A Poem for The Fallen

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

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

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

I blame The Coward's Tale by Vanessa Gebbie

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

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

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

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

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

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.