So here's the plan.

Writers have a love/hate relationship with deadlines. On the one hand they are, of course, deadlines and are a pain in the bum to meet. On the other hand, at least the actually force you to produce something. Trying to write the perfect paragraph goes out of the window, but at least you produce a paragraph. That absolutely brilliant plot twist that would make the reader gasp in awe eludes you...but at least you have a plot. Your writing doesn't stay as the perfect platonic novel in your imagination...it is something that is imperfect but at least it exists.

Self-imposed deadlines have never worked for me; the one time I have produced something tangible was when forced to be an outside deadline from a publisher. So here's my plan. I have bought a copy of   'Writing Magazine' with a special supplement on writing competitions. Armed with this, I plan to enter at least one short story competition a month. If I win; brilliant. If I don't, well at least I have a short story which I can either enter elsewhere or try and publish as an e-book. 

In the mean time; a couple of links.

Firstly, to prove I am an actual proper published; here's a review of the short story compilation that my story was featured in by the legendary D F Lewis. http://nullimmortalis.wordpress.com/2012/07/31/book-the-inkermen/

And possibly the best advice I've ever heard on writing can be found in this song by Paul Simon. 

Quite simply

"If you want to write a song about the moon.....then do it, write a song about the moon"

Experiment 1

My first bit of writing done using an exercise from the Writer's Toolkit. It was written 'on the hoof' in about an hour with very little pausing and no editing or revising. I think there's definitely some ideas here worth exploring - both characters could well stand up to more development and I'd love to know more about Max's motivations. Let me know what you think.


  There I was…just standing there, when what I wanted to do was forbidden. I wanted to end it all, destroy my family, my entire career, my whole life, everything I had worked up to at the point with just one futile gesture. One magnficient, empty, pointless act. “Come on Max, we’ve come this far. Pleased hand it over” It was a small object, no bigger than the palm of my hand. But handing it over to the pale blasted man standing next to me would be the final action I ever performed. “And you won’t identify me?” I asked (or was it pleaded with) with Spencer? “There’ll be no comebacks for me?” “Absolutely not. You know us journalists. Seal of the confessional. We’re like priests. Or plastic surgeons.” I passed him the memory stick. There, it was done. I expected to feel relief, instead I just felt emptiness. I was a fool. I watched Spencer leave the café with the memory stick. The instant I saw him leave, I immediately regretted my actions. I decided the only solution was to seduce him. “Spencer” I cried running after him. “Wait there a minute” “If you want me to stop publication now, Max, you’re too late” “No wait” I said. “I know you’re running with the story. I know I can’t stop you now. I just want to know, why?” “Why?” asked Spencer; the wrinkled skin on his brow becoming even more wrinkled in surprise? “Yes, why?” I said. “You’re doing a story on the British Intelligence complicity in torture. I’ve given you everything you need; names, dates, times. You’ll completely blow apart dozens of operations with what I’ve given you; you’ll expose just about every dodgy act we’ve ever committed. And what will be the result? There’ll be inquests, inquiries, royal commissions. There’ll be recommendations, sackings. The British Intelligence Community will become subject to the most intense scrutiny in its history. And who are you selling this story to? The most right wing tabloid in Britain. Your readers don’t care about some foreigner somewhere having his fingernails pulled out in some foreign country the know little about. They just care about being able to go at home at night and sleep without worrying their pretty little heads. So why are you doing this?” “Excellent speech Max. So why are you doing it?” “Because I’m like you” “Pardon?” exclaimed Spencer? “You’re, what, 40? You’ve got no wedding ring or engagement ring on. You’ve never mentioned an ex-wife or children. And you’re working in one of the most notoriously homophobic industries. Well, for all our PC talk of diversity and inclusivity, the intelligence industry is hardly better. We’re full of ex-squaddies and the old boys network, mouthing the approved sentiments but you just know they’re looking at you wondering if their arse is safe. It makes you want to destroy the whole bleeding edifice; set yourself alight; become a human hand grenade” “You’re mental” he replied “You’re fucking mental” “Come on” I said. “We’re both outsiders. That’s why we connected. That’s why you approached me. Isn’t it?” “I’m leaving mate. I’m off”. He turned his back on me. “Wait” I said, putting my hand on his shoulder. “Please. Something else I noticed on you. On your coat lapel. The cross. You’re a catholic as well, same as me” “Oh for fuck’s sake” “You said before about the seal of confessional. You must know what the confessional is like. The feeling of being absolved. It’s almost post-orgasmic isn’t it. Especially for young men going through puberty. Opening your mind and everything you’ve done to a stranger. Telling them every last dirty thought you’ve ever had. How can you possibly break that bond.” Spencer was still now. Rigid with shock. I made my final move. “Come on Spencer. It’s seven in the morning and we’re in a back alley. There’s no-one around.” I moved in closer. Spencer was still. “It’ll be alright. I promise. No one will ever know. I was close up to him now. I could feel his breath. “Christ!!!!!!!!!!” The punch was a swift one, a blow to the solar plexuses which swiftly knocked the wind out of him. He collapsed on the floor. I administered a few swift kicks; to the head, to the chest, to the groin. Nothing serious. Just to show I meant business. I bent over him and whispered in his ear “Disorientation. Always works. Speak bollocks to someone; throw them off-guard. Then seize your opportunity. Now look Spencer Smith, I know every single thing about you. I know where you live where your two ex-wives live and where you daughter lives. In fact, the day Lillian passed her driving test; we sent her an anonymous congratulations card…ask her about it. We’ve been watching you and, I warn you, we hate little shit-raking turds like you who want to destroy every last thing we do to keep this country safe so that arseholes like you can sleep safe in your shitty little beds. So go back to the office and write up a nice story about a cat up a tree. And never try to contact any one of us again” He didn’t reply, but I felt my point had been made. So I turned and walked away. My career was safe. The moment of madness had passed. There was no danger of me ever being discovered. So I have no idea why, as I walked back to work, I decided to take a detour past the offices of The Guardian and post my memory stick through its letter box.

Writer's Toolbox

My current aim is to write at least 500 words a day of something. Having picked up 'The Writer's Toolkit' at Waterstones, I wanted to see how well it works at kick started the imagination. Results will be posted here. My current aim is to write at least 500 words a day of something. Having picked up 'The Writer's Toolkit' at Waterstones, I wanted to see how well it works at kick started the imagination. Results will be posted here.

It's like this....

I've always wanted to be a writer.
Certainly I can remember making up stories in my head from at least the age of 5, and English was always my favourite subject.
But I've always been slightly stymied by the 'having to actually write something' bit. I've written bits of dialogue, fragments of comedy sketches, starts of novels, first lines of song lyrics. I've never managed to complete anything.
I always get immensely discouraged by anything I've written. I've tried writing novels; the first three chapters of which have been crap. My friend, the late great Zoe Barnes once told me that the first three chapters are always crap and once you break that barrier; you begin to get somewhere. But I never have.

That is until last year when I was finally pushed into submitting a story to the Inkermen Press collection 'Book'. I submitted a proposal. The editors liked it. I submitted a first draft. The editors really liked it, and, surprisingly accepted the first draft. Apart from a few minor typos, it was published exactly as it was typed.

So there was I, now with a book on a shelf with my name on it. People have read it. People have said they liked it. Some of them are people I've not even met.

I am now a writer.

Which gives me the choice. Shall I be the one who says "I once had a short story published"? Or shall I be the one who picks up this early advantage and presses it home?

Hence this blog.

It is one thing to say to oneself "I am a writer"

It is quite another to announce it to the world, for the world is a notoriously harsh and cynical mistress. Tell her that you are a writer, and she will demand proof.

Thus I hope to embarrass myself into producing more work. Fragments may appear here for your comments. They may be developed. Some may be just experiments to be abandoned. Some may find themselves as e-books. Some may be entered for competitions.

But I have begun my journey.

.

The Leaving of Lilly

Lilly left Michael when he was eight. Michael was very sad about it but Lilly said it would be alright.

            Michael liked Lilly, but not everybody liked Lilly. Old Mummy didn’t like Lilly. Old Mummy used to hit Michael when he told her about Lilly and what Lilly said. There is no Lilly said old Mummy. But that was a long time ago.

            Michael couldn’t remember when, but one day when he was very little, they came to take him away from Old Mummy. Old Mummy can’t look after you any more they said to him. But we can give you to a new Mummy and Daddy who can look after you. (Michael couldn’t remember if he ever had an Old Daddy or not). Can Lilly come as well, asked Michael? Yes, Lilly can come.

            Michael liked New Mummy and New Daddy. They didn’t hit him and they didn’t have the horrid smell that Old Mummy used to have. After a while, Michael quite forgot about Old Mummy. He stopped calling New Mummy ‘New Mummy’ and just called her Mummy.

            Michael didn’t tell New Mummy and New Daddy about Lilly at first. He didn’t know if they would like Lilly or not. So he used to talk to Lilly, quietly, at night when he didn’t think they were listening. Lilly was always kind to him. Lilly always told him it was going to be alright. Michael always liked Lilly.

            Then one day Daddy showed Michael a new game. It was a game with cards. It was a fun game called ‘Wis’ and you had to be very clever to win all your cards. When Daddy went out of the room, Michael thought that it would be fun to play with Lilly. He didn’t know if Lilly liked playing Wis, but Lilly said she would try. So Michael gave Lilly some cards. Then Daddy came into the room.

            What are you doing Michael asked Daddy? I’m playing Wis with Lilly said Michael. Who’s Lilly asked Daddy? Lilly’s my friend said Michael. Is Lilly sitting on the chair, asked Daddy? No, Lilly doesn’t need to sit down, but she does need me to hold the cards.

            Then Daddy pretended to talk to Lilly. Of course Daddy couldn’t really see or hear Lilly but that was alright said Lilly because Lilly would talk to Michael and Michael could talk to Daddy. Michael was glad that Daddy liked Lilly and later on that day, Lilly met Mummy as well. Mummy seemed to like Lilly.

            Then Michael went to school. At first he thought that Lilly could go to school as well so he took her along. But Jimmy from Form 7 heard Michael talking to Lilly, and laughed at him and called him a baby. You’d better stay home said Michael to Lilly. That’s okay said Lilly.

            So Michael only talked to Lilly at home. He thought that would be alright. But he noticed that now sometimes Mummy and Daddy looked sad if Michael talked to Lilly or talked about Lilly. One day a man came round to see Michael. He was a very important man with a posh suit and a briefcase. He told Mummy and Daddy to go out of the room and then he talked to Michael about Lilly and wrote things down on a piece of paper.

            Is Lilly here now, asked the man. No she’s in the bedroom said Michael. Does Lilly eat anything? No she doesn’t need to eat. What does Lilly look like asked the man? That was hard for Michael to say. She looks like Dawn at school he said (because Dawn was a girl and was the same age as Michael and probably looked like Lilly).

            Mummy and Daddy came back in the room and told Michael to go and play. But Michael sat outside the door and listened. He heard the man say things like only natural, nothing to worry about, only child, adopted. He wondered if they were talking about Lilly and if Lilly was making Mummy and Daddy sad. He didn’t want to make Mummy and Daddy sad.

            He talked to Lilly that night. I don’t know if I can play with you anymore Lilly said Michael. I don’t think Mummy or Daddy like it and I don’t know if they’ll like you when I go to big school. That’s okay, said Lilly. I’ll go away and you won’t have to talk to me. But don’t worry. If you ever need me I’ll come back.

            And so Lilly left Michael.