#welsh writing

[endafydd]

Dydd Gŵyl Dewi hapus! Dwi’n rhoi diwylliant Cymru a’r iaith Gymraeg mewn fy ysgrifenni i i ddathlu e ac achos mae e’n sbesial iawn i fi. Gobeithio bod pawb sy’n dathlu wedi cael dydd anygoel iawn, a wedi cael gymaint o Picau ar y Maen a Cawl!

(os mae ‘na problemau gyda fy treigladau fi plis edrych y ffordd arach mae’n hwyr a wedi bod yn dydd hir diolch yn fawr)

[daianotherday]

Are there any online writing groups that anyone can recommend?

I have two WIPs that I really want to finish but as the god emperor of procrastination I am swamped by the sheer number of non existent duties that constantly take my attention away from them.

So I figured that the encouragement / condemnation of strangers might be the motivation I need to complete them.

WIP 1 is a script for a TV pilot about a group of pensioners bootlegging vinyl records.

Right now this is just an outline that I need to finalise and then start actually writing.

WIP 2 is an urban fantasy novella about a wizard called Baxter Seputis, who after saving the world 10 years ago, is stripped of his magic and exiled to the Welsh town of Llanelli to run a record shop with a 900 year old time skipping knight. Now, Baxter finds himself dragged back into the world of magic to solve a murder with only 24 hours to do it before his life is forfeit.

I've written about 8000 words so far aiming for between 25 - 30 thousand by the end.

It would be nice to get them both finished this year but I'll settle for just one if that's all my absolute zero amount of responsibilities as the aforementioned god emperor of procrastination will allow.

So yeah, any recommendations feel free to send them over.

Diolch

[iestyntudorwriter]

perennial

Stretch language as far as you want.  Wring it like a sponge, torture it.  It will never cease in its motions, the constant generation of words to describe our love and our loss.

[endafydd]

Clywais i gân dau mis yn ôl pan roedd i weithio ar sioe a reodd e’n bop, ond anghofiais i i ysgrifennu’r enw o’r cân lawr i rhoi e yn fy rhestr chwarae i

Dwi’n wrth fy modd i ddweud bod i wedi ffindio e

Dau mis a pob rhestr chwarae gyda cerddoriaeth Cymraeg

Fucking did it

[iestyntudorwriter]

I have over-complicated this. An inferno from a candlewick. Truth is simple, hearts don’t lie; they’re as harsh as they are wise.

[eifionwyn22-blog]

A declaration of war.

HênDdu stood grimly in front of his altar and in the dead-centre of this circular, spiritual porthole of blackened grass, and his three supporting Druids took their positions behind him for the most vital and final part of this historic assembly.

“Now draw near all who consider themselves honourable Prydeinig, and who have an abiding love for our sacred islands of Prydein!” HênDdu called out, his strange voice somehow carrying to every corner of this huge plain, and these people closed-in with the tension mounting as the ultimate ritual drew near.

The Arch-Druid Einion turned and lifted Belenos Hên’s sacred and ancient, spirit-wreathed sword; Caled-Sol reverentially from the blood-splashed altar and passed it with a curt bow to his master. HênDdu’s face became animated as he took this deeply sacred and iconic sword, and turning back to the crowd with it outstretched before him, he presented the most revered blade in all of Prydein’s long history with a savage pride. The sun-sculpted and utterly beautiful bronze scabbard had been polished until it shone like old gold, and the Druid held it out in front of him in his left hand. The fingers of his right fastened around the sharkskin grip of the sun-adorned pommel, and he raised ‘Hard-Sunlight’ to the heavens.

“Now draw near all our honoured and much-worshipped Deities, who so also love these scared islands of Prydein to witness our great Datganiad Gwladol!” He called loudly before turning and presenting this sacred, legendary sword to all four corners of the world and to all who watched with bated-breath. 

HênDdu slowly part-drew the polished steel blade of Caled Sol then before lifting his noble head, and his tonsured brow glistened in the torchlight, but it was utterly outshone by the vital gleam from just the first six glittering inches of honed steel revealed.

“'Y gwir yn erbyn y byd, a oes heddwch neu rhyfel?” HênDdu asked them loudly with a scowl, and his challenge boomed over the multitude of heads and shining eyes gazing back at him. ‘The truth against the world, is there peace or war?’ he demanded to know, and the response was like a clap of thunder;

“RHYFEL!”  

Birds squawked and flapped in fright, and the dogs of the distant Tref could be heard barking and howling at this thunderous sound which seemed to vibrate in the air for long moments.

The Brif-Druid stalked around his altar now in his bare and blackened feet, energised by this first declaration of war, and he paced this scorched saucer of earth, holding up the great part-drawn sword. His eyes blazed with a ferocious challenge, and the front circle of onlookers backed away in fear as he withdrew another twelve inches of etched and polished steel, and hard shards of torchlight bounced off Caled-Sol in alarm.

“Calon wrth galon, a oes heddwch neu rhyfel?” ‘Heart to heart, is there peace or war?’ He challenged them again now, his tremulous but uncannily powerful voice carrying to even the outer fringes of this vast gathering. The people shook the earth again with their sacred oath;

“RHYFEL!”

HênDdu smiled then, horribly and in a kind of spirit-gripped rictus. His voice deepened and grew as it lashed across the heads of these people, whilst their dogs continued their barking and eerie howling from the distant Tref.

“Gwaedd uwch adwaedd, a oes heddwch neu rhyfel?” He demanded of them lastly, with a wild look in his blazing eyes and spittle flying from his twisted mouth. ‘Shout above responding shout, is there peace or war?’ He demanded they complete the rite, and the very air shook with the inviolate declaration of war, as thousands of voices screamed as one; “RHYFEL!”

The Druid came back around to the front of his altar now, and HênDdu’s face was a mask of fierce, blazing outrage as he fully withdrew Caled-Sol; the fabulous blade of Belenos Hên which had claimed the mighty head of Bran himself five centuries ago. He held it aloft so the torchlight flashed off the full, glorious length of its deadly blade and illuminating on it the wondrous chasing with pure golden swirls. All the wide eyes around this torchlit tableaux were drawn to this legendary sword’s stark and terrible beauty.

“Ia, oes RHYFEL!” HênDdu confirmed loudly, and war was thus declared on Rome. The bedlam that ensued was a religious and superstitious explosion of Brythonic emotions. The ground shook, as the triadic warriors of allied Prydein hysterically screamed their warcries, drowning all other sounds, even the terrified howling of the dogs. 

The drums began to pound a frenetic beat again, the horns bellowed and the Brythons danced their dance of death, as the three northern kingdoms, finally united in a sacred Triad for the first time ever were going to war.