William Meikle's Blog: Latest, page 65

Something nautical this way comes

I’m at the stage of planning out the next six months or so of writing-for the larger bits of work anyway, and there seems to be a nautical theme developing.

I’m currently working on a novella concerning a whaling cult and strange rituals at sea off modern Newfoundland, in a piece that’s also covering sailing folklore, songs and whaling fleet history in the North Atlantic.

I think my next novel is also going to have a nautical theme, although that’s still a bit vague at the moment, I do have a hankering to do a big scale ‘ghost ship’ story in the William Hope Hodgson manner and I think that’s how this one will pan out.

And I’ve just got the go ahead on a S&S novella which will have marauding Vikings, Scottish monks, a sexy Abbess/Sorceress, the Loch Ness monster (on the monks’ side) and a Kraken among other things. I fancied doing something wild and this looks like it’ll fit the bill nicely. Most of the action of this one will be taking place in Inverness and the Moray Firth in Scotland – going home again. Which will be fun.

It won’t be the first time I’ve gone nautical – I’ve been drawn to the sea most of my life and love just watching the water, the play of light, and the sense that it just doesn’t give a shit about our tiny place in the scheme of things. That’s come out in a lot of my writing I think, from THE CREEPING KELP to THE DUNFIELD TERROR and any number of short stories.

The sea is in my blood. And one day, some of my blood – atoms of it anyway – will be in the sea.

As it was, so shall it be again.

Same as it ever was.

DARK MELODIES – Lovecraft and music

I discovered the writing of H P Lovecraft back in the very early Seventies. I came to him, not looking for horror, but for Science Fiction as that was where my prime interest lay back then.

I believe the first story I read was THE DUNWICH HORROR in one of the cheap UK paperback editions. That was enough for me to seek out the rest, and I remember reading AT THE MOUNTAINS OF MADNESS while sitting on the back steps of our house on a hot summer’s day. After that I read everything I could find… his vision of cosmic entities with no concern for the doings of puny humans spoke to me at a basic level. It was only natural that I should turn to some Lovecraftian conceits in my own writing.

Apart from reading, my other big love is for music, in all its various forms. I used to sing in a choir as a lad, and I’ve been playing guitar badly for forty years now. Again, it was inevitable that my enthusiasm for music would seep into my writing.

This book is the result; a collection of stories where music and things that lurk beyond meet and find common, and uncommon, ground. In short, it’s all about music, and dancing in dark places.

I like the focus I have to bring to short stories, where you get in, get out and leave the reader wondering what just happened, like a great guitar solo or an intricate piano piece. Dark Melodies is something I’ve dreamed about since I started writing twenty four years ago… a collection of supernatural stories by me, in hardcover, was all I wanted to achieve when I started out.

And here it is, my first hardcover collection, also available in paperback and ebook, and a publication for which I will always be grateful.

Shall we dance?

Music can transport you. It can bring sunshine on a cloudy day and lift your heart in times of trouble. But there is another side, a darker side, to music.  

Allow yourself to be open to a different melody, and who knows where it will take you.

In this collection you will follow the dance into dark places, down dark passageways, where dark melodies play.

The hardcover is long ago sold out but might be available on the secondary market. The paperback and ebook are still available.

DARK REGIONS  | AMAZON (PBCK)

KINDLE | AMAZON UK (PBCK) | KINDLE UK

Here’s the contents

The Tenants of Ladywell Manor
The Persistence of Memory
The Chamber of Tiamat
The Unfinished Basement
The Mill Dance
The Death of Sergeant George
Where the Kobolds Dance
Rhythm and Booze

 

This is an absolutely wonderful collection, all the stories are character driven supernatural tales oozing with atmosphere and darkness. A symphony of terror (if you don’t mind the pun) and what a symphony it is… I have to say that William Meikle and Dark Regions Press have really put together an excellent collection that should be at the top of your to be read pile and I highly recommend it. – Famous Monsters of Filmland

Cover art by M Wayne Miller, with whom I’ve gone on to work on many projects since. I particularly like the full wraparound effect

The Tenants of Ladywell Manor first appeared in a Permuted Press anthology, Cthulhu Unbound 2. The Unfinished Basement originally appeared in a Miskatonic River Press anthology, Dead But Dreaming 2.  The other stories are original in print in this edition, and were mainly written with this edition in mind, although the Midnight Eye novella, Rhythm and Booze, had been rattling around my head as a concept for a long time.

A fantastic collection of eight short stories firmly rooted in the Lovecraftian tradition that showcase Meikle’s talent and take the reader on a chaotic trip to some very sinister places… William Meikle is an entertaining writer with a knack for Lovecraftian fiction and Dark Melodies is a testament to that. If you like literature about slumbering gods and the things that inhabit the spaces that open up beyond what we consider real, I strongly suggest you add this tome to your collection – The Lovecraft Ezine

DANCERS – a winter ghost story.

I mentioned DANCERS earlier in the week, my first ghost story, written back in ’91, and one which won me 100 quid in the Writer’s News Ghost Story competition and has had a life of its own ever since. It’s been pinched several times and can easily be found online, so why not read it here, where it belongs.

Yes, I know its getting dark, and I know its getting cold, but just come over here for a minute. It wont take much of your time. There’s something I want to show you, someone I’d like you to meet.

Come on. Humor an old man who needs to tell his secret.

It’s just there, behind the church. Yes, in the older graveyard. You’re not afraid are you? I promise, there’s nothing here that would ever hurt you.

Not you.

Watch out for the moss on the stones. Some of the slimier varieties can get embedded in your clothes, and it’s murder trying to get it out.

Just about there is usually the best spot. Stand quietly now – let your eyes get adjusted to the dark. You’ll soon see why I brought you here.

There she is.

Do you see her? She’s standing right there. Look – in front of the large grey angel, just to the left of the patch of moonlight, almost underneath the old elm. Yes, there, beside the largest headstone.

My beautiful Sarah. Forever young, forever twenty.

See how the red of her hair glows like a burning firebrand, a halo around the white perfection of her face. And look – she’s wearing the dress. The one I bought her for the dance, the last dance of our youth.

Three pounds two and sixpence that dress cost me – more than a week’s wages in those days. Times have changed, haven’t they? My mother told me that I was mad, spending all that money on a slip of a girl who was no better than she should be. But I knew that she was worth every penny.

I was drunk with the delight that danced in her eyes when she tried it on, swaying her hips to get the full effect from the long flowing pleats. I can still remember even now, fifty odd years and many strangers’ kisses later, the sweet honeyed taste of her lips as she thanked me, the pressure of her hands on my back as we embraced.

I wish she would touch me now. Just one touch, to bring us together at the end. If only she could see me. I have so much that I’ve never told her.

How still she is, how composed. The wind refuses to ruffle her, the rain refuses to dampen her, the earth refuses to cling to her. Yet there’s something more.

Look closer. She breathes; she blinks; her lips part and then connect, but there’s no steam. Not like you and I, standing here puffing at each other. It may be almost winter here, but for her it’s late summer, always summer.

Those lips. How deep and red and enticing they were that night, glistening moistly as she looked up at me. Smiling, dancing, laughing, we moved across the dance floor. We were young; the war had barely touched us, and I was in love for the very first time.

The night held the prospect of many new pleasures.

And then he arrived.

I knew he was going to be trouble. Right from the start I could see what he was. American, charming, arrogant and different. Hello excitement, goodbye dependability. In the space of a minute I’d lost her forever.

Shall I tell you how it happened?

He butted in on our dance. Just barged right in, excused himself, and then off they went, whirling round the floor in a flurry of legs and feet and arms. I tried to stop him as they came round again, but he had all the advantages – height, weight, diet, composure and training – while I merely had my rage.

Afterwards, as I lay there on the floor, my tongue counting teeth as my handkerchief vainly tried to soak up blood, I heard a laugh. Looking up through eyes which had already begun to puff up, I saw her. Only six feet away, but already distant, clinging to the conqueror. Her hair made a red scar where it fell on her shoulder, and in that moment I knew what I would have to do.

Can you see? She’s moving. But watch. Do her legs bend?

Does she walk like you or me? Or does she glide, smooth and silent like a great white owl? Listen. Can you hear any gravel being trodden underfoot? Or is there only you and me and silence?

You can’t tell, can you? She deceives the brain, but doesn’t brook too much attention. Try not to look too closely – set your mind on other matters.

Ah yes. The chiming. It must be eight o’clock again. Do you think she’s able to hear? She’ll be heading for the wall. When she reaches it she’ll rest her elbows and look over there, to the field on the left, where the airfield used to be.

I remember the women, silent, waiting, listening for the sounds which would tell them that their men were coming back. They used to peel off one at a time as the planes returned, until only a few were left, watching and waiting and wondering.

See how the moonbeams dance around her, making her glow. So white, so brilliant, so pure. And no shadow to taint the vision.

He was corrupting her. I could see that, even from the few glimpses I had of them together. There they were, laughing and giggling like a pair of kids fresh out of school. And kissing! In public! Right there on the main street for all to see, and again, later, in the pub, flaunting themselves in front of me.

Of course she had stockings. And lipstick. And chocolate. And cigarettes. The price of her innocence, the wages of sin.

I hoped that I wouldn’t be too late, that she was still capable of being saved. I watched. I waited. I planned. He continued with her destruction, but soon I’d have my turn.

See how she moves between the stones, not attempting to pass through them. Does she look solid to you? You can’t see through her, not like in the books or the films. Do you think that if I went over there and put out my hand she’d be able to take it, be able to feel? Would she notice that I was there?

I have often, over the years, thought about why she returns. It is only now, when I’m near my own end, that I’m able to look at it dispassionately. Maybe, when I go to join her, we’ll both understand.

Did you know that I used to be a mechanic? Well I was, and a good one at that. It was easy. I already had the run of the airfield, so it was simple to wangle myself in on the servicing of his plane. Once I had spent five minutes aboard, it was only a matter of waiting for the next flight.

I was subtle though. I didn’t want the plane blowing up over land; not over England anyway. My work might have been noticed. No, the explosion would occur only when the plane climbed to more than one thousand feet. That should do it. By the time it reached that height it would be well out over the channel.

He took it out the very night day.

Look. She’s reached the wall. See how her elbows stay white, despite the damp and moss and stone? Her eyes will be moist. Will those tears be real? Could I perhaps touch them? Touch them and somehow feel her pain?

The next day I saw the flight take off, twelve planes slowly gathering in formation before beginning their long climb into the sky. I watched them until they rose into the clouds, then listened as they droned away. Was there an explosion? Did the droning lessen? I never did find out.

Whether I’m a murderer or not, he never came back, and I never lost the guilt.

Later that day, when the sky was once more filled with sound, the women left the wall, one by one, until she was the only one remaining, trying to pierce the clouds as she peered avidly eastwards, willing him to return.

I stood, just about here, and watched, cursing her for her devotion, cursing him for his hold on her, as darkness fell and the skies grew silent.

It was late summer, and the temperature was dropping rapidly. A light drizzle began to fall, chilling me to the bone.

And still she waited, and still I watched.

See it. There’s the cigarette. How ungainly it looks in those pearl white fingers. It burns – there’s a good quarter of an inch of ash on the end – but there’s no smoke, no smell.

He started her off on that habit. She’d told me that morning that she did it because it made her look like a real lady. As if she’d not been a lady before that. It made me angry, so angry that I could watch no longer.

See how she turns, surprised. Now she’ll look confused for a second. Then she’ll see that it’s only me; only the young, fresh faced, solid, dependable me.

Watch closely now. You may just catch the disappointment as it flits across her face. Look, she turns her back again, returns to her vigil.

One look and I was consigned to despair. I grabbed her by the shoulder and pulled her around to face me, demanding that she explain herself. She struggled in my arms but I held on as we moved around in a parody of a waltz; held her as she screamed, her once-beautiful lips contorted in rage.

She pulled away once more, and this time she was too strong for me to hold on to her. Surprised to be free so easily, she lost her balance.

I reached out desperately for her as she fell, slowly, slowly, towards the unyielding gravestones. And then came the sound, the one I hear late at night in my dreams, the sound of her neck as it broke.

So now we wait, she for a sweetheart who will never return, me for an end to the guilt and the hope of forgiveness. Which of us is more dead?

And the time passes and I watch, every night, as she dances, just for me.

To pulp or not to pulp?

Up front, let me say I have few pretensions. I’m not a literary writer. I don’t spend days musing over le mot juste. I just get on and tell the story to the best of my ability. I tell a lot of stories. That has led to me being called a hack in some quarters, but if a hack is someone who values storytelling, then I suppose that’s what I am.

I choose to write mainly at the pulpy end of the market, populating my stories with monsters, myths, ghosts, men who like a drink and a smoke, and more monsters. People who like this sort of thing like it. But a lot of writers have been told that pulp = bad plotting and that you have to have deep psychological insight in your work for it to be valid. They’ve also been told that pulp = bad writing, and they believe it. Whereas I remember the joy I get from early Moorcock, from Mickey Spillane and further back, A E Merritt and H Rider Haggard. I’d love to have a chance to write a Tarzan, John Carter, Allan Quartermain, Mike Hammer or Conan novel, whereas a lot of writers I know would sniff and turn their noses up at the very thought of it.

I know I’m capable of producing readable fiction, quickly. I’ve written twenty three novels in the last fifteen years, and had them published in the specialist genre presses. I also enjoy writing stories for some of my favorites; Sherlock Holmes, Professor Challenger and Carnacki in the main, with a handful of collections in print.

And again, in some quarters, this is seen as beneath a ‘real’ writer, and has led to more accusations of being no more than fan fiction and hackwork. But recently this ‘hackwork’ has been getting me into professional anthologies from big publishers like ‘The Mammoth Book of’ series where I’ve placed both Holmes and Carnacki stories.

And there lies one of the things I’ve been thinking about – again.

I write what I want to write, producing books that I would want to read. But I’m a fifty-something man steeped in pulpy fiction from an early age. I’ve always wanted the big deal, to see my books on shelves in shops all over the world. That’s always been the dream, but my obsessions don’t yet get me a place at the top end of the marketplace. Sure, my pulpy fiction sells relatively well – THE INVASION, for example sold over 20,000 copies in ebook, THE VALLEY over 10,000 and I have a bunch of others well into the thousands, with THE HOLE from DarkFuse in particular still showing a lot of life several years after publication.

But I want more.

I’m not dissing these small press publishers. I’m eternally grateful to them, and they make me warm and fuzzy happy.

But there’s still that big dream to keep pursuing. A wee while back I tried to write in different genres, different styles, but I was never comfortable and I think it showed – the books died quickly. Once I realised that it wasn’t working for me, and went back to the pulpier material, it felt like meeting an old friend. But pulp doesn’t bring the big dream any closer to reality. Not yet anyway. I’ve shipped several works around agents in recent years to no avail – ‘we don’t think we can find a market for this’ is the general reply I get.

So I still have this dichotomy in my brain. Writing pulp makes me happy; having the big dream gives me an itch I can’t scratch.

I still have the gap between them to fill. And I’m unsure if there’s a way to close it.

But happy is good.

I think I’ll keep on being happy.

Onward and upward.

To infinity and beyond.

Inspiration, Perspiration or Desperation?

I’ve been asked which of the three best describes what pushes me to write.

For me it’s mainly inspiration. I wouldn’t write at all if the ideas didn’t present themselves in my head. I find I get a lot of ideas clamoring for attention all at once. I write them down in a notebook that never leaves my side, and sometimes one of them gathers a bit more depth, and I get a clearer image. At this stage I find myself thinking about it almost constantly, until a plot, or an ending, clarifies itself.

Once I’ve written down where the story should be going it quietens down a bit. Then, if I find myself still thinking about it a couple of days later, I’ll probably start writing the actual story. At any given time I have about 20 ideas waiting for clarity, two or three of which might end up as finished works.

That’s the inspiration part. And that continues when I start putting the words on paper. I’ve tried writing outlines, both for short stories and novels, but I’ve never stuck to one yet. My fingers get a direct line to the muse and I continually find myself being surprised at the outcome. Thanks to South Park, I call them my “Oh shit, I’ve killed Kenny” moments, and when they happen, I know I’m doing the right thing.

Back in the very early ’90s I had an idea for a story… I hadn’t written much of anything since the mid-70s at school, but this idea wouldn’t leave me alone. I had an image in my mind of an old man watching a young woman’s ghost.

That image grew into a story, that story grew into other stories, and before I knew it I had an obsession in charge of my life.

So it all started with a little ghost story, Dancers; one that won me 100 pounds in a ghost story competition, ended up getting published in All Hallows, getting turned into a short movie, getting read on several radio stations, getting published in Greek, Spanish, Italian and Hebrew, and getting reprinted in The Weekly News in Scotland. Not a bad return for one wee idea.

There is also a certain amount of perspiration, especially in writing a novel. But I find if it feels too much like work, I’m heading in the wrong direction and it usually ends up in the recycle bin.

And, yes, there’s a certain degree of desperation in that I want to get better, to make the big sale, to see my name in lights, all that happy shit. But I try not to think about that too much. :)

Meaning of life stuff…

I’m not a believer in either a God or a benign universe.

I grew up Church of Scotland, R.E. at school, church and Sunday school on Sundays. It didn’t take. I also have a scientific background with a degree in Biological Sciences that leads me to tend towards the “clockwork dolls” analogy of who we are being a complex function of genetics, biochemistry and nurture.

But I have had encounters that I can only class as supernatural that have given me a curiosity as to how everything hangs together, and I’ve had a couple of precognitive dreams have led me to think more deeply about the nature of fate and time.

I wrote this in one of my books, and as a personal philosophy, it’ll do for me:-

Life is an opportunity to create meaning by our actions and how we manage our way through the short part of infinity we’re given to operate in. And once our life is finished, our atoms go back to forming other interesting configurations with those of other people, animals, plants and anything else that happens to be around, as we all roll along in one big, happy, ever changing, universe.

Don’t try to understand it – just enjoy the dancing.

Plus, I like the idea that some of my atoms will be around to see the death of Sol. That’ll be cool.

I covered the territory a few years back in my novella, CLOCKWORK DOLLS.

This one is a bit of a departure for me. It’s darker than a lot of my other stuff, and features a protagonist who is very hard to like.

Dave is a shit; a self-obsessed wanker with few redeeming features. The fact that he reminds me a lot of myself at a certain stage of my life is neither here nor there. He’s also a skeptic of all things paranormal and likes to show off.

I wanted to write about such a person having an epiphany, of sorts, and it took me down some strange alleys, into studies of philosophical discussions, and thoughts of beer, love, and my place in an uncaring Universe.

As I’ve said, it turned out darker than I anticipated, but there’s also hope here, and I learned some stuff about myself in its progress, which was nice.

A novella from DarkFuse. Does all human passion, all memory, all imagination come merely from the chemistry in our brains, like the movements of a clock follow from the arrangement of its cogs and wheels? Are we just clockwork dolls? Or is there an organizing principle at work, something we can ask for answers to the important questions of existence… something that might answer?

Dave Burns has asked.

Now he, and his friends, might not live long enough to understand the reply.

Full of strong and well written characters, an ever building sense of dread, topped off with a satisfying conclusion. This novella hits the mark perfectly. – Ginger Nuts of Horror

I know William Meikle’s writing chiefly through his pastiches of the work of others, the role of pulp chameleon one at which he is very good indeed and never less than entertaining, but if this is an example of what he can come up with under his own steam then it’s something I most definitely want to see more of. – Pete Tennant, Black Static #34

DarkFuse | Amazon | Amazon UK

My writing year in numbers

I’ve just finished a large secret project, the last big thing of 2015 for me.

Looks like the final tally of writing for the year will be 2 novels, 3 novellas and 32 (maybe 34 if I decide to squeeze another couple in) short stories.

Almost 400,000 words in total so far and about equal with my most productive year previously. I had planned a quiet year…

On the publications front in 2015 I’ve had

a novel, THE DUNFIELD TERROR at DarkFuse,
6 novellas ( the 3 Holmes novellas in THE LONDON TERRORS and THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR at Dark Renaissance, TORMENTOR and PENTACLE at DarkFuse),
2 story collections (CARNACKI: THE WATCHER AT THE GATE at Dark  Renaissance and MYTHS AND MONSTERS at Knightwatch Press, all of which are in hardcover editions and most also in paperback.
 14 other short stories in print, the personal highlights for me being another story in Nature Futures, and two appearances in the ‘MAMMOTH BOOK OF’ series of anthologies with stories featuring Sherlock Holmes and Jack the Ripper – a wee dream I’ve had for a while that came true.

Details of all of this at my website for anyone interested

2016 looks like it’s going to continue the good run – I have 2 more novels coming from DarkFuse (FUNGOID and SONGS OF DREAMING GODS), a new Sherlock Holmes short novel from Dark Renaissance (THE DREAMING MAN) and some other very nice (but currently secret) projects lined up. Alongside that I have 20 short stories sold and awaiting publication, including some where I’m sharing page space with some of my writing heroes.

Alongside all of that, I’ve got a small bundle of about a dozen story submissions currently out and waiting for reply. Fingers, toes and tentacles crossed.

On the actual writing front for 2016, I have another novel, my last in the current contract, to write for DarkFuse, 2 novellas to do for other publishers, and, currently, 3 stories to write for anthologies that I’ve been invited to. It’s a bit strange to have so much work in hand after years of submitting blind, but I’m not complaining…

Onward and upward

To infinity and beyond.

 

 

 

December offer – 2 hardcover novellas for $40.

Dark Renaissance Books are having a special offer for December which includes my new novella THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR and MR. JAKES by Tony Richards

Get these two haunted house novellas for $40 the pair ( includes FREE USPS Media Mail in the USA)

These are lovely signed and numbered editions, with interior illustrations by the great M Wayne Miller.

GET THEM HERE

 

The House on the Moor by William Meikle

David Blacklaw and Hugh Fraser were celebrities in the days before it became a dirty word. They had done it all, in grand style—until the mysterious scandal that brought their fame crashing to an end. Now Fraser’s grandson, John, has come to the crumbling Blacklaw ancestral home on the Scottish moors, looking for answers, in search of a story that will make his career.

But what he finds is much more than a cover-up of a scandalous secret. A brooding terror lurks in the shadows of Black law House, something that skitters in the eaves and rustles in the pages of the books in the old library—a dark entity that whispers in John’s ear, seducing and promising. Meanwhile, outside in the mist, something walks the fog-bound moors, getting ever closer to the house even as Jon closes in on the secret.

The race is on for John to find the answer and reap the prize, before the horror takes root in his soul.

Mr. Jakes by Tony Richards

Alex Morland, once a bestselling novelist, is now a forgotten failure. He wants to write a new thriller that will revive his career, but he needs somewhere quiet to do it. When he arrives in the seaside town of Birchiam at the start of winter, he finds The Grange, a massive, traditional Victorian hotel, almost completely empty. His every whim is catered to. He barely needs to even leave his room. But who are those peculiar individuals he occasionally meets in the gardens and the bar? Why the sudden screaming in the corridors? And as for the hotel’s night manager—Mr. Jakes—why does Alex only see him in his dreams?

The trap has been sprung. He’ll have to pay a terrible price for all the pampering and comfort he’s received. The plot goes back over a hundred years, to when the hotel first opened and its very first night manager moved in.

A chilling supernatural novel in the style of The Shining, from a HWA and British Fantasy Award finalist.

My writing – to infinity and beyond.

As 2015 draws on, I’ve been reflecting on my writing career so far as I rapidly approach the twenty fifth anniversary of starting out.

There have been many ups and downs over the years, but back then, if I’d been offered the publications I now have, I’d have sold my soul for them.

When I first started, all I wanted was to see my name in print. That was fine for a few years. I placed a whole shitload of stories in the small press for just a copy or two of the publications. I got quite cozy down there before I realized I wasn’t actually getting anywhere.

So then I wanted to get paid. Then I wanted a pro-rate story sale, then a novel sale, then a sale in a pro anthology, then a story collection…in hardcover… then I wanted to go full time…and lo and behold, it has all come to pass, and more, especially in the last 5 years. ( I also wanted to sell a film script to Hollywood – but let’s not go there. Okay? )

There’s still things I want to achieve – a story in one or more of the Year’s Best anthologies, a mass market book deal, a luxury yacht so I can just sail round the world all the time – that kind of thing. Some of them might even be achievable.

I’ve just this week sold my 65th pro-rate short story. I’m wondering whether 100 is feasible. Given that 15 years ago I was wondering whether 1 was feasible, I guess I’m doing something right. But it’s in the nature of the beast that I’m never satisfied, always looking ahead to the next gold ring. ( I also get jealous of some of my fellow writers. Shush… don’t tell them.)

But today I decided to count my blessings and look at what I’ve achieved. I can’t quite say I’m content… but I’m happy.

For now, that’ll do.

In the meantime, I’ve got another novel to write in my DarkFuse deal, I’m contracted for a couple of new novellas, I’m in discussions over a new short story collection, and I’ve got a couple of very nice anthology invitations to fit in. So it looks like I’m busy for a whole longer.

 

Onward and upwards.

To infinity and beyond.

A Writer’s Mantra

Some of you will have read this before elsewhere, but I think it bears repeating.

It is a mantra, after all.

The conversation usually goes the same way.

“What do you do?” they say.

“I’m a writer,” I answer.

“I always wanted to do that,” they say.

I wonder if brain surgeons or rocket scientists get the same response?

After I’ve stifled the urge to scream, I ask why they’ve never done anything about writing.

“Oh, I’m too busy.”

And there’s the rub. Everybody is always too busy. But writing doesn’t get done if you don’t do it. It is purely a matter of whether you’ve got the will and the commitment to get the words down, see your name in print, get the fortune and glory, the Hollywood deal, the yacht in the Bahamas and as much caviare as you can snort – all that happy crap that will never happen if you don’t sit on your arse and write.

So here is your mantra. Chant it at all times, and repeat it to boring types at dinner parties.

Writers Write! Wannabe Writers Wanna Write.

As with all good mantras, it bears closer study. What it says, in a nutshell, is that you’ll never be a writer if you don’t write. Obvious really, but most beginners ignore it. They procrastinate, they obfuscate, and they pretend to the world and his wife that they’re “Working on a piece right now.”

Don’t believe them. What they mean is that they’ve had an idea, but they don’t really want to do the work to put it in writing. The only way to do it is to sit down with your means of expression, be it pen, word processor, or big thick crayon, and write. Keep writing, and don’t stop until you’re happy with what you’ve produced.

Now. Repeat after me.

Writers Write! Wannabe Writers Wanna Write.

Now, if you want to call yourself a writer, go and do something about it. It doesn’t matter what you write as long as you start. Your brain gets used to the idea, and soon writing becomes second nature.

Remember the mantra, and it will serve you well.

Writers Write! Wannabe Writers Wanna Write.

It’s probably the single most important thing that you can learn about the process in my opinion.