Gut feelings

Three months? Lots going on - some resolved - some not. I am due to have an exploratory camera thrust down into my gut on Monday afternoon. Hopefully that will sort out what has been plaguing me since I last posted. I am told that I must post the pictures on Facebook - not sure that will be wise.

I've completed some writing, but renovating the smallest room in the house took a considerable time - wouldn't you know it! What writing I have achieved has been mainly on the Jack Chandler sequel. Set in New York, Washington and London (and possibly Slovakia if the Trenchin Castle idea comes up trumps) it has action, assassinations and a secret society to end all secret societies (Dan Brown eat your heart out). Jack realises that the powers pulling the strings behind the scenes of Western Governments have an agenda beyond even his jaundiced imagination - but deciding who he can trust with the information is another matter.

I'll try not to leave posting so long next time - depends how the pictures develop!

As I was saying ...

Two months? Has it really been two months?


I have had my head down - doing a rewrite. The Messenger intentionally crossed set genres (thriller and supernatural) and it was suggested that it could pose a selling challenge to an interested agent. So, I decided to see how the story may fare from being purely a thriller without its 'other world' subplot. The exercise has been fascinating. Whilst the concept of the original story - (are war dead free from the pain of death?), poses a threat (the more we kill, the more likely we are to kill ourselves) and brings a message (those who profit from war will destroy us - so believe nothing - question everything) when the supernatural subplot is removed it creates a totally new focus. Iran and the Middle East dilemma are still the object of the story, as is the US invasion, but the 'new' story (for which there is no working title as yet) drops the wordage from 144,000 to 115,000 and reduces the characters. The pace, however, is increased and becomes more story led than character led. Both allow me to provide a sequel. So, there we have it - that's where I have been for two months.

Oh, yes, and I met up with Camilla Bolton (Darley Anderson) at the Crimefest event in Bristol and she has requested the first ten chapters of the revised story when it is finished (in around two weeks).

The local bicycles. Red of course ...

On Good Friday the journey from Calais to the Dutch hotel was tiring, but the food and accommodation more than made up for that. On Saturday we had a restful couple of hours on a boat travelling along the canals just outside Keukenhof - then visited the bulb fields and gardens - which are beautiful and have many hoardings extolling the Dutch connection with the USA. I didn't realise that the expression 'Yankees' comes from the Dutch, Jan (John) Kees (baboon). Not a terribly nice term I guess.
Travelling to Vollendam proved interesting if not a little eerie. We journeyed along a 19 mile length of roadway constructed from reclaimed land. The road was around 20 feet wide and only a couple of feet above the water on either side of us. The eerie part came in when we stopped halfway across and took in the view - water in every direction! God help the Dutch if sea levels rise.
In Amsterdam, on Sunday, the canals were atmospheric as were the buildings - the Venice illusion was strong. Back on dry land, I could not believe how many bicycles were parked up around the city - thousands of the things, in all shades of colour and age. Interestingly, despite the free use of Cannabis, the riders appear to obey the traffic signals - unlike some of the cyclists in this country. Again, I didn't realise that the title Coffee House (with an English spelling) signified where the drug is available - as opposed to Cafes where it apparently isn't. Anyway, we gave the spliffs and 'space' cake a miss, but not so the red light area. The streets are narrow and, behind the glass panelled doors, women, and I gather men, too, ply their trade. A range of bodily shapes and sizes are in evidence, but all are licensed, have regular health checks every six months and pay tax on their earnings. My wife, Jill, was shouted at by one woman for having her video camera open. Whether the lady concerned thought Jill was going to film her I don't know. Maybe she hadn't told her family what her real occupation was and didn't want it revealed on Utube.
Easter Monday saw us in Brugge, but not for long as Calais beckoned.

It's JFK, with clogs on ...

Well, after a month of editing, a hard drive crashing and flu, the 20 chapters have been sent off. I really hope Camilla enjoys reading them.

This last edit was a very good exercise - especially on the scenes where Leyla and her people appear. Jack's reaction to her, and them, has escalated from bemused confusion to doubting his sanity. The fact that he's on a collision course with General Falcon and FLAG means little to him at the moment, but it will. FLAG kills those who get in its way, not even Presidents are safe, so, a British Army Sergeant will be easy meat - or will he?

In Holland for the next five days. Catch you guys when I return.

Only eighteen to go!

On Thursday, writing buddy Rita and I spent five hours going through a hard edit of the next two chapters of the Messenger. On Saturday, when I managed to put the sixteen pages of alterations together in print, my laptop crashed and I lost it all. The machine crashed badly once before and I had the hard drive replaced, but I guess in the back of my mind, I knew there was still a problem. So, on Sunday, I bought a new laptop and transferred the story across - then spent until today rewriting and trying to remember what I had altered and how I had written it. Whoever is up there looking down on me is determined I will remain grounded and have to work my ba**s off for any success - which, I suppose, is the way it should be - and what I will do.

Does anybody else have a cat who won't pee unless it's done over a drain? I suppose we should be grateful it isn't on the carpet, but, in the middle of the night, it's a little disconcerting to find the cat in the bath using the plughole!

Say goodnight to the folks, Gracie.

It gets better ...

Camilla Bolton liked the revision, is 'intrigued' by the plot and has asked for the next 20 chapters. I must admit to being extremely pleased that an agent of her standing has taken an interest in my character, Jack Chandler. Camilla has kindly given me as long as I need to edit the work she has requested. Let's hope I can impress her with the next 20 chapters.
So, folks, even though outside it's raining cats and dogs, is cold and windy, I love today!

Changes rippled ...

Apologies - I haven't been around. I have been working like stink on rippling the changes, that Camilla Bolton suggested, through the rest of the manuscript. It took a while to do, but I have to say what she suggested has really helped - as you would expect from a professional in the business. I am working on the sequel and Rita and I had a meeting yesterday to iron out some ideas on it. Research is going to be a slog, but it needs to be done. Might need another trip to Slovakia to sort out one of the elements of the organisation I am going to incorporate in the story. Then of course, the chase scenes in Washington, will probably need more research too, haha. Now, when can I plan that for? The Fall is too long away.

Had an email from an old friend this week. It was nice to catch up and brought a lot of memories flooding back of when we used to work together in the seventies and eighties. Those were the days! Flares, shoes you could fall off, collars so long you could tuck them in your trousers - as for the men, that was a different matter. Hair, moustaches and sideburns were almost black then - although they've changed a little over the years - where there is hair, everything's silver!

Right, better get on with the sequel planning. Catch you again.

Will she won't she?

I've been busy these last three days incorporating the changes in The Messenger that Camilla Bolton suggested. It's not only made a complete difference to the opening of the story, but made me think hard about how the changes will ripple through the rest of the book. I'm hoping to get the end result off to her on Friday.

The girl's death scene which I slogged over for a week is now condensed into the first quarter page in a very different format - which actually strengthens the story - so, Camilla's advice has had a profound and beneficial effect in a way I would never have thought of. I just hopes she likes what I've done with her critique. Catch you guys soon.

Second chance to make a first impression?

My chosen agent, Camilla Bolton of the Darley Anderson Literary Agency, came back to me with a rejection on Saturday. However, the letter she sent wasn't the standard 'thanks, but no thanks'. It was a most complimentary and constructive acknowledgement of The Messenger. Camilla made suggestions as to how the story (which she thought exciting) could be improved by cutting portions of chapters and making a couple of other alterations - in general, it was obvious that she had spent time reading and inwardly digesting my story. I emailed her to say I was going to incorporate the changes she had suggested and thanked her for her time. I also acknowledged that the road to mainstream publishing was a tough one, but that I was determined to succeed. This morning I received an email from Camilla to say if I was willing to make the alterations and, if I wanted to re-submit to her, she would not only be happy to reread it, but would be happy to read anything else I write. What a brilliant lady! Obviously, there is a god after all.

Push it all the way in, Jack...

I read Brenda Brooks comments in the Plymouth Herald's 'Saturday thought' (a religious segment of the paper) about the survival of the people on the plane which landed in the Hudson River. Brenda states that the pilot told everyone 'to pray', unfortunately, I can find no reference to this statement actually being said. What I do find is that Captain Sullenberger's one instruction to the cabin was to 'prepare for impact'. However, whilst Brenda does give Captain Sullenburger some credit in this horrific accident, she implies his 148 passengers survived by the grace of her god through prayer. I was wondering if this is the same god who chooses not to answer the millions of prayers of those men, women and children caught in conflict, genocide, ethnic cleansing etc., throughout the world - or do their prayers and suffering not attract the necessary media attention for her god to act? Or am I being cynical?

Jill's digital movie camera broke just before we went to Slovakia and she bought a new one to take with us. Before purchase, she established with the store assistant that the camera would play the film she took on our TV as well as recording it to DVD and he suggested it would do all that she wanted. However, after the trip she spent hours trying to get it to play the film on the TV without success. She took it back to the shop yesterday and explained her problems. The assistant decided to try it on a TV the same as the one we have and it worked! Elated, Jill brought it back and plugged it into our set and guess what? It didn't work. We couldn't understand why - the set was the same as the shop, the leads were the same, the connections were the same - it just didn't make sense. Granddaughter Leah had a go and attached the cable from her video camera onto Jill's camera and images appeared on the TV screen - so, we were guessing the fault was with Jill's connection leads - which we tried once more and, yep, 'no joy'. Then I did what I should have done when Jill first had the problem a week ago. I checked the connection - and Jill hadn't been pushing the small jackplug all the way into the camera socket each time she did it! At least the camera is performing as it should now.

No news from Camilla Bolton on The Messenger, yet. Is that no news is good news, I wonder? Met up with Rita this morning to talk through the storyboard for the Jack Chandler sequel. I am finding the story research (on GM crops) alarming and more like fiction than fact with Terminator Seeds (Good name for a book, but terminology for male sterile seeds) which are modified to produce one crop only and regarded as intellectual property for the purposes of law. I gather the French have stopped (temporarily?) using a certain brand of GM maize. How do we know what the long term effects of GM foods and additives will be? Are we setting up our children and grandchilden to reap what we sow? I hope not.

Slovakia - service not included...

We arrived in Trencin at around midnight on Thursday 15th January to lots of snow. The town is a sprawling area formed around a hill on the top of which is a large 14th century castle and church. Our hotel, which was very close to the top of the hill, had large rooms which were warm and comfortable.
On Friday, Jill and I and all the children and grandchildren made our way up to the castle to explore. The cobbled path to it was steep and long and covered in slushy snow. We had a tour of the building and the view over the city from the main tower and battlements was amazing. Coming down was a little exacting as some of the slush had frozen due to a change in the temperature in the two hours or so that we were wandering around the place.
In the evening we all decided to have dinner at the hotel to save going out in the cold to eat in the town. Whilst the food was good and reasonably priced the service was slow. It seems people in Slovakia don't complain about poor service because, if they do, it is usually ignored as the customer is seen almost as an inconvenience. We ordered our food at 6.30pm and the first meal arrived at 7.20. The other dozen or so meals eventually arrived over the next hour and a half. At 10pm Matthew and Lenka, and those guests who had gone to Bulgaria skiing with them, arrived at the hotel. They had had a three hour journey to the airport in Bulgaria, a two hour wait, a two hour flight and then an hour drive to the hotel - so they were tired and hungry, but no food was available as the chef had finished cooking by then.
On the Saturday we all went ice skating at an open air rink in the centre of town. I managed to do some skating with Sarah, Kirsty and Christian and the grandchildren. I hadn't skated for around twenty years, but it eventually came back to me. Afterward we all went for coffee and hot chocolate - and, I am told, the chocolate was literally melted chocolate.
That evening was Matthew and Lenka's marriage celebration at a large restaurant just up the hill from the hotel. As we all waited the owner of the venue, a thick set man, sporting a shock of black hair, beard and black leather jacket said a few words of greeting before Matthew and Lenka sipped from a glass of brandy and cut their way through a huge sheet with two hearts painted onto it. Then they led guests into the building. There rooms were decorated with huge chandeliers, candles, mirrors, flowers and tables and chairs with light green lacy material on them. Apparently the cost of a reception here is reasonable until the customer is told that if they want what they see - in terms of decoration - everything will be extra - and not to have these extras would make the room rather bare looking. (I wondered if the owner had been trained by a budget airline) The meal, Slovakian soup and a main meal was very well presented and tasty, but, by virtue of the three teenagers serving the 67 guests, again the service slow.
Lenka's mother read a speech in English to welcome us all and she did it incredibly well considering she is not familiar with the language. Slovakian traditions are a big part of the celebrations and Matthew and Lenka had to start by eating soup from the same bowl to signify 'sharing' in their marriage. Later a plate was broken on the dance floor and Matthew and Lenka had to sweep it up - again to signify the partnership responsibilities of the marriage. While they were trying to sweep up the mess members of the family were being encouraged to kick it further away from them to make the work harder. I think this element of the tradition was to imply that relations can cause problems in marriage! Later, as we ate some of the delicious cakes that Lenka's parents had supplied, two women dressed as gypsies (one was supposed to be heavily pregnant and had a rag doll in her arms, the other was dressed as her father) came into the room and started shouting at Matthew. The pregnant one was accusing Matthew of being the father of her children and he had to publicly pay her to go away. I wasn't sure what tradition that was to signify, but it had all of us in fits of laughter.
Then at 10.30pm there was a problem. A large amount of money had been placed with the owner to allow guests to have drinks at the bar after the meal - during the meal there were many bottles of wine on the tables. The owner said not only had the money been used up by the guests ordering at the bar, but that it had gone over by £200 and he wanted the money. The guests were more than a little surprised as the people hadn't been ordering that much from the bar - and to have consumed the money so quickly would have meant every guest having around ten drinks in an hour and a half. When asked for a breakdown of the bill the man couldn't supply it. The guests, especially the Slovakians were becoming angry at the situation and a few minutes later the owner said he'd made a mistake and there was at least £100 left behind the bar. From then on guests were keeping notes of any drinks they had from the bar to ensure the man had no chance to make any more 'mistakes'.
Around midnight, Lenka's parents had arranged for bowls of beef strogonoff (which was delicious) to be brought into the room and everyone began eating again. The food seemed never ending.
The next day when the bill was being settled the owner said someone had broken a candle holder and that he had to spend more money on staff than he originally planned and ... guess what? This came to an extra £200 - so, I guess he got his 'pocket money' after all, but I gather word of his dealings with a large local family is spreading round the town very quickly.
We visited a small Mall in the town before we made our way to the airport at Bratislava to come home. I have to say the whole four days was a wonderful family experience enjoyed by everyone.

up up and away

See you guys when I get back from Slovakia

100% proof fairy cakes

For some reason I don't understand the date of this post is listed as Friday 9th January when I posted it today Monday 12th January - has anybody had this date problem before in posting - or is it just me?

Jill and I, our children and grandchildren attended our nephew, and Godson, Matthew's wedding over the weekend. His fiancee, now wife, Lenka (Slovakian) looked quite regal. The best man Gord (Canadian) made part of his speech in Slovakian, French and Japanese for the guests from those countries - which I thought was a very brave thing to do, and impressed me greatly, until Lenka's sister asked me if I thought he'd realised that he'd made a toast to the bride and a small fridge freezer!

We are going out to Trencin to complete the celebrations with Lenka's family later this week. I gather we will be given lots of small cakes to eat at the party - a tradition it seems. The cakes are followed by many shots of Vodka - not so much a tradition, more a test of staying upright. The weather there is cold and snowy - so, winter draws on.

Putting more research in on the next in the Jack Chandler series. Why is it every story I come up with is complicated? Why can't I just have a straightforward plot line? Is it an over active imagination or a creative curse? The trouble is the more I research the more my fiction looks like it could become fact - eek!

Mars - helps us work, rest and pray?

I've just been watching the news reports on the Gaza strip conflict. What the hell are we doing to each other? No matter where war takes place it's the innocents in the middle who suffer - men, women and children - on both sides. Am I wrong in thinking that the average citizen of any country is seen as cannon fodder by its Government? Unless we have a value - which we appear not to (other than when those same governments need us to become part of their army) then we seem to be expendable. Each time I see news reports of people being blown to pieces I see me, and my family. I can't imagine the terror the children of conflict must feel every day, wondering if the next missile has their name on it. And the parents too on both sides - people like you and me - how can they protect themselves and their children? The simple fact is they can't - and that can't be right. I really wish I had the answer - more importantly, I really wish governments had the answer. What niggles me is that we can afford to spend ten billion on the Olympic Games - and god knows what on the prospect of getting to Mars, but not on saving lives. Maybe someone knows we might need althletes to populate Mars when we finally blow this planet of ours to bits.

Chapter 1 continued ...

A sudden clatter of bullets was drowned by the shrieks of those falling in front of him while others ran for cover.

Ten metres away the girl stood screaming amongst crumpled bodies.

He grabbed his rifle, kicked the door open and ran. ‘Cover me!’ he yelled.

Robbo returned fire as Jack swept the girl into his right arm and glanced back at the Land Rover. The pillars were closer cover. Followed by bullets, he darted for them, his boots skidding in the dirt as he slammed him and the girl behind one. More shells whistled past demolishing tables and smashing tall jars of spice in the market place. The warm woody aroma of cinnamon filled the air and, for a split second, he was a kid again watching his mother bake apple pie - until the sound of bullets hammering into the pillar refocused his mind. He turned and levelled his SA80. It was a right-shoulder weapon, but he couldn’t risk putting the frantic girl down to change hands. He squeezed the trigger and she screamed as shell casings ricocheted off the pillar from the ejector – then stopped. He squeezed the trigger again. Nothing. ‘Don’t you fucking jam on me!’ he spat and tried again. Nothing. He dropped the rifle against his feet, hugged the girl onto his left side and pulled a Browning 9mm from his chest holster. Edging a look around the pillar he knew the man on the roof was beyond the thirty metre range of the semi-automatic, but he let loose shots anyway as Robbo bent below the wing of the Land Rover to reload.

The girl wriggled, kicking, shouting for her parents – ‘Umi, Abi’ – Mummy, Daddy. He couldn’t stop her pushing away from him. Her actions were making them both an achievable target. He slipped her to the ground behind his legs – a large firm hand holding her shaking body. His breathing slowed as he looked down at her. Terrified, brown eyes and a dusty tear-stained face stared back, while small shoulders lifted rhythmically as she gulped air. She must have been about eight he reckoned.

‘Sniper!’

Jack looked across at Robbo pointing to the building. A second insurgent was visible behind a broken window on the end of the third floor. Under cover of the roof-top gunner, his shots were more precise. He picked off anyone still moving. One by one the screams of the wounded died away as his rifle tracked around and then stopped in line with the pillar.

‘He’s on you!’ bellowed Robbo.

Both insurgents opened fire smashing the concrete of the pillar in all directions. Jack wiped grit out of his right eye with the heel of his gun hand as dust and stones up flew up around him.

‘Umi! Umi!’ cried the girl.

He felt her freeze and pressed her harder against the back of his legs as another strafing exploded more chunks off the column. He glanced up. It was taller than his six two and leaning slightly now. If it fell there’d be nowhere to run. It looked like this could be it – he wasn’t going to get home to Sally and Mark after all. The buzz of twelve millimetre shells and the girl’s screams jerked his thoughts back. He let loose more shots. It was useless. The insurgents had the advantage. He knew it and they knew it. He glanced at the Land Rover. Maybe he could even the odds. ‘Robbo,’ he shouted.

His coporal turned.

‘Use the RPGs.’

Robbo reached in and dragged the weapons out. ‘Stay there!’ he bawled as he knelt by the wing and aimed.

Jack wasn’t going anywhere. He took a panted breath and smoothed a hand over the girl’s back. ‘You’ll be, OK,’ he said. She didn’t look up – didn’t take her eyes off the bodies in the road. It didn’t surprise him. He knew she wouldn’t understand his reassurance, but he needed to say it anyway.

Robbo fired. The RPG exploded against the parapet throwing the machine gunner into the air.

‘Get the sniper!’ ordered Jack as he looked down at the girl wriggling against his legs.

‘Umi. Umi,’ she cried and broke away from him.

‘NO!’ He snatched at her – the ends of straggly hair passing over his fingers. ‘Come back!’ he yelled.

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The Messenger

I seem to have lost the formatting on this, but I did promise to post it, so here it is - page one:


Chapter 1

Iraq - Present day

Thursday 3.37 pm – local time.

The road through Hit had been quiet, too quiet for Sergeant Jack Chandler, but the city was almost behind them now. For two months, he and his corporal, Robbo Banks, had made equipment runs along this sixty mile desert corridor and today was their last duty. In a few minutes, if he could pass the old truck in front of them, he’d put his foot down and get back to base at Hadithah in readiness for the unit’s return to the UK.

The truck slowed, a light behind a broken indicator glass pulsing as the vehicle blocked the road to turn into an alley between dirty white buildings. Jack touched the brakes on the Snatch Land Rover and looked across at Robbo resting his SA80 assault rifle against the passenger door as he wiped sweat from his face with his sleeve. An internal smile at the thought of them having a beer together in Plymouth in a couple of days dissolved as the prospect of becoming a civilian occupied his mind, again. The truck reversing brought him out of his thoughts and he glanced into the door mirror at cars slowing behind them and no room to back up. He gave a toot on the horn and the vehicle jerked to a halt three metres in front of them.

‘What’s he doing?’ asked Robbo. ‘Give him a blast.’

‘And let everybody know we’re here?’ Jack directed a nod back behind the seats at cases of ammunition and two Rocket Propelled Grenades. ‘Just keep your eyes open,’ he said scanning their position. Further along on his right, to the rear of a large open space, people threaded their way past a three story building toward the road. Fifteen metres ahead on his left, behind two concrete pillars a bustling street market – he guessed this was where they were going. He looked back and traced the path of a young girl, her long dark hair bouncing as she ran across the wasteland. A man in a white robe and a woman in black walking after her shouted and she stopped. The hand she held up was quickly grasped by the woman who walked with her to join others at the kerbside.

The truck finally juddered its way into the alley and Jack waited as groups of people hurried across the road. He glimpsed the girl turn, frown a look back across the wasteland, and tug on the woman’s sleeve as she pointed. He followed the direction of her outstretched arm. Behind the roof parapet of the building a head and shoulders shimmered in the afternoon heat. The silhouette next to it tightened his gut. He punched a fist at Robbo. ‘Machine gun! Three o’clock.’

Stand and deliver!

On Sunday the central heating packed up and of course we had no heat and no hot water for showers etc (kettle worked overtime!). The plumber came late on Wednesday and advised the fan had bust and parts would be hard to get over the Bank Holiday. He also mentioned that the bill would be close to £200 for the supply and fitting of a new fan as the new fan would cost 'at least £125 + vat'. The combi-boiler was installed by this plumber five years ago. In an effort to assist him in getting a new part at 8.30 Friday morning I telephoned three suppliers within a five mile radius and found two with the relevant part in stock and, guess what? The new fan to me, without trade discount, was £62 +vat. I immediately rang the plumber to say I'd found a supplier with the part and he told me he'd already bought one earlier that morning. So ... later that day he came, detached four push on connectors, unscrewed 4 screws, placed the new fan in position, rescrewed the screws and reattached the connectors. 15 minutes - job done! The bill? £180 - no receipt available - so, I paid by cheque. I want to have ten radiators replaced and some other sundry plumbing work carried out and that job is going to the man I should have called - as is the profit.

Still polishing the three chapters to go to Camilla Bolton - hopefully get them off Monday. It's been rather cold to type recently.