cookie control

Sunday, 24 July 2016

I blame Rod Stewart

Occasionally, when half in a daze, a single line from someone, or a song on the radio,  sends me off on a bizarre train of thought that has no logic or reason to it. This happened a few nights ago...

I am now trying to write a script for a radio play about a former miner, who following the strike in the 1980's went through years of restart programs, job seekers training, and general discordance. The retraining courses never amounted to much, because doing a six-month course in electrical engineering or plumbing doesn't actually get you a job, so the department for education has been coming up with new, different courses for years, which are increasingly a little bizarre.
He is a tad resentful about this and like many former miners, he blames the tory's and one of their former leaders in particular.
Then one day, having been told to sign up for a course or lose his benefits , he stumbled upon a course in practical voodoo...

Six months later ...
he is standing over the grave of a former Prime Minster, face painted white, with a chicken in one hand and a shovel in the other, dancing to a strange drum beat and singing
"Wake up Maggie; I think I have something to say to you ........"

This is swiftly followed in part two by a Tory party leadership election where they elect the rotting reanimated corpse of 'dear Maggie' as leader....

Which leads to the inevitable question, what's worse, Teresa May or the rotting reanimated corpse of Mrs Thatcher...

I think I need coffee...

Thursday, 21 July 2016

Passing Place Update

While working through the final edit of Passing Place I noticed in passing that the word count had crossed the 100,000 word barrier. Word count is not something I habitually look at when writing, except when doing essays for the OU, or writing articles. The story takes as many words as it takes at the end of the day, how long it is, is not really relevant. However, that said, passing 100k is an oddly pleasing achievement, and one that is worth noting with a smile.

Editing hell is as ever hellish, and I generally find that while editing for every word I take out I add two elsewhere. so it's not that surprising that a 96k document has grown by 4k in the first 8 chapters (they are longish chapters to be fair)

By the time the final edit is done I suspect a few thousand more words will creep in. 'Slice and dice your manuscript' has never been my way. Mainly I think because I write fast when I do first drafts and press on with story, which occasionally leaves me with  the bare bones that need fleshing out in successive drafts.

As it stands my latest revised deadline is the end of September, though I suspect that will move again. I am with good old Douglas Adams when it comes to deadlines

“I love deadlines. I love the whooshing noise they make as they go by.”  Douglas Adams

At least mine are self-imposed. But the 'Coming Soon' is at least vague enough to be honest. I am however making progress and its drawing closer to the Passing place opening its doors to the public.


Update... august
11 chapters done and it's grown once more, but the final edit processes at least.

Thursday, 7 July 2016

Passing place short #2

As part of an ongoing series on my facebook page I have been making these small excerpts of the forthcoming passing place, I intend to do one for each chapter, just because there fun and make for nice teasers. I'll probably not get all 20 odd chapters done in the end, but we will see. For now, enjoy them for what there are, a Glimpse through the doors of the strangest bar in the multiverse...




“No, not a dream. It feels like a nightmare,” he whispered to himself, not even realising he had voiced the thought aloud.
“That’s because it is,” purred a voice near his feet. He looked down to see the cat at his heels and felt suddenly safer the moment he realised she was there.
She looked up at him, meeting his gaze, all dark eyes that reflected what little light there was, mak-ing them seem to glow in the darkness. Then she added with a tone that spoke of concern. “But not yours,”
“Whose then?” he asked uncertainly.
“Her’s,”