The Word Cloud

Been a tough few weeks her in Mudflat on Ditch.  Work is at unprecedented levels and often over weekends. I am losing "my" time and I am not getting enough recover time so I am tired. 


Those of you who follow the saga of my saga might be aware that a few beta copy MS's of my Legion book got loose here to mixed reviews.  From that I have now had requests for hard copies. I am looking at sixteen at the moment  and that doesn't count the CPS and the War Crimes people in the Hague.  I think half of these reqiested copies will be burnt at some sort of pagan ceremony in some nearby field but hey, a sale is a sale.....

A semi local printer aparently will knock up 20 at about £11 per copy. I am going to investigate this and I will report.  This has prompted  me to step up my editing and rewrting as I now have an audience.  It seems the pub I have interested, Fast as a Glacier Books, is planning on moving mine along any time in the next century.

I will report my findings here and I note that many here have unloved MS's which they may like to have printed. If this turns out to be a viable circumstance, I will have them knock out several dozen and see what happens.

I don't want to advert this and piss off the Cloud any more than I have so if it is actually a viable option I will let people know the details via pm and let them strike their own deals.

Just seems so many people here are getting knocked back by pubs and agents lately and might want a few hard copies of their work to accompany any self pub ebook ventures.


I am sure there are several thousand legal, business strategy, and logical reasons why it is wrong to do this but I have always managed to disdainfully ignore legal and logical ideas.

Well, it was 'no' from the agent. And this time it's a real, definite, don't-send-the-MS-to-me-again kind of 'no'.

For a bit of background, the agent originally read the MS (in a very different guise) way back in 2007. She liked it but pointed me towards a major rewrite which I did whilst figuring out the life-changing-hit-by-a-bus experience of having our first son.

Fast-forward through dirty nappies, sleepless nights and lots and lots of rewriting to early 2009 and this time she really liked the MS but again pointed me towards a rewrite which started out quite minor and became rather major, including the execution of a protaganist and a two-year wrangle with Chapter 1.

Fast-forward again through a family crisis, writer's block, four months of morning sickness (yup, son number 2 coincided with rewrite number 2 - not trying to create a pattern here, honest!), York Festival 2010 (yay!), more dirty nappies, more sleepless nights, a lovely, long, creative maternity leave, a bit of Emma and Debi and some invaluable collaborative editing with fellow Cloudie, John and I really thought that this time, I'd got it right.

And it does appear that I've not got it wrong just not right enough. The main problem for the agent is that she doesn't get the link between my past and present plots - I'm too gutted tonight to know whether or not I agree with her. I've invested 5 years of rewrites in the hope of persuading her to represent me and it feels like I have nothing to show for it.

Though I know that's not really true. The MS I have now is vastly superior to the one she read in 2007 and I have learned a huge amount about writing along the way. And while I lick my wounds, she did finish off with a very positive comment:

"You do have a lovely style though - loads and loads of potential so I'd love you to keep in touch. Any other ideas brewing?"

I do, as it happens, but with two small children in the household, it may be a while yet before the ideas become anything close to an MS.

So, don't mind me if I wibble nonsensically in the corner for most of the weekend. I'm not giving up. It'll be back to business on Monday.

I just have to scratch this itch that has been on my mind for two months. I simply have to deal with it.

I have often posted about my enjoyment of the craft and art shows I attend on behalf of MrsP. In the run up to Christmas there are lots of them. I had my share of pleasures and nice moments and will do the same next year, no doubt. For some reason this year the same Christmas CD was being piped into many of them. It featured Frank Sinatra being dreary, Bing Crosby groaning and was generally dire.

Perhaps it was the generally dreadful nature of the music on offer that caused me to have what I can only describe as the most unsanta-ish thoughts as Ella Fitzgerald’s turn came round and once more she cheerfully piped:

Santa Claus got stuck in my chimney,
Stuck in my chimney, stuck in my chimney
Santa Claus got stuck in my chimney
When he came last year

But once the idea had entered my head I couldn’t hear the tune without having the same thoughts. I wonder if I can get pills for it, because it's happening again.

Food can be sexy as all heck. Its used in all manner of ways within the film industry to gloss over events or allude to certain actions. What romance novel is worth its salt if there isn't a bit of melted chocolate dripping from a buff chest - in desperate need of the heroine to ..well.. thats enough of all of that... you get the picture.

We all know how sexy food can be – but how boring are some recipe books?  This innocent question was posed at an online writers group a few months ago and received a flurry of suggestions and comments; prompting Sylvia Petter and I to launch a collaboration in order to bring balance back to the universe.  Think about it - erotic stories backed up by luscious recipes drawn directly from the action within the tale - a match made in heaven.

Raunchy Recipes aims to put a halt boring recipe books,  turning up the heat in the kitchen with a  resource spilling over with sensual stories, backed up with glorious recipes and simple line drawings. Given the popularity of kindle, ipads and the like, we believe this collection of short steamy stories and recipes are best delivered in electronic format.  We intend on launching it through ether books  initially and branching out to other outlets later on.

Depending on the popularity, we might consider some print on demand hard copies in 2013. Apart from the fame and glory of being involved, successful contributors ( authors and artists) will be sent a copy of the ebook version; with the promise that if the edition is published in hard copy format the following year, a copy of this will be forwarded to them. So! Sylvia and I are excited about working together to produce a fun, saucy and delectable anthology of erotic short stories, liberally peppered with luscious line drawings.  We welcome emerging authors and artists as keenly as seasoned creatives.

Submissions are being accepted between the 14th of February and the 1st of August 2012. Publication for the ebook is aimed for mid Dec 2012. Full details and submission guidelines can be found on Submittable. For more information about Raunchy Recipes check out  the  website , follow on Twitter or stalk on Facebook Fan Page  or contact us via email

You know how that need for a sandwich suddenly sneaks up on you? It’s not like it’s a gradual thing; there’s no ‘I may be in need of a sandwich shortly’, it’s just a sudden, violent need to be cramming bread, meat, cheese and whatever else you can find into your gob like a meth-head smoking his first hit of the day. That’s not to say that you cannot enjoy the sandwich making process. Some of my finest moments have been during a particularly good period of sandwich artistry. I even named one of my incredible creations ‘The Jeremy Clarkson’ as it was the best sandwich in the world…

   I felt that this may be one of those moments that I would look back on fondly as an epic sarnie of our time. During that ever so long and arduous trek from the sofa to the kitchen, I was already mentally digging through the fridge and grabbing any and all ingredients that could assist in creating this beautiful monstrosity. With shaking hands, I grasped the cold, hard handle of the great white beast, the keeper of all things nom and good, and yanked its jaws wide open with wild abandon. The holy light clicked on, revealing the beast’s succulent innards that I had eagerly procured from Tesco not so long ago. My dilated pupils scanned the heaving shelves with the eagerness of a horny boy at a strip club and landed on the first essential ingredient; a virginal packet of mouth-watering cheese, wrapped tenderly in its plastic clothing. I extracted it and place it on the gleaming breadboard that rested upon my kitchen counter.

   The next part is the meat, the juicy guts of any worthy sandwich. I was no neophyte when it came to meat selection, no naïve purchaser of inferior products. There would be no mottled wafer thin ham or stringy reformed chicken in Valhalla and neither would there be in my art. Only the thickest, most tender cuts of supple flesh would do. I selected some oak smoked ham and roast chicken breast and placed them gently beside the cool, firm cheddar. I knew instinctively that this was not a time for greasy mayonnaise, though I had used this white glaze before, no, only locally sourced organic butter would do to softly moisten my creation. I positioned the butter dish besides its worthy comrades.

   For the final layer, I delved into the hard, crisp world of the vegetable drawer and extracted the necessary fruits and greens. Juicy, firm tomatoes, a beautiful shade of blushing red, velvety soft to touch, their outsides giving no hint of the saturated world that hid within. Perfect, lush green leaves of fresh gem lettuce, rustled together as though whispering secrets as I placed them on the counter.

   My bread, no ordinary chemical filled sliced nonsense but whole, crunchy baker’s goods with a light brown crisp shell that protected the yielding white cushion within.

The girl sat on the bed, sighed and closed her eyes. ‘Two words: dismal and shit,’ she said.

The boy followed her inside the room and put down the case. His arms had gone numb and his throat was dry. ‘We’ll make it like home,’ he said. ‘We’ve bought your posters.’ He opened a case, pulled out a pink feather boa and draped it on the back of the chair.  Then he took out a crumpled poster that had been rolled into a tube.  He took off the rubber band and opened it up.  It was Edward Hopper’s Girl at Sewing Machine.

  ‘Stop it, please,’ the girl said.

The boy held the poster against the wall above the desk. ‘Do you have any bluetac?’ he asked. ‘Did you bring any?’

  ‘I said stop it. You’re making me sad.’

The boy put the poster on the desk and looked at her. ‘I’m just trying to make you feel at home. It will be nice, when we’re done.’

The girl twiddled a strand of blonde hair between thumb and finger. Eventually, she said, ‘I don’t want to be here baby. I can’t speak French, I hate Lyon and I hate this room.’ She lifted her head from her hands. ‘Look, there’s no carpet. And this bed is as hard as a rock.’

The boy opened the thick beige curtains and let in the sunshine. It was a warm August evening and the sky was blue.  Outside, a few students sunbathed on the grass. They were drinking beer and listening to hip-hop. ‘It’s only a year,’ he said. ‘It’ll go quickly.’

  ‘You said the same about Exeter.’

 ‘And I was right.’

They went outside, holding hands. It was the ultimate week of the holidays and the corridors were empty. 

  ‘It’s soulless,’ she said.

  ‘It won’t be.  When the other students get here.’

The girl looked like she was about to cry. ‘Let’s get drunk,’ she said.

They walked to the main road that led back into town.  The girl clutched his hand. ‘I’m afraid I’ll lose you,’ she said. ‘You’ll go back to your boys and forget about me.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. We’re a team, remember.’

She smiled. ‘Dan and Jane.’

They found a bar on the outskirts of town.  In one corner, four men played table football.  They were shouting and swearing.  A barman sat on a stall, his pencil poised over a crossword.

Jane said, ‘Est-ce que je peut avoir deux bieres si’il vous plait?’

The man grinned. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Plus de Anglais?’

  ‘Oui, je viens d’arriver. I’m studying French, over at the university,’ Jane said.

  ‘Well you’re very welcome,’ the man said. ‘Lots of English boys and girls come here.  You’ll like it here.’  

They sat at a table by the window and lit cigarettes. Dan took a sip of beer and looked through the window at the passing traffic.  It was starting to get dark.

Jane said, ‘You don’t have to live here. You’ll forget all about it. In fact, I bet you wish you were on the train home.’

Dan said, ‘It’s exciting to live abroad.  Just think how good your French will be when you come back.’

  ‘I don’t want an adventure,’ she said. ‘What you mean is an adventure without you. What you mean…’

  ‘I didn’t mean that at all,’ he snapped. ‘Don’t tell me what I mean.’

  ‘What did you mean?’

Dan said, ‘I’m just jealous, that’s all. You have a new place to explore and new people to meet. I’m going back to Durham. The same old faces, the same old pubs. It’s boring really, doing the same thing every week.’

  ‘Will you visit me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘No you won’t. You can’t afford it and you can’t be bothered.’

Dan sighed. ‘I’ll use my student loan. I’ll come at Christmas.’

  ‘I’m coming home at Christmas you wally.’  She grabbed a strand of her fringe and twiddled it between her fingers. ‘Can I ask you something Dan? I know you’re not going to get upset and I don’t want you to.  But do you remember last week when I was at yours and you were acting funny and the phone went.’

Dan nodded. He lit a cigarette and looked out the window.

  I picked up the phone downstairs. You know this, don’t you? I wasn’t spying but I picked it up just as you picked it up.’

Dan took a drag on his cigarette and said, ‘It was a girl from my course.  We’re doing a group presentation next month and we need to plan.’

Jane’s fingers trembled a little and she took her hands off the table and put them on her lap.  She said,     ‘She sounded foreign, Dan. What’s her name?’

  ‘Rebecca.’

  ‘Rebecca?’

  ‘Yes.’ Dan finished his cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray.

Jane took a sip of beer. ‘Why did she sound foreign?’

  ‘Because she’s Dutch.’

  ‘Dutch?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She’s called Rebecca and she’s Dutch.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And she’s on your course, this Rebecca.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You’ve never mentioned her.’

  ‘There are hundreds of people on my course.’ He looked at his fingers and began to count. ‘Have I told you about Jess? She’s in my language class. Then there’s Rob. He’s a nice guy. He’s in my modernism class. Did I tell you we went for a beer the other week? It was after a lecture. We got quite smashed actually.  I could go on.’

Jane waited for him to finish. ‘Don’t be clever.’

  ‘Don’t be paranoid.’

  ‘That’s not fair, Dan. You know it’s not.’ She met his eyes and he looked away. ‘I put the phone down straight away. I wasn’t spying on you. But Rebecca sounded really excited. And the reason I don’t know her name is because…’ Her voice caught a little and she stopped.

Dan said, ‘I don’t think we should spend the evening like this. Do you want another drink?’

Jane took a deep breath, downed the rest of her beer and lit another cigarette. ‘No, you’re right. Let’s stop. I know I’m being paranoid. I know you don’t like me when I’m like this. I can’t help it really, not when you’re so far away.’ She blew smoke in his direction and smiled. ‘Your course is such bullshit. So much waffle.’

The sky had darkened with  black clouds and it had started to rain.  On the pavement, an old lady lifted an upturned palm to the sky. Dan said, ‘You’re not being paranoid. I should have explained last week. I knew you’d picked up the phone and I should have explained.’

  ‘Forget about it.’

  ‘It’s going to be fine,’

  ‘We have been good together, haven’t we?’ she went on. ‘And I want it to be good again.’

  ‘We’ll be fine. We always are.’

  ‘I’m terrible, I know. I’m horribly jealous.’ She laughed despite herself and tears filled her eyes.

  ‘Let’s go. We always fight when we’re drunk.’

They went outside. The rain bounced off the cobbled streets and into their shoes. It dripped from their hair and into their eyes. ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ Jane said. She twirled about in front of him, her face lifted to the sky.  Dan took hold of her waist and pulled her towards him.  Her hair smelt of peaches and cigarettes.  A fork of lightning, then a low peal of thunder. The rain came heavier. They could barely see where they were going. ‘We’re going to drown,’ squealed Jane. She pulled herself free from his arm and ran towards the centre of the small square.  Dan watched her dance and twirl. She looked very young and small.

When they got back to the room, they were tired and hungry and their clothes were soaked through. The two suitcases stood in the middle of the room.  The crumpled poster lay on the desk, the feather boa was draped over the chair.  There was the bed, the basin, a cupboard and a chest of drawers.    

Jane opened the largest case. ‘I’ve of a bottle of Pimms in here,’ she said. ‘Grandma gave it to me as a leaving present. Can you believe it? I’ve never drunk Pimms in my life.’

They stripped out of their clothes and sat in their underwear on the bed.  Jane made a makeshift ashtray out of a toothbrush holder they found by the sink.  The rain had stopped and the dormitory was silent.  They passed the bottle of Pimms between them until they felt sick.

Jane said, ‘It feels bloody lonely here, doesn’t it? Like we’re the only people on the planet.’  Dan nodded. He was circling his fingers over her cold feet.  ‘It’s like the setting of a serial killer film. There’s probably some nutter stalking the hallway.’

  ‘Stop it.’

She flexed her foot and poked his bare stomach. ‘You’re getting fat.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘You are, just a little. How are your arms? You were whinging about them all the way here.’

  ‘Those suitcases killed me. When you stood at the top of the stairs, shouting at me, my forearms unfurled like plasticine.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She laughed, put a hand to her mouth. ‘I can be so horrid, can’t I? But I thought we’d miss the train.’

He leaned forward and kissed her. She opened her mouth, then pulled away. ‘Do you want to finish this?’ She picked up the bottle. Some of the pink liquid spilled onto the mattress. ‘It’s gross, isn’t it?’

He took the bottle off her and took a swig. It made him gag. ‘Let’s go to bed,’ he said.

  ‘I want to talk.’

  ‘We’ve done too much talking.’

  ‘There’s one more thing, Dan. I’m only saying this because I’m drunk. Don’t think I’m being paranoid, but there’s one more thing.’

Dan put his fingers to her lips, kissed her again and rolled on top of her.  She fell backwards with a squeal.

  ‘Wait,’ she said. ‘There is one more thing.  When I picked up the phone…’

He was pushing down on her and trying to undo the clasp of her bra. ‘We’ll talk ourselves mad,’ he said. ‘No more tonight.’ Her bra came loose and he tossed it to the floor. She was very pale and cold.

  ‘It’s just what she said.  When you picked up the phone and said hello, she said, ‘It’s me.’ Why would she say that Dan?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He was looking at her sad eyes. ‘I don’t know why she’d say that.’

  ‘She’s just on your course right. You’re just doing a project together.  So why should she announce herself as ‘me’.’

They slipped under the sheets. It had got so cold they shook in each other’s arms for a while.  After a little while, Dan said, ‘I don’t know why she’d say that, Jane,’ but she had begun to snore. He stared at the peeling ceiling until he fell asleep.

When they woke, it was almost midday. Dan’s arm had gone numb under her weight. He pulled himself free and got out of bed. He splashed his face with water from the basin and pulled on a pair of jeans and a  T shirt.

Jane sat up and twiddled her fringe between her fingers. She was naked and bleary-eyed. ‘Come back to bed,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve got a train to catch. I have to be there in an hour.’

  ‘Oh Dan, you’re so sensible. I’ll get dressed. God knows where the showers are in this prison.’ 

They caught the bus to the centre of town and walked to the station.  It was a Monday and the streets were busy, the cafes were full. It was sunny but pools of water remained from the night’s downpour. They passed the little bar and the square where Jane had danced. Inside, they could see the barman, doing his crossword.

Near the station, they stopped for a coffee. Jane looked around her. The café was full of students, gossiping and eating and drinking. A man in one corner turned the pages of an enormous hardback novel. ‘I think I’ll be alright here,’ she said. ‘It’s not so bad in the day.’

‘You’ll be fine. You’ll make lots of friends.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I think I will.’

At the station, Dan stood by the train carriage, his rucksack by his side.  Jane smoked a cigarette and looked up at the station clock. ‘Tick, tock,’ she said. ‘I can really feel it this time.’

  ‘Feel what?’

  ‘That we’re done.’

Dan looked at her feet and said nothing.  She gripped his arm, pushed her head into his chest and closed her eyes. He held her but they did not speak. ‘We were 14,’ she eventually said.

  ‘Six years ago.’

  ‘Six years seems an awfully long time, doesn’t it?’ She pushed herself closer, clasped him with both hands.

  ‘In some ways.’

She pulled free from his chest and kissed him briefly on the lips. She said, ‘When I came to Durham last Easter, it was so strange. I hardly recognized you. You were so different. Not in a bad way, not at all in a bad way. But I left feeling very lonely.’

  ‘I haven’t changed,’ Dan said. He looked at his watch. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘There was nothing we could have done about it really, is there?’

  ‘We’re working at it Jane.’

  ‘I’m not sure there was anything we could have done.  It just happens all the bloody time. It’s quite mundane really.’

Dan picked up his rucksack. ‘I wish you wouldn’t talk like this.’

Jane planted a kiss on his cheek and stepped back. ‘Get on the train, Dan, before I start blubbing.’

They embraced on the platform until the whistle blew.

  ‘Don’t forget, Dan,’ she said, as he opened the automatic door and stepped into the carriage. She touched his hand just before the doors closed. ‘Not even when you’re old and impotent.’

Dan waved as the train pulled away. He watched the small figure in a pink leather jacket recede into the distance, waving back.

He saw her throw her cigarette to the floor and immediately scrabble for another. He saw her struggling to light it in the wind.

 

 

 

 

Two excellent features on the Cloud today. First:

Wrathnar's Letter to Agents
is fab. If you haven't read it, read it. If you're about to write to agents, then cut & paste the whole thing. And if you don't, you're probably GAY.

Emma & Debi's Prose Intensive
Our very own dynamic duo are currently conducting a prose probe on a willing victim here. It's well worth popping over to see how those guys work - and indeed how intensive self-editing can alter and improve a piece of work.

If you want the same laser eyes turned on your own work then, my friends, that's entirely possible. Just sign up to D&E's self-editing course and prepare for your brain to be fried. Indeed, do you remember the drink called the Pangalactic Gargleblaster, from the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy? Drinking the PgGb was like having your brain crushed by a gold brick with a slice of lemon wrapped around it. Debi & Emma's course is exactly like that, only without the lemon. And some people apparently live. And even enjoy it, or so I've heard ... What I do know, is that this is probably the best, most inspiring and most grown-up writing course available online. It comes strongly recommended.

Repost for Miranda

dear Mr litrarary Agent Ive got a idea for a BRILIANT!!! book its a thriler. Its so thriling it make's andy Mcnab look tottaly Gay. I havnt wrote it yet coz i wnat a advanced contract E.G. money up front. I cant tell you what its about coz its such a BRILIANT!!! idea that you would probally try to nick it. oh Allright then its about Solder's there on a SECRET MISION but I only told you that so you know what a BRILIANT!!! idea it is and if you try to nick it i will TAKE YOU TO COURT my Brother is alawyer so you sould be SCARED!!!!! but when you read it you will see how BRILIANT!!! it is or you are Gay. PS, I havnt inclosed a S.E.A coz you should buy your own stamp's I did,. I expect you to write back very quick or i will go to sombody else and you will be a LOOSER as well as Gay. Love from Frank Lee; Barking

Steve's joke that has won him exceptional grilling by Emma and Debi  - well he deserves all the pain and suffering...

Mitch, my MC, had a mate called Adam. Adam, in his pre-nuptial night before he married his delectable Thai girlfriend, was subjected to a night of debauchery and drunken torture. His stags arranged for a tatooist to carve out Adam on Adam's erect member, so that she'd never forget...

Thirteen sambucas plus a go-go dancer did the trick, and he was blessed. Of course Adam had to visit the bathroom and he bumped into a guy with large thumbs. The guy unzipped and washed down a few fag-ends into the urinal. Adam, being impressed, leant over and noticed this guy also had  ADAM tatooed on his flaccid member.

'Your name Adam? Really?' He said, pointing to the item in question. 'That's my name, also.'
The guy gave him a sad look. 'No, it's where I come from,' said the guy, shaking his tool. 'See here, it's AMSTERDAM.'  

Add the next piece to to story. The only rule is that each section is 60 words or fewer.

Birds don't chirp. Who thought of such a thing? Warbling, cooing, even arguing with squawks, if they're herring gulls. But not chirping. New model cars when you lock them with one of those electronic keys. Some mobile phones. But not birds. Roy was a chirper. Right from when he was a baby. But then again, most crocodiles are.