David Rory O'Neill's Blog, page 17

Just a giggle.

I guess some of you bibliophiles out there might find my last blog lacks seriousness. Well, I guess it does. This was a playful idea for a children's picture book that I put some time into about six years ago. I came across the images while doing some Mac housekeeping and decided on a whim to chuck it out into the blogging void. Obviously the text is thrown in as a late afterthought. It was a giggle to do and I hope it makes someone smile.

My exploration of the literary blogs continues and I'm enjoying the journey and meeting some lovely people. I am struck by how often I see reviews of mega-star writers like Stephen King. I'd not have thought they needed much help or encouragement.

I game across a lovely blog that spoke of the power of love to heal and empower. There was a picture of the little dancer by Degas. http://bookbabie.com/2011/11/15/love-...

That made me think of the beloved B. So here she is in all her glory. My dancing muse and inspiration.

A Trippy Tale for children age six to sixty.

In a secret wet valley called Deeply Dell by locals, live a race of creatures spoken of in whispers by those who have ventured here. If you walk here at dawn or dusk and are silent and soft and look very carefully, you might spot a deeply or even a whole family.

Deeply Dell

The entrance to the Dell is always guarded by the special cast of deeply known as… Samurai . No sorry Salami.

Guard Pep

Here we can spy a guard on duty. His name is Pep Eroni and he is the chief of the Salami cast.  He is watching over a family out gathering food.

If you look really hard you can see them moving through the grass.

This is papa Chip Olata and his mate/wife, An Douille.  Their children, called links in Deeply, are behind. Young deeply are called links because they spend their early lives literally linked one behind the other. They even feed this way.

The oldest eats and some food is passed down the line to the youngest at the back. Yucky you might think, but baby deeply links don't mind, they know no other way.

Here we can see a family of Deeply in their nest den. The links sleep curled up in circle so they can pass food along even as they sleep. This is why Deeply grow so fast. As a deeply grows they break their links one at time.

They grow bigger but they keep their yellow legs until after they get old enough to begin the mating rituals.

Here are Ba Nger and Mor Tadella flirting and telling each other lies about their adventures. They might decide to be mates and then their legs turn light blue. Once they've had baby links their legs turn dark blue.

The life of a deeply is filled with peril and danger. Like all teens, blue leg deeply are adventurous and they go places they shouldn't.  Here we see some in a part of Deeply Dell called death valley. They are forbidden to go here by the elders. The elders are known as Skinless. When a deeply reaches old age they shed their skin and grow extra eyes. They need them because as Skinless Deeplies they are in great danger. The monster of Deeply Dell hunts all Deeply but it especially likes Skinless Deeply. The skins of blue legs and links stick in it's fangs so it hunts mostly the Skinless cast.

A family out feeding near death valley see some blue legs down in the valley and call to them.

But one slips on the slimy sides and falls. This why it's called death valley.

The story continues on the page marked Deeply Dell.

Wooing with food.

As Christmas once more approaches, my thoughts turn once again to gastronomy and feasting. I was browsing one of our photo albums and found a menu tucked in it from Christmas 1999. We had taken the Bristol down to Nice for two weeks intending to get away from the usual family chores. As the person known as the  chef; I could rarely escape the cooking duties. If truth be told, I preferred it that way. I was always appalled by the cremated over-cooked dry flaking turkey served up if I didn't cook. This year we plan to have our indulgence at home alone. Goose is planned. We will have recently returned from a seven-day break with B's mother in Madeira. I'm looking forward to that. I have no mother in law issues. I get on well with Jean… mostly.

1999 was perhaps out most memorable Christmas holiday. We took the, then new to us, Bristol 412 for its first long trip. We had booked into a modest Nice city centre hotel, intending to spend on eating and travel rather than fancy sleeping arrangements. The hotel unfortunately did not have parking, I was appalled at the idea of leaving the precious Bristol in the chaotic anarchy that passes for parking there.  In the event I found a safe place for it, parked up and hired a little crappy Korean runabout for the city battle.

B and Bristol 412

This picture is B outside a splendid Château in Burgundy we spent a night in on the way down.

B, Christmas 1999

The main picture here is B at dinner on Christmas day in the Negresco. The menu is reproduced here and is fascinating for being priced in Franks. Remember those? There were about ten per pound sterling as I recall. This menu was 380F. I can't recall which of these I had but have ideas it was the Capon for main. I do remember being amused and a little appalled by the shocking pinkness of the room, the old ladies in furs that smelled of moth-balls and the shaggy ancient French poodles under their tables!

 La Rotonde Hôtel Negresco. Samedi 25 Décembre 1999

Déjeuner de Noël

La Direction et les Collaborateurs de Hôtel Negresco vous souhaitent de merveilleuses fêtes de Noël.

 MENU

Ballotine de canard, gelée au Porto

Cappuccino de coquillages et croûtons aillés

Six Hutîtres spéciales à l'échlote et vinaigre.

Chapon de Méditerranée rôti, pommes écrasées à la fourchette, persil frit et jus de bouillabaisse.

Lotte rôti, boullion de champignobs des sous-bois, lard croustillant.

Loup crit sur la peau, ragoût d'artichauts au romarin, parfumé à l'orange.

Chapon fermier, gratin de côtes de blettes à la moelle, grosses frites au poivre noir.

Filet de bœuf rôti, gnocchis et cépes poêlés, sauce au vin rouge.

Bûche jivara lactée, créme légére au café

 Bûche praliné, créme brûlée aux agrumes du pays

Bûche chocolat, noisettes du Piémont caramélisées.

 Food and it's enjoyment has been a great bond between B and I. She was wooed with food when first we met. Thai prawn red-curry and Tom-yam soup were the first things I cooked for her. As a wooing aid it was wildly successful!  Food, wooing, travel and loving are much used themes in my novels. I wonder why that could be?

Negresco

 

The review maze.

Maze

 

In this past few weeks I have been touring the literature blogs looking for inspiration and ideas about how to do blogging well. In particular I've been actively seeking reviewers that I might respect. I've been asking, politely, not in a pushy way, if they would consider reviewing one of my novels. All the reviews I've had on Amazon and so on have been genuine buyers opinions. No sneaky stuff. (Oh by the way, being based in Ireland, I find I have a problem. My readership is either UK, US or Irish. But reviews from UK based readers will not show up on Amazon.com, only on .co.uk. Many Irish readers get caught between the two since they can purchase paper books from the UK but Kindle only from .com. Therefore I have fewer reviews showing on either site than I actually have.)

Back to reviewers. I have yet to find anyone willing to review. There are extracts of the novels on this blog and they're not dreadful, in fact they're rather good. The literary fiction genre tag seems to be a problem for some but no other genre really fits.

I find my self asking what is putting people off.  One kind soul did say he was swamped and didn't really like to read eBooks. Fair enough but what about the other ten or so? One does not like to ask directly, that seems rude. If anyone I've asked to review sees this, please let me know what's going on? I'd really love to know what, if anything, I'm doing wrong?

Any advice from other writers on how to negotiate the maze of getting eBooks reviewed without begging or undignified tactics would be very welcome.

davidrory

 

The 11th

The 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month it ended. At least the first one ended then. Today is for remembrance.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:


Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.


At the going down of the sun and in the morning,

We will remember them.

From Laurence Binyon's poem For the Fallen, written in September 1914.

 Irishmen of a certain colour do not wear poppy's to remember. They deny their forefathers who fell in Flanders fields because it became politically incorrect to do so. In recent times there has been moves to change this and memorials to the Irish dead are being honoured now. Irishmen of the orange tint do remember and in fact they drape their remembrance in sectarian colours. Both tribes have done it badly in the past.

Beloved Warrior.

I remember because my heritage demands it. Both my grandfathers were wounded several times but survived the slaughter. My remembrance is taking shape in the form of the novel I'm writing now. It is the next in the history trilogy: Beloved Warriors and it follows on from The Prairie Companions.  (This is the cover design for that)

My remembrance is not uncritical or nationalistic but personal and empathetic for the pain of the lost and those whose loved ones didn't come home to make life possible for later generations. If my grandfather's had not come home and my father had not come home from Burma then I'd not be blogging this. So yes I give thanks and do them honour.

This poem was written as a response to those who protest at soldiers funerals.

Taking a Stand

I ask you to stand with me

For both the injured and the lost

I ask you to keep count with me

Of all the wars and what they cost

I ask you to be silent with me

Quietly grateful for our lot

As I expect you're as thankful as me

For the health and life we've got

I ask that you wish them well with me

All those still risking their all

And I ask that you remember with me

The names of those that fall

I expect that you are proud like me

Of this great nation of ours too

So enjoying all its freedoms like me

Support those upholding them for you

I hope that you are hopeful like me

That we'll soon bring an end to wars

So you'll have to stand no more with me

And mourning families no different from yours

'Til then be thankful you can stand with me

Thinking of those who now cannot

For standing here today with me

At least we show they're not forgot

John Bailey 
© Copyright May 2011  From http:www.warpoetry.co.uk

Radical perhaps?

panicwings by Ria. Creativefluxmedia.

On my tours of book and writing blogs in search of inspiration, I am struck by the difference not the similarity. They may all be about literature but that is a stunningly wide church it seems. I have worried endlessly about genre and self promotion. For one who chooses the freedom of small scale semi-inde eBook publishing there is a clarion call to use all the social-media. I have tried Twitter and retired wounded and with a bad taste in my mouth. Facebook remains un-trodden ground. As far as I'm concerned: 'here be monsters.' The call to shout into the social media wilderness seems overwhelming and deafening. I have real doubts about its effectiveness based on what I see and read. There appears to be huge raft of very loud unrelenting presences whose work seems to be to be… well let's be kind and call it genre-pap. They claim it works. But I ask myself how much time they spend twitting and facing and shouting into the void.

I have little time for anything but writing my novels. Even this blog takes up more time than I feel I should give but… and here I come to the one bright spot in the social media morass, blogs. Here I feel comfortable and I'm meeting other bloggers who don't make me feel queasy. One such is here: http://ravingmadscientists.wordpress....

Sincere thanks for the ammunition I need to support my aversion.

Another here: http://andewallscametumblindown.wordp...  my editorial angel Miriam.

I keep coming back to the idea that the work should speak for me. Getting a swell of supportive readers is a task that I feel needs time. It's not instant and one can't shout 'read my work' into the void without sounding like a twat. A tweeting twat perhaps.  So I have a Kindle readers sponsorship coming soon that I hope will bring my work to a wider audience and I plan a few adds on Goodreads. Once enough people have read the work, I'm sure the sales will pick up by means of recommendation and referral. The only meaningful measure of success for any non-celebrity, non-main stream writer.  These are realistic expectations with a degree of self-respect that seems to be old fashioned now. Or in the modern social-media world perhaps radical?

Images and extracts.

I thought I'd post a few extracts from the novels with images that relate. Here is the first from The Prairie Companions.

I'll post others on Pages.

From The Prairie Companions.
The next day, after what Pat considered an inadequate breakfast of fluffy bread and coffee, they went in search of an automobile. After a fruitless search around the old town they found a place marked Ventes de voiture de Peugeot. The owner said he sold only new ones and could not tell them where a used vehicle might be found. They went back to the market square and were sitting having coffee and a lunch of bread and cheese when Clara pointed across the square and said, "There is one set there with a board attached saying, 'en vente,' for sale, but it is rather large."

Pat bolted her baguette and positively flew across the square holding her skirt in a most undignified way. When Clara had settled the bill and walked over, she found Pat laid on her back beneath the motorcar with just her boots sticking out at the rear.

"Really, Patricia, this is most undignified. You are embarrassing me."

"Well, go wait at the coffee shop and pretend you do not know me. But I will need you back when I complete the inspection so you may translate the sign and negotiate with the owner. Off you go; I will need fifteen minutes."

Clara walked back feeling miffed and wanting to have a strop but she was still too giddy from the night of bliss to allow such feelings to survive long. She turned back and read the sign, noting the address in her little notebook from her bag. She was about to find someone to ask when a road sign affixed to the wall above her head caught her eye: the motor was parked outside its owner's house.

When Pat had finished Clara helped dust her down. When Pat had ceased enthusing about the machine and using words Clara had no knowledge of, she said, "That's nice, Pat dear, the owner lives right here." She turned and pointed at the shiny black painted door up some steps behind them.

Pat walked over and stood on the bottom step looking up. "Clara, do you suppose that wreath on the door means there has been a death here? If so, that may explain why the automobile is for sale. We must be delicate but this may be a perfect opportunity to get a bargain. Please translate exactly my dear and don't embellish. Bother, I wish the sign had given a price so we could gauge the likely success of this enterprise. That is a ten horsepower Panhard, Clara. A most prestigious motorcar. And I would judge it to be no more than two or three years old, so it may well be beyond our means. But if we can get it at a good price, we could make a most handsome profit."

Pat went up the steps, waited for Clara, and then yanked the bell pull. A servant opened the door and Clara introduced themselves and stated the purpose of their call. The old houseman raised his eyebrows in surprise but showed them into a rather dark and sombre drawing room and went to fetch the person Clara understood to be the mistress of the house. A few moments later a surprisingly young looking woman joined them obviously still in mourning dress. Clara passed polite condolences and discovered that this lady was the daughter of the Panhard's former owner. He had been buried just three days before. She asked if they would like to take coffee with her. At first, Clara made to refuse. But Pat corrected her saying, "Merci, Mademoiselle, celle apprecited."

When the lady went to the bell pull, Pat whispered, "Please, Clara, say only what I tell you and don't answer any question without asking me first."

After coffee was brought and served, they engaged in polite chat and the lady tried out her English a little. She seemed glad of the company, which is why Pat had said yes to coffee. After an hour they got to business and the lady admitted to having little idea of the value of the automobile and simply wanted to be rid of it, as her father had died from injuries received while driving it. He had fallen from it while intoxicated and cracked his head on the cobbles. He never recovered. There was an awkward silence for a time and then Pat got out her purse and began to count out gold sovereigns onto the coffee table. She stopped when she reached ten and looked to the lady in black; she shook her head, so Pat counted out five more and then put her purse away. The lady called her servant and said something in fast French that Clara couldn't completely follow. The manservant returned with some papers, which he laid on the writing table. The lady rose, signed several, and then wished them a bon voyage before she left the room. The servant gathered the gold and handed Pat the papers, then showed them out.

Once outside, Pat and Clara stood looking at the large Panhard and giggled nervously.

"Was that as cheap as I think?" asked Clara.

"I would say that was about one tenth of the true value of the machine, Clara. We are going to make a huge profit on this. I would have expected to pay at least twice or three times that. Now let us see if we can get the beast running. Those papers, do they include an operating manual?" Pat handed the large bundle of papers to Clara and climbing into the driving seat. "We are looking for starting instructions."

Clara found the manual and began studying it muttering about strange terminology. Pat sat drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. She had been reading up on motorcars avidly for months and had taught herself enough to know roughly what she should be doing. She set the ignition, found the fuel tap and enrichment device, and got Clara in the driving seat with the instructions. Then she went to the front of the machine to the starting handle.

Pat cussing!

Ten minutes later Pat stood with sweat pouring from her brow. "Damn it to hell, you accursed contraption, start. We must be doing something wrong. Think girl, think." Pat walked around the large machine until she found the fuel tank. She opened the cap, found a dipstick attached, and discovered it was bone dry. There was a can strapped by the spare wheel. She took it off and stormed away, still muttering, "Stupid, stupid, motor-spirit. It needs motor-spirit."

Clara sat bemused, watching Pat stride away across the square and felt eyes upon her as a small crowd of locals, mostly elderly men, had gathered and were enjoying the spectacle of the two jeunes filles struggling with the monster automobile. They made themselves comfortable, lit pipes, and waited for the second round. Pat returned very quickly, trotting across the square. The large can was obviously heavy and now full. There was a muttering in the crowd: Elle est formidable. Pat filled the car, ran to the front, gave the handle a mighty heave, and then bundled Clara out of the driving position as the machine roared into life belching smoke over the gathered crowd. There was a clanking and crunching from within the cloud and, when it cleared, the machine was gone, surging down the hill with Clara waving and Pat hunched across the wheel trying to keep the thing on a straight course. There was applause and cheering amid the coughing and smoke flapping. Several horses were startled in their nosebags and shied from the noisy machine as it hurtled past heading downhill toward the harbour. Clara began to grow alarmed as they neared the junction with unrelenting velocity. "Hold the wheel, quick," shouted Pat, and then, using both hands, she pulled hard upon the hand brake. The rear wheels locked and the machine juddered to a noisy, smoky stop with its nose several feet into the junction. Pedestrians stopped and stared and several wagon drivers shook their fists and shouted insults that Clara's French couldn't translate. Pat composed herself with the words, "Calm down, Pat," then set off with only a slight lurch, in the wrong direction and on the wrong side of the road.

They had travelled only a mile before they realised their mistake and stopped, but there was then the problem of finding the reverse gear in order to turn around. Clara searched the manual without success until Pat lost patience and snatched it from her hands. Clara decided she'd had enough of Pat's bad manners and climbed into the rear compartment, determined to have a huff. But there she found a large wicker basket on the floor and delved into it. After a few moments she stood and shouted, "Hurrah, we are equipped to be intrepid automobilists now!"

Pat turned to find Clara wearing a long, sturdy coat complete with hood and a flap portion that came across the face. She had goggles on covering her eyes and was unrecognisable. Pat jumped over the seat and found a similar coat for herself but once she had it on she moaned, "Oh bother, I am swamped in this. It must have been made for an Amazon or large chap."

Clara laughed so much she almost fell backward out of the machine and Pat had to grab her. "Careful, that's how the owner came to grief. It's a long way down. There are all sorts of goodies in here, spare thingies and puncture repair kit and oils and grease-pusher-inner, what's names? Yes, greasegun, and tools of all kinds. How splendid, we are ready for our journey. But we must return to the pharmacy and get the tank filled with motor-spirit, and the spare tank. Then tomorrow, when I have taken a few feet off the sleeves and hem of this coat, we shall set off on an exploration."

"Yes, dear, assuming this road runs in a circle back whence we came."

"Oh yes, sorry about being abrupt, Clara. Please forgive my rudeness," said Pat clambering over into the front. But the huge coat tripped her and she tumbled nose first into the foot-well, cursing like a trooper. Again, Clara laughed; but this time, she sat on the large rear seat and put her hand to her mouth to stifle her titters as Pat struggled to right herself. She was growing increasingly entangled in the levers and controls sprouting in profusion all over the machine. "Oh, shit upon it!" roared Pat as she fought to get out of the coat.

Clara was now in hysterics in the back and slipped to the floor holding her ribs. "What a sight we must be," she gasped between laughs. She looked up in time to see the huge coat descending over her, thrown with another curse by Pat. There was a lurch as the machine set off backward and Pat shouted, "Ah ha! Got you, you stroppy Frenchie. Clara, for goodness sake, rise and look over the back and make sure there is nothing in that lane I might crush."

Clara did as instructed and leaned over the rear seat and squeaked in alarm when she saw how high it was. The rear portion was raised several feet above the front. There were steps down the back of the machine and she thought she must be seven or eight feet up. "It's all clear, and jolly well done, but I think you should turn the round thing now to make the corner or we will be past… too late, you're past."

Pat stopped and, in another fit of cursing, lurched forward and tried again. It took three attempts to make the reverse turn, as she got confused about which way to turn the steering wheel. As they headed back, Clara sat high in the rear feeling regal and still tittering. Pat swore as she crunched and ground, trying to figure out the gear selection process. When she got into the top gear, the big Panhard had reached a great velocity. Clara was becoming alarmed; she felt the force of the wind and saw the scenery rushing past at a dizzying pace. She shouted, "Pat, please slow, you had trouble stopping before. Don't be foolhardy. It would be a shame to damage our investment before we even get it home."

Pat eased back the speed control and slowed, but failed to change down to a lower gear in time and the machine shuddered to a stop, stalled. Pat's temper was becoming frayed and as she was about to leap down, Clara stood, took hold of her shoulders and rubbed them. "Pat, my dear, you are doing terribly well but you must calm yourself and think clearly, rather than becoming agitated so."

Pat reached back and laid her hand upon Clara's and took a deep breath. "Yes you are right. I must resolve to solve this driving problem by careful practise and deliberation. Sorry for the vulgarity and fearful temper tantrums." She reset the controls and dismounted. One big swing and the motor came back to noisy, rumbling life. Having settled herself and spent some time examining all the controls and testing what they did, she set off again at a sedate pace just above walking speed. They made their way back to the pharmacy in the main street where Pat had purchased the motor-spirit. She stopped outside and then sat looking at the controls on the wheel and low on the dash and said, "I wonder which causes the motor to cease?" She decided on the lever she knew to be the one that controlled the ignition and moved that. The motor roared and she pulled quickly the other way and the thing stopped with a huge bang that had horses skittish and pedestrians muttering for miles around. It took four trips in and out to fill the tank and the spare. Afterward, Clara complained about how foul Pat smelled. She had splashed motor-spirit on her skirts and the stench lingered as they drove back to the hotel without further incident. There was, however, another resounding crack as the car backfired on being stopped incorrectly. "We must study and translate that instruction pamphlet tonight," said Pat as she dismounted.

"Yes, dear, but only after a bath. You are disgustingly soiled and foul smelling," added Clara as she took off the great coat and climbed down the rear steps.

Change and place.

I have been encouraged to re-think this blog and have come over all radical and changed the theme. In memory of a hero, the late Steve Jobs of Apple, I choose this early Mac inspired theme.

 The image in the header and here is Sandy Cove, Kinsale, Cork, Ireland. A glorious place I lived and was inspired by. It was here I first took the plunge and began to seriously write. It looms large in the work and is the location of much of the action. I should say that the 'red house' described in the work is based on that seen on the waterfront in the image but in reality it has no connection with me or my characters. I hope it's several owners will forgive me borrowing it.

The content is going to grow over the next few days as I upload more imagery and words related to my work content. Places that influence me. Characters bios and images that  helped me create them and give them life. (The creation came first and then the images were found.) Things inspire too, cars, planes and techno boy-toys that appear in the work. There will also be more images and stories about me and my loved ones. Those who made the work possible and who inspired me to explore what that word means. Love – the eternal challenge of all who create.

News.

The first of my novels to be put out with my new publisher: bookbaby, is now out at retailers: Surviving Beauty. This is the second edition and has been much improved with the help of my editorial assistant: Miriam. Gratitude and sincere thanks go to her.

The next in the Daniel series: Daniel's Grip, number five, is with my previous publisher and should be out before Christmas. Then all future work will be with bookbaby.

I have some sponsorship/advertising due for The Prairie Companions. I will be interested to see if this gets me noticed and produces some much needed sales. I am strangely reluctant to do self-promotion and a brief foray into Twitter was a deeply unpleasant experience never to be repeated. Blogging is fine but very few visit this page. How does one get traffic without distasteful self-promotion and disingenuous visiting of others blogs?

Oh well, back to the writing. I'll forget sales and think only of the creative buzz.

Block?

What I do when I'm blocked? After ten novels in three years without any hesitation, I am finally faced with the infamous writers block. Not serious, I can still write but I seem to have lost the flow, it's like pulling teeth and I am not confident I have found the right voice for this book. I've been working on the second in the history trilogy: 'Beloved Warrior' and have had two attempts to get going. The first I rejected when I noticed the soapbox beneath. I was having a rant, not writing a compelling  novel. The next attempt got going and flowed the first chapter nicely then, thump, blocked.  I usually deal with this by stopping and doing something else, in this case, editing the 5th Daniel novel: Daniel's Grip. The 'Warrior' is till bubbling and I am immersing myself in WW1 history reading. Fuel for later.

I find if I try to force it I can produce work but it's usually indifferent and gets scrapped. I must be patient and wait for the bubbling and simmering to produce the magic spark of creativity that will reignite, or should that be unblock, the flow.

This is the second cover design for Daniel's Grip, the next in the Daniel series to be published soon.