I’m sure I’ve been down this road more than once, and with the same novel, but whereas the last edit, which was probably the second or third, finished up in the pile, then forgotten.
I’m doing an active update to all my works in progress, and sending them to the editor, after going through the manuscript once again, with a view to publishing. Hopefully, before the year is out.
…
It’s past five o’clock in the afternoon and I haven’t had a look at working on the last few chapters.
I looked at it last night and made the changes I thought I needed to continue working the next day.
But…
The day started with the Maple Leafs playing some other team, but it didn’t matter. It was at Scotiabank stadium, our home ground, so the odds were in our favour to win.
Of course, the day before we lost. It was disappointing, and if anyone had been following the trials of living with Chester, my cantankerous cat, you would know he was happy they did.
And still getting his least favourite food.
He knows the deal. Barrack for the Maple Leafs or there will be consequences.
Today we won in overtime. Good, we’ve been winning since we changed coaches, and the loss yesterday was an aberration.
The game ended in the early afternoon, our time.
Then we switched over to one-day cricket, and this will run till about ten tonight which means not much work will get done.
I have been forsaking the cricket to finish the NaNoWriMo project. Now that pressure is off I have a few things to catch up on.
At least the next hockey game is not till Wednesday.
The cricket for us at least, is over for a day or so.
In the meantime, now there is a lull in sport, I will get back to work.
50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.
They all start with –
A picture paints … well, as many words as you like. For instance:
And, the story:
Have you ever watched your hopes and dreams simply just fly away?
Everything I thought I wanted and needed had just left in an aeroplane, and although I said I was not going to, i came to the airport to see the plane leave. Not the person on it, that would have been far too difficult and emotional, but perhaps it was symbolic, the end of one life and the start of another.
But no matter what I thought or felt, we had both come to the right decision. She needed the opportunity to spread her wings. It was probably not the best idea for her to apply for the job without telling me, but I understood her reasons.
She was in a rut. Though her job was a very good one, it was not as demanding as she had expected, particularly after the last promotion, but with it came resentment from others on her level, that she, the youngest of the group would get the position.
It was something that had been weighing down of her for the last three months, and if noticed it, the late nights, the moodiness, sometimes a flash of temper. I knew she had one, no one could have such red hair and not, but she had always kept it in check.
And, then there was us, together, and after seven years, it felt like we were going nowhere. Perhaps that was down to my lack of ambition, and though she never said it, lack of sophistication. It hadn’t been an issue, well, not until her last promotion, and the fact she had to entertain more, and frankly I felt like an embarrassment to her.
So, there it was, three days ago, the beginning of the weekend, and we had planned to go away for a few days and take stock. We both acknowledged we needed to talk, but it never seemed the right time.
It was then she said she had quit her job and found a new one. Starting the following Monday.
Ok, that took me by surprise, not so much that it something I sort of guessed might happen, but that she would just blurt it out.
I think that right then, at that moment, I could feel her frustration with everything around her.
What surprised her was my reaction. None.
I simply asked where who, and when.
A world-class newspaper, in New York, and she had to be there in a week.
A week.
It was all the time I had left with her.
I remember I just shrugged and asked if the planned weekend away was off.
She stood on the other side of the kitchen counter, hands around a cup of coffee she had just poured, and that one thing I remembered was the lone tear that ran down her cheek.
Is that all you want to know?
I did, yes, but we had lost that intimacy we used to have when she would have told me what was happening, and we would have brainstormed solutions. I might be a cabinet maker but I still had a brain, was what I overheard her tell a friend once.
There’s not much to ask, I said. You’ve been desperately unhappy and haven’t been able to hide it all that well, you have been under a lot of pressure trying to deal with a group of troglodytes, and you’ve been leaning on Bentley’s shoulder instead of mine, and I get it, he’s got more experience in that place, and the politics that go with it, and is still an ally.
Her immediate superior and instrumental in her getting the position, but unlike some men in his position he had not taken advantage of a situation like some men would. And even if she had made a move, which I doubted, that was not the sort of woman she was, he would have politely declined.
One of the very few happily married men in that organisation, so I heard.
So, she said, you’re not just a pretty face.
Par for the course for a cabinet maker whose university degree is in psychology. It doesn’t take rocket science to see what was happening to you. I just didn’t think it was my place to jump in unless you asked me, and when you didn’t, well, that told me everything I needed to know.
Yes, our relationship had a use by date, and it was in the next few days.
I was thinking, she said, that you might come with me, you can make cabinets anywhere.
I could, but I think the real problem wasn’t just the job. It was everything around her and going with her, that would just be a constant reminder of what had been holding her back. I didn’t want that for her and said so.
Then the only question left was, what do we do now?
Go shopping for suitcases. Bags to pack, and places to go.
Getting on the roller coaster is easy. On the beginning, it’s a slow easy ride, followed by the slow climb to the top. It’s much like some relationships, they start out easy, they require a little work to get to the next level, follows by the adrenaline rush when it all comes together.
What most people forget is that what comes down must go back up, and life is pretty much a roller coaster with highs and lows.
Our roller coaster had just come or of the final turn and we were braking so that it stops at the station.
There was no question of going with her to New York. Yes, I promised I’d come over and visit her, but that was a promise with crossed fingers behind my back. After a few months in t the new job the last thing shed want was a reminder of what she left behind. New friends new life.
We packed her bags, three out everything she didn’t want, a free trips to the op shop with stiff she knew others would like to have, and basically, by the time she was ready to go, there was nothing left of her in the apartment, or anywhere.
Her friends would be seeing her off at the airport, and that’s when I told her I was not coming, that moment the taxi arrived to take her away forever. I remember standing there, watching the taxi go. It was going to be, and was, as hard as it was to watch the plane leave.
So, there I was, finally staring at the blank sky, around me a dozen other plane spotters, a rather motley crew of plane enthusiasts.
Already that morning there’s been 6 different types of plane depart, and I could hear another winding up its engines for take-off.
People coming, people going.
Maybe I would go to New York in a couple of months, not to see her, but just see what the attraction was. Or maybe I would drop in, just to see how she was.
As one of my friends told me when I gave him the news, the future is never written in stone, and it’s about time you broadened your horizons.
Aside from being the short form of the name Joseph, ie a man’s name, there is also a derivative for women, Jo.
The name Joe is said to be used from the mid-1800s.
My favourite Joe name is Joe Bloggs, and he features in some of my stories.
It’s anonymous enough for someone to use as a cover when booking into a sleazy motel and is a little more refined than Smith or Jones, names that more than likely already feature in the register.
Jo could be a short form for Josephine, a name I’m sure some women would prefer not to be called.
But…
Did you know it’s also a name given to a cup of coffee?
Well, that didn’t make much of a splash. I don’t think anyone these days refers to coffee as Joe because there are so many different variations with names I couldn’t pronounce let alone spell, I think it’s been lost in the mists of time because there was only one type of coffee.
It was called coffee. Funny about that.
However…
There is another definition, and that is for the ‘average Joe’, an ordinary fellow who works for a living.
Odd, because I thought that was what most of us did, but perhaps it refers to tradespeople, or blue collar workers, not the white collar brigade.
Hang on, isn’t there a GI Joe, a universal description of the average soldier?
It could be said that of all the women one could meet, whether contrived or by sheer luck, what are the odds it would turn out to be the woman who was being paid a very large sum to kill you.
John Pennington is a man who may be lucky in business, but not so lucky in love. He has just broken up with Phillipa Sternhaven, the woman he thought was the one, but relatives and circumstances, and perhaps because she was a ‘princess’, may also have contributed to the end result.
So, what do you do when you are heartbroken?
That is a story that slowly unfolds, from the first meeting with his nemesis on Lake Geneva, all the way to a hotel room in Sorrento, where he learns the shattering truth.
What should have been solace after disappointment, turns out to be something else entirely, and from that point, everything goes to hell in a handbasket.
He suddenly realizes his so-called friend Sebastian has not exactly told him the truth about a small job he asked him to do, the woman he is falling in love with is not quite who she says she is, and he is caught in the middle of a war between two men who consider people becoming collateral damage as part of their business.
The story paints the characters cleverly displaying all their flaws and weaknesses. The locations add to the story at times taking me back down memory lane, especially to Venice where, in those back streets I confess it’s not all that hard to get lost.
All in all a thoroughly entertaining story with, for once, a satisfying end.
Whilst in reality these steps go down to a very narrow space of the beach, and scattered rocks in the shallow water, so much more could be inspired by this photograph.
Further out that day, divers were out exploring about 100 yards offshore.
But, to me, it what you don’t see that gives it its fascination.
We could be anywhere along a 1,000-mile shoreline, one side a small village lazily gets through the day, on the other, a deserted and overgrown picnic spot that no one ever comes to anymore since the bypass road was built.
But it is not any of those. it’s in Mornington, Victoria, Australia, the pier that is not far from a small park, and that day, very, very busy.
It simply goes to show that sometimes a photograph can provide enough information to inspire a story.
The process of writing is rewriting editing and more rewriting.
The other day l wrote some words. I didn’t like them. But it had laid the groundwork for a second draft.
Here it is:
Growing up I did not believe l had one of those lovable faces.
My brother, known in school as the best looking boy of his graduating class, said it was a face only a mother could love.
He was mean.
Simone, a girl who was a friend, not a girlfriend, said my face had character.
She was charming and polite.
Looking now, in the mirror, l decided I’d aged gracefully.
I could truthfully say my brother had not, but that was as far as the comparison went.
My overachieving brother was the epitome of success in business, a veritable god zillionaire. Everything he touched turned to gold.
My ultra successful sister, Penelope, had married into the right family perhaps by chance, but she was also a very learned scholar whose life was divided between her chair and the university and her social life with the rich and famous.
Then there was me.
I gave up on my chance at university because l was not the scholarly sort and didn’t last long. Sadly l was the first of my family to be sent down from Oxford.
Instead, l took on a series of professions such as seasonal laborer, farmhand, factory worker, and lastly, night watchman. At least now I had a uniform and looked like I’d made something of myself.
It would not be enough for my parents who every year didn’t say it out loud but the disappointment was always there in their expressions.
My brother in his usual blunt manner said l was a loser and would never change.
My sister was not quite so blunt. She simply said it was disappointing so much potential was going to waste. I only asked her once what she meant and lost me after the first four-syllable word.
Finally, I’d taken their comments to heart and decided l would not be going home to the family Christmas holiday reunion.
I told my boss l was available to work the night shift over the holidays, the shift no one else wanted.
It was he said the time for reflection. He hated his family as much as I did so we would be able to lament our bad luck though the long cold hours from dusk till dawn.
It was 3 a.m. and it was like standing on the exact epicenter of the North Pole. I’d just stepped from the warehouse into the car park.
The car was covered in snow. The weather was clear now, but more snow was coming.
It was going to be a white Christmas, all I needed. I hoped I remembered to put the antifreeze in my radiator this time.
As I approached my car, the light went on in an SUV parked next to my car. The door opened and what looked to be a woman was climbing down from the driver’s seat.
She closed the door and leaned against the side of the car. “Graham?”
It was a voice I was familiar with, though I hadn’t heard it for a long time, my ultra-successful sister, Penelope. From what I could see, she didn’t look too well.
“What do you want?”
“Help.”
My help, I was the last person to help her or anyone for that matter. But curiosity got the better of me. “Why?”
“Because my husband is trying to kill me.”
The instant the last word left her lips I saw her jerk back into the car, and then start sliding down to the ground. There was no mistaking the red streak following her as she fell.
She’d been shot from what could be a sniper rifle, which meant …
It still needs work but I’ve got the gist of where I want to go.
The idea is not to make a character so loathsome no one would want to read about him.
This will evolve and you can if you like come along for the ride!
Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.
I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.
But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.
Once again there’s a new instalment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
I could hardly say no, but it was not going to be a place either of us would want to be if he came back, and especially if he had company.
But, Boggs didn’t seem to care, and strolled up to the dock, and then walked down to the boat. IT wasn’t gated like some of the others were, but they had very expensive yachts that no doubt belongs to the local millionaires, people like the Benderby’s and their country club friends.
I remember my father talking about them once, and he had little respect for any of them., They, he said, had no time or money to worry about the welfare of their employees, but never lacked for anything themselves.
Looking at those yachts now, I could believe him.
I couldn’t say the same for Rico’s boat. It was old, made of wood, and looked like boats I’d seen in old movies. It was about 40 or 50 foot long, with a tall mast and a sail tied up ready to unfurl when out to see.
It had a large diesel engine, and it was this Rico used to get out of the bay until he was past the sandbank at the entrance.
On the transom, it had the words ‘Freedom Runner’ starting to peel and fade, and you could just make out the old name of the boat, ‘Elsie’, perhaps the wife or lover of the previous owner. That must have been a long time ago, because I’d known Rico as long as I’d known Boggs, and that was nearly 18 years.
I had to ask, “You think Rico is running a collection service?”
“Someone is, according to the police chief.”
“How do you know that? I thought the police were our sworn enemy.”
Considering the trouble we’d got into over the years, and the number of times the police chief had locked us up in the cells as punishment, we just spent our days avoiding him.. Perhaps the punishment had worked.
“He was around out place the other night.”
I wasn’t aware that Boggs was up to anything that would interest the law, but, then, he never told me everything he did.
“Why?”
“Come to see my mother.”
“What’s she been doing?”
“Nothing. He was asking her out on a date. Probably trying to cosy up to her so he can snoop on what Rico’s doing. There’s no other reason why he would be interested in her.”
Actually, he was wrong. Boggs mother was, for her age, quite attractive, or so my mother said. She said a few other uncomplimentary things about her, but I was not going to repeat them to Boggs.
Nor did I agree with my mother’s assessment. At times I saw more of Boggs mother than my own.
“Or maybe not. But if she was to go out with him, that would make Rico think twice about doing anything, including giving you a hard time, or trying to steal the map.”
“You don’t know Rico. He is just plain stupid.”
“He hasn’t been caught.”
“Yet.”
Then Boggs decided to walk over to the side of the boat and step onto the deck.
”What are you doing?” I hissed.
People on the other boats tied up to the pier were looking or pretending not to look, but I had no doubt they would report our actions to Rico
“Going on board. I don’t think Rico would mind.”
It was said with a fair degree of bravado, but the halting tone told me otherwise.
“Are you coming?”
Damn him. It was not as if he was going me a choice.
I’m sure I’ve been down this road more than once, and with the same novel, but whereas the last edit, which was probably the second or third, finished up in the pile, then forgotten.
I’m doing an active update to all my works in progress, and sending them to the editor, after going through the manuscript once again, with a view to publishing. Hopefully, before the year is out.
…
It’s the end.
The last day, but not the last of the editing.
Yes, I have almost managed to complete most of the editing in 30 days, but with a few side trips, and changes to the plan on the run, it is mostly done.
The good news?
I’m going to stick with it until I’ve finished, so there will be a few more journal entries to cover the last chapters.
Had it been the length I had originally planned, it would be finished.
I managed to get through the back chapters last night after some distractions, and now it’s just two, possibly three more, and then one or two for the epilogue, which will be epic.
At the moment the story is about 73,000 words long and will finish closer to 80,000,
It’s been at times a trial, a lot of hard work, but it has been worthwhile. The thing is, I’m going to continue on, past the estimated time, and get this finished.
It’s now three of three, books that will eventually be published in the near future.
We flew into Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci-Fiumicino airport after a rather bumpy flight from London. Unlike most other airports the plane parked at a satellite terminal and after we disembarked we had to catch a train to the main terminal.
The most notable memory of this airport was my daughter’s discovery of a salami shop.
We had booked a transfer to take us to the hotel the Roma Corso Trieste Mercure in Via Gradisca from the airport. It was a white air-conditioned van and so far we had avoided the heat.
One of the rooms had faulty air conditioning an absolute must as the rooms were very hot without it and necessitated a room change which was done quickly and efficiently.
The hotel was in the suburbs and without a car we were dependent on public transport. According to the reception staff, there was a bus stop nearby, and a longer walk to the tram or light railway. The bus seemed to be the best option as it would take us to the central terminal near the railway station, where all tour buses also operated from, and particularly the open-top buses that went to all the major tourist attractions.
That first day basically was given over to travelling, arriving by plane and settling into the hotel, thus we didn’t get to feel the force of the heat. That came the next day.
After a walk around the hotel precinct to get our bearings and see what shops and restaurants were available, on returning to the hotel we were faced with limited choices of room service or to go out for dinner.
My daughter and l go for a long walk up Via Nomentana to find several shops and a restaurant. We went into the restaurant and sat down. We waited for 10 minutes and got no service nor did anyone come and ask us if we wanted to order food so instead we left somewhat disappointed and go next door to what seemed to be the Italian version of a delicatessen and ordered sandwiches and beer. I bought a half dozen cans of Moretti beer two of which I drank on the way home.
It was still very hot even at eight at night and the sandwiches are delicious. It just might be by that time we were starving and anything would have tasted great.
The next morning we are up and ready to chance the weather and some history. Breakfast at the hotel is limited but very good.
We were going to use public transport and I’d studied up on the Internet.
Travelling on the bus required pre-purchase of tickets which could be bought in certain shops and locally when exploring the area near the hotel, l found a tobacconist.
Next, we needed to understand how to use the tickets. There was no one on the bus who could help so when l tried to scan the tickets and it failed, l gave up. We had the same issue each day and in the end, the tickets never got used.
The trip to central Rome by bus took about 15 minutes. In the morning it was reasonably cool and showed us a little of suburban Rome. We also saw the trams but we would not be able to use them because our hotel not on a direct route.
That first full day we decided to go and see the Vatican.
Not understanding buses and which one we needed to get to the Vatican, we took a taxi.
Wow. It was the metaphorical equivalent of driving over the edge of a cliff with a daredevil. It was quite literally terrifying.
Or maybe we just didn’t know that this was probably the way people drove in Rome.
Shaken but delivered in one piece we found ourselves in the square opposite St Peters Basilica.
The square is impressive, with the statues atop a circular colonnaded walkway. The church is incredible and took a few hours to take in and to top off the day we did a tour of the Vatican museum which took the rest of the afternoon.
Then it was back to the delicatessen for more sandwiches and beer, and an interesting discussion with several elderly Italian ladies, of which I did not understand one word.
On the second full day we decided to use one of the open-top bus tours and eventually decided on the hop-on hop-off tour simply because the bus was at the central transport terminal for trains and buses and it was getting hotter.
Our first stop was the Colosseum. There were other monuments nearby, such as the Arch of Constantine, but as the heat factor increased we joined the queue to go into the Colosseum and gladly welcomed the shade once we got inside.
The queue was long and the wait equally so, but it was worth the wait. It would be more interesting if they could restore part of it to its former glory so we could get a sense of the place as it once was. But alas that may never happen, but even so, it is still magnificent as a ruin.
Outside in the heat, it was off to the ruins which were a longish walk from the Colosseum, taking Via Sacra, not far from the Arch of Constantine. This day in the walkway there were a number of illegal vendors, selling knockoff goods such as handbags and watches, and who, at the first sight of the police, packed up their wares in a blanket and ran.
Included in these ruins were The Roman Forum, or just a few columns remaining, the Palatine Hill, Imperial Fori, including the Forum of Augustus, the Forum of Caesar, and more specifically the Forum of Trajan. It was, unfortunately very hot and dusty in the ruins the day we visited.
We walked all the way to the Foro Romano and the Septimus Severo Arch at the other end of the ruins, past the Temple of Caesar. I found it very difficult to picture what it was like when the buildings were intact, so I bought a guide to the ruins which showed the buildings as ruins and an overlay of how they would have looked. The buildings, then, would be as amazing as the Colosseum, and it would have been interesting to have lived back then, though perhaps not as a Christian.
I lost count of the number of bottles of water we bought, but the word ‘frizzante’ was ringing in my ears by the end of the day. Fortunately, the water did not cost a lot to buy.
At the end of the day, we caught the hop on hop off the bus at the Colosseum and decided not to get off and see any more monuments but observe them from the bus. The only one I remember seeing was Circo Massimo. Perhaps if we’d known it was going to be twice as hot on the bus, yes, there was no air-conditioning; we may have chosen another form of transport to get back to the hotel.
On the third and last day in Rome, we decided to go to the Trevi Fountain, see the pantheon and walk up the Spanish Steps. We spent most of the morning in the cool of a café watching the tourists at the fountain. By the time we reached the top of the Spanish Steps, we were finished.
This is not a treatise, but a tongue in cheek, discussion on how to write short stories. Suffice to say this is not the definitive way of doing it, just mine. It works for me – it might not work for you.
There are two methods of writing, planning, sometimes meticulous planning, or flying by the seat of your pants, or being called a ‘pantser’.
The first has it all planned out before they start writing, from beginning to end, knowing what the end result will be. The second, well, we like to write and see where it takes us.
I like to think I fly by the seat of my pants, you know, like the reader who takes up the story and starts reading, not having a clue where it’s going to go. I prefer that blissful ignorance, of course, until I run out of ideas, roughly the equivalent of hitting a brick wall
Or that common enemy all writers have, the dreaded ‘writers block’.
I’ve tried both methods.
Each work, but in the case of the ‘planner’, you need to know where it’s going to start what’s going to happen in the middle and have the end firmly planted in your mind.
Not much good if a rotten character is making you angry and you want to kill him off, and in the most excruciatingly painful manner.
Flying blind gives you a little more creativeness and be able to go around a corner and see what’s there. It also allows for those complete changes of direction you come up with in the shower, the place that is a fertile ground for new ideas just when you’re running out of them.
But it can sometimes play havoc with word counts and if you’re trying to fit into 2,000 words, 5,000 words, or a lot less, taking the story where it wants to go is not a good idea, and sadly, I tend to let stories run their course.
And sometimes I like the idea of writing three different endings, and then can’t choose which one I like the best.
So, role model I am not. I like writing, and when I’m in the ‘zone’ it’s like I’m in another world.
