Author: thousandmonkeys

The Crows Remember, an illustrated fairytale

At the start of this year the illustrator Bonnie Helen Hawkins (accompanied by a story from novelist Joanne Harris) kicked off her 52 Crows project, in which she vowed to draw a crow every Monday all year, to illustrate a story or poem. This week I was lucky enough to have her choose my story The Crows Remember as the focus of her drawing and man is it good! She’s gone colourful for this one, picking up on the wildflowers I mention and using them to beautiful effect. You can see her gorgeous drawing (and read my story) on her blog. I urge you to go look at all the other wonderful pictures and read everyone else’s stories and poems as well.

The Crows Remember is a sad story, as pretty much everyone who’s read it so far has pointed out, but I was going for fairytale/folktale and there’s often an undercurrent of sadness or something dark at the core of those so I think I found the tone I was looking for. It’s set (though I didn’t specify in the story) in Swaledale, which to me is a mysterious place populated by the shades of my ancestors, and some sheep – all of 30 miles and a couple of dales away from where I live, but when you don’t drive it’s not an easy place to visit. Unless maybe you’re fitter than I am and own a bicycle. I digress…

I hope you enjoy the story. I don’t see how you could fail to be impressed by the drawing. And if you’re anywhere near Bath, I think there are plans for a 52 Crows exhibition next year, keep an eye on Bonnie’s Twitter for details.

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Thousand Monkeys, Ten Years

Ten years ago, OneMonkey (not that he was known as that yet) said, “I’ve been reading about these new ‘blogs’, I think you should get one.” Dubious, but having learnt in our nearly ten years together that he was not short of good ideas, I let him show me some. Although, since we didn’t have broadband, he had to take me to the library first. “What will I write about?” I asked. I’ve been trying to figure that out ever since.

Back in 2008 I’d been writing on and off since I was a kid, submitting on and off for ten years or more, but I was just beginning to get the odd success and although it felt a little odd (presumptuous, maybe) I did refer to myself as a writer in that first post. Weirdly, right now I’m feeling like less of a writer than I have in a while – after that eighteen months of dedicated writing time I’m back to the situation of those early posts, not quite fitting writing around a day job (even though these days I work four days a week instead of five), procrastinating too much, blogging when I feel like my time would be better spent writing fiction (see also: procrastinating too much). Not to mention that HMRC recently dealt a blow to my self-image by taking away my status of self-employed writer (it’s great that they’ve made it so you have to earn over £1000 from your self-employedness in a year before you need to suffer their bureaucracy, but many a writer’s fragile ego is about to get a good kicking, I suspect).

I doubt I’d have expected to keep at this blog for so long, if I’d given the matter any thought at all when I began. When I wrote those early posts, OneMonkey and I lived with our cat in a rented house with a small garden; I think OneMonkey was a student again and we’d both recently been unemployed for quite a while. Because we didn’t have broadband, I wrote the posts in a text file (on my desktop computer!) then connected to the internet when it was cheap rate, just long enough to paste the words in and press the publish button. We’ve moved twice since then, ending up about fifteen miles away in our own flat with a bigger garden (sadly no longer with the cat) and I’m still behind the times with my not-always-on wi-fi and my laptop instead of a smartphone and constant connectivity, but it does feel like I’ve made a technological leap forward.

I’ve read nearly 500 books since I started this blog, many of which I’ve reviewed, quite a few of which I’ve been given free of charge for that purpose, in fact (man, would I have been excited at the prospect of that, ten years ago). I’ve been to writing workshops, entered competitions, had stories published, got rejections from more and more impressive places. I’ve written fiction that must number in the hundreds of thousands of words. I’ve become a better writer.

What about in another ten years? Will society have reached the stage of direct neural connection to the internet, and will I have upgraded to a smartphone? Will OneMonkey and I have moved again, about to turn fifty (and celebrate our thirtieth anniversary) in a house with a more manageable garden? Will publishers still be dealing with expensive hardbacks, and will I have got my act together and submitted manuscripts of sufficient quality to enough agents that they might also be dealing with me? Who knows, but I’ll keep writing and, all other things being equal, I’ll keep blogging so you’ll be able to find out here.

A preemptive playlist

Thus far, I’ve got about an hour and a half of the playlist I’m putting together for my fortieth birthday party. So what? Well, I’m not forty for another eighteen months, and I have no plans for a party when I get there.

Thus began the piece I sent to DNA magazine last year for their first issue (it was longlisted, then pipped by another playlist piece, unfortunately). We’re in the 3-month period in question, so I thought I’d share it here. Now read on…

I’ve never been one for parties, even as a student. I went to two eighteenth birthday parties thrown by friends of a friend, and then nothing. No-one in my circle had parties for their twenty-first or thirtieth birthdays, the few who’ve already hit forty haven’t thrown a party for that either. There were no engagement parties, nobody’s hit any milestone wedding anniversaries yet, and the single divorce was not the cause for celebration they’re made out to be in films. We don’t do Christmas or New Year parties, or any-excuse-for-a-barbecue parties in the summer. We did throw a house-warming party once, for two guests, and all four of us spent most of the evening chatting in the kitchen.

Next year in the space of three months my other half will turn forty, we’ll have been together twenty years, and then I’ll turn forty. Surely if ever there was a prompt to have a party, those three months would be it. Plenty to celebrate, lots to look back on, a broad timeframe with which to work. I realised that a couple of years ago, hence I started putting the playlist together. I knew that if I was going to throw only one party in my adult life I had to get the music right and ensure the optimum level of dancing. The only problem is the guests.

I have a crossover of musical taste with some but not all of my friends and close family. About half of them would hate at least half the music. In a way that doesn’t matter because the only potential guests keen on dancing are my parents and their hips will no longer allow it. Which highlights another party problem: is it safe to mix friends and family? My eldest sister didn’t exactly ban family from her fortieth, she just strongly discouraged us. It makes sense, few of us show the same version of ourselves to everyone, and there are anecdotes you probably don’t want your friends recounting in front of your mum. So, friends only?

Even if I figured that one out I’d still have a venue to find. Our flat will hold half a dozen guests comfortably, assuming no-one wants to dance. Then there’s food, drink, timing. The one simple, controllable thing is the playlist. I’ve got another eighteen months to fine-tune it so it’s perfect for the only party I’ll throw in my adult life. Then next year, sometime during those three key months, my other half and I can dance to it alone in our flat.

A Day in the Life, or should it be Paperback Writer?

As an insight into the writer’s life (and maybe into how procrastination works) I thought I’d treat you to a day in the life of a part-time writer. Since starting the new day job in mid-April, I’ve been doing that commuting thing Monday to Thursday, and Fridays have been my writing day. For a variety of reasons, most of them not at all fun, most of my Fridays have in fact been spent on other things but this week I had a genuine all-day chance to sit at a laptop, or with pen poised over a favoured notebook, to write.

Let’s see what I actually did.

I started my day with connections to other people, which seems reasonable enough. I dipped into Twitter for a couple of minutes (it will eat whole hours, if you let it) and spotted a submission opportunity. Then I caught up with the emails I’d been ignoring all week, and identified another couple of submission opportunities from writing newsletters and the like. I also offered my services to an embryonic working class writers’ festival which has been sparked by Natasha Carthew, who I think is Cornish. I remember reading an article she wrote in The Guardian about the lack of (particularly positive) representation of working class families in children’s books.

After a lunchbreak I wrote a few hundred words of the semi-rural fantasy but I was stuck on a scene so I figured I’d do something else for a bit.

So I sat with a notebook and pen and brainstormed an idea for a new story. Partway through this process it suddenly became imperative to know whether that was a Telecaster or a Rickenbacker I could hear at the end of a Swinging Blue Jeans song I was concurrently listening to for research purposes. A quick Google revealed photos showing them using both, so none the wiser I resumed listening and ploughed on. Of course the question now arises, why was I listening to the Swinging Blue Jeans for research? Well, I’m doing an homage to the three-minute pop song for the Ilkley Literature Festival Fringe this September so I went to Billy Fury on Spotify and hit a random Related Artist. I also worked my way through Freddie and the Dreamers and Wayne Fontana. The things I do for art.

Later still, I went to a secondhand and antiquarian book fair (in sweltering heat! Why would I do such an idiotic thing?) and coveted many expensive books on northern industrial history, and dialect. There were half a dozen I would have loved to buy but they ranged in price from £70 to £250; if you’ve paid that much for a book you’d never dare read it in case of finger smudges and tea drips. Or I wouldn’t, anyway. I treat (tret? I never write it down; the dictionary claims the past tense is treated but not in West Yorkshire it isn’t) myself to a 19th century history of Bradford, which of course is important research for a number of stories I haven’t written yet, not to mention the semi-rural fantasy novel I’m writing now, honest.

At least half an hour was lost to me just having a quick flick through the new book when I got it home.

Then I rang my dad to tell him about said book, and coincidentally he’d bought me a book on northern industrial history from a charity shop the day before. Way cheaper than anything at the book fair, naturally. Cue conversation about local history and old books.

After tea it was getting kind of late to do any serious work and the heavy rain was hypnotic, and the storm light made the valley look like an enhanced photograph. But then I made a cup of tea and sat down at the desk with every intention of concerted effort. And wrote a blog post.

Things a like can mean

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Things I’ve meant by clicking ‘like’ on Twitter:

  • Wow that was really funny, you made me laugh on a grey day
  • Yes, I have seen your response but I don’t know what to say in reply
  • I choose not to be the only one in your social circle who hasn’t ‘liked’ this
  • I wholeheartedly endorse this sentiment
  • Mildly amusing
  • I enjoyed the story/article/video you linked to
  • Thank you for linking to that story/article/video, I may look at it someday
  • Clever wordplay, well done
  • What a lovely cat
  • Fabulous photography
  • Good for you for sticking up for yourself/this cause
  • Option B in the retweet/like limited poll
  • Wish I’d said that
  • I said that yesterday
  • More people should say things like this
  • I defend your right to say this but I disagree
  • I would like to end this conversation now
  • I accidentally leant on my trackpad and don’t want to unlike this in case that makes you feel bad

Shaking up and looking back

Having apparently been distracted by football into not blogging, I had a look at what was on my blog during the last World Cup, and apparently as well as ranting about Glastonbury and the lack of metal on the radio these days (https://thousandmonkeys.wordpress.com/2014/07/01/heavy-metal-music-on-the-sidelines/) I also found the time to reorganise my blog. I haven’t done any reorganising since, so this is still a useful introduction or refresher. Normal service will be resumed next week…

The tip-tap of monkey keyboards

Has it really been almost six years since I started this blog? This is not the first but it is the biggest overhaul I’ve done (new theme, new pages, new layout). My publications list is grouped differently, to make it easier to find what you’re looking for. I have pages to showcase each of my books (and wordclouds to summarise each story in The Little Book of Northern Women). There is a page for comics I’ve done as part of Ostragoth Publishing – you can even download the comics for free so if you ‘don’t do comics’ you can give them a go without wasting anything except a tiny chunk of your time. It’s like sharpening all my pencils when I should be writing, only a bit higher tech.

While I was rearranging though I started reading back through some old posts and reminding myself what I’ve been up to…

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Words Best Sung by Lee Stuart Evans

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Love, Trains and Rhythm & Blues the cover promises, and if like me that’s enough to hook you, you’ll love this novel. Set in the vicinity of Nottingham (except a few bits set in Skegness and London) in 1963-5 it captures an England on the cusp of change: the sixties are about to swing, skirts are getting shorter, and the trains are going diesel. And the teenaged Alastair Braymoor has just landed his dream job working on the local steam engines.

Like a modern offering from the Angry Young Men, Words Best Sung sits nicely alongside (and gives the occasional nod to) Billy Liar, A Kind of Loving and the like, though perhaps with a lighter overall tone. There’s excitement and romance, there are mods and rockers, friendships and copious amounts of beer. There’s also a good deal of fumbling and farting, but this is mainly a book about teenage boys so it’s only fair. In between silly voices and dangerous driving there are life lessons to be learnt, like the different ways you can love a girl and how reality doesn’t always live up to the dream. It’s got some great lines and I liked Alastair and his friends so I was rooting for them along the way.

My dad’s a steam train enthusiast and a fan of British R&B (being approximately the same vintage as Alastair), and I’ve absorbed a milder form of both those passions, so I happened to appreciate the musical references and the odd train detail but I don’t think it would ruin the experience if you didn’t (a bit like me enjoying This Sporting Life while knowing little and caring less about rugby). I normally have low tolerance for spelt-out accents (largely because of who they’re spelt for) but maybe Nottinghamshire and West Yorkshire are similar enough in their key sounds for me to read it all as expected, because I got used to it pretty quickly.

Lee Stuart Evans has long been a writer for well-known TV and radio comedy programmes but Words Best Sung is his first novel. I first heard about it from his article on No Writer Left Behind, which is worth a read in itself and also shows exactly where this novel sprang from. If ever there was a time to read a novel about good music and youthful foolishness, it’s this unusually hot, lazy summer – do yourself a favour and buy it.