Istanbul and Cirali

Off to Turkey, so no posts till mid-September.  Details of new short story when I get back.  Mrs. Rimbaud says that she has someone in mind to help her look after my allotment.  No idea who she can mean!  As long as the greenhouse is watered regularly, I don't mind.  Bye!

Poltergeist

Mrs. Rimbaud says she's getting fed up of the poltergeist.  'Keeps bringing stuff in,' she says.  'Doesn't even put it in the right cupboards!  Just leaves it lying around.'  I ask her what kind of stuff.  She complains that when she gets up in the morning after being kept awake half the night by this poltergeist wheeling stuff into the downstairs rooms, she finds it all over the place.  'Look,' she says, pointing at the TV.  'Where did that come from?  I've never had a TV.'  You need to know that Mrs. Rimbaud lives alone and is getting on a bit.  'This morning I came downstairs, the muesli was in a bowl and there was carpet on the floor.'  I suggest that I thought I saw a carpet there last time I came.  'Not this colour,' she says.  I also suggest that, if there is a poltergeist - and I'm a rationalist, by the way - and if it's bringing all these things into the house, maybe, in this time of economic hardship, it's not such a bad thing.  'I'm getting the priest,' she says, ignoring me.  'At the weekend.  Saturday.  On his day off.'  Does she mean the priest's day off or the poltergeist?
I nod, tell her I'll come by on Saturday to help out and open the front door to leave.  She shouts after me.  'A drawer full of pants!  Where'd that come from?'

Monsters, Angels, Dragons and Dark Matter

Are they all the same?  Monsters, angels and dragons.  Just debris at the edge of the imagination?  Or are they at the centre of a child's wonder at life?  Are they the dark matter that scientists spend their lives searching for?  All the while, it is created by a child's scribble on a page, chalk on the pavement, a knife scratch underneath the kitchen table - a visual representation of a need to hold back an intruding reality.  Yet at the same time creating all the hopes and fears of the world.

Dragonboy - Project Gutenberg

I'm a page away from completion of The Dragonboy of Regnaville - a short story based on one of the characters from The Dragonscale Blade.  The idea for writing these short stories was partly for me to find out a bit more about the backgrounds of these characters.  ( I have a queue of dodgy characters waiting to be written about and they're in danger of turning into an ugly mob!)  But also I was hoping to give the stories away for free.  With Amazon, that's only possible for 5 days out of 90.  I've not had the time to explore other outlets, but I now know that Project Gutenberg specialises in giving away free books.  So that might be my first option.  If any of you have had experience of Gutenberg or any other ebook outlets, I would very much appreciate your comments.  Thanks.

Book Barn

I'm just back from a trip to the Book Barn at Hallatrow, a small town 30 minutes drive from Bath.  They have a million books.  It's all second- or third-hand and nearly everything is a £1.  A lot of dated stuff, but a fascinating place with everything from a Serbo-Croatian Grammar to The Naughtier Side of Rupert the Bear.  With so much choice, naturally I came away without buying anything.  I almost bought Swordfish Fencing for Beginners.  That looked interesting.  In one dark corner, I found Fourteen Things to do with a Paperclip.  In the children's section, there was the cover only of Fartingdog Annual 1999.  I wonder what ever became of that 90s masterpiece?

Tree House

A tree house conjures up a wonderful, peaceful escape from everyday, adult worries.  My friends and I made one in the woods when we were angry kids.  It helped a lot.

They're not all like that.  On a walk, just up the hill about half a mile from our house, I came across some haphazard accumulation of branches, corrugated iron and other debris that was clearly an attempt to build a tree house.  The odd thing about it was the lack of low-down branches or any other means of clambering up there.  I was out collecting sloes for my gin at the time; not, I hasten to add, drinking it.  It starts to get dark around 8:00pm.  As I was leaving the field, some strange, stooping creature shambled across from the opposite direction.  I stood perfectly still against the hedge and watched.

Such an odd climbing style.  He (or it) must have had something metallic and sharp that clamped to his elbows - something that dug into the trunk of the tree.  Either that or something sharp protruded from his bones.

Mystery - Water Creature

There's a big pond near here.  Not very deep.  I've seen it empty in dry weather.  It feeds the canal lock as narrow boats pass through.  As I walked past yesterday, a young man was watching an expanse of bubbles on the surface, the mud was churned up.  I watched from some distance and followed his gaze as whatever was creating the disturbance was clearly about the size of a human being and was moving slowly across the pond.  The water is too murky to see anything beneath the surface.  But to me, it looked as if this thing was crawling along the bottom.  The man glanced sideways, removed the cigarette from his mouth, smiled and shrugged his shoulders.  We stood for a minute and turned to go our separate ways.
That's when there was a splash and a roar.

Medieval Fantasy - Free on Sunday

The Dragonscale Blade is free on Sunday, 19th August.
Click here for the USA - here for the UK - here for Germany.

Vinny Balfour is thrown back to the 13th century, where he is mistaken for Vincent of Baalfire.  But not by everyone.  Here is a taster:

One of the wardogs, a heavily-built mastiff, trained by an irritable, old farmer to chase people off his land and bring down hot-tempered steers, suddenly pulled free from the rope held by its handler.  The poor old wretch, rivers of sweat running down his face into his grizzled beard, beat it with his cudgel.   Then, without warning, the animal lunged wildly at the fetlocks of Zel.  The stallion reared, nearly hurling Radulph and Vinny to the ground.

As the hooves came down, they lashed out at the mastiff.  Radulph whispered in Vinny’s ear.  ‘You are not my son.’  Vinny strained to listen and hold onto the reins and Zel’s mane at the same time.  The wardog persisted.  Snapping.  Snarling.  The stallion reared again.  And came down again kicking furiously.  ‘My son, Vincent, is dead.’  The growls of the mastiff fired up the savage blood-lust of other wardogs, who added to the frenzied yelping.  ‘Of this I am sure.  You have fooled my wife.  Impostor.’

A third time, the horse reared up and its hooves came down hard.  This time solidly on the animal’s skull.  ‘I know this,’ said Radulph.  ‘For I killed him.’  There was a moment of silence.  The beast slumped to the ground.  For a few seconds, the hind legs twitched.  Then it lay still.  Forever.  A jagged crack across the skull.  Pink saliva trickled from its mouth.  Blood mingled with the dust.

The Dragonscale Blade - Free on Sunday

Burn it down, Vincent!  Burn down the house.  Burn the whole thing down.

Vinny ran around in the dark on the vast lawn in front of Balfour Manor.   Like a wild dance.  Danced by some crazy kid.  ‘Aargh!’ he screamed, holding out his hands to let the stinking petrol evaporate. 

If you’re reading this letter, then it’s too late for me.  So, burn the place down.

You can dowload your free copy of The Dragonscale Blade (UK) or here (USA) or here (Germany) this Sunday from Amazon straight to your Kindle, PC or phone with a free Kindle app.  Do let me know what you think.  This is my first full-length YA fantasy novel, with grown-up themes.  A review on Amazon would be very much appreciated.  I hope you enjoy it. 

This is my 25-word 'elevator pitch'................ 

21st Century fast-food eating, guitar-playing teenager, Vinny Balfour, propels his motorbike through a stained-glass window and gatecrashes the 13th Century reptile Wars.

Dragon Dentist?

At one end of the waiting room there is a deep red, velvet curtain, open an inch to allow a stifled breath of hope - no more - to enter the window.  Three other clients are reading magazines head down, mustering their courage.  The nearest, I notice, is fingering the contents of a Mensa magazine, no doubt wondering whether coming here was a smart move.  The room is thick with fear and some guilt - all those sticky sweets as a child, the loss of adult willpower when faced with decisions about chocolate.

But it gets worse, of course.  The receptionist enters the room.  We all try to avoid her eye.  She takes her time.  Taking pleasure in the moment, tasting it on her lips and tongue.  Thin smile.  'Mr. Cain!'  In unison, my companions sigh with relief.  The crazy notion I had of a last-minute reprieve entirely misplaced.

The stairs are long but a fiercely bright light from an opening surgery door blinds me as I approach the landing.  The silhouetted shape of the dentist stands waiting, a dazzling halo of brilliance plays with his distorted outline.  One thing is certain: beyond his shoulders there is the suggestion of wings.  Angel wings?  Dragon wings?  A few more steps and I will know for sure.  At the last moment, before entering, I spot something else.  Something in his hand, or maybe part of his hand, growing out of his hand.  He tries to hide it, to act nonchalant, but when I hold out my own hand in greeting, he peers suspiciously at me and turns away.

'Sit down, Mr. Cain.'

The Dragonboy has Reached Avignon

The Dragonboy and his family are on the run.  Catching flies with your tongue and being able to scale perpendicular walls are not normal activities, even for an active, growing boy.  What therapy would be suggested in the 21st century?  Prozac, psychoanalysis, cognitive reconfiguration?  In the 13th century, burning or drowning was the preferred, failsafe medicine.  Still, the three suspects managed to get away, left the wine-growing region of Durnstein, where Richard the Lionheart was once imprisoned, passed through the German states and into old France, where they like a trick or two.  Stories have quicker legs than runaways, however, and news may beat them to the English Channel.  We'll see.

Wizards in India

Are there wizards in India?  I mean of the Wizard of Oz variety. 
Something that used to scare the living daylights out of me as a kid watching that Judy Garland film was the sight of those flying monkeys.  I could cope with the wicked, green witch, but those monkeys - Google-map the toilets!
After visiting one of the schools north-west of Bangalore, our group was taken to a Hindu Temple high on a hill with breathtaking views.  Driving up the winding road, we passed a few monkeys and were advised to keep the windows closed.  When we arrived at the temple, there were lots of oohs and aahs upon seeing the cute baby macaques clinging to their mothers.  All gentle enough.  As soon as we left our vehicle, however, we were immediately surrounded by about a hundred that appeared from different parts of the ancient building.  They walked beside us, behind us, in front, and overhead on some of the stone beams outside the temple entrance.  They came running, looking for food, cameras, phones, water bottles, anything they might get their hands on.  One grabbed a colleague's bag and wouldn't let go.  It bared its teeth and screeched menacingly.  Others jumped down from the overhead structures.  I was reminded of another film - Hitchcock's The Birds.
Fortunately, we were rescued by some workmen doing some repairs to the building.  They shook their sticks which was enough for the marauders.  But before we entered the temple, I'd noticed something odd.  When the monkeys jumped down from their higher perches, there was one that seemed to glide through the air a bit more slowly than the others.  Something protruded from its back.  Some deformation I didn't get close enough to examine. 
So, with great humility and respect, we entered the darkness of the temple, appreciated the solemnity of the place and began to leave wondering if we would have to face the same gauntlet run once we were outside.  But the macaques had all gone.  All but one.  It sat on a low wall and looked me straight in the eye.  I think it could tell.  It knew what scared the living daylights out of me.

Angels and Dragons

Madame Rimbaud lives close by.  But you have to go down a narrow lane, sometimes ignoring the little scurrying noises in the messier corners.  She has a cure for everything.  She is very old - refuses to divulge her age to anyone.  Makes the health care workers, social services people, etc. who drop in guess her age.  'Put down what you like,' she cackles, witch-like.  'Why do you need it anyway?'  She's bent almost double with long grey hair almost touching the grimy floor, and followed at every step by a herd of stray cats.  People with strange, unnamed illnesses go to her for unnamed remedies.  Bad knees, flat feet, depression, hair loss, hair gain, short-sightedness and allergies galore.  She has something for them all.  What she doesn't have, she once confided to me, after beckoning me to a dark corner of her one-roomed apartment, is the special root that can change a dragon into an angel.  And, if I were ever to come across it, would I please let her know.

Free Books this Weekend.

If you're interested in medieval fantasies with a lot to say about the contemporary world, you might find The Dragonscale Blade and The Bullying of Harald Ruffsnape interesting.  They're both free this weekend.  And when they're not free they're very cheap.
What I'm finding, however, is that the longer I'm in this world of Crusaders, warlords, Malsaurians and people with reptilian tendencies, the more I see them around me.  There is a bridge across the river near where I live and some trees inside a high fence on the bank.  There was definitely a strange movement down there the other night.  It's a place that has no access.  Not unless you glide down, angel-like, or else explode out of the river itself.  The air was strangely hot around there too even though everywhere else was quite cold.  It is summer in Britain after all.  I know what you're thinking - could have been anybody or anything.  An old tramp, some kid fooling around.  But would a tramp have two, burning red eyes and tear at a raw fish, the light glinting off enormous fangs?  No need to answer.

India - Bangalore (Bengaluru) Schools - Children's Stories

Wherever I am, I try to look for inspiration.  It could be anything.  Some scenery, a phrase somebody uses, the physical shape, size, appearance of someone I see in the street.
When I was in and around Bangalore in India, visiting some schools with other teachers almost two years ago, I was expected to teach a science lesson on rock formation to very young children.  This expectation was a complete surprise to me and I'd come unprepared.  But given a couple of days' notice, I managed to pick up a chunk of granite on a visit to a vast granite quarry.  So instead of going straight for a lesson involving the comparison of different rocks and their proerties, I made up a story called The Stone Princess.  The kids loved it. 
Also, on the same visit, I bought a chowkabarra board game.  It's a bit like ludo.  That led me to write a story called The Giant Babala in which the game appears.  As well as those two, I did another called The Indigo Jinni involving two characters called Sontash and Priti, the names of people I met there.
Needless to say, and not just for the sake of my writing, the entire Indian experience was inspiring.

Writer's Block

What writer's block?  Does such a thing exist?  If it does, it goes hand-in-hand with displacement activity - you know what I mean - you sit down to write and you suddenly realise you'd better make a cup of tea, do the hoovering, re-lay the stair carpet, scratch something, or take up the bagpipes.  All perfectly admirable activities.

One way round this is to have two or three writing projects on the go at once.  This is what I do.  Currently, I have three fiction projects and some teaching resources I'm working on.  So when I start to slow down on one project, feel like a break, or have an idea for one of the others, I can switch without any feelings of guilt, failure of frustration.

Another way round it is just to get on with the hoovering!  Then you can always escape to your writing chair  if you have  Hoover's Block or Bagpipe Fatigue. Turn the tables and treat the writing as if it were displacement activity.

Conventional tips, of course, talk about establishing a writing schedule, an organised place and pattern of work.  Perhaps it depends on your own personality or your writing style.  But I'll write anywhere and everywhere.  I never start with a blank piece of paper in front of me, because I have notes and ideas in books, pieces of scrap paper, my phone, the shelf in my greenhouse, a plank of wood in my shed, the backs of cheques, everywhere.  So I always have something started.  Nor do I ever begin at the beginning.  I leave that blank first page for later when everything's sorted out.

BUT THERE IS ONE ASPECT OF WRITING THAT CAN SLOW ME DOWN.  The decisions I make about my characters, the paths I choose for them, the events I describe around them - these things fill me with something I can only describe as regret.  In choosing one road for them, I'm very aware of closing off others.  And that's hard.

Writing Everywhere

I keep notebooks in my greenhouse (as well as just about everywhere else!)  I also write notes on my mobile phone.  So today, in the middle of pruning some apple trees, I had to write down something about an idea I have for a future book.  Pruning shears in one hand, misspelling everything on my phone with my other hand, when a caterpillar falls down the front of my shirt and David from Seattle (I don't know anybody in Seattle) gives me a call to see if I've thought more about some software I downloaded last week.  Did I download software last week?  Luckily, although I didn't have my glasses on to check the caller, I didn't automatically say, 'Hi Baby!'  Wouldn't have mattered.  He would have thought, 'Aren't all those Brits real friendly.'  Which we are.  He says he'll call me next week.  Should have found the caterpillar by then.

Short Stories

Embarking on a series of short stories connected with The Dragonscale Blade has been a such a good idea.  Better than I imagined.  So far, of course, I've completed just one, The Bullying of Harald Ruffsnape.  But another is on its way - The Dragonboy of Regnaville - and may be finished in a week or two.  It's given me the opportunity to explore the possible formative experiences in the lives of particular characters.  Or at least that's what it feels like.  I'm aware that what I'm talking about is just fiction.  I'm making it up.  But, given the need to make their behaviour and their responses to particular events consistent with who they are, there are some constraints on what I feel they are likely to do and say.  So, even though I am making it up as I go along, it feels as if they are the boss and they are revealing more of themselves.

Do leave your comments on this or anything else about the blog.

The two books mentioned above are free on Amazon today.  Please help yourself.

The Reptile Inside Us All

The reptilian part of our brain is the primitive part that induces us to fight or take flight.  It's about survival.  But it's also the more aggressive, territorial part of us.  Vinny Balfour's father knows about these things - he's a scientist.  Vinny has to find out the hard way!
How does he cope?  Indeed, does he cope?
The answer may be found in The Dragonscale Blade.  There are also clues in the short story, The Bullying of Harald Ruffsnape.  Both ebooks are free from Amazon on Sunday.
I hope you find them entertaining.

Harald the Merciless, Harley Davidson, Aragon - Free Books

What is it that connects dragons, a Harley Davidson, the land of Aragon, Harald the Merciless, and a case of mistaken identity?  Well, they, and many more elements, all come together in two books about the Reptile Wars that are available free on Sunday from Amazon.  Motorbikes aren't the usual method of time travel, but it's how Vinny Balfour inadvertently finds himself back in the 13th century.  And taking on someone else's identity offers him his best chance of survival.  A long journey is ahead of him.  And it's on this journey that he encounters, not only the bully nicknamed Harald the Merciless, but also a couple of homocidal maniacs and a giant poet.  The full length novel, The Dragonscale Blade, and its companion short story, The Bullying of Harald Ruffsnape, are both available free this coming Sunday, the 5th of August.
Do let me have your comments.

More Free Medieval Fantasy Offers

The Dragonscale Blade and its sidekick - a short story called The Bullying of Harald Ruffsnape - will be free from Amazon this weekend.  More details tomorrow.  Or subscribe free to email notifications of new posts.  Just type your email address in the box below.