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…

Lesson 28: 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

Adoring Fans can join my Facebook Group

The place: Jacob’s Bottom.
The time: the latter part of the 20th century, early spring 1987.

The man and the woman left the car, walked fifty yards or so along the ridge until he halted, propelled her forward a little. Across the mesh of wet, neat patchwork fields, endless sheep, they looked down towards a flat plain that suggested signs of habitation. A church with a spire, outbuildings possibly. Certainly cows.
“There,” the man said, gripping her shoulder with one hand, pointing with the other, you see those buildings? Not the farm, but beyond that. That’s the house.”
The woman, Grace, pulling her coat closer against the fine rain, could see little. Just as they had approached the village, he had swung the car sharply up an incline, headed for a narrow single-track road that weaved its way steeply upwards until they seemed to be hanging precariously above the valley. Now she found herself peering through a heavy mist that shielded clear shapes, blending them into an indefinable blur with the grey sky, the undulating land. But she tried. He was so eager, insistent. The enthusiasm of a small boy who wants to share something newly discovered.
“I think so. I think I can see the house. Is it thatched?”
“No, a slate roof. Do you mind?”
“Of course not,” Grace said. “Slate is better.”
“Is it? I thought you’d expect thatch in this part of the world. I’m glad you’re not disappointed.” Archie took her arm, protectively. She leant against his shoulder.

“I didn’t know what to expect. It’s all such a surprise, really, so sudden. We’ve not even
discussed it properly. The idea of this place, I mean. The country.”
He continued to look down across the valley towards the house. She was unsure whether he’d heard her, her words possibly dissolving into the damp air, snatched away on the westerly wind. It was a nursery plate for children, grazing cattle and haystacks and hares nipping and darting across the land.
“We’re not too far from the coast here either,” he said, “and you know how that’ll suit me. The sea’s no more than three or four miles away, I’d say. And we’re just on the edge of the village so it won’t feel too remote for you. Just what we want.”
Grace felt the dampness of her feet through thin city soles, her hair limp and deflated against her neck. Archie, oblivious, pulled her further down the path so that they could see a cluster of cottages, a building that could be a hall or a village school, then a car park and beyond that a narrow track that led down to a large barn and a long, low house.
“No immediate neighbours, but there are a couple of houses within view. And the lane just leads to farmland so there’s no passing traffic. You won’t mind?” Archie asked then
answered for her. “No, you’ll love the peace after London. No more complaints about
aircraft noise and people playing loud music into the small hours. It’ll suit you, Grace. It’s
what you want. What I’ve had in mind for us.”
“It looks perfect. You’re right, of course. And once there are children…”
“Exactly. Just the place to bring up children. What we’ve planned.”
They had been married sixteen months.

From Counting The Ways by Jude Hayland

Jude Hayland is the author of Counting The Ways

Q1: Coffee or tea?

Q2: Which historical figure would you most wish you could meet?

Q3: What time of day do you write best?

Early morning and/or early evening – I find the afternoon the least productive time and, in an ideal world, I would write from dawn until  11am and from 5.00 to 8.30 or 9.00 pm– but the realities of life rarely allow for this.

Jude Hayland has been writing for many years, publishing short stories for women's magazines both in the UK and internationally.  After completing an M.A. in Critical Writing, however, her interest shifted to longer fiction and she has now written two novels:  Truth to Tell (2013) and Counting the Ways (2017). She is currently working on her third.  

Her novels elude the label of a specific genre - women's contemporary fiction is about the closest - and are certainly character-driven.  She is also a teacher of English, creative writing and drama - but defines herself more as a writer than anything else.

Born in London, she now lives in Winchester but also spends a great deal of time at a family owned house on the island of Crete.  You can find out more on her website.

Raising a hand for the others to wait, the woman and her bearded companion kneed their horses gently forwards into the moonlight. The woman spoke, her voice light and contemptuous. ‘If it isn’t my old friend the Archdruid. One wonders what business is so fraught with peril that the chosen of the goddess needs the protection of a pair of Paladin knights.’
The bony old man didn’t choose to reply, but the Paladins bowed.
The younger one put up his visor and replied, his voice a pale copy of the ironic tones of the dark-haired woman. ‘One might also wonder what brings a lady warrior with an armed escort to the sacred grove on this of all nights. It is my hope that it means no evil to the Archdruid, as we have a contract to protect him.’
His companion put up his own visor and turned to look at the lady, his eyes burning red in the bloodless face of a golem. He bowed again, then turned to his companion. ‘Don’t be any stupider than you can help, my friend. This is not a lady to be spoken to with disrespect.’
‘Silence golem. Who is in charge of this detail?’
‘That depends on your perspective. According to your uncle, you are. But according to the Council, who rather outrank one knight, even if he is treasurer, I am. This was thought to be an easy job, and I’m supposed to make sure you do it properly, and return home safe.’

While he had been speaking the golem moved his horse closer to the Archdruid, and, moving with the superhuman speed of his kind, he reached over and bashed the bony old man over the head with one mailed fist. The Archdruid slumped over his horse’s neck, quite unconscious.

‘What are you doing?’ his companion almost screamed.
‘Saving the old fool’s life. He was building a forbidden spell and if I hadn’t stopped him, the elf over there in the darkness would have shot him dead.’
‘What elf? What spell? Who are these people?’
The golem looked at his companion with barely concealed irritation in his scarlet eyes. ‘What do you know of the Chaos Lords?’
The young knight closed his eyes, concentrated hard, then repeated as if learned by rote: ‘That they are set over the worlds in order to ensure that the fates of humankind pass according to certain rules, and that they come among us when dark forces seek to interfere with the course of history.’ He opened his eyes and looked at his companion in puzzlement. ‘But what does that have to do with meeting a woman in the sacred grove at Samhain?’
The golem groaned. ‘Use your eyes, fool. The woman you have just insulted is the High Lady of Chaos herself. She could obliterate you with a word. Beside her is her consort. In the shadows are their sons, called in this world Strength and Fortitude. Alongside them is an Elf Lord, with an arrow aimed at your stupid heart. And if you think your armour will protect you, then you are a bigger fool than even I thought. Your family may have paid for all sorts of charms of protection for your armour, but nothing is proof against an elf arrow.’
The young knight swallowed audibly, and when he spoke his voice had risen a couple of octaves, making him sound even younger. ‘Oh. I didn’t know that. What are we supposed to do now?’
The golem groaned again. Then it raised its sword high into the sky and muttered a few words. At once an irritable voice could be heard echoing around the clearing ‘Yes. What? This had better be urgent. It’s supper time.’
‘Golem D10/1 reporting. Have just encountered Chaos Lords in Sacred Grove. Orders?’
‘Cooperate with Chaos Lords, of course. Who is with you?’
‘Newly knighted Sir Amyas.’
‘Just the two of you?’
‘Yes my lord.’
‘Ah yes, I remember now. Well do your best D10/1, and try to keep the treasurer’s nephew alive if you possibly can.’ The voice disappeared as abruptly as it had started.

Jane Jago

Dominant, dominant fly away home
Your house is on fire your subbies all gone
All except one and that’s little Mabel
The one you left tied to the dining room table

© jane jago 2018

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Bonjour learners,

As part of one’s campaign to educate, inform, and elucidate, one tries to be both approachable and kindly. Which occasionally causes one to make silly decisions. In a foolish moment, one allowed oneself to be persuaded that answering questions from students would be a good idea. Which it probably isn’t. However, one’s word is one’s bond. So. Have at you…

Dear Teacher,
I am puzzled. Very puzzled.
Why is a raven like a writing desk?
Regards,
Claire.

Oh Claire, Claire. Do not attempt to be clever at the expense of your teacher. One is not the Mad Hatter, and your name is Claire, not Alice. However, one will answer your question seriously.

It is a matter of symbols.
A raven? An ugly black bird?
A writing desk? Just a piece of furniture?

Err. No. In order to unriddle the unanswerable riddle, it is necessary for your masterful tutor to break down the barriers in your tiny mind and introduce you to the borderless and boundless world of possibilities that symbolic understanding can open to you.
A raven can be seen as the harbinger of evil, or as the bringer of knowledge and thought to the small minds of the little people who walk the earth beneath them.
A writing desk, of course, symbolises the earthbound woodenness of humanity and our struggle to rise above the limitations of our tiny lives.

Oho, Claire, one sees your puzzled little face. And hears your pathetic cry.
“How are such symbols helping? The raven and the writing desk are complete opposites.”

But they are not. They are opposite ends of the same spectrum of human endeavour. The raven is achievement and the writing desk is that place from which we seek to achieve.
Therefore a raven is like a writing desk because the one leads to the achievement symbolised by the other.

Without the writing desk the raven is pointless and without the raven, the writing desk cannot exist.

And now Claire, write one hundred times.
‘I must not attempt to be facetious, it is unbecoming in a female.’

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

If you have a problem you may avail yourself of one's wisdom by posting your problem HERE or contacting me through my Facebook presence. Adoring Fans can join my Facebook Group.

I am old and my bosoms now sag
I could carry them round in a bag
They’re now far from my face
Very close to my waist
Where they hang like a tattered old flag

© jane jago 2018

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Monday’s child is rubbish at math
Tuesday’s child has a wobbly ass
Wednesday’s child wants to be artistic
Thursday’s kid’s a tad sadistic
Friday’s child is full of crap
And Saturday’s child just needs a slap
But the child that was born on a Sunday morn
Is the offspring of Satan right down to the horns

© jane jago 2018