The Thinking Quill

Dear Reader Who Writes,

First, the formalities, rendered necessary since I understand there may be a small handful of benighted individuals who have yet to encounter my work. To you, new readers who write, allow me to bestow upon you the honour of making my acquaintance. I am Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, much feted and acclaimed author of the soon-to-be classic science fantasy novel, ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’, which has been withdrawn from sale to allow other, lesser, authors a chance to gain some small measure of public acclaim.

As I was contemplating which thread I should next tease out from the weft and warp of the fine cloak woven by the daughters of Mnemosyne, to examine and explore with you, my beloved students, my gaze happened to alight upon a shelf in my writing room. This is one which is still home to some items that pre-date my conversion of the room from coal-hole to bijou literary cubby.

This item was a box which had once (and for all I know may still as I have no intention of investigating further) contained a pair of running shoes. Not mine, I of course hasten to reassure you, dear RWW. You would never see your respected pedagogue dressed up in skimpy shorts, panting and perspiring in the park. No, these were relics of an era when Mumsie still fondly craved the elusive illusion of youth before she allowed the sangria of summer to fade into an angostura bitters and advocaat autumn.

But if I close my eyes it is still impossible to banish the profoundly disturbing memory of her donning leggings and Walkman and heading off at a jog. I recall her return on most such occasions, red faced and smelling strongly. Usually gin, but sometimes whisky. And her triumphant proclamations: “All the way to the King’s Head today!’ On one occasion I asked her how she did it and her reply has haunted me down the years.

“Pace, Moons, pace. You have to know when to push it and when to give up, flop on the bar and have a drink.”

Which brings me neatly to today’s lesson.

How To Write A Book – Lesson 23: The Write Pace

Pace, dear RWW, is everything in your book. It is not about how fast you write or about how quickly your reader reads – no it is about the speed at which you unfold the glories of you world, the wonders of the people who inhabit it and the intricacy of the plot that binds them together.

As you can already see, this places pace at the very heart of your writing – you can imagine it as a pacemaker inserted within that heart to keep it beating strongly and steadily throughout your story. Strongly and steadily. Yes, that, my pupil in penmanship, is the secret. Too many authors fall into the trap of thinking that pace is something to vary. That to speed up and slow down is the epitome of good pacing. But, of course, they are flawed thinkers to so conclude.

Always remember, this is your literary endeavour, your creation, your magnum opus! It needs the powerful and stately beat of a steady drum to allow you to explore every detail in depth. BOOM! The slow unfolding of the scene where all is set. BOOM! The introduction of each character, allowing the reader the chance to know them through their intricate and individual back stories, written in rich detail. BOOM! The slow dawning of a story, but not too fast. Allow many things to happen first to show off the world and showcase your characters within it, so the reader is fully immersed in both world and characters before you profane their minds with anything of note. Let it sneak up on them unawares that there is indeed a plotline.

This is the secret of pacing, ingest it into your soul so it may spew forth in your writing.

Until next.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Adoring Fans can join my Facebook Group.

Author Feature – from Max and the Multiverse by Zachry Wheeler

The concept of parallel universes, also known as the multiverse, had always presented itself as a tantalizing yet unprovable theory. The quirky conundrum fell under the category of amusing speculation, something for geeks to discuss in the uncool corners of parties. However, Max was the second being in all of existence to discover the truth: that an infinite number of parallel universes do, in fact, exist. The first to verify the multiverse theory was Rumac of the Suth’ra Society, but he didn’t care enough to publish.
For the most part, parallel universes are almost as unremarkable as Max. As near identical copies of each other, it takes a keen eye to notice any difference at all. The only variation between one universe and the next might be that Han shot second. In the vast majority of universes, humanity remains unchanged. The tweak might only affect a species of space slugs in an adjacent galaxy, but whenever Max shifted, it altered his particular domain. Apparently this is a rule of shifting, but we’re only monkeysacking here (the equivalent of “spitballing” in another universe).
Max acquired his incredible ability in the dumbest way imaginable. He gamed, a lot, enough to alienate girlfriends and worry parents. On the second day of a spring break all to himself, he pushed the limits of a gaming marathon. The sun rose, the sun set, midnight came and went. As dawn loomed, his brain janitor clocked out and killed the lights. His face crashed onto the keyboard, mashing a sequence of keys not seen since the dark warring days of Galwock 36. This untenable turd of logic just so happened to match one of the governance updates sent between universes. Max’s faceroll gibberish tore through the ether and intersected that code packet. The rebound imprinted onto Max’s REM cycle, an event so improbable that it makes winning the lottery while being struck by lightning seem like a typical Tuesday. At that most fortuitous of moments, Max’s psyche switched universes. When he awoke, his cat spoke with a British accent. And from thereon after, every time he fell asleep, Max shifted to a new world.

A Bite of… Zachry Wheeler

Zachry Wheeler is a science-fiction novelist based in Albuquerque, NM. His breakout novel Transient is currently in development to become a feature film.

 

Q1: What is the most important piece of advice you would give to someone about to be trapped to live in one of your books?

Enjoy the ride! This caters more to Max and the Multiverse, my sci-fi comedy series. An ongoing issue I have with stories that tackle parallel universes is that there is always a mission attached (think Stargate or Doctor Who). The entire concept behind my books is that the protagonist is an unwilling participant. If someone were dropped into that predicament, I would advise them to lean back and enjoy the unfolding insanity.

Q2: Socks or gloves and why?

Gloves. I’m one of those weird guys that wears shorts and sandals in the dead of winter. This hearkens back to the days when I played competitive soccer. The sensation of fabric around my legs felt impeding when I was in conditioning mode, so I just wore shorts and grew to accept the cold. For whatever reason, that mindset stuck with me well after I stopped playing. It takes a vicious cold snap for me to wear socks (or pants for that matter).

Q3:  If you were ever unable to write under your own name, what would you choose as your pen name and why?

Chops, which I already use when I post content on BrewChief.com and HerringtonPost.com (a few of my other writing sites). It’s a long story, but the short version is that “Chops” was once my gaming alias. There was a time in my life when I was a semi professional gamer, even played with some of the world’s top guilds. All of my characters carried the prefix Chops, which became my go-to moniker. To this day, I respond to it more than my actual name.
Zachry is also the author of Max and the Multiverse and Max and the Snoodlecock and you can find him on his website | Facebook | Twitter | Instagram | Goodreads.

Atet

When she was twelve years old, Atet was married to her half brother, Seti. Being painted and powdered and oiled and perfumed and dressed in fine white linen with a headdress so heavy she was sure her neck would break were merely the precursors to a wedding ceremony that lasted most of a day.

By the time the last priest had waved the last ceremonial artefact in front of her nose she was dangerously tired and on the verge of tears. It was only pride that kept her spine straight while they removed her ceremonial robe and dressed her in a gown so fine that every contour of her body could be seen through its delicate folds. She did rebel at the prospect of walking through the palace corridors so wantonly displayed, insisting on an azure feathered wrap to protect her modesty. When the acolytes sent to escort her to her husband’s bedchamber would have argued, she turned on them with all the hauteur of her great father and they fell into order beneath her icy glance.

At the great beaten brass doors she dismissed her entourage with a flick of her fingers and entered alone, finding her bridegroom cowering in the corner like the child he still was under his seventeen-year-old body. As she was about to go over and speak to him, a small doorway opened to admit a shaven-headed gentleman carrying a businesslike leather scourge and smiling sourly.

Atet raised her brows and he leered at her.
“I am the royal tutor. His majesty is to be scourged,” he spoke in a voice of contempt, “and after him it will be your turn to learn the feel of the lash.”
The young bride reached her own personal breaking point. She turned with deliberately regal dignity and opened one wing of the door, beckoning two of the royal guard to enter. She pointed a finger at the whip bearer.
“Remove this offal from my sight. Take it and strike off its hands before you cut its throat.”
“You can’t do that to me,” the tutor screamed.
Atet saw no need to reply as the grinning guards dragged him off to meet his fate.
Seti came to her side with fear in his eyes.
“He will only beat me harder next time.”
“My brother, be tranquil. He will beat nobody ever again.”
“How not?”
“Did you not hear me order his death?”
“Yes. But he is my tutor. My great father protects him.”
Atet felt a rush of sympathy for this simple infant, hidden inside the body of a man.
“Our great father is dead. You rule now. And with me by your side nobody will hurt you again.”

And so began the reign of the great king Seti, and his sister-wife Atet. They ruled wisely and well, with only a trusted few privy to the knowledge that Seti was what he was and that the intellect and the will belonged to his young wife.

They had only one real problem. Heirs. It was a marriage in name only and unlikely to ever be anything else. Seti had a slave girl who saw to his simple and infrequent needs, while Atet remained as pure as she had been on the day of their marriage. She was aware of the danger of appearing barren, and equally sure that she had no wish to give birth to a child with her husband’s limitations, even if it had been possible to persuade him into fulfilling his marital duties.

So matters stood when Atet’s most trusted adviser was called to his place at the feet of the gods and she found herself looking for a replacement. She found one such in the person of the Hyksos in charge of her personal guard. He was a man in his forties, with a fat jolly wife and a quiverful of unruly children. He was also handsome, intelligent, and completely loyal. Atet began asking his opinions and relying on his advice, and in time it came to her that this man of all others was the one she would choose to sire her own babies.

She sent for him and he came to her rooms where she sat in a gilded chair and regarded him through sombre eyes. “How far, my Hyksos, are you prepared to go in order to protect me?”
He didn’t answer, merely going down on one knee and pressing his forehead against her feet.
“Will you,” she asked in a very small voice, “protect me from the charge that I am barren woman, unfit to be queen?”
He looked up into her solemn little face before lifting her in his arms and beginning to do things of which she had no knowledge, but which gave her pleasure beyond her dreams.

It is a matter of record that Queen Atet bore her husband eleven healthy, intelligent, happy children, and that the land waxed fertile as the queen’s fecundity was proven time and time again.

©️ Jane Jago 2018

Frivolous Fables – The Ant and the Grasshopper

The ant was a hard worker, spent every waking moment pretty much working hard to earn money to feed himself and his family and to save for retirement. He’d see the grasshopper getting all dressed up and going out with his friends every night and shake his head sadly, knowing what was to come.

Years went by. The ant worked ever harder and the grasshopper socialised and had a grand time.

Then one day the ant’s wife left him saying he never had any time for her and was so obsessed with work and money he had no idea how to relax and enjoy life. The grasshopper, however, had made so many friends that even when he fell on hard times they all rallied around to help him out.

Moral of the story: Always make time for your spouse.

The Write Way

Bonjour mes petites,

And as I place my fingers upon the keyboard to reach out to you, dear Readers Who Write, I feel a certain powerful link has now been established between us. I, your pedagogue, creator of the seminal classic science-fiction opus, ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’, and you my disciples, minions of literature, striving to bring to birth your first fumbling fantasies.

What, you may wonder, led me to this pivotal point of realisation in our ongoing relationship? Well, it was that I received a missive from one Adoring Fan, asking – nay pleading with me, to come to her aid. And so, moved by her desperate plight, I shall don my metaphorical armour and ride to the rescue on my white charger.

Dear Ivy,

Sometimes my characters do things that I don’t mean for them to do and it affects my plot. What should I do?

Regards,

Melonie.

 

Dear Melonie,

How I feel your pain and anguish! It is such a grief when those very characters which you have nursed and nurtured within your own bosom, turn on you like ungrateful lovers and spite your best intentions.

But you must first remember that these characters are brought to birth by the delicate insemination of the Muse into the fecund womb of your own creativity. These are the delightful love-children of Calliope and as such they are bound to challenge your parental authority and demand their own way in all things.

Now, there will be those who will say ‘Be firm!’ and insist you impose your will on these unruly offspring. It is your story and these characters are mere brain-foibles – figments you have postulated to carry the plot. Force them to do what you demand and be done with it!

But to such, I say ‘Fiddlesticks!’ and I say ‘Phooey!’. Those who take such a view understand nothing of the higher levels of authorial inspiration. To them is forever barred the inner sanctum of creative intimacy. They will never know the delight of engaging with the fruits of their literary loins. No, dear Melonie, I counsel you quite otherwise.

Be bold and invite your rebellious muselings to meet with you. Remember, these are not mere stirrings in your synapses, these are real and pure individual characters, formed from the life-breath of your soul.  So then, in an atmosphere of trust and empathy brought about by your deep familial bond, open your heart to them and show them the reasons for the choices you wish to make about their lives. And more, you must listen! Listen to their dulcet voices, their tones of appeal, their hopes, their fears, their aspirations. If well done, with the love and compassion every creative parent owes to the true and legitimate heirs of their art, then – and only then – will you reach a consensus and be able to progress.

Regards,

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

PS. Please do not address me as ‘Ivy’ again that is a privilege I reserve only to my close and intimate friends and you do not qualify. Unless you happen to have written an incredibly popular fantasy or science fiction book of course, in which case I will send you my contact details by return and we may be able to enter into some form of carefully modulated acquaintanceship.

If you have a problem you may avail yourself of one's wisdom by posting your problem HERE or contacting me through my Facebook presence.

Adoring Fans can join my Facebook Group.

 

 

Poet

When people ask are you a poet
I mostly say not as you know it
I rhyme to poke fun
And use verse like a gun
And if I find a belt, hit below it

© jane jago 2018

Coffee Break Read – Office Politics

Ty’s link had reached him, dinging insistently on his screens as soon as the resupply hopper had dropped from FTL into the planetoid’s traffic stream. He got back to her right away.

What are you playing at, Grim? I already gave you a three-day extension and you take that and ask me for two more. I know you have to live up to your maverick rep, but you are not helping us to build any trust doing the lone bounty hunter thing.”

He tried to sound penitent.

“I just need two more days Ty – then I’ll be in and have something to make up for it. I promise.”

“That’s what you said last time. What is this, Grim? Seeing how far you can push me? I don’t take kindly to being pushed. You keep it up and I’ll push back. And I can push harder than you, maybe so hard you’ll find yourself off the case and back on basic duties for the next five years.”

“I’m not trying to push you,” Grim heard the slight edge of hostility in his own voice. Then he boxed it all off and swung himself into Ty’s corner for a moment – putting himself behind her eyes, feeling the intense pressure from Jecks, the weight of knowledge – greater than his own – about the possible consequences of failure in this investigation, and the frustration and concern that the man she was supposed to be working with was apparently running amok and not telling her anything even before they had hit the ground running. He took a breath to regain his own composure. Ty was not the enemy, she was his best and greatest ally. He spoke again, his tone much more conciliatory:

“I am working on something I got from a personal contact – I can’t take this down any official road, if you want it logged and signed up, it can’t happen at all. Right now, I‘m on leave and I’m my own master – trust me for two more days, please Ty, and I’ll be able to bring you something really worthwhile. Call me in now, and I can’t get that for you.”

He was guessing that part of the reason he had been chosen for this case was this very tendency of his to blaze off-trail and get things done. That and the fact he had a proven record which showed he really could bring down the big beasts of the criminal jungle when he was allowed to do so.

He could see Ty considering his appeal. She had to be a risk taker too – no one was going to assign a stolid jobsworth to this kind of investigation. But, she would also be grappling with the concern that she needed to assert her authority over him and it was very possible letting him get away with this might be one step beyond her comfort zone on that particular score. Grim hoped she’d realise he wasn’t seeing this as any kind of power struggle. He had no wish to challenge Ty’s authority – just a burning desire to get done what he needed to get done.

“At least tell me where you’re going to be for those two days,” she said, after a moment. Grim felt a tight satisfaction, knowing he had got his two days. Hopefully, that would be enough.

“A place in the middle of nowhere called Hell’s Breath,” he told her.

Mistrust and Treason is the first volume in the upcoming Fortune's Fools Iconoclast Trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook and will be out in the spring.

Advent of Light

I still remember those days,
The sun disappeared,
The stars stopped glimmering
And the moon, it was turning darker.

Witnessing such a dreadful moment was depressing, terrifying
I could only hear the sound of my voice – but the words were inaudible

I became imprisoned in the room of nothingness,
I was yearning for one glimpse of the light of hope
Then you knocked on the door of my darkness.

Kshitij Yadav manages Human Writes.

Hyde’s Lament is out Now!

In Hyde's Lament, out now, Catherine Hyde, who we first met in Only The Few by L.N. Denison, has begun changing into the very kind of monster she has been fighting in a post-apocalyptic England.

Two men, armed with semi-automatic rifles, entered the dingy makeshift medical wing of the bomb shelter. One held a straitjacket, and the other, a syringe. Looming over Hyde, the man with the syringe slowly motioned toward her thigh. Hyde had been watching them through her eyelashes, feigning sleep. Without warning, she opened her eyes, and widened them as the needle’s point headed towards her left leg.

“What’s that?” Hyde’s voice shook. “Get that thing away from me.”

Pulling violently on the tightening restraints, she could do nothing to resist the needle as it slid in.

“Just a little Diazepam to calm you for the short journey to the training facility, that’s all.” The man regarded her with indifference as he slowly pumped the drug into her system.

Hyde became weak as the drug took effect, relaxing her muscles as though she had no bones holding her together. Her eyes grew heavy as she struggled to keep them open. The men released her restraints but by then, she was too feeble to take advantage of it and had no way to resist as they lifted her off the bed. They threaded her limp arms through the sleeves of the straitjacket, fastening the buckles tight and forcing Hyde to exhale sharply. Each pull stole her breath away. The sleeves were wrapped across her chest and the ties secured behind her back. As well as being so relaxed she could hardly walk, she had now lost the use of her arms.

With a man stabilising her either side, Hyde was led out of the cold room into the corridor devoid of any life or feeling. The bad lighting seemed to be the norm in the bomb shelter. Whilst being pulled along, she took in the starkness of her surroundings as they passed her by. She tried to marshal her thoughts against the creeping effects of the drug that flowed through her system, and to resist being pulled..

“Don’t be getting any ideas in that pretty little head of yours,” One of the men said in Hyde’s ear. “I can see what you’re doing; I’m not stupid.” He stopped and pulled the thin, green cloth scarf from around his neck. Swaying unsteadily, Hyde could not stop him using the cloth to cover her eyes, depriving her of vision and winced as it was pulled tight around her head.

“If you can’t see where you’re going, you can’t think about escaping.”

Not that I could escape even if I wanted to, not in this thing…. fuckin’ idiot!

Now, completely in the dark, Hyde’s legs were made to walk faster than her body and mind would allow, but no amount of pulling back was going to stop the speed in which she was being carried along between the two soldiers.

She stumbled once and was hauled back upright.

“Don’t give me an excuse to hurt you, caver.”

And this is where it would begin: the name-calling and prejudice. She knew she had been changing, felt it happen, but they had not let her see the changes for herself. The thought left her heart heavy with sadness and dread. Am I really changing? I haven’t looked on my face in weeks. What have they done to me? I need to know.

A tug on the straitjacket sent Hyde to her knees, but with the momentum of the fall the two men could lift her straight back up and keep her moving. A sudden, jarring halt made her wary.

“You’ve reached the end of the line,” the man to her right said as he pushed her forward. There was the sound of a door being opened just in front of where she stood and then she was being pushed through it. Not being able to see, Hyde wasn’t sure what this room might be, but like everywhere else, it was a cold, and smelt damp… and unwelcoming.

“Bring her to me,” a man’s voice said from some distance away. “Take that blindfold off, and leave us.” They forced her forward, and removed the cloth from her eyes, then turned and left. The room she was in was as depressing as the one she had been dragged from, and to add to the anxiety that grew in her mind, she spotted a steel six by six cage in the corner, which she guessed was for her.

The only other occupant of the room was someone very familiar to her, and one that frightened her. It was Judd. But how? I was told that he was scheduled for execution. He should be dead by now. Hyde’s knees buckled, but there was no one to catch her this time. Judd watched as she fell, but did nothing to help her.

“Do you intend to stay there all day, Hyde?” Judd asked, his voice stern and angry. “Get to your feet, soldier. I won’t ask again.”

Hyde felt her gorge rise with anxiety, and the blood in her veins begun to run cold, as she tried, but failed several times to obey the captain’s order. With a sense of purpose, the man stalked towards her letting her see how displeased he was by the lack of response.

“Get to your feet,” he bawled as he bent over her. “You look disgusting, Hyde. Have you seen yourself lately?”

She answered with a single shake of her head and he stepped back, his nose wrinkling in disgust.

“Just get up!”

With no hands to push herself up, Hyde tried again to stand. It hurt to do so, as her muscles were still in such a state of relaxation from the Diazepam, that her whole body was uncooperative. It took every ounce of energy to keep her from falling again.

Grabbing at the straitjacket, Judd led her over to the cage and pushed her inside. He kept her trapped in her canvas prison as he closed the door and locked it.

“This will be your new home for next few months, get used to it,” he seethed. “Don’t think for one minute that I won’t pick up from where I left off.”

 

Hyde's Lament is available now!

 

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