I sat and I watched on a sullied park bench as a plastic bag set fourth to make its great escape from a rubbish bin. The birds in the trees chattered away like children and the surrounding traffic noise rose up like the unconcerned rumblings from parents in the background. The tall leaves around swayed like hair and the plastic bag lay in wait, timing its actions like the prisoner watching the guard.
After several valiant attempts the cause looked all but lost.
Until, handles pulsing as great steadied arms, the bag got itself teetering over the edge of the green bin. The time was now, all was poised and perched on the knife edge between freedom and deathly relegation. The bag paused, waiting desperately for one last ounce of wind. It came! And with the warm whip of the wind, liberty was found. The bag looked like a delighted animal, skipping off at high speed down the park path. It rolled and spun with its own pride, and carried away on the summer breeze, towards the city from whence it came. SH
The fluorescent light hummed away its merry monotone tune, but still the cafe remained a little sullen. The early winters evening had wrapped its cold colourless hands around the place with greedy revere. A deep fryer sizzled in the back, the cook’s shuffled feet another instrument added to the soundtrack. The kids were eating happily but making little noise, their cheery red cheeks slowly warming and returning to their original pale rose pigment. A few shadows passed by the tall cafe front windows, mostly black blurs of indistinguishable age or sex. The smell of salt and vinegar and hot fried potato was strong to the point of intoxication. The night rumbled on for miles around, the city was happy. And for the most part, so were its people. SH
I couldn’t open the door so instead climbed out the window, it was two floors up from the city street, must have been at least fifteen feet. I dangled there for a little while, I did my best to hitch a smile, onto my face, what a disgrace, I must have looked so out of place. To all the lovely people there walking by, my eyes couldn’t help but point towards the sky. Then I let go, all to and fro, I hit the ground like kneaded dough. A little limp was all I carried, stupidity and I should just get married, it’d be much easier to know the truth, after knocking back a sweet vermouth. Through bleary eyes I stumbled on, which side of the street the bus stop was on, became a Hawking worthy conundrum, until I struck it headlong with my face, and threw off completely my walking pace. The people looked and wondered why, this messed up long haired black jeaned guy, was wearing a Harry Potter tie, so that it covered just one eye. A pirate from another time, I had sworn I didn’t know the crime, of fashion, style I was committing, on the bus I was then soon sitting. Funny looks followed me like multicoloured flies, scrunched up faces, narrowed eyes, all acting like a big surprise, was now ridding with them along their way, for me it’s just another day … SH
Does it matter the most? Does it count? When it comes to reading, is the image of an author enough to sway you to read their book? If you’re introduced to an author first, and book later, does how you see the personality directly relate to whether you even pick up one of their novels – even if the story or stories are well reviewed and liked?
Building image is a pretty hard task. Not because it’s a terribly difficult thing to do, stating ones views and angle on life, but that there are just so many others out there, all trying to scream that little bit louder than the other.
There are Many types, it seems, but all with the same purpose. It’s Like everyone is trying to drive to perfect camping spot. They all know (roughly) where it is, but there are a few different roads which can be taken, each person taking the one they think will get them there the quickest, safest, easiest …
But overall what matters the most – the story or the story teller? If you don’t like the person, but love the tale, is that enough? Or is adoring a person for the public figure they are enough to make you like something they write, which under any other pen you’d not clean your shoes with? S.H.
Are you an author of a fantasy novel? Would you be keen to swap your book for the book of another author of fantasy stories? I’m sure this has been done before, and many times at that. But at the moment I’m treating it like an original idea …
I was wondering, and would henceforth like to put the call out, to any other indie fantasy authors who might be interested in a book swap. What I mean by this is, that I send a copy of Ewan Pendle and the White Wraith to another author of similar writings, and they in turn send a copy of their book to me.
Now, apart from each of us getting a free copy of each other’s book to read, I am proposing that after we read said book of another, each author writes a little blog post about the other author’s work.
How about it?
I know, again, that this is probably a well worn little exercise in the indie publishing world, but as I mentioned in my previous post, I’m pretty new to all this bloggy stuff, so thought I would give an innocent shout out and see what comes of it. So, if anyone is, or knows of, a fantasy author who has a book they’d be willing to exchange for an honest post, please do let me know! Ta. S.H.
Ka POW! Whoop de DO! That’s one hundred posts on this here blog! I know there are the vast majority of you staring blankly at the screen and scoffing a good amount, all over it –
“100? What a joke! Who does this kid think he is?”
To those of that persuasion, I can only ask you to forgive me, as I am relativity new to this thar blogging game, so little milestones like this may seem greater than they later on appear.
But pushing on is a target I have set, and somehow, although they really shouldn’t, milestones of even numbers seem to ring with us all and get everyone excited. After all, how is turning 60 anymore important than turning 61?
Aside from this, 100 I have made it to, and tomorrow I will write the 101st post as well – Hu-BLOODY-rrah! S.H.
1. Avoid. Alliteration. Always.
2. Prepositions are not words to end sentences with.
3. Avoid cliches like the plague, they’re old hat!
4. Comparisons are as bad as cliches.
5. Be more or less specific.
6. Writers should never generalise.
Seven: be consistent!
8. Don’t be redundant; don’t use more words than necessary; it’s highly superfluous.
9. Who needs rhetorical questions?
10. Exaggeration is a billion times worse than understatement.
So there you have it, something completely different. But not so as well … S.H.