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 Readers Who Write,

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV at your service, ready and willing to continue our little seminars on the ticklish topic of creating perfect literature. For those poor uneducated few whose unheeding eyes my fame may have passed, I will begin with a trifling resume of my achievements. I am the sole author of the classic ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’ and I am now devoting much of my time and effort to the production of these lessons which offer insight into the mysteries of the authorial craft for the less advantaged.

The Write Blurb

Oh what an ugly word is blurb, how it cuts through the tenderness of one’s creativity with the hobnailed boots of its harsh ugliness. Oh how one wishes there was a pinker, tenderer, more luminescent word for the promotional literature one has, perforce, to provide alongside the fruits of one’s Muse. Oh words, words, how you torment me. How your twinkling syllables resonate inside my head like the tinkling bells on the ankles of the Muse. Oh words. But I am being sidetracked by ugliness.

The blurb is not only the ill-favoured child of literary composition, it is also that by which you seek to capture the imagination of those for whom your literary genius will become the lodestone of their lives. It is, if you would, the bait dangled in the water to catch a shark. It is, to carry my brilliant analogy to its most logical conclusion, the rotting carcase dragged behind the game fisherman’s boat broadcasting its siren song to the denizens of the deep. Get it right and you will hook a barracuda, get it wrong and your efforts will be rewarded with a white-bearded shrimp.

Your blurb must be as orchidaceously lovely as your main opus, it must sing from the same sheet of great and inspiring music, it must walk in perfect step with your narrative, it must call as the siren on the rocks, but it must never give away your plot.

I append herewith three examples of this type of writing, demonstrating the genre handled its worst and at its best:

The Bad:

A love story.

And what pray does that tell us other than this is the work of a lazy author lacking in the most elementary creativity?

The Better:

Permit Fatswhistle and Buchtooth to clasp your hand in theirs and accompany you on your journey as you laugh, cry, learn and celebrate in the company of two of the most engaging and life-affirming creations of modern mythology. A work of genius not to be missed.

The Best:

After years spent caring for her ageing parent, beautiful and virginal, Clothilda is cast penniless on the charity of her cruel, chicken farmer, landlord. Can she win his love with her goodness and innocence, or will she lose everything at the hands of the bitch whore from hell who wants his money and his cock?

Read and learn and inwardly digest my darlings.

And remember. Promotional material is almost more important than that which it promotes.

A bientot.

Ecrit Bon.

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 cold canal is not quite ice
And the sky is china blue
Yesterday’s mud grows crisp and pale
And weeds shine whitely too
The skeletal trees all naked stand
With boughs outspread and stark
Enchantment stalks our every pace
Now winter’s made her mark
The cold canal a mirror sits
Beneath a glittering sky
And shows us in her kindly depths
Things too bright for our eyes

Jane Jago

There had never been a winter like it before, or perhaps there had never been a winter before. Who knew.
Those who huddled in the ramshackle hovels that huddled round the skirts of the castles and mansions just wished it further as they shivered under their skinny blankets. While the wealthy, whose teachers and scholars might have known, didn’t bother to ask, simply throwing more coal onto the braziers that kept them from the killing cold.
Whatever the case, the frost-bound landscape had a beauty almost beyond description and the children of the mighty and high were allowed out of their establishments of learning to congregate on the icy common, where they slipped and slid in high-pitched glee.
It wasn’t long before some entrepreneurial soul manufactured, or found, skates. Skates on whose wickedly sharpened steel blades it was possible to swoop and glide like land bound birds.
At first it was the children, whose small feet left only fine imprints in the frozen earth, but, needless to say, the joy of skating was soon deemed unwholesome for mere children and the frozen land soon echoed to the slow, deep voices of important men and the silver bell tones of their paid companions. So consumed were they in their own physical prowess, and the opportunity to display the obscenity of their wealth, that they didn’t give a thought to the thin, high wailing that came from beneath their feet.
Day after day they skated and their skates cut deeper and deeper through the ice and into whatever lay beneath.
Afterwards there was some debate as to who drew the first spray of reddish fluid from the wounded land, but what was unarguable was how quickly one ‘bleeding wound’ became a hundred.
As the land screamed and bled, the skaters fled – with the unearthly crying ringing in their ears and their skin spattered with a thick reddish liquid that burned like acid wherever it touched.
It was but a short while, though to those trapped in the chaos it felt long indeed, until the winter land was left to shift for itself. Empty save for those who couldn’t escape.
There was a tall plague doctor standing alone in what was left of an impromptu ballroom. As the blood oozed around his feet an abandoned pianoforte played a desolate tune to itself and the Infanta of Iberia awaited the ship to carry her home.
The plague doctor put down his lantern and began to anoint a thousand thousand bleeding cuts with an orange scented unguent and the tears that dripped from the beak of his mask.
It was probably too late, he thought, but once a doctor…

©️Jane Jago 2023

Picture and inspiration courtesy of Paul Biddle.

Because life can be interesting when you are a non-player character in an online video game…

“Hail One Eye Rye!” the Visitor declaimed. “Pray show me your wares, merchant.”
“Oh-Em-Gee, Pew. Don’t tell me you bought the fragging lizard DLC?”
A short dwarven Visitor had pushed his way into the shop, his armour glinting by its own light. The hilt of his sword was a huge fist gripping a gigantic gem.
The ryeshor Visitor shrugged in a most un-ryeshor way. “Yeah. What of it? I want to be the first to unlock the achievements for them.”
“Ha! Like ugliest toon on the server maybe?” The dwarf hawked and spat, then laughed as if that was the most hilarious thing ever. “You see that Pew? These new toon actions are killer.” He hawked and spat a couple more times.
Milla could see One Eye was getting angsty so she grabbed Pewpowerpwnsyou by the arm and pulled him quickly from the shop. He seemed a bit surprised but didn’t resist and to Milla’s immense relief the dwarf followed them out still hawking and spitting. Then he stopped and jumped up and down on the spot a few times.
“They still don’t have one for teabagging though.”
“You’re gross, String.” Pew’s snout wrinkled.
“At your service,” the dwarven Visitor agreed. “But what the frag are you doing here anyway? The new expac is waiting it’s got five new l33t dungeons and this place is just a borefest of old lore backstory. Not even any new quests.”
“There is if you’re a lizard. A whole new quest chain with epic quality rewards.”
The dwarf pulled a face. “Didn’t see anything about that on the forums.”
“Check the discord, numbnuts.”
Milla knew it was rude to interrupt, but she was not hearing anything that seemed important enough to delay the search for Ruffkin. She stepped between the two Visitors.
“Excuse me, but…”
“Figures. They’d be looking to scrape money out of people they just stung for fifty bucks on the expac. What better way to do it? The ratstabs.”
Milla raised her voice.
“I said, excuse me, but my dog is in danger. I’m sure your discussion can wait until after he is safe again.”
Pewpowerpwnsyou stepped back and bowed from the waist.
“Forgive me, fair Milla. My staff is yours to command.”
The dwarf hawked and spat. “What she saying?”
“Oh, you lamer. You don’t even have ryeshor language skills? What a n00b. Peedle off and go play on newbie island, String, it’s about your skill level.”
“I got a better idea,” the dwarf said. “I’m going to alt a ryeshor.”
“What? No. String…”
But the dwarven Visitor had already gone leaving a faint shimmer in the air where he had been standing.
“Oh frag it.” Pew’s crest had fallen so its ridges drooped in pure misery.
“Is that… Is that something bad?” Milla asked. “I mean, it sounds bad: ‘alt a ryeshor’. Maybe we should warn the others.”
Pew’s crest was still down but now he was staring at her with wide eyes.
“How did you..? You can’t…” He broke off and shook his head “No. it’s nothing to worry about. Just String being String. He’s just a PITA.”
“Then please, can we just go find Ruffkin? He must be terrified wherever he is.”
“Sure. I mean…” He cleared his throat and returned to his affected style of speech. ”Forsooth Lady Milla. We will go forth and redeem your noble hound from his cthonic captivity.”
Milla sighed.
“Well, you’re the one with the location spell, so you’ll have to lead the way. Now, please stop talking to me like that and let’s get going.”
“If it is your will fair lady, we will depart post haste and…”
Milla screwed up her snout, spun on her heel and strode away towards the pyramid.

Pew caught up with her by the path to the outer gate. It was open, but guarded by two drakkonettes. They both wore gleaming black breastplates decorated with crossed keys and each was armed with a bladed polearms, decorated with inlays of the same cross-key design. They held their polearms so the shafts extended to block the space where the gate should be, barring passage just as effectively.
As far as Milla had ever heard drakkonettes never came further south than the Wailing Hollows, so seeing two standing guard on this pyramid made no sense. Drakkonettes were not completely unlike ryeshor – apart from having huge leathery wings, no tail, massive jaws, tusks and being almost half as tall again as a fully grown ryeshor. They were also known to be ferocious and these two were not looking friendly. Still, if Ruffkin was on the other side of that gate…
Pew caught her arm and pulled her back.
“You know the aggro range on those?”
Milla blinked. “The..what?”
Pew puffed out his cheeks and shook his head.
“Nevermind. This is really weird. Look, those mobs are a linked encounter. I could burn one of them easy, but two, without heals…”
Milla was beginning to think that the Visitor was something of a coward. If she hadn’t needed his location spell she would have been very tempted to leave him there and go on herself. After all, who said only Visitors could go on ventures? She was on one now, for sure.
“I could talk to them,” she suggested. “They look a bit bored, maybe they’d let us through if we find some entertainment for them?”
“You mean like this is some kind of weird sub-quest? We’re not supposed to fight them?” Pew lifted his hands as if trying to push the world away. “Oh frack, I wish I’d got in on the beta of this or someone had at least put up a walkthrough on the wiki.”

Log on to Wrathburnt Sands by E.M. Swift-Hook for the 5th 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.

End time came. Mother’s skies grew dark as the giver of life-giving light and warmth turned away. 

The creators of north, south, east and west saw that their child was dying and clasped their hands in sorrow. Each entity shed a single tear – and from that tear was born a pale rider to oversee the destruction of that which had been the fairest child of them all.

The riders breathed fire and toxic fumes, while their wild steeds were crafted of smoke and mirrors and wasted plastics.  

And the names of the riders were Lechery, Gluttony, Politics and Algorithm…

Jane Jago

A dictionary for the bemused by Jane Jago…

chellenge (verb) – the action of drinking a pint of Very Fizzy beer in one go

consonentn (noun) – the bit in the bottom of the marmite jar you can’t reach with any implement, including your fingers/tongue

disturn (verb) – of barbecues the act of forgetting to turn over the burgers thus presenting one side raw and one charcoal

eggro (noun) – fight caused by somebody being a big head

farder (adjective) – of corporal punishment the act of being administered with a rolled up newspaper 

gung (noun) – the lickings in the bottom of a mixing bowl having been used to create chocolate cake

histpry (noun) – an old woman who sticks her nose in everyone’s business

immersian (noun) – native to the island of Immers (somewhere near the centre of Lake Titicaca)

messgae (noun) – a man who cooks but don’t clean the kitchen after (mostly just a man, then)

munge (verb) – to mix together foodstuffs until of a homogeneous texture and uniform khaki colour

persoanl (adjective) – of or pertaining to the bum crack

proverbail (noun) – legal terminology meaning the release of a story after payment of a large sum of money

remmeber (noun) – small burrowing rodent of the genus fartus fartus renowned for the unusual odour it leaves behind it

skart (noun) – garment worn randomly somewhere between the waist and the knees

vesnion (noun) – bright yellow garment worn by cyclists and elderly dog walkers

whsiky (noun) – a type of alcoholic drink beloved of those already too inebriated to speak properly

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.

Vodka

The secret of living is plain,
It’s not about pleasure and pain.
It is simply enough
To take smooth with the rough
Then grab for the vodka again.

E.M. Swift-Hook

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…

Mes chers lecteurs qui ecrit,

It is one, the ever exquisite Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV…  world-renowned author of the classic ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’ and patient writer of these handcrafted bon mots with which I seek to educate, inform and inflame the imaginative juices of my adoring followers. Fret not, mes estudas, that you may never be as talented, or beauteous as your teacher. Follow in the footsteps of one’s infinite wisdom and even your poor weakling Muse shall be uplifted of the wings of a Moonbeam

The Write Beginning

It is a truth that cannot be overemphasised that the first sentence of a book is the bait with which to put hooks into the soft underbelly of your putative reader and claw him into the world you have been so painstakingly crafting. Choose your words with care, craft and calculation, my children. For each and every book can only have one first sentence…

For myself, I find the creation of the first words in any work as full of pain as that delicate beauty who is my own Mama found giving birth to me.

“Moony,” she often says, “if I’d known how much squirting your oversized cranium out of my fanny would hurt, I’d have been a fucking sight more proactive with the hot baths and the gin.”

But one digresses. Opening lines.

Let your hooking of the reader be as sharp as the tongue of an ungrateful child, as cutting as the condemnation of a disappointed mother, as innocent as the first kiss of a virgin mouth, as knowing as the compère in Cabaret, and as gnomically engrossing as the dragons of literature who overfly your work. Take as your inspiration the works of she whose rose-coloured prose makes beat faster the heart of your beloved tutor. Use your very first sentence to introduce the proud beauty in whose trials and tribulations you intend your devoted reader to invest time, love, worry, and, of course, the pecuniary outlay necessary to purchase your elegant work.

Make your sentence long and include all the information you can. Do not be fooled by those who counsel brevity. They are the basest dogs of conventionality, the creeping rats of mediocrity, and the unsound practitioners of a black art that seeks to sap you of your creative juices.

No my children, in the symphony that is literary exposition at its finest let us begin with a crescendo. Let the conductor bring down his baton on a crashing chord of instrumental noise that will reverberate within your reader’s head forever. Begin With A Bang.

In conclusion, there is one more point to consider. And that one is moot to our whole lesson. Let us ponder momentarily those unfortunates whose books are remembered for their first lines and very little else – as in Mister Orwell’s oddly distorted historical drama and Miss Austen’s rather anodyne love story. To them I can only say one thing. You began well; shame about the rest of your book.

And there it is mes enfants, the secrets for a perfect beginning.

Until next.

Ecrit Bon…

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.

I thought I had a hobby-horse, but it’s an elephant
I ride it round a lot, of course, it’s not so elegant
I bring it in to argue whenever there’s a chance
I’m always up for fresh debate, so it can have a dance.

As soon as I get up to speak, I’m in my element
I’m anything but mild and meek, I’m always eloquent
My hobby-horse will carry me above and far beyond
It is amazing just to see, I’m cooler than James Bond.

Those who hear as I declaim, declare me eminent
They see I’m right to place the blame on each development
They stand in awe as I lambast, demolish and defeat
They lift their hands in much applause, they cheer and stamp their feet.

I’ll take the basic premise and I’ll add embellishment
I’ll never be remiss because it’s not my temperament
The ones who do deride me say that I am malevolent
But they are those whose opinions I think irrelevant…

E.M. Swift-Hook

In a modern day Britain where the Roman Empire never left, Dai and Julia solve murder mysteries, whilst still having to manage family, friendship and domestic crises…

Even when he was supposed to be focused on the case, Dai found himself looking again at the selfie of Julia in the sun and wondering how she was. It had got so the image was always popping unbidden into his mind, leaving his thoughts distracted. He had no idea what he should say to her and dreaded that what he said might be the wrong thing. So he made no further attempt to contact her and as time went on he felt as though the opportunity to say anything, ever was slipping away from him.
“… which means we can effectively eavesdrop on him. Unless he wises up and turns it off.”
He was sitting in Bryn’s office in the Vigiles HQ in Viriconium and it took an effort to refocus his thoughts on what his senior investigator was saying.
“Eavesdrop?”
“Yes. You know how Tony Talog’s using that AI PA system? Mercuria? Well, turns out we can apply to have a listening ear put on it. I put in for it last night and got permission through first thing.”
“So we can spy on him using his own electronics?”
“That’s about the size of it. In fact, we have been for the last few hours.”
“I somehow don’t see him being that indiscreet, but we can hope.”
Bryn laughed. “Bard, you have no idea how people can be with these systems. They think of them as a one-way thing – something they control completely. They tend to forget that it’s connected to the entire internet and not just to their own home.”
“Remind me not to get it installed at the villa.”
“So I don’t think Tony will see it as being indiscreet, it won’t even occur to him there is an issue in the privacy of his own four walls.”
Dai frowned. “He has it at home as well as in his office?”
“Yep. He’s the kind who likes to make out he’s up with all the latest trends. Odd for a man who makes his living from the past, don’t you think?”
“Would be odd if he actually loved the past – Tony Talog doesn’t, he just exploits it.”
“Oh and we have a lunch date,” Bryn said. “Justina Cynddylan says she may have some information for us and wishes us to join her for lunch as her guests.”
“And she can’t just tell us because…?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. But she says she booked a table at an out of town place. Posh one too, Bene Placito, you may have heard of it.”
Dai nodded. It was one of the most exclusive eating places in the area specialising in the finest Roman cuisine. The kind of establishment where your meal would be sparse but served artistically and the fact you felt hungry at the end of the meal would not matter because one sight of the bill would remove what remained of your appetite. Dai had been toying with the idea of taking Julia there for her birthday as a surprise but was not entirely convinced she would want that. There were times he realised just how little he knew her.

As far as discreet went, Bene Placito served that up in buckets. The place was in one wing of a small villa, presumably also the home of the chef who owned it, that nestled in the hills behind Viriconium. The villa had a long private driveway which wound past fields of vegetables and livestock, showing off the produce that they would soon be eating.
Dai and Bryn were greeted at the door by a simply dressed waitress who asked their names and explained that each party or individual was given their own secluded dining room.
“Domina Cynddylan is in the Rose Room. If you will come with me…”
Bene Placito was a small slice of Roman elegance and opulence thrust into the British countryside. The decor and furnishings were all items that might grace the pages of patrician’s lifestyle magazines and set in amongst the modern, sophisticated, decor were exquisite examples of ancient Roman statuary and other artefacts.
The Rose Room turned out to be well named. It had a window onto a small walled rose garden, though at this time of year the bushes were little more than pruned back twigs, and there were several pots of indoor miniature roses sitting on small pedestals. Dai’s heart sank as they were shown in. he should have expected it, but somehow he had not. It was a triclinium. The three couches had been set to overlap, in three sides of a square with the table in the middle.
Justina Cynddylan was already ensconced on the central couch, helping herself to some olives from a bowl on the table. She smiled as the two men were shown in and made a sweeping gesture to the empty couches on either side of her.
“Thank you for joining me, please make yourselves comfortable and we will see what the chef is providing today.” Dai eased himself on to a couch, feeling awkward, but noticed with surprise that Bryn seemed completely unperturbed and slid onto his couch as if patrician born.
“You will have to excuse me from getting right down to business, but we can’t be assured of complete privacy until the meal has been served. The timing of that is always a little uncertain as Chef can be very temperamental.”
“I understand,” Dai said, though he was not sure he really did. But he sought an alternative topic of conversation. “There are a few antiquities here I see.”
“Oh yes. I have sold several genuine ancient pieces to Chef. He is a bit of a connoisseur of Etruscan art and it has been my pleasure to help locate and arrange the purchase of one or two for him.” She lowered her voice “To be honest he is a little obsessed, he is convinced he is descended from Etruscan ancestors, but when one is such a great artist as he is, one can be forgiven such foibles.”
The door opened as she was speaking and the waiting staff piled the table with heated stands and small covered pots, as well as plates with a few multi-coloured leaves strewn over them. A bottle of good wine and glasses completed the spread, then the staff withdrew.
Justina lifted a few lids and helped herself to some of the contents, and made the same imperious sweeping gesture with which she had greeted them. “Eat up. We can talk and eat.”
Dai eyed the items on her plate with some suspicion. He went for a plentiful portion of the grains and vegetables and only a couple of the more innocent looking meat slices, spooning garum over the whole lot to disguise any odd flavours. Bryn, meanwhile, was cheerfully piling his plate with samples from all that was on offer.
“The flamingo is excellent, don’t you think?” Justina nodded towards the meat Dai had chosen. He had some in his mouth at the time and chewed and made himself swallow before managing a nod. Why did the Romans insist on eating such things?
“Look, I really appreciate your – uh – generosity in inviting us here -”
“Oh, not so generous, Chef always gives me a discount,” Justina said quickly.
“Yes. Well, the thing is we are a bit pressed for time, so if you feel we are private enough now, perhaps we could get to what it was you wished to tell us.”

From Dying for a Vacation a Dai and Julia Mystery by E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago