Rachel for years, that Mirren devotees wondered what had happened to her. I guessed that such speculation would include her death. But our mother wasn’t dead; she was very much alive, about now she would be asking my father what he wanted for supper. Father had retired, that surely ended her career as model, muse and lover. The owner was talking at me, he mentioned the private view and he dropped the catalogue and an invitation into my bag. I kept looking at his mouth, the rapid movement of his tongue and the saliva connecting in viscous threads; the heat was overpowering…the lights…his words…my mother. I made for the door and fled.   
            I missed my stop; the bus had already reached the far end of Essex Road so I struggled past the standing passengers and walked back to Islington Green where I dropped onto a bench.
            My parents had a model marriage, or so I believed.  They had their disagreements and irritations, but amongst their peers their relationship was held up as an example. A marriage to aspire too, an aunt stated, as I prepared for my wedding day. My late, failed marriage made me feel that I had let the side down. It was growing dark and the homeless were beginning to select their benches for the night, I gathered up my bags.
            Julie had cooked pasta and opened wine; I went to have a shower. When I returned to the living room Chloe had upturned the shopping bags, and found the toy giraffe I had bought for her. The skirt lay in a heap; the catalogue lay next to it. Julie swooped down and plucked it from the floor, she turned the pages. I tried lamely to pacify her. Reasoning with my sister always was impossible.  Julie, drama queen and snitch, who ran to our parents and blurted out everything, from illicit smoking, to dire exam results; I could always rely on Julie to expose my flaws and misdemeanors with relish and at the most inopportune moment. Ours was an uneasy alliance.
            Returning from the gallery the following day she said that they were far worse than she could have imagined, sighting the painstaking level of detail. She said that they made Lucien Freud look myopic. I laughed at that, replying that I thought that they were tender and refreshing; celebrating the form of an aging woman. But Julie called it a twilight age; she said the paintings were repugnant and disgusting. Then more thoughtfully she said; daddy’s face still lights up when she enters the room.  For how much longer I wondered.
            The Sunday papers carried reviews and a feature article with full colour photographs. Mirren was enjoying a revival.  A week later my father’s car left the road. His injuries were slight, although he was never quite the same after the accident. Mother descended into a small interior space, she no longer sang or baked. Her memory failed her, a stroke heralded the end.
 
                                                                                                       *
 
The air in the house was heavy and stale and all its little faults; broken window catches, dripping taps and leaky guttering, took on a significance previously disguised by activity and harmony. Sadness was present in every lifted corner of wallpaper and each inadequately wiped stain.  Stephen threw the painting onto the pyre and together we watched as the flames lapped the edge of mother’s skirt. The paint seared, peeled and lifted. A palette of vivid sparks flew off into the night sky, as if the Spanish pictures hidden in the under-painting celebrated mother’s vivacity and gave flight to her spirit.