Lance Greenfield's Blog, page 82

Recent decline in fortune – but still boasting a proud record

On a recent trip to Barcelona, with the European Championship Final just imminent, I was telling one of my local friends about the Scottish football team that I have supported for the past 47 years. Dundee United, The Tangerines, The Terrors….

Although they play in terrific tangerine and black now, it hasn’t always been so. When I started supporting them they played in black and white. Really! And before you ask, it wasn’t my television. I was watching them live at Tannadice Park.

Despite some really terrible results in recent times, mainly because the club doesn’t have the money to keep up with the top British and European teams, we have a very proud record.

We are the ONLY British football team who has a 100% record against Barcelona in all European competitions. We have won every match that we played against them, home and away. Nobody else in these islands can boast that record.

And, to prove it, here is an extract from Wikipedia, so it must be true!

Dundee United F.C.

Lance has this as a tattoo on his left arm

Dundee United Football Club is a Scottish professional football club located in the city of Dundee. Formed in 1909, originally as Dundee Hibernian, the club changed to the present name in 1923.[3] United are nicknamed The Terrors or The Tangerines and the supporters are known as Arabs.

The club has played in tangerine kits since the 1960s and have played at the present ground, Tannadice Park, since their foundation in 1909. United were founder members of the Scottish Premier League (SPL) in 1998 and were ever-present in the competition until it was abolished in 2013 to make way for the new Scottish Premiership which is the top division of the current SPFL structure.

Domestically, the club has won the Scottish Premier Division on one occasion (1982–83), the Scottish Cup twice (1994 and 2010) and the Scottish League Cup twice (1979 & 1980). United appeared in European competition for the first time in the 1966–67 season, going on to appear in Europe in 14 successive seasons from 1976. They also reached the European Cup semi-finals in 1984 and the UEFA Cup final in 1987. The club has a 100% record in four matches against Barcelona in competitive European ties.

Hong Kong: Day 23 (cont’d)

Lance Greenfield:

Brings back many memories of HK in the early seventies. I can tell you that it was the BEST place for an eighteen year old to be living at that time.

Footnote: Stanley was mainly the prison and dwellings for the prison officers and their families back then. 

Originally posted on How the Cookie Crumbles:

Sue and I headed for the bus parked almost in front of a Seven-Eleven Variety Store. We decided, as did the rest of our group, to buy water. A cashier managed to keep up with the brisk business, while another worker (or owner) kept an eye on the crowd. The store appeared to stock anything you can imagine.

Soon, almost everyone took his or her seat but someone was still missing. Hurry up and wait as the saying goes. We did wait. And wait. And wait. No explanations were given, at least not to the English Group 8. Finally, the French crowd cheered and the last couple hopped on, to loud and boisterous guffaws. The story: the husband, goofing around—whether on purpose or by accident—sent his wife into the water and of course, she was soaked through. The bus couldn’t turn back to the hotel just for her. Would you…

View original 450 more words

Review: May Contain Traces of Magic

May Contain Traces of Magic by Tom Holt

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

OMG!

If I was inclined to say “Oh my God!”, which I am not, I would have said it over a hundred times whilst reading this book.

The story is about Chris, a salesman of magical good such as fold-away parking spaces and instant water. From the moment that he walks into the shop of one of his clients and finds the shopkeeper lying on the floor with his head mostly hacked off by a horrible demon, who is still scarily present and sitting on the top shelf observing Chris, his life falls to pieces. He has no idea who he can trust, whether they be human beings or magical beings.

Transdimensional travel is commonplace, which complicates matters enormously, and confuses Chris at every turn, even when guided by the imp in his mysterious magical SatNav.

To cap it all, his girlfriend, Karen, is hardly speaking to him and he is lumbered with a freshly graduated, objectionable apprentice, Angela, for his sales rounds.

There is so much imaginative creativity in this story, that you can’t help but enjoy it. Watch out for subtle little twists, like the reference to the copra mines of Kiribati. There is always loads of copra falling with the coconuts onto the beaches of Kiribati, but I have never heard of it being mined before!

Read it and you will have a lot of fun.

View all my reviews

June’s Epitaph

I am spending a few days bringing some of my “Titbits” blog posts to the fore, as my more recent followers may not have dived into that section. Here’s the sixth…

My mother, June, was a professional musician who eventually settled down in Perth, where she had spent much of her childhood. She taught piano from beginner level to the very highest level. She also taught singing and elocution.

Unfortunately, she died in February 1999, only eight weeks after being diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. During her illness she and we were helped a lot by the MacMillan nurses.

I miss my Mum enormously.

I wrote her epitaph in the small hours of the morning after her death, having lain awake all night thinking about her. These are my feelings from the heart at the time of her death. I saw no reason to add, or change, anything between that time and the moment that I read these words immediately after the funeral service.

Our Mum was just beautiful!

Few of today’s models have beauty which is much more than make-up deep, and, in my eyes, they would find it hard to compete with Mum in her hey day. Her beauty shone through, once more, as she smiled and said “Bye-bye” and “Love ooh!” to Kim and me before she gracefully slipped away, last Tuesday, to join her “Preshie”, Ken.

Apart from her beauty, Mum had many other attributes which we can all attest to. If I were to give examples of them all, we’d be here for quite a while; so I won’t. However, I would like to speak about two of them.

The first is her wicked sense of humour. She liked a good laugh. She liked to have fun, and to be instrumental in other peoples’ fun. Para Handy’s boat, the “Vital Spark”, could have been named after Mum!

The first is her wicked sense of humour. She liked a good laugh. She liked to have fun, and to be instrumental in other peoples’ fun. Para Handy’s boat, the “Vital Spark”, could have been named after Mum!

As Kim and I sat with Mum last Tuesday morning at Peacehaven, a fishing boat, chugging up the Firth of Forth, reminded me of one of Mum’s favourite stories. I’m sure that a lot of you have heard it, but I make no apologies for repeating it today.

About thirty years ago, Mum went fishing in Ireland with Nancy. There were lots of funny anecdotes which came out of that holiday, but this is Mum’s favourite. One day, they went out in a small boat which was owned by a man commonly known as “Billy de Boat”. There may have been a bit of exaggeration in the relating of this story to me, but, to Mum, who could not swim a stroke at the time, the boat seemed much smaller than the dolphins which were playing in the water around it. Mum was worried that their games would lead to the capsize of the boat and, thence, to certain drowning. There didn’t seem to be any safety measures on board.

Eventually, she just had to ask, “Billy? I can’t swim. What should I do if these dolphins turn the boat over?”

Quick as a flash, Billy replied, “Well, you should take a deep breath, sink to de bottom, and run loik hell for de shore!”

When all on board had recovered from their laughter, Mum thought she would catch Billy out by asking, “When I get to the bottom, how would I know which way the shore is?”

Billy looked at Mum incredulously, as if she were daft, and told her that “The shore would be up de hill!”

Other attributes of Mum’s included courage, determination, honesty, firmness, sense of fun, will-power, a natural teaching ability, and undoubted musical and theatrical talent. I’m sure that you could list me many more.

The second attribute that I’d like to talk about is her strong will. This manifested itself in many ways.

On a light note, Mum firmly believed that she could will rugby teams to make mistakes which would lead to their defeat. She would particularly try to make this work on teams playing against Scotland. It is up to us how much of this we believe. It has to be said that she hasn’t been too good at imposing this will in recent years! However, on the Saturday before last, I watched the two home internationals with Mum. She wanted Ireland and Scotland to win their matches against France and Wales respectively. She went to sleep when Ireland were winning 9-7, and woke up again when Scotland and Wales were drawing about half way through the second half of their match. Ireland lost by a point, and the Welsh defence fell apart to allow Scotland to win in style. Maybe there was something in it?

Most commonly, Mum’s will-power came through as the way that she pressed others to do exactly as she wished. Some would call this pushiness, or even go as far as calling it bullying. It may surprise you to hear that I would agree with those opinions. Sometimes, it was downright unpleasant to witness this bullying, which was often directed at those who were closest to her. However, I wish to remind you of only the positive aspects of this bullying.

Many of us were pushed and inspired to do much better than we otherwise would have done, had we not been bullied by Mum. I am immensely proud that my sister, who, with the aid of her husband, runs a residential home which has one of the best reputations in Fife. That is not just my opinion, but the opinion of many good, independent sources that I have spoken with recently. Without Mum’s pushing, early in life, I’ve no doubt that her work would still have been good, but would it have been this good?

I can’t say that I’ve done as well as my sister in life, but I’d like to think that I’ve done quite well; thanks, in no small way, to being pushed, early on, by Mum.

To Mum’s chagrin, I never progressed past grade three in any of the ten instruments that I took up. Kim was equally unsuccessful with her music. Happily, those talents have skipped a generation, and abound, for all of us to see and hear, in my sister’s children.

However, there are so many musicians and, to a lesser degree, actors, around who owe so much of their success to my mother. Without her pushing, her bullying, and her inspiration, they would have been merely “quite good”. Her input has made them believe, and become, much better than they would otherwise have been. Even those of her pupils, friends, relations and colleagues who did not pursue their musical or drama careers, were inspired.

Mum has left her suffering behind now, but I hope that she has left pieces of herself in many of those of us present today, and others who are not, and that these pieces will grow and blossom through the achievements of all of us.

If you want to read the poem that I wrote at the time, here’s the link to Gone! I may post this again tomorrow.

Thanks – Rock On

Lance Greenfield:

Wow! This feels personal to me. It hit home. I have my personal rock. I think everyone does. My wish is that we all find ours.

Originally posted on Deanne's World:

One word

Few letters

Placed side by side

Sometimes is worth

A thousand–I Love You

It means so much

Yet cost so little

Still some find it

Hard to say

To the rocks I say thanks

For you kept me afloat

When muddy water tried

To pull me under

You would not move

I held on to you

For dear life

And you understood

I needed you

Some may think

You’re just a rock

But you live and breathe

You understand

When all seem lost

You’ll need a grip

Something solid

To hold on to

While so very quiet

It hears every word

Yet do not judge

A single one

My prayer for the distress

Is that you find a rock

And keep it close

So when you’re

Feeling down or

On shaky ground

You will have

Something solid

To hold on to…

Peace, love and happiness

Thanks and Rock…

View original 1 more word

Review: Birdsong

Birdsong by Sebastian Faulks

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

It’s as if the author is writing from personal experience.

The way that the characters and the atmosphere are built by Sebastian Faulks is just amazing! The reader is taken in to that atmosphere, and shares the feelings of the main character, Stephen. You cannot fail to be totally captivated.

Anyone who has served for any significant period in the Armed Forces will instantly relate to the use of black humour to cover the awful reality and horror. Faulks also manages to reflect on how every aspect of life continues, perhaps in the background, as the war goes on. There is a strong and emotive love story. There is a very powerful understanding of the futility of war and its effects on everyone involved, regardless of national allegiance. One of the most poignant parts of the book, for me, is the description of the feelings of the sappers as they tunnel deep below the battlefield, knowing that their counterparts are experiencing the same hopes and fears, only feet away through the awful mud and darkness. Death is never more than a split second away.

Note: It makes it even more personal to me as I was in the Royal Engineers (Sappers) during my military career. I’m happy to report, though, that I never had to get involved in the activity of sapping, or tunnelling.

Having had the privilege of sitting with Somme veterans, listening to their vivid memories of the trenches and the contacts, and those friends who lost their lives, I can say, with great confidence, that the superb writing of Birdsong takes us as close to being there as is possible.

A scene which, some may say, in the greater scheme of the whole book pales into insignificance but is still very well worth mentioning, is the extremely erotic, yet tastefully presented, first sexual encounter between Stephen and Isabelle, which occurs early on in the story. There are other encounters throughout the book, but I found this to be one of the most sexually arousing pieces of writing that I have ever read. It omits just the right amount of detail to allow the reader’s imagination to run riot. Amazing!

Every emotion is touched during the reading of this book.

The title is evocative. I found several reasons to entitle the book this way, not least Stephen’s declaration regarding his feelings about birds and the reasons behind those feelings. When you read the book, keep the title in your mind. Seeking the meaning adds an extra dimension to your reading.

It is a shame that it is not possible to award six stars to any book that I review, for Birdsong would surely deserve such an award. This one definitely makes it into my lifetime favourite five.

I would have no hesitation in recommending Birdsong to absolutely anyone, but most especially to any politician who is thinking about sending young people to their deaths in war.

Footnote: I was surprised that The Magic Mountain by Thomas Mann featured in Sebastian Faulks’s top one hundred books. It sits right at the opposite end of the gripping to boring spectrum of reading to this magnificent work: Birdsong is gripping.

View all my reviews

Confessions of a Virgin Candidate

I am spending a few days bringing some of my “Titbits” blog posts to the fore, as my more recent followers may not have dived into that section. Here’s the fifth…

Local elections: The confessions of a virgin candidate

On the 25th of February 2003, I was having another quiet night in. There hadn’t been much variation in my way of spending an evening since being made redundant during the previous April. The phone rang. Val Menzies, of the Andover Liberal Democrats, wanted to know if I would be willing to stand as a “paper candidate” in the forthcoming local elections. I had previously refused but, this time, I reluctantly agreed.

Half an hour later I had mulled over my decision and realised that I had made a mistake. I knew that Val would still be in the meeting, so I emailed her to tell her that, “if I do something, I do it with full commitment or not at all.” I would stand and I would conduct a campaign, even if it had to be “a one-man, single-leaflet campaign.”

And that was the way it turned out to be.

My first job was to put together my promotion leaflet. I’d already gained a lot of experience at this in my last job and whilst trying to promote the two companies that I’d founded when I’d been made redundant. The inside of my tri-fold leaflet was easily filled with the Liberal Democrats’ local government manifesto, so I was left with three columns to fill.

Initially, I decided on the top three issues that would appear on the cover of my leaflet but I soon narrowed that down to two: Affordable Housing and the remedying of Flood Damage. Maybe I was just lucky, or maybe my judgement is better than I’d thought, but I later discovered, on the doorsteps, that these were the two hottest local issues in the Penton Bellinger ward.

Having finalised my design, I passed it out to fellow activists for comment. It was at that point that I was made aware of my first possible infringement of the rules. One must include the imprint, “Produced, printed and promoted by …” on all promotional material. I was pleased that this had been brought to my attention before I had distributed any leaflets.

Before the time had come to start distributing, I had been for my first interview in almost a year and had been successful. The new job was to start immediately, in Northampton, ninety-two miles from my home. Whilst a feeling of relief at securing a regular income swept over me, I realised that the new job was going to consume a large chunk of the time available for my campaign. I was right. Election day came far too soon and I had only managed to reach two-thirds of the households in my ward. It was hard work!

At one of the regular, monthly meetings of the local branch of the Liberal Democrats we had been given Party posters of all shapes and sizes. I’d also produced a personal poster on gold paper encouraging folks to put an ‘X’ next to my name on 1st May 2003. My own house and car became smothered in them, as did those of my friends and neighbours.

Enthusiastically, I set off around my village of Weyhill, decorating telegraph poles and the backs of road-signs with my posters. Imagine how furious I was to find that, within twenty-four hours, they had all been ripped down! I dashed off an angry email about this “disgraceful behaviour” to my local paper, the Andover Advertiser, with copies to some of my fellow activists. Within minutes I had a reply from one of the experienced Councillors on the team advising me that what I had done was fly posting and was illegal. The anger that I had felt towards the person who had torn down my posters quickly turned to gratitude as I realised that they had saved me the effort of removing them myself. I took the precaution of emailing the Andover Advertiser to withdraw my previous missive. We must all learn by our mistakes.

Speaking to people in their gardens and on their doorsteps was the most interesting part of the whole campaigning experience. I was pleasantly surprised that there were only three electors who were openly hostile to the point of being downright rude to me. Mostly I was treated with respect and enjoyed some very lively discussions.

The most prevalent of the issues that were raised were affordable housing, flooding, education, diversion of funding to other regions and, occasionally, immigration and asylum-seekers.

Of the three electors who were rude to me, two told me that they thought the Liberal Democrat policies were “jolly awful” or words to that effect! When I asked which particular Lib Dem policies upset them, the first said, “All of them.” The other two told me that our “approach to Yerp” could only lead to trouble for all of us. Unfortunately, even I can’t change all our policies and I’m still not sure what “Yerp” is.

The day of the election arrived. I rose at five and set off for work, arriving not long after seven. This enabled me to leave early, giving me time to pick up my wife from work in the centre of Andover, to go to the polling station in Clanville to vote, then to tour all seven polling stations in my ward to get some feel for the state of play.

When I met my wife, Joy, outside the shop that employs her, an incident occurred that reminded me of the importance of voting. As we crossed the street, somebody who was obviously trying to emulate Michael Schumacher, raced past, narrowly missing us.

“I hope that whoever makes it onto the new Council continues to support the improvement of the High Street,” said Joy. “At least it will be safer.”

“Vote for me, darling, and I promise that I’ll push to complete that development,” I vowed.

Whether I was elected or not, it showed me that there are issues that are really important to local people and that they should challenge the candidates to represent them on those issues, then vote for the person who builds their confidence the most.

When we arrived at Clanville Village Hall, the officers told us that it looked as if the turnout was heading for around 25%.

Having dropped Joy off at home, I set off to visit the remaining six polling stations. Penton Mewsey, homeland of our MP, Sir George Young, reported a similar turnout to Clanville. At the next station, Appleshaw, I ran into my two Conservative opponents. It was the first time that I had met them and we had a very cordial discussion. The three of us then proceeded, in convoy, to Fyfield. The turnout here had been stronger. This was where we parted. My new friends had completed their visits.

I moved on to Kimpton, where I met my other opponent, representing the UKIP. He was also most civil with me. After a fascinating conversation with him, I only just managed to take in the remaining stations at Shipton Bellinger and Thruxton before the polls closed at nine o’clock.

With time only for a swift supper at home, I was off to the count in the Sports Hall in Andover. I had no idea what to expect. I have, of course, seen electoral declarations on television, but I had never attended a count. Counting ballot papers, when there is only one vote on each paper, is a fairly simple process. Watching the skilled and diligent counters examine hundreds of ballot papers with two or three legitimate votes on each was very intriguing. It also reinforced my view that the sooner that modern technology is employed in the electoral process, the better.

Eventually, results started to be declared. The excitement mounted. Some of my supporters gathered, with me, around the tables where my votes were being counted. I was thrilled to see how many people had voted for me. I hoped that they had all voted for me because they really believed that I would work hard for them and for their issues.

By half-past-eleven the votes for the Penton Bellinger ward had been amassed and the Returning Officer called for the candidates and their agents to converge on him. The result was a little disappointing for me. I had come third in a ward where only two would be elected. I shook hands with all my opponents, the winners and the loser and was pleased that the friendly atmosphere prevailed.

In fact, the whole evening was conducted in a most genial manner. Most of the candidates and their supporters chatted about how their campaigns had gone and what they thought the future would hold. It was good to see the Member of Parliament and the candidates for the next general election there too.

As the evening drew to a close, things turned nasty! In the St Mary’s ward, where three candidates were to be elected, the first two places clearly went to two of the Liberal Democrats. The third appeared to have been won, by a single vote, by a Conservative candidate from the third Lib Dem. There was one doubtful ballot paper, which, in the event of a tie, looked like being counted for the Conservative. A recount was inevitable.

It soon became apparent that, in the St Mary’s ward, a bundle (20 papers) of Liberal Democrat votes had, mistakenly, been added to the Conservative pile. The transference of this bundle to the correct pile took the Lib Dem candidate to a 38-vote victory. Of course, the Conservatives demanded another recount. This was questioned, with such a margin, by some of the experienced Lib Dems. The Returning Officer was immaculate. “It is quite within their rights to ask for another recount,” he said.

Again, the result was a 38-vote Lib Dem victory. The counters were sent home.

The agent of the defeated candidate turned red, then blue. “Count again!” he demanded.

The Returning Officer remained incredibly cool. “The mistake was ours,” he declared. “We admit it and apologise for it. However, the two candidates involved are both new to the process and I don’t want either of them to leave this hall tonight thinking that anything was amiss. I don’t want to be accused, at some later date, of a sleight-of-hand.”

“Nobody has accused you of any such thing!” exclaimed the Conservative agent, loudly.

“Sorry. Those were my words, not yours,” responded the officer.

“Withdraw them!” demanded the agent.

“Give me strength!” exclaimed a Lib Dem supporter.

“Beam me up, Scotty!” thought I.

So the retiring Chief Executive of Test Valley Borough Council, exercising the patience of Job, had his officers recount the votes, for a third time, in front of the candidates, at almost two in the morning.

The result, once more, was a 38-vote win for the Lib Dem.

Although the Conservatives had, long before, won overall control of the Council, they could not accept defeat in this single remaining seat. They took it very badly and stormed out of the hall without a word or a handshake for our bemused victor. I have to admit that I was extremely shocked by this discourteous and ungracious behaviour. After all the goodwill of the rest of the evening, it left me reeling.

The whole experience, however, was thoroughly worthwhile, even though it was exhausting.

Would I stand again? My answer at the end of the evening would have been the same as it was after my first marathon in 1991: “Definitely not!” However, on reflection, despite the lingering bitter taste that the shenanigans towards the end have left in my mouth, I think that I could be persuaded.

In the meantime, I shall put all of my efforts into supporting Martin Tod in his quest to replace Sir George Young as the Member of Parliament for North West Hampshire. Given the current state of the two main parties and on the back of the recent local campaigning, I am tremendously optimistic that Martin will succeed.

Footnote

Martin did not get elected. But then they’d vote in a donkey around here if somebody put a blue rosette on it!

What NOT to say to a literary agent

Originally posted on A Writer’s Path:

JUNE 10, 2015 THERYANLANZ 7 COMMENTS

Recently, I attended a lecture hosted by GLAWS, and the guest speaker for the day was literary agent Steve Hutson. I’m sure you can guess the focus of the event.

What NOT to Say to a Literary Agent (or Editor)

I like attending events such as this because on top of the joy of meeting new writers, it’s always nice to hear advice directly from the pros–the ones who actually do this for a living.

Here are some takeaways from the event that I’d like to share with you. Some of these I’d consider obvious–like don’t pitch a book to an agent in the bathroom, or don’t tell them your mother loved it. But some of these might not be so obvious, or maybe you hadn’t thought about it in the agent’s/editor’s perspective before.

Either way, I want you to have the tools to succeed.

When we talk about editors here, it means acquisition editors in a publishing house, not a freelancer editor (aka moi).

The DON’Ts:

Don’t say your book is the next best seller.

Don’t be informal. Address the agent by name in your query (or in person). This means DO NOT send a mass email to a hundred agents and editors.

Don’t pitch a book in a genre the agent doesn’t accept.

Don’t say, “My book is for everyone.” That’s just not possible. No book is for everyone. Think about the audience that would actually want to read your book. Feel free to include that in your query–such as my book is for teenage boys in small towns.

Don’t ask an agent/editor to sign a NDA. It doesn’t benefit them to steal your idea. What are they going to do with it? They need the writers so they can sell the story. And agents will not go through extra hoops to read your work. They have hundreds, even thousands, of submissions to look through.

Don’t say your manuscript is X pages. Page total doesn’t help because formatting, font, spacing, etc. can affect the page length. DO share the word count.

*60-80k words is the ideal word count [for most genres]. Some agents will not look at an MS above or below this count. For example, a 105k-word MS is too high, and the reasoning is because it’s too expensive to produce a book of that length. Consider the editors, formatting, book production, printing, and more that goes into the book.

Don’t start your query with a question. This has become too commonplace and too cutesy. Agents just want to get right into the meat of your work, not futz around trying to be clever.

Don’t say how many books you’ve self-published. Unless you’ve SOLD over 5k for one book, how many books you’ve published before does not matter to an agent.

*97% of self-publish books sell less than 100 copies.

Don’t write your query in the character’s POV. This is something agents have recently stated they are not into. However, you DO want to show your character has a unique voice.

Don’t say your book is completely original and unlike anything else.No one’s book is 100% unlike anything else; even Shakespeare’s work is a version of the same stories told time and time again.

Don’t say you are the next “so and so”. Let the agent decide how to place your book when selling to an editor.

Don’t say you can get X celebrity endorsements that are clearly out of reach. That is a wish list. If you can get an endorsement from a celeb or someone important in your field/genre, state enough to show it’s actually obtainable.

The DOs:

Do get a professional critique–at least three passes is what agent Steve Hutson recommends.

*Keep in mind an agent’s goal is to sell your book. When they read a submission, they are already trying to think of editors at X houses that would be interested. If an agent sees a book needs a lot of work, they can’t afford to spend the time working with you to make it better. Remember, they only make money when your book sells. Send them a book that is in the best shape possible.

Do list the (right) genre. And only list one genre. A book that is equal parts Sci-fi and Romance will not sell. Another lit agent, Paul Levine was also at this event, and he shared a story about a book that was Sci-Fi/Romance. The editors in Sci-Fi wouldn’t take it because it had too much romance, and the editors in Romance wouldn’t take it because it was too sci-fi. It’s fine to say a book is Romance with sci-fi elements, or a Sci-Fi with romantic elements, but be sure it is clearly ONE genre first and foremost.

*Genre, in the most basic explanation, means where on a bookstore shelf would this book belong? If you aren’t sure–go to a Barnes and Noble, look at the shelves and the labels for each, and figure where you’d put your book. If you still don’t know where your book belongs, you have reevaluating to do (see: get a critique).

Do follow the agent’s requests/directions. Each agent has a different set of expectations for queries, so be sure to read their requirements before submitting. Don’t start on the wrong foot by pitching them a book they would never read, or sending them items they didn’t ask for.

What has your experience been with editors or agents? Are you planning to pitch your book soon? Share in the comments below!

Guest post contributed by Katie McCoach. Katie is a freelance developmental book editor at KM Editorial working with authors of all levels to help them create their best story possible. Katie is a member of Romance Writers of America and the Editorial Freelancers Association. She has had essays published in TrainWrite and Kalliope and is currently writing a contemporary romance novel. For more articles, check out her blog.

Tony’s Toast

I am spending a few days bringing some of my “Titbits” blog posts to the fore, as my more recent followers may not have dived into that section. Here’s the fourth…

Explanation

This is the speech that I prepared when I was asked to propose the toast at my father’s 80th birthday party. It was the day after the Royal wedding in UK of Prince William and Katherine Middleton. The book that I held up early on in the speech was the largest book that I could find on my shelves, which I had covered with brown paper and enscribed, “Tony’s Anecdotes Volume One”.

Of course, I did not read this speech out word-for-word, as it was merely my preparation, and that would have been boring. There was some improvisation. However, I believe that I stuck fairly closely to my original plan.

The forty-eight people who came along to Tony’s party enjoyed this speech. I hope that you do too.

Tony’s Birthday Toast

30th May 2011

As the proud and princely brother of the groom . . . .

Oh! Sorry. That speech was SO yesterday!

(The wedding of HRH Prince William and Catherine Middleton had taken place the day before my Dad’s birthday party)

[Shuffle papers, as if trying to find the correct speech]

Professor Tony Greenfield (Dad)

This won’t be a long speech, but I am very grateful for the opportunity to talk to you for a few minutes before I propose the birthday toast.

I pondered for a long time as to how I could present Tony’s eighty eventful years to date in just a few minutes. First of all, I thought about taking one of the rather lovely songs that Tony taught me when I was a small boy and personalising it to reflect his life: but Eskimo Nell, The Woodpecker’s Hole and There Once was a Monk of Great Renown have all been re-hashed many times before . . . . mainly by Tony.

Then, FLASH! BANG! An inspiration! It was easy! I could read a few anecdotes fromTony’s Book of Anecdotes Volume One,

[pick up massive, brown-paper-covered book]

but there are thousands to choose from, and you have probably heard many of them many times before. For example, I am sure that you’ve heard the one about how, as a young Sapper, he managed to annoy the Sergeant of the guard by telling him that he couldn’t possibly call out to an advancing intruder, “Halt! Who goes there?” as it would be semantically incorrect. After all, the person would be clearly coming here. What sentry in their right mind would be challenging anybody who was going there?!

So that was no good. It would take ages to read even a few of these to you.

[lay book aside]

So I’d just like to relate a couple of my own personal memories of Tony from the early sixties.

The first memory is that Tony used to take me for some very long walks: sometimes in Sheffield, and sometimes in the surrounding countryside. Occasionally, he would drive me up into the hills, park the car somewhere remote, and we’d walk together up to The Barrel, where he’d chain me up outside with a bowl of water whilst he cavorted with his friends inside. To be fair to him, Tony would buy me a bowl of chilled lemonade on my birthday. It was only chilled because my birthday is in the middle of winter!

It was always a mystery to me why such a wise and intelligent man would park so far from his destination when there were perfectly good places to park right outside the pub.

As I grew older, I began to realise that those very long walks were there for a purpose: to educate me. Apart from teaching me lots of great rugby songs, Tony would tutor me on a wide variety of topics. Our walks formed a significant part of my education. I sometimes feel that I learnt much more out of school than I ever learnt inside any of the ten schools that I went to. Diana and Oliver would agree with me that we Greenfield children failed, at the times of our childhoods, to realise just how fortunate we were to be so well educated.

As we all know, Tony loves to learn, and he loves to share his knowledge and his experience with others. That, ladies and gentlemen, makes him a true scholar.

Speedwell Cavern – lit up

One of the most exciting places that Tony took me to when I was a child was Speedwell Cavern. I am sure that many of you are familiar with the Blue John Caverns in Castleton. Apart from all the spectacular stalactites and stalagmites and gems, the highlight of the tour was always the boat trip. When I was about eight, we had stopped at what is called the Halfway House, where the boats cross over in the dark. We were pulled into the siding as the other boat cruised past. Tony, in his typical style, called out, “I AM A MOLE, AND I LIVE IN A HOLE!”

From the other boat came a surprising response: “Hello Tony Greenfield!”

It was at this point in my life that I realised that my Dad was world famous.

Of course, it IS a fact that Tony really IS well known and respected around the world. UPC recently laid on a brilliant early birthday party for him in Barclelona. Why did they do that? Because they love him. We all do too, and I can see that everyone here tonight is having a great time at this very special party.

Tony is a gentleman. He is also a scholar. And this is his birthday party.

I would now like to invite you all to stand and to raise your glasses, and join me in a toast.

[PAUSE WHILST ALL STAND]

The toast is……

TONY, A SCHOLAR AND A GENTLEMAN!

Review: The Lady of the Forest

The Lady of the Forest by D.J. Barnes

My rating: 1 of 5 stars

I read this because I met the author in a local store. He works there as an assistant at weekends. During the week, he is an undergraduate student at a local university.

As I began reading, I thought that the story had the potential to merit a three, or even four, star rating from me. Very quickly, that potential was eroded as I came across example after example of really appalling writing. It reminded me of somebody telling a long, and very bad, joke in a pub whilst they gradually became inebriated.

Allow me to give you a few examples of this awful writing.

“If you try to come with us my sword will find a place between your chest. I do not mean to be like this, but you are weak and the legend tells us you will not make it. We cannot risk you leading us to our death. You must not follow us in case we hear the water. In case you get us killed,” said John.

Butterfly’s filled the skies

…and came across a hole in the ground. To call this a hole would be completely unjustified. It was a crater.

This was a pure light brighter than the sun and it dazed them.

He continued to roll until some sort of bright light blinded him and he hit the spongy floor of some place unknown to him.

“I want a bow from you beast. I want a bow that can shoot an arrow to the moon; a bow that will make me the envy of every other hunter and a bow that requires no arrows,” he said.

WHAT?!?!?!?!

The story is about how a warrior, a hunter and a pauper who set off on a quest to find a legendary unicorn who could either lure them to their deaths or, if found, could grant each of them their greatest wish. You see what I mean about the potential of the story, don’t you? It is just a shame that it is so badly written.

I could not honestly recommend the book to any of my friends.

View all my reviews