Seren and the New Mabinogion

Seren have commissioned a series of books from Welsh writers, the first two being White Ravens by Owen Sheers and The Ninth Wave by Russell Celyn Jones. I'm elated, obsessed with the Mabinogion as I am, but also frustrated.

Seren should have commissioned me to write my version of Blodeuwedd. It's contemporary, gay, urban; everything Welsh Publishing houses seem to like at the moment. I've got any amount of short stories, poems, experimental fiction and plays - all of which I've been told are too experimental, too urban to be published. No one wants to take risks. The one lead I have is an editor said he wanted to read a novel based on Geraint and Nathalie, after reading a few short stories about them. They are my favourite characters to write about; I've been writing about them for so long that they wrote their own stories now, it's like I just write down the exploits of two friends that I'm growing older with. Great though they are, and fun as they are to write - they are the stories most rooted in the real world. I wish it was the 50s and I was a beat writer. I wish the editor had asked to read about Nathalie and Geraint living in Antiville, my bleak near-future Welsh city. I wish I had more time to write the Geraint novel, or that someone would publish a collection of stories if I promised to write the Geraint novel afterwards. Get me and my angst. It's like being fifteen again.
I read contemporary fiction, and a lot of it frustrates and depresses me. How the hell did that get published? And conversely, why did no one buy this book?

I'm setting myself some deadlines. I want to write the Geraint novel by end of March 2010. Parthian are calling for submissions. I need a binding contract, something spiritual I can use. I will write my testament and seal it inside a beloved book and only open it when I have finished writing my novel. Which book to use?

Off at a tangent again. I love the idea of a New Mabinogion, I absolutely love it - but I am worried that the Blodeuwedd story will be ruined. It won't be as good as mine.

Placename

I've been wanting to write about a place similar to where I grew up - as a nod to Dylan Thomas' Under Milk Wood, and to expand on ideas I had about Antiville - but I wanted to come up with a place name as fantastic as Llareggub. So I spent ages coming up with a name: Llameddcyff. if you read it backwards (in a Welsh accent), it serves the purpose beautifully.

Antiville (lite)

The pain ills.
We take the pills
ingnore the thrills.
This time the cars crash
the lights flash.
We all go down.
We all go down
in the end.

CARDINAL VIRTUES/CARDINAL SIN (Extract from Antiville)

I've decided to write more about Debzel and Chlorina. This is a little insight into their relationship, and some kind of Town Hall-funded initiative.

The lesser moon was visible behind the gently smoking chimneys of the industrial park, but the main moon had not yet risen; its slow curve into the sky did not begin for another hour or so. Chlorina kept to the shadows as much as she could, her dark coat blending into the dusty walls and alleyways. Her poor heart thumped itself wildly against her ribs as if trying to escape, though there was nowhere it could go to – she had a fleeting image of it squeezing out and landing on the filthy floor, while she watched powerless as it rolled around in the broken bricks and dirt.
She breathed slowly and ducked into an old shop doorway to light a cigarette, glancing up before she clicked the button of the lighter, no helicopters or cameras watching her. The lighter had been a gift from Deb, for her birthday two days ago. Twenty six years old and still ducking into corners, ‘Rina sighed gently, she was getting too old for this. This was a teenagers’ game, they healed much faster.