“Money, Success, Words and Motivation…” – How Are They Connected, How to Stay Motivated, And Chase

motivationIs there a link between motivation, words, success, and money? If yes, how are these four connected? How can you remain motivated? Which is the best strategy to chase success?

According to scientific evidence, a link exists between motivation, words, success, and money.

Words

Words are extremely powerful. They boast the ability to persuade, motivate, and inspire. Unfortunately, words can also dissuade, dismiss, and discourage. Words wield the power to plant failure or success seeds in your mind. Ultimately, you reveal what you believe, how you think, and who you are.

Tips to persuading, inspiring, and motivating using words

  • Always say ‘you’ rather than ‘I’ – The words ‘your’ and ‘you’ are the most persuasive words especially in an attempt to influence the thinking of another person. This is because they refer to the listener directly.
  • Practice these three; Ask, Acknowledge, Appreciate – Simple words that show how you value a person not only generate emotions but also create job satisfaction.
  • Use short words – According to research, the most persuasive words happen to be the oldest and shortest.

Success

Just like many other things, success starts with attitude. When struggling, small bursts of inspiration can result to a big difference … When you see so many successful motivational speakers, politicians, celebrities, businessmen and athletes, it is easy that they are very special. Granted, they’re — they worked hard to achieve their dreams. However, it does not mean that they’re any more special than you.

You possess everything it takes to achieve your dreams just like any other successful personality out there. You just need to know what you need to do in order in order to be successful in whatever it is you put your mind and heart into.

For sure, greatness is not elusive; it’s something that truly exists in everyone.

Money

Does money really equate to success? Is money the best motivator? Scientific research suggests that money might not be the best way or strategy to motivate desirable behavior. Actually, it can be the worst ways.

Compared to money, emotional sources of motivation tend to be more powerful. For instance, in an organization, the approval of your personal network, admiration of subordinates and respect of peers can all lead to more motivation.

Money is normally considered a default motivator since it is fungible, tangible, and measurable. Trouble will always strike anytime the prospect of lacking money becomes the main goal. It feeds an extremely self-serving emotion, greed.

Exactly what works better compared to money?

It solely depends on the form of motivation you are after. Money is great at both attracting and retaining individuals compared to influencing their behavior. If you want to be successful at motivating work behavior, you need to focus on exactly how workers feel about the work itself.

Feelings of fairness and relatedness are also motivators. Daily perceptions, social networks, and informal interactions compared to formal promotions or money inform such feelings.

Conclusion

Motivation, words, success, and money are all linked in some way. Money, success, and words play some role in motivating individuals. There is no doubt about that.


The first Nottingham Festival of Words is now over.

Thank you to everyone who attended, exhibited and helped! It was an amazing achievement from a standing start and it has been enormously encouraging to discover the depth and breadth of talent in our area.

We were also impressed by the goodwill from our sponsors and our volunteers like our premium partner the Forex brokers review site www.forexbrokersreviews.com, many of whom put in innumerable hours of work behind the scenes to make the whole process possible.

 

Flash Fiction Competition Results

The Flash Fiction Competition results were announced on Saturday 17th January 2015 in Nottingham Castle.

Judges Paula Rawsthorne and Graham Lester George selected Prime Candidate by Alex Brogan to be the overall winning story. Ghosts in Bromley House Library by Debbie Moss, and From Corkscrew To Cockcrow by Andy Szpuk were joint Runners-up.

Congratulations to all three!
The winners 2014:

  • A. Brogan – Winner (Warning: contains strong language and sexual references)
  • A. Szpuk – Joint Runner-up
  • D. Moss – Joint Runner-up

Thank You!

The Nottingham Festival of Words 2014 welcomed A. Smith, W. Self, B. Evaristo, D. Nagra, M. Riordan, S. Bhatt, J. McGregor, D. Joshi … and you! To get a flavour of what it was like, see the video below. Rest assured we will be back in 2016.

Writer In Residence

Writer In Residence

Deborah Tyler-Bennett

During the Festival weekend at the Newton Building, Deborah Tyler Bennett will be running

    • Poetry Writing Workshop (Saturday 16th February, 12.15- 1.15pm).
    • Fiction Writing Workshop (Sunday 17th February) 1.30pm -3.30pm.
    • Drop-in workshop in the foyer – inspiring people to write using lace from the University Archives, as well as other objects and pictures.
    • Over-seeing the creation of a public poem – Hearts of Lace, encouraging everyone to add a couple of lines to the poem.

Biography

Deborah Tyler Bennett works as a poet for many national galleries and museums, including the Science Museum, National Gallery, The Collection, and the Usher Gallery.
She was recently resident poet for Sussex Day at the Royal Pavilion Tearooms, Brighton.
In summer 2010 she was a Poetry Lives Here resident writer at Keats House, Hampstead.
Many of her poems are influenced by vintage fashion which she collects and wears.

Publications

  • Revudeville (King’s England, 2011): sequences united by images from visual art
  • Pavilion (Smokestack, 2010): a collection set in Brighton and inspired by dandies
  • Clark Gable in Mansfield (King’s England, 2003), Her first collection, from which the title poem is published as the epilogue to Clark Gable in Pictures: Candid Images of the Actor’s Life, by Chrystopher J. Spicer (McFarland Books, 2011).
  • Mytton… Dyer… Sweet Billy Gibson… (Nine Arches Press, 2011)
  • Take Five (Shoestring, 2003), selected poems

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Photo: Frances O’Donnell

Performances

Recent readings have included:
  • Castor and Pollux Modern Artwork (Brighton)
  • Beeston International Poetry Festival (Notts)
  • Keats Festival 2010/ 2011 (London)
  • Poetry in the Crypt (London)
  • Lowdham Book Festival

Prizes

  • Scottish International Poetry Competition: The Hugh MacDiarmid Trophy 2001
  • Scottish International Poetry Competition: First prize in the Long Poem section 2005

Contact us

For more information you can contact us through the contact form below. Thank you for your interest.

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Nottingham Festival of Words goes to University!

Nottingham Festival of Words goes to University!

Saturday 16th February and Sunday 17th February
10.00am – 5.00pm

On Saturday 16th and Sunday 17th February, the Festival will take over Nottingham Trent University’s Newton Building.
Passes can be purchased for entry to talks, panels, readings, performances, workshops and more.
The Newton Building is wheelchair accessible throughout.
Free Entrance to the foyer, for the book market and ‘have a go’ activities.
Newton Building Passes available from Festival Box Office

Tickets
Newton Building Passes
In Advance
Adult (18+)
In Advance
Concessions
In Advance
Child (12-17)
On the Door
Adult
On the Door
Child

Weekend Pass

£25

£18.75

£12.50

£30.00

£15.00

Day Pass

£15

£11.25

£7.50

£17.50

£8.75

Half-day Pass

£10

£7.50

£5.00

£12.50

£6.25

 

Concessions = Full time students, OAPs and unwaged
Half-day passes give access to the keynote speech and events before that (morning pass) or after that (afternoon pass)
or online from the Festival Box Office
If you wish to attend a workshop, once you have obtained your pass, please email info@nottwords.org.uk to book your place.


Debbie Moss – Joint Runner-up

Ghosts in the Bromley House Library

debbie-mossSaturday, eight hours since glints of sunlight crossed a brass meridian
A polished line in a small room on the first floor
Only lights flickering in the Market Square
Seep in through small panes and shine on worn oak
Lawrence sails passed shelves of sleeping poets
Inky hands wrapped round a jar
Modernity’s tongue spills out smearing the glass
‘The poetry inside’ says Lawrence nudging
Byron treading the creaking twisted stairs
Byron whines and whispers to Lawrence
‘New ways are only greatest for those already great.’

Sillitoe leans against the cracked window and coughs
He is listening to the Mouthy Poets Say Sum Thin in the Square
Come you two, there’s something here for those like us who perhaps knew
Old ways can change and lives made better
With words which must be spoken
For young lives which have been broken
And the poets listened for hours
To women witness to the words’ power
Then when the mouths had left the
The poets drifted back to their shelves, and jammed new words until
Four hours from solar noon, and for the sun to cross that brass
But today is Sunday and only the ghosts will see it pass.

© Debbie Moss 2014. All rights reserved.


Andy Szpuk – Joint Runner-up

FROM CORKSCREW TO COCKCROW

andy-spzukA barman takes orders, rows of glasses stand stoutly, perusing the pandemonium
The polished bar gleams from sturdy efforts of the cleaner, scent of ammonia
Scrubbed up Sunshine takes a bus into town, to walk among fellow enthusiasts
A search is on for heavenly bodies, preceded by the steady flow from a pint glass

Takeaway neon echoes serve up slices of sparkling light on to Slab Square
Aromas blending, cigarette smoke weaving and wending, toxic as Tony Blair
Trams glide along rails at the side of the fountain, the skyline smoulders
Citizens sit together, take a drink or two, brush off chips on shoulders

A gorilla and a ballerina ride a Raleigh Chopper, custom built, now a tandem
Rock music leaks from cellar bars into side streets, DJ spinning discs at random
Metal machines, marauding monsters, leather clad, guitars screaming, blown fuses
Night life easily morphs into fright night, chemicals collide in multiple abuses

Tourists, students and locals pose for a photo with Brian Clough, statue of a legend
Sunshine enjoys a clear night sky, looking for his own elusive happy ending
Chattering over the clattering of beer trays, where hopes and drinks get spilled
Sunshine casts his eye over the company. On nights like this, dreams get killed

The honking horn of a taxi, the cackle of hen parties, hunted high and low by stags
A bus door hisses, concertina movement, a symphony of stiletto, elegant straggle
Short sleeved shirts gather together, whatever the weather, it’s a hot night
From a pigeon’s perspective, the scenes on the streets below are regular sights

Liquid refreshment loosens tight lipped tension, Sunshine holds on to his intention
A sea of eyes, drowned by disco diva disguises, faces painted for fascination
Sunshine drops ice cubes into a long glass, a depth charge to fire up his voice
He asks for a dance, the first shaky steps towards romance, egged on by the boys

Mobile phones vibrate, a cacophony of ring tones, texts herald a grand arrival
Swooping down, birds flutter, but Sunshine is all hers, underneath the mirror ball
He finds an empty table, their dance becomes a twisting tango of tongues
Stories of his decorating prowess are told, to impress, of wallpaper well hung

An exotic bird borne of some natural grace, this time Sunshine is left seated
As she excuses herself, maybe to powder or put on lippy, the chance has retreated
The music becomes background, Sunshine left to ponder on failure and rejection
But the brooding is only brief, back with the boys, he takes heart, finds resurrection

He remembers her face like a photograph, coal black hair, Skeggy blue eyes
It’s never over he decides, not until the darkness has died. Not until the next sunrise
At the night club, the doorman never smiles, so when it’s time to eject the unruly
He can do so without feeling guilty, in the style of Conservative austerity

Maybe Sunshine’ll see her there, he’s smitten, he knows it, hopes he hasn’t blown it
It’s after midnight, the beer is still slipping down smoothly, maybe the bird has flown?
At the last dance, he digs out those coal black curls, goes over, she says yes
Their bodies conspire to admire each other’s curves, she gives him a slow kiss

The speakers hurl out a last beat, together they walk outside. A half moon smiles
Slab Square, a magic carpet, buskers still strumming guitars, they walk for miles
Together, away from the city, perfect for romantic endeavours, he’s a floating feather
Night buses pass, revellers returning home, the end of the night, a seed of forever

Sunshine walks her home, around them city sleeping, oblivion beneath closed eyes
‘Ring me’ she whispers, closing the door, he’s alone with his own emerging sunrise
He lifts up his head to take the sun’s kiss, holds his phone, gazes at her number
It’s tomorrow already, so he plans to call her later, when she’s woken from slumber

His every step down the street, in the stark light, becomes the city’s heartbeat
Along Trent Bridge, he savours the moment, the river shimmers, the cool air sweet
Street lamps glow golden, his spirits are emboldened by a sense of true belonging
A night that can never be forgotten, his narrative rewritten, a new dawn beckoning

© Andy Szpuk 2014. All rights reserved.


A. Brogan – Winner (Warning: contains strong language and sexual references)

Prime Candidate

alex-brogan2’, one hundred and twenty seconds in, hip-flask comfort, abused. The electrified Torville and Dean skates towards Nottingham, synapses jangling at The Forest, around me fresh lip-stick, perfumed pheromones and tattooed testosterone. The night-economy, flexing wallets and purses, looser from pre-loading. High jinks and an evening of intimacy, who’s the joker in the pack? I sense that my Obsessive Compulsive In-Order with prime numbers is better than avoiding crack.

3’, at High School, backdrop both ways, state money closes on the under-world of pay-as-you-go booze and sex. The metronomic counterpoint. Methinks yes, bracing, lurching towards the descent into abject comfort and oblivion, Bendigo, boxing clever, even though David Herbert is an alumni, I assume the mantle of Mellors.

5’, had a place at this fine palace of academic learning, the northbound inverse, Robin Hood, almost full, national minimum wagers and fading retail therapy addicts, bleary-eyed, making their way home to soft furnishings in Maslow’s Hierarchy of futility. The state has already robbed them. ‘Next stop the Royal Centre’. An annoying voice splatters all over Bolero, ‘With links to SkyLink’, fuck me baby I am already doing the triple-salco.

19’, sat outside, 2nd pint in hand at the Campanologists Delight, sweaty palms and self-trepidation easing, one–way trip, my vista filled with ground floor carbuncles and a clock at 29 degrees above my unsteady horizon. The thought of ground floor food temporarily shudders me with anti-peristalsis. Swallowed bolus, nicotine stained fingers, a cough and a look at an un-finished crossword: Walk.

47’, got my bad sagging ass up to the ‘Ye Old Trip to American Support’, just pointed at the ‘Rocket Juice’ pump. Overlook Hotel reminded me of an overturned tri-cycle and a missed, overbearing, barren ex-wife. Considering the atrocities in Gaza, I temporarily forgave myself, walked, after many drinks, incidental talk, again.

149’, back into town, assumed a solitary booth, in the ‘Lost and Found’. M1 legs move over my recumbent carcass, hearing, ‘I am not here’, the person hides behind my considerable bulk. As the fracas dies down I glimpse fantastic laddered legs that make me forget about snakes. Tall women appeal to me, my joker has landed. We imbibe, converse, pupils dilate, brush of hands, oh to touch another human being. We laugh and cry about the absurdity of our condition, needing fresh air we depart into the Old Market Place.

239’, we sit, shoulders touching, I tickle her knee, a minute later bells sound to differentiate the Jewish Sabbath from the Christian Expectation. She says as the last peel reverberates over downtown, ‘Fancy a Coffee’. We traipse up to Lloyd Coles’ basement flat, a mere 373 yards away. I am in!!. Bollocks to the kettle.

661’, endless talk, vodka, snow, political correctness, my five o’clock in the morning shadow eased with my own dribble.

683’, in bed, after interminable foreplay I close in on the King Street/Queen Street vaginal confluence, legs akimbo, anticipation abounds, wrong gender! Bollocks.

691’, pain in the back, left arm tingles, crippled to my knees.

701’, blues and 2’s, thanks.

709’, shy lights, beeping machines, artificial breather, a guy in Bay 7 growling in pain with suspected peritonitis, cannulas like spirit optics as the tone and noise flat-line, fuck!, that’s my bay! 13 eyes look down on me, “prime”, national grid creaks, “clear”, involuntary shudder like jobbie pains, spray yawns and baby-shakes combined. An acrid smell from my now limp chest hair stirs my olfactory meltdown. Navel fluff intact. Orifices twitch, faeces, urine and sperm melt into Anarie Bevan’s wet-dream. Anvil, hammer and stirrup perform for the penultimate time, a muted cacophony of an unfinished symphony, the last vestiges of recognized organic life dissipate from my core

719’, auricular tricks, despite my limited understanding of prime numbers, I am pronounced dead at 7.59 am on Sunday 37th Julember 2014. ‘Cause of death – Lifestyle Choice, a Prime Candidate, Wrong Date, Right Time’. An ethereal thought, it would take more than the great General William Booth to deploy every rank of the Salvation Army. Shit my 11th life just ended.

720’, I spiritually depart QMC, this great city, lace christening garment, second-hand Raleigh bike, sandstone caves, 11 plus, 17 driving lessons, the river coursing through my now collapsed veins and arteries and looking down at Trent Bridge, ‘Ashes to Ashes’.

© Alex Brogan 2014. All rights reserved.


Flash Fiction Competition

Flash Fiction Competition

To celebrate National Storytelling Week (Saturday 26th January – Saturday 2nd February) Nottingham Festival of Words has run a Flash Fiction Competition. Here are the best stories. Enjoy!

Winner

The Wasp

Andy Boulton

With an elegant ferocity, he took skywards. Tumbling through the sharp summer air, buffeted by his own hunger, his furious thirst for the sweetness of man’s dark nectar, a primitive stench of violence burning beneath the nothingness of his eyes. Poor Ian. He really thought he was a wasp.

Runner Up

How the Music Lingers

Zelda Chappel

The music lingered only in her ears. Outside streetlights offer an awkward spotlight ’til the guys join her, adrenaline spiked, two girls following. High-fives and cigarettes exchanged, their laughter hangs melodies on cold air. She stole his eyes, held them in her pocket. In these times, she thinks, it’ll do.

Runner Up

Another Door Opens

Neil Baker

I told my husband that anticipation was everything. There is not enough suspense, I said. He thought for a year and said this: I will leave you for another woman, but I won’t tell you when – would that do? You are a year too late, I said, shutting the door.

Shortlisted

Isaac Counts Coins

Pete Walsh

In the moments before time ends, Isaac counts his coins. Whether they are ducat or florin is immaterial, so is the concept he does it to remain occupied. Whatever drives him, Isaac surrenders freely when the end of time arrives. Not everything stops however: the coins fall from his hand.

Seventeen Letters and One Reply

Lauren Rogers

“They’ve replied!”
Lynne rushed into the kitchen waving the letter.
“What does it say?”
“I haven’t opened it yet.” She propped the letter against the jam pot. “I can’t do it, George. Open it for me, but only tell me if it’s good news.”

The Door

Andy S. Barritt

The door was black and set in a wall near the park. ‘Daddy lives there’ I told my sister. Years later she called it a mean trick, not realising it was a secret I shared because I loved her. A door Daddy never entered was one he could never leave.

Arabesque

Sue Barsby

She saw him through a gap in the loom. The machinery moved and he was gone. And back again. And gone. He appeared in full, incongruous beside a tatting display, took one look at her and they ran from the museum. Fingers woven together, they left the past behind.

Routine

Jane Hogan

I go down on her. She goes down on me. We have sex. We play Call of Duty.

(A)shame(d)

Emma Zimmerman

There was that day when you got found out. The police—like ants at first—advanced up the rough field, handcuffs strapped to their waists. I ran and hid and couldn’t look at you. For weeks I stared at the ground, tears burning my hot pink cheeks.

Working Towards The Weekend

Kate Rounding

The roar of productivity from the huge machines dwarfed the tiny figure of Shell. She reached up and dragged the huge plate down, turning the cranks to create another step in the evolution of the tiny socks with lacy edges. One step nearer pay-day and party time.

Man’s Best Friend

Kate Cartwright

Sacha found him in the woods. I wanted to get help, but he stopped me.
‘I’m sick,’ he said. ‘I’ve come here to die, like your dog would.’
She nosed at his hand.
‘Let her stay awhile?’ he asked.
I called her away; he would be colder alone.

“One Final Kiss”

Elizabeth Simpson

“In a relationship.”
Two years together, and this was how he chose to tell her he’d moved on? A Facebook update? After a few moments spent in shock, Laura composed herself. Hacking into his computer was easy.
She blew him one final kiss before pressing “send” on the virus code.


Wednesday 15 October

Death Sentences in The Galleries of Justice

Workshop

  • 2 – 4.30 pm
  • 30 ( 25 conc.)

Please note: the workshop is on a first-come-first-served basis and advance booking is essential.

Reading

  • 7 pm
  • 10 ( 7 conc.)

Join three of the UK’s best-selling crime writers, Stephen Booth, Steven Dunne and Anne Zouroudi, as we delve into the dark underbelly of crime for a creative-writing workshop and reading event at the infamous and award-winning Galleries of Justice, the most haunted building in the UK!

In the afternoon, 18 writers of all levels of experience will be led to a place of writing execution to take part in a workshop with Stephen Booth and Steven Dunne. This is a chance for you to explore the craft of crime writing with a series of short exercises, including ‘creating a killer’, and detailed feedback to get you started on your crime novel.

In the evening Steven and Stephen will join Anne Zouroudi at the magistrates’ bench in the atmospheric Civil Court, as they read from their newest titles, The Unquiet Grave, The Corpse Bridge and The Feast of Artemis. After the reading, there will be a chance for you to meet the authors who will be happy to sign books.

There is a 20% discount on a group buy of five or more tickets for the Reading event. Use Promotion Code: NFW5

A former newspaper journalist, Stephen Booth has written 14 novels featuring young Derbyshire police detectives DS Ben Cooper and DS Diane Fry, which have won awards on both sides of the Atlantic and are currently in development as a TV series. His most recent title is The Corpse Bridge.

Writing Hungary

Nottingham Writers’ Studio

  • 4 – 6.00 pm
  • 4 ( 3 conc.)

    In 2012 Hungarian Nobel laureate Imre Kertész described Hungary as a country ‘on the wrong side of history facing both east and west’, while composer Gyorgy Ligeti spoke of the great lyrical qualities in Hungarian poetry.

In this event, celebrated poet and translator George Szirtes, poet and children’s writer, Anna T Szabó, and academic and writer, Anna Menyhert discuss historical and contemporary Hungarian literature as well as read from their own work.