Inky Interview Special: John Grey, Australian Poet, USA resident

Tell us about your journey towards becoming a poet.

Sometimes in my early teens, I had made up my mind that I was going to be a writer. I tried just about every variation on the written word over the ensuing years from short stories to plays and (especially) songs but finally poetry emerged as the one genre that fitted what I wanted to say and how I wanted to say it.

What is it you love about poetry?

The immediacy. The compactness. How so much can be said with so few apt and original words.

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

I write so much poetry that it’s impossible for me to get stuck on one particular theme. But, I expect, if I did a census, relationships would come out on top.

Describe a typical day in your life.

During the week, I typically work from 7 until 7. That includes writing and all the secretarial work that goes along with it. That includes coffee, lunch and exercise breaks. On weekends, I’m more flexible as I have to work around family requirements etc.

If you could change one thing about the world, what would it be?

Am I allowed to say the current president?

Who inspires you and why?

Reading originally inspired me to write. These days, I can’t think of any particular author who stands out above the others.

What advice would you give to your younger self?

Don’t take rejection hard. Just let it make you more determined. And perhaps take up a more lucrative branch of the arts.

Tell us a story in five words.

The phone rings. Telemarketers. Slam!

Have you been on a literary pilgrimage?

Not really. though I have visited various writer tourist spots such as Poe’s grave and Mark Twain’s house in Hartford.

Do you have any advice for other writers?

Find your voice. Have faith in yourself. Keep at it.

What are you reading at the moment?

I always find myself reading something that probably nobody else in a radius of 5,000 miles is reading at this very moment. Right now it’s The Education Of Uncle Paul by Algernon Blackwood.

What is next for you? What plans have you got?

My next is usually a vacation I’m looking forward to. My plans are to keep on writing.

Poetry Drawer: An Awkward Meeting in a Coffee House by John Grey

Inky Interview Special: Poet (& Noise Maker) Robert Beveridge, from Akron, Ohio

Describe your journey towards becoming a poet.

It continues. There have been points along the way when I have said “okay, I made it, I’m a poet now” – a lot of them clustered around the late eighties/early nineties (my early twenties, give or take). But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from the continual process of looking back at one’s old stuff–whether it be published or not–it’s that like anything else, a person’s art is mutable, and that doing this is a constant process of trying to make the next poem (or the revisions to the older poem) just a little bit better than whatever it was you did yesterday.

Which, I guess, with the context above, is an answer–writing as often as possible, and trying to ensure that what I write today is better than what I wrote yesterday.

[with the eternal caveat that “better” is in the eye of the beholder.]

You live in Akron, Ohio. What is the literary scene like?

Part of the reason I moved down here in March 2018 is that I discovered Akron’s literary scene, especially when it comes to poetry, has the same vibrancy as Cleveland’s did when I first moved to northeast Ohio in the mid-nineties. It’s wonderful to have a regular reading series to attend again, and there are a few others in the process of getting off the ground over the course of this year that look like they’re going to be regular. I’m over the moon with it.

You also, as you put it, ‘make noise’! Tell us about your noise.

How does one describe noise to folks who aren’t used to the idea of non-music as entertainment? [this is a much easier question to answer in the age of YouTube and Bandcamp, but bear with me.] I’ve always described noise as “imagine you’re in the middle of a firefight in a fully-operational steel mill”. While that only covers one aspect of the rather vast field of noise, it’s arguably the most representational, given that it’s a decent description of the most famous period of the world’s most famous noise artist, Merzbow. Given that I (like pretty much everyone else who does this) was profoundly influenced by Merzbow, it’s a good jumping-off point for describing my own work, but I try to run the widest gamut possible when recording–I’ve done CD-length pieces of minimal deep ambient, two-minute-long cassettes with ten discrete tracks in ten different subgenres, harsh powerelectronics… if it’s a recognized subgenre, I’ve at least attempted to play with it. Here’s a link to my bandcamp page.

Describe a typical day in your life.

I’m a programmer with a job a non-trivial distance from my apartment, so a good portion of a typical day involves either sitting in front of a computer or driving to/from sitting in front of a computer. When I’m not at work, there’s much less one can describe as “typical”; a given night can involve driving up to the Cleveland suburbs to spend time with my six-year-old, sitting on the couch reading for hours at a time, sinking deep into one of the games I play (there are a couple dozen I rotate between, but the current obsessions are The Witcher 3: The Wild Hunt and Tales of Maj’Eyal), watching movies ranging from the sublime to the ridiculous, cooking, any number of other options. The one thing that doesn’t usually happen is boredom.

Who inspires you and why?

Inspiration can come from anywhere at any time. Someone will say something in a particular way, I’ll catch a headline, a song will pop up I haven’t heard in a while… I just transcribed the last batch of poems from my phone to my computer, and among the inspirations were Robert Smith (lead singer for The Cure), Donald Trump, Yumi Hotta (author), Yanni (musician), Andrzej Sapkowski (author), Ricardo Islas (filmmaker), Charles Whitman (the University of Texas sniper from 1966), and my girlfriend, along with some “what’s mixed in with the “who’s (one poem was inspired by ADHD, for example). So… everyone, really, under the correct circumstances.

What advice would you give to your younger self?

That “first publication” where they told you they’d publish you if you subscribed to the magazine? Yeah, that’s a scam just as much as the National Library of Poetry is. Hold out for another six months, you’ll get your real first publication soon.

(I’m ineffably happy I grew up when vanity publishing was a far more difficult and costly process than it is today. I’ve read a lot of POD-published volumes from people who likely felt the same way I did in my early twenties–that I’d made it, that I’d hit peak talent–and I have little doubt that some of them are already looking back on volumes published in 2003-2008 and saying “what in the world was I thinking?”.)

Tell us a story in five words.

You walked away. I stayed.

Have you been on a literary pilgrimage?

Not as a writer, but regularly as a reader. When I still lived at home, my mother and I would go on book-buying trips during the summers to various places within driving distance of wherever we were living at the time; we’d spend a week in Philadelphia, or Maine, or Kentucky, or what have you, combing through used bookstores. I miss it; I don’t have the money to do a good deal of travelling now that I’m older, and I certainly don’t have the same kind of vacation time I did when I was in school–but used bookstores are much fewer and farther between than they were in the eighties, as well.

Why do you think poetry is important?

I can never remember who it was who defined poetry as “elevated language” (Eliot? Williams? Maybe even Whitman?), but the idea that language can be elevated is a powerful thing, almost to the point of being sui generis. And I hate to make proclamations like this, because we all have to know we’re still in the frying pan, right?, and there’s always another cliff we can fall off–but “now more than ever” strikes me as appropriate when it comes to elevated language in an age of fake news, alternative facts, homeopathy and flat-earth coming back into vogue, etc. Part of elevating language, to me, is honesty, and that’s something we seem to be rapidly losing sight of in America as we continue down our current path.

Do you have any advice for other writers?

The same I wish I could follow myself. That internal editor who sits in your head and tells you everything you write needs to be as polished a turd as possible before you stick it on a page? Find a way to shut that idiot down, at least as long as it takes you to get something on a page. You can worry about whether there needs to be a comma between those two words later. Just write.

What are you reading at the moment?

About a third of the way through John Ashbery’s A Wave, which somehow seems to have escaped me until now (I swear I read it in the nineties, but enough of it is unfamiliar that I’m questioning my memory).

What is next for you? What plans have you got?

I spent a great deal of time not writing and not submitting, as in “measured in years”; I was semi-retired from writing for twenty years (1994-2014, with a couple of relapses in there) and from submitting for even longer (1994-2016). So to an extent, I’m in the “what’s next” stage right now; I’m still not nearly as prolific as I was in the early nineties, but I’m at the point of writing every day again, and I’m two years into submitting probably even more than I did back in the days of envelopes and stamps. (It’s wonderful not to be budgeting for stamps every month. Thank you, Internet.) What’s next from here? To continue. And, as I said back at the beginning… to keep trying to get a little bit better every day.

Poetry Drawer: The Drowned City by Robert Beveridge

Flash In The Pantry: Mandela Warp: A Moment in History by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Obama hits on the Swedish Prime Minister. She’s got that ofay blonde hair and legs that go on forever. They’re not longer than Michelle’s, but Big O’s gotten caught up in the celebration of Mandela’s death. He’s slid into his African self, as if he’d taken a few good draughts of nitrous oxide or absinthe drinks loaded with wormwood, as if he’d torn pieces of Ethiopian spiced goat meat off a larger hunk with his sharp teeth. All the goat meat in the world, he thinks, is his. He’s the most powerful man in the world. He can eat and drink as much as he likes. He can blow up to be as fat as a deposed dictator.

Big O is looking for a slam dunk. O, this Swede is hot. Michelle is staring daggers. She’d kick the Swede’s ass in a felony fight. She reins in her man before he can scandalize himself. He’s already gone too far. He’s been leaning in, taking selfies of himself and the Swede as a couple, cheek to cheek, here at South Africa’s party to send off their Saviour.

The looks Michelle’s giving him can curdle milk. Everyone in the world sees it and knows she can be a real ball-buster. She’ll show no sweetness tonight. 

Meanwhile the translator for the deaf is hallucinating. He sees angels in the stadium, archangels carrying Mandela home. He’s scared—where are his medications? He’s suffered “anger issues.” He’s next to all these powerful leaders, but are they really leaders, he wonders, or just so-called leaders?

He knows no sign language, but he’s depending on God to carry him through. He’s three feet away from Obama, three feet away from the most powerful man on Earth. He grimaces as Obama brushes by him.

The Swedish Prime Minister knows there’s little chance for a hook-up, but maybe after they’re both out of office…

None of this shit is supposed to be happening, but there’s a warp in the fabric of the Universe caused by Mandela’s death. He was filled with spiritual power. Now unleashed, that power is having wacky effects on people, even presidents and prime ministers. That warp needs to be closed, muy pronto, before all hell breaks loose.

Inky Interview: Poet & Theatre Director Gary Beck, from New York

Describe your journey towards becoming a poet.

I had a difficult childhood and led an isolated life. I read fiction and drama early, but didn’t really delve into poetry until my early teens. I wrote terrible imitations of the English Romantics, Byron, Keats, Shelley, discarded them and started the search for my own voice.

Can you tell us about your poetry collection Rude Awakenings?

Rude Awakenings, unlike much of my recent work, which is often issue oriented, has diverse explorations of intimate themes, as well as broader areas of expression.

Tell us about your time as a theatre director.

It would take a long, long, long time to describe my work as a theatre director. I translated and directed the classics, as well as issue plays. I ran my own theatre from 1976 to 1996 until it was devastated by AIDS. It was the only job I ever loved. I’m currently directing one of my own one act plays and really enjoying it.

What kind of art did you deal in?

I worked for a number of galleries, then became a private dealer specializing in art of the sixties.

Describe a typical day in your life.

I write. I send out material to be published, with which I’ve had growing success. I play speed chess several times a week, and I’m working on multiple projects at the same time, novels, poetry collections, essays, plays.

Who inspires you and why?

Intelligent people trying to understand our disturbed society, for they’re the only hope for the future.

What advice would you give to your younger self?

I try to never second guess myself.

Tell us a story in five words.

I build hope for tomorrow.

Have you been on a literary pilgrimage?

I once went to Baudelaire’s tomb, more of a visit than a pilgrimage.

Why do you think poetry is important?

Poetry can touch the mind and spirit more directly than any other creative form and hopefully lead to illumination.

Do you have any advice for other writers?

If it’s important enough, persevere.

What are you reading at the moment?

Herodatus and T.S. Eliot.

What is next for you? What plans have you got?

More novels, essays, poetry, plays, hopefully more directing.

Gary’s website

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Poetry Drawer: Who She is Not by Karen Wolf

Like drool down a teething
baby’s chin, pleasantries roll
off her tongue. Her flattery soothes
the broken-hearted, encourages
the frustrated, comforts
the lonely—
part of who she is or who
she’s taught herself to be, not always
truthful, but expected.

She longs to strip
away her façade, level
the playing field with cruelties,
lies, baiting comments
drenched in satisfaction. Her
rebirth—
only moments away.

Pantry Prose: Company D by Steve Carr

We stand at attention as the hot wind stirs up the dirt and blows it in our faces. Out of some vague notion of self-discipline, we will ourselves not to cough or sneeze as our mouth and noses are filled with grit. The sounds that enter our ears are muffled; the drill sergeant’s voice seems to come from a distance. In this heat sweat runs down our spines and from under our arms in rivulets. Our shirts are darkened with sweat and stick to our skin. Our helmets are weights that add to the tension in our necks caused by keeping our heads up, facing forward.

I stand behind Adams. He has a first name, but I never call him by that, and I don’t call him Private Adams. We’re all privates. He was an amateur boxer before he enlisted. He stands as if he’s about to pounce on someone, like a coil ready to spring. The skin on the back of his neck is sunburnt. Its pinkness stands out amidst the colours of drab olive green and mud brown that surround it, surround all of us. I always stand behind Adams when we’re in formation. I know the shape of his back and the shade of colour of his blond hair so well I see them in my dreams, as attributes of a human figure always seen from behind.

Through the haze of heat and dust, my eyes sting and water as I try to keep them open and facing front. “Eyes front,” the drill sergeant yells enough times to make me always wonder who among us dared to glance away, and how did the drill sergeant notice something so small as an eye movement?

Peripherally, I see Bodey at my left. He grew up on a farm and enlisted to make something of himself. Sweat is pouring down his rotund face. He sways back and forth very slightly as if being gently rocked by the wind. Among the stillness of the rest of us, his almost imperceptible movement is hard to miss. I imagine reaching out my left arm and placing my hand on his shoulder to steady him, but it’s only an imagining.

A sudden gust of wind, stronger than the other, sweeps across the field and blankets Company D in a new layer of dirt. We remain steadfast against this new assault except for someone in the front of the formation who breaks into a hacking cough.

The drill sergeant’s bellowing voice suddenly echoes through the swirling dust. “What’s wrong with you, Porter? There’s no coughing while you’re standing at attention. Drop and give me twenty.”

Porter is from Norfolk where he waited tables before enlisting. There’s a hairline purple scar across his right cheek. Not that he has to, but he mostly keeps it a secret that he’s gay.

There’s a reprieve from the blowing dirt but the late afternoon sun beats down on Company D.

“At ease,” the drill sergeant calls out.

Dirt falls from my shoulders as I relax them. My boots that had been so polished before the day began have lost their sheen. Everyone is looking around, at those standing around them, as if to make sure everyone has survived. We spit out the dirt, clear it from our ears and noses, and brush it from our faces and clothes.

In that moment I look around at the rocky hills that surround us. We’re in a geological bowl.

At times even our whispers are echoed.

“Get cleaned up before chow,” the drill sergeant yells. “Dismissed.”

*

The barracks is built of wood with practically no insulation, and the accumulated noise of the forty recruits inside is a cacophony of echoes. We’re called recruits unless the drill sergeants have more unsavory names for us. The two-tiered bunk beds are lined up along the walls. A broad aisle down the middle separates the two rows. The aisle is a busy highway of recruits going to and from the bathroom or shower at the end of the barracks. This is the second time in the day that showers have been taken and the barracks is scented with steam and soap. The boisterous voices of the recruits in the shower echoes out. Because of our close proximity more than anything else, Adams, Bodey, Porter and I became friends. Our bunks are next to each other. Bodey and Porter have the bottom bunks and Adams and I have the top ones. By the tenth week of boot camp, Adams especially has become like a brother to me. Sitting on the bottom bunks facing each other we shine our boots and polish our brass belt buckles.

“I thought I was going to throw up,” Bodey says about the day in the sun.

“I’m just glad we weren’t in full gear,” Porter says as he unconsciously runs his fingertips along his scar.

“Only two more days and we graduate,” I say.

The drill sergeant enters the barracks and stands at the head of the aisle with his feet planted on the bare wood floor as if staking that part of the floor as his. All of the recruits stand at attention, arms at their sides, chests out, chins up.

“Adams,” he yells.

“Yes, drill sergeant,” Adams says as he runs into the aisle.

“Move it, recruit. On the double,” the drill sergeant says as he turns and goes out the door, followed by Adams who runs barefoot down the length of the barracks, his feet slapping on the wood.

It’s the middle of the night when I hear Adams climb into his bunk.

*

“Ain’t no sense in going home,” Company D sings in cadence. The stomping of our boots on the path between the corrugated tin supply huts generates a resounding metallic echo.

The drill sergeant sings out melodically, “Jody’s got your girl and gone.”

“Jody’s got your girl and gone,” we repeat.

“Your left, your right, now pick up your step,” the drill sergeant sings.

At the open door of a hut, we stop and stand at attention as two corporals flip sheets of paper attached to clipboards. One by one the recruits hand their helmets, pistol belts and canteens to one of the corporals, who makes a check mark by the recruit’s name and then puts the items in the hut.

I lean forward and whisper to Adams. “What did the drill sergeant want last night?”

He turns his head slightly and whispers back. “Some money was stolen. They thought I did it.”

“You didn’t do it, did you?” I say.

“Of course not.”

“Shut it back there,” the drill sergeant yells. “You haven’t graduated yet.”

*

In green dress uniforms the men of Company D enter the barracks, no longer recruits following the graduation ceremony, but soldiers. After handshakes and back slaps, with their wallets stuffed with the last pay as a recruit, most pick up their duffel bags and depart the barracks to go home for a brief leave and then onto their assignments.

At my bunk with my duffel bag open, the last things yet to be packed into it lying on my bunk, Bodey and Porter are standing nearby. Adams is sitting on his bunk fiddling with his cell phone.

“Keep in touch,” Bodey says. “Maybe we can all get together at my folks’ farm sometime for leave.”

“Sure,” the rest of us say with the same earnestness we said to our high school classmates who we’ll most likely never see again.

He and Porter turn to go.

“Porter, will you finally tell us how you got that scar?” I say.

He smiles and says, “It was really no big secret. I fell on a rake while I was playing army when I was a kid. The scar gives me an air of mystery.”

They leave the barracks, their laughter trailing behind.

Adams looks down at me, a somber expression on his face. “I’m going to miss you,” he says. “While you’re home on leave, give that kid of yours you always talk about a good tickle for me.”

There’s a sincerity in his voice that surprises me. “I will. I’ll miss you too.”

I shove the last shirt into the duffel bag and close the clasp. My hat, wallet and bus ticket are all that are left on my bunk.

“I’ll be right back,” I say. “I need to take a piss.”

The bathroom is sparkling clean and smells of floor cleaner.

When I return to my bunk, Adams is gone. I look at my bunk. My wallet is gone also.

Check out Steve’s Inky Interview

Poetry Drawer: The Drowned City by Robert Beveridge

When the water began
to fill the coalfields
I, the last inhabitant
of this city
had tied myself
to the basement post
looking for—what?—
a revelation?

Possible.

The water, coated
with coal dust,
swirled around my feet.
The rope tightened
around my neck.
The darkness
in my basement was pure.
I had to feel
the water
the coal dust

and I could feel
the great manuscripts of Florence

covered with coal
illuminated
with potential combustion
even as the water
permeated pages so thick
to be almost cloth.

As we drown
we have the potential
to burn.

What?
A revelation?
Possible.

Water around my waist now
cold as coal
cold as the mine in winter

and still the rope grows tighter
around my neck.

Water mains broke
in a thousand earthquakes
around the world last year
and flooded the streets.
Now certain third world countries
find it suitable
to sacrifice whatever
first comes to hand
on the anniversary of the flood

chickens, cows, in one
case a firstborn.

Water sustains us
but at times is our adversary.

A revelation?
Possible.

The rope soaked
and dusted.
I taste coal on my lips.
The last inhabitant
of this city,
I give myself
to whatever powers guide
these waters.

A revelation?

I wake up,
afloat,
clean.

Poetry Drawer: Lowering The Lights by Stephen Mead

Grey eyes, wolf’s, cold steel
in the glint with fire behind, steel
of a new street grid, a warmth
in that whiteness
glowing gold through the black
of its own holocaust….

Tender yet, it is animal fragrant,
mortal through the mist where
in absence, presence, absence,
we, hunted, touch through
tenements, the graffiti of city woods.

I draw close my curtains
as though inside the vestments
of your flesh robes, the fur & grey
gazes you pierce the lowered lamp
lights with,

& also my beating heart.

Check out Stephen Mead’s Inky Interview

Elf Corner: Deborah Edgeley, with Kev Milsom

Hello Deborah, and thank you for agreeing to this interview, to share some thoughts with our readers. Can I start by asking you about your literary roots? As a young one, what types of writing and books enthralled and captured your imagination?

As a child I was always passionate about books, even before I was old enough to read the ones in my parents’ library, like The Moon’s A Balloon by David Niven, and Valley of The Dolls by Jacqueline Susann. I used to pretend that I was a librarian, and mark their books in pencil with an imaginary name and ‘date due’.

I guess the first author that I serial-read, apart from the Ladybird books (aw, Rumpelstiltskin ) was Dennis Wheatley. The book that I remember the most is The Haunting Of Toby Jugg, a tale of satanic possession and madness of a fighter pilot, confined to his bed. It was the imagery that was vivid and believable, the character of Toby, and how easy it was to empathise with him, and, of course, the suspense of an occult thriller.

Thinking about it, I was always interested in characters and different accents. Even though I was shy at school, I jumped at the chance of reading the main characters, like Will Mossop in Hobson’s Choice and Eliza in Pygmallion, then fell back into being an introvert. My Dad used to call me Mike Yarwood.

In my twenties, my colleague Sally suggested Far From The Madding Crowd by Thomas Hardy. She raved about it. It looked boring to me, but I gave it a try and ended up setting my alarm for 5am, every day, so that I could read it before work. It was the character of farmer William Boldwood that fascinated me, with his obsessive pursuit of Bathsheba, buying her fancy clothes and labelling them with a ‘B’, in preparation for their phantom marriage. It was both heartbreaking and exciting at the same time. Passionate. How could an author affect you so much, with words? There began my literature obsession.

When did you first embark on the literary journey of not just admiring the works of others, but take those fascinating first steps into creative expression within poetry and writing?

I’ve always read a lot, and had/have a big collection of books. Every book I read, I make notes in the back, of ideas, favourite quotes, quirky words or concepts, or snippets of history that I am unfamiliar with. It wasn’t until I began studying with the Open University that I realised why I made these notes. I wanted to be a writer. It was only by chance that I signed up to do a Creative Writing course to fill 30 points for my English Literature degree, and I got a taste for words. Also, as an introvert, it was an excellent way for me to express myself, which I don’t really manage in speech, unless I’ve had alcohol, or no sleep. I also found that I was making sense of things as I was going along, in my notebooks, as therapy, understanding the world, feelings and people, and getting perspective, really.

Your book Testing the Delicates covers various aspects of the social stigmas relating to the breakdown of mental health. How personally challenging was this task to initially plan and create? Also, did the creative expression of these thoughts uncover any surprising emotions, with the benefit of time & hindsight?

Emotionally, it was difficult to write. Not only did I re-live painful events that some of the poems were based on, I went through a stage of worrying if this was the right thing to do, to write about such a personal subject of my mother’s mental health, and share it with the world. Would she have been ok with this? As a loving mother, I’m convinced that if the book helped somebody, if someone could identify with it, then she would think it was worth it. There was, and still is, a lot of prejudice, with regard to mental health, and it is something I detest. I wanted to give my mother, myself, and others, a voice.

You’ve recently created a deeper layer for your expressive talents via public performances of your poetry, alongside the artist/musician Mark Sheeky as duo Fall In Green. Could you share some thoughts on how this added to your initial inspirations and goals for Testing the Delicates? Do you foresee further public performances in the future?

When Testing The Delicates was first published last year, there was a local event, raising money for North Staffs & UK Mind, with a call out for performers. I thought of performing some of the poems from my collection, and Mark Sheeky suggested a piano accompaniment. The organiser, musician Glyn Sutton, asked if we had a stage name, which was something we didn’t think of, so we decided on Fall In Green, taken from Kate Bush’s Wuthering Heights (we roll and fall in green…). Since then, we have done several gigs in Acton, Crewe, Holmes Chapel, Nantwich, Sandbach, Warrington and Whitchurch.

It was fun listening to the style that accompanied each poem. It seemed to bring the writing alive, in a theatrical way. For example, ‘Walking Tears’ has a sinister, funereal undertone, ‘Whose Apple Thou Art’ has a theatrical, posh, Shakespearean voice, with bits of bumpkin, and a harpsicord accompaniment, and ‘Quick Get your Lows Before they Run Out’ is spoken in an American drawl, resembling a TV advert for happiness. We also perform a canon called ‘Gauging A Life’, creating the effect of identity confusion through layering voices.

Another layer of expression and understanding was created by Mark Sheeky, who illustrated Testing The Delicates with pen and ink.

With regard to further public performances, it would be great to take our act to festivals. Performance and theatre is something I have always loved.

Aside from writing, what other forms of creative expression appeal and build inspiration for you, Deborah?

Reading. I’ve always got a book on the go. I’m reading Doris Lessing’s The Golden Notebook (go and buy it) and have just finished Douglas Coupland’s Hey! Nostradamus, topical, based on the Columbine massacre. Oh, and a couple of Jeanette Winterson’s, in particular, Why be Happy When You Could Be Normal? Absolutely wow!

I’ve had a few guitar lessons, so would like to accompany some new poetry with strings, but it might take forever as takes such a lot of motivation for me to learn (and it hurts my fingers!).

My personal enjoyment from working at Ink Pantry focuses strongly upon the element of learning and discovering what makes other creative writers ‘tick’ and what inspires them. In this vein Deborah, what was the initial inspiration behind the creation of ‘Ink Pantry’ and what factors continue to inspire you for the future?

Aw Ink Pantry 🙂 The initial inspiration behind Ink Pantry was to find a platform to promote our work, and inspire and support other writers, ‘our’ being my comrades from the Open University: Berenice Smith, Jennie Campbell and Alyson Duncan. We had lots of other students involved. During our degrees, we managed to publish two anthologies and maintain the website. Recently, Ink Pantry have been added to Duotrope, which has sparked international interest. We’ve connected with many authors from America, China, Italy and India. There have been rumours of a third anthology…

Thank you for sharing your thoughts. Finally, the big question! What is coming next from the pen of Deborah Edgeley? New genres? Different challenges? Further creative collaborations? Do tell!

As Fall in Green, our poetry and piano duo with Mark Sheeky, we will be releasing an album of Testing The Delicates. We have been filming the videos to accompany both of our single releases. Our first single will be ‘Who is Afraid…She Floats’. It is based on Virginia Woolf and Ophelia from Hamlet. Can we take poetry into the charts? 🙂 We’re going to give it a go!

I am also working on my father’s memoirs of his army days. The working title is Charlie Stockton. One of his stories called ‘The Bridge’ was published in War Memories by Ian Billingsley, with a foreword by Norman Wisdom. He would have loved to have published his own book.

I would like to work on another poetry collection, and perhaps a short story collection. Potential themes of grief, introversion, and more mental illness. You know, the hell yeah happy stuff 😉

 

Elf Corner: The Awesome Kate Foster

Kate Foster is an editor, both by day and at heart. She loves nothing better than getting stuck into a manuscript and then, constructively of course, ripping it to pieces! Structural or developmental editing is her forte, particularly bringing characters to life, and she is an eternal student taking regular courses and reading blogs, articles, and books about the craft – there is always something new to learn! She works with authors preparing to self-publish, as well as those who’ve been traditionally published, but she definitely has a soft spot for teaming up with brand new writers unsure of how to move forward.

Mentoring new writers is another passion, and Kate was a middle grade mentor from 2015-2017 in the annual Pitch Wars writing contest, which is renowned for launching many authors’ careers. She has also mentored writers and judged writing in other contests such as TeenPit. She’s forever buying new books, both physical and digital – because both can and should be able to exist happily side by side – and her TBR pile is perpetually growing. As editorial director at Lakewater Press, Kate is able to make authors dreams come true by publishing their books, several of these having won awards and attracted the attention of film production companies.

Also a writer since her early years, Kate now writes mainly middle grade fiction (8-12 year olds), particularly for the upper end as she leans toward writing horror with dark content. Scaring kids is a great pastime! With three sons who like to read, she is lucky to be able to run ideas past them to gauge just how scary her works-in-progress are – middle grade is a lot about balance. After a bumpy start after taking her writing from laptop and notebook to sharing it with the big wide world, Kate finally self-published a middle-grade sci-fi called WINELL ROAD, which won an award in 2015, with two more books planned in the series. Now represented by the Jennifer De Chiara Literary Agency, Kate is preparing to go out on submission to editors with her latest novel, a spooky children’s horror with paranormal elements.

A mum, a wife, a dog-owner, and football lover, Kate is an Englishwoman living on the stunning Gold Coast in Australia. It’s quite nice there!