My thriller short fiction ebook, The Silent Hills, has been nominated in the Preditors and Editors Readers’ poll.www.critters.org/predpoll/shortstory.shtml I would really appreciate your vote before the Jan 10th  deadline..Here’s a link to the publisher’s site:

www.musapublishing.com/index.php?main_page=product_info&products_id=26

01/12 BREAKING NEWS: I won the general short story category, so huge [...]]]>

My thriller short fiction ebook, The Silent Hills, has been nominated in the Preditors and Editors Readers’ poll.www.critters.org/predpoll/shortstory.shtml I would really appreciate your vote before the Jan 10th  deadline..Here’s a link to the publisher’s site:

www.musapublishing.com/index.php?main_page=product_info&products_id=26

The cover story

 

01/12 BREAKING NEWS: I won the general short story category, so huge thanks to anyone who voted for me!

I understand, as much as an observer ever can, how significant today is for the American psyche. It is a time of remembrance and sorrow, and perhaps anger at the scars of history. I wonder too whether it is a time of forgiveness?

I say this because I’m acutely [...]]]>

I understand, as much as an observer ever can, how significant today is for the American psyche. It is a time of remembrance and sorrow, and perhaps anger at the scars of history. I wonder too whether it is a time of forgiveness?

I say this because I’m acutely aware in my own country, Britain, that wars have been something that partly defines us, both for ourselves and for the world beyond. I’m not sure what letting go means, but I do believe that part of the grieving process – because I think that’s what we’re talking about here – is learning to move on. Not denying the past and what was lost, but acknowledging it and finding a way to live better because of it.

This year marked the first time that there were no WWI veterans at the Cenotaph in London on Armistice Day. Gradually, ineffably, the generations pass and those of us who remain live partially in their shadow. We ought not to forget what went before, and we ought to live more meaningfully in that realization.

My family is of mixed stock – our mum’s parents came to the UK from Poland before WWII. I grew up hearing some in the family swearing never to forget or forgive. Others believed that progress was both possible and required from the next generation. I think it’s only as I’ve got older that I can start to appreciate not just the global horror of war, but also the personal impact.

You’ll read, today, a poignant piece from Gary that speaks of Pearl Harbour. I just wanted you all to know that, though it may not be quite the same pain and regret, the rest of the world – all of it – knows how that feels as well.

I know, Thanksgiving went by and I barely said a word. I’ve been pondering the great questions:

Who do flammable and inflammable mean the same thing?

Who did put the bomp…

Who knows where the time goes? (Sandy Denny, that’s who.)

And I’ve been thinking about the strange dance [...]]]>

Thorn and Derek - Crock Hunters Extraordinaire

I know, Thanksgiving went by and I barely said a word. I’ve been pondering the great questions:

Who do flammable and inflammable mean the same thing?

Who did put the bomp…

Who knows where the time goes? (Sandy Denny, that’s who.)

And I’ve been thinking about the strange dance between Art on the one hand and Business on the other.

Here’s an interview I wrote, where a Limey met a Floridian:

alongthewritelines.blogspot.com/2011/11/artful-business.html

In case I forget when the time comes: Merry Christmas!

Emotionally, physically, and culturally, I live a million miles from New York City. But I, like the other two hundred fifty million Americans, was there on the morning of September 11, 2011.

We, all two hundred fifty million of us, were there and stood and looked up in confusion [...]]]>

Emotionally, physically, and culturally, I live a million miles from New York City. But I, like the other two hundred fifty million Americans, was there on the morning of September 11, 2011.

We, all two hundred fifty million of us, were there and stood and looked up in confusion and disbelief when the first plane hit the North Tower. Then, as the shock began to fade into reality, we fell back into confusion and disbelief when the second plane hit the South Tower. Tears filled our eyes as we watched the souls of the innocent workers in the towers and the passengers on the two jets; men, women, and children, as they rose above the carnage, gained their wings and ascended into the glory of heaven.

We wrung our hands and stood in astonishment at the news there were other jets in the air, turned into missiles by radical extremists bent on the destruction of our American way of life. We cried and prayed for the heroes of Flight 93 as they voted to give their lives to protect other lives, lives of people they did not know. And we cried and prayed again at the loss of life on Flight 77 that was crashed into the Pentagon.

We stood together, holding hands in one long chain across America, One Nation, Under God…

Then, we bowed our heads and prayed. And when we finished our prayer, we raised our heads, our flags and our fists and we yelled at the top of our lungs, “SOME SON OF A BITCH IS GOING TO PAY FOR THIS!”

And he DID!

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

From my regular blog across the pond….

The one thing you can say for certain about words is that no two people use them the same way. They are symbols for understanding something and they are open to interpretation.

For anyone who wants to write comedy, this is surely [...]]]>

From my regular blog across the pond….

It only took a couple of words...

The one thing you can say for certain about words is that no two people use them the same way. They are symbols for understanding something and they are open to interpretation.

For anyone who wants to write comedy, this is surely a blessed state of affairs, bestowing upon us homonyms, alliteration and a host of other goodies. For any other form of writing – and writer – it suggests that we keep on our toes.

The internet abounds with stories of Advertising geniuses who failed to spot the meaning of a catchy name or the translation of the name in a different language. And yes, I know that the word ‘internet’ also translates as ‘urban myth’, but some of those tales are true:

www.snopes.com/business/market/incubus.asp

I was at a writer’s meeting yesterday, where we gather together, read and critique one another’s work-in-progess and eat well. Warren was trying his damnedest (love that word!) to get a point across to me about ‘voice’ and I just couldn’t get my head around it. In the end, it all boiled down to using a metaphor that made sense to me. One could argue that we each speak our own dialect.

Content and Context – the Romulus and Remus of good writing – can sometimes produce minor classics, such as this job ad that might be suitable for a gerbil with a 50 wpm typing speed.

But how do they use the mouse?

I also found this recently, which rather speaks for itself.

Erm...

I recently contracted with an e-publisher for a short story of mine and we are now going through a joint edit. It’s fascinating to see how my words are interpreted and their insights into how that story can be improved for an international market. One word that I’d taken as commonplace turns out to be Middle English and not used in the US at all. Go figure!

There is a huge difference between writing for yourself and writing for your reader.

Hi gang,

While Thorn is locked out of the digital citadel, I thought I’d share my latest blog post. See what you think…

Creative thinking and the use of the imagination are often hailed as two of the secrets to productivity, originality and a whole bunch [...]]]>

Every writer wants to get a head.

Hi gang,

While Thorn is locked out of the digital citadel, I thought I’d share my latest blog post. See what you think…

Creative thinking and the use of the imagination are often hailed as two of the secrets to productivity, originality and a whole bunch of other ‘alities’ (except banality). Most people can remember a time when, as children, we would play as characters from TV, the cinema or books, or even from our own imaginings.

I’m sure I’m not alone (it would be interesting to do a poll) in still remembering some of those characters even now, as an older child in my forties. I may have been a little unusual though in also having subsidiary characters and subplots as well.

One of the highlights of corporate project meetings, for me, was during the Ideas phase when we would brainstorm scenarios (before brainstorming became thought showers and after it had reverted, last I’d heard). Apart from the endless pleasure of calling out the first thing that came into my head – knowing that the scribe was duty bound to record everything, no matter how seemingly nonsensical – there was also the opportunity to try on different viewpoints and approaches. One way of achieving that by playing a part – designer, engineer, user, marketeer, customer, etc.

Of course, however much we may invent a character – whether it’s in writing or for a specific function (first date, interview, new identity), there is always an element of us in there somewhere. And that element reveals something about us. In the case of some project meetings, it probably revealed my desire to do something different. Persona non gratis, you might say (unless you had a classical education).

I was thumbing through an old notebook recently and discovered a monologue, written from an invented character’s viewpoint. Like the very best of first draft material, it was written at a gallop, with very little filtering going on – just a voice and its ideas rampaging across the page. It never made it to a second draft because I couldn’t find a use for it, in anything I was working on at the time. What comes to mind now is a surly patriarch, trying to instil wisdom while his apprentice struggles to grasp what he’s really talking about.

The tyranny of time is the tyranny of the mind. Its currency is certainty and inflexibility. Blinded desire is its ally. To be free we must free ourselves, purge our fixed expectations and let go of long held and cherished perspectives. Lose ouselves in the void to emerge cleansed, victorious and liberated.

Peace isnt merely the absence of conflict. It is the conditions in which confict is unable to flourish. Peace, like conflict, is a harvest. The ground must be prepared, tended and nurtured. The seeds must be planted long before the reaping and the crop attended to. And when the harvest has been gathered, what reminds must be ploughed back to resume the cycle.

Creativity requires us to make contact with that inspirational spark and to let its mystical flame engulf us. It is a process of connection and reception, and can be learned.

What we are each here to fulfil is the expression of our own essence. The courage to pur our souls into the cup of experience and drink it back in a banquet of becoming.

Everything you have felt, have known have dreamed – all lies within you. Ready to serve as your guide, your warning and your inspiration.

Lift yourself free from your burdens. Set the baggage of your past and the imagined future to one side. Rest at the roadside and wait. Is it yet too late to change your journey?

Okay, so it’s a few days early and it’s not even about the [...]]]>

Okay, so it’s a few days early and it’s not even about the US really and you’re probably not that interested in what Churchill may or may not have inferred when he spoke about a possible United States of Europe, not that long after WWII.

But… leaving all that aside (as I always say, never let the truth get in the way of a good story…), the attached graphic comes from As Above So Below magazine which I write (or wrote, depending on whether we produce another edition) with David French. I took the US Declaration of Independence as inspiration and then went all Tom Cruise on your constitutional sofa. Only in a good way and without all the whooping.

Anyhow, I just wanted to wish you all a great July 4th weekend and to assure you that I won’t be marching up Main Street in my red tunic. For one thing, they don’t make ‘em that small and for another , those fabrics really itch, you know?

You can see a clickable version of the graphic on my own trusty blog at:

alongthewritelines.blogspot.com/2011/07/co-dependence-weekend.html

Happy Holidays and remember to keep writing and reading!

Derek

Brit-over-the-water

With the pond behind him, Derek goes forth on July

Proposed site of the new AWwYP telescope and semaphore.

Hello and how-r-you?

I’m currently frying my noggin while editing my transatlantic comedy (ish) novel Scars & Stripes (see what I did there…) from a first person to a third person point of view. Consequently, pretty much every I [...]]]>

Hello and how-r-you?

I’m currently frying my noggin while editing my transatlantic comedy (ish) novel Scars & Stripes (see what I did there…) from a first person to a third person point of view. Consequently, pretty much every I becomes a he, except where it’s not meant to be. Think snow blindness, but with letters.

Here’s a blog link with the first ten pages:

alongthewritelines.blogspot.com/2011/06/stand-aside-long-read.html

So, as you can imagine, I’m keen for the occasional distraction although, because my multitasking skills are limited, my mind is still stretched across the Atlantic with a foot in each camp (it’s a lovely image, I agree).

I’ve been reflecting on the common bond between our two nations, so ably demonstrated by Thorn and myself – especially the notion of two countries separated by a common language! All of us see the world through the lens of our own experience and conditioning. Small wonder then that ideas develop which have little bearing on reality. I give you, from this excellent site, 15 myths Americans generally believe about Britain. And see what you think of the comments too!

www.anglotopia.net/anglophilia/top-15-myths-americans-generally-believe-about-britain/#comment-95429

This is a transplant from my blog so you know I’m not incommunicado. No, I’m in Cornwall, which is different.

What child doesn’t like the idea of living on a tropical island, palms swaying in the breeze and pale sand to run your toes through? Cue music… Add [...]]]>

This is a transplant from my blog so you know I’m not incommunicado. No, I’m in Cornwall, which is different.

Me, lying in wait for some good ideas.

What child doesn’t like the idea of living on a tropical island, palms swaying in the breeze and pale sand to run your toes through? Cue music… Add to that a dash of mystery and hidden treasure, and you have all the makings of a classic children’s book.*

Or failing that, a week away to recharge the batteries, where all of the above still hold. (Okay, the Isles of Scilly have a sub-tropical microclimate, but let’s not quibble.)

The IoS lie just 28 miles west of the British mainland and some say they are the remains of the lost land of Lyonnesse. Five islands are inhabited (I know, that sounds adventurous just on its own) and the main island St Mary’s can be reached by helicopter, ferry or plane. We once took the two and a half hour ferry crossing and it was rougher than a cat’s tongue coated in industrial sandpaper. I flew back by helicopter alone, praising the god of aviation.

The plane is our preferred mode of transport and takes off from a grassy airfield on a cliff. We fly at around 1000 feet and the journey takes a mere 15 minutes. From St Mary’s it’s a short boat trip to St Agnes, having taken my trusty ginger capsules beforehand! Okay, that’s enough of a plug for the tourist industry.

The main attraction of St Agnes is the lack of distraction. Unplugged from email, a reliable mobile phone signal and familiar routines, a transformation quickly takes place. I find myself actually writing with a pen again – usually up to 12,000 words in the week we stay there. And I read more – the cottage is stacked with books. Had it not been for St Agnes I would never have encountered Raymond Carver or Elmore Leonard, never dipped into Margaret Atwood or tried yet another Anne Tyler book and still found it didn’t speak to me. And every book I ingest changes my writing in subtle ways, if only temporarily. I take on other voices and sometimes they stick around to join the throng.

* I mentioned mystery and treasure, and I try to keep my promises. The mystery I pondered most – apart from how to pay the bills when we get back – was how all these writers found their voice and their niche. There they rest upon the shelves, jostling for arm room – the genre specific and the literary; and all of them have made the novelist’s journey from ‘nagging away at your brain’ midnight idea to the finished page-flicking product. Best of all perhaps is that they all approached it differently. other writers can only draw strength from that. As Brian Keaney has reminded me, there is no magic formula. You write your best work and then you try to place it somewhere. The End. Or at least, The End when you choose to give up and leave the arena.

The mystery then becomes less about how to achieve something and more about why one takes the path they have. So I spent time looking at where I’ve put my creative energy and the projects that have either yielded little fruit or none at all. Surrounded by the sea and the constantly shifting breeze, I find my thoughts mould to the unceasing rhythms.

Sometimes it’s good to let things go and move on, to stand on the shore and wave goodbye to those paper rafts we launched with such fierce ambition. For me that has meant relinquishing a humour column in a Canadian magazine because economic reality is more important than the cachet of a line on my CV. Even though the tide will eventually submerge them, it’s good to know where we draw our lines in the sand!

And for the writers that I know, the greatest mystery is always ‘what next?’. As a friend of mine in California used to say, “Life is a mystery to be lived and not a problem to be solved.” Which, the internet informs me, is probably a quote from Danish philosopher Soren Kierkgaard.

* I also promised treasure. There were two kinds of treasure on the trip, each tangible in its way. The first was a story – the kind that arrive as a pleasant surprise, fully formed and racing through your mind as you grasp at the rushing mist. A folk tale of sorts, about the plight of mermaids and the children they leave behind. The second treasure was the discovery of a box, while out walking. A tin box – the sort a child might keep their special things in (see the delightful film Amelie) – and containing a letter of some kind and some pearls. The tin in a plastic bag that also contained a plastic angel, hidden underneath a rock. I found it by a combination of serendipity and clumsiness. I didn’t read the letter and put it all back where I found it.

There’s probably a story in all that somewhere, but it’s not one for me at the moment. I’m too busy working out the next chapter of my own adventure as a writer.