A couple of people have been asking where I am.
I'm taking a bit of a 'time-out' to get down and serious with my novel. I want it finished and ready for sending out into the big bad world by the end of the summer.
So far, so good. I've done some good work on it lately and my word count is on the up.
A random little fact: my 's' key seems to not want to work properly. I have to give it quite a hard little press whenever I use it, which is a bit of a pain if I forget...I've suddenly realised just how many words contained the letter 's'!! My number '6' key is doing it too!!!
Ah, the trials of being a writer....
:D
Sunday, 13 June 2010
Thursday, 27 May 2010
A Good Rejection!
Last month I sent off my short story: Calling 666, to a magazine. It wasn't chosen for publication, but someone had taken the trouble to write this on my rejection slip:
Your writing style is good, as is your command of language. Please send us more of your work.
I had a smile on my face all day!
My novel is rolling along nicely.
My word count is going up up up.......
:D
Your writing style is good, as is your command of language. Please send us more of your work.
I had a smile on my face all day!
My novel is rolling along nicely.
My word count is going up up up.......
:D
Wednesday, 19 May 2010
How to make a writer's blood boil.....
I know. I know.
I said I wouldn't be posting much at the mo, but I had to share this one with you all because it made me see red....
A 'colleague' at work found out I was in the throes of writing a novel, and then came out with that old familiar chestnut:
He's always thought he would write a book one day. When he has time he's going to 'give it a go'.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
When does ANYONE EVER have time to write a book? I know I don't. I have to make time.
Squishing my writing in between all the hundred and one other things I have to do in my life.
Then he said:
I have a title. Cos that's the important part isn't it?
Oh, that'll be where I'm getting it wrong then! Sod the research, the characters, the dialogue, the plot...it's the title you have to sort out first!
For months my work-in-progress was simply called Untitled, since then it's had about four titles before I settled on 'Bathory', and who knows if that will be the final choice.
When I said this to him, the person in question looked at me like I was a bug on his shoe, and that look said:
You might be writing a book, but at least I've got a title!
I told him to come and see me when he's written the first 50,000 words!
Okay....
Rant over...pass me a bottle of wine!
:)
I said I wouldn't be posting much at the mo, but I had to share this one with you all because it made me see red....
A 'colleague' at work found out I was in the throes of writing a novel, and then came out with that old familiar chestnut:
He's always thought he would write a book one day. When he has time he's going to 'give it a go'.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
When does ANYONE EVER have time to write a book? I know I don't. I have to make time.
Squishing my writing in between all the hundred and one other things I have to do in my life.
Then he said:
I have a title. Cos that's the important part isn't it?
Oh, that'll be where I'm getting it wrong then! Sod the research, the characters, the dialogue, the plot...it's the title you have to sort out first!
For months my work-in-progress was simply called Untitled, since then it's had about four titles before I settled on 'Bathory', and who knows if that will be the final choice.
When I said this to him, the person in question looked at me like I was a bug on his shoe, and that look said:
You might be writing a book, but at least I've got a title!
I told him to come and see me when he's written the first 50,000 words!
Okay....
Rant over...pass me a bottle of wine!
:)
Saturday, 15 May 2010
Time out.....
The deadline I gave myself to have my novel polished and dusted and ready to be sent off to agents/publishers is fast approaching, and my MS is nowhere near as ready as I would have liked it to be by now; mid-May.
So, I have reached a decision: for a while(...days...weeks...months...?), I am going to focus all my energy and spare time towards my work-in-progress. I am determined to finish it by the end of the summer, and the only way to do this is to cull from my life - just for a while - all the things that get in my way. I am going to become a 'passive' blogger. I will still be reading your blogs once a week - and leaving a comment or two - but I will not be updating my own so often.
I may leave a twitter type comment now and again, just to keep you up to date on my progress.
For the time being, here's a sonnet I wrote inspired by my novel:
The night is still, the moonlight bright,
The midnight sky a deep blue velvet shroud.
A raven, startled from its sleep, takes flight.
Wings a solitary path across the misty cloud.
A woman's scream rips through the air,
Hands reach up to the blackened skies.
She has been trapped within her lair,
Caught in a web of self-inflicted lies.
With darkest venom in her callous heart,
She vows cruel revenge on all.
She'll never rest until the start
Of her murderous bloodlust ball.
With these words so forcefully spoken,
She falls to her knees. A woman broken.
So, I have reached a decision: for a while(...days...weeks...months...?), I am going to focus all my energy and spare time towards my work-in-progress. I am determined to finish it by the end of the summer, and the only way to do this is to cull from my life - just for a while - all the things that get in my way. I am going to become a 'passive' blogger. I will still be reading your blogs once a week - and leaving a comment or two - but I will not be updating my own so often.
I may leave a twitter type comment now and again, just to keep you up to date on my progress.
For the time being, here's a sonnet I wrote inspired by my novel:
The night is still, the moonlight bright,
The midnight sky a deep blue velvet shroud.
A raven, startled from its sleep, takes flight.
Wings a solitary path across the misty cloud.
A woman's scream rips through the air,
Hands reach up to the blackened skies.
She has been trapped within her lair,
Caught in a web of self-inflicted lies.
With darkest venom in her callous heart,
She vows cruel revenge on all.
She'll never rest until the start
Of her murderous bloodlust ball.
With these words so forcefully spoken,
She falls to her knees. A woman broken.
Sunday, 25 April 2010
A Bitesize Snippet.
The coffin lid creaks.
The vampyre awakes.
Sharp fangs glisten
In the dead of night.
What's the shortest poem you can write?
The vampyre awakes.
Sharp fangs glisten
In the dead of night.
What's the shortest poem you can write?
Friday, 16 April 2010
Writing Exercise #2
This month the task set by the writing group I attend is to write a short story, max 500 words, including four sentences picked at random from four different fiction novels. The four sentences are:
If you saw everything when your eye flicked from one point to another you'd feel giddy.
Rounding a bend in the path they'd met a group of girls on their way to school.
A vague memory flashed into his mind.
They arrived at Stoichev's gate the next afternoon.
Here is my offering....
He was watching the early morning news when the first stone hit his window with a resounding crack. Quickly followed by a second, then a third. His heart jolted and stuttered painfully in his chest, making him feel curiously light-headed, and as he grabbed at the arms of the comfy chair he was sitting in, his gnarled arthritic fingers groaned in unison. He stumbled to his feet, fumbled for his zimmer frame and began lurching his body across the room towards the window.
Buggering kids. He'd show them. Old he might be, feeble-minded he was not.
Another stone hit the pane, this time with enough force to chip the glass.
A red mist clouded his vision.
He'd had enough. He changed course. Turned his back on the window and headed for his bedroom.
...if you saw everything when your eye flicked from one point to another you'd feel giddy. That's what they told you at basic training. You must concentrate instead on one thing: your target. Focus your soul. Focus your mind. Focus your eye. Aim. Shoot. Kill. And he did. Relentlessly. His weapon - his MP 43 - became more than his friend. The heavy combination of wood and steel became an extension of his own body. He was revered. A respected member of the SS. A true Nazi...
It had been the boys idea to throw stones at Hitler's window. Of course his name wasn't really Hitler; that's just what they'd nicknamed him, the stupid old German bastard. The boys had stuffed their pockets with stones and big pebbles from the bit of a beach just down the road, and rounding the bend in the path they'd met a group of girls on their way to school. It hadn't taken much persuasion for the two groups to join forces.
He stood in front of his mirror: a skinny, stoop-shouldered, white-haired old man - eleven days away from his eigthy-ninth birthday - yet the grey uniform made him stand that little bit straighter. Made him lift his shoulders that little bit squarer. Made him push out his chest that little bit further. He grinned and brought the peak of his cap down until it almost touched the bridge of his nose. He clicked his heels together, then grabbed at the zimmer frame as he stumbled backwards, unbalanced. He gave the Nazi salute. A vague memory flashed into his mind...
...they arrived at Stoichev's gate the next afternoon, promptly at 1.30. A band of eager young Nazi's. Ready for orders. Ready to defend. Ready to kill. Ready to die for their Fuhrer. And many did...
He hoisted the gun up - all twelve pounds of it - he'd forgotten just how heavy and unyielding it was. He fumbled a magazine into his hand and clicked it into position. 30 rounds. That should be enough; he slipped another magazine into the deep pocket of his jacket. Just in case.
The MP 43 was set for single fire. Without hesitation he flicked the lever into automatic. He place the rifle with infinite care down on the tray attached to his zimmer frame.
With tight-lipped concentration he shuffled along the narrow hallway. His soul, his mind, and his eye, were focussed on what lay beyond the front door.
His target.
Aim. Shoot. Kill.
If you saw everything when your eye flicked from one point to another you'd feel giddy.
Rounding a bend in the path they'd met a group of girls on their way to school.
A vague memory flashed into his mind.
They arrived at Stoichev's gate the next afternoon.
Here is my offering....
He was watching the early morning news when the first stone hit his window with a resounding crack. Quickly followed by a second, then a third. His heart jolted and stuttered painfully in his chest, making him feel curiously light-headed, and as he grabbed at the arms of the comfy chair he was sitting in, his gnarled arthritic fingers groaned in unison. He stumbled to his feet, fumbled for his zimmer frame and began lurching his body across the room towards the window.
Buggering kids. He'd show them. Old he might be, feeble-minded he was not.
Another stone hit the pane, this time with enough force to chip the glass.
A red mist clouded his vision.
He'd had enough. He changed course. Turned his back on the window and headed for his bedroom.
...if you saw everything when your eye flicked from one point to another you'd feel giddy. That's what they told you at basic training. You must concentrate instead on one thing: your target. Focus your soul. Focus your mind. Focus your eye. Aim. Shoot. Kill. And he did. Relentlessly. His weapon - his MP 43 - became more than his friend. The heavy combination of wood and steel became an extension of his own body. He was revered. A respected member of the SS. A true Nazi...
It had been the boys idea to throw stones at Hitler's window. Of course his name wasn't really Hitler; that's just what they'd nicknamed him, the stupid old German bastard. The boys had stuffed their pockets with stones and big pebbles from the bit of a beach just down the road, and rounding the bend in the path they'd met a group of girls on their way to school. It hadn't taken much persuasion for the two groups to join forces.
He stood in front of his mirror: a skinny, stoop-shouldered, white-haired old man - eleven days away from his eigthy-ninth birthday - yet the grey uniform made him stand that little bit straighter. Made him lift his shoulders that little bit squarer. Made him push out his chest that little bit further. He grinned and brought the peak of his cap down until it almost touched the bridge of his nose. He clicked his heels together, then grabbed at the zimmer frame as he stumbled backwards, unbalanced. He gave the Nazi salute. A vague memory flashed into his mind...
...they arrived at Stoichev's gate the next afternoon, promptly at 1.30. A band of eager young Nazi's. Ready for orders. Ready to defend. Ready to kill. Ready to die for their Fuhrer. And many did...
He hoisted the gun up - all twelve pounds of it - he'd forgotten just how heavy and unyielding it was. He fumbled a magazine into his hand and clicked it into position. 30 rounds. That should be enough; he slipped another magazine into the deep pocket of his jacket. Just in case.
The MP 43 was set for single fire. Without hesitation he flicked the lever into automatic. He place the rifle with infinite care down on the tray attached to his zimmer frame.
With tight-lipped concentration he shuffled along the narrow hallway. His soul, his mind, and his eye, were focussed on what lay beyond the front door.
His target.
Aim. Shoot. Kill.
Friday, 9 April 2010
A Dark Interlude...
The silver beam of moonlight poured through the raggedy hole punched high in the castle's wall, splashing its brilliance down onto the skeleton laid out on the mouldering mattress far below, soaking the fleshless form - skull to toes - with a reviving plethora of life; washing away the scum of death.
Sinews and muscles twisted and writhed over the bones. Skin formed. . crept. . .gave contour and shape to the glistening wet embryonic mass. Fingers nails as sharp and clear as slivers of glass unsheathed with a deadly whisper. Hair, midnight black, sprouted from the bare scalp: grew, grew, grew. Thick and rich. Lips parted, a pink tongue flickered out, wetted away the parchness.
And the eyes - scarlet eyes, dripping with hatred, tainted with revenge - opened...
Sinews and muscles twisted and writhed over the bones. Skin formed. . crept. . .gave contour and shape to the glistening wet embryonic mass. Fingers nails as sharp and clear as slivers of glass unsheathed with a deadly whisper. Hair, midnight black, sprouted from the bare scalp: grew, grew, grew. Thick and rich. Lips parted, a pink tongue flickered out, wetted away the parchness.
And the eyes - scarlet eyes, dripping with hatred, tainted with revenge - opened...
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