Tag: Story

There seems to be something missing…

It seems the closer I get to the end of a story, the harder it becomes.

In this case, it is not the first draft, but more like the fifth.  The first is to correct any continuity errors and hidden clues that, when the reader gets to the end, it’s not a case of ‘how the hell did that happen’.

The second and quite possibly the third is to correct all the grammatical and spelling errors.

The fourth is to read it as a reader and to find anything that may have slipped through the first three passes.  You would be amazed, at this point, how many grammatical errors there can be, and even a wrong spelling or two.  Sometimes it seems the eyes see what they assume is right when it is glaringly wrong.

Sometimes there isn’t the fifth reading.  On those very rare occasions when there isn’t, it is when I am satisfied with what I’ve written, but this doesn’t happen too often, because, after the fourth reading, I let it rest, and let it stew in my mind.  If it doesn’t fade away after a week or two, it means there’s something wrong.

Hence the fifth reading.

So, here we are, and there is something not quite right, and it needed a few more pages earlier on to reinforce what comes later, and I get this done.  Now, the conclusion is sounding more plausible, but there’s going to be one less death because I can see, somewhere in a dark and murky future, this person is going to return at an entirely unexpected moment.

Whether it’s to save the day, or something a lot, lot worse, I won’t know until the idea in the back of my mind becomes words on paper.

Maybe next year.

There seems to be something missing…

It seems the closer I get to the end of a story, the harder it becomes.

In this case, it is not the first draft, but more like the fifth.  The first is to correct any continuity errors and hidden clues that, when the reader gets to the end, it’s not a case of ‘how the hell did that happen’.

The second and quite possibly the third is to correct all the grammatical and spelling errors.

The fourth is to read it as a reader and to find anything that may have slipped through the first three passes.  You would be amazed, at this point, how many grammatical errors there can be, and even a wrong spelling or two.  Sometimes it seems the eyes see what they assume is right when it is glaringly wrong.

Sometimes there isn’t the fifth reading.  On those very rare occasions when there isn’t, it is when I am satisfied with what I’ve written, but this doesn’t happen too often, because, after the fourth reading, I let it rest, and let it stew in my mind.  If it doesn’t fade away after a week or two, it means there’s something wrong.

Hence the fifth reading.

So, here we are, and there is something not quite right, and it needed a few more pages earlier on to reinforce what comes later, and I get this done.  Now, the conclusion is sounding more plausible, but there’s going to be one less death because I can see, somewhere in a dark and murky future, this person is going to return at an entirely unexpected moment.

Whether it’s to save the day, or something a lot, lot worse, I won’t know until the idea in the back of my mind becomes words on paper.

Maybe next year.

Writing about writing a book – Day 21 continues

I’m still working on Bill’s backstory, and how he got mixed up in the war, and as a general background to his situation, and life before Davenport.

This is still in his own words:

 

But whether we were stupid or naive, or completely mad, we were all eager to get into battle, filled with the sort of hate only Army propaganda films could fill you with.  They were our enemy, and they deserved to concede or die.

A fresh face in a hardened platoon, I was eager to get on with it.  They looked knowingly, having seen it all before.  No idea of the reality, and no time to tell us.  Have a few beers to celebrate, and then, the next morning, go out on patrol.  No problem.

There was camaraderie, but it was subdued.  We walked single file, the seasoned campaigners in front and at the rear, treading carefully, demanding quiet, and a general cautiousness.  In the middle of nowhere, where only the sound of rain, or the animals and birds for company, we were naive enough to think this was going to be a doddle.

Then it happened, six hours out, and just before we reached a small clearing.  I thought to myself it was odd there should be such a clear space with jungle all around it.  There must be a reason.

There was.

We had walked into an ambush, and everyone hit the ground.  I was bringing up the rear with another soldier, a veteran not much older than myself whose name was Scotty, a little farther back from the main group.  Bullets sprayed the undergrowth, pinging off trees and leaves.  I buried my face in the dirt, praying I would not die on my first patrol.

We became separated from the others, lying in a hollow, with no idea how far away help was.  He was muttering to himself.  “God, I hate this.  You can never see the bastards.  They’re out there, but you can never bloody well see them.”  Then he crawled up the embankment, gun first.

He let off a few rounds, causing a return of machine-gun fire, spattering the dirt at the top.  Next thing I knew he was sliding down the hill with half his face shot away.  Dead.  I threw up there and then.  What an initiation.

Then one of the enemy soldiers came over the hill to check on his ‘kill’.  I saw him at the same time he saw me and aimed my gun and shot.  It was instinct more than anything else, and I hadn’t stopped to think of the consequences.  He fell down, finishing up next to me, staring at me from black, lifeless eyes. 

Dead. 

I’ll never forget those lifeless eyes.  I just got up and ran, making it back to the rest of the group without getting hit.  No one could explain how I made it safely through the hail of gunfire, from our side and theirs.

Back in the camp later, the veterans remarked on how unlucky Scotty was and how lucky I was to shoot one of the enemies, and not be killed myself.  They all thought it was worth a celebration.

Before we went out the next day to do it all again.

I spent the night vomiting, unable to sleep, haunted look on his face, one I finally realized that reflected complete astonishment.

 

There will be more, as the story develops.

 

© Charles Heath 2016-2020

I’d like to write a political thriller

But, I don’t understand politics.

The question is, do you really have to?

I mean all you have to do is read the papers and read between the lines. It doesn’t take much imagination to find something worth writing about

For instance,

How could it possibly happen that a leader of a very powerful country become a spy for another?

It doesn’t seem plausible, but is it possible?

It depends I’m guessing, on power and wealth, well, perhaps not so much the power, but it is true that money and wealth are great motivators.

How could it happen when the leader is in the public eye nearly all of the time? And even if that leader has closed-door conversations, which is doubtful he would be on his own, the red not really be an opportunity to sell out to the other side.

Even an exchange of gifts, like apartments or a dacha, wouldn’t be enough of an incentive, well, not for me anyway. But a clear path to investment in a rival country, maybe.

Perhaps then rather than becoming a spy, the leader could adopt a policy of appeasement.

We have history to tell us how well that works, and the fact giving concessions to another county only emboldens it to take advantage of apparent weakness, and then, hey presto, we have another war.

So…

What do we really have?

A lot of speculation and conjecture. It’s easy to construe what might be the truth from a set of circumstances and behavioral patterns of the individuals involved.

It could be likened to two cats circling each other in a cage before the fight begins.

The waters can be muddied by a constant stream of incendiary tweets which fire the readers’ imagination, all intended as a smoke screen, or feelers to see which was the wind is blowing.

Is that leader masterful and clever or is he a naive fool?

My political thriller might have a working title of,

‘Which Way Does The Wind Blow’

I don’t usually have a title for any of the books until after the first draft, or sometimes something might spring out as it’s being written.

But, for now, let’s sit back and see which way the wind is blowing.

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 43

Back on the alien vessel

…

The ‘ooh’ from Nancy was unmistakable the moment we rematerialized in the alien’s ship’s bridge.  It could be one of those awe-inspiring moments, had it not been for the circumstances.

The second time on the bridge, I realized that it was a little more sparse than it had been before, with a wall of control panels missing, along with a panel that stretched across the front of the Captain’s chair, but with no crew members present.

It was now a blank space.  The whole space could have been a large empty room with windows overlooking empty space, except in the distance, our two ships.  Beyond that, there seemed to be a thin streak of light, or colored lights, flickering.  At a guess they might be a long, long, long way away, but whether it was in the direction we had come, or where we were going, or somewhere else, I couldn’t tell.

On the other side of the bridge, the female alien was still holding the Russian Captain, some sort of weapon at his throat.

I was still feeling the tingling sensation that was the effect after re-materialization.  The first time it was disorientating, I was prepared this time.

I was also not sure what to expect, now that it was clear the aliens were not what they portrayed themselves to be.  Of course, it was naive of me to expect that others in the galaxy would be better than us.

“An explanation of what this is really about might go a long way towards preventing tragic consequences.”  I thought I’d throw out the opening gambit.

“Agreed.  I had hoped the problem could have been resolved before your arrival.  As you might be aware, we have the ability to transport our people, and I had hoped to recover the missing citizens that were taken by this,” he pointed to the Russian, “captains ship.”

“They asked for asylum, we did not take them.”

Another piece of the puzzle, the female must be one of the Aliens crew, and had beamed aboard, taken the captain hostage, and demanded the release of the citizens.

Question: why hadn’t he simply beamed them back?

To the Alien, “Is this true?”

“Semantics “

Note:  this alien had a very good grasp of the nuances of the English language.

“Semantics or not, if you know anything about earth culture, it’s that we look after those who need help, and if people come to us asking for asylum, we generally give it.  You will also be aware that those who ask for asylum generally are in fear of their lives.  The question is, why would these people ask for asylum.”

“The people aboard that ship are criminals who were serving their sentences in one of our remote facilities.  Your captain apparently came across this remote facility and assisted in setting the criminals free.  When we sent a ship to apprehend them, they were taken aboard the earth ship and it attempted to leave.  We were going to stop the earth vessel from leaving when your ship appeared, and it seemed prudent not to display hostility.  There was also the possibility you were working together.”

“We are not, as you are now aware.  Nor would I be willing to interfere with your internal matters, except that it involves another of our ships, one I didn’t know about, which only complicates matters.

Why do you have the captain.”

“He refused to set the prisoners.”

“If you could beam your operative and the captain here, why not just beam the criminals too.”

“They are currently protected in a special part of the captain’s ship that does not allow us to bring them back.  They obviously told him what our capabilities are.”

Criminals, if they were criminals, seeking asylum.  If it was me, I would be happy for someone else to take away the criminal element and make it someone else’s problem.  The unfortunate truth in our world is that criminals didn’t go to jail anymore, they were shipped off to remote mining planets where they spent the rest of their days working in very harsh conditions.  Over time it had proved to be a very good deterrent, so much so, that off plant mining operations now had to pay large sums of money to get people to work there.

“Number One.”

“Sir?”

“Find the so-called criminals the captain has stowed on his vessel and ask them what their side of the story is.  Quick as you can.”

“Yes, sir.”

I looked over to the Russian Captain.  “You might want to tell your second in command to make things easier for my crew.”

A look from me to the alien, and back, time to consider my request, then gave the order.

“On my way, sir.”

…

© Charles Heath 2021-2022

Brainstorming, or is it barnstorming?

Perhaps it should be brainstorming in a barn!

It’s a weird word that describes a process where a bunch of people get together and throw ideas around, though others may have different permutations on what brainstorming is.

Reading through the current blogs sent to my reader, the word ‘brainstorming’ got my attention.

I use it, well, I try to use it.

I’m still working on the YA novel, you know the sort, a far off land where there’s kingdoms, kings, queens, princes and princesses, witches, no dragons and the jury’s still out on a unicorn.

I have three grandchildren, all girls, who wanted me to write a story for them.  Not that thriller stuff, or murder, but what sort of life they’d like to have in they could live in a different world.

Fortunately, both still have an imagination, a prime requisite for them to transition through their childhood to young adult, smoothing out the bumps.  They are avid readers, so I have an untapped source of ideas.

Or so you would think.

This is how it started:  A few years ago I told the eldest, who’s 18 this year, to stop acting like a princess.  She didn’t get the inference because it was an ‘adult’ concept when dealing with children.

What she did say was how she was going to be a princess when she grew up.  I said there were not enough real-life princes to go around, a point she took on board with all the aplomb of as she was then 12-year-old, so it graduated to becoming a princess in a story.

Somehow she ended up with the name Marigold.

She decided Marigold was going to be a haughty, self-indulgent, spoilt brat.  That condescending tone, those flicks of the hair, those sharp put-downs, a princess indeed.   It was as if she had acting lessons from the Disney ‘bad princess’ school of acting.

But …

As all haughty and condescending people do, the princess is taught an invaluable lesson in humility when her Kingdom is invaded, her brother, next in line to the throne, murdered, the king thrown in the dungeons, and her mother put to the sword and left for dead.  She flees the castle and her betrothed prince who is leading the invasion of their Kingdom, and who is now regarded as both unworthy and dangerous, goes after her.

The first few ‘brainstorming’ sessions saw the addition of two sisters (her two real life cousins, one back then who was ten and other six), a healer (another name for a witch as witches are outlawed in her Kingdom), magic spells, and a quest to save her family and the land.

It’s been done before, but this is without the Knight in shining armour, and where a young girl who has never had to fend for herself has to come to grips with a completely alien environment, and the fact none of her companions believe she is going to be of any help whatsoever.

Several sessions later we came up with the quest.

What has surprised me, for a generation of children brought up with video games, endless violence, and the endless pressures on youth these days versus what I had in my day, they have this amazing ability to take a step back and see themselves in such a different light.

I’ve always had an overactive imagination borne from a time where we didn’t have any of the facilities children have these days.  We had to make our own adventures, not live them out on TV and in video games.

I dragged them into my world, and now, together, we have a bond that will never be shaken.  I am the storyteller, they are Marigold, Ophelia and Nerida, princesses.

They are as different as chalk and cheese.  Ophelia wants her own story, the princess who battles against the magic within her.  Nerida has a quite simple aim in life, having been taught swordplay by her brother, she wants to slay a dragon.

The first story is now nearly finished, and at the rate I’m going I’ll be lucky to see it published by her 18th Birthday.

Still, how good would it be to be handed a book that was specially commissioned by, and written for her?

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 42

We seem to have a spot of bother

…

The next statement from Number One, “Sir, it seems we have a hostage situation.”

A glance back at the main screen showed the Russian ship’s bridge minus the captain and flickering on, the alien ship’s Captain.

“I didn’t open a channel, Sir,” the comms officer said quickly.

I glared at the alien representative for a few seconds, hoping to convey my displeasure, but I doubted it would have any effect.

Nor was it any surprise to discover that something indeed didn’t add up. 

Potentially we had a very bad situation, facing off an alien vessel with unknown capabilities and weapons, and a ship that was not supposed to exist, having reputedly committed unknown criminal activities.

“General, you might have to make an instant decision, so if the potential threat is life or ship threatening, don’t wait for confirmation.”

“Sir.”

“Code Red, and everyone, report anything no matter how trivial.”

“Number one, a hostage situation is only a hostage situation if the hostage-taker has a hostage.  You get a clear shot, shoot them.”

“There may potentially be casualties, sir.”

“Then at your discretion, but hold that thought until I have a word with our new, so-called, friends.”

“Sir.”

To say I was annoyed was an understatement, but I had to remember that our underlying mission was to make new friends, not enemies.

“Captain,” the alien commander decided now was the moment to speak.

“You have not been quite truthful with us, have you?”

“They did commit crimes, that is the truth.”

“Then why is one of your people holding the captain hostage?”

It only just struck me then that the alien vessel had beamed one of the people onto the Russian ship after the alien ship arrived with us.  But to what purpose?

“To force them to return to the planet where the crimes were committed.  I had no reason to believe you would force the issue.  Our experience with humans is they support each other before they do the right thing.”

“Your experience is narrow-minded, generally supported by few instances, and basically does not define the human race.  Like everyone, we have a bad element, but it doesn’t define who or what we are.  You obviously heard my instructions to my boarding party.  Your turn now to give me a good reason why I should not shoot them?”

“I assume you still want to open diplomatic relations between our worlds?”

“Not at the expense of gunboat diplomacy.”

“I could destroy both your ships.”

“You could try.  If you know as much as you claim to know about humans, you’ll know that we are at our most formidable when our backs are to the wall.  My ship is an unknown quantity to you, which means you have no idea what we are capable of, but if you want yo find out, by all means, try.”

It was hard to keep an even tone when you are terrified.  Our first encounter had been nothing but threats and violence.  Was I no better than the worse of our kind?

Number one was back in my ear, “Sir, the alien and the Captain just disappeared.”

“I would like you to join us on my ship for discussions, Captain.  I’m sure this situation can be resolved amicably.”

“I’d like a skilled diplomatic negotiator with me, and not agreeing will be considered a hostile act.”

Just in case he was intending to beam me aboard his ship.  A nod in the General’s direction showed he knew what to do if the alien tried.

“Send a message to our diplomatic representative to cone to the bridge urgently.”

I preferred this to be done privately so as not to alert the crew.

I had read the file on Margaret Simpson, and it was, to say the least, extraordinary.  Her achievements at getting the most disparate parties to the table spoke for itself, and it surprised me that she would go on what could prospectively be a one-way trip.

I had not yet spoken to her since boarding, but it had been on my list before we ran into an alien species.  Now, that introduction was lost.

She looked exactly as I’d expected, just in the prime of middle age, diminutive, but not overly imposing, but distinctive enough to stop and look when she walked into a room.

“Captain, I can’t say what comes next doesn’t excite me.”

“You got a brief description of events?”

“An alien race, hostile or not, is exactly why I came.”

“Things could go pear-shaped very quickly.”

“You are exactly as described Captain, refreshingly honest, but somehow I don’t think I need to worry too much if you’re coming with me.”

“A perk of the job, I’m afraid.”

I looked at the alien captain on screen.

“Ready.”

…

© Charles Heath 2021-2022

Writing about writing a book – Day 20

It is a day of rest although writers are ready and able to work on any given day at any hour of the day or night when an idea or thought comes to them.

I’m trying not to think, but that’s not working.

I’ve been going over the reasons for writing the first draft of the book 30 odd years ago and it had something to do with the fact I was working with personal computers and local area networking when both were in their infancy, and I wanted to blend this knowledge into a story.

Of course, I’d always wanted to write thrillers, and this presented the opportunity to use computers as a basis for a worldwide conspiracy.  How easy it is these days to do just that, but back in those days, it was a lot of hard work.

I remember sitting in a meeting when the company I was working for at the time had just implemented a network and personal computer to replace the mainframe and dumb terminals, also looking to leverage the new technologies of spreadsheets and word-processing, effectively making accounts staff more productive, and removing typists and moving into the world of centralized word processing.  It was not a new idea with Wangwriter, but using PC’s was.

One of the departmental managers got up to give his take on the new technology, this about six months after implementation, and after a lot of teething troubles caused mainly by people who were vehemently resisting change, and his message was, it should not be called ‘networking’, but ‘not working’, in reference to the number of times the network went down.

But this is a digression.  Computers are only a part of the story.

The story also goes back to a time when there was a clear demarcation between the management levels.  Management offices were oasis’s whereas the staff worked in a stark desert-like environment.  When one came to work for such an organization, it was with the belief that you start at the bottom, and over time, you work your way up the ladder.  There was, very definitely, class distinction, and the various management levels never mixed, at work or socially, except within their own level.

There were Managers, Assistant Managers, and Manager’s Assistants, a typing pool, a secretary, that young, or old, lady who did so many jobs for their boss, that these days it would be considered demeaning.  They were dedicated to their jobs and irreplaceable.  There was no such person as a Personal Assistant.

Nor was such a thing as sexual harassment.  One company I worked in where one of the Assistant Managers was sexually abusing an office girl, her complaints didn’t get a prosecution as it would now, it just had him transferred to another branch.  Reprehensible, yes, and thankfully no longer a problem, except of course, in Fifty Shades of Grey which apparently condones such behavior.

There were department heads, General Managers, and Board Members.  The upper management level and participants were in a world of their own, one few could ever aspire to.  This is the world in which Transworld, my fictitious (but based on a very real) company lives.

I have to work on my company structure to make sure it is right.

Now I have two charts.  A timeline, for both Bill, and the story, and a hierarchy for the office management and staff.

This is beginning to be more complicated than I thought.

 

© Charles Heath 2016-2020

The bane of our existence: social media

I’m back to writing, sitting at the desk, pad in front of me, pen in hand.

The only thing lacking is an idea.

It’s 9:03 am, too early to start on a six-pack.

I need a distraction.

Blogging, websites, Twitter, and Facebook, all of these social media problems are swirling around in my mind.

The more I read the more it bothers me that if I don’t have the right social media presence if I do not start to build an email list, all of my efforts in writing a book will come to naught.

Then I start trawling the internet for information on marketing and found a plethora of people offering any amount of advice for anything between a ‘small amount’ to a rather large amount that gives comprehensive coverage of most social media platforms for periods of a day, a week or a month.  I don’t have a book so it’s a bit early to be worrying about that.

I move on to the people who offer advice for a cost on how to build a following, how to build a web presence, how to get a thousand Twitter followers, and how to get thousands of email followers before the launch.

The trouble is I’m writing a novel, not a nonfiction book, or have some marvellous 30 page ebook on how to do something, for free just to drive people to my site.

I’m a novelist, not a handyman so those ideas while good are not going to help me.

Yet another problem to wrestle with along with actually creating a product to sell in the first place.

Except I’m supposed to be writing for the love of it without the premeditated idea of writing for gain or getting rich quick.

What am I missing here?

So should l be writing short stories and offering them for free to drive people to my site?  These would have to be genre-specific so it needs time and effort and fit into a convenient size story that will highlight or showcase my talent.

Or should I create a website for the novel and set up pages for the characters and get some interaction going that way?

It will be difficult without giving the whole plot away so if I do it will have to be carefully managed.

I don’t think I will have a good night’s sleep again with all of these social media problems I’m going to have.

Oh well, back to the book.  It’s time to have a nightmare of a different sort!

Searching for locations: Niagara Falls, Canada

We visited the falls in winter, just after Christmas when it was all but frozen.

The weather was freezing, it was snowing, and very icy to walk anywhere near the falls

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Getting photos is a matter of how much you want to risk your safety.

I know I slipped and fell a number of times on the ice just below the snowy surface in pursuit of the perfect photograph.  Alas, I don’t think I succeeded.

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The mist was generated from both the waterfall and the low cloud.  It was impossible not to get wet just watching the falls.

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Of course, unlike the braver people, you could not get me into one of the boats that headed towards the falls.  I suspect there might be icebergs and wasn’t going to tempt the fate of another Titanic, even on a lesser scale.  The water would be freezing.