Authors Electric

  When would no blog have been better than a cobbled-together effort? You may be about to find out… Spring is about to be sprung, so here’s a hare prose poem:    Hare THE FIELD SPARKLES WITH LATE FROST. In the shadow of the hedge, the leveret crouches low, as brown as the earth that cradles her. Sharp eyes watch for her, sharp ears listen for her, sharp noses twitch to sniff her out. She knows nothing of teeth and talons, nothing of snares and guns and cutting blades. She knows only to be still in her shallow scoop. AS THE FIRST STARS RISE, there is a low thrumming on the air; her mother’s call. She is washed to rid her of the scent that could betray her, filled with warm sweet milk, left alone to the night and stillness once again.   MAY BLOSSOM PERFUMES THE HEDGEROW. Her mother’s call does not come. When the moon rises, hunger nips her. She cleans her fur, creeps from the shadow of the hedge into the field.   She crops the soft, low grass shoots. ...

Arthur Koestler once said that we should never be surprised by coincidence.  Indeed, we should be seriously worried about living in a world in which coincidence never happens.  Quite a number of significant coincidences with far-reaching effects have erupted into my life over the years. Here’s one which - though perhaps not quite of Premiership status but certainly at least League 1 level - occurred since my last blog. So, before starting part 2 of my publishing experience, I’d like to share it with you.  Last time, I went into more detail than I had intended about the circumstances of the publication of my very first book, Three Towneley Plays in 1962.  I hadn’t particularly thought about them or the book for many years but I really enjoyed revisiting them in the blog.   Later on, I did several more translations of Miracle Plays from Middle English which remained stubbornly unpublished.  Someone recently asked to see them, possibly with a view...