R.K. Pavia's Blog

Rising Above It

Shite happens!

Yes, you heard me, shite happens. And I’ve been through more than enough of it in my lifetime to know just how stuck in it you can get if you let yourself be bogged down.

Apologies.

Due to one bout of shite happening, during a particularly shitty bout of shite happening, I behaved in a manner befitting of someone  with much lower standards than I usually set myself, someone of far lesser morals than I hold. I allowed myself to sink to a depth usually reserved for those whose moral standards I call into question and I posted my feelings about someone – we’ll call them Francis – on social media… publicly. Francis wasn’t mentioned by name, but I didn’t pull many punches when it came to making it possible to identify poor old Fran.

Now, it just so happens that Francis was the cause of the first bout of what we’ll call the ‘poopstance’, however, with time for reflection, I now realise it was beneath me to stoop to that level and thus I apologise… to those that love and care for me. I apologise for momentarily not being the person you know and love, for not living up to the decent character you believe me to be. And to Francis? Well to Francis I apologise for not keeping my status privacy setting to private.

Believe me, I won’t be doing that again.

At the end of the day, truth is a powerful weapon – one best kept up your sleeve. Revealing it can be hurtful and no decent human being should ever set out to hurt someone, no matter what they’ve done.

A true good soul, a real wise individual will rise above all that shite. They’ll step on their hover board and sail across a stinking sea of poopstance, a smile on their face, a twinkle in their eye, and a song in their heart. They’ll trust in those that have their back, and remain true to themselves – because to do otherwise, to stoop to the levels of low stooped to by lesser mortals means falling into the poop… and that, my friends, is really not a good place to land.

The End… For Now

I know I said I’d not post much about my cancer, but it seemed apt to say something as I’ve just come to the end of my six rounds of chemotherapy.

I’ve spent almost the entire first half of 2016 having aggressive chemo. For the uneducated on such things, that was roughly 6-7 hours every 3 weeks of 3 different chemicals given intravenously. I would arrive at the chemotherapy suite at 9 or 10 am and often not leave until gone six in the evening. They were long days, though not entirely terrible when you consider the company and the coffee on tap – plus free sandwich. However, with the waiting around for pharmacists, being used as a pin cushion while the nurses struggled to find a vein that would allow the in-flow, and the not very comfortable seating, I can’t say I’ll miss those days very much.

Of course, the actual chemo days were not the worst of it. The week after could be a real test of mental and physical strength. I have to say, comparative to the tales of my fellow chemo patients, I don’t think I did too badly; many of the possible symptoms didn’t seem to bother me that much, or sometimes at all. But still, I don’t think anyone will tell you it’s pleasant no matter how well you cope. Suffice to say, I’m glad it’s over.

And that’s where the title for this post comes in. With no warning whatsoever, my oncologist dropped in the prospect of even more chemo at this stage, leaving me with an appointment for the next round in three weeks time. That’s a full-on moving of the goal posts when I already feel like half a year has been stolen from me.

And, at this stage, I’m saying ‘no more’.

I’m a firm believer in ones own body knowing itself and, if you can tune in, learning how to read the signals it sends. With that in mind,  I believe I know at this stage my body has had enough – for now. I’d started making plans for the rest of the year, and I so want to feel ‘normal’ again, if only for a while.

I want a Chinese meal, something I’ve missed out on due to risks inherent with a compromised immune system. I want to go and give my mum’s dogs a cuddle. I want to spend some time with my kids without feeling miserable and yucky. I want to start doing some promotional work for my novel. I simply want to be me again. Because that’s what chemo takes away from you, that feeling of being yourself. Other than changes to taste, for me, it had to be the worst part.

Now, I know there will be voices out there telling me to listen to the doctor, to do as I’m told – and I get where those voices are coming from, I really do. Still, I must do what I feel is right for me and at this stage it’s time for a break – as I’d originally been expecting.

I’m not ruling out further treatment in a short while. Damn, I haven’t even had a scan yet to see how it’s all gone. But radiotherapy is still an option open to me, and I know I cope far better with that from when I had it before.

I’m also definitely not ruling out further cycles of chemo in the future, should the cancer spread or continue to grow. I just know my body has had all it can take for the time being, and I owe it to myself to trust it’ll not steer me wrong.

So, for now, I’m done with chemotherapy. In a few weeks time things will gradually start to return to what passes for ‘normal’ when your name is Beckie Pavia. Of course, that can be a fairly long road itself. Some folk say it took them a full year to get back to how they were pre-chemo. I’ve got hair to grow back, cells to regenerate, a whole system to heal – six lots of nasty chemicals pumped into your body don’t just disappear in one short month.

I’d love to say this cancer will be all done and dusted from this, but that’s simply not a guarantee – or even likely, if truth be told – but one thing I want back is control, and I firmly believe that control will help give me a fighting chance. The oncologists can only take you so far, the rest, you have to do for yourself.

Why Prince matters and the Queen Doesn’t.

First, let me join the throng of people across the world in saying a most lyrical and spiritual ‘rest in peace’ to the iconic artist that was Prince. I, like may others, grew up listening to his music. I didn’t always like it. He wasn’t always my cup of tea, but I’m in no doubt of his influence on the world of creativity and the lives of many, many people.

Now, let me come to the crux of this post. Yesterday, as you couldn’t help but be aware, was  Queen Elizabeth II’s 90th birthday. Apparently, the very fact the woman made it to that age is supposed to be something to praise, an achievement to outshine most others. The very fact she made it to ninety with all the benefits of a very, very wealthy woman are, it seems, of little consequence when it comes to the hundred’s of millions that somehow feel they truly know the soul behind the face.

If the media, and thus the sheeple are to be believed, the queen is a wonderful person. She’s witty, intelligent, compassionate. Is she? Is she really? I don’t know her. Do you know her? She always looks positively fed up to me, her expression more often than not one of bland, non-emotion until she has to paste on a smile – which I admit could earn her an accolade in itself. Though I’m not sure chronic jaw ache is enough to qualify a life of luxury. Basically, if I had to go on what I know, what I see, I’d say she seems far less interesting and warm than the little old lady I sat at the bus stop with last week. However, that little old lady, with her aching bones, and minimum income had made it all the way to ninety without the back-up of private physicians, servants, paid vacations, etc..

And then there’s this…

What has Elizabeth even done? What mark has she made on history? Basically, if you read the popular press, she’s ‘been’ there, standing tall, fighting the good fight alongside her people. Well that’s nice! In all those sixty-four years on the throne her legacy, her stamp on the world will be smiling, waving, and having a strangely alien ability to convince everyday folk she’s ‘just the same as them’, with no heirs, graces, or bodyguards.

The last ‘great’ female monarch, her great,great-grandmother Victoria, may have ruled fewer years (just), but in that reign she stood at the head of the British Empire, ruling a quarter of the world’s population. She had a whole era named after her, for goodness sake – I mean, who else does that these days?

I’m not saying Victoria was any different constitutionally, or any better a person; I didn’t ‘know’ her personally either. She was still a figurehead under the laws of democracy. But when it comes to a woman to look up to, by golly, she had the form. Fair enough, people might have loved her, and probably for nothing more than the fact she was ‘there’ at the head of things. However, if you’re gonna be put on a pedestal for doing very little, you might as well give the impression it’s impressive. She even survived six assassination attempts.

Plus, Victoria was actually known for her using her influence to affect change for the poor, being in favor of the Housing Commission. That’s a substantial thing to do for those less fortunate than yourself – and something I’ve no similar evidence of with our current queen.

And I think that’s it for me. I am not into the politics of envy. This has nothing whatsoever to do with the wealth of others compared to my own lack of fortune. I bear Elizabeth no malice for her accident of birth. But why couldn’t she mark her milestone birthday with a minded trip to a homeless shelter, a nursing home, one of the many much-needed social ventures that are closing down due to the cuts made by her current government. She could have dished out a large chunk of money to many folk to whose lives it would have made a great deal of difference. possibly even saved a life or two – yet, she did not do this. She went for a very expensive stroll in London while people came to look upon her and bask in her brilliance. Bit conceited if you ask me – and a total waste of a wonderful opportunity.

In comparison

Then, on the same day, we have the death of a man, conveniently for this post known as Prince. No saint, I’m sure. No paragon of virtue, highly unlikely, as most human’s are not. But he touched people’s lives and souls with his words, his music, and his charisma. This wasn’t altruistic of course. He got something out of it. Money, fame, the ability to share his talents with the world as and when he wanted. But I and millions of others remember moments that were accompanied by something he created. He left an indelible mark.

There’s no right or wrong in this. One does not be ‘the Queen’ or be Prince’ and never the twain shall meet. I have no idea if Prince ever shared freely of his earnings. Maybe he was as miserly as the next very rich guy. But, albeit unintentionally, he shared something valuable with the world and he’ll long be remembered for it.

In comparison, the queen has the ability, the funds, the opportunity to make a massive difference to the lives of anyone she chooses, yet she squanders that every day she still breathes. She watches as that little old day I talked to at the bus stop dies of hypothermia in her cold council house. She watches as a disabled youngster and their struggling family lose their home due to ‘her’ government having deemed they have one more bedroom than is entirely necessary. She watches as yet another Sure Start centre closes down, depriving many children of a better start in life.

Fine, so if she’d made music those folk would have been no better off and she’d be no more of a decent person, but it’s all comparative. Prince was one guy who created something that could reach out to people – and he did. The queen is one woman with the wherewithal to affect real change – and she never does.

So why does this all matter?

It matters because at the heart of all this are us, people. Our views on such things reflect our moral standing, our sense of right and wrong. They show who we are in society, how we care, or don’t as the case may be.

While we are looking to the face of a woman born to privilege as our direction for sunlight and greatness we miss the small people, the ones whose lives were not so publicly recognised. The ones whose fights and struggles went by without a soul to wish them a happy 90th birthday – if they even made it that far.

I worry that so many British people travelled so many hundreds of miles to line the streets of London for the hope of a passing glimpse of someone they’ll never get to even to speak to, just because she didn’t die before ninety, when they could have found their closest ninety-year-old neighbour and chatted with them for a couple of hours. I worry that so many British people would rather spend too much of their own cash doing all that and then telling any journalist with a microphone how wonderful the queen is when in actual fact, they haven’t the faintest idea of what kind of person she is. She may be the last person you’d ever want to meet for all they know, given that their only knowledge of her are carefully prepared press-releases and well-rehearsed speeches and interviews.

Indeed, had every one of the folk that spent so much of their day ‘following’ the queen yesterday spent just one hour with some of our vulnerable and lonely citizens, it could be argued something wonderful might have been felt rising above the nation, such would be the real power of well-intentioned human interaction.

Some of those citizens are right at this very moment struggling to make ends meet. They are having to choose between heating and eating while we coo and wave at someone who has never had to make that choice – not once. What does that say about us?

 

The Case of the Pout

What is it? Where did it come from? How did it get here?

You’ve all seen it, the profile pic of the pretty girl, who for some reason best known only to herself, and the thousands of other pout-adopting minions, has decided she looks so much more attractive with her lips pursed into what has to be the least natural expression ever.

Hey, I’m not one to judge beauty – I can only speak subjectively after all – but I can’t be the only one that simply does not ‘get it’. No matter how hard I try I cannot for the life of me see those pouts, any of them, and think, ‘oh yes, you look so much better doing that’.

I’ve tried doing it myself – just to see if there is something I’m missing. ‘Will my pouts bring all the men to my yard?’ I’ve asked as I’ve attempted to push two rubbery bits of skin together in a way less flattering than a grimace. Mostly I just succeeded in feeling pained, and a little inadequate for apparently not having lips that will even go in that position.

Perhaps, and this is highly likely, it’s just because I’m not a teenage girl (though I hasten to add, this thing does seem to have infiltrated the twenty-somethings, and beyond). Maybe I’m not equipped with the ability to see what’s so good about the pout.

I’m actually theorising right now that it could be some biological difference in the brains of much more intellectual females. Could it be their intelligence has surpassed that of their peers to a point where they have discovered the holy grail of beauty.

For all I know, there could have been some ‘think tank’ that spent millions of pounds discussing this matter, sponsored by the pocket-money of bored fourteen-year-olds. Maybe an esteemed Professor of the Advanced Study and Investigation into the positions of Labium has spent his life coming to the conclusion ‘pouts are good’, and sadly managed to pass on the results of his research to pubescent girls before realising his life’s work had been for nought and it was time to return to perusing his wife’s Avon catalogue.

Yes! That must be it. I’m clearly not up to understanding this new phenomenon, and must come to terms with that fact before I can once again embark upon any internet browsing. I shall then see the pout, stand back and fully appreciate its glory, secure in the knowledge I shall never be able to squidge my own lips into that position and thus, remain unworthy.

Early Morning Musings

During the quiet of the pre-kids awake section of the day is when I do my best musings.

It’s spring, so bright sunlight kept the shadows from my one-to-one conversation this morning but, whatever the season, there’s an intimacy when you’re alone in the family home that only the dawn seems able to be at true ease with.

They say talking to yourself is the one true sign of madness – and maybe they’re right, but I happen to believe it’s sometimes the only way we can make sense of what’s going on around us, what’s happening to us, what we feel, what we think, even things as simple as how we’re going to approach the next few hours.

I won’t go into this morning’s ‘chat’ in detail, as it verged on the morose and won’t have much bearing on the essence of this post. Suffice to say, I felt better for it when I’d done. It was, as it so often is, cathartic and akin to putting the world to rights with a trusted friend or loved one.

I tend to get a little philosophical in my musings, so anyone eavesdropping might think they’d stumbled upon the scholarly exchange of two well-read intellectuals – who just happened to have the exact same voice… which just happened to be croaky, and whispering a little so the kids didn’t wake up. However, my ‘friend’ and I enjoyed a good half an hour of sharing words without any real definable purpose and, as always, my soul felt lifted and a sense of being able to take on the rest of the day with a clear mind prevailed.

Talking to yourself at any time of the day is beneficial… unless you’re in a meeting with your child’s teacher, arranging a mortgage, or trying to explain to a police officer why you were speeding. Those sort of situations are probably not the best time to introduce your invisible self to the mix. It’s almost like having your own private counsellor – with no fees.

However, from my experience of many years socialising with the ‘other me’, I’d say we have our most productive musings soon after rising, when the only souls to bear witness are still snoring and the world feels, for just a short time longer, like it only belongs to you.

Chapter One of The Sanctum of Souls: Edited

Marcus didn’t much care for magic, nor for most of the mages he knew – and he certainly didn’t care for the one that was now trying to humiliate him.

Lord Spindley had crossed his path on the way home, and was attempting to show off in front of his female companion by making Marcus the butt of his joke. It wasn’t working, of course. At twenty-six years of age, he’d long since learnt to disregard the jibes of his peers, and knew exactly how to handle them.

Smiling a crooked smile, he couldn’t help but be amused at the funny, little man – balding long before his time and sporting a lazy eye, and a beard that grew in patches. At exactly six-feet tall and with a strong, toned body, Marcus was never belittled for his looks, but often, as was currently the case, for his socially -unacceptable decision to spurn magic.

“Oh look, it’s Lord Ryan. Marcus, do entertain my good Lady Havelroy and I with one of your ‘charming’ displays of basic fire lighting. Here, I’ve two perfectly good sticks for you to rub together.” The balding man guffawed at his own joke, readily joined by Lady Havelroy.

Marcus waited, allowing them a moment of amusement.

“Lord Spindley, how good of you to offer the use of your arms for such a practical undertaking. However, I find wood is far better suited to the task. Not as brittle, or as likely to break when exerted beyond anything more than a rhythmic up-and-down movement. Judging by the less-than-impressed look Lady Havelroy is aiming at you now, I believe at least one of your arms may be required for something of a more personal nature this evening.” With that, Marcus feigned respect for the woman with a mockingly low bow and flashed a charming smile, before brushing past his tormentors and heading home.

He whistled to himself as he walked. Having endured such taunts throughout his life, he’d grown accustomed to treating them with the indifference they deserved. He took neither himself nor life too seriously, a personality trait that had served him well as a magicless mage growing up in Whitestone. He was of noble birth and, like all nobility, had been born with magic in his blood. Still, unlike his contemporaries, he’d defied what was expected of him and refused to study the craft, spending his years from six to sixteen outwitting both his parents and his tutor; anything to avoid being schooled in magic. He’d never been able to explain why, but even the thought of using it made him feel uneasy.

However, there was no sympathy to be found within the walls of the Ryan mansion. Magical ability was considered a birth right, a mark of honour, and his rejection of it brought great shame upon his parents. The outcome was that his family didn’t like him very much – but the feeling was mutual, so he didn’t care.

As a result, he spent as little time as possible at home, preferring instead to walk to the city’s outer walls where he’d find a quiet spot to read or daydream. He would spend hours by himself, enjoying the solitude. It was only the journey there and back that threatened to ruin a generally pleasant day, and if he was lucky, he’d avoid anyone who might seek to put a dampener on his cheerful disposition.

Unfortunately, today was not one of his luckier days.

Marcus took his usual shortcut, a narrow alley between streets that limited the chances of interacting with anyone. However, as he entered the alley, he was stopped in his tracks by Lord Spindley and two other men, whose faces he knew but whose names he’d not cared enough to remember.

They walked towards him from the opposite end of the alley as his whistling slowed and quieted, a lopsided smile taking over from the pursed lips.

“Lord Spindley, good to see you again so soon. We really should stop meeting like this.”

“You made me look like a fool!” Spindley’s eyes narrowed beneath a clenched brow, anger clear in his tone.

“Ah, you give me too much credit. I think you did a fine job of that, without any assistance from me.”

Marcus never did know when silence was best. No sooner had the words left his mouth than Lord Spindley’s hands tightened into fists and became enveloped in rippling flames. One glance at the hands of the other two men, and Marcus could see they, too, were prepared for a magical assault. A voice inside his head said just one word – run – and if he’d learnt one thing from growing up in a city of magic, it was how to flee.

As the three men shot balls of fire in his direction, Marcus was already sprinting back the way he’d come, the fireballs narrowly missing his behind and fizzling out as they collided with the corner of a building. Through the familiar streets he ran. His long, muscular legs took him effortlessly up and down side streets, dodging people and hurdling over wooden crates and barrows, turning corners seconds ahead of fire and ice projectiles, and leaping up to catch an overhanging beam to take him safely over the top when he couldn’t outrun them. Twice he managed to hide behind a corner at a junction as the men sped past, doubling back as soon as they were out of sight. Another time, he just made it past a window cleaner about to throw water from a bucket. However, Spindley and the others weren’t so fortunate. He chuckled to himself as he looked back to see them soaked through, then sped off faster as they stepped up their chase with increased fury.

Past noble children playing with mini-whirlwinds, around noble teenage boys conjuring shiny things with which to woo noble teenage girls, ducking behind carts laden with magical paraphernalia, and evading magic tutors showing their students how to light torches with their fingers, Marcus continued to run. Nevertheless, despite his speed and cunning, he eventually found himself cornered in a dead end with Lord Spindley and the others blocking his exit. Approaching him slowly, malicious intent emblazoned across their faces, the men sneered. Spindley’s hands crackled with an electrical charge, and the hands of the other two bubbled with small water spouts. Marcus seemed to be out of options. Darting his eyes around in one last attempt to find an escape route, he caught site of a mirror, gleaming in the late afternoon sun. In a single swift movement, he made a lunge for it and thrust it forwards just in time to reflect the combination of spells aimed at him from the mages. The electricity and water met the mirror, bounced back at the men, and hit them with the effect they’d intended for Marcus, throwing them to the ground with a debilitating electrical bolt. He placed the mirror back where he found it and turned back to snigger at the singed clothes and spiked hair of his former assailants. They’ll live, he thought to himself, but Spindley may not be coming out in public for a while.

He jumped to grab at the edge of an overhanging balcony, pulling himself up and continuing onto the roof of the building. Coming down into the street the other side, he calmly resumed his journey home – totally oblivious to the dark-haired man who’d watched him leave, grabbed the mirror, and walked straight through a solid wall.

 

*

 

As Marcus approached the imposing iron gates that guarded the path to the front doors of the family property, something occurred to him; there was no rational explanation for a perfectly intact mirror to be on the ground down a back alley. There’d been nowhere it could’ve fallen from, and Whitestone’s elite weren’t in the habit of using back alleys for the storage of household items. Peculiar, he thought. Coming up with no sensible answer, he then wondered what mood he’d find his father in, or if he could avoid finding him at all. His stomach growled so he stopped wondering, and pushed open the gates. The chase had made him hungry, and neither the puzzle of convenient mirrors nor the wrath of the elder Lord Ryan would stand between him and food.

 

*

 

Two hours and one confrontation later and Marcus stood outside the mansion once more. He’d eaten a sizeable supper before the inevitable quarrel with his father. So, as he paused on the cobbled street, the cool evening air reminding him of the season, he was at least warm and satisfied from a good meal. Mostly, he was unbothered by people’s actions towards him, but altercations with the elder Lord Ryan affected him more than he cared to admit. Which was exactly why he’d had to vacate the premises that evening. He could feel his strings about to snap whenever they fought so, for his own sake, he needed to be as far away from his father as possible – before he asked for more trouble than he could handle.

The sun was just starting its descent behind the Stone Highway and the Geryndor Mountains beyond. Marcus looked upon the fading, fiery aura and felt drawn to head to the east of Whitestone. His whimsical nature wondered how far he would get before its journey was complete and the cool blue light of the moon filled the vacancy in its wake.

The city was a remarkable sight at any time, but particularly at sunset, when the long, low reach of the sun’s farewell glory touched the white structures, briefly staining them with a pearlescent pink hue. Lit with tall, evenly-placed oil lanterns, the streets were wide and paved in the same white stone as the buildings they cut between, every one converging at a large open plaza in the centre of the city. Marcus had loved his home ever since he’d been old enough to appreciate its magnificence. Every tower, every arch, every intricately-carved balustrade – the entire city seemed to rise organically from the ground.

Reaching the entrance to a tavern as the last of the sun’s rays faded from view, he realised he’d arrived in a part of the city known in noble circles as ‘the common quarter’. Most buildings in this part of the city were built from wood, ramshackle and giving the impression of an architect’s afterthought. The few stone shops and houses were in a far worse state of repair than those where Marcus lived, with cracks extending out like veins and shutters creaking as they hung from broken hinges. Weeds had started to spread tendrils into the slightly larger gaps and several of the street lanterns were not lit, causing dark recesses where the buildings overshadowed each other.

However, it was the inhabitants of the common quarter that really earned the district its label. This part of the city had been allocated to commoners; those from non-magical bloodlines who had decided a life living off the land wasn’t for them. As far as they were concerned, it was far better to serve the mages of Whitestone in return for the relative comfort of residing within the city walls.

Like all nobility, Marcus had little interaction with the residents of this part of the city. Unlike them he refrained from passing judgement based on nothing more than where a person lived. Besides, if the Ryan family cook, Julia, was a good example of a commoner, he was satisfied he’d like them a lot more than he did the nobility.

Despite his lack of prejudice, the chill night air made him shiver, and he realised how dark it was away from the brightly lit streets around his home. Perhaps it would have been wiser for him not to be in this part of the city as night fell. Whitestone had its fair share of crime, and the dark niches provided keen cover for anyone who spied a well-dressed nobleman, stood alone and looking lost. With this in mind, he briefly considered turning around and heading home. If not for the inviting sounds coming from behind the aged and fading wooden doors of the tavern, he may have done just that, but the cold and a movement in the shadows helped make the decision for him. Laughter, music, merry souls, and a roaring fire – what could be the harm? Besides, his father would hate it if he knew, and he’d make sure he knew, one way or another.

It would have been fair to say that his arrival in the Crooked Wing tavern was not looked upon without suspicion. In his intricately-embroidered tunic, well-polished leather boots, and silk sash, he certainly stood out. Gazing around the crowded room, Marcus suddenly felt ridiculously overdressed. From the looks on their faces, it was obvious the establishment’s regulars rarely, if ever, included anyone of nobility.

As he paused in the middle of the room, the noisy banter became hushed whispers behind cupped hands, and the music faded to a gradual, premature end. However, such a situation didn’t faze Marcus. He reckoned a wide-eyed stare and toothy grin would suffice, and pasted them onto his face before heading in the direction of the bar.

His prediction of the drinkers’ reactions was astute. Most of them just assumed he was mad – some not-so-well-kept secret, noble son afflicted with lunacy, perhaps. He’d probably just drool and giggle to himself quietly if they left him alone. Sure enough, after a few tense moments, the revellers resumed their merriment and the music played once more.

Chuckling to himself, partly to keep up the ruse, Marcus sidestepped between the haphazardly placed tables and chairs, careful to avoid standing on anyone’s feet, and approached the bar. Perching himself on a rickety stool, he began his evening of liquid solace.

 

*

 

Hours later and Marcus sat hunched over the bar, his head groggy, and the room starting to spin. He’d always considered it curious just how attractive any female could look post-ale-consumption, yet he knew he’d definitely consumed too much on this occasion. The overweight, greasy-haired barkeep, called Nathan, was beginning to exude an enticing aura. It was clearly time to call it a night.

Reluctantly sliding the last of his coins across the bar, the one for the road already poured, his noble manners obligated him to empty the tankard. Staring down at the dark-brown liquid, Marcus realised he didn’t even like the look of it. He inhaled the musty, ale-saturated air of the dimly-lit room, fighting the urge to recoil in disgust, and downed the beverage in one go.

Stumbling over his own feet as he made to leave the tavern, he questioned his decision to drown his sorrows, especially as he and ale didn’t enjoy each other’s company that often. Fine wine he could handle, but ale was a different matter. The last time he’d drunk it was when, as a teenager, he’d snuck into the kitchens and imbibed some that was kept for cooking. The result was a level of drunkenness his father had said put him in the category of plebeians. Of course, that made it the drink of choice for one keen to irritate their father.

He laughed and hiccupped as the image of a furious Lord Ryan crossed his mind. Wobbling towards the doors, Marcus dismissed the scrutiny of his evening’s entertainment as pointless. Forming cohesive thoughts was making his head hurt, and he was enjoying his pleasantly intoxicated state too much to bother with tedious interruptions. It was quite clear this self-induced brain-fog was the reason ale had been created. For now he could forget, and push all thoughts of his father to the far recesses of his mind. He could pretend he was just a simple man from the common quarter, out for an evening’s inebriation – if only until the harsh light of day, when reality bit into his backside with a vengeance reserved for drunken fools.

As the tavern’s tired, wooden doors slowly closed behind him, the sounds of merry drinkers gradually became no more than a muffled hum, punctuated by the occasional high-pitched laugh and rowdy shout. Standing in the street outside the tavern, it dawned on Marcus that he’d never experienced an atmosphere quite like the one still filling the building behind him. His life had been routinely dull in comparison. Though he’d taken every opportunity for levity he could find, the rigid rules of noble society restricted fun to sanctioned areas at predetermined times. According to his mother, the ‘honourable’ Lady Ryan, “one must never deviate from the noble path, not even for a second.” He could hear her voice in his head, scolding him for running around, flapping his arms and making duck noises while visiting the large house of some other ‘honourable’ noblewoman. He guessed the children of the people in the tavern weren’t confined in such a way. Oh, to be able to flap ones arms and ‘quack’ freely!

Smiling to himself – a wicked, boyish smile – Marcus began to waddle up and down the dusty street, arms rising and falling.

“Quack,” he said, pausing to laugh. “Quack, quack.” His return to deviancy providing no small amount of entertainment and his mind de-shackled by the alcohol-induced removal of inhibitions, Marcus was oblivious to the approach of a mysterious male figure from an unlit section of the street.

The figure remained still, head tilted to one side. He watched for some time as Marcus continued his duck impersonation, still in a world of his own and quite unaware of his curious audience. The man sighed as he observed the eldest child of one of Whitestone’s most esteemed houses quacking and flapping beneath the flickering light of a common quarter street lantern.

Finally, stepping out from the shadows, he boldly approached Marcus from behind. Slowly raising his right hand, he paused as if considering his next move. The decision made, Marcus nearly leapt into the air as a hand firmly gripped his shoulder. He spun around to confront the owner of the hand, prepared to defend himself.

Now face-to-face with his assailant – a man with a mop of black hair, and dark-brown eyes, his olive-skin darkened by a neatly trimmed beard – Marcus adjusted his posture to appear as intimidating as possible. He noticed he was a couple of inches taller than the stranger, so, with his extra height providing added confidence, he clenched his fists and prepared to strike. To his surprise, the man’s demeanour remained passive. His arms loosely resting at his sides, he spoke with an unexpectedly soft and refined tone.

“Marcus Ryan.” A statement rather than a question. “We need to talk.”

The Doorway – Title Poem from ‘The Doorway: and other poems’.

 

Across the garden in your mind,

A hidden doorway you will find,

Open it and you will see,

A magic that will set you free.

Turn the handle, go on through,

Walk the ground stepped on by few.

With trusting eyes and bravest heart,

Watch the real world fall apart.

Colours rise into the air,

There’s light and music everywhere,

Within it all, if you but look,

The dreams you had, the paths you took.

An endless wood, a wishing well,

Enchanted beasts escaped from Hell.

All kinds of things within await,

For you to take a chance on fate.

Others will find that secret door,

But know not what they’re looking for,

And some will bravely seize the day,

‘Til truth insists they cannot stay.

But you are different, a dreamer born,

Your soul sees not with hate nor scorn.

Come sit with me, my writer friend,

Let magic flow until… ‘The End’.

REVIEW: The Watchmage of Old New York (The Watchmage Chronicles Book 1)by C.A. Sanders

 

Every now and then a book comes along that stays with you and becomes a read that you mention every time someone asks for your favourite books. For me, The Watchmage of Old New York is just such a book.

Beautiful, in its own descriptive, gritty way, this book manages to steal the reader’s mind away to the streets and tenements of late 19th century New York, effortlessly enveloping the senses amid the sights, sounds, and smells. I know only a little about the era and the location but, from what I do know, Sanders definitely did his homework. Believable to the point of every single scene feeling like I was actually there.

Then we get to the characters. This book contains some of the most fleshed out, three-dimensional characters I’ve ever read. My favourite being Jonas, even though I found myself getting cross with him at points – but that’s what a good character should make a reader do. Each character had their own distinct voice. I quickly came to the point where I could actually hear them speaking their dialogue in my head, with no effort at all. And speaking of dialogue – WOW! Good dialogue makes people sound real. Great dialogue makes them sound like they’re in the room with you and you are an actual witness to their conversations. TWoONY succeeds at achieving the latter.

Finally we come to the story. I won’t lie, there is no ‘epicness’ about this tale. It sort of rambles along, weaving the reader in and out of the lives of the characters, turning occasionally down back alleys, and then punching you in the gut when you least expect it. None of that is a criticism. I enjoy epic fantasy, but this was a refreshing change. I don’t think the author meant it to be epic, so he has successfully achieved that, too. This was urban fantasy/historical fantasy at its finest. The inclusion of magic into a real world setting didn’t feel at all forced. It was as if magic actually existed in 1855 New York.

I didn’t feel too surprised by the ending, even though I know some readers did, but to be honest, a surprise ending would have, in my opinion, felt out-of-place. The conclusion reached was satisfactory and seemed to sit nicely with the rest of the plot. TWoONY has its own ‘rhythm and flow’, one I’m more accustomed to seeing on the small screen. I think it’d be perfect adapted as a TV series. The biggest intrigue came in the epilogue. I can’t say more, but make sure you read it. Trust me.

The book does use terms that some readers may find offensive. I didn’t, as I understood that such terms were used in that time period. I hope other readers will also accept that. I found that to be a big plus as far too many things these days are adapted to suit the politically correct brigade, thus taking the realism out of it. For something set in the real world, realism is key.

If I had any complaints with this book, it would be that there were a couple of instances where tenses seemed to get a little confused. I got confused a few times when it would swap about from past tense to present tense in narrative. However, this was such a small thing, in such a great book, that I easily brushed it to one side. Other than that, the editing was practically flawless.

To sum up, realistic setting filled with truly believable characters and a story that takes you with it every step of the way. First class writing!

Self-Publishing, and Me

Why I Did It.

For much of the life I can recall I’ve wanted to write a book. In addition to writing one, I dreamt of seeing my words encased in pretty card and set upon a shelf somewhere – even if that shelf would only ever be mine.

For most of my afore-mentioned life the latter part of my wishful thinking could only ever be just that. The idea of a publishing house taking on a manuscript of mine was beyond crazy and thus, best left without contemplation.

Then, back in 2011/2012 I heard about self-publishing. Suddenly the prospect of actually holding my own book in my hands was not beyond my reach. However, at that point I was under the impression one required copious amounts of money to hand over to a self-publishing company, something that at one time would have been akin to vanity publishing.

But, never one to be dissuaded from doing something once I’d set my heart on it, I aimed to collect the £750 required by Grosvenor House Publishing and set about writing the novel that had coincidentally come to me around the same time.

It was in doing this that I began to meet some lovely, and knowledgeable people among the author community on Facebook. They introduced me to Amazon’s CreateSpace and KDP for eBooks and, after I’d written a fair amount of my book, I finally came to the conclusion I could do the whole thing completely free. It took some persuading as, at that time, I was so convinced it wouldn’t be done properly unless I paid for it. However, eventually I saw sense.

Fortunately I had the necessary skills to create my own covers, and my eldest daughter was proficient at editing, so the whole process really was free.

Why I’m still doing it.

In essence, there is one single reason I’m unlikely to even consider courting traditional publishing. I’m not writing for fame, fortune, or critical acclaim.

If you’ll refer back to the last section, you’ll remember that my primary goal has always been to share a story in my head with anyone I can. That may be anything from one to one million – though I acknowledge without any sadness the higher end of that scale is practically unachievable.

I see many self-publishing authors with high in the sky hopes of being the next J.K, the next G.R.R, the next E.L, heaven forbid. And it saddens me they appear to write for this purpose. For me writing has never been about money or accolade. It’s always been an intense desire to bring to life the jumble of thoughts in my head that I think, just maybe, someone else might find as interesting to read as I do to visualise.

Why self-publishing is good for the non-fame and fortune-seeking writer.

Self-publishing is freedom. It’s creative freedom, marketing freedom, total freedom from control of any kind. You succeed or fail by your own hand – and there is something very liberating in that.
Less time is wasted bringing your tale to your readers. Who needs to spend possibly years facing rejection after rejection simply to fulfill a dream?
Who needs rejection? Let’s face it, do any of us, especially us creative types, enjoy rejection? To aim to be traditional published is a sure-fire way to batter your ego. Yes, some writers may do well from a good dose of ego battering, but again, if you’re writing for the sheer joy of it and the wish to see your work in print, why put yourself through that if you don’t have to?
Finally, it’s fun – if you let it be. Don’t get hung up on it. Don’t make it hard work. Just write your manuscript and enjoy the process. Nothing is easy, well, nothing worth doing ever is, but self-publishing doesn’t have to be stressful. Approach it like any other endeavour – put in what you want to get out and try to enjoy the ride while you’re at it. Even if you’re not as fortunate as I’ve been, choosing covers can be fun. Finding the right editor can be fun. Marketing can, actually, be fun. That’s the way I handle life – why should self-publishing be any different if all you want is that book in print.

And Finally.

Now, please don’t get the impression I’m declaring SP to be the best way for every aspiring book-writer – it most certainly won’t be. If what you seek is that pinnacle of authorlyness, your name in lights, money carving a new future for you and your loved ones, SP is probably the last place you should begin. It’s highly unlikely to bring you that which you crave and in trying to make it do so will probably bring about only despondency and an anticlimactic sense of ‘why did I bother?’

Okay, so there are some SP success stories out there. Quite a few if you google the subject. But they are usually a story of ‘right place, right time’, good fortune, cosmic aligning – and in many cases, ‘not what you know, but who’.

Traditional publishing, courting those publishing houses of repute, is, though a road paved with rejection, still the best way to creating a new Harry Potter. If you can stomach the letters that say no – or even no letters at all – if you can find an agent, if you don’t mind waiting years to see the fruits of your endeavours, it has the much better chance of revealing your inner Stephen King or Terry Pratchett to the world.

However, if, like me, that’s not what it’s all about for you, then why go there? Thanks to the likes of Amazon and Lulu, the curtains to print have been torn aside. Self-publishing has been around a lot longer than many people know – Charles Dickens was self-published – but one had to have money to get their work seen, one way or another. These days, it can even be done on a limited budget and with little interference from anyone else. Basically, if you write for the same reason I do, what have you got to lose?

Life Begins At… Whatever age you want it to.

I was born on April 1st, 1976 which, as it’s 2016, makes me a proud new member of the forty-somethings.

I say proud, because I am. Unlike many, I have no qualms about turning forty. I didn’t go into a week-long decline, bemoaning my fate and wishing upon inanimate objects to send me back twenty years. There were no tears, no tantrums, no feelings of grief over a lost youth. And at no point did I ever lie to anyone in the lead up to the big day about my age – unless you count… no, no lies.