An amusing exercise you may wish to try. (Free copy & paste material included)

This is quite a long post, but bear with me and read on. I think you will find it funny, enlightening, useful, and well worth the few minutes of your time it takes to read it.

You may have read my other post regarding the recent surge of ‘Book Marketing experts’ commenting in the threads of author’s posts to get attention, and/or an initial conversation started. Read it here on Ramblings from a Writers,  https://ramblingsfromawritersmind.wordpress.com/2024/04/07/warning-to-authors-dont-fall-for-this/

Not all are direct “let me promote your book” comments, some are low-key, from ‘You have an amazing book’, ‘I love your cover’, to ‘What inspired you to write such a captivating story’, basically anything to make a live connection.

So, I entered into several conversations with the people who made contact with me. Mostly these contacts came from one of two recent social media posts. Occasionally I received an identical message on both of those posts.

Anyway, against the advice given in my blog, (which I still recommend), I decided to do some research… (or play a game) with these ‘promoters’ to see just how committed and genuine their claims are/were.

As I briefly mentioned above, these opening gambits come in several guises, including ‘authors’ making the initial connection and eventually recommending ‘A promoter/marketer they have worked with’… yeah, right.

I took my time and carefully nurtured many of my ‘new friends’ (I was contacted by 234 in total) into thinking I was genuinely interested in the services they offered.

Others I was, let us say, a little harsher with, even sarcastic on many occasions, although much of my sarcasm was missed, or taken literally. I know the common conception is that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, but one still needs a reasonable amount of intelligence to comprehend it.

Or maybe it is that Hank from Illinois, (the all-American author) who would clearly understand the irony of my words, is actually Abaeze from Lagos, (the all-Nigerian scammer) who has absolutely no concept of the absurd satire this form of English wonderfully embodies.

Now, my reason for taking the above action, besides amusing myself, was to discover these marketeer’s premise.

Without exception, they all wanted payment for their proposed service in advance, although some, the more desperate ones I guess, Offered a range of concessions, from the first few days free, to hugely discounted fees.

Surprise, surprise, not one would/or could give a firm guarantee of any sales figures, or would even commit to a target number, a goal to be achieved; especially when I said I would only pay on qualified and quantified results, and for an author results equal sales.

I further explained that as nice a person as he is, my bank manager did not take deposits of likes, comments, exposure, visibility, or any other non-tangible factors, nor did my energy supplier accept such payments.

For some reason, my ‘new friends’ began to evaporate rather swiftly.

Some, however, were far more persistent and, as I was now in a fully-fledged piss-taking mood, I continued with this experiment.

I have not mentioned, because of its complexity, that at each stage I drafted, and sent a message to gauge the ability, understanding, and comprehension of each ‘new friend’ regarding the field they proclaimed to be expert, and/or professional within.

As the exercise progressed, and the responses were returned, I altered and honed these messages until I found the sweet spot, a letter which, by its very nature dismisses these people, or, at least in one instance, exposes the AI involved. To this, I sent a final missive.

I am giving you a copy of these messages (below) so you can send them to the unwanted and unwarranted approaches you receive.

Just before I do, a quick word on the exposition of the AI, as mentioned above.

In answer to the first message, part of the reply I received runs something thus;

“Your book [insert title] was so captivating…  I particularly enjoyed [insert chapter number]…”

Yeh, right. This lady promoter has obviously purchased and read my book… or maybe not!

My book in question, Within the Invisible Pentacle https://bit.ly/WTIPpw

As I mentioned at the start of this message, I undertook this initiative out of curiosity and for amusement. You do not need to indulge these people as I have, you can simply block and delete.

On the other hand, if you have a few minutes, in which you would like to entertain yourself… then go for it!

Thanks for reading this post.

KEEP HAPPY, Paul

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Following are the two letters/messages I now send out to dissuade other book marketers/promoters/video/trailer makers and such if I decide not to simply delete and block them immediately.

Simply copy and paste when needed.

MESSAGE ONE

I send this on initial contact.

Thank you for showing an interest in my book.

I understand you offer a service to market, promote, and advertise.

To carry this conversation forward, please answer the following questions.

1, How did the cover initially capture your attention?

2, What was the main thing about the back cover/introduction that appealed to you most?

3, How far through the book have you read so far? What chapter have you reached?

4, If it is one of my short story collections, which story has captivated you most, and which story has made you consider and think most?

5, Did you purchase the paperback or eBook?

6, When did you purchase the book, and where did you purchase it from?

Lastly, please forward a photograph of you holding/reading my book.

Thank you.

I look forward to your reply.

MESSAGE TWO

For replies received after sending message one, when the responese dso not fit the criteria you requested.

I do not expect you will need to send many of these!

Clearly, regarding your answers to my questions, and the lack of the requested evidential photograph, I understand that you have not purchased a copy of my book.

If you are not committed to owning a copy, in reading it, learning, sampling, and understanding my product, there is no way I could commit to, or even wish to purchase your service.

Without knowing the book intimately, understanding it, and realising its placement in the market, you cannot possibly promote this product using an accurate and cohesive targeted marketing strategy.

Therefore, this is the end of this conversation.

(You are now blocked and deleted.)

Goodbye.

Warning to authors. Don’t fall for this.

A few points about this blog before I start today’s Rambling, as it’s now ten years old.

The posts on this blog are designed to inform and entertain authors and writers.

I approach each topic from an oblique perspective, weaving a little humanity and self-consciousness onto the page, along with helpful conclusions, tips, links I consider helpful, and lots of other stuff, oh, and a touch of my rather warped humour.

I think people enjoy these ramblings as, after ten years of writing, I still have followers, even adding a few more at times.

I have never intended for this blog to make money; I simply write it for the love of sharing all things author-ish and publishing-ish. Nothing more.

Apart from the articles, I like to post the occasional short story. Sometimes I’ll post about one of my books, although this is a rare thing, (although I end each post with a book promo). Other times I’ll give space to a guest writer who has something they wish to share.

On that subject, if you would like to guest post here, and you think your topic fits well with these ramblings, then do, please, contact me. I would love to hear from you.

Now on with the post…

You shall not find too many negatives within these posts, even this time, as I address a particular subject which has gone far beyond being an irritation.

Suddenly… yes that word I rarely use (a topic for discussion another time)… Suddenly… okay, recently social media is awash with a million and one experts, all of whom wish, deeply from their hearts, and in the most conscientious and professional manner possible, to help, aid, and assist every writer and author on the planet to promote and market their books.

Post anything on any social platform, be it Facebook, Insta, X, @, Iviv, MeWe, LinkedIn, Pinterest, or ‘Whatever’, and you will undoubtedly attract many comments and direct messages. Far more than you generally receive on a regular, or standard basis.

The downside is that ninety-nine per cent of these contacts are from this massive new tsunami of book promoters, marketers, advertising experts, video/book trailer creators, Social media experts, and so forth… or whatever term they like to self-style themselves under.

I have noticed, as I am certain you have, that while there have always, well, for as long as I have been an author, been several ‘book promotion experts/professionals’ pushing their services via social media, the numbers have recently exploded, along with the way they attempt to sell themselves.

Not so long ago, a few book marketers (in comparison) made original posts and sent them to author and book groups to elicit some interest and a response from writers.

So be it. Fair advertising of one’s service.

Now, while some of these people may have overdone things a little, akin to spamming, their posts, even the annoying ones, were easily ignored. One could simply scroll on by.

If, on the other hand, the post held some interest for a writer then they could make the initial contact. All good. No major issues.

However… (for those of you who regularly read these ramblings you’ll know I love the word however). However, within a short time, maybe the last three or four months, the entire book promotion landscape has been sullied by the aforementioned plethora of self-proclaimed experts who have burst onto/into the indie author/writer/publishing network.

These Cretans do not have the common courtesy to advertise their services on social media in an acceptable way. They believe in hijacking an author’s promotional post, one which is directed at readers, by commenting on the post’s thread.

These comments take several forms.

The first is a simple ‘Wow’, ‘Amazing’ or ‘Fantastic’.

The second is a step up, ‘I love your book cover’, ‘Oh, well done, that sounds a great read’, or ‘I would love to talk to you about your book’.

All hoping the author will respond, giving the marketer an opening to start a conversation, often asking to DM or email, so the conversation is publicly offline.

Thirdly, is the direct hit. ‘Your book looks amazing. I can help you promote/market it, set up email marketing/make you a book trailer/ get you reviews. You could sell millions of copies but only with my help and so on…. blah blah blah, bullsugar, etc, etc.

You get the gist and have probably received this form of comments and messages.

The best thing to do is block and delete each and every one of them. If we all do that, collectively do that, they will soon get the message and desist… or at least find other methods, or other target markets other than us authors.

Think about this.

If these self-proclaimed marketers were actually any good at marketing, why are they highjacking and piggybacking on indie authors’ social posts? Surely, they would have a wonderful, well-planned, well-constructed marketing initiative which would win authors and writers over en-mass.

I have, in the past few days held conversations with many of these people, the outcome with each one was identical, that is this…

Not one I spoke to have any quantifiable, or qualifiable qualifications in authorship, writing, publishing marketing, media and so forth.

One or two said they had authors who would vouch for them… yeah, friends/relatives, or inexperienced writers who know no better. As it happens, not one writer replied to my messages.

One ‘promoter’ I spoke to said he paid authors to recommend him to other authors, a commission-based agreement between him and those whose books he ‘promoted’. I’ll leave you to chew that one over.

There is more, much more that can be said and discussed regarding this, but I’ll leave it here because, as I said at the start of this post, I immensely dislike bringing any negativity into my posts here, but on this occasion, I thought it was worth doing so to highlight this trend, something I believe is becoming a major issue.

One last point. If you own, run, or administer any social group, please address this matter, even have the autoboots reject comments containing certain words which these marketeers tend to use.

Cheers. Have a cold one on me.

Keep happy, Paul

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Check out my website, see my books, even those not on Amazon, and even more stuff, just follow this link.

https://paulznewpostbox.wixsite.com/paul-white

Eighty per cent of your social marketing efforts are falling into a void.

This assertion could come across as stark, but it aligns with the Pareto Principle, or the ’80/20 rule’, which suggests that approximately 80% of outcomes result from 20% of the causes. Named after economist Vilfredo Pareto, this principle emerged from his analysis of wealth distribution, revealing a consistent pattern across different domains.

The essence of the Pareto Principle lies in the realisation that focusing our energies on the few critical tasks can lead to disproportionately positive results, compared to spreading our efforts thinly across many. This principle nudges us towards identifying and prioritizing our actions on the few impactful tasks that lead to significant success.

The principle gained further traction in the 1950s when psychologist Joseph Juran extended its application to management and dubbed it a ‘universal principle’. He observed that 80% of a company’s profits often come from 20% of its customers and that a majority of production issues stem from a minority of error sources.

This principle proves invaluable across various fields, from sales optimization to agricultural yield maximization, by highlighting areas ripe for improvement.

I would recommend reading the blog, ‘Book Marketing Strategies With The Pareto Principle’ by Jamie-Lee Armstrong, the link can be found at the end of this post.

Relating this to my personal experience, the day began with plans for a ‘soft’ promotion of one of my books across social media platforms, including Facebook.

‘Soft’ promotions are subtle ways to maintain active engagement on social media and keep your work in your audience’s consciousness, possibly attracting new followers, without resorting to aggressive advertising.

My marketing approach has always been one of gradual evolution, akin to nurturing a plant from seed, believing in the power of invested time, effort, care, and yes, love. This contrasts starkly with the “instant gardeners” of authorship, who may quickly abandon their promotional efforts once the initial enthusiasm wanes.

Returning to our main theme, envision me at my desk, coffee at hand, meticulously selecting Facebook groups for this promotion. This manual selection process underscores the value I place on personal engagement over automated solutions.

I hear some of you gasp, “Wot, no automation? No pre-planned AI-assisted media programme?”

While I am no modern-day Luddite, there are certain times, and certain tasks, that are best undertaken personally, and today was one of those occasions.

As I scrolled down my list of groups, or communities as I think they are now officially called, I took a moment to check the status of each.

I was looking for a few things, such as did I have any posts pending, and if so, how many and for how long had they been awaiting attention.

A day or two is fine, a week is just about acceptable. Any longer becomes questionable regarding the management of the group.

If posts are stacking up then, with no doubt whatsoever, the group is at best inefficient, at worst defunct and neglected. Neither do I need, or want, to be associated with, nor do I wish to waste my time in posting or engaging with them.

In this instance, I leave the group. I delete any unpublished materials and simply delete them from my system. I lose nothing. I do save myself wasting time in posting to such groups. Each is easily replaced by other groups who are probably newer, and/or better managed, and far more active.

The same goes for groups whose last posts, other than my own, were several months ago. This lack of activity shows such groups have few, if any active members.

This is not an area where my promotions are going to show any return.

Another point to look for is the ‘Dump and Run’ groups. While these may have larger membership numbers and many active postings, they are simply pages where uninformed writers, inexperienced authors, so-called book marketers, and other chancers pump advert after advert onto a group’s page with no interaction or other activity undertaken.

Check the comments, and read the streams… oh, no, there are none because no one sees these posts. There is zero engagement and zero interaction. These groups are simply a dumping ground, a wasted heap of lost marketing effort.

I leave and delete ALL groups which fall into any of the above categories. Every group of this sort is a drain on my time and is part of the 80% of wasted effort as per the Pareto Principle.

Today, I urge you to replicate this exercise.

Allocate 20% of your marketing efforts in the coming days to identify and disengage from non-productive groups, replacing them with vibrant, active communities. It’s crucial to remember that engagement quality often trumps sheer numbers; a mere 20% of group members typically drive 80% of the interactions and results.

(By the way, it can be a different 20% each time!)

For a comprehensive guide on applying the Pareto Principle to your book marketing strategies, including useful tools and advice, do explore this blog post by Jamie-Lee Armstrong: https://medium.com/@jlatales/book-marketing-strategies-with-the-pareto-principle-b9442e286211

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Research demanded a substantial portion, of the time it took to write Within the Invisible Pentacle.

Order your copy today, https://amzn.to/3Vvq61l

Still, it was worth every moment so I could create this collection of poignant, emotive, and entertaining stories. Ones which explore the depths of our human character, the quintessence disposition of living, and of life itself. These stories will embed themselves within your soul. They will remain in your heart and mind, forever.

Order your copy today, https://amzn.to/3Vvq61l

The image below is a rough sketch of how I think I look researching stuff.

Keep happy, Paul

Loss, affect, and bleeding hearts

A short while ago I lost a friend.

Jamie passed away from ‘natural causes,’ with a notation on his death certificate stating the exact cause was unknown.

I had not seen Jamie in person for quite a while because I had moved overseas. We did, however, stay in contact by text, messages, and the occasional video chat, although they were erratic and not frequent. After all, we are men and, in general, men are not good at talking… unless there is a reason or topic to be discussed.

I received a phone call from a mutual friend, who told me of Jamie’s death. I was surprised but not shocked. You see, Jamie was not a bronze Adonis, he was more of a rusty Shrek. He was overweight, unfit, a heavy drinker bordering on alcoholism (if not already there,) and a lover of overeating, especially overindulging on junk food.

I, along with many of his friends, on numerous occasions, warned Jamie about his lifestyle and we tried to convince him to change his habits, all to no avail, as time proved. (A far shorter time than I envisioned.)

Jamie’s death has me considering loss. It is something I have grown familiar with as I enter the winter of my life. I have witnessed many losses and know there are more I shall behold before my passing.

With my writer’s mind pondering this, my thoughts expanded to the other forms of loss we experience, the ones we live through frequently, often oblivious to the fact of their happening in the moment and, maybe, for years after.

You see, there are many forms of loss, and I am sure, I am certain, that each and every one of them affects us in some way, at some point.

Mostly we never give these losses any thought. We don’t consider many as a loss at the time they happen. We never ponder how they may shape our lives, even our personalities.

So, I shall in my usual, rambling, semi-coherent way attempt to convey to you my thoughts, and how, almost unconsciously these losses have influenced my writing.

It is said that a little of ourselves finds its way into everything we write, even if we do not wish it. I wholeheartedly agree.

I believe it is impossible to write creatively and constructively without shedding part of one’s soul onto the page. The part of us that bleeds into the ink is the combination of our awareness, sensitivities, experiences, intuitions, perceptions, understandings, our wisdom. All aspects accumulate over our lifespan.

These things do not come to us gratis, they are earned, bestowed by an immeasurable number of experiences, and encounters we endure during our daily lives, and continuous loss is one of those factors.

Take your mind back to your childhood, the earliest memories of your friends. Think back to your school days, your teenage years, who was your ‘Bestie’?

Where are they now?

You lost them, you lost contact. You moved away, or they did. Their lives and their choices took them along a different path from yours.

Your life moved on, you made new friends, and new contacts, had new lovers, maybe a family. Work, a career that placed demands on you? Your social status and your circle took precedence over old contacts. Life’s pressures, illness, travel? They all combined to make your loss an ‘everyday’ acceptable ingredient of living.

Those promises of staying in touch, of meeting regularly faded with the years, the passage of time, and the distances involved.

Your losses became a conventional, established, normal part of life, so much so you never considered these events as a loss.

Yet each one of those people touched you. They left their mark on your being. Some good, some bad, some otherwise. But they all influenced you, making you become the person you are today.

Edmond Locard’s exchange principle, “Every contact leaves a trace” is as factual here as in the forensic world.

As we age, we move from attending birthday parties to engagement parties, and then weddings, births, and inevitably funerals.

You can assess where you are in life by the ratio in which these events occur.

As for funerals, well, the more of those you attend the greater your focus on mortality becomes. They are one form of loss we cannot help but recognise.

But we accept them with, in all honesty, far less stress and mourning than often one thinks about. As hurtful and as traumatic as some will be to us, all the previous losses, those of our friends, our past colleagues, our old lovers, ex-partners, husbands, or wives, and all those we lost without so much as a backward glance, have built an endurance into us, an acceptance of ‘this is how things are’, of this is how life is. Our realisation of mortality and the inevitable recognition of the inexorable passage of time.

This is one factor which enables us to write in a captivating creative manner, in a fashion which enchants our readers, leads them line by line, page by page into our fictitious world of imagination… but, as we know, not all is invented, spread over the pages, soaked into the ink is that trace of us, our authors blood and tears, hopes, fears, rejoices, regrets, and all those thousands upon thousands of losses, whether we recognise them or not, they bleed out of our hearts as we weave our magic with our pens.

Long be it so.

Keep happy, Paul.

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Read ‘Dark Words‘ today, a book of short stories and emotive poetry by Paul White

CQ Magazine said, “Dark Words is the literary equivalent of listening to Leonard Cohen, wonderfully soothing for the soul.”

Dark days come to us all at some time in our lives but they are not the place for us to dwell for too long. They are not our home… To accept and acknowledge the blackest days of our lives often reveals the pathway from the shadow maze of obscure reflection, into the sunlight of possible future.

https://amzn.to/43cjW7T

A word, or two, in your shell-like, if I may.

I hope you liked reading the short stories I’ve posted here recently(ish). If you’ve not read them, take a little time out and enjoy them now.

Many of you know I love words, not just from a writer’s viewpoint but from understanding their origins. The same goes for phrases we find ourselves using frequently.

I wonder where they came from, and often ask myself how such-and-such an expression became an acceptable term, one in common, often daily use.

I am, of course, referring to the English language. One of the aspects that makes it such a wonderful tool for storytelling, poetry, and song lyrics is its flexibility and its ability to absorb words from other languages, and forms of the English language spoken overseas, such as in the USA and Australia, and blend them seamlessly into its lexicon.

Many recent developments in the English language, in terms of neologisms, have emerged as a result of various military and political conflicts of the 20^th  and 21^st  centuries.

War works powerfully on language for there are weapons, military technologies, and strategies, often developed with little publicity during times of peace, which become familiar to the public due to the media, newspapers, radio, TV, and social media, due to politicians introducing new rhetoric to describe and justify their actions and intents.

In major conflicts, such as the two ‘world wars’, the armed forces swelled with civilian conscripts and volunteers. They learned military jargon, and the previously unfamiliar slang of regular soldiers, and brought those sayings back home, continuing to use them in general conversation for years afterwards. Many became so familiar to the population it became accepted as ‘normal, regular peacetime language, often the origin forgotten or never questioned.

For example, during the First World War (1914-18) a rather obscure word spread through the army serving in colonial India. It was an Urdu word, simply meaning foreign(er).

The soldiers began to use it to refer to Britain, their home country. The word is Blighty.

The 1939−45 war (WW2) Saw the word rise in use once more. ‘Blighty’ ‘Old Blighty’ and ‘Getting a Blighty’ became commonly heard phrases once again. The word still appears in most dictionaries of the English language.

Another word from WW2 which is still going strong as a military term is ‘flak’. It is a word based on the German word Fliegerabwehrkanonen – (Fl(ieger)a(bwehr)k(anone),) – flier defence gun.

In the 1930s an adaptation of this word came into general use, spelled Flack. Note the addition of the letter C. (Its introduction is a far too long and convoluted story to tell here). Both words can be used almost interchangeably.

Originally used in a political sense, the word’s primary meaning now is when one is to receive heavy criticism, such as when the Prime Minister receives a grilling in parliament and/or from the media… he is ‘getting a lot of flack’ from – well, from almost everyone, the voters, the newspapers, his own party, other European leaders!

The Iraq war is a perfect example of how new words and phrases carry us into war and through war. The ‘enemy’ is demonised and linked with recent traumatic events.

War is full of events some people would like to see buried. It is said truth is the first casualty of war; news management and propaganda have long ensured this.

‘Axis’ is a word applied to the alliance of the UK, America, French, Dutch, and many other nations fighting against Nazi Germany and Japan during WW2.

In this conflict, it was linked to evil, We were told Iraq was led by an evil dictator, Saddam Hussain, who was part of an axis of evil. It was an axis that held ‘Weapons of mass destruction’ – WMDs.

The Cold War, the stand-off between Communism and the capitalist West, dominated much of the latter half of the twentieth century and was fought through political and economic strategy, and many proxy wars in national conflicts around the globe.

Since World War II, we know any war has the possibility of becoming a total war, with civilians as likely to be casualties as soldiers.

We are now being advised, that through the use of ‘drones’ and ‘smart weapons’ with computerised guidance, the military has the capability of directly hitting strategic targets while leaving civilians unscathed. (Maybe these smart weapons aren’t quite that smart?)

The old favourite, collateral damage, familiar from the late 20th century, has been rolled out again and is happily banded around the media along with its new counterparts, ‘Global struggle’ and ‘Violent Extremism’.

The French reputation sank to an all-time low during the Iraq conflict, so low in fact that McDonalds stopped selling French Fries and replaced them with ‘Freedom Fries’. Kids in the USA no longer French Kissed, but… you guessed it… gave each other Freedom Kisses.

Many new words, terms, phrases, sayings, and idioms roll off the presses, are blasted over the airwaves on TV and radio broadcasts, and zip onto the screens of our cell phones and laptops in a repetitive stream of pumped-up media sensationalism and frenzy.

So powerful is such a constant stream of high-intensity media propaganda that many ‘new’ words and phrases find themselves in regular usage within days. Some fade from the public mind quickly, others linger for longer, a generation or two, maybe. While some become an integral part of the English language forever, forging their recording into dictionaries, books, and public records for eternity.

However, even once a word is indelibly ‘inked’ into the English language there is no guarantee that in, say 100, or 1000 years, that word, term, or phrase will have any correlation to its original meaning, or any plausible route to trace its origin. The English language is in continuous flux, ever-changing, developing, growing, and adapting.

Long may it do so.

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I have recently updated, edited, simplyfied my author website. Please take a little time and browse through the pages as I would love to hear your views and comments. (I’ve not quite got it set up perfectly on mobile/cell yet… but I’m working on it.) This is the link, https://bit.ly/myfictionbooks

Thank you, Paul

Keep happy.

A story just for you

Today I am feeling generous. I have selected a short story from my book ‘Dark Words’ for you to read for free.

Dark Words is a collection of short, and not-so-short stories interlaced with poetry, all with a heavy emotional bias, hence the title of the book.

We all have dark times in our lives; times when the clouds of uncertainty gather about us, when the shadows in our minds slam shut the doorway of hope.

These are times when the future looks bleak, when tomorrow is nothing more than a harbinger of anguish and our past lives a wasteland of futile labour.

Sitting in darkened rooms, listening to sad songs, and reading dark words lends a little comfort to our souls as we contemplate the tattered remains of our world.

This book shares those days, the long cold nights of loneliness and apprehensive dread, of what bleakness awaits us when the sun rises.

Like you, I have visited this world of soulless existence. It is where part of me shall always remain, huddled in the gloom, in corners of the deepest recesses of my mind.

This is not a place for us to dwell, and Dark Words is a doorway to the path leading to the daylight of possibility and promise.

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JUMPING A BOXCAR – A short story by Paul White

Sunset.

The last train.

I was waiting by the rails, backpack on the ground beside my feet.

My backpack was full. Everything I owned was crammed in there. Clothes, razor, soap, two towels, one face flannel, and three books.

That was it. That was the total of my life.

At least regarding material things.

You see, as I stood by the tracks waiting to jump a boxcar to wherever that train was going, I was carrying a far heavier burden than the contents of my backpack.

She had told me everything would be alright, that things have a way of working themselves out.

But it takes time, and I knew I had taken enough of her time already.

Three years.

Well, two years, seven months, three days and twenty-two hours to be precise. During which time I had broken almost every promise I ever made to her, and that was unfair.

I promised I would look after her, get a good job, earn a decent income, buy her gifts, chocolates, and flowers. I promised we would have our own place, a nice car. I said I would make her happy, that we would be happy.

I said I would never leave.

They were all lies.

I was being honest when I spoke those words, but life has a way of making you into a liar.

Life has ways of sneaking up on you and driving a knife between your shoulder blades before twisting it back and forth.

Life is adept at pulling the rug from under your feet and viciously kicking you in the head as you lay screaming on the floor.

Yeah, life can be a bitch.

But there was one thing that bitch was not going to take from me and that was my main promise, my first promise. Life was not going to steal that from me.

Which is why I am here, by the rails, waiting for the train.

I took a last deep toke on the cigarette, holding it up before my face and exhaling, blowing the smoke from my lungs in a steady stream which made the ash glow bright red, like the setting sun.

Like a bleeding heart.

Like a weeping broken heart torn into shreds.

At that moment, for a millisecond, I thought about going back to her so I did not break another promise.

I will never hurt you.

Because I know when she wakes and finds I am gone, it will hurt her.

So, I lie once again.

I can see the train now, its lights blazing as it rattles towards me, guided by those unfeeling cold steel rails.

I wish I was as cold. I wish I could not feel.

But I do.

I recall how warm she felt as I held her close to me, hugging her tight as I made the first promise.

I shall always love you.

I will always love her. Life will not take that from me.

Only the Grim Reaper can claim that.

Only death can take it from me

Until then, I shall keep my first promise safely locked away in the comfort of my soul.

I reach down and lift the backpack onto my shoulder.

The train begins to pass.

I run alongside, grab hold, scramble on board.

This, I realise is not a new journey, just a continuation.

She was just an unscheduled stop.

When I left, when I crept out of the room like a thief in the night, she was fast asleep. Hair splayed across the pillows. One leg poking out from under the rumpled sheet.

Rumpled from our lovemaking.

Our last loving.

I was a thief stealing away with her hopes and dreams of the future, our future. Leaving behind a void, a hollow I know she will never be able to completely fill.

I have left her with uncertainty, anxiety, the doubt of why.

Why I left.

Why I never told her.

Why I did not leave a letter.

A note.

I huddle into the darkest shadows of the corner of the empty boxcar. Like the place in my mind where I shall hold my memories of her. Not to be forgotten, but never to be revealed.

I justify everything to myself.

I am not a good man. I could not find steady employment. I could not find work that paid enough to buy food for her, let alone flowers or chocolates.

I could never keep regular rental payments, so our own home was always just a dream. If I was careful I had enough money for bus fare, but never enough to buy a car.

But I was rarely so careful.

I walked a lot.

I am not a good man.

Not good enough for her. Nowhere near good enough for her. I was just a weight, a heavy weight dragging her down into the gloom of hardship and depression.

Pulling her lower, to the gutter, to the sewers of my futile existence.

I want more for her. I want her to be happy, to smile again, and to dance with lightness and laughter.

I want her to see the sunlight of possibility once more.

I want her to have back all of the things I have drained from her life over the last two years, seven months, three days and twenty-two hours.

You see, as I stood by those tracks, waiting to jump a boxcar to wherever that train was going, I was carrying a far heavier burden than the contents of my backpack.

END

Find Dark Words on Amazon – https://amzn.to/3P1pInl

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A bit about me

A couple of years ago I was interviewed on an internet radio station. In preparation, I was forwarded a set of questions the presenter wished to ask. This is normal practice, it saves the interviewee, me in this case, from having a mind-blank moment, or from giving an incorrect answer to a factual question.

It also allows the presenter to guide the interview and keep their show running smoothly. A well-presented show keeps the listeners engaged for longer.

One of the tricks for creating a good, captivating TV or radio chat show is to have the guest speak far more than the presenter, so having a set of well-planned questions which allows the guest the opportunity to answer in full, to explain in detail, or add a relevant anecdote is paramount.

One of the questions in this interview was a common one, one which is often asked of all authors. It is “When did you start/begin writing?”

Many authors will reply to this question by speaking of the first book they published, or a short story they had accepted into a magazine, possibly they may relate the question to a small essay or article which appeared in a periodical.

I have similarly answered this question many times. However, this time I considered the very basic premise of the question. When did I start writing?

I assumed the presenter was not probing into my initial education, they were not asking when I achieved the ability to form an alphabetic letter with a pen, but when I began consciously writing in a creative form.

To ascertain this took some thought. It took some time to sift back through my memories in an attempt to recall the first time I scribbled something onto paper with the full intent of writing something original, something artistic and inspired, although I may not have appreciated, or even comprehended I was doing such at the time.

In 1963 I had a small poem ‘published’ in my school’s Christmas magazine. It was a poem relating to the Angle of Death from the bible, (Exodus 12:23). I was six years old. My teacher was rather taken by the descriptive content. Possibly, nowadays I would be sent for some form of woke counselling rather than being encouraged for my imagination and inventiveness.

However, that was not when I began writing. You see when I was told that my poem would be printed in the school magazine, I became excited, I could not wait to get home and inform my mother.

I can recall, after doing so, I ran to my bedroom and pulled out, from under my bed, a small tin where I had secreted several other things I had written. I have no idea now when I wrote them, where, or what they were about. Sadly, they have been lost over time, but I do remember sitting on my bed that evening and reading them.

It is amazing what a little recognition can do for a young child, for anyone at any time in fact. I am sure my teacher had no idea what her acknowledgement meant to me, or what effect it may have on my life, and I was far too young to comprehend or express my appreciation at the time.

When it came to answering the question “When did you start writing?” during my Radio interview, I said I didn’t know, at least not precisely, and gave this as my answer.

It is still the way I reply to that question when asked now.

Thank you for reading. Please leave a comment and like

Keep happy.

Paul

You can see my books on my website, just follow this link, https://bit.ly/myfictionbooks

Within the Invisible Pentacle

I do not often use this blog for direct book promotion, whether my work or those of others, but here I make an exception to this rule, because I believe this is a rather exceptional collection of stories, ones I am certain you will be captivated by.

Each story Within the Invisible Pentacle explores the depths of human character, the quintessential disposition of living, and of life itself. They ask questions we often shy from, the ones we are afraid to ask ourselves, unearthed, revealed, and brought screaming into the daylight of recognition.

The prevailing factor is, each tale is written with consideration for our fragile human disposition, the fears, the dreams and wishes, the uncertainties and self-doubts we all carry inside ourselves, the human element of love, of life, of hope and survival.

Within the Invisible Pentacle is a collection of poignant, emotive stories, ones that will remain with you forever.

https://amzn.to/3ESY9Z2

You got any ideas?

(A short story ©Paul White)

She is a 1970 Dodge Challenger RT. Ya know the one, like was in that film, vanishing something… anyways, when I got her she was as rusty and as bent as an old pie tin in a trash can.

Now, ha, well. I’ve sorta darned gone an put my mark on her, made her mine, all mine.

I spent hours downtown. Rented a workshop and kinda of lived there for a while, well like two years a while.

Sometimes I would sleep in the shop, not wash for days, not sleep much either.

I was constantly an oily, greasy mess. My hair was lank, and I stunk like the ass end of a skunk. If I ventured into town folk used to stare at me, wondrin what the heck I was.

I found their looks of total incomprehension an their slack-jawed faces as funny as Fu… well, darned funny anyways.

Two years I spent working in that workshop. Two years that just seemed ta be gone, like that.

Time flew by.

Time weren’t nothin though, not while I was working on her. Not until I looked back, an you know what?

A lot happened in those two fucking years.

My divorce settlement came. I spent all of it on tools and parts and spares and paint. Well not all of it. I got a little food and a bottle or two of Kentucky smooth.

I got the house from the settlement too.

I sold the house. Too many memories I did not want to be living with anymore. So, I moved here, to this small place out of town and out of the way. Moved the Challenger out here too, into the barn.

That’s where I finished her. That’s where I got her looking the way I planned.

Not once, not for one single, solitary moment in all those two years that sorta slipped away when I weren’t lookin, did I deviate a fraction of one iota from my plan.

She was my baby.

Everything under the hood looks pristine now, betta than when she was new, when she rolled off the end of that production line.

The pipes and hoses are coloured, pale blue for cold water, dark blue for hot. Red for fuel, green for oil and so on. What is not covered in colour coded silicone, or paint, is inside woven steel cable, or under bright, shiny, polished mirror chromium.

Inside the seats are covered in soft cream leather, handstitched by me, with deep pink piping around the edges. Just like the door and roof lining, and the deep pile carpets.

Polished wood, chrome switches, all original design. All of them, along with retro dials complete the dash.

Outside she was sweeter still, real sweet if you know what I mean.

I covered my baby in a solid, shocking pink paint, metallic flake topped with seven layers of high gloss lacquer.

Like I said, I’ve put my mark on her.

She was now a sorta Barbie car, a ferocious, mean, growling bitch of a Barbie car, a sort of Harley Quinn  Barbie, right down to the hood ornament, which I designed it myself; a chrome-plated sculpture of a severed penis.

Yeah, you heard right.

A small soft dick.

Just like my ex.

It puts the message out there. “Don’t you mess with this bitch; unless you want to lose your manhood.”

You see, two years livin in an oily back street workshop ain’t no place for a sweet girl like me, unless you gonna get something for keeps from it.

An I am keeping my girl.

Now, all I gotta do now is find a real good name for her…

If you got any ideas, gimma a shout?

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If you enjoyed this short story then check out my books. There are novels, short story collections, and novellas, some published as ebooks, or Pocketbook Paperbacks, and many full-sized paperbacks. You can find them all right here, http://bit.ly/paulswebsite , or scan the QR code below.

A free short story, just for you.

For those who don’t know…

I am Paul White, a multi-genre author of fiction, non-fiction, and semi-fiction.

Many of my short stories are available under the ‘Electric Eclectic’ brand, some are eBooks, others paperback collections, while a growing number are those wonderful Pocketbook Paperbacks that are increasingly popular because of their size, as they really do fit into your pocket. Perfect for reading while commuting or away on vacation.

You can find my books on Amazon and many other bookstores. All are shown on my website

Now, on with the story.

This one is titled ‘Free Spirit’, enjoy.

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FREE SPIRIT

.

When I walked into the apartment, I knew this project was going to be fraught with difficulties.

Firstly, the place has been unoccupied for some time; a musty dampness prevailed its entirety. I sensed this staleness was not simply neglect but an ethereal odour of others’ lives, of previous tenants.

Secondly, there were many pieces of furniture still in situ; old, dusty brocade curtains hanging at the windows, personal effects, a small trinket box sitting on the dark wooden sideboard, a silver-backed hand mirror laid on the dresser, and a time-worn leather-bound book on a side table, near the musty, torn chintz-covered armchair, all emitting a staleness of abandonment.

Before I could start the repairs and redecoration, I would have to clear all this old junk from the building. That would involve putting in some extra hours, late nights I had not planned. I was sure the extra effort would be worth it in the end because it is not often one can find such a large home for such a low rent in a neighbourhood of this stature.

On Friday, after work, I hurried to the apartment, eager to begin the clear-out and clean-up.

Once achieved, I could start on the repairs. Tearing off the old wallpaper, ripping up the musty carpets, filling the holes where pictures once hung, all that sort of stuff.

Then I would be in the position to begin to decorate what was to be my new home, my first home.

Fresh paint, light colours on the walls, modern, sleek, designer-style furniture, new light fittings, and mirrors. I like mirrors, they lighten even the dullest corners. I wanted the place to be what I can only describe as understated urban chich.

I was excited.

Tonight, I would be alone. My friends, the ones who offered to help, were all out on the town, or so they said. I don’t blame them for not being here today, after all, it was a Friday night.

Tomorrow, I had promises, commitments from them. I would have a small troop of workers grafting away all day in return for cold beer and snacks, oh, and pizza at the end of the day.

But tonight, it was just me.

My first task was to wrestle the largest items of furniture into a group by the lounge door, so my team of workers could easily carry them out to the skip, which was due by eight o’clock in the morning.

I was surprised by the weight of the old furniture. I’m uncertain if it was Mahogany or Oak, but it took all my effort to ‘waltz’ it across the room. No wonder the previous occupiers had left it where it stood.

By the time I had shifted all the pieces, I was sweating from the effort.

Opening the window did not cool me down. The air was too heavy and humid, and too weak to do more than slightly move those heavy curtains.

It was now midnight, but before I finished for the day, I wanted all the drapes removed, the litter from the floors swept and binned. I wanted this room ready for paper stripping, and carpet removal.

By the end of the weekend, I would be happy if this room and the hallway were ready for my creative attention. If I could get at least one of the two bedrooms stripped too, well, that would be a bonus.

Right now, my stomach was grumbling. I needed to eat. Anyway, it was time to take a break. A stroll to the all-night cafe on the corner, where I could grab a coke, a sandwich, a pork pie, or toasted sandwich. It would do me the world of good to eat something.

Once in the café, I decided I would be wasting time if I stayed to eat, so I carried my refreshments back to the apartment.

Wearily lowering myself into the tatty chintz armchair, I froze. Looking around the room in disbelief. The coke slipped from my grasp, spilling over the threadbare carpet.

The furniture, and I mean all the furniture I spent the last few hours moving into a group close to the doorway, was now back in its original position.

It was as if I had not moved a single item.

The window was closed, the curtains still, the lingering scent of neglect somehow stronger than before.

There was something more.

I could hear a faint melody floating into the room. Trumpets, brass. Smooth music. Perhaps a nineteen-forties swing band?

I shook my head, trying to gather my thoughts. This was not possible.

I moved the furniture. Placed it by the door.

I was trying to convince myself I had not, purely for my sanity.

The music was playing softly.

Surely it was coming from another apartment. Yet it sounded far closer, emanating from somewhere in this apartment.

Maybe I was overtired. Whatever; I needed to get a grip on myself.

I followed the sound, walking slowly along the hallway until I was outside the room where the music was coming from.

Someone was playing a joke on me. My friends have seen me leave, deciding it would be funny to mess with my head.

Angrily I snatched open the door, ready to yell at whoever was doing this, whoever found it funny to try and scare me.

The volume from the gramophone blasted out a crackling version of Chattanooga Choo Choo as I stepped into the room.

I halted, standing stock still.

I could not comprehend what I was seeing. This room was perfect. A nineteen-forties parlour. No damp, no faded wallpaper, no rotting furniture.

It was bright, new, perfect.

“Come in, David,” she said, “sit yourself down. I have been waiting for you.”

To my right, I saw a handsome-looking woman. She was wearing a flowing evening gown, long white gloves, and a pearl necklace.

In front of me, a well-ordered room, brightly lit and warm. Behind me, a cold dank hallway, the discoloured wallpaper peeling from the walls.

This was surreal.

“Don’t be shy,” she said, “come, sit, enjoy some champagne.”

She was holding out a wide-rimmed coupe glass at arm’s length. Hesitantly, feeling I had little option, I took the glass from her hand.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Oh, you young people, you are always in such a hurry,” she replied, smiling, and lifting her glass towards mine.

We touched glasses. Automatically I said, “Cheers.”

She smiled at me again, replying with a “Chin, chin.” She sipped her champagne without wetting her dark red lips.

I sat, bolt upright, in a small chair, and as nervous as hell. She lay back, relaxing on a chaise lounge opposite my chair.

If I were dreaming, this was far too real.

The woman spoke. “So, you want to move into my home, to come and live with me. Do you, David?” Her eyes were firmly focused on mine.

“There must be some confusion,” I said, “I have just bought this apartment, it’s mine.”

“Oh no, David,” she answered, shaking her head, “It will never be yours, it belongs to me, and forever will.”

 “I don’t understand,” I replied.

 She nodded understandingly, reaching out, placing a gloved hand on my knee, patting me like a reassuring aunt.

“My husband built this building back in the early 1930s. I have lived here ever since the day it was completed. I shall never leave. Now, I like you, David. You are a fine young man, so I am willing to let you stay if you wish to share my home with me?”  She left the sentence hanging.

I sat motionlessly, my mouth ajar. I did not know what to say.

“Well, David” she prompted, “what have you to say?”

“This place, it’s a mess, all old and rotting. I need to clean it up, do repairs, redecorate, get new furniture… except this room, your room, its lovely, I mean it’s really nice.” I knew I was gabbling, the words tumbling from my mouth faster than I could think.

“Oh, David.” She said, “don’t worry about that for now, just tell me if you will be happy sharing my home.”

“But when people come, my friends, family. How do I explain this room, or you?” I asked.

She smiled like an understanding aunt looking at a child. Patting my knee again she said, “No one will know, David. No one except you.”

“But this room, when people look around, they’ll…”

She interrupted me. “More Champagne. You look pale, you’re shaking. A good drink will settle your nerves.” She continued, “Think, David. This apartment, how many rooms are there? Don’t answer, but this room is not one of them, is it?”

I was mentally counting, walking through the apartment. She was right, this room was not one of them. This room did not exist.

My mind was in a whirl. “I, I, I don’t know. The furniture, I moved it. I put it by the door, now it is all back where it was. Then I heard the music and… and, I followed the sound. It led me to this room.”

Her laughter filled the room, “Oh my dear boy,” she said, “I have thrown you into a right tizzy, haven’t I?”

I gulped the last of my champagne.

“I have something stronger if you prefer?” she said, “a whisky, perhaps. I know what you men are like.”

I was nodding. It was an almost unconscious action as my mind was whirring. Random pieces of thoughts flew through my mind.

“Do not fear. You may decorate the apartment as you wish. I will not stop you, David. That is, if you want to live here? Now, before you worry too much, I don’t leave this room, well, only when the need arises, and I am sure I‘ll have no reason to venture out while you’re here.”

“I would like to live here but, who are you?”

“Oh, my. I have been remiss, haven’t I? How rude of me for not introducing myself. My name is Evelyn, Evelyn Keyes-Johnson.” She held her hand towards me. “So, David, are we friends. Shall you be sharing my home?”

I took her hand and shook it, although slight, Evelyn had a firm grip.

“I would like to stay, and I would be happy sharing with you,” I said, although I had not totally convinced myself. “I do have a question though.”

“Ask away, young man.”

“Are you a ghost?”

Her laughter filled the room with lightness. She smiled a wide, bright grin.

“As I died many years ago some people may call me that,” she said, “but I prefer to consider myself a free spirit.”

END.

Free Spirit©PaulWhite2022