The Word Cloud

this is for my best friend Trudie who I'd take a bullet for. It's also for Rachel Hempenstall whose dad died last night. Love you both xxxx

Baby please stop crying,
It kills me every time
A glittered tear falls from those eyes
It shouldn't have been you.

Baby I'm so sorry
I couldn't make you feel
even a little better
I am so ashamed

Baby you deserve better
you shouldn't have to feel
this pain that eats your heart away
I wish I could make it better

Baby you can come to me
Cry until your dry,
I'll always be here for you babe
Anytime of day.
Because baby I love you.

It was our first Valentine’s Day, and we - or he - did it properly. Jewellery, champagne and dinner in a restaurant that barely anyone goes to as an every day occurrence. And that, as a Tuesday, was just the beginning.

On Friday night, we threw our weekend bags into the back of the car and ticked another first off the list: our first weekend away. Or our first mini-break, if you want to get all Bridget Jones about it. Anyway, we drove up from Edinburgh to a sprawling, eccentric country hotel, with a wide, sweeping drive, turrets, a crazy-golf course in the back and a giant stuffed bear in the lobby, forever frozen mid-roar.

The list grew ever shorter, as ‘things one should do on the perfect romantic getaway’ were ticked off. We lounged around wearing only fluffy bathrobes, drinking more champagne. We wallowed in the gigantic bathtub. We ate too much dinner, and drank too much wine. The next day, we walked in the grounds, and visited a ruined castle, then childishly but competitively painted our own dessert bowls in a pottery.

Back at the hotel, feeling as if no further luxury was attainable, a final surprise was proudly announced. I padded happily to the spa in my soft, white slippers for my full-body massage: a final hour of bliss before a last decadent dinner. Entering the little treatment room, waves crashed from the CD player in the corner, and soothing stringed instruments washed relaxation this way and that. The masseuse was young, about my age, and friendly. I got undressed and lay under the towel, feeling tranquilised at the very thought of being tranquilised. She began. As I drifted off into knot-relieving luxury, she asked me about my weekend. I mentioned a few of the details, not wanting to sound smug. Was I imagining it, or was the pressure of her massage getting ever so slightly more intense? She asked some more questions, I was slightly more effusive. She inquired once more, with polite but definite interest and, I thought, an oddly wistful tone. As I enthusiastically ran through the whole chain of events, my shoulders became unmistakeably besieged. Wincing slightly and wondering when to say something, I asked her what the day had held for her.

"I got dumped," she said flatly, before bursting into tears and summarily exiting the relaxation suite.

Last chance to sign the petition to the Secretary of State in support of PLR. PLR is a legal right, not a nice treat, and for many authors is the only thing which means that they're able to keep writing at all.

Click here to sign the petition, jointly set up by the Royal Society of Literature, the Authors' Licensing and Collecting Society and the Society of Authors.

Please share this as widely as possible, and ...follow the link to sign up.

Writers' organisations can support it, as can individual non-writers: see the link for more details.

Emma

Planning for our York Festival of Writing 2011 (25-27 March)has been going on for a wee while now, but we had our first summit major meeting on it today. From what I can see so far, we've got a really good programme shaping up. We'll reveal all when we can, but in the meantime here are a few ideas ('definite possibles') that we've been kicking around ...

Wifi
Free wifi for everyone. So bring your laptop. Write. Blog. Tweet. Check your ebay watchlists.

Parking
Free parking for all. Makes life simpler.

Agents / book doctors
Last year there was a shortage of agent slots, some agents didn't perform as well as they might have done (ahem!), and other agents were troopers, but ended the weekend exhausted troopers.

So this year we're thinking of giving everyone one book doctor slot (where you get detailed editorial feedback on your opening chunk), and one agent slot (where you'll get a view as to the broad marketability of your work). As always, if a book doctor really rates your work, we'll make sure an agent gives it special attention. We'll also do what we can do to make sure that agents really deliver. We'll also make sure that agents/book docs receive work well in advance.

Authonomy Live
Same idea as last year, but fewer speakers, and we'll keep the whole thing briefer. We won't run Lit Death Match again.

Comps
We'll throw in a couple of comps this year. Winners announced on Saturday. Some lovely prize for the winners. Two comps probably; details to follow.

The Word Cloud Love Machine
We'll see if we can have a Writers' Workshop / Word Cloud table permanently manned (or, quite likely, womanned), to hand out advice, love, biscuits, money-off vouchers & sympathy to one and all. York can produce downs as well as ups, so we'll stock the biscuit jar well before arrival.

We're aiming to have a draft site ready in 2-3 weeks and bookings ready in 4-5. Word Clouders will get first dibs. Prices will likely be up a tad from last year, but we'll limit it as close to inflation as we can manage. Hey ho. That's all the news I've got ... but do you know, I'm genuinely feeling a little pulse of excitement. This one could be even better ...

Undoubtedly, short stories are becoming more popular; not only writing them but reading them too. Publishers seem to be more accomodating to short story submissions and more willing to produce similar genre short story volumes. This is great news. For those of you that love to write short stories, National Short Story Week could be your saviour. There will be information made available on magazine submission requirements / tips on writing and selling and how to develop commercial and creative opportunities.

National Short Story Week takes place on 22-28 November 2010.
www.nationalshortstoryweek.org.uk

Lets all get involved, and see how many success stories (excuse the pun) we can report on the cloud.

Good luck to everyone

Kirie

Without the road trip and psychedelics, though!

As some of you know, a couple of weeks ago, I finished the first draft of my novel. I'm leaving it to rest at the moment and trying to get on with other projects in the mean time, but I'm hoping that, within 6 months, I shall have something that is worth sending out to agents. We'll see how it goes.

This bit, I'm actually looking forward to. I'm quite looking forward to the revising and the tweaking and the editing, to meeting my characters again and perfecting the world they live in and the tales they have to tell.

What I am not looking forward to is the bit that comes after that. And with it comes a bit of a confession:

The publishing industry terrifies me.

Not so much the rejection or the negative critiques - I'm not looking forward to this inevitable part of the process, but that doesn't scare me. What does scare me is just getting started in the first place.

It all seems such an impenetrable miasma of 'do this' and 'don't do this', of warnings and scams. Just finding the agents I wish to send off queries to in the first place is mortifyingly complicated. And that's before I've even considered trying to write the query letter (which, if I am honest, probably daunts me more than writing the damn novel). Even though I am pretty happy with my story and have confidence in it (heh, someone has to!) I'm not great at selling myself and find the idea of having to essentially say 'hey, look what I've done - isn't it fantastic?' quite petrifying (and more than a little distasteful - one has been taught, in the proper British manner, not to crow about one's perceived accomplishments). Not because of their possible responses (I have resigned myself to the reality of huge amounts of rejection), but just... just... why does everything have to be so horribly complicated? It's so intimidating, it's unreal!

Although, that might be the point - only those who really want it would bother putting themselves through it...

Today's drivel is about verbal redundancy in the media. Interestingly, for those that find this stuff interesting, it's quite tame (profanity-wise). Read on MacDuff...

It has come to my attention that news copy of late has been under-utilising essential padding. It is critical to all involved that any story worth telling in ten words or less is suitably extended with semi-non relational factets and non-interesting bon-mot’s until said ten words becomes a page filler. For example, I was appalled this week to have been under-informed re the new Labour party leader and it’s affect on those around. It is clear that the phrase “David Milliband refused to be drawn upon his brother, Ed’s, success; saying no more than ‘it was his time to shine’” is far too succinct to be of any value to the ignorant masses and it is our duty as intelligent and diligent informers to make sure there is no ambiguity or confusion on the part of the reader.

To this end, the above noted phrase fails in so many ways; who is David Milliband? Who is Ed Milliband? What success? Who’s time was it to shine? And last but most importantly where is the annoying rider that must accompany all proper nouns just in case someone has never ever seen the news suddenly, and probably unexpectedly, catches something out of the corner of their eye. A good example is “Arsene Wenger, who faces a one match sideline ban imposed by the FA for harassing a referee after his side drew fifteen seconds after extra time was up.” Now the ignorant masses are fully informed as to exactly who Arsene Wenger, who faced a one match sideline ban imposed by the FA for harassing a referee after his side drew fifteen seconds after extra time was up, actually is, what he is up to and why. Do you see what I did there? The real power of this concept is now being exposed; it is mutable. I can now pad my sports copy for the next decade (subject to Arsene Wenger, who faced a one match sideline ban imposed by the FA for harassing a referee after his side drew fifteen seconds after extra time was up, not doing anything more elaborate) with that phrase. Once Arsene Wenger, who faces a one match sideline ban imposed by the FA for harassing a referee after his side drew fifteen seconds after extra time was up, actually performs the ban we can then go into past tense and in future copy we can add the term “who once faced... ” yada yada yada.

With this in mind, I return to the main focus of this article and the phrase “David Milliband refused to be drawn upon his brother, Ed’s, success; saying no more than ‘it was his time to shine’”. We must ensure that the reader is in no doubt as to who and what is happening. Ergo it is necessary to clarify that David Milliband narrowly beat his brother Ed Milliband in the race to be Labour party leader. It is that simple. Therefore the copy should have read;

“David Milliband, who was narrowly beaten by his brother Ed Milliband to become Labour party leader, refused to be drawn upon his brother Ed Milliband, who narrowly beat his brother David Milliband to become Labour party leader’s, success, by narrowly beating his brother David Milliband to become Labour party leader. David Milliband, who was narrowly beaten by his brother Ed Milliband to become Labour party leader, said no more than ‘it was his (sic.)(Ed Milliband, who narrowly beat his brother David Milliband to become Labour party leader) time to shine.’ (As Labour party leader... after narrowly beating his brother David... Milliband.)”

Now the sharp tongued of you in the readership of this column will spot an obvious flaw in the above statement; when describing David Milliband (who was narrowly beaten by his brother Ed Milliband to become Labour party leader) we use the term Ed Milliband (who narrowly beat his brother David Milliband to become Labour party leader) without the rider “who narrowly beat his brother David Milliband to become Labour party leader”. This of course is essential otherwise the phrase would just look silly.

Next week, we look at the veteran Indian politician Atal Behari Vajpayee and his relationship with his mother in a vain attempt to make this column look cosmopolitan.

"Hello, a stowaway.   Come on, fleabag, out of there."

"!?"   The cat was dumbfounded.

     Dangling like a silly kitten it its mother's jaws he reflected on all he might've done to avoid being dragged out of his hidey-hole by the scruff.   He could've spat at least.   He could've arched his back; bristled; thrashed his tail in the classic warning of vicious intent and if the man still wasn't unnerved he could've unsheathed his claws, laid back his ears and let out his best, blood-curdling caterwaul, thereby giving old grizzly-beard a terryfying view of his deadly fangs.

     As it was ... limbs paralysed and the skin of his throat pulled tight ... he had only three weapons left in his armoury:  the sudden ear-twitch, the low menacing growl and the evil eye.   He used all three at once and killed the man stone dead.

     Later he realized how reckless that first reaction had been.   Mabel's cossetting must've softened his brain for he had broken a rule imbibed with his mother's milk:  always check for scent-markings.   He had strayed onto the territory of an alpha male and it wasn't as if he'd needed to; he'd been led up the gangplank by blessed curiosity.

     The ship was already under sail and Grizzly-beard could have chucked him overboard without further ado but he hadn't.   The man was okay, and so were all his mates.

     When finally he got over the sulks (and it must be admitted that hunger was the catalyst that brought about this change of mood) the cat found himself treated with more respect than he deserved.   The crew shared their suppers with him, their warm bunks and sometimes their thoughts.    They named him Lucky which, though not as classy as Jet was appropriate in the circumstances since he could not walk on water.

     Once settled in, he found life on board honestly commendable.   Exercise on the horizontal was limited but there were challenges for one blessed with a lithe body, built-in crampons and a good head for heights.   Mostly he stretched his legs in an upward direction; developing his basic skills to a fine art.   He memorised every inch of his gymnasium and learned to compensate for its heaving.   He learned to dodge the sweeping boom; to avoid the rigging as it slapped perilously close to this or that chosen perch.

     In the early days he occasionally chanced one of his nine lives and this always attracted the attention of the crew.   They would shout and whistle encouragement while he wrestled with the problem and applaud him all the way back to his supper dish where a sad, appealing look got him a tasty treat to compensate for his nasty experience.

     Even when he became proficient he would sometimes feign a slip while performing a highly skilled manoeuvre; just to provide a little excitement for the men.   That his acting earned him a bite to eat at any time of day was merely a side-effect.

     Oh yes!   This was the life for him alright!   His acrobatics had never been appreciated before (except grudgingly by Mrs. Halliday's fat eunuch) and he now realized Mabel's yard was a back-water ... her cosy kitchen a bushel under which his extraordinary light had been hiding.

     There were uncomfortable moments of course:  when rain slaked a louring sky and his little bit of terra not-too-firma was buffetted along by high seas; when brilliant light clawed the night and explosions made his eardrums sing.   At such times, the cat acknowledged that under Mabel's sink was the safest place to sit out a storm and he would head for the nearest thing:  under a bench in the galley.   There he would exude an air of quiet confidence which he certainly did not feel.   The crew were always too busy to notice his absence from duty at such times anyway.

     All in all, the good days far outnumbered the bad.   Male companionship was invigorating and taking up the challenge had made him fitter, leaner than he had ever been.   Mabel's cat had found his place, by accident, true, but he liked to think that Providence had recognised his potential and given him a nudge in the right direction.   Although the ship called at many a port during its long voyage he was never tempted ashore by exotic scents and sounds.   This was a good home and he wa sticking to it.

     However, having found his place he managed to lose it in a most spectacular fashion.   Nemesis spotted his hubris and decided to humble him.   This is how she did it.


The day was rich with golden sunlight poured from an aquamarine sky onto a sapphire sea.   Land-scented breezes, carrying faint sounds of cheering from the shore, drifted out to greet them as the crew coasted their sleek white world gracefully home.

     Heavy cargo boats, standing off to await top of the tide, saluted them in basso profundo as they passed and a flotilla of smaller boats came out to escort them in; weaving white wakes as they jostled for position, and all the while there was a syncopated rhythm of hooting  from everyone with a hooter to hoot.   A long-legged, laughing girl with flying hair scrambled aboard to be swept off her feet by the captain and bottles were brought out to pop and fizz, sending fountains of foam high in the air.

     Oh it was such a grand occasion!

     The cat, at his fairweather watch on the bowsprit, was dazzled by the grandness of it all.   He had joined a band of heroes, albeit unwittingly, and now wondered how best to claim his share of the glory.   He had never performed for such an audience before and may never have the chance to do so again.   Licking his lips, he dropped onto the deck and loped for the mainmast, pausing only to savour the daring of what he was about to do before leaping six feet up the great spar.   Then, satisfied that his claws were dug in securely he climbed.

     Up he went, higher and higher until his hindquarters were level with the top-most yard.   The swaying of the mast was more pronounced here but all the better; his display would be truly death-defying.   Keeping two sets of crampons in play throughout the manoeuvre, he eased around the mast until his tail found the yard directly beneath him, then settled on his rump; one paw hooked above his head for reassurance.

     Now he surveyed the audience and found it much bigger than expected.   Shoreside, the crowd in summer clothes looked like a brightly coloured shawl the harbour had thrown over its outstretched arms, like a mother welcoming home her sailor sons.

     The mast shuddered as the ship heeled into the wind, sending a delightful shiver up the cat's spine.   Prophetically, as it turned out, he thought that if he lived through all of his nine lives he would never, never again experience  a day as thrilling as this.   Right on time an excited squeal rang out:  "Look!   Look at the cat!"  and a wave of flesh pink flowed around the shawl as every face turned up to look at him.   He was On!

     This was his moment.   With all eyes upon him the cat let go his hold on the mast and tippy-toed along the yard, taking care to lash his tail from side to side dramatically as he went.   He checked before over-stepping the coil of rope fixing the skysail:  this would be a vital prop for his piece de resistance.
The audience hissed in its breath as he reached the end of the spar and appeared to consider walking on air, then sighed as he drew back.   It Oooohed when - having completed a very wobbly U-turn - he dived for the coil of rope, latched on firmly with all his front claws and threw his back-end off the yardarm.

     There were shrieks of alarm and shouts of encouragement as he scrabbled at the sail with his back feet and heaved mightily with his forelegs; then Aaaahs of pity as he feigned defeat and hung limp for a while, swaying with the ship's motion like a bit of black washing pegged out to dry.

     Finally the people fell silent.   They were waiting for him to lose his grip ... to plummet deckward and splatter his guts like a seagull's droppings.   But death was not on the programme.   He held them in suspense a little longer before pushing against the sail and hauling his body back onto the the spar; then - to wild cheering - he ran to pull his claws triumphantly on the mast.   Oh!   There was no sweeter sound than the roar of a crowd!

     Looking down to acknowledge his audience, he was surprised to see how far the ship had travelled during his performance.   Most unusually for them, the crew had left trimming her sails a little late this time and she was running for the dock at quite a lick!

     Pity, the cat thought.   Once docked, all eyes would revert to the men and their ship while he would be left to avoid the tail-crunching feet that were sure to scramble aboard unless ... ...

     A long-buried memory nudged his elbow and he remembered how he had once held the attention of an entire neighbourhood for hours, simply by sitting on top of a telegraph pole.   It had been embarrassing - waiting for the fire engine - but he was a know-nothing kitten then, not the top-class performer he had become.

     He studied what little there was left of the mast remaining above him and a worm of fear wriggled in his belly.   It was only a flag-pole really; nothing like a telegraph pole.   "Impossible"  whispered the worm but pride had something to say too:  "Not!   Grab the bulbous bit with your front claws and dig your back claws into the pennon.   That way you could keep'em interested for hours."

     It would be dangerous.   He looked down at the crowd.   Most had turned their attention back to the ship; now swinging her stern toward the dock like a shameless hussy.   The crew were running around and shouting at each other; one was throwing a mooring rope from the prow.   It was now or never.

     The cat set his eyes on the pinnacle, took a deep breath and jumped.   Only his front claws had connected when the ship hit the jetty broadside.   The mast arced landward, flying the cat like a ragged black pennant; trembled to a halt and hung for what seemed an eternity before recoiling with a Whhooompff! swinging his extended body through 180 degrees before catapulting him far out to sea.   He went like a stone out of a slingshot!

     The last impression Mabel's cat had of a sailor's life was not on the ocean wave but under it.   Immersion in water was more horrible than he could ever have imagined and the taste of salt was truly foul.   Mercifully, he was not aware of it for long:  he passed out pretty quickly.

     Fortunately for him there were plenty of boats in the area.   Also very fortunately he didn't land on one but right beside it.   Most fortunate of all the owner was handy with a net and fished out his limp body as soon as it bobbed up to the surface.

     All that happened a long, long time ago.   Mrs. Halliday's fat eunuch went disbelieving to his grave and generations of young toms have since accused him of making it all up but it doesn't matter any more.   He had his time in the sun and Mabel knows it's true.   Often on winter nights, when the winds howl in from the sea she cradles him in her lap by the fire and reminds him he was once Lucky.

Sometimes I really hate Authonomy.

I get loads of messages asking me to back people's books who are "near the editor's desk."  Sometimes they aren't that near, but if they are, I am usually willing to oblige.  Unfortunately, those people don't really want comments, just the backing.  A couple of days ago, I received one of these, with the bold statement that if I back her book, I would receive 3 backings in reply.  She was close to the ED, so I read the beginning of her book. 

Unfortunately, I didn't like it.  Although it was grammatically accomplished, it read like a newspaper ... but just snatches of articles.  Perhaps, she was trying to hook me by not quite giving enough information to make clear what was happening.  The language she used, however, drove me away. Rather than an occasional pause for atmosphere, she stuck an adjective in front of almost every important noun.  Rather than providing focused description, she gave a single-word description: young seismologist, red-rimmed eyes, vigorous clapping and consenting nods.   In spite of the copious amount of descriptive words, none really described anything or anyone.  It was driving me nuts, so I gave up after 4 chapters.  If I hadn't read the pitch, I still wouldn't have a clue what the book was about at that point.

Okay, so I read something I didn't like.  Then I did something I shouldn't have done.  Basically, I'm a prick.  If someone wants me to read their work, I'm going to give them an honest opinion of it, and I'm not going to back them just to get backing in return.  Fair enough?

I wrote my comments as briefly as I dared, trying to sound constructive.

Today, I received the response.  She said that she read two chapters of my novella, and basically dumped on me, saying, "You lack the details and narrative voice needed to pull this through.  The characters are not endearing and neither is the plot."

(Does she work for Publishers Weekly?)

Interesting.  I wonder if she writes the same two sentences to everyone who doesn't back her.  There was certainly nothing specific to my story.  At least 95%+ of those who have commented on it say just the opposite, that the plot is gripping, and they really like my protagonists as well as the details of the murder and the bookshop.  Several have even been hooked enough to read the whole thing.

People like her make me not want to comment on people's writings, not just at Authonomy where it is just shallow back-scratching, but other places, even the WritersCafe, where it's mostly juvenile cheerleading.

Am I unique for wanting to read honest, constructive opinions?   Am I mean and cold-hearted for giving them?  I want to get better at writing, but maybe I am alone, or perhaps those that post their wannabe best sellers on Authonomy (etc.) are already perfect, and I should just genuflect in their wake.

I'm so not worthy....

Last sunday I walked down to my local shopping centre and bought a DVD of the  1931  film version of Dracula.   It was an impulse buy and I bought it because the film had a score by Phillip Glass.  It is a restored and digitally enhanced version.
It was £3 and i am sure can be bought cheaper on the 'internet'   There is a bonus track which explains the origins of the film and it's relationship to Bram Stoker's book.   
The film seems rather 'stage' bound to me, with many scenes set in large drawing rooms,  but the opening scenes are very effective and 'black and white' certainly adds to the gothic atmosphere.  There is no blood and no sex - everything is suggested  - which may have been  due to the morality of the time.

The Sunday before, I  had listened to Goethe's 'Faust' which was broadcast on 'Radio Three' from about half past six to half past eleven.   I must confess my attention began to waver after the first part and I didn't listen to the end.  The rhyming couplets were easy to follow and I believe the original text had been edited somewhat.   If anybody wants to get to grips with this verse drama - this play would seem to be the best option.  BBC radio sometimes produce CDs of their plays and, perhaps, they might do so with this production.

Those of you who have welcomed Autumn, and those of you who lament it from abroad, have omitted the downside.  What could be called the water-colour effect - white and grey washes in the sky!  And  then there are the approaching fuel bills -  and the early, dark evenings.  Jacaranda trees and the sun are welcoming too!