Mes Chers Readers Who Write,

I am sure I do not need to remind you of who I am at this point in our relationship, but I will acknowledge there may be a handful of benighted individuals who have yet to make my acquaintance. So for their benefit, I will again mention that my name is Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV and I am the renowned author of both the speculative fiction classic ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’ and of this ‘The Thinking Quill’ which offers insight into the mysteries of the authorial craft.

Indeed it was only yesterday Mummy observed: ‘You spend too much time in that coal cellar. You should get out more.” But I assured her the reason I was committing so much of my life to my literary sanctum, was both to progress my own literary offerings and to selflessly share of my copious pearls of wisdom with you, oh Reader Who Writes.

So, without further hesitation or procrastination on either side, let us undress the goddess of literature and peer beneath the skirts of her most intimate places. In brief, dear RWW, let us consider the very building-blocks of her DNA – the tools with which one has wrought such wonders – words.

How to Start Writing a Book – The Write Words

It is a truth universally acknowledged that paucity of vocabulary is the fence at which a multiplicity of putative novelists fail. Gird up your loins my children and do battle with the twin dragons of over-simplification and ugly language. Let that duo of decrepitude be downtrodden under the heels of linguistic loveliness. Let your Muse speak to you in honeyed prose. Let the thesaurus be your Bible and let not the commonplace leave your fingertips. Never say that your grass is green, rather enchant your readers with the verdant viridian vegetation. Let them inhale the aroma of the recumbent emerald as it is crushed beneath the bare toes of powerful simile.

Let your doting following bask in the sunlight of your fertile poesy. Let your words be as sunlight to the face of the damask rose. Let your adjectival imagery lift your readers from the commonplace to the heights of quasi-sexual ecstasy. Let your voice be as the zephyr of a southern breeze carrying the redolence of olive groves and lemon trees and the salt tang of mare nostrum.

Lead your interlocutors along primrose paths of erudition and titillation, and do not cease in your endeavours until your mind’s ear can hear their sighs of replete completion. Only then have you begun to understand the manifest prognostications of your craft.

To encapsulate this vital educational epistle:

1. Never use a simple word where a periphrastic locution can be set.
2.  Never use a sole descriptor – a lonely adjective should be a contumely maxim! Instead, allow the perihelion swirl of elucidatory and expressive ornament to embrace each noun and verb.
3. Seek always the etymological road least travelled and endow your audience with rare gems mined from deep archaisms and seek the perfect bon mots from languages few speak. Thus you will both educate and impress.

Consider my words with care.

Until next mes enfants, adieu and may Erato and Calliope attend your dreams.

Bon Ecrit!

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

You can find more of IVy’s profound thoughts in How To Start Writing A Book courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

Maisey, at two and half years of age, looked up at the sky, saw something wonderful and smiled.

“Look!” she said excitedly.

“Yes dear, birds.” Her mother didn’t pay attention. Maisey wasn’t pointing to the birds. Scowling she tried again.

“Look. Wanna eat.”

“We have lunch after the playpark,” her mother said, still not really paying attention.

Maisey looked up to where the soft white fluffy stuff was floating against the blue. Not even her friends at the playpark could see it. Maisey sighed. She couldn’t understand why nobody else could see that the sky was full of cotton candy.

E.M. Swift-Hook

On the big day, all the bits of furniture I had been quietly buying were liberated from my big orange storage unit in a park full of big orange storage units. While that was happening, my dad collected the neat pile of stuff from my bedsit in his Tranny, and me and my stepmum supervised. I think she was surprised by how much I had accumulated, and I grinned at her.
“I’ve been nesting for a while. I just couldn’t find the right tree.”
By teatime we had everything ready, and Mum had even hung my curtains for me. She stood and looked about her.
“It’s a funny house, but it suits you Aly.”
“It does. And it’s convenient too. Just across the road from work. Ten minutes from the gym. And the same to the Wounded Soldier – where we are going for our tea. My treat.”
We got our coats and ambled off to the pub for a huge meal from the carvery. When we were so stuffed we could barely stand, my parents went one way and I went the other to my new home.
If some of those who moved in after me are to be believed, there was an inimical atmosphere in the luxury apartments from day one, but I felt nothing. I just fell into my king sized bed and slept like a baby.
The next day was Sunday, so I got to lay in bed reading until long after nine. Then I thought about food. As far as I knew there was bugger all in my shiny new kitchen, not even the wherewithal for coffee. I groaned and groped my way into the shower.
When I finally made it upstairs I found a note in my stepmum’s neat round hand on the worktop.

Bet you forgot food. There’s basics in the fridge and the tall cupboard next to it. Coffee machine is charged.

“Bless the woman” I said out loud. Once I had coffee in my belly and a bacon sandwich in front of me, I sent her a text. She called me right back and we had a very giggly, girly sort of conversation. The upshot of that was her getting in her battered Nissan Micra and coming to pick me up for a proper grocery shop. We lunched together, on fresh bread, cheese, and deli ham before she set off home to cook a big roast tea for Dad who had been at work all day. I declined the offer to eat with them, and she smiled and stroked my cheek.

From Jackdaw Court by Jane Jago.

Listen to Granny because Granny always knows best!

The ones that phone and try to sell you shite. You ask what they are selling they deny it. 
And you KNOW they are telling porkies.
And it’s not really their fault.
There are two routes. Hang up.
Or string them along. Agree to everything up to the moment they start wanting money. Then say you don’t have a card or a or a bank account.
They always ask why.
Then explain that your nurse doesn’t let you have money and you shouldn’t even be on the phone. Then laugh like Hannibal Lecter.
It’s funny how fast they run…

He suddenly became aware of how hard it was raining. Jogging back to his car, he found the chief superintendent standing next to it, his stout figure barely sheltered by the large umbrella he was holding above his head.
“Davis, I’d like a word.”
Nodding, he pulled a keyring from his pocket and pushed the button on his key fob. The hazard lights of the BMW M6 he was walking toward flashed twice. He opened the passenger door for the other man to get in, before going round to the driver side and sliding out of the rain himself.
“Chief Super, what can I do for you?” he asked, noticing the grim expression on the superintendent’s face.
“Davis— lad— I want to start by offering you my deepest condolences. Sergeant Williams was a bloody fine officer. I know how much he meant to you.”
Davis nodded but could think of nothing to say in reply.
“So, I think it is best that you take a compassionate leave of absence until—”
“Sir—”
“Until you’ve had a chance to get over this.”
“Sir, my work is all I’ve got. You know that. Don’t—”
“My mind is made up, Davis. When Dr. Hanson is able to sign off on these forms”— he pulled a folded packet of papers from the inside pocket of his coat and handed them to Davis—“ you will be reinstated immediately, at which point you will also be assigned a new sergeant.”
“Sir, it is my request that I be allowed to see a psychologist of my own choosing.”
“Why is that? There’s nothing wrong with Dr. Hanson.”
“I would just prefer to eliminate any opportunity for bias in my evaluation. Dr. Hanson is too familiar with the friendship Williams and I had. It’s possible that he might—”
“Say no more, Davis. I will grant your request, but you will inform me of whom you choose. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.” Davis replied. He waited until the chief superintendent got out and closed the door, then he started the car. Its tuned engine purred a low note of contentment at being brought to life.
A knock sounded from the window just as Davis was putting the car in gear. He lowered it enough to get a clear view of the superintendent’s face.
“I am sorry, lad. I know how tough this is for you. I just think you need a bit of time to allow yourself to grieve. There is nothing wrong with that, so don’t be so hard on yourself.”
He strode away, leaving Davis unsure whether he was upset or grateful for the chief’s condolences. Coming quickly to the conclusion that he didn’t care either way, he set out for the pub, where he knew he would find the only friend he could count on at the moment. A drink

From Hunting Darkness by Ian Bristow .

“The laws of the jungle must be obeyed,” the oldest of the elephants said. “This new law must be taken from here and trumpeted to all the animals. From hyenas to gorillas, from lions to meerkats.”

“The cheetahs won’t abide by it,” said another member of the elephant council, “they always look for ways to exploit or get around our laws. The rhinos will trample roughshod over it too.”

Youngest elephant wondered why no one addressed the real problem with getting this new law adopted. It was as if they didn’t dare speak about it – the human in the room.

E.M. Swift-Hook

They came across the first body before they had reached the edge of the blackened area. It was so badly burned that Caer could not even tell whether it had been truly human. There were others scattered around, all equally burned and very dead and as Caer had suspected there was nothing of any value left in that blackened zone. Even the metal was too brittle to be of use, shattering if hit hard. But when they reached the part of the hulk that lay beyond the devastation, it was a very different story.
The men left their ponies and clambered into the metal cavern, making echoes with their shouts of discovery. There were several undamaged crates, which they forced open to reveal such familiar offworld devices as flash-lights and power-cells, and a whole range of other strange items which none of them could identify.
Caer instructed Shevek to take one of the other men and ride out in an arc around the hulk away from the burned area, just in case anything else of any value had been thrown clear of it by the explosion. The rest of the Zoukai he set to collecting samples of the salvageable loot to take back to Alexa. Looking around, judging quantities and weights, he realised it would probably take the best part of the next day to remove all that was here. For all the richness of the haul, he could not help but feel a small bite of disappointment that there were no weapons – the kind that could fire many times from a single reloading or burned through flesh and bone with an invisible finger of fire. Caer consoled himself with the thought that the bonus he could expect from bringing this hoard into Alfor, would buy any such weapon that might be imported from Keran.
He had just finished selecting the samples to take back for Alexa, when he heard an excited yell. The Zoukai he had sent out with Shevek, was waving to him. He swung himself onto his pony and rode quickly towards the waving man, who shouted again as he got closer:
“Captain, you must see this.”
“See what, Zarul?”
He reined in his pony beside the young Zoukai.
“A man from the stars, Captain, an offworlder – and he’s alive.”
Caer looked at the younger man doubtfully. He could see no way anyone could have survived the explosion. Even if they had been able to get some distance from it the force alone would surely have been fatal.
“You are certain?”
“Well Shevek says he’s still breathing.” Zarul scratched at his bald scalp. “You can come and see for yourself.”
Caer pushed his pony into a fast trot, suddenly very curious. He might not trust Zarul, but Shevek had been riding with the caravans since before Caer had been born. Though when they reached the place where the old Zoukai was standing, the man on the ground beside him certainly looked dead. He was not burned as the other bodies had been, but he lay as still as a corpse and the side of his head was thick with blood.
Caer slid from his mount and crouched down, his fingers probing beneath the jaw. There was a pulse. For a moment Caer felt an odd sensation of excitement. Although he knew that people lived on other worlds which were out amongst the stars, it had never before seemed fully real, he had never actually seen anyone from offworld before. Curious now, he drew his knife and ripped through the cloth of the offworlder’s garments, surprised that such thin fabric resisted the blade. The other two Zoukai helped him cut and pull off the clothing, including a heavy belt, until they had stripped the man.
Caer’s breath hissed between his teeth. For some reason he had assumed that offworlders would be frail, with weak, puny bodies. From all he had heard they were feeble, using machines they had invented to do the work of their muscles. But this one was as strong as a Zoukai, and his body was built like any ordinary man. His flesh carried several old scars and his muscles were clean and compact beneath the skin. The thought struck him that this man would fetch a fortune in the Alfor slave pens. The castellans would be scrambling over each other to purchase something so rare and exotic as a genuine offworlder.
“See, he is a fighter, Captain. This and this – they were made by blades.” Zarul said, pointing at the scars.
Caer nodded.
“Well, if he lives, perhaps we shall find out what kind of fighter he is, this man from the stars.”

From The Fated Sky the first part of Transgressor Trilogy, and the first book in Fortunes Fools by E.M. Swift-Hook.

Listen to Granny because Granny always knows best!

Rice. Rice with vinegar. Rice with vinegar and seaweed and (often) raw fish.
What the feck is that all about?
Yeah, fish and vinegar. That’s all good. But we’ll have the fish wrapped in batter and served with chips shall we?
Okay. 
Sushi, and all the other stuff, comes from another culture and I accept that. 
I just don’t want to eat it.
The texture is strange. The taste is odd.
And then there are chopsticks – for which uses are limited. You can use them to eat with.
Or
Stab the fucking idiot who brought you to a sushi restaurant. 

Dana Illwind and Growing Shadows by Arthur Daigle is intended to be the first part of a trilogy, with part two out later this year.  It started as a short story for the Fellowship of Fantasy anthology series, but Arthur enjoyed the characters so much he kept writing until it reached book length and he decided to publish it.  

Dana Illwind waited at the forest crossroads outside her hometown of North Lights, not happy with her current situation. That was unfortunate given she was responsible for ninety percent of what was happening to her. More like eighty-five percent responsible.
It was getting dark and cold, and she pulled her cloak tight over her shoulders. She’d worn her extra thick dress and fur lined boots, and a fur cap over her brown hair. It was still early in the year when winter’s cold and spring’s warmth traded places nearly every day. Dana had brought a backpack loaded with two days of food, a lantern and extra oil, a knife (never leave home without one) and a purse with her life savings. Granted fourteen copper pieces and three silver coins didn’t buy much, but her father was fond of pointing out most people didn’t have two coins to rub together and got by on barter. Barter was also harder for the king to tax.
The thick growth of pine trees made it hard to see her guest. He’d said he would arrive today, but they were rapidly running out of today. Maybe he was delayed and wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow. That would be bad. She’d used every excuse she had to get out of today’s chores. Her parents wouldn’t tolerate her missing another day’s work.
An owl hooted to the north. Maybe he wouldn’t come at all. Then why bother writing to say he would? Paper cost money, and the scruffy looking man who’d delivered his letter must have been paid. If he had no intention of coming then he could have saved time and money by ignoring her request.
“Ms. Illwind, I presume?”
Dana screamed and leapt off the road, landing on a thick carpet of dead pine needles. She scrambled behind a tree and drew her knife. It took her half a minute to stop hyperventilating, and another ten seconds to get angry with the smirking man standing off to the side of the road.
“That wasn’t nice!”
“I’m not a nice man.”

A Bite of… Arthur Daigle  

Do you see writing as an escape from the sorrows of existence, an exercise in futility, or an excuse to tell lies and get paid for it? Or is there another option…

I write to make people laugh.  There’s no end of suffering in the world, easily proved by spending ten minutes watching the nightly news.  My goal in writing is to help people, make them laugh.  I write to make my audience laugh so long and so hard that when they’re done the world is a better place, easier to deal with.  Strange as that sounds, I have been contacted by readers who thanked me for doing just that.  One said, no joke, that I helped him get through the Covid lockdown.  That’s an unqualified win for me

Have you ever written somebody you know into a book? A lover? A friend? An enemy?

So far I have not written a living person into my book, although that may change soon.  A former coworker asked to me to make him a character in one of my books.  This is a first for me, and I felt it only right to honor his request.  But in general I prefer to make my characters rather than write real people into my books.  You never know whether you will offend by doing it, especially if it is done without the person’s permission.

If you could meet one person (alive or dead) who would you choose? And what would you talk about? And what do you bring d a gift? 

If I could meet anyone, Jim Henson would be on the top of my list.  I modelled much of my work off his movies and TV series, with their good natured humour and family friendly material.  I think that’s the way to go to reach the most people.  I’d like to talk to him about how he came up with his ideas and later refined them, and how he promoted them and dealt with the marketing side of making content.  I understand he was a humble man not given to extravagances, so for a gift I think I’d bring a home cooked meal.

Arthur was born and raised in the suburbs of Chicago, Illinois. He received a degree in biology from the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign, which sounded like a good idea at the time. This led to work as a zoo intern at Brookfield Zoo, an assistant fisheries biologist at the Max McGraw Wildlife Foundation, and a research assistant at Morton Arboretum. Most recently he’s been employed grading high school essay tests and working as a garden associate (yeah, the job market is that bad). In addition to writing, Arthur is an avid gardener and amateur artist.
Arthur is the author (no jokes, please, he’s heard them all) of eight books. These include William Bradshaw King of the Goblins, William Bradshaw and a Faint Hope, William Bradshaw and War Unending, William Bradshaw and Fool’s Gold, Goblin Stories, Dr. Moratrayas Mad Scientist, William Bradshaw and Urban Problems, and Dana Illwind and Growing Shadows. These books were almost inevitable given that the author has been a fan of science fiction and fantasy since he was old enough to walk. Arthur is also a regular contributor to the Fellowship of Fantasy anthology series. Major influences include the works of the puppeteer and filmmaker Jim Henson and the British artist Brian Froud. Expect more books in the Will Bradshaw series, as all attempts to stop Arthur from writing have failed.

Every year for the last twenty, Wilf and Anna took the train to the coast and stayed a week at Mrs. Appleby’s guest house. 

They’d walk along the pier, buy ice-cream from the Italian parlour and candyfloss from a young woman whose face changed but whose piercings and tattoos always seemed the same, and celebrate their anniversary with a glass of bubbly in the Indian restaurant on the prom.

And every year for the last twenty both thought how much nicer it would be in Spain – or Bali.

But neither ever said. 

So the next year they took the train…

E.M. Swift-Hook