The Plainclothes Clown

NaNoWriMo 2013 has begun.

I had no idea, but I think I was being hoodwinked.

A long time ago, I bumped into Terry Pratchett at a convention. He was asked what the secret of his writing success was. His reply: "Write 2000 words a day."

That was back in 1987. I've striven to achieve this goal - and in many ways, I have managed to surpass that goal on several occasions.

However, in a recent Creative Writing class, I was told that 2,000 words was "a bit much." If I managed 500 words a day, it'd be enough.

Was I hoodwinked by Terry Pratchett, perhaps throwing out 2,000 words to intimidate nouveaux writers somehow, perhaps dissuade rivals from popping up and threatening his uniqueness?

All I know is, give me a computer and if I put my mind to it, 2,000 words a day ... easy.

Childhood, for me, was not so much felt as sensed. In the school I went to when I was small, pupils learned to conceal their emotions. It didn’t do to be too enthusiastic or too happy about something good, like a tower of bricks or a pretty painting, because there was always some bigger pupil nearby who’d see us enjoying ourselves creating, wander on over and trash it, just to watch our joy turn to misery and pain.

Lunch time was always a time for self-absorption. I could just about tolerate some of the food: so, in order to get as much time out of my lunch breaks as I could, I’d look for my favourite foods, pick them, find a quiet table in the corner and eat alone, listening to the chatter of the girls, the conversations of the boys, the breaking plates, the clash of cutlery bouncing off the tiled floor, the rush and clatter of the catering staff behind the scenes. Few friends and many bullies made life in the cafeteria … a little desperate.

What I remember most about lunch was the textures. As well as the tastes of mashed potatoes, bacon, sausages (they always had those thin little sausages: I never had thick bangers until the big school) and gravy, or the flavours of the chips, fish and peas, there was also the coarseness of the salt, the chunky bits of sausage meat, the crispiness of the thin slices of overdone bacon – they never could get the bacon right.

I always ate my food the same way: start with the spuds or chips. Then the peas, then the mixed vegetables – if any – and, as if it were the pièce de résistance, the meat or the fish.

I loved the fish. Either they were the kind that came with a breadcrumb coating, and I loved the way the gritty crumbs crunched between the teeth, or they had a good batter coating, with a flavour to them you just don’t have these days. Or they served the fish as little spheres coated in golden batter – I loved them most of all, especially the way they’d crunch open all moist when you cut them open. It’s only much later that I discovered that Birds Eye had withdrawn them from the market, presumably because of embarrassment caused by their inappropriate name – Cod Pieces.

Back then, I could eat chocolate freely. Before I discovered that I’d acquired a chocolate allergy in my young adulthood, that is. Back then, not only did chocolate look bigger to my developing body: it also didn’t contain enough preservative chemicals to poison a regiment.

I could eat Walnut Whip until they were coming out of my ears, enjoying the fondant centre’s texture as much as the flavour, and the strong, woody tastes and bitty texture of the walnut. I used to mystify Mum for years, because when trying to describe them, I had no idea what they were called. To me, they were simply and always “Chocolate Poo Smellies.” The only other chocolate I remember as fondly was Toblerone, because they reminded me always of Taid. Even now, they still do.

If it wasn’t chocolate, it’d be a dessert like jam sponge, or chocolate sponge cake – everybody’s favourite. The dark, rich tastes, the moist sponge, the aroma, the cool layer of chocolate in the centre were always a winner. Least favourite was semolina, which, sadly, they served four lunches out of five most weeks.

Once, for a treat, instead of the usual cake, they served something darker, richer, with a runny white sauce instead of the usual yellow. It’s odd, but that was the first taste, the first sense I ever had, of Christmas.

My school days – my childhood – I only remember as a time of pain, bullies, victimisation and the dull shrieks of fear. Perhaps it is a fitting testament to the educational value of bullying that I remember the feel of the lino on the kitchen floor of my home, the taste of school rice pudding, more than I can remember what they looked like, or even their names.

The White Wolf Fiction Writing Contest, Round One, expired some time ago, more or less. White Wolf said they'd let the contestants know who's won and who's not today, May 13, 2005.

I know it's Friday 13th and all, so perhaps that's got something to do with it. But it's been pretty much all day so far, and still nothing as yet.

Chances are, the moment I put this posting off to bed, the announcement will come in. Just you wait and see.

I've just made a quick word count of the chapters in my burgeoning novel.

So far, I have written:

- Eleven chapters;

- 26 thousand words.

And I've barely scratched the surface of the story so far.

All I've done is introduce each of the players in this tale, and advance each of their stories a bit.

Admittedly, this was a long story when I originally began writing it, but with this current rewrite ... it's going to be a monster. 120 kilowords, at the very least.

I just posted a submission to Literotica. I've been writing it for two or three days, now, and it's only just finished, spellchecked and polished.

Just look for the newest story submitted by "Fiat Knox."

Nighty night.

Through the bedroom window, I can see swallows flying past in the fading daylight. If I leave my window open, I can hear their little trilling calls, as well as watch them circling overhead: agile, tireless and unbelievably fast.

Just below the level of the bedroom, I'm pleased to say that the little extension my Dad is erecting is finally starting to take shape. The roof's not entirely complete yet, but enough of it is present that it makes a pleasing sound when the rain falls upon it.

We're hoping it'll be finished by this time next week, in time for Mum's birthday. This is Dad's birthday present to her. As always, and rightly so, he wants to make it special.

I'm sitting here, wondering about dreams, about being able to fulfil them, or whether I'm ever going to live to see even the smallest of my dreams realised.

I wanted to be a published writer by now. I desperately wanted to make it in publishing, so that I would never have to worry about benefits, about paying bills, any of that tripe, because I will have found the calling which will sustain me until I die.

You'll note, I didn't mention "retirement."

Mum told me that if ever I get a big wodge of cash, I ought to put it into a holiday: some exotic and wonderful place, such as Japan.

Perhaps I could head for the States, visit Hollywood, see the Paramount Studios where they make Star Trek; or perhaps take in Seattle and Washington State, the future site of the Sea-Tac Sprawl of the Shadowrun RPG setting.

Even drop by the White Wolf Games Studio in Clarkstown, GA, and shake hands with Justin Achilli and the staff who have provided me with so much sovereign entertainment over these years.

And, Mum said, I should do this without hesitation, before I'm too damn old to do anything about it.

But there is one place in all the world I would dearly love to visit some day, should the grace of the Great One favour me.

That place is Corpus Christi, TX; birthplace and current residence of one nyghtshayde.

You want to know what my fantasy is?

One day, I get published. My books sells hugely, worldwide. Over here, I get invited to drop by the Andromeda bookshop in Birmingham, which I do - to sign books, and also to collect the latest RPG stuff to drop in to the Dungeons & Starships store above.

Afterwards, I do more signings at Nostalgia & Comics nearby, mostly signing the comic adaptation of my story; and the following day, it's a similar deal in Waterstones in the same town, the first of many signing sessions in Waterstones in Britain.

And then, the Big Tour. The States.

In my fantasy, I get to visit Houston, TX, and perhaps look at the Space Centre, or perhaps that could be reserved for Florida instead. Either way, a small visit to Corpus, and say hi to nyghtshayde and other members of the Circle of which I am a part.

Not long afterwards, a trip to GA, and a visit to the WWGS studios for the aforementioned handshaking thing.

And so on, roaming across the States, doing signing sessions, bumping into the people I've known for years, finally dropping by Washington State, getting some coffee in Seattle, taking a few photos of Puget Sound, the Space Needle etc, and hoping that another friend of mine, Katrine "Kami" Maples, will be able to find her way there so we could meet face to face at last.

And then back to Europe, via Japan, Australia, wherever. But definitely visiting Japan. I really want to go there before the end of this cycle of my existence.

I know; it's a fantasy. But I'm entitled to one.

I have dreams of success as an author. It's what I want to be, more than anything else in the world. My dreams sustain me, prompt me to carry on. For example, I'm writing a story right at this moment. It's a retelling of a story I wrote back in 1989.

The characters are more or less the same; the setting has not changed substantially, and the plot is, more or less, the same.

And yet it's unrecognisable from the first telling of the story, because I'm biting the bullet here and adding perhaps the vital spark that turns mediocre novels into bestsellers.

And it's a story of high fantasy, told from a completely different, even novel, slant - something I don't believe has been tried for the Fantasy genre before. Or maybe it has, but certainly not in the style I'm trying to achieve.

Why am I writing High Fantasy, a tale of magic and adventure in some land not of the Earth we know from our history?

Why not? It's worked for the big LOTR movies.

And why magic?

Why not? After all, it worked for J K Rowling's books. The success of Harry Potter has given the lie, once and for all, to the assertion made by one publisher ten years ago that "there's no market for it."

The first real attempt at writing a full novel for publication, my first attempt to be a writer, began about this time in 1986. If my story ever gets to see the light of day, I will explain, here, where I got my idea from; but suffice to say that, in 1986, the germ of an idea for my first story was planted, on a warm, sunny evening in Chester, UK.

Shortly thereafter, I dreamed of the setting: and it was a place that felt so real that I could have gone there in person.

It was a setting I wanted to keep alive, and I have done, from that day to this, bringing it up to date in this potent retelling and keeping the faith of the original vision.

Dad has his house, and his extension, and the desire to make the place special and to finish it in time for next Wednesday.

I have my dream, my desire to make my story special. I want to write a story where you find yourself buried so deeply in the thing that you can dream of finding yourself in the Gardens of Astribel, to hear the gentle trilling of swallows in the long, lazy summer evening, to look up and see the flash of sleek curved wings overhead, ducking between the poplars over by the far wall; the poplars through which the setting sun shines, casting long, sharp shadows over the lawn ...

One day, I want you to feel the same thrill I felt writing that last paragraph. I want you to hear the music, to feel Torcinian grass beneath your feet, to see the swallows.

And I want that tour deal.

One day.