Two Women and Some Books
Because life happens…
Exploring the mysteries of life through the versatile medium of limerick poetry.
For life has a secret to share
It’s all about when you should care
About who, and what for,
And how you show the door
To those takers who never are fair!
Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV takes time from his immensely important life to proffer profound advice to those who still struggle on the aspirational slopes of authorhood…
Dear Reader Who Writes,
At risk of preaching to the converted, I must first take the time to be sure you are all acquainted with me. I am Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV and acclaimed author of the millionth best seller science fiction and fantasy novel, ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’. As such I have been delving deep into my treasure trove of writing wisdom to bring a few of the more luminous gems of my experience to light.
It is true that young people today are not as they were. When I was a fuzzy-faced youth in my early twenties, awaiting the chance to shave for the first time, I would not have dreamed of behaving in the manner of my old-school chum’s son when he came to stay overnight the other week on the way to some foreign destination for a ‘Gap year’. He has just turned eighteen. Called Henry.
He swanned into the house and dropped his rucksack on my feet, gesturing imperiously upwards with one finger, no doubt to indicate that he expected me to take it upstairs for him. Then he caught sight of Mumsie, spreadeagled over the sofa as is her wont. His eyes widened and I heard him say: “Em. Eye. Elle. Eff.” After which bizarre incantation he threw himself upon his knees beside Mumsie and whispered something in her ear which made her laugh. Well, giggle.
I retreated to my writing room and when I emerged in the early hours I found the rucksack was still untouched downstairs. By the time I rose to breakfast, Henry had left for Peru and Mumsie was humming happily and dancing around the front room holding a half-empty bottle of Champagne.
It occurred to me then and there, that I should address myself to that phenomenon of recent literary note: the Young Adult novel.
The first thing to remember is that your heroine – and it almost always is a heroine – must be living a normal, but extra-miserable life. She must be the school social reject or the really plain girl wearing glasses and unfashionable clothes. She is probably poor, but if rich, must have an isolated and unhappy time as a result. In a science-fiction or fantasy setting, she will be an orphan, abused, beaten and downtrodden – probably enslaved. At best she may be allowed an ‘ordinary’ background within whatever world she lives. She can have one good friend.
But, remember, no matter how bad you make her issues, on no account can she be fat.
Having established this dual point of miserable powerlessness and rejected loner, the author must then bestow upon this heroine a magical power or super ability which is linked to a mysterious family heritage. Or may be brought about by the discovery of an artefact – or both. This will then transform our dowdy underdog cygnet into a burgeoning youthful swan.
At this point, the romantic elements should be established. If her ‘one good friend’ was male, he now becomes a suitor and is joined by one or more other suitors all of which now adore the heroine and all want her to adore them. The degree of self-abasement you can portray for these unfortunate males will boost the popularity of your final work. No matter how much the heroine rejects them, or how rudely, they will return and grovel at her feet each and every time. Or storm off and then turn up to save her in the end.
Do be sure to make her suitors as various as possible. If you are writing fantasy or supernatural fiction, they can be an elf, fairy, angel, fallen angel, demon, vampire or a were-something. If science-fiction then aliens of whatever variety. Be sure to make the nice ones rich and the not so nice ones poor.
On no account allow any long-term romantic liaison to become established between your heroine and any of these males. To do so will end the game and end the series because, of course, this first book will be just the start of a series.
Take this advice to your collective bosoms my dear students and fame and fortune will stalk your steps.
Until next time.
Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV
You can find more of IVy’s profound advice in How To Start Writing A Book courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.
Summer is icumen in, let’s go down the pub
In the garden we can sit, and sup a little jug
We’ll watch the maypole dancers, then
Throw peanuts at the Morris men
Who quite forget to stamp and whirl
While checking out the young clog girls
Then, when the evening cools the sky
The folk singers they will pop by
And underneath the Mayday moon
They’ll play the old familiar tunes
On comb and paper and bassoon
Until the singing starts, too soon
When some old geyser with a beard
Will stick his finger in his ear
And sing an old traditional lay
That someone else wrote yesterday
He’ll lose the tune forget the words
But never feel a bit absurd
Because he’s here to serenade
On rather too much ‘lemonade’
And when the landlord shuts the bar
We’ll amble home, it isn’t far
As into bed we fall you’ll say
There went a bloody fine May Day
Since Ben and Joss Beckett took over The Fair Maid and Falcon, they have had to deal with ghosts, gangsters and well dodgy goings-on. Despite that they have their own family of twin daughters and dogs, and a fabulous ‘found family’ of friends. Life seems to be going well when…
Having been summarily dismissed, I went back to my chores while Ben walked Smith to his car. Stan and Ollie elected to accompany them, walking one either side of Smith with their heads high and their tails swishing. Half of me felt sorry for him, but the other half thought about the cold-blooded creature that lurked behind his eyes.
A while later, Ben appeared in the office door with Stan and Ollie at his heels. The dogs were unusually subdued and he was looking grim.
“You got a minute chooch?”
“For you always.”
He shut the door and perched on the corner of my desk. I saved the accounts I’d been working on and smiled encouragement. He sighed and started to speak.
“I have been having a most peculiar time. When we got to Smith’s car, Clancy was on guard, and he had what looked like a piece of fleece jacket on the ground beside him. Looked to me as if he’d grabbed a would be bad guy. There was a thick cream-coloured envelope on the grass beside the lane, and our dogs didn’t like it a bit. I went to pick it up but Smith stopped me. He was actually shaking, and one look in his eyes told me he was running scared. I don’t think that’s his default setting so I took him to see Finoula.”
He stopped talking and I waited for him to collect himself.
“We were just at the gate of the market garden when Jed appeared. Wearing heavy leather gardening gloves. Said Finoula was waiting for Smith and he’d go fetch the envelope. After that it all got a bit surreal. According to Jed the envelope contained a curse, which Finoula dealt with by shoving it in the Rayburn. She sat Smith down and had him call his father while she phoned Danilo. They had a conference call. In Rom. Which I’m quite glad I don’t speak. Though apparently I had to be there because we own the land. Upshot is there are now two families who are deeply pissed off with the Proudly clan. Call over, Smith and his cake went home and I came to talk to you.”
“Sheesh. That is odd. And off. But I guess we can mostly leave things to Danilo and Smith senior. Except maybe have the staff on alert and talk to Mark.”
Ben bent to kiss me. “I’ll call a staff meeting and maybe you can speak to our friendly enforcer.”
A familiar change in the quality of the air, and the furtive scent of spring flowers underlain with a hint of decay alerted us to the fact we weren’t alone. A girlish giggle that came from nowhere and everywhere at the same time let me know who had joined us.
“Come forward Esme Caunter.” I kept my voice welcoming, but strong.
The ghost of Esme, a teenager who was drowned in a well at the behest of the previous landlord of The Fair Maid, is rarely far from me since the day we buried her remains in the Garden of Remembrance next door to our market garden. She’s usually a quiet little presence, who only makes herself known when she cuddles in beside me to listen to the twins’ bedtime stories and claim goodnight kisses from us all. Although she’s a constant in the background of my life, Esme very seldom has anything to say, but today it felt as if she had important news.
“What is it Esme?”
“Oh Joss. What have you got yourself into?” She sounded as worried as it is possible for a teenage ghost to be. “There are bad people looking to harm you. Be careful. I wish I could tell you more, but I cannot. You tell the clairvoyant she must come to the well so we can show her what she needs to know.”
I felt a soft kiss on my cheek and she was gone. Ben pulled me into a hug.
“I dunno how you cope with being a mother figure to a ghost.”
“It’s sometimes easier than the twins.”
He laughed.
“You might even have a point. Will I go and see Finoula?”
“No. You go back to work and stop goofing off,” I pretended severity. “I’ll call Finoula.”
He gave me a fond squeeze before stepping back and shaping a sloppy salute.
“Consider me gone.” He looked at big dog bed in the corner where Stan and Ollie were now fast asleep. “Seems like all the drama is over anyway.”
“For today at least.” The deep and imperturbable voice that came from the doorway belonged to Mark Brown. “I think you should beef up your security for a while. I mislike the Proudly clan, and I’m not sure I entirely trust the Smiths. Besides which, Morgan has the willies.”
“Me too. A bit.” Ben confessed.
Mark grinned. “It’s always the way. The feeling our womenfolk could be in danger is an uncomfortable one.”
“True. Especially when any attempt to make them keep their heads below the parapet…”
“Is liable to lead to a thick ear.” I put in smartly.
They turned almost identical small boy grins on me and I felt the strength of their need to protect. I made a shooing motion with my hands.
“You two go and do whatever you deem necessary. So long as it doesn’t bankrupt the business.”
They went and I called Finoula. Who was unsurprised to hear from me. When I repeated Esme’s message she groaned.
“I hoped it wasn’t the well. I tend to avoid it as the black water rather freaks me out.”
“Do you want me to come with you?”
She thought for a few seconds.
“I’d love you to be with me, but the spirits are forbidding it.”
She sounded almost unbearably weary, but just as I was about to call Esme forward and give her a piece of my mind, I felt Finoula’s spirit lighten.
“Your ghostly daughter tells me I should ask Jed to accompany me.”
I heard Jed’s slow, calm voice in the background before Finoula laughed. It was a young, bright sound and I knew she would be okay.
There will be more from Joss, Ben and their friends, courtesy of Jane Jago, next week, or you can catch up with their earlier adventures in Who Put Her In and Who Pulled Her Out.
Because life can be interesting when you are a non-player character in an online video game…
A few minutes later they were stepping off the boat onto a stone dock which fronted onto a settlement that looked a lot more substantial than Wrathburnt Sands. There were people everywhere, all races, Locals and Visitors. Locals, noticeable by the slightly bored, long suffering expressions and rather plain outfits that most wore. Visitors, marked out like brilliantly coloured butterflies, clad in glamorous outfits with swirling runes and sparkles. Most boasting weaponry which seemed so powerful that their wielders might slice and dice the very air with them.
Milla felt overwhelmed and held back, gripping onto Pew’s hand like a lifeline as Glory vanished into the throng. Pew frowned at her reluctance.
“Are you alright? You look a bit ill.”
“I… I…” She struggled for words to explain how she felt both crushed in by so many people and buildings, and at the same time vulnerable and exposed as if too far out in the open.
“It’s not some odd after effect of you zoning is it?”
She shook her head.
“I just need to sit down a minute.”
A short time later she was sitting in a dockside tavern with a solicitous Pew and feeling a bit better.
“I never thought there would be so many people in one place.”
“Yeah? Well Liberation is a game hub and a starter city so it tends to get a bit busy.”
A bit?
Milla just nodded and wondered if she should have listened to One Eye and stayed at home after all.
“Look. We won’t be here long. Glory is finding out the fastest way to get to Lustrous Lake and soon as she gets back we’ll be on our way. You think you can manage?”
She nodded again. She’d have to manage. This was a venture. So she drank the odd tasting ale and tried to give Pew a reassuring smile.
Glory dropped into an empty seat opposite them and picked up a tankard of ale, swilling most of it down before setting it back on the table. “Good news. They seem to have extended the airship run out over Seersucker Swamp to the griblins quest camp. That’s just a short run to Lustrous Lake. We can be there pretty quick. But you’ve still not told me what we’re doing when we get there.”
“Air ship?” Milla tried to put the two words together in her head in any way that made sense – and failed.
Glory gave her an odd look.
“It’s only been in the game since the first update in vanilla, flies across all the original lands – you know like a dirigible thing? Very steampunk.”
“OMG. Do you remember the flame-fest when they did it?” Pew laughed at the memory. “Half the player base complained it was pressing the ‘easy mode’ button on transport and half were up in arms because it was a fracking air ship and that wasn’t purist fantasy enough for them.”
“And the other half hated on it for being too slow still, even though it more than halved the time it used to take.”
“Oh yeah and another half thought it was too much to have to do an access quest to use it, so they ditched that with the first expansion…”
“…which meant half the players were back to complaining about lowering the amount of significant content or some such BS.”
Milla decided it wasn’t going to help matters if she pointed out that five halves didn’t make a whole, and as that was the only aspect of the entire conversation she felt qualified to comment on, she said nothing.
“So are we ready to go then?” Pew asked.
“Well that depends. Will this take long? I need to log over to my main to do the dailies and then I’ve got to raid later.”
Pew was frowning and Milla wondered what Glory meant.
“I don’t know if it’ll take long or not. But it’s a bit more important than doing dailies.”
The elf looked doubtful and sucked in her cheeks.
“I’m not so sure. But I can always use a catch-up on them.”
“So we’re ready?”
Glory shrugged and then nodded. “I guess.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
Log on to Wrathburnt Sands by E.M. Swift-Hook for the 19th Quest next week.
‘Wrathburnt Sands’ and ‘Return to Wrathburnt Sands’ were first published in Rise and Rescue: A GameLit Anthology and in Rise and Rescue Volume 2: Protect and Recover.
Though the biggers never see it, there is much going on in their own backyard where the ‘nomes make their home…
Three hours later, when the hosepipe men in the big red lorry had gone, and the biggers with burns and contusions had been treated, peace broke out. The nomes crept towards the ruin of the games room and looked up towards the rest of the house which largely survived undamaged.
“They was lucky,” Granny said before reapplying herself to her knitting.
Movement from the front door stopped all nomely conversation as Big Bigger and his missus came out onto the lawn.
“Was that my fault?” he asked.
“I dunno. Anyway not too much harm done. But no more fireworks. Ever.”
Why all the fuss about the first day of May?
It’s the 122nd day of 366, and is steeped in the history of labour relations. But of course, that doesn’t interest you lot a bit, now does it?
Oh no, you airheads want the ‘Obby ‘Oss, the Morris Dancers, children whose mothers have confiscated their phones clomping gracelessly around the Maypole, some prim child all tricked out as The May Queen, and strange songs with incomprehensible lyrics, and so on. You really do worry me…
Before you abuse me as a miserable old bag with no sense of tradition, perhaps you might consider taking a closer look at the May Day traditions that charm you so.
The ‘Obby ‘Oss is probably a leftover from the Beltane Sacrifices of pre Christian faiths, thus symbolising the poor animal (or human) being led to the slaughter.
Morris Dancing, whatever its weird origins, is a generally harmless excuse for men to go from pub to pub in the hope of free beer. Though I would dispute any suggestion it’s entertainment.
The Maypole Dance, on the other side of the coin, is a fertility ritual – do I really need to tell you what the Maypole represents? – and, as such, extremely unsuitable for children.
Ditto the May Queen who is either a fertility symbol or maybe the one chosen to be shagged by the lecherous old bloke representative of the fertility god or, even more worryingly, The Maiden who would be sacrificed to ensure a good harvest. (Think on all this very carefully before you engage in a fistfight with twenty other yummy mummies in order that little Susquehanna can wear the diadem.)
Need I continue?
In conclusion, get your heads out of whatever orifices you currently have them in and think about International Labour Day. Think about how much all you miserable bloody so and so’s owe to the trade union movement instead of knocking it for just one day.
Now buzz off. You are making my brandy curdle.
*throws dog ends and dried cow turds at departing readership*
Because life happens…
Exploring the mysteries of life through the versatile medium of limerick poetry.
It isn’t as if we can tell
When life isn’t going to go well
So being prepared
Means you need not be scared
Cos you’ll still find your heaven in hell
Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV takes time from his immensely important life to proffer profound advice to those who still struggle on the aspirational slopes of authorhood…
Dear Reader Who Writes,
First, the formalities, rendered necessary since I understand there may be a small handful of benighted individuals who have yet to encounter my work. To you, new readers who write, allow me to bestow upon you the honour of making my acquaintance. I am Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, much feted and acclaimed author of the soon-to-be classic science fantasy novel, ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’, which has been withdrawn from sale to allow other, lesser, authors a chance to gain some small measure of public acclaim.
As I was contemplating which thread I should next tease out from the weft and warp of the fine cloak woven by the daughters of Mnemosyne, to examine and explore with you, my beloved students, my gaze happened to alight upon a shelf in my writing room. This is one which is still home to some items that pre-date my conversion of the room from coal-hole to bijou literary cubby.
This item was a box which had once (and for all I know may still as I have no intention of investigating further) contained a pair of running shoes. Not mine, I of course hasten to reassure you, dear RWW. You would never see your respected pedagogue dressed up in skimpy shorts, panting and perspiring in the park. No, these were relics of an era when Mumsie still fondly craved the elusive illusion of youth before she allowed the sangria of summer to fade into an angostura bitters and advocaat autumn.
But if I close my eyes it is still impossible to banish the profoundly disturbing memory of her donning leggings and earbuds and heading off at a jog. I recall her return on most such occasions, red faced and smelling strongly. Usually gin, but sometimes whisky. And her triumphant proclamations: “All the way to the King’s Head today!’ On one occasion I asked her how she did it and her reply has haunted me down the years.
“Pace, Moons, pace. You have to know when to push it and when to give up, flop on the bar and have a drink.”
Which brings me neatly to today’s lesson.
Pace, dear RWW, is everything in your book. It is not about how fast you write or about how quickly your reader reads – no it is about the speed at which you unfold the glories of you world, the wonders of the people who inhabit it and the intricacy of the plot that binds them together.
As you can already see, this places pace at the very heart of your writing – you can imagine it as a pacemaker inserted within that heart to keep it beating strongly and steadily throughout your story. Strongly and steadily. Yes, that, my pupil in penmanship, is the secret. Too many authors fall into the trap of thinking that pace is something to vary. That to speed up and slow down is the epitome of good pacing. But, of course, they are flawed thinkers to so conclude.
Always remember, this is your literary endeavour, your creation, your magnum opus! It needs the powerful and stately beat of a steady drum to allow you to explore every detail in depth. BOOM! The slow unfolding of the scene where all is set. BOOM! The introduction of each character, allowing the reader the chance to know them through their intricate and individual back stories, written in rich detail. BOOM! The slow dawning of a story, but not too fast. Allow many things to happen first to show off the world and showcase your characters within it, so the reader is fully immersed in both world and characters before you profane their minds with anything of note. Let it sneak up on them unawares that there is indeed a plotline.
This is the secret of pacing, ingest it into your soul so it may spew forth in your writing.
Until next.
Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV
You can find more of IVy’s profound advice in How To Start Writing A Book courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.
It isn’t what you think though you saw it on the screen
The place was not the place they said, they added in that scream
Of course it looks convincing when you see it very clear
But someone’s trying to shape your mind, to fill you with a fear.
It isn’t what you think though you saw it on your phone
The voice you know was surely his with such a vicious tone
But someone wants to make you think in a hateful way
It’s not just clips they’re playing with, it’s your mind that they play
It isn’t what you think and now it’s getting worse
No longer just adjusting stuff, for AI is a curse
It takes the truth and shakes it up to fit a new agenda
And in this world of creeping lies, who is our defender?
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