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