books

Polite Society.

/ Neil Bowers / Leave a comment

Things you do, things indeed you don’t do, and discussing politics it seems is one of those things.

I think we are the poorer for it, especially writers.

Stories are the near obvious vehicle for commentary, for exploring narratives, and yet it seems that this is now a taboo.  Sexuality and relationships are fine – violence never in question, but the ‘P’ word – nope, never never never. 

Where have all the angry young men, those Young Turks, the social commentators, the satirists, and holders of mirrors to society faults failures and darker traits gone? 

What has become of those writers of dystopian social commentary?   

Does the burning of information, the destruction of yesterday’s knowledge in ‘Fahrenheit 451’ still resonate – do we still grimace at the thought of those ‘Firemen’?

Can we see the alienation and inherent loneliness of perpetual self-indulgence in ‘A Brave New World’?  

Is ‘1984’, still the clarion call for freedom and the warning of the abuse of power, is it still read as a horror story and warning to us all – or is it just no longer read, instead reduced to a glib reference?

I’m NOT saying that you must discuss the human condition through a prism of political debate in your writing, but it would be nice if a few more did.

I just feel somewhat adrift from a world that seems to see political discourse as the only social taboo worth obeying.

Is it the fault/failing of social media, is it the fear of a pile on and cancel culture if you mock, deride or merely allow daylight to fall onto modern absurdities?

My woe is for the self-censoring of an art form, an expressive outlet for which any creative restriction is the very antithesis of telling compelling/challenging/interesting stories.

While I weep, while I weep…

Maybe I should tubthump a manifesto novel – maybe I should, maybe I will.

Side profile picture to the world, chin up, hand on lapel, distant and determined look in my eyes…

Hug those you love, stay safe, and try your best to remain sane!  

Echo Chambers + Purity Tests.

/ Neil Bowers / Leave a comment

Do we want to read to be entertained, and if so, then surly ONLY the story being told counts?

Naïve – seemingly.

Full Disclosure – I’m a bit of a long-term fan of Stephen King.  IT, The Green Mile, Misery – these are books that I have loved since the first creak of the spine, the receipt of that new book smell, and the joyous anticipation as the first page was read all the way to the immense satisfaction as the last one ended the tale. 

His political views have never been a consideration, nor should they ever be.

Be entertained – enjoy it in good faith and move on with your life.

If I found out a writer was a fan of Eugenics, or a devout Christian, I may find this information interesting when thinking about any themes in their work – but nothing more.

This I thought was a near universal mantras, yet it seems I’m wrong.

Purity tests now seem permissive in their prevalence – and unflinching in their dogma.  Yet this dogma flickers in the wind like a proverbial weathervane, and it must be exhausting keeping up to date.

Have we always been at war with Oceania – I’m not too sure… 

Many on social media (yes, I know it’s not real life – but it is a snapshot) routinely declare that they won’t follow such and such because of an opinion that they hold (or often are thought to hold or accused of holding) and when I see this I am at a complete and utter loss.

I sit bereft, truly bereft at it all. 

How can you live your life like this?

Would these people genuinely burn the books that brought them such joy because of an opinion that is different to theirs?

We aren’t talking about people who have raped or murdered, we are talking about folk who just see society from a different perspective and therefore have solutions, from their point of view, that may be at odds with our preferred option. 

The near automatic assumption of malicious intent on those who challenge or differ from our world view is madness – it truly is.

That’s it, that’s my rant.

Open your mind and your heart will follow!

Hug those you love and stay safe and sane.

Rules. 

/ Neil Bowers / Leave a comment

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!  

Progress.

/ Neil Bowers / Leave a comment

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!

/ Neil Bowers / Leave a comment

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.

What’s in a name? 

/ Neil Bowers / Leave a comment

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! 

Take No Heroes Only Inspiration

/ Neil Bowers / Leave a comment

If I were to state my literary inspirations, and limit those weavers of tales, those who’ve toyed with my imagination and left a lasting impression to just three, if I were to do that, then I’d amongst the many I’ve enjoyed over the years I’d have to highlight:

James Herbert – he wrote horror, and as a teenager I absolutely loved it.  Lapped it up. Spent all my pennies obtaining his works.  He wrote 20 something tales, The Fog, Fluke, Magic, and as I reread them years after their initial release, they still thrill me.  Tales of the extraordinary told in the world of the ordinary.  If I were to attempt the same tales, they would be twice as long (minimum) as that those presented by Mr Herbert.  I’d have overindulged my descriptive passions, where he balanced brevity with such panache.    

James Herbert takes a bow! 

Clive Barker is our second name to drop.  Longer tales than James Herbert, more descriptive fantasy and world building, but nothing is lost with it.  I picked up a copy of Imajica and I was instantly hooked.  More of his output was obtained, Weaveworld my favourite, and the bookshelf creaks to reflect my love of his craft.  Now it MUST be stated that as a rule, and we all break them, I don’t do ‘gore’, as (IMHO) splashes of blood are often used to mask a poorly told tale – not so Mr Barker.  Love his work.

Third from three, but not in matter of influence.  I have to, just absolutely must mention Terry Pratchett and his fantastical social commentary comedy and sheer entertaining brilliance.  I was given Good Omens to read (you like horror – read this) and from that moment on I was hooked.  The premise, the style of writing, the wickedly sharp humour, everything just clicked – and I just love his foot notes that go on for near pages.  I also think he’s written the only book of fiction that has managed to make me cry tears of genuine sadness. Forty odd books – love them all. 

An honorary mention must go to Jerry Ahern and his twenty-nine-book series The Survivalist – pulp fiction at its absolute best.  Whatever ‘literary’ means (and I do debate the snobbery attached to it) entertainment is key – and these books slip the brain into neutral and entertain.

In true Columbo style, one more thing, I must mention (it would be remis if I didn’t) the poetry of WH Davies, Rudyard Kipling and Percy Bysshe Shelly – a medium I’ve only ever dabbled in, but one that I very much admire. 

So, there are my names dropped.  Some names you know, some possibly you don’t, some of the more successful authors conspicuous by their absence Stephen King, Stieg Larson & Margaret Atwood et others.  I wanted to write my ‘top three’ and so I’ve stuck to that maxim.

None of which my scribbles emulate in style, and nor do I attempt to claim any sort of parity.  But I mention these writers whose prose has taken me on many an imaginative journey.  Inspiration from the above has come, and continues to motivate me to tell my tales, to purge my imagination of the stories that it creates.

My struggle continues to reach/create an audience for my work via the ‘traditional route’, and we are continuously teased with the enticing lure of ‘self-publishing’.

Option A is my preference, but B may just become the practical reality of necessity.

So, this missive must come to an end, and the lesson, the point of it all?  Read. That’s it, that’s the aspiration of this scribble.  Read.  One day you may read my scribbles, but until that day read someone else’s and enjoy the ride. 

Whatever you are doing, stay safe, remain sane, and take no heroes – only inspiration!

Oh, the book that bought a tear to my eye – Snuff (harvesting diamonds).   

TBR & WiP

/ Neil Bowers / Leave a comment

Time is indeed the stuff of life, and how we spend it is the greatest freedom and responsibility we’ll ever have.

Priorities compete, and sometimes what we should have done, what we should be doing, come second and third to what we are actually doing.

Today’s example is the great battle between that alluring pile of newly purchased books – colloquially known as the to be read pile or TBR and that other passion of the works in progress aka WiP. 

These competing piles are part of our passion for life. 

We read because life enthrals us, and we write because we have tales to tell.

My TBR is never empty, and my WiP never complete.

Yesterday, to my TBR, we added another three eclectic titles.  A book on Irish Fairy Forts, a book about Fake Heros, and finally a reread of a classic novel from my youth – James Herbert’s ‘Fog’.

Now these three recent additions won’t sit on the shelf in isolation, they join an illustrious group of other titles competing for my time.

If a book of say 80,000 words takes about eight hours to read, reading in the evenings after work and all chores of domestic life are complete, one book a week should be achievable.

I have fifteen books in my TBR. 

Assuming the one a week rhythm, that’s enough unread books to last a smidge over three months before my TBR shelf is empty – and that again assumes no new books are added (which they will be).

So, it’s safe to say that we have a lot of reading banked up. 

Then we have the near unquantifiable output that is my WiP. 

As a rule, my tall tales have the two-inch spines, they’re long reads, and even longer writes.

Sometimes the prose flows, sometimes it is an all-consuming passion that precludes all others (domesticity being exempt) and it consumes hours as a starving man eating at a free banquet voraciously eats roast chicken.

And then sometimes it feels like untold hours watching a cursor blink… 

For now, the balance is more creaking spines than tapping keys, but this will change, and the pendulum will swing the other way. 

Point of this missive?

If it makes you happy – do it.

Don’t stop doing what makes you happy.

Don’t feel you need to defend your happiness.

And most important of all, don’t assume you have to read sixty books a year AND write a million words.

Pace yourself, enjoy the ride, pause often, and keep your pursuits as varied as you can.

Hug those you love, stay safe, and try to remain sane! 

Fight Club – Rule #1

/ Neil Bowers / Leave a comment

We all know it, so let’s just not talk about it!

So, it seems, depending upon which tranche of learned wisdom you read, the No#1 rule for writing is (bizarrely enough) tell NOBODY until the project is finished, complete, polished beyond mere shining, and sat on a shelf somewhere waiting to be purchased – only then may you obtain a drum with which to bang!   

This truth I read on an agent’s website. 

Now, as with all things scribble related, an equal and opposite volume of advice exists stating that born again evangelical zeal is the bare minimum – you MUST have a website, you MUST have a Social Media presence (multi-platform is preferable) and you must parade through the streets while wearing a sandwich board and carrying a megaphone… 

Somewhere between the two isn’t truth, it’s just more bad advice.

For my twopence worth – to be taken with a liberal pinch of salt –

I’m a slow learner, but I’ll share this lesson:  Love your work, be unashamed and let the world know just what they are missing!

To thy own self be true. 

Don’t stay in your lane, NEVER only write about what you know, and NEVER, absolutely NEVER build a shrine (literal or metaphysical) to that author you really like.  Never hang on their every word, taking their mutterings and musings as the absolute and only truth – don’t, just don’t.

Take inspiration from as many sources as you can, read widely, discuss, and share wherever possible.

This book, this novel that you’ve poured your heart and soul into deserves the most authentic version of you to parade it – so speak truthfully, speak joyfully.

Buy a drum & bang it!!!

Stay safe – remain sane.

#176.

/ Neil Bowers / Leave a comment

Walk away, just walk away, don’t look back, never look back.

Social media, it’s a blessing, it’s a key to the great beyond, it’s potentially wonderful, but it is terribly destructive too.

The algorithm picks things for you to see, things it thinks you’ll like, and slowly but surely an echo chamber is created. 

Not just an echo chamber of things you like, but things it thinks you’ll react to.     

Save your sanity and walk away.

Negative comments and stories of sorrow woe and cruelty dominate, and you become the world you read.

You know you’re in control; no collection of ones and zeros is going to dictate your mood – but it does. 

It is pervasive and it is unrelenting – it is all of that, until you just turn it off and walk away.

Two and a half hours a day the average person spends on social media – two and half hours EVERY day!!!

Imagine if you looked at your calendar and saw two and a half hours EVERY day blocked out to read things you didn’t want to read – EVERY day, two and a half hours every day, what have we done to ourselves???

Social media truly is the SOMA of our generation, the true opiate of the masses, and I really need to go cold turkey. 

The plus, my sanity aside, is that time spent scrolling is now spent writing, is now spent reading, and I feel so much better for it – I genuinely do.

It’s not an airport, so your departure needn’t be announced, yet here we are …

Maybe I’ll go back, maybe at some point over the horizon I’ll revisit, but not just yet, it’s too much of a cesspit of sadness – it is the piss-stained wet blanket that smothers/suffocates the entire world.

For now, this is it, this is the only voice into the wilderness that I have.

So, drop by and say hello, or just have a read and mosey on past.

Stay safe, stay sane!