Time and Tide (Happy Talk)

It hits us all, one day we realise that we are indeed ‘old.’

I know that ‘old’ is of course a relative concept – when I was six or seven, being ten or twelve was ‘old’, or indeed when I was in my teens anyone in their thirties was just too old to exist in decent society – Logans Run take a bow!

Now though, I am, I think, by most objective measures (almost) old.

I’m blessed to have made it this far – hitting your late fifties is a milestone that tragically alludes many a person. 

They say that a good life is measured by how many tall tales you could tell when sat around a campfire – and indeed there is truth to that thought.

Life isn’t about the things you didn’t do; it is about those great adventures you had while trying – maybe it was successful, maybe it wasn’t – but wasn’t the ride a pure adrenaline rush – oh and look at these scars!!

I’m not advocating for a pure hedonistic self-centred approach, but I am mindful of a speech I have on my study wall –

“It is not the critic who counts, not the one who points out how the strong man stumbled or how the doer of deeds might have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred with sweat and dust and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again; who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, and spends himself in a worthy cause; who, if he wins, knows the triumph of high achievement; and who, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat.”

The theme of this speech by Theodore Roosevelt echoes in many of my musings – especially the call not to be sat with ‘those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat.’ 

Life, responsibilities, opportunity, health, a myriad of things including and never forgetting cold hard cash impact aspiration and often impede actualisation – but as Teddy says, it is the striving that counts.  It is the intent and moves within whatever limitations you have to deliver your dreams – that is what counts, that is what is important.

This isn’t a manifesto for excuses, for letting things slide – if only…

This is the honest pragmatism that sometimes dictates that dreams of your youth may take longer to deliver than you hoped – but you persevered.

Old indeed you may be now, a greybeard silverback – but the fire is still burning, the desire to complete your quest still your focus.  The bones may indeed creak, the body is slower to deliver, the mind occasionally absent minded, but the direction of travel remains true.

This is my quest to follow that star

No matter how hopeless, no matter how far

To fight for the right without question or pause

To be willing to march into Hell for a heavenly cause

And I know if I’ll only be true to this glorious quest

That my heart will lie peaceful and calm when I’m laid to my rest

And the world will be better for this

That one man, scorned and covered with scars

Still strove with his last ounce of courage

To reach the unreachable star

Two quotes, one from a president of the United States, and one the lyrics from a musical – do they compliment what I’m trying to express – I hope so.

I think we must always be mindful of our achievements thus far in life, but we must always keep an eye on those things we’ve yet to do.

Time is passing, the grains of sand are running out and tomorrow is only ever a promise.

I wanted to write a book, to see if I could, and that I have achieved.

Now I have a book, a tall tale that I want to release into the wild – to let it run free to have its own adventures.

Maybe it will get four stars, maybe only one – but it will be out there, and as we throw another log onto the fire, I can regale you with the trials, tribulations, successes, and failures of a man who dared to dream…

Hug those you love, hug them, and tell them that you love them.

Stay safe, remain sane, and follow your dreams!

If you don’t talk happy,

And you never have dream,

Then you’ll never have a dream come true!

Rules. 

The are rules for comprehension – this is true, but amongst the writing fraternity the are many unwritten counterintuitive ones too. 

Many will tell you that you cannot do this, and that you absolutely must not do that.

Readers, we are told, don’t like long books, cannot read sentences longer than ten or twelve words, and most definitely bulk away from words with more than four syllables. 

These rules we are told aren’t hints and tips – no they are more serious than that, they are absolute articles of faith – heresy just won’t be tolerated.

The religious tenants stipulate that you cannot show – you must tell, oh and adverbs only with express written permission, and then only sparingly.

If your book reads anything other than as if it’s a rewrite of a Dr Zeus Green Eggs and Ham – you are indeed doomed to fail!!!

To those of the faith, those true to the (w)rite, those pure in the faith also pour scorn upon prologues – never it seems can you set the scene or add important context.

 Then we have the absolute gem around writing from a point of view that isn’t ethnically/spiritually/sexually yours – don’t do it – stay in your lane you cultural appropriating ne-er-do-well!

It does come across as peculiar that those who bang the drum for ‘authentic voice’ must never read Sci-Fi (speculative fiction), fantasy, or indeed really understand the basic concept of ‘fiction’…  but they do have a rule – and that it seems is the only thing that matters. 

Now, as with everything in life, if you step away from the zealots and avoid the chaos of true anarchy, then between the two is the happier path.

And this is the needle I try to thread.

I write long books; I have tales that are not short and pithy.  They are what they are.

I write long sentences – guilty, these I try to shorten and rewrite, but sometimes it is just what it is.

I enjoy delving into the vast ocean that is the English language and playing with the richness of its lexicon – so words can be short or long, but always it is hoped enriching the tale being told.

I show, oh do I ever show.  If the opportunity arises, we show with the unashamed and near reckless abandon, and then just to further add colour to the painted image we add adverbs with additional reckless aplomb.

Point of this missive? 

Some rules exist for a reason, some to inspire, some to influence, and some just to be ignored.

Avoid the petty, keep the aim of telling an enjoyable tale front and centre, and give the reader more credit than the rule screaming zealots.

Stay safe & hug those you love!  

The fear of success (achievemephobia)

It’s a weird one, but it’s one I think many a hacker of stories and teller of tall tales struggles with.

What if, despite our expectations, the book is both liked and successful?

Where to then?

How would we square that circle?

Not one that I must struggle with – but it is one that haunts me.

What if after all the years of struggle, the dark cold nights of the soul where everything has been questioned, what if after all that my book does okay and people like it?

Weird isn’t it.

Fear of success normally succumbs to self-sabotage or an over inflated case of imposter syndrome – but what if this time it doesn’t?

In a world full of real problems – this one is mine.

Writers are such melodramatic types.

Hug those you love, put perspective on your worries and whenever possible smile at the world and enjoy the ride that is life.

Progress.

So, I’ve written the elusive novel that we all have inside ourselves.

I’ve written that novel, the sequel, the one after that, and then scribbled volume four.   

Half a million or so words taking a young twenty-two-year-old woman from Dromahair County Leitrim, taken her around the world, through deserts and across vast mountain ranges. 

Amy’s flown through thunderstorms, danced with lightning, had gunfights, swordfights tweaked the nose of many an assailant.

She’s done this in Egypt, The Sudan, India, Canada, North America, before finally coming back to Ireland as a 29-year-old whose heart has been broken too many times.

She’s danced with those she loved, lost them too. 

Revenge and vengeance have driven her; magic and a gossiping fairy accompanied her.

Evil men, cruel men, truly sadistic men have cut her, tried to kill her, imprisoned her and stolen her child from her, but by her own hand all who have stood against her have died.

Her story has been written.

The tales of her adventures neatly typed up.

Typo’s, run on sentences that go on and on and on, these where we’ve noticed them, these have been corrected.

Scenes have been polished, the superfluous removed, the remaining tied tighter than a drumskin.

It flows.

No gaps exist, no whatever happened to such and such left unanswered, the beginning meets the middle, and the middle neatly flows to the ending.

I love her tale, her adventures, her journey.

They have merit, and so I’m backing myself and self-publishing.

I looking to unleash Miss Amy Grace unto the world Q1 2026.

Pennies have been saved, the services of an exceptional editor booked, ideas for the cover confirmed.

The best possible version is coming soon, and with the clock ticking so too is your chance to be swept away by five feet and two inches of fierce determination under a crown of flame red hair getting ever closer.

She is worth the wait.

I’m excited.

You should be too!

Coming early 2026 – Amy Grace: Payne

Pull them in and keep them turning the page!

That is the dream of every writer.

Every teller of tall tales struggles with that concept – the delivery such a subtle art.

Some argue over the power of the opening line – is it the critical event between reader and writer, is it the tantalising appetiser that will keep the reader coming back for more and more and more?

Can a few lines of our scripted prose keep them hooked?

Can an opening line deliver the whole book from page one?

It’s true that my favourite opening line is from an author I’m not really a fan of – I love his stories, just not his style. 

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way—in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.”

However, for this opening line, Mr Charles Dickens – Tale of Two Cities – take a bow.

This prose has so much going for it, yet it’s also one that today I’m sure would be broken up and lose its magic. 

Who today would get away with a 119-word sentence?

It tells us so little of the time and place, and yet at the same time (with a little thought) it tells us so very much. 

And that is the genius of such prose, it doesn’t talk down to the reader, there is no spoon feeding of anything, your ability to follow the story is taken for granted – and so the opening line works and works so very well.

So, how do you emulate this?

Me, I’ve tried and tried again and again to get the hook suitably baited – for the opening line to be a true aperitif of what is to come.

With Amy Grace and her opening adventure, I tried to set the time (late 1800’s), location – a train from Alexandria to Cario and then a small introduction of peril insofar as the train has broken down. 

“Railways were synonymous with punctuality; they were an accepted byword for engineered Victorian efficiency.  Yet Amy sat motionless in the afternoon heat, in a broken-down train, somewhere between Alexandria and Cairo.  The intended three hours of travel would eventually draw out to become several long boring and uncomfortable ones.” 

Did/does it work – I hope so.

My latest work in progress is a little novel called ‘HIM’, a tale of a man waking up in prison and trying to find his identity. 

“So little liquid, so much potential compressed into it.  It had gone cold, but he still sipped absentmindedly at his expresso.  People came; people went.  Life’s rich tapestry was a slowly changing tableau to his front. He watched but followed little.  He should have been paying rapt attention, but he wasn’t.   He was a middle-aged man in a nondescript jacket and open neck shirt relaxing in a Sardinian pavement café drinking coffee.  He was sat alone, which for this café was unusual, he also had no open laptop, newspaper, or mobile phone competing for his attention, and that if noticed would have struck any viewer as approaching strange.  But nobody appeared to paying attention to anything.  Everything was slow, mañana personified.  The sun was lazily sinking into the sea, the fishing boats half-heartedly bobbing with the lackadaisical tide, even the evening breeze moved with all the speed of a sulking teenager. 

When the guns exploded and the tables were tipped over and the screaming and scattering of feet began, it was all too quick, too out of place for people comfortably slowing into the evening to comprehend.  Light travels faster than sound, but it was sound that dominated everything. 

Blood stained the pale stone pavement, screams of alarm startled the seagulls into flight, while the dead body repulsed the living who pulled themselves in the opposite direction, any direction that was away from the man whose life was spilling into the Romanesque cobbles.

All moved away less one man. 

He didn’t move because he was the designated dead man.”

Does it work?

Again, I hope so.

I hope the reader can taste the story that is to come and that the way that it is written is both acceptable and pleasing to the palate.

Time will tell.

While I obsess on the trivial, worry about the placing of this comma and description (show don’t tell) of that thing, while I do these things, be kind to each other, hug those you love and tell them so.

Collecting the Can.

You can only kick the can so far down the road, and to be fair I’ve been kicking it with some passion since 2015 (see blog entries).

Whether what I’m about to do is a fool’s errand, an expensive indulgence in vanity, or indeed a very much overdue and necessary act – only time will tell.

I have made an agreement with an editor to assist with me with Amy Grace: Payne from September. 

This book was started so many years ago, has spawned three additional volumes, and undergone innumerable internal reviews and revisions – now it needs that final polish, it needs to be set free.

I’m more excited than a small child looking at a BMX shaped present on Christmas morning – I’m also so very relieved. 

I’ve prevaricated, dithered, worried and taken every step I could to prevent/avoid this step.

For this little teller of tall tales this act is truly seismic – it isn’t the end of the process, but to paraphrase ‘“This is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.” Or maybe not – I can, at times, get a little carried away with myself.

I’m sure that there will be many bumps in the road ahead, some tears, some disagreements and some hard truths accepted – probably.

But none of this can diminish the sheer excited trepidation and joy that I’m currently feeling – I am a songbird released, and I so want my song to be heard.

The next step is now in process.

I am excited.

Stay safe, hug those you love and smile at the world – you all deserve happiness!

Just one more try, just one more…

I know it’s bad for me, but what if this time I’m lucky – so said every gambler, every addict to chance since the dawn of time. 

The addictive little back riding monkey that is Query Tracker is calling…  

Shouldn’t.

Should walk away.

Should find something less soul destroying to do with my time.

And yet…

We repolish our one-page synopsis and ensure out first fifty pages are the easy to read double spacing and font 14. 

Thoughts and prayers are appreciated at this difficult time.

Stay safe, remain sane, and keep hugging those you love!

Why?

Why do we do it?

To what end do we scribble out tales, infuse words with emotion and passion?

What is our end game?

Is saying “ta-dah” I’ve written a book enough?

Is such an achievement (and it is an achievement) all that is required?

Is that the only laurel that we need? 

Or is writing that tale not the summit, but a false peak nestling at the bottom of yet more cloud covered mountains?

Do we roll our shoulders, adjust the weight of our pack and plod relentlessly onwards?

Again, what when we eventually reach the final snow-capped summit, what then?

The little cross-legged sage, what wisdom, what lessons for a fulfilling and well spent life will he cast upon us?

Will he commend us for our focus, our determination and drive, or will he lament that we missed so much of the ‘other’ that life has to offer us?

Will the singular goal of being traditionally published ever be worth it?

The pain of disappointment cuts deep, each cut is if it were the very first.

Maybe it is the wrong target.

It’s never too late to admit an error of focus/judgement, and maybe I’m only just realising what for so many others is blindingly obvious. 

Overthinker, pantster and I can be a slow learner… however even I get there in the end.

Hug those you love, hold them tight.

Stay safe and try to remain sane! 

Touching the Void

Hard times create strong men, or so the phrase goes.

Sometimes demanding times just create that, hard times. 

No crushing pressure creates that diamond in the rough, it just creates pressure that cushes.

How do we rise after falling?

Mostly with broken bones and bruised egos.

Nothing worthy is ever easy…

At this point I’m loudly shouting, ‘feck off’ at the screen, just ‘feck off,’ ‘feck off, feck off, feck all the way off and then keep fecking all the way off.’

You can only take so much of that affirmation rubbish before you go ‘metaphorically’ postal with the world. 

With apologies to writer of the book after which we’ve titled our latest missive, what if any is the point? 

As annoying as those little sayings of affirmation and joy are (and they are) the underlying truth is one we must embrace.

First world problems are just that, the sufferings of privilege and we must learn to treat them as such.

If we accept Maslow and his hierarchy of needs – then all that ails us, all that we feel pain and suffering over are indeed the very tippity top of the pyramid.  We should feel blessed that we have such a firm foundation upon which we luxuriate and bemoan.

So, short posting, positive message – get a grip, grab some perspective, life may be uncomfortable, but its still there so we should enjoy what we’ve got, and not hold pity parties for those things we’d like.

Stay safe, stay sane and hug those that you love!   

What’s in a name? 

It’s only a name, but then again it never really is, it’s always so much more.  Maybe that’s why writers struggle for untold numbers of hours picking just the right one for their beloved character. 

For me Amy Grace was only ever going to be called such, I felt an instant connection with the name.  John Newton’s words still resonating two hundred and something years later!

I’ve tipped my hat to hymns and pre-Raphaelite painters – John Fredrick Lewis case point. I’ve name dropped John Lilburne et others who were Levellers/Diggers from the English Civil War.  I’ve paid homage to Thomas Pain(e) a pamphleteer (blogger of the 1700’s) as one of the main characters in the Amy Grace sagas.  I’ve name dropped with such reckless abandon that to walk through ANY tale I tell, you’d do well to have a sideways glance at the naming of every character.

I reference so many aspects of my immersion in (pop) culture, that the more of my tales you read the more my musical and literary peculiarities become clearer.  My bent for history, mythology (fairy tales), art and music do indeed bleed into my stories – and why wouldn’t they?

So, when I found myself doing one of those self-dictated writing exercises where you just take an image and try to write about it, I found myself in a bit of a quandary… 

Walls of water rushed across the open fields; each wall chased by its replacement as an invisible army of artisans worked with manic speed to construct the next in line, and the next, and the next…  Lightning struck, but could highlight no gaps, thunder shook the air with a violence that stole the breath from awestruck bodies.  But nothing could compete with the walls of water for spectacle or violence. 

The storm was in ecstasy, the rain manifestation of its joy. The wind howled accompaniments to the booming thunder and flashing lightning, but nothing, nothing could hope to surpass the destruction that such a volume of falling water was bringing! 

The banshees wanted to ride the storm and scream their laments, but this was the domain of the rain, all others would have to wait their turn.  These hours belonged to the goddess of water and no challenge to her power would be permitted.  

Such power I thought must be feminine, must be the work of a female deity, and the simply must be one that I could name drop, there just must be such a suitable reference.  Rabbit hole entered, time spent and conversations with friends and colleagues steered towards the subject. 

[Top tip, don’t ask a writer what they’re thinking about unless you want to discuss something random/obscure and be pulled into the madness with them – don’t make eye contact, just grunt ‘was up’, get your coffee and walk away – it’s safer, it really is.]

Now this was only ever going to be a ‘for fun’ writing exercise.  I had no need for this scene; it was just me writing words for fun.

Background programmes ran most of the morning, little synaptic links came up with ideas, but no solutions.  Masculine gods queued for the job, the candidates numerous and plentiful.  The women frustratingly conspicuous by their absence….

I didn’t NEED to do this, this wasn’t (as already stated) a passage for a tale in progress – this was just for fun!

Anyway, after innumerable false starts and rejected names, I came up with Danu

Innumerable academic arguments seemed to exist as to whether indeed she did or indeed did not – she was therefore the perfect candidate.

Every trophy the wind picked up; the rain beat down.  This was her time and for Danu there would be no usurpers.

That was it.  Task complete a suitable name chosen.  

The passage was now complete; the storm was the work of a Celtic goddess called Danu – all was now good in the cosmos. 

All that energy invested for something that in all likelihood would only ever see the light of day in a blog post – her inclusion into a tall tale precarious at best.

This may explain why writing those 173 words took so long, and indeed why writers stand prouder at that little collection of words than a parent beaming at their tiny child and that first potato print painting…  

Peculiar bunch writers.

Hug those you love, remind them that indeed you do, stay safe, and continue to do your best to remain sane!