Mark Wilson's Blog, page 15
September 8, 2012
Music and Stories
For me, music has been a constant soundtrack to my life. Key events, loved ones, hard times and great times all have a song or album as a soundtrack. Books and movies are no exception.
Little wonder that my own debut novel was so driven and influenced by the music pof the times it’s set in and passes through.
Here are the three songs I chose for each “Act” of the book and why:
In part one I quoted Huey Lewsi and the News “The power of love” :
“Make a bad one good.
Make a wrong one right.
The power of love will keep you home at night.”
Partly because I love the track but mostly because the era that part one of Bobby’s Boy is set in is encapsulated so well in the memories that this song envokes. All the good stuff and all the bad are brought to the fore of my mind’s eye in the openeing 5 seconds of this song. The quote also evokes the love I wanted Tommy to encounter and be changed by
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-NMph943tsw
The second act of the book was introduced with the quote
“Oh I would never give up and go home,
beaten and broken.
No, I don’t know who I am anymore,
But I’ll keep on chasing those rainbows.”
from “The Only Enemy that Ever Mattered” by the wonderful Hopeless Heroic. At this stage of the book, tommy was departing on the trip of his life, but he was every bit as much running from his past as he ws barrrelling towards his future.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eau7ojfX7_E
The last song I used was intended to show the wish to start all over again. Tommy’s been fantasising for so long, and he now lives in a world once more he wishes wasn’t real , but is. The video is a perfect fit also.
Coldplay – “The Scientist”
“Nobody said it was easy.
No-one ever said it would be this hard.
Oh, take me back to the start.”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EqWLpTKBFcU
Bobby’s Boy is on FREE PROMO until tomorrow
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Bobbys-Boy-ebook/dp/B007SGTHVC/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1347132445&sr=8-2
I
Filed under: books, life, literature, media, music, personal, popular culture, writing Tagged: Bobby's Boy, Books, Coldplay, debut novel, ebook, ebook promo, Hopeless Heroic, Huey Lewis, Kindle, kindle promo, Mark Wilson, music as inspiration, Paddy's Daddy, writing, writing advice, writing process
September 5, 2012
Nae’body’s Hero – Update
So far writing this book has been a very different experience to writing Bobby’s Boy. It was much easier having just one character’s point of view to convey.
It’s proving a challenge to effectively think like three different people; to enter the minds of my three main characters each of whom are so very different to each other and to me. So far it’s been fun stretching myself and my writing is most definitely improving with the new experience.
In many ways it’s much more fun being more than one person in type.
The main drawback at the moment is that I’m being sucked into the character’s minds a bit too much. I’m getting a bit obsessive and thinking constantly day and night about the story and the people and about moving both forward.
It’s a weird thing entering a fictional character’s mindset, thinking like they do, writing it down and then switching to two other people.
Kind of carrying three other people around in my head at the moment everywhere I go.
Good fun, despite the potential for split personality disorder.
So far I’ve introduced my three main characters and am now beginning to shape their personalities to prepare for and move them to where they meet.
Filed under: books, life, literature, media, personal, popular culture, writing Tagged: Books, Mark Wilson, novel in progress, writing process
August 29, 2012
New Party Frock for Bobby’s Boy
To celebrate its entry as a candidate for the Scottsih Book Trust’s new writer’s award I’ve given my debut novel a new cover and a new rock bottom price (for one month only) What d’you think?
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Bobbys-Boy-eb...
Filed under: books, literature, media, personal, popular culture, writing Tagged: Bobby's Boy, Book, book cover
August 23, 2012
Meet Kym Baker
My upcoming novel “Naebody’s Hero” is well under way so I thought I’d introduce you to one of my three main characters whose stories the book will tell. Here’s a short excerpt from My female agents’ introduction in Chapter 3. As always my character is named after or named by someone I know.
Kym Baker:
Kym is a badass and of my three main charaters is the one who is vital to moving the story forwards and the characters together. She’s a doer and a motivator. Thats why I named her after two of my favourite and newest friends who motivate me more than they know ith their support and encouragement.
Chapter Three
Kym
Kym took a deep, slow breath, the smoke from the last shot still stinging her nostrils. She looked down the sight, pictured his face, summoned the will and took the shot. Dead centre; head shot. Reloading the glock, she slid a fresh magazine calmly back into the handle and resumed firing stance. She’d been on the shooting range for three hours. Every shot was painful; each and every one a punishment for her as much as it was for the paper targets. She breathed. Her wrists and shoulders ached from the kick. Her eyes stung from the smoke despite the yellow safety glasses. Her soul ached for Scott.
She breathed in the noxious, burning fumes once more, using the sting to stoke her anger and bring the memories of him to the surface, allowing her once more to lift the dead weight of the glock, take careful aim and squeeze. Another head shot. She was sick of the gun. She was sick of the emptiness inside her. Year after year since all sense had left her world she had gritted her teeth and pushed on. One thing in mind; one goal; one target. Terrorists. Any and all, she detected them, investigated them and hunted them at the pleasure of the United States government as lead officer on the CTA.
Kym Baker had pursued, detected, arrested and killed more agents of terror (both foreign and domestic as the saying goes) in the last ten years than any other agent in the States. Ruthlessly and restlessly she’d dedicated her whole life and purpose to hunting and stopping those who threatened peoples’ peace. Barely sleeping four hours a day, Kym dedicated herself to becoming one of the country’s foremost experts in many types and sources of terrorist cells. Her knowledge and skills were unparalleled in the field. She was the only female agent to attain her current rank. She’d earned the right to lead her team, the relatively newly-formed Counter-Terror-Agency, but then she was more motivated than most. Losing your only child and husband to a terrorist’s bomb tends to focus a person.
“Still here Baker?”
Kym didn’t bother to lower her gun but looked over her shoulder long enough to nod an acknowledgement and throw a tight smile at Agent Foley who was, aside from her, the last person on the range. “Yeah.” she turned back, blew some stray hair from her eyes with an upward puff and re-aimed. Foley was a good guy and a very good agent, but she was too busy for his attempts at small-talk.
She thought of Scott and squeezed the trigger again, pushing her grief, her love and her hate through the barrel along with the bullet. Two more hours passed in this manner before, arms trembling, she reached for the handle to the exit and headed for a shower.
Nae’body’s Hero: Coming soon
Cover Image for Nae’body’s Hero
Filed under: life, literature, personal, popular culture, Uncategorized, writing Tagged: Bobby's Boy, Books, E-publishing, ebook, indie author, Mark Wilson, Nae'Body's Hero preview
August 2, 2012
Sneak Preview – Nae’body’s Hero
The following is a preview from the upcoming novel “Nae’body’s Hero”. Copyright Mark Wilson 2012:
Cover Image for Nae’body’s Hero
Book Description:
Rob Hamilton hails from Lanarkshire and from a messed up family. As a result, he has an unshakable sense of right and wrong and is low on self esteem. Rob also has some very special gifts. If he can stop hiding from them and get his life together he may just be the greatest hero the world will never know.
Arif Ali is a British medical student. Disillusioned with life in Britain he is now living and studying in Faisalabad, Pakistan. He and Rob will form an unlikely friendship that will change the course of history.
Annie is an American agent with an undisclosed agency. She could be the worst enemy the friends have or their greatest ally.
…………………
Prologue
The first time it happened I was seven years old. Obviously I knew it had to have been a dream but it really didn’t seem that way at the time. I’d woken in the middle of the night face pressed to a hard, cold surface instead of comfortably against my pillow. At first I assumed that I had fallen out of bed again and landed on my bedroom floor but the contact on my cheek was hard; too hard to be the blue carpet which covered my bedroom floor in those days.
As I slowly came to it dawned on me that the surface was pointed too. There were loads of wee dry, plaster-like prickles pressing into my face, into my whole body actually. It was artex, which made no sense at all. Only the ceiling was artexed. I opened my eyes to see white artex as the realisation hit me that I was pressed to the ceiling.
Realising where I was seemed to break the magic and I clattered heavily onto the blue of my bedroom carpet, grateful for its thickness.
“Robert. You’ve fallen out of bed again. Get back to sleep.” Dad roared from the next room.
I did so and quickly. I didn’t want to anger dad again. I’d been in enough trouble this week. I wasn’t really sure what we’d done but mum and dad had been really annoyed with my twin sister Claire and I repeatedly this last week or two and both seemed tense over something. It was very unlike either of them to be so easily annoyed and tetchy with us.
“Sorry dad.”
“Right Robert. Shush. Sleep.”
Dad was the only one who ever called me Robert and he had many different ways of saying, shouting, laughing or barking my name depending upon how much trouble I was in. When I was a wee boy my dad taught me a rhyme about my name that I’ve never forgot, mostly because it reminds me of him and makes me smile. He’d told me that it was about a boy called William but he thought that it fitted my name better. I could recite it back to him by the age of three, the two of us laughing together as I did so.
Father calls me Robert
Sister calls me Rob
Mother calls me Robbie
and the fellas call me Bob.
Dad has always called me Robert and I love that mum actually does call me Robbie (she pronounces it Rabbie) but nobody has ever called me Bob. Everyone else, including Claire, calls me Rob (or Rab).
Finally I did sleep once more, drifting off to the thought that it would’ve been really cool if that dream had been real and I really could fly up to the ceiling. That’d be crazy though. No-one can fly.
Chapter One
1983
Rob
Waking from a long deep sleep, with all the usual dreams sleep brought with it, Rob sat up in bed. Leaning back against the old headboard he rubbed his eyes and took in the room. Something seemed……off. Dressed in matching Y-fronts and vest (Spiderman) Rob stepped out of bed and pulled on some jogging bottoms. He took in his rooms’ contents, mentally noting various objects’ positions. Everything seemed fine, nothing out of place. Claire hadn’t been in overnight to cuddle up with him (a twins’ habit they had yet to break which had increased in regularity recently), all his things seemed to be where they belonged, but something just wasn’t how it should be. The house was just too quiet.
Checking his bedside clock Rob noted that it was eight am. Friday morning, mum and dad are normally getting ready for work and pulling us out of bed by now. Surely they haven’t slept in?
The previous night Rob’s parents had both seemed in good spirits. The whole family had watched a film together, chatting their way through most of it with nobody really all that interested in what was happening on the screen. Both mum and dad had tucked them into bed with lots of kisses, cuddles and “I love you-s” exchanged. It’d been great having them back to their old selves after so long of being so tense at home. I’d better go see where they are.
Rob creaked out onto the landing, walking slowly and deliberately just in case he’d been daft and gotten mixed up; maybe it was Saturday. There wasn’t a sound coming from anywhere in the little semi-detached family home. Continuing across the landing he slowly cracked open Claire’s bedroom door. Seeing his sister still asleep he resisted the urge to go wake her up by jumping on her just in case her screams woke their parents and quietly closed her door over. Rob made his way downstairs to the kitchen with some quiet time in mind before the usual burst of activity started.
On autopilot Rob loaded eight slices of bread into the massive family toaster, prepared four cups for hot drinks for everyone. Coffee with milk and two for both mum and dad, tea with one and milk for Claire and black coffee for himself. Wandering through to the downstairs hall, Rob picked up the Daily record which had been lying on the mat. Confirming from the front of the paper that it was indeed Friday and from his wee calculator- watch that it was now 8:15 he decided that he’d better rouse everyone before they lay in so long that they’d be late for work and school. The only sounds in the house were of his own footsteps bending the old stairs as he ascended causing them to creak and groan.
“Mum. Dad. It’s time to get up.” Tom knocked softly on his parents’ bedroom door. He waited a beat and knocked a bit harder.
“Time to get up”, he sing-songed cheerily.
Again nothing came back in reply. He pushed the door open to his parents’ room and to what would be a new beginning. They were both gone.
Rob Hamilton was just like any ten year old boy in Bellshill in the 80s. Football, Kim Wylde and Star Wars occupied his mind. A relentless ball of energy was how most of his friends would describe him. Playing football, rugby, hockey and attending scouts took up most of his time. That and hanging around down Strathclyde park with his friends. On the surface he seemed a happy and contented kid with not a care in the world, in many ways he was, but Rob Hamilton rarely felt that he fit in with the company he kept. Not with his friends (not since Tom left the town) and not in his own home.
He’d lived in the small town most of his life but was slowly becoming a more detached soul. Rob rarely felt part of what was happening around him and struggled to understand the people in his life. He just felt so different to them. He went through the motions. Joining teams, socialising, school and seemed to be thriving but in truth the only people he’d felt that he really had a place with, who he felt accepted and understood him were his best friend Tom and his sister Claire.
Tom Kinsella had been Rob’s best friend since they attended nursery together. The boys had been as close as brothers, at times even closer than Rob had been to his own twin. Spending long hours days and weeks roaming woodland, building dens and fires, and playing football had developed their friendship. All these things had brought them so close and of course the talking. They were always talking.
They spoke of their families, of where Tom’s dad would be taking him on some adventure always asking Rob along. Rob could confide in Tom, telling of his own parents’ increasingly detached behaviour these past few years. They told each other about their dreams for the future, about how Tom would be a musician, or a writer, or a fireman; maybe all three. Rob just wanted to see the world he didn’t care what job he did to pay for it. A part of Rob just wanted to find somewhere where he felt at home and Tom was the only person who not only understood his desire to roam, but seemed to share it. Both agreed that they would leave their hometown as soon as they were able and made a pact to do so together; to always be best friends. When Tom Kinsella’s father Bobby died and his best friend moved away, Rob was completely lost without him and turned to his sister more often.
Despite being his twin Claire was quite different to Rob. More outgoing, less introspective and much less inclined to be quite as moody as Rob had found himself becoming in the last two years. Claire was one of those people for whom life’s surprises were just another chance to try something new. Claire never flapped, stressed or worried she just went with life, happily taking what came her way and making new friends easily. She and Tom were very alike. The three of them were close and had always been.
They spent most of their time as a threesome chatting, swimming at Bellshill baths, walking down and around Strathclyde Park, sometimes going on the fairground rides or climbing the trees in the woods, but mostly they just talked and laughed. They had a secret place that they’d visit daily either alone or together. They did most of their talking there in a den made of old tree branches they’d made months before and filled with three old tyres for seating. It was in a small bit of woodland behind the butcher’s shop and they’d named it “BHQ” (B for butcher).
Tom, Rob and Claire had found the location for BHQ after following a horrific smell around the back of the shop and discovering a sheep’s head. The two boys had poked at it with sticks for a few minutes examining its face, lolling tongue, milky eyes and rancid, maggot-filled mouth. The thing had started to become putrid. Smelling strangely sweet it had attracted the boys in their morbid curiosity. Claire kept her distance, hugging herself in revulsion, but giving Rob and Tom time to satisfy their interest.
“Let’s go you two, that things’ boggin’.” The boys laughed but quickly moved to join her and walk home together. The next time they visited the sheep was gone but they discovered the location for BHQ and began its construction.
These days, with Tom gone, Claire never came near it she was too busy with her friends, only Rob sought a little solace in their den. The days the three of them spent wasting hours happily together felt like years ago to Rob now and as though they’d happened to another Rob Hamilton.
Rob was happy his sister was so engaged with the world and full of life. He assumed that this meant that she had escaped what he knew he’d inherited from his grandfather and he could feel becoming worse each night, with every surreal dream of events and incidents that couldn’t have happened but his apparently damaged wee brain was trying to convince him had.
The vast reserves of energy he possessed were a result of his not wanting to waste a minute of the time he had in life. He wanted to see as many places, meet as many people and engage in as broad a range of activities as he could before his mental capacity degraded as quickly and completely as he’d been told that his Granda’s had. As these episodes had started to happen in the daytime as well now, when he was wide awake, he knew that his mental health had taken a turn for the worse.
By the time Rob knew his granda the old man was in a residential hospital having long since lost all capacity for reason. As a younger man he’d apparently been huge “built like a brick shit house” his own dad had told Rob. Working as a steelworker, like so many local men, his Granda, at six foot nine inches, not an ounce of fat on him and a tea-total-ler, stuck out like a sore thumb in Lanarkshire the land of the ubiquitous five foot five male. Rob, even at only ten, had taken a stretch in height this past year and was already towering over most of his year group in school. He’d have been happy to have inherited only his build from the old man.
Granda Hamilton had suffered a series of mental breakdowns from his fifties onwards, hallucinating and fantasising events that Rob’s father had told him couldn’t possibly have occurred. Granda had deteriorated to the point where he couldn’t tell what was real from what wasn’t in five short years and been confined to a hospital for his own safety by Rob’s dad. The phrase bi-polar had been used in Rob’s house when discussing his granda.
With his granda always in his mind Rob had vowed to ignore the growing detachment he was feeling and follow his best friends and sisters’ example, throwing himself into as many friendships and experiences as he could regardless of how out of place he may feel.
After finding his parents’ room empty Rob searched the house. He searched every room, every cupboard, drawer, pantry, bathroom and the garden and its shed outside. Rob even clambered up into the small attic. Initially he was looking for his parents but when he decided that they weren’t there to be found he began looking for a note. He didn’t find his parents or a note explaining their absence.
All of their drawers and cupboards still contained all of their belongings. Jewellery and toiletries, shoes and coats, dad’s asthma inhaler, all of it was where it should be. The house was exactly as it had been the night before when they’d all went to bed enjoying the afterglow of a much needed family evening full of affection. Even the car was still outside. The only thing that was missing from the house was them.
They must have had an emergency or something. With no close relatives in the area (apart from their granda) Rob could think of no one to call. Figuring that all would be fine later in the day he woke Claire, explained that their parents had got up and gone out early to work and that they had to get ready and go to school. When the school day was over and the twins returned home the house still lay empty. It stayed that way for the next day and the day after that.
On Sunday evening Rob called the police. He and Claire left their little house on Liberty Road for the last time that evening. Claire holding a female police officer’s hand, crying for her mum and dad; Rob trailing behind, face of stone, completely certain (as only a child can be) that they had left because of him; because they knew like everyone else did that he wasn’t “right”. That he didn’t belong.
Chapter Two
Arif
Azam Ali hurried through the busy, familiar streets of Battersea, SW London, gently pushing past and apologising to other commuters in his thick London accent as he did so. Normally, on any other day Azam would happily wander along, content to be carried along with the flow of traffic, usually on the journey between his little newsagents and home, a little ground floor, two bedroom rental. Today however was a not a normal day for Azam.
Sure for millions of others it was just Sunday; just another Sunday in the last days of March. Sundays were for relaxing, for reading the papers (in his case selling them) and having Sunday roast. Most places were closed on a Sunday. Maybe it was special for some people, an anniversary, visiting family or church or whatever but really, what ever happened on a Sunday?
For Azam this Sunday was a very important day indeed and today he wasn’t walking the two blocks to his shop. Today he was taking public transport. Today, on a Sunday, the second generation of Ali to be born in England was on his way to meet his parents.
…………………………………….
Nae’body’s Hero will be published in December 2012.
In the meantime try Bobby’s Boy, Mark Wilson’s Debut novel where Rob makes a brief cameo. Available now as en Ebook or Paperback.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Bobbys-Boy-ebook/dp/B007SGTHVC/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1343918174&sr=8-1
Filed under: books, life, literature, media, popular culture, writing Tagged: Bobby's Boy, Books, E-publishing, ebook, indie author, Kindle, literature, Mark Wilson, Nae'Body's Hero preview, Paddy's Daddy, writing
Sneak Preview of Nae'body's Hero, my upcoming novel
Book Description:
Rob Hamilton hails from Lanarkshire and from a messed up family. As a result, he has an unshakable sense of right and wrong and is low on self esteem. Rob also has some very special gifts. If he can stop hiding from them and get his life together he may just be the greatest hero the world will never know.
Arif Ali is a British medical student. Disillusioned with life in Britain he is now living and studying in Faisalabad, Pakistan. He and Rob will form an unlikely friendship that will change the course of history.
Annie is an American agent with an undisclosed agency. She could be the worst enemy the friends have or their greatest ally.
.....................
Prologue
The first time it happened I was seven years old. Obviously I knew it had to have been a dream but it really didn’t seem that way at the time. I’d woken in the middle of the night face pressed to a hard, cold surface instead of comfortably against my pillow. At first I assumed that I had fallen out of bed again and landed on my bedroom floor but the contact on my cheek was hard; too hard to be the blue carpet which covered my bedroom floor in those days.
As I slowly came to it dawned on me that the surface was pointed too. There were loads of wee dry, plaster-like prickles pressing into my face, into my whole body actually. It was artex, which made no sense at all. Only the ceiling was artexed. I opened my eyes to see white artex as the realisation hit me that I was pressed to the ceiling.
Realising where I was seemed to break the magic and I clattered heavily onto the blue of my bedroom carpet, grateful for its thickness.
“Robert. You’ve fallen out of bed again. Get back to sleep.” Dad roared from the next room.
I did so and quickly. I didn’t want to anger dad again. I’d been in enough trouble this week. I wasn’t really sure what we’d done but mum and dad had been really annoyed with my twin sister Claire and I repeatedly this last week or two and both seemed tense over something. It was very unlike either of them to be so easily annoyed and tetchy with us.
“Sorry dad.”
“Right Robert. Shush. Sleep.”
Dad was the only one who ever called me Robert and he had many different ways of saying, shouting, laughing or barking my name depending upon how much trouble I was in. When I was a wee boy my dad taught me a rhyme about my name that I’ve never forgot, mostly because it reminds me of him and makes me smile. He’d told me that it was about a boy called William but he thought that it fitted my name better. I could recite it back to him by the age of three, the two of us laughing together as I did so.
Father calls me Robert
Sister calls me Rob
Mother calls me Robbie
and the fellas call me Bob.
Dad has always called me Robert and I love that mum actually does call me Robbie (she pronounces it Rabbie) but nobody has ever called me Bob. Everyone else, including Claire, calls me Rob (or Rab).
Finally I did sleep once more, drifting off to the thought that it would’ve been really cool if that dream had been real and I really could fly up to the ceiling. That’d be crazy though. No-one can fly.
Chapter One
1983
Rob
Waking from a long deep sleep, with all the usual dreams sleep brought with it, Rob sat up in bed. Leaning back against the old headboard he rubbed his eyes and took in the room. Something seemed……off. Dressed in matching Y-fronts and vest (Spiderman) Rob stepped out of bed and pulled on some jogging bottoms. He took in his rooms’ contents, mentally noting various objects’ positions. Everything seemed fine, nothing out of place. Claire hadn’t been in overnight to cuddle up with him (a twins’ habit they had yet to break which had increased in regularity recently), all his things seemed to be where they belonged, but something just wasn’t how it should be. The house was just too quiet.
Checking his bedside clock Rob noted that it was eight am. Friday morning, mum and dad are normally getting ready for work and pulling us out of bed by now. Surely they haven’t slept in?
The previous night Rob’s parents had both seemed in good spirits. The whole family had watched a film together, chatting their way through most of it with nobody really all that interested in what was happening on the screen. Both mum and dad had tucked them into bed with lots of kisses, cuddles and “I love you-s” exchanged. It’d been great having them back to their old selves after so long of being so tense at home. I’d better go see where they are.
Rob creaked out onto the landing, walking slowly and deliberately just in case he’d been daft and gotten mixed up; maybe it was Saturday. There wasn’t a sound coming from anywhere in the little semi-detached family home. Continuing across the landing he slowly cracked open Claire’s bedroom door. Seeing his sister still asleep he resisted the urge to go wake her up by jumping on her just in case her screams woke their parents and quietly closed her door over. Rob made his way downstairs to the kitchen with some quiet time in mind before the usual burst of activity started.
On autopilot Rob loaded eight slices of bread into the massive family toaster, prepared four cups for hot drinks for everyone. Coffee with milk and two for both mum and dad, tea with one and milk for Claire and black coffee for himself. Wandering through to the downstairs hall, Rob picked up the Daily record which had been lying on the mat. Confirming from the front of the paper that it was indeed Friday and from his wee calculator- watch that it was now 8:15 he decided that he’d better rouse everyone before they lay in so long that they’d be late for work and school. The only sounds in the house were of his own footsteps bending the old stairs as he ascended causing them to creak and groan.
“Mum. Dad. It’s time to get up.” Tom knocked softly on his parents’ bedroom door. He waited a beat and knocked a bit harder.
“Time to get up”, he sing-songed cheerily.
Again nothing came back in reply. He pushed the door open to his parents’ room and to what would be a new beginning. They were both gone.
Rob Hamilton was just like any ten year old boy in Bellshill in the 80s. Football, Kim Wylde and Star Wars occupied his mind. A relentless ball of energy was how most of his friends would describe him. Playing football, rugby, hockey and attending scouts took up most of his time. That and hanging around down Strathclyde park with his friends. On the surface he seemed a happy and contented kid with not a care in the world, in many ways he was, but Rob Hamilton rarely felt that he fit in with the company he kept. Not with his friends (not since Tom left the town) and not in his own home.
He’d lived in the small town most of his life but was slowly becoming a more detached soul. Rob rarely felt part of what was happening around him and struggled to understand the people in his life. He just felt so different to them. He went through the motions. Joining teams, socialising, school and seemed to be thriving but in truth the only people he’d felt that he really had a place with, who he felt accepted and understood him were his best friend Tom and his sister Claire.
Tom Kinsella had been Rob’s best friend since they attended nursery together. The boys had been as close as brothers, at times even closer than Rob had been to his own twin. Spending long hours days and weeks roaming woodland, building dens and fires, and playing football had developed their friendship. All these things had brought them so close and of course the talking. They were always talking.
They spoke of their families, of where Tom’s dad would be taking him on some adventure always asking Rob along. Rob could confide in Tom, telling of his own parents’ increasingly detached behaviour these past few years. They told each other about their dreams for the future, about how Tom would be a musician, or a writer, or a fireman; maybe all three. Rob just wanted to see the world he didn’t care what job he did to pay for it. A part of Rob just wanted to find somewhere where he felt at home and Tom was the only person who not only understood his desire to roam, but seemed to share it. Both agreed that they would leave their hometown as soon as they were able and made a pact to do so together; to always be best friends. When Tom Kinsella’s father Bobby died and his best friend moved away, Rob was completely lost without him and turned to his sister more often.
Despite being his twin Claire was quite different to Rob. More outgoing, less introspective and much less inclined to be quite as moody as Rob had found himself becoming in the last two years. Claire was one of those people for whom life’s surprises were just another chance to try something new. Claire never flapped, stressed or worried she just went with life, happily taking what came her way and making new friends easily. She and Tom were very alike. The three of them were close and had always been.
They spent most of their time as a threesome chatting, swimming at Bellshill baths, walking down and around Strathclyde Park, sometimes going on the fairground rides or climbing the trees in the woods, but mostly they just talked and laughed. They had a secret place that they’d visit daily either alone or together. They did most of their talking there in a den made of old tree branches they’d made months before and filled with three old tyres for seating. It was in a small bit of woodland behind the butcher’s shop and they’d named it “BHQ” (B for butcher).
Tom, Rob and Claire had found the location for BHQ after following a horrific smell around the back of the shop and discovering a sheep’s head. The two boys had poked at it with sticks for a few minutes examining its face, lolling tongue, milky eyes and rancid, maggot-filled mouth. The thing had started to become putrid. Smelling strangely sweet it had attracted the boys in their morbid curiosity. Claire kept her distance, hugging herself in revulsion, but giving Rob and Tom time to satisfy their interest.
“Let’s go you two, that things’ boggin’.” The boys laughed but quickly moved to join her and walk home together. The next time they visited the sheep was gone but they discovered the location for BHQ and began its construction.
These days, with Tom gone, Claire never came near it she was too busy with her friends, only Rob sought a little solace in their den. The days the three of them spent wasting hours happily together felt like years ago to Rob now and as though they’d happened to another Rob Hamilton.
Rob was happy his sister was so engaged with the world and full of life. He assumed that this meant that she had escaped what he knew he’d inherited from his grandfather and he could feel becoming worse each night, with every surreal dream of events and incidents that couldn’t have happened but his apparently damaged wee brain was trying to convince him had.
The vast reserves of energy he possessed were a result of his not wanting to waste a minute of the time he had in life. He wanted to see as many places, meet as many people and engage in as broad a range of activities as he could before his mental capacity degraded as quickly and completely as he’d been told that his Granda’s had. As these episodes had started to happen in the daytime as well now, when he was wide awake, he knew that his mental health had taken a turn for the worse.
By the time Rob knew his granda the old man was in a residential hospital having long since lost all capacity for reason. As a younger man he’d apparently been huge “built like a brick shit house” his own dad had told Rob. Working as a steelworker, like so many local men, his Granda, at six foot nine inches, not an ounce of fat on him and a tea-total-ler, stuck out like a sore thumb in Lanarkshire the land of the ubiquitous five foot five male. Rob, even at only ten, had taken a stretch in height this past year and was already towering over most of his year group in school. He’d have been happy to have inherited only his build from the old man.
Granda Hamilton had suffered a series of mental breakdowns from his fifties onwards, hallucinating and fantasising events that Rob’s father had told him couldn’t possibly have occurred. Granda had deteriorated to the point where he couldn’t tell what was real from what wasn’t in five short years and been confined to a hospital for his own safety by Rob’s dad. The phrase bi-polar had been used in Rob’s house when discussing his granda.
With his granda always in his mind Rob had vowed to ignore the growing detachment he was feeling and follow his best friends and sisters’ example, throwing himself into as many friendships and experiences as he could regardless of how out of place he may feel.
After finding his parents’ room empty Rob searched the house. He searched every room, every cupboard, drawer, pantry, bathroom and the garden and its shed outside. Rob even clambered up into the small attic. Initially he was looking for his parents but when he decided that they weren’t there to be found he began looking for a note. He didn’t find his parents or a note explaining their absence.
All of their drawers and cupboards still contained all of their belongings. Jewellery and toiletries, shoes and coats, dad’s asthma inhaler, all of it was where it should be. The house was exactly as it had been the night before when they’d all went to bed enjoying the afterglow of a much needed family evening full of affection. Even the car was still outside. The only thing that was missing from the house was them.
They must have had an emergency or something. With no close relatives in the area (apart from their granda) Rob could think of no one to call. Figuring that all would be fine later in the day he woke Claire, explained that their parents had got up and gone out early to work and that they had to get ready and go to school. When the school day was over and the twins returned home the house still lay empty. It stayed that way for the next day and the day after that.
On Sunday evening Rob called the police. He and Claire left their little house on Liberty Road for the last time that evening. Claire holding a female police officer’s hand, crying for her mum and dad; Rob trailing behind, face of stone, completely certain (as only a child can be) that they had left because of him; because they knew like everyone else did that he wasn’t “right”. That he didn’t belong.
Chapter Two
Arif
Azam Ali hurried through the busy, familiar streets of Battersea, SW London, gently pushing past and apologising to other commuters in his thick London accent as he did so. Normally, on any other day Azam would happily wander along, content to be carried along with the flow of traffic, usually on the journey between his little newsagents and home, a little ground floor, two bedroom rental. Today however was a not a normal day for Azam.
Sure for millions of others it was just Sunday; just another Sunday in the last days of March. Sundays were for relaxing, for reading the papers (in his case selling them) and having Sunday roast. Most places were closed on a Sunday. Maybe it was special for some people, an anniversary, visiting family or church or whatever but really, what ever happened on a Sunday?
For Azam this Sunday was a very important day indeed and today he wasn’t walking the two blocks to his shop. Today he was taking public transport. Today, on a Sunday, the second generation of Ali to be born in England was on his way to meet his parents.
...........................................
Nae'body's Hero will be published in December 2012.
In the meantime try Bobby's Boy, Mark Wilson's Debut novel where Rob meets a brief cameo. Available now as en Ebook or Paperback.
Bobby's Boy
July 21, 2012
Mr Fenis is Coming and He's Bringing Equality With Him.
We have the Scottish government humming and hawing over the issue of allowing gay marriages. They will eventually do so as its the right thing to do and an important step to true equality; they just need to pull their big brave boy pants up first and stop worrying about offending churches and denominational schools who can opt out just as they do now in say, teaching evolution or advising on contraception (in some cases).
We’ve also had Fifty Shades of Grey Kicking Fifty Shades Of Shite out of the literary sales records (as well as any notion of providing society with a truly strong or even likeable female role model). Rather we have a guide on how to be submissive and impressed by rich, controlling, rapey, creepy wee men under the guide of mummy porn.
If a daughter of mine had the misfortune to encounter and fall in love with a man like Grey under the tried and tested and failed mandate of “I’ll be the one to change him, he only kicks the shit out of me because he’s vulnerable and needs my love”; well let’s say the gentleman of such type courting my daughter would be a baw or two lighter than when he met her.
So what’s got my knickers in a twist today?
Mr Fenis.
Here we have (at last presumably) the great leap forward to make men and women truly equal at the urinal-face.
I was aghast at first upon spotting this appendage/contraption? but as I considered the benefits, I’ve come to welcome the Fenis.
With that in mind, and the assumption that open-plan unisex toilets will quickly become the norm, I’ve constructed a wee user’s cheat sheet to help our sisters to quickly acclimatise to the world of the stand-up pee and save them from any embarrassing faux pas in urinal etiquette:
1)Stand a few inches back from the urinal to avoid “splashback”.
2) If it helps build confidence play around with models of differencing length, shape, girth, colour or religious presentation until you find the Fenis for you. None of these things makes any difference to the peeing capabilities of your Fenis but comfort an confidence is important.
3) Its permissible to steal a glance at a neighbour’s Fenis, but be discreet and don’t stare if you prefer it to yours or if it looks odd. Smugness is allowed if you sport a superior model but covertly is best.
4) If all urinals and cubicles are occupied it is permissible to use the sink but only if the occasion is appropriate; ie, everyone has had a few drinks and nobody is using the sink to wash their hands.
5) Keep vigilant for sinks or urinals in which a desperate user has deposited a jobbie. Never pee without checking.
6) No matter how drunk you are never rest your Fenis on the rim of the urinal to go “hands free” for a wee rest. Picking others’ pubic hair from your Fenis will only confuse you in the morning.
7) Sharing bowls with a friend is fine, but never with a stranger.
8) Never ever cross the streams.
9) As a new Fenis user you will be tempted to enter into pissing contests with other users. Never compete unless you’ve practiced alone and gauged your areas of strength. Determine if you’re a height or distance competitor and choose opponents wisely based on your skill-set.
10) Do not fool yourself into thinking that you can compete with a male penis user. You simply cannot.
11) If you choose to decorate your Fenis do not overdo it. Less is more. There’s no need to coordinate your Fenis with your handbag and/or shoes.
12) if you enter a bathroom where there are three urinals empty, etiquette dictates that you choose the left or the right one. Never select the middle one, other users will judge you.
13) If you wake in the night for a pee be sure to check that your Fenis is not pointing at 90 degrees to your body of straight up. If you cannot get it to point down at the bowl, it is advisable to pee in the shower or bath. Rinse the tiles on completion.
14) Do not share Fenises. If you leave yours at home just sit down in the old style.
15) Nobody cares anymore if you leave the seat up.
16) enjoy your new Fenis.
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July 15, 2012
Book Review-Life is Local by Des McAnulty
It’s not often I finish one book from an author and delve straight into another ( the last time I did so was with Jonathan Mayberry’s wonderful Rot & Ruin books)’ but as I enjoyed Des’s Novella “STRAIGHT” so much, don’t mind risking being labelled a fanboy when the writing is this good, and had time on my hands I went in with hungry eyes (not the Patrck Swayze sort). .
Now I’m not suggesting that McAnulty is anywhere near as accomplished as Mayberry, but in formulating flawed, weak very human characters whom he allows to grow, fail and shine throughout the book, Des shares some of Mayberry’s skill.
Presenting us with complex (in other words true to life) characters whom we like, dislike, love, hate and pity; Des skillfully peels away at his characters, exposing unsuspected depths in each one. He gives each characters motives without judgement, merely explanation and leaves it to the reader to decide on the characters’ worth.
Stubbsy is a fine example. Part Begbie, part Juice Terry, part Sam from Quantum Leap and the most complex character in the book. It’s ultimate hero for me, and I’m hoping for some early tales of the big man in future.
Des writes in the Scottish tongue (first person), in the style of Welsh I suppose, but switched between a very Scottish narrative and a more toned down version as suits the characters’ mental state at the time of the narrative. I’ve never been a fan of this in books and much prefer when writers keep the accented or colloquial phrases to the dialogue rather than narrative, but it never did Irvine any harm and it doesn’t detract from Des’s excellent story either. Merely a personal preference on my part. I think that Des is still experimenting with his preferred narrative and look forward to seeing how his work evolves in the next book.
Des’s book is reflective of the culture it is set in (North Lanarkshire) in that it’s rough, coarse In places, unpolished, unpretentious and beautiful in its heart and soul. It seems that Des loves and loathes his native county and presents it’s ugliness and beauty in equally engaging doses.
I loved this book. A little polishing of its charming rough edges from an editor would quickly make a very good book into a potentially great book.
I’d recommend this book to anyone with a heart and a soul, this fine story will enrich both further.
July 12, 2012
Book Review- S.T.R.A.I.G.H.T by Des McAnulty
Des McAnulty has produced a rare treat with his Novella “Straight”. Scottish authors tend to fall into some pretty distinct categories. Either Irvine Welsh wannabe types or pseudo Brookmyre-ists with none of the wit, or talent of either. Not so in Des’s case.
Des manages to blend some entertaining and genuinely keen observational humour, in the mould of an early Billy Connelly sketch (full of inventive and insightful knowledge and love of his local people), with some relevant, modern and touching social issues. That he pulls this off without descending into rant or preach mode is to his credit and wouldn’t have happened at the hands of a lesser writer. This skill with “I’ll laugh even though I shouldn’t humour” and too-honest description and understanding of people’s behaviour and motives from a rookie writer can be seen in the books of John Niven, perhaps my all-time favourite Scottish writer.Des takes human weakness, pride, love, joy, failure and triumph and creates an alternative world that is at once darkly humorous, exciting, frightening, to be pitied and envied and is also utterly believable.
His characters are well defined and allowed to develop, but unhindered by a plodding back-story which can be too frequently employed by other writers to fill pages with superfluous information.
Rather than spinning and stretching his tale Des has told exactly the story he wanted to with the entertaining concept of reversal of the “norms” of sexuality and not a page to spare. This is a perfect story to have as a novella and a clever decision on McAnulty’s part.
Where other writers would have been tempted to force too many pages and produce a novel, Des has chosen instead to keep the story pacey, entertaining, and contemporary; page count be damned.
If I had to pick holes (and I am being picky) the book could do with spruce up in formatting (but that’s true of many Indie-published novels my own included before I learned how) and some editing assistance but this takes nothing away from a very funny, clever and engaging story from an author who I’m sure has much more to come.
I would certainly read more of Des’s work (already downloaded his full-length novel) and would recommend Straight to others.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/S-T-R-A-I-G-H...
Filed under: book review, literature, media, Reviews Tagged: Book review, ebook, indie author, Mark Wilson, straight, writing
July 2, 2012
Amazon: Field leveller or overlord?
Amazon kindle select has been a useful tool for me in my first few months in the indie-publishing world. But has now run it’s course in being helpful and turned the corner to become a hindrance.
For those who don’t know what select is, essentially it’s a 90 day programme that authors sign their books up for. We make our ebooks exclusive to Amazon and their lending service for Premium Amazon members. This means we cannot sell our ebook through any other outlet, including on our own websites.
In return we get 5 days of 90 in which we can offer the book as a free promo. This is really useful for getting the book linked to other books in the genre, getting on sales charts, and therefore more visibility, and getting readers who will hopefully review the book or try another title from the same author.
The usefulness of this free promo has recently been hobbled somewhat but as I don’t do algorithms and stuff you can find out how so elsewhere.
I’ve found the select programme useful up until now but things have happened that are making me remove my books from the programme.
I want to distribute my novel Bobby’s Boy elsewhere. Smashwords, apple, Barnes & noble etc. amazon will not let me do this while in select. I could live with that in the short-term, say 12 months or so, but Amazon have shifted the goalposts twice over in recent weeks.
Firstly they’ve prohibited soliciting readers for any author. Yep, we’re not allowed any promo anywhere on Amazon for our books or we get told to remove it or they’ll remove us. The books that make Amazon themselves money? Not helpful.
Secondly I get email after email from the masters telling me to make sure the content in my book belongs to me or they’ll pull it from sale. Essentially, because I promo excerpts from my books on my own blogsite and others (remember I can’t promo on Amazon) their net scanners/snoopers email me accusing me of putting stuff from the net in my book. “no it’s the other way round you clods”. Still I have to notify them of every site I post excerpts on to prove the book’s authenticity.
Whilst I greatly appreciate the forum and outlet that amazon gives authors I hate being monitored in this way.
Thirdly, reviews from professional reviewing websites are now being prohibited on Amazon. Friends and family in unlimited numbers can post as many reviews as they like, but genuinely impartial reviewers are being blocked as they are “professionals”.
Lastly: I recently secured a deal to distribute my novel in every library in North Lanarkshire (and the possibility of uk-wide distribution). A deal like this is huge for an indie-author but contravenes the Kindle Select agreement even though the books will be distributed for free by the libraries.
I want as many people as possible to read my books and a free outlet by the libraries is ideal.
So bye kindle select.
Filed under: book review, books, literature, media, popular culture, Reviews, writing Tagged: amazon, indie publishers, KDP, kindle select
