interlude

    Eleven minutes.

    Ten minutes.

    I found her standing in my living room looking at my books.

    Nine minutes.  This was going too quickly.  I was fast running out of time.

    “You’re here.” Ray said.  “Finally.”

    “I’ve been here all along.” I said.

    Eight minutes.  Too fast, too fast.

    “Maybe for you.” Ray said “But not for me.”  She looked away from me and studied the books on my shelves.  Mostly modern crime thrillers.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

    Six minutes.

    “That’s not fair.” I said.  “I’ve been…. Busy.”

    “Doing Other Things.” Ray nodded.  “Meanwhile I’ve been stuck in the land of Perpetual Night.”  He pulled one out.  Not a crime thriller, I saw.  Science Fiction.  Very recent.  “Is this one any good?”

    “I don’t know.” I said “I’m looking for time to read it.”

    “What you need,” Ray said wisely “is to prioritise.”

    “Oh is that all?  Oh thank you very much.”

    “No need to be snippy.”

    “No?”  There were a thousand responses that I wanted to give, but excuses just sounded like, excuses.  “Cut me some slack, will you?”

   

    Silence.  The deadline had come and gone.  Time had restarted.

    The clock read 21.35

    “I see that you’ve decided on my gender.”

    “The best characters are women.” I said “Ask Iain Banks and Joss Whedon.”

    “That’s going to upset all the people who thought that I was male.”

    I shrugged “I tried not to make that distinction.  I was trying to keep it ambiguous.  If I have slipped up, well, what can I say?” I smiled, “I’m human.  We make mistakes.”

    Ray studied me impassively.

    “Well, let’s get on with it shall we?”

Another way of writing

Everybody writes blogs.

Whilst I'm no expert at it, I think that I'm getting better at it.  But this one, guys and gals is an historic one.  One for your diary, peeps.

Because this one, I'm writing... standing up.  As opposed to sitting down, or even lying down (have done that too).

I am standing up.  On my own two feet.  And its weird.  And I'm a little bit uncomfortable with the thought that I might fall back. 

Standing up.  Being a wheelchair user for about 60% of the day - deducting driving and lying down for well, sleep.   Being in that position isn't good for the body, because its not good for muscles which shorten and tighten and atrophy, and bone density drops - if that is the correct term.

So I'm making more of a concerted effort to put weight through my legs. 

And I thought, whilst I'm up here, might as well do something worthwhile, I know, I'll blog about standing up!

Which is weird - again weird.  I haven't got my shoes on, which again isn't helping my balance. 

Been standing for about 10 minutes now.

Usually, I'm reading.  Naked Heat by Richard Castle: 80% through that one.  But this time I thought that I'd try to do something a little more pro-active.

Boy are my feet aching.  Leaving the shoes off to write the blog - not a good idea, I'm thinking.  Or realising.

I told myself that the blog would stop when I couldn't stand for much longer - hey do you think that's where that phrase originates from?

Standing up the world isn't that much different - except that I stand up a bit to get my car into the car and for odd times at work - usually when I want to make an impact.

But I'm not a tall person - about 5 foot nothing.  So standing up, as opposed to sitting down doesn't change my worldview... much.

But I think that my legs are going to give, so its time to finish early.

Bye for now.  Take care.

Joe.

Interlude. Or Reflections On When Things Don’t Run Smoothly.

You may have noticed that I haven’t been here for a few weeks.  Well, that’s not true: I have been here, just not here.  Writing.  Regularly.

It was my aim, and well, I blew it.

Sorry.

And now its not a Sunday and I’m blogging, or reflecting.  Because this is the writing process.  The whole of it.  Harlan Coben wrote that a writer is somebody who just writes and has to write and can’t live without writing.

Well, that’s nice but… my job kinda gets in the way.  I have a Life and that gets in the way, too.  In a fun, lovely, special, annoying kind of way.

And I really like my job too.  I know its crazy… but its true.  When you get caught between the moon and new –

Sorry.  Got sidetracked there.

As I did with Life. 

That’s going to happen sometimes and I’m not really going to be able to get away with it.  As lovely as the Alpasmart NEO is, its not my old Amstrad NC200, so just picking up and writing isn’t the same anymore.

This is Progress.  Or so I’m told.

But the point is, the point is, that I’m going to get back on track very soon.  Watch this space.

Take care

Joe

Portal: 2

Hope you're all well and that you've had a good week.  Thought I'd continue with the story I started last week.  Any feedback would be very much appreciated. Take care.

Joe. 

Next…..

Okay. Stop.

     A thousand rifles?

     Slight exaggeration there.  I was being metaphoric, not literal.  It felt like there were a thousand rifles pointed at us.  There weren’t a thousand.  Not even a hundred.  Not even ten.

     There were nine.  Nine.  All aiming at us.

     I felt the waves of fear, anxiety.  Fight or flight.  Attack or…

     “Wait Wait WAIT WAIT WAIT waitwaitwaitwaitwaitwait wait.  Don’t fire! Don’t fire! Don’t fire!”

At this point time is slowing down rapidly because every micro second becomes crystal clear because I’m thinking of any way that we can get out of this alive, and I’m running out of options.  Nine is more than a firing squad.  Even if we’re lucky and half miss, the other half still hit.  And to think that we’d escape nine bullets is…. Unrealistic/stupid/outrageous what-kind-of-story-do-you-think-this-is?  (PG rated: no sex, mild violence, some swearing)

     Is it really possible to hear the shot that kills you?  A part of me asked.  Another part of me was trying to figure it out logically: it the bullet is travelling faster than the speed of sound, then logically…

     Amazing the things that you think of when you’re facing death.

     That was followed by: what happens if the guns weren’t guns but were actually energy weapons – does the same theory still apply?

     Shutupshutupshutup!

And then, out of the corner of my eye I saw Xira, arms outstretched with a gun in each hand, aiming straight for the nine….

     (where the hell did she get those guns from?)

     “STOP! WAIT! DON’T FIRE! DON’T FIRE! Nobody has to die today!  Ohmigod what’s wrong with everybody?”

     It wasn’t a Mexican standoff.  None of us were Mexicans.  And Mexico was through another Portal.

     I was waiting.  Time was still being stretched out and then I plucked a different emotion out of the air: puzzlement.

     “Ray? Is that you?”

     I frowned.  What? No, it couldn’t be…  “Kadir?”

     “Ray, it is you! Pause “Put your guns down.  Its Ray!  It’s Ray!”

     Xira looked at me warily “You know these people?”

    

     I stepped to one side, trying to see around the group, trying to find…

     And there he was.  In the fading light, with a grin from ear to ear.  Arms outstretched.

     Kadir Marek.

     My brother.

     Which meant…

     I was home.

     2

     “You’re back?” asked Kadir.

     That emotion came through clear and bright: hope.

     “For a while.” I said.

     He seemed to think about that, but I didn’t want to think about leaving just after I had arrived.  Even though I knew that Kuresh could be anywhere and that the longer I stayed here, the farther away she might get.

     “How did you know it was me?”

     “’Nobody has to die today?’” Kadir smiled “Only you say that.  I've never heard anybody else say that.”

     Zahir started a campfire and the eleven of us sat around it.

     Whatever tension and anxiety I had felt when I’d first caught the group was gone and all I could feel was their exhaustion.  They were resting now that I was here and I didn’t know if that was a good thing or not.

     Xira had put her guns away.  I didn’t know where she had got them from and although I was worried that she had them, the fact that she had put them away was enough for now.

     I didn’t like guns as people tended to get shot.

     She said “You brought us to your home?”

     The hostility had gone from her.  Maybe that was because she was around people who were a family to me and probably wouldn’t be happy if she attacked me again.  The cut on my arm wasn’t deep, but she had ruined a good jumper.  I was a little upset about that.

     “I don’t have any control over where I go.” I said.  “The portal follows its own pattern, or so I’m told.” I thought for a moment.  “Us?  You followed me.  And then you attacked me.”

     “I want to get home.  I thought I’d hitch a ride.”

  Xira sat on my left and Kadir on my right.  Michelle sat in front of me, bandaging my arm after cleaning the wound.  She had put a healing ointment on it which stung before binding it tight.  It wouldn't fix my jumper though.

     There was something missing, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.  My head was still buzzing from the fact that I was home and I was hurt by the thought that I would not be able to stay.

     “Just like old times?” I looked at Michelle.

     She gave me a sad smile.  “A long time Ray.”

     “Too long.” I agreed.

     “Are you back now?”  Michelle searched my face for an answer and found it straight away.

     I didn’t say anything.

     “It’s a strange day.” She said “One brother goes and another comes back.”

     That was it.  Anteya.

     “Where’s Anteya?” I looked at Kadir.

     Michelle answered.

     “Early this morning Aashen came to the village, to take… supplies.  We fought and they took Anteya and others and said that they would kill him if we followed.”

     Kadir said “I made the choice to follow.”  I heard and felt the defensiveness and defiance “Either they kill Anteya or don’t I can’t just leave them.”.

     “Who’s Anteya?” Xira asked.

     “Second Eldest.” I said automatically.

     “And you?” she asked me.

     “Eldest.”

     Kadir continued, not hearing or ignoring Xira “We followed all day.  But the light was fading, and we knew that to follow at night would not be wise.  After all, we did not have a Seer to guide us.” He paused, and the words stung. “So we were going to rest for the night.  And then we heard voices.”

     Us, I realised.

     The fire crackled and spat.  I knew that Michelle had potions that could make it burn brighter and hotter.  Maybe she was saving them.

     Kadir looked at me. “You’re here now.”  “What would be best?”

     I couldn’t tell if he was putting me in charge or not.

     “If I was in charge,” I said slowly “I would rest.” I said.  “Start fresh tomorrow.”

     In my mind’s eye I could see a bright green path.  I knew that Aashen had been this way recently, and although I knew that I could follow him, I couldn’t really see in the dark and could easily lead everyone into an ambush.

     That would not be helpful.

     As people stared into the fire, darkness fell and despite the heat from the fire I could feel the temperature drop.  Kadir, Michelle and the others fell asleep, hypnotised by the fire.

     “Reyas,” Xira spoke softly.  “Who’s Aashen?”

     “In this world,” I said quietly, as I didn’t want to wake the other “Angels and demons are real.  There is Good and Evil.”

     “And Aashen is….?”

     “Was,” I said “an Angel. A really good one.  But now he’s pretty much a demon.”

     “Why did he take your brother?”

     “Traditionally, the Eldest Protector of the village is born with Powers of Protection.  Aashen wants those powers.”

     “But your brother is Second Eldest.  Did he get those powers after you left?”

     “No.”

     “Then I don’t understand.  What would Aashen gain from taking your brother?”

     “He’s a hostage.” I said “They work in their own ways.”

     “Who works in their own ways?”

“The Powers.”

“And so Aashen took your brother…”

     “So that I would come back.”

     “But Aashen is a demon?”

     “Yes.”

     Xira thought about it.

     “Won’t he kill you?”

     “Yes.” I said “Aren’t you glad you came along?”

Copyright Joe Singh (2011)

Trying something different.

The writer, Jane Espenson has writing sprints: she writes solidly for an hour.

I wanted to try the same, but experiment with something different, something fresh.  It couldn't be something that I was working on already, because well, that's secret.

So I sat down, finished the other Important Thing that I was working on, and thought what the hell.  Lets have some fun and see where we go.

So enjoy the ride: (warning, tiny swear word - you have been warned).  I didn't have a plan, I just wrote.

                                                                                  Portal

Before…

She wasn’t here.  I had searched the whole of the place and she wasn’t here.  Xira was, though, and I knew that if the portal didn’t open soon, I would die here.

       Here.  In an undersea research facility.  Thousands of fathoms (whatever the hell they were) below sea level.

       I had missed her.  She must have been here, because this was where they sent me.  But I had missed her.

       The facility's scanners, unfortunately, had not missed me.  A security team was looking for me and when you're thousands of fathoms under the sea, there’s only a certain number of places where you can hide.  And I was running out of them.

       “Marek.”  

       The voice came from the facility's communications network.  Patched in to either my location or the whole of the facility to find me.

       Oh come on, where is it? Where is it?

       “Marek, tell me how you open it.”

       Come on, come on…

       “I’ll go easy on you…”

      

       Then I felt it, the familiar welcome vibrations in my feet, the signal that the portal was about to open up beneath my feet so that I could leave.

       Then I was thrown to the –

Now.

Cra-ack!!!

       I hit the ground, prone position, and managed to break my fall so I didn’t damage my good looks, my extremities, or worse, my legs.

       Check.

The first thing that I do when I land anywhere is check to see if I’ve got my clothes.

Of course I have.  Why wouldn't they?  Warm clothes: a heavy dark green jumper, thick, dark green shirt, dark grey trousers and CAT boots.

It doesn’t matter where I land, I’ll always have the warm clothes on first.  Because you can’t get it wrong.  Its no good landing in a snowstorm wearing a Hawaiian shirt, Bermuda shorts and your flip flops.

       Because then whilst you might look cool, your survival chances are ZERO.

They let me keep my clothes.  Again that could either be a good thing or a bad one.  Your clothes say a lot about you.  The locals can either think you’re an alien or (worse) the enemy.  Either way, the stranger is always treated with suspicion and hostility.

The stuff people volunteer for.  Its better than death, they said.  Not strictly having been dead, I couldn't really argue the point.  This was my fourth portal and there was still no sign of Kuresh, and thankfully no sign of the Dark, either.

       Look.

I had landed in a forest and the temperature was dropping fast.  So I was glad that I was reasonably dressed.

       I got to my feet, thankful that I had been just bruised and nothing had been broken.  

       They said that they would keep the jumps short to increase the chances of finding Kuresh.  They would lock on to recent portal energy sources so that I might find other people.   Preferably her. 

       Darkness was falling.  This was crap.  The forest was deep and the trees were so tall that they rubbed noses with the sky.  Bottom line: I couldn’t see shit and I needed to track footprints otherwise I’d end up going in the wrong direction, and then where would I be?  Screwed.

       “Bastard.  Now get me home.”

       “Xira???”

       She stared at me.

       “Get.  Me.  Home.”  Pause  “Now.”

       I automatically started backing away as she started to advance.  Bad tactics, don’t give ground.  Even when you’re not quite sure where you are.

       “I know that you can do it Reyas.”

       I shook my head.  “I don’t have any control over…”

       She launched.  I moved, but not fast enough, I was spinning and falling and then pain seared through my arm.

       And then we were bathed in light, and it seemed to me that a thousand rifles were pointed at us.

       Xira automatically put a hand up to shield her eyes.

       “Who’s there?” she asked, but not loudly.  She was talking to me, not them.

       “Great,” I said “You’ve just alerted the locals.”

 (Copyright 2011 - All rights reserved)

a bit of free writing

Random

I'm sitting here on a Sunday evening and the house is reasonably quiet, and I'm thinking that by about now, the blog post for this week should have been written and I should just be putting the finishing touches to editing it before finally being semi-happy with it (because me the writer is never fully content with what I've written) and hitting the "Post" button with what is probably a sense of relief.  There.  Done.

Or not, actually.

I'm sitting on the floor writing away with my AlphaSmart NEO (bit of a plug there, eh Renaissance Learning????) and my thoughts and my focus, are, quite frankly, a mess.

But let's step back a little, because this is no ordinary Sunday.  Its the 11th September 2011.  The tenth anniversary of the day the world changed.

There aren't many events in a person's life which have worldwide impact.  Those days where a person can say to you "Where were you when....?" And you know exactly what they mean and you know exactly where you were.

Where I was 10 years ago isn't important.  But I feel the same overwhelming sense of sadness now that I did then.  Perhaps worse now, because the full extent of what happened is now known.  Now we know the full story.  Then we were watching it unfold before our eyes.  It was real.  It was really real.


Today I was watching some of the ceremony on TV and listening to it on the radio and I was feeling quite annoyed that the broadcasters felt the need to dip in and out of the events.  I found it insulting that the relatives almost missed out (here in the UK) on the chance for having their voices heard.  And we are therefore denied the chance to share in their memories.

At the same time, I'm clearing out a section of my room where paperwork has piled up on top of itself.  This is another painful memory because it speaks of a failure to complete a set course which had become an ambition.  And still is.

I hadn't cleared it out because it would mean confronting a past failure and I was trying to move forward, not look back.  But I recognise that part of moving forward means dealing with difficult emotions from the past.  Only then can we let difficult memories go and move forward with our lives.

Perhaps its easier to be compassionate when helping others, but easier to be self-critical when looking at our own behaviours.  I have long since learnt that for me this is a defence mechanism.  I'll be harsher with myself before others get the chance to criticise.  This is something that I'm working on changing.

Speaking of change, the next couple of weeks promise to be weeks of upheaval as I attempt to take further steps on moving forward in life and career. 

In respect of writing, I'm aware that the screen writer Jane Espenson has "writing sprints".  I was thinking about doing one for today, but didn't feel that it was appropriate.  I intend to do one for next week.

Until then, have a good week and take care of yourselves.

Joe.

.....got to get this story started!

     "Look after the pennies and the pounds will look after themselves." - Proverb

     "The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step." - Lao Tzu

Every story starts somewhere. Quite where is always a matter for debate.

Take the story of my life, for example, (which a great story, to be sure - lots of sex and violence, humour, tears, passion, drama and regret - and that was just last night). Did it begin at my birth? Do you start the story when my parents met up? (Ewwwww)

Do we start the story when things begin to get interesting? Because the few years before that were quite boring really. Because then the story would go something like this:

- I've got something to confess.

- What are you confessing? Is is a crime?

- Does it have do be all drama with you people?

- Sorry. So, then, its not a crime?

- No.

- Then why confess? Why are you making such a big deal out of it?

- Well, its a big deal to me.

- Okay then, lets hear it.

- Are you sitting comfortably?

- Erm, hang on, wait a minute, hmmm, yes, now I am.

- My parents aren't my parents.

- Okay, who are they then?

- They're my CareTakers.

- Oh?

- Yes, I was dropped off as an alien baby. My mission is sent to observe and report on your tiny little planet. Every birthday I wait for my real parents to come and take me back.

A declaration like the above would surely make the reader see any backstory in a new light.  And surely, you might think that what happens next would be exciting, dramatic, fun, and the sex, yes, would be....

out of this world!  Sorry, couldn't help that one.

Accounting for the fact that this might be true (because I'm not saying one way or another - apart from the fact that I have incontrovertible proof) that would be the start of the story.

Stories are great things to begin, difficult in the middle and bloody hard at the end. Unless your narrrative position starts at the end, goes back to the beginning and the reader already knows most of what's going to happen.

When my stories start, I rarely know how they've going to end. I could take the one that began some near 40 years ago and 50,000 light years away on a planet far, far, away. Oh crap did I really write that?

One of my favourite authors, Matthew Reilly (people either love him or hate him - I'm in the former camp) says that he starts the story knowing how its going to end, and works his way backwards, ie why did that happen?

I would like to think that all writers do, But I can only do that to establish the backstory, which is really important, otherwise the story just hangs, or falls. (When I figure out how - I'll put a few examples up - but I would rather keep them separate to the blogs).

In all the stories that I've written, I've never seen the end coming. Well, that's not true. I've written two crime stories with murders in them and I've known who did it, but how the reader finds out whodidit? Well, that was up to the narrator.  Which was not me.  I was just the guy doing the typing thingy.

I've never been one for the bigger picture. I see writing as an organic process. (I said organic!) The writer is as much on the journey with the reader and the story moves pretty much like a flowing river. Until we hit a boulder, and then we might need to think about how we get past it.

At this stage of my writing career I feel like an alien young adult, (him leaving his home, making his way into the big wide world), writing the story in the way that works best for me, in the organic process (free from artificial additives).  I'm not entirely sure whether this is a failing or not. I have learnt from the danger of orally telling somebody the story that I'm writing, because then the energy and the passion for wrtiting it leaves my body. If I've already told a person what's going to happen, why bother writing it?

Its fatal and I never do it anymore.

I think that I've made parallels with writing and life before. I could tell you that I've been trying to get my day job career started, but I realised that it started about 20 years ago, and has been on a journey of its own. Whilst where I am isn't quite where I thought that I should be, it is where I am. And I'm OK with this.

Knowing where I am gives me the opportunity to look forward and make plans as to where I want to go. In writing as in life, I can't really tell you what the Bigger Picture is. I can aspire to where I want to be, but sometimes I, like my stories, don't have as much control as either me-as-a- writer, or me-as-a-person, would wish.

Like all journies, I do try to make them amusing and exciting and interesting. As much for myself as for others.

As Michael Marshall Smith wrote: Life is what you make it.

Have a great week everybody.   And please take care.

Joe.

Positive Mental Health

There was a time, not so very long ago, in a country that you are probably living in, when the words mental health, had a negative connotation.

The words still have.

How negative the connotation depends upon who you are speaking to and what has happened recently.  As an example, read the papers the day after somebody commits a crime which outrages the country.  I can guarantee that at least one paper will use the term "mental health" in a negative context.

I believe that mental health just like "health" itself has to become a neutral term.  There are campaigns to improve our physical health (eg the 5 a day), so why aren't there campaigns to improve our mental health? 

Or, to put it more accurately, why aren't the existing campaigns given a stronger voice?

Looking after your emotional mental health should be given the same weight as looking after  your physical health.  All beings have a mind/body connection - how you feel physically affects how you feel mentally.  And vice versa.

In this Age of Austerity, looking after your mental health is really important as MIND (www.mind.org.uk) has reported as increase in mental health problems as people worry about finances, about keeping their jobs and, uncomfortable as it is to think about, losing their houses.

The saying is that from small acorns, giants oaks grow.  The truism is that same for mental health: from small worries, anxiety grows, and depression often isn't far behind.

It is important to remember, and I will quote a friend, that there are always solutions to problems.

Talking helps.  But try it when you're sober, and to people who you know will give you constructive advice, not just the mate in the pub.

I'm writing this today not just for people with worries, but also for people who have friends who may have become quieter than normal, more distant and less sociable.  They are people who may be experiencing difficulties, but just don't know how to ask for help.

If you know somebody like this, don't panic. There IS help and there IS hope.

    1. You have to keep positive.
    2. You are not alone.
    3. There is always support to help you.

Firstly talk to a friend.  If the problems are financial then the first step may be to contact citizen's advice bureau.  They have trained staff who are able to offer professional confidential advice.  See http://www.citizensadvice.org.uk/ to find a service near you.

If the problems are relationship-oriented try contacting RELATE www.relate.org.uk

If the problems are work related, speak to your boss, preferably in a supervision/review and get it documented that you are struggling.  If they don't/can't help, speak to human resources.  It may be that you have a union representative that you can speak to.

Don't suffer in silence. 
Whilst here's no guarantee that any of these options will bring you the result that you require, practical action can have a significant impact on reducing worries, simply because you are taking action.


Asking for help is a good thing.

I'm bringing it up now because I'm acutely aware that these aren't easy days to live in.  People I know are struggling and life shouldn't be that way.


Have a great week.  Take care.

Joe. 
Other useful organisations:
www.mind.org.uk
www.thesamaritans.org
www.nhs.uk

Re/Writing Dis/Ability

I have something to tell you.  

Its not easy, but it needs to be said and there's no easy way of saying it.

I'm sorry I didn't say it before, but I didn't want it to become A Thing and I really didn't want it to be something that you associated with when you started reading this blog by an aspiring writer.  However, not saying it also becomes an issue, so I thought that this needs to be addressed and resolved.

So what's this thing I haven't told you?  Are you sitting comfortably?

I'm.... disabled.  I have a disability. 


As for which one, I don't really think that it matters, at this stage in our relationship, because there are so many out there.

But I have one.

There, I've said it.

Gosh, I feel better.

I use a wheelchair to get about, about 50% of the time.  The rest of the time.... I use my car.  Boom! Boom!  (Basil Brush, anyone?)  Sorry couldn't help that one.

But the bit about the disability and the wheelchair is true.

Those who already know me and are reading the blog won't be surprised, but for everybody else, I guess it will.  Or not.

Does it change anything?  Well, I guess, as readers, only you can answer that.  If you saw me in person it would be something that you see straight off, because there is no hiding it.  Plus you would see that I am extremely good looking and the sun shines out of my... well, I can't write that.

An analyst might write that I have issues about declaring my disability.  I don't think that's true.  I was very conscious that I had almost avoided the subject.  I think that I was worried about being categorised as a disabled writer, instead of being a writer who has a disability.
 

Declaration of a disability is something that either unnerves people or they say shut up and get past it.  The reality is that I am disabled, have been since the year dot and will be for the rest of my life.  Its there.  No escaping it.

I haven't given a top-to-toe description of myself because really, I want my writing to speak for itself.  This blog is about my journey as an aspiring writer and as a person working at being an aspiring writer.

I feel that disabled people are sometimes seen as having an agenda and I don't.  I've never been a militant guy and I don't believe in chaining myself to buses (because it might drive away).  I do believe it not taking myself or my disability too seriously.

So why raise it now?

Any writer has to bring something fresh to the table.  A different perspective.  I could write another Star Wars, but then that would be Another Star Wars.  I don't believe that its easy to write Something New. 

Even Shakespeare got his ideas from Somewhere Else.

And why tell you now?

Well, I wanted to tell you last week, but the pesky riots go in the way.  Life has a way of changing the things that we do.  Harlan Coben's character Myron Bolitar has a favourite saying: Man Plans, God Laughs.

And recently, I've been thinking about the portrayal of disability in fiction and the movies and tv.  And there aren't all that many disabled hero/ines about.

Or, not very many lead characters with a disability.  But I've come across a few...

Geoffrey Spasmo: Coincidentally, this character was created by a able-bodied writer: Ben Elton, but I'll forgive him for that, because Gridlocked has to be one of my top 20 all time favourite books.

Miles Vorkosigon: This series was created by Lois McMaster Bujold and she sets her pint sized hero against the rest of the world and his own shortcomings with zeal and lots of humour. Highly Recommded.

DareDevil:  I'm not really one for comics.... ahem, graphic novels, but I was impressed with the idea of a blind superhero, except that his super-powers really negate his disability.

Neal Jiminez: Eric Stolz starred as a writer in a little known film in the 80s called The Waterdance, which also starred Wesley Snipes, William Forsyth and Helen Hunt.  If memory serves correct, he has a climbing accident, is left paralysed and has to adjust to life as a wheelchair user.

There are hundreds of other instances of disability in fiction. I may, in the future, just write a blog about them all.

Regarding the last example, I think that having a spinal injury, or becoming disabled is different to being disabled at birth because from birth a person is used to being set slightly apart from society (and that can be fun, too), whereas if a person becomes disabled, they know what the normal world is like, and that, I believe, is much more difficult.  That is a personal opinion.  Feel free to disagree.

So why have I brought it up?

Well, this blog is (primarily) about my journey as a writer and I think that one of my goals is to have a disabled hero/ine, who has to deal with the world and their disability at the same time.  My aim isn't to foreground disability, but to normalise it so that it is part of the everyday world.

The funny thing is I that I have written part of a story with a disabled writer as the main character.  The story begins to lay the groundwork for a much larger introduction to a new world.  Its funny because that part ends with the heroine going to the new world, and I have realised that I put the character in a really difficult position.  For one, she's stuck in a forest, and wheelchairs don't do forests....

Disabled people work best.... it should be acknowledged, when they are in control of their environment.  When they are not; they have to adapt and contend with the environment as well.

I'm sure that Ren and I will see see it as a challenge. I think that we'll all be interested to see how this plays out.

Hopefully see you all next week.  Please take care and have a great week.

Joe.

Just another day at the office....

Stories are great.

As an aspiring writer, I live in a world inside my own head.  I live in lots of worlds inside my head.

I hear voices and I see scenes, action, drama, tension, dialogue.  There's a film in my head and a more-or-less constant stream of narrative.  Sometimes, well, most of the time, it has to fade into the background.  Otherwise I'd get into serious trouble at work, have relationship problems with my partner and family  at home and arguments with my friends when they tell me that I don't listen to them.

I don't.  Sorry.  Otherwise engaged.

I don't make a claim that I create the worlds in my head; they're already there.  I am acutely aware that acknowledging this in writing - even in digital media -  could get me committed.  

(By the way, if you don't hear from me next week, please come and break me out from whatever institution has locked me away.  Just follow the tracker signal that's well, erm, inside me.)  

How conscious the process of creation is, is something that I'm never quite sure of.  A psychological insight would be that I wanted to live vicariously through my characters so that they could do things that I, for various reasons, can not.

Like flying a helicopter, for instance.  Probably not a good idea for me to do it for real.  Especially the way my characters would do it…

But the worlds (in my head) are fictional.  They aren't real (and I understand this, Doctor), and if there is any conscious element in the creative process, it is that: a desire to keep those worlds artificial.  There is enough reality in the Real World, for me to add to it.

Yes, I have characters, and yes, they do get hurt, but as an aspiring Buddhist (I aspire to lots of things), I'm quite anti violence, and I'm interested to see how my characters handle that one (although I'm quite fond of A-Team violence, which is quite comic-booky (hey, inventing a new language here!)).

I have a theory: every single person is the main character in their own story.  They're the lead character and also the author and director of their story.  They decide where to go and when; who to interact with; they write their own dialogue and set the themes as they choose.

But not all themes are set by them.  As all stories and worlds intertwine there are themes that occur regularly and frequently amongst all of the characters and their respective worlds.  Like the news that petrol prices are up again: they feature in everybody’s story.  Or at least, all of the car drivers.

With me so far?

It is rare, though, to have an event that impacts on a wide group of characters, in a dramatic fashion, with little or no warning.

The events of the past ten days saw this happen.

This week, what was happening in other parts of the UK, started happening in the area where I live and work.  And for a country, the second week in August in the year 2011 will go down in history as a terrible chapter.
 
Worse still, it will affect how the world sees the country, not just now, but for months to come. The countdown has just begun to what is known as London 2012, an event that the whole world stops to watch.  This week, the world was watching... just not for reasons that people would like to remember.

And this story focuses on one particular day: Tuesday 9th August 2011.

It started as a normal Tuesday.  Get up, get dressed and go to work. 

Normal. 

Check e-mails, interact with other people, resolve enquiries. 

Normal. 

But by midday, people are coming in and saying that there's trouble in areas that are roughly two miles away from us, in different directions. 

Not normal.

When we (usually) hear of trouble, its usually in other parts of the country, or more often, the world.  Its on TV, or on the radio and delivered by experienced and professional correspondents.

And its okay, because its Not Here and We Are Safe.

By lunchtime, the local authority (we're just lucky enough to be on the local authority IT network) had sent an e-mail to say, yes there's been trouble, we're aware of it, we're monitoring the situation, everything's OK, you can all go back to work...

As the afternoon progresses police cars are occasionally screaming up and down the dual carriageway where we work.  This is with more frequency than the odd one a day/week/month.

At this point, I'd like to say that emotion, any emotion, is like the flu.  If one person feels it, it can be addressed.  Two people, and you need to keep cool and listen with voices of reason.  Five people and emotion starts to catch on.  The emotion at work was tension, worry, apprehension.  We started getting calls from staff and relatives who were telling us that there was trouble brewing in areas where they lived.

It is one thing to see things happen on the news on a TV in the safety of your home.  It is another to think that it is happening less than ten minutes away from you.

By mid-afternoon, parts of the city were shutting down early.  And to their credit, our managers made that wise choice too.  Because although the problems weren't where we were, they were where staff lived and they affected people's journeys home.  Its incredibly difficult to work if all you’re doing is worrying about the safety of getting home, or the safety of the area where you live.

Score one for management!  They do get things right (sometimes).

That night, we watched from the safety of our own homes as parts of the city erupted in violence and fire.  Buildings were destroyed.  Lives were lost as people tried to protect their community.  To keep their loved ones safe.
  
For me, the personal became too personal.  Two people I know got caught up in very different ways.  One was staying at friend's across the street from where a police station was set on fire.

In another area, police picked up another friend from a brewing trouble spot.  They picked up my friend and drove them home to safety.

In stories there is a line between fiction and reality.  Where we know that stop reading, or, if it really gets too bad, change the channel or leave the cinema.  The reality of what was going on really hit home when the managers closed the office for the day. 

That was when it sunk in: this is not a normal work day.  At that point for me, I have to say, alarm bells started ringing.  This is not a normal day.

Everybody I know personally got through the traumatic days of the week relatively safely and thanks to the police, unharmed.  They put themselves in harm’s way for our safety.  This week (and every other week) not enough credit has been given to them.

As I write, the debates, finger-pointing, recriminations, political posturing and accusations have already started, and those voices, I fear, won't quieten down for a long time.  Everybody has an answer.  I just don’t know if it’s the right one.

My own views on the events of the past ten days are this: every story is individual, and every case should be seen as such.  I don't think there's an easy answer and I'm not going to go looking for one. 

Undoubtedly, we will hear of this again in the usual news reviews of the year and in the days running up to London 2012, where security and safety for all people will be at the forefront of everybody's minds.

As for me, there were other things that I was going to write about, but they'll keep.  This is one story that I needed to write.  Call it therapy.  For free.

Until next week, stay safe and take care.

Emotional Violence

"Words are like weapons that we use sometime." - Cher, If I Could Turn Back Time.

Never thought that I'd be quoting Cher in a blog, but there you go.  It amazes me that to own a gun legally in this world, a person has to be checked for a criminal record, they have to be trained (If they're clever) and they have to have a licence (english spelling).

And yet we need none of those things when we carry emotions around.  We're not taught how to process our feelings when somebody has shouted at us.  We don't have training to deal when our bosses unload at us.   Deal - I can't decide if that's an americanism or not.

There are good bosses and there are bad bosses.  Mostly there are just bosses - they're neither good nor bad.  Sadly people learn from other people, its a behaviour thing.

(I'm a big fan of behaviourism - I enjoy trying to figure out why people do things.  Have fun trying to figure me out.  Even I can't do that.)

I myself have been a boss - and whether I was good or not is something that you would have to ask the colleagues that I worked with.  I tried hard not to unload of the people that I worked with.  I didn't think that it was professional and I set a great store on being professional.  Its good, I feel, to have boundaries.  To know where you are, and to know where the other person is.

But whilst bosses don't have training, what are probably worse, are families. 

Generally speaking families don't operate on emotional under emotional boundaries.  They grow up with you and I would like to think that the operate under their own rules.  The reality is, though, when it comes to family, you'll find that the Rule Book has already been dropped into the shredder (if you have an office type mind) or the dog ate it (for any other type of mind).

Rules don't exist with families.  These are the people that either be a great source of strength for a person... or they can quite honestly be their worst nightmare. 

Families know how to push your buttons.  They know what will work to get a reaction, because often than not, its a reaction that they're looking for.

I make families sound horrible but they're not.  Yes, they are - or can be - difficult.  Its not the families that are at issue, its how they handle emotions.

As I said earlier, handling emotions is not something that we're taught.  So generally, our behaviour stems from what we've learnt from our families, who have learnt being behaviour from their families.  Who learnt their behaviour form their families.  And so on and so forth.   Ad infinitum.

None of these people started with a book: How to Handle Your Emotions.

Its a shame, really.  I think that we'd all be better people for it.

My five top tips for dealing with emotions:

1.         Count to ten before responding to an emotional outburst.

2.         Count to ten if you feel that you're the person whose likely to make an emotional outburst.

3.         Always say I love you to your partner before you go to sleep.  Never go to sleep after a fight.

4.         Sometimes emotional reactions stem from anxiety or worry.  Sometimes people HAVE to vent and there's no two ways around it.  If you know that they're venting because they're worried about you, they're expressing concern.

5.         I believe that emotional issues rise in temperature when communication breaks down - and there aren't people who communicate worse than families - unless you're trying to communicate at work - in which case I'd recommend a loudhailer.

Until next week.  Have a safe and enjoyable week, whatever you do.  Take care. x

Hi

blog entry - 07 08 11

This is my first ever honest-to-god post, so firstly I'm gonna say hi.  Welcome.  And thank you for reading.

Oh.

My.

God.

Everybody has to have a name.  Names are a means of identification.  Often it doesn't really matter what the name actually is, its just a means of identifying the person whose name it is.

I'm going to give you a name... and its a name that I'm going to use as my pen name.  Not my real name, but there you go.

Today, I'm born.  Today I have come into the world and started to create an identity.  A name, if you like, for myself.

Its not my real name and not my real birthday either.  Which is in February, I feel that I can share that much with you, and will be aiming to get to know you all as time goes by.

I've chosen Sunday as my Day To Blog.  Why Sunday?  Depending on your point of view, its either the ending of one week of the beginning of the next.  It bridges the line between two set time constructs.  A week, is I feel, an artificial construct.  Not that I really believe in anything called a weekend but that's just me.  We'll save that one for another time.

And the topic for today is...