A small step for me, potentially a giant leap for humanity - by Lu Hersey

Do you remember a time before Google and smart phones?  When people had typewriters or word processors to write with, and if you wanted to speak to someone at a distance, you had to call them on a landline? Research was done in libraries, which held so many books, there wasn't even room for a student cafe. People still respected creativity and the arts and no one used AI to write, produce art or music, or had GoogleMaps telling them where to go.

It honestly wasn't that long ago. The last twenty-five years has seen such a massive expansion of AI, we've all become accustomed to it. No one reading this would use it to write their books for them (hopefully!), but we live in a world where if you wanted to produce a readable manuscript from your idea in under ten minutes, you probably could. All thanks to AI's pirating of everything ever written by us. 

There's a rumour going around that AI centres burn books to stop us going back to print copies. Scary shades of Fahrenheit 451, and though it might sound like an urban myth, there's actually some truth to this rumour. Anthropic, a mega AI company with an 'AI assistant' they've named Claude (presumably to make him sound more user-friendly), is known to have sourced thousands of books, removed the spines to enable easy scanning, then pulped (I believe they call it 'recycled') all the pages. 

This has been public knowledge for over a year, but people only started getting seriously worried when another massive company called ISBNdb began ordering books in bulk, including rare books, from booksellers - and apparently destroying the originals. ISBNdb's website is really something - they manage to make it sound like they're doing you a huge favour by allowing you to access any book you want to read (at a price, obviously) instantly, online, from your desktop. 

Not long ago you could order a hard copy of any book you needed from a library (and up to a point you still can). Although it might take longer to source, the point of libraries is to conserve the original books, rather than destroying them. 

Yes, AI has made fantastic advances in medicine possible, and solves difficult science problems in a fraction of a second that could otherwise take years. It's brought some huge benefits to us all, and obscene amounts of money to the billionaires behind it. 

But there's a costly, sinister pay-off. Look at the rising numbers of data centre buildings being constructed to support it - no need for proper planning permission because the people financing them promise the earth, while systematically destroying it. 

The wonderful Erin Brockovich (remember the film? She's a real person) is currently fighting the rise of data centres, which are springing up everywhere (including the UK) with no proper public consultation or planning consent, despite the fact they seriously contaminate land, make a constant, deafening noise and use vast quantities of water at the expense of the environment. If you're interested, you can read about Erin's campaign in an article published recently in the Guardian.

I'm now ranting about the potential destruction of the planet by AI, while intermittently using it to research this piece. The irony isn't lost on me. So could direct action be the only possible alternative route to save the planet from the rise of data centres? This week saw Wynd Kaufman, aged 69, jailed for chaining and locking the front doors of Open AI's HQ last year. She's a member of a protest movement called StopAI , whose website describes them as a 'grassroots movement of everyday people using democratic and non-violent methods to disrupt the reckless development of destructive artificial intelligence technology'. As the first person jailed for taking direct action against destructive AI, she's been hailed by some as akin to Rosa Parks. Of course others might view her as a modern day Luddite. (Though if you follow that thought through, the Luddites had a point. Technology isn't always a good thing...)

Maybe we need to use Gandhi's example, using his charkha (portable spinning wheel) to spin cotton into yarn, a form of passive resistance against British colonial textile imports. OK, I'm not giving up my laptop to write for the time being - and I freely admit I used Google to help research while writing this piece. 

So what's my first step towards independence from AI? 

I'm trying to get places without using GoogleMaps. It involves using actual paper maps and road atlases like everyone had to, only a few decades ago. Amazingly, it works just like it always did.

A small step for me, right? But if we all remember how to do basic things without using AI, it could be a giant leap for humanity. 

Lu Hersey

lu-hersey.com

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/

WHERE THE HELL IS MY AGENT? - by Lu Hersey

 In case you didn't realise, I hacked the title from Raye's song, WHERE IS MY HUSBAND? The point of song being she doesn't actually have one, but she's ready and waiting for one, so where the hell is he? 

And that's how I feel about my agent.

I did have one once. I learnt many useful things from him. Like how to cook simple Italian dishes, and where to find great fossils on British beaches. Basically he was fun to hang out with as a friend, but being an agent really wasn't his priority. He spent far more time diving with sharks.

He genuinely couldn't cope with the increasing pressures of the publishing world. In the end he disappeared in a cloud of mental health problems, leaving his entire business behind. He'd definitely chosen the wrong career path for someone with chronic anxiety, and I hope one day he'll resurface as a marine biologist or something he'd really enjoy. He's certainly clever enough.

But meanwhile, what about me?? 

What have I done about finding another agent? 

Not a lot, to be honest. I tentatively tried a couple I liked the sound of, and they were very kind and gave me positive feedback, but sadly... (Another thing I learnt from my last agent is that they have to not only really love your work, but believe they can sell it. Which they didn't.)

I also tried a couple of publishers, whose websites informed me I didn't need an agent to be considered. Result? They simply ghosted me like they were online dating or something. Which seems unnecessarily rude when it's easy to email back a standard rejection from a template, but sadly that seems to be the publishing industry's attitude towards writers. We're all totally dispensable. I ended up feeling like a piece of used clothing, destined for the charity shop. 

I guess all publishers need to see the potential for commercial success in your writing - unless you're celebrity so they know your books will sell anyway (they can always find a ghost writer to actually write the books). Publishing is an increasingly competitive market - and getting worse. Don't even get me started on books being written by AI...

However, once a writer, always a writer. I told myself I simply needed to change direction for a while. So I've been writing a non-fiction book about Somerset dragons, which will come out sometime before Christmas. Seems there's not so much stigma attached to self publishing local books, as no agent or traditional publisher would consider the project anyway. It's kept me busy and I love research...

But unfortunately, what I like writing best is teen fiction. And any writing for children involves gatekeepers like parents and teachers, who need to know the book is good (preferably traditionally published and well reviewed) before they buy. Which means you still need the publishing industry to back you. 

And for any publisher to even consider your book, you need an agent to present it to them - practically no publisher takes unsolicited manuscripts. (Ignore all those stories like JK Rowling's sending out to zillion publishers and how it only takes one, blah blah - that simply doesn't happen any more.)

So I'm stuck with a hole in my bucket syndrome and there's only one way out... 

WHERE THE HELL IS MY AGENT?

Lu Hersey

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

Creating a new (very small) world - by Lu Hersey

 It all started with the house leeks. Or maybe it was when I bought that bowl in a charity shop. the kind of thing my mother would have considered unbelievably tasteless but my grandmother would have loved. In fact, maybe it all started over half a century ago, and I can blame it on my grandmother.

Back in the time before she came to live with us, among many wonderful treasures in her bungalow, (my mother's opinion of them differed) she had a potted cactus garden which I absolutely loved. Hidden between the cacti there was a tiny ceramic bridge over a mirror pond, and a tiny ceramic Chinese pagoda nearby. I always wished there were tiny people to go with it. Maybe that's what makes us start writing, creating fantasy lands in stories, like capsule worlds we can control. Unlike the news.

Anyway, because of the bowl, the house leeks or my grandmother, I strayed into a whole new universe. Turns out there must be countless others out there, like me, creating fantasy worlds, whether it's for model trains, mini dinosaur parks, or tiny tanks and soldiers for war games. We start sensibly in places like ebay and etsy, then tumble right down into a snake pit called Temu. Beware! Temu can suck sensible people into rabbit holes it's hard to escape from. There is literally no end to the fascinating awfulness that Temu can produce.

And even as I worried somewhere at the back of my mind about the poor Chinese people who work creating bizarre stuff no one needs and which will inevitably lead to the collapse of Western civilisation, I found it almost impossible to stop searching for tiny objects to put in my new fairy bowl universe. 

Fortunately I was saved by the cat, demanding second breakfast. She started yowling loudly and consistently, just as I was about to hit PAY on Temu. 

As I grumbled downstairs to appease the beast, it suddenly occurred to me - I already had everything I needed! I'd only needed to leave the Temuverse for a moment to remember. Even better, I realised what I had was much classier (in my opinion - others might disagree) than anything my online search had come up with. 

A quick hunt after feeding the cat unearthed some glow in the dark forest spirits from Princess Mononoke which had been lurking under a money plant downstairs for so long, they'd almost vanished into the compost. They look very happy to be rescued.

Even better, I remembered a magical Christmas present, handmade for me by my friend Dandelion and buried somewhere behind a pile of notebooks on my desk. It's perfect. (If you like it, he sells all kinds of wonders in his Glastonbury shop, Dandelion Dreamz, which are also available online),

It might need a bit of tweaking (and occasional watering) but I'm quite proud of my new, Temu-free, magical universe.

And having finished procrastinating, suppose it's time to actually go and write something...

Dandelion at work

Lu Hersey

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

Forget the news and think about sheds - by Lu Hersey

  Last night I dreamt an old journalist friend called me: Lu, did you know you're in the Epstein files?

No way!

Yes! Five times!

Don't be stupid.

Seriously, it's OK. If you're not in there, you probably don't exist.

I laughed myself awake. I've obviously been spending far too time obsessing about the news, which as we know is currently dominated by wars, genocide, sleaze, looming eco disaster and power-mad billionaires. It's difficult not to fall into a despondent, powerless slump just thinking about it. And now it was creeping into my dreams.

It was time to start concentrating on something positive instead. My campaign to bring down Elon Musk single handed on X wasn't going well, and the platform is full of hate and Nigel Farage, Time to stop going down that rabbit hole and write something new. (The essential first step on the road to getting something published.)

Which means this week I have mostly been thinking about writing sheds, on the basis it's nice to have somewhere to write. Who doesn't love a shed? Some of my favourite writers have enviable writing sheds and like every other shedless writer, I covet one. So what kind of writing shed to choose? A new rabbit hole opened before me as I created an entire Pinterest board devoted to the subject. I'll share a few with you here, so you understand the complexity of choice...

I really like this one. It has a face, and lets a lot of light in. Also I think it's by the sea, which would be nice

This one has a lovely aethetic but is also probably full of spiders. Good for horror writers.

This looks practical  - and I like the colour.

Good for hobbit fan fiction

Love this but would probably spend too much time staring out at the forest. Also, you'd need a forest to put it in.

Incredibly practical for any writer - and comes with its own outside bench for thinking

Peril at sea adventure stories? At least you wouldn't get interrupted much. Except possibly by passing whales

Definitely one for the fantasy writer

Nice design for those who like to cater for an unexpected turn of events

For those of us yearning to write romantic fiction

Great for the cosy crime writer

Here you could definitely write Great Expectations - if someone hadn't already written it 

Perfect for anyone planning train-based detective fiction. Or maybe another sequel to Thomas the Tank Engine

 One for me, and one for all of you. Perfect. 

You get the idea...

Just one problem. I couldn't fit even the tiniest shed in my tiny garden, so it's back to writing on the kitchen table. Though perhaps a little look at Rightmove first... Oooo!

Turns out I'm only £2 million short of being able to buy an entire Scottish island...

Lu Hersey

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

Trying to catch the Fire Horse - by Lu Hersey

 Chinese New Year starts on the second new moon after the winter solstice (17 February this year). Yes, it means it falls on a different date each year, but so does Easter Sunday (which, if you're interested, falls on the first Sunday on or after the spring equinox)

This is an inspirational time to start a new year. The days are getting noticeably lighter and it feels like there's some hope for the coming spring. So much more appealing than January 1st, which is an arbitrary date, not only gloomy and depressing, but a time when the worst of the winter is often still to come. 

If you've already stuffed up keeping your January resolutions (which most people have, because January is horrible and far too long), it could be worth using this Chinese New Year to make some positive changes in your life. You could even try making them more interesting than simply going vegan for a month, or pledging to drink more water. 

New moons are traditionally considered to be the best times for starting new projects. Amplify this with the start of the Chinese year of the Fire Horse, and it's energetically kick-arse time for stamina, growth and independence. A time to look at your life to see what needs clearing out - and what you want to cultivate. 

It's also apparently a good time to take back your personal power. Having spent much of the winter in despair about the blatant lies and corruption involved in daily politics and the news, I decided to start a daily rant on X to dispel the gloom. Yes, the algorithms are against me - I have no blue tick and my aim is to bring down Elon Musk single handed, which he tends not to like. Despite this, I find shouting into the void surprisingly therapeutic.

Perhaps more positively (and sensibly), I've decided to take up opportunities that come my way this year without moaning about the effort involved and ducking out. This Tuesday (which was Chinese New Year) I went to a Banksy exhibition in London, despite the local coach taking 3.5 hours to get there and the same back, which usually I'd use as an excuse not to be arsed. As it is, I met up with a lovely writer friend and had a great time, so intend to be arsed far more often.

I'm also going to try and help the planet out a bit. Tiny things like taking plastic waste off  beaches (a few manageable pieces at a time) and picking up bits of litter (I draw the line at dog poo bags) when out on a walk, rather than my customary ranting about plastics destroying the planet and people who chuck litter everywhere. 

Big problems may ultimately be overwhelming but it has to be worth making an effort. Small steps to make small changes. Managing the despair. Finding some Fire Horse energy and hoping to make a difference. 

And maybe I'll drink more water anyway. 

Lu Hersey

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

Let's all talk about ourselves - by Lu Hersey

When I was a child, my grandmother came to live with us. Born and bred in Yorkshire, she still had a strong Yorkshire accent after half a century of living in Surrey, where she and her husband moved after their first child was born. Here's a photo of her with me and our dog Bumble (a long time ago, obviously).

One of Grandma's favourite sayings was "I've that many stories to tell, I should write a book!"  In fact her stories were almost on a tape loop, consisting entirely of things she wanted to remember, and many that made her laugh, As a teenager, I'd bring my friend Gina home for tea sometimes after school, and buy jam donuts on the way - just so we could hear her jam donut story. It went like this:

"Our Pauline once had a job int' donut factory, but she got t'sack for putting too much jam int' donuts!" 

She'd laugh at the memory, and being mean teens, we'd laugh too, but only because we'd set her up to tell the same old tale. Of course I'd love to hear her tell it again now. To this day I miss my grandma and her collection of stories, and regret not asking more about the rest of her life outside the golden moments. Things my mother told me later, that grandma never mentioned. 

Like how Grandma was the one who found her father after he'd slit his throat in the bath, the year before she was due to be married. About her child, Bessie May, she'd loved so much, who died of pneumonia when only two years old. The tragic side of the life of a woman who was the thirteenth of fourteen children, had knitted socks for a brother fighting in the Boer War (she told me about that herself, though the story was about learning to knit socks, not what happened to the brother). She'd survived two world wars and a lot of harrowing experiences. But the stories were always about holiday larks, and pranks her Percy (my grandfather) had played, and fireside tales of her family life back in Yorkshire. The first car that drove through her village, the first aeroplane she saw. Things of joy and wonder. And I admire her for having such a wonderfully selective memory. Seeing the best in life. 

Of course, many people want to relate the sad, or tragic elements of their lives, and their stories are equally valid. I'm currently on a memoir writing course - not because I want to write my own memoir, but because remembering forgotten aspects of your own life is a fascinating exercise, and I'm really interested in how everyone tells their stories. 

The course is held by writer Jenny Alexander, who holds inspirational workshops on various aspects of writing (see https://jennyalexander.co.uk/) for anyone of any writing ability. In the memoir writing workshops, I'm learning that by focusing in on something small - a favourite object or perhaps one seemingly insignificant experience - you can suddenly bring back memories of an entire era in your life. 

Whether you're interested in memoir writing or not, focussing on detail is an important key to any story. I see an element of truth in what my grandmother said all those years ago. You don't have to write a book about it, but we all have interesting life stories to tell. AI just steals stories from us. If nothing else, writing about your own life reminds you that you have something AI can never have - lived experience.

by Lu Hersey

PS Here's my grandma's Yorkshire parkin recipe, hand written by her. One of my favourite memories is the smell and taste of her wonderful parkin...

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

Bringing my dead dad home for Christmas

This will be the first year in a long time that I haven't had to drive down to Plymouth on Christmas day to cook my father's Christmas dinner - or like last year, visit him in the care home to chat to him while he ate his. I moaned about making this trip every year. It nearly always poured with rain and the motorway journey was a nightmare. Also, my father had no idea about cooking, which meant taking everything with me. Literally everything. Turkey, veg, even the cooking oil, seasoning and roasting tins.

His contribution was to insist he'd already bought the potatoes, so there was no need to bring any. The family called it #potatogate. A maximum of three potatoes in a bag (if we were lucky), usually already sprouting. Basically, enough for him. It happened every year.

Despite all this, I'll miss #potatogate. I'll even miss that journey.

He died in January this year. The day he died, the family raced down in the worst of weather to see him. The rain was apocalyptic and the motorway was partly flooded, and I could almost feel my dad calling to us in the howling wind. He was a very cautious man. He would definitely have told us to turn back.

 He was already dead, but I wanted to see him anyway. One last time. Entering his room, he looked almost cheerful lying on his bed, wearing his best blue stripy pyjamas. At that precise moment, the rain stopped, clouds parted and a shaft of sunlight poured onto on his face through the open window. (There were reasons the care home had the window open, which I won't go into - but in the sunlight it felt like his exit route out, free at last.)

Since his funeral, his ashes have been stored at the funeral home. They sent me a letter this month, reminding me he was there, and letting me know his free storage time was nearly up. 

What do you do with ashes? He hadn't made any requests himself, mostly because he thought he was immortal. Towards the end in the care home, he'd even asked me to get a refund on his funeral plan as he didn't need it. Fortunately his failing memory meant he didn't follow up on that one, but it was just as well he'd mentioned it, as I'd no idea he even had one. The plan covered the funeral, but said nothing about what he wanted done with his ashes.

While the family decides (I favour scattering them where he dumped his last wife's), I'm thinking of driving down to collect him in time for Christmas. I even wondered about taking him to my daughter's place for Christmas dinner (I haven't told her, so probably best leave him outside in the car). I might even take him to his favourite beach before we start the journey. 

I recognise this is more for me than for him. He wasn't a sentimental man at all and probably couldn't care less. He kept my mother in the wardrobe for months. 

I often wonder if he told his next girlfriend she was in there... 

Anyway, if you're stuck with difficult journeys and annoying relatives this festive season, remember no one lasts forever, and one day you might even miss them. 

Whatever you're doing, I wish you all a merry Christmas.

Lu Hersey

Constant noise and blinding lights - by Lu Hersey

 Weirdly, it's a strangely enjoyable experience. It's just what a West Country Carnival night is like. If you've never been to one, I'd recommend making the effort, at least once in your life.

November is generally a bleak month, filled with rain and cold weather - and even though it's likely you'll have to endure this standing out on the street for hours, the onslaught of light and sound should more than compensate. Besides, the folklore calendar has gained popularity over the last few years, and Carnival deserves to be up there. It may be loud and brash, but it has roots going back over 400 years.

The tradition started in the Somerset town of Bridgwater. The population of the town was staunchly protestant back in 1605 when a group of catholic conspirators plotted to blow up the houses of parliament - the failed attempt which has been celebrated as Guy Fawkes night ever since. 

But although Guy Fawkes was a conspirator, the main instigator of the gunpowder plot was a man called Robert Parsons, a Jesuit priest from Nether Stowey - which is a village very close to Bridgwater.

Each year following the uncovering of the plot, the town folk of Bridgwater celebrated Robert Parsons' demise on 5 November by lighting a huge bonfire, built from a wooden boat filled with 100 tar barrels and anything else people found that would burn. Local groups (known as gangs) added effigies (or guys) to the fire, and processions started up as the gangs paraded their guys along the route. 

The processions became more elaborate over the years, adding music and costumes, until eventually the carnival procession became the main focus of the event (especially after over-enthusiastic locals had to be stopped from burning any boat they could pinch from the harbour). The people who dress up and take part in the event are known as Masqueraders or Features.

The Carnival Circuits now feature a parade of up to 50 illuminated carts (the local name for floats), mostly pulled by tractors or lorries, and often needing massive generators to power the fantastic light displays. Carts can cost over £40,000 to build, and local clubs spend thousands of man hours creating them over the course of the year. The aim of the carnival (one of the biggest of its kind in the world) is to raise money for local charities, but it's also a chance for everyone to enjoy a fantastic spectacle at a very dull point in the year.  

Some themed floats are based on Children's novels (classics like Alice in Wonderland or Pinocchio rather than anything contemporary) - but if you're a film maker, you stand a far better chance of seeing a tribute to your work. Although it's unpredictable. This year I expected to see a lot of variations on Wicked and possibly a few K-Pop Demon Hunters, but there was only one Wicked themed cart - instead there were several Western movie style bar fight themes, a few ghost trains, the Titanic, and a brilliant Day of the Dead cart.  The music blaring from each cart reflects the theme, which makes for a mix no DJ would ever consider - and tbh, once a year is probably enough.

Although the Carnival travels to a number of other West country towns over a period of a couple of weeks, it's only in Bridgwater itself that they keep the tradition of squibbing. A squib is a firework held up on a long wooden handle (called a cosh) by a squibber, and a hundred squibbers stand in line in Bridgwater town centre, making a brilliant, if slightly scary display. (link) 

For a quieter, but possibly more disorganised night, come to see it in on the last night of the circuit, in Glastonbury. Just ignore the timings on the website here, as in Glastonbury time, a 6.45pm start can mean 8pm if you're lucky. And don't rely on buses as they all stop an hour before the procession starts, whatever the timetable tells you.

Still worth it though. The themed carts vary enormously, so you'll never see exactly the same float two years running, and yet somehow the atmosphere is timeless. And although there's no chance your work will ever be featured on a cart, on the plus side, Carnival makes a brilliant setting for any fictional murder and mayhem you might want to write later... 

Anyway, where else can you see ghost chickens?

Lu Hersey

Folklore into fiction - by Lu Hersey

 I've recently been writing up some folklore stories as part of an ongoing project, and can't help noticing how easily I'm distracted. So many questions come up about each tale, I spend hours researching (which mostly means going down google rabbit holes), and of course there are no definitive answers. Which possibly goes some way to explain why folklore provides ongoing inspiration for fiction writers. Every story provides so many opportunities to speculate on what really happened.

By way of example - this is the story of the Mermaid of Zennor. (I'm unlikely to write a fiction story based on this in the near future, so if you feel there's something you'd find useful in it, go ahead!)

The basic story goes something like this: there was once a young man called Mathew Trewhella, son of the churchwarden, who sang every Sunday in the church choir in the tiny village of Zennor, Cornwall. His voice was so beautiful that it attracted the attention of a mermaid, who took to sitting on a rock in Pendour Cove, below the church, to hear him sing. (In some versions, she also had a beautiful voice, and when she sang, Mathew was captivated by the haunting sound, drifting up from the Cove)

Unable to stop herself, the mermaid came closer to the church every Sunday, until one day she ventured inside to find the man with the beautiful voice. Matthew was enchanted by her, they fell in love, and the mermaid enticed him to follow her back to the sea. The couple were last seen swimming out of Pendour Cove, and no one in Zennor ever saw them again. 

There are a few different versions of this story, but the basic elements are the same - choirboy Mathew Trewhella falls in love with a mermaid and follows her to the sea. Did they live happily ever after, or did he drown when they got into the ocean? The answer isn't part of the original story. But stories can grow over time...

In one version, a ship drops anchor near Pendour Cove many years (possibly centuries) later, and a mermaid appears, angry that the anchor has landed on the home she shares with her husband, Mathew Trewhella, and their children. The captain weighs anchor immediately, because every sailor knows mermaids have the power to send ships to the deep, but his telling of this encounter adds an extra layer to the original. 

In another version, Mathew's mother is heartbroken by his disappearance and mourns him ever after, but fortunately she is well looked after by her many other children. This extra snippet made me wonder if Matthew was simply fed up with the responsibility of looking after his elderly mother, and when he found a lover outside the village, made good his escape. 

Of course there's the basic question - do mermaids actually exist? Belief in the existence of intelligent sea living entities crosses many cultures, and there's often an element of truth, however slight, in most folklore tales. People believed in the existence of mermaids until very recently - and some (myself included) still think it's a possibility. Certainly something for a fiction writer to consider...

The only definite in the story is that someone, or maybe something, came to the church, unable to resist the sound of Mathew's voice. Was she really a mermaid? If she was, what happened to her tail? It's hard to believe a mermaid came into the church without the congregation kicking up a more of a fuss - traditionally mermaids only carry a mirror and a comb, Maybe this one wore a dress to cover her breasts and her fish tail, or the villagers were too scared - or in awe of mermaids - to say anything. It might even simply be that she was an outsider (Zennor is a very small village) who wore unusual clothes, and Matthew eloped with her. 

The point is that no one really knows what happened, and it was a very long time ago - which means you can make the story into anything you like. Perhaps it was originally intended as something as basic as a parable about the power of hymns drawing a heathen mermaid into the church (even if she didn't stick around long).

However you tell the story, the mystery of Matthew's disappearance has lived on for half a century - and legend has it you can still hear him singing out in the waves on a stormy night. And best of all, a beautiful mermaid chair, carved well over 400 years ago in memory of Mathew, still resides in Zennor church today. Enough to inspire any writer...

And that's the beauty of folklore.

Lu Hersey

web: Lu Hersey 

Patreon: Writing the Magic

Substack: An Old Hag's Snippets of Folklore, Myth and Magic

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Measuring your life in geological time - by Lu Hersey

It’s coming up to the autumn equinox, and it seems to me as though time is speeding 

up (this feeling gets worse as you get older). So in view of time passing, here's my mother's favourite poem, Loveliest of Trees, the Cherry Now, from A Shropshire Lad by AE Houseman:

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.

Yes, I know it’s not cherry blossom time here in the northern hemisphere, but maybe substitute autumn leaves instead. The poem is more about our allotted lifespan, and making the most of it. Also, having reached my threescore years and ten, I might not be here to write this piece come the spring. In fact, owing to the transient nature of life, neither might you. (Hopefully we both will be, but you get the point.)

The equinox is a day of balance between light and dark, before we head into the shorter days and longer nights of winter. It feels like a poignant turning point in the year, and for me a time of reckoning, weighing up what I’ve achieved and what I haven’t. Watching the hedgerows fill with ripening berries and the leaves start to fall, I think more about the interconnectedness of life and death, the idea of infinity, and about the strange nature of existence.

There’s not nearly enough time left for me to come to grips with it all. I’ve already started to aim for smaller goals. I’m unlikely to achieve, say, world domination, or learn how to read Ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs. I’m not even sure whether I have time to finish another novel, though I’ll probably make a start…

Anyway, according to Einstein's theory, time is relative. I can’t hold the concept of E=mc² in my mind long enough to explain it to you, so here's a terrible short version written by Google AI (sorry, but it would take me eons) 

‘Relativity is a theorem formulated by Albert Einstein, which states that space and time are relative, and all motion must be relative to a frame of reference. It is a notion that states laws of physics are the same everywhere.’

Great. But my concept of relativity isn’t based on Einstein’s mathematical formula. It’s more about the way half an hour in the dentist’s chair feels far longer than half an hour out walking in the country, or watching a film. And how although the moon is only moving away from the earth by a tiny fraction every year, over a lifetime of 70 years, it’s moved 2.66 meters (about 8.7 feet) farther away. That’s more than twice the width of my desk. I’m so damn old, I can measure my life in geological time.

Thinking about evolution, I wonder how we’ve had moments of genius like inventing the wheel or wellington boots on one hand, yet somehow we’re still dominated by very rich, stunningly ignorant white men on the other. Homo Sapiens has been around for approx 300,000 years. If the average lifespan is 70 years, that means it's only been 4285 lifespans along the line of your ancestors until you got here. And for a lot of that time, there were other species of humans around too - we just happened to take over. If Donald Trump represents the pinnacle of our evolution, one can’t help wondering if neanderthals would have done far better…

Basically, this is all just an effort to try and explain what relativity means to me, and why we should probably try to appreciate every moment of life - even if that particular moment is in the dentist’s chair. The equinox is a good time to think things over.

I am still writing, though currently mostly non fiction while I skirt around the edges of the next book. But even though I'm definitely closer to the end of life than the beginning, perhaps I should reconsider the idea of world domination. Donald is a lot older than me and look at the mess he's making of it. Perhaps it’s never too late after all? 

Lu Hersey

Web: Lu Hersey

Patreon: Writing the Magic

Substack: An old hag's snippets of folklore, myth and magic

(This post is adapted from one I wrote for substack)