Tag: Author

A shattered dream, perhaps, or just wishful thinking?

There was time, quite a few years back I had a dream, well, it was more wishful thinking than anything else.

I was going to run a bookshop.  You know, that quaint little storefront in a tucked away little town somewhere by the ocean, where the clientele would be both travelers and locals alike, people who liked to read.

It would have an area set aside, somewhere within the shelves where there would be a fire in winter, and opened windows and fresh air in summer, a place where you could drink coffee or tea, with scones or cake, and read prospective tomes, or start on that purchase you just made.

There would be not only new books but old, second, third or having been through many hands, books with the aroma of time seeping up from every page, hard covered books with crackly spines, pages that have the stains of age.

And perhaps the name of one of its owners scribble on the front page, along with the price, what it cost all those years back when it was new.

Of course, those places still exist, somewhere in the literary universe, but the idea of owning one such establishment now would mean that you had to be independently wealthy, with a pile of money in the bank, because you would not be relying on profits to keep it going.

If I was a successful author, yes, it would make sense, existing in a literary world where I could read, or write, or talk to other readers or writers, or just do nothing.

And, yes, there would have to be a cat.  There’s always a cat, somewhere, sitting in the window and looking out on the world passing by, or curled up by the fire, reliving those halcyon years of mice catching.

Hang on, where had my fairy godmother gone?

I am my own worst enemy!

I think most authors are.

Just when you think that the story is done, and you’re on the third re-read, just to make sure…

Damn!

I don’t like the way that scene reads.

It doesn’t matter the last three times you read it, it was just fine, or, the editor has read it and the scene passed without comment.

What is the matter with me?

I find sometimes after leaving a finished story for a month before the next reading, the whole picture must formulate itself in my head, so when I re-read, there was always a problem, one I didn’t want to think about until the re-read.

Even then it might survive a second pass.

I know the scene is in trouble when I get to it and alarm bells are going off.  I find anything else to do but look at it.

So, here I am, third re-read, making major changes.

At least now I am satisfied with it.

Only 325 pages to go!

#AtoZChallenge — F is for For, Four, Fore

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Can it be more confusing when trying to explain the word ‘for’ to those learning English as a second language, when all variations sound the same?

Let’s try…

For, a preposition if you want to get technical, well  this one is probably one of the more interesting variations, and can be used,

He was done for, meaning  there was no hope for saving his life

For he’s a jolly good fellow, though we may sing it, it doesn’t necessarily mean it’s true

Basically, it can be best described as,

Intended to belong with or using in connection with or suiting the purposes or needs of.

 

And, as a preposition, its use is endless, just look it up on the internet.

As a prefix, well, let’s not go down that path and move on,

Four, this is the easiest of all the variations as it simply represents the number

Fore, oh yeah, now we can open the can of worms, or is it Pandora’s box

The best way to describe this variation is that it can be a prefix, one that stresses the fact that something is near the front

For example,

He was standing in the foreground, which means there was a backdrop behind him, hopefully, a pretty landscape, not a rubbish dump

 

Then alternatively,

I heard the word ‘fore’ yelled very loudly just before the golf ball landed inches from my foot.

Another close shave, or near death experience.

I thought, and it seems incorrect, that going golfing was meant to be fun, not the equivalent of walking onto a battlefield, dodging golf balls to the frantic screams of ‘fore’.

It can also be used in a nautical sense by referring to the front and back or a ship/boat/vessel as fore for the front and aft for the back.

I doubt a captain would tell a sailor to go to the fore of the ship when he could better explain it with a bow, or just plain front, but where’s the fun in that?

Conversations with my cat – 27

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This is Chester.  He knows it’s sheet changing day and he’s waiting.

You know how it goes.  If there’s an opening, he’s in it, rolling around, clawing at the invisible mice that he thinks are hiding at the end of the bed.

He fails to recognize that it’s simply the sheets flapping as they’re being smoothed out.

And telling him to stop being stupid elicits a dumb look that borders on insolence.

There he sits stretched out, between the sheets, where he thinks I can’t get him.

I’m not moving, he says.

You can’t make me.

I’m going to lie here till the snow covers me up.

He even pokes his tongue out at me.

Right!

I fold the sheets over, then over then over, step to the end of the bed, and lift.

Next minute he’s on the floor, a perfect landing on all four paws.

He looks up.  You win this time, but just you wait!

Perhaps I should shut the door to keep him out, but where would be the fun in that.

“Echoes From The Past”, buried, but not deep enough

What happens when your past finally catches up with you?

Christmas is just around the corner, a time to be with family. For Will Mason, an orphan since he was fourteen, it is a time for reflection on what his life could have been, and what it could be.

Until a chance encounter brings back to life the reasons for his twenty years of self-imposed exile from a life only normal people could have. From that moment Will’s life slowly starts to unravel and it’s obvious to him it’s time to move on.

This time, however, there is more at stake.

Will has broken his number one rule, don’t get involved.

With his nemesis, Eddie Jamieson, suddenly within reach, and a blossoming relationship with an office colleague, Maria, about to change everything, Will has to make a choice. Quietly leave, or finally, make a stand.

But as Will soon discovers, when other people are involved there is going to be terrible consequences no matter what choice he makes.

http://amzn.to/2F7gqAL

newechocover5rs

 

#AtoZChallenge — E is for Egg

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This is another of those words that can be used for manly different situations.

But…

What happened to it being just an egg, you know the sort you can have for breakfast, fried, scrambled or boiled.  Or eggs Benedict.

Or…

We can go down that path where the discussion is about what came first, the chicken or the egg?  Don’t ask me, it could be both.

So, now it seems egg has a few other meanings that could be considered somewhat obscure, such as,

He is a good egg.

Wow, comparing someone to an egg?  I guess I’d hate to be compared to a rotten egg.

 

What about, the crowd egged the man on to start a fight.

Well, perhaps a couple of rowdy schoolboys looking for some action behind the shelter shed, or at least that’s what we called it when I went to school (when I’m told, dinosaurs walked the earth)

 

Then,

If you do something embarrassing, then you are said to finish up with egg on your face.

Oh dear, been there a few times.

 

Or…

If you were to put all your money into that match tree forest in Ecuador, that’s the equivalent to putting all your eggs in one basket.

In other words, when you discover that the match tree forest in Ecuador was really your financial advisor’s private bank account and he’s now living in a non-extradition country, you understand just what that expression means.

In other words, diversify.

And lastly, if the above happens to you, then it’s time to go on an expedition, to find the goose that laid the golden egg.

I think I woke up in the middle of a nightmare

The world is a strange place, and, after you have lived in it for a long time, you begin to wonder if it’s you that’s been left behind, dwelling on a past that has long since disappeared into, well, I’m not quite sure what.

A portal, maybe.

Wouldn’t it be great if you could step back, if only to observe, what it was life in a different time, one where you weren’t swamped with bills requiring both parents (if there were two parents in the picture) to work long hours, having to put up with recalcitrant children whose idea of life is not from family interaction, but the Disney channel, an underground system that wasn’t failing, and newspapers that have lost their way trying to compete with the immediacy and inaccuracy of that new thing called the internet.

Ah, yes, those days when you could sit down with a newspaper, read what could be described as news, and at the end of it, do the crossword over a decent cup of coffee, served by uiniformly dressed, and cheery, serving staff.  I’m not sure what finds it’s way into a throwaway cup at a lot of the coffee shops these days.

I don’t think, now I look back, that there wasn’t a time when the subways weren’t going through some sort of upheaval, expansion, or repairs, but it just seemed to be better.  Perhaps it’s the blame game that makes it seem worse than it is.  Rush hour was still rush hour but it seemed more civilized.  Or maybe it’s just me.

I can live without the internet, and mobile phones.  Sure, they are very convenient and give you the immediacy of contacting people instead of having to find, and then use a payphone, and finding the money to feed it, but wasn’t it more fun to get lost, not having a GPS, or having to try and read a map and basically know where you had to go before stepping foot outside the front door?

And what happened to nightclubs and meeting people over a few drinks and polite conversation.  Of course, there was radio and television, and movies, but human interaction was once a thing.  So was dancing, not that I was any sort of rival for Arthur Murray.  Now, it’s all texting and social media conversations in abbreviated mumbo jumbo, and very little face to face time even when sitting next to each other.

And I’m not sure what people do these days, but it certainly isn’t dancing.  A few drinks are now more about binge drinking until you’re wasted or worse, and it seems you need to have a cocktail of drugs just to keep up with everyone else, or presumably to have a good time, not that you would remember any of it.

Hang on, did I say I woke in the middle of a nightmare.

I was wrong.

I woke up in the year 2019, didn’t I?  60 years into the future where I don’t feel like I belong anymore.

Maybe if I go back to sleep I might wake up and find the Dodgers are still playing at Ebbet’s Field.  And I think I could take the semblance of a cold war over terrorism any day of the week.

 

#AtoZChallenge — D is for Drink

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Everyone loves a drink, and that interesting expression, ‘what’s your poison’ often resonates at a bar when among friends.

The thing is, we are supposed to know what our friends drink, me, for instance, I like beer, preferably in a bottle and not local mass produced brew if I can avoid it.

But, some like white wine, no preference to type, some like cocktails like a Manhattan, or a Long Island Iced Tea, very dangerous if made correctly which quite often it isn’t, or champagne, the real thing not just leftover wine carbonated and given a name like ‘sparkling …’ something.

Every now and then we need to have more than one drink, and that desire is fuelled by our emotions.  A celebration, it’s two or three, just enough to allow the euphoria to seep in.  A tragedy of any sort means more than a few, usually prefixed with a statement like, ‘I need to get hammered’, but not literally.

Perhaps that’s why it’s called drowning our sorrows.

Of course, there are other meanings for the word ‘drink’ and often poets, and romance novelists will refer to a phrase such as ‘drink in…’ where it may refer to a loving gaze or a look of adulation.  You could also, at a stretch, drink in the sight of a magnificent landscape.

Then, at the end of that drinking session, good or bad, where you may have had the opportunity to drink in looks or locations, you might, if you didn’t play your cards right, get thrown in the drink.

Not in the glass, that’s a bit small, but it means a much larger body of water such as a pool, a lake, or the ocean.

And lastly, but probably not the only context for the word ‘drink’, it could be said you were ‘driven to drink’, and I don’t mean by another drinker to the hotel, bar, restaurant or party.

Driven to drink means you blame someone else for your recently acquired desire to drink as much as you can so that it blots out something or someone.

I’m officially blaming my dog for my drinking problem.  He drove me to drink.

And that’s all I have to say about it.

Pour me another drink, will you?

We are all equal … aren’t we?

It’s amazing just how many shows on TV throw around the statement ‘double standard’ with little attention being paid to what it really means.

Like statistics, words can be used in any manner to support or debunk what someone else will call a fact.

‘Fact’, of course, is another word that’s thrown around like a football.

But ‘double standard’, what does it really mean: “a rule or principle which is unfairly applied in different ways to different people or groups”

Put simply, if you own a cat, and I hate cats, I’m likely to say to you I like cats because of who you are and what I might want from you.

It has far more reaching consequences in reality because some of us might profess they regard everyone as being equal ‘in the eyes of the Lord’ but have a very different private view, politicians and the legal fraternity in particular.

Personally, I believe everyone should be treated equally.  The problem is, a great many people around me do not, and it seems that I am slowly becoming a minority in my own country.

How do we rectify this?

I don’t think we can.

Politicians are now running scared in their own constituencies because of the increasing multicultural population, and cannot be seen to favor one group or another, and when it comes to making a stand, they don’t; until lobby groups come into play, campaign funding to the politician is discussed, and very subtly, votes are bought.

How many instances of people having a ‘double standard’ do you know of?

 

I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Part 8

Here’s the thing.

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 installment of an old feature, and back on the treasure hunt.

 

I lasted the week in the warehouse, and, surprising myself, I actually liked it.

And, had I been like all the other workers employed there, keeping their heads down and getting on with the job, everything would have remained the same.

My problem, it seemed, was Alex Benderby.  He had been a bully at school, and he was a bully in the workplace, hiding behind his father’s name and reputation, not that his father was much better, just a little more discreet.

Day 2, Alex discovered I was working in the warehouse, his domain.  For some reason it amused him that I should be there, working for the Benderby’s, something I’d been very vocal about it not working for them, even if, he reminded me, they were the last people on earth.

He confronted me with two of his bully friends.  Alex was not someone to walk around alone.  He knew what would happen if he did.

“What changed, Smidge.”

The nickname he gave me, though I never quite understood why.  English and language had never been his strong point.

“The poverty line.  Sometimes people have to swallow their pride.  It’s not a big deal, Alex.”

“Is to me, to see how the mighty have fallen.  I’ve got my eye on you Smidge.  One wrong foot, and, well, we shall see.”

The salacious grin, as he walked away, was the key.  He could and no doubt would hold my job over me like he did with countless others.  At that moment I think I made a promise to myself, to help Boggs find the treasure, and bury Alex in a hoe so deep not even he, or his father’s money and influence could save him.

 

Hours later, still rankling over the confrontation, I nearly ran into Alex again, just managing to avoid him by slipping behind the shelving to wait until he passed by.

When he didn’t, I decided to wait till he walked past, and then head in the other direction.  But, after a few minutes and he hadn’t appeared, I peered around the corner of the shelving and saw him sitting on a half-emptied pallet of boxes.

Waiting.

Waiting for what, or more to the point, whom?

Five minutes later I found out.  A long, cool woman in a tall black dress, a woman I’d seen before but couldn’t quite place.

“Nadia.”

“Alex.  What do you want?”  Her tone was far from conciliatory, and if she was not happy about being there, why was she?

“A favor.”

“You’ve run out of favors Alex.”

“Then how about I tell your father exactly what you were doing when you were doing something else?”

A moment’s silence before the fury.  “We had an agreement.”

“I need a favor.  You’re the only one I can trust.  After this, I promise, we’re done.”

Another quick look around the corner of the shelves.  One person looking smug, the other looking very, very angry.

But, it appeared, Alex had the leverage.

“What is it?”

“Rico has a map.  I want it.  You bring it to me, you’re off the hook.”

She gave him a long hard stare.  “I deliver the map, and I see you again, you’re a dead man.  Your father might think he runs this part of town, but I can assure you there are far scarier people than him and his henchmen.  Remember that Alex.”

If she had a gun I think she might have shot him, but instead left him with a latent threat.  It was good to see that he was, for once, the one with the worried look.

 

© Charles Heath 2019