That's about it really.
Wednesday, 11 May 2011
Update
Not posted for a while. There's no excuse for it, nothings coming into my head blog-wise. I've been writing off and on, Seven Daze is still coming along, nearly 70,000 words now. I've also started submitting Too Big To Fail to agents, though no bites so far. And, I've also dug out Spies, Lies and Pies and am giving it a little edit. I'm thinking about putting it on amazon as an e-book, though I keep changing my mind almost daily about whether it's a good idea or not.
That's about it really.
That's about it really.
Monday, 4 April 2011
Querying
Okay, so it's time to query Too Big Too Fail.
Querying, if you didn't know, is a bit like asking a girl to dance at a school disco when you're twelve. You spend ages wondering what to say, even longer working out the correct order of words, and then, when you finally pluck up the courage to ask, you get either ignored, laughed at or on very rare occasions, invited to submit the first fifty pages.
Actually, thinking about it, kids these days probably ask each other for a dance by text or MSN or whatever.
So then, first draft.
Dear ....
I am seeking representation for my novel, Too Big To Fail.
What if the banks had been allowed to fail?
Rob, a small town newspaper reporter, watched first the banks collapse then the government and eventually the world's banking system. A mysterious overseas consortium's offer to bail out Britain left Rob wondering at what price. After printing his own paper telling the truth, the secret police track and capture him. Escaping after a lorry accident near a holding centre, Rob and four other detainees run for their lives.
Too Big To Fail follows Rob and his companion as they run night and day through the New Forest. Eventually recaptured, they're sent to a dissident holding centre where the consortium's real aims become clear. Determined to make a difference, the group combine their efforts and plan to fight back against the consortium.
etc
So, if this was a disco and you the person I was asking, would you say yes or would you tell all your mates then laugh at me for a month?
Answers on a postcard to...
Querying, if you didn't know, is a bit like asking a girl to dance at a school disco when you're twelve. You spend ages wondering what to say, even longer working out the correct order of words, and then, when you finally pluck up the courage to ask, you get either ignored, laughed at or on very rare occasions, invited to submit the first fifty pages.
Actually, thinking about it, kids these days probably ask each other for a dance by text or MSN or whatever.
So then, first draft.
Dear ....
I am seeking representation for my novel, Too Big To Fail.
What if the banks had been allowed to fail?
Rob, a small town newspaper reporter, watched first the banks collapse then the government and eventually the world's banking system. A mysterious overseas consortium's offer to bail out Britain left Rob wondering at what price. After printing his own paper telling the truth, the secret police track and capture him. Escaping after a lorry accident near a holding centre, Rob and four other detainees run for their lives.
Too Big To Fail follows Rob and his companion as they run night and day through the New Forest. Eventually recaptured, they're sent to a dissident holding centre where the consortium's real aims become clear. Determined to make a difference, the group combine their efforts and plan to fight back against the consortium.
etc
So, if this was a disco and you the person I was asking, would you say yes or would you tell all your mates then laugh at me for a month?
Answers on a postcard to...
Wednesday, 30 March 2011
Stuff to read
There's been some good stories of late up on various sites.
Julie Morgan's The Birthday Present on Thrillers, Killers and Chiller is funny, messy and probably true.
Keiran Shea on A Twist of Noir has a blinding little tale that, again is very believable.
Jim Wilsky's Big Cat is a damn good read, kept my attention all the way through
and
The Flash Fiction Offensive does what it does best with Erin Cole's tale of everyday life at a US burger bar.
Me? Yeah I'm writing, got over the 58,000 word hole. I'm waiting for an email though. One that may come by tomorrow. Fingers and everything else is crossed.
Julie Morgan's The Birthday Present on Thrillers, Killers and Chiller is funny, messy and probably true.
Keiran Shea on A Twist of Noir has a blinding little tale that, again is very believable.
Jim Wilsky's Big Cat is a damn good read, kept my attention all the way through
and
The Flash Fiction Offensive does what it does best with Erin Cole's tale of everyday life at a US burger bar.
Me? Yeah I'm writing, got over the 58,000 word hole. I'm waiting for an email though. One that may come by tomorrow. Fingers and everything else is crossed.
Monday, 7 March 2011
Lack of updates
Just an update to explain the lack of updates. Firstly, there's no real explanation. Real life just gets in the way sometimes.
Secondly, writing is going very slowly on all fronts. I'm up to about 52,000 words on Seven Daze, but it's becoming hard work. Haven't written a short story in months, but I've got ideas for two more books.
Thirdly Alibi have a new writing competition this year whereby the place the story is set must become a big part of the story. I'm thinking of entering, but the old mind's blank at the moment.
Lastly, is it fourthly or forthly? Neither look right to me.
Secondly, writing is going very slowly on all fronts. I'm up to about 52,000 words on Seven Daze, but it's becoming hard work. Haven't written a short story in months, but I've got ideas for two more books.
Thirdly Alibi have a new writing competition this year whereby the place the story is set must become a big part of the story. I'm thinking of entering, but the old mind's blank at the moment.
Lastly, is it fourthly or forthly? Neither look right to me.
Wednesday, 23 February 2011
6,000 Words a day.
No not me. I've been lucky to do 600 a day so far this year. It was on the news last night. A new book found in the papers of Enid Blyton that was apparently forgotten about. She used to write about 6,000 words a day, so it's not surprising a few stories got lost or missed along the way. The cynics out there may come up with a conspiracy theory, but having lost several stories myself over the years, I'd be surprised if there weren't more of Blyton's stories that got misfiled.
Anyway, I never much went for the Famous Five, the whole tomboy/borderline transvestite George character confused the hell out of me as a six year old. I quite liked the Secret Seven though, getting into scrapes and drinking lemonade and all that. They had a tree house as well and secret passwords. What kid in the seventies wouldn't like that? Nowadays it's all zombies, vampires, wizards and iPods. And with literacy levels the way they are, books are now just for older people or squares (or whatever the current term is for square)
6000 words a day though, that's a lot. And there was no word processors back then. 6000 words on a typewriter, every day. Makes you think.
Anyway, I never much went for the Famous Five, the whole tomboy/borderline transvestite George character confused the hell out of me as a six year old. I quite liked the Secret Seven though, getting into scrapes and drinking lemonade and all that. They had a tree house as well and secret passwords. What kid in the seventies wouldn't like that? Nowadays it's all zombies, vampires, wizards and iPods. And with literacy levels the way they are, books are now just for older people or squares (or whatever the current term is for square)
6000 words a day though, that's a lot. And there was no word processors back then. 6000 words on a typewriter, every day. Makes you think.
Monday, 24 January 2011
Last Week
It must be a sign that christmas is finally over. Last week there was a flurry of new short stories put up on various sites. They're all corkers too.
Up on Pulp Metal Magazine is The Big Issue by Paul D Brazil, a fine mixture of noir grit and comedy. Thrillers Killers and Chillers has Small Green Things by Chris Allinotte. And finally, Ian Ayris's A Ladybirds Tale
I also had my first acceptance of the year this week. The Cordless Drill story, A drill too far, will be making an appearance soon. Apart from that, I also wrote another short story and submitted it and did a bit more of the new book (34,000 words now - still no title though.)
Up on Pulp Metal Magazine is The Big Issue by Paul D Brazil, a fine mixture of noir grit and comedy. Thrillers Killers and Chillers has Small Green Things by Chris Allinotte. And finally, Ian Ayris's A Ladybirds Tale
I also had my first acceptance of the year this week. The Cordless Drill story, A drill too far, will be making an appearance soon. Apart from that, I also wrote another short story and submitted it and did a bit more of the new book (34,000 words now - still no title though.)
Friday, 21 January 2011
Flash Fiction Friday
It's friday, it's five to four, but it's not crackerjack. I'm building up quite a collection of short stories now, so every now and then, I'll post one here.
Highland Games
It was Fatty Alan that came up with the idea. Mind you, every idea was Fatty Alan’s. We were down the Crown, drinking ourselves into oblivion. Between jobs, see, and we were spending enough for the Landlord to finally redecorate. Not that it’d be the same if he did. He always threatened it though, said it was like a sixties fucking shrine. That’s why we liked it. That and the lack of customers. It felt like home there. Somewhere we could relax.
So Fatty Alan starts remembering something. When Al gets going it’s like watching a firework explode, he’s always been the same. The idea’ll start bubbling up from his boots, shaking, twisting him. He struggles to get the words out, gets tongue tied, his whole body shaking. Then, all on a sudden, it just explodes out his mouth. Ranting fast, he was telling us he’d seen this news clip, knew we’d be interested, knew we’d want in.
He’d sky plussed this news clip, so after the pub we goes back to his place. His house still stinks of that lonely male smell, Eau de Bachelor we call it, guess it’s infested the walls by now, nothing’ll ever shift it. Horrible it is, but you gets used to it after a while. He cracks open a bottle of scotch and washes some mold infested cups as we settle down to watch the telly.
I thought it’d be something big, but it’s just some fucking news report on a football club. After the build up he’d given, I was expecting a bullion shipment or something. But no, just some tiny Scottish football club that kept winning games in the cup.
“Don’t you see?” he says. “No we fucking don’t,” we replied. So, he plays it again, just the last twenty seconds of it, mind. Gobby Phil, who’s a clever bastard, said, “Fucking ell. You don’t mean?” Al nods at him, all smug like. But the rest of us, we still ain’t got a pissing clue what’s going on.
He plays it again, just the last ten seconds this time. The reporter on the telly’s banging on about this team and how it’s playing Rangers this Saturday and the away fans have already bought five thousand tickets. He then says, ‘for a population of only two thousand, it’s going to be like a ghost town here Saturday.’
It was then that I twigged. Thick twat Jim didn’t, had to fucking spell it out word by word till he got it, the twat. But, that was it. The entire town watching a football match. That just had come and rob us written all over it, didn’t it?
Randy Gav and his brother stole us two seven tonners from that lorry park off the motorway and we stashed them till Friday night, changed the plates then drove up there, all six of us. Took all fucking night to get there, mind, driving at sixty all the way. It took forever, we passed all these lochs and little roads, barely bigger than tracks they were. Got lost twice, too. Eventually, we parks up near the next town and gets a few hours kip. Gotta be fresh, you gotta be fresh.
Kick off was early, one o’clock, so we hit the town at twelve, reckoning they’d have all gone by then. We drives in, it was like the lone ranger arriving at some fucking Wild West town with tumbleweed. No people on the streets, hardly any cars, just nothing.
We breaks in the first house, gets a nice plasma, stereo, Playstation and computer. In and out in a few minutes, we were. By the tenth house, we’d run out of room. Chucked all the stereos back on the street and stuck to tellys after that. Fuckin hell, by the time we’d finished we could have opened our own Radio Rentals branch.
At three o’clock we left, cursing for not bringing more lorries. We swiped three motors too, twat’s had just left the keys lying round, hadn’t they? I was driving a Discovery full of flat screens, weren’t a brand new one mind, but still worth some dosh, if you know the right man.
Back over them hills and round them lochs was hard work. We was carrying loads of weight, lorries were struggling to pull. We had the two lorries sandwiched by the cars we’d nicked, thought it’d be less obvious that way. Turned out, the lorry at the back was pulling better than the front one, so we was all bunched up.
We comes over the top of this hill, real steep one it was, and there’s a tight bend just after it. Course, this being Scotland, it’d been raining, road was drenched. Randy Gav tried to brake, but the lorry skidded, twisting as it went. Broke through this barrier and come to a stop with one of its rear wheels hanging over the edge.
We skidded to a halt behind. Fatty Phil was driving the other lorry and he crashed into the back of my new Discovery. Carnage it was. But it was then that we saw them.
Loads of coaches and buses all driving up this hill, right in front of us, must have been over fifty of them. All full, rammed full of football fans. We thought about running but it was too late, three of the coaches drove by us before we’d even got out. The coaches that’d passed screeched to a halt, someone on them must have spotted the cars, knew we’d nicked em.
So that’s it, there’s hundreds of em here, surrounding us, slowly moving in and there’s six of us. I don’t like them odds. Really don’t like them odds.
Highland Games
It was Fatty Alan that came up with the idea. Mind you, every idea was Fatty Alan’s. We were down the Crown, drinking ourselves into oblivion. Between jobs, see, and we were spending enough for the Landlord to finally redecorate. Not that it’d be the same if he did. He always threatened it though, said it was like a sixties fucking shrine. That’s why we liked it. That and the lack of customers. It felt like home there. Somewhere we could relax.
So Fatty Alan starts remembering something. When Al gets going it’s like watching a firework explode, he’s always been the same. The idea’ll start bubbling up from his boots, shaking, twisting him. He struggles to get the words out, gets tongue tied, his whole body shaking. Then, all on a sudden, it just explodes out his mouth. Ranting fast, he was telling us he’d seen this news clip, knew we’d be interested, knew we’d want in.
He’d sky plussed this news clip, so after the pub we goes back to his place. His house still stinks of that lonely male smell, Eau de Bachelor we call it, guess it’s infested the walls by now, nothing’ll ever shift it. Horrible it is, but you gets used to it after a while. He cracks open a bottle of scotch and washes some mold infested cups as we settle down to watch the telly.
I thought it’d be something big, but it’s just some fucking news report on a football club. After the build up he’d given, I was expecting a bullion shipment or something. But no, just some tiny Scottish football club that kept winning games in the cup.
“Don’t you see?” he says. “No we fucking don’t,” we replied. So, he plays it again, just the last twenty seconds of it, mind. Gobby Phil, who’s a clever bastard, said, “Fucking ell. You don’t mean?” Al nods at him, all smug like. But the rest of us, we still ain’t got a pissing clue what’s going on.
He plays it again, just the last ten seconds this time. The reporter on the telly’s banging on about this team and how it’s playing Rangers this Saturday and the away fans have already bought five thousand tickets. He then says, ‘for a population of only two thousand, it’s going to be like a ghost town here Saturday.’
It was then that I twigged. Thick twat Jim didn’t, had to fucking spell it out word by word till he got it, the twat. But, that was it. The entire town watching a football match. That just had come and rob us written all over it, didn’t it?
Randy Gav and his brother stole us two seven tonners from that lorry park off the motorway and we stashed them till Friday night, changed the plates then drove up there, all six of us. Took all fucking night to get there, mind, driving at sixty all the way. It took forever, we passed all these lochs and little roads, barely bigger than tracks they were. Got lost twice, too. Eventually, we parks up near the next town and gets a few hours kip. Gotta be fresh, you gotta be fresh.
Kick off was early, one o’clock, so we hit the town at twelve, reckoning they’d have all gone by then. We drives in, it was like the lone ranger arriving at some fucking Wild West town with tumbleweed. No people on the streets, hardly any cars, just nothing.
We breaks in the first house, gets a nice plasma, stereo, Playstation and computer. In and out in a few minutes, we were. By the tenth house, we’d run out of room. Chucked all the stereos back on the street and stuck to tellys after that. Fuckin hell, by the time we’d finished we could have opened our own Radio Rentals branch.
At three o’clock we left, cursing for not bringing more lorries. We swiped three motors too, twat’s had just left the keys lying round, hadn’t they? I was driving a Discovery full of flat screens, weren’t a brand new one mind, but still worth some dosh, if you know the right man.
Back over them hills and round them lochs was hard work. We was carrying loads of weight, lorries were struggling to pull. We had the two lorries sandwiched by the cars we’d nicked, thought it’d be less obvious that way. Turned out, the lorry at the back was pulling better than the front one, so we was all bunched up.
We comes over the top of this hill, real steep one it was, and there’s a tight bend just after it. Course, this being Scotland, it’d been raining, road was drenched. Randy Gav tried to brake, but the lorry skidded, twisting as it went. Broke through this barrier and come to a stop with one of its rear wheels hanging over the edge.
We skidded to a halt behind. Fatty Phil was driving the other lorry and he crashed into the back of my new Discovery. Carnage it was. But it was then that we saw them.
Loads of coaches and buses all driving up this hill, right in front of us, must have been over fifty of them. All full, rammed full of football fans. We thought about running but it was too late, three of the coaches drove by us before we’d even got out. The coaches that’d passed screeched to a halt, someone on them must have spotted the cars, knew we’d nicked em.
So that’s it, there’s hundreds of em here, surrounding us, slowly moving in and there’s six of us. I don’t like them odds. Really don’t like them odds.