666

How do novelists stand it?

Their latest book is release to a cold, uncaring world. It can take months to write a novel, and the writer must feel as though she has to wait almost as long before reviews finally begin to trickle back. Is it well received? Are the characters and plot-lines believable? Does the book work as a story?

I would go crazy, I'm sure.

An anthology of 32 666-word 'fantabbles' was published this week by Fantastic Books. I managed get three stories into this:

and I'm dying to know what you think of it and them.

I need feedback. Did you enjoy the collection? What did you think of my stories? Were you scared (that is the point, after all. You don't release a book with a picture of a skinny bloke holding a scythe in a  foggy graveyard on the cover, without hoping you can raise at least one reader's heart rate)?

Can you even scare someone in 666 words?

I'm beginning to feel like Daddy Jones in The Exploits of Moominpappa who throws a garden party to celebrate the 100th anniversary of his birth. There are wild rides, tricks, puzzles, games and surprises each followed by a placard on a bush:

SCARED - WEREN'T YOU?

DIDN'T THINK SO, DID YOU?

So I am Mama Jones. I've put together three tricksy little stories with hardly any blood, and I want to know if they did what I intended them to do - or should I just give up and go home?

I need texts. Tweets! Reviews on Amazon/Goodreads/Blogs/the FBP web-site! Comment here, if you want!

Think of the author - won't somebody please, think of the author! Because I don't WANT to go home!

And that uses up my exclamation mark allowance for 2016. Thank you.

Ceci n'est pas un blog (reprise)

See what I mean? Here I am again. Apologetic. Bashful. A handful of notes from my mum.

This is not a blog, and I so want it to be.

Thurlbeck

Thurlbeck is - to quote David Byrne when singing about Heaven - a place where nothing ever happens.

You won't find it on a map, unless that map was purchased from MacPerson's General Store. A cloak of dissuasion seems to hang over the small Durham town, discouraging casual visitors and delivery drivers. Even Jehovah's Witnesses don't like to hang around too long after the first front door has closed.

Roads entering Thurlbeck have Diversion and Road Closed signs put up at every junction. Residents of neighbouring villages whisper tall tales about the ancient woodland (not mentioned in The Doomsday Book) which encloses Thurlbeck on three sides.

Wikipedia entries for the town are rejected due to excessive editing and the often contradictory 'facts' put forward as proof of its existence.

As a holiday destination, the Cumbrian village of Thurlbeck comes highly recommended. It is a beautiful place, and people talk excitedly of the magical experiences they have while staying there.

You will always find a warm welcome when you visit Thurlbeck.

Did I mention the ghost?

You little wonder, little wonder you

Until recently it was my habit on waking each morning to check the news. A lot could happen while I was sleeping, it's a dangerous world, and I needed to know he was all right before I could get on with my day.

On that particular day, once I was reassured, I showered and got myself ready. I was due in Exeter, so it was an early start.

When I got to the railway station, I remembered to turn off the Wi-Fi on my phone to preserve the battery. I turned on the phone, signed in and there it was. He was dead. My legs almost gave way under me, and I spent the next 10 hours not crying till I got home again.

I always listen to Today, I couldn't listen to Today, news had just come over and the rest is... fleeting memories. I remember going in to HMV and wondering why aren't they playing his songs, sitting in an interview unable to speak, reading twitter late, late in the afternoon to see if anyone felt the way I was feeling, watching people as they passed me on the street and listening to street musicians just in case.

Continuing...

Ceci n'est pas un blog

This isn't a blog.

Oh, I know it looks like a blog, but you have to admit it doesn't act like one.

If I'm very generous, I could say it's pretending to be a blog, but a blog implies an active blogger, and none can accuse me of that.

This is a placeholder. A 'temporary' place where I can experiment and be playful. There are things I would like to post, things I would like to build a website around - and normally I'd be really excited by the 'building a website around' process before I've created any actual content. Then I get dispirited and abandon the whole project.

So before I buy domains, Wordpress accounts and host space, then spend absolutely ages getting everything to look just perfect I shall splash around in the shallows here sharing bits and pieces of opinion, poetry and fiction, while I fiddle with something I've had at the back of my mind for a very long time.

Does that sound like a plan to you?

Extract - The Moon a Balloon, from Synthesis

Was it a gaily decorated circus tent that blossomed in a Russian field that Autumn of 1792?

You would be forgiven for thinking so, but as the purple taffeta began to fill with hot air from a carefully tended fire, and the buttoned cloth began to strain against the paper lining, its true purpose was gradually revealed.

Two men, one finely dressed in silks, his grey hair worn long and standing tall in the balloon's gondola; the other, a man of similar age but of a lower order, on the ground, reading from a notebook.

'One axe for collecting kindling, or sacrificing the gondola, should you find yourself in a desert region. One black chest containing petards and pigeons, should you find yourself in a state of distress.'

'Is the second craft ready?'

'It is, my Count.'

As the list was read, The Count leaned over, patting the named item, or opening it to check its contents. 

'Food and water for man and fowl for ten days, linen for necessities. Furs against the expected cold,' he continued. 'A pair of pistols, with powder and shot. For hunting, self defence, etc. Tinderbox, in case the fire should go out.'

The list went on until, at last—

'It is time!' shouted Count Nikolai. 'The horses?'

'Ready!'

'The geese?'

'Fed and wanting to be on their way as much as yourself, Count.'

'Then we shall not disappoint them.'

'Shall I count backwards?'

The count paused for a moment in his preparations. 'Why would I possibly want you to do that?'

'I thought in the absence of the usual dignitaries, speeches and brass bands, there should be at least some ceremony involved in the launch of your great enterprise.'

'That won't be necessary, Dimitri.'

Synthesis is available now from Fantastic Books Publishing getBook.at/Synthesis