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.

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 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

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

Projection of Thoughts through Space and Time… or Show, don’t Tell.

It’s been a while since I found time to write an informative post for ‘Ramblings’. The reason is, I have concentrated on writing, publishing, and marketing my books, as all good authors should.

The stimulus for me to write this blog post is, recently I have seen many people asking about ‘Show don’t Tell’. Questions such as “How do I do it?”, “What does it mean?”, and ‘why!”

In my regular rambling way… (hence the title of this blog), and without using any more technical terms than necessary, I shall endeavour to share not only what ‘show don’t tell’ means but why it is the golden criterion for all creative writers.

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SO, HERE WE GO…

Firstly, and without any reservation, to write well an author must understand narration.

Creative writing, which includes fiction, principally relies on narrative. The purpose of narration (sometimes referred to as the story’s voice) is to tell a story or ‘narrate’ an event, or series of events.

Inevitably, a major quantity of narration involves description. Description creates, invents, or visually presents a person, place, event, or action, allowing the reader to visualise what the writer is attempting to portray.

Descriptive narrative aims to make vivid a place, an object, or a character. It acts as an imaginative stimulus, allowing the reader to relate to the writer’s notions.

The writer should not simply aim to convey facts about the subject but give the reader a direct impression, thus allowing the reader, the recipient of those words, to create a mental picture that is in union with the writers’ thoughts.

Simply put, through the correct usage of narrative, a writer can project their thoughts into the reader’s mind. Virtually, a form of compliant subliminal connection. One which can transcend both space and time.

To achieve this, writers utilise a practice generally referred to as ‘Show, don’t Tell’.

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SHOW, DON’T TELL.

This term is often attributed to the Russian playwright Anton Chekhov, who is reputed to have said, “Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.”

What Chekhov factually said, in a letter to his brother, was,

“In descriptions of Nature one must seize on small details, grouping them so that when the reader closes his eyes, he gets a picture. For instance, you’ll have a moonlit night if you write that on the mill dam a piece of glass from a broken bottle glittered like a bright little star and that the black shadow of a dog or a wolf rolled past like a ball.”

You may notice Chekhov does not go into a mass of detail in this explanation. Descriptive writing does not mean the author should attempt to portray the subject in every excruciating detail.

Ernest Hemingway, a notable proponent of the “Show, don’t Tell” style, sustained his ‘Iceberg Theory’, also known as the ‘Theory of Omission’, which he developed while employed as a newspaper reporter.

The term itself originates from Hemmingway’s 1932 bullfighting treatise, Death in the Afternoon.

Hemmingway writes.

“If a writer of prose knows enough of what he is writing about he may omit things that he knows, and the reader, if the writer is writing truly enough, will have a feeling of those things as strongly as though the writer had stated them. The dignity of movement of an iceberg is due to only one-eighth of it being above water.”

Creative literature, in general, hinges on the artful use of a wide range of devices (such as inference, metaphor, understatement, the unreliable narrator, and ambiguity) that rewards the careful reader’s appreciation of subtext and extrapolation of what the author chooses to leave unsaid, untold, and/or unshown.

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George Singleton explained this concisely with this notable quotation.

“You do not have to explain every single drop of water contained in a rain barrel. You have to explain one drop – H2O. The reader will get it.”

These examples suggest the writers understood the need to respect their readers, who should be trusted to develop a feeling for the meaning behind the action, without having the point painfully laid out for them.

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Examples follow.

Telling:

He knew something was wrong because he could see the fear in her eyes and that she was trembling.

Showing:

She trembled, looking up at him with fear in her eyes.

In this example, ‘Showing’ uses fewer words but packs twice the punch, because you are seeing her actions demonstrating her fear, instead of being told what one character noticed.

It is rarely the function of a character to notice something, that is the reader’s role. By showing the action, the reader (and the characters) figure it out simultaneously, creating a wonderful ‘aha’ moment using a gripping narrative.

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Telling:

Roger was never very bright when it came to figuring things out, he could never seem to do even simple things right.

Showing:

Roger worked on the crossword puzzle for two hours, scribbling out more incorrect answers than correct ones. The result of all his hard work? Ink stains on his hands.

This example demonstrates the character’s qualities by showing he cannot complete a crossword puzzle and does not realise a pencil would be more practical than a pen.

Showing how your characters behave, readers will interpret their traits automatically. You should not need to endlessly describe every characteristic they have.

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Telling:

There was broken glass on the floor and a pool of blood behind the bar.

Showing:

His boots ground the glass shards on the floor with each step. He let out a gasp as his eyes focused on the puddle of blood behind the bar.

Showing allows the reader to experience the scene through the character’s experience, and places it in context, as does the character’s emotional reaction.

<<>>

Telling:

The pancake tasted bitter; he couldn’t stand it.

Showing:

He spat out the pancake. The congealed mess landed on his plate. “Darlene, why have you put so much baking powder in these pancakes again?”

<<>>

You can use dialogue to show ideas, emotions, and actions, which is far preferable to telling the reader. Tasting, for example, is an experiential verb, never tell readers about the experience a character has. Let your reader find out by being part of the action.

When your characters have experiences, you should be showing your reader those experiences through strong scenes and action, not by talking to them from a third-person perspective. This disengages the reader from the story.

If an author understands and utilises ‘Show don’t Tell’ effectively, they will project the essence of their narrative onto the reader in such a way the reader will become fully immersed.

Once the author has ‘captured’ the reader, and they become ‘lost in the book’, then the book becomes ‘unputdownable’, simply because the reader, by their own will and desire, creates a compulsion to find out ‘what happens next’ to the characters within the tale, with whom the reader will now be totally, and emotionally engaged.

This is what makes a good story, a great story.

It is why people read, to escape, to be immersively absorbed and entertained.

It is what sells books.

Remember, someone could be reading your book, anywhere in the world, and at any time in the future, even one hundred years from now, an exchange of extraordinary connection through space and time.

This is one reason I love being an author.

Keep happy, Paul 😊

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Paul White is a prolific author with more than twenty-eight published books, including an Amazon no.1, and an international bestselling author.

He is the Principal of Electric Eclectic books, a founder member of the Authors Professionals Cooperative, and a member of #Awethors, an independent authors’ international alliance.

A good introduction to Paul’s works is, ‘Within the Invisible Pentacle’, a collection of short, and not so short, stories.

Available via Amazon. UK, https://amzn.to/3HRUGrC All other areas, mybook.to/wtipentacle

Realistic character building, regarding novels, series and sagas.

While many authors are proficient in creating individual personalities for their fictional persons, it is imperative when developing such characters’ lives, for one to write in a convincing and accurate mode to cultivate believability from the readers perspective.

Failure to originate plausible credibility of personality and interactions of fictional characters, over prolonged periods, proves detrimental to the reader’s gratification as it detracts from the overall principle and foundations of the author’s storyline, the very premise of which the reader chose for their entertainment.

Reality is fiction is all-important.

Therefore, understanding the social structure your characters inhabit is paramount to building such authentic originality. National, regional, fiscal, domestic and public constructs all constitute facets of each fictional character’s composition and structure.

Below is a list, created to assist with placing your complex and sophisticated character natures in a sound literary context. Therefore, accurately reflecting personality traits found in factual, genuine, true-life people of your chosen genre of state.

Such traits are often referred to as the ‘Hidden rules among Class.’

Following the subject heading, in bold text, are three subtexts. In order, they refer to; Lower Class (poor) – Middle Class (rich) & Upper Class (Wealthy).

Example,

Money: To be spent (Lower class) – To be managed (Middle Class)  – To be invested (Upper Class)

Money: To be spent -To be managed – To be invested.

Personality: Sense of humour – Achievement – Connections.

Social emphasis: Inclusion – Self-sufficiency – Exclusion.

Food: Quantity – Quality – Presentation.

Time: In the moment- Against future – Tradition.

Education:  Abstract – Success & Money – Maintaining connections.

Language: Casual register -Formal,(Negotiation) – Formal,(Networking).

Family structure: Matriarchal – Patriarchal – Heir/Sucsssesor, (Who has money).

Driving forces: Relationships – Achievement – Financial/social.

Destiny: Fate – Choice – Expectations.

 

I hope this helps as a useful guide for your character creativity and development.

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I am associated with Electric Eclectic, the place for authors and readers, so why not follow Electric Eclectic on Facebook.

Authors, are you sitting on a fortune without realising it?

A short while ago I wrote a post about the different ways and reasons authors might sign their books. Why you should take signing and inscribing your books very seriously…

This post follows on from that one, but not along the route you might think.

Once again, this is an in-depth and informative article, from which I think you will take far more than just the main points I make.

At least, I hope so.

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The idea for this post came about while I was chatting away with a friend, discussing how easy it is to recycle print books nowadays, especially since the introduction of environmentally friendly inks, papers, films, card and such.

However, as with most conversations, our chat wandered across many subjects, soon I found myself explaining how I sold several uncorrected proof copies of my books, ones which included errors, misprints, formatting issues and so forth to either fans or collectors.

My friend, who happens to be an avid collector of rare books, said this is not such an unusual occurrence, many book collections would not be complete without an uncorrected proof copy or two.

He said, some of these proofs are produced without cover illustrations, so the books are, in his words ‘raw’, just containing the writer’s words and little else. The resulting post is formed both from the information my friend shared and from research I undertook following our meeting.

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I do understand why people collect first editions.

I the early days of printing presses the plates were made of lead, the sharpness of the edges on these plates would, after a number of impressions, wear. Thus, the earlier impressions would be far sharper and clearer than those printed later.

This was most important where the printed work contained illustrations or maps, which were generally finely penned pen & ink drawings or engravings, so clarity of reproduction was all-important.

In modern times, first with off-set printing and now with digital technology, this is no longer a factor and collecting ‘first’ or ‘early’ editions is now more of an act of faith than a practical necessity.

If one was to take the ‘early’ edition to its most, but logical, extreme, then it is the authors manuscript would be the rarest and most valuable version of ‘the book’… which it is.

Most collectors, including institutions, cannot collect authors manuscripts as widely, or as thoroughly, as they may wish.

There is, however, a preliminary state of a book, prior to the first published edition and therefore closer to the authors manuscript so it still holds a high rarity value yet is more readily available.

These fall into two categories.

The first is the authors proof copy(s). Dependent on how many ‘proof’ editions are required.

The second is the ARC’s or ‘galley’ proofs, which often need final-final proofreading before publication and printing start in earnest.

These copies of your own books can also hold a higher intrinsic value than those of your production run, including POD’s.

The reason is twofold; the first is they are early examples, so they are rare, most being produced in low quantities of a dozen or so.

Secondly, most books will undergo their final revisions, by the author and editors, after the printing of the proof copies; meaning these books often show a state of the authors work otherwise unpublished. This is enormously interesting and informative for scholars and students of literature and language studies.

The history of producing proof copies for distribution dates to the partly printed ‘salesmen’s dummies’ of the 19th century.

But ‘proofs,’ as part of the publication process, has a shorter history.

Advance copies of books for in-house use by the publisher are customary,  either as long galley proofs or in other formats. Printed and bound advance copies for distribution were rare in the 1930s and 40s, only becoming regular practice in the 1950s and 60s.

This was mostly due to Crane Duplicating Service, a Cape Cod printer, who promoted the idea to the publishing industry. Those who had a ‘Crane’ could print inexpensive prepublication editions which they could send out for early reviews, thus tempting the major wholesalers and retail buyers to place larger orders. Another development to assist with this was also devised by Crane, this was the placing of promotional ‘blurb’ on the rear covers or dust jackets of these promotional books.

This practice gained such wide acceptance proofs became known as ‘cranes’ by the print industry for many years, a practice which has only recently fallen from fashion.

You can see the natural, almost organic progress of how this influenced the concept and design of the modern book, which still sports the back cover and dust jacket ‘blurb’ first fashioned by those early publishing houses.

The number of proof copies is a secret kept by each publisher, but some figures have escaped, such as the 57 copies of Robert Stone’s first novel, The Hall of Mirrors, or the 39 proofs of Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse Five.

One of Phillip K Dick’s novels contained ‘potentially libellous’ text. It is said that 19 proof copies of this book still exist… somewhere.

Not satisfied with these simple proof copies, many publishers (since the 1930s) issue elaborately produced prepublication volumes in hope of generating further interest in forthcoming releases.

Raymond Chandler’s first novel, The Big Sleep, was issued in such a prepublication form, as were Dashiell Hammett, and James M, Cain and, in 1961, an ‘advance reading copy special edition’ of a forthcoming first novel called Catch-22 by Joseph Heller, was created.

Since then, ARC’s have become commonplace, they are now par-for-the-course for most releases, such is the case for ‘The World According to Garp‘, John Irving’s breakthrough novel, which used 1500 advance copies printed for promotional purposes. Martin Cruz Smith’s ‘Gorky Park‘ had two printings of ARC’s totalling 2500 copies; it was his first bestseller. Since which he has become one of the most popular and successful thriller writers of all time.

Examples of textual changes in proofs abound.  Most are never discovered until someone does a line by line comparison with the final book.

Tim O’Brien revised his National Book award-winning novel, ‘Going After Cacciato‘, after the proof was printed, and O’Brien’s own copy has whole paragraphs marked out and rewritten. His second novel, Northern Lights, has a two-page section in the proof that does not appear in the finished book.

Peter Matthiessen’s National Book Award-winning ‘The Snow Leopard‘ has major changes made after the proof was printed, after he sent it to a friend, and Buddhist scholar, for comments on his references to Buddhism.

Kent Anderson’s powerful Vietnam war novel ‘Sympathy for the Devil‘ has the most stunning passages excised after the proof was printed, perhaps because they were deemed by editors to be too harsh for publication.

Oh, and no one would have known just how bad Ernest Hemingway’s Spanish was in the late 1930s if the proofs of ‘For Whom the Bell Tolls‘ was not found.

So, even if you change, finalise, re-edit sections or whole parts of your book after feedback from your ARC’s, this may not be a bad thing.

There is a case made because proofs are printed first and are distributed outside of the publishing house, they comprise the ‘true first edition’ of a book, as such distribution constitutes the ‘publishing’ of said work. i.e., making a book available to the public, however limited the availability may be.

Combining their historical scarcity, and likely future scarcity, with the textual variations which are often found and which, by definition, represent a state of the text closer to the author’s original manuscript, the value in collecting proof copies is self-evident.

Which brings me, albeit by such a circuitous route, to where this post links back to my previous one about book signings.

I have sold all the copies of my own proof books and intend to do so in the future as I release new works.

I combined the rarity of such with the opportunity to sign and/or inscribe each copy as described in the previous post on this blog.

Of course, the cost of these rare editions is a little higher than the general releases and, as I have the physical copies, shipping charges are also paid by the buyer.

Some may think this would dissuade the regular purchaser, but I have found otherwise and, on two occasions, had people bidding against each other.

I no longer allow people to get embroiled in this way and set what I consider to be a fair and reasonable price for each book.

Taking this one step further, I would also welcome the sale of my original manuscript, should I have handwritten, typewritten or even made handwritten alterations on hard copy, which I have, sadly, not.

Personally, I do not work that way. I do know some authors who prefer to do so and maybe this is an option they may like to consider?

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To cap this post off, here are some points you may like to consider in your future marketing plans. Please note, these are ideas for Paperbacks and Hardcover books, they are not ideal or workable for eBooks.

The following notes are based on the premise from which I started this post… “are you sitting on a fortune without knowing it?”

1, Create a ‘first edition’ short run of your next book.

You could do this as a time-limited promotion or for a set number of books. Of course, you may find some little niggly alterations you need to make, which would only better the rarity of this first edition run.

2, Use any ARC copies (which could simply be a small number of the above or a set number of pre-proofread editions) to your benefit.

Don’t just send them to ‘reviewers’ or ‘friends’ seeking Amazon/Goodreads reviews. Such reviews now lack credibility as their authenticity is under challenge, which is why Amazon deletes so many ‘reviews’.

Instead, give them to your local radio and TV stations; in the UK seek out the local BBC stations as well as the independent ones. Do the same with your local newspapers. Give one to the manager of your local Waterstones bookshop, (these managers have a say in selecting the books their stores stock.)

The main reasons I suggest ‘local media’ is they are constantly hungry for ‘local’ news, so an author from the area who has or shall soon, be releasing a book is exactly the type of story they need. You may well get an interview or be asked to appear as a guest.

Try and milk the airtime. Do a pre-book release show with the ARC & get invited back, in say, two weeks, once your book has been released and is ‘live’ online. (Get two bites of the cherry & create a relationship with the host(s))

I have appeared on two of the three local radio stations in my hometown. Including several guest appearances on the primetime breakfast show.

Note: Do think outside the box, which is especially relevant for certain genres and non-fiction. I have some of my own books in maritime museums, seafarers, and naval heritage centre gift shops and online websites.

You can try your local tourist information centres if your book is about, or set in, the locality. Check out your local museums, galleries and tourist hot spots. Your book may just be welcome on their shelves.

3, If you want to try to attack the regional market, which will encompass your ‘State’ in the USA, then why not produce your own ‘special prepublication edition’ to send to the key organisations? (This would work for National campaigns too, but they are far more difficult to organise and manage.)

As with #2 above, only offer to sign or inscribe these ARC’s for the host when you are interviewed or appear on their show, or when your recorded slot has been aired. Try not to do it pre-show or during recording sessions.

After which, it is always worth turning up ‘out-of-the-blue’ on another day to sign the book when the show is on-air. (It is to the hosts benefit… they will almost certainly ‘fit-you-in’. Trust me, I have done this.)

Even if you do not get lucky with more airtime immediately, you can arrange a time to go back for the signing, even offer to give a signed book or two to the listeners, suggest holding a little quiz or competition. Anything that engages the station’s listeners will make them jump all over you for the privilege.

4, Manuscripts.

A, If you handwrite and are willing to sell your manuscript, either your first draft of your final draft, then please offer it for sale at a price that reflects your love for your story, (i.e. not cheaply). You could fashion a loose cover or folder to keep the whole thing neat, or at least together for presentation purposes. If this has your signature or additional notes written on it, it will add to the overall provenance.

B, If you use a computer to write, as I do, why not consider printing out your draft, at least the ‘final/final first draft’ and making your own handwritten editorial notes on the physical copy, along with and as, you edit the on-screen copy.

This could then be treated as the manuscript above.

Please, however, only have one copy of your first draft and one of your final draft, (although other working copies are acceptable, such as the ARC draft, bot ONLY as long as each is a sole copy and unique), any other/repeat copies will only devalue your manuscripts and will be considered fraudulent, which is not, I am sure, a label you want to associate with your good name.

The more handwritten crossings out, margin notes, additions and so forth the better. These are the things collectors, libraries, scholastic establishments and museums adore. Such items tend to lend people a sense of ‘knowing’ the author as they work, an insight into their mindset if you will.

Well, that’s it from me for this post.

I do hope you can use some of these ideas or, indeed, find fresh ones which suit your own unique situation.

Finally, I can’t help think of eBooks as being ephemeral, subject to being lost in a power outage or, as Amazon.com did with a number of George Orwell books, when it found it sold them without having rights to them, simply erased them from the face of the earth. Something which is far harder to achieve with printed books…. note ‘Fanrenhight 451‘.

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Find my books, even those not available on Amazon.

Get a preview of my current Works in Progress.

See my Artworks and Photography.

Find my Biograph. 

Visit my website

HERE

 

Finding the Holy Grail of writing

Many, if not all authors know writing is never straight forward; I am not talking about the technical aspects or grammar, but about finding the time to write when your mind is focused, when it is in the ‘zone’ for ‘that part’ of your story.

The Holy Grail of writing is when your thought processes are at a peak and you have the time, the undisturbed, uninterrupted time, to transcribe your contemplations cohesively into your manuscript.

Finding this Holy Grail has been an elusive search for me over the last year or so, regarding the novel I am currently working on.

Don’t get me wrong, I am not speaking of writer’s block, that is something I do not suffer. It is also nothing to do with finding the time; I have written and published three books in the past year and I am working on three more as I write this.

I am speaking purely of the mental alignment of skills, mindset and time when in search of perfection. (Although we shall never attain such it is always good to have it as a goal.)

I should have published my story, ‘FLOYD‘ several months ago but I am still working on it in short dribs and drabs. I never seem to have the right mental disposition and the amount of time I need together; hence the book is half drafted and half a jumble of odd notes, part paragraphs/chapters and such.

By the way, I am not downhearted and this is not me moaning, although it may sound that way! It is just me clearing my head by sharing my frustration with you.

It is, however, a frustration I bought upon myself by having several projects on the go at once… and then tasking myself with more. Which makes it even more frustrating.

I doubt if I shall find much time to continue writing FLOYD before December… oh wait, then there is Christmas and family, followed by New Year and Friends… so, maybe I can continue in earnest come mid-January, or maybe February or…

In the meantime, I would love to know your views on this (first draft) excerpt from FLOYD. It is (at the moment) the start of the opening chapter, or at least somewhere very early in the story, as it sets the scene, a sort of preamble to introduce Floyd himself and the background of his, let’s say, delusions and future actions.

Oh, FLOYD is a revenge story, in the blood-bath slasher genre. It is not for the queasy… although this section does not contain any of the gore… that comes a little later, but it comes in big bucketfuls. 😊

FLOYD – an excerpt.

Floyd jumped out of bed with a start, uncontrollably staggering two steps backwards. In that half-awaking instant, Floyd saw his wife, Molly, lying with her hands above her head, wrists bound and fastened. Pools of blood soaking into pristine white bedsheets. The fear in her eyes sent shivers running down his spine and a cold sweat to form over his skin.

This dream happened every night for the past four weeks. But tonight, was the first time he saw anything in full colour. The other times it was blurry monochrome, or just a voice, a sweet, lilting voice whispering to him. Tonight, was different, it did not simply wake him but startled him into jumping from the bed. He could feel his heart pounding.

At first, Floyd thought the voice echoing in his head was nothing more than a remanence of a dream as he woke. He let it go. Tried to forget it. But the whispering came back night after night. First a giggle, then a sigh, which faintly smelt of spearmint, before turning into those softly spoken words. A voice so close he could feel lips brushing his ears as she spoke.

“Kill the bitch.”

“That’s the way.”

“Did you see the surprise on her face?”

Tonight, Floyd did not hear her voice; but he knew she was there, watching him. Smiling.

He blinked twice, shaking his head to clear the image from his mind.

Molly pushed the quilt away from her face exposing a tousled mess of blond hair. She half-opened one eye and, disgruntled, wearily mumbled, “What are you doing? It’s the middle of the night.”

Floyd slid back under the cover and snuggled close to Molly. It was a dream. It was just a dream he told himself as he shut his eyes. Her body was warm and comforting, but it could not dispel the dark foreboding lingering within his mind.

She groaned, slurred something unintelligible, turned, moving away from him. Floyd lay quietly on his back, willing sleep. Each time he began to drift off he was jerked awake by the vision of blood and the scent of spearmint. Sleep was fugitive.

At three-fifteen he carefully slid from under the covers, trying not to disturb Molly and crept downstairs. By six-thirty Floyd had drunk two pots of tea and re-read yesterday’s newspaper, twice.

When Molly eventually arose, he was grilling bacon for breakfast.

“I couldn’t sleep, so…” Floyd gesticulated towards the grill with the tongs in his hand.

Molly tore off some kitchen roll. “Put mine in here. I must dash, busy, busy day ahead. I’m not sure when I’ll be home.”

Floyd gave her a quick peck on the cheek as she headed for the door. With a half-hearted wave, she left, hooking the door closed with her foot. He watched from the window as she drove her Range Rover off the drive and along the street until she was out of sight. He felt a certain disappointment wash over him. He was hoping to talk to Molly at breakfast this morning about his recent feelings, his nagging doubts which were growing daily.

Floyd looked at the clock, six fifty-five. The house seemed exceedingly quiet; which, on consideration, was rather strange, because from three-fifteen this morning he sat alone, the only sound the rustling pages of the newspaper. The house was no quieter now than then but somehow the silence was louder.

Being alone in the house was something Floyd was becoming accustomed to. Since Molly moved companies she had become…become…now, what was the word…fixated? obsessed? with her job. When he commented on the amount of time she was spending working, Molly said it was a thing called ‘commitment’.

Whatever it was Floyd felt it was pushing them apart, an inexorable drifting kind of parting. One which was almost imperceptible day by day. But when he looked back over the months, the changes were there, noticeable, obvious, definite.

Molly generally ignored him now; she was always on the phone or laptop when she was not working late, or early, or both, or at the gym or the hair salon, or having her nails painted or legs waxed.

The main thing which irked Floyd most was none of this, not one little iota was for his benefit. It was all for her work. All those new suits, the blouses, the stockings and shoes.

Once, not so long ago, when Molly slid into a pair of stockings it was to tease him, to excite him. It was a signal sex was unquestionably on the agenda. Not any longer. It seems stockings were de rigueur in Molly’s new corporate world.

Several weeks back Floyd began wondering if she was having an affair. Maybe a seedy sexual liaison with someone from her company. He followed her one morning; sat the whole day outside her office building.

Nothing.

When she left the office in the evening, he followed her. She did not do anything other than visit the hair salon.

Which was a problem for Floyd.

Not that he wished for his wife to be having an affair, but because it left him with a dilemma. What changed between them? Why was Molly so distant? What, if anything had he done…or not done? These were unanswered questions; questions he wanted to broach this morning over those freshly grilled bacon sandwiches.

Floyd glanced at the clock again. Five minutes past seven. His first appointment was at nine-thirty, so he needed to leave the house around eight o’clock. As he threw his bathrobe onto the bed Floyd flashbacked to his dream: Molly spread-eagled, bound on the bed. Eyes staring in terror. He looked down at her.

He shivered. It was all too real, unlike any dream he experienced before.

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