A Pile of Old Clothes

When I lived in Paris in the early nineties, I had an idea for a short story based on an actual experience. I told it to my girls, then aged about twelve and fourteen, and they were both enthusiastic.

I made an attempt and showed them the result. Rebecca, my first and most forthright critic, declared it to be disappointing compared to my original description.

It hurt. I suppose your first rejection always hurts. There were tears and tantrums. (I am talking about me.)

So I abandoned the idea till the other weekend when Rebecca came to stay and I boldly told her I was going to have another go.

Last week I wrote it. The story takes place within a certain time frame, an hour, so I attempted to write it within that time. It eventually took me an hour and a half to write the 1,400 words.

I was very excited about the finished product. I sent it to Rebecca for her comment.

Her reply came, 'It's good but a little bit anti-climatic'. Or to translate to her usual, more concise, terminology, 'the ending's crap'.

Time has toughened me. There were no tears this time. I didn't stamp my foot once or jump up and down, screaming, "I hate you!" I reflected on her comment in a mature manner, mulled it over, gave it time. She was right, of course. (There, I've said it, despite the pain it has caused me.)

So I revisited the ending. It has made the story so much better. I sent it off to Rebecca and awaited her reply. I was nervous as a new father, pacing up and down my room, smoking cigar after cigar.

'10 out of 10,' came the reply. The champagne corks did serious damage to the plasterwork.

Now I have a short story, approved by Rebecca, that I want to get published somewhere. Any ideas? It is of a spooky genre if that helps. The title is A Pile of Old Clothes.

PS My other daughter, Emily, together with her partner, Danny, and children, Amy and ten-week old Katie, came for the day on Sunday. It was a joy to see them all.

Yikes! What Japes!

Just a quick post to lure the inquisitive and those that thirst after enlightenment and the meaning of publishing to a new blog I have found. It is written by Lynn Price who says of herself that she is, 'editorial director for Behler Publications and author of the award-winning book, Donovan's Paradigm. My purpose is to share information, advice, observations of various things that cross my desk, and get a little silly sometimes'

She has recently posted a YouTube video that finally reveals the truth about publishing. It is hilarious.

The blog is less hilarious but highly informative.

Post here; blog here.

Only the Gulls are Content.

I have had the most productive weekend. (My weekends being Sunday and Monday because of work obligations.)

My darling elder daughter, Rebecca, who is the most intelligent and beautiful person in the whole universe apart from her sister, Emily, who matches her in every respect except for her height, (and the speed at which Emily can talk, which is fast, and we are talking seriously fast), stayed Saturday night. Sue, my other friend, (I only have two) stayed Sunday night.

So, apart from domestic chitchat, we had lots of discussions about my novel. It was really useful in helping me work out the shape and structure of what I have to do. And now I have a crystal clear idea.

I am so excited my fingers are pricking.

I can't wait to get it written. I know I set a deadline of my birthday, 2nd December, but feel sure I will complete the first draft well before. I know myself. Once I get going, I will work long hours till it is done. (I must remember to eat.)

I did have a working title for the book, but both Rebecca and Sue thought it was crap. I took this as a negative response.

However, I was just chatting to Rebecca on the phone, saying how I wanted to find a title, she suggested waiting till I had completed the book, and I replied that Caroline seems to arrive at excellent titles early on which can only help in terms of publicising the book. I said that any ideas she had for a title would be most welcome.

We end the conversation.

Two seconds later she phones back. She was just reading something and there was this phrase that seemed so appropriate. With the minimum of adjustment, it is.

So the title of my book is… drum roll… small fanfare…

Only the Gulls are Content.

Buy it now while stocks last! And big kisses to Rebecca.

We have Lift Off. (Metaphorically Speaking.)

I have opened my Metaphors & Similes blog with a philosophical piece that came as something of surprise to me.

As I have written, it was inspired by a post by Aqua, who wrote about the significance of metaphors and similes in terms of her coping with her illness. She suffers from Chronic Major Depressive Disorder.

When I originally mooted the idea of the blog on these tropes, I had thought it would be confined to literary examples, however, I think it no bad thing to start with a general discussion about the broader role of metaphors & similes.

What I have to say is intended to be polemical so I do hope people will respond. I don't mind if you tell me I am talking rubbish. My daughters always tell me I talk rubbish and who am I to argue with them?

However, the blog is intended to concentrate on the literary usage of these tropes and I hope people will contribute with their favourite examples - be they good or bad.

Inch by Inch. (2.54 Cm by 2.54 Cm.)

I am currently reading: Poliakoff Plays: One, Stephen Poliakoff, Methuen, 1989. ISBN 0 413 624609







I have discovered a new burst of energy this week. A new resolution. A fresh determination. A can do attitude.

In short I have been working consistently on my book.

It still feels like climbing the north face of the Eiger in the dark during a total eclipse of the moon. However, with the trusty torch of determination in one hand and the glittering ice pick of resolution in the other, I am making progress. (Shades of Jonathan Aitken. I just hope I am not heading for a similar pratfall.)

Little sparks of inspiration light my way. I walk to work with my head filled with the conversations of my protagonists. I suddenly freeze, with hand outstretched to pick up a tin of tomatoes in Waitrose, as I discover a hitherto hidden facet of one of my characters. Somebody makes an innocent comment and I find I have resolved a structural issue.

As for the writing process itself, it remains slow, painful, and filled with moments of despondency. However, I can see, perhaps for the first time, the shape of a complete novel.

So I have decided to put in abeyance all doubts and just concentrate on completing it. After all, I reason with sageness of Socrates, there will be nothing to praise if there is nothing to praise.

So my resolution is to complete the first draft by my birthday. By 2nd December. There, I have made a public commitment.

After thought:
What I really need is a gentle dominatrix - if that is not an oxymoron. I used to have one such when I worked in advertising. Her name was/is Mary Hazell, Head of Production.


Dear Mary could wield the whip so gently yet effectively that no diva in the creative department, no matter how recalcitrant or difficult, ever missed a deadline. With kind words and flattery, but always with the whip in view, she could coax copy out of a hand turned to stone.

(Picture of typewriter © C. Sommerer & L. Mignonneau)

In Cold Blood - Metaphor?

Would you say that 'in cold blood' itself constitutes a metaphor?

I ask because of the quote taken from the book of that title by Truman Capote that I use as a signature for this blog.

The metaphor being that heat alludes to one of the four humours, i.e. choleric, or hot; the one of the four that equates to violence, vengefulness, or bad-temper, so an act committed in cold blood insinuates the opposite, i. e. pre-meditated, calm, and unemotional. Thus 'in cold blood' is a not a direct description but a metaphor for an attitude or state of mind.

If this is so, then those searching for a metaphor of 'in cold blood', as people do, are wasting their time for they are looking for a metaphor of a metaphor.

One could, I suppose, arrive at a Proustian laden metaphor upon a metaphor:


'He struck her down in cold blood that was chill as an icicle broken from the roof of the only chalet located at 5,000m on Mount Everest, stored in a deep freeze, and flown the 6,827 miles home to Milton Keynes to be used to make the perfect dry martini. He was that cool. She, on the other hand, as her life blood drained away, was merely cooling."

(Though this, of course, is a simile.)

On Finding Stig Dagerman

I was on a small expedition of one, exploring the darkest recesses of my local Oxfam shop when my eye was attracted by a book lying out in the open, on a shelf, completely unperturbed by my presence.

The markings of its cover were mute; simple, black rectangles at each corner against a buff background. It could have been an exercise book in its severity, except for the central design. This appeared as if someone had cut bits from a reproduction of a painting, photocopied them in black and white, and stuck them down.

Stig Dagerman. The name of the author meant nothing to me. The Games of Night. The title meant nothing.

I picked it up and flipped it on its back. There was a small quote printed by someone called Michael Meyer. I had never heard of him. However, in his quote he mentions Strindberg and Kafka. Now I have heard of them.

I flick through the book, from back to front, pausing to read a sentence here, a sentence there. Occasionally a whole paragraph.

I come to the introduction. It is written by Michael Meyer, so I am enlightened.

He, it appears, was a friend of Dagerman. He talks fondly of their relationship, that is, he, Dagerman and Dagerman's wife, Anita. He describes details of Dagerman's life in Sweden. Dagerman was Swedish.

He was born in 1923, the illegitimate son of a quarryman and a telephone operater at the home of his paternal grandparents. Two months later his mother left for her home in the north. He never saw her again. His father too left, but Dagerman was to see him again. So his grandparents raised him. At twelve years old, Dagerman left to stay in Stockholm with his father who had recently married. At sixteen his grandfather was murdered by a lunatic. Two weeks later his grandmother died of shock.

It was enough for me. I bought the book. 50p.

It is a book of short stories, not my usual fare, but the best investment I have ever made of a 50p piece. I believed I had discovered a hitherto unknown author of considerable talent. For Dagerman is a considerable talent.

I would launch him on the world.

I planned on inviting my friends around on some pretext with the book casually placed in the centre of the table. I would place myself quietly at one end of the room and observe.

I looked forward to watching them as they were inexorably drawn by that severe cover. I would inch nearer to eavesdrop.

"Stig who?"

"Never heard of him. It is a him, isn't it?"

"Yes, look, here in the introduction."

"My goodness, but he can write."

"Staggering."

"Concise."

"An author of considerable talent."

But then I wiki'd him. I wish I hadn't. The first line states:

'Stig Dagerman was one of the most prominent Swedish authors during the 1940s.'

And I had never heard of him. Still I had recognised his talent. So a career in publishing is still a possibility.

You can wiki Stig Dagerman here.