Get up. Walk dogs and rework key climatic scene in head.

Feed dogs, make breakfast, clean kitchen and sit down to write. Go back to kitchen to check champagne is in fridge because I am going to finish this book, this series, this final edit today. Oh yes I am.

Pug 1

Open laptop, read what I wrote yesterday. Edit everything I wrote yesterday. Let Pug 1 into the garden. Sit down and write two words. Let Pug 1 in again.

Sit down and start writing. Fifteen words later, Pug 2 wants to go out. Go to fridge for bottle of water. None left so fill empty water bottles and rearrange fridge to accommodate. Let Pug 2 in.

Sit down and concentrate. Rattle out 50 words and ponder the emotional impact of ‘clench’ versus ‘clutch’ while watching a blackbird yank a worm out of the lawn.

Pug 2 has sneezing fit and I recall Sunday is Dog Maintenance Day. Fetch designated dog facecloth from the cellar and notice washing machine has finished its cycle. Hang up washing and decide on ‘clench’. Clean both pugs’ nose folds and take French Bulldog into the garden to trim her nails.

Wash hands and sit at computer. Write 140 words and flick back to insert relevant flag in earlier chapter. Start editing earlier chapter. One word reminds me of that email from that bloke about that thing and I ‘quickly’ check the inbox.

Twenty minutes later, husband suggests coffee break. Agree. Hell, I’ve earned it.

Sit down and concentrate. Dogs napping in the sun, husband busy in the studio and I can write. 220 words later, I can bear it no more. This bra is digging into me and I cannot possibly create if uncomfortable. Upstairs to change underwear and notice bed linen could do with a wash. Change bed linen and spend fifteen minutes looking for matching pillowcases.

French Bulldog

Back at desk. Message from fellow student with question about German homework. German homework? I’ll do it later. Keine Ahnung, I reply. 350 words and the chapter is taking shape. Just need to work out the logistics of the gun and the distance and … French Bulldog scratches at the French window. She wants to sit in spring sunshine. For precisely seven minutes.

Hit 1000 words and check cupboards for refried beans as I fancy fajitas. Spend half an hour cooking, another hour eating and chatting about Paris, Texas, then twenty minutes clearing up.

Pug 2

After lunch and dog walk, I launch myself at the keyboard like a dervish.

Delete everything I wrote this morning and rework. While attempting to force characters into Scenario A, they slip and slide and evade me, setting up Scenario B.

It works. Excited, I tap away to a dramatic climax and then…

Pug 1 needs a pee. Shortly followed by Pug 2.

My concentration wanders. Time for a quick check-up on Social Media?

No!

I am a writer and I must write. 1,500 words later and my edit is complete. Just one last once-over and I can officially declare this book done.

Herr Husband wanders in.

“The only thing on a sunny afternoon is a gin and tonic. What do you say?”

French Bulldog farts.

The Distracters

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Last weekend, I tried three things I’d never done before.

I did not regret any of them. (More of that later.)

Your challenge this weekend , should you wish to accept it, is to try something new.

It’s a risky business, choosing what to read.

So what if I were to tell you we’ve hand-picked a dozen books we think you’ll like. And to prove our confidence, you can have them for free.

All of them or pick the ones you fancy. There’s something for everyone.

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Adventure, historical fiction, short stories, drama, laughter, romance, mystery, heart-racers and heart-melters.

Strong women, passionate women, courageous women, clever women, mysterious women and smart women.
Best of all, you don’t actually have to be a woman to enjoy this opportunity.

Free Reads for Smart Women

Find out more about each exceptional book in this two-minute video:

 

As for my adventures?

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I had a go at parkour (good fun but bruising), took an exam in Italian (passed by the seat of my pantaloni) and ate a persimmon (previously put off by the name Kaki fruit).

 This weekend, I shall be reading, eating Mexican food and deciding on a title for Book 6.
Have a great weekend!

 

 

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A phenomenon is scaring me.

No, not just SCROTUS, although he’s a big part of it.

There’s a peculiar anti-word, anti-thought movement spreading through our societies, which opposes reason and embraces slogan. Nothing new there, a blunt cudgel of opinion-bashing has its historical precedents.

Which should be terrifying by example. I’m not telling you where to look. I don’t need to.

Go check a random oppressive regime. How far down the list do you find ‘silence the thinkers’?

Here’s a mini test:

Name three regimes whose policy was to slaughter intellectuals.

Name three governments who imprison opponents without trial.

Name three countries which spread misinformation and propaganda to sway their population into supporting their own agenda.

(Hint: you probably live in one and this is why we need a free press, even if some of them are gits.)

One of the scariest phrases I heard was Michael Gove’s comment during the Brexit campaign: “Oh I think people have had enough of experts”.

These inexpert, self-interested campaigners for anything that will get them up the career ladder speak for ‘The People’. One of their base tools is arguing against argument. It’s the equivalent of sticking your fingers in your ears and shouting your own position over and over until ‘The People’ (or ‘Folks’ if you want the current Imbecile-in-the-White-House version) can repeat it verbatim.

This is a crass, patronising assumption on every level.

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Firstly, ‘The People’ enjoy argument, rationale or reason. Engaging and discussing issues in person often leads to a less fossilised position. Online is a different matter. Comment is as dehumanising, reductive and debasing as a scrawled cartoon of a bear shitting in the woods. But it still works. Make us yell at each other and we take our eye off the argument. Sit us in a bar to chat and it’s a whole different game.

Secondly, simple words – make, great, take, ours, us, we, sad, bigly(?), danger, wall – is a reductive and banal way to communicate. Joined-up thinking requires a sense of cause and effect. People – yes, even ‘The People’ – are aware the credit crunch and subsequent drain on the working and middle-class was not due to immigration, fake news or or the liberal elite, but rampant pocket-lining by the very same people who tell you ‘You Ne-ver Had It So Good’. (One syllable at a time, folks.)

Thirdly, attacking people who dare to show some more articulacy than bellowing ‘Lock her up!” are derided for being elitist, intellectual and not of ‘The People’. It’s much more difficult to reduce the problems inherent in destabilising the EU to a tidy ALL CAPS phrase on a banner.

Lastly, how highly do you rate your supporters when you stand up in front of them and lie? Lie loudly, repeatedly and with bombast in the conviction they will believe it. If this is your methodology, your rationale must be that ‘The People’ are truly stupid.

We are not. You, me, all of us will be remembered by our thoughts, our words and our actions.

In a time like this, words are the bridge between thought and action.

They could not be more vital.

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This week, The Guardian newspaper published this: Stop it, Sherlock! Five TV Tropes that need to die.

I wholeheartedly agree. Here’s one I wrote earlier.

(Tune in next week for chick-lit.)

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Only Dead Fish Have Open Mouths by Jed Blood

It’s Friday night in Greensville, Colorado. Apple-cheeked Melanie Mills is pretty tired after school and a volunteer shift at Kitty Corner, the homeless cat charity. But tonight is special. She has a secret. She tells her folks she’s studying with the girls and heads out for her romantic blind date.

I’m neither romantic nor blind, but I’m waiting for you, Melanie. Inside my head is a lonely place. Inside my pocket is a garlic crusher. Tonight is for Daddy.

Lauren Laphroaig (don’t try to pronounce it, honey, you’ll choke) is woken at 3am by the phone. On the other end is Detective O’Malley, wearing a shower cap on each shoe, shouting at civilians to stand back and chain-smoking cheroots. The mutilated body of an apple-cheeked teenage girl just washed up in the creek. Lauren sighs, swears and drags on a leather jacket. En route to the river, she listens to Miles Davis, snacks on a chili dog and regrets her inability to commit to relationships.

Chief Inspector Elmet Bird is at the scene when she arrives; besuited, livid and in urgent need of soundbites for the city council. Lauren rolls her eyes (because she’s feisty) and mimes ‘Bird Brain’ to O’Malley. Bird spots their sniggering and assigns one of his own to assist in the investigation. Travis C. Weed is a law-enforcement-consultant with an apricot tie and a handshake limper than wilted chard.

Pathologist Rita Ferrongut won’t hazard a wild guess as to cause of death, insisting on a full PM first. Lauren and Weed talk to Melanie’s parents (traumatic), her friends (dramatic) and the weird owner of the cat sanctuary (erratic). Weed takes everything in his stride and asks intelligent questions. Lauren notices his long eyelashes and warm smile but still hates his tie.

The morgue. Ferrongut is having lunch (sashimi, sushi and edamame beans) over Melanie’s eviscerated corpse. She offers everyone chopsticks, while demonstrating how the victim’s injuries were caused by kitchen implements, including an oyster shucker. Weed rushes out to puke. Ferrongut belches. Lauren sighs, swears and goes home for a hot shower.

Time to wash off all that death, grief and wasabi. Wraps herself in bathrobe, fills whisky glass, puts on Chet Baker, has bitter phone call with ex-husband. “Married to the job? Maybe. But I’d rather be married to something I care about.” She sighs, swears and sleeps on the sofa.

Detective O’Malley uncovers police records for Barry King, owner of Kitty Corner. The man is dangerous. So Lauren decides to investigate, at night, alone, with no phone. Oh, and it’s raining.

Stumbling blindly through the midnight-black catty-combs beneath the feline refuge, Lauren is whacked on the back of the head. When she comes around, she’s in a cage, gagged and tied with fish scales smeared on her face. Barry (call me Bar) King, with fetid tuna breath, unveils his master plan – the only restaurant in the world to serve human flesh.

Weed, worried, turns up at Lauren’s house. He finds her mobile and listens to the last message. Kitty Corner? That weird guy who smelt of Whiskas? Of course! He tracks them down and calls for back up. But waiting is not an option when Bar King  selects the Hiromoto Hacker from his knife block. Today’s Dish of the Day, with truffle oil and rocket, will be Carpaccio of Inner Thigh.

Weed mans up and bursts in, wrests the cleaver from the madman’s grasp and stabs King with a chopstick. With his last gurgling breaths, King explains he was abused as a child and only allowed to eat tofu.

Beside the corpse, Weed unties Lauren and wipes the scales from her cheek. Relieved, she holds him tight. Confused, he confesses his love.

Lauren sighs, swears and with one regretful lingering kiss, moves on to the sequel.

Emma Darwin in her wonderful blog This Itch of Writing explored the emotional connection between writer and reader. A timely piece as it’s been on my mind.

Emma speaks about distance and intellectual management of emotion by the writer to create the desired effect in the reader.

Yes.

Yes, and one more yes.

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So much work I read these days lacks that essential skill.

Distance is obviously essential in journalism or reportage, but it is more important than we think in fiction or creative non-fiction.

Theatre practitioners Stanislavski and Meyerhold went to opposite ends of the extreme. Both worked hard at their philosophies. Both studied their respective crafts.

Stanislavski and the subsequent Actors Studio in New York believed in emotional engagement, empathising, being, feeling and becoming the character. It gave rise to some exceptional performances and a certain amount of indulgence.

Meyerhold was about the physicality, the mechanics of performance to trigger emotion and reaction. Actor as part of the machine, actor as manipulator of tools and audience, as in pantomime, commedia dell’arte and puppetry.

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As artists they honed their art; as directors they affected their audiences.

Whichever end of the spectrum they lay, neither would simply go through the (e)motions.

Worse still, going through recycled emotions is about as fascinating as a drunken friend retelling you how s/he met him/her. Again. Thinly disguised diaries or wish fulfilment is not literature. Why should we care?

Memoir, creative non-fiction and stories-based-on-ourselves all require a skill almost unheard of in these times of social media mirrors and echo chambers. How is one to be authentic via media that sprinkles moondust in your hair and makes dreams look real? How does one suppress the ego and use the material in the most effective way to entertain and enthrall the reader?

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Recent books I’ve read underline Emma’s point so here are three more points to add:

  • Have a story to tell – otherwise get a therapist/write a diary
  • Talk to the reader, not yourself
  • Even if you are the central actor, when writing, take the role of director

7 books that work:

A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again, David Foster Wallace

Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal, Jeanette Winterson

Let’s Explore Diabetes with Owls, David Sedaris

The White Goddess: An Encounter, Simon Gough

The Hare with the Amber Eyes, Edmund de Waal

Paralian, by Liam Klenk

And my childhood favourite, My Family and Other Animals, Gerald Durrell

 

All images courtesy of  Vien Hoang via Creative Commons

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My fabulous colleagues at Triskele make me sound rather nice.

Thanks, gang!

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This is the third in our series – what each brings to Triskele Books.

http://triskelebooks.blogspot.ch/2017/01/triskele-author-feature-jj-marsh.html

Guest piece for Words with JAM magazine by yours truly, on magic book descriptions that work.
http://www.wordswithjam.co.uk/2017/01/how-to-write-killer-blurb.html

Ten steps.

Five of which happen before you even begin to write.

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Start with bare branches…