Update (or: How Time Flies)

Quick update: Just rediscovered my  blog today (how could I forget?) and I'm unsure how to react. Why? Well a lot of what I have said previously I still think is valid. Not too much wrong there  I suppose but does that mean I  haven't changed or grown since...was it really 2015 I did my  last post? Cripes, as Bunter might say.

Not entirely true. Since completing 'Slybacon' in 2012  I've completed my second novel 'Lost' . Many thanks by the way to  all of you who have read either of them and left reviews.

So what else? I'm now spending my time writing plays and have joined  a couple of really helpful and supportive play-writing  groups in Liverpool: Liverpool Playwrights  and Make It Write . New members always welcome

So, as I say, just a quick update. I hope to share more meaty thoughts with you soon and would love to hear from you so please drop me a line.

Bye for now
Ian.

Write here, write now!: Making the unusual usual (with respectful acknowle...

Write here, write now!: Making the unusual usual (with respectful acknowle...: Is it just me or do you feel it too? That perverse sense of 'thank goodness it's all over' (the 'it' being the festive s...

Making the unusual usual (with respectful acknowledgement to Lou Tice)

Is it just me or do you feel it too? That perverse sense of 'thank goodness it's all over' (the 'it' being the festive season). I say perverse because we've looked forward to it for months and planned for it with such eager anticipation and now...Now? 'Thank goodness'. 'How good to get back to normal.' Hmm. Depends what your normal is I suppose. My normal is not finding enough time to write, not earning as much as I'd like and not exploring all the wonderful opportunities the internet can offer me. Is that the kind of 'normal' I want to get back to? I think not.

Maybe then I (you too?) need to give myself something new to look forward to, something else to energise, excite  and motivate me. Maybe I need to create a new 'normal' - a normal of stretching myself to do all the things I say I want to do but never quite manage.

But...but then what? Ah well I'll have reached a new plateau won't I? And guess what? I'll have to set bigger, bolder goals because all that stuff I could never find time for, well it will just have become normal won't it?.

Thank goodness.

Guilty, m'lud

Hello everyone...anyone?

Yes you're quite right to be a little cool with me. I know it's been some time since I've been in  touch and now...now  with Christmas looming I  have the audacity to try and grab your attention, hoping you'll take a look at  my work. I  have no  excuses. I've been neglectful. I know that. Selfish even. Yes, I'll accept that. But you know I  never meant to stay away. I  was always going to come back. And I did. So. Would you like to have little read of my short, short story? I do hope so. Either way, let me wish you and your loved ones a very happy Christmas and a great New Year.  

See you soon
Ian

(Please follow this link to take a look at my new novel 'Slybacon')

The Gardener

It’s something I never look forward to but once I get started, once I’ve felt the cold earth on my fingers and my lazy muscles begin to stretch, once the work ahead becomes less than the work done, I begin to enjoy it. The garden is a careless friend. Tended or not she will grow. Conifers will sprout and spread, grass will timorously at first then with increasing audacity stretch and sway in waves, and those quiet assassins – weeds! – will stealthily and steadily encroach.

But I am their master, and the hours I invest in pruning, cutting and weeding bear their own fruit. The fruit of peace, of tranquility. The intense concentration on one tiny errant seedling, the effort of sawing off that overhanging branch, the focus on the here and now – just the simple and honest deep absorption in nature banishes all other thoughts – no planning for the forthcoming week’s work, no worrying about money, no deep ponderings on the meaning of life…  

And today as I stand and look around me, the air it seems is suffused with a golden sunlight that tells of the promise of spring, the promise of another year of growth, of blossoming, of maturity and – yes – ultimately of death, for each plant must in its own time yield to the passing of the seasons and leave the rich, dark earth free for those as yet unripened seeds and those tentative green shoots.

I breathe deeply the warm, moist, earthy smell and scan my domain with satisfaction and a confidence borne of experience... Yes, there are some weeds to be pulled there, that part of the wall needs to be repointed, I’ll have to cut back that creeping ivy and, when the weather is drier, I’ll mow and edge the grass. Yes, it’s a little shabby as it emerges from the long winter but I know that with some effort I’ll soon get it back into shape.

I pause and smile as I peer through the patio doors at Chris reclining on the couch. She’s watching television, totally oblivious to me working outside. I wave to catch her eye but she’s absorbed in another of her favourite whodunits. No matter, she’ll be pleased when she sees what I’ve done with the garden when I’m finished. A warm wave of love comes over me as I watch her.

“I love you,” I breathe and I wonder to myself if she can ever truly know how I feel. If gardening brings me tranquility outside, Chris brings a loving calm throughout the rest of our lives. I could stand and watch her for hours but the garden won’t wait.

With a reluctant sigh, I turn back to the waiting garden. Quickly I decide – that border on the left is getting a bit overgrown - let’s get in there where I can make the quickest impact. As I plunge into the burgeoning greenery, the back gate swings open and Phil enters.

“Hiya son!” I call but he must have his iPod on again. Either that or – more likely - he is pretending not to hear me, cleverly avoiding the possibility of getting conscripted into helping his dad with the garden. I look back to the house and see Chris getting up as she hears the gate click shut. She meets Phil at the back door.

“Hi son,” she smiles and reaches for Phil, a full foot taller than her. They embrace warmly and she kisses him on the cheek. As they draw apart Phil looks closely at his mum.

“Are you ok?” he asks. “You look like you’ve been crying.”

Chris smiles bleakly and nods towards the garden. “I was just thinking – your dad always loved his garden didn’t he?” She sighs. “I can’t believe it’s been almost twelve months.”    

===<>===

Short? Definitely. Sweet? Possibly.

Hello again

Just a quick one today. Thought you might enjoy this little piece, but either way please drop me a line. Nice to know I'm not alone in my garret...

See you soon

Ian

(Please follow this link to take a look at my new novel 'Slybacon')  

WRITER’S BLOCK (or THE EMPEROR’S NEW CLOTHES)

Big blank page

My blank looks

Unwritten words

Unwritten books

Poem required

Short of time

Random phrases

Simple rhymes

Inspiration

Short supply

Perspiration?

No, still dry

This a new art form?

Who can tell?

Test the market

See if it sells. 

Oedipus Wrecked

The cause of my swollen and quite painful foot has been confirmed as gout. Yes, I can hear you chuckling now, trotting out the cliches about me drinking too much port and indulging in too much venison. You're right of course, but then if Aldi* are going to offer such competitive prices then who am I to quibble? (*other European budget priced supermarkets are available.)

So how does my trotter fit into my current thinking about writing? Firstly, in a very fundamental  way - when you're ill or in pain you don't really feel like doing anything creative. Or anything full stop. So my output this last week has been pitifully little. On  another level, my swollen and tender foot could be a metaphor for one's ego. Let me explain: I was scouring the internet today for details of agents to whom I could send the MS of 'Slybacon'. Some sites seemed quite formidable, listing the names of the renowned authors they  represented and books they had had published - almost as if to say "Ha! Beat that if you can!" Other sites presented themselves as warmer and friendlier and because of that they seemed to me to be more approachable. I became quickly aware that I was more likely to send my work to this second group. Why?

If I'm honest I want people to like my work, to see value in it, to believe in it. I accept that I'm going to need lots of help and - craven creature that I am - I want encouragement, not  a quick  and frosty dismissal. I associate very much with the quote from Noel Coward: "I love criticism just so long as it's unqualified praise". I accept I'm probably being totally irrational and unfair (and I'd welcome your thoughts on your experiences); nevertheless I will almost certainly let this instinctive feel guide me in my choice of agents, and my first ports of call will be those who appear most welcoming.

After all, when I do get to tentatively proffer my work to an agent it will be with the same apprehension that I squeeze my foot into my shoe, and I shall be thinking, "Tread softly because you tread on my dreams".  

See you soon
Ian
    
Please follow this link to take a look at my new novel 'Slybacon'

The dotted storyline

Storyline? Storyline? Hmm...you may wish to examine that word and how it could be holding you back in your creative efforts. How so? Well, to me the word 'line' suggests a continuous and unbroken link between a beginning and an end. For those of us who are relatively inexperienced in the art and craft of writing, that belief could lead us unquestioningly into attempting to write our tale in linear form, that is to start at the beginning and keep going until we reach the end.

Of course that approach is fraught with difficulties; who says you have to start at the beginning? If you've got a great middle where the action really starts to hot up or where your ideas are already quite well defined, why  not start there? And what about for instance when you've got a great idea for that scene in chapter five when he finally realises that she wasn't playing hard to get after all, but in fact that she was labouring under the misapprehension that he preferred her sister (or whatever - you can see that romantic fiction isn't my forte. Or even my thirte.) Anyway, you can see this great scene just around the corner but you're stuck, wrestling with chapter three. And there's no way you'll get to five before you've done three AND then sweated through chapter four...after all you're following that line aren't you? Well, there might be a better way.

Last night in our writers' group, Ali brought her assorted notes and thoughts that together form the skeleton of her novel 'At Last.' With the help of a few flipcharts and contributions from her fellow writers, Ali was able to sketch out key stages of her story on paper. Very soon, the gaps in the story became apparent, opportunities for plot twists or embellishments presented themselves and - importantly - Ali could start to form a more objective, almost bird's eye view of her novel. From that vantage point, having identified key 'milestiones' in the telling of her tale, Ali could spot where she next needed to focus her attention.  

So if you're toiling away trying to follow your storyline you might want to rethink your definition of the word. You may want to draft your story first as a dotted line. Then go back and join the dots.

See you soon

Ian     

Please follow this link to take a look at my new novel 'Slybacon'