fiction

Of Mice and Men…

/ Neil Bowers / Leave a comment

Yes, it’s a reference to book by the writer of my favourite book of all time “The Grapes of Wrath” but it’s also a nod to that all important missive about counting chickens before they’re hatched.

It was the best of plans; it was simplicity personified – virtually no moving parts or interdependent actions.

And still it failed.

Of mice and men take a bow…

I wanted to publish my book, I want to publish my book, and I need to publish my book – a demon needs to be exorcised.

Pride must come before the fall, but if I don’t try then I’ll never know – and the not knowing is eating me up inside.

My work may fall flat on its face, it may come across as stilted, contrived cliché driven trope heavy nonsense – or indeed it may not.

The pudding only has one proof and that’s in its eating.

I think it has merit – I truly do.

I’m not that naïve as to think garlands will be thrown at my feet and accolades gifted from on high – but I do honestly think that once read my tale of Amy and her woes will be enjoyed.

She has a journey to take the reader on, some ups, some deep downs, some redemption, and some disappointing failure that will challenge.  Some of it will deliver a wry smile, some of it genuine tears of sadness, but each page will be willingly turned to find out what happened next…

That is my dream, that is my goal.

I had a plan.

It was a simple plan.

All it needed was the due backpay to arrive, the money would then pay for an editor, the editor would help me polish my work and then the absolute best version of Amy Grace: Thomas Payne would be released onto the world.

The editor – his time was booked.

It was all going so well.

And then pride tripped, we fell.

The money isn’t there.

What every year had been a (literal) bankable constant this year is still in stasis.

It will arrive, but no one knows when.

The frustration mounts.

By October I’d hoped to be in the final draft/discussing the artwork phase, and I’m not.

A Christmas stocking filler my work will not be.

It’s annoying.

I’m angry.

I’m barking at the moon – but I’m also helpless.

I cannot influence things; I can only stand in the sidelines as some sort of impassive spectator.

Patience will be my virtue, but frustration at this delay will cut deeply.

The project IS delayed, but NOT cancelled.

I have belief, and I hope you share this faith.

She is worth the wait – she truly is.

Amy IS coming.

Stay strong and hug those you love!

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!  

Time and Tide (Happy Talk)

/ Neil Bowers / Leave a comment

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. 

/ 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).   

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.

Pavlov’s dog goes to Vegas.

/ Neil Bowers / Leave a comment

That little icon, it’s so inviting, just one last hit for old times’ sake, just one trip round the world, you can control it, you know what you’re doing…

DELETE.

It’s almost an involuntary action, open your phone, click on icon of choice, dribble down chin, become angry/frustrated at the world, loose two and a half hours and have nothing to show for it afterwards.  You don’t feel better, you’re not better informed on world events, you’re not better by any objective measure.

So, you haven’t’ picked up your phone, it’s not ringing so why are you looking at it?

The realisation that your phone isn’t a vital appendage is groundbreaking and liberating.  If someone wants to talk to me it will ping or ring, if it’s silent then leave it alone – do something else!

We’ve been reading – oh the joy, the remembered pleasure of the written world taking you on an adventure.  Currently I’m in Belfast witnessing the battle between a recurring evil and a young woman trying to stop this serial killer – and it’s good.

I’m also when not reading, typing away – purging my own imagination.

The latest missive started as an opening line.  A man sitting on a pavement café in Sardinia, who is just watching the end of a day:

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 seemed to follow 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 sitting 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 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… 

And good bad or indifferent this little section of prose helped pull me from the abyss that took two and a half hours of my life every day. 

I’m a pantster by trade and I’ve literally no idea where this tale is going, except it is going to Vegas because that town has always fascinated me.

Lots of tall tales have migrated towards Vegas, and HIM is no different.  We don’t know who he is, or indeed why THEY are after him, and importantly neither does he. 

HIM is my post social media project.  A dalliance into writing a short (10,000) word story.  So far, it’s working.

Oh, the tale we are weaving and the fun we are having – Intrigue, murder and a kind-hearted prostitute who doesn’t want or need rescuing.  

So, point of this missive.

Time is the stuff of life, you only have so many breaths/heartbeats etc.  You can spend two and a half hours every day doing something you don’t really enjoy, or you can delete the app and do something else. 

As a child (age spoiler) I remember a TV show imaginatively called – Wdyjsoytsagadslbi?: Why don’t you just switch off your television set and go and do something less boring instead?

Maybe the folk in the late 1970’s weren’t too far off the mark?

Stay safe, remain sane AND Wdyjsoytsagadslbi?