Is that the time? Lord...

Christmas Offerings from Oscar

2011-12-13T17:06:00.000Z

These final countdown weeks of 2011 have been an interesting time for me.

Somehow I managed to scrape through to the penultimate round of the hectic New York City Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge, one of 100 contestants whittled down from 480 starters. If any of you short fiction writers haven't yet tried NYCM competitions, I strongly recommend that you should have a go. Be warned though that you will have to be disciplined to work against the clock. In the FF Challenge this means writing a story of up to 1000 words in 48 hours. That does get the creative juices flowing, believe me.

In November Every Day Poets published my World War 1 prose poem Farewell Sweet Molly Brown. I don't consider myself to be poet, so this result came as a very pleasant surprise. In fact, that small success prompted me to attempt my first recorded reading, on Audioboo.

New York seems to have been lucky for me this year, because today The View From Here has put the icing on my Christmas cake, by publishing my short story Nighthawks: A Fable of New York.

I hope you might perhaps have time to read/listen to my offerings. If you do, please let me know what you think.

I'd like to wish any poor lonely souls who happen to find themselves in my humble blog, a very happy Christmas - or whatever this season may be to you - and a healthy and peaceful New Year 2012.

As ever, help yourselves to tea and biccies, but please do turn the lights off when you leave.

Seasonal Success Assured - FREE Christmas Present Guide:

2011-12-11T20:53:00.001Z

Why go through the hell of making Christmas present decisions when I offer you four sure-fire suggestions for book presents that will make someone's day? The first three are books I have recently read and can heartily recommend, the fourth is one I can recommend equally heartily but in which I must confess a small vested interest.

Recommendation: The Coward's Tale, by Vanessa Gebbie (Bloomsbury)

Suitable for: Anyone who loves enthralling stories and fine writing. A must for the most important person in your life. This gift's significance will build and build.

More about the book: When describing The Coward's Tale I find it difficult to avoid using superlatives. From the very first page I was drawn to the rhythm of Vanessa Gebbie's writing and the warmth of her characters. It's impossible to pigeonhole The Coward's Tale. In her story of a Welsh mining town and the effect of a past mining disaster on the community, Vanessa has created a magical world grounded in harsh reality. A saga of sorts - yes - but intimate too, comprising many stories of individual lives, beautifully entwined with a structure and narrative technique that combines the warmth of traditional story telling with her own unique style.

Imagine how your standing and judgement will increase in the eyes of the recipients of this book when, over coming months and years, The Coward's Tale attracts literary approbation of the highest order. It is a classic in the making - trust me. No, don't thank me now, but do please remember that you heard it here first.

Recommendation: The Secret of the Sands, by Sara Sheridan (HarperCollins - AVON)

Suitable for: Lovers of well written and meticulously researched historical fiction combined with a touch of romance. Don't be fooled by the cover art, which might lead the unwary to believe Secret of the Sands is a 'girlie' book. It's not. The cover blurb describes it as 'A rich and epic novel…', I'd go along with that.

More about the book: Sara Sheridan's work covers an amazing range of style, subject matter and genre. She may occasionally be heard reporting from far-flung places on the BBC Radio 4 programme 'From our own correspondent'. In The Secret of the Sands Sara combines her enthusiasm for primary source research with an entertaining writing style of journalistic clarity. This enthralling tale is based on the true life19th century adventures in the Arabian Penninsula of British Navy Lieutenant James Wellstead, and his relationship with a high-born Ethiopian girl trapped into slavery. The Secret of the Sands is written with the kind of panache only achievable by someone who knows their historical subject matter from the foundations up. A book to savour.

Recommendation: Mrs Darcy versus the Aliens, by Jonathan Pinnock (Proxima Classics)

Suitable for: Anyone breathing and possessing a sense of humour, with the following caveats: HEALTH WARNING Not to be read by persons of a sensitive disposition or those diagnosed with Obsessive Jane Austen Loyalty Syndrome. On no account should this book be read whilst imbibing hot liquids or operating machinery.

More about the book: This is the Jane Austen sequel that Jane might have written had she reached puberty in the era of the Beatles and Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. Jonathan Pinnock, conversely, has managed to ghost-write her work without any artificial aids or stimulants… allegedly. Imagine your favourite Austen novel with added aliens, tentacles and assorted unlikely literary and historical characters. Got it? OK, now put the mix in a blender, add skilful writing, a generous portion of wit and serve with an arty drizzle of innuendo. In short, a crazy mash-up guaranteed to raise a laugh.

Recommendation: The Archangel and the White Hart (VWC publication)

Suitable for: Anybody who enjoys a good read, particularly those who have limited time for reading. The Archangel and the White Hart is a slim volume that will slip easily into a handbag or briefcase ready to dip into during otherwise wasted minutes. A cornucopia of pleasant surprises to carry with you anywhere.

More about the book: The Archangel and the White Hart is an anthology of writings - short fiction, poetry and excerpts from longer works - by members of Verulam Writers' Circle (VWC). This is the book in which I have a vested interest (not a financial interest, I receive no royalties) in that VWC is my home writers' circle and two of my stories are included in the volume. The Archangel and the White Hart is a professional publication edited by Jonathan Pinnock (see above) and comprising some of the the best work by a group of outstanding authors, many of whom have had novels and other works published and/or broadcast.

But Not Least: Clearly, my selection represents only a tiny fraction of all the terrific books currently available. So, as a post script I'll add two other books that are right at the top of my 'to read' pile. The first is a collection of short fiction Somewhere Else, or Even Here, by A. J. Ashworth (Salt Publishing) and the second is an historical fiction novella The Onion Stone, by Mandy Pannett (Pewter Rose Press).

The clinching argument: You can buy these books online thereby saving a lot of fuel, pollution and frustration. A book has to be easier to wrap than a pogo stick or a set of golf clubs. Buy today and you'll have time to read the books before you wrap them. Win-win. You know it makes sense.

So, what are you waiting for?

Good shopping and reading.

A Poem for The Fallen

2011-11-11T10:28:00.001Z

The website Every Day Poets has today published my poemFarewell Sweet Molly Brown written to commemorate the fallen of the First WorldWar in particular but also those lost in subsequent conflicts. I'musually a writer of short stories, not a poet, but this poem entered my dreamsand demanded that I write it down. I don't pretend to understand how thatprocess works or what, if anything, it means. But that is quite simply how ithappened.

My poem is not something to be 'liked' but if the wordsshould move you, please consider donating whatever you think fit to the RoyalBritish Legion Poppy Appeal, Help for Heroes, or any similar fund that honoursthe memory of those killed, or supports those injured, in conflict and theirdependants.

If in making your donation you should mention 'Sweet MollyBrown' alongside any personal dedication, the acknowledgement will be most welcome.Thank you.

I blame The Coward's Tale by Vanessa Gebbie

2011-11-09T15:53:00.000Z

I used to think I was indecisive...

I am chewing my fingers to the bone with indecision and it's all Vanessa Gebbie's fault.

You see, this morning the postman brought me Vanessa Gebbie's latest book, The Coward's Tale. Yay!

But I haven't quite finished Jonathan Pinnock's hilarious first novel Mrs Darcy versus the Aliens. Doh!

I'm also dipping in and out of Tania Hershman's excellent short story collection The White Road and Vanessa's equally excellent collection Storm Warning. Double doh!

On Monday, following a discussion on SF at UCL, I purchased The History of Science Fiction by Adam Roberts, and began reading that on the train home. Triple, doh!

And… this morning's post also brought me a copy of The Glass Bead Game by Hermann Hesse, a book I have been meaning to read for years. Doh, ray, me, far, so, la, tee, DOH!

The very worst of this situation, and the part for which Vanessa Gebbie is entirely to blame, is that having read the first chapter of The Coward's Tale I am utterly hooked. Unfair, Vanessa, so unfair of you to write such mellifluous and addictive prose. It was clear from the opening sentences that not only was The Coward's tale going to be a book I would relish, but that it is one destined to achieve heights and accolades to which few other books and authors can even aspire.

Hear me, people, The Coward's Tale is going to be BIG.

Now, I suppose I shall simply have to go cold turkey for a few hours, sustained perhaps by a final heady fix of Mrs Darcy versus the Aliens, with perhaps just a smidgin of…

Hang on a moment. Wasn't there something else I should be doing? Ah, yes. I'm a writer, allegedly.

Just one more chapter? Oh, please?

Damn the woman, why can't she write take-it-or-leave-it rubbish, like me?

WRITING: The Joy and The Sadness

2011-11-01T21:00:00.003Z

There are few truths about writing that can be stated with absolute certainty but this is one, and this is part of the sadness of writing: A writer can never experience what he has written for the very first time.

Undeniably the writer is the first person in the world to see his individual words as they appear on the page, but he is cursed never to experience that magical (tragical?) first discovery of his completed sentences. Obvious? Yes, but in that truism lies the joy and the sadness, plus endless potential for self discovery and life enrichment. In my opinion that potential for self discovery and life enrichment comes from the act of subjecting writing to the honest scrutiny of others – writers and readers – and from the need for any serious writer to get inside the heads of his characters and his readers. In short, I believe that a writer needs to cultivate a thick skin, an ability to listen and above all the magical ingredient of empathy. The writer without empathy must be a lonely person indeed. But for the writer with empathy the world is his friend and his inspiration.

Speaking of loneliness, blogging is a strange and mysterious adjunct to writing. Writing this piece I have not the slightest idea whether my words will ever be read by a single living soul. I do hope one or two living souls do drop by because I’m writing my chuffing heart out here. (Do please leave a comment if you visit, even if you’re simply lost in cyberspace, just to give me a little reassurance. If you have problems with the comment function, tweet me @OscarWindsor). Whilst I have nothing personally against bots of the benign information-collating ilk, bots and I really don’t have a lot to say to one another. Come to think of it, perhaps bots do speak to other people. Maybe it’s only me? Hello… Hello… Calling fellow travellers in interblogetary craft… Nothing. Still, at least they don’t nick my biscuits and go away leaving the lights on like human visitors… Hang on though… Look, whoever – whatever – you are, it’s all very well to say you’re human. How can I possibly know? I’ve heard about a recent upsurge in Turing-test Pass certificates. Do bots eat biscuits?

Anyway, where was I?

Oh, yes. There is one chink of light in the darkness of a writer’s inability to get that magical (he hopes) ‘first view’: On occasion - it must happen by chance, otherwise the effect doesn’t work - a writer may discover a piece of writing and think, as writers sometimes do: ‘I wish I’d written that,’ and only later realise that in fact he did. In that brief moment he experiences the joy of writing.

GOTCHA! Take that, Mr Alien Invader Chappie

2011-09-21T23:39:00.000+01:00

Disturbing news has flooded the …Time? Lord…™ communication channels. An unscrupulous mastermind posing as a writer is invading unguarded blogs accompanied by alien hordes of cloned Jane Austen characters. The fiend is causing untold painful mirth and seducing the reading public with devious enticements and cunning sales pitches. I mentioned this unfortunate affair on a recent visit to the fragrant Miss Austen’s Hampshire residence, whereupon, quite naturally, she called upon …Time? Lord…™ for assistance.

There’s little point in being a …Time? Lord…™ if you don’t employ your temporal assets to good effect. One little known disadvantage of time travel, however, is an irresistible tendency to mimic the most recent character you’ve met. So, after visiting Miss Austen I stopped off at Warmington-on-Sea, ostensibly for advice on dealing with alien invasion but in truth to disguise an embarrassing Regency falsetto.

Pay attention. Your alien invader chappie is full of ideas of world domination and thinks he can fool us by wearing simple disguises like Regency bonnets and ladies underwear… There’s nothing at all odd about the ladies underwear of course. I just thought I’d mention that. The aliens will have a leader, you’ll recognise him by his facial hair. Alien invasion leaders always have facial hair… very un-British.

Trust me, it's bigger inside.

My campaign to eradicate the blighter is a three-pronged affair: 1) mount a surprise attack 2) obtain a full confession 3) inflict awful punishment.

Right. Here goes Operation Impose Spanish Justice:

Phase One – The Surprise Attack

Aha! There he is. That bonnet did not fool me, Sir. You didn’t expect a stealth attack did you, Mr Alien-Leader-Chappie?

(Materialising in this red call box catches them out every time. Nobody expects the Spanish Imposition!)

So, what have you to say in your defence, Jonathan Pinnock? Is there any valid reason why …Time? Lord…™ should not, on behalf of the wronged Miss Jane Austen, give the perpetrator of the alleged literary work known as Mrs Darcy Versus the Aliens a good kick in the tentacles?

Alleged?! I'll have you know I was commissioned by the good lady herself. Do you think you're the only one with a time machine around these parts? "Jonny boy," she says to me, "All this zombie business has gone too far. What we need is a return to basics. Reboot the franchise." And you don't argue with the likes of Miss Austen. So I say, "How about vampires, then?" and she says, "Come off it, mate. And no bleeding werewolves either. Think outside the box." So I go away and have a bit of a ponder. When I come back I say to her, "What about aliens?" and she sighs and says "Yeah, whatever." Well, it's well past gin o'clock by this time and she doesn't do fine print once she's had a few. So that's how we ended up with aliens. Works for me.

Phase Two – The Confession

Weasel alien words of desperation if ever I heard them. And I suppose you thought I wouldn't spot that awful pun about the box? We do the puns, Sir. No, you’re not so cocky in the face of cold British silliness, are you Mr Alien-Leader-Chappie Pinnock? Confess the full history and extent of your nefarious literary undertakings and hope for mercy:

Oh all right then. Here's the skinny. Had this idea for an alien sequel to Pride and Prejudice way back in 2007, got derailed by that zombie book, stopped writing it, started writing it again, didn't get a publisher, eventually serialised it on the web, found an audience, found a publisher. The book finally made it into the shops at the start of September, where it's on promotion in WHSmith in the UK and also on sale in most branches of Waterstone's as well as all the usual online places, including - much to my amazement - the Jane Austen Centre Online Giftshop. The story? Well, it's a genuine sequel to Pride and Prejudice, with aliens. But there's much more than that. There are ghosts, dirigibles and a pigeon called Colin. There's Lord Byron and there's Charlotte Collins on laudanum. And a lot of tentacles. It is indeed the most fun you can have with a bonnet on.

Harrumph! A likely story. You may enter your tweet of mitigation in fewer than 140 characters before I pass sentence:

In our darkest hours, a great work of art will often emerge to delineate our hopes and fears. This is not that work. But it may provide a laugh or two whilst we're waiting.

Phase Three – The Punishment [dons black cap]

Aha! Your silver-tongued eloquence will not save you, Alien, condemned as you stand by your innate Jonny-foreigner inability to count. Your crimes against Miss Austen and the holders of diverse blogs and domains are of such a witty, hilarious and titillating nature that I have no option but to subject you to the most severe punishment at my disposal. You are therefore sentenced to have inflicted upon your reputation in perpetuity the stain of having received an Oscar’s Oscar – Hi Five.


Take that! And let it be a lesson to you.

Don't Deride Wise Words

2011-07-30T17:56:00.003+01:00

If you had someone who guided and inspired you as a child you were lucky, particularly if that someone was your father, mother or a sibling.

Hands up. I’m not the brightest candle in the box, clearly so, because it’s taken me more than half a century to realise the profound influence that written words have had on my development.

Why has this taken me so long? Why now, after bringing up a family of my own, moving on to a second marriage and changing my career to one very different from my lifelong employment, have I experienced this revelation?

Please understand this piece is not about religion. My opinion of organised religion is fodder for a different rant. The words I’m referring to were written mainly, but not exclusively, by lay people who knew how to express the essence of what is necessary or desirable to live a happy and fulfilled life and avoid some of its pitfalls.

In our cynical times inspirational texts are all too often the province of religious cranks, charlatans and cynical manipulators. It has become intellectually cool to deride wise words, in particular any that were once venerated but have become tarnished by association with the standards of less enlightened times.

To be clear, by wise words I mean for example Kipling’s ‘If’ or the mysterious, often misattributed, Desiderata. There is also one Shakespearean passage in particular which is the target of so much intellectual flak that anyone wishing to be taken seriously in literary circles hardly dares mention it today. But nobody takes me seriously, so I shall. I’m referring to the speech in Hamlet in which Polonius gives advice to his son Laertes.

My own dad was lost at sea. Mother remarried twice. Both those relationships were based around the licenced trade. My parents ran pubs and clubs, so I saw little of them – certainly we shared little ‘quality time'. I have no siblings and I made no lasting friendships because of frequent home moves. Eventually I left home – or rather home left me – at sixteen. I chose to remain and live in lodgings in order to continue my electrical apprenticeship when my parents again moved on. I always read a lot, quite widely. I can see now that I brought myself up, more or less, with the help of the words of writers I had come to respect and trust.

No doubt there was some utter rubbish in the stuff I read over the years (I blame on that my inability to avoid puns) but there were also wise words in abundance. It has taken me the better part of a lifetime and the effort of attempting to become a writer myself to make me recognise the true importance of those wise words.

Sometimes I say playfully that I’m a man of my words. That’s self-indulgent rhetoric, for in truth what I am was fashioned from the words of others.

So if you’re down, or lonely, or if the world doesn’t understand, take heart and take refuge in great writing. Never feel ashamed to seek support from wise words.

Floating an Idea or two, or fifty-six

2011-07-03T21:27:00.000+01:00

When is a good time to launch a book?

Verulam Writers' Circle's anthology, The Archangel and the White Hart, has been available on Lulu since February and on Amazon since April, but VWC wisely decided to save their official launch party until the long warm evenings of Summer.

So, if you can make it to Waterstone's in St Albans at around 7:00pm on Thursday, 7th July there'll be a complimentary glass of wine with your name on it and your own copy of The Archangel and the White Hart, for a very small outlay, that we believe you'll enjoy and value. Many VWC authors will be there to give readings, to chat, and to sign your personal copy.

The Archangel and the White Hart's authors include Toby Frost, author of the Space Captain Smith books and Jonathan Pinnock, winner of the Scott Prize 2011, editor of the Archangel and the White Hart and author of this year's million-seller-to-come Mrs Darcy Verses the Aliens.

I do hope you can be with us to celebrate on Thursday 7th July in St Albans where good things happen… unless, of course, your name happens to be Alban.

Surviving Michael Moorcock

2011-06-22T13:00:00.004+01:00

The Panel (l-r): Norman Spinrad, John Clute, Roz Kaveney (chair), Michael Moorcock and Brian Aldiss

(Image © Jonathan Pinnock)

I've decided that world-renowned SF author Michael Moorcock is either my guardian angel or a serious threat to my existence. I’m convinced because of something that occurred last night, just like all those other times more than fifty years ago when we first met.

To be clear, I'm talking space-time problems here. Weird life-threatening things that keep happening to me soon after I’ve entered space adjacent to Mike Moorcock at the same time.

Don’t get me wrong, Mike is a nice guy – indeed, he's one of the very best – but, for me, he’s also dangerous to know.

It was in the early 1950s in Thornton Heath, South London, that I first met Mike. In truth I don’t remember much from that time other than his name. He is two years older than me, which is nothing at our present ages, but represented a vast difference when we were kids. But we did share common ground in a wild garden – with a lot of other wild kids – near where we lived. And we had at least two mutual friends.

It was in that same wild garden that someone (I forget who) shot me in the mouth… with my own airgun. In my own garden, next door but one, a guy called Billy Lowe split my head open with a Dutch hoe. In the garden next to that a kid called Jimmy Cooney threw an African spear at my chest. You’ve spotted a trend here haven’t you? I was a popular child – as a target. I’m not blaming Mike for these events in any way, although undeniably they did occur in our shared space-time. In fact this is where the guardian angel possibility comes in.

Were it not for some equally bizarre counter-circumstances, any one of the above events could have killed me. The gun with which I was shot was my Diana pistol, a notoriously inaccurate gun with a very weak mechanism. The pellet passed between my lips and stopped against my teeth. Had it been my powerful Webley pistol… When Jimmy threw that leaf-bladed spear he was not kidding. He had a wicked temper. But by chance I happened to be holding a piece of wood a couple of feet long, about 2” thick and circular in section. In blind panic I closed my eyes and held the wood in front of me. The spear hit the wood dead centre and penetrated. I swear had it been a millimetre to either side of centre, because of the curvature, it must have hit me in the chest. The Dutch hoe? It was plain lucky that the blade stopped against my skull without penetrating the bone. I’d bent into Billy’s swing – my own fault. I still bear the scar of that one.

However, more than half a century has passed since our paths last crossed during which time I’ve lived a safe and cosseted life as a sparky, working on high voltages, in dangerous environments and at scary heights. I’ve even parachuted, all with hardly any a threat to my continued existence. Until last night.

Last night I attended a talk by Brian Aldiss, John Clute, Michael Moorcock and Norman Spinrad at the British Library, accompanied by my old mate Jonathan Pinnock. I was driving home after dropping Jon off at St Albans when a front tyre blew out. Not simply a puncture, but an instantaneous deflation. The tyre proved to have a hole the size of a 50p coin in the sidewall. Thanks, Mike.

Seriously folks, the blowout was entirely down to my own stupidity. Had I not been reaching into the foot-well to retrieve a fallen mascot the incident would not have happened. I clipped a kerb. But here I am: alive, well and writing it up. So, thanks again, Mike.

Despite that slight accident it was a terrific evening. The only other downside being that I would have liked to spend more time blathering with Mike about the past – so much catching up to do. But that would have been unfair on the scores of his fans queuing for book signings.

Maybe one day, Mike, we’ll meet again and chew the fat for longer? On second thoughts, perhaps an exchange of emails would be safer.

Srebrenica Beyond Tears - A Story

2011-06-03T15:28:00.000+01:00

Some time ago, I wrote this flash fiction piece for a competition. A picture prompt of a female face lined with suffering initiated the idea. The picture triggered in my mind - a misinterpretation of the image on my behalf as it turned out - events I could clearly remember reported in the world's press. I read the piece at Verulam Writers' Circle and received their excellent critique, as ever. It clearly required attention and other things took precedence, so on the back burner it went. I do recall thinking at the time that some of VWC's younger members may not have known much if anything about the events I was trying to capture.

In the past week the wheels of history have turned again and one of the 'swaggering beasts' is caged at last.

With thanks to my friends in VWC, in hope that I have done justice to their critical assistance, here is the latest version:

Srebrenica Beyond Tears

When clouds blush the shelling will stop, Anna knows this. Dusk in the valley spoils the gunners' aim. Yet wild beasts still swagger the commanding hills with murder in their hearts, some toting rifles with starlight scopes.

Again the market place contains fresh meat, stuff that once was fathers, husbands and sons. Nothing moves. No sane being would retrieve the dead 'til dark. A loud report says desperation willed one try.

Dry-eyed, alone in a shelter built of faded dreams, Anna surveys her sometime garden in debris that once was home.

Hers is the timeless face of war, a young face aged by fear and a world's indifference to a clash of ideology insignificant in the arc of time.

Of cherished evening primroses a single stem survives. Daylight fades. Her frail blooms open one by one, the colour of sunlight, the hue of hope.

Anna ventures out to wait once more for Fate's next tumble of the dice.

© Oscar Windsor-Smith 2011

Versatile Blogger or Blog Bogof?

2011-05-15T07:18:00.005+01:00

Be warned: In the unlikely event that you were to hit me with a chain letter or a pyramid sales pitch I'd tell you where to stick it without fear or favour. I have no hesitation in 'breaking the chain'. Your reaction on receiving such a missive – being a rational and discerning person (You must be because you're reading this blog) – would no doubt be similar.

Why then am I chuffed at having been presented, by Trish Nicholson, a New Zealander writer friend, with a Versatile Blogger Award, when part of the obligation that goes with that award is to nominate several other bloggers?

I'm no mathematician, but I do remember the old story of the blacksmith and the horseshoe nails which illustrates the power of compounding. So presumably my blog can't be that good or statistically I should have received dozens of VBAs by now, and so should you and every other half-competent blogger if each recipient had in fact nominated several others.

Clearly the Versatile Blogger Award is a form of chain. That said, receiving mine did give me genuine pleasure; it came from a friend and was intended I'm sure as a compliment. Because of that I have no problem with passing on the award to a few others out of many whose blogs I genuinely value. I simply hope that my nominees will accept their Versatile Blogger Awards in that same spirit.

Meanwhile, bloggers everywhere, I suggest you prepare a suitably emotional acceptance speech because - statistically speaking - you should receive your VBA any day now.

The Versatile Blogger rules, with which I trust the below named recipients will also comply, appear to be * that I should state seven things about myself that might not be generally known. So here goes:

    •    My maternal grandparents were railway crossing keepers on an electric railway – their cottage had no electricity, running water or main drainage.
    •    I support the Royal National Lifeboat Institution whenever I can – my father, then a trawler fisherman, was lost at sea.
    •    I went to the same school as Christopher Craig and Derek Bentley (Google their names or the phrase: 'Let him have it'). That was no easy place or time for a soft Cheshire lad.
    •    I almost blew up my two sons and myself with a German grenade, when metal detecting on a French beach (I was clearly an unfit parent).
    •    Two versions of my first completed novel, Tamar, had readings at HarperCollins – their final rejection letter was dated September 11th 2001.
    •    I almost buried my two sons and myself whilst dump digging, collecting antique bottles (Clearly I was an exceedingly unfit parent - but boy did we have fun).
    •    I once held Albert Einstein's brain in my hand (well, actually it was a soft plastic cast taken direct from the real tissue) – a very eerie experience.

Here then are some of the blogs that I find particularly informative and entertaining.

http://morenewsfromvg.blogspot.com/
http://helpineedapublisher.blogspot.com/
http://www.jonathanpinnock.com/
http://meandmybigmouth.typepad.com/scottpack/
http://titaniawrites.blogspot.com/
http://nikperring.blogspot.com/
http://www.claire-king.com/

Finally, I pass the metaphorical baton to my own 'awardees' above and reiterate my sincere thanks to Trisha Nicholson for including my blog in her list of winners.

* The origins of the VBA seem already to be lost in the mists of urban myth and misinformation. Who started it and when? If you believe you know the answer, please let me know.

Flash Fiction Meets Art: Fantasy and SF in "The Sixty"

2011-04-12T23:44:00.008+01:00

Artist Andy Bigwood's forthcoming book The Sixty (to be launched with Ian Whates' anthology Further Conflicts at 5pm on 22nd April at EasterCON, Hilton Metropol Hotel, NEC, Birmingham UK) is a collection of stunning fantasy and science fiction art juxtaposed with flash fiction stories inspired by the images.

Andy won the coveted British Science Fiction Association Award for Best Artwork of 2007 and 2008. He is short listed for the same award for 2010 (winners to be announced at EasterCON).

Samples of Andy's work may be found at deviantart.com.

Story contributors to this collection include Geoff Nelder and my Verulam Writers' Circle friends Jonathan Pinnock and Dave Weaver. I feel honoured to have been invited to contribute and to find my own story Anomaly included with the work of such talented company.

Something Different for Mothering Sunday

2011-04-02T18:55:00.001+01:00

Does your old mum have a strong constitution and a healthy sense of humour? If not, please don't read on.

Still here? Then I guess you want something completely different for Mothering Sunday, yes? It helps if Mum resides in or near St Albans, UK, but with today's technology that's not essential. You could move her there, of course, if you're very quick. It is a lovely, historic, city - but I digress.

Okay. The next instructions come in two flavours:

1) If she lives in/near St Albans: Wake Mum up at 10:00am tomorrow with the wireless (if she doesn't know what that is, she's not mature enough for the next bit) tuned in to Radio Verulam on 96.6 FM.
2) If she lives anywhere else in the world: Wake Mum up at 10:00am (BST) - no, honestly, she'll love you for this - with her laptop logged-on to Radio Verulam and hit the "Listen Live" button.

If you've followed the above instructions correctly you'll soon hear the honeyed tones of the lovely Elspeth Jackman introducing her Sunday morning music and interview show called Tracks of Your Life. This week there'll be a eclectic mix of sixteen unlikely music tracks interspersed with rambling, bumbling, cockups and very occasional attempts at humour by some weirdo called Oscar Windsor-Smith.

Do be prepared for some surprises. In one or two households - mainly around the UK - Mum will pull a funny face and perhaps employ an unaccustomed expletive or two. At this point no doubt you'll laugh at her antics, particularly when she says: "I don't know what you're laughing at, that idiot's your dad."

You have been warned.

Whatever you do, have a great day. And be kind to Mum.

World Book Night: An Epilogue

2011-03-25T18:32:00.009Z

World Book Night has taken me longer to write up than any event I can recall. Most of my review pieces take shape fast, organically, from clear impressions. But for some inexplicable reason I’ve found it hard to get a handle on WBN. What was that all about?

After several weeks of fruitless pondering I was approaching cerebral meltdown. In a fit of what I hope was inspiration, I decided to explain WBN to an imaginary friend – one who’d been incommunicado in solitary for a year – in order to clear my head. The conversation went something like this:

OWS: Yes, they’re calling it World Book Night. It’s new this year.
IF: That’ll be the night of World Book Day, then?
OWS: No. It’s three days later.
IF: World Book Day encourages children to read. I guess World Book Night is aimed at the world’s non-reading adults?
OWS: No. UK only.
IF: But directed at non-readers?
OWS: Not exactly. They’re attempting to give away a million books.
IF: Attempting?
OWS: That’s what they say: The biggest book giveaway ever attempted.
IF: Sounds very charitable.
OWS: Yes. And on the night before WBN there’s a grand bash for the book givers with famous writers and other celebs in Trafalgar Square. Oh, and there’ll be limited edition T-shirts, too.
IF: Sounds a lot like Band Aid?
OWS: Yes. Only this event is free and…
IF: There are no bands?
OWS: Yeah.
IF: And there’s no aid?
OWS: …I suppose… But think of all those free books. They’ll be passed from reader to reader for years. There’s no knowing how many people they’ll reach.
IF: That could fulfil the ‘World’ bit, then?
OWS: Indeed. And the 25 chosen titles will be specially printed for WBN.
IF: Specially printed?
OWS: Uh, huh.
IF: Doesn’t that make them limited edition – you know – collectors’ items?
OWS: …I guess.
IF: Won’t there be temptation to hang on to the books, maybe to collect all 25 titles?
OWS: Now you’re just being cynical.
IF: How many givers did you say?
OWS: 20,000
IF: That’s an awful lot of people in Trafalgar Square to collect their reward.
OWS: No worries. It’s limited to 2,500 pairs of tickets: first come first served.
IF: Won’t that – sort of – limit the take-up to the South East?
OWS: Possibly. But don’t forget the Antony Gormley designed T-shirts.
IF: Of course – there’ll be 20,000 T-shirts.
OWS: No. 1,000: first come first served.
IF: So… first to arrive on WBN will get T-shirts?
OWS: Ah… No.
IF: First to arrive at Trafalgar Square will get T-shirts?
OWS: Not quite.
IF: Who does get T-shirts then?
OWS: First to arrive at Waterstones in Piccadilly, the day before Trafalgar Square.
IF: Ah… That’s pretty much the book givers who work in or around London, eh?
OWS: Mmmm…
IF: And they’re planning to do all this again next year?
OWS: So it seems.

I based that fantasy exchange on a view from before the event of course. Had I told my imaginary friend that we’d been requested to enter manually in each book a 10-digit code – received only a day before Trafalgar Square – he might well have pleaded to be locked up again. Especially given that anyone receiving a manually coded WBN book will be unlikely to have the slightest idea what the code means or what to do with it (For the record: it’s intended to make the book traceable on a website called BookCrossing.com).

I should explain that, at the time of my becoming involved with WBN, I had no idea there were to be perks for the givers. I submitted my application in response to a TV advert in 2010 as one of the ‘givers’ to distribute a million books because it seemed like a good idea to encourage others to read. In short, I believed I was offering to take part in an essentially charitable undertaking.

In fairness I must add that from a viewpoint of my personal satisfaction World Book Night was a success. The Trafalgar Square event was a blast. Terrific atmosphere. Cool in every sense. And my own book-giving event cemented friendships within Verulam Writers Circle, with Radio Verulam presenter Danny Smith and with Sean, the helpful manager at Waterstones, St Albans. Yes, WBN and its precursor event proved to be fun and memorable. But what was WBN really all about?

Friends from Verulam Writers' Circle with Radio Verulam's Danny Smith at Waterstones, St Albans on WBN

Perhaps a writer with excessive imagination might liken World Book Night to the irrational convulsions of a doomed giant in denial. But I couldn't possibly comment. Anyway, worry not. If a leviathan is expiring it is the legacy world of paper publication: AKA the treebook trade. Publishing – you'll be relieved to hear – is alive and well. At least Ebooks and their authors are thriving, or so it seems. < NB This link connects to a long piece. But it's one not to miss if you need to know the latest buzz about publishing. [CONTENT WARNING: Do, please, ignore the "monkey" link if you’re easily offended]

Penultimately, a prediction: Electronic delivery – on one platform or another – will dominate book publishing within two years, supplying our reading needs without ever completely replacing codex (paper) books. The codex book though will fast become a luxury item, a lifestyle statement saying: 'This is who I am'. When this metamorphosis is complete only the best-loved and most prestigious works will transfer to paper. Then more than ever you’ll judge a person’s credibility by checking out the spines of their Kafka and their Joyce.

So prepare for some shake-ups in the immediate future of publishing. It will still be book publishing but certainly not as we know it. Maybe – in the fullness of time – this will prove to be what World Book Night was really all about?

Ebooks v Treebooks

2011-02-23T16:52:00.002Z

Publishing directors are becoming taller and quotes are getting shorter. Have you noticed?

Time was, you could tell a literary agent or publishing director by their round shoulders and weary gait. No longer. In the recent past publishing professionals lugged sheaves of manuscripts to read in their precious free moments. Paper in bulk is not light. Hence their stoop. And then along came e-readers.

Whatever the effect of the shakeout in proprietary e-reading devices on the book-buying market, the adoption of e-readers is having a profound effect on publishing professionals, and not simply on their posture.

My evidence comes from observations at Verulam Writers' Circle's 5th annual Get Writing conference, on Saturday 19th February, at the University of Hertfordshire's Hatfield campus.

I've been a member of VWC for some six years and watched it grow from being a long-established but staid local institution into one of the UK's most progressive and successful writers' groups. Today, Get Writing attracts speakers from the top echelons of the publishing industry and the writing craft.

I shall write no further details of this excellent event and what outstanding value it represented, nor shall I list the literary luminaries who contributed and attended. This ground has been well covered by others in sparkling style, notably here by Gillian Green of Ebury Publishing, who stepped in at the 11th hour to cover for another contributor.

A notebook full of scribblings attests to the cornucopia of inspirational tips and information I received and attempted to record - mostly illegibly (would I even be a writer were it not for my computer? I think not) - at another wonderful Get Writing.

Above this solid bedrock of potentially career-changing information a few promontories shine in memory like gems: quote-bites - some intentional, some in passing - that I deem priceless:

Gillian Green: '…ebooks and treebooks…' - Gillian was I believe quoting someone else, but - in my view - this short phrase has the power and emotive impact single-handedly to change perceptions of the traditional codex-type book.

Simon Taylor: '…I have ~~eight~~ [Read fifty-two – yes, 52 – confirmed by Simon. Many apologies, Simon] manuscripts with me on my iPad…' Okay, that may not be the wittiest or most memorable quote ever - it may not even be an accurate record of Simon's words - but it does give insight to the way the world of publishing is changing.

Raymond Tallis: 'A writer is a professor of disappointment.' - 'I have learned as much from books I've written [i.e., from doing the research] as from books I've read.' - 'Twitter is suicide of the mind.'

So, VWC's Get Writing is over for 2011. Next year - to judge by progress to date - the event will be even better and a lot bigger. GW2011 was sold out. The cost is remarkably reasonable and could prove the best investment of your writing career.

Don't miss GW2012. Keep an eye on the VWC website toward the end of this year.

I hope to meet you there.

Oh, What a Night: World Book Night

2011-02-17T21:01:00.000Z

Have you ever volunteered for something because it seemed like one hell of a good idea at the time and only later considered what your commitment entailed?

Don't get me wrong, as a writer and avid reader, I still think that World Book Night is a brilliant idea. But it is also a very quirky, eccentric, unlikely and very English sort of idea. Which, come to think of it, is probably why I liked it enough to volunteer at the outset with very little – if any – forethought.

I wonder, however, if I'm alone in finding the cold logistics - if carried out strictly in accordance with the spirit of the scheme – slightly more daunting than I had at first envisaged? No problem, it shall be done as intended, but it's not simply a question of handing out a book or two to mates in the pub. Oh no.

In case you've been out of the galaxy for a few months and haven't heard of the inaugural World Book Night (WBN), the big idea is that 1,000,000 – yes one million – free donated books will be distributed by a team of 20,000 volunteers, on, or close to March 5, 2011. We're not talking second hand rejects here. These are new, specially printed, editions of 25 best-selling books (for details of the titles click on the WBN logo or on the link in paragraph two above).

The core purpose of the project is to place each donated book into the hands of someone who might not otherwise read that book, or, indeed, any book. Ideally WBN would introduce a million people – perhaps more if the initial recipients read and pass their books to others – to the joys of reading.

So, in early March I shall be collecting 48 copies of my chosen title, the excellent Agent ZigZag, by Ben Macintyre, from a local bookshop. By then I hope to have knitted together a trusted local network of connections through which to fulfil my joyful obligation. Who knows, I may come knocking on your door.

As always, you're welcome to help yourselves to virtual tea and biccies while you're here, but please do turn the light out as you leave. No expenses for this contract.

Wish me luck.

Oscar

Brought to Book by FOSSLs

2011-01-15T19:17:00.002Z

QUESTION: What do you do if your local authority threatens to close your library?

Tut under your breath and dump the offending free newspaper into the recycling bin
Kick the cat
Shake your head and open another can of lager
Organise for all 16,000 books to be borrowed at once

ANSWER: 4, if you are a member of the Friends of Stony Stratford Library (FOSSL), according to the UK Press Association, and the Guardian.

I've no idea how this amazing stand-off will turn out, but you have to hand it to the FOSSLs for an original approach to combating the cost-cutting philistines.

How about we writers and readers get behind these people and give them the publicity they deserve?

Please retweet this via the button below. Or, better still – if you're on Twitter – please tweet your feelings to the hashtag #savelibraries, and/or #FOSSL and 'like' the Facebook page of Save Libraries.

Thank you in anticipation of your support.

Have a great weekend.

High Tide on Baker Street

2011-01-05T13:52:00.000Z

A short story dedicated to the memory of Gerry Rafferty who died yesterday .

High Tide on Baker Street

By Oscar Windsor-Smith

The city desert makes you feel so cold.

It's got so many people but it's got no soul… *

Seen by the window lights her eyes shine star-bright. She may be a cop perhaps––no, someone softer––and she's crouching close to a bed that stinks of London, piss and unwashed feet.

The woman crouching in the doorway is wearing dark clothing, knitted tights and clumpy shoes; she smells clean, like lost memories of seaside air and the homes of other people's kids.

'Hello. What's your dog's name?' she asks the boy in the box.

'Jack,' he croaks.

The rat-dog hears his name. His tail thump-thumps on cardboard. The woman smiles as if she understands.

'Rafferty. He's Jack Rafferty.'

The woman laughs. She opens up her carry-bag and lifts out a Styrofoam cup. 'Rafferty? I expected he'd be called Russell.'

The boy glares out at the world. 'I don't do what's expected.'

She smiles again and nods. 'I'm Jane. I'm here to make sure you'll be okay.'

'You're wasting your time. I don't believe in God.'

'Did I ask you to believe?'

'My old man calls people like you God-botherers... But he’s a bastard. Sorry. '

'Don't be.' Jane leans back, out into the street, and glances side to side. 'Do you believe in me?

'Course I do. I can see you.'

'Good. That's a start.' She offers him the cup.

He takes it in quivering hands and peels back the cover. Soup. Piping hot.

'It's freezing hard tonight. You should find a hostel.'

Through the steam, he gives her that dangerous look, the one that sends most God-botherers scuttling. His scowl bounces off her gentleness.

'Ah... They won't take Jack, I suppose?'

'Yeah. Mostly.'

'Well, Jack Rafferty's Dad, where are you from?'

'Yeah, like, I'm gonna tell you.'

'I won't interfere. Promise.'

He hesitates, whispers: 'Northumberland.'

Jane scans the street again like she's expecting someone. 'Look, give me a name. Jack Rafferty's Dad is far too long.'

'Pebb.'

'Pebb?'

'Like in pebble.'

She nods. 'Why did you pick this street, Pebb?'

'It has a happy ending.'

She does a double take. 'Ah, the song?'

'Yeah. Mum loved that track. We'd run along the beach and she'd sing "...one more year and then you'll be happy...*" to the east wind. Then she'd pretend the wind had made her cry.'

'But she's at peace now?'

'Yeah.'

'You'll find no peace here, Pebb.' Jane's words are a sigh barely audible against the roar of traffic.

'When violence is called home, this is peace,' Pebb whispers. His eyes roll and close, frost glittering on his lashes. Jack whimpers, cowers back into his box.

With a final glance at scuttling, unfeeling feet and streaks of light from passing cars, Jane lowers her body to the ground and wraps herself around Pebb.

Seen through a car window, another London night once sparkled in wind-blown freezing rain. Empty drink cans rolled, dancing in the orange light. Tumbling food wrappers teased the dispossessed laid out in doorways and hidden behind rubbish sacks.

'Why must you put yourself at risk by going out alone?' asked the driver, dressed in paramedic uniform.

Surprised in her thoughts, Jane glanced at her fiancé. 'Danger finds you wherever you hide. Better to go out and meet it. Anyway, people are mostly good.'

'Your "Junkies and murderers are misunderstood" theory again?'

'You're so cynical, David. Many of these people are emotionally damaged or following a misguided dream. All most of them want is to identify with something or somewhere they see as significant.'

'So, our social problems are all about bad self-image?'

'There are lines in life like tide marks on a beach. Fortunate people, like you and me, live above the high water mark. Others sink below the low water mark and drown. Between those tide lines are the ones we can save. Think of me as a beachcomber and them as precious salvage.'

'Very poetical, but you can't cure the world's ills alone, Jane.'

'Am I alone?'

'Good question.'

‘On my own is not the same as being alone.’

‘Clever answer.’

‘Groups of people scare the rough sleepers. On my own I can make contact.'

'So you say.'

'Anyway, you face similar dangers on every shift.'

'Touché.'

'Drop me here.'

'No. Let me drop you at the citadel. Take a partner with you, it's a lousy night.'

'Here, David, please. I'll be fine. See you in the morning.'

An ambulance swings into Baker Street on blues and twos.

'Over there––doorway––near the museum.'

'Oh, God.'

'David, are you okay? Christ, isn't that where they found your–?'

'No. Not again. Please.'

'Pull yourself together, mate, we've got to deal with this.'

They fall into life-saving routine, wrap the semi-conscious boy in a space-blanket and place him in the ambulance.

'There’s a dog. His, do you think?'

'No worries, it's off. The rascal's seen someone it knows. '

David switches on the blues and twos. ‘Let’s go.'

'Will the kid be okay?'

'He'll live. He was on the right side of the tide line.'

'What?'

David stares into the wing mirror as the ambulance accelerates away. 'Oh... Just an old saying.'

* Excerpts from Baker Street by Gerry Rafferty ©

National Short Story Week is here - now

2010-11-23T20:34:00.000Z

What are you doing for National Short Story Week, UK writers?

Writing short stories or reading them? Both, I hope.

However you are planning to mark this exciting inaugural week of the short story, if you can make it to Hertfordshire on Thursday 25th November do come along to the Open Mic Night at The Goat public house in Sopwell Lane, St Albans.

The event is part of the National Short Story Week contribution of Verulam Writers' Circle. You'll find the full details on the VWC website, here.

Regrettably, unless you've already booked, you're too late to read, but please do come and listen.

The packed programme will include contributions from so many talented – and largely –published writers from VWC and other local writers' groups that I can't possibly list them all here.

In fairness, I must inform you that there is a downside – there always is – in this case the downside is a reading from me. But please don't let that deter you. The readings are only three minutes each, so you can always slip out for a comfort break when my name is called.

See you there, I hope.

Good writing

Oscar

Lest We Forget

2010-11-11T11:15:00.004Z

The Colour of Love

Sleep on, George. Sleep through the storm, you always could, and so you shall this time. Remember how I used to wake you up to watch the lightning? You were never afraid of the bangs, not like me. We'd sit together wrapped in blankets watching hailstones dancing, rattling on the roof. You said, Tom, if you can count your fingers slow from flash to bang the thunder's one mile distant for each hand.

If it’s true, that one was close. Not even one finger that one. Too close. We'd best be getting back soon as dawn breaks and I can tell which way’s home.

It's like the old times, George, you and me in the dark, our heads pressed into the wet earth, hiding from the gamekeeper, a brace of rabbit in one hand and our little shotgun in the other. Do you recall the time he let loose with his 12-bore, and the shot whistled about our ears?

There's another of them bright moving lights, shooting stars you called them, floating through the fog and flashes. The wind has come back too, rushing overhead, and the hail dancing in the mud.

That wind. I'm thinking how we used to run through long grass, Ben barking at our heels. And the day we found him half-strangled by a rabbit snare. You held the gun to his head, said he wouldn’t feel no pain, if we loved him it was the kindest thing to do.

I carried him home, all blood and brains, and set him in the ground. Is that love, George?

When I look up the sky's a circle, not stretching on forever like it did when we were boys. Back then, you told me they've got names, all those little stars, and God lives up above, and He can see everything. Is that true, George? Did God see our father beat our mother ‘til the blood ran down her face, and me throwing him out in the lane like the animal he was?

They say God loves us, George. The priest says: This is the body of Christ; this is the blood of Christ. The blood of Christ. The love of God. Do you believe it? Does He really love us, even when we've done bad things?

I've something else to tell you while you sleep. Before we left I saw you in the meadow with Alice. I crept up when I heard her pretty voice, and watched you mount her like bull on cow. I saw the colour flow between her legs and stain the grass. I did a bad thing. Did God see me then, George? Will I really go blind?

You know me, George. I believe what you say. You told me our guns have names and I believed you. Yours has the same name as mine, Tom, brothers like us, you said. What was that name? The side of a hill and where we keep chickens… Lee Enfield, that was it. But these Lee Enfields are heavier than our little shotgun.

The sky’s brightening. No more night to mask the bloody truth. Forgive me George. For I could not bear to see you suffer. You'll feel no more pain. Forgive me, God, for I did so love my little brother.

There's the first daylight shining on the crater rim. Head away from the light, you said, that's west, the direction of our lines.

Listen to that storm now. There must be a thousand gamekeepers on our tail this morning, George, all firing at once.

So it's over me shoulder you go, my pal; us both smothered in the colour of love, yours and mine. We'll be off home to Mother presently.

Ready!

Set!

And over the top we go, into the wind and the dancing hail.

I can see the wire.

We’re almost home, George.

Is it true, what you said? There's nothing to fear; you never hear the one that kills…

(Copyright 2010 Oscar Windsor-Smith)

Thank you for reading my story. Now please visit one of the following links and give as generously as those men and women who selflessly defend our way of life:

Royal British Legion

Help for Heroes

Thank you.

Tantric Sex and the Short Fiction Competition (and Radio)

2010-10-14T16:42:00.006+01:00

It was a dark and stormy night and Edward Bulwar-Lytton strode manfully up Holywell Hill toward the White Hart Hotel notorious for the debauched revelry of St Albans' own Hellfire Club, known in polite Hertfordshire circles by the euphemistic epithet of Verulam Writers' Circle.

Sorry, this post has nothing at all to do with Tantric Sex or Short Fiction Competitions. But now that I have your attention: About my first radio interview...

Well, both Danny Smith and I seem to have survived, but this was in no way thanks to my BT line and/or phone handset, as you may confirm by following this link, kindly provided by Ian Cundell and Verulam Writers' Circle.

Perhaps my next broadcast to the world will be more successful if I update my technology?

Shame really, my call centre was considered state-of-the-ark in an earlier life in the electrical service industry.

IN PASSING (But not too soon, I hope): I'll be reading at the Verulam Writers' Circle Open Mic Night (part of National Short Story Week celebration) at the Goat Inn in St Albans on Thursday 25th November at 7:00pm and again at the amazing SPARKS event in Brighton, also in November, on the same bill as my old mate Jonathan Pinnock (full details to be confirmed later). I just hope the latter event doesn't coincide with another London Underground strike like last time.

BREAKING NEWS (More socially acceptable I find than breaking wind, marginally): Jon P and I (Honestly, we're just good friends) have each received a commission to write a flash fiction piece to accompany an illustration by Andy Bigwood, twice winner of the British Science Fiction Association Art Award, in a forthcoming book of his artwork.

BY THE WAY: It's come to my attention that the lights have been left on again on this blog and the milk's gone off because you've not put it back in the fridge. You're the only visitor I have - yes, you know who you are - so I know who to blame. Look, we must look after the pennies so I can buy a new phone, okay?

Bye for now. Don't have nightmares, I'm quite safe... Well, I would say that, wouldn't I?

Question: Is Steam Radio a Corpse, Zombie or Phoenix?

2010-10-06T16:14:00.001+01:00

Answer: None of the above. Radio lives.

Despite the best efforts of Buggles back in the day, rumours of the death of Radio were – as Mark Twain famously remarked on reading his own obituary – '...very much exaggerated'.

Okay, for a few years Radio was a sickly shadow of her past glory days. She subsisted in niche backwaters in those early post-wireless times.

Today, though, thanks to the happy convergence of technologies, the old girl is positively zinging with health.

In fact dear old Radio has had a complete body transplant. She's been botoxed, shaped-up and slimmed down so much that her own daddy, Mr Marconi, would hardly recognise her. She's New Radio.

And thanks to New Radio, the radio star, too, is alive and well. You want proof? Tune in to Radio Verulam, a lively young station entertaining the populace of West Hertfordshire, UK. 'But that's just a little community radio station', the traditionalists might cry.

Yeah. So? It is a 'little' community station. Wanna make something of it?

Er... Apologies for that slight outburst of attitude, but I'm rather protective of my community and its services, you see. And please don't underestimate the power and reach of this - or any other - smaller radio station. Okay?

Sure, there was a time not so very long ago when the 'real professional broadcasters' treated community radio with a condescending smile and figurative pat on the head before sending it out to play by. Not any more.

With the advent of Internet distribution the audience of a good community station is no longer limited by the power of its transmitters. The listen-while-doing-other-things appeal of traditional audio broadcast remains but with the added quality of digital transmission and the ubiquitous reach of the Internet.

Today, the World is a small radio station's potential audience. Given dedicated staff and talented, imaginative, broadcasters with professional aspirations and high standards – Radio Verulam has these qualities – and given time and the right content, I believe the World will listen.

There's one possible downside. Popular Radio Verulam presenter Danny Smith is to interview me on his excellent Drivetime Show, at 5:30 pm BST on Tuesday 13th October. Can Danny and Radio survive this ultimate challenge?

Please, please, don't let anybody ever sing: 'Oscar killed the radio star…'

The Lonliness of the Short Fiction Writer

2010-10-04T20:39:00.000+01:00

Novels are yesterday's world, never mind novellas. Short stories are passé. Forget drabbles (stories of exactly one hundred words). Ignore dribbles (stories of fifty words). With Twitter pieces limited to one hundred and forty characters (or fewer), literature is getting shorter; and so it seems are writers - in both patience and stature.

'The exploitation of writers must stop', said short fiction writer Anthony Neil O'Theré (pictured below) interviewed at a recent protest rally. The activist is a regular attendee at the prestigious Verulam Writers' Circle of St Albans, Hertfordshire, UK.

'We devote our days and nights to writing stories only to be offered pennies – if any payment at all – for our creations,' the diminutive protester continued. 'The worst of it is that many so-called online markets tie up our rights in unfair and punitive contracts, which enable them to sell our work, effectively ad infinitum, as text or audio downloads, for cash.'

There is, however, some hope for the future and several forward-looking markets are offering fair contracts, realistic rates and even royalties.

All too late, perhaps, for Anthony, who is considering a return to his previous employment as a hod carrier for Leggo.

HELP! How do hang-in-the-air endings work?

2010-09-15T12:18:00.000+01:00

@TaniaHershman has a terrific story up on PANK Magazine today (thanks @JonPinnock for the headsup)

I envy writers who can make these 'hang-in-the-air' stories work. If I tried one it would simply appear unfinished. I guess the secret lies in the characterization and believability - the verisimilitude - in Tania's story, which makes it seem like a slice of real life and therefore acceptable as a snapshot of a moving target? How am I doing?

I want to understand how this works. I need to learn – fast.

All serious advice will be gratefully received and faithfully applied by this apprentice writer.

Although I can't pay, you may help yourself to virtual tea and biscuits.

But, please, do turn the lights off when you leave.

With grateful thanks in anticipation.

Oscar

Should we infer the author from their work?

2010-09-14T17:20:00.001+01:00

Toby Frost, popular author of the amazing Space Captain Smith series of books and secretary of Verulam Writers' Circle, recently raised on the VWC website the intriguing question of whether an author, or that author's beliefs and character, should be inferred from their work.

It is an interesting question and one to which I suspect there is no simple answer. My instinct is that it would be unreasonable to infer the author from any single piece, but perhaps if one were to look at a substantial body of work created over a significant period of time...

For instance, were anybody terminally bored enough to pick up a selection of my stories and dissect just one they might draw any number of erroneous conclusions, dependent upon which piece they chose. I would hope, however, that - taken together - they would reflect an average human male attempting to reproduce a wide variety of imaginary characters and situations for the entertainment of others.

Misinterpreted conclusions based upon a small sample can of course occur in any context. For example: at a VWC manuscript evening not so long ago I read a piece of off-the-wall Oscar-trash entitled Stitch-up. Now, I consider Stitch-up to be about as atypical of my work as any piece could be, it's poetry (of sorts) and it is somewhat sick in a tongue-in-cheek black-humour sort of way. But when I'd finished reading it a longstanding female member of VWC, whom I'd always considered to be a good friend, made it clear to me in shocked and disapproving tones that she considered me a misogynist. Ouch! I believe she really meant it, and I've not seen her since. For the record, I'm not a misogynist - far from it – I love women (Okay, not as often as I once did, perhaps, but that's another subject altogether). Neither am I a coal miner, an avenging spirit, a lesbian native American squaw, a Spitfire pilot, etc., etc... It's all only pretend.

So, from hard personal experience, I believe inferring the author from the work should be undertaken with considerable care, imagination, and a fair amount of empathy. We writers should critique, yes. But judge not...

Brilliant Sparks in Brighton

2010-09-11T17:27:00.001+01:00

No, not me – modesty forbids – anyway, I'm not in that trade * anymore. I'm referring to SPARKS 10.

My VWC pal Jonathan Pinnock and I trekked down to Sussex for this occasional reading and photography event last Tuesday evening. Of all the days in the year we had to chose one when London Underground was hit by strikes, which made for an interesting and protracted return journey. That small inconvenience, though, was well rewarded.

In a theatrical review I once referred to the New End Theatre, Hampstead, as 'petite'. By that reckoning the theatre – for it is a mini-theatre – above the pub at Thirteen and Ten, Steine Street, Brighton, is positively Lilliputian. The atmosphere though is Brobdingnagian in a friendly, arty and welcoming way. So supportive indeed were the organiser, the mesmerising Jo Mortimer, and my talented fellow readers that I almost forgot my fear of reading to a paying audience... Almost.

Aided by a little Dutch courage from the bar I made it through the performance without serious upset. People were still talking to me afterward – that must be a positive sign. I even received a generous compliment or three, which, coming from such talents as Vanessa Gebbie, Jac Cattaneo and Naomi Foyle, give me cause to hope I have survived my first hesitant step as a performance writer and reader.

Yes, I'm hooked. I'd like to read at a SPARKS event again.

* Strange synergy here: In 'another life' I was an electrician, Vanessa Gebbie is the editor of the excellent Short Circuit, A Guide to the Art of the Short Story, and there I am reading at an event called SPARKS. Spooky.

Pics (atmospheric) courtesy of Jon Pinnock.

Above: Me, hiding nervously behind the mic.

Above: Jon P, towering over it.

Does writing for live reading require special skill?

2010-08-24T12:29:00.005+01:00

I think so. And the actual reading requires yet another skill set.

Regrettably, both are skills that I have yet to master. Successful performance writing – and successful performance – are, for me, figments of aspiration not badges of achievement.

Thanks, however, to the advice, critique and fine examples of writer friends from Verulam Writers' Circle – notably Julie Mayhew, Jonathan Pinnock and Dave Weaver, all of whom are successful in the field of prose performance – I am beginning to make a little headway.

Having heard great things about the occasional SPARKS photography and reading events in Brighton, last month I decided it was time to kick myself out of my cosseted literary isolation and do something really scary. So I went out for a walk (have you seen the way they drive in Hertfordshire?). I came back, muddied but unbowed. Then and there – without a moment's hesitation and with no safety net – I edited a story down from 1600 words to fewer than 1000, the SPARKS maximum. After reading it a time or two I hit the dreaded 'send' key.

Gulp!

Panic set in, and then I thought: No worries, it'll never be accepted. Almost exactly an hour later I received from the organizer, Jo Mortimer, a lovely acceptance. My bluff she had called.

Double gulp!

That's why on 7th September you will find me as the trembling warm-up act on a SPARKS 10 bill of otherwise stellar proportions alongside such luminaries as Vanessa Gebbie (she who edited the excellent Short Circuit - my constant companion and guide through the dark maze that is short fiction), Jonathan Pinnock (who had a story broadcast on Radio 4 only last week), Tom Vowler (novelist), Naomi Foyle (poet), Paul A Toth (much-published American novelist), Jac Cattaneo and Sam Mead.

Am I shaking in my shoes? You're too darn right I am.

So, wish me luck. Turn the light out when you go, and go particularly easy on the tea and biscuits this time, please. I have to save up for the train fare down to Brighton – a return ticket would be nice.

"Which Battle of Britain?"

2010-08-17T17:27:00.005+01:00

... said the shop girl to Ronald Tooke, World War Two RAF veteran. *

It makes me so sad to realise that an increasing number of young people are unaware that an unprecedented battle occurred in British skies – reaching its turning point seventy years ago this week – which, had it been lost by the young people of that time, would have rendered the possibility of our freedom – our very existence – today highly unlikely.

BBC Radio 4 is broadcasting an excellent daily series on the Battle of Britain, see links below.

This was my rather pathetic attempt to recreate the atmosphere of that time on EDF a year or two back. If you are kind enough to read it, please take time to check out the Guinea Pig Club link.

If you have time to listen to the two BBC pieces – and I hope you do – at the end of Day 1 you'll hear the voice of James Nicholson VC, who was the inspiration for my – entirely fictional – story.

BBC: Battle of Britain - Day 1

BBC: Battle of Britain - Day 2 *

And, when you've done all that, perhaps you'd like to visit one of these links with your PayPal details or your credit card. Thank you.

RAF Wings Appeal

Help for Heroes

What is it with writers and cats?

2010-08-16T18:30:00.001+01:00

I mean, why do otherwise intelligent cats keep pet writers?

Based on empirical evidence from writer friends, I conclude the lives of writers and cats are inseparable. Let's be clear, I'm not talking solely about female writers here. Ladies who write and cats seems like a logical connection. No, the cunning felines have invaded male lifestyles too. Not just your willowy softie male writers, either, I mean blokey blokes, big hairy bitter-swilling geezers. If they write, you can bet your ASDA tuna some mercenary moggie has latched onto them.

Writers, we've been got at. Believe me, there's a clear correlation between literary output and cat food sales.

So, where lies our fatal flaw that the felines exploit? One possibility is our subliminal need as writers to focus our procrastination. Cat equals mandala, as in: talking plot twists through with Felix is a whole lot easier than real writing. And then again, according to my sketchy understanding of Occam's razor principle we can shave the subject down to basics and arrive at the conclusion that cats have simply suckered us writers into accepting mews as muse.

Look, there's a whole lot more I could write on this subject – nine tales at least – but I've got four cats to feed… I mean stories to write.

The teapot's on the go as usual but it's no good looking for the biscuits behind the side bar anymore, that's reserved for the litter tray and tuna tins.

Turn the light's out and lock up when you leave, okay? And, whatever you do, don't obstruct the cat flap.

Cheers

Why Short Fiction Competitions?

2010-07-25T19:04:00.002+01:00

Writing competitions are a waste of time: Discuss.

A day or two ago I made an apologetic post on my home writers' circle bulletin board at having only achieved third place in the excellent The Write Idea website's annual Whittaker Prize competition. This drew a post from one of my peers, which said, that: Being absolutely frank, he had never seen the attraction of these competitions, and felt they're possibly a distraction from writing what you really wanted to write (i.e not in response to someone elses brief). He also worried about the quality of the adjudication.

I couldn't resist the following reply, which I'm minded to share with anyone who might wander through these murky backwaters of cyberspace by mischance:

Do you write short stories, Frank? If not, there's probably no way I can explain other than to relate: 1) Why I write short fiction and then, 2) Why I have entered '...these competitions'.

1) Why short fiction? I have written one novel, and have begun about three more. The 'completed' novel took up a big chunk of my life and I made just about all the mistakes a writer could make - not once, but time and again. Writing that first - unsuccessful - novel took years, if you include innumerable rewrites. I'm getting old and do not have such time to waste anymore.

So, in parallel, I became drawn into short fiction. Besides the fact that I enjoy writing 'tight and short', my reasoning is the same as why genetic researchers have employed the fruit fly, dorosophila, rather than the elephant - a short gestation period. I can experiment and make mistakes on a much shorter cycle, and can also execute the one and only acid test - does my work sell? - more readily.

In addition, there is a worldwide upsurge in interest in short fiction and a sea-change in the means of distribution/marketing the 'product'. The world of short fiction - online in particular - has an exciting 'wild frontier' atmosphere where remarkable things can and will happen (but you also have to watch your back).

2) Why competitions? To be clear, the competition in question, which triggered your enquiry, was the recent Whittaker Prize competition, so I'll address that. The competition involved writers submitting a short story every fortnight over a period of eighteen weeks. Although prompts were provided (three per round) these were only to stimulate creativity (the prompts did not have to be incorporated in the work) so writers were free to write whatever they pleased - not '...to someone elses brief.' - up to the maximum word count.

The main attraction to me is that I have a deadline to work to and a concrete reason to create something new. If I stick to the schedule, I end up with nine new pieces of work I would not otherwise have created. You could even regard the creative output from such competitions as the raw material 'input' to a further on-going process of learning and refinement.

As to the quality of adjudication, who can say? If not always names you would immediately recognise, the judges nonetheless have a standing in writing circles acknowledged by their peers. In this case there were two judges who adjudicated anonymously on alternate rounds, and in parallel on the final round (with interesting comments and results). In Whittaker, the entries are given points/values for nine defined parameters, e.g., Opening, Closing, Voice, Technicalities etc. All literary adjudication must be subjective, but I have found that the Whittaker values, arbitrary as they may seem, have given me clear indication of areas of weakness in my writing. When two judges independently highlight the same areas again and again, a sensible aspiring writer will take notice.

Success in competitions in general can bring your writing to the notice of a wider audience, and success does, it seems, breed success, if my mate Jonathan Pinnock's progress is any guide.

Distraction? Nope. Focus? Yup.

In short: it works for me, Frank.

Oscar

Manic Creativity?

2010-06-02T12:30:00.001+01:00

Ah! That explains a lot. Research confirms connection between creativity and certain mental conditions, according to the BBC

Seriously though, it figures. I met this guy once, a guest at a writers' group – nice guy. He was a bit socially awkward, but we got on really well. After a while, he told me he was a diagnosed schizophrenic but he was okay because the drugs were working. I was cool with that, but it did worry me a bit when I realised that in many ways I had more in common with the guy than I have with a lot of 'normal' people I know. And he clearly identified with, and felt comfortable in the presence of, creative people.

Made me think a bit about what being 'normal' means, if anything.

And then there was that TV programme a while back fronted by Stephen Fry; Tony Slattery was featured in it. I can't remember what it was called. It was about manic depression… no, that's not what they call it nowadays, is it? Bipolar disorder, that's it. Often goes hand in hand with depression, and with creativity apparently. The programme emphasized observed parallels between bipolar disorder and creativity. At one point, Stephen asked Tony (indicating a hypothetical 'button') if by pressing the button he could be free of the 'disorder', would he push it. Without hesitation, Tony said he would not. Clearly the creative benefit / high outweighed the negative / low.

So, summing up: to be creative you've got to be slightly potty, eh?

Guess I really am a little bit creative after all?

Look. Go steady with the tea and biscuits, okay? No dossing behind the links section... And do turn out the lights when you leave. Thanks.

Funny Old Business: the Circulation of Jokes

2010-05-02T17:12:00.001+01:00

Did anybody watch Ashes to Ashes (BBC1) on Friday? The Roy Hudd character (a sleazy stand up comedian, hopefully not based on yours truly) was in Geno's restaurant and delivered a joke that might well have struck a familiar note with some of you in its awful punfullness: Yes, it was 'my' innuendo joke. Though quite how it ended up (uh! oh!) there is anybody's guess.

To the best of my knowledge and belief (as far as any writer can be sure of these things) that was an Oscar original. It dates back more than twenty years to the days when my wife, Freda, (then a district nurse) first arrived in my life and many of our friends were (indeed, still are) associated with medical professions. Another of similar vintage that springs to mind was: 'Until I met Freda I didn't have an enema in the world'... get the idea? (Look, I didn't say they were good jokes, okay?).

I can't prove the origins that far back – yet – but I have found the first written version that I'm aware of, from a 2005 Watford Writers' newsletter (I was editor - bad business - don't ask). Due to an excess of apathy in the submission department, I took to filling in the final column with the witterings of two of my imaginary friends (Sad? Oh, yeah, that's me).

So I've dug out the relevant newsletter, and there - sure enough - is the innuendo joke. How does it go? I thought you'd never ask: 'I have this friend who's a nurse. She's not very bright. She thinks innuendo is Italian for suppository.'

Okay, okay... I was just leaving.

Oh, before I do go. I don't suppose I shall ever get acknowledgment for the innuendo joke, but I have had one minor success. A very silly story published in Everyday Weirdness. If you're really bored, you can find it here.

As usual, help yourself to tea an bickkies. But do turn out the light when you leave.

The Oscar's Oscars 2010 Hi-Five Roll of Honour

2010-03-05T22:15:00.041Z

The inaugural Oscar's Oscars recipients have been notified, in suitable cutting edge style via the magic of Twitter. Details of the tar-studded awards ceremony were reported in an earlier post. Nothing now remains but to record those awards and accolades in a less transient medium. Here:

Early recipients (the ad hoc cohort) and accolades:

   •    Vanessa Gebbie - For metaphoric mechanics and literary lubrication.
    •    Paul Conneally - For being Journo with the Buzz.
    •    Flash Fiction Online - For excellent literary taste and content ;) .
    •    Mrs Darcy v the Aliens - For Georgian tension with tentacles.
    •    GUD Magazine - For a truly eye-opening cover.
    •    Captain Isambard Smith - For being Pym's Number One (The John Pym, that is).
    •    Greg McQueen - For his heroic Hundred Stories for Haiti.
    •    Alex Brown - Just for fun.

Inaugural recipients (the annual cohort) and accolades:

    •    Katie Fforde - For 'Love Letters' - and being a very nice person.
    •    Guardian Books - For literary guidance in depth.
    •    Verulam Writers' Circle - For good friends taken as read.
    •    TransWorld's Simon Taylor - For Three Very Patient Minutes 20/02/2010.
    •    Sandra Norval - For wildlife, badgers and Libertine (WIP).
    •    Stephen Fry - For erudition and the ridiculous in sublime combination - and playing the Wilde card.

This may be all very silly, but it has been great fun and the good wishes expressed are genuine. Thanks everybody for taking it (I hope) in the spirit of fun in which it was intended.

To be continued.

Please don't forget the light as you leave.

Have a great weekend.

Oscar's Oscars Night: OO=^v

2010-03-04T16:57:00.002Z

'A Tar-studded Event' - Leading dry cleaner

'Tux Among the Trucks' - Leading lorry driver from Brussels

Stephen Fry, Cheryl Cole, Sharon Osbourne, Julia Roberts and Simon Cowell were among scores of glittering A-list celebrities who were absent on the red carpet at last night's prestigious Oscar's Oscars award ceremony at the luxurious and world-renowned Scratchwood Service Area. In fact the red carpet was also absent, having been repossessed on Wednesday morning by my Aunt Elsie and replaced in her hallway. This minor glitch did nothing to detract from the warmth and sincerity of the moving ceremony. It had to be a moving ceremony because the security guys claimed we were causing an obstruction, but I've worked around this problem for next year. I'll hold the ceremony on the M25 in the rush hour, which will give us much more time to socialise without fear of being moved on.

Press Release

I'm calling this a Press Release because nobody has volunteered to report on the event (or to accept the awards, for that matter) so I'm having to press the lot on whoever I can and not release my vice-like grasp until they agree to my reasonable demands.

I'm frequently asked to explain the meaning of the formula: OO=^v. Frequently... I just thought you might like to know that.

I also sense other unasked questions: 1) Why Oscar's Oscars? and, 2) Who the hell do you think you are? Well, to tackle those tacit questions in order: 1) Oscar is my name, so calling them Arthur's Oscars would be disingenuous; 2) I think I'm Oscar, but if you know otherwise, please do inform me. Thank you.

For the record... or should that be: For the CD/MP3, nowadays? Well, whatever, like so many things I've done in my life, Oscar's Oscars began as a spontaneous piece of silliness. It would have remained a piece of Friday silliness, in isolation, had it not been for a couple of acquaintances finding it amusing... If you've got children you'll have heard the plea many times, especially in connection with boys: 'No. Please don't laugh, it will only encourage him.' Yea, well. Right. Who says men never grow up? Right again. So here we are.

What's it all about?

Nothing more than me - Oscar - giving people I like and/or admire a hi-five (there you are), and sometimes... just sometimes, doing a leeetle bit of creeping. This is the inaugural annual ceremony, but Oscar's Oscars are also presented on an ad hoc basis, and when I feel like it, too.

Anyway, the full list of 2010's annual awards will be published, and no doubt ignored, on Friday 5th March 2010.

Please do turn out the lights when you leave, after paying for all these expensive awards I really can't afford enormous lekky bills.

Bye for now.

Positive Rejection

2010-02-28T18:33:00.001Z

Success is a fleeting, insubstantial thing. At the recent, excellent, VWC Get Writing 2010 conference, one of the speakers quoted a saying that is worth repeating here: 'A successful writer is only a failed writer who did not give up.'

Success, however, is an impostor, like Triumph and Disaster in Kipling's If, and yet we writers still labour in search of that spectral destination, sometimes to the detriment of health and relationships.

Perhaps, then, success should be regarded not so much as a destination but a journey? Framed in those terms, as R L Stephenson wrote, it may be '...better to travel hopefully than to arrive'. Indeed, the key to success may reside in something seemingly transient and painful but in truth substantial and positive, like receiving better rejections.

Today it seems that everybody is a writer, particularly when it comes to fiction. The world and his partner are out there subbing like crazy. How do I know this? Because I'm out there subbing, too, and the queues are getting longer.

It was bad enough way back when you'd have to wait a few days to a week to receive your 'form rejection'. Now you wait, not days or weeks but often several months to receive that rejection and when it does come it can knock your confidence to hell. The irony is that the invaluable input you could gain from the rejection – the editor's comments, if not advice – is very often absent, so your next submission of that piece remains 'blind' (Commercial: Unless you join your local writers' group, such as VWC and get your feedback there).

Let's agree to treat the 'markets' that don't grant our submissions even the courtesy of a reply with the contempt they deserve?

If you take a professional attitude to your writing and submissions, these long-delayed form rejections appear all the more ironic because so many of the 'markets' doing the rejecting are paying you peanuts – or, worse, zilch – when they do accept your work.

Which brings me neatly to a matter of personal principle: I will only submit to markets that pay – even if payment is little more than token. I do understand that many markets are underfunded newbies, testing the waters in a vast new digital ocean, but those that do get their business model right, and survive, stand to make good, potentially enormous, profits from our creative work – yours and mine. Call me arrogant if you will, but I have even withdrawn a piece that had been accepted (it was a piece on which I had expended actual cash to purchase a book and DVD for research, besides a week of my time) in glowing terms, because of the paltry sum I was offered for my rights.

But enough of this whinging, let's head back to the positive stuff. Although my 2010 to date is a disaster when viewed in terms of submission/acceptance ratio, when I analyse the kind of rejections I'm receiving, an up-beat trend is emerging. Almost without exception they're inviting me to submit more. Okay, this invitation appears even in the 'form' rejections so it is perhaps suspect, though I believe many of the boiler-plate form replies do give the senders the option to include/exclude certain phrases.

Yes, the real 'success' feedback has arrived with the personal rejections, for example:

I enjoyed your story very much. It made it to the final stage, but didn't survive the final cuts …I rejected it because it didn't quite fit with how the tone of the topic was shaping up. It's a wonderful story, and I'm sure you'll be able to place it elsewhere: Wily Writers
This is a nice story that is made even better by the style of writing. You encapsulate the thoughts of the narrator perfectly and use language that suited him: Every Day Fiction
Solid writing this… Extremely well written and the opening completely hooked me…: Every Day Fiction
There's a lot I like about your poem… It was a near miss…: ChiZine
…It definitely came close. I hope you'll try us again. I imagine this story will definitely find a home: Camera Obscura

Rejections like that, often with additional observations as to what went wrong (for that particular reader/editor) and suggestions for improvement, are veritable gold nuggets for a discerning, developing writer. A form of success, indeed.

Of course, the best feedback of all is that which accompanies acceptances or wins, of which I've been lucky enough to receive two in recent weeks. In mid-January:

Dear Oscar,

That was a hell of a story. We love it. I wanted to send you a quick letter to let you know we want to include this story in our next issue of Ghostlight. We don't want to take the chance of losing this story to someone else. Great work.

Editor, Ghostlight (Great Lakes Association of Horror Writers' magazine).

Of such acceptances are writer's dreams made.

And then, a week ago, I had a story short-listed in the inaugural VWC Get Writing Short Story Conference Cup competition. There was no feed-back with that, but I did receive a beautiful certificate.

All in all, I guess it's not been bad since Christmas: so far, so good.

So, now, I'm only beating myself up about what kind of response I'll get from my 3-minute pitch, last Saturday at the VWC conference, to Simon Taylor.

No pressure, then... well, not much. Onward and upward. Next nice rejection, please.

We must always bear in mind that as long as we can feel stress and disappointment, we're alive. It's when that stress and disappointment stops that we've got problems. When it all goes quiet, that's when we should really start to worry.

Thanks for visiting. Do help yourself to virtual tea and biscuits, but please turn the light out as you leave.

Do come again, soon.

BTW The picture is of Polly (aka to feline friends as Po-Li). She's my Mews.

On Relativity and Constipation

2010-02-22T18:12:00.004Z

I suppose a writers' conference seems an unlikely place to gain empirical proof of Relativity?

It wasn't the conference as a whole, of course. Said proof was contained in one – relatively brief (nudge, nudge) – aspect of it.

For the record, that same aspect of the conference kicked an adrenaline rush like the Winter Olympic Skeleton Bob run.

But how to tell it here? I mean, without resorting to hype, how do you relate an experience so extraordinary that anyone not fortunate enough to have been there will glaze-over and walk away muttering 'Oh, yeah?' as soon as you begin? I'll have to mull that question over.

Meanwhile, here's something completely different:

The greatest thing about this blog is that I can say whatever I like, secure in the knowledge that nobody but me – oh, yes, and you, my imaginary friend – will ever read a word of it.

Of course, any 'normal' *snicker* Earthling who has strayed in here by chance (poor unlucky being) is no doubt looking for the exit * in a hurry, convinced of my mental instability. Who knows, I may even be exasperating you, my lifelong fictional friend. I do hope not.

Seriously, if there is anybody here, please do hold on – please.

Look, If you'll stay, I'll make you a promise. No. Better. I'll make you two promises (look into my eyes - not around my eyes - look into my eyes)...

Promise 1): I'm quite sane, honestly (look into my eyes - not around my eyes - look into my eyes)

Promise 2): Every word I write is gospel truth (look into my eyes - not around my eyes - look into my eyes)

There. You feel warm and safe, don't you?

Relax...

Relax...

Oscar is going to tell you about a wonderful day in a magical land....

No. Bollocks to that. This creative stuff is getting on my bits. I'm not going to 'show'. I'm not going to characterise. There'll be no plot or story arc in this piece of... well, in this piece.

Hell, no, Guys, I'm gonna tell it like it was. And you'll just have to take it like – well, take it like whatever's your thing, I guess.

What was that?

Steady on, there.

There's no need to be abusive... I'm not getting paid for this y'know. It's my blog and if I want to say bollocks, I shall, so.

Yes... Yes, and all the very best to you, too, vicar. You'll find the Paypal offertory box by the exit * – scroll down, it's behind the silverware on day two.

Now, where was I? Ah, yes. The truth. The pure, unvarnished truth:

Last Saturday, 20th February 2010, I had an amazing day. This did not come as a total surprise because I was in the company of a great group of writing friends, some friends of long-standing and many more who were new to me. The friends of long-standing were fellow members of Verulam Writers' Circle (VWC) and the newer friends were other delegates and speakers at the 4th annual VWC Get Writing conference, aka: GW10, held at Hertfordshire University's Hatfield Campus.

We, the delegates, received a day packed – and I use the term 'packed' advisedly (perhaps the most impressive aspect of a very special day was the alchemy by which the organisers combined a laid-back experience with militarily precise organisation) – with top notch speakers and workshops together with an opportunity to pitch to some of the foremost agents and commissioning editors in the UK, and we had lunch and refreshments thrown in, and an unbeatable modern venue, and all for the remarkably reasonable sum of only £45.

Our keynote speakers, in the order in which we met them were: John Jarrold and Anna Power, both leading literary agents; Simon Taylor, Editorial Director at Transworld, a division of Random House Group, one of the UK's most successful book publishers; Marlene Johnson, MD of Hachette UK; Adele Geras, author of more than ninety books; Mark Billingham, bestselling author of the Tom Thorne crime novels; Philip Patterson, literary agent with Marjacq Scripts and Imran Ahmad, whose book Unimagined - a Muslim boy meets the West has received accolades and 'book of the year' listings across the world.

When it came to workshops – we had a choice of six – I was fortunate enough to secure a place on 'The Short Road to Success: creating a prizewinning story' workshop run by the charming, talented and extremely knowledgeable Vanessa Gebbie.

You may possibly have gathered by now that I was impressed. Too right. I was.

And then we come to the fascinating subject of Relativity and bowel control, or, as itemized in the conference schedule: The three minute pitches. My reference to Relativity in this connection is semi-serious, as with the famous twins paradox: time varies according to the viewpoint of the observer.

To explain: In a room measuring something like 6m x 12m, tables were set out at the far end. At each of these table sat the 'pitchees', i.e., those to whom we punters (pitchers... or should that be pitchors?) were to be putting our respective pitches. The pitchees were: Simon Taylor, Marlene Johnson, John Jarrold, Philip Patterson and Anna Power, all people with the power to turn a writer's dreams to reality, or poo. We, the pitchors, were duly arranged in an equivalent number of lines-astern at paper marks on the floor - effectively our starting blocks - from which, at a signal, we should each in turn move forward and begin our allocated three minutes apiece to make or break our dreams. No pressure, then? Not many.

The constipation cure began quite early in these proceedings, as you may imagine. The Relativity demo onset, though, was quite remarkably specific. I was third in line to pitch to Simon Taylor. By fine irony, I was pitching a novel based upon a space-time paradox. Two comrades were in front of me. Immediately in front was Cheryl Alleyne, in front of her was Jonathan Pinnock. In the Great War we would have heard a whistle, but in this battle it was RSM Cundell (aka: VWC Chairman) who gave the signal and timed the charge. From where I stood, Jon Pinnock's three minutes lasted at least five, Cheryl's about four, mine of course appeared to be up before I reached the chair to sit in front of Simon T. Well, slight exaggeration, but you get my drift? What did I say to ST? Blowed if I know, but I bet I said it quickly. How did I do? Again, I've no real idea. Will my pitch produce any result? Who knows? I gave it my best shot, time will tell. Was it worth the stress? You kidding me? I got to pitch direct to one of the UK's top commissioning editors, face-to-face. Was it worth it? Too right, it was.

There were many heros on that day, and, as ever, many more unsung whose names were forged not in the heat of battle but in that long corrosive drag of preparation. I shall leave it now to others better placed and worthier to write the list of lists, but let it be recorded here that – so I've heard told – without one Jenny Barden's stalwart work there would have been no GW10. Rock on Jenny!

Naturally, one of the main hopes of anyone attending a writing conference is that they'll pick up those killer tips, the secrets that will lift their writing from the unremarkable to the outstanding. Well, my friend, I'm delighted to report that, on that momentous day, I did discover those secrets. (Look, I heard you whispering: 'It doesn't show', so let me finish. Okay?). I managed to corner an internationally famous, successful and wealthy writer, (can't possibly mention names - lips sealed and all that) we got on famously and I asked the $64,000 question. Are you ready for this?

It turns out there are two secrets. The first secret is this: Never tell anybody everything you know.

Waking up now. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six – you're forgetting everything – five, four, three, two, one. Wide awake!

What? Didn't get it? Shame.

You'll just have to book early for next year, won't you?

Please leave quietly, in an orderly fashion. Thank you.

The Rhinoceros in the Room

2010-01-10T20:09:00.014Z

Let's agree to ignore the elephant? I mean the visual joke that involved pulling out empty trouser pockets and unzipping, yes? Erase it from the New Year's party memories, like you erased that skew-whiff .jpeg… Please tell me that you did.

Anyway, the good news is: there is a rhino in my room – at last.

I mentioned in an earlier post that I took part in a few writing competitions last year. One of these was the excellent annual Whittaker Prize Competition run by the equally excellent The Write Idea website. Bottom line is that the 'Best of' anthology is now available – amusingly entitled The Rhinoceros and His Thoughts – and, tarah!: My copy arrived yesterday.

Call me biased if you like – because by some clerical error two of my stories crept in with the other top-rate material – but the editorial and presentation standard of this book far exceeded my expectations, and I already knew from the previous years anthology it would be good.

The Rhinoceros and His Thoughts, published by The Right Eyed Deer Press, is a thoroughly professional product from cover to cover, indeed, the John F Griffiths-designed cover (Albrecht Durer image care of the British Museum) is a genuine work of art in itself. I'm seriously proud to be a tiny part of this publication.

Following that earlier post mulling over events in my particular writing backwater of 2009, I realise I have sold myself short on the publication stakes. In fact, I had four other stories published online in 2009. The reason I forgot was that all were sold in 2008.

To set the record straight, then, those other publication credits were:

February 2009: Love's Magic (link no longer available) appeared in Flashshot.
March 2009: Grave Concerns appeared in Every Day Fiction and Trumpet Volunteer appeared in Flash Fiction Online.
In April 2009: Pigs Could Fly appeared in Every Day Fiction.

But, as the film starlet at the cocktail party said (allegedly): 'That's enough about me, let's talk about you… What do think about my latest film?'

On that flippant note, I'm off. If you're driving in the UK, watch out for unexpected slippery bits. Seriously, on Saturday I hit a patch of ice in sunny daylight on a busy roundabout feeding the M25, totally unexpected and very, very, nearly wipeout against a forest of street furniture. Take care. Expect the unexpected.

Have a good week. Help yourself to a coffee or tea, and a biscuit, if there are any left. Oh, and don't forget the lights when you leave. Okay?

All That Glisters: Thoughts on 2009 and hopes for 2010

2010-01-05T15:25:00.082Z

Mulling over the past is something I rarely do. The past, so far as I'm concerned, is gone. Events now and in the future are of more significance, being all we can truly experience.

So, this is pretty well the first time I have ever sat down to record my private thoughts for possible (Although I can't imagine anyone else having the slightest interest) public consumption. But it's a good writing exercise, so here-we-go.

2009 was not a bumper year for writing success; more of a consolidation year, gaining experience, experimenting in new fields, entering a competition or two and making new friends.

Early on in the year, I was fortunate in having a horror piece, Timelock, performed by Obstacle Productions at several London venues, including the Drill Hall, off Tottenham Court Road. It gave me real pleasure to share the bill [performance, not cost] with my old mate and fellow Verulam Writers' Circle (VWC) member, Jonathan Pinnock... oh, yes, and a couple of chancers, names of Edgar A Poe, and W W Jacobs.

During the year, I joined the excellent The Write Idea (TWI) website. Here I renewed a number of friendships forged on the Slingink website, made a lot of new friends, and signed up for the Whittaker Prize competition. This competition involved writing one short story per fortnight to prompts provided by TWI - there was also a poetry competition running in tandem, but I am no poet. The amazing Geoff Nalder judged the competition, turning around his adjudications and perceptive critique in an unbelievably short time. My overall score was little better than average, though I came close enough in a couple of the 'rounds' to be invited into the very professional anthology (The Rhinoceros and His Thoughts), but, most importantly, I learned a hell of a lot.

Another satisfying, but humbling, experience was - as the then current holder - setting and adjudicating the annual Crystal Decanter competition at at my home, real-world, writing group, VWC

Autmn brought the annual VWC David Gibson Cup competition. Entries to the David Gibson competition are displayed - anonymously - on the walls of our meeting venue, for popular adjudication by the members present. This form of adjudication, unsurprisingly, often results in considerable hilarity and good fellowship. Perhaps because of the light-hearted nature of the competition, and the arguably ostentatious size and design of the trophy (see illustration above) the David Gibson Cup is viewed with little respect, perhaps even derision, within Verulam Writers' Circle. This is a shame, as it is in fact a rather spectacular piece of kit, although the 'silver' is now wearing a little thin (hence my blog title). At the end of a close-run thing, which left me neck-and-neck with my good mate Mark (Clem) Clementson, I was presented with the cup. Despite it's tawdry image within VWC, I love the trophy, partly because the adjudication was by peer group (and we have many great writers in VWC) and partly because it's the one and only piece of 'silverware' I've ever won... for anything. Altogether now: Ahhh...

This other little fellow, however, is another jar of codfish altogether. He's The VWC Gnome De Plume, or, more correctly, The Gnome of Shame. He is awarded at the adjudication of each and every competition for the 'best' (read most cringe-makingly awful) pseudonym. Because my David Gibson entry was a spoof detective story based around a cricket match, my pseudonym was Lindsey Doyle (if you're not of Brit stock, and you understand exactly why that's awful: respect. You are a trivia genius - perhaps a long holiday or a visit your shrink is indicated?).

Guess what. No flies on you, eh? You're way ahead of me, aren't you? I won him, too. The shame of it. My career will never recover. Incidentally, the placard the wee fella is holding was a bit of vandalism on my part (I converted him into a protesting gnome) so the sentiments expressed on his placard - if you can read it - are not necessarily those of VWC or its members.

What do I wish for in 2010?

To continue to make friends in and around the craft of writing
To be happy and communicate happiness to others with my writing
To constantly learn and improve my standard of writing
To assist others where I have the, ability, knowledge and/or experience to do so
To achieve publication in markets that pay, not simply for mercenary reasons, but because, despite the comfort of peer support, the only true measure of success in writing is that someone is prepared to part with hard-earned cash for your work.

Well, that's got that lot off my chest.

I'm off now. If there's anybody actually reading this, I suppose you're probably lost, and looking for some more interesting website? Don't panic. You'll find a fire escape at the end of the corridor behind the gnome.

Turn off the lights on you way out, would you.

Bye for now.

TIME

2009-12-31T15:01:00.000Z

Look out he's behind you!

Oh, no he isn't... Is he?

Is this Oscar Windsor-Smith as he once was? Or is this his next regeneration? Be afraid… (Etc., etc)

Time. What is it? Where does it go? To be sure, it's not what we think it is.

Like countless others here in the UK, on Christmas Eve I watched the first half of the final episode of Doctor Who with David Tennant as The Doctor. That was fine. My problems began with the trailer for the second half, due to be broadcast on New Year's Day. It seems that the Time Lords are returning from the dead. In teaser shots we saw disturbing images – disturbing, that is, to me – relating as they do to a period that I refer to, in my quaint old-fashioned way, as my past. The above pic is the damning evidence.

IMPORTANT NOTES: All the items illustrated above are genuine and employed with the full knowledge and cooperation of the Gallifrey General Council. Be aware that Daleks can go down and up, as well as along. Oscar would like to thank the manufacturers of Botox in anticipation of his next regeneration. No Daleks were hurt in the making of this post.

HAPPY NEW YEAR 2010 *

* Year of Get Writing 2010, Verulam Writers' Circle 's greatest ever conference, GW10.

Book now, because VWC's time reversal service remains unreliable pending the next software upgrade, due in January 1942.

AND FINALLY - A time link to ease you through to the next decade, here.