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.

Srebrenica Beyond Tears - A Story

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?

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"

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

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.