Katherine Vick's Blog, page 8

Finding Your Book

I firmly believe there is a book out there for everyone.

The problem is finding it.

I have to be honest and say I find it really hard to understand why it is some people don’t like to read. But I’m also well aware that’s because I was brought in a home full of books by a family of heavy readers and therefore to me, that was just normal. Books were a part of life. Everyone in my immediate circle always had at least one book on the go, be it fact or fiction, and my home was awash with crammed bookshelves. Reading was for fun.

But I know that many others aren’t so lucky. That, to many, reading was nothing but a chore associated with school or something that through no fault of their own, they found difficult and frustrating. When reading is an activity only done in association with something dull or even despised, it becomes a symbol of unhappiness and displeasure, with no association with enjoyment whatsoever. I’m aware in this time of lockdown learning, many children learning from home find reading to be boring. And when it is nothing but hard work and frustration, it becomes even worse.

Speaking as a holder of a Masters Degree in Literary Studies and Creative Writing, I would struggle to come up with very many books I have read for school or university work that I’ve actually enjoyed reading. Indeed, a number I have actively despised and would have considered setting on fire once the relevant module was done if only such a thing was not anathema to me. School reading isn’t there to be enjoyed, it’s there to get one through the curriculum and that’s the problem.

Take Shakespeare for example. While teaching Shakespeare in school is very right and worthy, it’s also, much as I hate to say it, too early for most people. Children and teenagers rarely appreciate the complexity of the ideas and language when Shakespeare is taught in schools – mostly they struggle to see past the strange, difficult language, weird events and only like the blood and guts. I openly admit as a school child, I wasn’t especially enamoured of Shakespeare – it was only returning to his work as an adult, I found I could understand and appreciate it for what it was. But many never do return. They remember the childhood difficulties and don’t look back.

And that makes me sad. Because for many of these people, this youthful prejudice is something that they will carry through to adult life. They won’t come to see reading as something that can bring light and pleasure and satisfaction but discard it from their lives. They do not love to read because they haven’t read the right books for the right reasons.

And that brings me back to there being a book for everyone. Out there, I really feel every person can find something to read that will bring them pleasure. There are so many different kinds of books, fiction and non-fiction, pure prose or illustration, on every subject going and every walk of life. I’d even like to hope my humble offering, the first of which came out a year ago today, might bring pleasure to some people. ;) And not just books, why not comics or fan fiction online? With so much scope in the literary universe, how can any human being not find something to love?

And how to find that reading enjoyment? Well, one has to look. And that may mean stepping past an ingrained dislike or mere indifference to reading in order to do so. Many won’t want to and that is up to them. But for those that do search, I think they’ll find it worth the effort. I also think it’s so important to help children in particular to find something to read they want to read, not just for school, but for themselves, so they can learn early that reading doesn’t have to be a chore. Make reading fun for them. Then they’ll have that to take with them all of their lives. And their lives will be the richer for it.

Ladies and Gentlemen....

 https://www.thinklingsbooks.com/blog/new-books-are-springing-forth?fbclid=IwAR1osvidKI_9D_YB6TlGEChr3jNWDhSpGED14d5KSujY52eJpA1RMCU1xPY

It is official - The sequel to The Disposable will be out later this year! Get ready for The Merry Band!

In Honour of Census Weekend

I actually wrote this as an office joke in honour of the previous census in 2011. To be fair, the tone of the 2021 census was slightly less militant than that one but I stand by being bewildered as to why the bloody hell they need to know my qualifications, means of getting to work, state of health and type of central flipping heating! In the olden days, they just wrote down who you were, where you lived, where you were born, what you did and if you were nuts and that just about covered it...

This is your census speaking. You WILL complete every question. You will NOT skip anything. You will NOT make jokes. You will NOT say you're a bloody JEDI. You WILL read every line of every page and divulge every piece of information we ask of you or say goodbye to your house pet, sunshine. Answer and weep, suckers....

HOUSEHOLD QUESTIONS (Example selection)

Can we see your house from here? Yes/No

How many plug sockets do you have in your walls? How many are on average in use on the third Friday of a given month, assuming it is neither a full moon, Christmas, or the twelfth of never? How many are taken up by electrical equipment you never bloody use?

What did you have for tea tonight? Why didn't you have something healthy, you reprobate?

Have you done the washing up yet? Yes/No If not, why not?

Look out of your window. What birdies can you see? (if you are unsure of what the birdies are, please refer to subsection 16, the Springwatch website. Inaccurate identification is punishable by the confiscation of the closest related small child).

Copy paste your recent internet history here. We could use a laugh.

What colour would you say your walls are? Select from the following options:

Magnolia

Beige

Magnolia

Cream

Magnolia

Off white

Some freakish colour you should be ashamed of (please specify)

What TV listing magazine do you use?

Radio Times

TV Times

One of those cheap, crappy ones

Newspaper listings

On screen guide because I'm a cheapskate

I switch it on and go with whatever

How many individuals in your household does it take to screw in a lightbulb?

INDIVIDUAL QUESTIONS (Example selection)

Each person in each household must be included. If you live alone, you're a sad, lonely loser, but this won't take as long:

Please count all bacteria currently living on your skin. Specify breeds and possible uses/diseases associated with them.

What colour nail polish do you use? Please state make, shade and quantity used in a month. If you do not use nail polish, we shall assume that you bite your nails.

In the last twelve months have you:

Skived off work sick because you couldn't be arsed

Had man-flu

Gone into work even though you really shouldn't

Gone into casualty and wished you hadn't

Called your hangover a migraine

Headbutted a moose

What qualifications do you have and if you're telling the truth, why aren't you earning more money?

You put your right foot in. Would you then:

Put your right foot out

Put your left foot in

Shake it all about

Would you describe yourself as:

Scottish

Welsh

Irish

British

Racist (technically English but you know people will assume that's what you really mean, you non-Celtic BNP supporting bastard)

Given the choice, would you rather watch:

The Apprentice

Strictly Come Dancing

Britain's Got Talent

Top Gear

Line of Duty

Some soap or another

The first three-quarters of any 9pm BBC Two documentary, that in you will always sleep through the end of no matter how interesting it is

How do you spend your journey to work?

Sat next to the nutter on the bus, because he always sits next to you

Swearing at the stupid bugger who just cut you up

Waiting for the train that never bloody comes

In hospital, after being knocked off your bike by a white van

Wishing you'd thought to wear different shoes before you decided to walk

What is the name of the small, purple giraffe that lives in your subconscious?

Harold

Bert

Marmaduke

Bob

Ermintrude

Lord Whoopsie Heehaw WilloughbySmythe the Third

Other

If you have no purple giraffe at present, please wait until the end of this form and then return to this question because he's bound to be along by then.

Are you still clinging to some rogue, random hint of sanity? If so, how?

Do you think this stuff is any of our bloody business? Yes/Tough noogies

Please submit this now. If you don't, we now know who you are, where you live and could easily clone you and replace you with a more compliant replica. So there.

SUBMIT. You must submit or you will be exterminated! Exterminate, EXTERMINATE....

 

Very Short Story - The Saga of the Hangover.

 Ironically, I don't drink so have never experienced a hangover myself but I have been in the company of those who have and out of those observations arose the below. I wrote this short story for a writing group challenge years ago and for reasons I probably can't ever explain, I decided to write it in the form of epic prose. I'm like that...;)

The Saga of the Hangover

Once upon a time there was a man. This was not unusual. Nor was the fact that this man was holding a party, for twas his birthday and such things are often augmented by the copious consumption of alcohol. And lo, were a great variety of drinks clustered on his table together and lo, did he consume them and the world span greatly and he was glad and fell in a heap of joy.

But upon the morn, the joy had departed from him. So, verily, had much self-respect, a copious volume of vomit and all of his brave companions of the night before. And lo, did he upon first waking and finding his eyelids glued to his eyeballs and the carpet plastered to his cheek, did he plead unto the Lord above for the tender release of death but he did not get what he requested of him and found himself instead alone to face the horrible carnage of messiness wrought upon his room. The remains of much food lay heaped upon the carpet and smeared upon the walls, with much draped out of the now opened fridge in the nearby kitchen to rot cheerfully in the low, dull light of a winter’s day. And faced with this catastrophic scene, lo, did the man stagger to his feet, bewailing the horror in his heart for he had not told his dearest partner of his plans and upon this morn, he knew, she would be returning from her trip away to join him!

And in that terrifying instant of recognition, lo! Did his phone ring.

Aware that the end of his world was nigh, the man did weave his way betwixt the bottles, kicking aside a partially consumed apple in a desperate quest for the source of the ringing. And lo, beneath the remains of one of his sofa cushions did his precious phone emerge, its screen, to his heartfelt horror, cracked ruthlessly across its front! But still did it function and although the reception did set a crackling upon the line, did he answer the call of his lady.

And thus did this man take deep breaths and reassure her with full mistruth, yes, all was well but perhaps before she returned home, they might meet and he give her a special day, planning in the silence of his soul to summon back his wayward mess-making mates and utilise them to make all the horrors of his ruined home better. But thus did he hear her voice darken, and a command to turn around and there, at the window, her face written full and fair with the language of purest death, his lady surveyed the carnage of house and man with a coolness more wintery than the day without.

And thus did the man know the greatest and most tortuous penance of his life was just about to begin…

Very Short Story - To Fall

I fell over earlier this week. Therefore this stream of consciousness ramble seemed an appropriate choice!

To Fall

What is falling?

Is it the tumble, the lurch, the stagger, the stumble, the clumsy plunge earthwards with the mocking laughter of most witnesses ringing in your ears? Or the exhilaration of the dive, the rush of air past a body tumbling, with less control but more intent towards a death so certain but for a gathering of fabric released by a single yank on a cord? Is it the lurch in your stomach as only a quick grasp of a banister prevents a bruising bounce down a flight of stairs? Is it that bizarre sensation in the back of your mind as your gaze over a towering edge and just for an instant, you feel the urge to leap and fall forever?

Is that falling?

Or is it that scary/peaceful instant on the edge of sleep when you finally let go of consciousness and slip into your dreams? Is it the nod of your eyelids after a long day that steals great chunks of whatever unfortunate programme you happen to be watching? Is it hidden in the crystal silver sparks that surge across your eyes the moment before you plunge into the strange technicolour land of a faint?

Is that what it means to fall?

Or it is the way all the world falls away when you look in his eyes? The way that all thoughts that might have previously troubled your brain tumble into nothingness? Is it the rise and fall of your chest as your breathing hitches, the cascade of your heartbeat when he smiles? Is it knowing you would take all other kinds of fall and more just to drop into his arms? 

How do you fall so far so fast?

Only you can know.

Poetry Attack - Ode to the Distance

I don’t write poetry very often, I’m neither particularly profound or talented in this area. But occasionally the urge takes me and it seemed the best way to say what I wanted to express. The below is the result.

Ode to the Distance

I’ve never minded being home

It is my chosen place to roam

To read, to write, to settle down

There’s just no urge to be in town

I’m fine to potter all alone

To chat by email or by phone

So it doesn’t feel that wrong

I’ve been at home so very long

But sometimes I will take a pause

Confess to miss the great outdoors

The street is grey, the park is tame

Somehow it isn’t quite the same

As roaming in the beauty wide

As being in big countryside

I miss a taste of mountain air

To see a hill-swept vista fair

The splash of wave on rocky shore

A tumbling stream on lonely moor

The brush of breeze through forest trees

A windswept beach with rolling seas

Skies that boil with light and shade

Rain-washed clouds that pulse and fade

I miss the vast views, far away

I miss the distance in the day

And while I’m still content to be

Home alone, myself and me

Life still feels small, I long to see

A further view of things, maybe.

Very Short Story - Catastrophic

 I found this short story written for a long ago online challenge, the prompt being "catastrophic". It seemed oddly appropriate to current circumstances. Even in the worst of times, there's always one...;)

Catastrophic

It had always been Jim’s biggest problem. He had to try and make the best of things.

The cave – for that was all the name one could really use for the remains of this deep Underground tunnel with its broken rails and walls shorn of random clusters of brick like a toothless old man’s maw - was shaking now, dust bursting from the roof in scattering spirals that glinted in the light of the last candle stub as the few remaining ragged survivors clustered there, their faces bloodied and their clothes in rags, clinging to each other in primal, vibrant fear. But for the roar above, a roar that whispered that the walls of this tunnel would not much longer shield them from swelling apocalypse above, there was silence.

 Until…

 “Still. It’s not all bad, is it?”

 Slowly, but as one, the eyes turned, eyes filled with despair and loss and hopelessness now tinged slightly with incredulity as they fixed upon one ragged figure in a tatty jacket and dusty jeans. The remains of a jaunty tie dangled from his throat.

Jim beamed at his newfound audience. “Okay,” he began with a concession. “It seems a bit grim right now.” His words were punctuated by a howling screech from a distant above as another poor soul met a terrible end. “But if you think for a minute, there’s always a bright side. If you don’t focus on the violent death of your loved ones and the loss of everything you’ve ever known and the end of our civilisation as we know it, I mean, at least there’s no more Simon Cowell right?”

 Silence. Eyes blinked in the fading light.

 “Exactly!” Jim grinned. “No more late trains, no more queuing for the bus that never shows up, no more pin numbers to remember, no more rap music and young men with their trousers round their knees! No more extortionate Starbucks coffees, no more lectures on your five-a-day! No more global warming! I mean, maybe things are bad now, but… it’s not the end of the world, is it?”

The silence grew heavier, deeper, more terrible as the traumatised eyes spoke more fluently than a thousand words as the Earth above them crumbled. Jim stared around the silent circle as another plume of dust wafted across him and sighed.

“I’ll get my coat…” he said.

Risk and Reward - The Cliche Cycle

Brace yourselves. I need a small rant.

When, oh when, did making money become more important than making something original and good?

Yes, I know, it’s a stupid question that probably can’t be answered. But although it’s hard to precisely put one’s finger on the origin, there is no denying it is definitely the dominant way of things in this day and age. I do wonder, sometimes, if there is a finite amount of imagination out there in the world, people seem so afraid to use it. Or at least, to take a risk.

I remember way back in the day, when I was hunting around for a literary agent, I came across the website for a pair of agents devoted exclusively to scifi and fantasy. Given the number out there that specifically state they don’t want scifi and fantasy submissions, this was a rare bonus. But as I read through their site, I came across a statement that stopped me in my tracks. They said, openly, in their submission requirements, that they didn’t want anything original. What they were looking for were things along the lines of books currently doing well by popular authors but just different enough. They didn’t want to risk trying to sell a new concept to publishers only interested in something that they can repackage to existing fans.

And they aren’t alone. The triggering factor of writing this blog was the discovery that yet another old film from my youth is going to be remade. It sometimes feels like every other film at the moment is a remake of something well-loved that has gone before – look at the live action versions of Disney animations, for example. But people are curious and nostalgic and want to relive that childhood moment with this new film and look at the money they’re raking in as a result. Why would anyone take a risk on something untried and untested when rehashing something tried and tested is pure financial gold?

And then, there is what happens when something new, an original novel concept, a brilliant, fresh film or TV series, does sneak its head over the parapet and get noticed. The moment it becomes popular, it is, in its way, doomed. Because left, right and centre, all its media contemporaries will pile in, with their own versions that are just different enough until the market is utterly saturated and what started out as something new and fresh is crushed by degrees into the latest cliché. And when everyone is tired of it at last, some new, brave original idea peeks up and round we go again.

It was this, in part, that inspired the creation of Fodder’s Realm, a place where the rehash is so normal that whole families have bred themselves to fit the repetitive nature of the characters required. The same landscapes are reshuffled and replaced, the same locations refitted and reused because why try something new when the same old formula still works? And I’ll be the first to admit there is something comforting and safe in knowing what to expect.  

But there also something sad and something lost about it. We are all missing out. And until someone manages a Fodderesque breakaway from the mundane remakes , seeking to change not just their piece of the puzzle but the whole puzzle itself, nothing is going to alter. Making money is key. Originality will be the special rarity and lack of risk the priority. And that’s a tragedy. The number of brilliant ideas by new writers that must be out there in the world, never to be seen or heard or loved because a publisher or a production company or a studio isn’t sure it’ll make them enough money to risk giving it a try is an awful thought. So much potential enjoyment is being wasted for the fear of losing cash, so many roadblocks stalling talent from flourishing. And all we get instead are the same old things over and over again.

But it never seems to occur to anyone that if more original things were tried rather than simply remaking everything, perhaps we’d all have so much more variety and less clichés, good ideas wouldn’t need to be copied to death and there would still be plenty of money to go around.  Or perhaps it does. But none of them are willing to be the one to give it a try.

So for now, in the world, as we all know, round and round and round we’ll go, recycling the past to make some dough. And no one will ever know what wonders we’ve all missed out on.

My rant is done. You can come out now...

Very Short Story - Festive Spirit

 A little piece set in the Realm of The Disposable for you, written to given an outsider's view of the strangenesses of our annual festivities. Merry Christmas everyone. :)

Festive Spirit

“It’s not going to shift, is it?”

Bow the Serving Man glanced at his younger brother Scrape as they paused for a moment in their task for a necessary breather. Prickly green spikes now festooned their thankfully sturdy livery tunics, making them resemble something akin to a pair of disgruntled green hedgehogs. The enormous spruce tree, heedless of their efforts, remained firmly wedged in the door frame of the Royal Palace’s Great Hall.

He shook his head in a shower of needles. “Doesn’t look like it. We may have to find some help.”

“What help?” Scrape leaned against the wall as he pulled dark spikes disconsolately from his clothing and flicked them tersely to the floor. “Everyone’s busy. The cooks and the rest of the kitchen staff have been at it for days down there. All the artisans have got their heads down blowing glass baubles and fashioning those wooden stars and snowflakes. Menial and all the maids haven’t been back downstairs in ages – do you know what they’ve got them doing up there?”

Bow wiped a weary hand across his forehead and winched as a needle spiked his brow. “I bumped into Menial yesterday and she told me the Royals have had them… wrapping presents.”

Scrape paused in his own needle extraction and blinked. “Wrapping presents? For a week? How many have they got?”

Bow’s expression spoke eloquently on the subject without uttering a word. He settled for simply elaborating. “Apparently, they’ve used reams of material and ribbons and there have been some challenging jobs. Count Bold got her to wrap a sword up, apparently, though he insisted the Countess shouldn’t see.”

Scrape furrowed his brow. “Seems an odd thing to give his wife.”

Bow smirked. “Turns out he’s giving it to himself. And apparently he’s had ribbons tied to a rather fine war horse too.”

The brothers exchanged an eye roll. Bow frowned. “There was another strange thing she mentioned too. The Queen insisted they make… a costume. Red velvet apparently and a hood lined with fur.”

Scrape shrugged. “You know what the Queen’s like with her dresses.”

Bow returned the shrug. “Not for her. For the King. She’s made him grow a beard and insisted he has to wear it to give out all the presents. Oh, and apparently she demands when he does this, he has to laugh and shake his belly. Since he doesn’t have much of one, they’ve been feeding him up on trifle.” He shook his head. “And that’s not even the oddest part. Did you see that thing in the courtyard as we dragged this in?”

His brother glanced back but the view to their previous path was blocked by spruce limbs. “That weird cart with runners, you mean?”

Bow pulled a face. “It’s called a sleigh. They had the artisans carve it and cover it in bells. And, word is, the Queen’s sent a whole team of Trappers into the hills to try and catch some stags. Menial says she wants to use them to pull it. With the King and the presents inside!”

“Wild stags?” Scrape snorted. “Has he upset her lately?” He copied his brother’s earlier head shake. “What is this all about? We are dragging a giant tree inside a building to cover it with decorations. The cooks are preparing far more food than can possibly be eaten for a massive banquet. The minstrels have been composing special winter ballads about snow and holly and decking boughs. The maids have spent days wrapping presents so the King can dress up as a jolly old man and hand them out in a sleigh pulled by a very unhappy collection of deer. Does anyone know why?”

“Menial said it was Queen Eminence’s idea,” Bow replied with the long-suffering weariness of one engaged in a futile task for no apparent reason. “When The Narrative last passed through, there was some kind of midwinter festival going on and she liked the traditions they saw. Apparently, she reckons it’ll be…” He paused for a moment to give the word the due emphasis it deserved. “Fun to recreate it. She wants to get into the festive spirit.”

Scrape stared at the tree-blocked doorway and his needle-strewn livery. He blinked. “But it’s not their festive spirit – not if it’s all from some Quest!” he exclaimed. “And they are just blindly going along with it all without a clue what it means? Did no one ask why?”

“Why would they?” Bow gave an almighty shrug. “It’s from The Narrative. That makes it right.”

“Even if it makes no sense?”

“Especially if it makes no sense.”

There wasn’t much Scrape could say to that. He sighed.

“No chance we’ll get any presents, I bet.” he mused darkly.

“Don’t be daft. ‘Course we won’t. But ...” Bow glanced furtively from side to side. “I’m told the cooks have over-ordered on purpose. There should be some good quality leftovers waiting for us when their Royal Highnesses are sleeping the day off. And if we can fudge some decorations, maybe bribe the minstrels to play when they come down for their pies...” He smiled broadly. “I reckon we can have some festive spirit of our own. I mean – we don’t need all the showy stuff, do we? Not to have fun. We’ll do what we always do. We’ll make the best of it.”

Scrape gave his brother a more genuine smile. “Now that sounds more like it. Something to look forward to?”

Bow sighed. “I think we’re going to need it.” He stared with resignation at the tree. “Shall we?”

And with a prickly sigh and dreams of leftovers, the two brothers went back to work.

A Brief Waft of Advertising...

 For all you American bods out there - The Disposable e-book is now on sale at Amazon.com!