What if you woke up one morning and couldn’t think what to write or blog…
Revolutionary new technique shows what the inside of a writer’s mind actually looks like.
When your home made Christmas cards go wrong.
When you are tasked with finding the venue for your club’s Christmas Do
What a writer’s mind looks like when they are asleep.
When writers are distracted from writing
A day in the life of a writer’s computer
Cartoon courtesy of Big Issue magazine.
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 area where 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.
Today’s tale follows on from last week.
Charlotte sat by the river, the sun on her face, note book on her lap. She was living the dream; not just coping with her new life, but actually a full time writer writing. Full time because she hadn’t found a job yet, but nevertheless she was like any writer or artist on the way up… now she just had to put pen to paper. She had no idea what was in the note that Lottie received, but if she just started scribbling…
Lottie looked round the gloomy hotel room and realised she should have splashed out on a luxury room not a cosy room. Cousin Ruth’s idea of posh hotel should not have been relied upon. She opened the envelope, hoping to find out what and where was happening next on this strange weekend.
Hello Cousin Lottie, so looking forward to meeting you and it is so good of you to come after everything that happened in the past. I don’t know how much Callum told you. I hoped we would hear from him one day, but it was not to be and we had no way of getting in touch.
I’m sure they wouldn’t want us lot in that posh restaurant at your hotel so we’re meeting at a nice family pub round the corner that has a soft play area. Malc my nephew will wait for you in the hotel foyer 6.30pm.
It was already six, not much time to get ready with her things still in her case, but it was hardly a book launch or one of Callum’s business diners. She would probably be back in the cheerless room quite early so she checked the television, or at least stood there wondering how it worked. Callum used to like playing with televisions and remotes so it was taken for granted he would start fiddling with buttons while she arranged her toiletries in the bathroom. Then they would watch a bit of news while looking at the menu to see what the hotel restaurant was offering. The soulless room brought home to her how much she missed Callum and their shared life, she couldn’t even arrange her toiletries in an en-suite obviously created out of a cupboard.
Please bear with us while modernisation proceeds to make your favourite hotel even more comfortable. Read the message on the welcome card. Lottie scrolled down to room instructions and pressed the button on the television. It came on at full volume with a quiz show hosted by that bloke on TV she couldn’t stand. The numbers on the remote did not relate to changing channels. She switched off and prepared to do battle with the heavy fire door.
In the foyer a middle aged man stood looking like he didn’t want to be there.
‘I’m Malc, you must be Lottie? Come on, let’s get this show on the road.’
He ushered her first through the double doors onto the pavement where it was now pouring with rain, though he didn’t seem to notice. The place was just round the corner to her relief. Through the door past a life size model of a highland stag and Lottie wondered how much stranger the evening could get. She also wondered which of the many families eating and wandering back and forth to the carvery were Callum’s relatives. Suddenly a woman with a halo of red hair and flowing garments rushed forward and clasped her in her ample arms.
‘Well here we are at last, come this way.’
As they approached a long table laden with food the folk gathered round it seemed more interested in eating than greeting. Lottie imagined how she would describe the scene to Callum, then realised she could never tell him. Suddenly a figure stood up.
‘Lottie Lincoln, I’m so excited to meet you, I’ve read all your books.’
A young woman, smartly dressed with a sleek elfin haircut, squeezed past the others.
‘You lot make room for Lottie while I take her to the carvery and show her what’s what.’
She guided Lottie in what seemed a complicated route past tables and a strange cage containing bouncing children.
‘Soft play area, godsend, some of those kids are ours apparently. I’m new in the family, in law like you. We have something in common. I’m Tilly, my husband’s a vicar, not here yet, been called out to some pastoral emergency.’
‘Good to meet you, I am rather overwhelmed.’
‘Not surprised, but I think I can rescue you, coming to us for morning coffee tomorrow and I’ll fill you in. Must look after my favourite author.’
Lottie had found a new friend and inspiration for a new novel, her head was spinning, but she just had to get through this evening and stay close to Tilly.
Charlotte felt quite excited, what an interesting family, hard to believe she had just created them herself and what on earth had happened in the past? She had no idea.
Charlotte stared at the computer screen, her novel was not going well. Having ventured back to the Hambourne Happy Creatives writing group she had succeeded in confusing them with Lottie Lincoln’s latest mishaps in Puddleminster-on-Sea. There had been comments such as ‘So what happened to the head?’
She had made life too complicated for Lottie and hadn’t really settled on which event should set her hapless heroine on the path of reluctant crime investigator. Perhaps she could round off the body parts story on a lighter note, introduce a dog…
A week later Lottie decided she must get back to her morning beach walks. Puddleminster was returning to normal, the police had finished searching everywhere and locals were unlikely to learn what really happened until the trial started, which could be many months away.
As she took in the fresh sea air and observed the near empty beach, she was caught off guard by a large dog bounding up with a huge stick in its mouth. For a moment she did not recognise the owner as he stumbled over the sand to apologise.
‘So sorry, oh it’s you Lottie, er Mrs Lincoln.’
‘Sorry I didn’t recognise you with a dog.’
Once again she was face to face with Doctor Geoff Good, the pathologist now famous for losing a body from the hospital mortuary. What should she say?
‘Is he your dog?’
‘No, friends gone on holiday to Australia. I volunteered to look after him while I’m suspended, at least I’ll look less suspicious out with a dog next time I’m caught on CCTV.’
‘Oh dear, will you get your job back?’
‘Yes, otherwise the bodies will be mounting up! Just required procedure, our department under special measures… Hey, clever you, right about there being no murder and my technician taking a body to create a forensic drama. Obviously completely insane, he had the head at his flat, kept as a souvenir!’
‘Goodness, they kept that out of the news.’
‘I only knew because I overheard them talking when I was on one of my many visits to the police station. Hmm, forget I told you that.’
Lottie felt a thrill at being entrusted with secret information and besides she didn’t know anyone to gossip with yet.
‘But the point is he passed all the usual checks, no criminal record, no record of anything untoward. He knew the entry codes because he worked there and had security clearance. No CCTV in the mortuary as we don’t expect bodies to try and escape. He must have slipped in during the night. Oh by the way, it turns out my wife loves your novels, read all of them, in fact she’s rereading them for gentle escapism after all this business. She wants to know if you are writing a new one.’
‘I have writers’ block, I thought a quiet life at the seaside would inspire a new story after my husband died suddenly.’
‘Oh sorry, I didn’t realise.’
‘No of course you couldn’t know. I was just reading in the newspaper an article on being widowed and it said don’t make hasty decisions such as moving house or getting a dog; I had just been wondering if I should get a puppy or a rescue dog…’
Charlotte wondered what could have caused Lottie’s husband’s sudden demise, something dramatic for a darkly humorous novel, a piece of space station crashing on him, had she read in the paper about a chunk of space debris plunging through someone’s roof? Or something closer to home, Lottie and Callum probably lived in London, he was trampled by bolting cavalry horses, that would be tragically unexpected.…
Children or other family? No, that’s why Lottie and Callum were so close and now poor Lottie was truly on her own, except of course for all her writer and arty friends in London; she was after all a very successful author, well popular and best selling, not in the upper echelons of the literati, but certainly far more successful than Charlotte.
Now she just had to think what Lottie was going to do next…
She didn’t even know his name, but there they were on the local news as the couple sought after by police to help with their enquiries. Lottie Lincoln, new in Puddleminster-on-Sea, hadn’t imagined the little town even had CCTV. The recently widowed writer had moved here for peace and quiet and anonymity.
Lottie walked past Queen Victoria Memorial Park every morning on her way to the beach. The locals were friendly and the man was one of several regulars who passed her and smiled or said good morning. She had no idea when the picture might have been taken, most mornings she had the same coat on. Though the picture had now faded from the television screen it was imprinted on her mind, two strangers exchanging a smile on a sunny morning looked like a couple exchanging intimate words.
No one was walking past Queen Victoria Memorial Park now, the whole area cordoned off by police tape, including the adjoining sea front. Lottie had been shocked to hear on the local news that a murder had been committed in the lovely park full of daffodils. Or at least body parts had been found, presumably the murder could have been committed anywhere. Police were not revealing how many or what sort of body parts. Surely they did not think she had been carrying a foot or hand in her back pack? The man never carried anything except a newspaper. Men were lucky with all their pockets and these days the chaps probably only carried a phone and door keys. If this man was married he might not even need his keys. Married… if his wife saw that picture she might assume the worst, an affair… an affair with a younger woman. Lottie guessed he was older than her and was rather insulted to have it assumed they were a couple.
None of this was like one of her novels; crime and forensics were avoided, though she did fancy writing a psychological drama. How would the lives of innocent people be affected by a terrible crime? But this was real life and what should she do now? Would the man go to the police station, did they mention a number to ring?
Time for her walk, she needed to get out in the fresh air to think, walking was her therapy for any stressful situation. Lottie set off to the little parade of shops and cafes that passed for a town centre; she could at least see if the weekly local paper had caught the news in time. Somehow her feet led her to the quaint old police station. She wasn’t even sure if it would be open to the public with all those cut backs, but now she was here she must try. The feisty heroines in her novels would not hesitate, though they usually only had romantic problems to deal with.
As she mounted the stone steps to the door she heard a car and turned to see a police vehicle draw up at the roadside. Two officers emerged and extracted a person from the back seat; it was the man from the picture and he was handcuffed. Any idea that prisoners were taken in the back door was quashed when he was led towards her. She could not retreat and in panic pushed open the door and rushed inside to get out of their way.
Inside, the front desk was unattended. Lottie edged into the corner and pretended to be totally absorbed in the posters about safety at cash machines and zipping up your shopping bags. When she risked turning to look they were already disappearing through a door. Lottie fled back outside, feeling as guilty as if she had committed a crime.
She was soon back in her little cottage, the door firmly closed behind her. Had someone dobbed that man in or had he confessed? He could be innocent, dobbed in by an enemy, or perhaps his wife recalled him coming home in blood stained clothes… No one knew her and even fans of her books were unlikely to recognise the windswept CCTV picture; the Lottie Lincoln author photo on the back of her novels was very different.
The lunchtime news merely showed lots of forensic suits trampling over the daffodils in the park. But the evening news headlined with the arrest of a man who was being kept in custody for further questioning.
‘Police believe a woman caught on CCTV at Puddleminster Police Station is the woman caught on camera with the arrested man. Chief Inspector MacDonald has urged her to come forward to help with their enquiries and stressed that there is no suggestion she was involved in any way with the crime.’
Did he mean that or was it a trick to catch her?
What could be nicer than a garden in summer?
And an invitation to a garden party on a sunny morning.
Until it starts raining…
But what would a traditional summer garden party be without torrential rain and thunder!
But two books found a new home.
I never get invited to be in documentaries. I was watching a documentary about a well known artist the other night, admiring her garden as she wandered down the path to her interesting studio. Then into the studio saunters a young man and on the screen appear the words Fred Bloggs ( not his real name, which I forget ) friend and writer. I have no idea what he has written, perhaps I should have heard of him and read all his work. But it doesn’t matter, he enjoys a certain kudos just by being a friend of a famous ( and infamous ) artist. Did he just turn up or did the producers plan his role and coach his lines to the artist ‘Have you got time for a cup of coffee?’ Luckily she had and they chat about her work, not his writing.
How do you get to appear in someone else’s documentary? It helps to actually have a friend who is a famous artist, or any friends at all. I do have some artistic friends, but nobody has made a documentary about them.
It also works the other way round. I was watching a documentary about a writer last night and lo and behold, we pan to a studio and there is someone else whose name I forget; the screen says Joe Smith, friend and artist. A great asset for the film makers because they can film him painting a portrait of his famous friend. Now I just need to find an artist who paints portraits and wait for someone to make a documentary about me.
If you enjoy visiting galleries, why not visit my Covid safe gallery.
https://www.ccsidewriter.co.uk/chapter-three-picture-gallery/
‘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 can write, 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 for the 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 