Fragile Nature at the Groundwork Gallery, Kings Lynn, is the inspiration for a masterclass in flash fiction.
Please bring writing materials and your lunch. Tea and coffee provided.
​Booking is essential.
Fees £50.00 Students and under 25s: £25.00
Booking: 01553.340714 mail@groundworkgallery.com
http://groundworkgallery.com/writingworkshops

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​Flash fiction, micro–fiction and mini sagas are all terms for the shortest of short stories. Within a limited number of words; 100, 150, 300 and 500 sometimes up to a 1,000 (although personally I call that a pretty standard, if low, word count for a short story) the writer must complete a story, not a poem, but a complete short fiction.

They have become very popular, partly because they are an easy to assemble collection for the self–publisher and a good way to get your work out in the public arena, also a quick read for any competition judge. They don’t take a daunting amount of time and have the added bonus of training the writer to be concise.

They are a form where the title does a lot of work. I have seen this described as the title doing the ‘heavy lifting.’ There are also plenty of competitions and e–zines to submit to. Below is a short fiction I wrote inspired by Cornelia Parker’s Thirty Pieces of Silver. Parker collected old silver plate and then ran a steamroller over them. Squished flat they became coin–like discs magically suspended from the ceiling and grouped as coins, this title is doing some heavy lifting in referencing Judas.

Occasion Wear 

Like ill–fitting ball–gowns they lurk, the silver salvers and carriage clocks of commemoration. 
Uncle Henry’s rose bowls, a relic of his ill–made match, have come to me.

It takes twenty–five roses to fill them and no one has ever sent me twenty-five roses.  I haven’t waited to get divorced to dispose of them; they were car–booted on a damp Saturday.  Snapped up by a buyer with his fiver and silver polish, no doubt, within weeks they will retire to the back of a cupboard to tarnish.
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Family heirlooms, christening mugs and presentations, have no hiding place, minimalist décor having superseded showing off with fine candelabras and tea services.  Crushed under the weight of inherited relics, self–service, is the new silver service.  We carry so little of our past forward, steamrollering through life, making our presence felt with landfill.
 
Occasion Wear pub: Ink, Sweat and Tears ©Patricia Mullin 2005

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Everyone understands that novels require planning; they take a long time to research. The author works on setting and characterisation, decides on their theme, genre and structure. Works on points of tension, climax and denouement, they may write a synopsis and perhaps a structured chapter by chapter plan.

So what of the short story? Surely there’s no need, after all it’s only a few thousand words or less, you just plunge in don’t you? Well, no; for me that would be like setting off without an address, map or compass. I have left Satnav out of this analogy because it would take me on the journey; whereas I aim to navigate.

When I begin a short story I write a plan, it’s generally a page of single spaced writing and it acts as my guide to the written journey I intend to embark on. I begin by writing the title and a short paragraph which outlines the inspiration and early facts of the piece. It reads a little bit like a pitch as in: describe your story in a paragraph. Next, I describe the central theme, then the characters and the setting; I also consider tone and voice.

While the story has been incubating I will have been alert and making notes these are then added to the page, they may be factual or lead to further research. Finally, I ask myself if this story has a universal theme that people will relate to; something bigger than the story itself. As the story is written it diverts from these notes in unexpected ways, the plan is a template and is not cast in stone. Notes and additions will appear around the margins of the plan. The short story when finally realised will have changed and developed, which is a big part of the magic of writing, later it will be edited and revised over several drafts. 

I feel privileged to have been invited to work with the Groundwork Gallery, leading a creative writing workshop inspired by the exhibition Water Rising.

Water Rising: making art in storm or calm.
 
‘The Groundwork Gallery sits directly on a river, the Purfleet, which is a tributary of the Great Ouse which we can see from our windows. We are in a flood plain and water is both our benevolent neighbour, having for centuries brought the trade and commerce which is the source of the Town’s wealth, and its greatest threat...’ Veronica Sekules.
 
A Journey Through Water, exploring poetic geography. Monday 20th May 2019
A creative writing masterclass with Patricia Mullin.
Ideal for developing creative skills in your writing with the potential to work verbally - literally - laterally - visually.

Time 10-4
Bring lunch and your preferred notebook/sketchbook and pens, but tea, coffee and materials are provided.
Introductory price offer: £45.00
Students and under 25s: £25.00

Early booking is strongly advised.

GroundWork Gallery
17 Purfleet Street,
King's Lynn, England, PE30 1ER,
United Kingdom
mail@groundworkgallery.com
Phone 01553 340714

Zeitgeist – the spirit of the time. Some novels are perennial and treasured, touching something within all of us so that we read them time and again The Great Gatsby, To Kill a Mockingbird. As history has an unnerving way of repeating itself, the distant past can suddenly have relevance.

My brother retired MP, author and diarist, Chris Mullin, had eventual success with A Very British Coup published in 1982. I’m looking now at the inside of the flyleaf now and I quote, ‘...And who poses the greatest threat to democracy? Is it the Trotskyists and Marxists who are alleged to have infiltrated the Labour Party? Or is it the real threat to the democracy to be found in the secret recesses of Whitehall bureaucracy; in the drawing rooms of the newspaper owner, and in the Oval office of the White House?’ Add ‘social media’ to ‘newspaper owner’ and add ‘Russia’ to ‘Whitehall’ and there you have it... contemporary relevance.

His novel didn’t have a particularly promising start in life, the print runs were short, the publishers, and there were several, tardy and Chris had to do a lot of footwork to get it noticed at all. However, it went on to become a highly successful TV series which garnered awards (an Emmy) and acclaim. The phrase ‘A Very British Coup’ turns up all the time in the press and on television; it is a book title that has become part of the lexicon of political comment in this country. Interest has been renewed since the election to the Labour party leadership of Jeremy Corbin and a sequel The Friends of Harry Perkins is due out shortly. This is remarkable; not least as I recall the author Rose Tremain commenting that the life of a novel is far shorter these days. 
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On February 25th 2019 I find that my novel Gene Genie is relevant again. I’m driving, Woman’s Hour is on the radio and the playwright Maud Dromgoole and Dr Yuliya Hilevych are being interviewed about her play ‘Mary’s Babies’ opening at the Germain Street Theatre in London. In the nineteen thirties Mary Barton and her husband Bertold Weisner started a fertility clinic, at first Mary used the brother of the infertile as donors literally keeping it in the family! It often resulted in family breakdown; soon her husband Bertold was the donor.  

In 1999 I found a paragraph in a newspaper, pressure from the parents of donor children was building to allow the ‘social’ father’s name to appear on the child’s birth certificate. This interested me on two counts: firstly, in a legal document falsification of a birth certificate was punishable by a long prison term; and secondly it had never occurred to me that parents would not tell their children about the circumstances of their conception. Especially at a time when adoption files were being opened up as society recognised the damage that secrecy and identity issues caused. Gene Genie had a troubled birth the legendary agent at Curtis Brown who took me left, e-books had yet to arrive, in the end I went with a fledgling press with no publicity budget. Despite this it sold reasonably well and it still produces modest royalties. It did not though fulfil its early promise, no TV series, no best seller lists. I now think if Davina and Long Lost Family had been broadcasting it would have taken off. Gene Genie was simply ahead of its time. When the rights reverted to me, I was able to publish on Kindle and the good thing about e-books is they’re always out there and when you write another novel that does become a best seller then you will likely find a readership for the one that didn’t take off.
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Luck definitely plays a part in publishing success, but then so does dogged determination and fortunately I have that in spades; it’s in my genes.
 
 
Follow this link for more information on Chris http://www.chrismullinexmp.com/
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The Friends of Harry Perkins is out on 28th March and can be pre-ordered by following this link
https://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_2?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=The+Friends+of+Harry+Perkins
 
Follow this link to download your copy of Gene Genie
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Gene-Genie-Patricia-Mullin-ebook/dp/B00AK9NWT2/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1552045853&sr=8-1&keywords=Gene+Genie+by+Patricia+Mullin
 
 

I have watched Marie Kondo on Netflix and then graduated to ‘Consumed’ in which a rather bossy American with luscious shiny hair briskly tackles families affected by hoarding. One woman with a lifetime Tupperware obsession left no space in her young child to play and yet remained determined to cling on to her hoard.

I clutter clear as a side–career and I love it, people freed from the weight of their stuff are lighter happier and open to enjoying new experiences. I’ve been doing this for years and I have noticed that loss and unexpressed grief can kick start hoarding. Hoarders often suffer under the misconception that what they actually require is more storage or a bigger house they also, in my experience, struggle with decision making.

My own tactics for keeping my life clear of clutter involves routine — the turn of the seasons generally heralds a clear out. At the end of summer I launder my clothes and pack them away, this gives me the opportunity to check what no longer fits, what is simply too dated (relegated to gardening/decorating clothes) and what can go to charity shops. I don’t have a lot of clothes anyway because I don’t buy a lot. I’m an author and contrary to popular belief, J. k. Rowling we are not; wealthy authors are as rare as hen’s teeth. 

I downsized to a cottage where my kitchen is tiny; it makes the Little Paris Kitchen look generous, so labour saving appliances have to earn their place. Kitchens are mega hoarding venues where sandwich toasters, fondue sets and all manner of gadgets to whip, grind or pulp lurk. I once went to one of those demonstration events in a friend’s house where you feel obliged to purchase something, I turned down the pizza stone (pricey) in favour of a cheese grating gadget with several differing barrels for grating that required you to break the cheese into small bits to feed into its mechanism then turn a handle, it was quite a fiddle to put together. When I got it home and set it down next to my sensible square cheese grater I saw how ridiculous it was. It got some use as an ice–breaker at the beginning of my creative writing classes; I got participants to see if they could put it together in record time, which caused much hilarity.

It’s not just about getting rid of stuff. It’s about consumption versus calm. If you hoard you consume in a way that begs the question what is it that you truly need in your life? Because it probably isn’t 200 hundred figurines or condiment sets. And just because you can’t help buying a lot of objects in the same category doesn’t make you a collector.

I only ever dallied with modernist minimalism, because I do love objects of beauty (see my copious Pinterest boards) although I am less enamoured with shopping. I find shopping stressful and depressing, this might of course be because I’m not J.K. Rowling, but actually shopping doesn’t bring me joy and I absolutely loathe trying on clothes in changing rooms, I’m better at home-wares. Apologies to the high street, but I often find shops nerve–jangling, bright and noisy places where I suffer from sensory overload. My bright place is the summer house in the meadow, it’s full of colour and some endearing Gypsy/boho trinkets. Whereas Meadow Cottage is designed to be visually restful and calm.

Using a natural/neutral colour palette I create vignettes, simple arrangements with paintings and objects.  One of the things my inner stylist craves are areas where it appears that someone has just got up and stepped out of the room. I treat my home as I might a story composing a visual narrative within it to create areas of calm; in a frantic, overstimulating world I find it soothing and I feel sure it helps me create and write. If you want to improve the look of an area in your home and create a calming space take things away, it really is that simple.
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For at least two years my life has been dominated by building the Artist's Studio as an Airbnb holiday let www.meadowcottagenorfolk.com  Currently I have builders in the cottage, tanking my walls against appalling damp and finally, after five years of nothing but a wood burner, I have central heating. It is a revelation! I've spent a great deal of my life frozen cold, but the worst of it began in the rental property (known as Cold Comfort Farm) that preceded my buying Meadow Cottage. I'm not foolish enough to purchase a cottage in freezing North Norfolk (arctic winds and subzero temperatures) without heating, but the heating that was here was electric, it failed to make the radiators anything but tepid and the first quarters bill was £1300 so I reached for the off switch. Creative productivity plummets when one is frozen stiff, so now I am excitedly looking forward to getting back to my warm insulated office and cosying up to my keyboard with a number of new story ideas. I am also about to simplify my work and focus on two key elements. Income and literary output. As an individual with many ideas for schemes that interest me I have a tendency to become dissipated and with so many balls to juggle I lose focus. I am now rationalising my office and making sure that what it contains are things I need and those things that bring me joy. My new streamlined creative space is going to reflect my desire to focus on my writing, my teaching and my business.

Christmas Cake
 
Preparations were well advanced.  It was only October but the candied peel, plump sultanas, currants and raisins had been bought and stored in the pantry for weeks.  The baking of the Christmas cake required military planning. The overnight soaking of the fruit in brandy and spices, left a sensuous and giddy aroma in the house. The biggest mixing bowl was unearthed from the back of the cupboard – there was a certain anxiety amid the excitement. The mixture was impossibly heavy, the stoutest spoon was employed to heave it over and over, uneven dispersal of fruit was a constant threat.  Finally, we trouped through to stir the mixture and make a wish. Mother’s evident irritation at the slowness of our dreams was apt to spoil the magic.
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The oven would be given over to the baking of the cake for at least five hours. An untimely distraction at the last moment could result in the top blackening and the cake ruined. In a bad year, if squabbling children caused a burnt crust it blighted the holiday.
‘You can still smell it.’ Mother would say vengefully. ‘Even with all that brandy and the top sliced off. Let’s hope it doesn’t taste.’
We hoped and hoped.

Later, stored and wrapped in layers of grease-proof paper and foil it was taken out at weekly intervals, a darning needle inserted and fed with brandy. Finally, it was ready to decorate. The jam smeared on with a palette knife, marzipan rolled out and pressed over the top. Then with the tension rising, the Royal icing; get the consistency wrong and it would slide, this sugary avalanche, resting like white magma lapping the plate, and causing the level of panic usually associated with a serious natural disaster. If however, it behaved and could be manipulated into frosty spikes, then Father Christmas and assembled company could parade across the surface triumphant. The cake would then sit glorious on the sideboard, with strict instructions not to touch, until the guests arrived in the form of long forgotten aunts and lanky cousins. Cut into squares, we would eat the icing and marzipan discretely tucking the fruitcake, which we all hated, under a festive napkin.  
 
 
 
Patricia Mullin

​I have only recently heard of the death in December 2017 of Derek Rae, artist and printmaker. A member of the Norwich 20 Group in 2009 Derek asked me to collaborate on the Voicing Visions exhibition where artists in all mediums linked with writers and poets who responded to their work.

Derek’s works were prints, one postcard from Uncle Harold from the front with his comrades in the 5th Seaforth Highlanders sent on the 12th August 1916 merged with an image of Harold in his garden after the war.

This collaboration took me on a journey through Harold’s correspondence and a remarkable family archive. I felt the responsibility lay heavily to do justice to this brave and relentlessly chipper young man. In his honour I devised an epistolary piece that quoted from his Harold’s letters and briefly Wilfred Owen.
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I offer it to you now to honour the lives of Uncle Harold, his young comrades and Derek Rae at this time of remembrance.

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The camera lies.
 
3589 Pte H.Rae
5th Seaforth Highlanders                                         12th August 1915 
 
Vaporous images merge, to one side a proud Seaforth Highlander; Derek’s Uncle Harold. Kilted and companioned by nameless comrades, this behind the lines postcard bears no sign of young men’s guts, or boys buried by mud and shelling:
 
‘dug out very much shaken.’
 
Uncle Harold is a master of understatement. Fifteen yards between the bags from Harold to Fritz, mother’s rabbit pie is enjoyed. Yet above the quagmire star shells turn night into day - a son et lumière of Somme Follies.  When the Mess hut is hit:
 
‘80 eggs have become casualties.’
 
Between Harold’s lines we put our head above the parapet and understand the fear of night and light and sniper assassins. Fritz is keeping tally on his Mauser butt - an iniquitous reckoning.
 
‘Chance’s strange arithmetic…’[1]
 
Strange arithmetic spared Harold for an inter-war of welcome laughter, house parties and marrying Doth. There is no tally stick for his nightmares. Decades on they are still repeating like the Pathé Gazette in Uncle Harold’s shocking picture-house slumber. Uncle never speaks of war. Later, evacuated to Ilfracombe, young Derek crawls about the floor with parts of incendiaries, his roller skates acting as bomb floats, playing.
 
 
Trusting yourself and Ma are quite well.
‘Meanwhile, Cheeriohsky,
 
Your old pal, H’
 
The camera lies.
 
 


[1] Insensibility by Wilfred Owen