Yes, it’s me Jacintha Farquhar. 

Having made a reprise of my contributions to my son’s exercise in futility in writing pieces for this blog – which culminated in How To Start Writing A Book (a lamentable exercise in how not to, which I did my best to improve with limited success) – the two mad women who run this thing asked if I would consider offering more ‘life lessons’ for those aspiring writers daft enough to read them.

In case you are wondering, Moons (my benighted son) is now lost in some fifteenth draft of what he laughingly calls ‘literary fiction’ but which is thinly-disguised and very badly written gay erotica. He now declares his science-fiction attempt ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’ to have been his ‘juvenalia’ and the pompous little prick sincerely believes he has a chance at the Booker Prize with his new heap of steaming crap. Sadly, from what I’ve seen of the competition, he might even be right.

Anyway, enough of that, I need to start earning the fat fee they are paying me for this guest appearance and having given the matter some thought I’ve decided to start with one of the big moments in every writer’s career.

Life Lessons for Writers – Four: Reality Check

There comes a point in every writer’s life – well maybe not every writer but most by far of you lot reading this – when they realise they are not going to make it to the ranks of a second Shakspeare in terms of literary acclaim – or even that of a J.K. Rowling.

No. Shit. Sherlock.

I am always amazed how long it takes the dewy-eyed enthusiast to figure this very simple fact. It’s as if when someone starts writing, their logical and discriminatory brain dribbles out of their ears to be replaced by some pink fluffy clouds and unicorns wearing garlands dangling the Amazon logo and woven with ribbons which spell out ‘Fifty Reviews’ or some such shite.

Seriously people, grow up! 

If your teenage daughter told you she was going to be the next Ariana Grande, you might praise her aspiration but be pretty sharp in making sure she was still studying for her exams. Just because you have a few more years under your belt doesn’t mean you are immune to the starry-eyed syndrome. The fact you idolise becoming a fat, wheezing weirdy-beardy like GRR Martin rather than a svelt sexy singer doesn’t shift the needle on the ‘likely to happen’ dial by so much as a smidgen.

What gets me though is how writers respond to this moment of grim epiphany. 

1. They ignore it and continue to imagine themselves as God’s gift to the literary world, refuse to take any criticism from anyone, spewing ever more dreadful ‘pen babies’ into a recoiling ether until even their own mother refuses to read anything more they write. This is my son Moons for you – pretentious twonk that he is.
2. They realise how true it is, and conclude that they will always suck and never make their fortune at this writing lark so they should throw down the pen for good and go off to put all their focus into something easier and more profitable like becoming a lawyer, a banker or CEO of a nasdaq-100 company.
3. They take it on board proportionately, review what is a realistic expectation of what they can accrue from their writing and based on that make a clear decision about where writing can and should fit into their life. The answer to this being different for each writer as some have more ability to work on production and marketing than others.

Unfortunately (1) and (2) – doubling down or utter abandonment – seem to be the most common reactions resulting in both an over-spill of writers of dreadful books who will brook no remedy and the loss of some who might have penned some decent stories. I’m here to advocate for number (3) and to suggest you flush both the marshmallow and dollar signs out of your brain and take a clear hard look at what you do. 

Just because you will never be an author who people hold conventions about and dress up as your characters, like Tolkein, doesn’t mean you can’t write stuff people like reading. Whatever you write and pretty much however good or bad it is, there will be some corner of the internet full of geekish sub-genre fanatics eager to read it. You can, and should, be working on improving your writing, listening to criticism (not slavishly but with a genuine interest in learning and polishing your craft) and making your best fist of it all.

So have your reality check, work out if this is really a beautiful career or a pretty cool hobby, then get on with what you writers do best – Writing. Your. Books.

The letter was old.
He found it under the carpet when he took it up to get a new one. It must have been pushed under the door and somehow slid beneath the carpet.
The handwriting was hers. Dramatic, full of curlicues and flounces, just as she always was – until she vanished.
Sitting by the hearth he read the words she had written twenty years before and pushed under his door.
‘I can explain. Meet me tonight in our special place. Xxx.’
Twenty years too late.
He threw the letter on the fire and added another log from the pile.

E.M. Swift-Hook

I wasn’t afraid, but to another woman his heavy cold hand would have been terrifying.

As he ushered me into the room I kept my eyes lowered and my thoughts to myself.

“The place of books.”

His oddly sibilant voice echoed through what instinct told me were locked bookcases. The lectern in the centre of the room with its single open volume called my feet and we walked.

Before I stopped, I knew what I would see. Emptiness. Hungry, impotent, emptiness.

“Touch it.” My escort sounded oddly desperate.

I turned to face him and made my voice mildly incurious. “What is today, Messire Scarlett.”

“It is Thursday the forty-third of Summer, my lady.”

I turned back to the book, and, even as my escort made to press my hand to the vellum, I moved, snake-quick, so his own hairy palm kissed the blank page.

And the moving finger writ.

Marmaduke Scarlett – born Monday the fiftieth of dark winter, deceased Thursday the forty-third of summer. 

Scarlett screamed as his body decomposed around him until there was naught left but an evil smell.

It is hard to be afraid when there is nothing out there more terrible than you…

©jj 2020

A selection of rhymes by Jane Jago, made age appropriate for those for whom their second childhood is just around the corner…

There was a Little Gran

There was a little gran
In a purple campervan
Divorced from a city go-getter
Never had much fun
As a trophy wife and mum
Finding life after sixty much better!

You can find this, and other whimsical takes of life in On The Throne? a little book of contemplation from Jane Jago.

Prandium was a pleasant meal, with Aelwen dispensing smiles and cuddles and the adults chatting lightly. By the time everyone had progressed to spiced milk and tiny cakes, Aelwen’s head was drooping like a poppy on its stalk so Julia buzzed Luned who came and bore the little one away for her afternoon nap.
Once they were gone, Julia looked shrewdly at her guests. “There is a fire in my sitting room, and a decanter of Llewelyn brandy. We can be comfortable and undisturbed, and you can tell me what the problem is.”
Lavinia took Marcella’s arm. “I told you Julia would see there was something wrong.”
“You did, Mater, and you were right. The question is more whether or not she believes me.”
“When we are all sitting by the fire you can try me.” Julia ushered them into her sitting room and closed the door. 
Lavinia settled her daughter on a deeply cushioned settee and sat beside her. Vulpes came to stand beside his mistress with his big head on her lap. She smoothed his ears and turned her sightless eyes on Julia.
“I heard somebody being killed last night.” When Julia didn’t react she carried on speaking. “Because I’m first violin, and because I’m blind and need a dog, Vulpes and I merit a dressing room to ourselves.  Anyway, after the performance last night somebody from the hotel where we are staying was supposed to come and collect me. But they must have forgotten. It wouldn’t be the first time. And somebody always remembers in the end.” She patted her mother’s arm. “It’s okay, fach, as long as I have Vulpes with me I’m fine.  But I digress. There is a big sofa in my dressing room, so Vulpes and me cuddled up. I must have nodded off, because I woke up feeling a bit disoriented. Vulpes was growling softly, but I shushed him and pulled a blanket over us both. He remained alert and I became aware of voices. Quiet voices, three or maybe four, arguing viciously. They seemed to me to be talking about some sort of a scam or con trick. One of them wanted out, but the others weren’t having any. Said he was in too deep to quit. He suddenly seemed to snap, and shouted. ‘I’m out and you can’t stop me.’ One of the others laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. Then I heard a sort of a muffled pop. And the sound of something heavy falling to the floor. I didn’t dare move or make a sound, and even Vulpes kept silent although all the hairs on his spine stood on end. We heard something being dragged along the corridor outside. Then whoever came back. Laughing. Said something like ‘nobody will find him there’. Then they went away. I was just wondering what I should do when I heard a familiar footstep. It was Claudius, my umm… sort-of boyfriend, come to find me. For some reason I didn’t want to rock the boat, even with him, so I kept my mouth shut and just pretended to be asleep…”
Marcella wound down and, by the look of her, she was on the verge of tears, but Julia’s investigative instincts hadn’t been blunted by her time out of official law enforcement.
“That isn’t all, though, is it?”
Marcella stopped stroking Vulpes and her hands writhed together miserably in her lap.
“No,” she whispered. “I think somebody suspects I heard. And I don’t think they are the sort to leave living witnesses behind.”

From ‘Dying to be Believed’ one of the exclusive bonus short stories in The Third Dai and Julia Omnibus by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook.

Erica unpacked her new device and set it up in the corner. The Super Automated Music system offered the experience of an old-style juke-box, virtual vinyl being ushered in and out between each track, whilst streaming your favourite tunes.
She let it play some random tracks, with the rotating vinyl visual and an odd crackle and hiss added in for authenticity.
Then, app loaded onto her smartphone, she used voice activation and ordered up her favourite love song. When it finished her eyes were a little damp and her voice caught a bit as she said.
“Play it again SAM!”

E.M. Swift-Hook

Faust made up half of a team of two brothers. The younger and the more annoying half and a temporary resident in Voltz as he formed part of a team set up to work on an ongoing project. As far as Avilon was concerned if the team included Faust, he did not want to be a part of it.
As soon as he entered the bar, a slight frisson passed through certain segments of its patrons. One or two offered a terse nod, most avoided his eye and a couple even got up and headed out. His reputation in Voltz grew all the time.
He found Faust crouched on one of the well-padded side benches, a remote visor concealing his eyes from view, making strange noises as if imitating some kind of fast firing weapon. Now and then he would twitch his hands, manipulating things only he could see. Avilon grabbed his arm and pulled the visor up. Faust’s eyes looked pale and watery, those of a subterranean creature. Removing the visor was like lifting a stone and finding something squirming and hideous underneath. Faust hissed like a snake and tried to snatch the visor back. Avilon ripped it away, dropped it on the floor and crushed it with his foot.
“Play time is over. Shame Cullen wants to talk to you.”
Faust pushed up fast from the bench with the strength of his legs, throwing his entire body forward, and tried to sink his teeth into Avilon’s face.
It was like handling a wild animal. Worse. He could not use lethal force. Worse. It was in full view of the entire bar on a crowded session. If he let it go on for more than a moment or two he could expect to get a few half-humorous jeers, longer and he would be being mocked by half the bar. He could not afford that.
In the end, he opted for a simple but effective arm-break lock, manoeuvred the feral screen addict through the iris valve door and spun him around, ramming him up against the wall, as it closed behind them. Then he said in a very calm voice: “If you make me go through that one more time, Faust, I will break all the fingers on both your hands – one after the other.”
An idle threat. Shame Cullen needed Faust operational, but Avilon was willing to bet Faust himself could not be sure of it. The younger man looked up at him with limpid eyes and smiled.
“I think you might enjoy that a bit too much,” he said.
“Oh, I would. So don’t give me the opportunity.” But Avilon had no way to be sure whether or not the message penetrated Faust’s skull.

From Trust A Few, which is the first volume in Haruspex Trilogy of Fortune’s Fools by E.M. Swift-Hook. You can listen to this on YouTube.

A selection of rhymes by Jane Jago, made age appropriate for those for whom their second childhood is just around the corner…

Old Grandma Muffet

Old Grandma Muffet
Sat on a tuffet
One sunny Saturday
There came a truck driver
Who sat down beside her
She groped him and he ran away.

You can find this, and other whimsical takes of life in On The Throne? a little book of contemplation from Jane Jago.

The Silk Thief is the second quirky magical mystery adventure set in the Roshaven series of humorous fantasy novels. If you like the wit and humour of Terry Pratchett’s Discworld, then you’ll love The Silk Thief.

Fourteen, heir to the Empire of Roshaven, must find a new name before Theo, Lord of neighbouring Fidelia, brings his schemes to fruition.

Not only has he stolen Roshaven’s trade, but he plans to make Fourteen his own and take her empire in the bargain.

Her protector, Ned Spinks, is plagued with supernatural nightmares whilst his assistant, Jenni the sprite, has lost her magick. 

Can they figure out how to thwart Theo’s dastardly plan before it’s too late for his city and her empire? 

The Silk Thief will be released on 4 June 2021 but you can PRE-ORDER YOUR COPY TODAY

Cover by Ian Bristow.

Other Roshaven books

The Rose Thief, The Roshaven Series book 1

Someone is stealing the Emperor’s roses and if they take the magical red rose then love will be lost, to everyone, forever.
It’s up to Ned Spinks, Chief Thief Catcher, and his band of motely catchers to apprehend the thief and save the day.
But the thief isn’t exactly who they seem to be. Neither is the Emperor.
Ned and his team will have to go on a quest; defeating vampire mermaids, illusionists, estranged family members and an evil sorcerer in order to win the day. What could possibly go wrong?

The Interspecies Poker Tournament, Prequel Novella to The Rose Thief

Ned Spinks, Chief Thief-Catcher, has a new case. A murderous moustache-wearing cult is killing off members of Roshaven’s fae community. At least that’s what he’s been led to believe by his not-so-trusty sidekick, Jenni the sprite. She has information she’s not sharing but plans to get her boss into the Interspecies Poker Tournament so he can catch the bad guy and save the day. If only Ned knew how to play!

Ye Olde Magick Shoppe, a free Roshaven short story

Join Ned Spinks, Chief Thief-Catcher, and his sidekick Jenni the sprite in this short story about an unwanted magick shoppe.

Claire Buss is a multi-genre author and poet 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 with her debut novel, The Gaia Effect, setting her writing career in motion. She continues to write passionately and is hopelessly addicted to cake. You can find her on Facebook – she even has a Facebook Group, Twitter, Instagram, her website and her blog.

She had never liked roses.
As a child, her grandfather had grown them in his garden and once when she tried to pull a rich red bloom closer to smell the scent, its thorns had ripped her fingers, drawing blood as red as the rose petals.
Then she met Griff.
That first date he arrived with a bouquet of hated roses. She had put them in the bin before leaving the house.
When she got home. A smile still lingering on her lips, she rescued the roses, carefully arranged them in a vase and spent a moment enjoying their scent.

E.M. Swift-Hook