Who Is the Fairest of Them All?

Regular readers will know that I have a thing about cover bands, remakes and reimagineering. Is it better to have an original idea that nobody else cares about or is it perfectly acceptable to take a well established brand / song / work of art and put your own personal mark on it? I'm still not sure how I feel about the entire subject - though I'm leaning towards looking at each case on its individual merits - but I'd like to look at a new variant on that theme.

When I was a kid there was very little that I liked more than spaghetti hoops on toast, playing with my Hot Wheels cars and reading Spider-Man comics. But one thing that always went straight to the top of my excitement list was the release of a new animated Disney film. Or, in our case, a relatively old animated Disney film as at the time English cinemas didn't show them until at least six months after their American release. The vibrant colours, the simple storylines of good conquering evil, the funny characters - what kid could ask for more?

Those films (some of which were decades old rereleases even when I saw them for the first time) still work their magic on today's children but are most likely viewed at home on television systems not much smaller than the silver screens on which the kids' grandparents originally watched them. They're still fun but they are definitely films of a different era, made for a different generation. The movies themselves haven't changed but the people watching them have. I'm not getting into the pros and cons of whether this is a good thing or not but it's undoubted that the average pre-teen today is most definitely more self-aware, sarcastic, confident and worldly wise than their equivalents from a few generations ago. Some of the more innocent portions of those fairy tale movies don't necessarily meet with the same response now as they did in those halcyon days of old.

That's why, unlike some, I'm not in the least troubled by the reimagineered, darker and post-modern take of 'Alice in Wonderland' or the 'Sleeping Beauty' update, 'Maleficent'. The slapstick buffoonery of Glenn Close's 'One Hundred and One Dalmatians' was fun, and was intended to be just that. These works stand on their own, for the viewer to take or leave, and shouldn't leave any black mark against the memory of the wonderful  animated classics. Some have been dismayed by Disney 'changing' their original favourites  by releasing these as if in some way Angelina Jolie's Maleficent demeans Marc Davis's stunning artwork of the original dark fairy. Of course it doesn't, any more than Dolly Parton or Pat Boone's covers of 'Stairway to Heaven' in any way detract from the Led Zeppelin classic.

I wish Disney good luck with their upcoming live action remakes of 'Cinderella', 'Beauty and the Beast' and 'The Jungle Book' (again). There will be a market for them. I might even like them myself. Or I might not.  As with everything in life (as long as it's legal), if you don't like it then you don't have to partake.

And if you're still unconvinced then you can always rewatch the old videos / blu-rays / DVDs / home movies any time you wish. I certainly do, quite regularly. A dream can still be a wish your heart makes - if you want it to be.

© Shaun Finnie 2014

How Close To The Edge?

I've never been a dedicated follower of fashion. Even less, a trend setter. I wear what's comfortable. I go to places that I like, not those that the in-crowd say I should be seen at. I listen to music that makes me feel good and most of that was, and to me still is, from the seventies and eighties. What can I say, I'm old. Live with it - I have to.

In common with many Englishmen of my age, much of the music that I listened to in my youth could loosely be termed as 'Prog Rock'. For those too young to remember, Prog is the kind of music  played by long haired virtuosi in kaftans. The songs themselves are long (maybe twenty minutes or so each), and often with extended instrumental passages. When the lyrics do come in they are often about wizards, fairies and saving whales . It isn't easy listening by any stretch but I love it.

One of Prog's greatest groups is Yes, who have been around since 1968 and are still touring and recording. That's a long time for one group to have stayed together and in truth they haven't really. They've gone through more line-up changes than a Champions League football team who are seven-nil up after the away leg. To date they've had four singers, four guitarists, three drummers and seven different keyboard players - one of whom was the son of an earlier keyboardist. It all gets very confusing.

But after all these changes can they really still be called Yes? Many fans will refer to a 'classic' line-up of the band that recorded several of their bigger selling albums but does financial success equal artistic merit? Are these popular works the only ones that 'count'? They have a new album out this month. There are only three members from that most popular iteration of Yes on the new recording. Does that make it less Yes?  Some fans think so. Some think that they should change their name, that they've become their own tribute band. Some actually think that to continue working with different members does a disservice to those who have 

gone through their ranks before.

I don't get that line of thinking. I don't see how the work that someone does today should have any 

retrospective influence whatsoever on their previous work. If I write a short story or a novel featuring characters from a previous work, does that somehow invalidate my previous writing? If a novelist makes a name for themselves writing heavy political thrillers and then suddenly comes up with a best-selling piece of romantic fluff then are those previous works less worthy?

As I said at the start, I've never been a follower of fashion. I say let the artist work how they want. If you like their stuff, give it your patronage. If not then move on to something that you like better. The older stuff is still there for you to enjoy any time you like.

Negativity usually says more about the speaker than their target.

Too Much Too Young

I've often heard the 'fact' repeated that there are more people alive today than have ever lived and died since the beginning of time. Ever. I've read it on the internet too so it must be right, right?

I used that self-same internet to check it out (I know; the irony) and guess what I found? It's a total fabrication. Depending on your view of the beginning of time and what constitutes a human being (and please don't go all creationist on me here) there have been anywhere between seven and thirty people lived and died for every one person alive today. So that's one 'fact' debunked. My good deed for the day. Next week I'll take on fraudulent psychics (i.e. all of them) and those who believe England will win the World Cup.

But I did find one quite staggering fact while I was reading. I think that it will surprise and maybe even shock you too. Brace yourself, here it is.

In my lifetime the world's population has doubled.

I'll give you a moment for that one to sink in. It's doubled. Twice as many. One plus one equals four. That could possibly be understandable if the rise had been from say five hundred to a thousand. A net figure of five hundred more people alive would be pretty reasonable to me, but the real number is a bit bigger than that.

When I was born among the dinosaurs in the mid 'sixties there were just over three billion people alive worldwide. Now there are seven and a quarter billion, give or take a few who hid under the bed when the census taker came to call. And every single one of them needs feeding. And a roof over their head. And needs their waste disposing of, in whatever form that might take.

Many people think that this mass population increase isn't sustainable and that someday soon we'll cross over some kind of tipping point. We'll run out of places to live or to grow our food. Or we'll poison our home world. Or blow it up. Or change the weather so drastically that the earth becomes totally uninhabitable. Any way you look at it, we're doomed. Aren't we?

Well not necessarily. Not everybody is so sure that breeding more people is such a bad thing. Some say that a stranger is just a friend that they haven't met yet. Me? I say that a stranger is someone to whom I have yet to sell any of my books. If even a small percentage of those three and a quarter billion - and the figure has increased by around three thousand since I started writing this piece - bought one of my books then I'd be a very rich man indeed.

Can anyone recommend a good translation service?

© Shaun Finnie 2014

Ticka-Ticka-Ticka

When you're six years old the summer holidays stretch forever. By the time you reach thirty they seem to be over before you've even had time to change out of your work clothes. It's one of the rules of time that you have more of it when you're young. It also changes speed depending on how much time you need.

The ancient Roman poet Virgil described this phenomenon first when he said, "All our sweetest hours fly fastest." J. K. Rowling, in one of the 'Harry Potter' books, wrote, "When you are dreading something, and would give anything to slow down time, it has a disobliging habit of speeding up." And David Bowie said that it was flexible in much more basic terms in his song, 'Time'.

I recently went boating and among the crew was a young boy, aged ten. He asked me what the time was and then, about fifteen minutes later, asked again. And again, after about thirty minutes more had passed. This went on for a few hours until curiosity (and a bit of annoyance) got the better of me.

'Why do you keep checking the time so frequently?' I asked him.

He looked at me, all innocence, and answered, ' Because I can't believe how slowly time goes on a boat.'

He's right, of course. When you're on the water without the hustle and bustle of 'normal' life to distract you then you take the chance to wind down, to breathe more deeply and appreciate the world around you. It's the same if you take a walk through a forest or any other natural place. The earth; the sky; the sea: getting closer to any of these elemental forces makes time slow down, or at least it appears to. But not that fourth natural element, fire. Getting close to that makes things happen very quickly indeed.

I've found that the so-called-constant time varies in my working life too. If, for instance, I'm just working on something that I plan to send off on spec somewhere, with no firm offer of payment and no deadline, then I can rattle it off in what seems like no time at all. The work is easy and I end up having plenty of time to check Facebook and play Candy Crush at the same time.

If, however, I'm up against a deadline and have, say, two hours left to produce an article then I'm always astounded at how short that time becomes. By the time I've booted the machine, had a coffee or two, checked my emails, had a game of Candy Crush, adjusted my chair for the third time of the day and been to the toilet for some much-needed ponderence time those two hours have been whittled down to about twenty minutes.

I think Zall's Second Law probably sums it up the best. "How long a minute is, depends on which side of the bathroom door you're on."

© Shaun Finnie 2014

Hanging By a Thread

I'm getting a bit tired of watching a big budget, usually American, television series for around twenty weeks only to find a great big cliff-hanger at the end. You know the sort. The hero's been chasing the bad guy for the best part of half a year and they finally meet up, guns pointed at each other as they stand in some gloomy shed they talk at length, tying up all the season's loose ends. We know who did what to whom and, however implausible it may seem, how they did it. The only thing that we need to know now is how this standoff will end.

Cut to the outside of the shed. Suddenly the entire building erupts in an immense ball of flame. Who lived? Who died? Cue titles and someone with a Geordie accent saying "And you can find out what happened when we show the next series in the New Year."

What? I invested twenty-odd weeks of my life and a good chunk of my Sky+ box hard drive in the series for that? They made me care about these people that don't really exist and I have to wait half a year to find out if they survive? That's if the series isn't cancelled and they're left in some kind of fictional limbo like 'Sapphire and Steel' or Sam from 'Quantum Leap'. It's just not on.

That kind of thing works fine for the end of a single episode though in the same way that the old black and white serial films used to end each short installment. "How will Flash Gordon escape the villainous Emperor Ming? Find out next week." And it's fine in comics too. It's quite acceptable to finish an issue with the Green Goblin knocking Spider-Man out and throwing him off the top of the Empire State Building. Will Spidey come round in time before he goes bug splat? Probably, yes. My guess is that the Human Torch will fly in and catch him. Again.

But when did you ever get to the end of a four-hundred page novel only to read, 'To be continued in the sequel. Available from all good booksellers next year'? I can't see any good publisher letting that go. Even most of the Kindle 99p authors balk at that. A fiction book has to have a beginning, a middle and, crucially, an ending. Even if its part of a series of linked stories it should also work as a standalone piece on its own. Grab any Sherlock Holmes tale for example and you have everything that you need to know about the great detective in that self-contained piece. The same with Miss Marple or Poirot.

There are exceptions - Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter - but they're few and far between. And even they tie up most of the threads in each volume. It seems that television drama is the only form of entertainment media where it's become accepted and expected for the consumer to wait for the story to continue. Am I alone in thinking that this is wrong?

So in closing I'd like to pass on something that I've learned from all my years of writing. The secret of writing a good cliff-hanger is -

© Shaun Finnie 2014

Don't Get Comfy

Language evolves and grows. It changes with each generation that uses it. And that's quite right, that's how it should be. Most of the time.

When I was a kid there was no such thing as a "comfort zone" to step outside of. The closest thing I had to a comfort zone in those pre-computer, black and white, no private transport or inside toilet days was my granny's sofa, a big black and red leather number. I spent more pleasant times curled up on that sofa with a pile of good (and an even bigger pile of bad) books than I care to remember. Happy days, yes, but I wouldn't have described it as a comfort zone.

Fast forward… er… several years to today and I'm a much more rounded individual, in just about every way. So it's time to get off my backside. It's time to do some exercise. It's time to do something that I would never normally think of doing. To step out of my comfort zone, if you will.

It's time to volunteer to work with under-tens in a school garden.

The Beloved has been working there  for quite a while now and had asked if I would like to join her occasionally in guiding a class of thirty or so children in the gentle arts of planting, weeding and growing their own vegetables. Now I personally have no love of physical work, gardening or (whisper it) children really but honestly, how hard could it be?

Who would have thought that the answer would be "exhausting and like herding cats"? Bless them, the little loves were, I'm reliably told, much better behaved than usual but they were still more than a handful for me. Even organising a relay of kids with watering cans from tap to newly-planted pumpkins was chaotic.

"Thank you, but that's a strawberry, not a pumpkin. It's already been watered three times."

"Sky, does Taylor really look like he needs watering?"

"Are you really part of this gardening group? I know this looks more fun but shouldn't you be in class instead?"

We thought that we'd explained how food grows from seeds quite well until one little lad asked the brilliant question, "So are we growing jacket roast potatoes?"  I think he missed the interim 'cooking' section. They were all energetic and willing, I'll give them that, and quite well mannered too. None of them were rude and they generally listened to everything we said, even if it did sometimes go straight in one ear and out the other. I got called "Shaun", "Sir", "that big man" and (on one memorable occasion) "hey, you!" That particular little girl will go far.

I have no idea how parents of large families cope. My proverbial cap is most certainly doffed in your direction. But I'm still not going back next week.

© Shaun Finnie 2014

This is Not The End

I've written many thousands of words over the years. It might even run into the millions. I wouldn't know; I'm a writer not a mathematician. But among all those words there are two that give me greater pleasure to write than any others.

"The End"

Whenever I write or type that then it means that my story's not far from done. Sure, I may need to do a lot more tidying up, to knuckle down to the hard work of being an author and fill in a load of gaps but when I've committed those words then at least I know in my heart that the bare bones of the story hold together. Once I've  got to that point then I've broken the back of it and sooner or later (and it's usually sooner) then the work will be ready for someone else to read.

I know that most novels and short stories that you read don't actually finish with those two words at the bottom of the printed page but that doesn't stop me typing them in these, my working copies. Some authors don't bother. Many only write these final words when they've written and rewritten and polished their work until it's the best that they can make it. For me it's a placeholder, a marker like an Epilogue or a Prologue. A  specific  place  in  the  tale. When I get to "The End" then all my loose ends should  be  tidied  up, my bad guy should be locked away in a cell or perhaps even dead and my hero should have solved the mystery, cleared his name and kissed the girl. This week I came to the conclusion that I'd done all of these things, or at least my characters had, so it was with great satisfaction that I typed a T, then a H…  you can guess the other five keystrokes.

I've completed the (very) rough first draft of my next novel. For those who have read and enjoyed 'The Happiest Workplace on Earth' then you'll be pleased to know that the new one is a sequel, tentatively titled 'The Storm Over  the  Bay'. If you've yet to sample the delights of 'The Happiest Workplace on Earth' then you have plenty of time to catch up. The new one's still a few months away from publication but it's good to know that I've reached another milestone in the book's life. It's getting pretty close to showing someone else. That's going to be my first proof-reader, my Beloved.

When it get's  to that stage then it starts to slip through my fingers. However many changes I make after that, even if there are none at all, it ceases to be entirely my work. Each book is a   collaboration between the minds of the writer and the reader. The author does their bit and then passes it on to the reader who fills in the gaps between the words with their imagination.

"The End" is really just a new beginning.

Do I Not Like That

How fortunate are you to live where you do?

Maybe your home is close to the countryside like mine? Or maybe you live in a city close to amenities and entertainment centres?

I don't know where you are in the world but given what I know about my readership I'd say that it's a pretty good bet that you're in Europe or America. Perhaps even Hong Kong or Australia. Even if you live in a really rough neighbourhood the chances are that you can walk the streets in relative safety without the threat of being kidnapped by terrorists or detained by the military. We're fortunate to live where we do. We have freedom to say or write pretty much anything that we want to without reprisal. Unless, that is, someone takes exception to our words.

I'm fat, grey and ugly. That's not an insult; it's a statement of fact. I haven't taken any offense at those words or asked the person who wrote them to unfriend me on Facebook. I especially haven't posted any anonymous personal threats. Partly because  it was me who wrote it but mostly because I'm not that kind of guy. If someone says something about me that I don't like I simply stop listening. I don't ask them to repeat it and I certainly don't read any more of what they might post about me on social media sites. But others might have. And others might have called the police, saying that someone was spreading defamatory statements about them online. These days that seems to be the crime of the age.

We do indeed live in a society that is pretty much without censorship but we still have taboos. So-called hate crimes are climbing up that list of subjects that we can't mention. So it's alright for me to say that I'm fat, grey and ugly but if anyone else says it then I'll…

The rest of this blog is censored in case someone, somewhere takes offence.

© Shaun Finnie 2014

Out of the Mouths of Nephews

Cars can be dangerous.

So, I've just found out, can ten year old nephews.

It started out as such a lovely day, bright and sunny, just me and the Nephew on a boy's day out. The plan was for him and me to do a bit of walking and birdwatching in the countryside and then to meet up with his sister and the Beloved for a coffee later in the day.

We drove out through the fields and lanes as planned - well, technically I drove as his booster seat stops him reaching the pedals - and all went well until we reached our destination. The car park was unexpectedly bursting at the seams with vehicles occupying all the parking spaces and much of the surrounding road area too. Who knew so many people would be out on a sunny school holiday? Luckily someone was just backing their Mercedes out of a space as I arrived. I waited for them to move but soon realised that there was no room for them to get past us due to the illegally parked cars down one side of the road.

Being well brought up I did the decent thing and reversed out of the way to allow the other car room to get out. I squeezed my little Fiesta as far as I could up to the kerb but it still wasn't good enough. I'd have to do a little off-roading. I backed the car on to the little grass verge, leaving ample room for the Mercedes to get through. Sadly though I think I may have been a little over-enthusiastic in my reversing.

No driver likes to hear an unexpected crunch and I'm no exception. I applied the handbrake and screwed my eyes tight for a moment as I composed myself. When I opened them I saw the Nephew staring at me in surprise, his mouth open almost as wide as his eyes. We looked at each other for a moment before he broke the silence. with a phrase that only a young boy could get away with in the circumstances.

'Uncle Shaun,' he said as a massive grin spread over his face. 'You are in SO much trouble!'

As tension breakers go it was a good one. We hurried around the back of the car to see what damage I'd done and miraculously found that the car had escaped with just the tiniest scratch to its bumper. However the same couldn't be said for the wooden fence that I'd completely flattened. As s standard wooden fence it was clearly no longer fit for purpose, though it now had a new function as a very small boardwalk.

Of course I reported it but to be honest the owner was much less concerned than I was. 'Ah, it was falling down anyway, don't worry.' So I didn't worry, just considered myself fortunate that the situation hadn't been worse.

The whole thing was clearly the highlight of the Nephew's week, if not month and he couldn't wait to see the Beloved. As soon as we arrived at the deli where we'd arranged to meet he ran up to her and announced in a voice loud enough to cause everyone there to splutter into their cappuccinos, 'Guess what, Auntie? Uncle Shaun killed a fence. It was BRILLIANT!'

And as days go, I think it probably was.

 

© Shaun Finnie 2014

Half A Job

If you're a plumber, accountant or shop assistant then you have a useful occupation. You provide a service that somebody wants, even if that somebody is just your boss telling you what they want you to do. Someone wants you to do a task, you do it and you get paid. Assuming that it's a regular job then that pattern continues indefinitely. Or until you tell your boss what you really think about them after one too many tequila slammers at the Christmas party.

An artist (and I consider authors in that category) doesn't do a useful job. Their work is not a basic human requirement. We are 'extras' in life's drama, and we don't have the luxury of a (more or less) guaranteed income. Sure, some of our work is done to commission and if you're at the very top of your game then you may be given a long-term contract to produce a certain amount of work but for most of us at the bottom of this particular business heap that's not the case. We're effectively living in a permanent artistic Dragon's Den, pitching our work and, much of the time, hearing a version of "I'm out" in reply. That's if we hear anything at all. Far too many times the only reply I get from commissioning editors and agents is a deafening silence.

Struggling artists don't only have to do the work but they have to promote it too. We lock ourselves away in our garrets, rehearsal rooms or studios and hone our craft until it's the best that we can make it, but that's only the starting point to getting it in front of an audience and receiving even the tiniest financial reward. There also has to be countless letters, manuscripts, emails, meetings. This is the side that nobody talks about, the process of selling your work. And this is the part of my business at which I'm particularly bad. Spectacularly so to the point where my letterbox is used even less frequently than my bank paying-in book.

I've seen advice from "experts" suggesting that an artist should spent 65% of their time creating their work and the other 35% promoting it. That goes against every instinct that I have. At the moment the ratio is probably more like 100% vs zero for me. I write because I have to, because it's in my soul. If I wanted a proper job working in sales then I'd have applied for one. As things are then I still may have to someday soon but that's beside the point.

It's time that I got more comfortable with this promoting my business business and the best way I know to become comfortable with something is just go out and do it.

So…

BUY MY BOOKS!   TELL ALL YOUR FRIENDS!

How was that? Am I a salesman yet?

© Shaun Finnie 2014

An Error of Comedies

When I was a teenager I wrote some comedy radio sketches for a local radio station. They were kind enough to broadcast them (though not kind enough to pay me) and, after years of dreaming, I began to realise that there might be something in this writing lark after all. I wrote some parodies for a few magazines which were also published, though I still got no cash. I guess it could have been the start of a beautiful career but, to tell the truth, my heart wasn't in it.

Don't get me wrong, I love writing comedy and it's great to hear people laugh at something I've created but it's just not for me in the long run. For one thing I was never going to be a stand-up comedian. I could never appear on stage with nothing but my wit to hide behind. I have nothing but respect for those who do it, especially those who get particularly bad crowd responses yet still plug on regardless. That must take a particular kind of bravery. Or stupidity in repeating the same mistakes night after night.

But the main reason that I don't particularly fancy a career writing comedy is that it's so divisive. Like Marmite, Margaret Thatcher or Manchester United, people tend to either love a particular style of comedy or hate it with a passion. It's not like other fields of writing where readers either like your work or simply ignore it, dismissing it as 'not for me'. It's the same with music. You may dislike someone's musical output but you're unlikely to berate someone else simply for liking them.

But comedy seems to be different. I've been to see three comedy shows recently, all of which were quite dissimilar to the others. In each instance when I've told friends that I've been going I've had some of them smile and say that they wished they were going too. And also in each case I've had others say that they don't like the particular act in question. Fair enough. But their objections have ranged from the mild ("what do you want to go and see them for, they're rubbish?") to the frankly offensive, as if I were somehow implicit in their dislike of the artists in question.

Writing for a living is a thankless enough task as it is, with the letterbox bringing many more rejection letters than cheques. I certainly don't want to get into a section of the business where even your successes are met with catcalls.

With that in mind I think it's probably safer to continue writing novels that nobody reads.

© Shaun Finnie 2014

Remember the Flashing Neon

I've invited a guest blogger to contribute to this edition of 'Dammit, I'm A Writer'. He's an old friend and… well, I'll let him speak for himself.

Remember the flashing neon

Hello, I’m James Hallsworth, a thirty-something father of two living in the glorious city of Sheffield.  I’m publishing my first children’s picture book and embarking on an adventure which could completely transform my life.  I’m here to tell you just a little (but important) bit about it…

I’ve learnt a lot of things in my nearly-forty years on this planet - most of which are only useful in pub quizzes – but the one thing I’ve learned recently is not to give up on your dreams.  It sounds twee I know - don’t click that ‘x’ button - let me explain.

The trick of course, is to know what your dreams are in the first place.  Some lucky people seem to be born with an innate and powerful sense of what they want to do and how to do it (these people don’t need to read any further); I, on the other hand, had to wait more than thirty years until I finally figured it out. 

When I decided to make a stab at writing for a living, the ubiquitous advisory warning was “it’s extremely difficult to get published”.  This is certainly true, but the best and truest mentors always add “…but do not give up” - this should be signposted in flashing neon and given to every writer, or indeed anyone who is trying to make a living from doing something that they enjoy.

Like all un-published authors I have accumulated a substantial collection of soul-destroyingly impersonal rejection letters and experienced the long, dark tea time of the soul writing in an isolated bubble without meaningful feedback, while also trying to hold down an unfulfilling day job.  But, just I was losing faith, I got lucky; I found someone willing to help me to achieve my dream, and offer expertise, contacts and a metaphorical arm around the shoulder.  Now, although I’m still not officially published, I know how close I came to giving up on my hopes and I’m infinitely wiser having stared into the abyss.

Ask yourself, why do you do what you do?  Is it to make money or because you enjoy it?  If it’s the latter, then you’re better off than those doing the former.  Please don’t give up and keep reminding yourself of why you’re doing it every time you have a bad day or disappointment. Your dream just might be around the corner, just as mine was…

...remember the flashing neon.

Big thanks to Shaun for inviting me to guest on his site, and for his sage advice.

My latest children’s picture book (illustrated by the wonderful Helen Braid) is called Mrs Vyle and is available to order now for £6.99 via www.britainsnextbestseller.co.uk/index_php/book/index/Mrs Vyle. 

Mrs Vyle is a deliciously disgusting tale full of slobber, smells and funny noises that adults will enjoy reading as much as children will love listening to.

You can follow me and catch up on latest news about Mrs Vyle at:

Facebook: www.facebook.com/jameshallsworthchildrensauthor

Twitter: @james_h1975

Web: jamesh1975writer.wordpress.com

Taboo You

Are there any subjects that you wouldn't write about, or want your favourite authors to write about?

I ask because I've recently read a story that started out as a 'normal' (whatever that means) soap opera-style family drama but took a dramatic twist halfway through. It was a very dark twist that I felt very uncomfortable reading and certainly won't be discussing on my own website. You never know what keywords Google is searching for. Suffice to say that it involved the very unpleasant demise of a minor. Now I know that horror stories involving children have been around for generations, certainly since the days of Wilkie Collins and his unforgettable, brilliant 'Turn of the Screw', but this particular story has lodged itself in my brain and keeps popping back into my consciousness to disturb me anew. This is, I guess, a kind of compliment to the author. I could never write something as affective as that. Of course I could also never write something like 'Fifty Shades of Grey' or anything in the formulaic style of D*n Br*wn but this was different. The writing was excellent for starters and the characters were engaging to the point where I was actually upset when the bad things happened to them. I'd love to write with that kind of intensity and conviction and yet I could no more create a story containing that kind of medically graphic horror than I could convincingly write about…

Well, I don't know really. I try to tell myself that no subject is off limits to a good author, that they should be able to turn their hand to any writing style - especially if the pay is good enough. I don't like to pretend. I write because I love it, certainly, but also I do it to pay the bills (or at least as many of them as it allows me to). I could even discover a hitherto deeply hidden love of tennis, Lancashire or D*n Br*wn if you put enough noughts on the cheque to make me write about these things.

That's the beauty of being a writer. Our imaginations allow us to visit situations as diverse as euphoria and death without ever having to actually experience them. Assuming that we've done our research well enough - and that means more than a quick scan through Wikipedia - then we could theoretically commit any crime ever invented. We could even, if we're good enough, create a completely fresh original sin. We're confined only by the strength of the voices in our heads and the way we react to them. How closely do we want to sail towards the boundaries of our society's taboos?

But we're also guided by our readers. We can write whatever dark fantasies we desire but if the people who normally read our work are used to us producing happy tales of fluffy bunnies and unicorns then we'll turn them away in droves. Or, in my case, tens. Whether we like it or not, writing is a business like any other. We have to stay within our target audience's tolerances.

And for me, the guy whose book I recently read crossed the line. Although it was an excellent book, I won't be back for the sequel.

And one final thing. Please don't ask what the novel that kick-started this blog was. I'm trying to forget it.

© Shaun Finnie 2014

You're No Good

"Thank you for your submission. It has been read but unfortunately it isn't what we are looking for at this time."

Early this week I received five letters. They were all very similar to the above and all from the same magazine, a well known publication that I've been trying to get my work into for over a year. I was naturally disappointed but I knew that I had more stories still out for consideration by this particular market. They might have rejected five but they had kept the other two. Maybe that meant that they intended to publish those.

Wrong. The missing pair of manuscripts arrived back on my door mat the next day complete with their own copies of the same thanks-but-no-thanks letter. Again, that was very disappointing. Very. But what am I to conclude from this wholesale  discarding of my writing? Am I doing a bad job of it? Am I simply a poor writer? Or had the editor recently published several other pieces in the same vein as those I'd sent in? Maybe they'd had a glut of stories and had been swamped by the sheer numbers? Or perhaps one or more of my stories was pretty close to what they wanted to print and with just a few minor tweaks would have been perfect.

That's the problem with such a generic response. "It isn't what we are looking for at this time." There's nothing that I can take from that apart from abject disappointment. It's not exactly constructive criticism but then again why should I expect an editor to provide a more detailed critique? Their job is to pick the best submissions that they think will please their readership, not to help me improve my writing skills. My job is to anticipate their requirements and follow the magazine's guidelines to the letter. Sometimes it might feel like I need ESP abilities to produce the work that they require but it has to be possible. Some people are able to do it - they get their writing published issue after issue.

So it's time for me to recommit to this work and produce the stories that they actually want to print, which is not necessarily the same as a story that I think is really good. I have to start with an original beginning though. Let's see…

'It was a dark and stormy night.'

© Shaun Finnie 2014

The Printer Must Die

I hate printers. I try not to hate too many things in life but for printers, I'll make an exception. I hate them with a passion, which is a bit of a blow as they're a necessary evil in my job like dealing with my tax return or non-paying editors. I've despised printers most of my adult life; certainly long before I got my tie stuck in one as an office junior.

It was way back in a year beginning with 19 and I was trying to change the dreaded toner cartridge on a huge old Hewlett Packard lazerjet. Anyone who had the misfortune to work with these behemoths back then will remember that this task was about as easy as performing dental surgery on a wide-awake and very hungry mountain lion, and twice as dangerous. It was also a filthy job so I, obviously, was wearing my best white work shirt.

As soon as I touched it the toner cart belched out a cloud of black dust, turning my shirt and any exposed areas of skin a dark grey colour. To make matters worse, as I leant in closer to dislodge the cartridge my tie got caught in the mechanism. The printer didn't try to pull me into its filthy depths (which even I could see would have been even funnier) but it refused to let go of my gaudy tie, surely the most useless piece of clothing known to man. What use are ties really, apart from for choking people with? The printer obviously agreed, as it kept a firm hold as I tried to pull myself out from its innards. So not only was my tie hideously miscoloured (even more than when I'd bought it), it was also mangled and, worst of all, the printer was trying to throttle me with it.

There's only so much of this kind of treatment that a man can take. I removed the tie from my neck and left it dangling like a severed line of entrails from the guts of the machine. It had clearly attacked me and I had an office full of witnesses, probably attracted by my vitriolic verbal outbursts. I quickly came to the obvious conclusion. There was nothing else for it.

The printer must die.

I know that the following will be a little difficult for some of you to believe but I swear that every word of it is true.

I picked the printer up. It was a hefty old lazerjet, about the size of a large microwave oven but several times heavier. And it was covered with disgusting toner dust. And it was still trying to digest my tie. It was more bulky than heavy but I managed to lift it to chest height and with a mighty roar hurled it, shot putt fashion, across the room.

At least, that was my intention. Unfortunately it was still cabled up and the cables were, even more unfortunately, securely fastened under the desk on which it stood. It didn't so much fly as plummet, hitting the table top with a dull thud. I'd hoped for it to shatter on the floor several metres away, spraying lethal dusty shards in all directions. Sadly all that happened was that there was a small and entirely non-serious crack in one of its paper trays. That's it. Apart from that, and having a tie mulched in its workings, the printer was entirely unscathed. I'd completely failed in my first task as a printer assassin.

So you'll understand that I was somewhat miffed this week when my own home office printer completely failed to print a manuscript that I sent to it. I have to concede that it made an effort, pulling in the paper and moving the print head backwards and forwards with the required chugging sound, but it made no attempt whatsoever to darken the sheet with its presence. The paper cane out as clean and white as it had gone in, totally unsullied by my words and ideas.

Seeing as my office is in the attic I knew that I could do a lot more damage to my own printer than I had with my employers' all those years ago. Sadly I also knew that it would be me who would have to clean the resulting carnage from my path if I flung it out of the window so instead I did the sensible thing.

I emailed the document to my Beloved. She printed it on our second in-house printer.

Safer. Cheaper. Less dangerous.

But I still hate printers.

© Shaun Finnie 2014

Home Away From Home

Like I've said regularly in recent blogs, I write because I have to. I write for my income, yes, but I'd do it even if I didn't get paid. For many years that's precisely what I did. My work wasn't read much back then either but it didn't matter because I had to write. I write because it's part of me and it has to come out.

This week I've been on holiday up in the Lake District. More accurately, I've been to Center Parcs near Penrith. To some it's a place where you can get access to nature while still retaining central heating and other home comforts. To others it's little more than Butlins for eco-warriors. Whatever, I love it there. It's calming for me, a place to slow down and reflect. And it's also a brilliant place to write.

What's not to love? Log (style) cabins, no cars, clean air. And lots of trees, birds an furry creatures to lower the heart rate and increase the word count. Bliss. I find that this kind of atmosphere is excellent for writing, for freeing my mind from the cares and worries of 'normal' life and allowing my muse to take me where it will. But probably more importantly, it's the best place that I've found for editing my work (and sometimes that of others too). The calmness of it all somehow frees me to improve a manuscript and make every word count.

It's the process of cleaning, correcting and tightening the work until it's the very best that I can make it, like polishing a newly-completed piece of furniture, that I find much easier in this kind of atmosphere. I can write almost anywhere if I have to and don't mind telling people to give me a minute on my own to scribble an elusive thought into my notebook but editing and rewriting are entirely different beasts, needing much more concentration. I think that's why the proverbial cabin in the woods is such a good location for it.

So that's what I'm doing - tidying the first draft of my next novel in preparation for more serious rewrites later. As holidays go, I've had worse.

A Money and Numbers Game

I love being my own boss.

I hate doing my own accounts.

All the time that I'm reading long-forgotten receipts and entering numbers in books and spreadsheets I'm imagining the ghost of a tax in-spectre looming over my shoulder, whispering little threats as to why I'm wrong and how he's going to punish me for claiming that fourth Americano while working in Starbucks. As if it isn't bad enough having the coffee shakes too.

But, like driving and studying the literary style of D*n Br*wn to see why he's so popular, it's a necessary evil. So I gathered everything up, spread it all out on my dining room table and started scribbling. In pencil, obviously. I know better than to get too confident.

It's strange, I spent several years working as a bookkeeper for a small business, a job that involved doing the personal accounts and tax returns of the directors of the company. But somehow that was different. Even though the numbers involved were bigger (much bigger), the implications didn't seem as real. That was for someone else. This time it's personal. It's my business, my tax return. Every number that I enter has a personal story behind it. That receipt for Australian sales? They were as a direct result of an afternoon spent spamming direct target advertising to a select number of Australian readers and reviewers. The invoice regarding that huge hardback book? Research for a quiz book that has yet to see the light of day. There was never this level of personal involvement when I was doing exactly the same job for someone else. And I was getting paid to do theirs. The time I spend doing my own is time that I could be writing more saleable product.

I'd love to pay someone to do my accounts for me but the truth is that I don't earn enough to make it worthwhile. Unless they were so wonderfully creative that they could get me a refund large enough to cover their own expense of course. Which, however much me and the accountant might want it, is unlikely. My account books simply don't have enough entries to be that creative.

So after weeks (months) of procrastination I finally sat down and made the effort. I wrote up all my invoices and receipts, numbered them and filed them away tidily. I ticked all the transactions off against statements and other documents. Current account? Check, all ticked off and balanced. Credit card? Yep, everything agrees with the statements and receipts. Petty cash?

Petty cash? Not quite so successful. After balancing all the big accounts the one with the little tiddly amounts was the one that caused me the most trouble. Things like a couple of quid for stamps and envelopes or a new printer cartridge. I don't think that there was a single entry for more than a tenner yet there was a piffling small amount difference between what I had in my cash box and what the figures said that I should have. There must have been a receipt missing.

I looked in my files in case I'd clipped it to something else. No joy. Maybe it was in that-drawer-where-you-stuff-things-to-look-at-later? (Tell me it's not just me?)  No, it wasn't in there. Maybe I'd confused it with my own personal receipts? But I hadn't, it wasn't with them either.

I eventually found it. It had slipped in between some blank pages of the book I do my accounts in. Turns out that the missing invoice was for that very same accounts book.

Irony. You've got to love it.

Eight Days a Week

What does your normal working week consist of? Is it the clichéd Monday to Friday, forty hours or so? Or perhaps it's more flexible that than? Maybe you might even do shift work? Chances are though, whatever your working pattern, your employer gives you two days a week off, probably Saturday and Sunday.

As a self-employed writer I have the freedom to work whatever hours I want. That's fantastic, but it has a downside; the fewer hours that I put in then the lower wordcount I produce. I try to work five days and take two days off but unless I have something special planned those two rest days are unlikely to be at the traditional weekend. I prefer to take my two days free time when most people are at work, meaning that anywhere I go will be quieter and possibly cheaper.

But a full day off? Twenty-four hours without any writing whatsoever? That very rarely happens. I know that many people will see my work as an easy option - sitting around thinking and occasionally tippy-tapping at a keyboard - but the truth is that I'm practically always working. In this line of work there's no time off at all. Even when I'm away from the office my mind's still working out plot points, considering how my characters would react in certain situations, soaking up my surroundings or making notes about people and places I see for further reference.

On a night out with friends or a day shopping with the Beloved I'll always have a notebook and pen with me. I've been known to dictate messages into my phone for later transcription and even sent text messages to myself if a have a sudden thought that just needs a quick note. I have notebooks in just about every room in the house including a waterproof one in the bathroom for if I have a flash of inspiration while soaking my aches and pains away. And naturally there's a pad in my bedside cabinet so that I can document those most unfathomable of thoughts - dreams - before they disappear back into whatever ether they came from.

My point is that, though I may not actually clock as many official working hours as most employees, I can honestly say that I'm always on call, ready for that moment when something triggers a thought that has to be recorded before it evaporates like early morning mist over a summer lake. I'm never unavailable, the muse can strike at any moment and if I miss it then, with the state of my memory, it's gone forever. You could say that I'm at work 24/7, 365 days a year.

It's a tough life, but it's so much more enjoyable than my old job in the steelworks.

© Shaun Finnie 2014

Silence is Golden

It's good to get away from the office and the keyboard sometimes, to sit peacefully with just a notepad and a pen. Somehow in a different environment the ideas flow in a different way. It seems more organic, like I'm creating stories in the same way that people have done for centuries.

I sat in my local library, a lovely new building that laughs in the face of all the local council cuts that have fallen on similar facilities up and down the country recently. It's more of a community centre really but the library section is excellent, well stocked with books and incredibly peaceful. It's almost like a church for those of us who worship the written word. I settled into a comfortable wing-backed armchair, paused a moment to soak in the calming atmosphere and then took up the tools of my trade.

In this perfect workplace I churned out page after page of useful prose and nodes, the ideas flowing directly from brain to arm to pen to page. It was effortless, almost like automatic writing, if you believe in such things. I was, as athletes say, in the zone and all was well in my ultra-productive world.

Remember that I said the library is a kind of community centre? I should have become suspicious when the librarians began to erect a set of brightly coloured barriers around the children's book area, just beside my little oasis of calm. I should have noticed that the little cluster of push chairs and buggies in the doorway had multiplied in the last few moments but I was so engrossed in my work that my peripheral vision had sort of shut down. I was pretty much oblivious to everything except my blurring hand and the scribbled squiggles that it left on the page.

Jean-Paul Sartre said that 'Hell is other people'. If I may, for the purposes of this blog I'll amend that to 'Hell is other people's children.' Now, I'm sire that all the little darlings are perfect angels, at least as far as their parents are concerned, but an entire pack of them did nothing for the library's ambience or my concentration. Fingernails down a blackboard sound like nothing compared to a shrieking two year old. The repeated and unheeded maternal calls for Tilly and Kayden to stop running around weren't really conducive to my channelling of the muse but I grit my teeth and pushed my pen with a renewed purpose. I'm a professional. I could work through this. And I did. I plodded on and tried to block out the sounds of carnage. I have to be a bit smug here and say that it worked. For a bit. Right up until the singing started.

I'm quite willing to believe that, at some point in his fictional furry life, Little Peter Rabbit did indeed have a fly upon his noes but let's be honest: his tale doesn't really make for great song lyrics. He's never going to win an Ivor Novello with lines about his floppy ears and curly whiskers. But the thirty or so members of the mother and toddler group didn't seem to care, with the elder half of their contingent singing along with gusto in four different keys at the same time, while the younger attendees either stared at their parents in bemused incomprehension or completely ignored them and continued slapping their play partners with the hardest hardback they could wield.

I momentarily considered joining with the song but suspected that my vibrant tenor might stand out among so many wobbly altos and sopranos. And anyway, I know a somewhat different set of lyrics to the tune that they were attempting. I'm all for education at an early age but I think that there are some things that these toddlers were a little too young to find out about.

I tried to carry on with my work but the moment had passed. My creative juices had dried up like a week-old Lidl Satsuma. It was no good. I packed up my stuff in my manly man-bag and headed for the coffee shop around the corner. Perhaps a slice of Victoria sponge would clear my ears.

But just before I left the library lady nearby asked if she could have a piece of paper to scribble some notes on and naturally I shared a page from my notebook with her. There was never any question as to whether I would. Share with people, it's just the right thing to do.  Remember: there's no I in Pad.

Read or Dead

I'm not a great fan of literary sequels. But at least they're so much better than the sequel penned by a different writer after the original author's death. That really is a ghastly idea.

Here's a challenge: can you think of any book that's a follow-up to a dead author's work which compares favourably with the original novel. I bet you'll struggle.

There are a whole host of 'Sherlock Holmes' and 'James Bond' books written long after their original author had passed and while many are readable and some highly enjoyable they don't hold a candle to the brilliance of the original creations. The same with the many authors who have tried to follow in H.P. Lovecraft's sick and twisted footsteps.

I might make an exception for Andrew Neiderman writing as "The New Virginia Andrews" but again, nothing that he's produced is of the level of her classic 'Flowers in the Attic'. And Eoin Colfer is an excellent writer. I love his Artemis Fowl series and his later, more adult-oriented works, 'Screwed' and 'Plugged', but can anyone really offer an argument in support of 'And Another Thing', his addition to the 'Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy' series? If ever there was a redundant addition to a classic series surely this was it?

This blog and it's predecessor from last week can really be summed up as a plea to writers young and old to strive for original ideas, to shy away from the lure of an already-established readership in favour of pushing new boundaries and mining for new storylines and characters.

Of course there are no new ideas in the universe but is it too much for obviously talented writers to hang the old ideas onto new frameworks with new characters and new situations to flesh them out? Are there no new sleuths in the world? Is it really more important to write more 'Sherlock' stories? And P.D. James is supremely talented, so why on Earth did she have to create the Jane Austen pastiche, 'Death Comes to Pemberley'?

I better quit before I descend into Full Rant Mode. So it's time to wrap up, for time is something I have little of at the moment. I have a huge writing project that I'm in the middle of.

It's a sequel to my novel, 'The Happiest Workplace On Earth'. Well I have to pay the bills like everyone else.

© Shaun Finnie 2014

Once More, Without Feeling

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle grew heartily sick of his Sherlock Holmes novels. He felt that he had written much worthier work (both in the fields of medicine and spirituality) and that his writings on the master detective were pulp trash. Yet his publishers and his public wanted more about Holmes and so he wrote them what they wanted, if only to make sure that he was allowed to write about the things that he loved.

I recently found a novel that I hadn't known existed - 'Son of Rosemary's Baby' by the author of the original 'Rosemary's Baby', Ira Levin. Frankly, it's a pale shadow of the first book, with underdeveloped characters and a truly risible, laugh out loud ending. But Mr Levin is quite honest to say that he'd resisted writing a sequel for decades before an offer came along that he simply couldn't turn down.

I can understand him doing it for the money, certainly. And I can also get the idea that, if people really love a novel then they'll naturally want to find out what happens to its characters after they've turned the final page. And for the author there's a built-in readership in a sequel which equates to much-needed income. That's something that every writer, even Sir Arthur, welcomes.

So the author might (if they're lucky) end up financially happy but will they be artistically satisfied? Surely all of us write because, at some level at least, we have to and would write whether or not anyone eventually read our work? Tell me it's not just me that does this? Tell me that best-selling authors of sequels aren't just literary whores, pandering to their customer's every desire whether or not it's what the writer really wants to do?

I understand that, with a sequel to a well-received novel, everyone goes away happy, at least to some degree, but wouldn't they be even happier with a new novel full of new ideas? Eoin Colfer has sold millions of Artemis Fowl books, but his later, adult novel - 'Plugged' - is so much better (to these adult eyes, at least). It's full of completely fresh ideas, not weighed down with the baggage of previous work. And then he went and spoiled it by writing a terribly inferior sequel, 'Screwed'.

And I've even written sequels to my own short stories, usually when readers have asked me the same question: What happened to the characters next. I've been as interested as they have and I've given it my best shot but it seems to me that it's a bit of a cop out, a waste of talent and imagination. That story's been told, let's all move on to the next one.

So I think I've made my view clear. I'm not a great fan of literary sequels. But at least they're so much better than the sequel penned by a different writer after the original author's death. That really is a ghastly idea.

Play to Win

I read something this week that I found deeply strange. Apparently a junior rugby tournament is to be held where there will be no winners and no losers. No scoring and non-competitive. Everyone is equally prized just for turning up. I know that this has happened in school sports days and the like for years but it still strikes me as being wrong. Very wrong indeed.

Because this tournament is going even further in that. Should one team be markedly better than the other and have a stand-out star player, then the recommendation is that that player should be removed from the stronger side and made to play on the weaker team. Not that we know which the best team is because we won't be scoring, remember? Nor will we know who the really good player is because they've all been told that it's not a competition and they're only playing for fun. Everyone is equal.

This, apparently, makes the game fairer, doesn't it?

Doesn't it?

Is it fair on the kid who's worked hard on their abilities and learned their tactics to be told that those who have sat on their backsides in front of a Playstation will get the same recognition?

Is it fair on those who aren't as good to be artificially raised to a position of equality that they cannot - and possibly don't wish to - keep up?

Is it fair on all of them to be taught that there are no winners and no losers in preparation for a life where there most assuredly are in almost all the important aspects?

Is it fair that I receive the same amount of payment from my publisher as D*n Br**n does even though my sales are the minutest fraction of his? Of course not. It would be laughable to suggest so and the the lawsuit-loving Mr Br**n would have me in the dock quicker than you can say 'risible plagiaristic page-turner'. Allegedly.

And quite right he would be too. Above all else these children who are being so misled by their well-meaning rugby teachers will know for themselves who's best and who's worse. You can bet your house that they'll be keeping score, as any right-minded sportsperson should. And, sadly, the better ones will crow about their unrecognised victory to those who wouldn't-have-scored-so-many-points-had-we-been-keeping-score. That's how we learn that winning is better than losing.

Life's not fair. All you can do is work hard, be your very best at the things you can and live with the other stuff.

Which is why I haven't played rugby since I was a boy.

© Shaun Finnie 2014

Sleepy, Not in a Hollow

Some things in life you just have to put up with. Bad drivers; rising inflation; Keith Lemon. Others, you choose to accept for a while. A leaky roof; the damp patch on the bathroom ceiling; the wonky cupboard door where the hinge needs replacing. These things can be fixed and probably will be if you ever get around to it. These are minor irritations in the big scheme of things (compared to Keith Lemon) but some things around the house can't wait to be repaired or replaced. A broken toilet; a blown kettle; a damaged pizza cutter. When they need fixing they need fixing now, and this week I got round to fixing one of those important things.

Our bed had finally become too soft and saggy to sleep on. It more resembled a hammock than a mattress, so big was the dip in the middle.  I'm all for snuggling up close to the Beloved of a night time but it's nice to make the choice ourselves and not have the mattress decide for us. Nobody likes enforced intimacy, least of all the Beloved. It's been sinking lower and lower in the centre for a while and wasn't going to heal on its own so we chose not to buy each other a Christmas present this year. We saved our cash and put it to a joint gift from the New Year Sales.

We managed to find a new mattress for less than thirty percent of the original label price, a huge bargain which saved us hundreds of pounds. And it's brilliant, really thick, luxuriant and just the right level of firmness. It reminds me of a posh hotel room bed. Sadly though my Beloved doesn't leave mints on the pillow every evening.

We'd had the previous mattress for over a decade so there's no wonder that it was no longer at its best. It was about half its original thickness but not consistently so, so it was lumpy and bumpy in all the wrong places. Its coils were uncoiled, its hexagonal honeycombs had crumbled and its cover was torn and punctured so that its pointy bits and pieces poked unpleasantly into mine. The new one is so solid that even with me rolling around on it all night it holds its shape, and its solidarity has taught me how bad the previous mattress had become.

I only ever use one pillow. I have done for many years. I thought I'd just grown to like having only theone, that it was my choice, but now the reason has become clear. The bed had simply become so saggy that one pillow raised my head sufficiently. But now that I've re-learned how solid a mattress should be I've realised that one pillow isn't enough. It leaves my head sloping back and downwards at a painfully more-than-jaunty angle. So much so that I'm choking, head back, swallowing my own tongue. Not only that but I'm also, apparently, snoring though I'm not convinced about that. I certainly haven't been noisy enough to wake myself. I'm sleeping the best that I have in a long, long time.

The only problem now is that we have the old mattress to dispose of. Of course we'll take it to the tip (when we get around to it) but currently it's still in our bedroom. It's propped up against the wall at the end of our bed, looming over us while we sleep like some kind of posture-sprung guardian angel. If it ever decides to flop down on us during the night, attacking us like a deleted scene from 'Paranormal activity', we may need to reuse it. It'll be cleaner than the new one will be.

© Shaun Finnie 2014

My Toe is Like a Crocodile

I've never broken any of the bigger bones in my body. I've done the odd finger and a bone in my foot once (car engines are surprisingly heavy) but nothing serious. I'd actually not broken anything at all for quite some time. It wasn't something that I was complacent about, I didn't invite danger to come and try breaking a part of me just for the fun of it but it was something that I thought of occasionally. I've not broken a bone in my body for about twenty-five years.

My record has recently been broken. Snapped in two. Shattered. And so has my little toe.

It was my own fault, totally. I did something stupid, so ridiculous and dangerous that I'd urge everyone to think twice before trying it. Send your granny or even a loved one to do it instead. It could end up breaking your toe.

I emptied my bin.

I know, it was a foolish thing to do, especially as it meant going through my back door - the same back door that I've had for decades without incident. So how come I chose that moment to ram my little toe into it at full force? How come I didn't just put my foot through the gap instead of catching the frame? I've no idea. The only excuse I can think of is…  erm…  no, I'm empty on that one. I guess it's one of those things that they call "an accident". You know, those things that solicitors who advertise on daytime television don't believe exist.

There was a sickening crunch. There was a pathetic whimpering sound. The world spun and greyed out for a second. Then there was a wobbly thud as I plonked myself onto a kitchen stool. The bins would have to wait.

My Beloved was (as ever) a star in a moment of crisis. She ministered hugs and strapping and delicately eased it back into position. How toes can point at such strange angles is beyond me. Weird angle, weird size (the swelling was almost immediate) and weird colour.

You know how many of us have been looking (in vain) for the Northern Lights this past week? How the aurora was supposed to send streaks of yellow, green and purple throughout the heavens but eventually didn't show? I know why. It must have got a dodgy satnav like the ones they sell on Barnsley market because it was way off line. Instead of sending its magical markings into the skies it had sent them across my foot. It was, I have to admit, quite beautiful. If you discount the pain. Strangely enough I had a little trouble doing that at the time but a couple of bottles of Old Speckled Hen soon rectified that situation and I eventually appreciated the artistry that my body had wrought. Who needs tattoos?

There was nothing to be done of course. It's not like I could go to hospital and get it set. No, I just had to keep it strapped and grin & bear it. And make sure that my Beloved took the bins out from then on. It was a little inconvenient but after a few days it wasn't too bad at all.

Until I thumped it again.

This time was completely my own fault. If I'd moved the box that she'd been asking me to do for a few days then I wouldn't have had to limp around it when I went to close the curtains. And if I hadn't have stumbled when doing so then I wouldn't have slipped and kicked the wooden leg of my sofa. Same toe: same result. This time the whimper was louder with a touch of anger, but the pain and discolouration was just as vivid. How could I have done it again? Decades without any trouble and now two cases of the crunchies in a week. It was ridiculous.

But not as ridiculous as walking into a bookshelf the very next day. I almost screamed this time. I was certainly reduced to hopping and swearing. Same toe: worse result. It had had enough by now and decided that it had to take matters into its own… er… toe. It swelled up protectively. Within an hour it was almost the size of my big toe and the nail had turned black. If Dulux had a colour chart called "Acid Trip" then I think that they'd pasted one over the end of my foot .I'm sure that you're smiling but it wasn't funny. Stop it, it's not.

It's like my house and the furniture in it are magnetised. They seem to be pulling my shredded toe towards them in a manner that they never have done before. Maybe they're haunted. Maybe the house hates me for that one accidental missed mortgage payment. Maybe I'm just getting clumsy in my old age.

Oh, and if you're wondering about the title of this piece it refers to the old joke…

A man walks into a café and says, "Gimme a crocodile sandwich, and make it snappy".

© Shaun Finnie 2014

Back to Life, Back to Reality

I gave myself quite a lot of time off over the Christmas / New Year holidays. I had a long wind down towards it and I've given myself a long easing back in period too. All in all I've had about three weeks away from doing any real, committed, serious writing.

This was A Big Mistake. I'm finding it really difficult to get back into the swing of things again. The words aren't flowing. The stories and characters are clichés. And 'Bargain Hunt' is just a little more tempting than usual every lunchtime.

The life of a self-employed writer is different from most jobs. Normal workers pretty much get straight back into their role as soon as they return to work. There's usually a boss breathing down your neck and some procedures in place to make sure that you produce whatever it is that you do in a timely and quality controlled manner. Not for me. I have nothing stopping me wandering to the paper shop or having a cup of tea and a chat with my Beloved. I am my own boss and my own slave driver.

It's really about motivation. In a normal workplace there's someone around to make sure that you're pulling your weight. They have various metaphorical carrots and sticks to ensure that you do the job that you're contracted for. Me? I have… me. I have to tell myself to get it done, to coerce and bully myself into churning the word count. Any self-employment must include a large dose of self-motivation and that's not always the easiest thing in the world.

It's been great having a work-free end to the year but now my favourite coffee shop is open again and I can plop myself into my favourite armchair there, writing all day fuelled on seriously strong Grumpy Mule coffee. In fact, that's where I'm writing this. What I need now is a series of well-paying commissions with tight deadlines. There's nothing like the threat of not getting paid to encourage productivity.

That's it. That's this week's blog. I know that this piece may seem a little disjointed and rambling but, hey, I've got to ease myself into the writing year somehow, right?

It's About Time

Here we are then at the beginning of a whole new year. Hopefully it's started out good for you and will continue to improve as the year progresses. However you celebrated, I hope it was how you wanted it to be.

But let's think for a moment. Is January the first really any different from any other day? It's a good excuse for a party, certainly, and those fireworks manufacturers need to make their cash sometime but it's really just another tick of the clock, isn't it? Why chose that particular combination on the clock's YMCA hand-jive to cheer? In fact, why do we set our watches and calendars the way that we do anyhow?

The idea of turning our planet's orbit around the sun into a standard unit of time seems sensible to me. It's pretty constant and predictable at around 365 and a quarter days so we're quite comfortable with the concept of a 'Year'. And our earth's rotation around its own axis is stable too. Again, a 'Day' is a great way of measuring time, to track the number of sunrises regardless of how long or short the gap between them might be, depending on the season.

But  for shorter units than that? How come we have the seemingly arbitrary idea of twenty-four hours in a day?* And the apparently equally random sixty minutes in an hour?** Whoever came up with those must have had their (however bizarre) reasons but credit to them for making the entire world go ahead with their way of thinking. Personally I'd have had us all counting our time in units of tens. That seems to work for most people (although perhaps not Anne Boleyn). We live with what we've got though and, the French being a notable exception, most people for the last few centuries have got on with it quite well.

In the end though it's not about measuring your time in minutes, hours and days but in smiles and hugs. Every shadow passing over the sundial is an opportunity for fun, love and productivity, not just another tick to be tocked off. You'll never look back on your life and say "I wish I'd looked at my watch more often".

We'll only pass through 2014 once. Live it well.

Notes for those vaguely interested

* Why we have 24 hours in a day - The ancient Egyptians divided their working day (i.e. sunlight hours) into tenths and then added an extra 'hour' of twilight at each end, giving a twelve hour day. If a day was twelve hours long then it stood to reason (to them) that a night was twelve hours long too, which is why they had twenty-four hours in their day, a tradition that we've carried on.

** Why we have sixty minutes in an hour - The Babylonians, who were a bit better than me at maths, liked to do their workings out in a base-60 system. Good for them. I got a bit lost reading a heavy book on why that was the case but even I can see that there's a clue there to the number of minutes in an hour and seconds in a minute.

© Shaun Finnie 2014