It seems lots of us have a stationery addiction, we can’t resist buying notebooks and journals, then can’t bear to spoil them by writing in them, or start a journal which only lasts a few pages. Judging by the cover design, how old do you think this notebook might be? At writers’ group we wondered how many of us had written long ago and if we still had our words of wisdom. I thought I had written ‘a few bits’ but found three full notebooks. This one was started in 1972 in Perth, Western Australia when I was nineteen and the handwriting neater than I remember. On the back it says Made in Japan – how long since you saw those words on humble everyday objects? How has it survived crossing the world and moving numerous times? I’m not going to start reading it all to you, but here are two pertinent snippets.
‘Our literature lecturer commented this morning that most writers of renown started their career by keeping a personal record. As I have aspirations to be an authoress of some sort I thought this to be a good idea.’
What took those aspirations so long?
My first entry for September, 1972 turned out to be very relevant.
‘Today was one of those pleasant spring days. The sun is still friendly and hasn’t yet become that hot enemy of summer.’
In the midst of our third heatwave in England, proof indeed that I never liked very hot weather. Too hot is too hot wherever you are, though in Australia we had the advantage of latitude with the sun dropping promptly down below the horizon. We have long warm evenings. The grass on the cliff will recover, grass always does and I am thankful for our sea breezes. The sky was hazy and the sea calm yesterday so come along and cool off. No pictures of being in the sea as my phone would get wet, but I think you should come in the water.
That is a person swimming in the middle of the picture, not a shark.
Lottie almost faltered under the withering gaze of her agent Felicity Buchannon, but it was too late to change her mind.
‘Felicity, it was you who said I must take a break after losing Callum.’
‘A break, not permanent exile.’
‘I’m hardly leaving the country, it’s a lovely little place where I can get away from everything.’
Charlotte stopped typing. She had set herself to write the opening page of her Lottie Lincoln novel, now all she had to do was decide in which order to put all the chapters she had written so far. She could well imagine the reactions of Felicity and Lottie’s friends. She recalled her boss’s reaction when she had handed in her notice.
‘Where on earth is Hambourne?’
Once her boss realised Hambourne was not within Greater London, Royal Berkshire or Surrey, she lost interest and obviously decided Charlotte was a lost cause and did not try to dissuade her. After that, the longer Charlotte left it to explain to people she was moving away, the harder it became to tell anyone, let alone mention David’s situation. Her best friend from school days had recently departed to live in New Zealand with her new partner, so there was no need to reveal her change of address, thank heaven for emails.
So here she was in Hambourne writing, which was more than Lottie was doing as Charlotte had given her writer’s block. She started typing again.
When Lottie’s mobile rang and she saw Felicity’s name, she was tempted not to answer, but Felicity had been a good friend to her, she deserved better.
‘Lottie, how are you, we’re worried about you.’
‘I needed time to think.’
‘Did you ring that number I gave you for the grief counsellor?’
‘I don’t need counselling, a walk by the sea helps.’
‘So how’s your novel coming along?’
Novel? She hadn’t even unpacked the few chapters she had written, so much had happened to her, Puddleminster was not the quiet place she had expected. After Callum’s tragic death some people had advised her to have a complete break from writing and work, while others had insisted she must keep busy, keep writing.
‘Are you still there Lottie? I don’t want to push you, but we have got a publishing deadline to meet.’
‘I can’t do it Fliss, maybe I’ve got writers’ block. If I do write it will be something dark, this is such a strange place it’s given me new ideas.’
‘Darling, we don’t do DARK, what on earth would all your readers say, they want romance and escapism.’
‘I’ll write under a pen name then, look I have to go, I have an appointment…’
Five minutes later Lottie was on the beach and happy to bump into Geoff the pathologist out with his friend’s dog.
‘Hello Lottie, my wife was just talking about you, wondering when your next book was coming out.’
‘Oh dear, my agent just rang with the same question. I think I’ve got writer’s block. Maybe I should write something different, about a pathologist or a forensic scientist, what is the difference?’
‘For a start hasn’t that already been done and my wife certainly doesn’t want to read about bodies, being married to me. Mind you, I have got an interesting case on the slab, elderly lady, quiet life, living alone with her pot plants, not an enemy in the world and she has been poisoned with a very unusual substance, the sort of thing arrows in the South American jungle were tipped with…’
Lottie wasn’t sure if there was a code of conduct among pathologists and if he should be telling her this, but her interest was piqued.
‘Ohh, was it a local lady?’
‘No, no, way the other side of town. I would not be telling you if it was local.’
‘Are you sure she was murdered? Would the plants still be in her house, did she have exotic plants?’
‘No idea, why?’
‘My aunt had plants, house like a jungle my father used to say. Anyway, she liked her tea brewed properly with freshly boiled water, so she would empty her kettle before using it, distilled water for her beloved plants. If your lady had an exotic plant and the kettle spout touched highly poisonous leaves, is it possible the poison might end up in her tea….’
Geoff laughed then looked thoughtful. ‘I am not an expert on tropical plants, but it would be amusing if an episode of Gardener’s World was devoted to plants that killed their owners.’
‘Oh yes, those viewers’ homes where they can hardly move for plants.’
‘…and you were right about the headless body in the park…’
Charlotte passed for a moment, what fun, this could be a further step to Lottie becoming an amateur detective.
Two weeks had passed with Lottie writing not a single word, while frantic emails from Felicity became more and more frequent. She had joined a walking group and a widow’s support group, where she was of great interest because of her novels and the unusual circumstances of Callum’s death. But she had to face the fact she had no idea in what direction her life should go.
As she walked on the beach one morning she looked up to see Geoff striding purposefully towards her waving.
‘You were right, house full of exotic plants. More than one type highly toxic. A gradual build up of poison in her body, it would not have killed you to have one cup of tea with her, but… ‘
Charlotte closed her lap top, no need to decide tonight how poor Callum had died or what might happen next in Puddleminster-on-Sea.
Lottie had not intended to search the beach for a silver spoon and told herself she was merely there for her usual early morning walk, but keeping her eyes peeled just in case. The beach was busy already. The metal detectorists would not have an advantage unless the mystery spoon was only silver plated.
A local author had planned the treasure hunt to publicise the latest novel in his Kitchen Sink Drama series. The Curse of the Cutlery Drawer was the fifth book, so presumably he was quite popular, though Lottie had never heard of him. Perhaps his fame had not reached London and the literary elite.
The author, Guy Forks, had been featured on the local news last night, though he was not seen, an actor read his words while a camera panned round his kitchen. Lottie could only wonder what the outside of his home looked like as he wished to keep his home location secret. The kitchen was unusual in the extreme. Bundles of herbs and strings of onions dangled over a huge slice of tree trunk that served as a kitchen bench. On the bench was road kill being prepared for dinner as far as she could tell. A collie appeared to have just given birth to puppies in a basket in the corner, next to a wood stove on which bubbled a huge pan with a couple of paws sticking out.
Before Lottie had a chance to peer closer and work out if the scene was actually for real, the view changed to the beach at Puddleminster-on-Sea. The actor’s voice declared that this was where the treasure was to be found and the clues were in the book. Whoever found the silver spoon would be united with the rest of the canteen of silver cutlery.
Against her better judgement Lottie had downloaded the Kindle version of the book and found herself googling the author. There was little to be found out about him.
It was an entertaining morning at least and the strange atmosphere and antics of all the beachcombers emboldened her to walk on further to the restricted areawhere she had nearly been arrested. There had been no more protests, as locals were now convinced they would become radioactive if they went too near. Lottie wondered if Guy Forks would purposely hide the spoon in this area. As she pondered, she found herself stepping through a gate that had been wrenched open. Locals had protested they did not have access to this part of the beach. Now they did, though it was a narrow strip. Behind a huge fence were forbidding looking buildings. Lottie thought she had better not linger, but as she turned to look out to sea she caught something glinting in the low morning sunlight. A thought popped into her head. She and her late husband had enjoyed visiting Liverpool and seeing Anthony Gormley’s statues standing on the sand and in the sea, disappearing and reappearing as the tides went in and out. The tide was going out so perhaps there was a statue under the water holding a spoon. That would be a challenge to retrieve.
Lottie wondered how long she had been staring out to sea before she was sure there was something emerging. It wasn’t a head… could it be a giant spoon? Guy Forks was obviously a big joker, was he also an artist trying his hand at installation art?
Lottie looked around nervously, expecting some official to say she was trespassing. How long before the tide went out far enough to reveal the strange object? She was only certain of one thing, she could not retrieve it and she had no desire to own a giant silver spoon, let alone a canteen of giant cutlery. She walked briskly, heading back to the main part of the beach, planning to tell the first familiar local she met.
Coming towards her was Geoffrey Good, the pathologist she had met at the police station, that bizarre time when a body was stolen from the mortuary. He had his friend’s dog with him, no doubt to look like he was walking the dog and not interested in treasure hunts.
‘What were you doing in the restricted area?’
‘Just having a walk, the gate was open, but I must tell you what I saw, you must come and look.’
They both looked and agreed the bowl of a huge spoon was emerging from the sea.
‘Do you know this local chap, Guy Forks?’ said Lottie.
‘Not till I heard about him on the news last night, even my wife wouldn’t read his rubbish.’
‘Oh it’s quite good actually, I mean I downloaded his book on Kindle last night, purely out of professional interest. I did fall asleep reading it before I found any clues… but whether he’s a good author or not, he has certainly created interest. He could be lurking behind a beach hut watching them all digging in the sand with no idea it will be easy to find. I know what we should do, lets tell everyone, play him at his own game.’
Geoffrey was better at commanding attention than Lottie as they started approaching people, but soon everyone was drifting to the area where the handle of the spoon was now beginning to emerge. Some people were angry at being conned, while others pointed out that Forks never said what size the spoon was. Geoffrey insisted there was no point in arguing about who could claim it until low tide was reached and they could see how the spoon was fixed to the sea bed.
People started paddling, then wading, few knew how deep the sea was or how tall the spoon handle might be. No one had thought to bring their swimming gear, but a couple of young men stripped down to their boxer shorts and discovered it was further out than they expected and out of their depth. When the police arrived to clear everyone from the restricted area, they had not heard about the treasure hunt, but decided boat reinforcements were needed to check the spoon. As everyone was now paddling in the shallows and they did not want to get their boots wet, the officers did not try to arrest anyone.
Lottie was excited to watch the early evening local news with Puddleminster being the first item. Guy Forks was unavailable for comment and nobody could retrieve the spoon as it was embedded in concrete. There was much speculation as to how it had been secretly erected overnight and other beach visitors interviewed thought it should remain as a local tourist attraction. Lottie had been interviewed briefly when Geoffrey pointed her out as the finder, but they had cut out her mention of the fact she was also a local author.
Charlotte is trying to get on with writing her new novel and hoping for inspiration for strange situations to get Lottie Lincoln into, but it is Charlotte who faces a strange situation.
‘Have you visited the tree yet?’ asked Myrtle.
Charlotte had been invited in for a cup of tea by her elderly next door neighbour. She had seen plenty of trees on her walks by the River Ham. Late spring and they were at their best, fresh green leaves bursting with new life. Among the people she had met living by or enjoying the river, none had mentioned a particular tree.
‘What tree?’
‘The Hambourne Oak of course, hmm, perhaps I should not have spoken out of turn, only locals know about it and newcomers are not told unless they are worthy.’
Charlotte was not sure whether to be honoured Myrtle had told her or disconcerted that Myrtle thought she should not have revealed the secret.
‘I won’t tell a soul Myrtle, your secret is safe with me. I have been reading all the local books about Hambourne, so interesting, but never any reference to the oak tree.’
‘You won’t read about the Hambourne Oak anywhere. No one knows how old she is, the important thing is that you must introduce yourself politely to her then she will protect you.’
Charlotte had not imagined Myrtle to be a tree hugger and though she was an older lady, she surely she had not been brought up in a time of myths. Still, her curiosity was aroused and this sounded like inspiration for the next Lottie Lincoln adventure in her WIP, work in progress, though she was making little progress…
‘Protection against what?’
‘Who knows, anything can happen in Hambourne, strange things have always happened here.’
‘Well when Robert Falstaff from the writers’ group I had joined was found murdered with his hands chopped off, that was certainly strange!’
‘Exactly and he was not a local, nor was he liked much so I imagine he had never been told to meet the tree.’
‘So where is this oak tree.’
‘I can’t tell you that dear, the whole point is to find it for yourself, which you will if she wants you to find her.’
‘How will I know, trees all look much the same to me, I mean I know what an oak tree looks like, but how would I recognise a special one?’
‘You will know when you see it, but on no account carve your name upon her, only Hambourne born may do that.’
Charlotte was intrigued with that information, a tree trunk with names carved for generations should be easy to spot.
‘Just tie ribbons in your colours.’
‘I don’t think I have my own colours.’
‘You must have, everyone has a colour of their own.’
The next day, Charlotte walked down the lane to the river and set off along the river bank in the opposite direction to the Ham Way. After a night of strange dreams about trees she was uncertain whether to believe Myrtle, a rational person would just laugh. She told herself all she was doing was investigating the other side of the river and enjoying fresh air and exercise before getting down to writing. In her pocket was the pound coin for the Ham ferry. She soon spotted a green flag and a few people standing on a wooden jetty. A small motor boat was making its way towards the jetty. As she drew closer she could see the flag bore the motif of an oak tree, was that a clue?
The captain or boatman, whatever one called him, deftly flung a rope loop over a wooden post and pulled in close enough for his passengers to climb out, without securing the other end of the boat.
‘See you later’ he waved them on their way. Charlotte guessed they were from the village of Little Hambourne, off to enjoy the comprehensive attractions of the town of Hambourne.
The boatman turned his attention to those waiting on the jetty.
‘Any news yet?’
‘No, nothing’ they shook their heads.
‘Sorry to hear that, if there’s anything me and Cis can do…’
Charlotte felt herself a real outsider. The few minutes it took to cross the river were spent in silence, she was intrigued to know whatever was happening, but unlikely to find out. She perched awkwardly on the narrow bench feeling her presence an intrusion. Remarks about the nice day or the pleasure of being on the river, would be out of place.
At the other side the rope was slipped over a rickety post and the boatman motioned for her to get off first. She would have to clamber unsteadily out under the watchful eyes of everyone.
As she turned to thank him and hand her coin over he said ‘Be sure not to miss the last ferry at five thirty and don’t get lost in the woods.’
He smiled for the first time and she was sure the other passengers caught his eye and smirked.
Charlotte chose the path along the bank, she was not letting the river out of her sight and resisted the temptation to turn and see if the others were following. She hoped she was setting a confident pace and after ten minutes stopped to take a sip of her water and admire the view, while glancing back to see if she was being followed. Not a soul in sight and soon it was obvious why no one else had taken this path as it petered out. At some stage the river bank had collapsed into the river, she would either have to turn back or follow the narrow track into the woods. She determined to wander a little way to see where it went then return. Birds were singing, though she could not see them in the thick foliage and the woodland floor littered with centuries of leaves had a unique scent. Though she had only ventured a few yards she felt she was in the depth of the woods. She must relax and enjoy the moment, forest bathing, she closed her eyes.
When she opened them she was standing under the oak tree. Was this really the Hambourne Oak? It was festooned with ribbons and dangling ornaments and a closer look revealed many names carved and various symbols, though nothing as common as a heart to link names.
‘Good Day, I’m Charlotte from Hounslow.’
Did she say that out loud? The tree looked down at her with a dignified stillness, there was no breeze to ruffle her leaves. She touched the ancient bark with one hand then both, not a tree hugger yet. The mighty oak was much too vast to hug.
A crackle of twigs startled her, then she detected movement on the other side of the trunk. Her first instinct was to run back to the river, but she pictured herself tripping over a tree root and lying helpless… she paused and a man stepped out, scruffy appearance but familiar.
‘Sorry, I thought I was alone.’
‘Danny, Daniel Worth?’
He did not seem to recognise her.
‘Charlotte from Hambourne Creative Writers…’
He looked more nervous than she was so she felt emboldened to speak again.
‘You have been reported missing.’
‘Do I look like I’m missing? I came to talk to the tree. Don’t look so scared, I’m not a murderer.’
Any illusion Charlotte had that she was handling this cool and calmly, like those heroines on TV dramas, were shattered.
‘I did not kill Robert Falstaff’ he said in a strong voice that did scare her.
This was turning into a plot she had not even imagined for Lottie Lincoln, what would Lottie say or do?
‘Nor did I, so the only way to prove our innocence is to find out who did.’
‘No, a box of paperbacks, destined to be Christmas presents I expect, at least we have avoided yet another new novel.’
‘So, what’s in that drawer?’
‘More folders full of writing.’
‘Oh goodness, she told me she was going to leave her intellectual property to me… and all her manuscripts!’
‘Ha ha Sis, have you seen what’s in the loft?’
‘Lucky you Sis, most authors are only successful after they have died, so maybe you’ll make some money.’
‘At least she went the way she would have liked, freak accident trying to take pictures for her blog.’
‘How do you know it was an accident, she could have been pushed.’
‘Ha ha, by another jealous blogger?’
‘However it happened at least it was dramatic, she did say to me one day ‘If I’m found dead I do not want headlines in the local news saying ‘Pensioner found dead’ make sure it’s ‘Mystery Death of Author.’
‘She was certainly intending to be home soon, her computer’s still logged in to WordPress, looks like she was in the middle of writing a blog… hmmm Halloween story. We could publish it and no one would be any the wiser that she was dead, that’s if anyone actually reads her blog.’
‘It would be a sort of tribute if her Halloween story still went out.’
‘Yup, the word document is open as well so it would be her genuine writing.’
‘And in the unlikely event that any reader had heard she had died, they would think her ghost had written it!’
‘Okay, you do the blog then and I’ll go on searching for her will.’
This evening’s tiny tale follows on from last week when Geoff was arrested as a murder suspect.
Geoff Good was alone in the interview room at Puddleminster Police Station. It had been on the local news about body parts being found in Queen Victoria Memorial Park, that’s why he had joked that as a pathologist at the hospital he did post mortems on deceased patients and did not chop up bodies. He did not expect them to use that as evidence of guilt.
The two CID officers came back in with a cup of tea, he assumed they were going to apologise for wrongful arrest and give him a lift home.
‘Doctor Good, we have some important questions to ask you with regard to your work, now new evidence has come to light.’
What on earth could they mean, had they found mortuary instruments lying in the park, no they were all present and correct when he left work yesterday. Was the victim someone he knew? Unlikely they would have identified the body so soon, you couldn’t even tell by tattoos these days, everyone had them.
‘You must have spoken to the woman in the CCTV picture, I saw her coming into the police station.’
‘No one has come forward to help with our enquiries.’
‘We know the victim was already dead when he was dismembered,’ chipped in the smug DC chap ‘very dead.’
‘That’s a relief, I mean for the victim.’
‘Dead for a while, but not decomposed, our forensic team have established the corpse had been kept somewhere cold.’
Geoff remained silent, he did not like where this was leading, but surely they did not think he regularly murdered people and kept them at the mortuary? Every body arrived or left the mortuary properly identified and recorded.
They stared at him, he tried to look them in the eye and not appear nervous or guilty. A thought came to him which he tried to dismiss. His new assistant did not disguise his ambition to get involved in proper forensics, not the boring bodies they dealt with at the hospital. He watched all the CSI programmes Geoff’s wife loved, but being fascinated with murder did not make him a murderer. Besides, he could not have hidden a spare body, all the drawers were occupied at present.
‘Did you wish to call your solicitor Doctor Good?’
How did things get to this stage already. He did not have a solicitor, only the school boy who had dealt with his great uncle’s will, or the local chap who had done the conveyancing for their house twenty years ago, probably retired by now.
‘No, I do not need a solicitor.’
Suddenly the DS brightened up. ‘We will be getting a warrant to search the mortuary, accompanied by your good self. In the meantime you are free to leave now as a person of interest. You may go home, but do not go to work and make sure we can contact you at any time.’
Geoff walked down the road in a daze, years of clinical and logical thinking did not help him process what was happening. He almost bumped into her, the woman from the picture. She recoiled and he automatically put his hands in the air. They both started to speak at once.
‘Sorry, sorry, I’m not a murderer.’
‘Sorry, nor am I didn’t mean to react like that.’
‘I don’t even know your name.’
‘I’m on my way to the police station to explain, I chickened out the first time. This is a nightmare.’
‘I’m so sorry you got involved.’
‘No I’m sorry, Lottie, Lottie Lincoln the novelist.’
‘Erm, I don’t read novels, Geoff Good, pathologist.’
‘Goodness, how interesting, life is stranger than fiction for sure.’
They both automatically looked around for hidden CCTV cameras.
‘Are we allowed to talk to each other?’
‘We both have a reason for walking down this road, I’ll be quick and tell you my situation. They seem to think I could have murdered and hidden the body in the mortuary, because it had been kept somewhere very cold, ridiculous of course, but at least they can’t possibly think you were involved.’
‘Do you have assistants?’
‘They are not murderers either, though the new one’s totally obsessed with forensics and CSI dramas. Oh, do you write dark crime novels, they’re all women writers.’
‘Indeed not, life affirming stories, family dramas, but I can see a story in this situation.’ Her eyes lit up. ‘Perhaps no murder was committed, your assistant wanted to see a bit of drama so borrowed a body, chopped it up and created a fake crime scene. He would not be suspected, no blood soaked clothing and all that. Anyway, I had better get to the police station, good luck.’
The mortuary was empty of live persons when Geoff was escorted in by a team of plain clothed and uniformed officers. The person they had to show the warrant to was Geoff himself. It seemed the rest of the hospital was unaware of the mortuary drama. Had anyone even noticed Geoff’s absence? There obviously had been no deaths at the hospital in the past twenty four hours and he recalled the new assistant was starting some annual leave.
No bodies on the slabs, pity, Geoff would have enjoyed making them feel queasy. He showed them all the computer and written records, then opened each labelled drawer one by one, assuring them it was a full house this week.
‘Everyone sleeping peacefully’ he joked nervously as they reached the last drawer.
The last drawer was empty, the name still on the front of the drawer, John James Smith.
Busy weekend away helping Sally’s aunt and uncle move house; we stopped for dinner at the motorway services on the way back. I still hadn’t written a word for my new writers’ group on Monday evening. Sally just laughed.
‘Rob, it’s not school, just tell them you didn’t have time, though you could write a whole book about this weekend.’
‘Yes… and if it got published would your aunt and uncle recognise themselves?’
‘Not if you changed the names.’
She continued leafing through some free magazine she had picked up, then pushed it to my side of the table.
‘Look, there’s a short story at the back, maybe you will get one of your short stories in a magazine one day.’
‘I am hoping to aim a little higher than some rubbish free magazine.’
I flicked back through the pages; there was actually an article written by a dog, looking for forever homes for his pals.
Lots of licks, Barney.
‘Oh please, spare me… ‘
‘Read the story Rob, maybe it’s good.’
Protest
by Angelique Dubarry
It started with a bumble bee and ended with the saving of a whale; thousands of signatures on the petition protesting to Sea Worlds in the USA for keeping Killer Whales in captivity. Saving The World from my computer was simple and addictive, till the day the door bell rang…
Hmm, it was quite a good story, our topic was The Internet – Good or Evil? Sally was busy playing with her phone, I slipped the magazine into my man bag. Nobody in my writers’ group would lower themselves to read this trashy magazine. What did Sally say about changing the names? No one would possibly know I had borrowed the story.
On Monday evening there was a good turn out and it was a while before my turn. I read clearly and confidently, I was enjoying myself.
…till the day the door bell rang. I thought they were Mormons, two smart young men in suits.
‘Good morning Ma’am… Mrs Katherine Jones?… how are you today?’
I was taken aback they knew my name, but they were so polite and so American I stepped back and they stepped forward, into my house. On closer inspection their black badges did not mention Latter Day Saints and what they were saying did not make sense. ‘… home security…’
I thought they were selling burglar alarms; then they homed in to the extension where we keep the computer. Now their slick talking seemed to include the words ‘national security’.
I realised, when it was too late, I should not have offered them a cup of tea. When I was at the sink filling the kettle they disappeared, with the computer…
I looked up, the room was eerily silent, either they were totally absorbed, or they did not like my story. I stuttered, but managed to get to the end.
‘…but I don’t understand sergeant, what I have done wrong?’ I stammered.
‘Let’s hope your ‘38 degree’ friends can get you a good solicitor, one who will explain the extradition process.’
The tight lipped silence continued, I noticed the retired lady’s face reddening.
‘It’s okay Ruth, I’ll handle this’ said Giles, self appointed leader of the group. ‘Is this your own work Rob, or have you some explaining to do?’
How was I to know that Ruth Brown used Angelique Dubarry as her nom de plume? How was I to know that everybody recognised the story, because it had been short listed for the prestigious local arts festival competition last year.
In the first and last of my series of author interviews my guest is Baz the Bad Blogger who was happy to answer my questions as nobody else wanted him on their blog.
Welcome Baz, thanks for coming along.
It was a hell of a journey, I hope I’m going to get lots of book sales out of this.
Er, well it’s more a case of meeting lots of other interesting readers and writers. How did you come to start blogging?
THEY said it was a good way to sell my book.
What do you like to write about in your blogs?
ME.
Tell us about your new novel.
It is a dystopian fantasy set in an unnamed capital city. The government has been taken over by zombies and androids, but no one can tell the difference as none of them have any personality.
That must have made character development rather difficult.
I decided not to bother with character development.
So do you consider the plot line to be important?
I guess so, I just go for dead straight…
Moving on, what advice would you give to other bloggers?
When I started I wrote very long blogs so everyone would think I was highly intelligent.
And did they?
I don’t know, I never had any comments, so I decided to make my posts brief. I recommend two sentences at most, as no one reads past the first two lines anyway…
My second piece of advice is to have lots of pictures of fluffy kittens or cute puppies. I haven’t got any pets, but I found a dead rat in the back yard one rainy morning and he looked quite photogenic once he had been blow dried.
Your blog certainly has a unique style. How many followers do you have now?
Umm… one, Tidetables something or other.
We had to cut the interview short as Baz had somewhere more interesting to be, but you can find out more about him and his novel ‘I Zomboid’ at his author page.
‘How hard can it be to write a novel?’ thought Joe as he walked through the town towards the Job Centre. Redundancy could be the best thing that ever happened to him; a golden opportunity for a new career as a writer. Passing the library he stopped to look at a notice in the window WRITING CLASS. He went in to enquire for details, couldn’t remember the last time he had been in the library; the sight of all those books intensified his desire to write one himself. He gave his details to the librarian.
‘It’s your lucky day,’ she said ‘the class meets in ten minutes, you could attend to see if it’s what you are looking for.’
The morning flew by, Joe listened to the other people in the group and thought If you canwrite, so can I. When they did an exercise the words flew out of him. He signed on.
At lunchtime he sat down in the coffee shop to make a shopping list, then strode down the road to WH Smith. Much later he emerged laden with purchases; writing books and magazines, note pads, pens, pencils, Microsoft Word, six Three forthe Price of Two modern paperback novels, a large piece of board and a packet of felt pens.
Arriving home he staggered through the front door.
‘How did you get on at the Job Centre dear?’ called his wife.
He faltered and nearly dropped his shopping. ‘Fine dear, I’m just going on the internet to look up some job websites.’
He closed the door of the spare room.
An hour later his wife called out ‘Dinner’s ready.’
With no response she stumped upstairs and pushed the door open. On the wall was a large board with strange plans in bright colours. Joe sat at the desk in front of the computer, open notepad by his side. On the screen were written two words Chapter One; absorbed he hadn’t noticed her come in. She looked more closely at the board; at the top was written Dove Street, below were drawn two rows of squares filled with names, she peered at them puzzled. ‘Mary and John White, Mr and Mrs Khan and their three children, young Polish workers, old Mrs Green…’
‘Joe, what are you doing?’ she exclaimed, startling him.
‘I’m going to write a novel,’ he exclaimed proudly ‘in fact I may well do a series, there are so many interesting people who live in Dove Street, the possibilities are endless.’
Times and Tides of a Beachwriter 