We’re delighted to welcome debut YA author Rebecca Carpenter to the shelves today. Her contemporary science fiction Butterfly Bones has just been released and is certainly making waves with reviewers. Its themes are dark, deep, and haunting, but Rebecca isn’t afraid to tackle life’s tough issues.

Rebecca, tell us about your background. How did you come to be a writer? Did you excel in English at school?

I’ve always loved writing. English was my best and favourite subject. I started writing poetry at a young age, followed by stories and song lyrics. As a teenager, I loved keeping a diary. But I didn’t become serious about writing until 2011 when I decided to write a screenplay. Two screenplays later, I wrote my memoir, The Total Deconstruction of Chloe Wilson, a young adult story about my teen pregnancy. Butterfly Bones, as well as six picture books and a middle grade novel, have since followed.

Butterfly Bones is an intense and haunting read; the main character really does have a terrible time with bullying on top of having a bone disorder. Can you tell us what made you choose such traumatic themes? And the butterflies and science – is this something you’re simply interested in?

I chose topics that are difficult, yet real. Bullying is a real problem for many teens, and those with physical or mental disabilities are at even more risk of being singled out for these differences. And honestly, this is the story that Bethany told me to write. As far as the butterflies and science, the unit I teach my pre-kindergarten class about caterpillars and butterflies is one of my favourites. The concept of starting as one thing – a larva – and then through tumultuous changes metamorphosing into an insect is truly miraculous. Applying this concept to people became something I had to attempt in my writing. I love science. Again, teaching young children, one of the best parts of my job is to explore and experiment with all kinds of things, helping my students to develop a love and respect for nature and the world around us.

The book has been described by a lot of readers as utterly unique. How on earth did you come up with such an unusual storyline?

It literally came to me from a song by The Cure, ‘Caterpillar’. I knew as soon as it came to me that I had to write it. Matter of fact, I felt driven in a way I had never felt before. I was constantly writing notes all over the place as the story developed and poured from me. I have pages upon pages of scrap paper with first draft ideas scribbled on them. I finally got smarter and bought a bunch of spiral notebooks to keep at work, home, and even my vehicle so I could better organize my thoughts.

Has becoming a published author been easy? How has the experience been for you so far?

Becoming a published author has been a five-year endeavour of revisions and tears. But the journey has made me a better writer and made Butterfly Bones a strong young adult novel.

Butterfly Bones is the first in the Metamorphosis series. When should fans expect book two? It’s well documented that writing the second book in a series can be terrifying and difficult; how have you found writing the sequel?

I’m hoping to have book two finished and ready for my editor by May, 2017. But I’ll push for earlier if possible. Writing the sequel has been difficult in the fact that I have to start all over in my writing, acting as if no one has read the first book, or that the first book even exists. Weaving the important backstory so the reader understands what’s happening is tricky. If I add too much at a time, it becomes an info dump. But not enough and the reader might be confused. And since the character doesn’t go through metamorphosis in this book, I have to dig deep to find another source of science fiction. But one of the joys of this story has been writing in multi POV, and one of the characters is told in free verse. I love poetry, and so this has been a pure delight to write.

They say now that a writer’s job is no longer just about the writing. Do you agree? What kinds of things have you done to market your book and receive reviews?

It’s all about the marketing. Writing is the easy part. I seriously think just as many writing workshops should focus on marketing as they do on craft. I don’t think any new author is ready for the work that marketing requires. The biggest thing has been creating my author brand and being active on social media. Building an audience takes time … and tonnes of patience.

What kind of books do you like to read in your free time? Any favourites? Any authors who have particularly inspired you and your writing?

I don’t have a favorite genre. But I do love to read YA. But it must be well written or I move on to something else. Due to my passion for working with children, I mostly read children’s books. Which I love. Shell Silverstein and Jan Brett are two of my favourite children’s authors. I also love a good mystery/thriller. Defending Jacob by William Landay has become my favourite thriller. I collect books about the assassination of John F. Kennedy, and I inherited a large collection of books on all the American presidents that I hope to read some day.

What’s a typical day for you? How and when do you fit in writing? Do you write in one particular spot or do you like to move around? Where do you find inspiration?

Weekdays I awaken at 5:15 a.m. and am off to start my job of running a large childcare/preschool by 6:15. I work until 5:45 p.m. and then I’m home for dinner with my hubby. Evenings are spent reading submissions for a small press, editing manuscripts for clients, or writing. Then it’s off to bed and it starts all over again. Weekends I do as much writing as possible, but if I have an editing job, it takes precedence and requires most of that time.

For those who are pursuing the dream of publication, what advice might you offer them?

Never give up. Keep writing. Keep reading in the genre that you’re writing. And always look for opportunities to learn and hone your craft. It took me five years to publish Butterfly Bones – five years of learning how to be a better writer and how to write a stronger story.

What other talents do you have? Any party tricks you can tell us about? How about the best day of your life?

I’m a great cook and love to bake. My husband calls me his “gourmet chef”. I collect cook books and get excited about trying new recipes. Homemade marinara sauce is one of my trademarks. I enjoy crafts like wreath making, and I dabble in pencil sketches. I took tap dance as a child and like to strap on a pair of tap shoes and drive my hubby crazy with all the noise. The best day of my life was the day I married my husband, Cory. He makes my life interesting and makes me laugh every day. He’s my best friend and I’m sure we have many best days ahead of us.

If you want to find out more about Rebecca and her writing check out her website, and of course, grab a copy of Butterfly Bones whilst you’re cruising the internet – not only is it well worth the read, but if you buy a copy in December, the publisher will enter you in a draw to win a Kindle!

In between the neat black letters on the white pages of Elisabeth Sennitt Clough’s collection of poems, Sightings, crawl glowing beasts and scaled monsters, the ghost of a father, a fire-haired mother and the ‘small pink son she gave away’ as well as a brute of a stepfather. The poet tells of girls so inconsequential their own mothers forget about them, and boys with small gold hairs like tinsel on their arms. She brings her subjects alive through her use of rich sensory imagery and lines that are so precise they make your heart ache. This the kind of poetry you can’t help walking away from with goose flesh all over your body for its honesty, its rawness and the poet’s disarming willingness to bare all. Sennitt Clough, as she states so eloquently herself in ‘The Glass Collar’, brings her childhood to therapy in this collection of unforgiving poems. In ‘Threshold’ the art teacher remarks that the girl’s art contains a subtle anger, but there’s nothing subtle about Sennitt Clough’s anger. And yet, at the same time, it’s fragile too, ready to break into a thousand shards at any moment, like the glass collar in the poem by the same name. In the title poem ‘Sightings’ she tells of a peacock that is the rarest of gifts. Sennitt Clough’s collection is just such a peacock, the rarest of gifts, one you cannot walk away from unchanged.

Elisabeth Sennitt Clough was born in Ely and now lives in Norfolk with her husband and three children. Her pamphlet Glass was a winner in the Paper Swans inaugural pamphlet competition and her debut collection Sightings is forthcoming from Pindrop Press. Her poems have appeared in The Rialto, Mslexia, Magma, Stand and The Cannons’ Mouth.

www.elisabethsennittclough.co.uk

Colette Victor is a twice published author. Both her books, the YA novel Head Over Heart (Chicken House, 2014) as well as the literary novel What To Do With Lobsters In a Place Like Klippiesfontein (Cargo Publishing, 2015) were finalists in two well-respected debut novel competitions. Her novels have been translated into German.

www.colettevictor.be

In a warm ward, gently you slip away
but what an empty space when you are gone.
The press, in love with easy stories, paves
the way with clichés comfortable, stable,
critical, awaiting the volcano of lament.
You outlived Thatcher and her legacy,
and, safely distanced by a sea of years
from words like communist and terrorist,
we all bow down to your integrity.
The barbed wire of apartheid has been cut.
There are some who will pay respect,
omitting to admit allegiances
to groups that wanted you to swing.
But you have taught us not to cling to grudges.
You shaped our youth, hungover misfits.
In a town square, begging signatures,
posters for AA gigs on boarded houses,
hosting SWAPO speakers on the floor
amongst the Merrydown and Rizzla papers,
debating dropouts, Trots and battered miners.
While the blood of Soweto stained the earth,
we learned about Rivonia, and laws
that thinly masked white fear; you learned
to cradle sanity in concrete walls.
Events outside were somehow dripped to you:
Your mother’s death, the raid on Lillesleaf farm,
and Winnie’s punishments. Your greater
suffering shrank our suffering down,
though still significant and somehow linked.
Exposed to labour, torture, hunger
you led inmates to fight with dignity.
For every clenched fist holds the bigger fight.
The world rejoiced the moment you walked free.
Small step, big step, holding Winnie’s hand,
a simple act amidst complexities
which you well understood, sought to pick through,
to wash the language of resistance clean,
while dreams of family life were swept away.
Now illness is your final prison, but your love
and legacy have been released and grow
upon the fertile soils of hope and peace.
We raise a fist and let Mandela free.

I can’t remember now when the first time he appeared was, but it was obviously some time after he had died.  

He comes all the time now. I sit there, in my toll booth at the end of the Kingsway tunnel, handing out change, over and over, and he appears, out of nowhere. I don’t even jump anymore. He says, ‘What are you doing with your life, Lauren?’ I say, ‘Leave me alone, John,’ and he vanishes.

It’s particularly cold and wet tonight. There are two kinds of drivers on nights like these. The ones that all wrapped up in their car, cosy and cheery, just thinking about that nice cup of tea at the end of their journey. They have a smile for you. Then there’s the grumpy ones, annoyed at the world, the rain, everything. They’re especially annoyed at having to pay in order to get through that ‘stinking tunnel’. It’s after they drive off that John appears.

It’s two years now since my older brother left us. He had been sick for so long that, well, he wasn’t in pain anymore, and I guess that’s something. He had said to me that he couldn’t remember what it was like to not be in pain. To not hurt all over every single day. He wanted it to be over.  

But when it happened, everything fell apart.  

I was in the middle of writing my dissertation at the time. It was something like three weeks before it was due in. From Brooks to Moss: How Party Girls Changed Fashion. I was granted an extension, obviously, but every word I’d written seemed so superficial, ridiculous. The musings of a silly ignorant girl who went to university to drink and, well…

I thought about going back at one point. Maybe study medicine. See if I could save lives, stop someone else going through the pain I was living with. But I’m not clever enough, definitely not rich enough. So I got this job. It’s boring, but it pays the bills. Plus, I work a lot of nights. It’s quieter, and I don’t have to come up with excuses not to see people, because they know I’m working. I just can’t face it. Going out, getting pissed, getting laid. What’s it all for? Nothing. If I’m going to drink I’d rather have a nice malt, neat, by myself in the quiet and the dark where I can appreciate it.  

‘What are you doing with your life, Lauren?’

‘Leave me alone, John,’ I say, rubbing the tears out of my eyes.

‘No, not tonight.’

What? That’s new. I dry my eyes with the back of my sleeve and look at him, in the corner of my booth, smiling. He looks exactly the same as he always did. Well, the same as he always did, before. I’m hallucinating. I’ve lost it. I pick up my phone and stare at it. A distraction. That’s what I need to clear my head.  

‘That’s not going to make me go away, Lauren,’ John says. ‘Besides, no-one ever texts you or anything now anyway.’

‘Wh-what do you want?’ I stammer, the screen blurring through my tears.

‘Ah, first night memories,’ he says, leaning back laughing. ‘Are we going to go through it all again, or do you remember it as fondly as I do?’

I put my head in my hands and can feel my breath getting quicker. I feel sick. This can’t be real. It isn’t happening.

‘Come on, Lauren,’ John says, pleadingly. ‘Please don’t be like that. I thought you’d gotten used to my visits by now. I thought if you could get used to me, you would talk to me. You’d started to seem so flippant about it and –’

‘Shut up!’ I yell. ‘You’re not here! You’re dead!’

‘Yes, I am,’ John says. ‘I’m dead. My life’s over, done, finito. Everything I had, everything I was, everything I wanted, gone. Just like that. And you’re here wasting the time you have.’

‘You’re not here, this isn’t real,’ I whisper to myself, over and over. I rub my eyes with the back of my hand. I look in the corner of the booth and John’s still there grinning widely. ‘What do you want?’ I ask, slowly.

‘I want my little sister to live her life. I want her to stop sitting about in the dark. I want her to stop avoiding everything and everyone,’ John says, quietly.

‘I’m doing OK,’ I say.  

John laughs ruefully. ‘Do you know what’s at the other end of that tunnel?’ he asks, nodding towards the small window.

‘’Course I do,’ I say. ‘Liverpool.’

‘No, Lauren,’ he says. ‘At the end of that tunnel is the world. What are you doing with your life, Lauren?’ he asks. ‘What are you doing with your life?’

‘I get by,’ I say.  

‘Nothing, nothing, nothing. Nothing at all,’ John says, as if I hadn’t said anything. ‘You’re throwing it away living in a box at the end of a tunnel. But that tunnel could take you somewhere, if you would just let it. Come on, Lauren. When you got this job you told Mum and Dad it was temporary. You just needed some time and then you’d go back to university. Fashion, medicine, whatever. Fuck’s sake, no-one even cares if you want to work in here for the rest of your life, but you don’t. You’re miserable. People only want you to be happy. What happened to your dreams, Lauren? Why have you given up?’

‘When you got sick,’ I stammer, tears streaming down my face.

‘When I got sick, I died,’ John says. ‘You didn’t.’

I look up at him. My big brother. How he was, before. Strong. Always taking care of me. ‘I have responsibilities,’ I mutter.

‘No, you don’t,’ he says, laughing. ‘What? Mum and Dad have each other. Their only worry is you. You rent your house. You and Tom split up last week.’

‘How do you know about that?’ I ask.  

‘All seeing, all knowing,’ he says, tapping his temple. ‘Comes with the transparent complexion.’

I frown at him. ‘You haven’t changed,’ I say.

‘No, neither have you,’ he replies. ‘That’s the problem.’

‘Are you real?’ I ask.

John just smiles at me and reaches out his hand. ‘Come on, kid, this is your last chance. I don’t think they’ll let me come again.’

I glance out of the tiny window at the cars passing through the tunnel. Everyone’s going somewhere, and he’s right. I’m going nowhere.

‘No-one’s been to my booth for ages,’ I say, confused.

‘Don’t worry about them,’ John says. ‘They don’t need you anymore.’

He reaches out, and I take his hand. It’s cold but surprisingly solid. He gently pulls me up and then we’re in the tunnel, passing over cars as if they aren’t even there. I can see a light ahead, but it’s not the light my brother went through two years ago.

I cling a little tighter to his hand. He smiles at me, and says, ‘There I was thinking you wanted me to go away.’ And he laughs and I laugh. I hear him whisper ‘You’re going to be fine’ in my ear before I realise that it’s daylight and I’m walking into John Moores Uni, for the first time in forever, my nails embedded deep in my palm.

In Credit

Measured like pocket money,

time is best saved up and stored,

or at least never spent all in one go.

Unless, of course, there is something

you have craved for ages, and the urge

to flash the cash is worth the risk.

At ninety-two Dad had eeked it out

and got off pretty lightly, given

cigars and gambling and their tendency

to nibble away at human resources.

Horses for courses, but the flat season

has given way to not such great odds.

At fifty-seven I had just a small stash

of cash in the attic. I should be sitting

pretty as the bus pass and pension

draw near but how many times

can you start and re-start the sand

as it trickles to a conical heap below?

We all make our withdrawals like

there is no tomorrow, or like the

rainy day is a myth, never to dampen

our blithe spirits or offend our

investment in forever. But sooner

or later the nasty stuff hits the fan.

Borrowed time is no time like the

present and being in the moment

is the universal currency. That will

do nicely says the man at the till

as you chip and pin your way to

the very edge of your allowance.

Can you please tell Ink Pantry about your journey as a performance poet?

I’d always written ever since I was a child. My first poem was published in the ‘Brownie Magazine’ when I was about six or seven. I remember the excitement of seeing my name in print, of feeling that something I’d done was valued.

I’ve only been performing my poetry for just over ten years. A work colleague knew I wrote and asked me to read at a charity event he was putting on. He was very persuasive, and I said yes. I was sick with nerves the first time I read, it was almost like an out of body experience. However, the audience laughed at the punch line and that was me hooked. That’s the best sort of buzz for me, making someone laugh.

From there someone asked me to perform somewhere else, and so I did. And that just seemed to keep happening.

Have you any advice for budding poetry slammers? How do you prepare for a slam? 

Don’t take slams too seriously in terms of the winning and losing. They are very subjective. I’ve gone out in the first round with the same poem that I’ve also won a slam with. In my opinion, it’s best to treat slams as a chance to showcase for three minutes, six if you’re lucky, and nine if you’re very lucky. Plus, it’s a superb way to network and meet other poets. The poetry scene is lovely and supportive in my experience. I always prepare for slams by putting in the work to rehearse my pieces over and over. I also time my work, including anything I want to say about the poem. Slams have strict time limits for the rounds, so you need to get it right.

What do you care about? What themes keep cropping up in your writing?

I care about people and how they live. I like to write in character a lot. I love to experiment with voice. Homelessness is a recurring theme in my work, and the creation of an underclass in this society. The outsider is a constant source of fascination for me, as are the people and dialect of the Black Country which is where I’m from.

You received Arts Council Funding for your one-woman performance poetry play. What was it about and what inspired you to create it?

I was inspired to write my first one-woman show by watching Jeremy Kyle and thinking it was like some kind of horrible bear baiting phenomenon. I started to see parallels between that TV show and the traditional Punch and Judy show, so I ended up taking the characters from Punch and Judy and creating a performance piece where they were telling their stories as people might do on the Jeremy Kyle type of TV show. It was called ‘The Professor Vyle Show’. It had poetry, puppets, quick changes, Burberry punch hats, a blow up doll, a full size Punch and Judy booth. It was a mad show, but really fun to do.

Where did you do your MA in Creative Writing? Please tell us about your experience during this time and what you gained from it. Do you think it is worthwhile for a writer to complete an MA and for what reasons?

I did my MA at Manchester Met. I did the novel route though, not poetry. I enjoyed a lot of the experience. It was a good way to network and a good way of making myself write to a deadline. I guess it depends on the individual whether this type of course is relevant. I’m not sure if it’s helped me in my performance career as such. I sometimes teach as a visiting lecturer in universities so maybe I wouldn’t get that type of work without having done the MA.

Who inspires you as a poet?  

All sorts of people. This changes on a regular basis. Originally I was inspired by a book of poetry that my Granddad wrote. Everybody used to look at it with such respect. I never really knew him as he died when I was still very little, but I felt the sense of pride when family members talked about his book (I’m not even sure anybody except me read it). Roger McGough inspired me when I was at school. That was the first poetry I came across other than my granddad’s.

I’m currently into Liz Berry in a big way. I think she’s given people permission to write beautifully using dialect. There are so many brilliant performers who I love to watch and learn from. I love Holly McNish, Jonny Fluffypunk, and Brenda Read-Brown. There are also people who I enjoy working with like Heather Wastie who I’ve done a few bits and pieces with over the years.

Can you tell us about the Write On project?

That was a schools project run by Writing West Midlands. Now much of their work with young people is done through the Spark Young Writers’ groups. They run lots of them across the West Midlands region. I run the group in Stoke-on-Trent. I love it. We get up to twenty youngsters turn up and write their socks off for two hours once a month on a Saturday. Great fun.

You write for children. Have you any advice for writers who are new to this genre?

Listen to what children tell you about what they like. I sometimes ask children for subjects and then write poems to order. Get gigs reading to children so that you can see what works and what doesn’t. There aren’t many places to send work that you write for kids. ‘Caterpillar Magazine’ in Ireland is beautiful, and I’ve had a couple of poems in there in the past. Go and see some children’s poets in action, you can learn a lot from what others do.

Tell us about one of the best days of your life.

I’ve lived on a narrow boat for the past eight years. One of the best days ever was when we went to fetch it after having moved heaven and earth to have pulled off that dream. We didn’t know anything about boating. It was a fantastic learning curve.

What is your creative space like?

I don’t have one particular space really. I move about a lot and write wherever I am. I just take my notebook and pen or my computer with me in a bag. I’ll write on buses and trains. I’ll write in pubs. The day before yesterday I worked on a bench by the river in Bewdley (the library was shut!).

What is it about poetry that you love?

The sounds, the puzzling through when you’re trying to make a poem work, the joy when the poem gets a response when you perform it. The fact that there truly are poems for everybody. The diversity. The fact they can make you think, laugh, cry. The intimate connection between reader and writer. Wow, I’m bigging it up here! I’ve just read all that back, but I do genuinely believe those things.

What is next for you? Have you any plans?

I’ve just completed a rather long project, so I’m in poetry free fall at the moment. No plans. None. I’m open to offers. 😉

Emma’s Website

Debbie Breeze Davies is a Nantwich based poet and artist. She has been a member of Nantwich Speakeasy since June 2016. A qualified Art Teacher with 25 years experience in working with traumatised and challenging young people, she currently works with pupils who have been excluded from mainstream education. Her active engagement with writing began in August 2015. Poets that have particularly inspired her interest include David Whyte, Lemn Sissay, Hollie McNish and Sunny Patterson.

I’ve Snaffleaffulled the Fuffenhuffers

I’ve snaffleaffulled the fuffenhuffers

Eaten every one

I’ve snaffeaffulled the fuffenhuffers

And now…

Well…

they are all gone

Seeing the crackly-wrappery-packet was how it all began

With images so enticing

of spicy dome shaped biscuits,

smother-lovelied in thick hard icing

The pictures seduced me

Taste buds produced juices

My tongue got slippy

Then licked my lips – see

Some were dippa-lippulled in chocolate

Can you imagine such a sight?

And I know I shouldn’t have

I know it was wrong

But I thought, ‘I’ll just have one little bite’

And hardly-breathing-I-eased open the packet

So as not to make a sound

It was then the aroma of;

Vanillary-Spicy-Sugary-lemony

Deliciously-risky-biscuits, entered my nose

And once I sniffa-whiffulled them

My tummy was grumble-umbling

My mouth ready for the textured surface crumbling

I reached in and touched my different options

Some hard and smooth, some slightly-stickily-softer

some rough with deep cracks, revealing moistness underneath

ready for teeth

ready for my teeth to sink in….

I quicka-lickulled the topping

Nibble-ubbled the edges

chompa-lompulled up the middle

muncha-crunchulled the next…

and the next

and the next….

I’ve snaffleaffulled the fuffenhuffers

Eaten every one

I’ve snaffeaffulled the fuffenhuffers

And now…

Well…

they are all gone

And what shall I say to Mum?

What on earth will placate her?

It’ll be no good to say:

‘I was just going to have the one and then save the rest for later’

I’ve snaffleaffulled the fuffenhuffers

Eaten every one

I’ve snaffeaffulled the fuffenhuffers

And now…

Well…

I’m really sorry Mum.