Just a thought…

Once upon a time, people told stories – and then they wrote them down. Sometimes they made up new stories and wrote those down too. People enjoyed the stories and would look forward to the next one.

Then some people began to wonder what made stories what they were, so those people took the stories to pieces and looked for patterns. They then declared that the patterns they found were what stories had to have.

Now people started thinking that every story had to have the patterns that had been found and they began to mutilate everything they wrote so it would fit those patterns.

Fortunately, a few people carried on writing stories as they always had – not caring about the patterns just telling a thundering good story whether it fitted any of the patterns or not…

Moral of the story: You can’t learn to write by studying literary criticism – you learn to write by reading fabulous books.

I don’t feel myself qualified to comment on Thanksgiving. It’s a noble sentiment – eat until you almost explode to give thanks for staying alive for another year – and one I applaud.

Is it like British Bank Holidays? Slightly outmoded by the number of days people get off work now? Or does it retain real meaning?

I don’t pretend to know. And neither can I pretend to like pumpkin pie.

In the spirit of friendship, I’ll see your Thanksgiving and raise you British Boxing Day, wherein one lays about groaning and recovering from the Xmas excess.

Happy Thanksgiving and may your turkey be succulent….

You can now have a collection of Granny’s inimitable insights of your very own in Granny Knows Best.

An extract from  How To Start Writing A Book brought to you courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

Here we go again.

Yes, it’s me Jacintha Farquhar. I had hoped that I’d not have to come up with another one of these. I was kicking back with a Pernod and Pimms spritzer enjoying the blazing sun in the back garden and admiring the abs on my new next-door neighbour as he was up a ladder fixing something on his roof, topless. But then the peace was broken by a call from that pompous prat I have the misfortune to have to claim as my son. He is back to being his obnoxious self as if nothing had happened to dent his massive ego.
The good news is I am spared his presence for another week, as he has decided to take a short ‘cultural cruise’ of some other Greek islands with someone called Stavros. The bad news is that it means I have to get out my iPad and come up with something vaguely intelligent to say to you lot.
I hope you bloody appreciate it!

Life Lessons for Writers – Three: People

And by ‘people’ I also mean aliens if you write that science fiction stuff Moons is so fond of. They are people too. And so are those elves and dwarves – and vampires. In fact, any character you ever write, even a talking computer, is going to be people. So you might as well listen up as too many of you wannabes don’t have the first idea about any kind of people except those who are exactly like you.
Oh yes, you might write about some poor orphaned starveling who is abused by the world, but does she think and act like someone who’s been through that kind of experience? Or just your weak and idealised imagination of what it might be like? I mean, how many genuinely damaged people do you count in your close circle? If the answer is ‘Well, Olivia’s parents divorced and she had to give up her horse riding lessons which left her traumatised for life’ or something similar, then you need to rethink writing that starveling. You. Have. No. Idea. And if you don’t, then no amount of effing imagination is going to fill in the gaps.
And, no I’m not saying you can only write about your own level of privileged life, I’m saying get out there and meet the kind of people you want to write about. Go to that dive bar, visit that job centre, help out at that homeless shelter, and find out what the people you want to write into your stories are really like. And the same the other way around. You want to know how the better off think, go along to the local posh golf club and listen in on their banter, hear what they really talk about. A useful tip here is go volunteer to visit an old people’s homes – chat with them. You’ll get the full monty on life across the spectrum, I promise you.
Don’t be like my naive and self-righteous prig of a son who firmly believes that he understands all people because he is one.
Oh, if you can’t bring yourself to actually go to those places and interact with real people, then you can at least read about them. That’s what the more precious twonks amongst those who call themselves writers (yes Moons, I’m looking at you) that I know seem to do. Most are too bloody afraid of real people to go out and actually talk to them.

Right. I’m done. If my sodding son is not back by next week I’ll be posting cocktail recipes with naked pictures of me drinking them. You have been warned.

Now bugger off!

Jacintha Farquar, unfortunate mother of Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IVLife Lessons for Writers – Two

“You know why we have come here, Captain,” she said. It was a statement and not a question.
Caer shrugged lightly.
Of course he knew.
He knew exactly why the caravan had left the relative security of the road that morning on Alexa’s orders and made its way overland to the foot of this particular mithan. But in his mind was a Zoukai saying which had been drummed into him from the first day he had shaved his head and joined the brotherhood. It explained that the caravansi was the brain, the caravan the torso and the Zoukai the limbs, there to do the will of the brain. As a hand did not question the mind that moved it, so a Zoukai should not question the orders of his caravansi.
“It is your will, Honoured One,” he replied carefully. “It is what you commanded.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed.
“And that is truly all you think about it? I pay you to protect my caravan and you don’t even question why I would order it to leave the safety of the road in the heart of the Wastelands?” The woman sounded disbelieving. “Have I wasted my money and employed a fool?”
Caer felt himself flush and bit back hard on the humiliation and anger. The anger was at himself for not being able to say the right thing in the presence of his caravansi. He took refuge in simple honesty.
“I heard the thunder in the skies and saw the explosion on the mithan plateau last night, just before dawn,” he said. “So yes, I know why you ordered me to bring the caravan here, Honoured One.”
“And what did you believe it was Captain?” she asked. “Did you believe that the gods battled in the Wastelands? Or perhaps that it was an evil omen of doom?”
Her sarcastic tone pricked at his pride. He had heard – and silenced – the same stories last night from the ignorant fools in the caravan.
“I did not believe anything, I knew.” Realising that his tone was much too abrupt, he corrected himself quickly. “It was a space vessel, Honoured One. It landed on the plateau and then exploded.”
Alexa smiled suddenly, leaning forward to reveal more of her silken skin as she did so, her violet eyes burning with an intense excitement.
“Yes. And just think what that means, Captain,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper. “Weapons, power-cells – who knows what kind of a valuable cargo in the hold. But even if all it carried was destroyed by the explosion, surely there will be some of the rare metal we can salvage from its hulk.” She paused as if to let the possibilities form in both their minds, then said, simply: “I shall be rich.”
Rich was the truth of it.

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

Things are not quite how you might remember them in the 100 Acre Wood for Christopher Robin, Pooh Bear and their friends…

***** ***** *****

When it’s still the dread November
Summer gone and winter embers
When the cold makes you remember
That there’s worse to come. December
Lift your face and watch the moon
Only seven months till June

Jane Jago

Jazatar Baldrik sat at a table beside the cairn of stones in the Last Hope, his back against the solid rock wall, a plate of cut fruit on the table in front of him, watching the doorway and thinking about trust.
Hell’s Breath had been named by some unknown explorer, who Jaz thought must have been a real joker. Perhaps wanting to prove they somehow survived the freezing surface conditions and the spectacular plumes of burning gases released as the rock decayed, that first visitor left his or her anonymous mark in the form of a small cairn of stones. It got kept, like some historical monument, behind protective screening in the bar of The Last Hope.
The Hope happened to be the best hotel on Hell’s Breath, which didn’t mean so much anymore as it also happened to be the one hotel still left open on Hell’s Breath. Built, like much of the settlement, with most all of its rooms in and under the rock.
It was hard to believe today, but beneath the small complex of geodesic domes which trapped the thin atmosphere and allowed it to be conditioned, enriched and made breathable, there had once been a wealthy and thriving community.
Jaz read a brief history on the public link saying how Hell’s Breath made its name as a stop-over on the first long-haul treks from Central to the Middle Worlds, way back in the days when that still took years. It had, according to the same source, been in its time, a naval base, a luxury resort and a ‘bohemian escape for the literati’, whatever that meant. But history long since passed it by and FTL changed it from prime location to pointless backwater.
Nowadays it survived as a tourist destination and the final resort for those like Jaz himself, who wanted to go somewhere other than where they came from and weren’t too bothered where that might be. Little more than a lump of rock, twirling through space, with a civilian port facility used by the most shady and least wealthy of the freetraders who needed a no-questions-asked fix or conversion done. As a place to hide it suited Jaz: close enough to civilisation to allow him to keep tabs on events and far enough out of the minds of civilised people to let him keep a low profile.
He had known Vel at the Hope since his earliest mercenary days and she hadn’t even blinked when he showed up, penniless and exhausted, fifteen years – more – after he last walked out of her bar. A clean up, sleep and meal later, though it had been different.
“Word has it you settled down in the ‘City years back. I’d not expected to see you around here again.”
Jaz, still nursing a pounding headache he gained from travelling the previous few days in the poorly pressurised cargo store of a ship with no proper passenger accommodation, didn’t reply. But, as he suspected that silence wouldn’t be a problem for Vel.
“So what happened, presh? She throw you out on your useless, no-good backside? Wake up to the fact she could do a whole lot better for herself? Or are you just running from a little ‘misunderstanding’ with the authorities?”
“All the above,” Jaz admitted, his voice glum and Vel’s face softened as he knew it would.
“I don’t do charity here, Jaz.”
“I know. I’ll get work. Trust me”
She gave him a thin smile, marred by the scar pulling down though her left cheek and eating into the corner of her mouth. Her hand came out in a brief gesture and touched his, as it curled around his drink.
“I know you will, presh.”
The promise meant taking whatever he got offered and Jaz found himself running crates with a small time smuggling outfit. So small-time, the ship, the best part of which belonged to Vel’s cousin, did smuggling on a very part-time basis, when it wasn’t being hired out to the occasional tourist who came to Hell’s Breath on a Pioneer Trail Adventure. They all wanted to gawp at the famous flares, which were best viewed from low orbit.
The smuggling runs were not frequent and always without incident. Jaz sometimes wondered why Vel’s cousin even bothered to hire him as muscle. The nearest he came to needing to use violence happened one time when a small group of wiped out tourists stumbled into the dock just as the two of them were unloading a cargo, demanding a sight-seeing trip out and refusing to leave until Jaz persuaded them to come back the next day.
In between runs, he lent a hand with the maintenance of the aging ship, took tourists out to see the flares, helped out in the Hope, battled with the accounts and taught Vel’s cousin’s little girl how to pull scary faces.
In his free time he worked out or sat at a table in the bar of the Last Hope, accessing the news or entertainment channels through Vel’s remote link and wondering if it would ever be safe for him to return to the ‘City. He often thought about sending a secure message to Shame Cullen to see if there was any word on how the land lay, But that would have meant betraying his location and he knew from experience no matter how secure a secure link was supposed to be, someone could always unsecure it. And right now, he liked no one knew where he had gone. It made him safe from the CSF and whoever else in the ‘City might have felt the galaxy would be a better place without him being a part of it.

From Trust A Few, which is the first volume in Haruspex Trilogy of Fortune’s Fools by E.M. Swift-Hook.

Specifically. Advertisers who don’t expect readers to know their arse from their elbow. And. Copy writers who don’t know squat about what they are writing 

As an example – Gluten-Free Bakes (which is very praiseworthy). But what is the very first offered delight?

Christmas Pudding

Since. When. Have. You. Baked. Christmas. Bloody. Pudding.

You steam it….

The best dog food in the world. Treat your doggo. Then it says Lucky the Labrador loves our food.

Only the Lucky in the photograph is a Golden Retriever. Not. A. Labrador. 

*Sighs and reaches for a bottle of something fortifyingly high in alcohol*

You can now have a collection of Granny’s inimitable insights of your very own in Granny Knows Best.

Breakfast was French toast and bacon, and it was delicious. I found myself sitting next to Ellen, and she engaged me in conversation. Out of politeness at first, but she was much keener to chat when she found out that Stan and Ollie actually belonged to me.
‘How did you get them?’
‘They were a birthday present from my family. My old dog, Vera, died, so my uncle got Stan and Ollie from a friend of his whose dog had just had puppies.’
‘How old were they?’
‘They were nine weeks old when I got them. They were about as big as Sian’s pink teddy bear.’
Ellen’s eyes were round and her cheeks quite pink.
‘How old are they now?’
‘They are two-and-half, so they are still just playful babies sometimes.’
‘Do you mind them playing with us?’
‘No. Of course not.’
She thought for a minute. ‘Benny is yours as well isn’t he?’
‘No love. We don’t own people. Ben and me are married and we love each other, but that don’t mean I own him or he owns me.’
Her smile was as bright as the sunshine. ‘You mean like me and Mummy and Daddy and Sian. We all love each other, but we mustn’t be jealous.’
‘Just like that.’ Ellen regarded me steadily for a minute, before she put out a small hand to pat me on the arm. ‘You are a nice lady’ she said, then applied herself to her breakfast. To my surprise, I found myself blinking back a tear. Praise from a child was something I had never experienced before, and it felt sweet. I caught Ben’s eye across the table and he winked his understanding.
Sian caught the wink. ‘Benny’ she said somewhat severely ‘it isn’t nice to wink at ladies at the breakfast table.’
He grinned unrepentantly. ‘It is when the lady is your wife.’

From Who Put Her In? by Jane Jago

An extract from  How To Start Writing A Book brought to you courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

If you tuned in expecting advice from Moons, you are out of luck this week. Instead, you’ve got me again, Jacintha Farquhar, hag of this parish.

All right you load of miserable excuses for human beings who fancy yourself the next Stephen King, pin back your lugholes and be prepared to learn. You are all very keen on writing epic battles and knights in shining armour and all that crap, but I’m willing to bet there isn’t a one of you has ever actually even seen a fight leave alone dirtied your precious pinkies by being involved in that most working class of pastimes that is a bloody good bundle.

Life Lessons for Writers – Two: Fisticuffs

Okay then. Here’s the deal. This week’s lesson is entitled fisticuffs and is intended to give you at least the vestige of an idea about what happens when adult human beings set out to beat the crap out of each other.
First things first. If you want to really understand your knights in shining and their trusty steeds, join a re-enactment society. Get your feet stomped on by something that feels like Mummy’s best le Creuset Marmite, crawl around in mud and snot and tears for a while, watch as the bloke on the horse breaks every bone in his body when he hits the ground from a height of seventeen hands. Then go rewrite your crappy medieval fight. Similarly, should you be romanticising the English Civil War, go join the Sealed Knot and enjoy the delights of a pre-dawn melee on a frozen moor. I’m sure those of you living in the colonies have something similar recreating your own local battles. Want an idea of modern or futuristic combat? Try laser-tag or go paintballing.
The more mundane sort of present-day scuffling is a little more problematic to become personally involved in. For two reasons.

One: there is the potential to get hurt quite badly (and should some middle-class twat turn up and randomly start throwing punches, everybody will forget their grievances with each other and unite to beat the living crap out of him or her).

Two: the real possibility of getting arrested exists.

For the above reasons I have chosen not to suggest you seek personal involvement. Instead, I’ll let you learn from my experience and debunk some of the popular and misguided myths that pepper the writing of the fight virgin.

1. It is extremely difficult to knock somebody out with one punch. And should you manage to do so the chances of having inflicted serious and life-threatening injury are very high.
2. It is almost impossible to punch someone and cause sufficient pain so that your opponent will admit defeat. This is because most people in fights are seriously impaired by drink or drugs and have had their pain threshold raised to somewhere in the stratosphere
3. If you knock somebody down, don’t be thinking that makes them not dangerous. Nine times out of ten they will get up. Fucking furious. If you should ever manage to put an opponent on the floor the only sensible action is to leg it.
4. Please do not ever think that any sense of chivalry can be found in a Saturday Night Special. When they are in the moment, men will hit, men, women, OAPs, cats, dogs, toddlers, their own mothers. You have been warned.
5. Nobody. But nobody walks out of a mass punch-up with their hair/make-up immaculate and their clothes in apple pie order. It. Does. Not. Happen. Participants (even those accounted victorious) will be dirty, bruised, smeared with blood and mucus, and, in the case of the female of the species, inevitably missing one shoe (almost always the left).

So, there we have it Jacintha’s guide to the grim realities of physical combat. Read, learn, inwardly digest and get your fucking act together. Now you have no excuse to get it wrong so go and rewrite that last fight scene and leave me to my prosecco.

Jacintha Farquar, unfortunate mother of Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV