Tag: Charles Heath

Conversations with my cat – 28

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This is Chester.  He thinks it’s still winter.

It’s not, but how do you tell a cat who thinks he knows everything.

Today, we are having a battle over his bed.  The blanket needs washing.  I tell him, in as polite a manner I can muster,m there is an aroma that is bordering on unpleasant.

He tells me he can’t smell anything, and refuses to budge.

I suspect not since he is now used to it.

Not even the tempting offer of stretching out on the end of our bed has any effect.

I guess it’s the time from Plan B.

I give him one last chance.

It’s outright defiance now.

I go down to the laundry, fetch the green bucket, half fill it with hot water, and return.

He’s looking warily at me now, knowing something has changed since he last saw me.

Ah, yes, what’s that bucket for?

CAll me mean, I tell him, but nothing moves faster than a scalded cat.

Not that I would, but I think he now understands the subtle art of compromise.

 

 

“One Last Look”, nothing is what it seems

A single event can have enormous consequences.

A single event driven by fate, after Ben told his wife Charlotte he would be late home one night, he left early, and by chance discovers his wife having dinner in their favorite restaurant with another man.

A single event where it could be said Ben was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Who was this man?  Why was she having dinner with him?

A simple truth to explain the single event was all Ben required.  Instead, Charlotte told him a lie.

A single event that forces Ben to question everything he thought he knew about his wife, and the people who are around her.

After a near death experience and forced retirement into a world he is unfamiliar with, Ben finds himself once again drawn back into that life of lies, violence, and intrigue.

From London to a small village in Tuscany, little by little Ben discovers who the woman he married is, and the real reason why fate had brought them together.

http://amzn.to/2CqUBcz

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#AtoZChallenge — G is for Ghost

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Have you seen one?  I haven’t.  Yet.

I’ve stayed in a few places where ghosts were purported to be roaming the passages at night, but apparently not the night I was staying.

And that’s something else that I have a problem with, why is it ghosts only come out at night, or is that just the perception I have hot from reading up on the subject.

Maybe my view of ghosts is somewhat stilted, after all, I think my first introduction to ghosts was watching The Centerville Ghost, a movie I saw on t.v. when I was very young.

You have to admit Hollywood’s perception of ghosts is quite interesting.

 

But…

Do you think they are real?  Do I think they are real?

I think I would have to be presented with some fairly solid evidence they exist, but perhaps not to the point of meeting one.

There are, it seems countless examples of ethereal forces, you know, wind blowing where there’s no wind or draught outside, room temperatures dropping for no apparent reason, knocking, rattling of chains, strange noises like low moaning.

 

And yet…

There are hotels you can stay in such as the Chelsea Hotel in New York, where it’s possible to run into Sid Vicious.

Sorry, not staying there any time soon.

Then there’s the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel in Los Angeles where it’s possible to run into Marylin Monroe, who lived in room 229.

That could be an interesting encounter.

Another is the Westin St Francis in San Francisco where the actress Virginia Rappe died while attending a party held in Fatty Arbuckle’s room, Arbuckle’s room, who was later accused of assaulting and murdering her, and whose career tanked after the incident.

Her ghost is seen moving about the hotel tearing her hair out.  It seems all of the spectral activity occurs on the 12th floor.

 

Good to know if I decide to stay there.  I wonder if they have a 13th floor?

Perhaps in too old to be running the gamut of paranormal experiences, the old heart is not as strong as it used to be.

A case for Harry Walthenson PI, episode by episode

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 1930s, 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://bit.ly/2J4aEBP

The latest episode:  Episode 64 – Analysing Sykes

http://bit.ly/2I32M6c

Enjoy

Yet another idea for a story…

Why is it ideas come at the least expected and most inconvenient time?

I thought I’d trained my thoughts to assemble when I was having a shower.  It seems that has not worked so well, and now the telephone rings instead.

Don’t you hate that?

I wasn’t considering a new idea for yet another book; I have so many on the go already.  But, the sad truth is, you have no control over it.

When I sit down, listening to Ravel, or some other classical music, I close my eyes and drift along to the music, waiting for the imagination to kick in.

Can’t force it, can you?

But, five minutes to three, after a frantic call announcing yet another storm in a teacup, I’m racing out the door, setting the alarm, locking the door, and …

… bing …

The idea is there, out of left field, in front of me.

 

Here’s the pitch:

Detroit, ghost town, a nightwatchman, formerly a high flyer on Wall Street, is doing the rounds.

Yep, different location, same story as a dozen others, you say.

Pitch on:

With him, his work partner, from Mexico, a woman with a checkered past, maybe an illegal, maybe not, but who would work for the kind of pay they got if there was not something they were either running or hiding from?

A man and a woman thrown together by fate.  Seriously?

Pitch on:

They’re guarding a large factory, looking exactly the same as it had the day the doors closed, only there are no people, no work, and no likelihood of it reopening.

It’s night.  It’s dark.  Only the security lighting casts a dim glow over everything, casting shadows.  The walls and roof creaks as the building moves, as all do in a wind.

From here it could go anywhere, ghosts, murder, mayhem, or …

Pitch on:

Every night is the same, go to point B, the extent of the guard’s run, and no further.  Punch a card to say you’ve done the check, then back to the office.

That’s it.

As for the rest of the factory, don’t worry.  They were told that beyond point B was taken care of by another team.  It was a large factory, and neither had questioned their orders.  A job was a job in a city where jobs were at a premium.

Six months, from the office to point B and back.

Of course, the story has to suddenly come alive, like when you’re sitting alone in a dark room watching a horror moving, and the music hypes the fear factor to 1000% and you nearly jump out of your skin.

Not so easy to do in writing, but we try.

Pitch on:

Six months and one day later, it was time to find out what was beyond point B.

What they found was to change the fabric and course of their lives.

 

Reads like blurb inside the cover of a bestseller, doesn’t it?

All it will take is somewhere between 50,000 and 100,000 words, and the time to write them.

Changing personality to suit the current story

I have often wondered just how much or how little of the author’s personality and experiences end up in a fictional character, and, in writing it, do I have to change into someone else, something else, in order to play the part?

Will they have to climb mountains, escape from what is almost the inescapable, be shot, tortured, get dumped, get divorced, become world travelers, or get locked up in a foreign jail, or just a dark smelly hole and forgotten?

What we don’t know about we have to research, read up on, and, I guess, experience some or all of the above on the way to getting the book written, but it’s perhaps an interesting fundamental question.

Who am I today?

Or it can be a question, out of right field, in an interview; “Who are you really?”

My initial reaction was to say, “I’m a writer.”  But that wasn’t the answer the interviewer is looking for.

Perhaps if she had asked, “Who are you when you are writing your stories?”

It would make more sense, and give me a lot more scope, but in that moment I would have to channel the interviewee persona.

Am I myself?

Am I some fictional character made up of a lot of different people?

Have I got someone definite in mind when I start writing the story?

The short answer might be, “I usually want to be someone other than what I am now.  It’s fiction.  I can be anyone or anything I want, provided, of course, I know the limitations of the character.”

“So,” she asks with a degree of whimsicality, “what if you want to be a fireman?”

“I don’t want to be a fireman.”

“But what if the story goes in the direction where you need a fireman…”

It seems to be a sticking point.

“What is this thing you have with firemen?”  I’m shaking my head.  How did we get off track?

“Just saying.”

“Then I’d have to research the role, but I’m not considering adding a fireman anytime soon.”

She sighs.  “Your loss.”

It’s clear she had a ‘thing’ for firemen.  Moving on.

Yet I suspect all of this has been leading to another very interesting question; “Who would you like to be if you could be someone else?”

That’s an easy question.

I would like to be a writer in that period between the wars, perhaps an F Scott Fitzgerald or Ernest Hemingway, in Paris, or if it is a fictional character, Jay Gatsby.

He’s just the sort of person who is an enigma wrapped up in a mystery.

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.