Category: blogging

Writing a book in 365 days – 216

Day 216

Rejection – everyone is on the end of it – but it doesn’t have to be the end, or a negative

…

Here’s the good news – getting a rejection letter from a publisher declining to publish the book you thought was about to launch your writing career into the stratosphere, or on a lesser scale, a rejection of an article you wrote for your favourite magazine, is one of those things that goes with the territory.

It happens to everyone, and even those writers who are now No. 1 bestselling authors. The most notable rejection story I ever read was that of J K Rowling and her Harry Potter.

The trick is, don’t let it get the better of you. Never send away a piece of writing without keeping a little section of your hopes on hold so that if the improbable happens, it is not as devastating.

Then, before the soul searching, or wondering what was wrong, if the letter has reasons why they didn’t publish, and please let it not be as simple as sending a fishing story to a wedding magazine, look at the information as constructive criticism, and make changes.

If they don’t give any feedback, then try to take the editor’s seat, read the story and see if you can spot the problems from that editor’s point of view. You will be surprised at how easy it can be to see the error, and even easier to fix it.

You are always going to get ‘constructive’ criticism.

I never used to handle it well, but now, I talk on the advice of others. Sometimes I ignore it, but I am always willing to read what others think of my work, even if it is sometimes disparaging.

I cannot please all of the people all of the time.

But that doesn’t stop me from trying.

Does every writer suffer from this dilemma?

If I get a headache, I can take paracetamol

If I have a sore back, I can take ipBrufen.

If I can’t put words on paper … what is there I can take?

It affects us all at some point, but it’s not necessarily that old demon writer’s block.

What is writer’s block anyway?  Is it some existential disease that doesn’t really exist, yet something we can blame where we can’t write?

So, it’s down to looking for reasons, and logically looking at what is the underlying cause of the problem.  We should be asking ourselves questions, like

Are we constantly distracted from writing?

Plan or no plan, subconsciously it doesn’t feel right, that the next scene, plotline or character interaction does follow, is contrived, is just plain wrong?

Usually, for me, it only takes two questions and the answer pops up.

I’ve written myself into the proverbial corner, and there’s no logical way to go forward.

What does that mean?

Well, that is covered by a third possible outcome from answering the questions.

I have to go back and do some major re-writes of earlier work, make sure there are the appropriate hooks and maybe even change the direction, even if just a little.

That, in itself, in the back of your mind, knowing what has to be done, and putting off the inevitable, is another reason why this project isn’t moving forward.

Two aspirin can’t solve this.

Nothing can.

Perhaps we should rename writer’s block to writer’s dilemma.

The story behind the story – Echoes from the Past

The novel ‘Echoes from the past’ started out as a short story I wrote about 30 years ago, titled ‘The birthday’.

My idea was to take a normal person out of their comfort zone and led on a short but very frightening journey to a place where a surprise birthday party had been arranged.

Thus the very large man with a scar and a red tie was created.

So was the friend with the limousine who worked as a pilot.

So were the two women, Wendy and Angelina, who were Flight Attendants that the pilot friend asked to join the conspiracy.

I was going to rework the short story, then about ten pages long, into something a little more.

And like all re-writes, especially those I have anything to do with, it turned into a novel.

There was motivation.  I had told some colleagues at the place where I worked at the time that I liked writing, and they wanted a sample.  I was going to give them the re-worked short story.  Instead, I gave them ‘Echoes from the past’

Originally it was not set anywhere in particular.

But when considering a location, I had, at the time, recently been to New York in December, and visited Brooklyn and Queens, as well as a lot of New York itself.  We were there for New Years, and it was an experience I’ll never forget.

One evening we were out late, and finished up in Brooklyn Heights, near the waterfront, and there was rain and snow, it was cold and wet, and there were apartment buildings shimmering in the street light, and I thought, this is the place where my main character will live.

It had a very spooky atmosphere, the sort where ghosts would not be unexpected.  I felt more than one shiver go up and down my spine in the few minutes I was there.

I had taken notes, as I always do, of everywhere we went so I had a ready supply of locations I could use, changing the names in some cases.

Fifth Avenue near the Rockefeller center is amazing at first light, and late at night with the Seasonal decorations and lights.

The original main character was a shy and man of few friends, hence not expecting the surprise party.  I enhanced that shyness into purposely lonely because of an issue from his past that leaves him always looking over his shoulder and ready to move on at the slightest hint of trouble.  No friends, no relationships, just a very low profile.

Then I thought, what if he breaks the cardinal rule, and begins a relationship?

But it is also as much an exploration of a damaged soul, as it is the search for a normal life, without having any idea what normal was, and how the understanding of one person can sometimes make all the difference in what we may think or feel.

And, of course, I wanted a happy ending.

Except for the bad guys.

Get it here:  https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

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The first case of PI Walthenson – “A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers”

This case has everything, red herrings, jealous brothers, femme fatales, and at the heart of it all, greed.

See below for an excerpt from the book…

Coming soon!

PIWalthJones1

An excerpt from the book:

When Harry took the time to consider his position, a rather uncomfortable position at that, he concluded that he was somehow involved in another case that meant very little to him.

Not that it wasn’t important in some way he was yet to determine, it was just that his curiosity had got the better of him, and it had led to this: sitting in a chair, securely bound, waiting for someone one of his captors had called Doug.

It was not the name that worried him so much, it was the evil laugh that had come after the name was spoken.

Doug what? Doug the ‘destroyer’, Doug the ‘dangerous’, Doug the ‘deadly’; there was any number of sinister connotations, and perhaps that was the point of the laugh, to make it more frightening than it was.

But there was no doubt about one thing in his mind right then: he’d made a mistake. A very big. and costly, mistake. Just how big the cost, no doubt he would soon find out.

His mother, and his grandmother, the wisest person he had ever known, had once told him never to eavesdrop.

At the time he couldn’t help himself and instead of minding his own business, listening to a one-sided conversation which ended with a time and a place. The very nature of the person receiving the call was, at the very least, sinister, and, because of the cryptic conversation, there appeared to be, or at least to Harry, criminal activity involved.

For several days he had wrestled with the thought of whether he should go. Stay on the fringe, keep out of sight, observe and report to the police if it was a crime. Instead, he had willingly gone down the rabbit hole.

Now, sitting in an uncomfortable chair, several heat lamps hanging over his head, he was perspiring, and if perspiration could be used as a measure of fear, then Harry’s fear was at the highest level.

Another runnel of sweat rolled into his left eye, and, having his hands tied, literally, it made it impossible to clear it. The burning sensation momentarily took his mind off his predicament. He cursed and then shook his head trying to prevent a re-occurrence. It was to no avail.

Let the stinging sensation be a reminder of what was right and what was wrong.

It was obvious that it was the right place and the right time, but in considering his current perilous situation, it definitely was the wrong place to be, at the worst possible time.

It was meant to be his escape, an escape from the generations of lawyers, what were to Harry, dry, dusty men who had been in business since George Washington said to the first Walthenson to step foot on American soil, ‘Why don’t you become a lawyer?” when asked what he could do for the great man.

Or so it was handed down as lore, though Harry didn’t think Washington meant it literally, the Walthenson’s, then as now, were not shy of taking advice.

Except, of course, when it came to Harry.

He was, Harry’s father was prone to saying, the exception to every rule. Harry guessed his father was referring to the fact his son wanted to be a Private Detective rather than a dry, dusty lawyer. Just the clothes were enough to turn Harry off the profession.

So, with a little of the money Harry inherited from one of his aunts, he leased an office in Gramercy Park and had it renovated to look like the Sam Spade detective agency, you know the one, Spade and Archer, and The Maltese Falcon.

There’s a movie and a book by Dashiell Hammett if you’re interested.

So, there it was, painted on the opaque glass inset of the front door, ‘Harold Walthenson, Private Detective’.

There was enough money to hire an assistant, and it took a week before the right person came along, or, more to the point, didn’t just see his business plan as something sinister. Ellen, a tall cool woman in a long black dress, or so the words of a song in his head told him, fitted in perfectly.

She’d seen the movie, but she said with a grin, Harry was no Humphrey Bogart.

Of course not, he said, he didn’t smoke.

Three months on the job, and it had been a few calls, no ‘real’ cases, nothing but missing animals, and other miscellaneous items. What he really wanted was a missing person. Or perhaps a beguiling, sophisticated woman who was as deadly as she was charming, looking for an errant husband, perhaps one that she had already ‘dispatched’.

Or for a tall, dark and handsome foreigner who spoke in riddles and in heavily accented English, a spy, or perhaps an assassin, in town to take out the mayor. The man was such an imbecile Harry had considered doing it himself.

Now, in a back room of a disused warehouse, that wishful thinking might be just about to come to a very abrupt end, with none of the romanticized trappings of the business befalling him. No beguiling women, no sinister criminals, no stupid policemen.

Just a nasty little man whose only concern was how quickly or how slowly Harry’s end was going to be.

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2024

Writing a book in 365 days – 216

Day 216

Rejection – everyone is on the end of it – but it doesn’t have to be the end, or a negative

…

Here’s the good news – getting a rejection letter from a publisher declining to publish the book you thought was about to launch your writing career into the stratosphere, or on a lesser scale, a rejection of an article you wrote for your favourite magazine, is one of those things that goes with the territory.

It happens to everyone, and even those writers who are now No. 1 bestselling authors. The most notable rejection story I ever read was that of J K Rowling and her Harry Potter.

The trick is, don’t let it get the better of you. Never send away a piece of writing without keeping a little section of your hopes on hold so that if the improbable happens, it is not as devastating.

Then, before the soul searching, or wondering what was wrong, if the letter has reasons why they didn’t publish, and please let it not be as simple as sending a fishing story to a wedding magazine, look at the information as constructive criticism, and make changes.

If they don’t give any feedback, then try to take the editor’s seat, read the story and see if you can spot the problems from that editor’s point of view. You will be surprised at how easy it can be to see the error, and even easier to fix it.

You are always going to get ‘constructive’ criticism.

I never used to handle it well, but now, I talk on the advice of others. Sometimes I ignore it, but I am always willing to read what others think of my work, even if it is sometimes disparaging.

I cannot please all of the people all of the time.

But that doesn’t stop me from trying.

‘Sunday in New York’ – A beta reader’s view

I’m not a fan of romance novels but …

There was something about this one that resonated with me.

This is a novel about a world generally ruled by perception, and how people perceive what they see, what they are told, and what they want to believe.

I’ve been guilty of it myself as I’m sure we all have at one time or another.

For the main characters Harry and Alison there are other issues driving their relationship.

For Alison, it is a loss of self-worth through losing her job and from losing her mother and, in a sense, her sister.

For Harry, it is the fact he has a beautiful and desirable wife, and his belief she is the object of other men’s desires, and one in particular, his immediate superior.

Between observation, the less than honest motives of his friends, a lot of jumping to conclusions based on very little fact, and you have the basis of one very interesting story.

When it all comes to a head, Alison finds herself in a desperate situation, she realises only the truth will save their marriage.

But is it all the truth?

What would we do in similar circumstances?

Rarely does a book have me so enthralled that I could not put it down until I knew the result. They might be considered two people who should have known better, but as is often the case, they had to get past what they both thought was the truth.

And the moral of this story, if it could be said there is one, nothing is ever what it seems.

…

Available on Amazon here: amzn.to/2H7ALs8

…

In a word: Keep

Yes, this is an easy one.

I want to keep the car.  Especially if it’s a Lamborghini and it didn’t cost $500,000.

This form of the word simply means to hang on to something, or up the proper definition, to have or retain possession of

Paring it with other words is where it gets complicated.

For instance,

Keepings off, make sure that the ball doesn’t get into someone else’s possession.

Keep it to yourself, yes, here’s your chance to become the harbinger of secrets and not tell anyone else.  Not unless a lot of money is involved, or a Lamborghini.

You guessed it, the car is the running joke on this post.

How about, keep a low profile, been there tried that, it’s a lot harder than you think.

What about keeping your cards close to your chest, yes, this had both a literal and figurative meaning which makes it sort of unique.

That might follow the second definition, to continue, or cause to continue a particular state.

Another way of using keep is by delaying or stopping someone from doing something or getting somewhere; ie, I was kept waiting at the doctor’s surgery because he was late.

There are any number of examples of using the word keep in tandem with other words

One that specifically doesn’t relate to all the former examples, is simply the word keep.

What is it?

Usually the strongest part of the castle, and the last to fall in an attack.

At least, that was the theory.

An excerpt from “Echoes from the Past”

Available on Amazon Kindle here:  https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

…

With my attention elsewhere, I walked into a man who was hurrying in the opposite direction.  He was a big man with a scar running down the left side of his face from eye socket to mouth, and who was also wearing a black shirt with a red tie.

That was all I remembered as my heart almost stopped.

He apologized as he stepped to one side, the same way I stepped, as I also muttered an apology.

I kept my eyes down.  He was not the sort of man I wanted to recognize later in a lineup.  I stepped to the other side and so did he.  It was one of those situations.  Finally getting out of sync, he kept going in his direction, and I towards the bus, which was now pulling away from the curb.

Getting my breath back, I just stood riveted to the spot watching it join the traffic.  I looked back over my shoulder, but the man I’d run into had gone.  I shrugged and looked at my watch.  It would be a few minutes before the next bus arrived.

Wait, or walk?  I could also go by subway, but it was a long walk to the station.  What the hell, I needed the exercise.

At the first intersection, the ‘Walk’ sign had just flashed to ‘Don’t Walk’.  I thought I’d save a few minutes by not waiting for the next green light.  As I stepped onto the road, I heard the screeching of tires.

A yellow car stopped inches from me.

It was a high powered sports car, perhaps a Lamborghini.  I knew what they looked like because Marcus Bartleby owned one, as did every other junior executive in the city with a rich father.

Everyone stopped to look at me, then the car.  It was that sort of car.  I could see the driver through the windscreen shaking his fist, and I could see he was yelling too, but I couldn’t hear him.  I stepped back onto the sidewalk, and he drove on.  The moment had passed and everyone went back to their business.

My heart rate hadn’t come down from the last encounter.   Now it was approaching cardiac arrest, so I took a few minutes and several sets of lights to regain composure.

At the next intersection, I waited for the green light, and then a few seconds more, just to be sure.  I was no longer in a hurry.

At the next, I heard what sounded like a gunshot.  A few people looked around, worried expressions on their faces, but when it happened again, I saw it was an old car backfiring.  I also saw another yellow car, much the same as the one before, stopped on the side of the road.  I thought nothing of it, other than it was the second yellow car I’d seen.

At the next intersection, I realized I was subconsciously heading towards Harry’s new bar.   It was somewhere on 6th Avenue, so I continued walking in what I thought was the right direction.

I don’t know why I looked behind me at the next intersection, but I did.  There was another yellow car on the side of the road, not far from me.  It, too, looked the same as the original Lamborghini, and I was starting to think it was not a coincidence.

Moments after crossing the road, I heard the roar of a sports car engine and saw the yellow car accelerate past me.  As it passed by, I saw there were two people in it, and the blurry image of the passenger; a large man with a red tie.

Now my imagination was playing tricks.

It could not be the same man.  He was going in a different direction.

In the few minutes I’d been standing on the pavement, it had started to snow; early for this time of year, and marking the start of what could be a long cold winter.  I shuddered, and it was not necessarily because of the temperature.

I looked up and saw a neon light advertising a bar, coincidentally the one Harry had ‘found’ and, looking once in the direction of the departing yellow car, I decided to go in.  I would have a few drinks and then leave by the back door if it had one.

Just in case.

© Charles Heath 2015-2020

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A long short story that can’t be tamed – I always wanted to rescue a damsel in distress – 2

Two

I opened the door and was about to welcome them in when I saw a man, about six foot ten tall, 250 plus pounds, and tattoos leaking out of his overly tight collar and ill-fitting shirt.

Not the police.

“I think you have the wrong flat,” I said.

I went to close the door, but a size 20 shoe was blocking it.

“Where is Jake Mistrale?”

Heavily accented English, this man was a thug of the worst order.  There was nothing polite about his manner.  I needed to think quickly some way of getting rid of this man.  He was more than likely the one who tossed the flat before we arrived.

“I’ll tell you what.  We can keep talking, you could do something really stupid and break-in, and we can wait for the police to arrive.  I’m sure I’m not the only one who would like to know who you are, and who you work for.”

“You are bluffing.  There is no police.  Where is Jake?”

“I have a question, where is Cecile?”

He looked surprised.  “I do not know who this Cecile is.”

“I think she was Jake’s friend, and they are both missing, and I think you know where she is.”

We both heard the footsteps on the landing, just before reaching the floor.  The man looked sideways in the direction of the stairs, then, without waiting to see who it was, started walking in the opposite direction.  There must be another flight of stairs around the back.

Then two men appeared at the top of the stairs.  These men definitely looked like the police.

Both seemed to be surprised I was outside in the passage, perhaps to greet them before stepping into the room.  Another two, a man and a woman, dressed in protective clothing, followed them.

The first introduced himself.  “My name is Detective Inspector Chandler.”  The other man, now beside him, pulled out his warrant card, as Chandler said, “DS Williams.”

Hearing voices, or perhaps wondering what had happened to me, Emily came out into the passage.

“Ah, you must be Emily.  I spoke to your father about two hours ago, and he said you should be here.  Now, I will need you to remain outside while the forensic team does its magic.”

With that, the two forensic officers went in, and DS followed them, putting on a pair of rubber gloves.

“We didn’t touch anything, by the way.”  She then pulled a photo of Cecile out of her bag and handed it to Chandler.

I was waiting to see if she mentioned the note Cecile left.  If she did, I would hand it over, if she didn’t that would be our starting point.  If we didn’t make any progress, I would give it to Chandler and let him get on with the job.

He looked at it.  “I take it this is recent?”

Emily nodded.

“Anything else you can tell me?”

“We know she had a boyfriend named Jake who was not who she thought he was, that she was here a few days ago, and perhaps some of the others living here might know something.  We were going to start knocking on doors, but now that you’re here, we’ll get out of your hair and let you do your job.  I’ve put my phone number, and James too, just in case you can’t get me.”

Chandler turned to me.  “Where do you fit in?”

“Jake’s last name was Mistrale, by the way.  As for me, I’m an old family friend.  I received a text message a few days ago, which seemed rather odd, so we came over to see if everything was alright.  As you can see, when we saw this, things are not alright.”

“Do you have that phone with you?”

I did but I was not sure I wanted to give it up, but a glare told me I had to.  I found the text message and gave him the phone.

“Can we hang on to this until tomorrow?”  He gave me what looked like a business card with his address on it.  “You’ll be able to pick it up tomorrow morning.  I’ll get the tech guys to see if they can trace where that message came from.”

“No problems,” I said with a measure of reluctance.  Although it was unlikely, she might try to call or text again.

“Now, there’s nothing more you can do here.  I’ve got your numbers, and I expect I’ll see you tomorrow morning, by which time we should have made some progress.”

Nothing left to say, he went into the flat.

“Time to go,” Emily said.  “We have to get back to the hotel.”

It was loud enough that Chandler would hear her, but I knew what she meant.  Time to go to the hotel that featured in the note.

When we reached street level and outside of the block of flats, I had to ask, “Why didn’t you mention the note?”

“Because we would have to give it to him and lose the one clue we had.  If it doesn’t pan out then we can say we forgot about it, no harm done.  Telling him would only stop us from the investigation, and, if the police go there, anyone who might be able to help us would be less likely to help the police.”

I hadn’t thought of it like that, but it was a valid point.

“So, where is this hotel?” She asked with a touch of impatience in her tone.

“A fair distance away tucked away not far from Whitehall and past, if I’m not mistaken, Horseguards Parade.  We might get to take in a bit of British history in the process.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2024

Memories of the conversations with my cat – 52

As some may be aware, but many are not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mouse catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some years ago.

Recently, I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.

For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits, I will run the series again from Episode 1

These are the memories of our time together…

20160902_094127

This is Chester.  He’s left a current edition of a news magazine on my keyboard.

And I think it’s meant to scare me.

The title is “Your cat isn’t trying to kill you, probably”

The operative word that goes with the malicious look on his face is probably.  In a stare down, I know I’m going to lose.

If I try to read his mind, well, all that’s going to get me is a migraine headache.

Perhaps I’m missing the point.  The first few lines tell me that cats don’t have the facial muscles that dogs do, so an expressionless cat is just that; they are not giving you the proverbial death stare.

I’m sure that it’s his way of reassuring me that I’m living on borrowed time.

Or, maybe not, because there are a few more lines further down telling me that cats are predators and they kill about a billion birds every year.  That, I’m guessing, hints that once the birds run out, humans are next.

Ah, now I know that benign expression holds no malice…