The Word Cloud

As most of you know, I'm housebound and don't get out much. I've had a lovely couple of days at my brothers. He lives in one of those swanky onverted mansion houses, with views to die for. On the way home, we played some CD's. We have a CD of Neil Sedaka and the whole CD is songs sung in Yiddish and English. Some yiddish songs, but others that you would know.

 I was sat in the back of the car listening to this CD. Sunrise Sunset started. He sings that one in both Yiddish and English. I must have heard this song thousands of time, I've even sung it in barbershop in a previous life. For some reason the words really hit home, 

'Is this the little boy at play,
I don't remember growing older,
when did they?'

Boy did that hit home. I thought of my nephew, Harry, as a baby, and now he's a man who has  just gone into the Israeli army, and I don't remember growing older. From there on in, the words meant more and more and when the song had finished, I felt like crying and I felt that for the very first time, I understood the song,

'seedlings turn overnight to sunset .....
swiftly flow the years,
one season following another,
laden with happiness and tears.'

I felt very old, which is not the greatest feeling in the world. I'm tearing up just telling you about it. I really don't know where the years have gone. When I was small my parents told me that time flies when you are older, and that they didn't feel any different to the way they had when they were eighteen. My dad used to say things like, I'd love to go back to that age and know what I know now. I always thought they were talking out of their arses and spouting a load of rubbish. Now, I now what they mean.

Much as I would love to stuff my fingers in my ears and sing over them, these poisonous little darts swim around my mind and I can hear them whatever I do.

I seem to swing from being confident in my book - that I believe it's original with interesting and engaging characters - to wondering what I think I'm doing writing anything when it's all drivel.

I'm not the most confident person anyway, and these doubts hammer me further into the ground when I would prefer to walk tall.

I realise I'm not alone, but it's frustrating when it feels like every doubt adds another pebble to my chest, and the resulting rubble just serves to weigh me down.

I almost talked myself out of submitting my story to someone last night, because I was convinced they wouldn't be interested and would hate the story. The person in question is looking specifically for the genre I'm writing for!

How on earth do you shut those annoying voices up? Does anyone have any tips?

When I was young (honest I was once) I was a voracious reader of comics. In the beginning it was the Beano but my father steered me to more manly stuff such as the Victor and the Valiant. There was a particular character in the Valiant called Captain Hurricane who had a chest like a barrel of best bitter and his batman Maggot, who was weedy in the extreme. Captain Hurricane would smite the dastardly Germans with his mighty fists calling them all "Bilge Rats" as they went down with a very teutonic “Ach”, or “Mein Gott das Englander”, before Maggot led them off to the POW camp. No-one ever got killed, which seemed a bit strange. They did in the Victor though which was filled with tales of derring do. I was also introduced to Roy of the Rovers at some point; good solid boys own stuff through and through. A real tryer my dad. The thing is that these adventures rarely featured women and I was a growing lad.

It was the comic strips in Daily Mirror that saved me. This was the newspaper my parents bought. I was a regular with Andy Capp and the Perishers and I will always remember marlon, who's greatest wish was to be one of the men with big wellies that went down sewers, priceless! But there was also a comic strip called Garth. This was for me something of a turning point because here I invented my first original line, which was “Nipples like dinner plates”. Now it might not be that good a line but it shows that Garth was rather extreme in its female depictions and actually they did look a bit like our dinner plates. I was only eight at the time. Anyway, I got a quick slap from my mother and life moved on. I discovered DC comics, Marvel Comics etc. Their representation of the female in superhero or human form was nothing less than spectacular. I could go on and on; actually I will just for a bit. I mean Susan Storm was unbelievably hot and depicted as totally fit and evidently completely naked except for her spray painted superhero costume. She could become invisible, which was disappointing. Then we have cat woman, I mean. The smile on batman’s face whenever he had to fight her. Then there’s Lois Lane, Superman’s girlfriend. OOOOH!!

I’d better move on. I reckon the writers and artists were just living out their personal fantasy and why not.

Later it began to dawn on me that none of this was new. Take animated features - Cinderella was more babe than home girl and when it comes down to it look at Betty Boop. Pocahontas! They all seem to ooze sex appeal. It’s everywhere, Scooby Doo had Daphne and even Wilma in the Flintstones was smoking hot. And this begs a question. What was there in it for the girls? I mean, even with my blokey judgement Fred and Rocky aren't up to much. Lacking in other respects too I should think. But back to the point.

I can’t recall a time when drawn/animated women weren’t so totally hot, particularly the bad ones, take the wicked queen, Cinderella again, but usually just all of them. So, who is the hottest? Who wins the prize? It’s a tough one and I’m sure many of the male cloudsters have given it thought more than once.

Jessica Rabbit has a lot going for her, but for me I think Debbie Thornberry has it all. Style, wit, good moves and a bit left to the imagination.

Edit - Wrathnar. Having seen your pics I went off to cyberspace. Hot as they are, your lady just seems to smoulder in this, which is rather dated I think. Given that I still have editing rights due to some error on the cloud no doubt, I was able to insert her image here.

We've been noticing a bothersome decline in traffic to our website, so started poking around in the numbers. It turns out that the average position of our Google ads has been slipping in recent months. We normally average about the #3 or #4 position for the major writing-related search terms, and that has slipped back to #5 or #6. No big deal you'd think, except that those things make a huge difference to our traffic volumes.

It's simple enough to get back to a higher average position for our ads: we simply have to pay more. Google ranks the ads according to a number of factors, of which the most important (and most controllable) is how much you pay to Google for each ad-click received. When we started out, we paid about 25p per click. At the moment we're paying 40p per click and to regain our old position, I think we'll need to pay closer to 50p. That's 100% inflation in the space of four years ... and it's by far our biggest single cost.

Not that I'm complaining exactly. Our entire business depends on Google, and Google has always been an easy, pleasant company to work with. Let's just hope that the extra dosh we'll be spending on advertising comes back to us in the form of lovely yummy manuscripts. We'll see ...

 

A  post-mortem - If such a thing be possible!  The vampyre under consideration is that of the romantic movement - circa 1819.

Do animals have a conscience?  They kill to eat.

Coleridge distinguishes between the souls of animals and the souls of humans (The Darker Side ’Chapter three. Richard Holmes)

In order to have a conscience, the vampyre must have a pre-history, a time before he became infected; a time when he was human - a time when he was aware of religion and philosophical arguments.  He would then be aware that, when he kills, he does wrong.  He might then feel remorse after he has made his kill. (An associated theme has been portrayed  in ‘Dr Jeckyl and Mr Hyde where a drug releases the ‘beast within’)

The vampyre had not been given this voice - or a pre-history. He might argue, ‘Is the lion in the jungle censured for his kill?

 Van Heising, the vampyre slayer in Stoker’s Dracula’  should have been a man of science.  The vampyre should have be destroyed by reason and logic. Van Heising should have considered the reasons for the existence of a vampyre and proved, by scientific methods, that vampyres no longer have a ‘raison d’etre’

Van Heising should not have fought the vampyre with garlic, stakes and a crosses - symbols of the very superstition the ‘Enlightenment’ wished to dispel.  (The original vamypre tale is contemporary with Frankenstein)

The modern equivalent  of Heising would be a psychiatrist seeking to dispel a myth in the mind of the vampyre - or the heroine!  A Dawkinite might have problems with  vamypre in that a counter-argument can be made.  Myths mutate -  in Darwin fashion - in order to survive, though the vampyre is immortal and, with each kill, is restored from a corpse to the vampyre of 1819.

Does this answer someone’s query?

I'm off to bed now.  (I cannot access any blogs further than the first page -  i am  then directed to Harry's blog.  I cannot, thus, post the blog where the query was made and post it there. 
 

 

All this week, I’ve been sort of winging it with my work in progress. There is an overarching outline with key plot points already decided, but it’s been a bit of a struggle to bridge the gaps between them. I sit at the computer and type a few lines, then decide to make coffee. Another 50 or 60 words and it becomes painfully clear that the arm chair on the other side of the room is at a slightly odd angle to the couch. After realigning the furniture, I might make it all the way through a paragraph before deciding that I’ll be better able to think through the next few pages in the shower.

A good day sees me writing 2,000 words in about an hour and a half. This week has already seen more than one day of barely cresting 1,000 after four or five hours of waffling between the computer and whatever distractions I can find. The worry in these moments is that I’m only writing filler to get me one more day closer to my final word count; that I’m ultimately going to have to edit everything out and rewrite it during revisions.

[Please note that I take time to craft helpful blog posts on my own website and like to keep an eye on how many readers are coming to certain posts so that I can better cater my subject material to my readership in future posts. I am more than happy to receive comments either here on the Word Cloud, or on my blog!]

The Dilemma of Christopher by Andrew Williams

 

The voices in my head cheered as the sun set over the horizon, my work for the day was done. Simon blew his whistle signalling for us all to start walking back to the village. Ten minutes passed and he began to make his way through the crowd of people, systematically whipping any of us not moving fast enough. Simon was strange; he was the first slave driver who’d not taken pleasure in beating us. He had a way with the whip, he could maximise the noise but at the same time, minimise the damage it dealt. If he were caught, he’d be out of the job and we’d risk having a more vicious driver beat us. So we began acting as though he were whipping us harder than he really was. During his first few days here, those of us he whipped would laugh and joke about how Simon didn't have any skill with the only tool of his trade. I didn't believe them; I assumed they were putting on a hard-front, acting tough like they were too strong to feel the stinging kiss of his viper.

But then, three days after he arrived, it was my turn to fall victim to the leather menace. I was slow to return to the village, I had a promise to keep. . . I had donated half my rations to Teresa, an eight-year-old orphan child who I'd taken under my wing. She'd been feeling terrible and collapsing a lot recently, to help her feel better I'd promised to make her a stringed musical instrument & bow. I told her that I'd teach her how to play it during the dark hours of the night and we'd perform in front of everyone at celebrations. Back in Yola, Eastern Nigeria, I had been a musician. I was hungry for the old music I used to hear & play so often.

Simon caught me collecting horsehair to make the string for the bow; he had to punish me as a thief. But, rather than removing my hands as was custom, he decided a few lashes across my back would be ample enough to put me in my place. He had me lift my shirt, and lie on the ground. I clenched, closing my eyes tight as I awaited the searing pain to erupt as his blow fell. I heard the creak of the whip as he drew it back ready to strike, "Don't worry," he whispered milliseconds before bringing it down against my unprotected back. The noise of the impact was loud as a lion's roar, but the blow was void of any pain.

After twenty painless lashes, he lifted me to my feet and winked, "Limp back to the village, take the hair with you, tell nobody." I nodded and acknowledged what he had been doing for me and the others. Finally, a kind-hearted white man.

Five days later music ran through our village. Teresa's little face had lit up when I first burst into her room playing the stringed instrument with the horsehair bow; she was fighting-fit in no time, thrilled with her new toy. The next day I had her practice with me for a good four hours, deep into the night. Teresa couldn't put the instrument down; she was so passionate about creating music. Everyone had begun to really appreciate Teresa for her flair with the bow; she would light up their skies when she played.

The master, a rich Welshman who went by the name of Hayden had not liked how merry the music had made us. As punishment, Teresa’s hands had been shackled for three weeks until; finally, Simon had convinced Hayden that the lack of music had resulted in a decline in the morale & work effort of all the slaves. As a result & much to our delight; Teresa was assigned the position of official plantation musician. As her adopted father, Teresa’s new role in the plantation filled me with pride.

Weeks after her promotion, three dark-skinned strangers arrived in our village under cover of a cloudy night. They brought word that their plantation, the neighbouring one belonging to Arthur Black, an Englishman, had been host to a slave uprising a few nights back. The men claimed that the rest of their friends were hiding in the woods to the south and that they were mere scouts. They had plans of rousing us up to assist them in raiding the master’s house, of course, as payment; we would be free to join them.

This was a very interesting offer. We told the scouts to leave before our master discovered them, and to return the next day at midnight. They agreed and left us to discuss their proposal.

From the moment the three scouts left until sunset the next day, our entire village was involved in a heated debate on what we should do. The majority of us wanted to accept their offer; to rise up with them and overthrow our masters. But of course this came with a price; we would be hunted by white soldiers and most likely cut down within days, where as, if we stayed we’d possibly be rewarded for their loyalty.

Another important factor to consider was Simon, the kind-hearted white man. If the runaways came they would surely murder him in some abhorrent manner, due to his being a position despised by all who had ever suffered under a driver’s whip. We all agreed that whichever path we chose to walk, Simon would be fore-warned of the attack.

Eventually a large portion of the slaves in our plantation decided that they were tired of working fruitlessly and living subservient to another human being, so they joined the other runaways and launched an assault on the master’s house. Several whites died, including Hayden's children and wife. Simon was warned as we had sworn and returned to the plantation a few days after the runaways left. A week later, the soldiers arrived. A few hundred white men armed to the teeth, most were mounted on warhorses the size of bulls.

These soldiers were the reason I hadn’t ran away with the rest of them, there was nothing more enticing than the prospect of being free, even if only for a little while; but ultimately it all came down to Teresa. I could not put her through what the soldiers would inevitably do to the runaways; it was for her that I embraced a lifetime in shackles.

 

 

This article in the Guardian has a good old moan by the marketing-led conservatism of most book cover. - and there's no doubt at all that book covers these days are strongly marketing led.

The cover of my current non-fiction book Stuff Matters: Genius, Risk & The Genius of Capitalism was 100% created in order to please the non-fiction buyers at the major retailers. Indeed, the title itself didn't come from me, but from my publisher ... and was strongly influenced by the sales department there. (I didn't choose either the title or the subtitle, and I'm not sure I even understand the title or what its connection with  the book is meant to be.)

You can see the jacket design on Amazon here, and you can see that in this case virtually all visual information aside from the title itself has been eliminated. Even the back of the book is largely free of text - there's just one short, bold, big print paragraph there.

On the other hand, what else do you want? Why would you want a jacket design that retailers don't like? And why assume that producing a market-led jacket will produce dull outcomes? For what it's worth, I think the 4th Estate cover for my book is a cracker - and quite innovative. It doesn't seem like just another me-too design to me, by any means.

True, there'll be non-standard crime novels, let's say, that are jacketed and marketed like crime novels, thereby missing what might be a broader audience for the book. But again: if the core readership is a crime-readership, then what's wrong with directly targeting that audience? As an author, what the heck else would you want your publisher to do?

And even as a reader, I challenge anyone to go into a bookshop and not be impressed by the level of visual invention on those book covers. Very many of them are both lovely and inventive. So let the Guardian have a moan ... but I think the industry does OK.

We    We seem to be in a pet mood today, so I will add, if I may, my favourite tale about Ross, our Chocolate Lab.

Ross was a big boy, a very doggy dog, with a large streak of alpha male running from his wet nose to the tip of his tail.  With people he was generally fine, once he saw we trusted them!......but with other dogs he could be a bit of a terror.  When walking on the beach we had to scour the horizon for any loose dogs, because if he spotted one first a 'scuffle' was bound to ensue.  Consequently he remaind on the lead for much of the time.

When he was nearing the end of his innings, we decided to get a pup to maybe give him an interest, and to lessen the blow when he eventually turned up his claws.  So we bought a Black Lab, which we still have today, though he is getting on in years too!  Why do we do this to ourselves?

Ross was always an excellent watch dog.  He saw it as his prime function in life, to let out a window rattling roar whenever anyone strange came to the door.  One fine sunny morning we had the young pup, Barney, in the rear yard enjoying the sunshine.  Ross had already shown the pup who was in charge with a nip on the back of his neck during his first few days, so he was under no illusion as to the pecking order.  So Ross is inside snoozing, when Barney began to, well yip I guess you would call it, in the yard.  He was very insistent, and Ross roused himself on his old legs and appeared at the back door, hackles already raised as he prepared to repell intruders.
    What he saw, and the expression on his face, was priceless.  Barney had spotted a suspicious looking tea towel hanging from the washing line, and decided he should bark at it.  He was doing a very good job too, jumping from the ground in his excitement.  Ross took one look at him, and then glanced at me.  I swear he rolled his eyes as if saying, 'stupid dog', before turning to go back inside and resume his sleep.

I miss that dog, but no matter how much pain they cause when they go, I could never be without one.

I am going to attempt to add a pic of him here charging towards me.  He just wanted to say hi.

Buster by Andrew Williams (zomb00)