Yet Another Novel Update

After much discussion and speculation on the state of my novel in the previous post’s comments I hereby present to you, most fastidious reader, a crisp and newly composed excerpt...

The Book Of Ouroboros: Excerpt 2.doc

I’m now 84,000 words into the story and my initial estimate of 120,000 words to complete it now seem hopelessly optimistic. However, the plot is unfolding nicely and I’m happy with the overall progress... so I’m just going to run with the ball and see where it leads me.

Hope you all enjoy...

No Bean Monday

Do you ever have one of those days when nothing major goes wrong, nothing especially disastrous occurs but nevertheless the day is a mega crap one?

I had one yesterday.

I didn’t get half an hour to myself at work – there was always someone around wanting something or needing my attention. Nothing particularly difficult or traumatic but I just didn’t need or want any of it.

I also found it difficult to be creative despite feeling in a creative mood. It took me nearly 90 minutes to “get into” my novel and then I only produced a measly 600 words. OK. It’s not going to be the end the world but it’s frustrating.

And then there was lunchtime.

Lunchtime summed up the entire day. I decided to treat myself by going to Mr Spud, the local purveyor of that fine English traditional meal, the hot potato. A nice hot spud with a chilli con carne filling was just what I needed to cheer me up and break the malaise of misery that had laid its broad hands upon my shoulders.

Only when I get to be served I get the dregs from the chilli pot. Instead of starting a new pot the seller merely tipped up the sparse remains of the old and slopped it all over my spud. The result was I was the only spud purchaser that day whose chilli contained not one single kidney bean.

And I love kidney beans. For me they are the highlights of a chilli.

Some days, it seems, it’s plainly not worth the effort of getting out of bed...

Another Excerpt

I seem to recall promising to post another excerpt from my novel a short while ago. A "short while" that has stretched into rather a long one due to flooding problems at work and my recent holiday in Cornwall!

Anyway, here for your delectation and serrated critical faculties - finally - is an excerpt from Chapter 9...

Book 101: Excerpt.

Apologies for posting it as a Word doc download but 9 times out of 10 I post to my blog from work (shhhh!) and I'd never get this excerpt passed the sensors if it was posted as html.

As always, thank you to all those who take the trouble to read it, it's much appreciated.

Odds Bodkins

Forgive the lack of cohesion on this post today but it amply reflects how my mind is not working. Mid-week fatigue. Ah. Dontcha just love it.

So to catch up and round down:

The pregnancy continues well in itself though it’s triggering Karen’s latent IBS. This means she’s in pain when she eats, in pain if she doesn’t and can’t ever guarantee a good night’s sleep... hence she’s permanently exhausted. Thankfully her bosses have agreed to let her reduce her hours: she no longer has to work Friday’s. This has made the working week a lot more manageable for her.

The novel continues apace: I shall post another excerpt soon. I’m sure you can all contain yourselves in the meantime.

And lastly, I was sent a link to the Simpson’s movie site (http://www.simpsonsmovie.com/main.html). It’s great – you can make your own Simpson’s cartoon character/avatar. Mine is above. Apart from a few minor discrepancies it looks a lot like me. On a bad day. Or even a good one. He’ll be the one miserably reading a poetry book and sipping a double whisky at the back of Moe’s Bar.

Hey dudes, eat my short.

Another Novel Update

It occurred to me this morning that I haven't supplied my dear readers with a novel update for a while and people are possibly wondering if the damn thing is still in progress or lying gathering electro-magnetic dust on a hard-drive somewhere.

Well the good news is that it is still very much a work in progress. I'm chugging away at it steadily and am currently up to Chapter 8 - a grand total of 45,116 words to date.

Here, for your dubious delectation, is an extract from Chapter 6:


When I open my eyes the light has changed. The sky is the colour of luminous iron and the car has filled with the tips of long shadows. A blue light pulses somewhere from the back of my head. My eyes are blurry and sting when I rub them. I grimace as the smell of the car comes back to me. Caustic and bitter with an unpleasant twist of organic rot. I breathe in carefully through my mouth trying to bypass my nose. It’s getting dark outside. How long have I been here? I check my watch. 6.30. Christ. Cass will be home and wondering where the hell I am.

Next to me Trevor is unconscious in the driver’s seat. His head is tipped back onto the headrest and his mouth is wide open and loose looking, slightly moist around the edges. He reminds me of a drooling dog. I reach out and shake his shoulder. I’m groggy and move without any finesse. Trevor’s head jolts violently as I rattle his shoulders.

“Trevor. Trevor, it’s late. I’ve got to go.” My voice comes out in a dry rasp. I sound like I’ve spent the afternoon smoking weed. “Trevor!”

“What? What?” Trevor opens his eyes and regards me balefully. His eyes are bloodshot and red around the edges like an albino. He peers at me and frowns. It takes him a second or two to recognize me. “Mike...?” He peers in closer and then sighs. His breath smells like old mould. “Yes...” He nods. “Mike.” He looks exhausted. In the half light I can make out beads of sweat on his forehead and his hair darkened down with moisture. He rubs his face with one hand while the other remains on the book lying across his legs. It looks like a huge chunk of freshly quarried Yorkstone and Trevor a pre-Restoration peasant crushed to death for witchcraft.

“Trevor, I have to go – it’s late.” My head is spinning. How has it got so late? Where has the entire afternoon disappeared to?

Trevor nods vaguely but I see a sharpness returning to his eyes as he regards me. “Yes. Yes, of course. You may go, Mike. I’ll call in on you again soon. You’ll have the proof you need. We can discuss terms later.” He waves me off like a lord releasing a servant but I’m too out of sorts to react to it. “You go, Mike. Get yourself home. You can walk from here, I’m sure.” His head lolls back onto the headrest and I hear his breath hiss unpleasantly in and out of his throat.

“Yeah, whatever. Let’s just leave things for now, shall we?” I turn away from him, eager to be out of his presence, and reach for the door handle. I feel like a drunkard. It takes me three attempts to get the car door open and when I haul myself out I have to cling to the roof of the mini to stop myself dropping straight down onto the tarmac. My breath steams cloud patterns onto the metal roof as I labour to get air into my lungs and blood into my legs. I couldn’t feel worse if I’d sat through a long haul flight to Australia.

I stamp the blood into my feet and make an attempt to let go off the car roof. I wobble precariously for a few seconds but I don’t fall. That’s good enough for me; I’m desperate to be away. God knows what’ll be going through Cassie’s mind. I push the car door closed and without a look backwards push myself off. I aim roughly for the pavement and just about make it, my feet nudging each other like a pair of dodgems. Another drunk wending his way home. Up ahead of me, on the other side of the street, I spot an ambulance and the green and yellow uniforms of paramedics kneeling on the ground. The cold air on my face is wonderfully revitalising and I pause for a minute to suck it deep into my lungs. I feel cleansed by it and inexplicably healed. Slowly I feel the dull pressure of a gross headache lift from off the top of my skull and disappear up into the darkening ether. It’s like having a rotting mask removed by a crane. By the time I walk parallel with the ambulance I feel almost back to normal, just the running panic of being unbelievably late and the distant instinct of approaching trouble because of it.

As I glance over to the other side of the road the crowd of onlookers part briefly and I spot the tramp from earlier this afternoon lying on his back on the pavement. His limbs are strangely twisted as if he’d thrashed violently around him as he fell. Even in the dulling light I can see the whites of his eyes glisten flatly like clammy mushrooms. One of the paramedics is calling a report through on his radio but nobody seems to be in a rush to get him on board. I take that to be a very bad sign. I shake my head dourly but without any sense of true feeling. So long, Fagin... I don’t let it touch me. I’m comfortably numb. Insulated by the after effects of some kind of inebriation. Instead I push onwards through the evening light and navigate the familiar strangeness of the streets, my heart pulsing covetously. Heading home.

Blooming Marvellous

It’s midweek and despite feeling shattered I’m in a pretty good mood.

Karen paid a visit to the midwife yesterday. She’s making weekly visits now so that the midwife can listen to the baby’s heartbeat. I’m glad to say that a very strong, very regular whooshing noise could be heard and all indications are that the pregnancy is progressing well. Obviously after losing the baby last year we’re both experiencing frequent bouts of anxiety over this one and it’s nice to have such regular reassurances from the midwife.

Karen is certainly starting to look very pregnant now and is exhausted by her normal working day. By choice she’s continuing to work for a few more months and then will take off a good year or so after the baby is born to recover. It’s going to mean tight times ahead but it will undoubtedly be worth it.

On the novel front things are also progressing well. I’m now writing chapter 5 and am a healthy 24,812 words into it. My mate, Tris, thinks I’m making good progress from this statistic but having previously only written and published poetry I’m finding it hard to judge the novel’s development. I guess all I can do is plough ahead and try to write as best I can. Sounds a rather mawkish and overly simplified approach but it seems to be working so far.

I took the speculative step of getting some business cards printed up for my web design business this month too. I’ve now taken delivery of 500 self-designed business cards which I shall be releasing into the world forthwith. Hopefully some local computer retailers will see fit to display my sumptuously designed calling cards and then I can sit back and watch as a host of work offers don’t flood in...

And finally Karen and I have booked our summer holiday. We deliberated and cogitated over a week in Paris. We ummed and ahhed over renting a cottage not far from Nantes. But in the end decided on a week in Marazion in Cornwall and have rented a lovely little cottage overlooking the sea. France would have been nice but Karen will be heavily pregnant by then and not up to the discomfort of overnight ferry rides... and to ensure her comfort with a cabin inflated the price of the holiday way beyond the reach of our meagre budget. The train to Paris would have been better but in the end we decided we wanted a relaxing outdoor holiday as opposed to being swept up in the madness of a city. Albeit a very cultured and beautiful one.

So Cornwall it is and France can wait until next year. Or at least until my finances are healthy again!

Novel Preview

Ooh scary.

My blog buddy, Old Cheeser, has suggested that I preview an excerpt from my novel-in-progress right here on this very blog for everybody to read and laugh at / pull to pieces / plagiarise.

I don’t usually show people my work until it’s completed so this is quite a departure for me, however, with such a big writing project I can see the benefit of gathering as much feedback as possible.

So. Here for your delight and edification is a small excerpt:

Background: Mike has been mugged and suffered a severe head injury as a consequence. He is recovering in hospital. He has recently experienced a very weird episode which he is convinced is real but everyone else is putting down to epilepsy as a result of his head injuries. Mike refuses to accept this and has recently fallen out with his girlfriend, Cassie, about it...


“Here. I got you some juice.”

Cassie holds the plastic cup out to me but withholds it just enough that I have to reach out for it. I guess she’s seeing if I’m prepared to cover some of the distance myself or continue acting like an arsehole. Her eyes are downcast, looking only at the cup with an intensity that suggests she’s certain it will spill if she risks a sideways glance somewhere else. It’s quite convincing if you’re a stranger but I know her better than that.

I gently touch her fingers with my own as I take the cup, leaving them there a second longer than necessary. As always I’m amazed at how cool and soft they feel and how much information the touch seems to communicate to me... nothing I could put into words but an instinct of something known and knowing. I see her look up immediately and make eye contact. She smiles. Small and soft like her fingers but it’s there. Her eyes still look hurt though. The blue of her pupils looks flattened out somehow. And bruised. Christ, did I do that?

“Cass. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have... I just...” I shake my head. I feel strikingly tearful which in turn makes me feel thoroughly pathetic and miserable. It must be all the drugs they’re pumping into me. I don’t usually get this emotional. I take a few deep breaths to steady the wobble in my throat. I haven’t been as snivelly as this since I was a young kid apologizing to my mother for riding my bike on the pavement and knocking Mrs Stamford over. I was very definitely in the wrong that time too. I take a sip of juice. It’s horribly bland but this isn’t the right time to voice a complaint. I catch her eye. She’s looking at me expectantly but there’s no sign of any concealed malignancy or stored-up fury in her countenance. That’s something I suppose. And more than I deserve.

I begin again. “I didn’t mean to take it out on you. You’re the last person I’d want to do that to. I just...” I wave my hand about in the air as if I could catch sift what it is I want to say from out of the dust motes. “It’s just the idea of...” My tongue buckles in my mouth. I can’t even say it. As apologies go it’s not going to win any awards for eloquence. I feel the soft burn of tears at my eyes yet again and have to break off. I give Cassie a helpless look before dropping my head and staring into my own lap. I shake my head. “What a great apology.”

Cassie’s hand moving through my hair, stroking my head and the side of my face make me look up. “I’ve had worse.” She steps nearer and her other hand pulls my head towards her breasts. I reach out and grip her around the waist, hugging her close to me. I can feel her chin resting gently on the top of my head and the warmth of her breath ruffling my hair. She’s shaking in my grip and I let her cry. Knowing Cass she’s been holding it all in since I was first admitted into the hospital. It’s weird but Cassie crying gives me the strength to get my head back together. It’s not a vampiric thing, more a reaction to her display of vulnerability: my response is to be the strong one and protect her. It’s nice to know that all my caveman genomes are responding normally.

Having my face crushed so closely against her breasts gives me an instant hard-on too. I can smell her perfume – Opium – and a vague scent of washing powder from her blouse and behind it all the unmistakable scent of Cassie: healthy sweat, hormones and emotion. I feel undeniably horny. Mr Caveman is definitely alive and well. It might be a pathetic and disappointingly male concept to cling to but that single reaction alone makes me feel more hopeful than I have done in days. So why I’m now crying is beyond me. A few short sobs and I’m done. It’s as if my awareness of crying removes the ability. I guess the analytical part of my mind is stronger than the emotional.

Two kisses on top of my head and Cassie gently breaks the hold. She steps back slightly and daylight and cool air suddenly sting my face. I feel cleaner for it. I hold her hands and we stay that way for a while, getting our bearings, not speaking.

After a while though I’m overtaken with the need to talk again. To voice my fears. I shake my head by way of a preamble. “I just can’t bear the thought of...” I still can’t say it and close my mouth over the sudden knot in my throat.

“Epilepsy.” Cassie says it for me. Quietly. Confidently. Her tone gives the word a neutral pH. Imbues it with soft pastel blues. Makes it seem like a soft puppy that just needs housetraining. See. Doesn’t seem so bad when it’s out in the open and named. Except it does and it is.

I speak slowly, taking care not to allow the fear and panic I feel lace my words with aggressive hysteria. “Cassie, I am absolutely certain that what I experienced was not an epileptic fit.” I squeeze her hands as if to emphasize what I’m saying. “I was conscious right up to the last few moments. Trevor and I had sat and talked quite calmly for several minutes before he lost it. I had trouble breathing. I had a blinding headache. I panicked. I blacked out.” Cassie opens her mouth to speak but I place a finger gently upon her lips. “Some sort of weird episode I accept. But it wasn’t epilepsy. And whatever it was, was brought on by being freaked out by Trevor.”

Cassie looks pained. I can tell from her face that she’s caught up in some sort of internal conflict. For all that Cassie is strong and fiercely independent in most areas of her life she’s nevertheless one of those people who’ll blindly accept the advice and judgment of a medical expert or doctor even if it flies in the face of her own cast-iron convictions. Mind you, I’m probably being very unfair. I’m not exactly giving her much to go on. I had a weird episode but not an epileptic fit; please believe me even though whatever sense I was born with has been punched out of me... I gaze steadily into her eyes but try not to make it too invasive, willing her to at least allow me the barest chance of being right.

At last she nods and gives me a watery smile. Again I feel like I’m being humoured more than believed but again I’m happy to settle for it. At least for the time being anyway. It buys me some time to try and figure out exactly what did happen. I sigh loudly and give a little shudder. I don’t know why but each time I think about Trevor’s visit I feel more afraid than any thought of epilepsy could possibly make me.

“We’re just so worried about you, Mike.” Cassie voice, so close to me, brings my attention back to her face. Her skin is blotchy and pale – a sign she’s not slept properly in days – but she still looks beautiful and vital.

I pull her closer still and wrap my arms around her waist. “Am I really that fragile?” It feels good to have her this close and captive. I can smell the warmth of her skin and the moisture it contains. The familiar pulses of arousal return once more.

“You didn’t see yourself when they brought you in, Mike. Your face was messed up so badly. There was so much blood.” Cassie closes her eyes, whether to remember more clearly or not to remember at all, I can’t tell. “And then you were unconscious for days. Out cold. And even after that you were only half there. With all the drugs and your injuries you were asleep most of the time. All I had to go on each time I came to see you was your face and at first it just wasn’t yours. It was so swollen and...” She struggles for the right word. “Alien. Not you.” She shakes her head as if to throw off a bad dream.

“You should have seen the other guy.” It’s a feeble joke but even so I’m surprised by Cassie’s reaction. Her shoulders stiffen and her face whitens even more. She looks worried. Sick even. “Hey, what’s wrong?” I rub a hand up and down her back to try and calm her down. I’m shocked by how much she’s trembling. I pull her into a hug and rest the side of my head next to hers. The intimacy is comforting and makes me almost feel normal. Cassie puts her arms around my neck and grips me fiercely. It’s like she’s hanging off a cliff. “Cass? Cass? What did happen? Everybody’s been so cagey about it all – even the police. Nobody will talk to me about it.”

I feel Cassie shake her head again and from her breathing I can tell she’s crying silently over my shoulder. I stroke her back some more and gently kiss her neck. “Hey, come on, it can’t be all that bad. Look, I promise not to have another funny turn.” Another feeble joke. In a crisis I’m full of them.

When Cassie’s voice comes it’s shaky and ragged and barely above a whisper. “It was horrible, Mike. They brought him in at the same time as you. Only he was dead.” I feel myself gasp feeling oddly detached from my reaction; like it’s another person experiencing it. I’m glad that I’m not only holding onto Cassie but also sitting down on my bed. My legs feel like they’ve turned to water.

“Dead? Christ. I had no idea.” In my mind I go over what I can remember of the attack. A montage of badly dubbed images and snapshots flicker before me but nothing I can get a firm grip on. I lick my lips before speaking; they’ve gone suddenly very dry. “To tell you the truth I can’t really recall anything much about what happened. I saw blood. I think.” I shake my head. “It all happened too fast.”

A loud sob from Cassie makes me refocus on the present and I squeeze her tightly to me, at a loss as to what else I can do. A typical guy, I want to find something to say to her to fix the unfixable but, of course, there isn’t anything. I just let her cry and hold her close.

“He had your name, Mike. He had your name.” Cassie bites off another sob and breathes in hoarsely. “Your name exactly. The police thought it was a joke. When I arrived I didn’t know which one was...”

More sobs rack her and her whole body seems to dissolve into a mass of trembling and convulsive shakes. All I can think of to say is, "Oh God."

Novel Watch

Novel update:

7,093 words written so far and I’m three scenes into chapter 2.

There have been several allusions to “boy on girl” naughtiness, a single random act of violence and a gritty, London tube journey from Oxford Circus to Stockwell.

Credits and acknowledgments so far extend to Wikipedia and the London Underground Map and my proof-reader, Karen.

Anyone wishing to purchase the film rights can contact me here via this blog.

How Novel

At last!

I have taken the bull by the horns. I have grasped the nettle. I have struck while the iron was hot.

I have begun my novel.

Cue global sharp-intake-of-breath (followed by much coughing and expectoration of blood).

Yes, it might only be a tentative and measly 1000 words but the mighty project is at last begun. Amid much fear and trepidation (in Las Vegas and everywhere else) I threw myself into the first page sometime around dusk yesterday afternoon. Reports that Ian McKellen and Kate Winslet are already vying for the lead roles in the film adaptation are as yet unconfirmed.

On a serious note I finally decided to take the advice of my wife and just pitch in any old how: get it written and don’t worry about whether it’s any good or not until it’s finished. My mate Tris has also confirmed that this is by far the best approach: get the first draft written without attempting to rewrite any of it and then once the core of the novel is complete you’ll be in a better position to go back and tidy things up / change things.

Karen, Tris - I salute you both.

Just Get On With It, Man!

I can’t believe how much vacillation I have entered into with regards my novel. I still haven’t begun writing the damn thing. Admittedly over-working and a dose of the seasonal flu bug that’s been going around has horse-whipped any kind of enthusiasm for extra curricula activity clean out of me... but even so, this is hesitancy on a historically humungous scale.

My current dilemma is: third person or not third person? First person has an immediacy that I like – plus all that juicy introspection – but another part of me favours third person to gain that delicious sense of omniscience... even though part of me feels it’s a trifle trad.

This debate of course is just a cover for the dark mire of nail-biting fear that is really lying at the heart of my current delay...

It’s time to put a metaphorical gun to my own head. Do it... or the bunny gets it!

The Über Novel

At long last, after literally years of harping on and on about my desire to write a novel I’m finally in a position to start one.

I have an idea. It’s workable. I’ve lived with it for a while and my intelligent and stylish wife has picked it to pieces, scanned it for logic holes and generally bullied it into tip-top shape like a hard-nosed training officer in the United Stated army (only without the muscular moustache and the baguette sized cigar).

I have the technical ability. Well, at least I think I do. I’ve been scoring quite a few successes with my writing over the last few years – it’s about time I put my skills to a bigger test and made the dream real.

I have the stamina. Yes really I do. I consistently write a thousand words a day – usually for this here blog - and regularly write for my own web site, Pocketropolis. Why not siphon off some of that verbiage into a more lasting project? Go on, my son, you can do it!

I have the motivation. God anything that offers me a possible escape route from my boring, soul destroying job will be grabbed with both hands I can tell you. The Foreign Legion and Al Qaeda were all viable options at one point. I even considered Big Brother for a while... Well. Actually, no. I didn’t. That’s a lie. Things have never been that bad.

I have the power. He-Man stylee. The planets are all correctly aligned. The Death Star plans are on board. I’m perched on the edge of Mount Doom with the One Ring in my hands.

So why instead of starting today – right now – have I again typically distracted myself by composing yet another blog entry?