John Hoggard

Looking Back...

As the decade clicked over* and we could finally start referring to a decade with a sensible name (no more 'naughties' or 'teens'), I noticed a lot of people on Twitter in the #writingcommunity were posting their achievements. Of course, with no achievements at all, I was pleased for them, but could easily ignore the trend to share.

And then I got to thinking about what had I actually managed to do since 2010?

So, I compiled a tweet, I was surprised, and so, I have decided to expand upon it here:

Nothing happened from a writing/getting published point-of-view until 2012.

In June 2012 I won a competition run by Biting Dog Press, Science in Fiction, for a while my story was available to read, but the post has gone and Biting Dog don't seem to have updated their website for sometime (2014 according to the copyright notice, so I'm unlikely to take them up on their prize, a free editorial of a novel).

In July 2012, I had my first piece of flash fiction published on the Paragraph Planet website:      

1st piece of flash fiction published on Paragraph Planet website

1st piece of flash fiction published on Paragraph Planet website

I would go on to have another 60 Paragraphs published on that site, the last sneaking in just three days before the end of 2019:      

Final piece of flash fiction published in 2019

Final piece of flash fiction published in 2019

Also in 2012, in November, I had a short story, Baby Babble, included in the Fantastic Books Publishing anthology, Fusion.

Finally, in December 2012, WordWatchers released their own Anthology, Out of Time, and I had a story, We are the Stranded, included in that.

2012 was a really good year.

I continued to have stories published on Paragraph Planet throughout 2013 (nine to be precise) and 2014 (eight). Also in 2014 I had two pieces of flash fiction included in the charity anthology, Ten Deadly Tales.2015 came and went and I managed to get almost one story a month onto Paragraph Planet (eleven in total).

In 2016, two more anthologies from Fantastic Books Publishing, were released, Synthesis, and this one included two of my stories, All in the Mind  and The House and 666which included my 'Highly Commended' story, Headhunted.

In November 2017, the Role-Playing Game, Elite Encounters, by Dave 'Selezen Lake' Hughes was released and included five pieces of flash fiction written by me to act as chapter introductions/scene setters. As Elite Encounters was an officially Licensed product from Frontier Developments it's a good feeling to finally have something that is part of the official material of a game that I have loved since 1985.

2017 was also an 'interesting' year for me, having finished my novel in March that year and expecting to crack on with the edits post-critique from the wonderful writers in WordWatchers, I hit a wall in my writing. In fact, I stopped writing almost completely. I was finally diagnosed with depression in November 2017 and despite counselling and medical intervention, I didn't start writing again until the end of January 2018.

In January 2018 I wrote the short story, Elemental Sacrifice, at the annual WordWatchers Writers Retreat. Although the story wouldn't be published until July 2019, in the anthology, The Forge: Fire and Ice, in July 2019, its journey began there, and so did my slow and steady recovery from the worst of my depression.

Also in 2018, I had a piece of flash fiction accepted into a new Science Fiction magazine called, The Martian Magazine, but unfortunately that magazine never made it to publication. I did however, actually manage to get paid in 2018, a whole $10, for a story that appeared in the anthology, ChronosThis is the first time I've been paid for anything I've written in a very long time (pun intended).

Which brings us to 2019. As mentioned already, The Forge: Fire and Ice was released during this year. I managed to have four pieces published on Paragraph Planet, but that's OK, I was actually, finally, concentrating on getting my novel rewritten, which I'm very pleased to say I managed. Indeed, it is currently with the rest of WordWatchers and a few Beta Readers even as I type this. Its critique is just a few weeks away.

So actually, looking back, 2010 to 2019 hasn't been too bad from a writing point-of-view, I'm certainly not giving up the day job, but that's OK, I really like my day job (for the most part). As for 2020 and going forward, well, I plan to release my novel come what may. I'm going to take a tentative stab at offering it to a few people I've met in the Industry along the way, I'll show it to the excellent guys at Fantastic Books, but if there's no takers, I'm happy with it enough now, and confident enough in my own writing, to self-publish.

It will be interesting to revisit this log in a year's time to see if I held myself to the above commitment...I guess that just leaves me to wish you all the very best in 2020, whatever targets you've set yourself, large or small, I hope you achieve them. 

* for the pedants - technically the next decade doesn't begin until 2021, but we've lost that fight...

You don't have to be mad to be a writer...

I haven't really talked about what happened to me back in December 2017.

It's taken me quite some time (and quite a bit of therapy) to work it out for myself which means I can now cut to the chase and tell you that I had a breakdown. I was signed off work for three months with depression and spent another three months gradually building back up to working full time.

During most of 2017 I wrote not a word, save vomiting up the odd sanity preserving (or so I thought) piece of flash fiction. Each was a little darker than the last. Each a little harder to write.

Just before Christmas 2017 I started counselling with a fantastic lady called Julie.For six weeks I cried like I have never cried before.

Crying is underrated - it's incredibly cathartic.

Julie asked me what I wanted to get out of her sessions - I didn't have an immediate answer, but eventually we got to the point where I knew what I wanted. I wanted my head to be empty of the noise that filled my quiet place and I wanted to be able to write again.

It seemed impossible. I could not see how I would ever find my quiet place again, my brain a constant, torturing buzz of angst and doubt and failure.

Julie knew I had my writer's retreat just after our penultimate session together. Somehow, she got me to a place where the noise was at least subdued. A slim chance that I might be able to write something at the retreat. I didn't know what, just something...

I decided that I was going to try and write a story for the Fantastic Books Publishing Fire and Ice Fantasy Anthology Competition. Somewhere, amongst the dusty shelves of stories long abandoned and jars filled with the pickled remnants of old ideas there was a flicker of life. There was an old story, a really old story, that was the seed for a novel that I started when I was sixteen (but never finished), joined WordWatchers twelve years ago intending to resurrect (I never have). It was a story about Fire and Ice and, to get away from the buzz, I went back to my childhood quiet place and there was the story - dusty, tatty, neglected, but still alive, waiting for some love and attention.

So, amazingly, I wrote that story. I'm a much better writer now and I wrote the 1500 words over the weekend and was confident enough to read it out to the rest of the group on our last night at the retreat. We literally told stories around a roaring fire...

The story was well received, sensible suggestions were made. Edits were duly undertaken and then, with nothing to lose, I submitted it to the competition ...... then ... nothing. Months, indeed a year went by before I found out story had indeed made the longlist for the anthology. I waited with baited breath - would I make the final cut? It would take a couple more months, but yes, I would be in the anthology.

My edits came back from the FBP's editors at the end of April. They were reasonable and very doable. Unfortunately they arrived exactly when I was also struggling with my mental health again. I procrastinated for a whole month. Eventually I begged for, and was granted a one week extension to the deadline for the return of the edits and, reminding myself of something important I had promised myself, I finished the edits one Saturday morning a few weeks ago.

So, that's it. The Anthology 'The Forge' will be available in early August 2019, over 18 months since I wrote, 'Elemental Sacrifice'.

I'll be buying the usual number of copies to have on the bookshelf at home, but I'll be buying two extra copies - one for my GP who has been amazing during the last 18 months (and only discovered I was a writer during our more in-depth heart-to-hearts in his surgery) and, of course, a copy for Julie, who got me writing again, when I truly believed such a thing was not possible.

Before I go, I'd also like to say that I could not have done any of this without the support of my amazing family and without my brilliant friends in WordWatchers.

I love you all.

Last week (at time of writing) it was Mental Health Awareness Week - but every week should be Mental Health Awareness Week - we don't talk about it enough, it comes with all sorts of negative connotations, but, at the end of the day, Mental Health is just 'Health'.

Take care of yourself and, as always, thank you for your time.         

UPDATE (24th July 2019): 'The Forge: Fire and Ice' was released on July 14th in Paperback: http://www.wordwatchers.net/books/the-forge-fire-and-ice/ 

Author John Hoggard is smiling while holding up a copy of the Sci-Fan Anthology 'The Forge: Fire and Ice'

Author John Hoggard is smiling while holding up a copy of the Sci-Fan Anthology 'The Forge: Fire and Ice'

Post Retreat

So, it is Sunday February 3rd. One week ago it was our last night at Mill House Retreat in Devon.

The fire was roaring and we gathered in the main room to talk and to read. We talked about lots of interesting technical things related to writing. The use of the passive voice, the five act structure, our plans for the group in the year ahead...

Then we each agreed to read something to the rest of the group that we had written over the weekend. I think this is my favourite part of the weekend.

Pam got us going, reading a beautiful piece about using writing as therapy. As somebody who has a child who has used 'art therapy' as a coping mechanism for their anxiety and depression, Pam's reading really resonated with me. I really hope she turns it into a blog and you get to read it too, because it's wonderful.

I'm not sure who went next, but I think it was Julian, who read from a new chapter on his current WIP that he's been working on while on the Curtis Brown Course in London for the last six months. It was a wonderful insight into how the novel has developed since we critiqued it as a group last year. I like the change in direction and the reasons Julian has made it. There was some feedback from the group - positive plus some suggestions that Julian said he would take away and ponder.

I will pretend Helen went next who read from something very new for her - a children's story. Written from scratch over the weekend. At 1200 words long, she read the whole story out and it was engaging and fun and we can all see the potential for a long running series of stories from this single idea. It was great to hear Helen doing something new in the run up to her starting a new writing course with her main WIP.

I think I might have gone next - I read three pieces of Flash Fiction I'd written/rewritten/remastered from snippets of ideas I had trapped in the amber of my 75-word stories that I often submit to Paragraph Planet. All were well received, I particularly liked Helen's reaction to my final story about a werewolf. The thought of her expression will have me smiling for a long time to come. Of course the group made some very sensible suggestions and I edited the stories the following morning (just before leaving the retreat) and two days later I had submitted the entire Flash Fiction Anthology to the competition I'd been hoping to enter.

I have to say here that trying to chose from well over 150 pieces of flash fiction and then to down select, re-edit, re-write or just abandon some, to make what I hope is a coherent collection of Flash Fiction was much harder than I thought it would be. And, other than this blog, I haven't written a word since I submitted the collection, as my tank of creativity is empty and only filling slowly.

Right - back to the evening. John Potter read next (I'm pretty sure). He gave us a chapter that contained a thrilling, fast paced fight scene from his futuristic but low-tech WIP. The group's only criticism of the piece was that the fight was a little too long. John agreed and, like me, editing that section before he too, finally departed the retreat the next day.

Finally, Maurice, who has put himself in the unenviable position of having two novel writing projects on the go. The piece he read out that evening was from the first novel he started. As ever, Maurice is the master storyteller, he has a knack in both his writing and reading to spin you a yarn that on one level is somehow filled with the mundane and yet is absolutely real and engrossing. I'm really looking forward to reading the whole novel when it's finished.

So, that's it - a blog written almost as quickly as the weekend seemed to pass.I am very lucky to be in such an amazing group and to feel completely safe reading to them (something that I had only finished a few minutes before reading it!), knowing that an points or criticisms will be aimed entirely at making the story better.

Mill House Retreats is a balm for the bruised writer's soul and ego. It also seems to do the group as a whole a great deal of good too - we always seem to leave more invigorated, keener, with just a smidgen more self-belief our unofficial tagline - 'Serious about Writing'.

A retreat, but no surrender

This time next week I will be at Mill House Retreat a beautiful old house in Devon. This will be the second time we will have been there and almost exactly a year since we were there last. Sometimes it's hard to believe that a year has really gone past. In some ways, so much has changed, and in others so little...

In the month before the last retreat, a few weeks before Christmas, I finally admitted that I had depression. It was not the Christmas present I had been expecting. I was off work and at my lowest ebb. I had stopped writing and I didn't see the point in going to the retreat.

My family and my fellow WordWatchers were amazing, they rallied round and got me to the retreat. The atmosphere of Mill House was calming and soothing and over the weekend I tentatively started to write again - unsure if I actually had a story in me - but at least willing to give it a go.

I wrote a story, themed around 'fire and ice' for a competition that my publisher, Fantastic Books Publishing, was running at the time. I wrote the story - I read it out to my fellow WordWatchers on our final evening, sitting round a roaring fire. I could not have asked for a better scene, atmosphere or audience. Responses to the story were positive, suggestions to tweak it were insightful and were, over the next week or so, made.

I submitted the story.

It was long listed.

I was as surprised as I was delighted. I could still write!

The story is currently in a state of limbo since FBP haven't announced how many of the long listed stories will actually make it into the Anthology. I really hope I do make it into the anthology, not for me, not really, but because I told my counsellor that I just wanted to write again. She helped me achieve that. I'd really like to present her with a copy, as a thank-you, for being my guide from the darkness back into the light.

So, throughout 2018 I 'ticked over' - low dose antidepressants, practising my CBT (Cognitive Behavioural Therapy) and lots of walking. I presumed I was doing OK. I wasn't writing much, but I had several short stories accepted for publication and I had half a dozen 75-worders published on Paragraph Planet.

I took a chunk of November and all of December off work to spend time with my family, in particular my wife, Vee, who was recovering from major spinal surgery. I mostly ignored work, I cut back on my time on Facebook (and was so much better for doing so) and we, as a family, had a lovely Christmas.

I returned to work at the beginning of January to discover, in my absence, a course that I ran, that had been cancelled the year before, was no longer cancelled and that I had less than a month to get it organised to be run again. That's when I discovered that depression, like many other illnesses, isn't cured, it just goes into remission. I felt overwhelmed again, heard the little voices whispering the excuses I could make to not go to work today, or not even get out of bed.

I went back to my GP immediately. We had a really good chat. He doubled my antidepressants (still a low dose, but, also, still doubled) and wants me to get a refresher on my CBT, to make sure I haven't picked up any bad habits over the last year.

So, here we are again. The WordWatchers retreat is upon us and I'm depressed again. I'm nowhere near as unwell as I was last year and I'm much better equipped to cope, but this blog is the most I've written in several months. So, I have set myself a target. There's a flash fiction anthology competition being run by EllipsisZine which has a closing date a few days after the retreat. I intend to enter that competition.Wish me luck! I think I might need it.As ever, I thank-you for your time.

National Flash Fiction Day

This isn't actually a blog, which, considering how long it has been since any member of WordWatchers wrote a blog, that's rather embarrassing, however, that's a discussion for another day.

Today, June 16th, is National Flash Fiction Day - or it is, here in the UK - and looking at the links to the flood of tweets with that or the #NFFD hashtag on Twitter has been a delight to follow.

So, this all ties in rather nicely with the fact that I recently submitted 3 drabbles to a new Science Fiction magazine, The Martian Magazine and the editor, Eric Fomley, chose one of them to be included in the forthcoming run of the magazine. He's actually paying for the stories too - 10¢ a word, so my 100 word drabble is worth $10. It's been a while since I was actually paid for my writing and I forgot what a lovely feeling you get from the phrase 'I'll send a contract over' appearing in an email. Also, because Eric is actually paying for work, he's trying to raise funds with an Indiegogo campaign, so he can publishing more stories, more often and pay more writers for their efforts.

So, I have two 'spare' drabbles and I have decided that today, of all days, would be a perfectly reasonable day to share them. 

Enjoy. 

I hope.

It’s a Dangerous Place

Somewhere en route between the Earth and Moon a transport shuttle transmits the briefest of Mayday calls. Two rescue ships power away from the nearest orbital station and head for its last known position. Against the pinpricked blackness of space, a bloom of orange appears. It expands like the time-lapsed swelling of a mushroom cap. Moments later ribbons of swirling fire erupt from the perfect sphere. They are as beautiful as they are deadly. The fires flare and fade to nothing. Sensors indicate that there is nothing left to be rescued. The ships return to dock, crews offering silent prayers.

Life on Mars

The shutter winds noisily upwards, filling the small, metallic room with a pale, red light. I glance at the clock beside the bed noting both Earth and Martian time. The sun is already quite high in the sky, but it’s still early morning for the base as we slowly become accustomed to the length of a day here. It used to be strange, thinking that I would die on Mars, but I look to my side, where Rachel still sleeps, and I realise I will live here, and eventually, like all humans, no matter where they are, I will die.

As ever, thank you for your time,

Elite Encounters

Elite Encounters RPG

Elite Encounters RPG

Almost exactly four years ago (November 2013), I wrote a blog (here) about my trip to Manchester to meet up with a bunch of people who had all fallen in love with the computer game Elite or one of its many, later, derivatives. Well, a lot of time has passed since then. Elite: Dangerous was released in November 2014, just in time to still be '30 years since the original Elite was released'.

My friend, Drew Wagar, who I knew through one of those derivative games, Oolite, released Elite: Dangerous Reclamation, via my own publisher, Fantastic Books Publishing. Indeed, Dan Grubb, who co-owns FBP with his wife Gabi, had never heard of Elite until, Drew, plus a host of other authors (including BBC Click Tech reporter Kate Russell) produced a brilliant collection of themed special edition Elite: Dangerous Novels. Dan has now fully embraced the Elite: Dangerous family and his own Con, FantastiCon, is one of the many highlights of the Elite: Dangerous social calendar.

Drew has gone on to write and publish the only authorised follow-up novel to the Elite: Dangerous game, Elite: Dangerous Premonition. I can see my own copy sitting on the coffee table from where I am sitting writing this. This novel is rather unique in the sense that events in the game determined the final outcome of the book. If the main protagonist Salome survived an event in the game she'd survive in the book, if not, she wouldn't...

Throughout all of this, I had a small vested interest in the fictional world of Elite: Dangerous - the Elite Encounters Role-Playing Game. My friend Dave 'Selezen Lake' Hughes, like Drew, had raised, via Kickstarter, the funds to buy a Writers Pack during the Elite: Dangerous Kickstarter. Now, I didn't feel I could write a whole ED novel and so had not considered trying to raise the funds to buy a Writers Pack. I had also missed out on the opportunity to buy my place in an Elite: Dangerous Short Story anthology when Frontier Developments announced that the anthology couldn't have any more than fifteen short stories in it. However, there was still the Elite Encounters Role-Playing Game. Dave had offered a limited number of slots to write a drabble (a 100-word short story) for the game and as you know, if there's one thing I love, and I'm good at, is flash fiction.

So, I invested in a slot for a drabble, knowing it would also go through the Frontier Developments vetting process, and that if Elite Encounters was signed off, then, so would my drabble. I'd be 'in', I'd have some of my fiction weaved into the Elite Universe - my dream since I'd read Robert Holdstock's, The Dark Wheel, way back in 1985, when I was just 14yrs old.

So, time passed, quite a lot of time actually. Elite Encounters was a massive project and Dave was working on it pretty much completely on his own. I was still writing my flash and so offered Dave a few more Elite themed drabbles that I had written, just in case he need some padding here and there amongst his own words. He took them and filed them away. Then Dave announced via Kickstarter that the project had properly stalled, his 'Lore', the backbone of the Role-Playing Game, reaching back into the original history of the original game had to go, Frontier Developments no longer considered it to be canon, or anything to do with the Elite: Dangerous universe. I was heart-broken for Dave (as were many other old-timers) and figured that would be the end of my drabbles too - figuring they wouldn't pass this new scrutiny and attitude from Frontier Developments.

Dave, pressed on, slashing hundreds of pages, hundreds of thousands of words of the old lore and content from the game. Eventually, finally, Frontier Developments said 'yes'.

Five of my six drabbles survived and are in the game.

At the time of writing this blog, the game has been available for purchase for three days. It's happened. It's real and for my friend Dave and all his hard, hard work and, no doubt, many tears, I am so very delighted to be even a tiny part of this amazing piece of work.

As those involved in the fiction side of Elite (Dangerous) fiction say - 'Write on Commander'

o7

John 'CMDR DaddyHoggy' Hoggard 

Sci-Fi London Flash Competition

At the end of March 2017 I signed up for a short story competition. It was a competition that involved two of my favourite things in writing: Flash and Science Fiction.

The premise was relatively straight forward: At 10am on April 8th, the Sci-Fi London guys would send me a title, a line of dialogue and a scientific premise to weave into a story. The story could be no longer than 2000 words and would need to be submitted by 10am on Monday, 10th.

Brilliant, thought I, two days to write 2000 words? Not a problem.

On April 6th, my boiler blew up and threw the house and my plans for the weekend into total chaos. It was not looking good for my entry to the competition.

April 8th duly came round and my Title and other details became available. The title was, in my mind, utterly uninspiring, indeed, it made no sense. 'Flow Me All' was the title I'd been given. Throw in a truly awful line of dialogue and I was pretty much done with the whole sorry idea. In frustration, I went outside to dig my garden up for the next four hours (having promised the guys coming to fit the new boiler that I would clear it sufficiently of brambles, ivy and jasmine so that they could lay a new gas pipe).

Turns out four hours of digging, scraping, cursing, being cut and jabbed gives the subconscious mind a chance to muse on the writing challenge it had been presented with. I came in from the garden, cleaned my aching hands and dumped a short story into my computer. 1800 words in less than 2hrs. I went about the rest of my day, came back to it later that evening and edited it as best I could. It crept up to 1850 words and, knowing I didn't really have time to fiddle, and fearing more boiler frustrations would make me forget to send it, I packaged it up and emailed it.

Sci-Fi London received over 400 short story entries and, at the time of writing, have not yet presented their short-list. I'm really not expecting to be on it. I was just really pleased that I managed to come up with something in response to an uninspiring title. I'm pleased with the story, especially given all the constraints imposed by life and the competition itself.

So here it is, 'Flow me All'.

(I'll let you guess, what the line of dialogue was that I had to include)

FLOW ME ALL 

Dan waited patiently in the Reception of Unit 4. He stood with his arms behind his back staring at the name that glistened in the Hologlass:

Nicola Jefferies – Head of Sanitation.

He wondered how long she would make him wait today. Four minutes was her average. He turned his head slightly, catching the eye of the girl behind her desk. She dipped her head immediately, refocusing her vision on the data filling her eyepiece.

“You are distracting my trainee,” said the wall mounted ‘Bot, swinging its sensor in his direction. “Can you desist please?”

“Desist from being male?”

The door slid open before the ‘Bot could respond.

Four minutes. She was getting predictable.

He stepped inside and the door slid shut behind him. He was not offered a chair. He wouldn’t have taken it even if it had been.

“You know why you’re here of course?” she said as Dan stood to attention.

Dan nodded. The question was rhetorical. He noted the modulation to her voice, she’d taken another enhancement perhaps? Sub-vocal transmitter? To go with her cybernetic eye from last year? Perhaps she was worried about an up-and-coming junior? Or a new ‘Bot? He’d heard the Series 7 was pretty special.

The air between them lit up in response to a tiny click she made in her throat, confirming his suspicions about the enhancement. The image was a 3D map of the city. It panned and zoomed, bringing them down to street level. Street and ‘Bot sensor feeds of the incident were overlaid on the scene, before the view plunged underground, into the old drain and sewer system, where the only useful sensor overlay became that of Dan’s own visor.

In response to another click, time accelerated.

“How long did the chase last?”

Another rhetorical question, but Dan answered it anyway. “One hour and six minutes.”

It was for the six minutes that he was here.

“Getting sloppy in your old age?”

“No. There were more bugs than normal and they’ve changed tactics.”

“Nothing in our studies of them has given us any indication that they have sufficient mental capacity to have ‘tactics’, despite your repeated claims.”

“I’m sure that’s true, and yet, tactics they have, and those tactics have changed.”

She tutted, partially masking another throat click.

They watched the closing scene of the chase. There were minimal additional sensor overlays now. There was little need to have sensors actually in the Flow Me district, at least not official ones. Nobody worried about male-on-male crimes and their sub-dermals tracked and updated their positions to the authorities.

Except in the sewers of course.

The visor feed showed Dan emerging from a drain and running towards a nearby building. The view became unstable as he raced up a fire escape and in through a window on the fourth floor. A bug was still pulling itself out of the toilet bowl when Dan hit it with the containment field. The bug writhed furiously, managing to break free where the field was struggling to mesh with the ceramic of the toilet bowl. Dan had immediately cranked the field up to max and it had collapsed, crushing the bug, squeezing it out through the collapsing mesh like pushing jelly through a colander. Dan’s visor was covered in a sticky innards and the view was killed, both then and in the office now.

“A failed containment and six minutes over our Guaranteed Service Delivery maximum process time.”

“Indeed. I’ve had better days. One small consolation is that the apartment resident, Phil 16, is a former Sanitation Specialist. He seemed to take things rather well.”

“Yes, quite. We have an audio only transcript of his reaction ‘Geez, what the hell did you do to my bathroom, it looks like you exploded the Dulux dog in there.’ Somewhat of an understatement considering we had to send in a level five decontamination team to remove all traces of bug contamination. The City will, of course, be extracting the cost of this from your Awards and Privileges.”

Dan nodded. He performed a quick mental calculation of his current Awards given he’d moved back to Flow Me rather than keep his entitlement of a Main City apartment. He winced internally when he subtracted the value of a level five team from it. Things were going to be tight for a little while. The important thing was, he’d still have enough to keep his boys at their academy, he didn’t want them coming to him in Flow Me until they’d finished their training next year. A partial trained Sanitation Specialist was an expensive nobody.

He let out a slow calming breath as Nicola continued to talk at him.

“You’ve had your medical clearance I see. No additional signs of infection or mutations other than those previously logged it would seem. Phil 16, also given the all clear.” His results and DNA profile flashed up above the desk in the space between Dan and his superior. “His mutations are at acceptable levels too. You do realise that the cost of that will also be deducted from your Awards?”

Dan didn’t, but nodded and smiled anyway.

“Very well. Dismissed.”

*

Dan reached ground level and headed for a transport hub before he remembered his Award situation. He’d have to walk back to Flow Me. If there was an incident, they’d send a Sanitation Unit to his location and pick him up.He kept his eyes straight ahead as he walked. He ignored the stares and the gasps. “A man here? Outrageous!” he heard one female say to her companion. The companion seemed less outraged. He knew that look. Curiosity with a small side order of lustfulness. He was forbidden fruit and the attention made him uncomfortable. Give him a bug any day.

The smell of bugs was strong here. He knew that’s what his mutation was. He knew that’s how he tracked them. That was another reason he’d moved back to Flow Me, no bug smell. The bugs did not live under Flow Me. That made him curious. He’d asked the question several times but they just smiled, as if his little male brain might not be able to cope with the answer, or that he’d asked a question that was so silly in nature that even its very utterance was the source of amusement.

He was grateful for the rain which started as he walked. It emptied the streets, and pulled the smell out of the air and down into the gutters. Down into Bugland.

He preferred it down there. Fewer sensors watching his every move. Down there he wasn’t the inferior. Down there he was untracked and free.It was growing dark as he crossed the park that separated Flow Me from the rest of the city and, as the tree canopy thinned, there was the ‘FLOW ME ALL’ sign, glowing red in the darkness.

Home.

The spacing between the letters and words was jarring. He guessed that was a deliberate choice now. He remembered when it used to say ‘THE FOLLOWING OF MEN IS NOT ALLOWED’

It had fallen into disrepair, only ‘F L OW      ME       ALL’ remained illuminated. It had become a tourist attraction, ‘I got me some Flow me’ street slang for a female who had dared to visit a man for pleasuring in the traditional, biological way, rather than the recommended cerebral stimulation followed by synthetic womb pregnancy if so desired.

Dan had tried that, just the once, despite the woman’s best efforts she’d fallen pregnant, with twins. A month’s worth of illicit Awards as payment had quickly paled into insignificance compared to the costs of keeping two boys at a training academy. He’d had to pay for it of course, the pregnancy had been his fault after all. He had seduced a sweet and innocent young woman the court had declared. That’s not how he remembered it, but his opinion didn’t count for much, then, or now.

He entered his apartment, dumping his wet clothes in the cleaning and drying unit on the way to his small office. He slid back a panel in the wall and removed some cabling, hooking up a small terminal to a socket that looked crudely attached to the cable.

The terminal began to bypass the minimal security on the Dataflow. While his actions were illegal, so was the cable itself. He was grateful that his neighbour in the apartment above was so popular with the ladies. Happy to do their bidding via illicit streaming for the sake of a few Awards and Privileges.

Piggybacking the signal, he jumped across feeds, back-tracing towards Unit 4’s Medical Section. He logged in via a test account he’d found left on the system months ago and began to dig.

DAN 33 SANITATION SPECIALIST

The phrase ‘Sanitation Specialist’ still made Dan smile. He was a specialist in sanitation in the same way an outlawed, old-fashioned butcher had been an animal welfare specialist.

PHIL 16 SANITATION SPECIALIST (RETIRED)

The terminal was struggling with the datafeeds. It was not designed to handle the multi-dimensional datastack, but Dan was getting good at down-selecting data even when he couldn’t see all the menus due to their failure to render in 2D.

He looked at the two DNA profiles, his own and Phil’s. He saw now what he had seen, briefly, in the office. He asked Unit 4’s Medical AI to confirm his suspicions. The Medical AI was happy to oblige.

The chance of Phil 16 not being Dan’s paternal grandfather were so remote, they were effectively zero.

This explained a lot about grandma and the attitude of the family towards her, towards Dan’s father and, when he was old enough to notice, towards Dan himself. Not only had she dared to get pregnant ‘the old fashioned way’ but it would seem Dan’s grandfather, her companion at the time, wasn’t actually his grandfather.

How many Awards, how much power, had his family had to relinquish to keep that one quiet Dan wondered. It would certainly explain their meteoric descent from the upper echelons of the new post-Man world order.

He looked at the DNA data again on the terminal which was trying its best to render it. However poorly that rendering was, the mutation was as obvious as it was identical. Dan had not acquired his bug mutation through an early, on-the-job, scratch or a bite, it had come to him via his grandfather, and that grandfather had been Phil 16. Not a carefully selected synthetic sperm.

Dan wondered if this is why his bloodline was cursed and still producing males.

Bug sniffer and Male-Maker.He disconnected, hiding the terminal before sliding the panel back over the data cable.

He put his clean and dried suit back on. He was heading back to the sewers under Flow Me. There were rats, not bugs, in the sewers here. He was hungry and had a sudden appetite for real meat.

He would manage without his Awards just fine.

Tomorrow, bug incursion notwithstanding, he would pay a visit to Phil 16. They had a lot to catch up on.

Not a blog!

EP_Novel_progression_from_2011

EP_Novel_progression_from_2011

Nope, this definitely isn't a blog, because I don't have time to write a blog, because I'm supposed to be editing my novel, and if I'm writing a blog, then I can't be editing the novel can I?OK, maybe this is a blog, but just a little one.So, why am I here? Well, on Facebook, yesterday, it reminded me that, six years ago I promised, on Facebook, that I would finish my novel on the day of my 40th birthday.

I even produced an Excel Spreadsheet, showing the wiggly line of my daily word count against my projected, estimated end point of 120,000 words. So, here I am, 2017, six years on. I didn't finish the novel before my 40th birthday, or my 41st, or 42nd. I got stuck at 95,000 words and sat on my hands for over a year before working my way, painfully, to a massively overwritten 145,000 word total. Then, faced with a monumental edit, I panicked and ran away from the novel for another year, despite having fantastically useful feedback from my fellow WordWatchers and a small select clique of trusted Beta Readers.

I am however, finally, editing the novel. I promised my family at the beginning of January (it was not a New Year's Resolution as I don't believe in such things) that I would finish the edit of the novel and then, no matter what, I would 'do something with it'. So, each weekday morning the alarm goes off at 5am and I drag myself from my warm comfortable bed and sit at the laptop and carry on the edit. In the last five weeks I've managed to get to the end of the novel, cutting it down from 145,000 to 117,000 words as I went. Two days ago, I went back to the beginning and started again, implementing changes at the beginning of the story that I didn't decided I needed until I got half way through the last edit. It's getting harder now, I'm not just cutting fat now, now I'm looking at some of my favourite scenes and ask them the hard question 'Are you progressing the story?' Sometimes the answer is 'no' and that scene has to go. Highlight, Ctrl+X, Ctrl+V - and it's gone (but pasted into another document (just in case)). I'm now removing one of my favourite characters, because this is not her story and she's not helping. I feel for her, we've spent many years together, but she has to go. I hope she understands.

I have no idea what the final word count will be, I'm trying not to fixate on it (ignoring the evidence that first time novels that are over 100,000 words struggle to find agents and publishers). I also have no idea how long this will take or how many times I will go round this buoy before I decide enough is enough. At least once more I suspect.

And here's the final rub - the thought that this novel is actually picked up and published is actually terrifying. I've had six luxurious years to play with this novel. I've watched many of my fellow WordWatchers get a publishing deal and then immediately turn into book producing machines. Editing one novel, while writing another, while promoting another with the clock ticking in the background all the time, a constant reminder that they now have to produce one book a year...

I shall make the most of the time I have, because I may never have it again.

September 11th

Happy John

Happy John

Out Of Time

Fifteen years ago I was driving back into work when I heard, on the radio, that a light aircraft had flown into one of the two towers of the World Trade Centre in New York. By the time I'd passed through security at the gate and pulled into a car parking space, a second plane had hit the second tower. I went icy cold. That couldn't have been a coincident.I went into reception and it was packed. Dozens of my fellow scientists and engineers were staring, transfixed, on the live pictures coming from the BBC. Smoke billowing from the Twin Towers, violent gashes ripped into them...

I went to my office. I rang home. Spoke to my wife, Vee, a few days overdue with our first child, oblivious to the moment that changed the world. We had the 'What kind of world are we bringing a child into?' conversation.

Milly was born three days later and I did what I always planned to do. I bought an armful of newspapers and put a four hour tape in the video recorder (remember those?) and selected BBC News 24. Those papers still make for a heartbreaking, tear inducing read.

Today, Facebook, is naturally, filled with untold numbers of images from that dark day, however, I have to thank Facebook for giving me one little glimmer of light. Six years ago, WordWatchers had one of its last in-house short story competitions, the theme was 'Stranded'. I won, with a Science Fiction story called 'We are The Stranded'. It was the only time I won, and given we don't do short story competitions any more (we talk about resurrecting the format again, but so far, it's just that, talk), it is likely to be the only one I ever win. That story went into our first short story anthology, 'Out of Time' (which I also designed the cover for*).

OK, I say first, but I mean 'only' because, although we had plans to do more, including one based around our first visit to Symondsbury Manor, we never did. The short story competitions and the anthologies, ironically, fell foul of the group's success. As key members moved on, others became agented or got publishing deals and the hamster wheels began to squeak, there was only time for writing that publishers wanted, the short story competition withered on the vine.

So today is a strange day. I look at my beautiful eldest daughter, sitting just across from me now as I write this, writing herself, a monologue for English homework, and I think of what a world she's being brought up in - that the 3,000 souls who perished on 9/11 are but the tiny tip of a huge iceberg, of the millions who have died in, or fled from, wars in Iraq, Afghanistan, Libya and Syria. Her monologue is going to be about 9/11, so we have come full circle in that respect.

I think about the WordWatchers of six years ago, think about the success Katherine Webb, Charlotte Betts and Abbie Rushton have achieved since and I am immensely proud of what this tiny little group has achieved. Then I think about our summer and Christmas parties, the buzz of the competition results and I miss those things and I think the group is missing them too...

John* The background wood effect was added by committee - I remain unconvinced that it adds anything (fully accepting that I was, and still am, quite precious over my original, plain white background design).

A Christmas 75-worder #26

Christmas Sparkle by Newt Hoggard

Christmas Sparkle by Newt Hoggard

If there was a hint of sentience about wrapping paper then perhaps this is the tale it would tell...

Only a few days ago it had encased a Christmas gift, adding sparkle to otherwise bland packaging. Then it was laid amongst others, nestling down beneath an ornamental tree to await the morning light. Then it was ripped asunder and cast aside, its purpose fulfilled. Now it sits, poking from the top of an overstuffed bin, twitching in the breeze like the death-throes of a silvery carp, but such is the life of wrapping paper.

We have recycled as much as we can, but the recyclers will not take foil/metallic wrapping paper and so, despite our best efforts, our bins, which won't be emptied for another 10 days due to the seasonal bank holidays, are approaching critical mass.Until tomorrow...

A Christmas 75-worder #25

Snowflake by Newt Hoggard

Snowflake by Newt Hoggard

Unseasonably warm and sadly, for many, unseasonably wet, weather was the seed that grew into this 75-worder.

They found him sitting quietly on the sofa closest to the window. They watched as he gave the snow globe a shake, staring intently at the tumbling, sparkling flakes as they settled back over the fairytale castle. After a moment he turned away, stared out of the window and then sighed at the bright sunshine. His gaze returned to the snow globe and he shook it again. Perhaps it would snow tomorrow, they said hopefully.

Here's to better weather, more appropriate for Christmas, for us all.

A Christmas 75-Worder #24

Snowflake by Newt Hoggard

Snowflake by Newt Hoggard

I wrote this last year on a wet and grey and miserable day not unlike today. My youngest still rides the scooter with as much relish and vigour as she did that first day, although the scooter looks a little smaller now...

Despite the rain and the icy wind the child persisted, nagging her father into submission. Dressed as warmly as possible in their new hats and coats, they ventured out into the street. The child raced away, a single leg, piston-like, driving her forward on her new scooter, seemingly oblivious to the rain, wheels curving sweeping arcs in the surface water. Dad watched on while water dripped from his nose and his feet turned to ice.

Hope you're all having a wonderful Christmas.Until tomorrow.

A Christmas 75-worder #23

The Deity Club by Helen Withington

The Deity Club by Helen Withington

This is one of my favourite 75-worders. I loved the idea of some ancient "Gentleman's Club" where the divine hung-out when they weren't being omnipotent. That idea seemed to get wrapped into the thought of whether Father Christmas would be allowed into such a club. He certainly has great powers, but it's pretty specific and that potential conflict became the essence of the story. I think Helen's water colour did a wonderful job of capturing the mood of both the chilled out Santa and the despairing God of Thunder.

The old man sat down heavily by the fire and patted his distended belly. “One Billion Calories an’ still only a fifty-two inch waist. Ho Ho Ho.” He pulled off his red hat, patting his sweaty brow with it. “I fear the million shots of whisky may have got the better of me this year!” he bellowed, snorting loudly. Thor shook his head and glared. Letting Santa into the Deity Club had been a terrible mistake.

Hope you're all having a wonderful Christmas Time.

A Christmas 75-worder #21

Snowflake by Newt Hoggard

Snowflake by Newt Hoggard

Do I know somebody who tried this...? Possibly...

When Martha and Ronald arrived at their son’s home a little before Eleven on Christmas morning the tension was palpable. Despite the pleasantries towards them, the daggers Jessica, her daughter-in-law cast towards her son, Ron Jr, each time there was an ominous ‘BOOM’ from the utility room was rather disconcerting. Martha eventually enquired about the noise when handed a sherry by Jessica. “He’s defrosting the turkey in the tumble dryer,” Jessica hissed between clenched teeth.

Hoping that you have a flawless day and that your turkey is suitably defrosted.Merry Christmas to you all.

A Christmas 75-worder #20

Snowflake by Newt Hoggard

Snowflake by Newt Hoggard

Last year, a few weeks before Christmas, several messages were left on my land line and mobile phone, urging me to ring back at the soonest opportunity. I did and I discovered I was a match as a potential Bone Marrow donor. As it was Christmas there was some concerns about getting me to a suitable location to have additional blood tests taken before the lab shut down. However, my wife, Vee, is a qualified phlebotomist and so they sent the kits directly to me. So then, sitting at the kitchen table, Vee filled a series of small vials with my blood and we hurriedly packaged them up and posted them back to the lab...

He’d almost forgotten that he’d joined the Bone Marrow Register years earlier. Their call, especially while he was distracted by preparations for Christmas, was unexpected. He’d gone through the questionnaire and they had sent him the blood sample kits. Now he was stood in the queue at the post office, returning those tests back to a lab, wondering if he was going to be the best match and give somebody the best Christmas present ever.

I can't believe that was a year ago already. It turns out I was not the best match and so I have no idea what happened. I must hope however, that, the person who needed the transfusion, is still with us and doing just fine...