The Journey To A Published Novel

 Shattered Vanilla I always fear I'm sharing too much. When, in fact I think I don't share enough. Hence the photograph. I could worry you might look at the files I have open or the pages of internet I browse. The apps running. Are any of them questionable? Maybe, but if so. Let's have a dialogue. I suppose a glass of red wine later, I'm filled with confidence. Apathy, whatever. I'll hit publish on this and soon regret it. It's the fear of rejection. Slipping into obscurity. Amnesia is the fundamental destiny for us all. Having eyes not seeing, brains not thinking. Words not heard. All that pretentious bullshit that I try my utmost to avoid. We're all just so profound. Shattered Vanilla is the third novel I'm concentrating on. I have to admit, I was dispondent after the release of the first two. Flagpole still flys, anonymously. I shoudl do more work to 'market' it. I'm afraid to Dodge 'Ram' it down peoples throats. I'm not a sale

  Pop and crisps.    Saturday was like all others. We did everything the same. Through fear of ruining the winning streak. I still don’t know how I do it. I can’t explain a lot of things.   My granddad never said a word. A subtle head nod, and dart of his eyes. I’d catapult myself up, floating to the top of the kitchen counter. Perch on my knees and gesture to  retrieve  one red packet of crisps. The ‘pop’, as he called it, cascaded like a waterfall into a tall bottomless glass. They appeared with a crack, three ice cubes every time. They could have encouraged the luck.     My grandparents' bungalow was a pirate ship. Sometimes the garden overflowed hot lava. I’d jump from moss covered rockery to a treasure island. My feet couldn’t touch the ground. They’d burn up in sticky flames. Some weeks, the greenhouse was an Anderson shelter, protecting me from falling bombs. The noise would shake my brain. I would hop from joist to joist as if they were steely blades. I had to outrun the sh

 All of those perfectly timed snippets of inspiration.  Those songs played only for you. Why don't you give me a soft, wet lickery kiss.  It started out blank with no imagination. 'Shattered Vanilla'  That's the title of my third novel.  I've only just sat down to begin writing it. I'm roughly speaking at just over 12,000 words. It's a first run and I love that feeling of filling space. It could be tripe or something I can mould. Either way, before it. There was nothing but blank space.  Now, that I've finished 'Flagpole'. I must just interrupt myself.....  It truly does frustrate me, just how much time I spent on that book.  Forward facing dog! Having a more focused mind for the second, which I released on September 11th.  'Autumn in Georgetown'.  I have no time to waste. I've had ideas for this one. As I said, it's called 'Shattered Vanilla'. It's sort of been rattling around for a while. Made some loose notes as to

  Saddlebag There was no blood, only silence. My wife wasn’t a fan of camping, less excited about going on the back of my motorbike. She begrudged me naming the machine Meryl, considered it cheating. She agreed to the road trip if I didn’t speed, a fair compromise to get her in a tent. We trundled for six hours, shook our helmet hair free and jumped up and down to bring life to our numb legs. We found a perfectly secluded spot on the moors, in the shadows of a derelict farmhouse. It was beautiful, the smell of mud and sheep shit. Nothing for miles, not even a phone signal. “Look at that.” She said, pointing at a granite rock formation. “It’s got a face.” I said, tracing my finger around the outline of a nose in the air. With her arms flapping and lips spitting to avoid the pesky gnats. I had the camera ready. She edged back. One minute she was there, pouting. Then nothing. I couldn’t hear her complaining. She slipped on lime green lichen, fell only 4 feet. It was enough;

  Skylight   Landlady stood stern with her crinkly arms crossed suspiciously, one impatient foot tap away from a raised eyebrow. She examined my swollen black eye, most likely thinking about what she was getting herself into. It was a nice one-bedroom flat, small but with enough space for me on my own. I could hide on the top floor with everything I needed. The kitchen is the same room as the living. Sit on the sofa and reach the sink. There’s a lingering baked fish smell in the air and a yellow tinged smoke alarm. Landlady noticed my distraction, quickly saying:   “It works.” I trust her, although I’d be happier if it wasn’t functional. I told her how I liked the natural light coming in through the skylight. That it made the loft conversion, added a real something. There was a rickety old wooden single bed with a stained mattress. Landlady did her best to hide the soiled patch with her leg. I didn’t care, I just wanted to be free, out of that flat I shared with Jess. It was