The Working Title crew bring you the exclusive opportunity to enjoy more wisdom from the mysteriously enigmatic Madam Pendulica...

Aries

This is the month to start spinning and weaving your future plans. Don’t go bleating to your friends when you refuse to follow the flock. You might wind up feeling sheepish if you do.

Taurus

This is one of those times you have to remind yourself that a red flag is not always something to charge at. Do what you are good at, dig in your heels and refuse to be goaded.

Gemini

Don’t be surprised when you are accused of being two-faced. It might make perfect sense to you to hold two completely conflicting ideas at the same time, but normal mortals just don’t understand.

Cancer

Take a sideways look at what’s going on at work this month. It might be a good time to withdraw and hide in your shell until the tide turns.

Leo

You need to pounce on every opportunity this month. Take real pride in your achievements and keep out on the prowl, don’t laze around waiting for things to come to you.

Virgo

Shy and retiring is not the best way to go this month. Save your maidenly outrage for something that really deserves it. Like losing socks in the laundry.

Libra

Feeling unbalanced always tips you over the edge. So take extra care this month to weigh up the pros and cons before you throw your weight behind anyone’s plans.

Scorpio

Much as you want to scuttle under a rock and keep out of the limelight, this month you need to resist turning tail. Strike out for success and inject something dramatic into your life.

Sagittarius

Life seems to be galloping away from you this month. But rein yourself in as you need to keep that energy burst ready for the final furlong.

Aquarius

Troubled waters are bubbling up – maybe through your bathroom floor. This could be the time to splash out on that new water feature you wanted for the garden.

Pisces

Time to scale up your ambitions and get a wiggle on or you will be left high and dry. Don’t flounder, build yourself a solid bass and you’ll be able to skate through those dangerous shoals this month.

Madame Pendulica predicts she will return...

The beach was deserted, and beautiful. Amarinthe threw off her clothes and ran into the breaking surf. She swam out until the cool water sluiced the troubles of the day from her skin and her mind.

The face that broke the surface beside her was moustached and leathery. He eyed her pale curves with interest before tangling a flipper in her hair and swimming downwards with irresistible strength.

She should have been afraid, she knew, but all she could think about was the beauty of the turquoise water as it rushed into her lungs.

They found her clothes next morning.

©️jj 2019

It seemed to Ishbel to have been a very long day, and now it was almost dawn. A number of people sat in Jorg’s tent awaiting the arrival of Lief’s party with its cargo of severed heads. Jorg had himself on a tight rein, but Ana and her maidens kept close in case of any sign of returning Bloodwrath. All at once Jorg’s head came up like a bloodhound scenting meat.
‘They’re close. The party has just met with our first ring of sentries. It should be no more than twenty minutes or so till they arrive.’
‘Who is delivering the heads to House Schiapetti?’ Hugo asked.
‘I thought I’d do it myself.’
‘Not a good idea’ said Jaya sternly ‘there’s no guarantee that you’ll be able to keep a lid on the beast once you are close to the scum who murdered Saira. Let Erik and his big lads have the job. He’d be glad to do it for you, and his men are impressive. And steady.’
Jorg frowned at his mother-in-law, who met his fulminating glance without flinching. After a fraught couple of minutes he looked away. ‘Why is it’ he enquired of nobody in particular ‘that I am surrounded by women who are always right?’
Hugo grinned. ‘I seem to have the same complaint. My sons’ mother didn’t think I could get my shoes on the right foot without her help, and Ishbel only has to look at me a certain way to have me realise I’m being an ass. When you think of all the comfortably stupid milk cows of women there are out there, I guess it must be our own fault. Are we making the wrong choices?’ He spread his hands in a helpless gesture.
Jorg laughed, reluctantly at first, then heartily. ‘OK, I know when I’m beaten. Somebody go wake Erik up and tell him I need him and his boys here now. Better send a woman, that way nobody will get their head cracked open.’ Birgit said ‘I’ll go. That way nobody gets dragged into bed either. I guarantee to have him here in ten minutes.’
True to her word, she returned in rather less than that time with Erik ambling along in her wake looking rather like a bear that had been roused from hibernation.
‘Thunderhand’ he said crossly ‘this had better be important. I need my beauty sleep.’
‘It is, my friend.’ Something in Jorg’s voice alerted Erik’s sleep-fuddled brain, and he came awake with a snap. ‘What do you need?’
‘I need a consignment of severed heads delivering to a house in the city. You know what happened to Saira and the girls.’ His voice broke for a moment, but he struggled on. ‘This is the first instalment of punishment for those responsible.’
Erik laid a huge paw on Jorg’s shoulder. ‘Just give me a minute to rouse my boys and have our horses readied. Then I’ll come back and you can tell me exactly how you want it done.’ He scooted off a lot faster that he’d come in, already bawling orders at the top of his voice.
‘If his life had taken a different course, he’d have done well in the Church Army’ mused Heggar ‘he has the soul of a sergeant major.’
‘Oh indeed’ Jorg agreed ‘but don’t ever tell him that he’d be mortally insulted.’
Silence fell in the tent, but before it had time to be awkward Erik rolled back in, hastily tidying his beard with a small ivory comb. Ishbel motioned him to a low stool and taking the comb from his hand began to re-braid his thick corn-gold locks.
‘Right Jorg, my men are awake and making themselves look impressive. What exactly do you want us to do?’
‘In a very short while, Lief and some friends will be riding in with the heads of the people responsible for the atrocity at the mountain sanctuary. I want you to ride into the city, drop the heads on the doorstep of House Schiapetti, and then ride out again. I’d like there to be a lot of thundering hooves, but not a word from you or your boys. Oh, and take the heads out of the sacks as you drop them. The people in the house need to see what the consignment is, and they won’t be allowed out to look.’
‘OK but I need directions to this house.’
Hugo spoke. ‘Ride straight in through the gate and take the wide tree-lined road facing you. This road leads into a big square with a fountain in the middle. The house you want is the only one wholly on the west side of the square. It’s big and vulgar, and has an ugly marble portico that looks like it’s made of Frankish sausage.’
‘Got it!’ Ishbel finished braiding Erik’s hair and he got up. ‘Thanks Skinny Girl. I’d better go tell the boys the score.’

From The Long Game by Jane Jago

The smell of lavender took her back to France, and the summer when she was seventeen. To the thick stone walls of the old farmhouse that seemed to doze in the thickly scented air. 

And to Marcus with his white blond hair and aristocratic profile.

Marcus, who relieved her of her virginity in the sharp, dusty grass of the neglected garden.

Marcus, to whom she gave her heart in those lavender scented halcyon days.

Marcus, who was old now too. 

Marcus who brought his wife of many years a sprig of lavender with her breakfast and smiled a knowing smile.

©️jj 2019

.... or 'How To Speak Typo' by Jane Jago

aminal (noun) – furry critter that lives in an ozo

arsenule (noun) – pet name of the former Gunners manager

arsonal (adjective) – prone to spontaneous combustion 

beson (noun) – horned animal ridden by brave witches

cgiar (noun) – smoking material rolled on the thighs of retired steelworkers

cosret (noun) – tight undergarment prone to autowedgie

csent (noun) – cheap perfume hugely reminiscent of aerosol flykiller

enlior (noun) – a shy elfin creature that can be found hiding behind a big fat woman with a bad attitude 

exspoe (noun) – experimental novella mixing hard science fiction with pornography and colouring

gebril (noun) – flower hugely valued by florists having the face of a sleeping rodent at its heart

lana (adverb) – of walking, a peculiarity of the gait looking as if there is some obstruction of the rear passage

pino greego (noun) – red wine beloved of motorcyclists 

poage (noun) – wet breakfast comestibles made from toast soaked in gin

radeo (noun) – loud music played during bull riding events

runign (adjective) – of noses the attribute of retaining a dewdrop for many hours 

scrachc (verb) – to poke a bottle brush between the cheeks of one’s bum

tnaks (noun) – dinosaur testicles

wnaky (adjective) – of or pertaining to autoeroticism. Unsuccessful 

zodiak (noun) – street racing vehicle constructed by the uneasy marriage of an elderly Ford car and a go-kart. Characterised by immense instability when cornering and crap brakes

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

The gnomes were fascinated. They had no idea what the biggers would be about.

First they moved all the gnomes to the shrubbery. Putting planks of wood over the lawn, a crowd of strange biggers in heavy boots made a big house from flapping sheets.

Big Norma shook her head. “Got me beat”.

The strange house was furnished with chairs and flowers, before it filled with biggers of every sort.

To the sound of loud music the bigger they called ‘father’ escorted a small female, dressed fine, to where a man in a long dress waited.

“Dearly beloved,” he said.

©️jj 2019

She was seventeen when she married him, and twenty-two when she divorced his lying ass.

Between the ages of twenty-three and twenty-four she became accustomed to seeing compromising photographs of herself on every internet platform.

People wondered at her apparent lack of embarrassment, and how little rancour she seemed to feel. 

She smiled and, at twenty-five accepted his dinner invitation. 

Those who wondered why she would do such a thing had their answer when photographs of his famously handsome figure, complete with bonnet, diaper and pacifier, appeared on social media, with the legend.

‘Revenge eaten cold.’

©️jj 2019

From Three Howls in the Evening by Nils Ödlund the seventh book in his Lost Dogs series.

When she came to again, the beast was gone, and she lay on her side in the mud. The wolf was nearby, and when she raised her head to look she saw it standing with it’s paws on the fallen tree she’d sat on earlier.
“Oh, hey,” she said, and a stupid little smile tugged at her lips.
The wolf just looked at her.
Huge, and completely black. About the size of a small pony, or so it felt from where she lay on the ground looking up at it. Jaws that’d crack her arms like biscuits.
Alene swallowed and pushed herself up to sitting. The wolf wouldn’t attack her, but that didn’t mean she had to grovel in the dirt before it. She made to pick some dried leaves from her t-shirt, but stopped herself, sighed, and cursed under her breath. Her entire right side was covered in mud, from her feet and up to her shoulder. As if it wasn’t enough that she hadn’t had a shower for two days, she had to go rolling around in the mud as well. Stupid.
The wolf snorted and hopped down from the fallen tree, away from her on the other side.
“Yeah, whatever.” She got to her feet, brushed her hands off on her hips and got even more mud on her right hand. “It’s fine. I’m okay. Off with you.”
Her cheeks warmed, and she pressed her lips together. Even after two years of being a terry, talking to someone in their animal aspect still felt weird to her. She knew Roy was in there, and she knew he could understand her. Only, her eyes still saw a big wolf, and wolves didn’t speak.
“I’m sorry…” She blushed again. “I mean… I’ve got this. You can be on your way now.”
Alene raised her hand and pointed east, or somewhere like it. If he’d just be on his way she’d get the rest sorted. He probably had a towel in his backpack she could use to clean herself up a little before she went back into town, but she wouldn’t go rummaging through his things when he was still there.
The wolf looked at her for another moment, and then it turned around and headed off in the direction she’d pointed.
In the back of her mind, the beast began to growl.

A Bite of... Nils Ödlund

Q1: How much of you is in the hero/villain?

There’s no distinct villain in my stories, but I think all of the main characters show various sides of me.
Roy is probably the one who’s most like me as a person, while Alene is more like someone I’d wish to be like – minus the Beast. I’d like to think that neither of them is a carbon copy of myself though. But there’s probably more of me in them than I’d like to admit.
I get quite close to my characters, so it’s hard to avoid completely.

Q2: Is it important to include all shades of belief and sexual orientation in a book?

There are a lot of shades, and I don’t think you can reasonably include all of them. Diversity is important though, and it makes for a richer and more interesting world if there’s a varied cast of characters in it.
I try and include characters with different skin colours and sexual orientations, but so far, neither has been a major issue in any of my stories, so it’s not very prominent. It’s part of the backdrop against which the stories play out though.

Q3: Chocolate cake or coffee cake?

I’m a big fan of coffee, but I’ll have coffee with the cake, not in it – although, in a pinch, I don’t mind coffee cake. I just prefer chocolate cake if it’s an option.

Nils Ödlund is originally Swedish, but lives these days in Cork, Ireland. He took up writing as a hobby at some point in 2010 (or maybe ’11), and it quickly grew from an idle pastime to a minor obsession.
Since the beginning of 2019, Ödlund writes full time, and tries his best to reduce the amount of time spent writing in cafes and pubs. Writing in the company of a good coffee, or a pint of Guinness, is pleasant and enjoyable, but there’s such a thing as too much of a good thing. Also, it gets expensive.
Unlike every single other author ever, Ödlund does not have a cat.

You can find him on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and his blog.

Let’s get one thing straight. When a human child stops believing a fairy does not die. We can’t die. We can be killed – with difficulty – but we can’t die.

We can, however, get threadbare. But fairies are adaptable and when the new opportunity came along we grabbed it with both hands. It was so simple. We flowed gleefully into this magic new world and took it for our own.

Now every time a human being logs on to the Internet it’s an act of faith and we fae are as fat as marmalade cats.

Fairy dos: formerly known as Peaseblossom.

©️jj 2019

Buenos dias mis hijos,

It is one, Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, author, pedagogue, genius, and all-round good egg. Out of the kindness of my heart, and the largeness of my soul, and the sharpness of my intellect, I have elected to brighten your darkness, educate your ignorance, and lift your aspirations. By following my simple guides to literate and effective script, you too may aspire to the success – both in the annals of Mamon and in the estimation of the intelligentsia – of my own seminal novel ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’.

My intention to write this piece crystalised in my mind just yesterday morning when Mumsie threw open the door to my bijou writing sanctuary, her face an interesting shade of puce and mouthed some words at me, which I could not quite discern as I had the climax of the 1812 Overture playing in the background at the volume such an impressive piece deserves.

Without so much as a warning, Mumsie pulled the plug and deafening silence ensued. In the polite and restrained conversation which followed, I learned that apparently, the cannon fire had been loud enough to disturb the neighbours and even waken dear Mummy from her post libatious slumber. But, as I kept repeating, very reasonably if to no avail, how was I to know? It was not as if I could read her thoughts.

Ah, but the world of fiction is so much more amenable to such things, as I shall reveal to you my dear Reader Who Writes. And thus, having established both my bona fides and my intentions, we can move on to this week’s lesson. Pay attention…

How To Start Writing A Book: The Write Point of View

There is a great deal of advice out there on the vexed topic of point of view. Should one write in first person? Or perhaps close third person? Or omniscient third person? Or? The arguments rage long and bitterly. Devotees of each and every style consider their own personal favourite the only possible option and bitterly denigrate anyone with the temerity to disagree.

I am here to demystify the process in my usual and inimitable style. My dear little bunnies… It doesn’t matter.

Set yourself a scene and write it however it feels most fitting.

Write as if you sat above your protagonists on a pink and champagne-laden cloud. Write as though your prose was dragged screaming and turgid from the entrails of your damaged hero. Write from the careless and unfeeling head of your beautiful female antagonist. Write all three at the same time – one’s own preferred method of procedure – at least then your millions of fans will miss none of the nuances of meaning and intention.

All I will say is that the head hop, so despised by the horde of amateur lectors out there in ‘gosh I’m a published writer’ land, is the finest tool in the hand of those with true talent and exquisite sensibility. How will one’s readers know the texture of a lover’s skin, but also appreciate the blackness at beauty’s heart? Or how shall the simple folk following the journey of your broken crusader understand both his magnificence and his utter bleakness?

No, my students, hop from head to head as the muse wills. It will result in a tapestry of textures and emotions, both beautiful to the eye and instructive to the soul. This is the only way to allow your reader to immerse deeply into the bubbling cauldron of relationships and experiences that you are crafting for their delight.

And what of those philistines who would decry when you choose to write some sections in the first person and some in the third? Or when you write successive characters in the first person? These deluded individuals would have it that such stylistic magnificence is both confusing to the reader and hard to follow. Or they berate it for breaking their reading immersion. Poor precious darlings, say I! They should learn to engage with the author’s carefully chosen blend of points of view. They are lazy readers and not worthy of your literary outpourings. Shake the dust of their denouncements from your metaphorical feet with disdain.

So be bold and brazen, ignore the ignorant self-proclaimed ‘masters’ of the literary art. Whilst their poor prose may only allow scant glimpses of the inner processes of their characters, except perchance their chosen hero, yours will be as sunlight through the thickets of thought and feeling for every character who steps upon the stage of your story.

Until next. Escribe bien…

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

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