Danse Macabre

The second sudden death Tim Rawcliffe had to attend as a young police officer was almost enough to make him quit the Force. Never really suited to the stresses and strains of operational police work, he had a rather nervous disposition and was inclined, or so his colleagues thought, to be possessed of a fanciful imagination. It was always Tim who managed to see strange things or hear strange noises, especially on night shift, the consequence being that he regularly shouted up on the radio for back-up when it wasn’t needed. After a while, his colleagues began to take his cries for assistance with a pinch of salt.

So when Tim was heard squawking on the radio from the scene of a sudden death in a city centre apartment, nobody was surprised.

“He’s dead,” squawked Tim.

“We suspected that,” said the laconic Control Room operator in response. “That’s why we sent you there. Report of sudden death. Remember?”

“I know, I know,” Tim spluttered, “but it’s weird, it’s weird. Can you ask the sergeant to come along, quick as he can?”

“What’s the problem, Tim?” cut in the voice of Sergeant Artingstall.

“It‘s difficult to say, Sarge,” he burbled, “but the body keeps moving.”

“Well, if it keeps moving, it’s not dead then is it!”

“”He’s dead alright, Sarge. He’s definitely dead. He’s as stiff as a board. Come and look.”

“I’ll be along quick as I can,” the sergeant said with a sigh, expecting another wolf-crying episode from nervy Tim. “And, Control!” he added, “Better make sure the ambulance gets along too just in case he isn’t dead at all.”

“Roger, Sarge,” Control Room said.

When Ken Artingstall arrived, having puffed his way up seven flights of stairs to get to the apartment, he found the door to number 3/7 open and the sound of Bob Marley music blaring away from inside. “What the…?” he muttered, entering the apartment.

As he walked into the lounge Tim switched off the music and faced his sergeant, white faced. Stretched out on the floor in front of the fireplace, barely fitting between the armchair and the coffee table, was the body of a large black Rastafarian, complete with dreadlocks and red, green and yellow bonnet. He certainly looked dead to the sergeant. Dead and still.

Ken Artingstall gave Tim an old fashioned look and bent down to pick up the man’s wrist. His whole arm was stiff but, even so, to be safe, Ken felt for a pulse. There was none.

“He’s dead as a dodo, Tim. Been dead for hours. What’s your problem?” He gave Tim an old fashioned look.

“I know he’s dead, Sarge, but when I came in the music was playing loud and he was moving, dancing like. And when I stopped the music, he stopped moving…”

“You pulling my pisser, Tim?”

“No, honest, Sarge. Watch!”

And with that, Tim switched the music back on and Marley began singing again: “No woman, no cry… No wo-man, no cry…”

Immediately, the dead man started to twitch and move in time with the music.

“Well, I ‘ll be…” said the sergeant. “Stop the music, Tim.”

So Tim stopped the music and the body lay still immediately.

“OK, do it again. Start it! Now stop it! Start it! Stop it!”

And each time the music started, the body twitched. Each time it stopped, the body lay still.

The sergeant sat down in the armchair, took off his cap and scratched his balding head. Then, reaching down, he took hold of the Rastafarian’s wrist again. The arm wouldn’t bend at all. It was as stiff as a poker.

“Well, bugger me,” he said. “That’s the strangest thing I’ve ever seen… no Tim, don’t put the music on again. I’ve seen enough.”

At that moment, the ambulance crew walked in, puffing and panting.

“Well, lads, I’m pleased you’ve arrived because there’s something happening here that has me beaten and I need witnesses just to prove to myself that I’m not going insane. Watch this,” he said. “Music please, Tim.”

On went the music, twitch went the body, scratch of the head went Ken Artingstall.

“Right, Tim, stop the music please. There gents,” he said addressing the ambulance crew, “what’s that all about?”

“Ah, nothing to get alarmed about,” said the older of the two. “It happens quite a lot. It’s just reggae mortis setting in.”

You can't be too careful

The man across the hall has complained that my apartment smells. I don’t smell anything but the landlord says, “Maybe you’re used to it.”

“I don’t know what to do to fix it though, if I don’t know what it is he’s talking about.”

“I’m just sayin’, he’s complained – so I’m just sayin’.”

I’m a paranoid type of person anyway. This ‘official complaint’ doesn’t help. I have become unreasonably obsessed with the idea that maybe I am a serial killer and just don’t remember, maybe I’ve got bodies in here somewhere. I think this thing about being a serial killer the same sort of way I freak out right before I walk out of a store that has those monitors at the door that beep when you go through with a shirt or something that has one of those ratcheted-on tabs. I always panic before I go through, afraid I’ve stolen something. I’m not really afraid of jail, but you know when those things go off everybody turns to have a look see.

I don’t steal though and I’ve never killed anybody.

That I know of.

But there’s been a complaint about the smell in my apartment and so, well… you know how these things can balloon into something much more serious, you can’t be too careful about these kinds of complaints.

So, I’ve been cleaning my apartment today, going around smelling things and wiping them off. I can’t find anything terribly offensive. I’m beginning to wonder if it is just me, maybe I am what smells. But, I’ve checked that too and, still… nothing. Like my landlord says though, I’m probably used to it.

There’ll probably be a search if I can’t find it myself and they’ll go through my things and who knows what they’ll find. I don’t think they’ll find anything bad, but you can’t be too careful, well – you know. Do you know?

Relic

He was five feet six inches tall and not a fraction more. His slimline figure was intact. He carried easily the nickname Snakehips. He liked it. He liked the attention, even now. It reminded him and everybody else of his prowess on the multi-coloured, flashing, glass dance floor that was the raison de dance in Barnsley’s only discotheque all those years ago. Travolta was nothing in comparison with Snakehips Threlfall!

All eyes followed him as he schmoozed his way down the stairs to the counter of the coffee shop where he ordered a baked potato with cheese and coleslaw, and a drink. The spiky-haired 17 year old assistant stared at him, open-mouthed, until Snakehips nodded at the pile of loose change he had placed on the counter, breaking the trance. His blue satin shirt caught on its folds the flickering light from the flat screen television which was showing yet more reports from the Iraq War, from Afghanistan, and from Lebanon. He didn’t look at the television. Or at least, he didn’t appear to look but nobody could be quite sure what his eyes were focused on behind the wrap-around shades. He was too cool for TV.

The deep lined skin on his neck and at his saggy jowls was disconcerting, jarring in tone with his full head of hair which was lustrously black, stylishly coiffured yet incongruously quiffed. He drew a hand back over it while he waited, smoothing it and patting it down where it wasn’t quite smooth enough for his liking. It seemed more than smooth enough to the fascinated observers whose Americanos were temporarily ignored and grew cold.

“How old do you think he is?” Margot asked Betty over her buttered scone.

“I think he’s about 60 but he thinks he’s 18,” Betty said in a stage whisper that was only a tad quieter than a shout.

He didn’t seem to hear, although everybody else did. Instead, he turned his head slowly first to the left, then to the right. It was impressive. Almost imperious. We expected him to dance.

He paid for his latte and baked potato with a flourish, then spun on his heels in Saturday Night Fever fashion and took his seat at a vacant formica topped table.

“That’s a nice medallion you’ve got there,” said Betty to him, leaning across and peering at the glittering gold circle on a chain barely visible amongst the chest hairs.

“Thank you,” he said in a fair imitation of a fake American accent. “Do you like my gold bracelets and rings too?”

The young waiter appeared. “Your Stawberry Smoothie, sir!” she said with a smile.

Writer's Bursary - get paid to write your novel!

MCNA is pleased to announce that it is awarding an £18,000 Writer’s Bursary to allow a promising writer to dedicate up to 12 months writing a work of fiction.

The Bursary is open to novices as well as experienced writers. Its aim is to provide the successful candidate with the financial assistance to allow time for writing, with a view to completing the novel within 12 months.

You can write about any subject as long as it is substantially a work of imagination and fiction and you retain full copyright over your work.

This is the first year that we are running the Writer’s Bursary and our intention is to award the Bursary on an annual basis. We have established the Bursary as a contribution to the Arts and in particular to creative writing.

Applicants must be ordinarily resident in the UK or Rep of Ireland.

The closing date for applications is Thursday 30th November 2006 and the successful applicant will be announced on Friday 26th January 2007.

NB: There is a £12 administration fee payable with applications.

Sarah

“You think it’s a wonderful thing, don’t you?”

“Yes I do.”

“Well it isn’t. It’s a curse.”

“Being beautiful is a curse?”

“I don’t think of myself as being beautiful but yes it is.”

“How so?”

“Because of the way men look at me for starters. They don’t see me as a person.”

“Oh, the old sex object thing, is it?”

“Yes. They just want to get into my knickers.”

“Well, what do expect? Whatever you think, you are a beautiful woman and men want to give you babies… or at least practise giving you babies.”

“Don’t be crude.”

“I’m not being crude, just honest. We’re led by the testosterone to want to give women like you lots of babies. And I’m sure you enjoyed the power over men you’ve had since you were a teenager. Never flirted and teased. I bet you’ve driven some men mad.”

“Secondly, because I attract only the pseuds and the pretty boys and the so-called celebs, the real men seem to keep well clear.”

“That’s because real men think they stand no chance with you. You’re famous, so what would you want with an ordinary guy?”

“They are afraid of me. They are too frightened to ask me out or talk with me like I’m a normal person. I am normal, you know.”

“No, you’re not. You’re beautiful and you have money. What guy wouldn’t be afraid and wary? Stick with your own kind, that’s what real men think.”

“Well, I hate it. No wonder I’m not happy. I wish I was ugly.”

“I don’t.”

“You don’t?”

“No.”

“Are you a real man?”

Les citations

Three quotes from Jules Renard, French author. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jules_Renard


Writing is an occupation in which you have to keep proving your talent to people who have none.

Culture is what's left after you have forgotten everything.

I don't know if god exists, but it would be better for his reputation if he didn't.


Bien sur!

Leanne

Leanne Wilcox was abnormal. She suffered from an excess of pleasantness and happiness and goodwill towards her fellow man. She was the pleasantest, happiest and most goodwill-possessing person I have ever met. She radiated goodness.

It wasn’t as if she was simple of mind. Exactly the opposite. She was as bright as a button, sharp as a tack. She wrote well and sang well and had two well-adjusted children. She drove a Meals-on-Wheels van for the needy old folk of her parish, she assisted on various committees without once upsetting the ordinary members of the respective associations (a record in itself) and she held down a full-time job as receptionist at the doctor’s surgery on the edge of the village.

Cakes were her speciality. She was known for them. All village charity events benefited from the presence of her cakes on their stalls. People came from far and wide to purchase one of Leanne’s date and walnut creations. Oh, and her preserves.

Her husband, John, thought the world of her. “She is,” he said to whoever praised her in his hearing – and there were plenty of those, believe me – “a wonderful wife and mother. I couldn’t ask for better.” And to his work colleagues at Morrison’s Bespoke Furniture Warehouse where they could, let’s be honest, be a little rough of tongue, he would respond to all references to Leanne with his stock phrase: “An angel in the kitchen and a whore in the bedroom.”

His friends envied him. And when John told Leanne how his colleagues leered at her, she would just smile and say: “Silly boys!” And she was right, of course.

Whenever there was a humanitarian crisis in the world, Leanne would be at the forefront of the campaign to collect and donate and join. She was indefatigable in support of good causes.

And here’s the very, very unusual thing about her. This sums up her saintly character and sets her apart from all others: she has never, ever been heard to say a bad word about anybody. Not one person. Not one! She can only say good things about people. Even me!

I can’t stand her. She really gets on my tits.

How Writers Should Read (1)

(For those who've caught just parts of this very occasional series, and can't be bothered searching for the rest, here's the whole lot together.)


Writers should read. The single most important way of learning to be a writer, and to improve your own writing, is to read the work of published writers – especially within the genre which you wish to write.

However, to get the most benefit from this exercise, you need to learn how to read on more than one level. The first and most obvious is, of course, the surface level. Read for the story, or the information, or the emotion. Consider how well the author has succeeded in his/her intention – to entertain, to inform, to convey a message, a feeling, a state of mind. To make you think.

Some might say, ‘Ah, but how do I know what his/her intention was?’ My answer to that is simple: If you have to ask that question, he/she has not succeeded in doing much more than confuse the reader.

How many times have you reached the end of a short story or a poem or even an article, and found yourself wondering ‘what was that all about?’ It may be beautifully written, and have a huge amount of promise, have you engrossed and delighted as you read… But then you reach the end and feel nothing more than confusion and dissatisfaction, because you find yourself asking more questions than were answered. Much promised but little delivered. How disappointing is that?

It’s a mistake that new writers sometimes make – I have made comments on their work saying that I didn’t understand what they were getting at, or that indicate that I actually misunderstood their point or purpose or the situation. They would then write back to me and say, ‘no, that’s not right: my point is such and such’ or ‘the two characters are in fact the two sides of one person’ or ‘the poem means so and so’. The underlying accusation being that I have got it wrong. Well, sorry, but if the reader is allowed to misunderstand in that way, or is left wondering what point the author was trying to make, then it’s the author who has got it wrong.

And once a piece of writing is published, anyway, the author does not have the opportunity to cry, ‘no, you’ve all got it wrong.’ Or if he/she does, that would just be a public admission that they didn’t write it well enough in the first place. Best keep quiet, in that case.

Any piece of writing should be self-explanatory. Which does not mean that every i should be dotted, every t crossed: there is room in fiction – even the necessity - to leave some questions unanswered, to leave the reader to think about it afterwards, to wonder what might/could/should happen next, so the story lives on in the mind. But the basic scenario or premise in the story or poem must be clear enough to leave the reader intellectually and emotionally satisfied, and leave us enough to work on to come to some reasoned conclusions about the questions which are raised.

Non-fiction writers don’t normally have this luxury – if you’re in the business of conveying facts, better make sure you convey them clearly and accurately or your future prospects of work are in doubt (unless, maybe, you write for a tabloid newspaper…)

So, once you’ve read the piece at a surface level, the next question to ask, is how has the author structured/plotted the work to ensure that the reader is left satisfied? Or, where it hasn’t worked for you, to ask why that is. This involves looking at a deeper level than the superficial. I’ll deal with that in my next post.

How Writers Should Read (2)

Once you have decided whether a piece of writing does or does not work for you, then you should try to decide why this is. Every element of that piece of writing has contributed to the overall effect, so study each element closely to see what part it plays. Take a systematic approach and consider one element at a time.

Narrative Voice:
Is it written in the 1st, 2nd or 3rd person? Consider what effect this has. 1st person is ‘up close and personal’: we hear the thoughts that pass through the character’s head, see through his eyes, feel his emotions and get an undiluted view of how he sees the world. As a result, the reader will normally identify closely with the character and expect to be ‘on his side’.

However, 1st person can also be used to subvert these expectations – the central character, who is in effect telling the tale by saying ‘I did this, saw that, heard the other,’ may be lying to his readers. If this is cleverly done, the reader will empathise and sympathise strongly with the character – and if other characters are implying he is lying, will always go along with the central character, feeling him to be unjustly maligned. The point at which it becomes clear to the reader that he/she has been taken for a ride should be quite a shock, and make the reader rethink everything from the beginning.

2nd person is rarely used – and in my experience rarely works. I would certainly recommend avoiding it unless you’re very sure of the effect you want to create.

3rd person is the ‘normal’ choice for storytelling or non-fiction writing (unless it is specifically a personal experience article or autobiography.) It doesn’t have the restrictions of 1st person for fiction, where only events that the character has witnessed or been told about can be conveyed.

What’s the point of view? Although this is connected with the choice of 1st or 3rd person, it is not exactly the same – an author using third person narrative can create different effects depending on which character he chooses as the viewpoint. Indeed, the viewpoint character may change from section to section. This has to be handled carefully, however, as it can make the reader feel less involved with the story because he never truly identifies with any of the characters.

Is there an omniscient narrator who knows everything that’s going on, and can allow the reader to see into the thoughts and emotions of all the characters? Or does the author restrict the reader’s view very strictly to one character at a time, so that the actions and intentions of other characters can only be filtered through that consciousness?

And finally, is there any degree of authorial intervention in the story – i.e. where the author makes occasional, or more frequent, interjections, to comment on what his/her characters are up to, or to tell the reader what his/her intentions are, or to add comments of any kind which clearly come directly from the author? This has the effect of taking the reader temporarily outside the world of the story and ‘reminding’ us that this isn’t actually real life, but is a creative construction.

PS. This series was originally intended to be a single post, but I’m finding that there’s probably enough material to cover that it would make a book rather than just a blog post or two. There are several more to go! Part 3 will follow soon.

How Writers Should Read (3)

I realise I’ve left you in suspense for far too long on this fascinating subject! So here’s the next exciting instalment.

Tense
The most common tense for fiction is the simple past tense. This is the easiest and most natural to use in most cases. However, the present tense can work well for certain types of story – where the author wants to build up suspense or excitement, for example. It usually works best in short doses however – where you might get away with it for an entire short story, it can be irritating for a novel. But an author may well use it for certain chapters, or sections, within a novel or short story. Consider how these changes of tense affect you as the reader.

Dialogue
What is the proportion of dialogue to narrative? Is there a great deal of conversation, so you get to know the characters, their relationships and the situation largely through the words they use? Or is there far more narrative, where people and places are described in long and loving detail, with the characters’ words only being reported once you have a detailed picture of the scene in your head? The proportion of dialogue to narrative affects the pace of the story very strongly: from quick and lively at one end of the scale, (i.e. mostly dialogue - e.g. Roddy Doyle) to slow and ponderous at the other (i.e. heavy on the narrative, e.g. Henry James).

Also consider what sort of words the characters use as they speak – lots of dialect and slang? Erudite and formal? Does each character have a distinctive style of speaking?

Language
Narrative language style is also important – is it popular, casual, colloquial, formal? Assess the length of sentences and paragraphs – do they vary greatly or are they pretty consistent? Short sentences tends to produce excitement and tension, and are good for thrillers. Long flowery sentences are, arguably, better for romantic stories. But a clever author can use this expectation for his/her own purposes – using slow-paced lyrical, flowery language for a murder scene can make it even more shocking because of the incongruity.

Vocabulary – is there a preponderance of very long or very short words? Anglo-Saxon or Latinate words? Simple or metaphorical language? Lyrical or stark? Highly technical or ‘entry-level’ terminology? - this obviously mainly relates to non-fiction.

That's enough for now - but there's more to come soon...

How Writers Should Read (4)

Now you’ve had plenty of time to read and inwardly digest the previous posts on this subject, here is the final part in the series.

In addition to the grammatical, technical and semantic levels I’ve discussed previously, there are higher levels of the story to consider as you read. These are in their turn affected by the deeper level choices made by the author – such things as the language style and vocabulary, balance between dialogue and narrative, tense and narrative voice all have their parts to play in the following elements of a piece of writing.

Genre
Mainstream publishers and book retailers love genre novels and short stories, because if there is an in-your-face category into which they can slot a book, they know exactly where the competition lies and which shelf in the bookshop it will sit on. So if you’re looking to maximise your chances of publication and sales, my tip of the day is to think genre. Here’s a list of them:

Crime
Romance
Thriller
Spy
Mystery
Horror
Sci Fi
Fantasy
Family saga
Historical
Western
Humour
War

Okay, so some of these overlap somewhat – but if you can slot your potential novel into one of them you’re going to make a publisher – and the many readers who love a specific genre – very happy.

And once you’ve identified the genre you think you can write best, read as many books by best-selling authors in that genre as you can. You will find that each genre has its own conventions – however much publishers and authors might protest that they don’t want, or write to, a formula – trust me, there are inevitably and unavoidably formulaic qualities to each genre. As you read the pile of books, identify which elements are intrinsic to the genre, and make sure you include your own spin on those into your own attempt at the genre.

Fiction which doesn’t fit into any of these categories easily – or has elements of too many of them – you’ll probably find in the catch-all ‘general fiction’ category in the bookshop. This is, of course, a genre in its own right (which you may – and I do – like to further divide into ‘popular’ and ‘literary’ fiction.) The latter is the category where you are likely to find the most innovative writing – as you read consider where this innovation lies and why it is so different from stuff you’ve read before.

Style
Is the style used conventional/unconventional? If it strikes you as unconventional, try to work out what the author has done to stamp his/her own personality on it.

Does the unconventionality lie in the narrative? Maybe, for example, the entire story is written as stream of consciousness. Or maybe the narrator and/or narrative style changes form section to section.

Or is the use of dialogue unusual? Maybe the whole story – or a large proportion of it - is written in dialogue. Roddie Doyle is a good example of this sort of writing.

If the style is more conventional, try to characterise it. Is it heavy on detailed and luscious description? Or are you as the reader left to imagine scenes largely by yourself? Is there a strong sense of place and time, or is far more emphasis laid on the characters and their psychological landscape than on the physical landscape?

Characters
Is the story character- or incident-based? Are the characters there to act out a pre-designated scenario, or is the author’s intention to create a character and then to allow the events to flow from that starting point – in effect, winding up his/her human creations and following where they lead?

Are the characters described in detail or is the reader left to imagine them?

Is the physical landscape within which they act – whether urban, rural, fantastic or whatever – essential to the story, or could the events pretty much occur anywhere, with the landscape being little more than a backdrop?



These choices made by an author affect dramatically the effect any piece of writing has on us. As writers we should be alert to these things as we read, and learn from them, because they are the tools of our trade.

If you become a more astute reader you will become a better writer. What other excuse do you need to sit down and bury your nose in a book?

Vivienne

Vivienne was an 80 year old stick insect. Well, not literally of course. But she was painfully thin and ‘Stick Insect’ was the nickname the kids called out at her when she walked from her home in the centre of the village to the pub, less than 200 yards away.

But, if she was to be landed with that soubriquet, she thought, at least she would be an elegant stick insect. And so she dressed ‘to the nines’ each and every time she left her home. She practised walking elegantly, skinny legs cutting through the evening gloom, hardly causing a ripple in the air, clutching her handbag ‘just so’ and placing her feet in careful slow motion ‘just so’ and turning her head to smile at passers-by ‘just so’.

Her burgundy or pale green or black trouser suit was always immaculate, the white blouse underneath it pressed to within an inch of its life. She wore white gloves whatever the weather and thought she looked the epitome of smartness, which she did, for an 80 year old stick insect.

She had owned the pub until 20 years ago and this bestowed upon her a permanent proprietorial interest in its running, in its management, in its upkeep, and in its licensee of the time, or so she thought. The current licensee, Billy McGinty, didn’t see things in quite the same way. And why should he?

“’Evening, Viv,” Billy would say through clenched teeth when she entered the saloon bar each evening at 7.30. She irritated the fuck out of him with her superiority and put-on airs. She was as common as muck, underneath, just like the rest of us, he thought and sometimes mentioned to other customers, although he really shouldn’t have. And the thing that irritated him the most was her use of a long, green, Bakelite cigarette holder to smoke her Capstan Full Strength ciggies, so as not to get nicotine stains on her gloves.

It was said, although by whom it would be difficult to pinpoint, that Vivienne had been quite a beauty in her younger days, quite a turner of men’s heads during and just after the war. From 1939 to 1945 it was generally agreed that all beauty had been surrendered to the Government to aid in the war effort, much like original railings and aluminium pans. But Vivienne had been beautiful throughout and could still summon up a dreamy look in her eyes when describing the dances they used to have in the Church Hall back when the American and Canadian and Polish troops were posted at the headland. By day, she’d drive supplies to the billets, by night she’d jitterbug. On the Sabbath, she’d go to church with her parents and listen to tales of Presbyterian hellfire and damnation.

“We’re all dooooomed!” the minister would intone from the pulpit and Vivienne would stifle a yawn having been out late ‘jigging about’, as her mother put it, meaning dancing, of course.

She had been married three times, had Vivienne, the first time to the licensee of the Lochside Hotel in 1946, once all the wartime fuss had died down. She married because the fun had gone out of her life and, besides, owning a pub meant she didn’t have to worry about rationing. Husband Number One only lasted 5 years so she married in desultory fashion twice more, losing those too as she went along and acquiring a little more wealth as a consequence from insurance policies and the like. After Number Three she had reached a stage where she was more than comfortable so decided to leave it at that. She sold the pub and retired to live the rest of her life as the village grande dame, a role she enjoyed immensely, travelling occasionally to exotic places: Hawaii, India, Australia and America.

The major fly in Billy McGinty’s ointment or, as he put it, the ‘nigger in the woodpile’, was two or three years ago when Vivienne brought into the pub a couple of late middle-aged blacks, a rather handsome man and strikingly attractive woman, and sat with them the whole evening while they ate and drank and laughed and chattered just like ordinary people. But Billy hated blacks almost as much as he hated Pakis and Dagos. ‘Soap Dodgers’, he called them. And while Vivienne sat with her guests, chattering, smoking and taking in Billy’s comments about deep suntans, Nigbos, illegal immigrants and banana boats with more than half an ear, she smiled.

At 8.30 precisely, declining the offer of a helping hand from her black male friend, she rose and slow-motioned her way to the bar, thin limbs wavering slightly, vaguely unsteady on her heels, and querulously said to Billy: “Mr McGinty!” for she insisted on good manners and due respect for another’s station in life, “I’d like to introduce you to my guests.” She waved her green Bakelite cigarette-holding hand in the general direction of the backs still seated across the room.

All other conversation in the bar hushed, this being a unusual turn of events.

“Mr McGinty, this is Randolph and Yolande Greenham.”

Randolph and Yolande smiled at Billy and both said, “Hi!” at the same time in unmistakable American southern accents.

“They are from the States,” Vivienne added superfluously.

Billy nodded to them, looking discomfited, as she had intended.

“I thought I’d introduce you to them because they’re going to be your new neighbours.”

Billy’s face registered only blankness. He had no neighbours. The pub was surrounded by fields. The nearest house was 100 yards away.

“Yes,” said Vivienne, smiling sweetly, the cigarette holder describing small, invisible circles in front of Billy’s face as her hand palsied slightly, “your new neighbours.”

“But…” said Billy.

“But?” said Vivienne. “Oh, I see… but! Yes, quite. Neighbours, yes. You see, Mr McGinty, I just sold them a little piece of the land next to the pub. Well, not so much sold it to them , more ‘gave’ it to them. They are going to build on it and live here, permanently. They want to move here from the States. Too much racism over there, they say, although I don’t know how true that is myself. Anyway, they like the people here, they say. Isn’t that true, you two?” she said looking at Randolph and Yolande who nodded enthusiastically.

Billy smirked. “They can’t live here permanently,” he said. “They can only get a visa for six months as Americans.”

“Oh, but my daughter has dual nationality, Mr McGinty, and as her husband, Randolph can live here too. So, there won’t be a problem, will there? Now, say hello to your new neighbours!”

She turned slowly, precariously, and slow-motioned her way back to her table, pausing only to say to Hugh Henderson, an old friend of hers, “You know, Hughie, I quite miss those ‘jigging about’ days. Being a fast cat is much more fun than being a stick insect, don’t you think?”

Vivienne died six months ago. Yolande and Randolph live in a brand new house next to the pub, with a marvellous view out to sea. They also inherited Vivienne’s cottage in the centre of the village and some more land here and there. They are comfortable and like their new life very much.

Billy McGinty sold the pub and now lives in the city. Yolande and Randolphe, as pub regulars, were sorry to see him go but get along famously with the new licensee, Delroy Johnson.

Tense

“I’m tense, doctor.”

“Tense?”

“Yes, tense.”

“And how long have you felt tense?”

“All me life, doc, all me life – past, present and, I have no doubt, future as well.”

“So… let me just make a note of this. You were tense, you are tense and you will be tense.”

“Just so, doc, just so. But, if it ‘elps, I have been tense, I am feeling tense at the moment and I shall be tense even thought you might give me some tablets to cure it.”

“You shall!”

“Yes I shall.”

“Not will?”

“Not on that occasion, no, although on other occasions, I have no doubt I would be tense if given the opportunity and I could be tense at any given moment if you asked me nicely.”

“Good Lord, you are indeed tense in an ongoing sense, aren’t you.”

“Might be, doc, might be!”

“You say you were tense in the past? How often?”

“Ooh, let me see now… hmmmm… I reckon I have been tense pretty well of me natural, that’s what I reckon…

“Have been? Or more likely could have been or would have been?”

“Well, I certainly would have been, given the circumstances of my birth, if you know what I mean, doc, and it’s not so much that I could have been ‘cos given that I was, could have been is a bit redundant, don’t you think?”

“I do, I do. And you’re quite sure you’re tense at the moment? You’re not mistaken?”

“Mistaken about being tense? Me? Not on your life doc. I will never have been mistook thus far, ever, about being tense, as well you should have known.”

“Gosh, , you really are tense, aren’t you. That was probably the worst example of a patient tense than I would have been hearing.”

“And it’s catching too, doc, innit!”

Loadsa Links

Here's a whole host of writery links to investigate. I've lifted them from a newsletter (Scribe & Quill www.scribequill.com) so I haven't had a chance yet to check them all out. But looks like there's some good stuff here.

21st Century Publishing Update http://www.julieduffy.com
Absolute Write http://www.absolutewrite.com
The Academy of American Poets http://www.poets.org
The Authors Guild, Inc. http://www.authorsguild.org
BookWire http://www.bookwire.com
Cata-Romance http://www.cataromance.com
The Burry Man Writers Center http://www.burryman.com
Charlotte Dillon's Resources for Romance Writers http://www.charlottedillon.com
Done Deal http://www.scriptsales.com
Erotica Readers & Writers Association http://www.erotica-readers.com
Fanfiction.net http://www.fanfiction.net
Fiction Addiction http://www.fictionaddiction.net
Fiction Factor http://www.fictionfactor.com
Fictionette http://www.fictionette.com
Food Writing, http://www.food-writing.com
FundsforWriters http://www.fundsforwriters.com
Gila Queen, http://free-path.org/gilaqueen/com
HollyLisle.com http://www.hollylisle.com
Hollywoodlitsales http://www.hollywoodlitsales.com
Internet-Resources.com http://www.internet-resources.com/writers
Journalism Jobs http://www.journalismjobs.com
JournalistExpress http://www.journalistexpress.com
MediaBistro http://www.mediabistro.com
Mike's Writing Workshop http://groups.yahoo.com/group/mikeswritingworkshop/
National Writer's Union http://www.nwu.org
New York City Writers http://groups.yahoo.com/group/newyorkcitywriters/
OrganizedWriter.com, http://www.organizedwriter
Poetic Voices http://www.poeticvoices.com
Preditors & Editors http://www.anotherealm.com/prededitors
PublishersLunch http://www.publisherslunch.com
Ralan's SpecFic & Humor Webstravaganza http://www.ralan.com
Romance Central http://www.romance-central.com
Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America http://www.sfwa.org
The Scriptorium http://www.thescriptorium.net
Sell Writing Online, http://www.sellwritingonline.com
SF Romance, http://www.sfronline.com
Small Publishers Association of North America http://www.spannet.org
Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators http://www.scbwi.org
SpecFicMe Market Newsletter, http://www.specficworld.com/sfme.html
Spicy Green Iguana http://www.spicygreeniguana.com
Spirit-Led Writer http://www.spiritledwriter.com
Sun Oasis Jobs http://www.sunoasis.com
U.S. Copyright Office http://www.loc.gov/copyright/search
Vision: A Resource for Writers, http://www.lazette.net/Vision/
Visual Thesaurus http://www.visualthesaurus.com
Worldwide Freelance Writer, http://www.worldwidefreelance.com
Write From Home http://www.writefromhome.com
Write Thinking http://www.writethinking.net
WritingAustralia.com eZine, http://www.writingaustralia.com
WriteCraftWeb, http://www.writecraftweb.com
WritersCrossing.com Newsletter, http://www.WritersCrossing.com
Writer Gazette, http://www.writergazette.com
Writers Guild of America http://www.wga.org
The Writer's Hood, http://www.writershood.com
The Writer's Life, http://www.thewriterslife.net
The Writing Parent http://www.thewritingparent.com
Writing for Success, http://www.writing4success.com/newsletter.htm
Write Success, http://writesuccess.com
The Write Way, http://www.write101.com
Writers Weekly http://www.writersweekly.com
Writers Write http://www.writerswrite.com

Therapy is in session

Sure, I think writing is therapeutic. I think writing can be an amazingly effective, curative step toward exorcising ghosts from the past. I think writing can help a person begin to understand that there are ways to soothe a warring psyche and there are ways to mend mental and emotional damage. I think writing aides in all of these things.

I am also of the opinion that a story ABOUT a traumatic event simply does not work. On the other hand, a story ABOUT a well developed character that has experienced something traumatic, can work.

No secret, my personal taste in fiction leans toward character-driven stories, however, I believe the strongest stories find a way to seamlessly interlock character and plot. I’ll go so far as to say that, if a writer understands a character, if the character is fleshed out and the good old rule of thumb ‘show don’t tell’ is applied – well, then I think plot organically emerges as the story progresses. The writer may even find that a story, approached in this way, will begin to necessarily wander off in an unexpected direction.

Simply recounting events in a dramatic way doesn’t work. But give your reader a chance to invest in a character, make them believe your character and they’ll follow you anywhere.

The Story Starter

Here is an interesting way to spend a few minutes - with a random or not so random sentence from The Story Starter.

My randomly selected story starter goes like this:

The exhausted principal took pictures near a neat closet to confuse the investigator...


Sure, some of the results are silly-go-lucky - but a cool idea to have a little fun and get those creative juices flowing at the same time. Something like this would make a great exercise if you are keeping a daily journal, you know - as a way to get into the habit of writing every single day. Start with one of these random, silly sentences - no pressure - have a little fun - and if you can trick your inner critic into hushing-up for a while - no telling where you might end up - on the way to the next best seller, maybe? Ok, sure - maybe!

Keep it moving, Keep it moving

I’m currently working on a ghost writing project about a topic which I cannot share, for a person whose name I cannot give you, who lives in a location which I am not at liberty to disclose. What I can tell you is that I find the whole ghost writing process intriguing, to say the least.

In this particular instance, the person I’m working for has actually taken a great deal of time and care to put down as many words as possible. And that is actually the part that intrigues me the most because I can remove myself from the immediacy of writing and following along with the process, follow along with how this person’s mind was working, particularly at which points they got ‘stuck’.

But check this out – this is the really cool part. When this person was ‘stuck’ I notice that the manuscript wafts off into a very ‘stream-of-consciousness’ type of writing. This person didn’t stop, didn’t throw the pen across the room, didn’t roundhouse the monitor off the desk, didn’t scream, gnash, snarl or any of those things – this person kept plodding along in a sketchy fashion, putting down the essential thoughts for that ‘tough’ scene and then moved right along to the next part.

I think it is a very common mistake for people to try and write and edit at the same time, to try and beat those paragraphs and sentences and words into submission as they go along, rather than get the thoughts down, get the basic gist on paper as best you can – ‘then’ go back and edit and rewrite. When ‘guilty’ of this mistake, in my opinion at least, if you can manage to write anything at ALL… what you end up with comes out overly stylized, overly crafted and stiff – with muddy footprints all over it and fingerprints all over the cookie jar.

I’m guilty of this – so, believe me, I know what I’m talking about.

But interesting isn’t it? How working with other writers, being part of a writing community where you can share and discuss things like this, really is a pretty coolio thing. Now, if you can manage not to get too caught up in TALKING about writing – and actually produce something – then, well then – you’ve found the magic combination, I reckon.

Writers write.
Writers read.

The Haiku

I see many so-called Haiku on blogs and elsewhere. Some are good, some are rubbish and many vary in the number of words/syllables. The following is a definition quoted from Shiki and Matsuyama, published in 1986 by Matsuyama Municipal Shiki Memorial Museum.

Haiku is a poetic form which takes nature in each season as its theme and expresses inspiration derived from nature. Since the natural world transforms itself swiftly and since inspiration is fleeting, they must be caught in words quick, short and precise. The traditional rules for Haiku are that each verse uses seven or eight words, a total of only seventeen rhythmical syllables (5-7-5), including a season word. In diction Haiku values simple words over obscure and difficult ones.

Here are a couple of examples written by Nicki:

Keep The Home Fires Burning?

Flame consumes fossil
fuelling winter's discontent
globally warming.

Pet Facilitated Therapy

Springer full of joy
Unconditional lover
Unwinding my spring.

So now even I know what Haiku is!

Ghost Writing

Gordon Ghost gentled his way along the astral plane, feeling his way, as it were, having only arrived there not more than 10 minutes before and there being no signposts to assist. He had left his inert body in the restaurant, prompted to do so by the effects of a large greasy meal and two pints of lager on his poor old heart, and drifted upwards while marvelling at the commotion he had caused.

It came as a great surprise to Gordon to find himself in ghostly form. He had often chided his less than dear wife about her religious beliefs during their many acrimonious arguments. “When you’re dead you’re dead and that’s all there is to it,” he’d said many times. Well, how wrong could he have been!

Mind you, she’d been wrong too. “You’ll go straight to Hell, Gordon Trimble,” she said. And here he was, more in Limbo than Hell, floating along some sort of misty, slightly transparent ethereal thoroughfare for phantoms.

“Good morning,” he muttered to a ghost passing in the opposite direction.

“Good morning,” said the other ghost in a quavering and morose female voice. She sounded none too pleased with life.

Gordon stopped to get his bearings. He peered down through the surface over which he hovered, down to the real world, the mortal world. He could make out his home town of Macclesfield quite clearly – the town centre, the shops, the cars busying along the congested roads and, over to his left, the suburbs where his own house sat, minding its own business at the end of a very quiet cul de sac. It was in darkness.

He watched the ambulance arrive, blue lights flashing, sirens wailing, at the front of the restaurant where he had eaten his last. And he watched as his body was carted away to the hospital, his wife accompanying it on its penultimate worldly journey by road. It was interesting in a detached way, thought Gordon Ghost.

Ho hum, what to do now then? He tried floating and hovering and rising and sinking and moving forwards and backwards until he got the hang of it all, and then he set off to explore places. He wafted in and out of pubs, passed through the walls of hotels and toured the kitchens and offices before realising that as a ghost the world was his oyster. So he did something that he and many other mortals have always fantasised about. He visited the bedrooms of the guests, spying on them, observing females in various states of undress, eavesdropping on conversations, that sort of thing. It was interesting at first but the sight of people behaving as humans do in the imagined privacy of their own rooms soon bored him, then disgusted him. So he moved on.

He floated home, not having any other pressing business. It was in darkness, empty for the time being. He couldn’t help himself, he passed through the walls of his neighbours’ home and joined them in the lounge just as their telephone rang.

Jim answered. Joyce watched TV.

“That was Susan,” said Jim putting the phone down. “Gordon’s had a heart attack and kicked the bucket. They were in the Koh-I-Noor. Gordon shattered half a dozen poppadums on the way down and ended up with his head in a Vindaloo, dead as a Dodo.”

Joyce gaped. “You are joking,” she said. “Gordon? Next door Gordon? Big, lumbering, thick as two short planks, sweaty, ugly, useless Gordon?”

Jim nodded.

“Gordon the argumentative bastard, the ignorant pig Gordon, the drunken, shouting, flatulent Gordon?”

Jim nodded again.

“Gordon, the least loved man in the universe, the husband of Susan whose knickers are whipped off for Henry down the road soon as Gordon goes off to work? That Gordon?”

“The very one, my love,” said Jim.

“Well, I know one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead but, come on, there’ll be a cheer going up the length and breadth of Macclesfield when folk hear the news. Quick, Jim, give me that phone, Who should we tell?”

Ghostly Gordon was mortified. He shed a phantom tear as he heard this unjustified assassination of his and Susan’s characters from people he thought were their friends. Only last week he’d been at their barbecue – drunk it’s true, but at least he’d been there. He’d been the life and soul of the party, rescued it from disaster. And now… no life, no soul.

He had to get away from them and their foul calumnies. His ghostly core was shaken to the core. He was distraught, anguished. He passed through the dividing wall into his own home but even there his ghostly ears could pick up the gloating telephone calls that Joyce was making to all and sundry. Why hadn’t they told him they hated him? How could the people they were calling stand to hear the news of his demise delivered with a laugh?

He waited and he waited and all the while his ghostly super-ears picked up in the distance the faint laughter of so called friends and acquaintances who shared the neighbours’ glee at his passing. Misery.

But there was no sign of Susan. Not at ten o’clock, not at eleven o’clock, not at midnight.

He floated out through the front door and along his street and spotted Susan’s car parked in Henry’s driveway. Gordon’s ghostly blood ran cold. Should he, shouldn’t he? He did, of course. And he found in the kitchen the remains of a small party – an empty champagne bottle, half eaten vol au vents, that type of things. Upstairs he found Susan in bed with Henry. They were both grinning like Cheshire Cats.

“Couldn’t have worked out any better, Henry,” said his wife, adjusting her large naked breasts so they weren’t tickled by the duvet.

“No better at all, my darling,” chuckled Henry. “Saves all the messy business of a divorce and the sharing of property. Couldn’t have planned it better, if you ask me anything. Here’s to Gordon!” And he raised his champagne glass in a toast before rolling over onto Susan, not, Gordon guessed, for the first time that evening.

He couldn’t stand it. He shot upwards out of Henry’s house like a cork out of an adultery-celebrating champagne bottle, back to the astral plane where he would have sat down with a bump if there had been anything to bump against. As it was, he sat down with a shhhhh. He could still hear the distant laughter of people as they learned of and discussed the news of his death. It was as though he was now tuned into all conversations about him among mortals anywhere. And he began to hear their thoughts too. It was agony.

The ghost he had seen before appeared out of the gloom again, heading back where she had come from.

“Hello,” he said, in as quavering and morose a voice as hers.

“Hello,” she said, “you look miserable.”

“I am,” he said, “I am.” And he explained how he had heard all the horrible things that people were thinking and saying about him now he was dead.

“Ha!” she said. “You don’t suppose this has been happening only since you died, do you? You fool, this is what they’ve been saying about you behind your back all the time you were alive. But now you can hear what they are thinking and what they are saying. In fact, you can’t help but hear it. I'm in the same boat.”

“Is there no way out of this place. I’m a ghost, you’re a ghost. Is there no way out of this Limbo?”

She laughed. Oh how she laughed. She doubled up with ghostly laughter, wheezy, dry and cackly querulous laughter.

“Oh, my,” she said, almost breathless. “Limbo is it where you think we are? Oh my,” she said again.

“Well if we’re not in Limbo, where are we?” said Gordon.

“Oh, hoo hoo, ha ha, hee hee, just a second… that’s better, I can speak now. Where are we, where are we? Where else would we be when we can hear what people honestly think of us, where we can see the truth of their actions, when we can watch how they behave instead of listening to their excuses and lies. We’re in Hell, that’s where we are. And the voices never stop!”

And as the voices started again, and as the truth drilled its way into his ghostly head, and as the number of voices and opinions increased and joined together in a mass of chattering invective, the only thought running through his ghostly mind was that Susan had been right after all, damn her!