Beware tonight’s SUPERMOON!

A supermoon changed my life.

I have a vivid memory of when I was little, probably around seven years old, watching The Great Escape on TV on a Sunday teatime when my mother vomited in her lap. She retched and retched, wet eyes bulging, the remains of the pork dinner consumed earlier resting in her pinny.

She threw the butty she’d been eating to the floor and hurried away, clutching her dripping pinny and spitting and gagging as she went. My two brothers and I were truly terrified, as Dad ran after her.


It turned out my older sister was to blame.

The butty was egg and cress, made by Isabel’s loving hands, a butty meant for me but she got the plates mixed up. Isabel enjoyed the fact that nothing made her squeamish, and so did her three not-so-brave brothers when it came to spiders in the bathtub, Isabel always on-hand with a scrunched up wad of loo roll. She liked the big harvesters best because `they make a pop when you squidge them`.

`This cress is a bit crunchy,` Mum had said on the first bite.

`And it tastes a bit off . . . acidy,` she said as she chewed the second.

When something got stuck between her teeth, and she picked out a hairy spider’s leg with the nail of her pinky – that’s about when the puking started.

`It was meant for Johnny,` Isabel wailed half an hour later as Dad stood before her with the remains of the butty opened to reveal at least ten dead harvester spiders squashed among the egg and cress.

That was when I too was sick – on the living room carpet – one big whoosh and splatter. My brothers followed suit and poor Mum was off somewhere scrubbing her mouth out with Fairy Liquid.

Mum later learned that the moon that day had been a supermoon and that’s where the blame was placed for Isabel’s antics. Though she did get three whacks of the belt across her backside and was never allowed to make tea again.

That was fifty years ago.

Since then I have developed a certain routine when it comes to spiders. I check everything. I check under my pillow and inside the sheets before getting into bed. I look down the tubes of loo rolls and kitchen rolls just in case. I lift the toilet seat before sitting. I tap out my shoes before putting them on. And, of course, I always study the contents of a sandwich before eating it.

For fifty years.

The total time I’ve spent checking for arachnids probably adds up to at least a whole week, and it was time well spent. I once found a spider under my pillow. It was only 3mm in diameter, but still, the smaller the easier to fit in my ear.

I also found a termite in a loo roll once, about thirty years ago, so all in all the week of my life dedicated to checking for spiders has been well worth it. At least until this morning.

Why did I never ever, in all this time, think to check my toothbrush? When something stuck in my teeth I knew it would be a bristle. Right? Wrong. I tried to spit it away and it came loose on the third spit. One solitary spider leg lay among my spittle in the sink. I could see the fine hairs. I gagged, looked at the toothbrush and saw another two legs poking from the frothed-up bristles. I carefully rinsed the froth away and saw the rest of the spider tucked in among the bristles. I could even see some of its eyes. Then a leg moved. I dropped the brush into the basin and immediately hurled on top of it.

Images of my mother scrubbing her mouth out with Fairy Liquid came flooding back as I retched and retched. It has taken me three hours to stop shaking enough to be able to write this down. I know I will not brush my teeth again for at least a fortnight, and my NEW brush will be in a sealed bag and will be examined carefully before each use.

Of course, none of this is true (well, maybe some of it but I’m not saying which bits), it was in fact an exercise in moon control.

A few weeks ago I blogged about the pull of the full moon, about how it effects our ocean’s tides and perhaps, with us being made up of at least 75% water, even our inner tides could be at risk of being pulled out of sync.

But pulled enough to be changed into a wolf? Or to commit some act of lunacy?

Or for the creative muse to gain exciting new spidery legs?

Today, not only is our moon full, but it is a SUPERMOON.

A supermoon occurs when our moon is closest to us as it makes its orbit. It appears bigger in the sky by around 16% and it shines some 30% brighter.

Some procrastinators blame supermoons for natural disasters.

Riotous behaviour, unrest, and psychopathic tendencies also manifest as a result of the supermoon’s glaring effect.

Sheer lunacy?

There is no proof either way, but you can have fun with writerly experiments.

Today, drink three pints of water extra to your usual intake, a tidal gift to the moon, a teasing bait to come and fiddle with your inner tides. Once the day grows dark and the supermoon is all bright and shiny, remove all your clothes in a rough and snarly fashion and walk on all fours around the garden, noting any unusual wolfy feelings, and ask the moon to spark your writerly muse.

Let me know how you get on.

Also let me know if you check for spiders, or if you’ve ever put something in your mouth that should never have been put there.

Happy howling!


On connecting with your writing muse.

For six days a week I sit at the computer editing the wonderful stories of otherminds. On the seventh day I write for me. A whole day dedicated to the WIP and my own crazy mind.

To maximise production (and prevent writer’s block) I do as much prepping via thought as I can, either whilst emptying the dog, or when falling into dreamland. Storylines meander, scenes form, theme-related ideas pounce from every corner, and I jot them down and email them to myself so that when my day of writing arrives I’m ready to rock n roll with a week’s worth of ideas.

Yesterday, I took the Olster to a place we hadn’t been to since last August, when temperatures were often hitting 90. But now, mud, thick mud, floods, puddles streaking everywhere that gravity pulled them. And it was cold, foggy and deserted. But the Olster needs his runs so the partially flooded car park with raised islands of green seemed to be the best option. No cars. No other signs of life bar two squirrels, a magpie and rather large rabbit.

So, there was I, wanging the ball for the Olster again and again, in the miserable wet and cold, pondering the string possibilities for a paedophile priest, when it happened: that flare from the muse, sudden and bright and the images appeared in my mind and came to life without any direction from me. And the best of it all, the idea gifted was not for my own writing but for another mind, a novel I’m currently editing, a scene that the author is a little stuck on what to do with.

Warmed generously by this sudden visitation, eager to get home and email said stuck author, on the way back to the car a second flare exploded… a possible addition to another scene for said author.

Sometimes, the muse is obdurate, other times he plays along with a little effort from self, but occasionally he does all the work and shoots up that flare like a rocket and it explodes in your mind, a beautiful gift from within.


I only wish I could have more rockets. Even one a day would be nice.

How often do you get flares from your muse?

Can you make ‘em happen? Cajole them along? Wheedle them out?

Pray tell.

Beware the Moon

Tonight, our moon will be a full one … at least it will be above my bit of planet. Our moon pulls our tides back and forth as Earth rotates. During a full moon, the high tides become higher and the low tides lower. It is argued by some that, because we humans are made up of up to 75% water (or wine in my case), the moon will also tug at our liquidity, bringing us our own highs and lows, often resulting in acts of lunacy when the moon is full and its tug most powerful.


Some police forces increase staffing levels around full moons to cope with the increase in human altercations.

Some hospitals recognise the same increased staffing needs in A&E, and some club owners will chuck an extra heavy on the door when the howlers are out in force.

Some corporations will not schedule important meetings or make important decisions when the moon is in its harshest influential state.

Some. Not all.

Not all believe the full moon has an effect on animal behaviour, and there is as yet no conclusive proof either way.

As my kids grew up, I noticed a change in their behaviour when the moon was full. They’d be more boisterous, more argumentative, easier to provoke, easier to explode into tears at the smallest of things. Even today, if one of the brats is going out for a moonlit night on the tiles, or is travelling, or attending an important meeting, they’ll be advised to `beware the moon` and they will nod knowingly as they walk out the door.


Within myself, when the moon shines brightest, I sometimes feel a kind of inner pressure on the mind which makes me want to tear my skull open and turn into a wolf and ravage people (not really but you get the point). If I’m writing on a full moon, it feels as if the muse has dropped acid and is doing the fandango and I can barely keep up as my imagination orchestrates multidinous riots.

So, what about you? Do you beware the moon? Do you feel it, use it? Or is it just a load of baloney?






Writer’s Dreams – Writer’s Nightmares

I dream some weird stuff, some of which has been used in my writing over the years. A couple of months ago, for example, I dreamed of a trapdoor where beneath lay waiting evil. In the dream the image looked the trapdoor in Evil Dead with the scary demon cackling from it. But here was no demon, only a curse in the guise of a promise. I could not see it but I could hear it – the charlatan voice. The dream gave me ideas, now incorporated in my WIP.evil


Last week, this dream was short, a few seconds, a snapshot, of my hands holding open a client’s book (currently WIP). On the page a secret message was revealed, its potential for viral enormous. I told my client next morning. Watch this space.


But last night the dream was particularly scary; I was writing a new book with an infamous co-author: Peter Sutcliffe AKA the Yorkshire Ripper. He was fat, wrinkled, his eyes black and empty. Recalling the dream ran me cold.


Perhaps I should attempt channelling, I thought later, but then wasn’t Sutcliffe mates with Jimmy Saville? Last thing I want is a Saville-based nightmare. Do you have writerly dreams?