Monday, Monday …

It was a song, sung by the Mommas and Papas I think. I suspect that will show my age.

I don’t like Mondays – another song, not sure who sung it.

Well, it’s official, I don’t like Mondays.

I’ve been procrastinating since last Thursday, telling myself I have to get the next part of one of my stories written, but I keep putting it off. I have to go to Africa, the Niger Delta to be exact. It can wait, I’m not ready for the steaming jungle and hostile villagers yet.

I didn’t do anything on Sunday, and, as a writer, I guess that’s not very good. I’m supposed to be writing a page, or a hundred or thousand words a day, just to keep the juices flowing.

I’m not in the mood. I sit and stare at the computer screen, and nothing is coming. Is this the first sign of writer’s block?

I dig out several articles on how to overcome it, and start putting their suggestions into action. No. No. Maybe. No. I don’t think it’s writer’s block.

Perhaps I need some inspiration so I go to my tablet playlist, spend 10 minutes trying to find the headphones carelessly discarded by one of my grandchildren the last time they were here.

And, yes, the tablet was left in the middle of playing a minecraft video which has drained the battery. Now I can’t find the charger!

Back at the computer, holding a dead tablet, and a pair of headphones, inspiration is as far away as the mythical light at the end of the tunnel. Today it is an oncoming express train.

Perhaps pen and paper will work.

An idea pops into my head ….

Is it possible the passing of a weekend could change the course of your life? An interesting question, one to ponder as I sat on the floor of a concrete cell, with only the sound of my breathing, and the incessant screams coming from a room at the end of the corridor.

It was my turn next. That was what the grinning ape of a guard said in broken English. He looked like a man who relished his job.

What goes through your mind at a time like this, waiting, waiting for the inevitable? Will I survive, what will they do to me, will it hurt?

The screaming stops abruptly, and a terrible silence falls over the facility.

Then, looking in the direction of where the screams had come from, I hear the clunk of the door latch being opened, and then the slow nerve tingling screech of rusty metal as the door opens slowly.

Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, no.

No writer’s block. But I have to stop watching late night television.

The Cases of PI Walthenson

How thrilled Harry Walthenson, Private Detective, had been to see his name painted on the translucent glass window in the door to his office. Located in Gramercy Park, in an old building full of atmosphere, he had a space renovated to resemble that of Spade and Archer in a scene right out of the Maltese Falcon. His desk had an antique phone like those used in the 1930’s, and a lamp that cast eerie shadows at night. Along one wall was a couch, his bed for more nights than he wanted to remember, and on the other a filing cabinet, waiting for the big case files.

Up till now it had been missing cats and dogs. Then, everything changed…

Starts at episode 1 – The Wrong Place, The Wrong Time

http://tinyurl.com/PIWalthenson01

To read the latest episode:

http://tinyurl.com/PIWalthenson40

My Website:

http://charles-heath.com

My latest blog entry:

https://aloysius5.wordpress.com/2016/02/20/slowing-slowing/

My latest travel blog entry:

http://tinyurl.com/Tvl-Venice2

Enjoy

PS Please leave a comment, make a suggestion, or join in the conversation

Slowing, slowing …

Express trains have always fascinated me. In our country, Australia, express trains really don’t go all that fast.

When I was last in Europe we decided to get the Eurostar, from London, through the Chunnel, to Paris Disneyland. My granddaughters came along for the ride.

And to make it look like they had ‘forced’ us to go when really it was the other way around.

Again I digress …

It’s the braking effect.

I feel it happening now.

You are hurtling along at up to 160 kph, thought it feels a lot faster, and then you begin to brake, and it seems like nothing is happening, except for some outside friction noise, and the speed dropping.

I feel like that now, heading for the bottom of the abyss.

It’s called rock bottom.

I’m told once you hit tock bottom the only way is up.

The question is, who do you know that has fallen into the abyss, and come back to tell you about it?

Put into layman’s terms, hurling down the abyss is like having a severe episode of depression. There are different types, some worse than others. Hitting the ground is roughly the equivalent of looking for a way out that eases the pain, and that, for some people, is a quite drastic answer.

But the sign that the free fall is braking, like the express train slowing down, is a sign that you’ve seen the light, that there are external forces that can render assistance.

I see them now, the hands of friends, the hands of people I don’t know, but who are concerned.

Writers like any other professional people, are the same as everyone else, but with one rather interesting difference. It is a profession where a lot of the time you are on your own, alone with your thoughts, your characters, your fantasy world, which sometimes so frighteningly drifts into your reality.

Some of us will make a fortune, most of us will make an adequate living, and live the ‘dream’ of doing the one job they always wanted to, and some will not.

I’m not rich, I’m not one who gets an adequate income, yet.

But I will get out of this abyss.

I can feel the brakes.

My eldest granddaughter, who is 12, tells me the fantasy story where she is a princess I’m writing for her is brilliant.

The free fall has stopped. I step out into the sunshine.

All it needed was a little praise.

Going Down?

Like getting into an elevator at the Empire State Building, 80 odd floors, going down.

Only I’m still in free fall.

This is the point where your life starts flashing before your eyes, where you start thinking you could have made better choices.

Ah, the benefit of hindsight eh? If only we knew what a mess of our lives we were going to make when we were 10. Things would be different?

Or not?

My youngest grand daughter is 6. I remember when I was 6. And I don’t want to remember when I was 6. All I can say is the worst things that happen to you are caused by other family members. and at that age sometimes parents thing you have too active an imagination.

I know now I didn’t.

Primary school was great, but secondary school was about bullying and toughening up. My father often said it was ‘a cruel world out there’. It was.

But, now for the best part, meeting an d marrying the most wonderful girl in the world.

She pulled me out of the abyss the first time around.

We have two boys, they have three girls.

Pity this isn’t a cartoon where I could start slowing down, and then tread air, walk over to the side and start climbing back up.

I look up. There’s daylight, and hope.

And six smiling faces willing to come back, and get on with that novel I promised I’d write the girls.

And, dammit, there are not going to be any unicorns. They are so yesterday!

I think I’ve been watching too much TV

It’s never a good idea to look at the news. I don’t know about you, but it always seems to be bad news, not good news. I suppose if all they showed was good news, no one would watch it.

However, despite the negative aspects of it, sometimes it’s a source of plotlines, even a new book. IT’s usually a paragraph on page 17 that no one is supposed to notice but tonight it’s something different.

Well, two things really.

I’ve been on roller coasters, and they actually scare the hell out of me. It was not always that way, but watching the news and seeing how they can come adrift and leave you literally hanging quite a distance up in the air, well, that has had some effect.

It started me thinking, and that’s not a good thing sometimes.

My fear, now, is that the car is going to come off the rails.

A bit like my life really. Amazing sometimes how the mind works and makes parallels with something else that’s entirely unrelated.

I’m in the abyss and free falling. The first thousand yards feels exhilarating.

I’m not sure if everyone has done skydiving, but it’s like that time before you pull the ripcord.

Absolute adrenaline rush.

Followed by a single thought. Will the parachute open. Again, I’ve seen too many TV shows where ripcords don’t work.

Ok, I get it, if you don’t like the heat in the kitchen …

But, I digress

Now I’m at a point where I’m starting to think about the landing.

You dash headlong into a job, thinking yep, you’ve got it covered, but, what if you haven’t. What if there are variables you never thought of, what if the people around you, so happy to cheer you on at the start, are now starting to change their tune.

Abyss, job, choice of vocation, lifestyle, following a dream, there’s very little difference.

Writing is an individual thing.

Are we writing for ourselves first, or are we writing simply to make money? If it’s the latter, it ain’t going to work, at least not until you are established. If ever.

So, yes, it’s back to the day job.

Sigh!

Still in the abyss, or hanging upside down 300 feet in the air waiting to be rescued

Maybe tomorrow there will be good news!

Staring into the abyss

I’ve been reading.

It’s a mistake, I know, because everyone is different, everyone has their own way of doing things, and success comes for different people in different ways, quite often not replicated by others.

What’s the expression, you had to be there.

I read success stories, I read what these people did to get 1,000 extra Twitter followers in a day, a week, or five minutes, sold thousands of copies of their books in a moth, from absolutely nothing, and/or have the formula for success.

All you have to do is part with, hang on, yesterday it was $495.00, but today only, just for you, it’s $69.95.

Read the fine print, this might not work for you. And, generally, who reads the fine print.

I read about other authors using book promotion services, yes we have 250,000 twitter followers just aching to buy you book.

Read the fine print, it depends on a whole lot of factors whether it sells or not. You could be ‘lucky’. Most authors are not.

What’s the answer?

I think it’s at the bottom of the abyss, where I’m considering jumping in.

If I happen to find the answer, and become ultra successful, I’ll be happy to share it for nothing. It’s not going to affect my sales, not once I’m established.

It’s just taking that first step.

Perhaps I need to believe in myself.

I’m also sure there are 101 ways to taking that first step, and someone out there knows one, or two, and someone else, knows another. It’s just finding those people who do know, and who are willing to share, not for $495, not for $69.95, but because they want to do it to help others.

And maybe, just maybe, all those who gain the benefit their wisdom will buy their books.

Hang on, perhaps that’s number one on the list of 101 ….

Any takers??????