L.E. Fitzpatrick's Blog, page 3
November 23, 2015
Back to Blog
I’ve attempted this blogging thing several times over the past few years and I’ve often found an initial flurry of ideas before suddenly there’s an abrupt, almost permanent drought. The difficulty for me is, although ruthlessly opinionated and sometimes controversial in my views, I am incredibly aware of the power of the internet and how committing myself to an idea online could be tantamount to signing my own death warrant. The other thing, despite ruthless opinions etc. is I’m also very open to new ideas. It’s great to have an idea set in stone, but if you’re not open to other opinions and ideas you’re liable to become very stagnant very quickly. And life’s too short to be stuck in the mud.
Twelve years ago I would have happily waved the flag screaming “meat is murder.” Now, bacon sandwich in hand, I’m still an active follower of animal rights but I have a wider understanding of how one can do that while tucking into Bernard (FYI I ethically source all of my meat – hence Bernard – and in doing so can actively help good farming standards in the UK). My opinion modified and will hopefully continue to do so, encouraging me to widen my horizons beyond the here and now.
That’s just one example and I’m the first to admit that me today is likely to be different to me on Friday and hopefully will be very different to me in five years’ time. So committing ones thoughts down so openly and without the benefit of hindsight is a bit scary. After all I’m a writer, I don’t publish a sentence without meticulous checking and editing… and even then I often don’t go back and read it in case it is wrong.
But blogging is in real time. It’s happening now and perhaps what I say today will no longer be relevant tomorrow. Does that mean it shouldn’t be said? Should we all just keep quiet until we’re lying on our death beds and are finally ready to pass on a lifetime of knowledge? Of course not… or at least not all of us should.
I like to think of thoughts and opinions like language. For me language is like a river bed, existing in a landscape for centuries, but ever changing under the surrounding environment. A lot of people tend to moan at the introduction of new nouns or verbs as though at some point we reached an epistle perfection and that was it. Full stop. (Excuse the pun). Selfie, lol, twerking… odd that those are the ones that immediately speak to mind but they highlight how our language morphs to fit our current lifestyle, and so should our thoughts and opinions. You may not like selfies, but they still exist as a concept and it’s a damn sight easier than referring to them as taking a picture of oneself all the time. Lol.
So the idea of blogging is very much like studying language, or anthropology. It’s a caption in history, immediately accessible by everyone – something which is a concept we take massively for granted nowadays. In fact, thinking about the whole evolution of opinion, a hundred years ago for me to present a piece of writing to you I would need to grow a pretty dapper mustache to be even considered worthy of an opinion. Actually coming from a working class Northern background, the likelihood would be that I wouldn’t even have the skills to write my opinion down anyway and obviously my mustache would be wasted!
As exposing and nerve wracking the concept of blogging may be, it’s still a very interesting possibility for humanity and especially for me as a writer. A possibility (you see my deliberate non-committal choice of words) that I will endeavor to try again. Of course we could fast forward to November 2016 and find that I gave it up after three months and went to pursue an interest in tapestry. But that’s the fun of it isn’t it? We don’t know where it will lead us or how we will evolve. Interesting to find out though.
Twelve years ago I would have happily waved the flag screaming “meat is murder.” Now, bacon sandwich in hand, I’m still an active follower of animal rights but I have a wider understanding of how one can do that while tucking into Bernard (FYI I ethically source all of my meat – hence Bernard – and in doing so can actively help good farming standards in the UK). My opinion modified and will hopefully continue to do so, encouraging me to widen my horizons beyond the here and now.
That’s just one example and I’m the first to admit that me today is likely to be different to me on Friday and hopefully will be very different to me in five years’ time. So committing ones thoughts down so openly and without the benefit of hindsight is a bit scary. After all I’m a writer, I don’t publish a sentence without meticulous checking and editing… and even then I often don’t go back and read it in case it is wrong.
But blogging is in real time. It’s happening now and perhaps what I say today will no longer be relevant tomorrow. Does that mean it shouldn’t be said? Should we all just keep quiet until we’re lying on our death beds and are finally ready to pass on a lifetime of knowledge? Of course not… or at least not all of us should.
I like to think of thoughts and opinions like language. For me language is like a river bed, existing in a landscape for centuries, but ever changing under the surrounding environment. A lot of people tend to moan at the introduction of new nouns or verbs as though at some point we reached an epistle perfection and that was it. Full stop. (Excuse the pun). Selfie, lol, twerking… odd that those are the ones that immediately speak to mind but they highlight how our language morphs to fit our current lifestyle, and so should our thoughts and opinions. You may not like selfies, but they still exist as a concept and it’s a damn sight easier than referring to them as taking a picture of oneself all the time. Lol.
So the idea of blogging is very much like studying language, or anthropology. It’s a caption in history, immediately accessible by everyone – something which is a concept we take massively for granted nowadays. In fact, thinking about the whole evolution of opinion, a hundred years ago for me to present a piece of writing to you I would need to grow a pretty dapper mustache to be even considered worthy of an opinion. Actually coming from a working class Northern background, the likelihood would be that I wouldn’t even have the skills to write my opinion down anyway and obviously my mustache would be wasted!
As exposing and nerve wracking the concept of blogging may be, it’s still a very interesting possibility for humanity and especially for me as a writer. A possibility (you see my deliberate non-committal choice of words) that I will endeavor to try again. Of course we could fast forward to November 2016 and find that I gave it up after three months and went to pursue an interest in tapestry. But that’s the fun of it isn’t it? We don’t know where it will lead us or how we will evolve. Interesting to find out though.
August 11, 2015
The Lost Shepherd (Snippet)
September 2024
They moved on foot, eight in total, tracking through the abandoned city only an hour behind their prey. Mace was in charge. Mace was always in charge. He was the largest, the toughest, the scariest. He’d only been challenged twice for his position as leader, and he carried the teeth of the challengers around his neck. His clan resided on the other side of the city, it was a small gathering of brutes and cutthroats that had seized a foothold on one of the major footpaths of the country. A lot of the travellers roaming the countryside moved in groups, some too large for Mace and his clan to go after, but smaller groups and solitary travellers were easy prey.Mace raised his hands. He was missing two fingers; a punishment from his childhood. The pack stopped and sniffed. Two of their scouts positioned themselves ahead, their automatic rifles poised and ready. Mace’s men dominated the area, but there were always rival gangs trying to encroach on his territory. He waited, listening to the light breeze whistling through the abandoned buildings. The air was damp and moist, but at least the rain had stopped.
Mace dropped to a crouch to inspect an indent in the soil; a footprint made by the old man. They had him now. Mace licked at his chapped, broken lips, exposing a mouth of sharp black teeth. A lifetime in the clan had made him more beast than man. His skin was like leather, his eyes wild and sharp. Some travellers buckled at just the sight of him and they were right to; Mace was far crueller than he looked. Mace dropped his hand and nodded. The pack began to move.
They moved on foot, eight in total, tracking through the abandoned city only an hour behind their prey. Mace was in charge. Mace was always in charge. He was the largest, the toughest, the scariest. He’d only been challenged twice for his position as leader, and he carried the teeth of the challengers around his neck. His clan resided on the other side of the city, it was a small gathering of brutes and cutthroats that had seized a foothold on one of the major footpaths of the country. A lot of the travellers roaming the countryside moved in groups, some too large for Mace and his clan to go after, but smaller groups and solitary travellers were easy prey.Mace raised his hands. He was missing two fingers; a punishment from his childhood. The pack stopped and sniffed. Two of their scouts positioned themselves ahead, their automatic rifles poised and ready. Mace’s men dominated the area, but there were always rival gangs trying to encroach on his territory. He waited, listening to the light breeze whistling through the abandoned buildings. The air was damp and moist, but at least the rain had stopped.
Mace dropped to a crouch to inspect an indent in the soil; a footprint made by the old man. They had him now. Mace licked at his chapped, broken lips, exposing a mouth of sharp black teeth. A lifetime in the clan had made him more beast than man. His skin was like leather, his eyes wild and sharp. Some travellers buckled at just the sight of him and they were right to; Mace was far crueller than he looked. Mace dropped his hand and nodded. The pack began to move.
August 3, 2015
A Little Snippet
Posting has been a bit light but I've been busy. As well as getting the first pass of The Running Game finished with my lovely editor, there's also a little anthology coming out which is going to contain another Reacher story... wanna taster?
A rumble of thunder started the crescendo of the impending storm. Thick heat had been swelling on the abandoned city for hours. It would give at any moment. Another rumble, a flicker of lightening, barely visible in the afternoon light. The dull concrete buildings blended into the heavy clouds; a symphony of grey in this urban desert. Then, abruptly, the oppressive desolation of the city was shattered by an aggressive downpour of rain. The percussion was deafening and victorious.The priest wasted no time in unpacking his umbrella. His boots were water tight and, despite his arthritic knees, he skipped around the water-filled potholes with the confidence of an experienced traveller. He wasn’t troubled by the rain, or the dampness of his clothes. The shower wouldn't last long and once it was over the clouds would likely clear, exposing another oppressively hot September sun. He could have stopped and taken refuge in one of the empty buildings, but if he stopped every time the weather turned it would be Christmas by the time he reached London.He was eager to leave the abandoned city too. It was the third he had passed through since he'd set off on his journey and there were hundreds of them throughout the country. The relics of suburban England, with their average sized homes and convenient high streets, were all that remained of a buckled civilisation. There were lots of reasons towns failed; economy, disease, conflict, but the relics all looked the same in the end. The absence of life seemed to drain the colour from the buildings, like an old photograph faded from exposure. Sometimes, to the priest, they felt like Godless places and walking through them played on his conscience and troubles.When he reached the edge of the city the rain started to break. The road widened and for the briefest moment a glimmer of sunlight shone on the surrounding countryside. The break between the urban and the rural always seemed abrupt to the priest. It felt like stepping directly from one room to another, rather than the slow transition that used to happen before the world fell apart.He was more comfortable on the open road, despite the abundant dangers of travelling without cover or protection. There was something about being out in nature that made him feel closer to God and being with God now was essential. His pilgrimage had been long overdue. For over a year he had lost the faith he had in himself and his cause. He felt he had misinterpreted the messages he had once been so certain of and now he searched for some guidance to lead him back to the path from which he had strayed.He walked five miles from the town until he found a place to camp for the night. Walking in the rain was fine but walking in the dark was a step too far even for the old priest. He unpacked his backpack, putting up a crude tarp shelter, unrolling his sleeping bag and gathering the matches and paper he needed to start his fire. In a couple of experienced minutes his camp was set up and the sun was starting its descent. He sat on his sleeping bag and put a can of stew on the fire to cook.It was a peaceful evening. Somewhere in the distance he could hear a car and the sound brought a smile to his face. The country often looked like all life had disappeared but this so called End of Days had continued to roll on. There was still civilisation, still a future, it had just relocated south. And there were still clusters of communities further north that continued to thrive or at the very worst struggle on. Most of all there was still hope in even the darkest places of Britain. The priest had witnessed it, in the past he had thought himself a bringer of hope. Now he traced his way back through the old paths he used to take, trying to find some of that hope for himself again.
A rumble of thunder started the crescendo of the impending storm. Thick heat had been swelling on the abandoned city for hours. It would give at any moment. Another rumble, a flicker of lightening, barely visible in the afternoon light. The dull concrete buildings blended into the heavy clouds; a symphony of grey in this urban desert. Then, abruptly, the oppressive desolation of the city was shattered by an aggressive downpour of rain. The percussion was deafening and victorious.The priest wasted no time in unpacking his umbrella. His boots were water tight and, despite his arthritic knees, he skipped around the water-filled potholes with the confidence of an experienced traveller. He wasn’t troubled by the rain, or the dampness of his clothes. The shower wouldn't last long and once it was over the clouds would likely clear, exposing another oppressively hot September sun. He could have stopped and taken refuge in one of the empty buildings, but if he stopped every time the weather turned it would be Christmas by the time he reached London.He was eager to leave the abandoned city too. It was the third he had passed through since he'd set off on his journey and there were hundreds of them throughout the country. The relics of suburban England, with their average sized homes and convenient high streets, were all that remained of a buckled civilisation. There were lots of reasons towns failed; economy, disease, conflict, but the relics all looked the same in the end. The absence of life seemed to drain the colour from the buildings, like an old photograph faded from exposure. Sometimes, to the priest, they felt like Godless places and walking through them played on his conscience and troubles.When he reached the edge of the city the rain started to break. The road widened and for the briefest moment a glimmer of sunlight shone on the surrounding countryside. The break between the urban and the rural always seemed abrupt to the priest. It felt like stepping directly from one room to another, rather than the slow transition that used to happen before the world fell apart.He was more comfortable on the open road, despite the abundant dangers of travelling without cover or protection. There was something about being out in nature that made him feel closer to God and being with God now was essential. His pilgrimage had been long overdue. For over a year he had lost the faith he had in himself and his cause. He felt he had misinterpreted the messages he had once been so certain of and now he searched for some guidance to lead him back to the path from which he had strayed.He walked five miles from the town until he found a place to camp for the night. Walking in the rain was fine but walking in the dark was a step too far even for the old priest. He unpacked his backpack, putting up a crude tarp shelter, unrolling his sleeping bag and gathering the matches and paper he needed to start his fire. In a couple of experienced minutes his camp was set up and the sun was starting its descent. He sat on his sleeping bag and put a can of stew on the fire to cook.It was a peaceful evening. Somewhere in the distance he could hear a car and the sound brought a smile to his face. The country often looked like all life had disappeared but this so called End of Days had continued to roll on. There was still civilisation, still a future, it had just relocated south. And there were still clusters of communities further north that continued to thrive or at the very worst struggle on. Most of all there was still hope in even the darkest places of Britain. The priest had witnessed it, in the past he had thought himself a bringer of hope. Now he traced his way back through the old paths he used to take, trying to find some of that hope for himself again.
July 30, 2015
Lionheart
I have never understood the mentality of anyone who enjoys to kill for sport. This practice is an archaic form of entertainment the rich used to partake of centuries ago and it's worth bearing in mind that they were also keen on burning people at the stake, slavery, oppressing women, beating children... the point is there wasn't a lot to do back then and the devil makes work for idle hands.
But hey now we have the internet, we have accessible literature, we have MTV. If anything there is too much to do. There is no excuse to enjoy blood sports. It is cruel, senseless, and sick.
This is especially the case when you are killing endangered animals - animals that are on the brink of extinction because of us in the first place. The world's wildlife hangs in a delicate balance at the best of times and yet there are some of us who blatantly disregard and disrespect this for their own enjoyment. And I think that is what makes what has happened to Cecil the lion more outrageous. This was done by someone who just enjoys killing things. There's no reason to it, no excuse. "...an activity I love..." is how Walter Palmer describes his passion for murder.
The ivory trade is decimating elephant and rhino populations to a devastating extent but there's a logic behind these atrocities - money. And at the end of the day some of the people helping poachers are just poor natives, turning a blind eye for a payout that will provide for their families. It's not right, but it's at least understandable.
Walter Palmer though paid somewhere near $50,000 to actually go out and kill Cecil. $50,000. That's around £32,000 - more than the average annual salary for most Brits. When I heard about this I couldn't stop thinking about such a huge quantity of money being spent for such an act. Walter Palmer - a self-professed family man - used his enormous wealth to destroy something magnificent because that's the activity he loves.
It got me thinking about his profession too. As a dentist he will be aware of how expensive dental care is and how many in his country can't even afford to get care. I'm currently putting off a dental appointment myself until pay day - so how many more are unable to get serious treatment because they are in poverty? How much dental treatment would $50,000 buy? How much of a local hero would Walter Palmer have been if he'd decided to spend his "kill fund" on something that actually benefited the world?
Another news story this week was about 12 year old Matthew Flores from Utah who was so passionate about reading that he asked his mailman for junk mail because he couldn't afford books. Mailman Ron Lynch of course then went on to start a campaign for books for Matthew and now Matthew has been given more than 350 books probably the greatest gift any 12 year old could get. Just a little maths for you for $50,000 you could probably by a kid like Matthew more than 5,000 books.
Oh and unlike a dead lion a book can be enjoyed by an entire community over and over again because it's still here - for everyone, forever. Just a thought.
But hey now we have the internet, we have accessible literature, we have MTV. If anything there is too much to do. There is no excuse to enjoy blood sports. It is cruel, senseless, and sick.
This is especially the case when you are killing endangered animals - animals that are on the brink of extinction because of us in the first place. The world's wildlife hangs in a delicate balance at the best of times and yet there are some of us who blatantly disregard and disrespect this for their own enjoyment. And I think that is what makes what has happened to Cecil the lion more outrageous. This was done by someone who just enjoys killing things. There's no reason to it, no excuse. "...an activity I love..." is how Walter Palmer describes his passion for murder.
The ivory trade is decimating elephant and rhino populations to a devastating extent but there's a logic behind these atrocities - money. And at the end of the day some of the people helping poachers are just poor natives, turning a blind eye for a payout that will provide for their families. It's not right, but it's at least understandable.
Walter Palmer though paid somewhere near $50,000 to actually go out and kill Cecil. $50,000. That's around £32,000 - more than the average annual salary for most Brits. When I heard about this I couldn't stop thinking about such a huge quantity of money being spent for such an act. Walter Palmer - a self-professed family man - used his enormous wealth to destroy something magnificent because that's the activity he loves.
It got me thinking about his profession too. As a dentist he will be aware of how expensive dental care is and how many in his country can't even afford to get care. I'm currently putting off a dental appointment myself until pay day - so how many more are unable to get serious treatment because they are in poverty? How much dental treatment would $50,000 buy? How much of a local hero would Walter Palmer have been if he'd decided to spend his "kill fund" on something that actually benefited the world?
Another news story this week was about 12 year old Matthew Flores from Utah who was so passionate about reading that he asked his mailman for junk mail because he couldn't afford books. Mailman Ron Lynch of course then went on to start a campaign for books for Matthew and now Matthew has been given more than 350 books probably the greatest gift any 12 year old could get. Just a little maths for you for $50,000 you could probably by a kid like Matthew more than 5,000 books.
Oh and unlike a dead lion a book can be enjoyed by an entire community over and over again because it's still here - for everyone, forever. Just a thought.
July 20, 2015
No Rest for the Wicked.
I'm not saying I'm crazy but... I came into work on my day off today to get a difficult job done before I settle into a week of holiday time. Now holiday time for me is going to be spent juggling a petulant 6 year old only interested in sharking me at cards, a needy dog who wants to stand wherever I'm standing, and a whole load of writing based chaos with a yesterday deadline.
Now my rush job at the office is delayed and I'm sat here, cradling a cup of coffee, watching the precious hours slip away. These precious minutes of waste time are like gold dust in my life at the moment and I can't afford to give them up. I guess that's why I'm blogging. Although if I'm blogging about wasting my time but using said time to post a blog then technically it's not wasted...
I said I'm not crazy right? Maybe I lied.
Anyway I have a right to be on edge. My editor is getting my manuscript back to me this week and I am desperately trying to finish a short story for an anthology coming up before all attention turns to The Running Game. Not to mention a whole heap of proofreading jobs that have suddenly come in. Sorry son, I think you'll be playing solitaire for a couple of weeks.
Oh well, mustn't complain. It's better to be busy, idle hands and all that. And there is no rest for the wicked. And wicked I most certainly am.
Now my rush job at the office is delayed and I'm sat here, cradling a cup of coffee, watching the precious hours slip away. These precious minutes of waste time are like gold dust in my life at the moment and I can't afford to give them up. I guess that's why I'm blogging. Although if I'm blogging about wasting my time but using said time to post a blog then technically it's not wasted...
I said I'm not crazy right? Maybe I lied.
Anyway I have a right to be on edge. My editor is getting my manuscript back to me this week and I am desperately trying to finish a short story for an anthology coming up before all attention turns to The Running Game. Not to mention a whole heap of proofreading jobs that have suddenly come in. Sorry son, I think you'll be playing solitaire for a couple of weeks.
Oh well, mustn't complain. It's better to be busy, idle hands and all that. And there is no rest for the wicked. And wicked I most certainly am.
July 13, 2015
Letter to MP
I was going to post something else today, but before I started writing my blog I had to quickly draft a letter to my MP in support of voting "no" against the proposal to lift the ban on fox hunting. As I wrote the letter I realised that this is probably a bit more important than what I intended to write today so I thought I would share it and if anyone wants to copy and paste it to their own MP then please feel free.
It is so important if you are against this that you write to your MP now and even if you aren't based in Britain you can still encourage your British friends and families to write to their MP's now!
Dear Mark Williams,
I am writing to you regarding the potential lifting of the fox hunting ban proposed by the Tory government.
I strongly urge you to vote no. This archaic sport has no place in modern Britain and it will be an absolute travesty to bring it back under the guise of pest control.
Living in the beautiful Welsh countryside I understand that there is a balance to nature as well as a need to protect farming and livestock, however since the ban was put in place I have not heard of any incidents in my local community that would call for any retraction of the ban. In fact people in my community delight at seeing foxes, especially children.
This vote serves only to appease a faction of rich elite who enjoy massacring wildlife for fun, a practice which as well as being mercilessly cruel does not serve the Welsh people or our community whatsoever. It is a waste of tax payers time and money to even propose a vote especially when our government should be concentrating on greater issues such as child poverty and welfare cuts. It seems more than hypocritical for our government to harm so many struggling families with their latest budget and then try to lift a popular ban to improve their leisure time.
As a family we are extremely against this action by David Cameron and we note that he was unable to put this proposal through under the coalition government, we therefore hope that you will vote no and help prevent this ban being lifted.
Yours sincerely,
L E Fitzpatrick
It is so important if you are against this that you write to your MP now and even if you aren't based in Britain you can still encourage your British friends and families to write to their MP's now!
Dear Mark Williams,
I am writing to you regarding the potential lifting of the fox hunting ban proposed by the Tory government.
I strongly urge you to vote no. This archaic sport has no place in modern Britain and it will be an absolute travesty to bring it back under the guise of pest control.
Living in the beautiful Welsh countryside I understand that there is a balance to nature as well as a need to protect farming and livestock, however since the ban was put in place I have not heard of any incidents in my local community that would call for any retraction of the ban. In fact people in my community delight at seeing foxes, especially children.
This vote serves only to appease a faction of rich elite who enjoy massacring wildlife for fun, a practice which as well as being mercilessly cruel does not serve the Welsh people or our community whatsoever. It is a waste of tax payers time and money to even propose a vote especially when our government should be concentrating on greater issues such as child poverty and welfare cuts. It seems more than hypocritical for our government to harm so many struggling families with their latest budget and then try to lift a popular ban to improve their leisure time.
As a family we are extremely against this action by David Cameron and we note that he was unable to put this proposal through under the coalition government, we therefore hope that you will vote no and help prevent this ban being lifted.
Yours sincerely,
L E Fitzpatrick
July 9, 2015
Fantastic Mr Fox
Your feet pound against the grass and dirt. A blinding sun blocks off the horizon in a haze of white. You're running, you can't stop running. The barking behind you is getting louder. And your body aches, your legs burn with the effort. You're not going to make it. But you have to. There's a family to consider. Four lives reliant on your return. A horn sounds in the distance. The barking echoing in every direction. They're ahead of you now. There's no where to run. No where to go. It's over.
You don't notice the first bite, the adrenaline is too strong, but as jaws clamp on your neck you realise the darkness is slow approaching. Tossed from jaw to jaw, teeth tearing, skin ripping. All you hear is your own heartbeat. All you feel is the searing pain as they shred your stomach open. Then all you see is darkness.
It took an hour and fifteen minutes to kill you. But it will take days for your children to starve to death.
Vote to keep the ban on fox hunting and prevent unnecessary cruelty to British wildlife.
https://www.change.org/p/david-cameron-mp-keep-the-ban-on-fox-hunting-2
You don't notice the first bite, the adrenaline is too strong, but as jaws clamp on your neck you realise the darkness is slow approaching. Tossed from jaw to jaw, teeth tearing, skin ripping. All you hear is your own heartbeat. All you feel is the searing pain as they shred your stomach open. Then all you see is darkness.
It took an hour and fifteen minutes to kill you. But it will take days for your children to starve to death.
Vote to keep the ban on fox hunting and prevent unnecessary cruelty to British wildlife.
https://www.change.org/p/david-cameron-mp-keep-the-ban-on-fox-hunting-2
July 6, 2015
Using Pinterest
I've been feeling a bit like a Luddite as I embark on the many things I have to get through in readiness for the relaunch of The Running Game. My Book Manager gave me a list of social network bits and pieces to conquer and well, I'm fighting a valiant fight but I'm not totally sure I'm winning.
I did at least get a bit of success with Pinterest though.
Getting ideas for my cover artist was proving to be a bit of a challenge. I knew what I didn't want, but knowing what type of visuals suited my book and suited me was making my head spin (and my cover artist's too I'm sure). I offered helpful comments like - I like black and white, but also bold colour. Then - I like it simple, but not too simple. Not particularly useful to anyone.
Finally I was talking with a DIY enthusiast who had an entire pinboard dedicated to ideas for her new bathroom and I realised that I could do one for my Reacher series.
I wanted to cover a whole range of things, landscapes, atmosphere, some actual ideas for covers, some ideas for characters and just some pictures that really called out to me as fitting with the general theme of the series.
It took about three hours for things to start taking shape and for me to gather something useful for my cover artist to work with, but also doing this was a massive help for me creatively. I began to draw inspiration from what I was seeing and even cemented a few of my fly away ideas into the future series.
It was a brilliant exercise that really worked at putting myself into the atmosphere of my work without actually combating difficult characters. So if you're writing, or making music, or whatever give Pinterest a try and see if it can help inspire you.
Here's my board: https://uk.pinterest.com/lefitzpatrick/inspire-me/
I did at least get a bit of success with Pinterest though.
Getting ideas for my cover artist was proving to be a bit of a challenge. I knew what I didn't want, but knowing what type of visuals suited my book and suited me was making my head spin (and my cover artist's too I'm sure). I offered helpful comments like - I like black and white, but also bold colour. Then - I like it simple, but not too simple. Not particularly useful to anyone.
Finally I was talking with a DIY enthusiast who had an entire pinboard dedicated to ideas for her new bathroom and I realised that I could do one for my Reacher series.
I wanted to cover a whole range of things, landscapes, atmosphere, some actual ideas for covers, some ideas for characters and just some pictures that really called out to me as fitting with the general theme of the series.
It took about three hours for things to start taking shape and for me to gather something useful for my cover artist to work with, but also doing this was a massive help for me creatively. I began to draw inspiration from what I was seeing and even cemented a few of my fly away ideas into the future series.
It was a brilliant exercise that really worked at putting myself into the atmosphere of my work without actually combating difficult characters. So if you're writing, or making music, or whatever give Pinterest a try and see if it can help inspire you.
Here's my board: https://uk.pinterest.com/lefitzpatrick/inspire-me/
July 2, 2015
All About Me?
I should be writing my bio. Emphasis on the should. I'm not. But I should. And the reason I'm not - well have you ever tried to write a bio? Have you ever sat at a computer screen and battled with the all important question - Who Am I?
Maybe you can answer that question. Maybe you are grounded enough to know already and can confidently hold your head up and announce exactly who you are. But would that be right? Would it be interesting? Would it be honest? Should it be honest?
That's the trouble with any kind of personal statement - it's not a personal statement. It's not a paragraph written by you without censorship or purpose that conveys in several lines exactly who you are at the time of writing. If it was mine would just say - too hot, too hot, fetch water. Your personal statement as an author, or artist, or just person of hopeful interest has to be laced with an agenda and meaning and most importantly has to be fun to read.
So first off who am I? The age old question and really unless I'm on my hands and knees on top of a cliff I'm probably not asking it right. To be honest I haven't got a clue who I am. One minute I'll be a writer, the next I'll be a mum, when I'm in the car I'm a high speed getaway driver... how can you condense an entire person into one paragraph?
The other question - the one you don't need to be on your hands and knees for - is what do I want people to think I am? Obviously it goes without saying I want people to think I'm the greatest thriller writer of the 21st Century, but they'll figure that out when they read my books - come on afford me a little arrogance this is a rare self-indulgent post.
So I came up with several ideas all of them horrifically boring and then my book manager slapped me about the head about until I realised the point I was missing. Tell readers about you in your voice. After all as a writer your authorial voice is the only thing that really matters, and certainly is your best shot at conveying who you are in just a small piece of text.
Some hours later this is what I came up with. This is me.
L E Fitzpatrick is a writer of dark adventure stories and thrillers. Under the watchful eye of her beloved rescue Staffordshire Bull Terrier, she leaps from trains and climbs down buildings, all from the front room of a tiny cottage in the middle of the Welsh countryside. The Running Game, her latest book and the first instalment of her Reacher series, is due for re-release in October 2015 under the Booktrope label and L E Fitzpatrick is currently working hard on expanding this series.
Not quite a finished article I'll grant you, but then I guess that sums me up even more about now.
And just in case the imagery isn't graphic enough for you I have included a picture of said Staffy "helping" me work. TBC.
Maybe you can answer that question. Maybe you are grounded enough to know already and can confidently hold your head up and announce exactly who you are. But would that be right? Would it be interesting? Would it be honest? Should it be honest?
That's the trouble with any kind of personal statement - it's not a personal statement. It's not a paragraph written by you without censorship or purpose that conveys in several lines exactly who you are at the time of writing. If it was mine would just say - too hot, too hot, fetch water. Your personal statement as an author, or artist, or just person of hopeful interest has to be laced with an agenda and meaning and most importantly has to be fun to read.
So first off who am I? The age old question and really unless I'm on my hands and knees on top of a cliff I'm probably not asking it right. To be honest I haven't got a clue who I am. One minute I'll be a writer, the next I'll be a mum, when I'm in the car I'm a high speed getaway driver... how can you condense an entire person into one paragraph?
The other question - the one you don't need to be on your hands and knees for - is what do I want people to think I am? Obviously it goes without saying I want people to think I'm the greatest thriller writer of the 21st Century, but they'll figure that out when they read my books - come on afford me a little arrogance this is a rare self-indulgent post.
So I came up with several ideas all of them horrifically boring and then my book manager slapped me about the head about until I realised the point I was missing. Tell readers about you in your voice. After all as a writer your authorial voice is the only thing that really matters, and certainly is your best shot at conveying who you are in just a small piece of text.
Some hours later this is what I came up with. This is me.
L E Fitzpatrick is a writer of dark adventure stories and thrillers. Under the watchful eye of her beloved rescue Staffordshire Bull Terrier, she leaps from trains and climbs down buildings, all from the front room of a tiny cottage in the middle of the Welsh countryside. The Running Game, her latest book and the first instalment of her Reacher series, is due for re-release in October 2015 under the Booktrope label and L E Fitzpatrick is currently working hard on expanding this series.
Not quite a finished article I'll grant you, but then I guess that sums me up even more about now.
And just in case the imagery isn't graphic enough for you I have included a picture of said Staffy "helping" me work. TBC.
June 29, 2015
Somewhere Over The Rainbow
As a writer of dystopian fiction I guess it's kind of easy to just focus on the things that threaten our society and will ultimately lead to our downfall. Sometimes you just look at world events and feel that this is the beginning of the end. Then you get that sinking feeling in your gut when you realise that this is just a prelude to what your kids are going to have to deal with when they grow up. This is the legacy you leave for them.
I had this sinking moment earlier last week when I was catching up on the proposed threats to our welfare system in the UK and I saw this:
These wheelchair bound protesters are being evicted from the House of Commons lobby last week while the fat cats that make decisions about our country are lining their own pockets with the scraps our disabled population have been surviving off. What we do to our disabled people in the UK is absolutely disgusting, but these are people that aren't able to bang and protest like others in our country and until last week their voices have barely been heard.
It's always the same with governments and welfare - the rich get richer and everyone else has to fight to survive. This is Great Britain - well done us.
Working on my Reacher series it's moments like these that just send a glaring light of inspiration to me and I feel sometimes that I'm not just writing stories, but writing down predictions for the state of society. I guess I'm drawn to this type of writing because it helps me deal with the unsettling feeling I'm left with every time our government makes another bold decision in an attempt to ruin humanity. You know decisions like combating the UK child poverty issue, which is pretty serious, by redefining what child poverty is. God it's great to be British.
But then the USA did something amazing. They made a stand for equality and, amid all this pessimistic blackness, there was a little ray of sunshine - a rainbow on the horizon. We already have gay marriage in the UK, but the news was so globally celebrated that I really got to appreciate what this means for so many people who have been living like second rate citizens because of their sexuality. But it's more than just a breakthrough for today, it suddenly occurred to me that my 6 year old son and his generation will grow up in a western world that recognises sexual equality. We may get a lot of things wrong but this is right. And with every bad thing that has happened and that will continue to happen, it's so important to remember that above all else #LoveWins.
I had this sinking moment earlier last week when I was catching up on the proposed threats to our welfare system in the UK and I saw this:
These wheelchair bound protesters are being evicted from the House of Commons lobby last week while the fat cats that make decisions about our country are lining their own pockets with the scraps our disabled population have been surviving off. What we do to our disabled people in the UK is absolutely disgusting, but these are people that aren't able to bang and protest like others in our country and until last week their voices have barely been heard.
It's always the same with governments and welfare - the rich get richer and everyone else has to fight to survive. This is Great Britain - well done us.
Working on my Reacher series it's moments like these that just send a glaring light of inspiration to me and I feel sometimes that I'm not just writing stories, but writing down predictions for the state of society. I guess I'm drawn to this type of writing because it helps me deal with the unsettling feeling I'm left with every time our government makes another bold decision in an attempt to ruin humanity. You know decisions like combating the UK child poverty issue, which is pretty serious, by redefining what child poverty is. God it's great to be British.
But then the USA did something amazing. They made a stand for equality and, amid all this pessimistic blackness, there was a little ray of sunshine - a rainbow on the horizon. We already have gay marriage in the UK, but the news was so globally celebrated that I really got to appreciate what this means for so many people who have been living like second rate citizens because of their sexuality. But it's more than just a breakthrough for today, it suddenly occurred to me that my 6 year old son and his generation will grow up in a western world that recognises sexual equality. We may get a lot of things wrong but this is right. And with every bad thing that has happened and that will continue to happen, it's so important to remember that above all else #LoveWins.
