Claire King


Posts Tagged ‘Small stones’

Writing, not writing.

Posted on: December 1st, 2016 by Claire - 1 Comment

Many of you will know that we moved from the South of France this year, and ended up in Gloucestershire. What with moving countries, buying a house, selling a house in France, moving schools for my daughters, starting a new job, catching up with all the friends we’ve missed while we were in France and so on, it’s been really hard to fit much writing in this year.

That’s OK. I’ve a new novel on the go and it will be done when it’s done. For me these fallow writing periods are not wasted. Living is a good preparation for writing. Feeling the stresses and anxieties of change and running the gamut of emotions is all useful stuff when it comes to getting inside the heads of characters. I still take notes, catch fleeting inspirations, keep it all for later.

And the shock of the new is something I think all writers need to experience as often as possible. New environments and experiences open our eyes, shake us out of complacency and bring back our close observation of the day-to-day that brings fiction to life by making it ring true.

We now live very close to a canal, and one of the delights of this year has been my daily walks along the towpath. I have loved seeing how it burst into life as spring approached, and meeting the neighbours:


There are a resident pair of swans who began building their nest, eventually laid eggs and then hatched a brood of cygnets. Watching how their behaviour changed, with each other, with the nearby humans and with their cygnets was a daily surprise.


One day as I had turned and was walking home, a kingfisher flew across the towpath in front of me and turned west, up the canal, pausing on every other tree, taking my breath away completely.

In summer the canal was buzzing with life, both animal, human and plant. It was the place the surrounding communities converged on in the evenings to get together and relax.
We had a gentle autumn, with a proliferation of perfect garden spiders’ webs and plume moths .

And as the sun has got lower in the skies, the light has begun to hit the water differently, and the water itself has regular phases during the day – in the morning the canal is still and glassy, but later in the day it shifts, and the reflections become rippled and distorted.


Today is the first of December. It was a frosty morning, but I am noticing too that there are parts of the landscape where the frost doesn’t melt all day.stroud-england-frome-gardens-28-april-2016-1-of-10-3

And today the big surprise was to find  one of the shadier stretches of the canal iced over, the frozen reeds in the water fanned out under the surface.


There was a crow, which I’ve not seen here before, perched in the low, bare branches of tree with a flock of black-headed gulls swooping around it, complaining at its presence. The crow was holding her ground and every now and then shouted ‘bugger off’. At least that’s what I imagined she was saying.

And over in the fields across the river, the cows’ breath condensed in the chilly air.


After 14 years in the same place, all of this is new, all of this is different. Noticing these small delights is the food for thought that will bring my next novel to life. So although I barely made a dent in an ambitious target word count for November, I am writing, just not writing.

A River of Stones

Posted on: December 28th, 2010 by Claire - 4 Comments

I came across this today and it strikes me as a perfect way to start the new year.

The child narrator of my debut novel ‘The Night Rainbow’ is very much centred in the moment. She pays attention to things that adults skim over or take for granted. This is one of the things I love about her character and something I wish I were more adept at myself.

I heard about ‘The River of Stones’ project which aimed to get people doing just that –  noticing one thing properly every day (a bird eating berries, a child playing in the street) and writing it down. Although at the end of the project a book will be put together which you can contribute to and buy, there’s no obligation to do that. People from across the world will be joining in, just for the experience.

31/01/11 Update:

I really enjoyed my month of small stones. Looking back – over a period of time which can often seem to fly by leaving me wondering where the days went – these stones remind me of the moments we often brush past. Time slows a little.

Here are my small stones:


January 1st 2011





An e-mail arrives: “When you said the risk would always be there does that mean you definitely won’t leave (him) and we should just keep going as we are as long as it lasts?” Somewhere another Claire King is cheating. I feel sad for these strangers. I do not reply.


January 2nd 2011
January 2nd 2011




After two weeks under low, white skies, we are woken by luminous blue. Through open windows a kindly warmth rides in on the back of winter. Our eyes stretch up and out towards infinity as though waking from a cramped sleep.
January 3rd 2011
Out in the ink-black of 6am, under a scattering of stars, a woman brings firewood. She will warm her tiny corner of Earth.

January 4th 2011
Beatrix is allowed to wear her party shoes to school. When teachers and children ‘Ooh’ and ‘Aah’ she closes her eyes so no-one can see her smile.
January 5th 2011
White roses and peonies, my past and my future, arrive to mark the passing of time. As I bow into their scent my mother calls. She is worried to find me crying. I explain it’s because I’m not alone.
January 6th 2011
The soporific blow of the gas fire, the Doppler effect of an ambulance passing the house, the echoes of my inbox which does not ping.
January 7th 2011
A damp-dog walk in white mist, by verges ragged with dried-out dock and russet branches of leafless vines. I try to be present and concentrate on their beauty but instead am filled with the desire to see springtime poppies bloom.
The best pain au chocolat pic I ever saw! By
January 8th 2011
Three of us in pyjamas around the wooden table, because there’s no hurry today. Pops and cracks from blazing logs in the hearth. Hot, hot tea to drink in my own time. Silence from the children, intent on mining the warm chocolate from its soft pastry bed. Buttery flakes tumble onto the tiles and are investigated by purring cats.
January 9th 2011
The eve of a trip away from home to work. Moments spent with family are amplified and heavy with love.
January 10th 2011
I stare out of the window, squinting into the morning sunlight as we scrape and rumble along the tracks. Flamingos graze in the lagoon by La Franqui. From behind the glass I conjure the salt smells of the étangs and the sun-warmed pines. I think of my children’s faces this morning as we kissed goodbye, trying to recall which emotion filled their eyes.  There is no good answer.
January 11th 2011
Built to look like a kindly faced whale, one hundred and fifty tonnes of metal sail through the sky. The Beluga comes in to land, soft as snow.
January 12th 2011
With the click of the brown glass door I close myself into the small, parched box. I want to breathe the cedar-smell deeply but swallowing scorches my throat.  I curl, foetal on the burning bench and wait for the blurring of boundaries between steam and skin.
January 13th 2011
I say, “Bonsoir.”
The manageress of the café looks down at my book and says, “Good evening, Madam.”
Cogs turn as I juggle linguistics and social niceties. I opt for, “Good evening.”
“Vous desirez à manger?”
Oh. I back pedal, revert to French, stumble over my words. “Er, ah, oui, je veux bien.”
“What would you like?”
I stare at the manageress and she smiles an enquiring smile.
January 14th 2011
At Carcassonne we sigh to a halt where the tracks cut through higher ground. I lift my head to see gravestones slipping sideways, mossy tombs. The thought of bones suspended in the earth above me brings a shudder of vitality.
January 15th 2011
Cast as the evil and stupid witch, because Amélie is a princess, Beatrix is a fairy and “…every story needs to have a baddy, Mummy, so she can get beaten. And it has to be you.”
I cast my best spell, putting them to sleep for a thousand years. There’s no need to worry. Later Daddy will wake them with a kiss.
January 16th 2011
We go to bed late. ‘I can’t sleep here,’ I say, ‘the bedclothes smell of lamb.’
‘That can be your small stone tomorrow,’ says my husband.
We laugh like teenagers.

January 17th 2011
One minute’s silence for Vincent and Antoine, a colleague and his childhood friend murdered in Niger.  I stand at the window. Beyond the concrete and glass where we in our thousands work on, cars speed through my reflection. On the wall is a photo of a sandcastle. I had put it up to remind clients that everything we achieve risks being short lived.
Death is visited upon my day. I spend the afternoon in the long shadow of worry.
Photo by Richard Heeks
January 18th 2011
I have blown this bubble, slowly, carefully, taking care not to burst it. But today its time is here to become something else. A word, a keystroke, changes physics forever.
Pop, pop, pop, a ring of rainbow-lit daughter bubbles are born.
Pop, pop, pop, grand-daughter bubbles, one hundred, probably more. Shifting, bursting, spreading.
I am elated.
January 19th 2011
Dangly knickers. The smell of grilled cheese. Leopard skin leggings pegged high. The entire back wall taken by a photograph of Venice. Students with thin moustaches and insouciant scarves. A child’s T-shirt, with spangly fish swimming across the front. A harried waitress. A pair of socks. Railway Pizzeria.
January 20th 2011
A champagne moon, a wolf moon, fat and benevolent in the half-awake sky, hangs low over scurrying cars and yawning office blocks.  The woman-worker walks slowly, enjoying her insignificance, reluctant to assume the importance that waits beyond walls.
January 21st 2011
Her skin is soft and lemon-sweet. Her breath is slow and warm. I smooth her hair back from her cheek and curl close as long as I dare.
January 22nd 2011
Outside an icy wind blows down from the mountains. Inside we flop like a pile of puppies on a giant beanbag, sharing warm popcorn and wondering if Alice will ever find her way home.
January 23rd 2011
Sunny morning meadow. Cow bells tongka-tonk and the stream gulish-a-loshes. A small soft hand in mine and whinnies from Amélie’s imaginary horse. January would have us think it’s spring.
January 24th 2011
Moscow bomb recalls years gone by. There but for a fluke of timing go I.
January 25th 2011
Standing in the chill air, naked, waiting for the shower to run hot, I feel absurdly present.  Here I am on the fourth floor of the hotel. Below me others are standing naked in showers, to the left and to the right, behind partition walls we are cleaning ourselves.

In apartment blocks down the street, hundreds of naked people in showers. All across the city. Across France. Across Europe. We are naked, we are washing.
Some are not washing in showers. Some cannot move for grief. Some have babies that won’t stop crying. Some have no water at all. Others have decided to call in sick to work and spend the morning in bed making love.
The water runs hot and the thought is lost.
January 26th 2011
On the pavement there is a woman’s shoe – soft black leather, a ballerina pump with a tiny bow. It looks almost new.
People are hurrying, stepping around the discarded footwear that litters their path to work.
But where is this Cinderella now? Is her foot cold? Is she waiting for her prince?
January 27th 2011
His familiar face welcomes us to the red lights where our impatient cars bunch together, idling. Spidery biro on the torn cardboard he holds tells drivers of his plight. Three children and no home. Please spare a coin. I have seen him here at rush hour in every season for three years. His clothes are clean and warm, his hair is brushed. Through my closed car window I smile at him and he smiles back. What do they mean, our smiles?
January 28th 2011
Beatrix, aged three, likes to fasten her mummy’s coat. Her small, determined fingers reach up, grasping the toggles – shiny, brown and not brown – concentrating hard on their pointy ends. She pushes them precisely through the loops. When she has finished she looks over her work. It is pleasing.
‘There,’ she says, patting the last toggle. ‘You’re all set.’
January 29th 2011
I wake in the night, finding myself in the comfort of my own bed, wrapped in warm arms and soft duvet. I turn my pillow over, rest my cheek on the cool side, and sink back into dreams. There are still hours left to sleep.
January 30th 2011
Finally, after months of missing each other, we manage to catch up with friends over Sunday lunch. I apologise for the house, which borders on slovenly. Michelle looks past the unkept sofas and unswept floors and out of the window.
‘The mountain looks beautiful today,’ she says.
January 31st 2011
The doctor peers suspiciously at my arm. Pokes it.
‘You fell on it when?’
‘Four weeks ago.’
‘You need an x-ray, it’s probably broken.’
I regard the sulky bruise that has not healed. I have not paid attention to myself.