I'm starting to build it.....The third in the series.I won't call it a series. ' Shattered Vanilla'

 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

The difficult

 Autumn in Georgetown With the fun I experienced completing the first book. I guess you could say I've got the bug. The writing bug that is. I suppose that's why I've been relatively quiet in documentating what I've been doing. I'm never convinced what I write is of any benefit to anyone. I really haven't got that big an ego. It's more for me to be able to look back and see progression and improvement.  "It's a process of continual growth."  With the self-publication of the first novel 'Flagpole'. It still annoys me just how long that took to complete. Best part of four years. It probably didn't help that I was pursuing the 'traditional' route to publication. Having to wait for responses, trying to be patient. For me, it distracted my focus from actually just writing. I'd become consumed with waiting, putting my own fate in the hands of strangers with an inbox. "I'm not going down like that!" It's more

I started all this in September 2018.

    Claustrophobia, leg ache and searching these walls for secrets held to release a story. I scrolled through photos captured on a Samsung. June 2020. A picture of my manuscript, bound and delicately placed on a kitchen counter, spotlights designed to illuminate the sifting of strong bread flour took on the creative direction of providing adequate glow to my work of fiction. As I examined the photo, I was filled with pride. It soon tickled my disappointment to think that it’s taken me this long. A year after, June 2021 is now what I considered to be a finished article. It took a further year of editing, formatting, proofing, reading, dancing with creativity and grappling with despondency to get this finally done. To me it’s complete. I’ve got my ‘microphone drop’ date. I’ve gone with the fourth of July. It’s fitting for Flagpole. Set on the fictitious children’s summer camp Red Oak and Silver Wood , beautifully within the New York hills. The central character Dylan Nemerov tra

The Rejection Connection

First rejection received!  I'm getting somewhere.....  One of several submissions later and it arrived in my inbox, the response teasing my merriment, its possibilities danced through my head.  Should I prepare a hot drink or perhaps something stronger? I should at least stand out of respect I click for the message to open. If I was cool, I might use my phone. I think in all reality I did swipe to the salutation.  The agency name glimmers in the subject line, my title nearby. If I just close my eyes for a second then the news will be good. The work you put it, it wasn't for nothing. My vision now blurred, pupils readjusting. I muster up the courage and open that dream up. Damn! No genie, no wishes for me. As the title would suggest and without the pretentious attempt at intrigue. My book, wasn't on this occasion worthy of representation. Alone again with your thoughts. It's disappointing; sure but inevitable.  That's one out of a few - I think timeline wise. I submi

Self Publishing: Self Confidence or Impatience?

I  think I, like many people; I almost even used 'writers' there, parenthetically speaking. It may well be one of those realms of reality conversations, as to  whether  I use  'writer'  or merely hide behind the collective noun of 'people'. It doesn't seem to bother those that make use of furrowed fake smiles, the ones you'll never meet, tanned, toned and performing yoga on a white sandy beach. They themselves claiming to have produced a story never penned, living off a  ten-year-old  advance whilst holding down a part time job.   If you have been up all night, writing into the early hours of tomorrow’s world, is the only outcome for it to be read, enjoyed and/or ignored; can’t it just exist? The dilemma is delivered, socially distanced of course when you consider the amount of time spent writing. Time is money, life is short and other such idioms. The only interest you hold is in creating and now you’re having to spend all your time pushing your book to