
Sunday, 25 May 2014
Stealing Moments...

Tuesday, 13 May 2014
Me, Myself and Cindy...
Monday, 24 February 2014
Just Keep Swimming...
Tuesday, 24 December 2013
Christmas is coming...
Christmas is coming. The goose is getting fat, but I eat turkey, so I'm not too fussed 'bout that. I'm waiting for the snow to fall and the temperature to drop, for the river outside my house to freeze and the world to come to a stop.
And though the ducks will walk on water and the air will be just biting, I'll be fine with pen and paper, as long as I am writing.
This time last year I was in good cheer, for my second book was done. It all had raced in such a blur, but now the race was won. And since back then, I have been blessed with reviews so very fine. My so long journey went so fast, and my books can surely shine!
Now Christmas is coming once again and more books I have in store, like Zits'n'Bits and Rudolph, and soon so many more.
I love to write, creating worlds no man has walked upon, and to take a reader by the hand and share with everyone. I also love to find myself taken by a writer's hand, and led to places far and wide, discovering whole new lands.
I guess that on my Christmas list, I'd ask for a few more hours. For writing, reading, marketing you need some special powers! Just a couple, five or so, more hours in the day and I might get to do the things that keep on slipping away. Work and life and family I thoroughly enjoy, but to fit it into 24, I'd have more me's to employ!
But so it is and such is life, it only makes us stronger. But, Santa, if you're listening, can you make my days a little longer?
Friday, 22 November 2013
Illuminating the Bulb...
Also known as 'being illuminated by the bulb!'
I’m sure that makes no sense to you, dear reader. Not many things I say probably do, but where would be the fun if they did, hmmm? Well, let me enlighten you.
I would hope, a little over a week ago, certain things I said did make sense. A little over a week ago, I had the genuine delight of visiting Chelmsford in Essex. I’d been asked to pop down (as much as you can pop when the journey takes a little over 3 hours each way) and chat to a writing group – The Write Bulb.
I was actually asked a year ago but, for one reason and another, I couldn’t go. The invitation was always there, hanging in the air like a cloud. Not one of those nasty, dark, angry ones though, the ones that make you run and hide so they don’t drench you or jab at you with their lightning. No, this was one of those light types that drift about the clear sky on a summer morn. The kind that happily change shape from dragon to butterfly to rocket ship to keep you entertained whilst life is keeping you occupied.
So, finally, everything fell into place for the visit to take... erm... place.
Having never been to Essex before, I was pleased that Google Maps was my friend. I set off nice and early (around 8:09am) with my supply of Sin postcards, Sin paperbacks and Lincolnshire Pork Sausages.
Yes, that’s what I said, sausages. Not just any old sausage, either. Lincolnshire Pork ones. And not just any old Lincolnshire Pork ones. Pettits award winning Lincolnshire Pork Sausages! If you haven’t tasted them, you are missing something good. Now you may think that’s an odd thing to take to a writers’ group meeting. I’d tend to agree, not least because it was a tray of 40, but they were a special request from the person who invited me down.
Carlie Cullen, step forward. Carlie is a wonderful writer, author of the equally wonderful Heart Search. She’s part of the Myrddin Publishing Group I’m also a member of, and through which my Dark Places anthology is published. And a finer group of people you’d be hard pressed to meet.
So. The journey down was fairly uneventful, apart from me having to listen to a steady stream of static from my car stereo which seemed unable to grab hold of a station long enough to let loose audible music from the car speakers. Even though I hadn’t met either Carlie or her lovely daughter Maria before, I felt like we were old friends. The crispy bacon butty she made me for lunch cemented that feeling.
Did I mention I was a little nervous about the visit? Or did you guess based on previous posts? I feel I never know what to say or how to start. I think it’s because I’m not entirely sure I have anything to say! Or anything worth listening to, at least. I say my ‘stuff’ in my books. I ramble and delve and ponder in my writing through my characters. Telling people about one of my characters is easy. Telling people about me, not so much.
I walked into the room with Carlie and Maria, hoping we’d be early and I could psyche (remember, psyche with an ‘e’ not an ‘o’) myself up prior to the arrival of the rest of the group. I didn’t have that chance. A good few were already there with others joining us steadily. And I was given the seat at the head of the table!
First up, after introductions, was the writing challenge. I agreed to take part and had brought my journal all ready to go. The subject was ‘The room in the tower,’ and we could write anything we liked along those lines. We just had to ‘go for it’. So I went for it.
As is usual for me, I had no idea where I was going with the story. I still don’t really. The 35 minutes we had, though, gave me chance to get a good start. One or two of the troupe read out their stories, then I was asked to.
Gulp.
Still, it seemed to go down well. I think.
Eventually, it was my turn to talk. My escape routes were blocked and, at the head of the table, I could hardly duck my head and remain quiet. But, what to say? How to start? OK, I knew what I wanted to actually tell them – my writing and publishing ‘career’, but...
Then John, a lovely, funny Scot, jumped in with a question before I had chance to draw a breath. From that point on, things went pretty smoothly, I think. The members of the group seemed interested in what I had to say (though they could be good actors) and asked some in-depth, great questions that actually made me think about my own writing. I found myself realising things about how and why I produce the work I do, so even this became a sort of therapy. I just hope I don’t get the bill through the post! At least Sin doesn’t charge!
A few of them were gracious enough to buy copies of my book, for which I’m grateful, and some remained behind afterwards (even though we’d run over by half an hour) to chat. I appreciated that. Sarah-Jane – I hope your writing brings you the help it’s brought me (and thanks for following me on Twitter!), and James, please finish your story. I want to see where it goes!
I thoroughly enjoyed myself with The Write Bulb and sincerely hope they remain in touch. There are some talented people there and the group, as a whole, are a delight.
Oh, and I accepted the writing challenge of a 1000 word story on The Masquerade. I’d best get started then! In my defence, I have spent a fair amount of time reading, and when you’re sailing in a South Sea Bubble or dipping your toe in the Ocean at the End of the Lane, it’s difficult to put pen to paper.
Thank you Carlie, Maria and the Writer’s Bulb. It was a long but enjoyable and fulfilling day. I’ll maybe see you again next year!
Monday, 21 October 2013
Never Give Up...
Ten years ago, I wrote a short story.
No, wait. Let's go back. Way back. Back into time... Something like forty years ago, I wrote a story. It wouldn't have been very long and was, I would think, not very good. I also drew a picture to go along with it. Again, potentially not very good.
I was five.
I may have been four, I may have been six but, seeing as one of the poems in my children's book Zits'n'Bits is called 'I Want to be Five', that's how old we'll say I was. An age of wonder, of Father Christmas, of the Tooth Fairy and of monsters under the bed. And, of course, the age of very short, potentially badly written stories. I'm sure my mum and dad were very proud, though.
I didn't stop. Since then I have carried on making up stories, creating worlds and inhabiting them with all manner of creatures and people - sometimes the two being one. I suppose that classes me as 'writer' then.
I remember being stood in the corridor at school with my friend, Tony. Now Tony has supported my writing from way back then and is a fervent supporter even now - to the effect that he is mentioned in the dedication, acknowledgement and text of Sin. I'd started writing a book. A proper novel. We were on corridor duty, there to make sure other pupils didn't run or fight and so on. We had badges to proclaim our Prefect status. I was showing him the beginnings of this book, this powerhouse of prose. I don't recall if he thought it was any good. Thinking back on some of the wording, it wasn't. A teacher came along and asked what we were looking at so I showed and told him.
I do recall the teacher being impressed. Not, I would think, at what I'd written, but with the fact that I WAS writing. I think the guy was the Geography teacher, but I can't be sure.
Either way, I didn't carry on that story. I did, though, write some GOOD stories at that school. The English teacher was excellent and it was he that gave me the buzz to actually produce a proper novel. So much so, in fact, that, after I'd left school and he'd retired, I used to send him my stories and he'd return them with the same sort of marks, corrections and comments he did whilst he was teaching me. Well, I guess he never stopped.
When I left school, my writing diminished. I still produced stories and poetry and, I believe, it got better. Life got in the way, as it tends to, and I was letting it. The bug didn't leave though. It bided its time then, one day, it firmly bit me on the ankle. I was writing more. I wasn't keeping a lot of it, but I was writing it. The advent of the internet was a real boon. Thanks to the world wide web, I had my work published in various small magazines in the US and other countries. Some even won competitions.
I then started another book. I'd had an idea and I went with it. Again, I drifted off it. The muse had me, then it jumped onto something different (something that curses me still - luckily, now, it does have a habit of returning). Reading that story back now, there are some very good ideas in it, I think. Some I'll use again. I may even pick it up again and finish it. Either way, I wrote a good deal and got a fair way into it.
Not long after I'd started this, I was getting into web design and so on. This would be around 16 years ago. I'd been sending my stories off for a while. Some were accepted, some weren't - such is the life of the writer. I set up a website for poetry and prose of my own and soon was receiving emails from all over the world from hopeful authors who wanted a voice and to share their work with the world. The website soon had the attention of Sky television who asked me to appear to discuss the pros and cons of electronic (which was really just web based then) as opposed to traditional publishing. There was me, effectively doing this 'in my bedroom' going against someone from Curtis Brown!
I had the last word, though...
Then, as I may have mentioned, ten years ago I wrote a short story. That short story is now the prologue to a fully fledged, fully completed, novel. Not only that, but it's been compared to two of my favourite authors, Stephen King and Dean Koontz, and has been called 'an incredible read.'
That and other reviews are quite humbling. From those stories written by my fiver year old self to the first attempt at a book to today has been a long road. Though Sin has been ten years in the making, it feels like it has been forty.
It's another thing to cross off my 'bucket list', along with sky-diving and walking through the Valley of the Kings in Luxor, Egypt, both of which I've done in the past couple of years. I lapsed, but I didn't give up. I wandered off the path, but my muse took me by the hand and guided me back on.
Nor should you - give up.
Ten years ago, I wrote a short story. Forty years ago I did the same and added a little drawing.
A couple of years ago I shook hands with the Community Development officer at the central library who bought ten copies of my book to put in each of the local libraries. Within ten minutes of that meeting I'd sold another ten to WH Smiths, a well know book store chain here in the UK - the one, through all those years, that I wanted to walk into and see my book on the shelf of.
Never say never.
Wednesday, 2 October 2013
Wrestling the Muse...
The Muse. Now there's a character. If you could picture him, what would he be like? I imagine him with an eye mask and a sly grin. A long dark coat that has a lining of more colours than Joseph's Technicolor garment of choice. His hair is just so except when you catch him out of the corner of your eye. Then it's wild and unkempt, a nest of Medusa-like proportions.
Then the mask drops and you see him juggling words, deliberately dropping them into a pile at his feet that he dances upon. As each falls, he plucks another out of the air, smoother than David Copperfield or Dynamo.
The Muse. He stands before you, but you're tied to the chair. You want to reach out to him, but he stands just beyond your grasp, his eyes watching you and his sly grin taunting you.
"You want a piece of me?" he asks.
But then, you manage to slip free of your bindings and launch yourself forward. He skips out of the way, giggling, but you catch him with your foot and he falls with you. A scuffle ensues and you succeed in pulling the mask from his face.
Of course, he looks like you. Who else would taunt you with words and ideas tossed into the air and piled at your feet?
But you have the mask in your hand and the coat is torn open to reveal its multi-coloured interior. Woven into the fabric are the words that his sleight of hand made appear from nothing.
Your smile matches his own as you don the Coat of Many Characters and take up your pen.
The Muse pours you a coffee and pulls up a chair beside you. After all, he was only messing. He can't just give you the words.
You have to want them!