Two Women and Some Books
Because life happens…
Exploring the mysteries of life through the versatile medium of limerick poetry.
It isn’t as if we can know
The future and where things will go
To always be stellar
Take sunscreen and umbrella
And then you can go with the flow
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,
It always behoves me to assume that there will be at least one new reader of my inspirational course on ‘How to Write a Book’. So to that gentle reader I doff my hat and reveal that I am none other than Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV – author of the brilliant and inventive novel, “Fatswhistle and Buchtooth”, a seminal work exploring the furthest conceptual reaches of science fiction and fantasy.
Today’s topic came to me a while ago and then I was distracted by my Muse offering other, more pressingly urgent dangleberries of wisdom and demanding that those took precedence. But then my focus was rehoned to the point by Mumsie walking into my writing cave, bearing her trademark pernod and gingerwine in a champagne flute with the inevitable green olive drifting in the murk. “Oh my god, Moons, this place stinks worse than a sumo wrestlers jock-strap!” I delicately pointed out that she was referring to my vetiver, bergamot and lemongrass aromatherapy oil, blended expressly to induce higher states of creativity.
Mummy was not, however, much impressed by this revelation. Instead she picked up my pristine first edition copy of Fatswhistle and Buchtooth and opened it, bending the spine and splattering droplets of her alcoholic creosote over it’s pages. Before I could recover from the horror of her deed, she had dropped the irreplaceably precious item back on my desk. “Don’t they say you can’t tell a book by the cover? Got it wrong with yours though. Shite inside and out.”
A book cover needs to be a visual precise of your prose. It should capture and enrapture the roving eye as a reader runs through the rows of books either on a shelf in a shop or on a scrolling screen. Yours must be the cover that cries out as that putative reader sifts through stacks of books to find their next favourite fiction.
But how is this achieved? If you read the academic artists they will talk of proportions, the Golden Mean, of colour strengths and shades and other esoteric claptrap. It is actually stunningly simple – make it red.
Red is the most eye-catching colour as everyone knows. We are all primally preprogrammed to see red as a signal of something requiring our attention. Therefore, so long as your cover is red your book will be read.
A more sophisticated and subtle touch can be achieved by drawing on that other universal colour combination guaranteed to draw the eye – black and yellow. Our perceptions are precisely honed to hover our eyes on anything that resembles hornets or wasps. So, if red is not appropriate for your magnificent tome – black and yellow may well serve the same end.
Of course, to be sure, combine the two concepts.
Oh and put a naked lady on it, ideally headless.
Follow these infallible rules and you will create a cover that none will miss and your book will bound from shelves be those physical or metaphorical.
Until next time, au revoir mes petites poissons.
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.
There are people who live in a convenient world
So much more convenient than mine
If they have a problem they know how to fix it
Their world spins along again fine
They have Amazon Echos and blue-tooth devices
Phones that are smarter than me
I tell them I need something done and they
Say: “Use this app. That’ll do it, you’ll see.”
But I live in a world where technology faltered
And ground to a halt times ago
My phone is not smart, and nor is my dwelling
My downloading speed is too slow
And most of the time that is how I prefer it
Convenience that works right for me
But they don’t understand when I say I can’t do things
They take for granted to be
I like to think it is not generational
As many of all ages surf
I prefer to consider it is more vocational
I choose to live down to earth.
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…
We were rather late showing our faces in the pub, which caused the usual merriment among the staff. Time was when I’d have been embarrassed but I’ve become accustomed to Ben’s rampant disregard for any ideas of prudishly concealing our predilection for afternoon affection. I did find it in me to punch him smartly on the biceps for his smug grin, though, before I let him have the pleasure of fetching our twin daughters from the fleshpots of a local burger joint.
The business seemed to be ambling along without my input, so I sat at the bar and ordered myself a large gin and tonic. I’d barely taken a restorative sip when one of the regulars came and bellied up to the bar beside me. He passed me his phone and I found myself watching a video in which the silly woman who caused a lunchtime fracas made a lot of blatantly false allegations.
“Stupid as well as unpleasant,” he muttered.
“Indeed. Thanks for showing me.”
Taking my drink with me, I went out to the kitchen. Our chef Neil, and his wife, Stella, were on duty, but as it was a relatively quiet evening, they were drinking coffee and waiting for pudding orders. I grinned at them.
“Can I borrow one of your daughters?”
“Don’t you have enough of your own?”
“I do, but they aren’t any more social media savvy than me. So I wondered. Is Ellen about?”
“Yes. She’s helping Sian with a project for school, but I’m sure…” Neil was genial.
“That nasty bitch from lunchtime acting the fool on antisocial media?” Stella asked.
“She is. And I’m after a bit of help putting together a rebuttal.”
“You need Sian as well then, she’s the TikTok expert. You go and sit in the office. I’ll round them up.” Stella bustled off to the flat above the function room where the family lives happily.
There are plenty of lady victualers who would love to warn me against making friends of my staff. If they were brave enough to risk my wrath, and if they didn’t see how well the Fair Maid and Falcon operates when staffed by our extended ‘family’.
Neil winked at me. “Star’s a bit put out by what that little madam did to Morgan’s face.”
“Me too, buddy, me too.”
I went and sat in the office, where I was quickly joined by Ellen and Sian.
Sian perched on the edge of my desk. “It’s a pity we don’t have footage of that cow bitch-slapping Morg.”
I decided to overlook the language, and was just about to agree when our bar manager, Ed, popped his face round the corner.
“I might just have what you want. One of the lunchtime tapas eaters was annoyed enough by madam’s shenanigans to film her with his phone. He cleaned it up and just now sent it to me.”
He waved his phone.
“Gimme,” Sian held out a hand and he put his phone in it.
“Don’t break my phone, brat.”
Sian snorted and he went back to work. She connected his phone to her tablet whistling through her teeth.
“Let’s see what we’ve got.”
My own phone burbled, announcing that Ben was calling.
“Hi love. What gives?”
“I’m sending you a picture. Want to know if you recognise the person.”
The file came swiftly and I opened it to see the face of the ‘influencer’ who had decided it would be okay to stiff us for her lunch and attack Morgan into the bargain. I called Ben back and put the call on speaker.
“That’s our not friend from lunchtime. Why do you have a picture of her?”
He laughed although there were all sorts of sharp edges to his laughter.
“She’s just getting arrested.”
“What did she do?”
“Tried to stiff the burger joint and they have a zero tolerance policy.”
“Oh dear, what a pity, never mind. And how stupid is she?”
“Very. And very sure she’ll get away with anything she wants to do. Anyway, fatherhood calls..”
“Benny,” Sian interjected, “you couldn’t get a shot of her being loaded into a police car. From behind so it doesn’t show her face?”
“I couldn’t, as they just drove away, but there are quite a few youngsters filming and laughing. I’ll see if anyone has anything.”
“That’s a good idea. And. Benny, it would be quite clever to mention that she cut Morgan’s face. I’m sure a few of them will be uploading videos and they’d love to mention that little fact.”
Ben chuckled. “Consider it done.”
Sian downloaded the video from Ed’s phone and while Ellen returned it she stood fiddling with her own phone.
“Joss,” she spoke quietly but something in her tone made me think what she had to say was important, “that woman is bad news. Once I had her face I found her and she makes a living out of stiffing food outlets and then dissing them to her followers so they wind up paying her to go away.”
“Oh what a sweetheart. Are you suggesting we pay her off?”
“Nope. But I think we might need Mark’s help. He should have some acquaintances who would be willing to make our video go viral. And also put the frighteners on this ‘influencer’.”
“I’m sure he’d be only too willing to step on the person who hurt his daughter, and crush the offender like the bug she undoubtedly is. But why do you think it’s necessary?”
“Because there’s some people in a few groups I belong to who have been warned that she has a couple of nasty friends who think nothing of messing up anyone who goes after her.”
“Messing up?”
“Somebody’s brakes mysteriously failed, and another was pushed from behind when she was waiting at a tube station. Nobody really badly hurt, and nothing provable, but..”
For a few seconds I felt a sense of pressure against my chest, and my instinct was to tell Sian to step back from possible danger. She looked at me.
“I’m going to do this, Joss, Morgan is my friend.”
Recognising determination when I heard it, I lifted a shoulder.
“Okay. I’ll call Mark.”
“Right. I’ll make a video.”
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…
It had been a quiet few days in Wrathburnt Sands. The months since the Expansion had been very busy for Milla in her new role as a quest giver so she appreciated the break. It gave her more time to go beachcombing with Ruffkin, her little dog, and chat with Pew whilst she strung the shells she had gathered into necklace charms to give out as quest rewards to those Visitors who returned from the pyramid dungeon to claim one.
Pew – or more correctly Firecaster Pewpowerpwnsyou – was, she supposed, her boyfriend. At least he seemed to think he was and Milla was not entirely unhappy with the idea, even if there were times she wanted to shake him. But the other residents of Wrathburnt Sands made no secret of their feelings.
“He’s not a proper ryeshor. He’s not even a Local.”
“He don’t belong here.”
“Folk like him drag trouble with them. They’re cursed with it.”
“You be careful young’un, he’s a Visitor. He’ll only break your heart.”
Those last words were still ringing in Milla’s head as she walked along the beach in the morning sun, Ruffkin bounding ahead of her. One Eye Rye had said that yesterday, when she went to buy some fish for Ruffkin from his shop by the pier. He was her truest friend amongst the villagers. He even liked Pew. She knew he did because he sold Pew provisions from his shop at a discount those times when Pew was down on his luck and One Eye never did that for any other Visitor.
“Visitors never stay for long,” One Eye added, “and they always have other lives.”
“Not Pew,” she had told him stoutly, “He promised me he’s maining on his ryeshor toon and has stopped playing all his other alts.”
One Eye’s snout wrinkled at that.
“I start to worry about you, young’un. You’re even talking like a Visitor now – ‘toons’, ‘alts’ and whatever the bluesky and ocean that all means.”
Milla shrugged and had left quickly after that. The truth was she didn’t entirely know what any of it meant. But Pew had said it with such fervour that she knew it was something that mattered to him for her to know. She understood at least that it was his way of saying he wasn’t going to go away like the other Visitors always did. That made Milla happy as when she tried to imagine not having Pew around, life began to feel very flat and empty.
Walking along the beach in the early morning, she paused to pick up a shell. The pendant she always wore around her neck, swung forward, glowing with its hidden magic. She tucked it away in her simple tunic and was disturbed by voices on the pier. She couldn’t see them as the pier was above her, but she knew from what they were saying that it was Visitors.
“I hate this fragging fishing quest. Must have done it a million times.”
“You and me both, bud. You remember when we were in Epic Legends with that crazy guy, what was he called? The one who loved crafting and spent all his time harvesting?”
“You mean Buffalott?”
“That’s the one. I heard his wife left him for their guild leader in the end. She always just wanted to raid. Best MT on the server she was too.”
“Yeah? I thought that was Aggrowhore?”
“Just because We Rulz is the top raiding guild, doesn’t mean they have the best MT.”
“S’ppose. Anyway, I’m done fishing, have to go turn it in and then I can do the pyramid questline.”
Milla sighed and made an effort to keep the frills on her crest from flattening. Not for the first time she wished she didn’t have to be a quest giver. Life had been so much simpler before she became one.
Log on to Wrathburnt Sands by E.M. Swift-Hook for the 12th 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…
There was panic in the garden. Granny had lost a knitting needle. Nomes scuttled in every direction hunting high and low.
“We gotta find it or the ole bat’ll make our lives a misery.”
“We have but it’s a puzzle to me how it got lost. Her don’t hardly move from that bliddy tidstool.”
Brenda stopped dead. “Her don’t, do her.”
She strode back to where Granny sat, rigid and complaining.
“Stand up.”
Even Granny obeyed when Brenda used that voice.
The needle fell from the mouldering haystack of Granny’s clothing. She grabbed it and life went back to normal.
A dictionary for the bemused by Jane Jago…
azamon (noun) – unfriendly elf, purveyor of all the things you never know you needed
delte (adjective) – geographical, of rivers, having a small muddy estuary but big aspirations
dismissibve (adverb) – of mansplaining the action of flapping a hand at any raised objections
flestive (adjective) – of Christmas decorations being old and mildly mouldy
moced (verb) – past participle of the verb to moce – to move slightly awkwardly as if one has a stone in one’s left shoe
mucter (noun) – small Caledonian gentleman with a large ginger moustache and galloping halitosis
out to fo (compound idea) – of hen parties looking for fast food, a fight or a f***
relaly 1. (noun) – special race for clumsy people who keep dropping the baton.
2. (adverb) – of relationships, describes the moment in an argument when you want to poke his eyes out with a knitting needle
suoth (adjective) – directionally challenged
Ther Elet (proper noun) – Miss Universe contestant from the planet Thrab, notable for her rendition of Mull of Kintyre on the Appalachian Nose Flute
trpuble (adjective) – of pubic hair being inexpertly barbered
virhin (noun) – female who last had sex a very long time ago
Disclaimer: all these words are genuine typos defined by Jane Jago. The source of each is withheld to protect the guilty.
Because life happens…
Exploring the mysteries of life through the versatile medium of limerick poetry.
Growing older is not such a curse
The alternative’s certainly worse
So do all you might
To take some delight
Afore you get to ride in a hearse
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,
One somehow cannot bring oneself to address you as ‘Dear RWW’. Mummy has always insisted that one should be punctiliously polite (a skill she herself was taught by the nuns at a frightfully expensive Swiss Finishing School). Thus such a contraction of the words feels too informal for a budding relationship, although please know that is how one thinks of you, one’s little chums, since we have become so much better acquainted. I shall, however, make free use of that reduction in the main body of my text. You will have heard I am known as ‘Ivy’ to those whom I allow close familiarity – but you may call me Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV.
As the author of science fiction and fantasy – “Fatswhistle and Buchtooth” – Amazon’s one millionth on the bestseller charts and a masterclass in ‘how to’ in its own right – I feel I have the perfect credentials to offer you the highest of heuristic insights to release your own inner writer.
For those of you who have been following one’s bon mots, one will continue to offer you the benefit of one’s deep and sympathetic wisdom. And to those who have only just had the inestimable good fortune to discover my erudition and brilliance, I bid you welcome.
Tuneful tintinnabulation: Summoning the muse with music has its antecedents in acts of sympathetic magic from across our spinning globe. Like summons like. So with the aid of Eurtepe and Aoede we may bring forth Erato and Calliope. One’s musical accompaniment should be reproduced in the most audiologically pleasing manner that one’s pecuniary resources may obtain.
Oh how one longs for a full orchestra, seated in the shrubbery and serenading as one captures the essence of the Muse! But that is not to be, and, as Mummy genteelly opined when I requested this: ‘Don’t be such a twat, Moony, the bastards would only trample the euphorbia’.
Therefore one has had the inestimable good fortune to become acquainted with a young lady named Alexa, who responds to one’s every whim and command. Sympatico….
Before I even think of adding a single word to my new magnum opus ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth Go Forth’, I must first suffuse the atmosphere with my own especially blended symphony of scent (see the last lesson) and listen to the opening bars of Beethoven’s Fifth exactly eight times. I follow this with the closing sequence of the 1812 Overture – ensuring that it is a recording with real cannon – to awaken my inner author from his sophoric slumbers deep within. Then either ‘Eine Kleine Nachtmusik’ or Handel’s ‘Music for the Royal Fireworks’, so as to appease the higher cognitive aspects of my psyche. I am then ready to soothe the sybaritic segregations of my soul with something profound and sensitive and will put on Pure Peruvian Flutes, Whale Songs or Perry Como.
Please, gentle RWW, do not be fooled into thinking I actually write to any of this. No – this is all about preparing the psyche from heights to depths in order that the eventual overlay of choice melodies, selected to match the mood and theme of one’s authorial flow, can wash deeper into the creative mind. It is indeed a ritual akin to religious profundity and it is worth the hour and a half which one gives over to it before one begins to write. Without it, one could not unlock the core of one’s essence and allow the riches within to leach from one’s tender soul onto the polished whiteness of the page.
You are welcome to adopt my musical rites of pre-writing within your own sanctuary to the muses, or develop your own as mine are intended only for a higher mind which is capable of scaling the peaks of literary prowess.
Until next. Adieu estudas. Bon Ecrit!
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.
The ivy once was lush and green
Until men came along
They wore big boots, their eyes were mean
Their hands were big and strong
They chopped as if their hearts were mad
As if the ivy sinned
So now the post in rags is clad
And shivers in the wind
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