JULY - and NO DAY WITHOUT A LINE by Penny Dolan

There’s little writing angst with this first of July post, as I am still in a ‘What I did in my Holidays’ kind of mood - so do grab a cup of tea or coffee or whatever and read on.

Over the last four weeks, my life has been unusually blissful,  mainly because, for a few days, we met up – yes, person to person, in real life, in one and the same place – with the lovely people in our family and with time to be with each other: to sit, walk, talk, wander about, be with or away from each other when needed, as well as sharing a few meals together, from simple to splendid. Online contact, when you’re miles and oceans apart, can be fine but this patch of time together, feet on the same ground, was so much better.

The imminent sociability, I felt, meant stepping away from the drama-studio-black ‘uniform’ and becoming a different self for a while. I spent money on showy-off clothes, and I enjoyed wearing those showy-off clothes too because they felt totally necessary for an elegant Afternoon Tea and an important gathering or two. Not my usual life at all, but such very lovely fun. What will you wear? A jade green silk kimono decorated with cranes? How wonderful! A pink and orange over-shirt printed with lemons, oranges, a message across the back and large lobster? Yes, please, and with a smile!

Additionally, there was gadding about. I swanned across to the V&A for the Schiaparelli exhibition, in the company of a friend who knew about seams and fit and tailoring. During the pre and post WWII years, Madam Elsa designed stylish clothes that fitted women’s bodies and lives, adding touches of trademark pink and surrealism. However, Daniel Roseberry, Maison Schiaparelli’s present designer, seemed to me to see bodies as structures underpinning his impressively fantastic designs. Though these outfits would create impact at award ceremonies, on red carpet occasions and for the camera’s glass eye, none, for me, had the practical ease of the original designs. Slightly personally, I noticed that, as well as her richly embroidered jackets and shoe-shaped hats, Elsa went in for rather a lot of black in her designs too, as well as that Dali lobster, of course. Not so unfashionable?

Afterwards, out in the central courtyard, visitors sought ice cream and shadows and young children paddled and splashed in the long sunlit pool. What a delight! How empty and unfriendly that area had been when I first visited the V&A, decades before. What a good thing it is that museums and galleries are more welcoming now!

Another day of gadding took me to Tate Britain and the James McNeill Whistler exhibition. I knew little about JMW, other than his painted ‘Mother’, so how and why had that particular artist (1834-1903) become a ‘name’?

Whistler, an American, had an impact beyond his individual works and paintings: using ‘soupy’ paint and a freer style of brushwork, Whistler created an early impressionistic style of painting. Later, his atmospheric nocturnes of the foggy Thames had a role in bringing French artists to his riverside studio and the Chelsea area. Whistler’s argumentative nature led to rows with once-friends and donors - a sound recording and a video are part of the exhibition - and a controversial libel case against the art critic Ruskin, led to Whistler’s eventual bankruptcy. The kind of personality that creates headlines in the art world.

Art did not seem to make him kind. Whistler insisted an eleven-year-old model pose seventy times for a particular portrait. Now, when I see that painting, I wonder how much that poor girl earned - and must find out. As ever, with exhibitions, you go in and learn more, yet come away knowing too little. But I definitely did not want to carry the exhibition catalogue around with me all weekend. I’ll find out more, somehow, once I’m home.


By contrast, Hurvin Anderson’s huge canvases at Tate Britain brought bright sunlight, dark shadow and vibrant Jamaican foliage into the dark gallery space, some views veiled by bead curtains, painted grids or leaf patterns, all contrasting with the muted tones of his domestic and London shop interiors.

A day or two later, I called into Tate Modern to see Tracey Emin’s retrospective ‘A Second Life’ in real, before-me life. Some of her early items, seen before only as reproductions, were revealed as fabric-based. Her huge posters were large blankets, the bold statements spelt out in blocks of stitched-on felt lettering, and the smaller, mostly hand-written notes and statements sewn individually on to the giant collage. Elsewhere, and close-up, I discovered that the loosely-running lines of some large nude studies were created not by pen or paint, but by runs of black thread stitches. I had not linked Emin to ‘embroidery’ before, but there was stitchery there, among all the pain and rage, part of the impact of her work and personality on the 20C art world.

By way of contrast, my last gadding was a long-promised trip into the Kent countryside, to revisit that most beautiful of places, Sissinghurst Castle Garden. With this year’s weather, the roses were no more than crumpled heads of dry petals but the famous White Garden, full of plants and flowers, was at its ‘very best for years’, or so I overheard. We climbed the narrow stairs, up past Vita Sackville-West’s writing room, to the very top of the Tower and looked out. There was the wide and seemingly still tree-covered Kentish Weald, fading, as if in a story, away into the misty blue distance.

Then, of course, I came back north, and home, filled with a good many memories, and a buzz of questions to follow up. All the gadding about was an apt reminder of the need, in ordinary as well as at special times, to make time and space for the work of ‘filling the well.’
Now, if you have got this far, thank you for reading, and here is the explanation of today’s post’s title. 

The JMW show displayed several of sketch books and quantities of small etchings and prints, making it clear that the artist was in the habit of drawing, of making art constantly, wherever he was. Among his writing, is a phrase that the gallery had on display, high across one wall, almost as an introduction to his philosophy:

‘ NO DAY WITHOUT A LINE ’

The quote is an old one, first recorded by Pliny the Elder about a Greek artist, but the words have since been adopted and adapted by other artists, musicians, writers and more.  To me, the quote could easily be ‘no day without a line of words?’ 

Words - but does that mean writing? Or reading, possibly? Or both?

Whichever, whatever, have fun during July. With a bit of gadding about, too?


Penny Dolan

ps. Writing this post, I suddenly remembered A,S. Byatt’s ‘The Children’s Book’, a huge novel loosely inspired by the troubled family lives of Edith Nesbit and others within the Fabian Society, the Arts and Crafts Movement and the early years of the V&A museum. Must search my shelves! (Pub 2009)

Star by Star Keeps Shining -- Sheena Wilkinson

It hasn't been the jolliest of years, publishing-wise. In 2025 I had two books out within three months -- True Friends at Fernside, and Miss McVey Takes Charge, so it's probably natural that this year should be a time of building things up again. I've always wanted to be a writer contracted to publish a book a year -- that would fit my natural book-producing rhythm very nicely, but so far that's eluded me, and my publishing career looks more like this: 2010, 2012, 2013, 2015 (2); 2017 (2); 2020; 2023; 2024; 2025 (2). (I THINK that adds up to 12!) I suppose, written down, it looks regular enough, but every single one of those books represents a one-book deal, so I have always lived with uncertainty. 

From 10 to 57 ... 

This year has been devoted to editing a book I finished more than a year ago -- when I say finished, I don't mean rough first draft; I mean I THOUGHT it was great! My agent disagreed, I realised she was right, and for months I have been making it a very different and much better book. I love the story and the characters and, on a good day, I know it's as strong as anything I've written, and hopefully better. 

it's taking its time to get right ... 

But not all days are good days. And not all good books are published. And not all good published books sell enough to keep publishers happy. Sometimes we need a wee boost. 

Star by Star, 2017 

My boost came last month thanks to my very first publisher. Little Island have published seven of my books, which means over half my output, and this year they have reissued Star by Star (2017) in a gorgeous new cover, with a brand new foreword from me. I was delighted, of course, and imagined the book would just slip out quietly. After all, though it was always far and away my most successful book, it was first published nine years ago. And sometimes even brand new books come out with very little fanfare at all. 

Star by Star, 2026 

But Star by Star's new edition has had a blog tour and been featured in promotions and a radio interview: the attention has given me that little shot of adrenalin that writers -- or this writer at any rate -- need to keep our spirits up. And it reminded me that readers don't really care how old a book is; they want a good story. 

                                                      

I hope, readers and writers, that something happens this month to give YOU that wee boost -- whatever that might look like for you. May your star keep shining brightly too. 

The Polar Bear and the Butterfly

 APOLOGY

I missed my day for the blog yesterday. Completely forgot about, as I'm currently deep in revisions of a new story. So by way of apology, here's a short chapter from that story. I hope to resume normal service next month.

(Syl is escorting five wolves through a strange English landscape and has just struggled across a river with them.)

The Polar Bear and the Butterfly

For a few seconds, nobody moved.

The wolves stared at the polar bear. The polar bear stared back at the wolves. Syl, hardly daring to breathe, watched them both. She cast a quick glance behind her, wondering whether she’d be able to fling herself into the water if the bear attacked.

But the bear didn’t attack.

Instead, it took a cautious step forward and lowered its head to sniff the scent of the wolves. The wolves sniffed back. Dot was the first to move. Ears pricked, she crept towards the bear until their noses were almost touching. The rest of the pack then gathered around her and all four took turns almost touching noses. That done, they sank down on their stomachs and turned their attention to a new arrival.

It was a butterfly, and it fluttered out from the bushes to circle lazily in the air above the polar bear’s head. The bear watched it for a moment or two before, just as lazily, rearing up on its hind legs and raising its two enormous front paws on either side of the insect.

With its right paw, the bear gave the softest of taps… and pushed the insect sideways. Then it gave another gentle tap with its left paw and moved it back the way it had come.

Syl was mesmerised. The bear was playing with the butterfly. Not the way a cat plays with a mouse before eating it, but playing for fun. For pleasure. And the butterfly seemed to be playing too. There couldn’t be any other explanation.

She watched as the two creatures – one giant and heavy, the other as light and insubstantial as a scrap of fine cloth – continued their game. She was so entranced by it all that she never noticed more movement in the bushes behind the bear. And when it spoke, the voice took her completely by surprise.

‘Who are you?’ it demanded. ‘And what are you doing with my wolves?’

Secret Rooms - Sue Purkiss

 The other day I saw a mention somewhere of the Grandmother's secret room, as featured in The Princess and the Goblin, a 19th century children's book by George MacDonald.

It's a strange book in some ways, but I remember being enchanted by it when I read it as a child. It's about a princess, Irene, who lives with her nurse, Lootie, in an isolated castle in the countryside. Nearby under the mountain there are mines, which are worked by local people (including a brave  and enterprising lad called Curdie) and by a race of goblins, who hate humans. Irene does not know about the goblins - and actually, now, it seems rather odd that her father, the King, should have chosen a castle so near them as a home for his daughter. But still, there we are - I suppose kings aren't always sensible. 

Irene climbs the stairs...

One day, Irene decides to explore the castle. At the top of several staircases, she finds a room in which a beautful old lady, also called Irene, sits spinning. The lady tells the princess that she is her several-times-great grandmother. She's a magical lady, who clearly intends to protect Irene from the dangers that surround her. She can only be found if she wants to be. As well as the workroom, she has a bedroom...

What was Irene's surprise to see the loveliest room she had ever seen in her life! It was large and lofty, and dome-shaped. From the centre hung a lamp as round as a ball, shining as if with the brightest moonlight, which made everything visible in the room, though not so clearly that the princess could tell what many of the things were. A large oval bed stood in the middle, with a coverlid of rose colour, and velvet curtains of a lovely pale blue. The walls were also blue - spangled all over with what looked like stars of silver.

The Grandmother. (Both illustrations are Arthur Hughes' original ones.) The Grandmother's appearance changes every time Irene sees her: sometimes she looks old, other times quite young. 

I forgot the details of the rest of the story, but that image of a secret room, which could only be found when its owner wished it, intrigued me and has stayed with me. I dug out the book - falling apart, but with Arthur Hughes' beautiful original illustrations - and as I revisited the Grandmother's secret room, it made me think of another 'secret' and certainly unexpected room, which I saw last year in real life.

I live in Somerset now, but I'm from Derbyshire. Last year I was holidaying with family in the Peak District, and on the way back, my son decided he wanted to show his family the place where my parents had lived - Stanley, between Ilkeston and Derby. 

The house is an end terrace, down a little unadopted road. My guess is that the houses were originally built for miners at the nearby pit, but it is only a guess. Dad bought it in 1968. It was a big thing for him: we had lived in council houses up till then, and I don't think anyone, on either side of the family, had actually owned their own house before. So he was immensely proud of it. It looked out onto fields at the back, Mum made a beautiful little garden, and they were very happy there.

Our old house.

So, there we were, outside the house, me taking a photograph, when the current owner popped his head out of an upstairs window, and, understandable curious, asked if he could help us. I explained, and he invited me in for a look round.

Like Dad over fifty years before, Andy was very proud of what he and his wife had done with the house. Apparently, the people who'd bought it after Dad died in 2004 had let the house and garden go, and it had been in a terrible state when they moved in. So they had completely renovated it - it was amazing to see what they had done: it was lovely. But the very best bit was this.

At the top of the stairs was a door which led, in our day, to a cupboard where Mum and Dad stored suitcases and suchlike. Andy paused. "I think you're going to like this," he said. He opened the door.

And there, instead of a cupboard, was a staircase. And at the top was a light and spacious room. To say I was astonished would be a huge understatement. In our day, there had been an attic, yes, but the only entrance to it was through a small trapdoor. I had never seen inside it, and I'd had no idea that there was all this space up there.

There was something very special about this. Knowing how much the house had meant to Dad, I was delighted to see that it was being loved and cared for and brought back to life by a new generation. And that unexpected room - well, it wasn't the kind of magic of Irene's grandmother's room, but there was nevertheless something quite magical about it: an utterly surprising new space.

Occasionally, I have dreams where the house I'm living in suddenly turns out to have extra rooms or outbuildings that I hadn't noticed before. I suppose it's something to do with finding out new possibilities, unexpected avenues. Secret rooms in literature can be pretty nasty places, where unfortunate victims are imprisoned or whatever. But they don't have to be. Sometimes, they can open up a whole new vista.

 

How to divine your future at Midsummer - by Lu Hersey

In folklore, midsummer is a liminal time, when the veil between worlds thins. Which means it's often when stories of fairy encounters take place, and also traditionally a time when you can divine your future with the help of certain plants. 

Researching midsummer folklore out of interest, I've come across some extraordinary beliefs and superstitions, some of which I'll share with you here in case you feel like trying them out, or (more likely) writing them into something. 

Myrtle

In Household Tales with other Traditional Remains (1895), the writer Sidney Oldall Addy suggests you can use myrtle to determine whether or not to marry someone. Pick a sprig of myrtle on Midsummer's Eve and put it into your prayer book (yes, I know - I don't have one either so borrow one if you have to) on the page with the words of the marriage vows. Close the book and sleep with it under your pillow. If the myrtle has fallen out by morning, you'll marry that person, and if it's still there, you won't. Which all seems a bit risky to me - you'd probably have serious doubts about that person in the first place to try it.

Orpine

Orpine cut on Midsummer's Eve was believed to protect your household from lightning and disease. According to Tournefort's Complete Herbal (1719-1730), your animals won't be troubled by distemper either, as long as the plant remains green. 

For marriage divination, you need two stems cut on Midsummer's Eve. Place the cuttings in clay on a shell, or fix them in a doorway. If overnight they both bend to the right, you will marry in the following year (if to the left, forget it). If they turn to face each other, the marriage will be successful and if away from each other, there will be discord. If either piece withers, that person will soon die. Doesn't bode well, does it? Probably best not to bother. You can always get a divorce if things don't work out.

Roses

For this method of divination, you need some patience. Cut a rosebud on Midsummer's Eve and wrap it carefully in cloth, and put it in a drawer until Christmas. If the rosebud still looks fresh at Christmas, your marriage will go ahead, but if it's gone brown and perished, it won't. 

Can't help wondering how 'fresh' a rose could possibly look after six months in a drawer, but there must be some leeway here. or no one would ever get married...

Rosemary

Again, it's about marriage. I guess it's the time of year. Anyway, if you set a plate of flour under a rosemary bush on Midsummer's Eve, an initial will form of the man or woman you are to marry. Apparently. 

Sage

Pick twelve sage leaves on Midsummer's Eve at midnight, and you will see your future spouse coming up behind you, either in bodily form or a vision. (Don't blame me if this one goes horribly wrong...)

Saint John's Wort

Last but not least, we come to the most potent of all - Saint John's Wort. For this you need to gather the plant ceremoniously before the first dew evaporates on Midsummer's Eve. As this date was taken into the Christian calendar as the feast of Saint John the Baptist, the gatherer should also be fasting. If so, such is the power of the plant, marriage is certain within the year.

Incidentally, if a woman wants to conceive, she needs to go out naked at this time to pick a flower of St John's wort - she should conceive within the year.  

If you've got as far as this and you'd like to know how to become invisible, find treasure or become invincible, I wrote more about midsummer plant magic on my substack - here's a link if you're interested

Meanwhile, happy solstice,

Lu Hersey

https://www.lu-hersey.com/

More taxing times with ALCS by Steve Way

 

As, appropriately I suppose, the plot regarding repayment of tax paid by ALCS to HMRC thickens, and because many of you kindly read the post and/or commented on it, I thought I would explain the developments since last month’s post.

Firstly, thank you to all of you who commented on the post. Penny Dolan and Rowena House, I appreciated your supportive comments… and you’re right Rowena, if I owed HMRC 20% of something, the boot would definitely be on the other foot and communication between us would be far more rapid! As you mentioned Stroppy Author, it’s more effective to get letters posted to HMRC by family (or in my case friends) in the UK rather than from abroad, when they either seem to get ‘lost’ or considerably delayed. Thank you Nick Garlick for sharing your experiences, I had been considering approaching ALCS to support me in this matter and I’m sorry to hear that you got no help from them.

As I mentioned in last month’s blog, I sent my application form for repayment of tax paid to HMRC by ALCS in January. This was based on me being a taxpayer in France and therefore, under the ‘double tax’ treaty being theoretically eligible to reclaim that tax.

A while after posting the blog I did finally hear from HMRC! It is actually dated from before my last blog but arrived by what’s known around here as ‘snail mail’ a month later. However, to my surprise and frustration, they stated that, ‘We cannot deal with you claim because it is not on the appropriate Double Taxation claim form for France’.

Since I cannot for the life of me understand why the form I sent them is not the or an ‘appropriate’ form I am thinking about sending them the letter below. As fellow ABBA and Scattered Author friends I would be interested to know whether you think it would be a good idea to actually send the letter, or if you think by questioning them in the way I have that they may lock me in The Tower and throw away the key!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Sir or Madam,

I am writing with regard to the letter of 29^th April 2026, which I received from #### ##### stating that I had not sent you the appropriate Double Taxation claim form for France.

I am enquiring about this, not only on my own behalf but because I contribute to a blog (An Awfully Big Blog Adventure) produced and read by many authors, particularly children’s authors, and I am aware that there are other authors like me, living outside the UK, trying to reclaim tax paid to you by ALCS, based on the double tax agreement. I would therefore ask if you could kindly explain why the form I sent you is not the appropriate form as several factors seem to indicate that it should be.

The form I sent you is titled ‘Form DT-Individual’. I have assumed the acronym ‘DT’ refers to the Double Tax Treaty, or am I incorrect in doing so?

Further to this (in bold type) the sub heading of the first page of the form itself (copy enclosed) describes it as an ‘Application for relief at source from United Kingdom (UK) Income Tax and claim to repayment of UK Income Tax’. The form then goes on to state that it is, ‘For use by an individual resident of a country with which the UK has a double taxation treaty that provides for relief from UK Income Tax on… royalties arising in the UK’. I believe that France and many other countries in the UK have a double taxation treaty with the UK, which would seem to further imply that this is an appropriate form to use.

In addition to this, the accompanying notes (copy enclosed) state that one of the purposes of the DT-Individual forms is to apply for ‘relief at source from UK income tax on… royalties… paid from sources in the UK.’

Finally, which I am sure you can understand made me even more certain that I was sending you the appropriate form was that my local tax office in France kindly confirmed my status as a French taxpayer. I assumed that if the form was inappropriate, or unfamiliar to them, that my local tax office would not have ratified my form. As you can no doubt understand I am reticent to send them a second form to sign, having to explain to them also that the original form that seemingly purports to be the correct form is not in fact appropriate. Should it be that there is a special form to use unique to France, despite this not being stated on the one I sent you, surely the officials at my tax office would know this? If this is the case, it would be useful for authors based in other countries if this idiosyncrasy applies elsewhere.

If indeed, for some reason, which as you can see currently eludes me, the ‘Form DT-Individual’, despite apparently strong evidence to the contrary, is indeed incorrect, please could you explain to me which form is indeed the correct and how I access it – I don’t want to send you a second inappropriate form! Also, for the purposes of my fellow authors can you provide a clue as to how they distinguish between the appropriate and  inappropriate form? It would also be intriguing to know which applicants can actually use the form in order to reclaim royalties paid in the UK via the double tax agreement, if any.

I, and I suspect a number of my fellow authors, await your reply with interest.

Yours sincerely,

…

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Are any of you good at baking as well as having access to sturdy cake -sized metal files?

Waffles & Julius NO HUGS PLEASE! by Ed Vere, reviewed by Pippa Goodhart

Bouncy enthusiastic dog Waffles longs to hug dignified cat Julius. But Julius just wants to sleep in peace.  Those opposites characters are so true of cats and dogs, and, as always, its truth that is very funny here, played-out with wonderfully observed body language and minimal text -

I have a cat and a dog who seek out each other's company, but very much on the cat's terms. You'll be glad to know that Waffles finally gets the hug that he longs for ... when Julius chooses the moment that suits him.

I also have a one year old granddaughter who tends to lunge and clasp other small children, whether they want hugs or not. I've given her this book! It's very very funny, but also a lesson in patience and respect and love. Highly recommended.