Cutting: A Gyppo Tutorial on the fine art of reducing word counts. Quite long.

Originally shown on MWC back in  2009.

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        I've been planning to offer this example for some time, but kept forgetting.  Today I did it.

        Remember how at school you were often told to 'show your workings?  Here's some of mine.

        Some of you may be interested in seeing a 'real world' example of how a longer item can be cut down without (I feel) losing the nostalgic flow or any of the main points.  This tale has been on here before at the original length.  As it belongs to my 'caravan years' it will fit nicely into my Boy's Eye View series for the local magazine.  But at 622 words it was far too long for the strict 550 word maximum the editor allows.

        I did it in two passes, shown in order below the original.

        'Cutting' 70 odd words is not highly technical or particularly difficult, just a case of reading it a paragraph at a time and deciding what isn't truly needed.  Sometimes a whole sentence which seemed important in the first draft can be discarded.  After this a couple of 'chopped' paragraphs may naturally merge into one, when originally they justified two.

        Normally I'd just keep chipping away at a copy of the original (just in case) and not save until I was happy with the result  Today I kept the intermediate 'workings' for you.

        I could have just spoonfed you a few examples, but if you've the patience to read through the three versions you'll see for yourself how and where the cuts were made, and seeing them in context will - hopefully - make a better lesson.

         I hope this helps some of you.

         Gyppo

         =====

        Original at 622 words.

      "You *don't* come out smelling of roses!"

        Our caravan where I lived as a child had a chemical toilet, so we were spared the nocturnal trips down the garden path that some people write about.  It was located just inside the back door in it's own small cupboard.  It was a claustrophobic place and no-one ever lingered in there any longer than they had too.  Unlike modern plastic Porta-Pottis this one comprised of a large black upright cylinder - like a cut down 40 gallon oil drum - containing the actual bucket with the chemical stuff, a huge wooden seat, and a heft swing-up wooden lid which was almost too heavy for a little lad to lift.

        When I was about 8 years old I had spent best part of a wonderful Summer day running around in just a pair of leopard skin pattern swimming trunks and a belt carrying a huge plastic knife, playing at Tarzan - King of the Jungle.

        Children never plan things in advance so my sudden dash for the toilet took everyone by surprise.  I shot up the caravan step, whipped open the door, backed in, pulled down my trunks and took the flying backward leap which was necessary because the damned seat was too high for a little lad, sat down...

        The *seat* was up *as well as the lid!*

        With nothing to support me I jackknifed into the damn thing, the front edge of the rim catching behind me knees and my neck jamming against the back.  And my bony little spine scraped all the way down against the rusty metal.

        I shouted.  Boy did I shout...  There was no way I could get myself back out.  I was thoroughly trapped, sat in beastliness and flesh burning chemicals.  Dad came running and lifted me out.  One arm hooked under my knees and the other hand grabbing the back of my neck he deftly whipped me onto the grass outside.  (I can't recall him laughing until afterwards,  which is quite remarkable really as I must have been a truly comical sight.)

        He hosed me down with a garden hose, which at least made me feel a bit more human and then checked out all the scrapes and grazes on my back and legs.  The next bit was bloody painful.

        He got mum to make up some Milton sterilising solution and scrubbed all my wounds with Milton and a real stiff bristled scrubbing brush to prevent any infection from the crap in my wounds.  It was the most painful thing that had ever happened to me up to that point in my life.

        I wasn't the only one with tears in my eyes when Dad finally decided it was safe to stop and let Mum take over for the 'cuddle bit'.

        It took quite a while to heal properly, my spine had been well scraped and I had two deep half- circle grazes in the back of my knees.  Wearing a shirt hurt, so it was just as well the weather stayed nice for a few more days, and 'Tarzan' ran around the caravan site playing at 'wounded soldier' instead, shirtless and scabby as hell.

        But even now, coming up for fifty years later I have a brown stain under my skin on parts of my spine which I think was caused by chemical burns.  I can laugh at it now, but I still recall the first time a girl in bed ran her fingers down my spine and asked about my 'funny looking birthmark' ;-)

        And I still cringe a little at the memory of being called  'Sh*t-Boy' at school when the story came out.

        Funny old world, isn't it?

        =====

        First pass reducing it to 577 words.

       "You *don't* come out smelling of roses!"

        Our caravan had a chemical toilet, sparing us any nocturnal trips down the garden path.  It was just inside the back door in it's own small cupboard.  A claustrophobic place and no-one ever lingered any longer than they had too.  Unlike modern plastic Porta-Pottis this was comprised of a large black upright cylinder - like a cut down 40 gallon oil drum - containing the actual bucket with the chemical stuff, a huge wooden seat, and a hefty swing-up wooden lid which was almost too heavy for a little lad to lift.

        When I was about 8 years old I had spent a wonderful Summer day running around in just a pair of leopard skin pattern swimming trunks and a belt carrying a huge plastic knife, playing at Tarzan - King of the Jungle.

        Children never plan things in advance so my sudden dash for the toilet took everyone by surprise.  I shot up the caravan steps, whipped open the door, backed in, pulled down my trunks and took the flying backward leap which was necessary because the damned seat was too high for a little lad.

        The *seat* was up *as well as the lid!*

        With nothing to support me I jack-knifed into the damn thing, the front edge of the rim catching behind me knees and my neck jamming against the back.  My bony little spine scraped all the way down against the rusty metal.

        I shouted.  Boy did I shout...  There was no way I could get myself back out.  I was thoroughly trapped, sat in beastliness and flesh burning chemicals.  Dad came running and lifted me out.  One arm hooked under my knees and the other hand grabbing the back of my neck he deftly whipped me onto the grass outside.  (I can't recall him laughing until afterwards,  which is quite remarkable really as I must have been a truly comical sight.)

        He washed me down with a garden hose and then checked out all the scrapes and grazes on my back and legs.  The next bit was bloody painful.

        He got Mum to make up some Milton sterilising solution and scrubbed all my wounds with Milton and a really stiff bristled scrubbing brush to prevent any infection from the crap in my wounds.  It was the most painful thing that had ever happened to me.

        I wasn't the only one with tears in my eyes when Dad finally decided it was safe to stop and let Mum take over for the 'cuddle bit'.

        It took quite a while to heal properly, my spine had been well scraped and I had two deep half- circle grazes in the back of my knees.  Wearing a shirt hurt, so it was just as well the weather stayed nice for a few more days, and 'Tarzan' ran around the site playing at 'wounded soldier' instead, shirtless and scabby as hell.

        Even now, fifty years later,I have a brown stain under my skin on parts of my spine which I think was caused by chemical burns.  I can laugh at it now, but I still recall the first time a girl in bed ran her fingers down my spine and asked about my 'funny looking birthmark' ;-)

        And I still cringe a little at the memory of being called  'Sh*t-Boy' at school when the story came out.

        Funny old world, isn't it?

        =====

        Second pass reducing it to exactly 550 words.

       "You *don't* come out smelling of roses!"

        Our caravan had a chemical toilet, just inside the back door in it's own small cupboard.  A claustrophobic place where no-one lingered any longer than necessary.  It was a large black upright cylinder - like a cut down 40 gallon oil drum - containing the inner bucket with the chemicals, a huge wooden seat, and a hefty wooden lid which was almost too heavy for a little lad to lift.

        I was about 8 years old and had spent a wonderful Summer day running around in just a pair of leopard skin pattern swimming trunks and a belt carrying a huge plastic knife, playing at Tarzan - King of the Jungle.

        Children never plan in advance so my sudden dash for the toilet took everyone by surprise.  I shot up the caravan steps, whipped open the door, backed in, pulled down my trunks and took the flying backward leap which was necessary because the damned seat was too high for a little lad.

        The seat was up as well as the lid!

        With nothing to stop me I jack-knifed into the damn thing, the front edge of the rim catching behind me knees and my neck jamming against the back.  My bony little spine scraped all the way down against the rusty metal.

        I shouted.  Boy did I shout...  There was no way I could get myself back out.  I was thoroughly trapped, sat in beastliness and flesh burning chemicals.  Dad came running and lifted me out.  One arm hooked under my knees and the other hand grabbing the back of my neck he deftly whipped me onto the grass outside.  (I can't recall him laughing until afterwards, which is quite remarkable really as I must have been a truly comical sight.)

        He washed me down with a garden hose and then checked out all the scrapes and grazes on my back and legs.  The next bit was bloody painful.

        He got Mum to make up some Milton sterilising solution and cleaned all my wounds with Milton and a really stiff scrubbing brush to prevent any infection from the crap in my wounds.  It was the most painful thing that had ever happened to me.

        I wasn't the only one with tears in my eyes when Dad finally decided it was safe to stop and let Mum take over for the 'cuddle bit'.

        It took quite a while to heal properly, my spine had been well scraped and I had two deep half- circle grazes in the back of my knees.  Wearing a shirt hurt, so it was just as well the weather stayed nice for a few more days, and 'Tarzan' ran around the site playing at 'wounded soldier' instead, shirtless and scabby as hell.

        Even now, fifty years later, I have a brown stain under my skin on parts of my spine which I believe was caused by chemical burns.  I can laugh at it now, but I still recall the first time a girl in bed ran her fingers down my spine and asked about my 'funny looking birthmark' ;-)

        And I still cringe a little at the memory of being called  'Sh*t-Boy' at school when the story came out.

        Funny old world, isn't it?

        =====

I was listening to this earlier, from Melanie.  Who is now an old lady and has had a lifetime to think about this since Woodstock.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vIt4PqlhKh4&feature=related

It struck me that a great deal of what we do, as writers, with first drafts, tinkering around the edges, and similar 'time wasting' which many non-writers can't understand, is the equivalent to guitar tuning.  Like musicians we need to 'feel' things are right before we can really reach the heights.

There will be times when, like an inspired guitarist with a broken string we can just change our fingering on the fly and carry on, but normally we need the comfort of that reliable repertoire to work with.

And sometimes we have a favourite tale, or tune, which we revisit again and again in slightly different forms.  It may be something of a cliché but we love it, our audiences love it, and it falls comfortably from our fingers whether on strings or keyboard.  In so doing it puts us in the mood to leave the comfort zone and look for something above and beyond the mere repetition of words.

The time will come when you need to step through the curtains, take centre stage, and expose your brainchild to the public.  It's scary and inspiring, all at the same time.

Somewhere in the lyrics of this song there's a line 'I used to do it just for fun'. 

Take care never to lose that fun.  If sometimes you have to fool around for while, pretending to 'tune your guitar' to recapture the fun, then do it.  The world can wait.

Gyppo

   Listen to yourself.  A little creative trick which you may enjoy using.

   I've previously suggested using yourself as a study object in the art of 'people watching'.  It's not narcissistic, just convenient sometimes to set a small part of your mind aside to record how you do the everyday things in life.

   But today I listened to myself.  I was making the drinks when Alma called something from the front room.  I called back "If you were talking to me I can't hear you properly because of the kettle, Pet."

   As I walked around the door to see what she was shouting about my subconscious replay told me I'd said 'kettle pet' without the comma.  Kettle Pet?  This triggered a bizarre conversation with my daughter about what exactly a Kettle Pet might be.

   It's a small creature which lives in a kettle.  It loves boiling water.  It gets noisy when its hot, and very noisy when it's boiling.  Sometimes it even whistles.  When the water is really cold they hibernate.  Etc, etc.

   In the end we decided it was something like a secretive and very small octopus, which could hang on with its legs and not get accidentally tipped into your cups.  It was translucent when merely warm but brightly coloured when boiling.  Which didn't matter because nobody looks into a boiling kettle.  When the kettle is really cold it becomes totally transparent for perfect camouflage. 

   I may write a kids story about Kettle Pets later.  I suspect the one in my kettle plays 'bucking bronco' on the stainless steel anti-limescale collector roll that lives in there and bounces around noisily at boiling point.

   There you go.  Listen to your own words sometimes.  Who knows what strange creatures or situations may emerge.

   Gyppo

Something I wrote in 2007, in response to a post asking us what our dreams/plans were.

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I don't do dreams as such.  I'm more of the carpe diem type, trying to seize the day.  Mind you, sometimes the day is like a big wriggly Carp and manages to get away.  And sometimes the day seizes me, shakes me by the throat, and then walks away laughing at my plans.

Life is an adventure, even if it's not always an enjoyable one. Some timid souls are happy to trade life for a mere existence.  I doubt if many of these become writers ;-)

To me life is a journey with very few certainties.  None of us know how long or short it's going to be.  If I live to a hundred I'll be agreeably surprised, but not as surprised as I once was to get past thirty, forty, and then fifty.  And nowhere near as surprised as I was when I went for a routine BUPA medical just a couple of years back for insurance purposes.  They ran all their tests and then the Doctor asked,  "What do you do for a living and were you planning on going in to work tomorrow. "

"I work as Postman, delivering by bicycle.  Why?"

"I strongly recommend that you don't work again until we deal with your astronomical blood pressure."

"Blood pressure?"

I was feeling a bit more tired than usual after a long shift, but that was all.

"Yes.  230/184.  You must have arteries like Kevlar."

The numbers meant nothing to me at the time, but they are branded on my soul now ;-)

I was to hear the amazed 'Kevlar' reference again and again over the next few weeks ;-)  It became rather amusing to see different doctors assume their gauges were wrong, take another reading, and finally accept that I was still walking around and looking remarkably cheerful.  More tests followed to determine why.

I'm now out of the zone where even a light tap on the head was almost guaranteed to cause a stroke.  But, even with a daily cocktail of pills my blood pressure is still at the high end of normal, and Royal Mail decided - quite reasonably in my opinion - that I was a liability in a physically demanding job and paid me off.

It changes your outlook on life.  I don't plan as far ahead, but I'm quite happy with that.  As I say, life is a journey.  I mostly enjoy the twists and turns.

Two years ago a mere twenty minutes at the keyboard left me shattered and needing to sleep for a while.  Now, that was really scary.  One hell of a shock for a man who had quite cheerfully got by on four hours sleep a night for years on end.

Why was this happening to me?  All down to the little enzyme which triggers adrenaline production.  I might display - and feel, that was the wierd thing - all the laid back calm of an old Hippy, but inside the adrenaline pump was stuck on full boost, like a car with a nitrous oxide kit.  No-one is supposed to live like that.  A couple of other minor things surfaced as well once the boost was cut by the pills.

Which is why I seize the day, but perhaps sometimes just a little more carefully - and eagerly - than I used to.

Life is still one hell of a ride, but sometimes I have to make allowances for the vehicle now.

But yes, I do still have dreams.  There's a few more novels in me yet and the gods know how many articles etc.   And it's good watching my girls grow up with their own dreams and schemes.

I'm here for the duration - however long that is. :-)

For those who say they don't greatly care for life - whatever the reason - I'd just like to say, "It's the only one you've got.  Get out there and live it!"

Carpe stylus  Seize the pen!

Gyppo

Carling with Cathy

Sitting on my Gran's gate
in the sunshine,
sharing a can of Carling.
Black label no less,
with the girl next door.

Tall enough to get served
at fourteen, and a 'smooth git',
a polished little lady-killer
(in manners at least)
until I tripped over my own hormones.

Her mum came out,
screaming like a banshee,
calling me words I'd never heard
and banished her to her room.

I went through to Gran's back garden.
Cathy was already leaning from her window.
So I perched on the washhouse roof,
passed the can up to her,
and we played Romeo and Juliet
'til the can was empty.

Gyppo

Advertising slogans which trigger an unintended response.  Got any to share?

Here's a starter.

I remember a gent's outfitters who advertised with the slogan "If you want to get ahead, get a hat."

My immediate reaction?  If you haven't already got a head you wouldn't be looking for a hat.  You can't picture the headless horseman galloping up to the counter, can you?

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Another was "A suit so comfortable you'll forget you're wearing it."

I pictured Rodin's Thinker,  "Did I put my suit on or not?"

Over to you.

I've just moved this across from the other place, where I accidentally re-posted it, and found I can't remove it.  Ah well ;-)

=====

"Life's a funny old thing, Son."

Dad never spent long in the past,
he had a philosophy of the now,
living the moment.
It served him well.
But sometimes he'd slip away
into the warrior's reverie.

Briefly lost in another time and place,
reliving a distant time.

"You alright, Dad?"
He knelt by his motorbike,
paused in mid repair,
spanner in hand,
eyes turned inward.

A shake of the head,
light returning to his eyes.
"Yes.  Just thinking...
If it wasn't for some bloody A-rab
with a damned great log
you wouldn't even be here."

"How's that, Dad?"

"I went to rescue another Matelot,
outside a bar in Port Said.
He was getting the thin end of a fight
with a bunch of A-rabs.
Several of us joined in.
The last thing I saw
was a sea of striped robes
running at us,
and a bloody great log,
coming straight at my head.

"I came around in hospital
at a shore base,
and my ship had sailed.

"The man who took my place died
when a tin-fish came calling,
straight through the stoke-hold."

He shook himself,
like a dog shaking off river water
after a swim.
Came back to the present.
The shutters were down again.

He wiped his oily fingers on a rag
then tousled my curly little head.

"Life's a funny old thing, Son."

Gyppo

My Lady's Sofa.

A sagging three seater which had suffered under her growing family.  Long enough to allow two people, both carrying baggage from individual disasters, to sit close enough to be friendly but without the enforced intimacy of rubbing shoulders.  Allowing us to ease our way closer, at our own pace, until we felt comfortable leaning into each other.  Personal spaces becoming one shared refuge.

Sturdy enough it didn't make noises to disturb her children, sleeping upstairs, when we became even closer.

A few years later we bought a new one, but by then she'd bought a television, migrated to one of the chairs, and the new sofa never felt like home.

===

The Coffee Table is intended as a replacement for 'The Gallery" over on the other place we all knew and loved.

It's a place to post work you wish to share largely for the joy of it.  It's not a 'workshop' for extended or detailed critiques, although comments are still welcome.

We all sometimes write things which we know are never going to be commercial success, but we feel they deserve a wider audience than just family or close friends. You can use it for 'stuff' you wrote years ago but maybe never sold, or even work you sold a long time ago, as long as there's no copyright issues.

If you're an occasional poet with no wish to take it too seriously, this may be the place for you rather than the working poetry boards.  But don't assume no response means it wasn't enjoyed, or it was terrible.  People come here to be readers as well as writers, and with the best will in the world we don't always dash off quick 'thank you' notes to every author we enjoy, do we?  In truth some of the more famous make easy access difficult.

Show us what you've got ;-)  Share those little gems you've hidden away.

Gyppo

I have thoroughly field-tested my shredder and it didn't break.  It jammed a few times, but it pretty well lived up to its sale pitch of being able to devour 10 sheets at a time.  Much of what I  shredded was old-school bank statements and similar, usually on slightly heavier paper than the 80gsm stuff I use for printing.  I kept these down to about eight sheets at a time.    I probably put more through it in the last week than many people would in a year.

For what it's worth the make is United Office, it came from Lidl, as one of their 'special deals, and cost £30.  It has a three year guarantee which I see as a potential challenge.  (Like the 6 year guarantee on my vacuum cleaner, which also got a good workout collecting the spilled crosscut shreddings.  Like bloody confetti.

Here's the pile of bags.  50 litre bags, approximately half full.  The two full sized rubbish bins liners  are buried underneath.  The stuff expands enormously compared to tightly packed sheets jammed into heavy duty Royal Mail sacks ;-)

Easily enough to stuff one of those bean-bag chairs.

The manual says to let it cool for thirty minutes after 3 minutes use ;-)  Let's just say I ran it for much longer than that, usually up to two bins full.  (Other purchasers may not be as lucky, or have a far warmer office where it will overheat faster.)

Left click if the pile doesn't look big enough for you ;-)

I've no idea how weird Portland is, or if it has a reputation for weirdness.

But a unicycle, cape, Darth Vader helmet and flame ejecting bagpipes?

Left click to enlarge.

Does it ring true?  Do the characters come alive for you?  Any other comments you want to throw in?

How do you picture Zak, because he doesn't describe himself.

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   Valerie used to be an old schoolmate of mine and it never crossed my mind to think of her as available.  We were just friends, in a way that seems almost impossible these days.  She was the tomboy type, and at sixteen - back in the sixties - I had no ideas what hidden depths were lurking in my little tree climbing and fishing buddy.

        After school we went different ways and it wasn't until I was eighteen that we met again, entirely by chance.  I was sat on a wall in Bristol, idly strumming a guitar and collecting a few coins in return for playing Dylan tunes.  I didn't need the money, but sometimes it was fun to play the part of a footloose busker for an hour or two on a sunny day in June.  When a real busker came along I'd vacate the pitch if he or she wanted it.

        Re-tuning the guitar I heard footsteps and looked up as they stopped.

        Five feet eight inches tall, long red hair in soft waves, that familiar snubby little nose, and those brown eyes dancing with mischief, the little gold flecks seeming to dance deep in her irises.

        "Zak?"

        "Hi, Valerie.  How's it going?"

        "Pretty good.  Never thought I'd see you singing for pennies though."

        "Just a hobby.  Bunking off work for a couple of hours..."  And I never realised you had legs like that under your jeans.

        "Never did take life too seriously, did you?"  She swung herself up onto the wall alongside, taking a swift glance at her watch as she did so, "So, what's happened since I saw you last?"

        "Short version?  Three motorbikes, one camper van, half a dozen girls, and about twenty different jobs.  What about you?"

        "Dancer.  I'm working here tonight."

        "You mean in Bristol, not the subway theatre?  Fancy a drink afterwards?"

        "It'll be gone midnight, can you find anywhere after that?"

        "Sure...  Scuse me, punters coming."

       I slipped off the wall and did my whining Dylan impression, playing 'Mr Tambourine Man', and the group of passers-by stopped long enough for me to finish.  After the first verse I realised the big attraction wasn't my voice.  It was Valerie, playing an imaginary tambourine in perfect time and moving with the languid grace of a gently stoned Hippy chick dancing to some inner drum.

        Halfway through I had the sense to back off and become a less obtrusive musical backing to her performance, and the clink of coins into the hat as we finished showed my decision had been the right one.  The group passed on and as soon as they were a few yards away Valerie smoothed her skirt back down over those surprisingly gorgeous thighs and returned to her perch on the wall.

        "Looks like we're still a good double act."  She smiled as I counted the money and rejoined her.

        "Do you still play?"  I offered her the guitar as another group of people approached.  A brief hesitation and she settled it across her legs and started softly on 'California Dreamin'.  She wasn't bad, but I'd forgotten just how good she sounded when she sang.  One of those high clear voices that wins prizes for the school, the voice of an angel.

        Except no angel ever wears a black skirt which rides up almost to panty level as she slips down from the wall.

        No angel ever had a bosom that moved like hers as she settled herself into the strap of the guitar and began to drive the sounds through the natural amplifier of the nearby tunnel.

        No angel ever kicked off her shoes and became so at one with her music that she almost distracted me from those magnificent legs as one bare foot tapped in time to the tune she was laying down.  I'd assumed she was wearing tights, but that matte golden colour was her, not nylon!

        I was unsettled by my unexpected arousal. I'd often thought of Valerie during our two years apart, wondered how she was getting on, wondering how to get in touch.  I'd never expected her to come back into my life and give me a jack like a donkey without even trying.

        The onlookers were applauding and throwing money as she finished with a hair swirling toss of her head and slung the guitar up along her back.  Bosom heaving she sketched a fine performer's bow as the coins clinked into the hat, and in that second I made a mental sketch which would torment me for years afterwards.

        Countless times when no amount of skill with pencil or paintbrush could ever match what I saw in my head.  A picture to treasure for all eternity

   Unslinging the guitar she handed it back  - almost reluctantly - and slipped her shoes back on.  Smoothing down her black skirt she looked at me and grinned the urchin grin I recalled so well from our childhood.

   "Gotta run, Zak.  If you can find somewhere for us to sink a few beers tonight I'll be happy for you to collect me outside Franco's at about quarter past midnight.  Do you know where it is?"

   "Sure."  That's some classy joint you're dancing for."

   "I'm a classy act.  Don't let me down!  A girl needs her escort if she's going to be wandering the streets around here after midnight."

   Off she went, arse moving in a rather appealing way, and once again I felt that sudden stirring.

   I picked up the guitar and ripped off a few hard driving chords of 'Lay Lady Lay' and had the satisfaction of seeing Valerie stop and look back, half turned and just as gorgeous in profile.  She flipped a casual wave and a few seconds later was gone around the corner and out of sight.

   * * *

   Moveable Moods. Mental Templates.  Aids to imagination.

   Some would-be fiction writers tell me they can't picture the scenes they want to describe.  Others - the gods alone know why - feel it all has to be pure imagination and they can't use anywhere real.  They don't seem to understand our imagination, no matter how vivid, is only fuelled by things we've seen or heard about.

   Let's have a look at this 'fuel', some of which could be compared to a favourite meal, sometimes eaten plain and sometimes 'spiced up' to add variety.

   Sometimes a writer needs to be able to get into a particular mood to be able to kickstart their imagination.  Some use music for this, and I agree it does have its place.  Quite often the classics have an edge here.   There's a reason why a tune survives several hundred years, and still evokes feelings.

   But what I'm about to share is about pictures (mental and real) and feelings.  Mental templates you can work with .

   In your travels you'll come across locations, scenes, and events which your brain will store for you.  But there's a lot to be said for capturing them on film as well, very easy in these day of digital photography.  Then you'll have a visual prompt as well as an often fallible memory.  So use your camera phone, or proper camera, and grab scenes which move you.  If you have a feel for photography you'll probably capture the mood well, but even a simple 'photo of record' will help unlock memories of the other senses.

   If you see a dark little alleyway with a sprawling pile of rubbish bags and your gut reaction is I'd hate to die there, or What a place to hide a body, then capture a shot to help recall it later. 

   You may not, probably won't, use it exactly as it is, but it will trigger the memories and you can build the scene for your story around that image. 

   Or you may find a friendly twisty little passage between old buildings which calls you to investigate and speculate who lived up there in days long gone.(Winchester, in Hampshire, UK, is full of places like that, with mysterious little doors.)  Just everyday doors to the people who live behind them, I'm sure.  But a prompt to a writer's imagination.

   Now let's look at three specific examples of my own mental templates.

   First example:  There is a large traffic roundabout in Plymouth, UK,  where the subways under the various roads all surface again in the middle before diving back into the next subterranean crossing.   Workers from nearby use the grassy area in the middle for their lunch breaks when the weather is nice.  Buskers hang around hoping to pick up the price of a meal and use the tunnel acoustics to their advantage.  Even a quite thin or weak voice can resonate quite well.

   This is just one of many 'mental templates' I have stored.  Whenever I need a pleasant subway scene this is the place I have in mind.  I relocate it to suit wherever I'm writing about and have a very clear picture in my mind to describe.

   I've never seen it in winter, but I can use the familiar geography to visualise the rain lashing in, the buskers and dossers lurking deeper within the tunnels, avoiding the ones which funnel the wind according to direction.  I can imagine these groups looking quite threatening, whereas in the summer they generally don't.

   I've used this same location in many different places and it makes an excellent backdrop for a character to play a guitar, or sleep off too much booze.  Or to go Trit-Trit-Trotting through in her high heels and business suit, like little Billy Goat Gruff crossing the troll's bridge, and trying not to make eye contact with the less fortunate.  Or perhaps envying them their perceived freedom from office politics, a rigid life, and a demanding boss.

   =====

   Second example:  There is another much shorter subway nearer to home, a straight dive under a busy ring road, which separates a pleasant park area from a crammed mess of old streets, a market, and numerous sixties high rise blocks.  A definite border between genteel and rough as arseholes.  (The rough area isn't quite as bad as people think, in the daytime anyway, but it does have a bad name.)  The market is neutral ground between the two worlds.

   The entries to this particular subway are both at right angles, so you can't see who or what is in there until you've gone down the ramp.  There is a big mirror on the wall at each end which should let you see if anyone's lurking, or a demon cyclist is hurtling towards you.  But they're scratched and sprayed with graffiti and gang signs, and therefore useless.  The subway walls are equally decorated and its very square, narrow, low roofed, damp, and smelly.

   Fifty years ago the graffiti was along the lines of SKINZ ROOL, or ALL GREASERS IS KUNTZ.  Now it tends to be colourful 'tagging' with the overlapping bubble writing, or elegant but very alien looking and incomprehensible Islamic script.  It may be saying 'Welcome, Brother', but instinct says otherwise.

   You're already getting the picture, aren't you, and the feelings it invokes? At night most of the lights don't work and those who can would rather climb the fence and risk the ring road.

   As you approach the blind corners all you have is your sense of hearing, or perhaps a looming shadow upon the wall, or the whiff of a joint.  Is that the click of a cigarette lighter, or a knife opening?

   That one is my mental template for dangerous subways.  But when I see a group of Muslim ladies, all gaily wrapped up, chatting away cheerfully as they pass through with their shopping on the way home, it paints another picture entirely.

   =====

   Third example:  My daughter and I were checking out a pond in The New Forest which is going to feature in a WIP, (work in progress for anyone new to this kind of thing).  It was pretty much as I recalled it from years ago, so I took a few pictures to refresh my memory and we wandered around a bit more. 

   We found a small and much darker pool, probably created by gravel extraction for road building and filled by rainwater.  In reality it's probably not as deep as it looks, but it's fringed with lifeless looking weed and only a couple of feet in from the edge the crystal clear water over the gravel suddenly goes black and dark.  That curious bottomless black, like looking into an opal and thinking you can maybe see something but still being unsure.

   There was a bunch of cut flowers floating on the surface.  We speculated that perhaps somebody, or maybe a favourite dog, had drowned there and these were anniversary flowers.  It was a warm sunny day but neither of us wanted to stay around too long.  But there was something curiously and uncomfortably compelling about that borderline, that sudden transition from light to dark.  We still 'call it the dark pool' and feel cold if either us mentions it.

   I know I'll use it in a story some day, to lose a weighted body or a stolen motorbike.  Or perhaps I'll let some joy-rider run a car into it and discover it's not actually deep enough to hide the vehicle. 

   I took some pictures  but, oddly enough, they didn't come out.  Which lends itself to thoughts of something supernatural, or just evil.  I'll go back in the summer and try again.  If I can't find the place I'll be really spooked.

   I'll definitely use it someday.  But not necessarily in a forest setting.  It's going to be another of my moveable mental templates.

   =====

   You don't need to cudgel your brain quite so hard when you learn to relocate and extrapolate images and feelings from existing 'stock images'.

   I hope this idea has been of some help to some of you.  Either to start you collecting such things, or to prompt you to recall what's already there.

   To a writer no experience, good or bad, need be wasted. Though I will admit there are some memory cupboards with a locked and barred door where I rarely go for the sake of my own sanity.

   ===

   

   Can writing be taught?

   After several years teaching 'Creative Writing' classes for the WEA I have come to a very definite answer on this one.  Yes & No!

   You cannot teach writing to someone who isn't motivated enough, or to someone who is determined to prove they can't learn.  Nearly every writing class has at least one of the latter, the individual who is determined to be a failure at everything they do.  They often display a misleading enthusiasm and a truly admirable dogged persistence, but there is something in their psyche which fears success and programmes them for failure.  Even when they write something superb they are convinced that some non-specific 'they' won't be interested in publishing their work.  In truth I think all writers have a touch of this person in their make-up, but it is usually over-ridden by our more positive thoughts.

   Those with a lot of specialised knowledge but only limited writing skills are an interesting case.  If they truly want to communicate and share that knowledge they will gladly put in the time and learn what they need.  Nothing more though, just the few essential 'tools' they feel necessary.  Quite a few skilled 'technical' writers fit into this group.  To write a really effective 'How to...' book or article the in-depth knowledge is more important than a fluid writing style.  If you can teach them how to ask themselves the 'readers questions' then the rest will follow. 

   At the other extreme we have the truly gifted who come to classes to learn how to polish and sell.  They already know they are good - although they may be painfully shy about admitting it - and only come to life when in silent communion with pen or keyboard.  Some of these, once taught a few marketing and editing skills, are away on the fast track to success.  Others are doomed to remain ivory tower dreamers, writing superb stuff which will never be shown to anyone else.  Because for them writing is such an intensely private business they cannot bear to expose it to others who may not share their unfettered enthusiasm.

   In between the extremes come the vast majority of students who have some natural talent but no great 'gift'.  It has to be said that these are some of the easiest to teach, because a few tricks of the trade and a reminder of the basics of English can go a long way.  Because they don't see their work as a great literary masterpiece, in which every letter is sacred and every cunning turn of phrase absolutely essential, they are far more willing to trim and adapt to suit a particular market or genre.  These are the ones who quietly absorb advice and start turning in very good stuff by about the fourth lesson.

   Also, every tutor eventually realises that perhaps twenty five percent of each class are the perpetual students, the ones who see it as social activity rather than a personal or potentially profitable quest.  These will have already done macramé, stained glass, feng shui, poetry appreciation, etc, and all they really want is a chance to brag a little amongst their cronies afterwards.  If they gain a certificate of attendance at the end and a sheaf of notes - one of which they will pin to their wall whilst the other is probably never looked at again - they will feel satisfied.
   
   The biggest prize for a tutor is a natural talent who is also willing to learn.  These are the few who voluntarily stay in touch long after a course has ended, writing to tell about their successes and sometimes ask for advice or swap information about possible markets.  The ones who can make even the most jaded of tutors eager to read on, and be genuinely thrilled by their student's success stories.

    I think the biggest benefits of any writing course, whatever the level, are the discovery that you can 'write to order', that motivation and inspiration can to some extent be 'turned on' rather than waited for, and that despite writers being an enormously varied bunch we still have an awful lot in common and can learn from each other. 

   ===

Mystery author Sue Grafton, best known for her 'alphabet series A is for Alibi, B is for Burglar, etc.), died recently. Y is for Yesterday was published in 2017.  She  didn't get to the Z novel, and left instructions that no one was to ghost-write in her name.

I think this is is perfectly reasonable request.

But would you, as a writer, leave similar instructions, or would you be happy to let someone else pick up your characters and run with them?  I've seen this happen in the past and sometimes the new author makes a decent job of it.  Usually when they don't try and 'ghost' in the original author's style but just take over the character and write the same genre of story but without being too slavishly tied to the past history of the character.

One example of this would be the Sudden series of westerns written by Oliver Strange, who wrote ten books.

A further five were written later by Frederick H. Christian, and, as I recall them, the character remained true to form.

Would you trust someone else with your characters, or would you take steps to stop it happening?

My daughter passed this one on to me today

Left click to enlarge.

We don't have a gallery thread on here, yet.  For those who don't know the gallery was for stuff you just wanted to share, which didn't necessarily need or want criticism.  So if this sparks memories for you, or you want to chime in, then feel free.  Otherwise I hope you enjoy it.

=====

   The Lucky Generation.

       I dare say every generation feels they were the best, the most fortunate, the most hard done by, the hottest, the coolest, whatever.  But I like to think mine, the children of the early fifties, did pretty well out of life.

        Look at it this way, we were born long enough after the war not to suffer much from rationing, and soon enough after for there to be all sorts of interesting things buried and abandoned by the military for small boys to dig up and find.

        We had a largely TV free early childhood, and when someone in the village had a 9" Black and white TV it was a wonderful new thing, worth travelling to see.  Even if the picture was snowy and the sound pretty poor.  And it went off at night, which I feel it still should.

        Cars and bicycles were mostly green or black.  Out in The New Forest cars were still rare enough for them to be interesting rather than just a background noise and a moving hazard.

        Lorries were smaller, and far busier.   Some of them even still had massive chain drives.   Motorways didn't exist.

        Paedophiles did, but all red-blooded boys knew how to handle perverts and were prepared to fight and run, rather than being kept indoors 'just in case'.  My best mate was always ready to head butt them in the 'privates' and I carried a knife from the age of seven and wasn't afraid to use it if the need arose.

        Boys could get in trouble with the law without ending up with an ASBO and huge paper trail which would follow them for the rest of their lives.  We cut down trees, and blew things up using recipes from encyclopaedias printed between the two world wars.

        We didn't need to go on the web to find a recipe for mustard gas, we looked in a book with a title like 1001 things a clever boy can do.  They never expected any of us to make it in seriously lethal quantities so they didn't tell us not to.  Therefore, mostly, we didn't.

        We dug up bullets and old hand grenades.  Found a rotting sack of old stick grenades probably dumped in the river by the Home Guard.  Somehow we never blew ourselves up, even when someone bought a mortar bomb to school and we played catch with it in the playground until a teacher took it away and called the local bobby on his bicycle to take it to the local cop shop.

        But beyond all this stuff we grew up in a world of largely predictable values and expectations.

        Most dads went to work, mass unemployment was almost unheard of, and most mums were at home to welcome us when we came home from school.  We all felt sorry for the 'latchkey kids' who came home to an empty house, although the few single parents we knew of, usually widows, quite often managed to build a working life around their kids school hours so that 'Mum', or sometimes an auntie or a gran was always there to hear their woes and triumphs when they came home.

        Lads left school in the expectation of following a family trade.  Apprenticeships, proper apprenticeships where you learned to do adult work as part of learning to be an adult, were the usual route.  Most parents frowned upon what they saw as 'dead end' jobs like delivery work, and even when it paid well encouraged lads - and some lasses - to 'learn a trade'.

        Back then it was popularly believed that a man with a trade would never be out of work unless he chose to be an 'idle bastard'.  Whether your skill was in your head, accounts, clerk, taxes, or in your hands, mechanic, builder, railway worker, no-one believed that machines would take over and reduce the need for skilled men and a vast semi-skilled workforce.

        We also grew up with principles and rules, and learned that in return for privileges there were obligations.  We may have thought some of the rules were outdated, but we generally accepted that they existed, and had to be obeyed most of the time.

        Some of us began to question the need for - and indeed the wisdom of - blind obedience to authority figures.  There were plenty of teachers who earned and deserved our respect, people with presence and real knowledge, but amongst them we learned to spot the fakers, who had taken to teaching as an easy option and just assumed they had authority without earning it.

        We did inherit the prejudices of our parents, sometimes without understanding why.  A teacher with a good military record would be far more likely to receive co-operation than one who we heard had been a black marketeer, or a 'conchie'.  It was a long time before I realised what a conchie was, and that sometimes these men were anything but cowards.

        My own maternal Grandad had been in the trenches in WW1 but refused to carry a gun.  He served as a stretcher bearer and 'runner', a messenger, until a chunk of shrapnel sent him home to stay.  That man was no coward, but could never truly come to terms with the thought of Germans as 'good guys'.  The Second World War just confirmed his suspicions.

        Yet my Dad worked for a German, who most people believed to be a Pole.  He was one of those who fled Germany when he saw where Hitler was leading them.

        When Dad went to work for him they were talking one day and Dad mentioned his time in the Royal Navy.  Mr W decided to tell Dad he was German, not Polish, and said he would understand if Dad didn't want to work for him any more.  Dad told him the war was over, that he was a good employer, and as long as it stayed that way there was nothing more to be said.  Knowing Dad he probably then shook hands with him.

        Mum worked with horses, hauling timber during the war.  From her I learned that black men were 'different', but not necessarily wrong.  I also learned that some white American servicemen were far more prejudiced than the English could ever be.

        The world was a confusing place at times for a young lad, but the certainties of Mum and Dad, the security of our own caravan on a lovely site in The New Forest, and a big eyed wonder at all the things happening around me made it a wonderful decade in which to be born and to start learning about the world.

        So much was about to change, old certainties were about to crumble, but I had the background to support me.

   ===

I may be out roaming the streets at the crucial time, or I may be asleep, although the latter isn't particularly likely.  I may even meet some of you in the bar.  But just in case...

I wish you all a Happy New Year.  May your keys rattle freely or your pens glide smoothly over the page.  May this be the year when you feel as if you're really getting somewhere, whether your dream is publication or just to be better or write more fluently than the year before.

May the coming year bring you most of what you want and very few of the things you don't  (A few are always good for maintaining a balance.)

If the new year brings you unwanted trials try to learn from them.  (It's usually easier than just fighting them every step of the way.)

May our new forum grow and flourish as the old one did before things went wrong over there.

Make it a good one, My Friends.  Don't just wait for it to happen.  Kick arse until it does.

As the Eagles would say, "Put me on a highway, show me a sign, and Take It To The Limit one more time.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FY5_krxYPeY

Gyppo

I have been sat here feeding old draft copies and duplicates (after checking) through my new crosscut shredder.  The makers claim it can take ten sheets at a time, so I tried it.  It does, but it's a bit slow.  Five at a time feeds through faster without the motor seeming to struggle, so five/six is going to be my target figure  for smooth operations without overheating. The bin holds about half a ream of shredded pages.

I love it, but it strikes me this could be a nightmare scenario.

Imagine a depressed writer, or artist, thinking all his work is crap and nobody is ever going to buy anything, ever again.

Now add a mains powered shredder...

I've often mentioned the mental tape recorder which stores images for me, even at the most inconvenient or overwhelming times, and plays them back later.  In full Technicolour with surround sound.  Here's a couple of those moments.

=====

   Odd Moment:

   After Mum's funeral there were several people I only half recognised coming up to shake my hand and offer their condolences.  One such suddenly appeared in front of me, saying the usual things, and all I could think of was that he, Reg, had died several years previously.

   From there, in my curious mental state, it was just a short step to wonder if I'd dropped dead myself during the service and he'd turned up to be my guide to the other side.  I was horrified to think that I might have spoiled Mum's 'going away party' for her.   Embarrassed even.

   This surreal thought only lasted a few seconds before I realised he was David, Reg's son, and in the ten years or so since I last saw him he'd aged to look just like his Dad.

   It was a very odd few moments.

   The only other time I've wondered if I'd died without knowing it was many years ago when I was caught up in an explosion at work, and came around to find a total stranger asking if I was alright.  A gorgeous dark-haired gypsy-brown angel.  Well, that was my still bewildered interpretation of the event.  Much better than those insipid ethereal blonde ones.  Turned out she was a new girl, starting that morning.

   =====

   Another unexpected pair of guests were an old man and his wife.  They definitely looked familiar, but I couldn't put a name to them.

   He was the chap I went out and called an ambulance for when he came off his motorbike outside my house.  I was sat at my desk one blazing hot Summer, heard the crunch, instinctively knew exactly what it was, picked up my mobile phone and went out to check.  Lots of people still stood staring so I called 999 and went to check him out.

   I met him again a year or so later and he said all he recalled was a large wild looking man in nothing but a pair of denim cut-offs 'taking charge', telling him to 'Lie still and don't worry about the bloody traffic, they can go around the other way."   And to "Keep your helmet on until the ambulance gets here in case your neck's damaged."

   Apparently they saw the notice in the paper, recognised the surname and address, and came to 'offer their support.'

   People are bloody fantastic at times.

   Gyppo