David D. Sharp's Blog, page 3

Novel Biographer – NaNoWriMo Edition

I'm going to be up front and confess that, once again, I've chickened out of attempting National Novel Writing Month. Maybe next year.

But for those of you who are, you might be interested a handy little tool I made, called "Novel Biographer". It is an Excel spreadsheet in which you can record your daily writing progress and it generates all sorts of useful facts and charts about how you're getting on, motivating you to do more.

I've put together a pre-configured version especially for NaNoWriMo that you can download from here: Novel Biographer – NaNoWriMo 2011 Edition

Good luck!

[image error]

[image error]

Teddy Bear Abomination

I've been saving this one up specially for halloween. This is a follow-up to the story Witchfinder Cuddles although you won't necessarily need to have read the first to understand and appreciate this one.

"Have you ever seen anything like this before?" asked Mr Prickles.

Bobbo gulped and shook his head.

Blaeberry Hollow was a small hillock with a concealed dip at the top. In autumn, it's inner slopes would be thick with wild blaeberry bushes, their branches laden with ripe fruit, attracting both bees and local residents eager to be making a fresh batch of jam. The scene the gnome and hedgehog looked down upon now was somewhat different. A small mound of bodies had been dumped there, all teddy bears. Bits of stitching and stuffing hung loose, limbs had been torn off and cast asunder. A severed head grinned up at them, one eye lost, the other hanging by a single thread. The recent heavy rains had been soaked up by the mass grave and so a sour stench now clung to the air. Flies were beginning to assemble.

"Who is that?" said Bobbo, shielding his eyes to gaze across the hollow.

At first Mr Prickles couldn't see what his friend had meant, then made out a solitary figure standing in the shadow of an old pear tree that hadn't blossomed in over a decade. It was another bear, he wore some sort of black jacket and peaked hat. Was he looking at them or the stack of severed body parts? Mr Prickles felt a shiver run across him.

"Hey dada, dada! Dada, see what I've been doing!" Mr Prickles turned to see his youngest daughter, Clara, running up the hill towards them, waving cheerily.

"No! No, you stay there and I'll come to you sweetness," he called and trotted down the slope to stop her from approaching any further and witnessing the horror on the other side. Once he had spoken with her briefly, he adjusted one of the bows in her spines and sent her on her way back towards the house. Turning, he saw that Bobbo was no longer alone at the peak of the hill — he had been joined by the stranger.

"Mr Prickles," started Bobbo. "This 'ere is — I'm sorry — what did you say your name was again?"

"Cuddles," answered the bear. "Witchfinder Cuddles."

"Witchfinder? We've no need for a Witchfinder here" said Mr Prickles.

"Don't you?" The Witchfinder shot at a glance down at the hollow's grizzly contents.

"You think this was witchery?" Bobbo asked, looking even more nervous.

The Witchfinder said nothing and only stared down into the hollow.

"I am sure you must have friends or even relations down there," said Mr Prickles, removing his bowler hat and turning it in his little paws. "But so do we, a good number of those bears were staff from our own household. Good toys; all of them who will be sorely missed. Trust me when I say, we shall not rest until the culprit is found and brought to justice! I am quite certain we will manage without a bear of your particular skill set."

The wind was beginning to pick up a little now, blowing the bear's fur back and forth. One side of his face and body was badly singed and in parts had even been repaired with plain sack-cloth.

"No," said Cuddles after awhile.

"No?"

"No, you do need me and more than you know. No, you will not find the culprit alone and no, I will not just walk away. Every broken bear in that pile is my brother and every single one of their defiled remains is an abomination. I will not rest until the world has been purged of the wickedness responsible. Do you understand me? I. Will. Not. Stop."

Mr Prickles and Bobbo exchanged an uncomfortable glance.

* * *

Allswell House was located in a rural stretch between Rosy Downs and the River Earnest. It sat in its own, meticulously maintained, grounds with views of the river, nearby fields and, in the distance, Blaeberry Hollow. As well as the Prickles, the old dollhouse was home to the Dorsets, a family of white mice; Olly and Annie Ragdoll and old Professor Hock, a retired clock-cuckoo. The residents were also served by a small battalion of cooks, maids, butlers and gardeners who occupied the cellar and most of the lower floors.

Nearly everyone had been gathered in the large drawing room, observing the Witchfinder with uncertain eyes.

"And I will be speaking with each and every one of you in private," continued Cuddles, having introduced himself.

"Even the children?" someone gasped.

"Especially the children!" bellowed Cuddles and little Willy Dorset pushed himself further behind his mother and older siblings. "You may find my techniques somewhat… intense, but understand that everything I will do is for your own good. Now — is this everyone that lives in this house?"

No one replied but there came a few dry coughs and eyes refused to meet the Witchfinder's.

"Who else lives in this building?" Still no one answered so Cuddles paced around wordlessly for awhile, letting them squirm. Then, without warning, he turned and snapped at Willy Dorset: "Tell me who else there is or I'll cut your tail off!"

"The dolls!" squealed the little mouse. "The dolls in the attic!"

"There are dolls living in this house?" Cuddles turned to glare at Mr Prickles. "And you never thought to tell me? Take me to them."

* * *

Bobbo and two stoats had to fetch a step ladder and then wrench out the nails keeping the hatchway to the attic sealed.

"You see they're all quite safely stored away," said Mr Prickles, still fiddling with his hat. "They can't possibly have been responsible."

The hatchway finally came free with a great shower of dust.

"I'll go first," said Cuddles, lifting a lantern and ascending the ladder, the others following hesitantly.

The attic smelt of nothing but must. The room was in pitch darkness but when Cuddles swung the lantern around, he revealed rich carpets, polka dot wallpaper. It was all quite homely, there was even a small display cabinet holding chinaware. Four porcelain dolls were assembled around a table laid for high tea. In unison, they turned their painted heads to look at the visitors.

"Would you like some tea?" asked the one pouring from an empty teapot.

"Not today," said Cuddles.

"Maybe another day," they collectively replied.

Cuddles looked at the dolls with both discomfort and sorrow. As he continued to look around he saw more dolls furniture crammed into the attic — sofas, a music box, painted bookshelves, all covered in a deep layer of dust.

"This is their house," said Cuddles over his shoulder. "Isn't it? They were living here and then you lot came along and took over, pushed them up into the attic. Prisoners in their own home."

"They're just dolls," Mr Prickles replied.

The Witchfinder gritted his gums but said no more. He'd seen enough. It wasn't the dolls.

* * *

Over the next few days, the Witchfinder grilled almost everyone. He used the reading room and forbade anyone from discussing what had taken place. Allswell quickly became a place of whispers and cautious glances; neighbours grew suspicious of one another.

Cuddles however discovered little. Olly and Annie Ragdoll secretly despised each other, one of the cooks was spitting in the soup and the real reason Mr Prickles was so troubled by the loss of their serving bears was that Rafferty the head Butler had also been his lover. None of it made things any clearer though.

Frustrated, Cuddles headed out to inspect the surrounding fields and lanes, stopping to grill local farmers. He'd spent an entire afternoon at Bobbo's little cottage, listening to the old common (or garden) gnome waffle on while he sat, his fishing line cast into a small pond clearly devoid of fish. Bobbo had been the one to find the bears and though he went into great detail about near enough everything, offered no further insights. It was growing dark by the time Cuddles set off back for the dollhouse.

As he strode along between two rows of holly bushes, he became aware of another sound, mirroring his steps. Something was pursuing him stealthily. Something large. In the gloom to the right, Cuddles caught a flash of keen eyes and then the fox was upon him, pouncing over the bushes. The Witchfinder was prepared though and rolled deftly aside before leaping atop the great red beast. From beneath his hat, Cuddles produced an old pair of sturdy, wrought iron scissors and held their point against the fox's throat.

"Name yourself villain!" snarled the Witchfinder.

"Why don't you come down from there and we'll talk?" the fox replied coolly. "Face to face like reasonable men."

"Reasonable men attack from the bushes do they?" said Cuddles but got down anyway. "Know that I can cut you up from anywhere fox, even if it's inside."

The fox looked him up and down, shrugged and sat himself down on his haunches.

"I've seen your tracks all over these hills," said Cuddles. "You wouldn't happen to have stopped by Blaeberry Hollow lately?"

"You mean where the stash of dead bears are?" replied the fox. "Relax, it wasn't I responsible for that bit of business. I only like to tear apart things with a heart beating inside of them."

Cuddles lowered the scissors. The whole thing had seemed too calculated for a fox's simple mind.

"I'll tell you this though, I do get around this area an awful lot you know. I see all kinds of things, all sorts of people who don't see me watching."

"So what are you saying? You know who killed the bears?"

"Hmm. Perhaps."

"What is it you want in return?" Cuddles asked.

"I think I'd quite like to eat you."

"I thought you didn't eat us teddy bears."

"I'm feeling adventurous. I'm curious to know what you might taste like now."

"Okay we'll make a deal," replied Cuddles, after some calculation. "You tell me who did it and I'll let you try and eat me."

"Try?" The fox raised an eyebrow. "Very well, challenge accepted."

The fox leaned in and whispered into Cuddles' ear all that he had seen.

The Witchfinder frowned.

The fox licked his lips then curled them back to display two rows of flawless fangs.

The Witchfinder tightened his grip on the scissors and opened the blades.

Both lunged forwards.

* * *

"Oh whatever is the matter now?" said Muma Dorset, scooping up one of her wailing daughters. "Have your brothers been telling you ghost stories before bedtime again?"

She stepped out into the hall, then froze. The front door was open and a trail of wet paw-prints led inside.

"Frank!" she called her husband, following the trail around the corner.

She gasped as a bloody figure, draped in entrails and clumps of ginger fur, pushed past and up the stairs. Following behind, being dragged by a fistful of spines was Mr Prickles, sobbing as he went.

"What are you doing?" called Olly Ragdoll, pursuing them. "Where are you taking him?"

By the time the Witchfinder and Mr Prickles had reached the top of the house, most of its inhabitants had gathered behind in an anxious huddle. The hatch to the attic hadn't been fully sealed again and the ladder was still in place. Cuddles dragged the hedgehog up the rungs before forcing him into the darkness beyond. Then the Witchfinder slammed the hatch back in place and set about hammering nails into the wood as Mr Prickles could be heard whimpering from the otherside.

"You can't do that! You can't lock him in there with the dolls," protested Mrs Prickles. She and her three daughters had pushed to the front of the crowd.

"Yes I can!" Cuddles bellowed for all to hear. "He is the culprit. He is the one that tortured and murdered the bears."

There came a series of gasps.

Mr Prickles muffled voice could be heard now: "No! No I don't want any tea! No tea! Not today!" Then his paws came scraping desperately against the wood.

"Please… please let him go," said Mrs Prickles.

"Why? He murdered all those bears. Why should I let him out of there?" answered Cuddles.

"Because it wasn't him," said a voice. It had come from the Prickles' youngest daughter, Clara. "It was me."

Cuddles nodded solemnly at this.

"And it was me," said Lucielle, the middle sister.

"And me," added Symphony, the eldest of the Prickles girls.

Mrs Prickles lifted her hands in shock, taking a step back from her offspring.

Cuddles looked at each of the juvenile hedgehogs in turn. Not one of them conveyed an expression of remorse or any other emotion. They just stood there in their pink dresses, bows and ribbons arranged perfectly in their spines.

The fox had been right.

"Why?" Cuddles asked them.

The three of them took turns at answering, finishing each other's sentences.

"It was the butler…"

"…Rafferty."

"We knew what he was getting up to with our father…"

"…and we didn't like it."

"He was betraying our mother."

"…betraying us."

"The bear had to be dealt with."

"He had to go."

"We plotted to do away with him…"

"…but how to avoid the finger of suspicion from falling on us?"

"Or worse, our parents."

"So we killed all the bears in the house."

"One after another we poisoned them or stifled them as they slept…"

"…then we dragged them to the hollow and tore them apart."

"At first it was just to form a distraction from the real nature of the crime…"

"…but then…"

"…then we found that we grew to like it."

"We started to track down the other bears in the area."

"One by one, we murdered them…"

"…with our bare hands…"

"…and in the moonlight we laughed merrily as we ripped them apart."

By the time they had finished, all three hedgehogs were smirking. They also stood alone now, the other residents of Allswood having rapidly drawn themselves away from these innocent looking monsters.

"Understand that you are confessing to the murder of all those bears," said the Witchfinder carefully. "To the genocide of my brethren. And that I have sworn myself to the harshest method of vengeance upon those I would find responsible. No matter their age, their gender or race."

All three nodded, the smiles on their lips unflinching.

"I suggest that the rest of you might wish to leave the room now," said Cuddles. He removed his hat briefly, taking out his trusty scissors from beneath.

Title image courtesy elwillo

[image error] [image error] [image error]

Ghosts of the Airwaves

Jay and Aisha leaned forwards, staring at the flickering television, its curved screen painting their faces with an unholy shimmer. Aisha placed one hand against the glass, feeling the tickle of static, perhaps hoping physical contact might bring back what they had seen.

They continued to stare at the buzz of black and whites blocks, like peering into an epileptic snowstorm. Their minds tried to draw out shapes, to spot patterns, but there was nothing more to be seen. The faces were gone. Had it been only a shared hallucination?

"Who do you think they were?" asked Jay. "Were they ghosts?"

Aisha shook her head slowly. "I don't know. Maybe there's still someone else out there after all, someone still broadcasting."

The two children drew a little closer to one another, shivering in the shadows of the world that had been.

Title image courtesy restlessglobetrotter

[image error]

Interview with Icy Sedgwick

Icy Sedgwick describes herself as a "writer of dark fantasy, supernatural chillers, adventure fiction and even Westerns". Her novella The Guns of Retribution has just been published in both paperbook and eBook format. She recently took some time out of her busy schedule to chat with me about her book, her inspirations and what the future holds for readers and writers alike.

Hi there Icy, thanks for agreeing to the interview.

No problem! It's lovely to be here.

You've just had your first book published – The Guns of Retribution. So what's it all about, what sort of readers would it appeal to?

It's a pulp Western about a young bounty hunter who has to square up to a rather nasty blast from his past in order to move forwards. It's very much a revenge tale but I did a lot of research so it's as historically accurate as I could make it, so I'm hoping it'll appeal to pulp fans and historical fans, as well as people who like Westerns!

A lot of what you seem to have done in the past has been horror or fantasy – was writing a western a bit of a departure for you?

It would seem like it, but I enjoy writing action scenes, and Westerns often have plenty of those. Besides, a lot of my horror or fantasy has been set in the past, so it's not much of a leap from historical horror to a Western. Plus it's nice to dabble in other genres – sticking to one or another gets boring. I'm not sure I subscribe to the theory that a writer should solely write in one genre. I understand the marketing reasons for this but writers should also feel free to write what they enjoy writing.

The Guns of Retribution is being published by Pulp Press who look both very exciting and very sure of what their niche is. What was the journey that ended up with you working with them?

Pulp Press actually contacted me. They were looking for more female writers, and they told me what they were after in terms of content. I took up the challenge and produced The Guns of Retribution. I had input from beta readers before I sent it over, and thankfully, Pulp Press liked it. I've been amazed at the quick turnaround from sending the manuscript at the start of April, to getting a finished paperback in my hands by the end of September, but such is the advantage of an independent publisher.

How are you going about publicising the book?

It's a combination of blog posts, interviews, garnering reviews and Twitter mentions, although I'm also holding a launch party in Newcastle upon Tyne on 20th October. My publisher is also doing a giveaway of the book, which you can find on Goodreads.

You're also in that small overlap of the venn diagram, publishing both electronically and print – which do you think we're going to see more of going forwards, print, electronic or an amalgamation of both?

Personally, I think the print market won't ever truly "die", since there will always be people who, for one reason or another, won't migrate to the new digital format. Until the new devices can catch up and produce reference books that are as easy to navigate as the paper version, I think a lot of non-fiction and reference will remain in print, as will children's books. However I do think fiction will see a massive upswing in electronic sales since it's just so convenient.

So how long have you been writing for? What got you started?

I've been writing for as long as I can remember, but I truly decided I wanted to be a writer after I showed an English teacher a short story I'd written, and she suggested I take the creative writing course my Sixth Form College was running as a nightclass. That was twelve years ago, but I would say that it was only within about the last five years that I knuckled down and started working on my weak spots.

And who or what are your biggest inspirations?

I've always been impressed with Neil Gaiman's approach to storytelling. Ever since I was little I've been a huge fan of Roald Dahl, and I love the way he can weave the fantastical and the macabre into something so entertaining. But aside from actual writers, I tend to get inspired by fairly peculiar things, as well as social history. For example, I was sat in the Old Operating Theatre in Southwark, listening to a talk about surgery in the early nineteenth century, and lo, I got the idea for a story. I think that, once you open yourself to the notion that ideas are everywhere, you start finding them. Or, rather, they start finding you.

You've had quite a number of short stories published on and offline – which is your preferred medium, flash fiction and short stories or novels/novellas?

Flash fiction is naturally easier to write for me because I'm not very good at "padding things out". I like how succinct a form flash fiction is. Then again, sometimes a story needs more space to breathe. I've actually written a couple of novels that are still in the editing stages but I prefer the novella form – they're short and snappy, so they're long enough to satisfy anyone who enjoys the universe that's been created, but they're not so long you've forgotten what happened at the beginning by the time you get to the end.

What would you say are the most important lessons you've learned since first picking up pen?

Writing is never "finished" because you've come to the end of a story – feedback and input from others is absolutely crucial to your development, and it's always wise to seek the advice and comments from other writers that you trust. I'd also say it's important to keep a tight rein on those adverbs, ditch the speech modifiers, and don't do info dumps of back story.

So once things have quietened down with Guns of Retribution, what's next on your agenda?

The sequel! I enjoy working with Grey, and I'm busy working on the outline for the next one. I've got vague ideas for a third one as well, but one thing at a time. It doesn't help that I just started studying for a teaching qualification, as well as doing a part time PhD, so I'll be a tad busy for a while.

Well that's us, thanks again for taking the time to share some of experiences and all the best with the novella!

Thanks again, and I hope the people who check out The Guns of Retribution enjoy it!

You can find out more about Icy at her blog: http://blog.icysedgwick.com/

Title image courtesy n0seblunt

[image error] [image error] [image error]

I'll Miss Her

[image error]

McAllister couldn't help but feel he was betraying the love of his life. He was giving up, throwing away any future they might have together because going on would be just too hard, too costly.

He thought of all the hours, the nights, they'd spent together, just him and her – the only one who really understood him. At work, around his friends, with the folks – he had to pretend to be something he wasn't. But when he was with her, he was free; there were no facades, no lies. Just the two of them against the world – a world she had shown him. Before she had come into his life, McAllister had barely been outside his home town. But together they had spread their wings, travelled and explored the world around them, claiming it as their own.

McAllister sighed. He could still feel her curves, her touch, her whisper. His hands would glide around her then grip her firmly but tenderly. She had a scent – hard to describe and would probably be impossible to recreate once they were parted.

"Trading her in for a younger model?" grinned the man across the desk.

McAllister scowled at the thought: "Just trading her in full stop I'm afraid."

"Credit crunch eh? Getting too expensive?"

"Yeah, I mean I've done a lot of reconstruction and upgrades on her over the years…"

"But rust wins out the end."

McAllister nodded, and slid the keys across the table to salesman. He turned to look out of the glass of the salesroom, past rows of younger models, at his beloved metallic-graphite Maserati.

"I'll miss you" he murmured.

"What was that?" asked the salesman, looking up from his forms.

"I said – I'll miss her."

Title image courtesy erix

[image error]

Introducing "The Thief of Sleep"

[image error]

Over the past few months I have been quietly wittering away on something. Well that something is now ready to unveil to the world. It's a book, a small collection of short stories entitled "The Thief of Sleep and Other Tales".

The eight stories are a combination of genres: supernatural, science fiction and thriller. Nearly all end with a twist. If you've enjoyed any of my previous work then this is going to be right up your street.

The book is now available from Amazon.co.uk for £2.50 and Amazon.com for $2.99. It'll be appearing on Smashwords and other electronic outlets shortly and I may arrange a small paperback run.

[image error]

I've attempted to produce as professional a product as possible. The stories are all of decent length, each investigating a different idea. I am extremely proud of all of them. The book has received numerous reviews and edits, both by myself, beta readers and a professional editor. The striking cover was created for by my friend Stuart McMorris, an artist and web designer by trade. The formatting and layout of the book has received almost as much effort as the writing, everything done by hand and tested on actual devices each time. It has been a labour of love but I like to think that the effort invested has really paid off.

So that's it – my first published book! Now that it's out there I'd be thrilled if people were to give it a read and if you enjoy it, please do let others know and maybe even stick a review on Amazon? Cheers!

[image error]

Interview with Brendan Gisby from McStorytellers

I recently got the opportunity to run some questions past Brendan Gisby. Brendan is a fellow Scot, fellow writer and founder of the rather wonderful McStorytellers. I spoke with him about his own writing, McStorytellers and the future of print and ebooks.

Hi Brendan, thanks for taking the time to speak with me.

I'm delighted to take the time, David. I just hope I can do justice to your questions.

So you're the founder of McStorytellers – for people not familiar with the site, can you sum it up in just three words? I'm kidding – use as many words as you like.

"Scottish-connected short stories" are the three words. But the longer version is: "McStorytellers showcases the work of short story writers who were born in Bonnie Scotland or have a strong Scottish connection."

What made you decide to start up McStorytellers?

Although I had penned the odd short story over the years, it was only in the last two or three years that I began to write them in earnest. Like the multitude of writers, I proceeded to submit them to literary magazines both in Britain and America, but my success rate with the submissions was absolutely dismal. Those places didn't seem to "get" the stories, to understand the "Scottishness" of them. So then I looked – long and hard – for suitable outlets for the stories in my home country and found practically nothing. It occurred to me that many other Scottish writers must have been experiencing the same frustrations. That's when I said to myself: Why not set up an outlet for yourself and those other frustrated writers, something with a distinctive Scots flavour? Hence, McStorytellers was born.

That was almost a year ago. Since then, the site has published nearly 200 stories by more than 30 writers, many of whom – like yourself, David – are regular contributors.

You get quite a variety of stories on the site, what have been some of your favourites or most memorable? They don't have to all be by me.

All of the stories – including yours, of course! – are good in their different ways. But two in particular stand out for me. Both are written by Glaswegian authors and are set in the East End of that City.

The first is called "Dread". It's so visceral, it'll make you breathless. You wouldn't think it was penned by someone who usually writes gentle poetry.

The other is called "Heedless". It's chockfull of wry West Coast humour and has a laugh-out-loud punch-line.

And where do you envisage, or hope, McStorytellers will go in the future?

I'd like the site's contributors and readers to continue to increase in the coming year. To help stimulate that growth, the next big step will be the publication of the first McStorytellers anthology. I'm still pondering on the selection process for the anthology: whether the "best" stories should be chosen by, say, a reader poll or by me as editor. If it's the latter, I'm pretty sure I'll be looking for work that is quintessentially Scottish. We'll see…

Do you think that in this modern age, there's a danger that Scottish writing will get lost on the global map or will it become more prominent?

I'm no expert, but I think it will perish if the writing continues to languish in the exclusive domain of what I can only describe as academic cliques. It needs to be made more public and populist, embracing the web, the blogosphere and Kindle, for example. Perhaps little places like McStorytellers can help to achieve that.

You've also published several books via the Kindle store, what made you decide to go down this route and how have you found it?

I have four books published by a couple of small, independent publishing houses: three by Black Leaf Publishing and the latest by Night Publishing. If anyone is interested, the details are on my author's website at http://the4bs.weebly.com.

All the books are available in both paperback and Kindle versions, but it's sales of the latter that are most prominent and therefore of most interest to me. In the last twelve months, the Kindle revolution has not just taken off; it has exploded!

So do you think the end of the printed book is on the cards, or can the traditional industry happily co-exist with eReaders?

I think the printed book will always exist, but it will be in an ever-shrinking and increasingly expensive market. Very soon, the ebook will dominate – and writers need to grasp that fact now.

Your next book centres on the very localised tradition of the South Queensferry "Burryman" – explain for us please what on earth this is all about and how it ties in with your novel.

In South Queensferry, where I was brought up, the Burryman parades through the town on one day every year. Although no-one really knows when or why it began, it's a tradition that's been observed for hundreds of years. Basically, it entails a sturdy, young man, who is covered from head to toe in jaggy burrs, being escorted through the streets by two attendants all day, while other helpers collect money from the locals.

Without giving too much away about my next novel, it imagines two rival Burrymen one year. Fuelled by religious bigotry and small-town tribalism, a war ensues. Appropriately enough, it's called "The Burrymen War". If anyone would like to read the first chapter as a taster, they can go to http://writercentral.spruz.com/pt/The-Burrymen-War/blog.htm.

How long have you been writing for? What got you started?

I think it began back in 1975, when I received a portable typewriter as a birthday or Christmas present. I churned out my first novel back then, a Cold War thriller. The manuscript lay gathering dust for over thirty years before it was published in 2009 as "The Olive Branch".

Finally, you've got a lot of writing experience and also get to read a range of other people's work – what would you say the most important lessons you've learned are?

I learned early on that, to be good, writing doesn't have to conform to rules. The more rules there are, the more formulaic and anodyne the writing. So-called writing experts who make up those rules, spouting arrogant claptrap, such as "adverbs are like weeds", should be shunned!

Thanks again Brendan and good luck with McStorytellers going forward.

Thank you, David. It's been a pleasure. As a final word, I'll leave you with the link to the McStorytellers submission page: http://mcstorytellers.weebly.com/submit.html.

Title image courtesy n0seblunt

[image error] [image error]

Bag ah Chips

[image error]

The following is a bit of an experiment – I wanted to try writing a story where all the characters speak exclusively in a thick, local dialect. The dialect is a combination of West Lothian (where I live) and nearby Glaswegian and probably hammed up more than is necessary. There's a good chance, a lot of this is going to sound like nonsense for which I apologise in advance. At the end I've put in a few explanations/translations.

Gaz squinted and gave himself a good scratch. The back of his throat was parched but still tasted of Special. What time was it? His belly gave a wee growl. Food o'clock he reckoned. After some foraging, he found the remote and turned on the telly. Eastenders was on. Winner, that meant the chippy'd be open.

Getting up, Gaz pulled on some bottoms and his trainers. At the front door he paused and shouted up the stairs "Here ma, am away up the shops fir a bag ah chips right. Ye wanin' anything?"

"No, am fine ta" she called back after a moment. She'd be on the computer. She was always on the computer.

"Oh hang on, actually wir needin' milk. Go an pick us up wan ah they wee cartons?"

"Righto, wan wi' the green tap aye?"

"Aye, that's right. Och – ah've no change the now, ah'll have tae owe ye."

"Aye, nae bother. Chero right."

Gaz was all set to push the door handle when his ma called again: "Actually, ye'd be as well gettin' some mair baccy fer yer Pupa. Jus' wan ah the wee bags like."

"Spose ah'll be ownin' him as well?"

"Aye, ye know whit he's like."

"Aye – ah do. Chero then!"

"Cheery!"

Finally out the door, Gaz walked straight into his little sister and a couple of her pals.

"Oh right Michelle."

"Hiya – where you aff tae? You headin' up the shops?"

"Aye, jus' fer a bag ah chips like."

"Go an get ees a skinny brew?"

"Get it yerself ya lazy, wee scag!"

"Oh mon, please!"

Gaz gave a deep sigh and shrugged. He couldn't go being too harsh in front of her pals else they'd start nipping him.

"Cheers Gaz! Ah'll owe ye right?" she called before disappearing back into the house.

Gaz grumbled to himself as he headed off along the road, repeating his growing list over in his head.

"Oi Brycey! Brycey! Aye ah thought that was you man. How ya doin?" called the young man approaching.

"Oh ah right Kev! Long time no see, long time no see" said Gaz.

Gaz and Kev had kicked about together, back in the day, got up to all sorts. Gaz hung about with a different crowd these days so the two hadn't seen each other for a few years. They stood and chatted for a bit, catching up.

"Right, well ah'd better shoot else she'll be moanin' at me when ah get in" said Kev after a bit. "Oh by the way, you mind wee Dugie?"

"That wee daftie? How could ah forget 'im?"

"Well he's only gettin' married in' he? Some bird he met at college, fit as nothin' like."

"Jeezo – wouldnae have thought aye?"

"Naw! We sent 'im a wee card, well she did anyways."

"Aye, ah should muybe do the same" said Gaz. "Ah'll get 'im somein' while ah'm up the shops."

"Right well see you round aye?" said Kev, heading off.

"Aye see ye 'bout!"

As Gaz continued on, he realised he didn't have Doogie's address to send the card to. He pulled out his mobile to text Kev and ask him, then remembered he was out of credit again. Great, something else he'd have to pick up.

* * *

Finally Gaz managed to sit himself back down on the sofa. He was bushed.

He'd got the milk no bother but the corner shop only had big bags of tobacco so he'd had to head down the other end of the road to get a cash machine. He'd topped his phone up at the post office and looked at their cards. They didn't have any decent wedding cards so he'd got a funny one instead. Then of course, he'd completely forgotten about stamps so had to go back in. He finally got the tobacco and Michelle's skinny brew. He hadn't been sure if she'd wanted a tin or a bottle, tins were cheaper though so that was what she was getting.

After all that he was knackered and headed home, glad to slump back into his seat.

He sat there for a moment.

His stomach rumbled.

"Aw pish!" Gaz bellowed, leaping back up from the sofa.

"Whit? Whit is it? Wha's the matter?" called Ma, coming clattering down the stairs.

"Ma bag ah chips! Ah never go' me bag ah chips!"

Some brief explanations:

Special = Tennent's Special, a slightly cheap and nasty, tinned Scottish ale

Pupa = Granddad

Skinny brew = The diet version of Irn-Bru, a Scottish brand of bright orange fizzy juice

You can probably use your imagination for the rest, but if not – fire away in the comments!

Title image courtesy jemstone

Disgusting Insects

This train is full of creeps, disgusting insects.

A gaggle of teens are cackling away at an irritating frequency, passing around a juice bottle no doubt topped up with whatever spirit they could sneak from their parents' collection.

There is a man, so obese that his gut hangs down past his groin, his legs spread wide to accommodate it. He dabs at his brow again and I can smell, almost taste, the sweat.

Behind him a businesswoman is on her mobile. I bet she's just come from a liquid lunch. As she speaks, one hand flings back and forth like a disobedient mannequin. The conversation is about sex with a married man, loud enough and graphic enough for the entire carriage to be unable to ignore.

A child begins to wail from its push chair and its mother responds by shouting at it to shut up already, resulting, obviously, in the converse.

The first thing I'm going to do when I get home is shower and lather myself till their stench is eradicated from my skin and my soul. Disgusting insects. I despise them all.

I'll spend the rest of the evening sitting in the dark and listening to some Wagner. It'll be the only way to feel untainted once more. Three more hours to go before that's even a possibility though.

I clear my throat then call: "Tickets please!"

Title image courtesy markhillary

[image error] [image error]

The Great Book Cover Quiz! – The Answers

Last week I laid down the challenge of correctly identifying 12 well known novels from their covers which had had both their title and author removed.

Today I present the answers along with the original, unaltered covers.

For each cover, award yourself one point if the got the author right and another point if you got the title. And if you got the bonus cover then that's one extra point for BOTH the author and the title.

(01)
Lord of the Flies – William Golding

(02)
The Crow Road – Iain Banks

(03)
I Am Legend – Richard Matheson

[image error]

(04)
The Book Thief – Markus Zusak

(05)
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory – Roald Dahl

(06)
The Colour of Magic – Terry Pratchett

(07)
The Great Gatsby – F Scott Fitzgerald

(08)
The Da Vinci Code – Dan Brown

(09)
Life of Pi – Yann Martel

(10)
One Day – David Nicholls

(11)
Animal Farm – George Orwell

[image error]

(12)
The Beach – Alex Garland

(Bonus)
The Hobbit – J R R Tolkein

[image error]

How did you do? Share your scores in the comments!

[image error] [image error] [image error]