Thinking about Martians

Today I went to see The Martian at the cinema with my eldest daughter, Milly. I have to say that I was impressed. There was always a chance that the film would be swamped by the vast Martian Landscape but it never happened. The focus was almost entirely on Matt Damon's character, stranded, but resourceful Astronaut, Mark Watney. When we weren't with Matt Damon's pieces to camera then we moved carefully between the different characters back on Earth in NASA and the JPL, who are working hard to get their man home. Often the scenes reminded me of Apollo 13, focused, determined panic...I'm telling you this not because I'm reviewing the film, because I'm not, but because I was impressed that the characters were the focus and the drivers behind the story. I was pleased to note that Andrew Weir, the author of the book on which this film is based is co-writer for the film. I think it shows. What of course is particularly interesting is that Weir originally self-published this novel (in 2011), it wasn't picked up by Crown Publishing until 2014 (when, I guess, the film option was in the offing). Weir has a background in physics and computer science (just like me!) so there's hope for me yet.I've not read, The Martian, but I will, it's on my wish list now.On the way home from the cinema I remembered that a few years ago I wrote a piece of Flash Fiction based on the idea of colonisation of Mars (I've written several, but the one shared below is the one I remembered writing that carried, for me, a small sliver of the feeling that I got from watching the film.)Thoughts and comments on the story are welcome and much appreciated.

The shutter winds noisily upwards, filling the room with a pale, red light. The Martian sun is already quite high in the sky, but it’s still early morning for the base as we grow accustomed to the length of a Martian Day. It used to be strange, thinking that I would die here, but I look to my side, where Rachel still sleeps, and I realise I will live here, and eventually, I will die.

As ever, I thank-you for your time.John 

Another picture inspired story

Good Night

Regular readers of my blog will be aware that I write a lot of short stories - specifically in the '75-word' Flash Fiction format (as found on the Paragraph Planet website). I often visit the website Deviant Art trawling it for inspiration when my own brain has failed to internally produce something worthy of conversion into prose.At the end of August I came across a wonderful picture entitled 'Good Night' by the artist Leffsha and twenty minutes later I'd written a story based upon it.What I particularly liked was the role reversal between the 'monster' (under the bed) and the little girl. The expressions on both the creature and the girl had so much emotional content, so vividly displayed, that it was easy to find the words to turn the image into a story.I asked Leffsha if I could use the image here, in this blog, after she'd read the story and she agreed.So here is the image and the short story it inspired.

It woke with a start, the presence of the creature above pressing down on the little space it occupied in the world. It crept further into the darkness, pushed back into the shadows as light poured in. It let out an involuntary squeak, its eyes flickering in fear as the weight shifted above it and then two shining, inquisitive brown orbs, framed by fearful and fiery red hair appeared. Then it saw the terrible smile...

You can find the original image here: Good NightAs ever, thank-you for your time.John

The Wonderful Thing About Writers

I have recently decided that writers, much like Tiggers (and three day weekends), are wonderful things. And while their tops might not be made of rubber, nor their bottoms of springs, they are generally a fun, fun, fun bunch.

Not only that, they are also enormously generous. And before you think, hang on a sec’, that’s rich coming from a writer, in my defence, the point I’m making is about writers as a collective, rather than specific individuals.

You see, I’ve just come back from the annual Festival of Writing at York University, and I couldn’t help but notice a couple of things.

Run by the Writers' Workshop, the Festival of Writing is in its 10th year, and is basically a lot of writers, agents, editors and book doctors getting together for a few days to talk about the art and business of writing. It’s a great event and has been hugely useful to me in my own writing journey.

This was my 5th time, and a very different trip it proved to be.

In the past, I’ve had specific goals; to meet with particular agents or editors, receive constructive comments about my writing, and ultimately hope for some spark of commercial interest. But this year wasn’t like that. I now have an agent, who I first met at a previous Festival of Writing, and my book is out on submission with editors, so I had no obvious goal other than to soak up the collective wisdom and spirit of the event, and generally have some fun.

As a result, I spent a lot of time thinking, and the more I thought, the more I realised what an unusual thing this writing lark is.

We are constantly being told, for example in our rejections from agents and editors, just how competitive the market is, and that, even if you’ve created the most wonderful prose, there’s every chance you won’t be picked up; the publishing industry is on the hunt for the next big thing, and will settle for nothing less.

We accept this, as a group, and press on, polishing our writing and learning our art. We hang out at writing events, learning what we can, schmoozing our socks off, and, along the way, we celebrate the victories of our newly found (and, as yet, unpublished) friends. I had lots of conversations like that this year, giving and receiving such warm praise and support, that I came away filled to the brim with the sense that writers, per the title, are truly wonderful.

Because if you think about it, reconciling these two things shouldn’t come naturally; namely, writing is hugely competitive, and these people you’re congratulating are part of the reason! Even if your writing is ‘good enough’, chances are you still won't get published. Because maybe the agent you'd hoped for has a full list. Or the editor your agent submits it to already has something similar on her list. Or perhaps you're not quite as amazing as a book they've seen recently and been hoping for something similar to come along.

Whatever the reason, someone has pipped you to the post, moved the goalpost, raised the bar...

You get the idea.

But the chances of it being the very same person you’ve just celebrated with are pretty slim. And I think that’s what sets us apart. We are participating in a brutally competitive industry, and yet we can be as genuinely supportive as we are simply because there are so many of us, and the likelihood of you being my nemesis is tiny, almost to the point of non-existence. And hence, we see ourselves as competing against, well, ourselves (and, of course, this amorphous thing we call the market).

And, at events like the Festival of Writing, or even just in the comfort of my regular writing group, it’s all quite wonderfully refreshing.

Will the continued rise of self-publishing change this, as we accept full responsibility for marketing our ‘products’, and become still more painfully aware of the noise of self-promotion filling up Twitter, for example? Who knows? But for now, I’m going to savour the warmth of my writing peers, basking in the joy of that weekend in York, and feel grateful that I am part of a wonderful community.

My Holiday of Calm Reflection

Oliver_Blog_Picture

My Holiday of Calm ReflectionI was on holiday with three families with children, all variously related to me in some way through either birth or marriage and so was tempted to write about my holiday in the lakes area of the French Massif Central.Its dramatic peaks and crags and swooping drops to great volumes of probably even deeper lakes below induce a kind of existential calm. The internet only worked after a lot of jiggery-pokery and phones not at all, effectively severing whatever umbilical connection we had to stressful Britain. I have little doubt that the countryside in deepest mid-France worked its magic on all of us.But freeing the brain to wander in this way can lead to dangerous territory. For instance, what was it about everyday life that breaks that vital connection with the natural world, the real world? Why do we allow our own personal striving and everyday concerns get in the way of really caring for one another? Because that is what we seem to be doing in order to get on in life. I have little doubt that there are very useful Darwinian survival principles underlying the imperative to narrow down the focus of care and concern to those in our immediate family. In times of stress and danger, we need to protect those closest to us. Ultimately, when the wolf comes to the door, we have to save ourselves.But that was then, and this is now. If we just follow our natural inclinations without allowing our intelligence to intervene, we eat high calorie foods and bloat out to unhealthy proportions. When we follow the news media, we select the tastiest themes and narratives that support our preconceptions about the world and this serves to deepen our prejudices, instead of challenging and perhaps overturning them. Why should we care more about others if it is going to cost us more money? Why should we buy into the notion of anthropogenic global warming if it’s going to cost us money and damage my lifestyle? Last night I spent some time with a group of friends with similar interests. We established that we all had come from different parts of the British Isles. We have a diversity of outlooks, and probably represent every colour on the political rainbow. We all had writing in common and this factor was the conduit for sympathy, for personal tragedy, and hilarious recollections concerning the disastrous character of many foreign toilets. And in between these things, we found time to deliver mutual support and advice on personal writing issues. The big difference was that we all knew one another, understood each other’s problems and wanted to help. But this is not where we as a society are going, so it seems. These little caches of human concern and compassion are counter-cultural and develop in the face of exhortations from larger society for more production and less waste. More exploitation and damn the cost. More selfish accrual of wealth and devil take the hindmost.This is not the kind of society I want to live in, but I very much do want to be a part of the kind of society that cares for its members in the way that WordWatchers looks after the constituent members of the group.There is no reason why we as a society shouldn’t face up to the simple fact that too much greed and selfishness serves us all badly. It’s just that we’re all too busy, or too lazy, or too greedy to make these choices, and we expect politicians to do it for us. Oliver. 

Things are getting tense...

Dorset Ugly - by Emma Mauger

A few weeks ago I visited my friends Eddie and Emma down on their farm in Dorset. We've been friends for close to twenty years, but, due to circumstances we've not managed to actually meet up for several years!In the time since I lasted visited with my family, both Eddie and Emma have become self-employed, with Emma now responsible for the creation of Dorset Uglies.One such ugly caught my eye:This particular image conjured up the idea for a 75-word story, which I'm pleased to say I drafted in just a few short minutes and, while I was quite pleased with it, I felt there was something not quite right and shared it with the rest of WordWatchers via email. There's usually somebody else from the group online and this time was no exception.The original story runs thus:

It lurked in the darkness of the lake, eating only what the others found unpalatable. Occasionally it had slipped from the weeds, taken a bite of a tasty morsel and found itself hauled, gasping into the thin stuff where it could not breathe. It saw the look on the faces of the pink things. Sensed their horror as they quickly removed their hook from its mouth and allowed it to slither back into the abyss. 

WordWatchers quickly confirmed my suspicions - that the word 'occasionally' didn't really work and it was suggested that I try the story in the present tense. Now, I do sometimes change tense in my 75-word stories simply to free up a few words to squeeze a story into the 75-word limit, but to change the tense of a story that was already exactly words...? Well, that was crazy talk.However, I gave it a go and to my delight, a much better story (in my opinion) emerged, not least down to the tense change, although, changing the sentence that started with 'occasionally' did the story no harm at all.

It lurks in the darkness of the lake, eating only what the others find unpalatable. Driven by hunger it slips from the weeds, takes a bite of a tasty morsel and finds itself hauled, gasping, into the thin stuff where it cannot breathe. It sees the look on the faces of the pink things, senses their horror as they quickly remove their hook from its mouth and allow it to slither back into the abyss. 

So, much more immediacy in the present tense I think.I am however curious to have your opinion too. Please feel free to comment below.As ever, thanks for your time.

Day 259

I joined the DeviantArt website eighteen-months ago, mainly lurking, looking for images that would fire my imagination and set me up to write another 75-word short story.To that end it had worked remarkably well, but sometimes a story spills over, refuses to stop, a bit like Mickey Mouse as the Sorcerer's Apprentice in the Disney classic Fantasia, and definitely doesn't fit inside 75-words.On those occasions I usually contact the creator of the inspiration, and ask them if I can write a story based on their work. I offer them the story in return for permission to use the image in my blog. They usually say yes, not always, but usually. It's a good community on DeviantArt.So, one such Deviant is TAGFoto who gave me permission to use a photograph he called "The Lottery" which I used to create a story called 'Day 259'.So I present to you the story, and the image which inspired it:

Day 259

Each day she slowly climbed the stairs. She knew every creak and squeak now. The weight of the guilt she carried pushed down through her tired legs and made each wooden step squeal in protest as it was forced to share her burden for a moment.She paused, eyes shut, breath held, just before she climbed the last flight to the upper landing, to the single door that waited for her. She trembled with fear, but she must press on, lest they come from her.In days past the door had been black, the digits scratched into the surface by broken and bloodied fingernails. On another day it had been an old fashioned farm door, the digits, slimy and stinking, the entrails of a pig, nailed crudely into shape, oozing faeces, staining the surface.She pushed on, eyes opening only when she knew there were no more steps. An office door. Half wood, half glass. It reminded her of those corny detective shows she had seen on TV as a child. She tried to smile, hold on to that happy thought, but the smile was gone in an instant as the memory of why this door was really here crashed in. She shuddered.The number 259 had been painted onto the whitened glass. It could have been just been normal paint but she knew it wasn’t. No paint has ever truly captured the tone of dried human blood, nor its smell. She placed her hand on the handle and began to turn. It gave a click and the door swung easily inwards. She stepped into the blackness and with a whimper waited for day 259 of her eternity in Hell to begin.

As ever, thank you for your time.John

A world off my mind

I sit in a hotel room smiling. I'm smiling because the first draft of my novel, Memories of Arma, is complete. I first embarked on this journey 2 years ago as a method of coping with long periods of time away from home due to work.I look back on the past 2 years of writing and remember fondly the early months, where I typed away without a care in the world. Discovering that my story has a style, establishing the world inside the story and developing characters are things I remember happily. Crying while I scripted the death of characters was a strange experience and trying to fight myself out of writers block was challenging to say the least. I'm relieved to be past the difficult second half of the novel, where I had to force myself to push on with many revisions made and hours lost plotting out the finale.I remember planning to wrap up the first draft in December 2013. This never happened, but it does make me wonder what the ending would have been like if I had. The finale was coloured so much by recent travels and thoughts that it would have been a very different story.But what about the future? What will the final draft be like? How many sub-plots will be removed and what additions will be made? I know my story needs more attention, but it is interesting to wonder how people will react when they read it. Does it make any sense? Will people like the ending?I can almost see my story like some kind of topographic chart or heart monitor diagram. I can finally see all the key scenes and places. All the highs and all the lows. It is pleasing to have this resolution and finally have an empty mind.I desperately want to leap back into the story and shift chapters around and give it a punchy kick-off, but I think it is best that I get some distance from it for a while. Hopefully then I will have a better perspective over it.Right now I'm looking forward to working on the second draft. The idea of making all these images and crazy thoughts more robust and structured sounds really exciting, but I am certain it will be a difficult process. If it will allow me to do my characters a better service (and if people actually enjoying reading it) then it will all be worth it.Tom

Editing my novel

Way back in 1994 I graduated from Sunderland University with a Joint Honours Degree in Computer Science and Physics.

1994...

A world before Google, before the iPhone, before the 'XBox Generation'.

In those days, I played a lot of Roleplaying Games (RPGs) on my C64 and Amiga A500 but the idea of Massively Multiplayer Online Gaming (MMOG) was a long way off, so I played 'Me v The Computer' and dreamed of an Internet where I could play in a world were the other characters' behaviours weren't just created by clever algorithms from a programmer but were other human players. (I'd have to wait 10 years for Warcraft: Orcs & Humans to become the MMOG 'World of Warcraft')

In those Halcyon days post-uni, single with plenty of time outside of my new job with the MOD, going to Science Fiction and Gaming conventions with my friends I had an idea for a game. An online, massively multiplayer online game. I started to make notes, sketch out my concepts, plan the structure...

It turned out that I wasn't a good enough programmer to do what I wanted to do, and, as my work with the MOD picked up I had less opportunity to try and become one. So I put my ideas away, knowing (hoping?) that one day I'd get chance to revisit them.

Many years later I found a couple of old disks, they were PC disks but they contained files I'd rescued from my old Amiga. Quite a few of the files were unreadable, their formats long since unsupported, but many of the documents I had saved were in Rich Text Format and here I found many snippets for the idea of that game I had many years earlier.

So, in 2008, knowing my programming days were long behind me (like any language, if you don't practice, you forget, and I was out of practice) I decided to turn my game idea into the backbone of a novel and save it from obscurity.

So, while at a Conference in Edinburgh in 2008 I started Endless Possibilities. The apartment I was staying at had no TV, so over five nights, I wrote 15,000 words. I had a lot of ideas and I'd have written more if I didn't need to get some sleep while I was away.

I quietly slipped those first 15,000 words to my fellow WordWatchers member, Katherine Webb (who was soon destined for incredible success) whose opinion I greatly respected (and still do). She liked what I had written, but at the same time threw my a curve ball. "I hope we're going to see more of Steely," she said.

At the time, Steely was a throwaway character, a plot mover and so I was puzzled by Katherine's query. So I re-read the start of Endless Possibilities and I'm glad that I could see what Katherine could see, that Steely was no throwaway character.

I wrote intermittently over the next few years reaching 95,000 words in 2011 when I ground to a halt. I knew how the novel ended but I didn't know how to get from where I was, to where I needed to be.

In March 2012, I bought a little Asus netbook as a belated 40th birthday present having decided I would write the end of the novel and then work out how to join the two bits together. I started getting up regularly at 5am, writing until 6am, which is when my alarm would have normally gone off and I'd begin my day properly. During a 2 month purple patch I'd written 45,000 words and unexpectedly finished the novel (or more precisely, I'd reached a natural conclusion to the overall story).

It has taken me a long time (almost three years) to get to the stage I'm at now. At WordWatchers recent visit to Symondsbury, I barely slept, editing Endless Possibilities at a somewhat manic rate, cutting the 140,000 words of the two separate sections down to 129,000. Since I got back, I have written the section that joined the two parts together, this turned out to be 8,000 words in length, bringing the novel back up to 137,000 words.

Now I'm going back through the novel again, beginning to end, fixing the mistakes (today I discovered I had introduced an eight day week for example), creating a consistent style (I've changed a lot as a writer since 2008) and putting my skill as a 75-word story creator to good use to tighten the whole thing up.

As of this morning, Endless Possibilities stands at 129,400 words and I'm very close to the end of this edit. Soon, Endless Possibilities will actually be finished and by finished I actually mean 'Ready enough for WordWatchers to read' - which of course means it's not actually finished at all!

For the first time in a long time I think there's a chance that you might actually get to read this!

Thank you for your time.

John

PS - Other blogs that capture facets of this semi-tragedy can be found (in chronological order) here: http://www.wordwatchers.net/tag-youre-an-author-and-youre-it/http://www.wordwatchers.net/a-long-time-ago/http://www.wordwatchers.net/a-procrastination-of-writers-part-2/

PPS Thank-you to those on Twitter (you know who you are), who have been Favouriting, Retweeting and commenting on my recent run of #amwriting tweets as I try to bring this crazy ride to a halt - you're the reason that I have written this blog.

The Circle Sea fills with tears of sorrow

Sir Terry Pratchett is with us no more. I'm not sure how to convey how utterly wretched this makes me feel. It seems so unbelievable cruel and unjust that such a witty, thoughtful, insightful and incredibly amazing human soul is no longer with us.I wrote in a tweet earlier, shortly after I heard the news: "When I started writing I wanted to be the next Pratchett then I realised that to be half as good as TP I'd have to be 100x better than I was" - and this is absolutely true. When I read Colour of Magic and Light Fantastic they were like no books I'd ever read before. They were incredibly funny, embarrassingly funny sometimes - it turns out that you cannot sneakily read a Terry Pratchett book when you're supposed to be taking notes in a lecture...But, as brilliant as those two books are they do Sir Terry a disservice, for they have none of the subtle, character-study, complex plotting and wickedly observed story telling that developed rapidly in his later books. Reaper Man remains one of my all time favourite books, it is such a stunningly beautiful book, Death in all His glory. I hope he treated Sir Terry well when he visited today.I was lucky enough to meet Sir Terry, twice, at book signings. Most people who meet Terry Pratchett met him at book signings. The first time myself and friends offered to buy him a Banana Daiquiri  - he agreed to join us if we could find a pub that would sell it - we failed, although we did try. I really wish I could lay claim to have bought Terry Pratchett a Banana Daiquiri, but I can't.I thought he faced his Embuggerance with amazing style and I hope the legacy he started with increased research into Alzheimer's Research eventually bares fruit and his determination to bring the elephant (four of them stood on the back of a giant turtle indeed) in the room of Assisted Suicide to a sensible debate rather than an embarrassed cough followed by shuffled feet and looking at the floor, should not be ignored. His documentary about the subject is one of the most upsetting things I have ever made myself watch, but I'm glad I did.So, finally, I offer you this - It's a 12K word Discworld Novelette I wrote back in 1998, it's set just after Guards! Guards! A few people (all Terry Pratchett fans of course) have read it over the years - they've all told me they enjoyed it. I hope you do too. Discworld_They_came_from_somewhere_else

“No one is actually dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away...”― Terry Pratchett, Reaper Man Until next time,

John (Picture by Sandara http://sandara.deviantart.com/art/Shaking-hands-with-Death-519841642)

Life, 75-words at a time

Something came up at our most recent WordWatchers meeting, a tiny thing really, a passing comment, that has been whispering away at the back of my mind, so I have decided to address it. The gist of the comment is that ‘we’ as individuals, try as we might, are affected by our environment, which in turn effects our mood, which, in turn, affects not only what we write, but how much we write...

Seems obvious, but perhaps, it’s not.

It was Somerset Maughan who wrote: “...no professional writer can afford only to write when he feels like it” and when I look at WW members Charlotte Betts and Abbie Rushton who are now published authors, with book deals, but still have day-to-day-pays-the-bills jobs, I see this with absolute clarity. They have, to a greater or lesser extent, become a production facility for words, stories, novels. They have to write even when they don’t want to, even, when they can’t!

To be honest it makes the idea of actually being a ‘proper’ published author quite scary - even off-putting.

For me, WordWatchers has been many things, a friendship, love even, of my fellow writers, a time, just a few hours a month, to find a safe harbour amongst a group of like minded (but, equally, very different) writers, to chat, discuss, and to confess...

Confessions in WordWatchers used to be just that. Having set a target from the month before (and documented this intent in the minutes) the confession was your chance to explain, usually in a verbose and carefully crafted manner, your excuse for not meeting the target you had set yourself. The confessions have changed over the years often becoming a far more cathartic affair for some of the members. This has become particular true for me.

You see, for me, life seems to be becoming increasingly complicated. My wife, Vee, suffers from something called Fibromyalgia. It’s a complicated illness and not helped by patchy understanding, or acceptance of what it entails on a day-to-day basis from family, friends (or people you thought were friends in some instances) and even, to our surprise, the medical profession. My wife used to have good days and bad days but now, we ‘joke’ that she now has bad days and worse days. Even the good days now aren’t really good and are tainted with the knowledge that whatever efforts are made on a particular day to be ‘normal’ will have (increasingly long) periods of massively ‘bad days’.

As I write this, it’s January 21st, almost a month after my wife’s concerted effort to be ‘normal’ for Christmas Day, almost a month of constant pain, being unable to walk, or, on some days, get out of bed for more than a few hours at a time. A month where she is often in some much pain that even my attempts to wrap my arms around her and comfort her must be shunned because they are too painful. Yes, that’s as awful as it sounds.

Families get Fibromyalgia, but unfortunately only one of the family gets to carry it around. For me, the best, but still poor, analogy I can give in literary terms is that Vee is Frodo, carrying the burden of the One Ring, but I cannot be her Samwise Gamgee and, even briefly, take up her burden when all seems lost. It is heart-breaking.

As Vee’s health has deteriorated, especially in the last year, I have done my best to maintain my writing. My novel is finished but the 2nd draft is all but abandoned, my time too fractured to do the edit the justice I know it deserves. My writing comes in those tiny snippets of prose that some of you may be aware that I have regularly featured on the website Paragraph Planet. I do my writing a precious 75-words at a time. Ideas, stories, characters, dialogue, concepts... all bashed out in 10-15 minutes, tiny insects of literary prose frozen in storytelling amber, ready to be polished into something even more precious at a later date. Well, that’s what I originally thought.

Having written over 400 of these 75-word stories now I have begun to collate them, analyse them, sift and sort them, into collections, themes, discard piles and ‘to be further polished’ piles. What is interesting (to me at least) is that these little stories are, in many ways, the barometer of my life, and my psyche. I can see the stories where I am very down, sad, morose. I can see the stories where I am trying to write myself out of my doldrums. I can see where I succeed and where I fail (and tumble back down into sad and depressed tales of death and misery). The gaps in time are telling too - gaps where I am too sad or pre-occupied to write anything... Those are bad times.

My little stories show me that the concept of family is incredibly important to me and that my own family is an incredible and constant source of inspiration. They show me that I am a Science Fiction and Fantasy writer at my core. They show me that I think about death quite often, but also that, fortunately, I am capable of poking fun at and making a joke of the figure with the scythe.

Lastly, they show me that, come what may, I am a writer, that I must write. I am grateful for this because without this escape, this safety valve I may have gone mad a long time ago. Of course I may still go mad, but I suspect I will be able to document the process 75-words at a time...

***

75-Squared, a collection of 75 stories, each 75-words long, beautifully illustrated by Helen Withington will be released sometime in 2015 and then you’ll have your chance to explore the little facets of my mind.

Thank-you for your time.

John

A Fond Farewell

I went to see Battle of Five Armies today. Life will never be the same.

In years past I have watched Jackson’s Tolkien movies at one minute past midnight on the day of their release, so I could watch them the first minute I could. On this final occasion I was in the cinema a whole thirteen hours later - an indication perhaps of the lessening hold this last trilogy has on me.

Nevertheless long before the credits rolled I had tears on my cheeks and plenty more in my eyes. Billy Boyd sang his song and I had to catch myself lest snot lay waste to my dwindling tissues. I was the last one in the cinema, lights up and bleary eyed as the last of the credits rolled. A lone VUE girl in her black shirt and trousers, baseball cap, brushed up popcorn and cartons and pop bottles. In some respects I was afraid to leave. Peter Jackson has shaped and driven so much of this creative mind, I was struggling to say goodbye. I know it is not goodbye of course but to Peter Jackson’s Middle Earth the journey is at an end.

It is now twelve years since Jackson and friends first lit a creative fire inside of me. In that time my writing adventure has been filled with journeys. From writing endless blogs after realising I had no words to paint fiction narratives. The marvel of joining a book club and realising there was a world of fiction outside commercial genres. Learning, learning learning. From World history, religion, psychology. Writing short narratives that evolved to short stories that became writing a book. The five year passion of Chasing Innocence and learning traditional and digital publishing on the way. Joining a writing group and the first meeting with my book clasped tight in hand. Through shared experiences these last three years with the writers of WordWatchers. Always easier in my own company I surprised myself and made a few friends along the way.

Mixing with writers offers endless opportunities for distraction, often following a common cause to better writing. It has helped me discover the type of writer I am. Significantly in these three years I have failed to finish a single book despite working on three.

The lack of completion has come largely with my ambitious goals for these projects - I had to further evolve as a writer to be able to write them. Recently I also realised I'm not finishing books because I'm a method actor of writers, all or nothing. Which doesn't work well with distractions.

As I sat in the cinema with the credits rolling it dawned on me it wasn’t only Peter Jackson’s Middle Earth that had come to pass. If I wanted to write these stories and bring life to the characters my time with WordWatchers had too.

It was a bitter sweet moment, realising a goodbye and in the same moment the excitement of an obvious path. I've a lot of treasured memories these last three years and friendships I hope will continue.

For now I bid you a fond farewell.https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q8ir8rVl2Z4

Abbie’s Marvellous Moments

Abbie’s Marvellous Moments

#1 – The Book Deal

 On the 13^th of December, exactly a year ago, I travelled into London to meet my soon-to-be editor, Kate. It happened to be a Friday. Friday the 13^th – clearly not so unlucky for me! That day was the first of several marvellous moments along my journey to publication – a day filled with such joy I just have to share it with you!I got to Little, Brown’s offices super-early. I have to say, the imposing Unilever House did nothing for my nerves. I sat in the lobby, researching other titles on Atom’s list. There was Twilight, of course, and a lot of similar supernatural stuff. Where would I fit in? Had they made a mistake and confused my manuscript with someone else’s?My agent, Jodie, arrived, and I nervously confessed that I felt like I was going for a job interview. She looked at me and said dryly, ‘This is like going for a job interview’. Great. Thanks!As it happened, she was wrong. Kate practically bounded out to reception to meet us, full of smiles and energy and enthusiasm. It didn’t feel formal or interviewy at all. We chatted about work parties and Christmas jumpers (Jodie was sporting a particularly fine example!). Kate told me how much everyone on the team loved Unspeakable. I thought she’d come with a list of things she’d want to change, to see how I’d react, if I’d turn into some sort of hideous monster who refused to alter a single precious word. She didn’t. She vaguely mentioned the end needed some work, but that didn’t seem to dampen her passion for the book.I also thought that it would be a pre-meeting to see how they felt about me before they decided whether to make an offer. It wasn’t. Kate was saying that she’d contact Jodie as soon as Jodie was back in her office, to try to get things tied up before Christmas. Did that mean … I hardly dared to hope, but it did seem like they were poised, ready to make an offer.Jodie and I had a debrief in a coffee shop afterwards. It was good to let go of some of the tension and chat about what we might be expecting in terms of the offer – one of the most surreal conversations I’ve ever had!After I’d said goodbye, I walked back to the station, phoning my fiancée, then my parents. I didn’t know what to say! My words just tumbled out in one big mess. I didn’t want to get hopes up by mentioning that I thought they might make an offer that very afternoon, but that was kind of what Kate was saying … wasn’t it?!I wandered along South Bank, looking at the Christmas stalls. I bought myself some celebratory mulled wine. Even if they didn’t make an offer, what a fantastic response and wonderful feeling to see someone else so engaged and excited about my book.On the train back, I was a wreck. Stomach churning, I refreshed and refreshed and refreshed my emails, but there was nothing from Jodie. Oh, wait: check the junk mail! No, nothing.I don’t know what I did with myself when I got home. I knew I was fizzing with energy, hands glued to my phone. Refresh, refresh, refresh. Oh, something! Subject: Thanks. What did that mean? Thanks, but no thanks? They didn’t like me? And then there were two words from Jodie ‘Offer in!’ OFFER IN! OFFER IN!I squealed, cried a bit, ran around the house, did a stupid dance. I gave my fiancée a hug, felt everything inside me melt with relief. All that hard work, all those hours, those sacrificed weekends, finally paid off. I phoned my parents, cried a bit more, managed to announce, in a shaky, tearful voice ‘My book’s going to be published.’ I emailed WordWatchers, most of whom knew nothing about the meeting. Subject: News. Body text: MY BOOK’S GOING TO BE PUBLISHED WOHOOOOOOOOOOO!Before my fiancée and I went out to celebrate, we took some pictures so I could always remember what that moment felt like. Just writing about it now makes me feel all kinds of things at once: happiness, excitement, nerves, relief. Suffice it to say, my family and I had a VERY merry Christmas. I hope you have one too, and that some day you’ll have your own marvellous moment that you just have to share with everyone. 

A Charitable Soul?

Two years ago I featured in a Science-Fiction and Fantasy Anthology called Fusion created by a small Indie Publishing house known as Fantastic Books Publishing (FBP). The anthology was released as an e-Book only, with 10% of all profits going to a cancer charity. FBP will continue to give 10% to charity for as long as the book is sold, so, when it finally comes out in Paperback in time for Christmas, the sales from that version of the anthology will also give 10% to charity.Early next year, FBP will publish another anthology (Science-Fiction only this time) and I've been very lucky to have two stories included in this collection. FBP will be giving 10% of sales to charity once again.

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I don't write Horror stories - since I don't like blood and gore very much and not overly keen on the feeling of being scared it's an area I've generally avoided - although 'Weaveworld' remains one of my all time favourite books (I keep telling myself that its a Fantasy book that has some horrific moments in it...).Anyway, I digress, it turns out, that I can write Horror in (very) small chunks and I have just had two pieces of Horror based flash fiction published in a Charity Horror Anthology entitled Ten Deadly Tales. Not too shabby for somebody who generally avoids the genre!The ebook (only) is here, if anybody is interested (UK): www.amazon.co.uk/Ten-Deadly-Tales or here (US): www.amazon.com/Ten-Deadly-TalesAnd the charity it supports is Derian House Children's Hospice: www.derianhouse.co.ukOne day I may get paid for my writing, but in the meantime I'm delighted to write for free for charitable causes (perhaps building up my good Karma store for future use!).

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Finally, it's Movember and therefore I'm rapidly becoming covered in facial topiary that my family is beginning to dislike with a passion, but, with over a £100 worth of donations already, my attempts at growing a 'Lemmy' have been well worth it.

If you see me wandering the streets of Newbury, smile and nod knowingly.

You can find my Mo' page here: MoBro.co/jmhoggard if you fancy a laugh...

Proof Reading - From Word to Mobi to Kindle

I'm currently busy writing a book that's been buzzing away in my head since February. I'm so far into writing the book my thoughts recently turned towards proof reading, which immediately reminded me of finishing my first book. It was in 2009 and the now ubiquitous Kindle was not even a rumour in the UK.

Back then I exported my book to PDF but reading it on the laptop screen was no different than reading it in a wordprocessor, so I printed it two pages per A4, bought a guillotine and binding machine and read my book in A5. The different medium really helped me see the narrative from a whole new perspective.

Fast forward five years and I recently cleaned out my study and found those A5 copies of Chasing Innocence. It was a shock, not so much that I still had them, but a reminder of the trouble I'd gone to, to proof read.  Nowadays I spend five minutes preparing the manuscript and then email it to my kindle for review five minutes later.

Proof reading on the Kindle is so much better. Not only is it always a thrill to see my writing so quickly available to read on a device but the annotation and bookmarking of the Kindle means I'm not left squinting at my undecipherable handwriting days after the proof read, or scratching my head trying to figure why I highlighted a whole paragraph in yellow.

Conversely it always surprises me how few of my writing buddies know how to get their manuscripts onto the Kindle. I thought to myself, wouldn't it be cool if I did a video on just that - getting your word manuscript onto the Kindle.

There are two videos. The first takes your manuscript and creates a Kindle ready file in three easy steps. The second shows you how to email the file to your Kindle.

I hope the videos are helpful:

1) Manuscript to Kindle

2) Email to your Kindle

Pretty when you cry

I've been a member of the DeviantArt site for a little over a year now, having joined it looking for inspiration for my 75-word short stories when I was having my 1-per-day purple patch of creativity.Occasionally, I come across an image on the site that just leaves me breathless, that I know instantly I must write a story about, not just 75-words, but a proper story. Over the weekend the amazing artist MalKnox posted such an image.I contacted Monique (her real name) sending her the story that her image had inspired. I'm pleased to say that she loved it and asked if she could include the story with the description of the picture. I, of course, pleased with such a great reaction, happily agreed and Monique, in turn, has allowed me to reproduce the image here, so that I can share my story with you alongside the image which helped bring it to life.I present to you: Pretty when you cry When the snows came the village was all but cut off from the rest of the world. Cut off save for one small track through the woods, but nobody would use that because they were her woods and she did not tolerate trespassers. This year, before the first fingers of winter had stretched out and embraced the valley, the chief of the village had travelled to the city and hired a hunter to keep the path clear. The harvest had not been kind and if the winter was harsh and long, they would run out of food before the arrival of spring.The hunter took up board and lodging, his giant wolf hound always at his side. They waited for the snows to come, for the only path left to be the one that scarred her domain and then, confidently, he set out, fearsome axe in one hand, the rope of his hound in the other.The dog picked up the scent almost the moment the village was out of sight. It strained on the rope, clawed feet ripping through the snow and digging into the hard ground underneath as it tried to take up the hunt. He bent low, unlooping the restraint. “Leave some for me,” he said, laughing as he released his grip and the dog tore through the trees, howling with delight.He tracked quickly through the snow, the dog's path was direct and easy to follow. Some distance ahead he could hear his dog bark and he quickened his pace, eager to join the fun. The barking suddenly stopped and then there was a sharp yowl and a puppy like squeal of pain and then silence.He was running now, the air icy as he drew it deep into his lungs, his muscles burning with the effort. He broke through the trees into a clearing filled with carnage. The snow was stained and glistening red from the blood of his poor hound, torn open, spread out like a ragged blanket. Its ribs curved up into the air, picked clean, needles of white, stark against the reddened snow.She moved then, lifting herself up from the carcass. Rivulets of blood swam and swirled and trickled down her naked, ivory flesh. She turned her head slowly. Dark, blood matted hair partially obscuring her frighteningly beautiful face. Her eyes scanned him carefully and her lips parted into a smile that made him shiver.He gripped his axe tightly in his hand and prepared to die. 

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The original image (available in much higher resolution) can be found here: Pretty when you cry.

Thank-you for your time.