Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV takes time from his immensely important life to proffer profound advice to those who still struggle on the aspirational slopes of authorhood…

Dear Reader Who Writes,

One cannot help but feel that one scarcely needs to trouble oneself with an introduction. The trademark quill? The eloquent and sophisticated writing style? It could be none other than Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV – acclaimed and admired author of “Fatswhistle and Buchtooth” whose fantastical and fortuitous adventures through the megaplex-multiverse have been my life’s work.

And, as Mumsie so eloquently put it, “Moony, you little tosspot, you have been  writing that freaking crap for so long now – if the poor unfortunate sods who read it don’t know your name by this time they ain’t never gonna learn.” As I recall it, she then spat reflectively into the fire and a gobbet of saliva and mucus bubbled gently on the artificial logs.

And so to our next lesson. Sit up straight and pay attention. There may be an examination later.

The Write Price

Yes my panting little followers, let us for just one moment pretend that you have come so far as to be able to offer a book of your own creation up for the delectation of that cruel and capricious bitch that is the reading public. You have crossed every eye and dotted every tee, you have edited and subedited, you have begged the opinion of many readers (none of whom will agree on any point, leaving you to either start again from scratch or ignore them all) and placed your precious manuscript into the hands of the holy angel Kindle. All is going swimmingly, and then you are asked what price you wish to place upon this darling offspring of your imagination. Your mind will be in turmoil. What should I do? The question reverberating around the cold, damp, muddy canyons of your simple little psyche.

Is it wise to charge the mean 99p/99c? For those whose virginity had yet to be breached in this area of life, this is the smallest moiety Dame Kindle allows her charges to place on their literary efforts. Many so-called wise heads will tell you that this is the course of wisdom and the road by which your little effort may reach the hearts and minds of the greatest number of possible new lovers of your precious prose. These prophets of doom will say unto you that you are a new author and you should be properly humble and have low expectations of the sales and monetary gain to be expected from a self-published novel from the pen of an unknown.

I say. Fie upon them. And again fie upon them.

Let not such smallness ever press its skinny little fingers into the soft pink marshmallowiness of your flesh. Let not such paucity of ambition sully the pristine pathways in your little head.

Never price a book below Ten Pounds Sterling.

Whatever that may be in colonial currencies (eleven euros or thirteen dollars, Mumsie tells me). Whether she be correct or as far off the beam as the mad old bat usually is matters not here. We are speaking of principle here, of the sale of our heart’s blood, of the prostitution of the children of our mind. Therefore let us at least ask a fair price for our endeavours. 

Ten Pounds Sterling – and not a penny less!

And while the rightness and wrongness of pricing is on my mind there is one other thing we must discuss. The promotion. The book sale. The freebie. The so-called  holy grail of marketing, supposed to garner you sales ranking and reviews. Well it’s just so much pish and tush. I am here to tell you not to bother. One, having once been inveigled into allowing one’s masterpiece to be offered free of charge for a whole week, knows of what one speaks. And how many downloads did that garner? And how many reviews followed? One download (which turned out to be Mumsie who was too stingy to buy it before). I repeat One Download And No Reviews.

So don’t do it. Price in a way that reflects the love and inspiration you have put in your magnum opus – and stick with it.

Until next. Remember to wash behind your ears and ecrit  bon

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

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

I did not know
When I kissed him all those years ago
In the snow 
He would take my life in his keeping
And never let me go
I did not know 
In that moment I had found the life of my life
I did not know 
That with that kiss I promised to be his wife
And now I’m old
And we kiss each night
Goodnight my love, we say
And we both remember a snowy kiss
That begun our love. That day

Jane Jago

It was midnight in the stacks, and the air was filled with tiny rhythmic noises of a sort that the fanciful might have thought of as books snoring. The young woman busily shelving books was obviously not fanciful though, as she worked efficiently, serene and undisturbed by the night and its secrets.
She positioned each volume carefully – tutting occasionally as she unbent dogeared corners and removed unsuitable objects being used as ‘bookmarks’.
It was right at the end of her task when she was briskly dealing with the ugly temperament of a couple of grimoires that something outside the usual caught her attention. Being of a methodical turn of mind she completed her task before investigating the source of an undefinable disquiet.
It felt as if the source of the problem, whatever it might be, was the children’s literature section, so once she had replaced her trolley in the storeroom she walked that way on quiet feet. The closer she came to the area dedicated to myth and legend for young readers the more she understood there was definitely something needing her attention.
As yet she had no notion what was afoot, but whatever it was, it was sufficient to disturb the serenity of the sleeping books, to the extent that they were huddling together in clumps. Once she set foot in the aisle between the worst affected volumes, she could hear a susurrating sound as if a breeze moved through the pages. The books were actually shivering with fear.
“Calmly now,” she said infusing her voice with both confidence and command. “Calm yourselves. I am here.”
It was as if a sigh of relief ran through the shelved books.
A small black bird flew from the pages of a venerable volume on the topmost shelf. It was pursued by a set of snapping teeth which were rapidly gaining as it flapped its tiny wings in near desperation. The Night Librarian held out a small freckled hand and the bird clung to her. The snapping teeth stopped in their tracks before a voice laced with menace spoke.
“I am hunger.”
It was joined by another voice, and another and another…
“I am cold.”
“I am fear.”
“I am pain.”
More and more voices joined in until a cacophonous litany of pain and anger filled the night air.
The night librarian waited a beat then spoke a single word of power.
There was silence.
“Better. Now who speaks for the displaced ones?”
The voice that answered her was colder than a north wind and angrier than a volcano.
“I speak for all. And if you let us drink your blood and eat your story we will leave the dry books to their desiccated little lives.”
The librarian put her free hand in the sagging pocket of her cardigan.
“Show yourselves then.” She spoke with quiet dignity.
The angry one laughed. “I do enjoy a courageous meal.” Then it began to laugh. An insane, humourless sound that beat against the venerable timbers of the library. When it regained its breath it spoke sneeringly. 
“Do you have any idea what you are asking.”
“Several. Now show yourself if you don’t fear me.”
The very air seemed to hold its breath.
“Me. Fear you?”
Came a bang and a flash and a dark figure stood in the aisle facing the librarian and the terrified bird. It made to snatch the feathered one, but failed as the young woman simply twitched her hand out of reach.
“There is nothing for you here. Go home.” She spoke without inflection, but even so the darkling shuddered right down to its misshapen shoes.
When it answered her it sounded fretful.
“I shall go nowhere. You cannot banish me.”
“Can I not?”
All around there was a sound as of rushing wind, or rustling leaves and the whispers started up again.
“You can not banish us…”
The librarian took a knobbly stick from her pocket.
“Can I not?” she repeated softly.
The winds about her grew fiercer and whipped her skirts and sandy hair into disarray.
“Not even with your little wand.”
“Shall I banish you by name?”
It was as if a hurricane blew the pages of the shrinking books and tried to snatch the knobbly little stick from its owner’s grasp.
“Nooooooo…..”
The librarian sighed and concentrated.
“Rumplestiltskin. Begone.”
The darkling went leaving behind only a sour smell and the memory of fear. The librarian soothed the books before going back to her unending round of the tasks the day librarians thought themselves too beautiful to be worried by.

‘The Story Eaters’ is one of the stories in The Night Librarian by Jane Jago

Because life can be interesting when you are a non-player character in an online video game…

Milla found herself feeling like a fish in a rockpool after the tide had pulled back. One single sentence overheard staying with her, trapping her mind.
“One Eye, what’s an expac?”
“Ah.” He stopped arranging the fish on his stall and scratched at his head between the ridges of his crest. “An Expansion. The last one was before your time, so you’d not be knowing. It’s a lot of change. When the whole world shifts and nothing is ever quite the same after. New lands appear and new things. New people.”
Milla wrinkled her snout.
“You mean more Visitors?”
“No. I mean new people in the new lands.” He went back to sorting the fish, sliding them into place by size and colour. “Before the last Expansion I had my stall in a big city on the other side of the Silent Sea. It was my home. The only place I remembered. Then after the Expansion I found myself here and realised this was the place I’d come from. Wrathburnt Sands and the lands beyond are home to the ryeshor. So I belong here. So do you.”
His words reminded her of the really strange thing she had heard said.
“One Visitor said that when the world expands the ryeshor will become a playable race. What did they mean? Will the Visitors start to hunt us like they hunt the sandylions?”
For a moment she thought One Eye wasn’t going to answer her. He seemed to be avoiding her gaze with his good eye. Then he straightened up and sighed.
“I don’t know for sure. But before the last Expansion, the Visitors said the same of the kitta and wolfen folk.”
That didn’t sound too worrying. Milla had never heard of the Visitor’s hunting them. Indeed some Visitors were kitta and wolfen folk.
“Sooo…?”
“So, before the last Expansion, when I lived in that city, no Visitors were ever kittafolk or wolfenfolk. After the Expansion…”
Milla thought some more.
“So after this Expansion we might become Visitors? We might travel the world and do ventures?” She found it hard to keep the excitement out of her voice.
“Maybe.” But One Eye didn’t sound too convinced.
There was one more thing Milla had to ask.
“Is it very frightening when it happens?”
“What?”
“The Expansion. You said it changes things. Is it frightening?”
That made One Eye grin.
“Not in the least, young’un. You’ll sleep right through it. I promise.”

In that as in most things she ever asked him, One Eye Rye proved right.
Milla woke up one morning to find her little hut on the foreshore was now a very comfortable house. She was very glad One Eye had told her about the Expansion and how it changed the world in odd ways or she might have been frightened to find her home so different. But it was as if the force behind the Expansion knew exactly how she would like her house to be and had made it so.
There was a cozy hearth for the cooler evenings and to cook, a sleeping platform with a window that had a view over the sea where she and Ruffkin could settle comfortably on a mattress stuffed with dried seaweed.
“This is amazing!” she said, looking around for the little hound. He had gone to sleep curled beside her so she was surprised he was not right there when she woke up. Scrambling down the ladder-stairs she found there were new cushions and chests, a table and chairs and a cupboard full of food. But no sign of Ruffkin.
Sometimes he would get up and take a walk on his own, have a scamper along the beach and wait for her to join him. So she snatched her collecting bag and hurried out side.
Whoa! Things had really changed.
The village had grown and now looked a bit more like a small town. The houses were built of the same creamy stone her new home was made of, with dried palm leaves trimmed to make the roofs. The tavern had a big sign outside, and behind it, where the rubble of the ancient ruins had been, there was now a towering pyramid, twice the height of the highest house and with the sun glinting off the golden eye on its capstone.
Milla stood there in surprise, her mouth open and her frill-spines spread, for the length of several breaths. It was simply beautiful. But then she remembered and made herself turn away and head for the steps that led down to the beach.
The dock had grown and now more and bigger ships could harbour there. The land around the dock had a shambles of small lean-tos and pokey alleyways that looked oddly inviting, but also held a sense of danger that made her shiver. Even in the bright sunlight, they looked preternaturally dark.

Log on to Wrathburnt Sands by E.M. Swift-Hook for the 3rd Quest next week.

‘Wrathburnt Sands’ and ‘Return to Wrathburnt Sands’ were first published in Rise and Rescue: A GameLit Anthology and in Rise and Rescue Volume 2: Protect and Recover.

The little man with the beaky nose started the chant, and all the cross-legged celebrants joined in. As the smoke from the incense burners filled the air with heavy sweetness, the people began to sway from side to side – moving in disturbing unison.

The cat, Bast, stalked into the centre of the circle, and all around her the foreheads touched the ground in profound respect.

“Lighten our darkness.”

The yellow eyes studied her disciples. One fell face down. Speaking in tongues.

“The way of Enlightenment is a stony road.” 

As a mark of favour, the cat pissed on him.

Jane Jago

A dictionary for the bemused by Jane Jago…

abaresque (adjective) – of or relating to scandipop

bedthong (noun) – alternative nightwear for those hot summer nights

carcodile (adjective) – queue of Chelsea Tractors outside a Montessori School at three pm

claimign (verb) – walking very carefully as if one has had a spoon inserted in one’s rectum

expsired (adjective) – father unknown likely to be an alien

imajine (verb) – to think weird stuff when very drunk

inaccrate (adjective) – travelling in a very old car

insipration (noun) – an attempt to breathe in that is frustrated by a cat sitting on your chest

migic (adjective) – shiny and full of spurious joyfulness

phre (adjective) – slightly sweaty and deeply afraid

rednack (adjective) – sunburned wedding tackle among the lower classes

retcal (adjective) – of thermometers, spectacularly inaccurate

therecus (noun) – small rat living in the underwear of obese teenagers

Disclaimer: all these words are genuine typos defined by Jane Jago. The source of each is withheld to protect the guilty.

Because life happens…

Exploring the mysteries of life through the versatile medium of limerick poetry.

Rose

Life is like a sweet-smelling rose,
The pollen gets right up your nose!
But the petals unfold
And the heart is of gold
And the ending…? Well nobody knows.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV takes time from his immensely important life to proffer profound advice to those who still struggle on the aspirational slopes of authorhood…

Dear Reader Who Writes,

As I must always – please let me introduce myself. I am Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV author of both this loquacious and erudite series of lessons on ‘How To Start Writing A Book’ and of the increasingly highly-regarded and hard to put down, soon-to-be classic in the genre of speculative fiction “Fatswhistle and Buchtooth”.

The formalities out of the way, let me tell you how I came upon the theme of today’s peregrination into the perfection of prose. I had ventured forth from my writing space and after blinking a little in the overbright sunshine of a winter’s afternoon. I found Mumsie seated in front of that obnoxious rectangle of recreation known as the television. By seated, I mean she was lounging as might a Roman courtesan upon the more well-cushioned of our settees and by ‘television’ I mean a high-tech, high-definition, high-priced object which covers a goodly portion of one living room wall.

I do not recall what was showing on the screen, something with children and dogs I think because I was too distracted by the gentle burps and sniffles emanating from my maternal parent as she dabbed her eyes. “So sad,” she was murmuring to herself, oblivious to my intrusion. “So, fucking sad.”

Not wanting to disturb her evident immersion and enjoyment in some overacted televisual drama, I retreated back to the sanctuary of my writing cavern and realised it was time to initiate you, my beloved students into the dark arts.

The Write Emotion.

You, my dear RWW, must be as a magician and a puppet-master. Your prose must produce profound palpitations deep within the psyche of your reader. You have only words with which to weave this wonder but fret not, for I shall make plain the mysteries for your eyes only.

The secret lies in the profuse and prodigious application of adverbs and adjectives.  Let dozens of delightful descriptors dance from your fingers. They shall be as the flash of lightning which brought life to Mary Shelley’s creature of parts. By that same magic, they will bring the glory of gut-churning emotion to your predictably flat writing.

Allow me to demonstrate.

Tears flowed from her eyes.

This tells your reader nothing of what is occurring within the breast of your beautiful heroine. Mayhap she was chopping onions or perchance these are tears of mirth. No, it needs the artistry of a literary maestro to tease out the subtle nuances that allow your reader to enter into the moment and feel as one with the character.

Like soft pellucid rain-drops flowing freely and unstoppably in the grim dark deluge of a bitter summer storm, slow and copious tears ran from her reddened eyes achingly, ardently and arrestingly, sliding slowly down her curvaceous cheeks, glistening as they glided gracefully drawn by both the gravity of this blessed earth and the gravity of her perilous situation.

But, I hear you say, sometimes I need to set the mood in a moment, what should I do then, oh sensei of the written word? First, I would chide you for your impatience and for selling both yourself and your reader short. You owe it to your art to take the time and the words needed to amply fulfil the emotional needs of the story. But yes, I hear you riposte, we don’t all have the effing time to dance around with all this fancy crap, Ivy. So I shall lift my hand in silent admonition and admit there is another way. The punchy, no-nonsense give-it-to-them straight style:

She felt shite.

I hope you have read and learned my dear RWW. If not, go back to the top of the page and start again.

Bon ecrit.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

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

January explodes upon the world
With fireworks and cheers
And auld lang syne.
Then creeps she neath her soft blankets
Of snow and mist
Within her house walled with ice
And rooved with frost
And on the casement panes
She prints star patterns,
Draws icicles on eave and gable,
Paints the lawn from green to white
And with bony fingers reaches
Like the leafless trees
To caress the greyness of the sky.

E.M. Swift-Hook

In a modern day Britain where the Roman Empire never left, Dai and Julia solve murder mysteries, whilst still having to manage family, friendship and domestic crises…

Dai carefully unfolded the hanging and held it up for Aelwen to inspect. She put her head on one side and her brow drew into tight lines, as if she were a critic appraising the latest offering from an acclaimed artist.
The thing was lovely. From the carefully beaded knotwork pattern that bordered the edge to the gloriously vivid designs. It glittered in the light as the brilliant colours of the glass beads were both muted and set off by the softer metallic looking ones in silver and gold effect.
Satisfied, Aelwen then felt the hem where the carefully placed weights were sewn in disguised by quilting and the braided fringe.
“What are they made of, the weights?”
“In the past we’d have used lead,” Marta told her, but today we use stainless steel.” She reached over to a box and pulled some of the contents out so Aelwen could see. “Here take one.”
Warmed by the spiced tea (a local blend of fourteen fruits, herbs and spices, half-price Saturnalia special and an extra discount for the dominus if he’ll take two packs—so he did), they paid for their purchases. The hanging was wrapped in tissue paper and popped into one of the paper bags that the workshop had printed with their own name and logo (probably onsite, Dai decided), the Llewllyns took their leave.
As Dai was guiding the all-wheel out of the gate, he caught sight of Marta, in the rear view, back in the doorway of the workshop and waving enthusiastically. She looked red faced and took a few steps out into the yard. Dai lifted a hand in farewell and a moment later they were around the corner and beginning the precarious descent.
They were about halfway down when Aelwen said, decisively, “I liked that shop and the spiced tea. But not the dogs. And do you think mam will like that hanging?”
“I think she will love it.”
Aelwen smiled then her face fell.
“I wanted some pictures to show where we went to get it.”
Dai heard the tone and knew what the outcome would be, but tried anyway.
“If we go back we’ll be very late, cath fach. And your nain is cooking for you, remember.”
The silence and the drooping head were more than he could bear. Then he saw a pull in a short way ahead, which offered a stunning vista from the zig-zag road. He was already decelerating as he said, “Why don’t we get some pictures of the view here? That would be much more spectacular?”
It was touch and go if the alternative would wash with Aelwen, but maybe the thought of her grandmother’s baking fresh from the oven was enough to sway the balance, because she nodded as Dai parked up.
The wind was cold, but not bitter. Not yet carrying the smell and taste of snow. Instead it brought hints of coal smoke from the hearths of the cottages below, looking like dolls’ houses with toy goats and chickens in the garden. Aelwen fussed around for a couple of minutes like a professional portrait photographer, positioning Dai and getting him to help her with the settings so she could zoom in to show the more distant mountains, capped by cloud.
But they were eventually back in the all-wheel and driving back along the narrow mountain road.
Dai didn’t think anything of it when he saw a rugged and long-lived all-wheel barrelling up the slope towards them. There were a few isolated farmsteads along potholed tracks which turned off the decently surfaced road. But when it showed no sign of slowing, he silently cursed the arrogance of the locals and their assumption of right of way and aimed his vehicle for the passing place between them.
Incredibly, the all-wheel coming up accelerated, almost as if it wanted to cut him off from reaching the wider bit of road. Suddenly aware that he had no other choice to avoid the mad driver, he speeded up too, and for a moment it was as if they were playing a game of chicken. He just pulled out of the way as the other vehicle reached them, but at the last moment it slid and there was a shriek of tortured metal and a scream from Aelwen as the two vehicles graunched together.
Aelwen screamed again and Dai swore, fighting to turn the all-wheel back onto the road as the cliff edge approached at a frightening speed.
The sheer momentum of the heavy vehicle made Dai’s task impossible. He could see no way to force the turn and even as he fought the inevitable, his thoughts seemed to lift away from his body with images of Julia and the children. Then it hit him in the stomach. This was not just his life, Aelwen was with him. There was no way he was going to let her end up at the bottom of the cliff being picked over by scene of crime officers.
No.
Way.

From the The Dai and Julia Mysteries, Dying for a Present, a novella by E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.