tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42521421360550464762024-03-18T20:01:29.466-07:00C J EvansI don't really take myself too seriously. Life is far too short to do that. I've spent a lot of my time working in jobs that I hated and living a life full of regrets. Now, I write because I enjoy it and that is what is important to me. I don't have any pretensions of being the next Hemmingway or Faulkner. I just enjoy creating stories and I hope that people like reading them too.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06748002244600739380noreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4252142136055046476.post-89779355078244431572014-07-29T12:38:00.003-07:002014-07-29T12:39:22.656-07:00This Charming Man - Chapter 1 - unedited<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<h2 align="center" style="line-height: 300%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; page-break-before: always; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">One</span></h2>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a truth generally accepted that every
good story has a beginning, middle and an end. A good writer will have a
compelling protagonist who goes on a journey, whether metaphorical or literal.
On his or her journey, they will meet allies who impart wisdom and inject
humour. They will meet enemies who will fill them with fear which they must
overcome, usually with the help of aforementioned allies. A good writer will
have richly developed characters and intricate plotlines to enthral the reader.
They will hook them with an intriguing opening paragraph that sets the scene
for everything that is to follow. Knowing this, should make it easier to tell
you my story. It doesn’t. It actually makes it harder to know where to begin;
what to say to make you carry on reading beyond this first paragraph. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">There
are several problems with knowing how a good story is constructed. Firstly, it
is the knowledge that to write a good story you need to be a good writer. I am
not a good writer. There was a time when I thought I was, but that’s by the by.
Being a writer, by its very definition, is an active occupation. I haven’t
written a word worth mentioning in nearly twenty years. What is a writer that
doesn’t write? Nothing but a dreamer and that is what I am. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Secondly,
there are no heroes in my story. I am just an ordinary man in his late
thirties. If you look up from your Kindle you might see me further down the
train carriage looking tired. I am the man who stands behind you on the
escalator. I am the guy who stands next to you in the queue at the coffee shop.
The one who orders a large Americano and a blueberry muffin on a Friday
morning, just to treat himself. I am the work colleague three cubicles down
from you whose name you can’t remember. I am that extremely ordinary. Nor are
there any villains, at least not in the moustache twirling pantomime sense of
the word. It’s all just ordinary people trying to make their way in life and
sometimes making mistakes, sometimes hurting people, but there is no explicit
villainy. No sociopathic intent. No humans or animals were physically harmed in
the telling of this story. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Finally,
truthfully, I don’t know where to start. I could stick to conventional linear
story-telling and tell you how I was born, like most people, to parents who
loved me. If I hadn’t been, then this story would have been very different and
probably far more interesting. It would have been placed in the stationery
aisle of your local supermarket next to such books as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Daddy! No!</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Boy That
Nobody Loved</i>. But this is not that type of story. I could tell you how I
grew up in a quiet little suburb called Claremont and lived on a street that
had a patch of waste-ground where I used to play football in the winter and
cricket in the summer. I could tell you about how the trees never blossomed in
our street or about the three legged cat that used to perch on our front wall.
But it’s just not relevant. I’m with Holden Caulfield on this one; you don’t
need to know that kind of crap. I could tell you about my school days, which
are relevant. But to listen to me wail on about how I was a misunderstood
teenager is just nostalgia without purpose and if you knew me, then you’d know
that I don’t indulge in nostalgia lightly. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
problem I have is that like most people, my life is not a story. It doesn’t
have definite points in time where people’s stories begin or end. Of course,
there is life and death, but generally we are all just stuck somewhere in the
middle. I know there are people who profess to have had new beginnings or
closed chapters in their lives, but they’re deluded. We may think that when we
get a new job or move house or start a new relationship that we have a clean
slate. But unfortunately, our history sticks with us like shards of metal in
our brains, just waiting for that moment to slip back into our consciousness
and cause untold damage. We never have a blank slate. We are products of our
own history. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 18.0pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">This
leaves me with the ‘journey’; an often metaphorical, sometimes literal path
that takes our hero from a point of normality to a point where he knows that
his life will never be the same again. The ‘tipping point’ if you will. Think
of Luke Skywalker in Star Wars when he finds the dead bodies of his Aunt and
Uncle. Think of Neo in The Matrix when he takes the red pill. My tipping point
was a Chinese take away. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">It
must have been a Friday because we were having Chinese food that night. Friday
night was takeaway night, invariably it was Chinese food. Sweet and sour
chicken with boiled rice for her, beef with green pepper with fried rice for
me. We’d share prawn crackers. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I
woke up as usual around six am. It was a dreary winter’s morning as I looked
out of the bedroom window. The ground was covered in sleet and there was
raining splattering against the window. Kirsty was still asleep, occasionally
snorting, as sorted out my clothes for the day. She didn’t stir once, not even
when I kissed her on the cheek before I went into the bathroom and turned on
the shower. I waited at least five minutes before the temperature of the water
was right. Looking in the mirror, I saw a face I scarcely recognised anymore.
Dark circles beneath my eyes, a couple of day’s growth of beard on my face. As
usual, my hair was greasy and lank and alternated between sticking to the side
of my head and sprouting upright. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Once
under the spray of the shower, I began to wake up, but only slightly. Stepping
out of the shower, I felt the cold on my naked body and wanted to dive back
under the duvet. I briskly dried myself and hurriedly dressed, banging into the
chest of dressers with my knee as I tried to slip into my trousers. Kirsty woke
with a start as I cursed at the pain. She looked over at me and then rolled
back onto her pillow without uttering a word. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I
rarely ate breakfast, but that morning I managed a cup of coffee with the last
of the milk in the fridge and two slices of toast. All that was left were the
ends of the loaf. It must have been Friday, because we needed to go food
shopping. I sat at the kitchen counter, looking at the news on my phone,
checking Facebook. Nothing much had happened. Somebody I knew once at
University was having some kind of surgical procedure, whilst an old school
friend of mine was cursing the fact he had to attend yet another wedding. Soon
it was ten to seven, so I gathered my coat and my bag and left for the train
station. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">As
usual, I got caught in a line at the ticket office behind a young woman wanting
to pay for her one-stop ticket on a debit card. I could see the train coming in
the distance as passengers got out of their seats and pushed in front of
others, trying to predict where the train would pull to a halt and therefore
where the doors would open. As I watched people trying to push their way off
the train as other got on, I was called forwards, and having swiftly paid with
the right money, managed to jump on the ten past seven to Haymarket just as the
doors were closing. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">It
was a short journey, maybe only half an hour, but it felt like longer. I was
pressed against the wheels of a bicycle that was being held precariously
upright by a middle aged man in Lycra. MAMILs as I came to call them were the
bane of my morning commute. Invariably they’d be trussed up in cycling shorts
that displayed their either tiny or extraordinarily large penises in far too
graphically for the time of morning. Their middle-aged spreads would peek out
of the bottom of a faux tour de France shirt. Most days I’d fantasise about the
next stop, before the surge of desperate commuters piled on to the train, when
I could physically move, about tossing their fucking thousand pound bikes with
its twelve gears and gel saddle, onto the tracks and watch with glee as an
Inter-city train to Dundee twisted it into a mangled mess. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">By
the time the train pulled into Haymarket, I’d been rammed at least six times
with the rear wheel of this particular MAMILs bike. Twice somebody had almost
spilled coffee on me from their vacuum thermos mugs. I fought my way through
the crowds on the platform towards the escalators, resisting the urge to grab
each person by the throat that pushed and prodded me as they hurried to the
exits. It was just another ordinary commute, like I had every day. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">When
I alighted, I stood on the escalator behind the man with an umbrella in his
backpack that I stood behind most days on my way to work. I waited in line for
a coffee at the kiosk near the exit of the station. Every day the same man
stood in front of me. I’d wait patiently behind him as he ordered listening to
him accented the words as if he were fluent in that Franco-Italian language
that is used in coffee shops. He hesitated as he gave his order, but I knew
what he wanted, just as the barista behind the counter did. I often found
myself mouthing the words before he even spoke them.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘A grande soy
latte.’ </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘A
grande soy latte please,’ he paused, but I knew he was going to say something
else.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘Pain au raisin’</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘I’ll
have a pain au raisin as well thank you.’ It was so predictable. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I
was no different I suppose. Every morning I’d order a large white Americano,
shake my head when the offer of a croissant or a muffin came along hand over
the money and my loyalty card and then politely walk away on my way to work. I
walked past the foreign looking woman selling <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Big Issue</i> and told her I bought a copy the day before. I passed
by the beggars at the corner of Lothian Road and told them I had no change,
before swiping my security pass through the turnstiles at work and taking the
elevator one floor down to the windowless basement where I would spend the next
nine hours. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I
worked in the IT department of a large financial firm based in Edinburgh. My
job was to ensure the efficient running of the IT systems that powered their
automated financial services. I’d started there over fifteen years ago, after I’d
left university. It was just before the Millennium and everybody was panicking
about Y2K. Back then any job in IT was sexy. It was cutting edge. There was a
hint of the unknown about it and the idea that I could be part of team of fifty
that solved the ‘Millennium Bug’ was enticing. But all that changed and my job
became part of a process. I’d spend my day sitting for hour after hour
examining lines of code that flashed on a screen, protecting the investments of
the wealthy. From that team of fifty, there are five of us now and at my level,
it’s just fat middle aged men called Colin. Colin sat three cubicles down from
me. I spoke to him once. I had to borrow a stapler. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">It
must have been a Friday because Buddy was wearing a t-shirt with some American
sports team on it. I hated dress down Fridays, but Buddy, being American, loved
them. He said it gave him a chance to show off his individuality by wearing
mass-produced t-shirts displaying his pride at being from...well, I wasn’t
quite sure where Buddy was from. One Friday it’d be a Penguins jersey, the next
a Cubs, then a Falcon’s jersey. All I knew was that he seemed to really like
animals. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Buddy
Johnson was my line manager and to be fair, he was sort of a nice guy. He was
an amiable person. He didn’t give me any grief if I was late with a deadline
and he approved my holidays when I asked for them. But he was as annoying as
hell. He seemed to have swallowed every self-help manual in the world and tried
to inject as much positivity into the workplace as possible. I imagined he
researched new management techniques on the internet in-between shopping for
American sports jerseys. One week, we’d have five minute meetings standing up,
the next we’d be discussing issues in a local coffee shop. He used to leave post-it
notes on our computers reminding us that we were doing a good job and send us
emails with inspirational quotes from dead presidents and French philosophers
At one meeting, he asked me to give him a ‘high five’ because I’d come in on a
Saturday to work a tight deadline. Another time, he slapped me on the ‘fanny’.
I threatened to report him for sexual harassment if he did it again. He
laughed, until I glared at him, showing him I was serious. He also had the
irritating habit of calling everybody on the team by what he thought were
empowering nicknames. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘Hey
there, champ!’ he said that Friday. He was wearing a Yankees t-shirt and jeans.
‘I see you forgot about dress-down Friday.’ I looked at my own shirt and tie
combination. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘No,’
I responded. ‘This is me dressed down. Normally I come to work in a dinner
jacket.’ </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘Ha-ha!
Good one!’ He remarked. ‘Just came over to give you the date for your appraisal,
chief. I got them hot off the press from HR this morning.’ He made a sizzling
noise as if to indicate how hot the post-it note he was attaching to my monitor
was.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘Better
be careful, you might burn yourself,’ I quipped. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘Ha-ha!
Good one!’ He held his hand up for me to high five him again. I turned my back
on him. ‘Good talking to you Callum. Keep up the good work. You’re my number
one guy.’ I didn’t respond. I also chose to ignore him as he made his way to
the next cubicle. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘Sanjay
how’s my number one analyst today?’ </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Every
year I had an appraisal with my line manager and the IT manager. In previous
years it was a nominal exercise that had no real implications. It was full of
the usual office jargon. At the end of the appraisal your performance would be
ranked according to certain level that made no sense whatsoever. You could be
Excellent, which actually meant good, Good (satisfactory), Satisfactory (poor),
or Poor, which meant well... abysmal. Of the previous fifteen appraisals I’d
never had cause for concern, mainly because my previous managers were faceless
bureaucrats who didn’t really want to do the job there were doing given the
mind-numbing banality of managing the mind-numbingly banal. Most were just
biding their time until something better came along. They saw the annual
appraisal as a form filling exercise and they liked filling in forms, it
justified their role in the company. Even Buddy, who had been there for the
last three, which in terms of our department meant he was something of a
veteran, liked filling in forms. It gave him something useful to do. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, there had been recent changes above
Buddy that meant that this appraisal was going to be different. The change was
Vera Heatherston. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Heatherston
was a careerist. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had taken on the
job of IT manager despite having no experience of IT whatsoever. She had simply
applied for a job that nobody else wanted and got it. She loved the faux
responsibility of attending meetings and compiling performance reports and
everything she did, she did with enthusiasm and a vitality that others found
unnecessary. Unfortunately, that enthusiasm didn’t extend to engaging with her
staff. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">It
was clear from the moment she walked into the building that she was going
places. She was of an indeterminable age somewhere between twenty five and
fifty. She power dressed in suits and vicious looking heels. Her hair was
immaculately presented, scrapped back off her skeletal face and with dark
rimmed spectacles that gave her the impression of a constant frown. She kept
her distance from the staff, opting instead to pass information through Buddy,
who visibly shook in her presence. While many of us had never even had the
dubious pleasure of having a conversation with her, we knew that she was a
ball-breaker, given the sweat that had formed on Buddy’s balding head every
time he came out of her office. I had a direct line of site into her office
from my cubicle, her facial expression never changed. I imagined that at the
weekends she dressed in PVC and forced her partner (or some other unlucky
victim) to wear a gimp mask and beat him with a cat o’ nine tails until they
would submit. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">On
that day, she had lunch in her office as usual. Buddy had dared to knock on her
door during her feeding time and caught a glare that forced him back out of the
door. She didn’t blink as retreated. I kept my eye on her as she alternated
between picking at her salad and scrutinising the monitor in front of her. As
she picked up a rice cake and nibbled at it, she seemed genuinely revolted by
the idea of eating it. I imagined if what she would be like eating a greasy
bacon cheeseburger and if her facial expression would be the same. She had
ketchup dripping down her chin as she bit down ecstatically on the bun,
seductively wiping it off with a single finger and sucking it dry. So lost in
that fantasy was I, I didn’t even notice her meet my gaze. She was standing at
the window of her office through the blinds directly at me. Her stare was
chilling. It was all I could do to muster a response. I waved. She closed the
blinds aggressively. I was not looking forward to my appraisal. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">By
six I was ready to leave. The office was deserted apart from my cubicle and
Heatherston’s office. She made it a point not to leave until after the last
person left. I logged out and gathered my belonging and began the long walk to
the elevator. As I passed Heatherston’s door was open. She was sitting at her
computer still staring at the screen. I stopped and sheepishly spoke. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘Have
a nice weekend.’ </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She
looked up, but said nothing. Not even a murmur of polite reciprocation or a
hint of a smile that somebody had taken the time to wish her well. She just
shuffled in her chair so that she was obscured by the monitor. I took it as my
cue to leave. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
journey home was no different to any other day. I was cramped in a carriage
full to bursting of the world weary and the tired. The evening commute was one
of body odour and lethargy as opposed to the bustling of the morning. There
were people with their headphones on or looking at messages on their phones.
There were students with rucksacks heading home for the weekend. I had become
immune to the sensations of the train over the years, allowing myself to be
lulled into a sleep-like state as the stations passed me by. It may have been
the weekend, but I was not in a celebratory mood. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">My
short walk from the station to my home was shrouded in rain that soaked through
my coat and my shoes. I longed to just get home and go straight to bed. I
wanted to just pull the covers over my head and go to sleep. As I turned the
key in the door, I could hear Kirsty on the phone.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘Hi,
I’d like to order some meals for delivery,’ she said. She barely acknowledged
my arrival. ‘Can I have the sweet and sour chicken with boiled rice?’ I took
off my coat and shoes and was on my way through to the kitchen when I caught
the end of her order. ‘Can I have some spring rolls as well please? We’ll pick
it up. Thank you.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘Spring
rolls?’ </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘I
fancied something different,’ she said, putting down the phone. ‘They said
it’ll be ready in twenty minutes. Can you pick it up? I’ve already had a glass
of wine.’ I put the can of beer I was about to open back into the fridge. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘No
problem.’ </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘How
was work?’ </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘Same
as always,’ I replied, but Kirsty wasn’t listening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went upstairs, took off my wet clothes and
sat on the edge of the bed and threw myself back onto the mattress. I remember
thinking <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is this it? </i>There was no
answer to that question. Eventually, I heard Kirsty calling from downstairs,
reminding me to go and pick up the food. I hurriedly put on some dry clothes
and headed out, back into the rain. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">It
was a short drive to the Chinese take-away. As I walked in I was greeted with a
familiarity of a regular customer. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘Mr
Gordon, you’re food will be ready in a minute.’ It was depressing. Just as
predictable as everything else in my weekly routine, the cheery smile of an
elderly Chinese lady stuck like a dagger in the heart. When had I become so
predictable? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">By
the time I got home Kirsty was already on her second glass of wine. She was
sitting in the living room watching TV, so I went through to the kitchen and
started plating up the food. There it was. The same meal I ate every Friday
night. I wasn’t even hungry looking at it on the plate. It was a putrid mess
that typified how life had turned out. The only spark of interest was contained
on a side plate. Half a dozen spring rolls, deep fried and marked on the
outside with soy sauce. I picked one up, felt it in my hand, the rough texture.
But before I could take a bite, Kirsty came along and took it out of my hand.
As I listened to the crunch of it between her teeth, my heart sank. It was just
a spring roll. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">We
ate quietly at the kitchen table. I pushed my food around my plate, taking a
bite every now and then. Kirsty wolfed hers down with gusto. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘What’s
wrong?’ she asked as I turned over another forkful of rice. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘Nothing,’
I responded, ‘just one of those days.’ She put her fork down. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘You’ve
been having a lot of those days lately.’ Her tone wasn’t unsympathetic, but it
hinted at something. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘I
suppose it’s just winter blues.’ </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘It’s
more than that,’ she replied. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘Work’s
been pretty tough lately. I just need a good night’s sleep that’s all.’ </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘Work’s
always been tough. There’s something more to it than that.’ </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘There
isn’t,’ I protested. She gave me a look I had come to know well over our ten
years together. She could read me well, sometimes better than I could read
myself. I was reluctant to talk. I didn’t want her to know how bored I was. How
unfulfilling my life had become. I didn’t want her to know because I didn’t
want her to think that in any way she was to blame. Yes, my life was in a rut,
but it wasn’t her fault. We spent lots of time together, we had some laughs.
Every Saturday we’d go out with friends, into the city and have a meal and a
few drinks. We’d go away for a couple of weeks in the summer and maybe once or
twice in the year we’d go away for the weekend. We had money, we had a nice
house and a car and no real debt, save for our mortgage. Everything was okay.
And I didn’t want her to think that she was to blame. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘The
woman in the take-away knew my name.’ </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘What
is wrong with that?’ </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘Nothing,’
I replied. ‘It’s nice, it’s friendly. But...’ </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘But
what?’ </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘I’m
just sick of eating Chinese food every Friday. I mean, what’s wrong with a
pizza now and then.’ </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘Okay,
next Friday we’ll get a pizza. I thought you liked Chinese food.’ </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘I
do. I’m just sick and tired of eating the same food from the same place every Friday.
I want to go somewhere different. Somewhere they don’t know my name. Somewhere
I can be treated like an absolute stranger. I want them to have to wait while I
make up my mind.’ </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘Okay,
we can do that.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘Thank
you.’ Kirsty picked up her fork again. ‘I mean, I’ve had beef and black bean
every week for the last three months. I wouldn’t mind if I had something
different now and then. Maybe a chicken fried rice or a special chow mein.’ </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘Okay.’
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘We
could have Thai food. When was the last time we had Thai food? Or Mexican. I
would love some fajitas...’ </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘Callum,’
Kirsty dropped her fork to the table, but I carried on. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘Maybe
we could go out. I hear there is a new Lebanese Restaurant on the Royal
Mile...’ </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘I’m
having an affair.’ I stopped speaking. She was looking down at the table with
tears in her eyes. I took one look at her. Then I looked down at my plate. My
breathing became shallow and I could feel the rage rising inside of me. I swept
the plate to one side, sending it crashing to the floor. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘I
fucking hate beef and black bean.’ I stood and left the kitchen, picking up the
car keys and heading out of the door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06748002244600739380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4252142136055046476.post-42067652692957482222014-07-29T12:19:00.001-07:002014-07-29T12:19:13.076-07:00This Charming Man - PrologueAs a bit of a teaser ahead of my next book, I'm going to be posting unedited chapter from my forthcoming book. Here is the prologue of 'This Charming Man' . Feel free to leave feedback. I have made some changes based on the feedback I received for The Surrogate - mainly that all the back and forth confused some people.<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Prologue</span></h2>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">It was all so
familiar. I woke up just before dawn. She was facing the other way, warm and
cuddled into the blankets. I kissed the nape of her neck, but she didn’t stir.
I rose from the bed, put on my shorts and walked through to the bathroom.
Looking in the mirror I scarcely recognised the face staring back at me. I
splashed my face with cold water and ran my fingers through my hair. I patted
my face dry and examined the growth of stubble on my chin. I looked tired and
weary, but I knew my morning run would shake off some of the cobwebs. </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.85pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">As I walked
through to the living room the dog lifted his head and jumped up at me. I
patted him on the back and scratched behind his ears to calm him down. I opened
the French doors and let him out to frolic in the sand while I put the coffee
on. He barked once or twice to remind me that he was there, waiting for me
while I poured myself a glass of orange juice, before finding my running shoes
tucked away in the hall cupboard. </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.85pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Once outside, I
let him lead the way. The rising sun in the East was still hidden behind the
painted grey clouds. I thought about getting putting a t-shirt on, but decided
against it. I was more toned than I am now, but I still felt heavy legged in
the damp sand. The dog ran off in the direction of the old pier and I followed
behind, keeping my head up and watching the gulls scatter as the dog ran
towards them. He seemed to enjoy the chase as they cawed and screeched and
landed a little further down the beach. Once they had taken the hint and flown to
safety, he turned to me, possibly wondering what was keeping me. I picked up
the pace as he foraged on the beach for driftwood. He returned to my heels with
a stick in his mouth, spit gathering at the sides of his mouth. I paused and
tossed the stick into the air, then carried on running until he brought it back
to me. We both knew the routine and by the time we had travelled the mile or so
to the pier, he had tired of the game. </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.85pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I turned back
towards home as the dog bounded forwards, disappearing on the horizon as I
tried to kick out and stretch my legs. My heart was pounding as my lungs sucked
in the early morning air. Not the burning sensation I have now, just a rush of
blood through my veins as I powered through the soft terrain. It was liberating
to let myself just run, releasing the endorphins that would serve as my
inspiration for the rest of the day. I couldn’t wait to get back and harness
that feeling into something constructive. The solitude of the coast in the
morning would be translated onto the pages I would write, I thought, as my home
appeared on the horizon. </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.85pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">As I neared the
steps up to the deck, I noticed the dog pause by the water’s edge. He laid
supine, eyes gazing into the distance. As the tide lapped up onto shore, he
lifted himself quickly and retreated. I laughed as the water caught up with the
dumb dog, catching the bottom of his black coat. He emerged from the water with
a whine and a vigorous shake, while I climbed the half a dozen steps to the
beach house. </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.85pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Once on the
deck, I reached for one of the towels that were drying on the make-shift
washing line and rubbed myself dry. I could hear her rattling around in the
bedroom through the open window, the water pump whirring into action as she
showered. I wrapped the towel around my shoulders and went inside. I could
smell coffee as soon as I entered. I poured myself a mug and put some
croissants into the oven to heat and then went through to my office which was
on the other side of the living room. </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.85pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Inside there
were shelves filled with books, some of which I had written. Photographs of
friends and family adorned the walls and there was a large desk in the centre
of the room with a laptop on. I took a seat and looked out of the window at the
sun rising over the sea. I was at peace. As the laptop booted up, I wondered if
anything could be more perfect than my current existence. I stretched back in
the chair, the leather sticking to my damp skin and took a deep swig of coffee.
On the desk there were a few pages of a new story. I picked them up and read
over what I had written the night before. Although it wasn’t perfect, I was
happy with what I’d done. It was a good start, I thought, as I was disturbed by
the sound of plates clattering against one another in the kitchen. </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.85pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She was standing
with her back to me as I entered. Her long black hair was damp against her
shoulders. She wore an oversized shirt of mine that just about covered the tops
of her thighs as she stretched upwards to reach into a cupboard. The croissants
were out of the oven and cooling on a rack. I tiptoed behind her and put my
arms around her waist, resting my chin on her shoulder. I could feel the warmth
of her body against mine as she placed her hands across mine. I kissed her neck
again and she let out a low moan. But as she turned to face me, the happiness
evaporated from my life.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.85pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">As my chin left
her shoulder, I could see her. She raised her hand and pulled back the hair
from her face. There was nothing. Not merely a lack of expression or one of
loveless eyes. There was nothing at all. No nose, no eyes, no mouth. No
semblance of humanity, just a palette of flesh; smooth and unconstructed. I
stepped back in horror, my hands scattering a carton of orange juice across the
counter. It couldn’t be, I thought. She moved towards me holding out her arms,
but I turned and tried to flee, my limbs clattering into the furniture as I
beat a path to the French doors. As I fumbled with the door handle a plate came
crashing in front of my face. I turned to see another hurtling through the air,
just as the doors gave way and I stumbled onto the deck. I lay on the wood and
the dog snarled at me. Panicked, I looked back over my shoulder to see her
darting towards the doors. I barely had time to react; I kicked out with my
legs and slammed the doors shut, only to hear the feral growl of the black
Labrador beside me. </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.85pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I shuffled
across the deck as it bore its teeth, scrambling to my feet just as it pounced.
I moved swiftly down the stairs as the beast crashed into the wooden table on
the deck. I glanced over my shoulder briefly, to see it shake off the injury
and watch as it leapt from the deck after me. I dug my feet into the sand and
pushed myself off, sprinting towards the water, but this time my legs were
heavy against the resistance and my lungs burned like fire. I could feel the
dog gaining on me as I toiled in the sand. As I tried to gain speed, I slipped
and fell onto one knee. The dog caught the bottom of my training shoe in his
jaws and I had to kick out to free myself. As my free foot connected with his
nose, I heard a whimper as the mutt shot backwards. I glanced over my shoulder
and saw her following it. I got to my feet and sprinted harder. The water was
less than twenty metres away and I had just enough speed to make it to the
first of the breaking waves. I threw myself into the sea, hoping the dog would
be too cowardly to follow. </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.85pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">But I was wrong.
As I struggled on my knees through the waist deep water, he came bounding into
the water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tried to dive beneath the
waves but he caught up with me. I felt the weight of the animal as it landed on
my back. His breath hard and fast in my ear; a low growl echoing through my
body, I quickly turned to face it. I lashed out with my fists as he pinned me
beneath the water. I could feel him struggling to hold on until his teeth
clamped down on my forearm. I screamed out in pain, until I was submerged
beneath the surface, water pouring into my lungs. Somehow, I swung my free arm
and landed firm punch to the dog’s head. It spun him loose into the water. As I
stretched out to swim, I could hear the repetitive boom of thunder in the
distance. </span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘Wake up
Callum,’ I could hear a voice yell from the shore. I looked back to the sand
and saw her there. Not the faceless woman I had confronted, but a face I
recognised. A face I hadn’t seen in nearly twenty years. I strained to see if
it was true, if it was really her, but the beast lurched up from beneath the
water and sunk his teeth into my shoulder, thrashing his head from side to
side. </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.85pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘Wake
up Callum!’ <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">she said again, only this
time, the voice was not hers. As I was pushed beneath the water, I felt my body
sinking. My limbs were heavy, drawn to the sea bed. I closed my eyes and fought
out, kicking and hitting wildly, but nothing seemed to connect. </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.85pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘Call
an ambulance!’ <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It was another voice. A
man’s voice.</i> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.85pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I could feel the
water heavy in my lungs, dragging me further down. I could feel the dog’s paws
pounding on my chest as it targeted my neck. I tried to keep my eyes open, but
all I could see was red. Another bite, another gash, stung my flesh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.85pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘I
think he’s taken something. Look!’ </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.85pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘Come
on Callum, stay with me mate.’ </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.85pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I felt
weightless floating beneath the waves. The dog had gone and I opened my eyes to
see her standing over me in the water. I tried to reach out and touch her, but
my shredded arms would not respond. Through the blurred light, I could make out
her face. I tried to call her name, but the water choked the sound. </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.85pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘I need an Ambulance. My friend is dying. I
think he’s taken something.’ </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.85pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘Did
he just saying something?’ </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.85pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">As the sun broke
through the clouds above, all I could see was the light. She was gone. I
thought that she would save me, but she was gone.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.85pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘Tell
them to hurry up! I’ve just lost his pulse!’ </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.85pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘Is
he breathing?’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.85pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I floated,
carried away by the waves until the wounds didn’t hurt anymore. </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 36.85pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘Not
anymore! C’mon Callum, stay with me, mate. Stay with me!’ </span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06748002244600739380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4252142136055046476.post-328723194979180302014-05-26T15:09:00.001-07:002014-05-26T15:09:24.565-07:00Breaking the block The title of my last post was 'It's been a long time...' It has. Almost two years to be precise. For a writer in the early days of his career to decide to take a two year hiatus (two and a half if you count the time from the publication of The Surrogate to today) is akin to committing career suicide. Just as you start to develop something of a following with readers eager to read and review your next piece of work and you give them a big fat nothing. They move on and so does publishing. It's not that I've been completely absent, it's just that I've other things on my mind. Things a little more important than sitting at my laptop into the late hours.<br />
<br />
My daughter is now 15 months old. The last time I posted I'd only just seen her on a 13 week scan, but from that moment, my world turned upside down. All of a sudden, writing didn't seem to matter any longer. I spent most of my free time looking after my partner, trying to come up with a cure for morning (and afternoon and evening) sickness, further ultrasound scans, spending the royalties of my first book in Mamas and Papas, moving from a two bedroom flat overlooking the park to a three bedroom semi with decent transport links and trying to get ahead in my then new job. There was no time in the immediate aftermath of finding out I was going to be a father for writing and yet ironically I had become one of my very own characters.<br />
<br />
When I look back on the middle chapters of The Surrogate, I wonder how much richer that novel could have been for actually having experienced what Tristan was going through. How much could I have added? How many little anecdotes - such as the experience I had a birthing classes - could have improved that book? But as I have already said, there was no time for thinking about writing, let alone reflecting on reader's feedback or my own life experience.<br />
<br />
My daughter, Emily Rose was born on February 10th 2013 and I was smitten. For the past 15 months I have spent every last minute I could watching her smile and cry. Changing nappies and waking up in the middle of the night at every sort and moan. Lately I've read book after book to her when I came home from work, sat and watched Peppa Pig and Thomas the Tank Engine with her. I've taken her to the park and on bike rides and to the zoo and the farm. We go swimming at weekends. All the moments I have, I want to spend with her, which is why I haven't written more than a page in nearly two years. But that has to change...<br />
<br />
The same reason I haven't written a word in anger over the last two years is the same reason I have to write now. In twenty years time, when my daughter and I are discussing her career options, I want to be able to say her to her that I gave it my best shot. I want to be an example to her, that if you have a passion for something, then you should do that and try and make a career out of it. I don't want her to ask me what I was passionate about and not be able to answer. Being a father is the most important part of my life and yet the most important part of being a father is being somebody that my daughter can look up to. Even if that is writing 'drivel' (Thank you AMAZON CUSTOMER).<br />
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So, back to the grind...Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06748002244600739380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4252142136055046476.post-57117076576523586502012-08-02T14:20:00.000-07:002012-08-02T14:20:04.865-07:00It's been a long time...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I'm very aware that I haven't posted anything for a long time. Not since I last revealed that if I sold 5000 copies of The Surrogate that I would propose to my long suffering girlfriend as I had promised. A lot, and I mean a lot has happened since then. Fifty Shades of Grey has sold more copies than the bible, British people have become obsessed with cycling, canoeing and rowing, and Manchester City have broken the record for the World's most expensive football trophy. </div>
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Even though I've not been writing much, or posting, it's nice to see that I'm still getting hits. Oddly, a lot of these hits have been coming from Sweden, so Sverige, Tack så mycket. However, I do feel like I should update everybody on what has been happening with the new book. </div>
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Well, to be honest, not much has been happening. A third draft is in the can, but I've sort of hit a rut on a fourth and final draft. I know what changes I need to make, I know what I have to do, but for some reason, I just haven't found the time to do it. Well, that's a lie. I've had plenty of time, I've just hit that horrible period of writer's block. It's not the first time it's happened, and it probably won't be the last. I wrote the final draft of The Surrogate in six weeks. I don't think I've written anything in anger since. And one of the reasons is, there is no real urgency to do so. </div>
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So much has happened in the last six months. I've been working almost non-stop, got engaged ( despite only selling 4000 books for the cynics out there) and last but my no means least, I'm going to be a dad for the first time. And maybe, that is what will shake me from this rut. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiAui2KrOkyMyFfpUXgKeVvoRniUsaLDK5o2tEuXtqJ4StYOExUSf28gTF_HrflUA74NeYzNYmOhfzBszhFCdA23x9zTJ7LeTyv1mnoWuhfI7KrAmXUYNDEeuko6f3iMggIHDssR59nJVL/s1600/scan0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiAui2KrOkyMyFfpUXgKeVvoRniUsaLDK5o2tEuXtqJ4StYOExUSf28gTF_HrflUA74NeYzNYmOhfzBszhFCdA23x9zTJ7LeTyv1mnoWuhfI7KrAmXUYNDEeuko6f3iMggIHDssR59nJVL/s400/scan0001.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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It's funny how something as little as the picture above can change your perspective on life. Writing doesn't seem as important now as it did. In six months time, all of the free time I have will not be spent of mulling over plot and dialogue, it'll be spent on changing nappies and getting some much needed sleep. All the time I have now is a blessing, I'm about to start living my life for somebody else. But that's not why I need to write again. </div>
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I've been keeping a journal of the pregnancy so far, something I can give to my child when they grow up to let them know that since they were born I was thinking about them. In that journal, I've been trying to tell my unborn son or daughter, who I am now. That's not as easy as you would think. It's very easy to say who you were or who you want to be, but telling somebody who you are at that present time is difficult. One thing I do know though, is who I want to be, and that's somebody my child will be proud of. Yes, I have a good job as a lecturer, yes I'm in a loving relationship but I want to be more. I want to be more for my children. I want them to be able to look up to me as somebody who wasn't afraid to take a chance, to follow a dream and take control of their own life. I want to somebody they will aspire to be, and hopefully, I will. </div>
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C J Evans </div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06748002244600739380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4252142136055046476.post-49234230470252784392012-02-06T05:48:00.000-08:002012-02-06T05:48:03.068-08:00The PromiseFebruary is the shortest month of the year and also one of the most depressing. January's salary disappears on bills from Christmas, your New Year's Resolutions have gone the same way as your money and along comes the annual celebration of showing your love through maxing out your credit card on an overpriced weekend away or not so romantic meal. Add to that, this year is a leap year and men everywhere go into hiding on the 29th just in case their girlfriends know about the old adage of women proposing on the extra day in the year.<br />
<br />
Luckily for me, that isn't the case. My long suffering girlfriend has already told me that she would never in a million years propose to me because that is not the way it has to be done. My girlfriend is a very traditional woman (even though she earns more money than I do). Take for example the time we were discussing whether or not we wanted children - 'Would you want to have children without getting married or do you want to do it the RIGHT way?' No leading questions there!<br />
<br />
So when I was just about to publish The Surrogate, and after a period where I wasn't working, I promised her that if I sold five thousand copies I'd ask her to marry me, she was delighted. I, on the other hand, had dodged a bullet. I'd given her the sign that I was ready for commitment, put faith in our relationship, and left the whole thing to chance. While she was willing the book to sell thousands of copies while flicking through bridal magazines, I was sitting back watching one or two books sell, comfortable in the knowledge that there was no way that I would be getting married this side of 2014, if ever. Then, it all went horribly wrong.<br />
<br />
So far The Surrogate has sold just over 1000 copies in two months. Whether it's because people like it, fate, just dumb luck, or Joanne has 999 copies on her Kindle, it is selling and at this rate, I'll be ring shopping by September.<br />
<br />
I know it sounds like I don't want to get married. I do. And I want to marry Joanne. She has been there for me since day one of this adventure and she is the one person that made me believe that I could do this. She may be messy, bossy and a bit of a control freak, but I wouldn't change her for the world. She sees the best in people, and I was lucky that somehow she saw the best in me. So if it happens, it happens. If another 4000 copies of The Surrogate fly out of the big database that stores all Amazon Kindle titles in the next few months, I will be standing at an altar somewhere, waiting. Tense, nervous (and knowing Joanne's ability to be late for everything) probably fearful.When she finally arrives, I'll be looking over my shoulder at her in awe and amazement, because without her, I wouldn't have sold a single copy.<br />
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C J Evans.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06748002244600739380noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4252142136055046476.post-55652482925226022002012-01-30T03:39:00.000-08:002012-01-30T03:39:25.223-08:00Back to the real worldIt's been a long time since I posted. The madness of Christmas and New Year has long subsided and I thought I'd be able to get myself into a nice little routine of working and writing. Unfortunately, work took over as my students had exams and I was spending a lot of time preparing them (hopefully as much time as they were revising) and then it was my little sister's wedding at the weekend. I'm never been married, but if the amount of time, money and effort into being the Bride's brother is anything to go by, I think I'll need a year or two off to organise and pay for my own wedding!!! I never really realised how much an event like that took over your life as a guest let alone being the Bride or Groom. This past weekend I really started to identify with one of my own characters - Tristan from The Surrogate. That said, I am glad to report that my sister didn't seem to fall into any of the cliches from the opening chapters of the book.<br />
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It was the first major family event since I released The Surrogate, so I had a lot of interest in my book. From my Dad asking me about sales figures (I think he's counting on it being a million seller so he can retire) to more distant relations asking me where I came up with the idea or what the book is about. I also learned that one of my cousins that I don't see often is drafting her own YA novel - so keep a look out for Hayley Gelling's debut. For some people who had read the book, I got constant comparisons to Tristan, much to the chagrin of my girlfriend. I had an uncle who was trying to convince me to get married (I'll come back to this in a further post) and whenever I was playing with my niece Ella or my nephew Domenic (who at four years of age was busting out the robot (or as he called it the Bumblebee)) I was being told time and time again not to go and try and buy a child like Tristan did. It was tiring being compared to a product of my imagination, but at the same time, heartwarming that so many friends and family had read the book.<br />
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I did have a chance to do some writing prior to the wedding. I have to give a reading at the ceremony and it wasn't really until two or three days before that I got the idea for the following poem. I haven't written any poetry of note for over ten years, but as it was my sister's wedding, she asked me to prepare something on family. It was generally well received, with even the minster commenting in his sermon on how he wished he could write like that. But I'll let you judge that for yourself. I'm not sure whether it's an original idea or not, certainly I have heard parents being compared to being giants and children being called creatures before, but it was for my sister, whom I am very proud of and love dearly.<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 3.0cm;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Family </span></u></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I was born into a land of giants, beneath a blanket of smiling faces,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Each with wide open eyes and gobbledygook tongues;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Such vivid colours and subtle sweet scents,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">In a blurred warm sky of unconditional love.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">But in the night, when I was hungry or cold</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I cried out and the giants were there for me. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">The giants were as tall as tall could be,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">They spoke in such booming voices that I could not hear</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">But when they whispered, they spoke of wisdom, </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Telling me stories of what I could do and who I could be. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">And in the darkness, when I saw monsters in the shadows</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I screamed out and the giants were there for me. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Then I saw other creatures that were just like me. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">They told me in voices that were the same as mine, </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">That there were other giants as far as the eye could see. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I didn’t believe them, there were only my giants I’d say.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">But with each passing day, I saw more and more giants.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I asked questions and the giants were there for me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">There was one giant, who was kinder than the others, </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">But she grew bigger and tired and one day she wasn’t there. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Another giant lifted me onto his shoulders so that I could see</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">The giants gathering around, all cooing and babbling</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Over a little creature; one so small I could barely see</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I didn’t understand it, but the giants were there for me. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">One day I woke and the giants weren’t so fearsome. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">No longer were they as tall as tall could be.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Other creatures wove tales of danger and adventure</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">While the giants gave me warnings that I didn’t believe. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">When my ego was bruised and my heart was broken, </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I yelled at them, but the giants were still there for me. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Then there were no more giants to see. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Just other beings that sounded and dressed like me. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Beings who taught me how to live and how to love.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">How to laugh and how to dance, how to work and how to toil. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">But when I faltered or struggled to make sense of the world,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I called them and the giants were there for me. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">One day, as I wandered aimless and free,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I met my other and we were complete,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">With small creatures like she and I had once been. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Then we became the giants, as tall as tall could be, </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">With gobbledygook tongues and wide open eyes.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I looked at my creatures and the giants were there for me</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Now I am long past being a giant,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">And the creatures have creatures of their own.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">As time draws close and sleep descends </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I pass on the words of giants past,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Words they once whispered to me;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 3.0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Just look at your reflection and I will be there for you. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 3cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 3cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 3cm;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">C J Evans </span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06748002244600739380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4252142136055046476.post-9406906689621740562011-12-13T07:13:00.000-08:002011-12-13T07:14:46.274-08:00The next episode...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ9NJhWWS08Yg6sR1hlNwoE-71ZHt9aLg0o47mDXJOsgJLM9jvE-ryPqLe_r7ayr5VkqyHTlb1StC1zH2W54fcxmpjvXVGcG-2Bstq_aouLcoyhVnW10EHHsLrm7JgzjJai9SseBWcozbN/s1600/There-is-a-light-that-never-goes-out.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ9NJhWWS08Yg6sR1hlNwoE-71ZHt9aLg0o47mDXJOsgJLM9jvE-ryPqLe_r7ayr5VkqyHTlb1StC1zH2W54fcxmpjvXVGcG-2Bstq_aouLcoyhVnW10EHHsLrm7JgzjJai9SseBWcozbN/s320/There-is-a-light-that-never-goes-out.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>It's hard work being an author...even if it is only part-time. As we come up to Christmas I've been finding that my day job has been taking over somewhat - my students have exams in January and it's been revision central, knowing full well that their notes will develop a thin film of mince pie crusts mixed with beer on them over the holidays - and so my writing, promoting etc has ground to a bit of a halt lately.<br />
I think this is the first blog post I've done in nearly a month, and the first about writing and upcoming projects for even longer.<br />
<br />
I'm back though. I finish work for Christmas on Friday, and that means I have the opportunity to get cracking on my next project - There Is A Light That Never Goes Out. This is the book I was going to write first. It's skated around in my brain since late 2001 when I was suspended from my job as a nightclub manager for accidentally locking a customer in the club overnight! The guy didn't complain, of course he didn't. He was like a kid in a candy store, but somehow head office got word of it and I spent the best part of two weeks wondering if I'd still have a job.<br />
<br />
During those two weeks I went through a lot of emotions. The first being sleep. Finally, I could get a good night's sleep after my imitation of a bat for the previous four years. Secondly, fear. I had dropped out of my final year of university to become a nightclub manager and I thought at the time that was what I wanted to do. The late nights and partying seemed like a good thing back then, but as I sat alone in my flat for those two weeks (I was working in Dundee, quite a small town and I was keeping a low profile) I began to wonder what might have been. What if I'd stayed on and not taken the money? What if I'd chosen different A levels? What if I'd worked harder at school?<br />
<br />
Then something bizarre happened. I got a mailer from my old school advertising an old boys dinner. I didn't think much of it until I saw a name at the bottom of the page. The name of a girl I had a crush on back at school. This was long before the days of Facebook and Friends Reunited was in it's infancy so there was little way of knowing what happened to that girl other than go to the dinner.<br />
<br />
And that's where the idea for There Is A Light... came from. I dusted off my old PC and began to write. The first line was typically awful for a first draft - 'Suspension is something that happens to bridges, not to me.' I cringe at the thought of it. But I was pretty drunk and the excitement of getting down to writing what was originally called 'Reunion' took over. I didn't finish it. Not until I quit working in nightclubs in 2005 and was unemployed for two years. By then it had become 'This Charming Man' and went through several drafts before being submitted to agents. There was some interest, but nothing firm, and those knock-backs hit me for a couple of years until I took the plunge with 'The Surrogate'.<br />
<br />
After a modicum of success (Top 100 humorous books Amazon UK - albeit for about an hour) and generally good feedback for 'The Surrogate' I've decided to rework 'There Is A Light...'. The main character of Callum Harrison is as close to me as I would ever allow myself to get and much of the book reflects on my own experiences of school and growing up. I just hope people enjoy reading it as much as I have writing it.<br />
<br />
C J Evans Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06748002244600739380noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4252142136055046476.post-79040647019873051602011-11-30T09:54:00.000-08:002011-11-30T09:54:09.654-08:00Cash for KidsIt is the start of December tomorrow and at the weekend I will be going up into the attic and getting the Christmas Tree down and putting on Fairytale of New York and maybe having a beverage or tow to celebrate the start of the festive season. Christmas, that wonderful time of the year when the shops are bulging, women are fighting over turkeys in Marks and Spencer and when adults spend most of their time fluctuating between food comas and hangovers with mild spells of drunken behaviour between. Ah, Christmas.<br />
<br />
Call me crazy (and often people do) but I think Christmas is about more that that. At Christmas, my thoughts gravitate towards those for whom it will not be a season of goodwill, but a season of getting by. For the children that are struggling to come to terms with being parted from their parents, either by illness, death, or having been put into a foster home. Some children may be suffering alongside their parents. It's been a bleak year financially for most of us, but for some people every year is a bleak year. Whether that is through losing jobs or expected expenses, Christmas can be just another day for children.<br />
<br />
One charity that aims to help is Cash for Kids. Most local radio stations in the UK run a campaign alongside this charity, as do ASDA to try and help the less fortunate. I applaud that. Childhood should be a time of wonder and awe and Cash for Kids looks to help kids have fond memories. Which is why I am going to be donating 100% the proceeds of my book to this charity in December. I'm not rich, but I know I'm lucky. The money I would have got from the sales of my book could have benefited me and helped me buy something I didn't really need. Or I could give it to a child who needs it which is a greater reward in itself.<br />
<br />
This Christmas, do something unselfish. It doesn't have to be much, but if we all do a little bit, then it might make a difference to somebody's life.<br />
<br />
C J EvansAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06748002244600739380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4252142136055046476.post-50742516178143551682011-11-28T04:44:00.000-08:002011-11-28T04:45:30.309-08:00Gary Speed RIPI was about to write about my book and the sales figures and how I'm a little bit ahead of where I wanted to be, when I read the attached article by <a href="http://matthewlinley.wordpress.com/2011/11/28/gary-speed-rip-a-reflection/">Matthew Linley</a>, the brother of my former flatmate. It highlights how depression and depressive illnesses can afflict the strongest of us all. The inspiration for which is the shocking news yesterday of the death of Gary Speed, the manager of the Welsh football team and former professional footballer for Leeds, Everton, Newcastle, Bolton Wanderers and Sheffield United at the age of 42.<br />
<br />
I was driving home with my uncle and my cousin from my sister's fiance's Stag weekend when I heard the news. It was a bulletin on Radio 1 and after searching through the internet I found out how it had happened. It appears Gary Speed took his own life, leaving behind two young sons and a wife. My thoughts, as are most of the country's are with them. The conversation in the car took a turn away from the frivolity of the weekend to our own understanding of depression. My uncle talked about a work colleague, while I talked about my understanding of the disease as a Psychology Lecturer. What I didn't mention was that for some years, I have suffered from depression.<br />
<br />
Why didn't I talk about it? There is still such a stigma to suffering from mental illness. When the British boxer Frank Bruno sought medical help for his battle with depression, the vile rag that is The Sun ran the headline 'Bonkers Bruno Locked Up'. While I would dismiss using that publication to wipe my arse with, it raised an important social point. Depression is seen by many as a weakness, a flaw in one's character. I even used to think it myself, hiding from the truth. I saw myself as weak because of the way society portrayed people who suffered with the disease. There are over 6 million people in the UK receiving treatment for mental illness at the moment. Nearly 1 in 10, a greater percentage than are physically disabled and yet there is still a stigma attached to it. Maybe it's the traditional British 'stiff-upper lip' or maybe it's that not enough people understand the illness. But the real truth is, depression is prevalent in our society. It exists and yet sufferers are forced to believe that they are weak. They are anything but.<br />
<br />
People who suffer from depression face a double battle; one with themselves trying to conquer the feelings of hopelessness and despair even during those moments that others would consider to be happy ones. And they face a social battle, of having to cope with public perceptions of others that somehow they are lesser individuals because of their affliction. As Dorothy Rowe once said, 'Depression is a prison where you are both the suffering prisoner and the cruel jailer'. <br />
Here's a list of people with depression and ask yourself are these people worth any less than me because of what they suffer?<br />
<br />
Leo Tolstoy, author<br />
Charles Dickens, English author,<br />
John Keats, poet,<br />
Michelangelo, artist<br />
Bette Midler, entertainer<br />
Charles Schultz, cartoonist<br />
Dick Clark, entertainer<br />
Irving Berlin, composer<br />
Rosemary Clooney, singer<br />
Jimmy Piersall, baseball player. Boston Red Sox<br />
Burgess Meredith, actor,<br />
Peter Illyich Tchaikovsky, composer<br />
Charlie Pride, singer<br />
Sylvia Plath, poet and novelist.<br />
Janet Jackson, singer<br />
Patty Duke, actress,<br />
Roseanne Barr, comedian<br />
Marlon Brando, actor<br />
Maurice Bernard, actor<br />
Buzz Aldrin, astronaut<br />
Margot Kidder, Actress<br />
Jonathon Winters, comedian<br />
Pat Conroy, author<br />
Ernest Hemingway, Pulitzer Prize-winning novelist,<br />
Tennessee Williams, American playwright<br />
<br />
And I didn't even mention Stephen Fry, Kurt Cobain, Abraham Lincoln, Isaac Newton, Van Gough, John Kirwan, Stan Collymore, Marcus Trescothick, Paul Gascoigne or many others. <br />
<br />
Depression is not a weakness except in the eyes of the general public and it's about time that changed.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06748002244600739380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4252142136055046476.post-40359580197522912602011-11-23T13:39:00.000-08:002011-11-23T13:39:42.413-08:00First book bluesIt's been a hectic couple of weeks since I've last written a blog. Nearly three weeks since I posted anything at all, but I do have a good reason for it. MY FIRST BOOK - THE SURROGATE- WAS PUBLISHED THIS WEEK! I must be excited, I'm using block capitals. I've been up late at night, re-writing, editing, re-editing to try and get the book out on time (I didn't) but it's finally out there and...I feel sad.<br />
<br />
Why do I feel sad? I think the book is okay. I would have like a little more time with it, but then I probably would have procrastinated over what word to use here or there? Do I have to capitalize the A in 'ah' when I am using it as dialect to replace 'I'? Stuff like that. I'm glad it's out, but I miss it.<br />
<br />
Is your first novel like your first child? Do you cajole it? Mother it? Tell it off when it doesn't do what you want it to? Maybe. It depends what type of parent you are I suppose. For many years I was a neglectful one, and now I've spent some time with it, I didn't want to let it go. I'm like the parents waving their first born off to university, weeping at the dorm room, hoping it'll be okay in the big bad world.<br />
<br />
Then I remember something. I have other children. Lots of other children all craving my attention. When one flies the nest, another egg cracks. So back I go to the little office in my house and prepare to write my next novel, with one eye on how my baby is doing in the real world. Although, i might just enjoy having the house, and my head, to myself for a little while first.<br />
<br />
C J EvansAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06748002244600739380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4252142136055046476.post-57617584102584630242011-11-11T09:08:00.000-08:002011-11-11T09:08:36.918-08:0011-11-11 Remember<blockquote> <h3>In Flanders Fields</h3>In Flanders fields the poppies blow<br />
Between the crosses, row on row,<br />
That mark our place; and in the sky<br />
The larks, still bravely singing, fly<br />
Scarce heard amid the guns below.<br />
We are the Dead. Short days ago<br />
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,<br />
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie<br />
In Flanders fields.<br />
Take up our quarrel with the foe:<br />
To you from failing hands we throw<br />
The torch; be yours to hold it high.<br />
If ye break faith with us who die<br />
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow<br />
In Flanders fields.</blockquote><br />
<b><span style="color: #3333ff;"><span>Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)</span></span></b>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06748002244600739380noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4252142136055046476.post-7736237905219186382011-11-05T19:48:00.000-07:002011-11-06T06:06:03.131-08:00That was the week that was...Well, what a week that has been. Coffee spilled on a lap-top, three days of lecturing in Evolutionary Psychology, Bonfire Night, Halloween and some stomach troubles I'd rather not share with the rest of the world...but I just have.<br />
<br />
If that weren't bad enough, I was doing my usual skim through the blogs of other Twitter users when I found an article called <a href="http://aeoutloud.blogspot.com/2011/10/crash-and-burn-self-pub.html">Self Pub Suicide</a>. Now there are several things I could do here: 1) I could dismiss this article as literary snobbery - 2) Engage in a debate about Traditional vs Independent Publishers or 3) Descend to the level of calling names and throwing tantrums. I'm going for the fourth option. Rationality.<br />
<br />
I see the publishing industry as not being too dissimilar to the music industry. For most writers, it's the ultimate goal to get picked up by one of the Big 6 and having their book plastered across poster sites at railway stations across the country. Personally, I'd love nothing more that to walk into Waterstones and see my book in a prominent position with a five star review from somebody famous. But for most authors, that isn't going to happen. That's a fact. Regardless of whether you get picked up by one of the Big 6 or one of their subsidiaries, as an author there is a high likelihood you are going to sell less than 1,000 copies in your first year and then get dropped. This is where being an independent has it's advantages as you just carry on writing and hope the next one will be better.<br />
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Perhaps Indie writers have lower expectations, but we know that outside of our friends and family we're going to get less sales. For most of us, the dream is not to sell thousands of books, but just to sell one to somebody we don't know. Be that a downloaded E-book or a copy through a POD publishing site, seeing our work read by somebody who wouldn't normally read our book is an achievement. Indie writers are the bands that tour in the back of a transit van, lugging their own equipment, getting their music (or stories) out for the public to judge. Often we'll get bottles throw at us on stage, sometimes we'll get a free bar, but all in all, we're at least letting people see our work. Do we sit and home and send out letters saying 'please print my book'? Sometimes. Do we dream of the big stadium gig (in this case - national distribution in leading bookstores) of course. But we don't wait for it to happen. We take risks and try and write, and write for the public to see and judge.<br />
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I don't want to say that the traditional route is not worth going down. For many people it is. If you write literary fiction or chick-lit or even crime and thrillers, it can be an incredibly profitable avenue to explore. Just like with indie authors, if you have faith in your talent, then why not give it a go. The traditional route is much like the pop music industry or even classical music. Do you think that the London Symphony Orchestra has ever played a gig in their local pub? Can you ever imagine Britney Spears or Beyonce busking in the street? No. Because they don't have to. Indie writers on the other hand do. We don't have the access to the same level of resources. We don't always fit into neat little genres or have target demographics. Yes we have rough edges and sometimes we sing out of tune, but for me, personally, I like that. We make our mistakes in public, but sometimes those mistakes lead to moments of beauty. I'd much rather be a Seasick Steve or a Jeff Buckley than a Take That or a JLS, but that's my preference. I appreciate that others will have different tastes. <br />
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Which is the best option? Indie or Traditional? In the words of Harry Hill, there's only one way to find out - FIGHT!!!!<br />
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C J EvansAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06748002244600739380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4252142136055046476.post-9631964054444816572011-10-26T15:39:00.000-07:002011-10-26T15:39:38.661-07:00On writing THE SURROGATESo, it's nearly time for the release of my first book - <a href="http://www.cjevans.co.uk/the-surrogate.php">THE SURROGATE</a> and to be completely honest I'm working around the clock to get the editing finished in plenty of time for the release date of 11/11/11. I've barely had time to do anything else other than read and re-read and re-read the same pages again and again. In fact I've read it so many times, I don't think I'll ever read it again I'm that sick of it (insert marketing type comment here that tells people the book really isn't that bad).<br />
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All along, I've taken the approach that writing and publishing the book is more about an experience than any vain hope of success. Of course, I'd love for thousands of copies to be sold in the first weeks and to be sitting on a golden throne in a mansion with a swimming pool full of champagne by this time next year, but lets be realistic. That's not going to happen. Not until Cash My Gold send me back my throne anyway. <br />
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In recent weeks I've talked about how authors should be proud to be independent as it gives them certain freedoms over traditional authors. Pricing, release dates, marketing are all aspects of an indie authors work they have control over. Another is content.<br />
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Writing The Surrogate has made me realise how important having control over your own content is. I don't mean the plot, as I'd hope that most authors would resist any change to their well-crafted plots. What I am referring to all the little nuances that impact on a writer's style. For me, writing what is essentially a commercial work of fiction, it doesn't have that much of an impact, but there are still things I've included in the novel that I have put in there deliberately, that editors may not have understood the reasons for.<br />
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First of these is the use of Scottish dialect for some of the characters. While the book has no pretensions of being literary fiction, giving some characters an authentic voice not only adds realism, but enforces the class divide between the the middle class Tristan Shepard and his world and the working class realm of Marie McDonald. Yes, it does make it a little difficult to understand certain characters and what they say, but I find the Scots dialect one that is both humorous and humble and that's something I hope those characters will portray. Similarly, I used real locations rather than made up ones. Tristan drinks in high-end bars and goes to fancy restaurants, whereas Marie goes to fast food outlets. Using real locations also helps people reading the book who are familiar with the area to identify with the type of person the characters are. It helps me to cut out unnecessary description of areas and concentrate on the story. And it may get me a free beer or two next time I go to Edinburgh. <br />
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I do wonder if these things would have been sacrificed if I had gone the traditional route. Perhaps not, but in editing The Surrogate I've been glad not to have had to edit out some of the things that were important to me in establishing the how different the two protagonists are. And hopefully, just hopefully, it'll make entertaining reading for those who read it too. <br />
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C J EvansAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06748002244600739380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4252142136055046476.post-71384519906734693642011-10-23T04:42:00.000-07:002011-10-23T17:20:03.663-07:00I is for Indie...Being a writer has it's advantages. Unlike any other job you can turn up in your pyjamas, you don't have to shave to go to work and can take off early for the day if you're in a bad mood. I love being a writer, even if it is only part-time, but there are downsides to it. The pay is pretty crap, you can end up working long hours and your Christmas party is pretty lame with just you sitting there in a party hart wondering if you can fit your ass on the all in one printer-scanner-photocopier like at a traditional office party. It can be lonely and so over the last week I've been trying to engage other writers, other like minds to remind me I'm not alone in the world.<br />
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I've been reading a lot of blog articles and samples of people's work. Opening my mind to other authors and points of view. It's made me feel a bit more connected to other people who are in the same boat as me. This week I've been impressed with Mike Whitacre's <a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_1872832072"><i>Injury Inn</i></a><a href="http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/72620"> </a>and WillowRaven's <a href="http://willowraven.weebly.com/">artwork</a>. I've also been engaged by Emma Hunneyball's article <a href="http://www.inpotentia.co.uk/search/label/*Articles">'Four Legs Good; Two Legs Bad' </a>which examines the pros and cons of indie writing. As an indie writer, I felt I had to comment on this further. <br />
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I hate literary snobbery. I hate it with a passion. Some people may argue that it's because I lack an understanding of the literary conventions - but I have a degree in Literature and a Masters in English - so there! There is too much emphasis placed on getting a publishing deal and an agent to be seen as a 'proper' writer. It's all bullshit. As Emma points out Katie Price/Jordan has a publishing deal - no more needs to be said on that point. She sells books. It's not quality, but people who wouldn't read other works of fiction, read her books. That to me gives her just as much right to be published as anybody else.<br />
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Indie authors face a double whammy of not being able to access the editorial support and being frowned upon by the establishment. But what qualifies you to be part of the establishment? A degree in literature? Years of experience reading the same type of book? Analysing trends in literature and maing a prediction on whether something will sell or not? Tell me, is there anything there that cannot be achieved by Indie authors?<br />
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I think we need to look back in history to see how the literary establishment has embraced change. In the late nineteenth century, the advent of the printing press saw the street of Victorian England flooded with literature for the people, by the people. Books were too expensive for most people to afford. They were rented out in libraries in sections for which people had to pay subscriptions. On train journeys, people could rent a book or a volume of a book from a little shop called WHSmith and drop them off at the end of their journey. Magazines such as Pearsons and The Strand serialised novels or had short stories in them. If it weren't for magazines like these, we wouldn't have H G Wells or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. It's because of these different outlets for reading that we have crime fiction and s/f novels now. Charles Dickens, now regarded as one of Britain's greatest ever novelists serialised his work in newspapers and was widely condemned by the literary establishment at the time as being popularist. How times have changed. <br />
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There are obvious parallels between Victorian England and the present day. Books are increasing in price, but cheaper alternatives are available. Post modern society is creating a new innovation in bookselling and as a consequence, new ideas. I love Stieg Larsson's books, but it angers me somewhat when people talk about Lisabeth Salander as the most original heroine in years. Lisabeth Salander is a staple in Cyber-punk literature and I have no doubt that cyber-punk influenced Larsson. Without a thriving paranormal romance sector, would Stephanie Myer have written <i>Twilight</i>? And I won't even get into the whole Shakespeare was an Elizabethan soap opera writer debate. It's the same in film, watch The Hidden Fortress and then watch Star Wars. Watch The Seven Samurai and then watch Reservoir Dogs. Let's look at music too. Without a thriving indie scene (or college rock in the US) would we have had The Smiths, The Pixies, The Arctic Monkeys? The influence of indie culture is plain for all to see.So what next? We've seen the likes of Dickens and Doyle accepted into the literary canon. We've seen the reconsideration of the likes of Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hamnet as credible authors. In fifty or sixty years what will be considered to be part of the establishment? <br />
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Here is a simple fact: Most signed authors of 'literary fiction' sell less than 1000 copies, unless they're selected by Oprah Whinfrey or Richard and Judy to be showcased on TV. Meanwhile the Kindle revolution has seen sales of John Locke's books propel him into the Amazon Million club. Who will it be next? <br />
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I is for Indie. It is for Innovation. It is for the inevitable change that ignorant publishers choose to ignore.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06748002244600739380noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4252142136055046476.post-25483681929757574112011-10-16T07:14:00.000-07:002011-10-16T07:14:45.704-07:00To review or not review that is the question.It's been nearly a week since I posted sample chapters of The Surrogate online. A week of checking how many hits and downloads I've had. A week of constant promoting and tweeting and posting on Facebook to see how many more people I can reach before the launch of my book on 11/11/11 (just in case you didn't know). All in all I feel pretty satisfied with what has happened. I've nearly 250 reads on Scribd. Over 400 page views on Smashwords and I'm currently sitting on page 691 of the most downloaded free ebooks under 25,000 words written by people with the initials C J! (Not quite the initials part, but the rest is true).<br />
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It's been exciting watching people view by book. Up until last week, just two people had seen The Surrogate in any shape or form. Now I've been read by more people than have read The Tape Worm Revolution, Sperm-jackers and Red Devil Crochet Pattern for Halloween (although I think the latter might overtake The Surrogate in the next few weeks). One thing that appears to be missing though is a review. I have lots of Facebook likes, but they don't really sell the book now do they? If they did, sales of people's status would be dominating the charts at Amazon.<br />
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So how does one get a review? Send multiple copies of links to online reviewers? Which reviewers would be interested in reading my book? Where do I even send them to? As an indie author, I think the answer lies closer to home. We need to review each others work. I need to get off my own egocentric little cloud and go and read other people's work and hope they repay the compliment. Being an indie author has it's responsibilities and one of those is to support others in the community.<br />
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But there are problems with doing this. A lot of E-books I've been reading don't really fit into my category. I know very little about erotic fiction or young adult or paranormal romance. That's not to say I don't appreciate the talent and hard-work that goes into such books, I simply don't know the literary conventions. Give me a crime novel or romantic comedy and I'm fine, but I want to extend myself beyond those boundaries.<br />
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For all our differences as writers, there is one thing in common that we should look at when reviewing another's work. Is it a good story? Do I want to read more? If the answer is yes, then say so. If the answer is no, then lie...no, be honest. Tell somebody why it doesn't work for you. At the end of the day, we're all unique individuals looking to write the best story that we can and any feedback we can get, good or bad, is invaluable.<br />
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So off I go to read some of the fascinating variety of written texts on the world wide web and maybe, just maybe, crochet a Red Devil for Halloween.<br />
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C J EvansAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06748002244600739380noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4252142136055046476.post-60622584901415543792011-10-11T11:07:00.001-07:002011-10-11T11:07:48.417-07:00Into the big world wide webSo I've done it. I've posted the first three chapters of my novel The Surrogate onto Smashwords and made it available through Amazon. Yikes! Now onto the part I've dreaded. What if nobody reads it? What if people don't like it? What if I haven't outsold JK Rowling by the end of the week? Terror! <br />
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Of course I'm nervous. Having spent most of my life hiding the fact that I like writing all of a sudden I have to prove to the world that I'm a writer. That I have talent. I'm sort of like one of those acts that sets foot onto the stage of the X-factor and you don't really know what to expect. He looks a bit funny, but does that mean we are going to hear the 'song of triumph' or laughter and derision. I'm shaking as I look at the Simon Cowells and Gary Barlows of this world. I'm hoping that the Kelly Rowlands will be giving me some good ol' fashioned deep South philosophy by the time they've read the sample chapters. <br />
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The truth is I shouldn't be afraid. If just one person reads it (currently nine have downloaded it) then it's one more person than would have read it if had stayed in the dusty memory banks of my laptop. If somebody doesn't like it (and I'm sure there will be people who don't) then at least I gave them the opportunity to like it in the first place. If I don't sell as many as JK Rowling? Well, when you have nothing, a little bit more than nothing is a bonus! <br />
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This isn't for the short term for me. If I don't hear Take That's Shine as I leave the stage, then I'll be the guy who claims that he'll be back. The one who claims that nobody appreciates his talent.<br />
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"I'll show you, I'll be bigger than all of you man!"Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06748002244600739380noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4252142136055046476.post-44867765674438328362011-10-11T11:06:00.000-07:002011-10-11T11:06:46.164-07:00Why so serious?Recently, I've been thinking about why I finally decided to tell the world I wrote in my spare time. I mean, some people who know me know I've always written. I thought long and hard about it and came to the conclusion that I didn't want people to see me as just a 'writer', and by that I mean the serious type of writer, the one who sits up into the early hours of the morning wondering if an additional paragraph would flesh out their character a bit more. <br />
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There is a common misconception about writers, one that sort of extends to teachers too. It is that they take themselves far too seriously, that they spend most of their time with their nose in a book or musing away about what they can say about how the world is in decline. I'm a teacher and do you know how I spent my last weekend? Sitting in a pub with a couple of friends and my girlfriend, drinking beer, chatting away and then ordering a Chinese take-away. I was not moping in a corner pondering the futility of my existence (well not until the next day and the hangover kicked in). <br />
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I understand that people like to be moved by books, but what greater emotion is there than laughter. It can cure a broken heart, make the ill feel better, or just brighten up somebody's day. Comedy is so often underrated amongst the arts and yet one of the greatest writers in the English language wrote comedies. Yes. Shakespeare wrote comedy. I can't help imagining Big Willy standing on the stage of an Elizabethan Comedy Club asking his audience 'How art thou Stratford Upon Avon?' or 'Does it worrieth thou when thine carriage gets stuck in a ditch?' <br />
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I started out thinking I had to write serious prose to be realistic.But look around. There is comedy everywhere. From the sarcastic friend who makes quips, to the father dancing to Rhianna at his daughter's wedding. Yes, there is tragedy in the world too, but that's what makes comedy so much sweeter.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06748002244600739380noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4252142136055046476.post-44326884539172027912011-10-11T11:05:00.000-07:002011-10-11T11:05:32.021-07:00On coming out...as a writerSo I've finally done it. I crept out of the dusty closet that doubles as my office and proclaimed to the world that I, C J Evans, am a writer. I'm prepared for the raised eyebrows of friends at parties when I tell them I've spent the last two weeks not going to the pub because I was working on the latest draft of a novel. I'm ready for their questions about how I do it or why I decided to do it now after all of these years. I've got the answers to their questions about what my book is about and I've got a signed copy ready for them (for a small discount). <br />
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For most of my life, I've pretended I was something else. I took job after job and pretended that it was my vocation. I took the bus to work and bought my coffee from the Cafe Nero at Lime Street. I walked into classrooms, lecture halls, offices, each time with a broad smile on my face pretending I really wanted to be there. All the time I was thinking of something else. How I'd write the first line of the next chapter. <br />
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Writing isn't easy. I've met a lot of people who like the idea of being a writer, but lack the work ethic to make it happen. I've seen people with far more talent than I'll ever possess who can just throw together the opening paragraphs of a great novel in an instant. But what they lack, is determination. Writing is not merely about 'feeling the muse'. It's about hard graft. It's about sitting at your laptop at three in the morning wondering if your dialogue is realistic enough. It's about having sleepless nights about the syntax and grammar. It's about trudging through pages and pages of text to make sure that your protagonist is consistent. It's damn hard work. <br />
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So why become a writer? Why put myself through all of this? Simple, I have to. I don't want to get to eighty years of age and wonder, 'what if'. I write, not because I want to, but because I must.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06748002244600739380noreply@blogger.com3