Robin Tompkins's Blog: Rob the Writer - Posts Tagged "cats"
My ‘Writer Brain.’ Or, ‘here kitty,kitty…’
So, when I did the initial Goodreads Q&A, the question of inspiration came up. I said, that the short answer was, that for the most part, ideas just arrive out of nowhere. I also said, that the long answer was more interesting and might make a blog piece. So, here we go…
I have read elsewhere, that it feels as if the stories are already there, just waiting to be found. It’s like archaeology, you see just one small corner of something sticking out of the ground, then after a lot of patient work with a trowel and a paintbrush… there it is. That does ring true, it feels right.
What about that bit that you see first though? That little glint in the corner of your eye? Where does that come from?
Let me introduce you to my ‘Writer Brain.’ Yes, I know, it’s a rubbish name for it. There must be a proper technical term but I have no idea what it is, so it’s my ‘Writer Brain.’
Most people have done a crossword at some time or another in their lives. If you have, then, you have probably had that ‘five across, six letters experience.’ You have the crossword finished, except for, ‘five across, six letters,’ and it just won’t come to you. You throw the magazine down and go on with your day. Seven hours later, you have your head in a supermarket fridge, deciding which bag of peas is the best buy, when a single word just drops into your head. It has nothing to do with frozen food, you don’t know what it’s doing in there. Then slowly, you realise that it’s the answer to ‘five across, six letters.’ The answer to a crossword clue, in a crossword that you gave up on seven hours ago and didn’t give a conscious thought to thereafter.
That’s what my ‘Writer Brain’ is like…
It exists somewhere in the back of my head, separate from my everyday brain, and it obeys its own set of rules. Somewhat like a cat, it won’t come when you call it, unless it feels like it. At other times, it just turns up unexpectedly, demanding attention. It’s a feline ‘Writer Brain,’ for sure.
It’s a greedy thing. It hoovers up everything, like a little black hole. Books, movies, TV, news, everyday conversation, overheard conversation, jokes, music, body language… anything, everything. Then it minces it, it slices it, dices it and rearranges it into something else.
It does this with little or no conscious input from me, just like, ‘five across, six letters.’
So, I am walking over to the supermarket one dark evening, (possibly it’s for those peas, I don’t remember). Into my head and apropos to nothing, comes a little snippet of dialogue. Two people are talking on a balcony, in the dark, looking out over city lights. One is explaining how dark air is different to light air, how dark air conducts magic so much better than light air, just as water conducts electricity better than air.
Shiny, shiny, it’s the corner of a story sticking out of the ground… where is my trowel?
I have read elsewhere, that it feels as if the stories are already there, just waiting to be found. It’s like archaeology, you see just one small corner of something sticking out of the ground, then after a lot of patient work with a trowel and a paintbrush… there it is. That does ring true, it feels right.
What about that bit that you see first though? That little glint in the corner of your eye? Where does that come from?
Let me introduce you to my ‘Writer Brain.’ Yes, I know, it’s a rubbish name for it. There must be a proper technical term but I have no idea what it is, so it’s my ‘Writer Brain.’
Most people have done a crossword at some time or another in their lives. If you have, then, you have probably had that ‘five across, six letters experience.’ You have the crossword finished, except for, ‘five across, six letters,’ and it just won’t come to you. You throw the magazine down and go on with your day. Seven hours later, you have your head in a supermarket fridge, deciding which bag of peas is the best buy, when a single word just drops into your head. It has nothing to do with frozen food, you don’t know what it’s doing in there. Then slowly, you realise that it’s the answer to ‘five across, six letters.’ The answer to a crossword clue, in a crossword that you gave up on seven hours ago and didn’t give a conscious thought to thereafter.
That’s what my ‘Writer Brain’ is like…
It exists somewhere in the back of my head, separate from my everyday brain, and it obeys its own set of rules. Somewhat like a cat, it won’t come when you call it, unless it feels like it. At other times, it just turns up unexpectedly, demanding attention. It’s a feline ‘Writer Brain,’ for sure.
It’s a greedy thing. It hoovers up everything, like a little black hole. Books, movies, TV, news, everyday conversation, overheard conversation, jokes, music, body language… anything, everything. Then it minces it, it slices it, dices it and rearranges it into something else.
It does this with little or no conscious input from me, just like, ‘five across, six letters.’
So, I am walking over to the supermarket one dark evening, (possibly it’s for those peas, I don’t remember). Into my head and apropos to nothing, comes a little snippet of dialogue. Two people are talking on a balcony, in the dark, looking out over city lights. One is explaining how dark air is different to light air, how dark air conducts magic so much better than light air, just as water conducts electricity better than air.
Shiny, shiny, it’s the corner of a story sticking out of the ground… where is my trowel?
Trailer Video
I have just uploaded a trailer for my upcoming collaboration with my sister Madeleine Purslow. The book is from an idea we have been tinkering around with for over twenty years. We are very proud of it and can't wait to launch it. It's coming soon now. Or as the Video says.. Something is coming...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BvNnj...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BvNnj...
Sad Fishes and Other Animals…
So, I have been thinking about what I wrote in my previous post. ‘My Writer Brain, or, ‘Here Kitty, Kitty…’ To save you going back to check it out, it was about the idea that stories feel like they are in some way, already there, like an artifact waiting to be dug out of the ground.
I decided that that was something I related to, that it felt right. Adding to that, I said that if it was like archaeology, then there was that moment when you just catch site of the corner of the artifact sticking out of the ground, when you say to yourself, ‘it’s worth digging here.’
I then asked, ‘where does that first inkling come from?’ Answer, my ‘Writer Brain. This whimsical, capricious and somewhat feline part of my consciousness, that is not really under my control. It sucks in real life and spits out fiction. You know, in its own time, when it thinks it will, if it can be bothered. Unless you try to ignore it, at which point it needs you to know what it needs you to know, now, right now!
So, where do the, ‘Sad Fishes,’ come in?
I was thinking that sometimes I do get an idea of what ‘Writer Brain,’ has been getting up to while I’m not looking. I wrote a story called ‘Sad Fishes.’ Haven’t read it? No, no, I would have been more surprised if you had. That’s OK, I’m used to it. 😊
Anyway, one day, out of nowhere, part of a song arrives in my head. Not an earworm from the radio, a new song, one I had somehow managed to write, without actively trying to. Now, I love music, I have wide musical tastes but I am not musical… My singing would clear a good-sized room faster than a fire alarm. I don’t write songs.
But here in my head was…
Sad fishes, sad fishes, they’re eating from dishes,
Sad fishes, sad fishes, they’re dining at sea.
The next day I had…
They eat off fine china, from a sunken cruise liner,
Sad fishes, sad fishes, they’re dining at sea.
Now the good Captain’s table, is for all that are able,
Sad fishes, sad fishes, they’re dining at sea.
I then realised, that I had to set to and work out what the song meant. Finish the song with my conscious mind, not, ‘Writer Brain.’ Once I did, I would know what the story was about and I could write it.
Well, I did and the story is in the ‘Omar,’ collection if you are curious about how it turned out.
Not the point of this blog piece though.
Where did ‘Writer Brain,’ find the ingredients for the song that led to me unearthing the story? That’s the point.
Well, I think I know… most of the time I don’t but this time, I think I do.
I had been listening quite a lot, in that way you do sometimes, to a particular album. It had become a temporary obsession.
The album was ‘Keep it Unreal,’ (the 10th anniversary re-issue) by famously fish obsessed DJ and Musician Mr Scruff. In particular, I now see three tracks in a new light… ‘Get a Move On,’ ‘Shanty Town,’ and ‘Fish.’
I do not pretend to understand the exact process, ‘Writer Brain,’ used to arrive at ‘Sad Fishes,’ but I am totally convinced that this is where it started from…
I decided that that was something I related to, that it felt right. Adding to that, I said that if it was like archaeology, then there was that moment when you just catch site of the corner of the artifact sticking out of the ground, when you say to yourself, ‘it’s worth digging here.’
I then asked, ‘where does that first inkling come from?’ Answer, my ‘Writer Brain. This whimsical, capricious and somewhat feline part of my consciousness, that is not really under my control. It sucks in real life and spits out fiction. You know, in its own time, when it thinks it will, if it can be bothered. Unless you try to ignore it, at which point it needs you to know what it needs you to know, now, right now!
So, where do the, ‘Sad Fishes,’ come in?
I was thinking that sometimes I do get an idea of what ‘Writer Brain,’ has been getting up to while I’m not looking. I wrote a story called ‘Sad Fishes.’ Haven’t read it? No, no, I would have been more surprised if you had. That’s OK, I’m used to it. 😊
Anyway, one day, out of nowhere, part of a song arrives in my head. Not an earworm from the radio, a new song, one I had somehow managed to write, without actively trying to. Now, I love music, I have wide musical tastes but I am not musical… My singing would clear a good-sized room faster than a fire alarm. I don’t write songs.
But here in my head was…
Sad fishes, sad fishes, they’re eating from dishes,
Sad fishes, sad fishes, they’re dining at sea.
The next day I had…
They eat off fine china, from a sunken cruise liner,
Sad fishes, sad fishes, they’re dining at sea.
Now the good Captain’s table, is for all that are able,
Sad fishes, sad fishes, they’re dining at sea.
I then realised, that I had to set to and work out what the song meant. Finish the song with my conscious mind, not, ‘Writer Brain.’ Once I did, I would know what the story was about and I could write it.
Well, I did and the story is in the ‘Omar,’ collection if you are curious about how it turned out.
Not the point of this blog piece though.
Where did ‘Writer Brain,’ find the ingredients for the song that led to me unearthing the story? That’s the point.
Well, I think I know… most of the time I don’t but this time, I think I do.
I had been listening quite a lot, in that way you do sometimes, to a particular album. It had become a temporary obsession.
The album was ‘Keep it Unreal,’ (the 10th anniversary re-issue) by famously fish obsessed DJ and Musician Mr Scruff. In particular, I now see three tracks in a new light… ‘Get a Move On,’ ‘Shanty Town,’ and ‘Fish.’
I do not pretend to understand the exact process, ‘Writer Brain,’ used to arrive at ‘Sad Fishes,’ but I am totally convinced that this is where it started from…
Crossing the Field of Reeds (Part One)
It all began with a cat called Arthur. Arthur was a rescue cat, an older cat and our first cat, when my sister lived at home, before she got married. He came to us from the RSPCA shelter along with his wife Edith. They had really bonded at the rescue centre and there was no way we would ever separate them.
Arthur was, indeed still is, the smartest cat I have ever met. It broke our hearts when he died, leaving his grieving widow Edie behind. The beautiful Edie made it to 21 years old before she followed him.
You always felt that they were communicating with you somehow, far beyond telling you when they wanted to go out or were hungry. As if they were talking to you, even though you weren’t hearing words of course. Arthur, in particular, seemed to be able to look right inside your head.
Well, I was already writing by then, Maddie was writing poetry at that point and just dipping her toe into prose, the books would come later. Writing, really, is a combination of controlled daydreaming and acting on paper. Writers are all cracked actors. So, it wasn’t long before we started having fun ‘voicing,’ Arthur and Edith.
That’s the first part of the story.
Maddie and I enjoy each other’s company and there was a time in our lives, when we would go of on adventures together. In, I think, nineteen ninety one, or thereabouts, I can’t quite be certain and I can’t find the photo album with the dates on it just now, we took a trip to Egypt.
We fell in love with the place and its vast history. It is of course, intimately connected with cats. The cat was first domesticated here, it’s the homeland of the modern domestic cat. Cats were venerated, as protectors of the grain stores and seen as heaven sent creatures. There was a point in its history, when Bastet, the Cat headed Goddess was the state deity.
So, if you put those two things together, in a couple of creative heads, you get a very interesting idea.
Oh, so many things happened then. The idea did become an on again, off again, on again project, tinkered and toyed with over a lot of years, as life continually got in the way, as is often the way of things. We both published our own books. For me, Fantasy and Sci-Fi for Maddie, sharp, funny, women’s interest books, disguised as books about cats (what she calls ‘Kit Lit). We never entirely forgot, or abandoned, what we both just referred to as, ‘The Book,’ when ever it cropped up in conversation.
Enter Covid. I was furloughed from the day job, imagining I might be called back at any time, desperate to get part two of my Bell Hill trilogy finished before that happened, I pushed it through in less than six months. As it turned out, I need not have rushed, since I was in fact made redundant when the furlough scheme began winding down. Anyway, I was a little burned out after Road to Bell Hill and needed to step back before starting part three.
Maddie and I would Skype each other once a week to catch up, turns out, she wanted to take a little break from her own current project. Guess what came up in conversation then? Yes, exactly, ‘The Book,’ the one we had always been going to work together on.
That, gentle readers, is the back story to ‘The Field of Reeds – in Shadows,’ we finally got, ‘The Book,’ out there in the world. It is the first part of a series, just the beginning of an adventure and if you like it and want to know what happens next, we will be happy to tell you…
The Field of Reeds in Shadows
Arthur was, indeed still is, the smartest cat I have ever met. It broke our hearts when he died, leaving his grieving widow Edie behind. The beautiful Edie made it to 21 years old before she followed him.
You always felt that they were communicating with you somehow, far beyond telling you when they wanted to go out or were hungry. As if they were talking to you, even though you weren’t hearing words of course. Arthur, in particular, seemed to be able to look right inside your head.
Well, I was already writing by then, Maddie was writing poetry at that point and just dipping her toe into prose, the books would come later. Writing, really, is a combination of controlled daydreaming and acting on paper. Writers are all cracked actors. So, it wasn’t long before we started having fun ‘voicing,’ Arthur and Edith.
That’s the first part of the story.
Maddie and I enjoy each other’s company and there was a time in our lives, when we would go of on adventures together. In, I think, nineteen ninety one, or thereabouts, I can’t quite be certain and I can’t find the photo album with the dates on it just now, we took a trip to Egypt.
We fell in love with the place and its vast history. It is of course, intimately connected with cats. The cat was first domesticated here, it’s the homeland of the modern domestic cat. Cats were venerated, as protectors of the grain stores and seen as heaven sent creatures. There was a point in its history, when Bastet, the Cat headed Goddess was the state deity.
So, if you put those two things together, in a couple of creative heads, you get a very interesting idea.
Oh, so many things happened then. The idea did become an on again, off again, on again project, tinkered and toyed with over a lot of years, as life continually got in the way, as is often the way of things. We both published our own books. For me, Fantasy and Sci-Fi for Maddie, sharp, funny, women’s interest books, disguised as books about cats (what she calls ‘Kit Lit). We never entirely forgot, or abandoned, what we both just referred to as, ‘The Book,’ when ever it cropped up in conversation.
Enter Covid. I was furloughed from the day job, imagining I might be called back at any time, desperate to get part two of my Bell Hill trilogy finished before that happened, I pushed it through in less than six months. As it turned out, I need not have rushed, since I was in fact made redundant when the furlough scheme began winding down. Anyway, I was a little burned out after Road to Bell Hill and needed to step back before starting part three.
Maddie and I would Skype each other once a week to catch up, turns out, she wanted to take a little break from her own current project. Guess what came up in conversation then? Yes, exactly, ‘The Book,’ the one we had always been going to work together on.
That, gentle readers, is the back story to ‘The Field of Reeds – in Shadows,’ we finally got, ‘The Book,’ out there in the world. It is the first part of a series, just the beginning of an adventure and if you like it and want to know what happens next, we will be happy to tell you…
The Field of Reeds in Shadows
Crossing the Field of Reeds (Part Two) - An Egypt of the Mind…
It has been suggested, that the original inspiration for the Egyptian notion of passing into the afterlife, the Aaru or, ‘Field of Reeds,’ was the physical crossing of the Nile by the mummified body of the deceased. The Agriculturally cultivated East bank, was the land of the living, the mummy would be transported across the Nile and through the abundant reeds about its margins, to the arid West bank with its tombs and mortuary temples. From the land of the living, through the reeds, to the land of the dead.
As a theory, it probably doesn’t really hold up to close inspection. It’s a cool theory though and a great image. In many ways, better than the truth.
Which brings me to our book, ‘The Field of Reeds: in Shadows.’
Something you should probably understand, if you are going to read it, is that in this book we never let the truth get in the way of a good story, to steal a phrase.
There is an anecdote about the making of the epic TV mini series ‘Shogun,’ that goes this way… The crew on the shoot were part American and part Japanese. The American crew lined up a great shot of a white castle reflected in the waters of a lake, where swans serenely glided back and forth. The Japanese crew chased all the swans away. Why? Because, they quite correctly said, that there were no swans in Japan at the time this historical epic was set. The Americans promptly waited for the swans to come back and filmed the shot anyway. Why? Because it wasn’t historically accurate but it was a great shot.
We have camels in our book… there were no camels in ancient Egypt. They hadn’t arrived yet. The thing is though, unless you’re an expert in these things, you expect them to be there. Camels and Egypt? In the mind of most people, they go together like bread and butter, or strawberries and cream. Most people would find it odd if they weren’t there. So, not historically accurate but there are camels in the book.
Nearly all of the action takes place in the fertile Nile delta, well irrigated by a myriad little tributaries of the Nile. We know this but we present it as desert. Why? Because if you ask anyone what ancient Egypt was like, they will tell you it was dry and dusty, a desert.
We take many more such liberties, not least with Egyptian history, the folk lore and mythology, which is rejigged to better suit our plot, or to be entirely cat-centric (if there is such a word).
The thing is, this is a fantasy book, it is not historical fiction. If it was historical fiction, we wouldn’t do it. Perhaps we should have set the book in the land of Tpyge or some other anagram of Egypt but that seemed pointless when it would so obviously be Egypt.
No, we just wanted to be free of that sort of thing, to let our imaginations roam and build the world we wanted.
So, although, ‘The Field of Reeds’ is set in ancient Egypt, it is an Egypt of the mind. Not Egypt as it ever was, or ever could have been. It is a fantasy of Egypt, a beautiful dream of a bygone time that never was.
We hope you will forgive us our trespasses and enjoy the story.
The Field of Reeds in Shadows
As a theory, it probably doesn’t really hold up to close inspection. It’s a cool theory though and a great image. In many ways, better than the truth.
Which brings me to our book, ‘The Field of Reeds: in Shadows.’
Something you should probably understand, if you are going to read it, is that in this book we never let the truth get in the way of a good story, to steal a phrase.
There is an anecdote about the making of the epic TV mini series ‘Shogun,’ that goes this way… The crew on the shoot were part American and part Japanese. The American crew lined up a great shot of a white castle reflected in the waters of a lake, where swans serenely glided back and forth. The Japanese crew chased all the swans away. Why? Because, they quite correctly said, that there were no swans in Japan at the time this historical epic was set. The Americans promptly waited for the swans to come back and filmed the shot anyway. Why? Because it wasn’t historically accurate but it was a great shot.
We have camels in our book… there were no camels in ancient Egypt. They hadn’t arrived yet. The thing is though, unless you’re an expert in these things, you expect them to be there. Camels and Egypt? In the mind of most people, they go together like bread and butter, or strawberries and cream. Most people would find it odd if they weren’t there. So, not historically accurate but there are camels in the book.
Nearly all of the action takes place in the fertile Nile delta, well irrigated by a myriad little tributaries of the Nile. We know this but we present it as desert. Why? Because if you ask anyone what ancient Egypt was like, they will tell you it was dry and dusty, a desert.
We take many more such liberties, not least with Egyptian history, the folk lore and mythology, which is rejigged to better suit our plot, or to be entirely cat-centric (if there is such a word).
The thing is, this is a fantasy book, it is not historical fiction. If it was historical fiction, we wouldn’t do it. Perhaps we should have set the book in the land of Tpyge or some other anagram of Egypt but that seemed pointless when it would so obviously be Egypt.
No, we just wanted to be free of that sort of thing, to let our imaginations roam and build the world we wanted.
So, although, ‘The Field of Reeds’ is set in ancient Egypt, it is an Egypt of the mind. Not Egypt as it ever was, or ever could have been. It is a fantasy of Egypt, a beautiful dream of a bygone time that never was.
We hope you will forgive us our trespasses and enjoy the story.
The Field of Reeds in Shadows
The importance of having a weapons cabinet. (Or, how to write with someone else).
I recently launched a new book, co-authored with my sister Madeleine Purslow. (The Field of Reeds: In Shadows, out now on Amazon)
Her friend, the writer, Sally Jenkins was greatly intrigued. She was having trouble picturing what it was like to work with another writer. In so far as she could picture it at all, she imagined it as a riot of creative fun, with ideas and banter zinging happily back and forth.
Well, that’s sort of how it goes, you know, a bit, some of the time, occasionally. Then, there are those other times…
Sally asked Maddy if we could give her five hundred or so words on the subject, for a little guest spot on her blog.
We duly obliged and here it is…
The importance of having a weapons cabinet. (Or, how to write with someone else).
So, co-authoring a novel. How does that work? Hmmm, let me introduce you to the weapons cabinet…
Picture, if you will, an antique cabinet in the corner of the room, ornate and a bit dusty. Now, open the doors. They protest a little, they groan, they could do with a spot of oil. Inside though… now, that’s unexpected, every kind of weapon you can think of, softly shining in the half-light. The weapons are all in perfect order and ready for use at a moment’s notice.
Got it? Great, hold that thought, we’ll come back to it in a minute.
So, writing is a solitary thing, isn’t it? You take yourself away from other human beings for hours on end. Go deep inside your own head and stay there.
Stephen King said, writing is actually a form of telepathy. You take words, images, emotions and transfer them from one mind to another. Well, if that works between a writer and a reader, there is absolutely no reason why it shouldn’t work between two writers.
Well, perhaps not absolutely no reason…
Unless you really, get on well with your potential co-author, don’t even think about it. It has been said, that the best way to break up a friendship, is for two people to go on holiday together. I have a better one, try writing together.
If you are writing with someone else and you are both convinced that you have just come up with the best possible way to express what you are trying to say, who’s words do you use?
That’s where the weapons cabinet comes in…
You have to fight it out. Maybe with twin swords? Or, sneaky, ninja, throwing stars? Even a ball point pen can be lethal in the right hands…
Eventually, a compromise, the best of both worlds. Two brains really can be better than one. They had better be brains that genuinely like each other though. Whatever wounds you inflict in the heat of battle, you have to be able to live with afterwards.
So, what about the nuts and bolts? Well, it starts with huge brain storming sessions, lots of notes and a lot of laughing. You build the world, the shared playground and agree on a writing style.
Then, it may be that we take a chapter each, go away and write it. Or, if we are really unsure about how a chapter should go, then we both write the same chapter and ‘swap papers,’ like doing a test at school. Then we… Did you hear the creak, as the weapons cabinet doors opened?
Boundaries are also important, recognising who does what best. If you know your co-author is better at dialogue, or spooky atmospheres, or has a real feel for a particular character, then, you do what serves the story. After a trip to the weapons cabinet, obviously.
So, there you are. This blog has been brought to you after a short but vicious fight, by the gestalt brain that is Madrob, or possibly Robeleine. We have to decide which. Excuse us for a moment, we are just going to the weapons cabinet…
The Field of Reeds in Shadows
Her friend, the writer, Sally Jenkins was greatly intrigued. She was having trouble picturing what it was like to work with another writer. In so far as she could picture it at all, she imagined it as a riot of creative fun, with ideas and banter zinging happily back and forth.
Well, that’s sort of how it goes, you know, a bit, some of the time, occasionally. Then, there are those other times…
Sally asked Maddy if we could give her five hundred or so words on the subject, for a little guest spot on her blog.
We duly obliged and here it is…
The importance of having a weapons cabinet. (Or, how to write with someone else).
So, co-authoring a novel. How does that work? Hmmm, let me introduce you to the weapons cabinet…
Picture, if you will, an antique cabinet in the corner of the room, ornate and a bit dusty. Now, open the doors. They protest a little, they groan, they could do with a spot of oil. Inside though… now, that’s unexpected, every kind of weapon you can think of, softly shining in the half-light. The weapons are all in perfect order and ready for use at a moment’s notice.
Got it? Great, hold that thought, we’ll come back to it in a minute.
So, writing is a solitary thing, isn’t it? You take yourself away from other human beings for hours on end. Go deep inside your own head and stay there.
Stephen King said, writing is actually a form of telepathy. You take words, images, emotions and transfer them from one mind to another. Well, if that works between a writer and a reader, there is absolutely no reason why it shouldn’t work between two writers.
Well, perhaps not absolutely no reason…
Unless you really, get on well with your potential co-author, don’t even think about it. It has been said, that the best way to break up a friendship, is for two people to go on holiday together. I have a better one, try writing together.
If you are writing with someone else and you are both convinced that you have just come up with the best possible way to express what you are trying to say, who’s words do you use?
That’s where the weapons cabinet comes in…
You have to fight it out. Maybe with twin swords? Or, sneaky, ninja, throwing stars? Even a ball point pen can be lethal in the right hands…
Eventually, a compromise, the best of both worlds. Two brains really can be better than one. They had better be brains that genuinely like each other though. Whatever wounds you inflict in the heat of battle, you have to be able to live with afterwards.
So, what about the nuts and bolts? Well, it starts with huge brain storming sessions, lots of notes and a lot of laughing. You build the world, the shared playground and agree on a writing style.
Then, it may be that we take a chapter each, go away and write it. Or, if we are really unsure about how a chapter should go, then we both write the same chapter and ‘swap papers,’ like doing a test at school. Then we… Did you hear the creak, as the weapons cabinet doors opened?
Boundaries are also important, recognising who does what best. If you know your co-author is better at dialogue, or spooky atmospheres, or has a real feel for a particular character, then, you do what serves the story. After a trip to the weapons cabinet, obviously.
So, there you are. This blog has been brought to you after a short but vicious fight, by the gestalt brain that is Madrob, or possibly Robeleine. We have to decide which. Excuse us for a moment, we are just going to the weapons cabinet…
The Field of Reeds in Shadows
Cat and Super Cat
In my last blog about our new book, ‘The Field of Reeds: in Shadows,’ I was talking about the terrible liberties we have taken with Egyptian history, myth, folklore and even geography. Just to quickly reiterate, to save you checking it out if you haven’t read it, I can sum it up with that famous quote from MythBusters, ‘I reject your reality and substitute my own.’ The things we have ‘got wrong,’ are only wrong, from the perspective of the book being set in the real Egypt. It isn’t, it is set in our own private version of Egypt, where we make the rules. So, rest assured, it is all one hundred percent accurate. 😊
We have taken a very different approach though, when it comes to the cats in the book. (For context, if you haven’t seen the book blurb, or watched the video, most of the major characters in the book are cats). It was important to us, that the cats were cats.
We really didn’t want to go down the route that so many do in this type of book, the ‘little people in furry trousers,’ thing. These are not hobbits with a tail and whiskers.
The cat behaviour, body language, senses and abilities, their physicality, was as accurate as we could make it. Apart from them being able to talk obviously. 😊
The guiding notion was, that if this was a movie and you watched it with the sound down, only at the more extreme moments, would you see anything other than cats doing cat things. (I will come back to the extreme moments shortly). Without the narration, or dialogue, there are cats sitting around on roof tops, lounging under trees, napping, eating, running, jumping, climbing, scrapping and hunting. You know, cat things. Even when they are interacting with humans, if you can’t hear the conversation, what you would see, is a cat rubbing around someone’s legs, being fussed, getting their tails tugged. The cats, as best we can make them, are cats.
There are the more extreme bits of course, (see, I said I would come back to that). This is an epic fantasy book. Extreme things do have to happen, it comes with the territory.
You are no doubt now saying, ‘My Mr Tiddles and little Snowball wouldn’t fight a supernatural monster, they would hide under the bed until it had gone.’ Well, quite apart from the fact that that would make for a very dull book, (despite being a very sensible course of action), cats are capable of a lot more than you might suppose, if they need to be. Just think a minute, haven’t you ever seen any of that stuff on You Tube, Instagram, Tik-Tok etc where cats attack foxes trying to steal their dinner from the front porch? Where they face down dogs and even larger animals like bears, fur bushed, tails fluffed, hissing and growling like cougars?
Cats have all the same skills and equipment as lions and tigers, they just come on a smaller scale.
I do agree though, that we are certainly pushing the boundaries of what is even remotely possible at times. So, I now refer you, gentle reader, to exhibit B, the, ‘superhero movie’. Or, if you prefer something less extreme, the, ‘action flick’.
Action heroes and those superheroes that haven’t been bitten by a radioactive camel, or injected with super Lucozade or something, the ones that are just highly trained humans, like Black Widow, or Batman, do amazing things. The things they do are most likely impossible but they are made to look just plausible enough for us to suspend disbelief, because they stick to things that humans can actually do. Run, jump, roll, kick, punch etc. Similarly, our cats don’t fly, or snort lightning bolts, they just do cat things.
The actors who play those parts on screen have to go through months of rigorous training. I imagine that by now, most of them would be pretty handy in a fight. I doubt that any of them could actually take down twenty armed guys, using only a taser and a broken chair leg though. But their on screen alter egos can.
So, if Mr Tiddles and Snowball couldn’t take down a supernatural monster, our cats, Priah and Riheow, can. Why? Because they are superheroes.
PS: Please do not, under any circumstances name your cats Mr Tiddles and Snowball. It’s not kind, it’s not dignified, they won’t like it. They would probably prefer to fight a supernatural monster than answer to those names in public. 😊
The Field of Reeds in Shadows
We have taken a very different approach though, when it comes to the cats in the book. (For context, if you haven’t seen the book blurb, or watched the video, most of the major characters in the book are cats). It was important to us, that the cats were cats.
We really didn’t want to go down the route that so many do in this type of book, the ‘little people in furry trousers,’ thing. These are not hobbits with a tail and whiskers.
The cat behaviour, body language, senses and abilities, their physicality, was as accurate as we could make it. Apart from them being able to talk obviously. 😊
The guiding notion was, that if this was a movie and you watched it with the sound down, only at the more extreme moments, would you see anything other than cats doing cat things. (I will come back to the extreme moments shortly). Without the narration, or dialogue, there are cats sitting around on roof tops, lounging under trees, napping, eating, running, jumping, climbing, scrapping and hunting. You know, cat things. Even when they are interacting with humans, if you can’t hear the conversation, what you would see, is a cat rubbing around someone’s legs, being fussed, getting their tails tugged. The cats, as best we can make them, are cats.
There are the more extreme bits of course, (see, I said I would come back to that). This is an epic fantasy book. Extreme things do have to happen, it comes with the territory.
You are no doubt now saying, ‘My Mr Tiddles and little Snowball wouldn’t fight a supernatural monster, they would hide under the bed until it had gone.’ Well, quite apart from the fact that that would make for a very dull book, (despite being a very sensible course of action), cats are capable of a lot more than you might suppose, if they need to be. Just think a minute, haven’t you ever seen any of that stuff on You Tube, Instagram, Tik-Tok etc where cats attack foxes trying to steal their dinner from the front porch? Where they face down dogs and even larger animals like bears, fur bushed, tails fluffed, hissing and growling like cougars?
Cats have all the same skills and equipment as lions and tigers, they just come on a smaller scale.
I do agree though, that we are certainly pushing the boundaries of what is even remotely possible at times. So, I now refer you, gentle reader, to exhibit B, the, ‘superhero movie’. Or, if you prefer something less extreme, the, ‘action flick’.
Action heroes and those superheroes that haven’t been bitten by a radioactive camel, or injected with super Lucozade or something, the ones that are just highly trained humans, like Black Widow, or Batman, do amazing things. The things they do are most likely impossible but they are made to look just plausible enough for us to suspend disbelief, because they stick to things that humans can actually do. Run, jump, roll, kick, punch etc. Similarly, our cats don’t fly, or snort lightning bolts, they just do cat things.
The actors who play those parts on screen have to go through months of rigorous training. I imagine that by now, most of them would be pretty handy in a fight. I doubt that any of them could actually take down twenty armed guys, using only a taser and a broken chair leg though. But their on screen alter egos can.
So, if Mr Tiddles and Snowball couldn’t take down a supernatural monster, our cats, Priah and Riheow, can. Why? Because they are superheroes.
PS: Please do not, under any circumstances name your cats Mr Tiddles and Snowball. It’s not kind, it’s not dignified, they won’t like it. They would probably prefer to fight a supernatural monster than answer to those names in public. 😊
The Field of Reeds in Shadows
Happy Halloween, a little light reading for you...
OK, so once again not really a blog as such. I thought I would just post a little story for Halloween. This has never been published anywhere before. Don't get too excited, it is something and nothing, just a bit of fun and mischief as befits the season. Hope you enjoy it. Oh, and please don't reproduce it anywhere else without my permission, it is copyrighted material but you knew that anyway didn't you. Finally, just a quick trigger warning, there are censored curse words ('bleeped out') for those who do not like such things. Enjoy. :-)
Ouija
The room was wrapped in intense darkness, except for the little tea-light, flickering and spitting in its amber glass holder. It filled the air with the smell of paraffin wax and a cloying, cheap, musky perfume.
Steve, Chris and Becky were breathing heavily. Becky ran her tongue across her dry lips, then gave a little involuntary squeak of alarm. With a hollow, rasping, the glass scraped across the table toward the letters arranged around it.
‘B,’ they chorused, in a hushed whisper. It moved again.
‘E,’
‘W’
The sad thing was, that none of them could see what was really pushing the glass.
‘A’
None of them could see the wizened little hand, with its taut and blotchy skin.
‘R’
No, they could not see the black, spindled talon, that rested beside their fingers.
‘E,’ they said, with a sharp intake of breath, as they realised what they had just spelled out.
***
Eric strutted through the night as if he owned it but then he did. He was a big cat, his heavy-set tabby shoulders rolled, his wide paws silently paced, it was a tiger’s walk.
He was happy in his dark kingdom, until he felt it, the vibration that didn’t belong. The ‘wall between’ was ripping, just a little tear but like tightly stretched skin, it could soon rupture into something far worse.
'They’re doing it again,' he thought, 'the ugly dork-lings are spoiling my f*****g evening'. Part of him contemplated leaving them to it but he knew Becky would be there. True, she wasn’t at Steve’s as often as his best mate Chris but then, she was only his girlfriend. 'Why you hang with those two I do not know', Eric thought with a disgruntled little thrash of the tail.
'It will be f*****g Ouija again, you’re using the scrabble tiles for Ouija, aren’t you? How thick are humans. Would you stand in the middle of a forest called “Thieves Wood,” yelling, “I’m over here?” No! But you’re all quite happy to ask, “Is there anybody there?”'
Rising up suddenly into the moon silvered night, he slapped a moth out of the air with one fast flick of a paw; it did little to relieve his frustration.
Resignedly, he headed for home.
***
The tension in the room was unbearable, the glass was moving quickly and they could no more break the circle than break an arm.
‘O’
‘F’
The candle flame flared, sending macabre black shadows racing around the room, like sooty little demons.
‘T’
‘H’
‘E’
***
The cat flap lifted. Eric slipped quietly in. He padded softly along the shadowed, empty hallway, toward the line of quivering candlelight from the half open lounge door.
'Becky, I thought you were smart but you still let Steve involve you in supernatural s**t. Chris, I can understand, he’s a nodding dog on the parcel shelf of Steve’s life….' He stopped his train of thought, edging his head around the door.
Crouching on the table top, shrouded in black tatters and shadows was a stunted grotesque. In appearance, it was somewhere between an old woman and a stillborn child. Its wet, piggy little eyes focused on the glass; it did not see him.
'It’s a Hag-let', he thought. 'The human eye is f*****g rubbish; you really can’t see it can you? Anyway, you wouldn’t know what you were looking at if you could see it. It’s a Hag-let! Every time you have a half-formed idea and abandon it, or let a good intention fall by the wayside, a Hag-let is born. Incomplete and bitter, angry and resentful at being forgotten. They hover in the darkness, waiting their chance for revenge.
They only live for f*****g mischief and you let one in! If it’s not dealt with, it will hook onto one of you, like a parasite, draining all your luck, stifling achievement. If you let one in, more of the little f*****s always follow'.
Eric stopped, the Hag-let’s squashed, wet nostrils twitched, slowly, it turned its pale, moon like face to peer myopically over its shoulder. 'It knows I’m here, oh well; I never did do subtlety…'
Eric bushed his tail, flattened his ears, the fur along his back rising like a cockscomb, a low, keening, both eerie and threatening, emerged from deep inside of him.
‘Eric?’ Steve said, apprehensively, ‘Is that you mate?’
'I hate Hag-lets, Eric thought, 'they’re so f*****g… chewy'.
The cat howled and threw himself across the darkened room. Steve, Chris and Becky leapt to their feet, swearing in a frightened way, their chairs toppling and clattering. Eric landed on the table, the glass flew across the room, shattering into a myriad glittering slivers. The letter tiles scattered with a sound like hail on a tin roof.
He was up on his hind legs, front paws flying. The Hag-let tried to grab at his thick, tabby forelegs but he was too fast. He slipped in under its wiry arms and wrapped his forelegs around its head, biting into the spongy flesh of its throat, like a lion bringing down an antelope. His luminous green eyes locked with the little twitching jet beads of the Hag-lets. He bit down harder; tasted its bitter blood, breathed in the sour smell of its flesh.
The guttering candle went out, plunging the room into complete darkness.
The blackness was impenetrable, filled with scuffling sounds and the ragged, frightened breathing of the humans, then all went quiet.
Two little points of St Elmo’s fire, were glowing in the dark, Eric’s eyes.
Becky turned the light on. Eric was sitting calmly in the middle of the table, legs tucked underneath him, as if nothing had happened.
‘Eric, have you gone off your head?’ Steve asked, as if he expected the cat to answer.
‘You Leave him alone, he was just scared seeing us all sitting in the dark, he’s all right now, aren’t you Ezzy?’ Becky said gently, stroking his head. Eric purred, pushing his broad, striped head into her chest.
‘We’ll never know the end of the message now,’ Chris said peevishly. ‘Beware of the…, what?’
Just three scrabble tiles remained on the table top.
‘C’
‘A’
‘T’
***
There really was an Eric, he was the coolest cat in Birmingham. Whether he actually spent his days neutralising supernatural, threats is not known for certain
© Robin Tompkins 2022 all rights reserved
Ouija
The room was wrapped in intense darkness, except for the little tea-light, flickering and spitting in its amber glass holder. It filled the air with the smell of paraffin wax and a cloying, cheap, musky perfume.
Steve, Chris and Becky were breathing heavily. Becky ran her tongue across her dry lips, then gave a little involuntary squeak of alarm. With a hollow, rasping, the glass scraped across the table toward the letters arranged around it.
‘B,’ they chorused, in a hushed whisper. It moved again.
‘E,’
‘W’
The sad thing was, that none of them could see what was really pushing the glass.
‘A’
None of them could see the wizened little hand, with its taut and blotchy skin.
‘R’
No, they could not see the black, spindled talon, that rested beside their fingers.
‘E,’ they said, with a sharp intake of breath, as they realised what they had just spelled out.
***
Eric strutted through the night as if he owned it but then he did. He was a big cat, his heavy-set tabby shoulders rolled, his wide paws silently paced, it was a tiger’s walk.
He was happy in his dark kingdom, until he felt it, the vibration that didn’t belong. The ‘wall between’ was ripping, just a little tear but like tightly stretched skin, it could soon rupture into something far worse.
'They’re doing it again,' he thought, 'the ugly dork-lings are spoiling my f*****g evening'. Part of him contemplated leaving them to it but he knew Becky would be there. True, she wasn’t at Steve’s as often as his best mate Chris but then, she was only his girlfriend. 'Why you hang with those two I do not know', Eric thought with a disgruntled little thrash of the tail.
'It will be f*****g Ouija again, you’re using the scrabble tiles for Ouija, aren’t you? How thick are humans. Would you stand in the middle of a forest called “Thieves Wood,” yelling, “I’m over here?” No! But you’re all quite happy to ask, “Is there anybody there?”'
Rising up suddenly into the moon silvered night, he slapped a moth out of the air with one fast flick of a paw; it did little to relieve his frustration.
Resignedly, he headed for home.
***
The tension in the room was unbearable, the glass was moving quickly and they could no more break the circle than break an arm.
‘O’
‘F’
The candle flame flared, sending macabre black shadows racing around the room, like sooty little demons.
‘T’
‘H’
‘E’
***
The cat flap lifted. Eric slipped quietly in. He padded softly along the shadowed, empty hallway, toward the line of quivering candlelight from the half open lounge door.
'Becky, I thought you were smart but you still let Steve involve you in supernatural s**t. Chris, I can understand, he’s a nodding dog on the parcel shelf of Steve’s life….' He stopped his train of thought, edging his head around the door.
Crouching on the table top, shrouded in black tatters and shadows was a stunted grotesque. In appearance, it was somewhere between an old woman and a stillborn child. Its wet, piggy little eyes focused on the glass; it did not see him.
'It’s a Hag-let', he thought. 'The human eye is f*****g rubbish; you really can’t see it can you? Anyway, you wouldn’t know what you were looking at if you could see it. It’s a Hag-let! Every time you have a half-formed idea and abandon it, or let a good intention fall by the wayside, a Hag-let is born. Incomplete and bitter, angry and resentful at being forgotten. They hover in the darkness, waiting their chance for revenge.
They only live for f*****g mischief and you let one in! If it’s not dealt with, it will hook onto one of you, like a parasite, draining all your luck, stifling achievement. If you let one in, more of the little f*****s always follow'.
Eric stopped, the Hag-let’s squashed, wet nostrils twitched, slowly, it turned its pale, moon like face to peer myopically over its shoulder. 'It knows I’m here, oh well; I never did do subtlety…'
Eric bushed his tail, flattened his ears, the fur along his back rising like a cockscomb, a low, keening, both eerie and threatening, emerged from deep inside of him.
‘Eric?’ Steve said, apprehensively, ‘Is that you mate?’
'I hate Hag-lets, Eric thought, 'they’re so f*****g… chewy'.
The cat howled and threw himself across the darkened room. Steve, Chris and Becky leapt to their feet, swearing in a frightened way, their chairs toppling and clattering. Eric landed on the table, the glass flew across the room, shattering into a myriad glittering slivers. The letter tiles scattered with a sound like hail on a tin roof.
He was up on his hind legs, front paws flying. The Hag-let tried to grab at his thick, tabby forelegs but he was too fast. He slipped in under its wiry arms and wrapped his forelegs around its head, biting into the spongy flesh of its throat, like a lion bringing down an antelope. His luminous green eyes locked with the little twitching jet beads of the Hag-lets. He bit down harder; tasted its bitter blood, breathed in the sour smell of its flesh.
The guttering candle went out, plunging the room into complete darkness.
The blackness was impenetrable, filled with scuffling sounds and the ragged, frightened breathing of the humans, then all went quiet.
Two little points of St Elmo’s fire, were glowing in the dark, Eric’s eyes.
Becky turned the light on. Eric was sitting calmly in the middle of the table, legs tucked underneath him, as if nothing had happened.
‘Eric, have you gone off your head?’ Steve asked, as if he expected the cat to answer.
‘You Leave him alone, he was just scared seeing us all sitting in the dark, he’s all right now, aren’t you Ezzy?’ Becky said gently, stroking his head. Eric purred, pushing his broad, striped head into her chest.
‘We’ll never know the end of the message now,’ Chris said peevishly. ‘Beware of the…, what?’
Just three scrabble tiles remained on the table top.
‘C’
‘A’
‘T’
***
There really was an Eric, he was the coolest cat in Birmingham. Whether he actually spent his days neutralising supernatural, threats is not known for certain
© Robin Tompkins 2022 all rights reserved
