Who are you?  Who, who, who, who??

We know the lyrics to this song, we know the catchy chorus, but knowing the song and adequately answering the repeated question aren’t the same thing at all. 

Buy me a cup of tea, possibly add into the mix a nice traybake and we can happily gossip about the lives that we’ve led, the complexities of the universe and our respective places in it. 

But ask me to submit a pithy paragraph that would entice a person I’ve never met to ‘pick me’ and read my submission…  palpitation overload!

I am overthinking this trial. 

I know I’m putting far too much thought into it, but if this ‘narrative’ is my shop window, my chance to entice you into the emporium of Telling Tall Tales, how indeed do I sweeten the lure?

I’m a 50 something bloke.  Married, live on a farm, and I’ve had a few jobs, travelled a bit – seen some of life, cried at it too. 

I love books, music, castles, tanks and dinosaurs …  I write tall tales, I stretch credibility just enough so as not to be ridiculous. 

My tales are all compassionately told – no exploitation, no demining put downs or dismissive tropes.  I try my very best to be kind amongst all the cruelty.  I try.  I do.

My scribbles have merit.

They may need polishing – I cannot debate that.  But even in the state that I present them, they are still a journey worth taking, time worth investing, pages worth turning!

So, me, how does being me entice YOU to read my wares – the answer to that I honestly don’t know.

I am beyond naïve in my hope that a good tale will carry itself – me the writer nothing more than an anecdote after the fact – never the appetiser that takes you to the main course. 

But, if I cannot get you into my shop, if my window dressing isn’t enticing – what hope a tale well told?

I don’t know the answer, maybe while walking the dogs a flash of genius inspiration will strike me (and I’ll remember it!), or possibly I’ll hope that my submitted biography is just enough to keep my tale away from instant rejection…

We all have dreams – this is mine.

Stay safe – remain sane!

Jumping the Shark

There is that moment, I suppose that point of time that unifies all people who write a series, where they look back and ask themselves that question ‘have I jumped the shark/nuked the fridge’? 

Star Wars, good god, it most definitely did that so long ago, yet perplexingly it still makes money‽

We digress…

Big empty auditorium I have a character who has been beaten, abused, suffered almost intolerable pain, and yet survives, survives, and thrives (all be it with nightmares and crippling bouts of sadness). 

Is it all so-so pedestrian predictable rehashing?

Have we passed the shark jumping moment?

Is it a tale with recurring themes or rehashing old tropes? 

Self-doubt is a crippling monkey that happily climbs on your back to whisper incessantly in your ear… 

Good art is not its own reward – it just isn’t. 

Words are written to be read, paintings to be seen.

Creations aren’t finished when the paint dries and the keyboards stop clicking, bizarrely these are the moments that only confirm the true beginning of the project.

To be relevant Art must be enjoyed.

To be enjoyed it must be seen, be experienced.

The monkey is telling me all the doubt, all the negative. 

There is a chap called ‘Harvey Andrews,’ a Birmingham (England) folk singer of some considerable ability.  This chap wrote a song called ‘Writer of Songs’ which articulated better than I can ever hope to express the urge to create written words, for him it was songs, for me tall stories…

So, Amy, is it cliché trope overload? 

Is the (absent) reader sat there mouthing the plot before it has happened?

Do we invite others into our world to ‘spice it up,’ ‘keep it fresh’ or are indeed those actions as predictable as the preceding ones? 

Henry Winkler is poised; the speedboat is revving its engines…