There is no Wall

There is no wall in writing. Only ladders.

What I mean by this is that there is no metaphorical wall. Not for me, anyways …

It’s a description often used to describe a lack of inspiration or motivation to put pen to paper, but I have to say I don’t really agree with it. To me, a wall conjures up an impassible object. It’s something maybe you can go around, or over, and even as is most popularly stated to “break through” said wall. Metaphors are funny things, I should know, and being so they are able to be twisted and turned to the tellers will. But aside from all this, even the metophorical breaking of a wall, for me, fails to address what’s really going on. It fails to address the initial hardship of which a wall creates. A wall insinuates a obstacle so great, that in order to beat it, we need to introduce and even more fantastical metophore, that of breaking the wall with our bare hands. While this image may help a writer to gain more empowerment, I’m not sure if it helps in the long run. This is why, when I hit a similar situation in the creative process, I prefer to think of a ladder.

Now, straight away, if you think of it in your mind, what different emotions do you picture? Do it now if you like, compare the meeting of a metophorical wall to a metophorical ladder – which one would you rather pick? Or more specifically, which one would you rather overcome? For me, the ladder shows a clear way out, one which can be achieved through a concerted and increased level of effort and dedication. A wall on the other hand, again in my eyes, offers only hopelessness. A wall, by definition, is intended to be impassible. A ladder is just difficult to climb. 

So, when faced with a similar moment of writing inactivity, forget the wall and picture the ladder. It isn’t as a dramatic image as the ten foot tall red brick wall, but it gives the choice back to you. The ladder is there, and you can either climb it, or not … But it’s something you KNOW you can do. SH.


Cracking On

After announcing the release date for the sequel to Ewan Pendle and the White Wraith, I have (typically) been snowed in by a largish amount of other “work”, the kind which helps to pay the bills! Doing this other creative (film) work has meant that little progress has been made in the last month towards the next instalment of Ewan’s adventures. 

All this being said, there are a few things shaping up well. Although these bits of story are all in their new born stage at best. One of these is a chapter featuring more prominantly the Rosethorn Twins. Many people have expressed interest in knowing more about this brother and sister duo, as well as wanting to learn further about the two’s motives for disliking Ewan and his friends so much. Therefore, there may be a few out there happy to hear these characters will indeed be explored a little more deeply in the next book. SH. 

Chapter Five

Here follows the beginning of CHAPTER FIVE of Ewan Pendle and the White Wraith … If you enjoy, take a look at the rest of the story HERE 😉

“Ewan turned back around and stepped out into the courtyard. He looked up at the rough sides of the buildings which flanked it on all sides as they looked down on him with crooked judging eyes. Ewan gulped.

As he walked towards the large double doors the girl had indicated to, Ewan had to first navigate some of the fig tree’s large and thick roots as they stuck up out of the stone covered ground and snaked all over the cobblestones like low winding walls. The murmuring sound grew louder still and Ewan was now able to discern it as the high and low clatter of voices. Just as he reached the double doors and was steeling himself to pull them open and enter, a deep voice called out from behind him.

You there,’ said a voice with a presence and power that seemed to make the fig tree’s leaves shudder above Ewan’s head. ‘Why are you so late for morning meal?’ Ewan thought with a wild jolt that it was actually the fig tree speaking, and looked up into its dense branches. But the sound of heavy footfalls met his ears too, and before he could turn around to face their owner, there in front of him stood his questioner.

Looking down at him was a tall and darkly rough skinned man with broad shoulders and a proud looking head set upon them. A head that was swathed strangely in a green silken cloth, wrapped around his skull like a loose turban and covering one of his keen eyes, the bulk of the cloth falling down the back and sides of his neck. Over a long but short sleeved white gown he wore an even longer deep green vest coat, the edges of it trimmed with fine gold stitching. Around his thick waist was an equally splendid gold and black patterned belt, tied in a thick knot at his middle. The man was as tall and as large as a bear on its hind legs.

The eye of the man that wasn’t covered by the silken green cloth was narrowed and stared at Ewan with a powerful gaze, the might of the earth behind it. Presently he brought his two huge muscular arms, like tree branches, to fold across his armour like chest.

Well boy? Speak!

I – ah –’ Ewan spluttered, feeling as if his legs were melting from beneath him under the heat radiating from the large man’s scrutiny.

It’s alright, Benjamin. He is our newly arrived cadet.’ The voice that had saved Ewan’s stammering belonged to Enola; she had just emerged from a doorway off to the side of Ewan’s view. She walked up to Ewan and placed a slender hand on his shoulder.

Very well, Master,’ said the menacing Benjamin with polite reluctance, his powerful singular brown eye registering no hint of accommodation as it continued to stare Ewan down.

Thank you, Master Moham,’ said Enola in formal tones, and the giant of a man bowed his head a slight angle of respect towards Enola before he walked away. Enola watched him depart and then looked down at Ewan with her startling azure blue eyes. ‘I see you have found your way to the mess hall well enough, Ewan?’

Yes, thank you,’ said Ewan, ‘the girl, she helped me.’

Ah yes, you have met Brigid then?’


Yes, she is my errand-girl. She lives at Firedrake also, with her aunt and sisters.’

Ah,’ said Ewan, casting his eyes into the direction of the little alley he had been left in by Brigid the errand-girl. Enola’s lips formed into a mysterious half smile and Ewan found it hard to discern between whether she were showing accommodation or amusement.

Although, you would not normally be seeing her around during the day,’ said Enola with a steady glance on Ewan, taking her hand off of his shoulder and rising back up to her full height. ‘And remember, Ewan, you must address me as “Master” when you are here, as you should with all of the Lenitnes Masters that instruct at Firedrake,’ Enola added, but not rudely.

Oh – sorry … Master,’ said Ewan.

Come along now, morning meal is almost at an end, and we need to get some food into that slight form of yours if you are to be any good to us throughout the day,’ said Enola in a monotone voice, however, not devoid of joviality. She stepped forward and opened the tall double doors of the mess hall and Ewan’s ears were hit with the full cacophony of chatter and clatter that he could only hear but a remnant of before.

The two of them walked into a long and wide but low hall packed with long and low tables that had long and low benches beside them. Sitting at the tables were, as best as Ewan could guess, a few hundred or so other children of varying ages, all of them wearing the same white and black pyjama-like uniform as he was. A couple of stray children in the large hall looked briefly in Ewan’s direction as he and Enola entered, but those few curious souls soon turned back to their fellows and continued their conversations or the shovelling of food into their gobs.

Ewan looked over the tables that ran up and down the hall, from where the intermingling smell of freshly cooked food was wafting along towards him. Most of it seemed to have been cleared away, but Ewan could still see the remnants of large serving bowls of porridge, a few wide plates and dishes with hot things and cold things and some tall jugs almost emptied of milk and juices of every colour and presumably every flavour available too.

The scent of food in the hall pushed its way up Ewan’s nostrils as he continued to follow Enola along. A steady flutter of hurried whispers ignited here and there, jumping up from the gathered children like scattering birds, as if a sudden breeze had just rushed into the room, borne from the slopes of faraway mountains, and one by one by one more of the cadets began to take notice of Ewan’s arrival.

Just then Enola stopped abruptly, casting a thick and surveying look over the seated children. This quelled their tittering so quickly that Ewan instantly thought Enola had them all under some kind of remote control, or else had just cast upon them some clever spell. Enola eyed the gathered children for a moment more, before slowly returning her attentions back to Ewan.

Everyone will be assembling in the dojo shortly,’ said Enola, turning her wide eyes back onto Ewan. ‘And after that the morning sessions will begin. Get some food while you can and follow the other cadets when you hear the clock tower chime. I will see you later on.’ Enola turned and left the long hall from the door she and Ewan had entered, and after a short pause, the whispering began again.

Ewan walked nervously down a line of benches and sat down. The back of his head was itching with the heat of people’s stares, but he tried his best to look unmoved. Instead Ewan directed his attention towards a large silver dish of bacon that sat in the middle of the table in front of him, slowly steaming, all the while trying to ignore the whispers and wide eyes. His stomach was suddenly painful with hunger, feeling like it was being scratched from the inside out by dirty fingernails eager to get greedy hands on food.

Ewan took an empty bowl and began to ladle thick spoonfuls of a light brownish mixture that had the apparent consistency of porridge. Ewan took up a spoon that was set on the table and shoved a large dollop into his mouth. It had a warming, sweet but tangy flavour that baffled Ewan at first, but he quickly decided that it was the best thing he had ever tasted, and promptly devoured the whole bowlful in two minutes flat.

As he was scraping away the last few bits of porridge stuck to the bowl’s walls, a far off and deep bell sounded, and the other children began to get to their feet. Chairs clumped and scraped on the hardwood floor, and the march of many feet now filled the air. Ewan got up too, left his empty breakfast bowl on the table as all the others seemed to have done with their plates, and then followed the other children out.

He joined the back of the large group as they crossed the wide courtyard, skirting around the massive fig tree and through a tall and wide archway on the opposite side. The archway led through another set of tall double doors, hundreds of pairs of feet clattering into a long and wide corridor and over the worn, dark wood floor, the imposing walls lined with more colourfully bright but old fashioned looking lamps.

As he walked through the open doors Ewan noticed that carved upon their front was the same ornately fashioned F as the one on his shirt, and indeed the shirts of everyone else about him.

All of the other cadets poured into the corridor ahead of Ewan like jam through a funnel, slowly siphoning through it towards a wide staircase at the end, all of them now tightly packed and shuffling more than walking as the crowd’s pace slowed in the more confined space of the hallway. Ewan was at the very back, some of the others ahead throwing him curious looks over their shoulders as they went. Ewan didn’t meet their stares but instead turned his attention to the walls he was passing.

The walls of the long hallway were covered in hundreds, perhaps thousands of framed newspaper clippings that extended along the high walls on either side of the hallway, right up to the wooden beam vaulted ceiling. Ewan stopped following the others and paused to read a few at his eye height. Vilmhieds do it Again! said one headline; Skene and Green Make a Mean Machine, said the one next to it; Mangrove the Vilmhied’s New Star, said yet another. One of the largest clippings on the wall was emblazoned with a heading in bold black letters proclaiming: Fachan Captured! A smaller heading underneath it read: White Lightning Nabs Fachan After Three Year Vilmhied Operation. Under the writing was a picture of a tall figure in a long dark coat. The person was holding their hand up as if they were trying to stop their photograph being taken, their face in shadow. Ewan squinted at the top corner of the clipping. It was dated nearly two hundred years ago! Ewan thought – Did cameras even exist then?

What do you think you are doing?’ Ewan leapt into the air in surprise and spun around to see the thick chested and burly Master Moham, staring angrily down at him.

I – ah …’ Ewan spluttered once again, looking around to see the back end of the crowd of cadets disappearing up a large and wide staircase across a vast room at the end of the corridor.

Why are you dawdling behind?’ the man thundered, so loudly that Ewan could see a couple of those at the back of the retreating cadets slow their pace up the stairs and turn to look towards Ewan to see what all the fuss was about. Ewan had his back to the wall of newspaper clippings, Moham’s stony chin and sharpened singular brown eye baring down on him like a cannon being aimed at its enemies.

I was just looking at the –’ Ewan tried to explain before he was cut off by more crushing words.

I don’t care what you were doing! Move yourself to the dojo now or you will be cleaning it out by yourself for a week – and exactly where do you think you are going, Miss Rue?’

The Master had spoken clearly, changing his tack without his steely eye ever alleviating its grip from Ewan’s face. The latter blinked, thinking the tall Master had lost his mind, calling Ewan ‘Miss’. But Moham’s sudden change in speech was explained as Ewan looked past the accosting man to see a girl frozen like a statue in mid tip-toe behind him, caught, as she had clearly been attempting to sneak past them both.

The girl’s face was twisted into a wince and she displayed the unmistakeable expression of someone who knew what was coming. She was wearing the same black trousers and white top as Ewan, but to his surprise, she didn’t have any shoes on.

Ah, well, Master Moham, you see, I was just coming to find …’ the girl looked at Ewan expectantly. It took him a few excruciating seconds to catch on.

Ewan,’ said Ewan slowly.

Ewan,’ the girl finished with a confident flurry, ‘of course, Ewan – and – uh – you know – show him to the dojo … Him being new and all.’ The girl had a hopeful confidence that Ewan had not seen in anybody before.

The austere looking Master Moham whipped around to glare at the girl now. She gave him what Ewan though was her most sickly polite grin. Moham turned back to stare at Ewan again and his face began to feel hot, like he was standing far too close to the sharp licking flames of a fire. Master Moham looked Ewan up and down one last time, as if he were trying to asses his weaknesses.

And once again, Miss Rue, you are defiantly not in full uniform,’ Moham spoke again, his eyes still fixed on Ewan.

The girl looked down at her bare feet and then up again at the Master’s back.

Well – yeah – you see – about that Master, I was – ’

Enough simpering, Rue!’ Moham bellowed, ‘I’ll deal with you later! Now, take your friend and make your way to the dojo – now! Or the two of you will be indulging in a little extra dojo cleaning together’, Moham added with menace.

Master Moham strode away in the opposite direction of the stairs and Ewan looked across to the girl just in time to see her pull a face at the man’s retreating back. She then motioned at Ewan to follow her and bounded towards the wide staircase. Ewan had to jog a few steps to catch up to her.

As the hallway ended it opened out into a massive kind of banquet hall, lavishly decorated with broad paintings of every monster imaginable. Deadly dragons and towering trolls to name but a few stared down at Ewan as he gazed around, all four grand and massive walls fit to bursting with such an array of Creatures in various actions and poses as Ewan could ever imagine. Other fancy fittings adorned the high walls, most of which were painted in a lushly pale puce, dangled down like bats in a cave. The ceiling was vaulted and had a long rectangular skylight set into its centre, the glass fashioned in coloured shapes and figures Ewan was sure were depictions of yet more strange Creatures.

Around the staircase that the girl had just climbed onto was a crossroad of corridors, one leading off to the left and another to the right. Another led away forward on each side of the staircase, giving Ewan five new choices including the stairway of where he could go. Ewan stopped, gazing around at the cavernous and royal looking room; he had never seen anything like it in his life.

Come on,’ the girl called back to him, now halfway up the central staircase.” SH.


Bloody Hell

A situation such as this might call for a witty overture. A whimsical comment from me which is light of heart but bursting with an old “heave ho, me lads” and buckets of enthusiasm, grinning from ear to ear with positivity. But really, it doesn’t. 

Let me explain.

In my small research of how book titles behave out there in the world, and what indeed is the difference between a good book and a not so good book, a published title and a “self” publish title, I have come across many things. However, these multiple findings usually always lead to a single concluding thought – dismay. 

One such happening occurred not but a few moments ago, and I came across a post showing photos of an author giving a talk. I researched this author and found they had written one book, over one year ago. This book has 47 ratings on its native Amazon site (US) and only 4 on the UK Amazon site. While this isn’t utterly nothing, is it worthy of this author being called apon to talk of his craft? It may well seem it, as he is published with Penguin Books no less … And as if adding bizarre pretentiousness to the foray, the less than 300 page paperback is priced at 13 pounds! And the ebook at a pants-splitting 10 quid! For an ebook … Of an unknown author … 

I guess one might see my discontent as sour grapes, but I can assure you all that what I feel each time I come across such a case is nothing but pure bewilderment. Nothing but that could explain how I feel when I see such things and wonder how they are so.

Who are the people who decide these things? Who gets to pick who does and who doesn’t get a go at a multimillion dollar marketing platform? Who is and isn’t considered “professionally published”?

Who indeed … 

In a kind of concluding conclusion, I carry on, with a heave ho me lads and buckets of enthusiasm, grinning from ear to ear with positivity! SH. 

A Review of “Ewan Pendle and the White Wraith” by Shaun Hume

A lovely review of Ewan Pendle here …

Jennly Reads

Firedrake Lyceum – Year One

Full disclosure – I was provided copy of this book by the authors but have voluntarily provided a review. All opinions are my own

Ewan Pendle and the White Wraith is the first book in the Ewan Pendle series of books by Shaun Hume. Set in modern day United Kingdom, Ewan Pendle is an orphan who has been passed from foster home to foster home with never any luck of finding permanence. His newest family, the Does, as expected tire of Ewan, but instead of being sent to another nameless, faceless foster family Ewan finds himself on the train to London’s Firedrake Lyceum. After being greeted and escorted by the Grand Master of the Academy herself, Ewan settles in to the Lyceum for an eventful, thrilling and intrigue filled first year. As the year progresses, Ewan and his fellow misfit friends discover a plot…

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Release Date … No, really this time!

So, this date is subject to change, but it certainly won’t be any later. That I’m voicing in order to keep myself honest! I’ve made a commitment to produce the book no later than this, but it is possible the release date could be moved forward, depending on the prosperity of my progress.

And, the release date for Ewan Pendle BOOK TWO will be … 31 October 2018! Ta da! 

Now, I know as to date there is a small number of people who have read Ewan Pendle and the White Wraith, and an even small number who are looking forward to the sequel. Therefore, I hope I’m not torturing too many people to say it will be a year and three months before they get to see what happens next …

So, any thoughts? 

Also, as a post script, there will of course be a select group of people (you should know who you are!) who will be getting their hands on a copy much sooner than Hallowe’en next year. These are some of the lovely people who have so far been so kind to me in helping to promote Ewan’s story. I am endlessly grateful to them, and will try to reward this gratefulness as much as I can! SH.