Tag Archives: M T McGuire

3 Apr 2014 · 12:05 pm

Even More McMini

Oh deary me, another one of those weeks, I foolishly volunteered to do a blog meme, thinking I could easily rustle up three victi er hem sorry, three nominees to pass it on to. I have two happily queued up and ready but can I find a third one? No. I have four but two who will break the chain. Even worse, it’s only as I answer the questions that I realise I’ve actually done something very similar before.

Note to self. No memes. No blog chains. Nada. Zilch. Ever again. Why adding a few million links to a blog post should take so long I don’t know but it does. Also, as I’m facing a couple of weeks sans internet, I’ve been scheduling some posts to appear in my electronic absence. Unfortunately, this means I’ve spent all week working on my blog without actually posting anything.

Chaos Fairies 1: Efficiency 0

Never mind, onwards and upwards. I thought I would share some of the latest gems from McMini, so here they are.

On April Fool’s day…
We went to the park. Wisely, because the lavatories are at the opposite end to the swings, we went to the bogs first.

“Mummy I need a poo,” said McMini.
“Oh dear, do you? Alright, hang on and I’ll come in with you.”
McMini stood in front of the loo with his hands behind his head.
“Shouldn’t you sit down for a poo?”
“No. I’m only having a wee.”
“Might I suggest that you hold it and aim it for greater accuracy.”
“Oh no Mummy, I much prefer doing it like this, and it’s alright I don’t need a poo. It’s April False day remember? I was just falsing you.”

I put him straight, on both counts.

On his reading assignments…
“Mummy I wish I didn’t have to read a book every night, they are terribly long.”
“Yes, they are but a lot of them are quite fun and you read them very well. Anyway, you don’t remember to change your book every night do you? So technically, you don’t read one every night.”
“True…”
“So what happens if you fail to read your book?”
“We have to sit with one of the big year olds and read it the next day. And it’s always the same big year old.”
“You don’t like that, then?”
“No.”
I laughed at this and told him that I thought ‘big year olds’ was brilliant. I kept forgetting it and asking him to remind me.
“Oh Mummy you really are a porridge brain,” he rolled his eyes. “Come on, say it after me, Big. Year. Olds.”
“Big year olds. Right.”
“Got it?”
“Got it.”

On biology…
I told him he was getting much taller and that I couldn’t believe he grew inside my tummy. He stopped for a moment in shocked silence.

“Mummy, I didn’t grow inside your tummy. I am a boy. I grew inside Daddy’s tummy.”
“No, it takes a man and a lady to make a baby but everyone, girls and boys, grows inside the Mummy.”
“Oh. Are you certain Mummy?”
“Very.”
“So did I just grow?”
“No, Daddy helped.”
“How?”
“Well, men and ladies are made to fit together. The lady’s bits go in and the man’s bits go out like putting a plug into a socket. Then they have a very special cuddle and it makes a baby.”
“Can I have a special cuddle Mummy?”
“Not with me sunshine and certainly not yet. Special cuddles are only for grown ups.”

This was the point where half of me was standing outside myself, looking at what was going on, thinking “holy shit how did I get into this?” The key with these, is to offer enough information to shut them up without them a) getting more interested or b) saying or doing anything weird at school. I think I got away with it but I am beginning to understand why they used to feed kids all that bollocks about storks.

In church…
Loudly, during a particularly quiet, prayerful bit.

“Mummy, I have just done a fart and I can smell it and it’s a really stinky one.”
“Would you like to nip out and have a poo?”
“No, it’s OK, Mummy, I am fine.”
A few seconds later.
“Actually Mummy, I do need a poo.”
There was giggling from the other members of the congregation as we walked out.

At the Altar Rail…
After a lot of lively chat to me about robots and lego StarWars figures I told him he must try to be a little quieter now because people around us were trying to pray.

“Why don’t you try saying a couple of prayers? I’m going to.”
McMini screwed his eyes tight shut and buried his head on his hands. I knew he was really concentrating because only his legs were wriggling. After about 10 seconds he looked up.
“Mummy, I am having a lovely chat with God.”
“Good stuff little one. You carry on.”

Another at the alter rail conversation:

“Mummy, you’re not going to die soon, are you?”
“I hope not. I will at some stage because everyone does but hopefully not yet.”
“Are Annie and Poppa and Gramma and Pappa going to die soon?”
“Not for a while yet, I hope.”
“But they will die before I do?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“Where do we go to get new Grandparents to replace them?”
“Well… it doesn’t work like that. They’re relatives, so when they die, there’s no-one to replace them.”
“Oh…”

Later that day….

“Mummy Annie laid* you. Who laid Annie?”
“Annie’s Mum, my Granny [name redacted].”
“Oh… who laid her?”
“I think my great, great Granny’s name was ….”
Long thoughtful silence.
“I see….”

On Manners….
While Enthusiastically Eating a Jaffa Cake, also in Church.

“Mummy look! I am ripping it like a dinosaur.”

Still in Church, still in a quiet bit…

“Look!” McMini held up a picture he’d drawn. “he is a baddy cowboy.” McMini then coloured his eyes in brown. “See? He has brown fire coming out of his eyes!”
“Brown Fire sounds like a euphemism for something else.”
“No it’s not brown fire Mummy. It’s pooh. He has pooh coming out of his eyes in big brown pooy streams.”
“Ah…” I replied as the people in the pew behind started giggling. What else could I say?

On school…

A sweet, friendly guest asked him, “Are you at school?”
“Yes.”
“Do you enjoy school?”
“Oh yes,” he said with enthusiasm.
“What’s your favourite lesson?”
“Lunch time.”

On history…
McMini told McOther a long and complicated story about a little girl called Frank who had hidden in a house under a bed from an evil soldier called Hitme. We later discovered that one of his friends had been to Holland over the holidays where she had visited Anne Frank’s house and told McMini all about it.

On cleanliness…
When I was trying to hurry him up going to bed – which takes a sod of a long time, believe me…

“Please will you stay here and play some more, Mummy?”
“I wish I could but I can’t. I have to go and cook your Dad’s tea and have a shower.”
“You don’t need a shower Mummy, you’re very fragrant as you are.”

In Church…
As the Gospel was read from the middle of the aisle, McMini moved over to where the bloke with the incense thingummy (the thurither) was swinging the incense container (the thurible). Slowly but surely he held out his biscuit, kippering it gently over the smoke. Needless to say the thurither (try saying that with your mouth full) started swinging it a bit further in McMini’s direction. Finally, wee man shuffled back to me, kippered gingernut triumphantly in hand.

“Mummy that incense smells delicious!” he said.

* Like an egg as in gave birth to.

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26 Mar 2014 · 2:00 pm

That’s… quite a thing.

Last week, chatting to some of you lovely peps in my long and tenuously linked to writing post about metal detecting, I mentioned I’d found a strange um… thing. Last beep of the day, heading to the car, I found this.

Find09March14Front

Yep, and here he is again from the back.

Find09March14Back

He looks old and close up he looks as if he was once enamelled. I thought he was cool, in fact I reckoned it was a saint and since he had a pen in his hand, at least, I think that’s a pen, I reckoned it was a gospel writer and therefore, a piece of ecclesiastical bling; church ormalou of some sort. Turns out he is a thing called a Limoges Mount. No, it’s not a wrestling position, stop sniggering at the back.

Limoges Mounts were made in, yes, you guessed it, Limoges. Apart from the copper alloy these things were melted onto, all the stuff required to make the enamel was in the soil around the city so enameling was actually quite an obvious choice as an artisan thing for the area.

Limoges also enjoyed a geographical advantage, in that it stood at a meeting of roads, including the popular pilgrims’ route to Santiago de Compostello, and there was a big abbey in the town. So basically, the enterprising locals started making holy stuff, boxes, mounts for crosses etc for the pilgrims coming through the town, or stopping at the abbey on their pilgrimage, to buy. They became known for their quality, indeed at one point, the Pope at the time decreed that every church must have a certain number of enamel things from Limoges (clearly not a fan of free trade and I’m guessing Limoges was his home town).

Things like the battered chap I dug up were probably stuck on the sides of boxes as relief elements in scenes or on the mounts for crosses. The thing that has gob smacked me a little is that the enameling trade flourished in Limoges between 1130s and 40s and 1350 or thereabouts… it became very popular in the 12th century but demand was high and the necessity to mass produce them resulted in a drop in quality. Production finally petered out in the 100 years war.

Like as not he fell off whatever he was mounted on sometime between then and now – during a harvest celebration, I’d guess. Perhaps they had an outdoor service every year… I doubt whatever item he fell from survived the reformation and if it did, I expect the Civil War (there’s an oxymoron if ever there was one) got it on the rebound. I’ll have to see if I can discover more just in case. It might be that the nearby church would have records.

This is all I know so far. That and that he’s quite rare – 7 dug up on the UK Detector Finds Database between 2006 and 2011 – so I have to declare him to my local Finds Liaison Officer… within 14 days… except he’s sick at the moment… next month then. I need to find out what he’s worth, too.

So he’s about 800 years old.

And I dug him up.

Which is a bit of a thing…

Other news. I sent the last two book of the K’Barthan Trilogy off to the Beta Readers today. So it’s off my hands for a month. Well… sort of. I will be listening to Stephen Hawking reading them from inside my kindle to track down any missed words or dodgy commas. Looks as if launch date is going to be June and July then, for deffo. Quite excited about that.

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18 Mar 2014 · 2:12 pm

You what?

Occasionally, I go metal detecting. Thus far, no enormous gold hoards have been discovered on my watch – how surprising – but I do find other things which are far more intriguing.

Most of the things I dig up are unrecognisable; to the point where I’m tempted to throw them away but my eternal optimism that the lump of twisted metal I have in my hands might be ‘something interesting’ ensures I never do, or at least, not until one of the other detectorists, who actually knows what they’re doing, has seen it.

This is probably a good thing if these examples are anything to go by.

IMG_1081A few weeks ago, I dug up a bit of metal that looked like one of those things old people put under the legs of chairs to stop them marking the carpet. This thing (pictured left). I assumed it was part of a tractor, but once again, ever hopeful, I stuffed it in my finds bag and kept going.

At the end of the day, when I looked closely, I realised it had two lines round it and a little hole drilled in the bottom from both sides, which didn’t go all the way through.

You know what this is? It’s the equivalent of one of those plastic medicine spoons. The hole is to keep a pill still – they were round then – the line is to mark out half a dose and the drill hole on the underneath is so it stands steady.

What I find so amazing is that everyone but everyone in the… I dunno, 500, 400 years preceding 1900 would have known exactly what that is and what it’s for. And me 100 years later? No clue.

A couple of weekends ago, I found something else; a huge lump of lead. Again, I assumed it was part of a tractor. Again, I was wrong. IMG_1078

Turns out it was a hand guard; something people sewing canvas or leather would use, similarly to a thimble, but in the palm of their hand. The ridge is the but you’d put the end of the needle into as you pushed it through.

Almost anyone alive from the Middle Ages to the early 20th Century would know exactly what it is, as instinctively as we know what a car tyre is, or a thimble.

Why was it there? Because everyone in the village would work on the fields and the women folk and kids would come out and picnic there, in the summer. That’s why one of the best places to detect is near the hedge under any old trees, because it’s where the workers’ families would have sat and where they would all have had dockey (elevensies) and lunch.

What amazes me about this is how much of history has been taken for granted and thrown away. I’m sure it’s something most people are aware of. How many times have you gone into an antique shop, seen some kitchen implement and thought, “Bloody hell! I remember using one of those at my granny’s house!”

Well, OK, maybe that’s just me but it does intrigue me how many aspects of our world, which we intuitively understand today, our vernacular surroundings of stuff, if you like, will probably flummox our antecedents. Exactly the same way that the vernacular, every day items of 70, 80 maybe 100 years ago regularly flummox me.

It also amazes me how a learning a few simple things about how our predecessors lived, and finding these unremarkable, vernacular items, illuminates their world. Suddenly it is real, alive and with substance.

So what has this to do with writing?

Well, I suppose, the first thing is my favourite topic, that you can build a rich and complex world with little more than a few hints. That if you give the right information as a catalyst the reader’s imagination does the rest. Second, how fast life and the world moves and how soon things are forgotten. Most of the items I find were in common use from the Middle Ages; earlier in the case of the hand guard, until the early 19th Century. That’s 500 years. 80 years later and I don’t know what they are. Such is the price of progress.

Third thing… how amazing it is to find a truth in history. When the causes and factors behind so many world events are down to interpretation it’s incredible to find things that can be expressed as black and white facts; it’s that and this is what it was for.

And to make the header post for Facebook more interesting, here is a picture of Chewbacca, my cat, who died 18 months ago, sadly but who was very cute.

Image019

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25 Feb 2014 · 12:16 pm

Castles in the Sky. Feet in the…

Well hello everyone. I have been working hard at my blog all week but scheduled stuff all primed and ready to go automatically. I realise I haven’t actually said anything to anyone for ages. So here’s the thing: Few Are Chosen is now Perma Free! Oh yes, and although I’ve done very little about it, a couple of sites seem to have picked it up. Some people have even read it, and bought the second book. Booyacka! Thank you my lovelies!

So that’s the good news. Let’s celebrate with a joke from McMini.

“Mummy, tell me a knock knock joke.”
“OK. Knock knock.”
“I’m not in.”

Which got a guffaw from his Dad… which is more than my jokes ever do.

So why the meh?

Well, I know I’ve been dangerously detached for a while – worry about my folks – but suppose it came to a head last night. I forgot to cook supper. No laughing at the back! Yes, I am that out of it, that disengaged with real life. Seriously, though, how the fuck does a 45 year old adult forget to cook sodding tea? I’m so disconnected from the world around me that I am, frankly, a little bit scared to drive a car. It’s as if time’s stretched out and slowed down. I pull off a roundabout, there’s nothing next to me but by the time I’ve indicated and started to pull into the inside lane there is. I take too long looking in one direction at a junction and when I look back the other I’m riding my bike into the path of an oncoming car, with my boy on the back. My thoughts move slowly, as if they’re struggling through cotton wool. That is… not normal.

Then there’s my writing. K’Barthan 3 and 4 came back from the editor the other day. Like the curate’s egg it was good in parts. He also drew my attention to how dark it was, seriously hideously dark, dystopian misery lit dark. And it occurred to me, as I read it back, that I am not very happy, and lack the stamina to be continually worried long term without… repercussions.This whole disengagement with life would bear that out, of course.

Looking at the text, I could easily spot the bits I wrote in the months after my Brother in Law’s death, or when my Dad was extra sick, even without knowing which ones they were, because those are the bits where my characters really suffer.

In life there is always ambient background worry. I imagine it as a glass – apparently this is the psychologist’s favourite metaphor, I didn’t know that but there we go. Perhaps they use it because it works for most people. So the amount of liquid shit in the glass determines how much extra liquid shit you can take. Unfortunately, with my Dad’s trip to hospital, the ambient worry situation seems to have intensified and the shit is spewing out of the glass and turning the area around it into something more like the Somerset levels… or Datchett.

And while my subconscious is busy going arooogah and calling an all stations alert to pump the brown stinky back into the glass it switches itself off. That’s useful for avoiding any more crappy negative bollocks from spewing into the brain but does effect some essential functions…. like, making supper, remembering to pick up McMini from school, or going to pick him up when someone else is. Yes, believe me, I have phone alerts for everything. They beep when I have to do stuff and when they beep, I do it, before I forget… which takes about 3 seconds.

So there it is. I’ve sort of worked out what’s going on.

I’m a bit down. And I want a holiday from myself.

You may well be wondering why. I have the most lovely McOther and McMini I could hope for, a lovely extended family, top mates… a lot to be happy about. And I do. Let me try and explain.

My Maternal Grandfather, knew exactly when he was going to die, to the point when he said a very final farewell to me on the last occasion we met. Nothing was really said. He took my hand in both of his, looked straight into my face and said, “goodbye darling.” I knew, at once, that he was trying to tell me that this was the last time we would meet. I also knew that he realised I’d understood. Indeed, I’d say it’s the only time in my entire life I’ve ever picked up something subtle like a message without words. He didn’t say goodbye to the others like that but then, he saw them again, which, presumably, is why he said such a final goodbye to me.

My Mum was 80 a few months ago. She told me, gently, that her father didn’t survive to see 81 and I had a horrible feeling that she was telling me she thinks she mightn’t be around for long. And I think this is the root of it all. That my parents are knocking on, and soon they won’t be here. And I want their last years to be happy, and for life to be kind to them, and while I think they are happy, I know they are struggling.

So I suppose I’m just scared. Scared that Mum has the same prescience as my Grandfather had, and missing her in some stupidly weird and bizarre way; mourning her while she’s still here. It’s probably quite common and it seems to be a perfectly logical coping mechanism, if a trifle inconvenient right now. Or maybe I’m just sad. Sad that a lot of the person I knew as my Dad has gone, sad at how hard that must be for Mum, sad that I can’t help.

I suppose Dad’s recent trip to hospital brought that into sharper focus. Along with the fact that I’m in my 40s and it seems that every time I catch up with someone I’ve not seen for a while, they tell me they have cancer. The Grim Reaper seems to be terribly busy in my life right now which gives everything, even the happy bits, a rather crepuscular tone. Not my cup of tea. I’m fed up with squinting through the murk.

In some ways it’s a good thing. It makes me constantly evaluate what I have and appreciate it. But it also makes me aware at how easily it could all go wrong. It’s a bit like standing at the entrance to a long dark tunnel and being too frightened to go in, even though you know you’ll come out the other side. Or maybe it’s like being in the middle of a field waiting for a thunderstorm in which I will run a high chance of being struck by lightening. I don’t want to live this bit. I want to fast forward to the other side when I’ve finished the books and whatever will be has… well… been. But that’s not an option on the path of life. I have always believed in living the moment, but I’m doing so with a ferocity that’s slightly worrying. And for the first time in some years, I don’t want to look forwards. I don’t want to see it. I just want to keep my head down, or occasionally glance sideways, and put one foot in front of an other, creep slowly onwards until it’s done.

Having always believed that, if you pay too much attention to the pebbles on the path of life you’ve only yourself to blame if you end up walking into a tree, I’m beginning to understand how people end up obsessed with the pebbles. Because sometimes, looking at the big stuff is a bit much. So they bite off little pebble sized chunks, and then when things calm down again, they are stuck in the habit.

And what does this have to do with writing? Well, nothing much really, other than that as somebody who has all this other stuff going on, I find I write at the speed glaciers move. And like life, when the future gets scary, I just plod on putting one word next to another, day after day, until it gets easier again.

There is something else I’ve discovered, too, about jokes. I don’t actually work the jokes in. My technique with comedy has always been to be myself and when people laugh, pretend it was deliberate. I’ve no idea what makes people laugh or not, just that they do. Except that now I seem to be exorcising the darkness in my writing, keeping the glass of shit half full and draining my crap flooded mind by spewing it onto the page. And it’s changed.

It’s not so hard to go back and lighten it, in fact, if it weren’t for the fact that it’s yet another delay, it would be very diverting entertainment. It’s interesting that suddenly, I need to, though. I hope this new Poe style me doesn’t last too long, but if it does, I have a project I can spew it into… I think… although I won’t be able to call it Space Dustmen.

So there we go. K’Barthan 3 and 4 will not be out in April the way I said, more like June or July… and if there’s any more grief it may be some years.

If you want to read something to cheer you up after that terrible bout of moaning, Few Are Chosen, K’Barthan Trilogy: Part 1 is  a lot funnier than this post. AND it’s now absolutely free, everywhere. Here’s where you can go get it.

Where to Download the ebook of Few Are Chosen:

Apple UK:

Few Are Chosen - M T McGuire
Apple USA:
Few Are Chosen - M T McGuire
Kindle:
Amazon.co.uk Here
Amazon.com Here
Barnes & Noble Here
Kobo Here
Every format you care to name from Smashwords Here

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11 Feb 2014 · 12:00 am

Book Blog Chain. Yes, I’ve been tagged.

I was invited to participate in this blog chain by the lovely Jo Robinson. Sporadically connected to the internet at the moment, Jo lives in Africa with her husband, four birds, some chickens, and a dog. That’s a serious menagerie. I follow her blog because it’s completely random and I enjoy that… then again I suppose I would, after all look at this mess I call ‘home’.

Here’s a little bit about her latest book, Shadow People.

Cover of Shadow People, by Jo Robinson

After Natalie and Gabe discover a hidden room, they are hurled across time and space, and find themselves on Lapillus, a beautiful world made up of precious gems. But they soon realise that Lapillus is home to an ancient evil when they are attacked by the demonic wraiths of the Nefandus.

They find themselves thrown together with a group of beings vastly different to them in this lifetime, but closely connected through the aeons. They realise that the prophesies of all have come to fruition, and that without their intervention the fate of the universe is at stake.

With the guidance of the angelic Gluri and the help of the mysterious sentient spacecraft, the Vimana, the race is on to find out what the Nefandus want, and prevent evil from winning the battle of all time.

The rules of this tag are to answer the following four writing questions, and then tag three other authors. Next week, February 17, 2014, these three authors will answer the same questions and tag three others, and so the chain continues to grow larger. It will also give you something to read in  my absence as it is half term and I will be morphing into Mumzilla and entertaining McMini. This will enable readers to get to know more authors and their books. It will also allow everyone to get to know these authors a little better.

Questions:

1. What are you currently working on?

The third and fourth books in the K’Barthan Trilogy. Right now it feels as if I will be working on these for THE REST OF MY LIFE gah it’s the #slowwriter in  me. On the up side. Book 4 is fixed it’s just Book 3 that’s bust. I think… we shall see. It’s a pain because I’ll have to delay the launch but there we go, such is life. I’d rather release my best work late than go off half cock.

2. How does your work differ from others in the same genre?

Mmm, well… if you want the honest answer to this one, I don’t really know. However, what I do know is that many, many of the tens of people who I have forced, at gunpoint, to read it a) like it and b) come up with comments along the lines of “this is not like any other book I’ve ever read,” and such. Between you and me, I actually think it’s a rather hackneyed stab at the standard messianic plot – tweaked to add interest and weirdness – but luckily, no-one else seems to have noticed. Pinning down a genre is difficult; I would class the K’Barthan Trilogy (which is what it’s called) as a humorous science fiction fantasy adventure, with also features a dash of squelchy bit-free romance (just kissing) in books 2 and 4.

3. Why do you write what you do?

Because when I sit down and pick up a pen that’s what comes out. Some people can follow what’s trending and say, “ooo look, erotica and vampire books are selling well, I’ll write one of those,” and clean up. They are gods. I’m not one of them. I am mortal and hotwired into a different plane of existence to them, or anyone else really. Ho hum.

4. How does your writing process work?

Oh. I’m not sure. Which puts me in the pantser camp, I believe. Usually I will be listening to music and I’ll see pictures in my head. I’ll wonder what they are and I’ll think about then. Or I’ll read something and an idea will form and start to grow. Next, I’ll get a couple of lines of dialogue maybe. Perhaps the characters are arguing. Why? What’s the cause of the emotional tension? Then I’ll write that scene, and usually, after a little while, I’ll write another one and gradually the characters and the plot will form, the world they live in will slide into focus and I’ll have something approaching a book. By that point I usually have all the major scenes. Then I write the minor scenes which link them all up.

My nominations…

This was so hard but I think I have sorted it out now. So, without more ado, here we go.

On Dark Shores: The Lady by J A Clement

J A Clement was one of the first people I ‘met’ when I started writing and has been a cyber buddy ever since. We loved each other’s books and she was the one who pointed out, with extreme tact, that my first effort to produce a book needed editing – which it did – and who gave me the name of an excellent editor. He still edits my books – phnark, I bet he’s cursing her. Reading On Dark Shores had me on tenterhooks all the way through. I loved this book, because it’s so well written, tense and gripping. J A Clement is another #slowwriter but all her books are worth the wait. She probably won’t have time to do this but I couldn’t ignore her because this is the one that sort of started it all for me. I’ve been reading mostly independently published fiction ever since. JAC has a blog with news and views and posts about upcoming releases… and you can find it here.

On Dark Shores by J A Clement

Trapped in fear and poverty after the death of her parents, the thief Nereia will go to desperate lengths to protect her beautiful younger sister from the brutality of Copeland the moneylender. No-one has dared to attempt escape before; the whole of Scarlock trembles in his grasp. Only Nereia’s cunning and some unlooked-for help give her hope….

In a country still recovering from war, events are stirring, and the little harbour-town will not remain obscure for long; but in Scarlock, right now, Mr Copeland is coming to call – and this time he’s not taking no for an answer…

Dead Man Riding East by Jim Webster

This is the second book that follows the fortune of Benor Dorfinngil, an ageing lothario who lives in the Land of the Three Seas a made up world from Jim’s warped mind. I loved the first book – Swords for a Dead Lady but I suppose I’d got to know Benor over the course of that one, so in this book he felt like journeying with an old friend. I read it in one sitting. Jim has a new book out, soon. A sci-fi whodunnit, I believe. So I’m hoping to persuade him to do a guest spot here when he promotes it on a blog tour. In the meantime, you can read about it – among other things – on his blog, here. Like Jo, Jim has also sporadically connected to the internet recently but I hope he has been readmitted from the outer darkness into the realms of pixelated light. Sorry…

Dead Man Riding East by Jim Webster

Dead Man Riding East is a fantasy adventure where the unintended theft of a tyrant’s concubine, followed by the inadvertent acquisition of a wife, leads to revenge, the fall of dynasties and over exposure to the world of high fashion. Such are the further adventures of Benor Dorfinngil.

The Satnav of Doom and The Banned Underground Series, generally, by Will Macmillan Jones

This is a great series to read if you want to follow one writer’s development. The books are flights of Milliganesque whimsy but, possibly against the author’s wishes, there are deeper undercurrents encroaching in places. Will is another cyber buddy from my early forays into the world of the internet, a top man. The Banned books took me a while to get into and they are marmite, you like them, or you don’t. If you’re anything like me, you’ll also love watching the writing getting defter and sleeker as the series progresses. He writes a cracking blog, too.

The Satnav of Doom by Will Macmillan Jones

Abandon all hope all ye who go looking for The SatNav of Doom

Once again, the Dark Lord has a cunning plan. And once again someone else is going to have to carry it out for him: that’s what henchmen are for, isn’t it? To hench? Oh, and to be sent on the risky missions…

Not that this one should be risky. What could be easier than secretly inserting computer spyware into a laptop, using a Banned Underground gig as a diversion? The Tax Office probably does it all the time. But the Tax Office is not normally being chased for an unpaid credit card bill for a huge round of drinks. (That’s the politicians. And the henchmen, of course.)

And it isn’t just any laptop the Dark Lord wants to spy on either. The Government is struggling to find the way out of the Recession without a road map, and what better aid than a SatNav linked to a computer? If the Dark Lord can get inside information on future economic policy, maybe he can clean up and buy a new Mercedes.

Then there is a mystery: where did the time-travelling SatNav come from in the first place? What if the original owner wants it back?

Magic, mayhem and macro-economic policy collide in the latest surreal instalment of the acclaimed comic fantasy series, The Banned Underground.

Scratch, by Danny Gillan

This book is one that I’ve added as an extra because I suspect Danny will break the chain… Danny doesn’t know me all that well, we pass, like ships in the night on Facebook and places like that. Also he’s quite busy with a lot of other stuff; like the excellent magazine, Words With Jam (which I highly recommend, by the way). He doesn’t blog that often and I’d bet my bottom dollar he doesn’t read my blog. But his books are awesome and this one is just a cracker. I absolutely loved it. Think Nick Hornby, for a parallel. It’s funny, poignant, witty and uplifting all at once. Just wonderful.

Scratch, by Danny Gillan

An unexpected reminder of his past prompts Jim Cooper, a 33 year-old Glaswegian call centre worker, to make a big decision. He’s going back to adulthood ground-zero – no job, no debt, no, er, home, and starting again. Maybe this time he can do it right and get the girl. The fact that the girl is already married and living in another country and her Bruce Lee obsessed dad apparently wants to turn Jim into his latest pet are only two of the obstacles he faces.

Given Jim’s forward planning skills don’t extend beyond praying and having panic attacks, it isn’t surprising that he soon finds himself living with his parents and working for minimum wage, in the same pub he worked in when he was 18. What is unexpected is Paula Fraser walking through the pub’s door for the first time in 12 years.
What’s even more surprising is that Paula admits she still loves Jim. But yes, she’s married, and no, she won’t cheat on her husband. She’ll tell him the marriage is over. Soon. When the time is right. As soon as her husband’s sick grandfather gets better – or fatally worse.

And so, Jim and Paula embark on the tricky business of not having an affair, and not telling anyone they know that they’re not having an affair. As Jim reflects, ‘If not being physically intimate with her in any way and denying to everyone we knew that anything was going on between us was the best way to prove I loved her, then that’s what I would do.’

Scratch is an un-sanitised, emotionally honest and hilariously candid story about what it is to grow up as opposed to simply change age, as told by a man who doesn’t know what any of those words mean.

There we go. Just in time (there’s still an hour of Feb 10th left). I hope you all enjoy my recommendations!

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25 Jan 2014 · 5:39 pm

Fed up with eating snail and tortoise dust? Join us the #slowwriters.

IMG00151-20101226-1112

I know this isn’t a glacier. It isn’t even an iceberg. It’s mini icebergs, in the Tweed but it’s the closest I can get.

Ah I was all fired up to write this post, but now I’ve labrynthitis, sinusitis and a temperature and everything’s a bit meh. Then again, that’s probably as good a time as any.

The received wisdom about indie publishing is that if you want to earn money you need to write lots and lots of books. Fast. Or you have to be all over the internet like a rash, but a good rash; a warm snuggley comfort blanket, perhaps, rather than a rash. But you have to be there, working on your soft sell marketing techniques 24/7 so that your book sales soar. Alas, it looks like this is true and it’s only the people with the kind of sales skills that Satan, himself would envy and also time, and lots of it, who make a living from self publishing fiction. And the reason that makes me feel a bit meh?

Well, I am a stay at home mum. I will never have the kind of time required to make it out of the self published pond slime. And if I had the remotest skill at selling anything, I’d have scored myself a trad deal by now because the way forward is hybrid. Even though I am cynical and old enough to know that life is never fair, I am pissed off that indie publishing is not the level playing field I hoped. Hence the meh.

However, I did feel better after reading this fabulous article on Chuck Wendig’s blog  in which he talks about how long it takes to become a writer. The basic gist being ‘a sod of a long time’. This quote, in particular, I loved:

‘I have been referred to at times as an overnight success, which is true as long as you define “overnight” as “a pube’s width shy of 20 years.”’

The basic gist of his post was that it takes as long as it takes. And I know he’s right, or I wouldn’t have started on this writing malarky. I want to do it, I have to do it and if I can only do it at a speed that makes glaciers look fast so be it. Sure my ‘overnight’ may be 50 years but it’s better than looking back and thinking ‘what if?’ than never having tried at all. Nine years on, I’m sitting here with 4 books under my belt (although I did make my first attempt at the first one when I was 20). I sell less and less of the two that are published each month but I can’t help living in hope. Such is the hopeless optimism of the artist!

Commenting on another post on Chuck Wendig’s blog I encountered two other stay at home Mums who felt exactly the same way as I did. I got chatting on twitter with one of them, Megan Haskell and we came up with the idea of #slowwriters. A support group for people who are ideas rich and time poor, or for people who take a long time to write a book – because not everyone can churn out a book in a month. Sometimes, quality cannot be rushed.

So, if you’re gnashing your teeth with frustration as the snails and tortoises disappear over the horizon, if you sometimes think that there may be fossils that are formed in less time that it takes you to write a book, take heart. Here’s how Megan described #slowwriters – because she does it much better than I can.

‘We’re time-poor, idea-rich individuals with responsibilities that can’t be pushed aside or down-prioritized. As such, we’ve come up with a brilliant, albeit unformed plan. We’re going to create a support group for slow writers, individuals who feel frustrated with their glacial progress and need someone to point out that progress is progress, even if it’s only inches a year.’

Or that, as Chuck Wendig put it, ‘it takes as long as it takes’.

If you are a writer with other commitments, duties, things you cannot put aside that mean your writing only happens slowly you might feel this way too. Would you be interested in taking part in a group like that?

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Because I am really grown up and a very grown up and mature mother and because I can: my lad, as the Baldy Man (that’s my hair).

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19 Jan 2014 · 10:50 am

Cover Reveal. K’Barthan Trilogy, Books 3 and 4. Yes, you read that correctly. ‘Trilogy’ and ‘Book 4’.

Yes…. I can reveal the cover of the third and fourth book in the K’Barthan Trilogy. Yes I’m a writer but I never said I could count. If you want the honest truth, book 3 was so huge that it was never going to approach commercial viability as a paperback, so as it has two distinct halves, I divided it.

So here we are. Artwork. Mmm Mmm. Am I chuffed with this? Oh yes I am.

One Man: No Plan, K’Barthan Trilogy: Part 3.CoverOneManNoPlan

And here’s the blurb….

Confused ex outlaw, pardoned for all misdemeanours, seeks answers… 

The Pan of Hamgee has a chance to go straight, but it’s been so long that he’s almost forgotten how. With a death warrant over his head he is released, given a State sponsored business, and a year’s amnesty for all misdemeanours while he adjusts.

He doesn’t have a year, though. In only five days Lord Vernon gains total power. Unless The Pan can stop him, K’Barth is doomed. The future hangs by a thread, and the only person who can fix it is The Pan: a man without a plan.

And here’s the back…

One Man: No Plan M T McGuire

The back cover of One Man: No Plan by M T McGuire

The snuff box posed a bit of a problem but the choice was pretty slim, not much call for pictures of snuff boxes. The back… well yes, I was extremely pleased with the back.

Looking For Trouble, K’Barthan Trilogy: Part 4

CoverLookingForTrouble

Cornered Hamgeean, with nowhere left to run, seeks time…

The time has finally come when The Pan must stand up and be counted. He must face his demons and rectify the chaos he has caused. He can stop Lord Vernon, and he’s going to, but with a three day wait, the timing is crucial.

To succeed he has to stay alive, a possibility if he keeps his head down and maintains a low profile. But that’s not an easy task for The Pan.

And here’s the back, which I’m insanely pleased with. Sans blurb at this stage.

Back cover, Looking for Trouble.

Back cover, Looking for Trouble.

So there you have it. Book 3 will be out in April and depending on how the editing and beta reading goes, book 4 will be out at the end of April or in May.

This completely excellent cover art has been done by A Trouble Halved, who are ace and can be found here.

As ever I am intrigued to know what you think…

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16 Jan 2014 · 11:30 am

Hybrid. Not just for cars.

This post, on Chuck Wendig’s blog, got me thinking today. (BTW I can thoroughly recommend Chuck Wendig’s blog, unless you’re sensitive to swearing but then, if you’re sensitive to swearing I doubt you’ll be here either).

He was talking about hybrid authors. That is, those of us who self publish their work and also have a trad deal. Apparently, these folk earn more.

You know what. I’m not surprised at that.

Frankly, I would kill for a trad deal, so I could do both. Unfortunately it’s never going to happen. I used to have a reasonably high end business job, and I know how business works. I’m a really crap proposition. It won’t always be that way, but right now it is. A stay at home mum who takes two years to write each book. Even if I managed to pen a query letter covered with just the right amount of fairy dust and unicorn pooh to score that magic read (yes even with an ‘in’ I failed to the point where they sent me a letter back with comments that showed, quite clearly that one of the readers hadn’t even read the book). Even if an agent or a publisher, absolutely loved my stuff, there would be somebody who could churn out a book every 6 months, whose work they loved just as much, who’d get the deal. Geesh! I mean seriously, I wouldn’t touch me with a barge pole, so I don’t expect them to.

If I want trad, I’ve got to have a ‘proven track record’ – ugh I loathe and detest that phrase – and to get one of those, I’ve got to make it the hard way; as a self published author.

However, at least with self publishing, I do have the option to get my books out there and, possibly, succeed. It will be much harder – although not as hard as getting someone to read my query letter – and if I do succeed it will happen in slow motion. But the opportunity IS there.

This is what I love about self publishing.

What I hate is that anyone would bung their first attempt at a novel out there unedited, unrested, without thought. It absolutely amazes me – and gets me into a bit of a frothy mouthed rage, to be honest – because they’ve turned the only route to market for many of us into a slush pile that no-one will touch.

Thanks you bunch of complete and utter bastards.

The K’Barthan Trilogy (actually it’s four books so I’ll have to call it something else, ideas on a post card please) took me 25 years to write.  That’s if I count them from the first attempt. Although I admit I’ve done the donkey work in the last few, between 2008 and now. A lot of people, who would probably enjoy it will never will never find out about it, and others will never touch it because I’ve committed the terrible sin of publishing it myself.

Whatever people say, the prejudice has not gone away, with good reason (cf the complete and utter bastards mentioned above).

That is pretty galling.

Which brings me neatly onto hybrids and why I think they do better.

They’ve sidestepped the prejudice.

Those who ‘don’t read self published books’ will read the self published work of a traditional published author. They’ll pick up that author’s work in the first place. Those book shops who ‘don’t stock self published books’ will stock the self published work of someone with a trad record. It really is all about the brand. It’s the same road; getting to the point where there are enough people out there who trust you to write a good book, who will be confident giving them to their friends to read.

Hybrid is win-win. Hybrid authors have the endorsement of the establishment, they have fans from the normal off line world and they bring them with them. Those fans give the author the momentum to get their books up the listing past the glass ceiling of other authors, amazon book police and jaded, indie author loathing forumites, into the light where the ‘normals’ who are just looking for a book to read, see them. Their trad pub background gives them the golden key onto the review sites and into magazines that ‘won’t accept self published work’ but will from someone with a trad pub background. It’s definitely where I want to be.

In short, the way I see it is this.

If you’re a hybrid, you get to keep the cash and sell without the prejudice.
If you’re trad published you get to sell without the prejudice but there’s less cash to keep.
If you self publish you get to keep the cash but you earn less because until you’re seriously established, everyone you approach will assume that your work is sub standard, poorly edited crap.

It’s a conundrum. Hmm… would knowing what I look like help?

Well, you asked...
See how trustworthy I am.

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8 Jan 2014 · 11:35 pm

This explains a lot

I have been looking up settings for the K’Barthan Trilogy and the High Temple is loosely based on a real place. This one (Lancing College Chapel).

Lancing College Chapel

Lancing College Chapel, looking the other way

So there I am, looking for photos to send the designer about one of my ideas for the cover of Book 4 and – you know that auto complete thing in Google – well I got a bit spanner fingered typing in Lancing Chapel and managed to choose the google option ‘Lancing College Chapel, Harry Potter’ rather than the one I wanted to type. Uh, I thought as it started to load. So I left it. Intrigued.

And then I got this.

Which is a bit creepy.

Gibbs House, Lancing College.

Because that, people, used to be my house, or at least half of it. Don’t get excited, it’s not the mansion it looks. It’s miles and miles of corridor and a couple of enormous rooms (you know, bed in one post code, wardrobe in another) and a couple of tiny ones (just big enough to fit a chest of drawers and a bed, on each floor. You have the spare room; the dormer window up top (horrible room, we thought it was haunted – so we kindly put our guests there phnark). Below, my parent’s room (over the arch – a big vaulted room with a false ceiling, at night Mum and Dad would hear the rats scurrying over the ceiling tiles, which were polystyrene and which, my Mum felt, might not hold the weight). Next moving right; my brother’s room (mine isn’t shown, it was at the back) and then the bathroom and loo (the wind used to whistle in and blow through the overflow of the bath so if you didn’t want cold water very fast in winter, you had to wet a flannel and hang it over to stop the draught).

Moving right again, you hit the stairwell. Next floor down, left to right again, you’ve the drawing room and the downstairs bathroom. Then stairwell again. The rooms below are dormitories, yes, we shared our house with boys and we had a fire bell in our hall, which had a cloth cap over it to keep the noise down in fire practises.

The other side of the stairwell, not shown, ware the kitchen and the dining room. The floor above wasn’t ours, the top floor was but the school water header tank was in the attic next door so unless you liked the sound of running water there wasn’t much you could do up there except use it as a junk room.

You can even see the TV ariel with its wonderful reception of French TV and not much else.  Pingu anybody? The nearest transmitter was blocked by that big red building on the left (the science block).

So that’s a three bedroom house, about 90% of which is corridor. Infested on a semi permanent basis by cockroaches although our cat did used to keep the mice at bay. Nonetheless, for the first 16 years of my life, in term time, I called it home.

And why, in the name of heaven, is it on a Harry Potter site?

Well, it turns out the school was the first choice for the film location of Hogwarts. Which explains a lot about me, I suspect. I’m not a bit surprised, because when I read Harry Potter, I transposed most of the events to Lancing in my head. Although when I lived there, as a pre-Potter baby, I was more interested in attempting the world land speed record on roller skates along the concrete cloisters round the quads. Sadly, I failed to find a picture of the steps I used to ride my bicycle down.

The school was offered a lot of money to be the film Hogwarts and declined. The headmaster at the time said that it was a place of education and not for Hollywood. He is a charming and mild mannered man, I wonder what on earth they must have said to him to get such an uncharacteristically pompous rebuttal.

Part of me is terribly sad that I can’t tell people that I grew up in Hogworts, although I do understand and I pretty much did, anyway. But It’s a school, and I guess if you think about it, that’s 10 year’s worth of distraction to the students.  Corpus Christie College Oxford – where they eventually filmed – has longer holidays and older occupants. I expect there are no darts in the ceiling of their great hall… or lumps of mashed potato stuck to the rafters, or  dead balloons, or the corners of pieces of toast just visible over the side of the beams – how the hell you lob a bit of toast up 60 odd feet so it lands on top of beam I don’t know but they did and they were there. Then again, they may not be now. I doubt anyone’s thrown an orange through one of the paintings during a food fight either. Indeed, I doubt they do that any more. Young people seem to be terribly well behaved these days. And imagine the effect of 10 years of Potter on the School’s league table results. They’d have been through the floor. Sorry I couldn’t revise, sir, I was watching the quidditch.

Ahh… happy days.

Hmm… I can sort of see why he said no.

It’s still a shame though.

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5 Jan 2014 · 12:34 am

More McMini

Here are some more lovely gems from my small son.

“Mummy, remember when ….. (name redacted) came round and she did a pooh that was so huge that we had to break it in half with the loo brush to flush it away.”
“I’m tying not to.”
“Well, imagine if we were so poor, that we couldn’t afford a loo brush and had to cut it in half with  our hands or with a knife and fork.”
“I’m really trying not to.”

This one sums up the splendid randomness of life with children. This morning, I was woken up early with someone jumping into my room shouting, “boo!” McOther got up, luckily, fed the ravening mini-beast and went off up to town to the market. Meanwhile I got to the point where I was dressed in trousers pants and socks but my pyjama top when McMini, who was downstairs eating his breakfast, called me urgently.

“Mummy! Mummy! Please can you help me.”
“Sure, what can I do?”
“I need you to help me prepare some breakfast.”
Poor wee soul, I’m thinking, his Dad must have forgotten to give him his breakfast before going out, either that or McMini refused it, which is not unknown. So I scurried down.”Course I can help, what would you like?”
“Oh no Mummmy it’s not for me,” McMini explains as we make our way through to the kitchen, “I wanted to bring you your breakfast in bed but I need your help. I thought you might like a piece of toast but I couldn’t cut the bread,” visions of McMini wielding the bread knife flashed into my head and I tried not to think about them. “Would you like a piece of toast?”
“Hmm, actually I think that what I would really like is one of these crumpets*. Shall we toast one and then you can butter it for me.”
“Yes, that’s a good idea, then you can go upstairs and get back into bead and I will take it to you.”
“Well… I’m half dressed,” I said as I lifted McMini and he dropped the crumpet into the toaster, “press the button,” McMini pushed the lever. “I think the best thing is if I eat it up down here and then go and get dressed.”
“No Mummy!” (shocked) “You can’t do that. You must go upstairs and finish dressing, first. Then you must come down and eat it.”
“Right o. Can I have a bite before I go?”
A beat.
“Oh I suppose so.”
“Thank you.”
“But don’t forget, I have to butter it first.”

He then proceeded to dig a series of small holes in the top of the butter with the tip of the knife, it looks like a primitive woodcut of an owl.

In church last Sunday, the gospel was the massacre of the innocents.

“Why did Herod want to kill all the little babies Mummy?” ‘whispered’ McMini.”Because he cared more about being in power than anything else.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I guess he wasn’t a very nice man.” **
“Yes, he was a big wee pot.”
Sniggering from the pews behind showed that this did not go unnoticed.

Going to bed last night.
“Mummy! Come back in here or I will shoot you.”

Going to bed this evening, I found a large velour spider, which is called ‘Glorious’ sitting at the top of the stairs. I picked him up and brought him into the bedroom.
“I found Glorious on the stairs.”
“Oh no, that’s OK Mummy, you should put him back. He has been naughty.”
“Ah right, so he’s on the naughty step is he?”
“Yes, he is nearly finished then he can come back in so long as he isn’t naughty again but he must be out there for a little longer.”
I went and put Glorious back where I found him, walked back in to McMini’s bedroom.
“You can go and get Glorious now and bring him back in. I think he has been out there long enough.” McMini said, the minute I set foot in the door. I went and got the spider and handed it to McMini.
“Glorious is very sorry, he has given me a kiss and I will kiss him back to make up,” said McSmall. And he did.

This is Glorious.

Glorious, looking very contrite.

*Pikelets if you’re northern, google it if you’re from anywhere else but for heaven’s sake put an s on it – crumpetS – unless you want to have to wade through loads of stuff about sex.
** Herod killed two of his sons and I’m pretty sure he also killed his wife, such was his determination to hang on to the reins of power… as Augustus said: “It is better to be Herod’s dog than one of his children.” He makes Lord Vernon*** look like a bit of a pussycat doesn’t he?
*** and if you don’t know who Lord Vernon is, read the K’Barthan Trilogy. NOW. Um… please.

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