Dear Readers Who Write,

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV at your service mes estudas. For those whose education has missed out on my coruscating brilliance, I am the orchidaceous creator of that classic of superlative speculative fiction ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’, and the selfless author of ‘The Thinking Quill’ – that work of pedagogical genius you are so eagerly licking with your little pink tongue in order that you may imbibe some insights into the mysteries of the authorial inspiration.

As I was pondering on what I should take for the theme of my next excursion into pedagogy, dear Mumsie thrust open the door of my bijou writing room and peered at me with her piercing raptor’s gaze.

“Shit – it’s dark in here! You should get out of this coal cellar some days, Moons. How can you tell stories if you don’t do anything but sit in the dark all bloody day? I’m amazed you can think of what happens next at the end of each sodding page.”

Thus in her sweet, inimical yet loving way, Mummy gave me the theme of today’s excursion into the deeper mysteries of the art of literature.

Lesson10. The Write Narrative Arc

I suppose the less erudite among you may be unaware of the precise significance of the term Narrative Arc. It is, my little students, the process by which we move our characters from one state to another, or to phrase it more accessibly, the process by which we facilitate change and so tell our hero’s story.

An obvious narrative arc will take a character to his lowest ebb and will remove from around him every vestige of support, succour, or comfort, and then cast him afloat in a sea of his own inadequacy to ascertain whether he will sink or swim. When such a device is utilised, we can expect the sorely tried protagonist to undergo a process of growth and change and to emerge triumphant, or not, in the third quarter of the story.

But we spit upon such oversimplification, we urinate on the shoes of the easy single arc of narration. Strive instead as you put finger to keyboard to create as many arcs as possible on whose multiple streets your characters can walk to their intertwined destinies. Weave, weave, and again I say weave. Let not a sparrow fall on page one of your magnum opus without there being a corresponding tsunami of reaction when that one tiny action impacts on the lives of each and every private soldier who marched to the tune of your fife and drum.

Dream large and write even more elephantine prose. Let the arc of your narrative be as tall as the leaning tower of Pisa, as complex as a FairIsle cardigan, and as unobtrusively essential as a well lubricated condom. When one of your characters is plunging into the depths of their personal Hades, another can be dancing on clouds of delight and fulfilment. Paragraph to paragraph you can twist the emotions of your readers: this sentence despair, the next ecstasy, whirling the cast of your creation through a rapid roller-coaster of writing. Be not like the dull who see in consistency the summum bonum of the story, instead cast caution to the wind and have your characters on their multiple arcs shifting the story as they spin. Does not the very thought exhilarate?

In short, my adoring fans, discard the advice of those who are less than we. Discard the old lies and shibboleths. Take up the banner of the convoluted arc and let us run with it into the ocean of sensuous prose, and swim to the islands of perfection in storytelling and lubriciousness in character building. Let the arcs of your narrative fill the skies with a spectacular rainbow spectrum of socially unacceptable colour. Let the world marvel at the vibrancy of your imagination and the courage of your prose.

Then and only then will you find your own perfect Narrative Arc.

Work tenaciously, mes estudas. And ecrit bon…

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Adoring Fans can join my Facebook Group.

The Rose Thief by Claire Buss is released today. If you enjoy Prachett-esque fantasy, this is a book you will love!

There was a bit of shoving and muttering as Ned pushed his way through the ranks. He didn’t have to look too hard to find the murder scene, all he had to do was follow the curious crowd. A fair number of the shifty looking men in nondescript clothing had come to make sure Two-Face Bob was actually dead. Certain people owed certain things and if his death were true, life had suddenly become a lot brighter. It only took one look to know for certain. One of Two-Face Bob’s faces stared lifelessly at the smog ridden skies above, both eyes missing. The other face, which incidentally remained on his head, attached to his body, had eyes popping, mouth open as if to scream, and a terrified look of fear and shock frozen in place. Someone had clearly taken a violent dislike to the man. Looking down at the separated visages of Two-Face Bob, Ned felt a flicker of unease surge in his stomach. It could be because he hadn’t eaten in the past twenty-four hours. Or it could be because Two-Face Bob had been to see him less than five minutes ago, claiming intel on the Rose Thief. Ned didn’t hold much weight with coincidences. The viciousness of the attack was unusual for the type of murder usually committed in the city of Roshaven. Put that together with Two-Face Bob’s extensive protection system of both magical and mundane origin and it was obvious.

‘He’s been ripped apart by a wraith,’ Ned muttered under his breath.

‘Care to comment, Spinks?’

Ned turned to his left, his heart sinking at the tall, willowy figure standing next to him. Mariah Neeps was… well she was a damn fine figure of a woman provided you never wanted to keep a shred of personal information to yourself. Neeps worked for The Daily Blag.

‘No comment.’

‘I’ll just elaborate on my Warlock theory then. Shouldn’t be too difficult. They had a ruckus with one up in Narborough a few months back.’ Neeps sucked the end of her recorder thoughtfully as she internally swept through the memorised headlines from her rival news bringer, The Chronicle.

‘They what?’ asked Ned.

But before Neeps could elaborate, Mrs Wicket barged her way through the crowd to stand in front of Ned. Her general shape and appearance were hard to identify thanks to the several flowing capes and feathered hats Mrs Wicket wore when she sallied forth. She was of the opinion that you can never have too much of a good thing and in her mind capes and feathered hats were the epitome of fashion. She was right, if she’d lived a hundred years ago. Still the capes and hats made her a local celebrity, the one person that simply everyone knew.

The bright orange feather on her highest hat was dangerously close to Ned’s eye. He attempted to sidle to the right slightly but was stopped by a podgy hand poking a sausage shaped finger hard into his chest.

‘What are you going to do about my safety, hmmmm?’ Mrs Wicket turned her head left and right, to make sure she had a suitable audience. Feathers whipped Ned in the face.

‘All citizens’ safety is a high priority Mrs Wicket, yourself included. My fellow catchers will be here shortly to seal the scene and a full report will be generated for the Emperor.’

‘May he live for ever and ever.’ The crowd chanted firmly, all eyes fixed on Ned.

With relief Ned saw, out of the corner of his eye, a bubble apparently floating aimlessly along. It was the scene sealer. No-one except thief-catchers would be able to pass through and anyone else in the way would be gently pushed out of the sealed zone. The residents of Black Narrows began grumbling but pushed backwards as the bubble descended. They’d all seen more than one scene sealer before. Whilst no-one had ever admitted to being trapped half in, half out, the rumour was that the fellow who lived down at the end, past our Marge’s boy’s girlfriend’s uncle’s, had indeed been spliced and had to stay that way for two weeks while a crime was solved. When he finally came out his left side was smaller than his right side and his fingernails had turned purple.

Claire Buss is a science fiction, fantasy & contemporary writer based in the UK. She wanted to be Lois Lane when she grew up but work experience at her local paper was eye-opening. Instead, Claire went on to work in a variety of admin roles for over a decade but never felt quite at home. An avid reader, baker and Pinterest addict Claire won second place in the Barking and Dagenham Pen to Print writing competition in 2015 setting her writing career in motion. The Gaia Effect, the winner of the 2017 Raven Award for favourite Scifi/Fantasy novel, was published in 2016 and Tales from Suburbia in 2017. In addition, Claire has contributed stories to two recently published anthologies Tales from the Underground and The Quantum Soul.

Q1: I’ve not many in your profession before, so what is it exactly that a thief-catcher must do to catch thieves?

The role of thief-catcher is time honoured in Roshaven. Well, it’s been around for as long as anyone can remember so that’s more or less the same thing. You see, we have all these Guilds who look after crime. I can’t say I’m a big fan of such blatant rule breaking but it seems to keep things mostly in order. I’m supposed to attend weekly meetings and get the receipts for upcoming heists but if I’m honest I try not to go. If some idiot is going to commit a crime in front of me then I will arrest them. The general public are free to report thefts, and other crimes, with us at any time and we also patrol the city keeping civic order. There are no required qualifications to be a thief-catcher, it helps to have a couple of brain cells but we don’t discriminate. A little bit of magical oomph is handy and you need to provide your own boots.

Q2: That sounds like you must keep pretty busy. What do you enjoy most about your job and why?

I love my city, I don’t know what I would do if I wasn’t a thief-catcher. Probably patrol the streets keeping citizens out of trouble, it’s the sort of thing that’s just in your blood. You’ve got to be a people person, you’ve got to know who you can ignore and who you need to listen to, who’s willing to provide a cuppa with their information and what time the cinnamon twists run out at Aggies Bakery. It’s about being connected, whether you want to be or not really.

Q3: I can imagine you must make the bad guys pretty annoyed. Do you have any great enemies and how do you keep them at bay?

We recently dealt with a murderous sorcerer as well as a psychotic despot, an unstable warlock, vampire mermaids and a dangerous illusionist. I use everything at my disposal to keep my city safe, it’s partly why we have such a multi-cultural team of thief-catchers – something for everything  Watery grave? I’ve got a mermaid. Poisonous plants? I’ve got a nymph. Magical conundrum? I’ve got a fae. Idiotic caper? I’ve got Joe.

Claire Buss, creator of Ned Spinks, can be found on Twitter, Goodreads and her own website.

Later, as they lay in bed under the goose down comforter, Dai pulled Julia so she lay across his chest.

“What do I have to wear at this gods-forsaken function tomorrow? I’m dreading it, the annual temple turnout for the birthday of the Divine Diocletian I mean. Outside? December? Toga?”

Julia smiled down at him.

“No. Tunic and trews, and a good warm cloak. You have new trews and tunic in fine cashmere wool. You’ll be fine. You should rather have pity on me, as women are not allowed to wear trousers in the temple precinct. But I do have some thick woollen stockings that make my legs look really fat.”

He laughed and they drifted off to sleep in happy intimacy.

The next morning they had to be up well before dawn. Julia had just got in the bath and Dai was shaving when there came an urgent trill from Dai’s wristphone which he had left beside the bed. Dai wrapped a towel around his waist and went to see what was afoot, carefully closing the bathroom door behind him. Julia had a bad feeling about someone calling before it was properly light so she jumped out of the warm water and towelled herself briskly. Before she had finished dressing Dai was back. With his work face on.

“Sorry love, looks like I get to miss the ceremonials. Message from the landlord of the Dragon and Leek on the Ynys Mon road. A bit garbled, because the place is deep in a valley in the woods and the comms are merda, but something about a fine lady gone missing and two dead Roman outriders. I’ve roused Bryn and the posse.”

Julia sighed, it was going to be a trying day.

“I’ll go wake Cookie and rustle up a packed breakfast.”

“Thanks love.”

She hurried to the kitchen, to find Cookie and Elfrida ahead of her. They worked harmoniously and were able to send Dai and his men to their work with a hamper of breakfast foods and hot soup for later.

***

“So you do know you don’t have to be here, Bard,” Bryn pointed out, munching happily. “You could be back there, snug and warm at home like any other Submagistratus, leaving the donkey work to your underlings.” As he spoke he gestured with his honey sandwich back along the road visible through the back window of the large vigiles all-wheeler and then had to move quickly to catch a golden droplet before it fell on his trews.

Dai sipped the half-cup of hot tea he had just poured from his vacuum flask, before answering.

“Was not going to be a ‘snug and warm’ sort of day. Besides, who would get you lot a decent breakfast if I didn’t come along?”

“I didn’t see you up with breakfast hampers when we were on dawn patrol looking for Glynis Penarddun’s stolen tractor last week. Nor when we answered the shout on the break-in at the Henbeddestr’s first day of Saturnalia – and that was an armed break in too, with theft of the family silver.”

Dai grunted. He felt the good-natured banter more deeply than it was intended. It reminded him that his new role took him ever further away from the aspects of the job he had always enjoyed the most. Nowadays he had to put other aspects of his job ahead of the groundwork he loved.

“I trust you to do your job,” he said and tried to marshall a grin. “Here, have some tea.”

Bryn took the flask and swore as the vehicle hit a rut just as he was pouring it.

“I’d not want you looking over my shoulder all the time, for sure,” he said after he had sponged the worst off his tunic using his dark, vigilis uniform coat.

“Tell you what, next time someone’s chickens are rustled or their TV is stolen, I will turn out with the troops and you can have a lie in. That make you happy?”

Bryn grinned.

“It’ll make Gwen happy. She’s been after me for some help with a bit of heavy lifting around the house since we moved in.” Bryn slurped the last of his tea and set it down with a satisfied sigh. “Would make you happy too I reckon. Here, these honey rolls are fresh baked. Saturnalia Optima.”

Dying as a Druid is the fourth in the Dai and Julia mysteries by E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

I am old so I have to expect
The occasional pain in the neck
A bladder that leaks
The occasional creak
And a face that’s a wrinkly old wreck

©  jane jago 2017

The Penny White series by Chrys Cymri, introduces us to Vicar Penny White when she is driving home and finds herself giving the last rites to a dying dragon. From there we travel with her as she uncovers an amazing parallel universe called Lloegyr and encounters a Bishop who is a unicorn and takes a ride on a dragon... Jane Jago is now, officially, a fan!

The Temptation of Dragons (Penny White #1) 
by Chrys Cymri

Jane Jago‘s review

The Vengeance of Snails (Penny White Book 4) is out now - so you can snag that too!

I am old and I’m not in the mood
For pompous young eejits like you
I don’t want to hear
About bloody craft beer
And I’m really not eating tofu

© jane jago 2017

I’m so over you now, you must see,
Our accounts are no longer Linked in.
I’ve deleted your emails to me
And your selfies are all in the bin.
Don’t think you can stalk me with tweets
I unfollowed and blocked you on Twitter
Unfriended on Facebook too, sweets,
So I can’t see you whine as you witter.
I un-programmed my regrams. One tap
Sent Snapchat into the blue,
So when you try to ask me ‘Whatsapp?’
You’ll know I’ve no Pinterest in you!

E.M. Swift-Hook

Our family had been making superior moonshine as a sideline for five generations. But then The Shortages struck and the price of booze soared. We were suddenly making a fortune, but we reckoned it only a matter of time before the bad guys wanted in.

Two immaculately tailored gentlemen paid us a visit. Grandma signalled for us boys to disappear and went to greet them. They were inside quite some time, and then Grandma led them up through the orchards to where the still sat in a deep-walled valley in the icy cold waters of a stream that came straight down from the mountains.

Once they had gone the old lady shrugged. “We may lose some profits short term.”

She was right about losing profit, within six months the big guys’ cheap rotgut had undercut us so far that we just stopped selling. Though we did keep producing and stockpiling,

Then the sickness started. First a trickle, then a flood. Men struck down with stomach complaints that left them vomiting blood. At first nobody much cared, then the sons of wealthy families began to fall prey.

It almost goes without saying that the cheap rotgut was literally rotting guts. There were repercussions, and Grandma reckoned it time to reopen our bottling plant.

Ma looked the old beldame between the eyes.
“Okay. What did you do?”
“More what I didn’t do Charlaine. I mighta forgot to tell them to clean the car radiators before they made ‘em into a still.”

© jane jago 2017

I am old, and I’d quite like to mention
That age adds a certain dimension
It becomes very clear
That there’s little to fear
Outside of one’s own inner tensions

© jane jago 2017