Good Times

On Youtube, there's an album version of the fabulous Chic tune 'Good Times'. I listen to it often. Even though it's an upbeat tune, there's an ever-so-slight wistfulness about it - like Donna Summer's Dinner With Gershwin, for example, or Jacko's Rock With You - that seems to grab me so hard.
It's that 'grab' I've been searching for lately. I still haven't written the new version of chapter two. Nothing sinister: I waited a long time before writing the prologue, which still seems a trifle unfinished compared to chapter one. There's lots of work still to be done, and I'm edging closer to achieving it.
The whole book is my goal. I understand that now - there seems to be no good reason for sending it off half-written. The end of it is a long way away. But who cares? I certainly don't, as I love writing it... when I'm actually writing it.
I'm pretty certain no-one's written what I'm writing. Not that it means too much, I guess, but at least it seems to be different. Gotta hope it works first, otherwise originality will be lost.
It's beginning to hurt, though, knowing I have to write it, to make it all work. That, for me, is a good thing. If I feel no pain, then I feel nothing.
The spirit of Dickens lives!
Living off the wall...

In Search Of Inspiration

I've posted up a new video. Bob Dylan never seemed to figure too prominently on my musical horizon. Then I heard Blind Willie McTell. There's a resonance to this song that seems to fit so well with my feelings for my latest work. It's a simple song with a gentle rock to it, and so very haunting. I can listen to it over and over without growing tired of it. There's even a reference to St James' Hotel, which, considering that the story is set in Newcastle, is rather apt.
Dylan always seems to me as someone who has travelled through time. Like he always existed; not strictly human. Like Elvis and Bowie. There are elements of each I'm trying to capture within the hero of my tale. I can do it. But I have to be careful that I do it properly.
Work has got in the way of my revision of chapter two. So has life. Perhaps writers never really exist in the real world. Perhaps we do, just it feels like we don't.
When I listen to Blind Willie McTell, it seems like I'm being told something, though the words are not there in the song: grab your life when you can, I guess. It soon goes, you know. Time passes, and you are left wondering where the hell it has all gone.
But you have this dream. You still have this dream - like most people have dreams. Very few try to realise them. I'm still trying to realise mine. Maybe I never will. Then again, I didn't start until late. No compromise. Gotta get on with it.
A bit of a garbled post, so it's no wonder I've not put pen to paper, lately.
Foolish dreams.

Cooking The Books

Being a single guy - I'll remedy that one fine day, I keep telling myself - I find myself watching the odd cookery programme for a few tips on staying healthy and alive.
My speciality seems to be a pan of soup, with lots of veg. It makes me feel great, and I do sometimes wonder why I don't just make it all the time. I'm no Jamie Oliver when it comes to bashing things around the kitchen, nor am I a Rick Stein in search of fish around the world. Plain and simple food suits me the best, apart from a visit or two to a curry house.
Except, the one chef I really like to watch is Gary Rhodes. A contradiction, I know, as there is nothing plain about his wonderful cooking. But I do know why I like his programmes: his meticulous, in-pursuit-of-perfection style mirrors my own approach to writing. Whether I've written off the cuff or, like my latest work, planned it as far as I could without stifling things, I hum and hah over almost every single word and sentence, looking at paragraph sizes, studying the last few words of one chapter and seeing how they match the beginning of the next, and getting the absolute horrors over unrhythmic and jarring writing, often fighting with myself over the choice between exotic poetry or simple prose.
In short, I just about kill myself doing it.
And this has caused me a dilemma: should I be considering sending my unfinished work off to agents? It's a great idea and one that requires serious thought. However, the reality is that I don't know any agents who would want me to do that, and finding agents who would want me to do that is well-nigh impossible. And I could be closing doors when what I want to do is open them.
A writer: who would want to be one? Hmmm.
So, I've come to a decision. The only way I can complete this book in my present circumstance (i.e. alone) is to write it out until it's finished, or is perhaps a couple of chapters away from being finished.
Of course, this will take me a while - probably at least six months, given the planning I've done.
No idea whether I'm right, but at least it seems to fit in with the scheme of things both in the agent world, and in the publishing world.
Right. Decision made. A literary decision made!
I hope...

Peter Pan and Oliver Twist

Peter Pan is probably the greatest character in a work of fantasy. To me, he is rivalled only by Oliver Twist in a true literary work. I will always say that Oliver Twist is the greater, because of his reflection of actual history. To create a work that can be enjoyed and appreciated from such a horrific period in so-called 'civilised' society takes some kind of ability. Especially when you consider that the author was a child worker from such times. Dickens did not have the classical background for a writer. From humble beginnings, he managed to scale such heights.
Of course, there is King Arthur. The vagaries of the whole King Arthur Legend, much as I love it, cause me to feel that it is not a work of literary prowess - more a work of great legend. The greatest legend that has ever been, and because of that, the greatest legend that will ever be.
I can't have it that Dickens wasn't the greatest. I also can't have it that such homegrown or foreign inferior writers, whose works register barely a ripple in the consciousnesses of the reading world, shall be mentioned in the same sentence. Nor should they be presented to our children in preference. As further reading, yes. If they want to read them. As preferred reading, without choice, absolutely not.

Charles Dickens vs The World

Every now and then, a thought would enter my head: why are so many people championing the non-English writer? Just a feeling I would get when, once again, I'd come across someone's list of 'bests'. Annoying.
Today, I came across this in the online version of the Daily Express:
http://www.sundayexpress.co.uk/posts/view/40373/Why-do-schools-ignore-Charles-Dickens
(That wasn't me commenting on the piece at the end - though solvey probably won't believe me as he believes I've been sending him some rather artful stuff in his email! My protestations have fallen on deaf ears.)
Dickens' writing is some of the most powerful and human ever written. His depiction of the lives of his fellow countrymen is so perceptive and graphic that the reader is transported into the past with barely an effort beyond the simple reading of his words. He is, without doubt, the greatest writer ever of the written word as presented in the form of a novel, either short or full length.
I don't get it, myself, why there is this almost-shunning of his work. Why?
I've had a think. I can come up with two reasons: one, it isn't perceived as cool to place him above foreign writers, who don't even come close; and two, Dickens is an eloquent reminder of how this country - in the form of government at the very least - has mistreated its overwhelmingly working class population since the year dot. The Government still allows its people to be mistreated - the paltry wages people are paid in almost all areas of any working environment is one tiny example. Dickens saw this. He and his family had, of course, been a victim of this mistreatment.
Shakespeare spoke of mighty rulers and mighty falls, tragedies, noble enactments. All great writing and I love it, too. I am not surprised how he is regarded as the greatest - unchallenged, as he is so much more acceptable to the powers-that-be than a writer who told it how it really was.
There isn't a single character in the history of literature in the whole of the entire world who can better Oliver Twist. Even though he was in a work of fiction, Oliver Twist was a reflection of reality. And he was lucky, would you believe! You only have to read about chimney sweeps and the use of what became known as Climbing Boys, starting as young as six, who became alcoholics and died of cancer by the time they were the age of about twelve - ideal for their employers, as they would have then been too big to climb up the chimneys! You may wish to quote me David Copperfield and Ebeneezer Scrooge. I hope you do! They are from the same author, in case you don't actually know this. And if you don't, then I hope you go off immediately to find about them. You will be rewarded. Your soul will soak it all in like no writer you have ever read, or will ever read. Of course, you will be faced with a work of great length - although A Christmas Carol is not too long a piece if you need a good starting point.
Now then, you might quote me Peter Pan. Hmmm.

Most Haunted

The story of my life, at the moment!
The Most Haunted team are in Turin as I type. I love the programme, even though not a lot ever happens apart from the marvellous Yvette Fielding's shrieking. I feel the atmosphere and history has resonance with my latest work, at times.
Tonight, for a minute or so, my TV wouldn't do as it was told - a happening reported by many viewers during the programme. But that was just about it. And it happened here, not there. Shucks!
The programme needs Derek Acorah. He seems authentic, and he and Yvette work well together.
I'll keep watching, though. Just in case something happens. Could be a long wait - if this is really a work of fiction, then the writer is an absolute master of suspense...

Chapter Two

Of course, it had to happen: Chapter Two has been scrapped in its present form.
A wander round Newcastle assisted with a new idea or two, as well as the decision itself. I haven't cracked it - not by any means, but my initial thoughts seem promising.
You know, I thought I knew Newcastle (the scene of my latest work). The place surprised me. I also thought I knew where I was going - perhaps I do, just I still haven't realised it. Important time has elapsed and I've made a mistake; but hopefully I'm in the middle of rectifying it.
Funny, but I'd been carrying an idea that needed a way of introducing into the tale. That walk around Newcastle seems to have provided this way.
I need to go back to the train of thought that brought me the Prologue and Chapter One. They match Chapter Three and the other pieces I've so far written. But not the Chapter Two I came up with.

Critters and Litopia

I have to resist the temptation: Critters has had a makeover. Not only that, but they have two discussion groups - one, a writing only group and, two, an anything goes group.
I can't do it. I just can't. Too much to do.
No reason why you shouldn't go there, though - even if it's only for a quick look. You never know...
As I see it, if you could take the best out of Critters and the best out of Litopia and put them together, you'd just about have the perfect writers website. Andrew Burt and Peter Cox should think about it.
Oh heck, what do I know? Just write, Es.

Today

I'm not sure what today will bring. I know I have to revise my beginning. And the Wizard Of Oz is on TCM at three. Hmmm. I'm going to do what I feel like doing, and see where it leads. I hope that it allows me to think freely and come up with whatever changes are necessary. Some of the writing is good - I won't discard everything. Maybe I won't discard most of it. I just don't know right now. Once I've read it over, I'm going to think, and to read my notes.
Not sure why I feel like this about chapter two. We'll see.

A walk in the park

The South Marine Park, to be more accurate. Sometimes I just have to go for a walk down the sea front, invariably wandering through the South Marine Park first, then along the pier for a while and back through the North Marine Park. As it was raining today, that's what I did. (I like to walk in the rain, as there's nobody else there.) While walking, I spoke to Noel the Ultimate Proofreader on the phone, and discussed a million things such as reading, writing, football, horse racing, my new job and fish and chips in Berwick. The fish and chip supper usually comes after a trip to Lindisfarne. We've decided that we must get to Lindisfarne soon, if only for the fish and chips.

I, personally, need to feel Lindisfarne's icy wind tearing at me before I begin writing again, blowing away the mental cobwebs inside my head. The chances are, though, that we won't go there for at least another month. I will have begun writing again long before then. Not that I ever stop writing - most of it swirls around inside my mind. Just the physical act of writing will begin again soon.

Noel asked me not to be too hard on myself. Ha! I wouldn't be me if I didn't blast myself about something. He's right, of course. Publish or be damned, that seems to be my motto. At the moment, I'm damned. I love the story I'm currently writing. So maybe I shouldn't feel damned at all. I'm fortunate. No doubt about it. My fear is that it never sees the light of day. I will write it all, eventually. One day, the first book will be finished. I know how the story ends, so my writing will be geared to reaching that conclusion. The ending of book one has unanswered questions which lead into book two. Book three is there. I've almost got it.

Soon!

The Art of Zen Buddhism

Now and again I find myself watching a gardening programme. Half-watching, mostly, as I'm not a gardener, and I don't have a garden. Unless it's Monty Don: the David Attenborough of the gardening world. I'm not joking - this is a seriously dedicated and knowledgeable guy. I didn't take too much notice of him, at first, but he seemed to crop up everywhere, until eventually he grew on me. Some of the social projects he has been involved in deserve maximum respect. He comes across as an ok kind of guy. The real thing.
Last night, Monty was in Kyoto, looking at representations of Zen Buddhism in the garden. I know nothing about any of it, but I watched out of curiosity. The best bit was inside some kind of shed, where a stone nestled upon a gravel bed, with rings shaped into the gravel as if emanating from the centre of the stone - like a drop of water falling into water. Or maybe a stone falling into water. Apparently, and this may only have been Monty's interpretation, this piece of still life was meant to capture the idea that even the tiniest action brought about some kind of reaction.
This got me thinking. The idea is connected to movement: action and reaction. The piece of art was still life, in the sense that it just seemed to be a still life of itself, and not connected to movement. I know it's a matter of interpretation, but I found myself wondering why didn't they use water, with drops of water falling into it? Or stones falling into it. I've a feeling it would have been quite a soothing experience if water had been used - more musical, perhaps, and spiritually more quiet than the still life, if not more quiet physically. Reaction, to the action of sound and movement. Close your eyes and you can still picture it and hear it.
Nothing wrong about exploration, or discovery. Nothing at all. But when it falls as flat as that? Hmmm...

The Demon Drink!

Friday night was a good night. Not a great one - there weren't enough of us out to make it that - but I enjoyed it very much. Boy did I suffer for it on Saturday. This has been a bit of a lost weekend, with my mind drifting in and out of a million things. Maybe I needed it mentally, but physically I just can't take too much alcohol these days. And then there was the obligatory curry to follow! I must have drunk gallons of water between then and now.

Submission time awaits: having got the latest Writers' and Artists', I'm about to embark on a journey that might drive me to more of the Demon Drink. Only, I doubt I'd live long enough to see the end of the submission process.

Guess I should just stick to water, and fruit juice. A healthy attitude towards a potentially unhealthy situation!!

Oh, and I've stuck my pic up, having been asked a couple of times for it. Ah, the wonders of mobile phone technology. I'm not one for Facebook 'n' stuff, so it's on here instead.