Welcome to Nicola's Weblog. Copyright Nicola Batty (c) 2010 - 2012. If you can see html code or can't see the sidebar links please use a different browser. I use Google Chrome now.
I am a writer of novels, plays and film scripts. I live in Manchester England with my partner Andy and our teenage son Jack. Andy and I started my Newsletter Raw Meat and began publishing with Rawprintz in 1999 to showcase my work. Some of you may be confused by my continual references to Ziggy, that’s my wheelchair! Both Andy and I are writers. I’ve recently lost my sight – hence the continual reference to my being confused!
Thanks for visiting.
BIRDY Here's another one of my favourite paintings from the mid-eighties, copied from either the video or the soundtrack by Peter Gabriel or the book... I don't remember which. I was completely obsessed by Birdy when it came out and watched the film over and over again - it's about a young chap who's completely obsessed with birds and flying... absolutely wonderful. Birdy himself was played by Matthew Modine and he's the one who is actually in this picture of the film that I copied from. I was very impressed by the way he managed to pose perching on the bed-rail, and also I loved the night colours of the striking image. The other chap in the film is Nicholas Cage, who has since become a bit too famous for my liking... I think this was one of his best roles. I was really pleased with the way my effort turned out - it took me ages to get all the flesh colours just right so that they didn't appear artificial.
Here's my piece for Writer's Island, the prompt this week is: Titles
TITLES
The beautiful young witch narrowed her emerald eyes as she looked at the little girl standing before her.
“Wait a minute… I’m sure I recognise you from a book when I used to teach English literature” she said thoughtfully, “Through The Looking Glass And What Alice Found There… I believe that’s the full title. I used to teach it before I turned to the realms of magic, and moved on to become a teacher of Necromancy at Hogwart’s several years ago. Where Bart and I know each other from… isn’t that right, Bart?”
Breaking off, she slipped out surreptitiously into Bart’s robes; the young wizard glanced towards Alice uneasily.
“Professor Madigan… don’t,” he muttered in a low voice as he shifted from one point to the other, fidgeting with the hem of his robe. “You’re embarrassing me… not to mention Alice. Remember, she’s a well brought up Victorian girl.”
“Come along now Bart – I’ve told you before that we’re on first name terms now, surely?” The witch sidled up closer to Bart, wrapping her arms around her. “I’m Elvira to you now… don’t you remember that evening in my office?” she glanced dismissively at Alice, giving an impatient tut as she turned back to Bart.“As for you my Victorian friend… I don’t know what you think you’re doing here. You don’t belong here at all do you? How did you manage to step over the boundaries of time? Is it something in the floo powder do you think Bart?”
“I don’t think so,” objected Bart quickly, “ we haven’t used the floo powder yet – have we Alice?”
The little black and white figure glanced up shyly, twisting her apron strings rubbing one grey stockinged leg with the other foots black shoe.
“Mister Dross is right, Professor Madigan I’ve not done any time travelling at all… just look around the room. What do you see?”
The witch gazed slowly all around, swivelling her bright green eyes as she took in the monotone surroundings. The vivid blue shades on her robe stood outstarkly against the background.
“I see what you mean… everything is straight out of the Tenniel illustration for the book. Which means that…” she paused, tapping her teeth with one pointed scarlet fingernail. “We’re the ones who’ve done the time travelling, me and young Bart not you, Alice… we’re still in your age, aren’t we? That’s the first time I’ve ever travelled in time with floo powder, I must admit – that’s quite impressive. How do you think we managed to do that going backwards?”
Bart gave a shrug, looking away.
“It’s my first time as well Elvira. I don’t know how we managed it… something in the mind control, maybe.”
24.7.10
My version of Chatterton. This is another one of my very earliest reproductions of my Pre-Raphaelite paintings done when I was I think about eighteen. It was copied from a black and white photo, and after I saw the original in the Tate Gallery and discovered I had got the colour of his trousers wrong - they are blue not pink!! Ah well, call it artistic licence... I've always been fascinated by the great romantic tragic story of Chatterton, and also the great romantic story of the Victorian painter, Henry Wallis falling in love with the wife of the model for Chatterton George Meredith.
Here’s my bit for Writer’s Island – the theme this week being ‘Reunion’.
REUNION
Without another word Bartholomew led Alice over the fender and stepped into the ashes which covered the grate. He hesitated for a moment before closing his eyes tightly, a look of intense concentration furrowing his brow.
“I’m not at all sure this’ll work when there’s no fire,” he told Alice quickly, “but it’s worth a try anyway. I’m going to try and go back to my old school, Hogwart’s… I left it a couple of years ago.”
Alice glanced up at the young wizard uncertainly.
“What do I do?” she asked, “How can I help with the magic?”
Bartholomew shook his head, concentrating hard and clutching Alice’s hand close to him.
“You can’t do anything, I just have to lead the way and think of wherever I want to go. You just follow.”
“Alright,” stepping into the grate and being instantly enclosed by darkness, falling down… and seeing around her head spinning shreds of energy, places, people she had never met and did not recognise… still she kept falling, unaware of the young wizard clutching her hand.
Eventually she realised that her surroundings had become still. She gazed around back over her shoulder and thought at first that the room was her father’s study back in Victorian Oxford – for she was sure she could smell both the chalk dust and the age of academic books. Alice turned, eyeing curiously the bent and beautiful head of a young woman sat behind the huge dark wood desk in the centre of the room; beside her she felt Bartholomew’s grip on her arm suddenly tighten. The young woman behind the desk unwound herself slowly as she rose to her feet, her dark hair falling almost to her waist. She had the most beautiful emerald eyes Alice had ever seen in her life. the young woman’s face broke into a wide smile as she caught sight of the two figures in the grate. She moved towards them with her arms outstretched.
“Bartholomew… Bartholomew Dross? Where have you been? Come here” she exclaimed breathlessly, her arms enclosing the wizard and pulling him to her with a strength that unnerved Alice. “Come here, you errant young wizard, you! I thought you’d left me for good!”
Bartholomew shifted uncomfortably in the room he was obviously enjoying himself. “I told you I’d be back… Professor Madigan,” the young wizard said so warmly. “I couldn’t just leave you, could I?”
The beautiful witch screamed with laughter throwing back her head so that her long black hair swung out behind her.
“I’ve told you before not to call me Professor… it keeps us at such a distance, Bart… and we know each other fairly well now don’t we?” so saying, she stroked the young wizard’s cheek gently with her fingernails which Alice noticed were filed to sharp points. Alice gave a little cough; she felt distinctly uneasy. As Professor Madigan switched her gaze onto the little girl.
“I’m glad to see you once again – I couldn’t believe I’d lost you within the labyrinth of time and dimension, I knew you’d come back to me. she took a step backwards, looking at Alice coldly. “But I see you’re not alone, my dear boy. Who’s your travelling companion?”
Alice squirmed beneath the intensity of the witches green eyes – but she could say nothing.
Another piece of shrapnel for Writer’s Island on the theme of “Treasure”.
TREASURE
After rowing all the way out here to this remote Writer’s Island, I pull up my boat right onto the bank and look all round me uncertain which way to turn now. The sun’s beating down overhead and looking up I see a lonely seagull flying far above the isolated palm-tree growing near by. There are bunches of coconuts on it of course. I climb up towards the tree slowly, because I still doubt who I am or what I’m doing. I can tell the ground beneath my bare feet is sloping up -but that’s all I can tell, and it’s not much to go by. I’m not even sure if I’m a woman or a man, because although I’m dressed in ragged trousers and shirt I can’t tell whether they’re from the eighteenth century and I’m a pirate or if I’m a twenty-first century version of myself.
Standing in the shadow cast by the leaves of the palm-tree I can see a slight bump in the ground and I feel sure I know what’s inside. The map appears magically in my hand but I don’t even have to look at it; I feel around on the bump in the ground for a way in, for I know what’s underneath. Ah, here it is I pull the metal handle and feel myself falling through space. There’s nothing to stop me spinning round and round… I see the sky, the endless blue sky and the seagull screeching perhaps, and the sea by turns, sky, sea, then darkness. I sit up slowly feeling the ground beneath me as hard as granite. There’s no sunlight, it’s so cold in here, wherever I am. I feel uneasy but not too scared. Somewhere in my flight I dropped the map – but who needs the map anyway? As I blink my eyes, trying to bring them into some sort of focus I’m not a bit surprised to find my sight confronted with such a dazzling array of colours – not to mention textures – that I know I’ve found it. The treasure, the writer’s treasure, buried deep on the island. I stare at the jostling, dazzling jumble of assorted things, none of which I can give a name to – some of them seem to be tangible, made of metal or stone, or jewels even, maybe. Others seem to be changing all the time shifting incandescent areas of light, now bright, now a subtle soft glow like moonlight. I stare and stare so hard it hurts my eyes. I can feel the tears coursing down my face… perhaps I‘ll become Alice once again and be drowned in my own tears. That doesn’t seem to be such a tragedy in the circumstances.
My little piece for Writer's Island on the theme “A fork in the road”.
A FORK IN THE ROAD
The moon was full that night, and the haze of heat hung heavy over the island… indeed, the clouds seemed to touch the mountain tops and to scratch them. As I walked along the dusty road, the silence of the night seemed to enclose me completely… I could still hear vaguely the distant Greek music from the bar which I’d just left. My boots creaked gently as I moved them back and forth, the gentle clinking sound of the buckles creating their own music.
Something on the road ahead suddenly caught my eye, glinting in the moonlight with a strange incandescence. It looked like something unearthly, something totally unrecognisable. As I approached and bent down to pick it up, I could feel the layers of heat rubbing softly against the skin of my bare arm, and the texture of the sensation lulled me, calmed me. As my fingers clutched around the metal object and lift it reluctantly from its resting place, I can tell right away that it’s nothing but a piece of cutlery. I turn it round and round between my fingers without believing it - what on earth is a fork doing out here?
As I heard the car and saw it’s bright headlights, I stood up slowly. The car was an open top one - perfectly suited to this place. The man inside the car opens his door and steps outside, looking at me curiously. The night silence still hangs heavy all around… and I still clutch the fork to my side, turning it very slowly around.
“Are you alright? Is anything wrong?” The man asked. I notice the slight accent touching his words… making another soft music.
“I’m alright… I just found this.” Taking a few steps towards the man, I hold out the metal object towards him. He takes it slowly and laughs very gently, he sounds like the sea.
“The original fork in the road, eh? Well… can I offer you a lift?”
I turn my face up into the full light of the moon, so that it bathes me completely and runs overmy arms like a river, a gentle shower ofwarm rain. As I begin to move towards the car I’m aware once again of the jangling of the buckles on my boots. I heave open the car door and step inside.
“Yes,” I said, “take me towards the sea.”
Silently, he climbs beside me and switches on the headlights once again, though we don’t need them as the moon is still so very bright.
This one's also based on a Tennyson poem, it's quite different in style from Meteyard's - Millais being one of the original Pre-Raphaelite brotherhood. There's incredible detail in his work, he was very fond of copying from real life - in this picture he copied the stained glass windows from a college in Oxford. I can't remember anything at all about my version, so I can only presume I did it a long time ago! As in the Metyard picture I was drawn to Mariana because of the deep colour.
The original was painted in 1851 by John Everett Millais.
As Alice stared, the lines curved and moved before her eyes - connecting with each other and then suddenly disconnecting.
“What is happening?” she cried in astonishment. “I don’t believe it! Moving pictures? Now I feel I really must be going mad!”
“No, your certainly not doing that,” came a smooth voice from the fireplace.
Alice looked up, startled; sure enough, a figure was emerging from the fireplace - though Alice found this vision quite easy to believe after seeing such strange things already in Looking Glass house. She watched the boy as he carefully stepped over the fender, gathering his midnight blue dress robes around him as he did so. The stars and moons scattered all over his robe glistened in the dim afternoon light which came in from the window.
“You're very lucky, I declare,” remarked Alice “that the fire wasn’t alight… or else you would have burnt feet!”
The boy chuckled dryly. “That’s where you’re wrong, I’m afraid… I’m a wizard. Or at least, a trainee one… just wait until I’m graduated next year!”
Alice said nothing for a moment, she simply stared at him.
“I don’t think I believe you… a trainee wizard? There’s no such thing my father says. Tell me truthfully, who are you?”
The boy wizard looked at her thoughtfully, nodding his head slightly.
“Am I not meant to say something like “I think you should tell me who you are first. I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten my Alice in Wonderland… it’s been a long time since I read it.”
“Don’t worry about that I’ve moved on from Alice inWonderland anyway, this is Through the Looking Glass now,” said Alice quickly. “But who are you anyway? I’m curious to know.”
“Ahhh… you’re quite right to be so,” said the wizard, brushing a piece of dust from his robe. “My name’s Bartholomew Dross. I’ve come from Hogwarts school of wizardry. I was trying to get to Nocturne Ally, but I must have taken a wrong turn… I’m sorry to disturb you, Alice.”
As he turned to go back into the fireplace, she stopped him by catching at the sleeve of his robe.
“No - don’t go! Wait… I might come with you. I’m rather intrigued… I’d like to learn some wizardry also. How do you travel through the fireplace?”
The young wizard stopped at once and turned to Alice, smiling gently.
“You need floo powder to do that Alice - let me give you some. I’d like to leave you with a little gift… something to remember me by. That is, if you won’t come with me now, back into the fireplace. Will you?”
Alice gazed in wonder at the little pot Bartholomew handed her - she opened it and stared at the white powder inside. And she felt quite breathless with excitement. “But what do I do? How does it work?” She demanded.
Bartholomew stood there in the fireplace gathering his wizards robes around him and holding out his hand towards Alice.
“It’s easy - won’t you come with me, and I’ll give you a practical demonstration of travelling in time and dimension. You’re not afraid?”
Alice shook her head and fearlessly took his hand.
“No, I’m not afraid,” she said, stepping over the fender beside him. “Lead the way!”
Stepping out onto the mantelpiece from a smoky shroud of the mirror, Alice hesitated for a moment; it was a long way down and she feared she might break something- either her own leg or perhaps one of the little moving creatures scattered on the carpet far below. So she clambered down, lowering herself carefully by degrees- taking care all the time that her feet should not make contact with the wriggling, squirming things along side. Bending down, she examined them- what could these things be? They didn’t exist on the other side of the mirror, that was for certain. Alice glanced into the fireplace and noticed the absence of any flames here- another thing that was changed in Looking-Glass House. She held one of the red squirming creatures in the palm of her hand and looked at it closely, bending so closely that the ends of her hair tickled her hand, as did the spiky points of the kings crown.
“Wait a moment! I recognise you… you’re the king, aren’t you?” Cried Alice, though she wasn’t quite certain if he would be able to hear or not… in this world, everything seemed different. The king continued to squirm, seeming more frightened then ever. “Please don’t be frightened- I won’t hurt you,” Alice reassured him, speaking as gently as she could. “It’s just that… I’m very surprised to see you alive and moving. As I’ve just seen you, your static on the chessboard… how can such a thing be true? My eyes must be deceiving me!”
Eventually the king found his voice and began to scream… it wasn’t a loud sound at all, more like a shrill whistling of a kettle. Never the less Alice wanted him to stop right away.
“Please don’t do that! Do you want me to drop you from such a height- I may break you- you must be quiet,” said Alice firmly, setting the chess piece down quickly on the edge of the fireplace. She watched the king sit down at once, regardless of the ashes around him. The red queen came hurrying up to him and tried to help him compose himself once more into a royal chess piece. Alice watched them distantly.
“This is a curious thing indeed! Moving chess pieces… I shall have to make a note of it in my Memorandum book right away, or else I shall forget it.” So saying, she took out her little book from the pocket of her pinafore and turned the pages carefully to that days space. Then she searched around for a pencil, for she was sure she had seen one in the original room… so surely it must be the same over here? Sure enough, eventually she found the pencil, - though it seemed to be a little changed, though she wasn’t quite sure exactly why. As she began to write in her book, she found the pencil felt quite heavy and difficult to control. She couldn’t work it out.
“What is going on? This pencil has a mind of it’s own… it seems to be writing all manner of things I don’t intend at all.” Eventually she laid the pencil down, and noticed there was something hanging on the end of it- another moving and wriggling chess piece of course, probably one of the pawns. Alice tried to shake it loose angrily.
“This really is too bad! Everything seems to be against me in this world… obviously Looking-Glass House is not meant for me. Perhaps I should go back through the mirror, and be done with these wriggling things.”
Still the pawn clung on to the end of Alice’s pencil, forcing it to move up and down the page to make random lines… or at least they seemed at first to be perfectly random though as Alice examined them they seemed to form some sort of shape…
Here's one of my many sketches of historical hero's, this time one of the greatest Romantic poets John Keats. I can remember actually copying this sketch from the cover of Keats' biography in about 1980, in my flat at Offerton, even though Andy says there's no date on it. Although I'm not generally a big liker of poetry, Keats is one chap who's poetry I do really admire and know quite a bit about - I did my BA dissertation on the poetry of Byron, Keats, and Shelley. If I remember rightly (it was many years ago) the title of this dissertation was The evil of sensuality in the poetry of Keats, Byron, and Shelley. Good title eh? I should have put my sketch on the cover, as I did with Wilde for my MA dissertation Reinventing Wilde a few years ago. The reason I like Keats' poetry so much is because it's so immediate and tangible - straight away you can feel it moving, taste it on your tongue and see the colours changing. I also think he had a Romantic tragic end - dieing of consumption on a boat on the way to Italy where he was hoping to make a recovery. He was only twenty-five when he died. I don't know anything about the original artist C A Brown, but I presume he was one of Keats' chums.
I found this painting in one of my art books about twenty-five years ago and decided to copy it, as the original is in a private collection.
This is one of my favorite Pre-Raphaelite reproductions, partly because I really like the original... The final phase of the Pre-Raphaelites have their own very distinct style, involving lots of rich colours. Also I was very pleased with the way my efforts turned out... Andy thinks it's better than Sidney Harold Meteyard's 1913 original! It's the dramatic colours I love most about this picture... they faithfully convey that feeling of dangerous dreaming. By the way the title is a quote from Tennyson's poem The Lady of Shalott.
Here follows my offering in response to the Writer's Islandtheme of 'The Blind Side' THE BLIND SIDE We were sitting in the park that summers evening, I remember; perhaps the sun was even gradually beginning to sink below the treetops, for time was getting on. Suddenly breaking off a constant stream of chatter, my friend turned to me and asked the Question. "How long have you been blind?" I stared at her blankly, both seeing and saying nothing. It seemed obscene - I've never thought of myself as being blind... the wind stirred the leaves around me quietly, and I tried to think of a suitable reply. "I don't know... maybe, seven years? I can't say anything more definitely sorry." But I can still see the light. I think I'll always be able to see the light... It means so much to me. The only way I can see the shape of a person is if they're standing in front of a window, blocking out the light - I see them as a negative, an absence of light. As I lost my sight, my other senses sharpened. For a few years now I've tried to teach myself the art of telling the colour of a flower by its smell, there is definitely an art to it which I'm still learning! But as long as I can still see the light glowing around the edges of the day, I'll still watch and imagine... for there, in my imagination, colours and dreams exist. Thank you.
Here follows my offering in response to the Writer's Islandtheme of ' The Key'. THE KEY The tiny figure of Alice stared up at the glass table towering way over her head, and frowned. So what the hell do I do now? she said to herself. All around her the darkness of the gloom of the underground tunnel yawned and smothered... the feint rustling of leaves shifting on the ground was just audible, though only just - it might easily have been her imagination. Behind her she was aware of the secret door in the wall of the tunnel... the secret door she was longing to open. It shone with a strange unreal brightness which seemed to come from nowhere Alice could see, and the brightness became golden, golden as a summer's afternoon. Still she frowned up at the key outlined, enticingly through the glass of the table as it was. That key must open the door... but how am I meant to reach it? thought Alice to herself, wondering over to the leg of the table. She looked at its slippery surface and touched the cold glass of it, weighing up the possibility of climbing up. She stood back and ran at it, jumping as high as she could and trying to cling to the glass legs, desperately clawing and trying to grip, but it was no good. She kept on slipping back down again and again, until finally she sat back on the ground, wiping the sweat from her face and feeling the long strand of her fair hair clinging to her forehead. Finally she laid down, staring up at the key, unreachable as it was. So what now? Alice thought to herself as she lay back and watched the key. Well... if I can't reach it physically, why not try a little mind control? I've often heard my father talk about such things... so why not give it a try now? So she stared at the keyandstared and stared, willing it to move ... to move just a little, just a little...the golden key,to the golden door.She could make it move, slowly but surely it inched across the glass table towards the edge. At last the keywas directly above her- she stared at it, not believing what she had just done. The powers of mind control! She lay on her back raising her arms to receive the gift from above... the golden key. For now it was hanging half over the edge of the glass table, and was swaying on the exact point of balance... still Alice stared up at it, feeling slightly proud. What do I do when it hits me? It'll kill me! Alice thought to herself. But could not move, as she watched numbly the key tipped and began to fall slowly towards her.
If you'd like to read more of my work, I'm currently serialising my novel The Spark on this Weblog and would welcome your comments on it.
The scene is suitably set, with an appropriately bland backdrop of depressing Old Trafford, Manchester…
Fran’s atmospherically charged retrospective recollections serve, not only to mix Sex with Religion to great effect, but also to expose the ‘anarchistic’ tendencies of Punk-era attitudes, for what they really were… distractions from the apathetic existence of a bored generation, whose virulent indifference to authority had taken root, flourished and spread, to Teen, and middle-age Wastelands alike.
The (larger-than-life…?) characters are illustrated to surreal perfection in this metaphor-laden, irreverent frolic through the ironies that spawned this ‘Dry Rot’ – most notably, Fran’s sexually confused (or confident…?) ‘Mentor’, Mary – quite contrary…and whose ‘garden’ grows… well… in both directions… conceiving a devil that, ultimately, foils the best laid plans for revenge, despite claiming two (or is it three…or even four…?) victims in the process.
THE RELUCTANT VAMPIRE I've actually just rediscovered this novel in 2011 after originally writing it before Dry Rot. The main character is very similar to Francis in Dry Rot; like her, she is a restless teenager searching for a new experience. When she meets Thomas the enigmatic reluctant vampire and gradually uncovers his life story, she becomes absolutely besotted by him. However, when her friends hear about her charismatic new friend, they don't believe it and in fact she gets sent eventually to a psychiatrist. The eccentric Doctor Lloyd-Jones is intrigued by Alison's stories and wants to meet Thomas himself - but Alison refuses. This is a wonderful tale, set in Timperley. This novel will be available on the internet shortly.
DRY ROT This was one of my first complete novels, written originally in the early 80’s. It is still my personal favourite - it combines black humour with an attack on religious hypocrisy. The central character is 17 year old Frances, who is sent to stay with her Uncle Robert who is a catholic priest. Uncle Robert has just had his leg amputated because of cancer - his own visible form of decay, also seen in the dry rot which is attacking his church. Frances is a typically restless teenager; she longs for experience both sexual and otherwise… so she is easily charmed by the exotic transvestite, Mary. He encourages her to lead her uncle into temptation… is the only way forward to purify the decay by fire?
KILLING TIME Written originally in the mid 80’s and re-written in 1991, this novel is more ambitious than Dry Rot - involving two different times co-existing simultaneously. The contemporary part is set in East London; the heroine is Louise who is becoming troubled by feelings of being overtaken by someone else’s spirit. She meets the mysterious Guy Saint, a psychic medium who is very interested in her experiences. Meanwhile in Victorian London (1888), Oscar Wilde and his friend Robbie Ross talk of “Killing Time”; in the background there lurks the Whitechapel Murderer, who moves closer towards Louise…
THE TURN OF THE CENTURY PARTY This is a political and historical novel; it is based on factual events and involves real characters as well as fictional ones! Set in Paris in the 1890’s, the main characters are Michel and Emile both of whom are committed anarchists. After planting a bomb which kills several people, Emile is eventually caught and guillotined. Michel is totally devastated by his death, and plants a bomb at a busy hotel before leaving the country for England. Although he longs to return to Paris, he knows that to do so he will have to be in disguise...
MRS JOHNSON’S CAVALIER My fourth novel was written in 1998/99, and was partly a practice-run for me to get used to my newly acquired computer! Although it is set in modern times, this novel also used history; Mr and Mrs Johnson are both obsessed by the 17th Century and belong to an organisation in which they can play the part of being Cavaliers and Ladies. Annie Johnson is a teacher of History at South Trafford College in Manchester and among her students is Caroline, who is also fascinated by her teacher’s enthusiasm. She attends a 17th Century Dance with them, where everybody is dressed up in their finest lace and silk – including Robert Johnson. In the present day he remains a very ordinary chap; irritating and insensitive, but as a Cavalier he is someone else completely, someone who’s dashing, elegant and charming. Not surprisingly, Caroline falls for the Cavalier. The book has been published by RAWPRINTZ, and is still available on demand.
CAMP MARY This is the sequel to Dry Rot, set in the year 2000. Having been in and out of various mental institutes, Frances has finally tried to make the break and return to normal society and to Old Trafford. Near to the site where the dry rot church once stood she discovers a warehouse, where the mysterious Camp Mary is situated; though the sand, sun and sea are all artificial, the tents are not… and neither are the customers who pay for an unusual weekend break. Frances is amazed to discover that the site is run by her old friend Mary, who has cut his hair short and has taken to wearing suits. Once again Frances is drawn to his strangeness – but she also becomes entangled with the more conventional love triangle. Both of these have disastrous consequences…
WORK IN PROGRESS - THE SPACE BETWEEN (the trilogy) When I began work on this project in 2005, it was going to be a trilogy - but now I'm not so sure! I have already finished a first draft of the first novel The Spark, and I'm now nearing the end of the second which is also entitled The Space Between. The original idea behind the trilogy grew out of my studies at University about Wilde. My imagination was captured when I read about the disappearance of one of Wilde's short stories at the time of his arrest, and then its subsequent reappearance in America twenty one years later. I was intrigued by the fact that there was such a large space in between in which nothing definite is known about the missing manuscript... The space beckoned enticingly to me, and I just had to fill it with my own mixture of history and fiction. You can read extracts from the novel The Space Between in my Monthly Online Newsletter Raw Meat THE SPARK Part of the story is set in Whitechapel East London, involving one of my own fictional characters Harriet who is a prostitute - the novel opens in 1889 with the birth of her son Jack - who Harriet names after Jack the ripper... see my novel Killing Time for more. Another thread of The Spark is set in West London and is based around the artistic partnership of Charles Ricketts and Shannon - their original idea of setting up their publishing company The Vale Press; and also their various friends which included both Oscar Wilde himself and his close friend Robbie Ross. As the years progressed, Wilde's short story The Portrait of Mr WH is written but never published, Ricketts thinking it too dangerous a subject for The Vale Press to handle. Meanwhile in Whitechapel, Harriet leaves the brothel to live with her friend Emma, - whose son Freddy has become a good friend with Jack. CRITIQUE Since completing the first draft I don't feel happy enough with it to be able to go ahead and publish it myself - therefore I would greatly appreciate any comments or suggestions you can make. I'm including with each extract (that I post on this weblog) my own comments and criticisms of it. THE SPACE BETWEEN (the novel) Although I was originally quite sure that this novel would be the second part of a trilogy, I think that almost having completed it, I'm having second thoughts about how much further to take the original idea. So far the novel continues directly from where The Spark left off with the death of Wilde in Paris. Meanwhile in Kensington, Harriet is working as a maid in the house of Robbie Ross. Ross becomes friendly with Jack's friend Freddy - which provokes Jack. Sensing her son's dislike of Ross, Harriet steals the manuscript and leaves his house for the Freedom Press in Whitechapel where Jack has been living with his new friend Georges. Following Wilde's death Ricketts publishes his friends story as a final tribute to him and also as a special bond with Shannon, to show their commitment to each other.
FRIEDREICH’S ATAXIA The disease that I have is called Friedreich’s Ataxia, a progressive condition that affects the nervous system. For much of my younger life I allowed the fact that I was in Ziggy to affect me as little as possible; I lived alone, I went to London for a few years, I took a BA at Polytechnic, I went to Transylvania… I did all the usual crazy things people do! Several things happened around the same time at the beginning of the 90’s… I moved in with Andy and had Jack.
SENSELESS? It was when Jack was a baby that I first began to have problems with my eyesight, which had never really given me trouble before. I think I realised right away that the disease had chosen to attack my senses, for my hearing also has become deficient in recent years. I had to give up using a word processor to write, when it became impossible for me to read what was written on the screen. My imagination, however, is still active and raring to go!! But seriously, the loss of my eyesight has been the most difficult thing for me to come to terms with, because I was an artist as well as a writer, and it meant the end of my painting and sketching. Thankfully, this interest in art has been passed on to Jack, so it’s not dead! But still, the deterioration of two of my senses presented problems not only with writing but also reading…
UNIVERSITY Recently I took an MA in English Studies at Manchester University, which I enjoyed! I needed to prove to myself and to others that I was still capable of achieving such a thing. It wasn’t just a question of a piece of paper saying I had passed, but it was a continual battle against people’s embarrassment and ignorance. Still, my MA was a success, and so my life continues into the 21st century, with new targets to be achieved and improvements to be made always.
Although RAW MEAT was originally begun as a response to continual rejections from publishers it has become much more than a method of advertising; the past ten years have been pretty traumatic for me with the loss of my sight and RAW MEAT has become an important means of communication for me! Through this I have retained my sanity by discussing things going on around me in my life: Andy and Jack, my crazy helpers, books I’m reading, music I’ve been listening to and anything else exciting I’ve been doing! That includes of course my own writing, which will always be at the centre of my life. Many people have asked where the title for my Newsletter came from; Raw Meat was one of the first unfinished novels I wrote many years ago. I thought the best thing about the novel was the title and so… it was eye-catching, that was the thing! RAW MEAT was originally Andy’s idea; he thought it would be a good way to publicise my work. The Newsletter began life in 1999 and it’s still going strong today! In RAW MEAT I have been serialising various stories from The Ziggy Collection, and also Killing Time, The Turn of the Century Party, Camp Mary and With An Axe. As well as writing the editorial, which gives an insight into my own life and what’s been happening each month. I also keep readers up to date with my own work in progress – at the moment this is The Space Between - which is also the name of the entire trilogy, as well as being the title of the second novel – I include extracts from this novel as I write them. I have already completed the first draft of the first novel The Spark. This section of the newsletter is called RAW MATERIALS, and in it I describe the process of writing, as it happens. Also appearing in RAW MEAT are occasional contributions from my son Jack, who has his own page. Andy also writes a column called Urban Scrawl.
SKIN Skin was written in 1989, for a competition run by BBC TV; I decided to try my hand at a new form of writing… and was astounded by the results! The ideas behind Skin are various, though it is largely about the breakdown of communication between people. My first thought was always with the visual effects, the way that this tearing of skin could be used metaphorically on screen. This short TV script was originally published by the BBC, in an anthology of the Debut On Two, competition winners. Although Skin was amongst the chosen six it was never televised, but it has been published once again by Geoff Barton in Ten Short Plays, which was used on the school syllabus. It has also been published by RAWPRINTZ, together with an introduction by myself, and is still available as an on demand title.
REINVENTING WILDE My obsession with Oscar Wilde inspired me to produce a dissertation for my MA in English Studies, which I took at Manchester University in 2001 – 2004. Although I knew that the subject would be Wilde, I wasn’t sure of the exact title until I began writing… Reinventing Wilde grew naturally out of historical facts to become almost a work of fiction itself. Writing each chapter was very exciting, combining fact and fiction, the Victorian age and modern interpretation, to create something quite new. Amongst the modern interpretations I concentrated on, were Saint Oscar by Terry Eagleton, The Last Testament of Oscar Wilde by Peter Ackroyd, the film Wilde with Stephen Fry, Who Was That Man? by Neil Bartlett… and not forgetting my own novels Killing Time and The Turn of the Century Party! I was very pleased with the result, and have made my dissertation available not only to Wilde freaks but to anyone interested in his life, not only his plays! My favourite chapter is Wilde in Fiction, which seems to lead directly into my latest project on which I am currently working, The Space Between. Extracts from this (the second novel in my work-in-progress-trilogy) are currently being posted in my Newsletter RAW MEAT. I have already completed the first novel of this trilogy The Spark - which is currently being serialised in Without Boundaries. The chapter from my dissertation (Wilde in Fiction) was published in January 2007 in The Wildean, which is the official journal of The Oscar Wilde Society. By the way, I passed my MA.And Reinventing Wilde is still available from me as a RAWPRINTZ publication.
THEcompleteZIGGY COLLECTION This collection of tales are directly autobiographical! They were not written chronologically – in fact I only decided to collect these short stories together a couple of years ago. They cover different episodes in my life; there is one about my son, Jack, another about my childhood in Stockport, another about my years spent in London. Although the story Sightless, which concentrates on how I have dealt with the loss of my eyesight over the past years, was going to be the final story, I didn’t want to end the collection on such a note. I added a final fictional story, Second Sight- which shows that the imagination always wins in the end!The publication of these stories marked a completely new venture for me into autobiography – which I had previously avoided like the plague! But people reacted so positively towards the stories when they appeared in RAW MEAT, that I was encouraged to publish them as The completeZiggy Collection…which is now available from my publisher RAWPRINTZ as an E-Book on CD-ROM. The price is a minimum donation of only £2.99 in the UK to charity, and all the proceeds go directly to the Manchester Ataxia Branch. To order your copy (with a beautiful cover, illustrated by my Dad, C J Batty) please email me onnicbat3963@aol.comMY FILM SCRIPTS: DRY ROT and WITH AN AXE – My initial success with Skin encouraged me to produce further film scripts, which have received positive feedback from the BBC - so far! I wrote With An Axe in 2003; I have been fascinated by the tale of Lizzy Borden’s axe murders in the 1890s for many years, and always thought that they would make an excellent visual piece. Although the BBC found my script "too literary" I am still keen to publish it myself. (Which I will do one day). From this script I went on to write a full-length film script adaptation of one of my novels, Dry Rot. I was very pleased with the result and hope to go on to write more film scripts in the future! Dry Rot the novel has now been published on CD-ROM as an E-Book by RAWPRINTZ, and I have included the film script version as an extra bonus.
Welcome to Raw Mart - Sorry, this section is under construction, please call back soon or e-mail me for book sales nicbat3963@aol.com Thanks Nicola Batty
MY WRITING Throughout my childhood in Cheadle Hulme, I was always writing; I completed my first novel Flash the Robin (fully illustrated!) when I was about ten, and ever since then I have gone from strength to strength. In more recent years I have written seven novels and a collection of short stories; they are all quite different from each other - science fiction, black humour, historical subjects, fantasy, and even religion! Although I consider the novel to be the natural form for formal writing today, I have recently turned my attention to film and TV scripts. One of my TV scripts Skin was actually published by the BBC several years ago in an anthology called Debut On Two, and then it was published again by Longman’s in Ten Short Plays - which was used on the school curriculum, so school kids throughout the country have studied Skin!
RAWPRINTZ After many disappointments concerning publishers letting me down, I decided to take the initiative by joining forces with my partner, Andy; together we set up RAWPRINTZ to publish my work, ourselves. Andy has given me constant support and encouragement along the way. The name of our company came from my Newsletter RAW MEAT, as I use the Newsletter to advertise and talk about my work (for more details about RAW MEAT see below). We recently published a collection of my short stories called The complete Ziggy Collection, which is available as an E-Book on CD-ROM (see below). We have also published my first novel, Dry Rot in this same format.
ZIGGY Over the past few years I have been writing several autobiographical short stories, which have been collected together to form The complete Ziggy Collection which is now available from me – the price is £2.99 and all money will go directly to the Manchester Ataxia Branch. Ziggy is the name of my wheelchair; I originally named him when I was really into David Bowie. I was just about seventeen then, and have been through many Ziggies since that date, but the name has stuck!
