Eating Sour Grapes

I saw it today.
Lovely. Totally lovely.
The sort of thing you picture in your mind, the kind of thing you dream of.
There is was.
It could be the one. One with roses curving around its door.
I calmed myself and went to the agent's site.
Allowed myself a smile as I saw that I could afford it.
But then underneath was one little four letter word, written in red.
SOLD

Nano Nano

I think I may be going looney tunes. Okay, I don't just think, I know.

The writing has taken over my life and I am too busy for anything else. It's lucky I have several blocks of Galaxy at the ready and the presence of good friends. My pal Saucy has just put bangers and mash together for me. Actually, that's under-selling it, they were pork and apple sausages that she cooked on a grill and champ - creamy mashed potatoes with spring onions through it.

I have set the land speed record for doing the dishes so I could get back to knocking off five hundred words before Coronation Street (somethings are not negotiable).

Apparently there was some fireworks thing or other last night?


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Nano Blast

I'm so glad I decided to have a go at Nanowrimo.

Already it has brought about some quite strange behaviour. I'm talking to myself more and if it keeps up, I won't be able to get a word in. The cat's opinion has become important and she is consulted on all sorts of descriptive features. Her reactions to suggestions have decided the heroine's name.

Initially it was hard for me to simply start something that I didn't have mapped out down to the vintage of wine they might be drinking. But start I did.

Here's my opening few paragraphs. Obviously still as rough as the business end of a pineapple, but I wanted to post them just to show where the mind goes off to when left to itself:

Leith, Scotland, February 1645

Bruno didn't want to have to slay the man, but he would prefer him to be dead.

Frost from the lowering evening made the cobbles elusive under the heels of his leather boots, and he gripped the man's cloak in his free hand. The depth of the wool, that had been felted, led him to think of another positive if he killed the man. The rich fabric, in addition to not having his head pounded with the bottle being swung about, would do him well in this freezing hell. Bruno stabbed at the man.

The dance they performed was halted by the man dropping his bottle and Bruno fetching him a blow under the ear. The hit had not been intentional, but it resulted in his assailant slithering down to arrive in a bemused heap at his feet. Using the hilt of the blade, Bruno crowned him again.

With his foot he unfolded the man so that he was flat on his back and undid the clasp that held his cloak closed. A tidy piece of silver. He would earn from the fight, but the aches that his muscles would be dogged by tomorrow were already lodging complaints. Bruno pulled the wool free of the prostrate man and wrapped it about his own shoulders.

He stepped back from his victim in time to see another attacker join this part of the fray. The man's attention appeared to be reserved for Bruno and he drove though fighting pairs to approach. When he came within ten yards, he paused and spoke.

'Filthy Gyptian.' The man spat something that looked both rancid and robust.

Bruno came up to his full hight. 'I am a Venetian.' He gave the response in French. Bruno could make sense of this English they spoke, but he wouldn't make his own mouth form the charmless sounds.

The man's face attempted to make itself uglier. 'You're not Scots.'

It appeared some matter had been decided and the man lunged for Bruno. Although he was without weapons, the man's paws loomed huge and Bruno didn't want them to form a vice about his head. He twirled his knife as he weighed up his options.

Rifle shots echoed through the bruised night.

I have no idea what it's about or where it's going, but I quite like Bruno.

A Wee Spooky

Living in Scotland and writing about murder and general all-round nastiness, is a marriage made in hell. In other words, perfect!

At this time of the year, it is considered that the veil between the living and dead is very thin. The way to keep dead people from coming to your house by mistake was to use a living flame. This is by employing candles, especially when placed in a carved "living" face. In Scotland, it is the carving of turnips, not pumpkins. If you're never carved a turnip, be pleased about this - it's somewhat similar to a concrete slab.

Dating from 4,500 years ago, the Celtic people have been celebrating Samhain here, and it's a love for the spooky that is reflected in the imaginations of creators of books, short stories and poetry.

There is a tradition of great horror and macabre stories coming from this wonderful country, such as Doctor Jekyll and Mr Hyde. The inspiration for Dracula (Stoker) came from from Slains Castle, and the strange Dr Lind who wanted to use electricity to animate dead tissue: his main student - a certain Mr Shelley who married Mary.

Then there is Ian Rankin, who with his Rebus series and other books, has developed his own genre: Tartan Noir. But is it any wonder? Edinburgh is a stunning city, but she has some nasty secrets hidden in her depths. Long closed up vaults that housed body snatchers, plague victims and murderers.

Nicola Morgan is another amazing Scottish author who writes sinister young adult fiction. She also has a fabulous blog with excellent information for writers and can be a bit spooky herself at times, but only because she tells it like it is.

Scotland has a long Halloween tradition of celebrating by eating treacle covered scones because... err... they taste good?

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This Is My Song

There's a lot of twists and turns to this writing game, and while all are important, the one that matters the most to me is voice. It is the one thing I love to see a compliment on and what I am working on with every new chapter I write. I so want a distinctive voice.

It's akin to turning on the radio and knowing who is singing the moment you hear them. Someone with a vocal sound like Bruce Springsteen, Axl Rose or Mick Jagger. They may not be the most technically accurate vocalists, but you can't miss their individual sound.

Imagine if someone could read a page and know it was you that had written it without being told.

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Sitting On A Rug On The Jetty

The sounds fought for attention. Waves boomed against the sand, leaving the water to fizz back into the sea as individual raindrops plopped around me. Drizzle echoed along the shore.

Heavier now, it drummed against the wooden slats and dripped to the ocean below. Flurries whipped my hair, sweeping it across my face. Through smarting eyes, the flicker of neon hissed ozone symbols.

The sky clapped in appreciation.

An insect fluttered by. 'I caused that,' its wings whispered.

I've been working with words all day. Mainly those that would fall into the category of an onomatopoeia. Our language is such a fabulous thing.


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Playing With Words

Be careful with your prose, lest you imply something you didn't mean. I've been tinkering with a short story set in pre-dynastic Egypt. I had called my MC Sefu thinking it was a nothing kind of name, but hopefully believable in the context. So far, so good... but the other night I thought I would look on the interwebs and see if the name had been used for anything else.

Err...

It turns out that the word Sefu means sex fiend in Japan, or what we would call a f*ck buddy.

Right then. Maybe not.

In another "oh, I didn't mean that" situation, I was critiquing someone's story over the weekend. This lovely chap from Singapore had written a beautiful story of love and loss. However, he was writing about a "dear John" letter that the guy had been left on a notepad. In his distress, the character began to rip pages into pieces. The writer said: "He tore one off".

It took me a couple of emails to explain why this wasn't a good idea for a UK market.

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