Tag: creativity

Thoughts, maybe

It’s Monday again.

Or on this side of the world, it’s actually Tuesday morning.

Very, very early in fact.

Very cold too, which is strange for a city near the tropics.

I survived another week, still contemplating the job of working on the next edit of my sixth novel.  You’d think it was easy by now, routine.

Outline the story.

Write the chapters.

Bundle it all up and let it stew in the back of your mind.

Come back and do the first edit, find all the grammatical errors, fix holes in the plot, make sure the sub plots don’t take over, or minor characters steal the limelight.

Or, as in this case, after the seventh, yes, you heard right, the seventh edit, I decided there was a big hole and had to fill it.

If it was a murder mystery, it would be a body.

I was missing character motivation.  The main character was drifting, much like I am, and I realized there was a little of my circumstances coming across to the story.

Cut, slash, burn.

OK, wrote the new part and I’m happy with it now.

All I have to do is make sure there is sufficient hooks in the earlier part to make it seem like a natural progression.

Piece of cake.

I’ll start first thing tomorrow.

Perhaps I might be better off selling used cars!

Maybe not.

I think I’ll stick to writing.

Thoughts maybe

It’s Monday.

To me it’s just another day of the week, because as a writer there is no nine to five five days a week take the weekend off.

Or perhaps that’s just my interpretation of what a writer’s life is.

Not that I’m being much of a writer at the moment.

There’s writers block and there’s laziness.  Me, I’m in the latter basket.  I sit down to write and can always find something else to do.

I think it’s because I’m not satisfied with the story as it stands.

I finished writing the sixth or seventh draft, didn’t like the way it was reading, and added a new section.  The problem with that is having to go back to the start and seed the threads that lead to and/or incorporate the new part.

It’s just about formed in my mind how it is going to do, but I have not written a word, or looked at the story for at least four months, and that’s probably a good thing.

In between I have written a short story, well bits at a time and put it in the blog as an insight into how y mind works and how I write stories.  Or perhaps it highlights how twisted my mind is.

I still believe in the happy ending.

So, I’m going to flesh out the second draft of the story with the new ideas and see how that looks.

Then it will be school holidays for my grandchildren, and we are going to go and visit a maze.

OK, you ask, why?

A long time ago my eldest grandchild asked me to write a story for her.  She is 12, she acts like a princess, so I told her I would write her as one.  The other two girls also wanted to be princesses, and this sparked some interesting discussion.

Now we sit around when they are all together and brainstorm ideas.

And, as the story progresses I have three of the best beta readers any writer could want, actual readers of YA novels.

But back to the maze and why. they want to experience it first hand so they can give feedback for the story.

It has become a collaboration.  It has also sparked an interest in writing in them, and a greater interest in reading, something that cannot be underestimated in the development of young minds.

Then, after spending the holidays with them, it’s back to work on another novel which is in the editing stage.

Alas there is no rest for the wicked.

Short story writing – a change in the plot – 3

Time to look at Annalisa’s story.  I’m not sure if I want to change much about her, but now we have a tenuous connection between her and Jack, maybe we can explore this a little further.

It will certainly change the dynamic between them, and reflect in whether or not she lets him go or not.

But the story would benefit more from relating how the disaster happened, and the fact the relationship between Simmo and Annalisa had run its course.

There will still be that basic fear of being left alone with the shop keeper and the consequences, which she believes will have a very bad result.

The rewrite:

 

Annalisa had known the moment she had agreed, or rather having been coerced to agree, to go on this foolhardy mission, it would not be the ‘piece of cake’ he said it would be.

It was the culmination of a series of events the brought her to the revelation that is was not her he loved but her money.

And the fact the ‘recreational’ use of drugs was far more serious and far more costly that she had realized.  Until her parents cut off both her access to her bank account and credit card.

Simmo had gone quite literally ‘ape shit’ when he found out, and the full extent of what was a ‘recreational use’ of drugs became clear.  In the first stages of withdrawal he was nothing like the boy she used to know.

But, she would go along with him this once and that would be an end to it.  Her funding his habit, their relationship, though she chose not to tell him at the exact moment because he was very threatening, in fact it was going to be the end of everything to do with him.

As they left the apartment for the last time, an eerie calm had come over him, and he had revered to the Simmo she used to know.  There were flashes of the old Simmo from time to time, but the ever increasing use of drugs had changed him, changed his personality, and now there was very little left.

She thought about staying, trying to being him back, get him to go to a rehabilitation center, admit he had a problem.

Stepping out of the building into the cold night air brought her back to her senses.  There was no helping him, now or ever.

It was nearly time, a few minutes before the shop closed, the time, Simmo said, when the shopkeepers ‘other’ customers arrived.

She hoped there were no other customers.

The plan was simple.  Simmo would show the money, a twenty dollar note wrapped around a wad of blank papers, the shopkeeper would get the bag, he would give the wad, take the drugs and they’d run, hoping he wouldn’t discover the truth before escaping out the front door.

And if he did, she asked.

He had it covered.

She didn’t like the sound of that statement, or the savagery with which it was delivered.  More and more this was sounding like a suicide mission.

Simmo patted her on the shoulder.  It was time.

She looked at her watch, 11:25 pm.

From across the road she had watched the shopkeeper going through the motions of closing the store, bring in the sidewalk displays, wiping the counter, sweeping the floor.  As they crossed the road she could see him standing behind the counter, waiting, watching the clock tick inexorably towards 11:30.

Closing time.

She preceded Simmo into the shop.  His idea was that seeing her would create a distraction.  He smiled when he saw her, frowned when he saw Simmo.  He knew the moment he saw Simmo exactly what he was there for.

© Charles Heath 2016

Thoughts, maybe

With my wife in hospital getting a complete knee replacement, I have been running the household.

It’s like putting a plasterer in charge of a steam locomotive.

It’s also brought to light an oft used, but probably very misunderstood phrase, ‘taken for granted’.

A lot of people think they are, and it’s probably true.  So many of them do the little things that need to be done without mentioning it, and, when they are not around, don’t get done.

Why?

Because us people who apparently ‘take them for granted’ don’t realize the half of what they do.

True.  We don’t.  We know a lot of stuff happens, but not why.

My epiphany came a long time ago, after the kids left home.  I took over the cooking, learned to iron, still can’t stack a dishwasher, but I can empty it, and so on.

But still there was a lot more that I failed to realize happened like:

Feeding the cat, replacing his litter, filling and emptying the dishwasher (sorry, I wasn’t allowed to have a mad hatter’s tea party and just move around the table till there were no empty spaces left), doing the washing, hanging out the washing, bring it in, drying, ironing, sweeping floors, cleaning kitchen bench tops and sinks, cooking (and how quickly you can run out of easy recipes, or think of what to have for breakfast, lunch, and dinner), it never ends.

I heard a friend of mine whose wife stays home rather than work, tell his friends he couldn’t understand what it was his wife does during the day.  They have teenage, but still at school, children.  He asked her what she did with her day because just once she hadn’t cooked dinner.  He’s still wearing the bump where she threw a rather heavy saucepan at him.

If I had a gun I’d shoot the fool.  Perhaps not a few years ago, but now I can appreciate everything that is done, and apparently it’s not by magic.

I’d like to think I didn’t take anything for granted, but I guess I’m still learning that there is lot of stuff that needs to be done just to keep a household going.

And for one or the other, it;s a full time, unpaid and unappreciated job.

Which is why I now try very hard to make her feel appreciated.

 

Thoughts, maybe

That ‘Bio’ again

 

I’m back to obsessing about my 140 characters bio on twitter.

So much so that I have been trawling through thousands on other bio’s trying to understand what makes a good one.

Quite a lot preface theirs with Dad to or Mom to x wonderful children.  I think that goes without saying, so moving on.

Quite a lot advertise services using hash tags which is a great idea, perhaps in the hope people are looking for said services and will follow them, then to DM them with more information.

I haven’t quite mastered the art of doing that, so I’ll let that one slide for the moment.

But …

That brings up the relevance of using hash tags in the bio.  That gives me a bit more scope to make it to the point.

A quick search of relevant hash tags reveals:

writer, author, thriller, mystery, adventure, writing etc.

All are useful but it doesn’t really carry any pulling power.  We need something that grabs the reader’s attention, and do it in the shortest, most succinct manner.

I am a writer, a wordsmith, who, I was once told, swallowed a dictionary.  But, in the light of the current task, you’d think it would be just a ‘walk in the park’ instead of the proverbial ‘pain in the neck’.

Perhaps I could compose a riddle that comes back to the answer of who I am, but who has the time to sit and work it out.

I think that might be a little pretentious.

So, back to square one.

At the moment all I have is ‘aspiring writer’.

It’s not possible that’s enough, is it?

Thoughts, maybe

Living in another time

 

I’ve often thought that I should have been born in the early 1900’s and lived through what might be called the halcyon days of the 20’s and 30’s.

Of course, it is only a matter of opinion if those days were good or bad, depending on who you were.

If I’d been the heir apparent to becoming Lord of the manor, or from any part of upper classes with a University education, I have no doubt that I would not have been spared the horrors of war along with rest if the young men who went to serve and never returned.

The only saving grace might be as Officer it might have been easier than being un the ranks, but at that age I doubt if I’d be as caution as I should be, as of all youth I’d throw caution to the wind.

But in all likelihood I would not have been part of the aristocracy but more than likely a clerk or farm worker who might by wit and guile would have survived the war, if not a little traumatized by what I had seen and done in the name of defending the Empire.

It had prompted Hemingway to use the phrase ‘the lost generation’ at the end of one of his books, but perhaps it was first used by Gertrude Stein who had said in not many words that these people who survived the war were more content to drink themselves to death.

I guess if the war hadn’t taken you, and you survived the great flu epidemic that followed it, then you would probably believe you were in some way invincible.

So, in those post war days where writers and others congregated in Paris in those mid twenties, what some regard as the halcyon years before the great depression and later the next world war.  I suspect a lot of the American writers left because of prohibition and wanted the more liberal lifestyle in Paris during these years.

Certainly there was a group of writers and artists who lived that bohemian life style, perhaps a result of the horrors of war, using alcohol and promiscuity to drown the bad memories.

I doubt if anyone could return from a war like that and not be damaged in some way.  Perhaps the only way to escape the horror was to immerse oneself in a different world, and if I had been back in those days, I know I would be putting pencil to paper making endless notes for later use.

And I prefer to believe if I survived it was because my desire to become a writer would eventually be fulfilled.  Perhaps in the end it might be more likely because I had had a lifetime love affair with words, and to me it would be more than enough to make a reasonable living from it.

Certainly I would have sought out others like me as mentors and compatriots.

It was a time when the likes of F Scott Fitzgerald, Earnest Hemingway, Edith Wharton, and James Joyce, all of whom I have no doubt would be happy to be the role models one needed.

And if you could afford to take a trip to Paris, well, enough said.

It would probably take a lot of luck to be included in their group and no doubt hanging out at the Shakespeare and Company bookshop, owned by Silvia Beach and Adrienne Monnier, might have been a step in the right direction.

But, having not been there at the time, who knows what might have happened.

Perhaps one day when some invents a time machine, I might be able to go back and find out.

Thoughts, maybe

Nostalgia

Ever hear someone say it was better in the old days?

I have.

I’ve been guilty of saying it myself.

But, was it?

When I was a child there was no such thing as personal computers and calculators.  Everything came out of books, and maths had to be done in you head.

Holidays were about joining up with other neighborhood children and making your own entertainment.  I remember for long time, as a child, we didn’t have television.

It was down to the meadows near the creek to pick blackberries, swim in the water, or raiding new housing estates for off-cuts to build a cubby house.

Not like today with television, video players, movies on demand, personal computers, game boys and a plethora of other entertainment choices.

Were we better off back in the old days?

We were in the sun with no idea that sunburn led to cancer and death.  Sunscreen was unheard of, so in that regard maybe not.

In the old days the only telephones were in the house and were expensive to use.  You could have a colored phone so long as it was black and made of bakelite.

It was a long time before we had plastic colored phones or even wall phones.  Those were also the days of telephone boxes, the only way the make a call when away from home

Now every man and his dog has a mobile phone/computer while on the move.  I know, they keep crashing into me on the street.

And then I also remember my father saying it’s not like the old days, so I had to wonder what he meant.

Perhaps it is an oft-used but less understood lament for a time when we remember we were happy and carefree, those days before mortgages, children, maxed out credit cards, and the children’s mobile phone bills.

Thoughts, maybe

Have you ever wondered how much of your life you have spent

a) waiting a doctor’s surgery or hospital appointment, and

b) waiting on the end of the phone to reach customer service, or a public servant.

In the first instance I have had a lot of recent experience with injured children and soouse, and, more recently myself.

What bothers me is that they give you a time and place and issue all the threats around the place if you don’t turn up on time, but it seems to be perfectly ok if they are late.

It could be for some perfectly logical reason but most of the time they don’t tell you why they’re runnibg late, and sometimes don’t even apologise.

Then there is the chairs they make you sit in, obviously specially designed so you do not get comfortable, especially in hospitals.

But the most infuriorating aspect?  Just how small the waiting room is and how often it is overcrowded with people also waiting to see a doctor.

They ask if we remain respectful but after an hour and a half in those chairs and not treating us with that same respect they ask for, I’m surprised I have only witnessed one case of angry patient.

In the second instance there are two circilumstances I take issue with.

The first is where you have to srlect from a menu and what you want isn’t one of the menu items and there’s no catch all just disconnection, and

After waiting patiently on the line for up to thirty minutes or more you hear the connection, you think you are about to get to aa agent and the call disconnects.

That is only one step removed from being connected … back at the selection menu and then sent to the back of the queue.

I’m sorry, but this technology is no advancement but I doubt if we will get back to the ‘old days’.

Of course there is that other major advancement in telephone answering technology, voice recognition.  I’ve been on the end of it, and quite frankly, it just doesn’t understand me.

Odd, I Know, because I speak very good English with no accent.  Perhaps that’s the problem.

I can’t wait for the first humanoid robots.  I hope they can understand me better than the inhuman phones do!

Thoughts, maybe

There is a saying ‘you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone’.

For a long time, in days before the current technological age, I didn’t really understand what that meant.

Until now.

How many times, in the last few days have I heard the question, “Where’s my mobile phone?”.

It seems we can lose almost anything else but, without the phone we are completely lost.

Then, the other day I heard, “We aren’t able to do very much because the microwave oven is broken.”

How did we manage in the days before we had such devices.  I know my grandmother used to have a wood stove and cooked everything, from bread to a roast to making a cup of tea.

I don’t think I ever had a cup of coffee at her house, but I have a lot memories of some amazing food.  No such thing as electric kitchen appliances, or a microwave oven, not in that house.

We had the same experience ourselves when one of the fridge/freezer units broke down, and severely restricted what we could cook and store, especially the freezer.

And perhaps that’s the problem.  We take so many things for granted, and live a life that is centred around convenience.

What  would happen if those conveniences were taken away?

Certainly, for me, I know, what it’s like to lose an important piece of equipment and having to improvise, but I’m not sure how we would react if we had a real catastophe.

I haven lost my phone yet.

Let’s hope it never happens.

Thoughts, maybe

I remember one day many many years ago seeing a piece of graffiti in a railway tunnel:  “Being undead isn’t being alive”.

At the time I think I was suffering from a mega hangover.  Those were the days where there was no limit to stupidity, particularly when you had to go to work the next day.

But it made we wonder often over the next forty years what the graffiti artist was trying to tell the world.

Being undead?

I think they was alluding to the fact that being alive was more than just drawing breath and eating and sleeping.

I wondered what their predicament was.  Had he or she just broken up with a partner, that painful time when one or other calls it quits.  I suspect that’s not being undead.  I knew what that was like because it had happened to me, and no doubt just about everyone else, over the years, and I can assure you, you know your alive.

It is a pain like no other, that emptiness you feel, the reaching for the phone to talk to the one person you thought understood you, only they are no longer there, turning to the seat where they usually sit, and there is no one there.

Or is it like that feeling of bring betrayed, that awful feeling when you discover your partner is cheating on you, and inevitably you are the last to find out.  No, you feel that pain and it can be overwhelming.

That everyone else knew and thought they’d spare your feelings, hardly spares your feelings and only makes the betrayal worse, because your friends were hardly acting as friends

Being undead?

Might it allude to the fact you have become invisible?  Might it be you have been abandoned by everyone and everything, that feeling of hopelessness?  I suspect it might have been a precursor to depression.

Being Alive?

Is it that sensation of first love, so wonderful and yet so precarious, trying not to do the wrong thing, and inevitably making mistakes.

Is it being with family, the people you love and those who love you, doing simple things, sometimes ending each other’s sentences, or thinking the same thought at the same time?

I guess that’s why, when I write a romance novel, there is always a happy ending.

Sorry, perhaps that’s give the ending away on some of my books!