Printer rage

Am I the only person who beats my fists on the desk in sheer frustration when I'm trying to write and vital bits of equipment or software won't work?

I spent a large portion of Friday afternoon crawling round on my hands and knees underneath my desk, trying to get my cheap-useless-piece-of-crap printer to actually PRINT. First of all it wouldn't talk to the laptop even though everything was plugged in and switched on. Then it took about 20 sheets through the feeder at once. Then I took everything out except one sheet and that wouldn't go through. Then I got a couple of sheets to go through and they went in skewed and jammed. Now the bloody thing won't work at all.

Aaargh. *hits head repeatedly on keyboard*

I'm coming to the conclusion that cheap printers aren't worth it. This one only cost about £30, but has lasted less than a year...

Inspiration from daytime tv

I don't know about anyone else but I very rarely watch daytime tv - I don't have the time, plus it's usually crap. Just occasionally, though, you catch something that just screams 'story' because of the human element/emotions involved.

This morning I saw 'Wanted Down Under' which is a property programme for Brits wanting to move to Australia. Apparently loads of them just pack up and go out there on a whim; this programme does at least take them out there for a week, show them the sort of property they could afford, jobs that are available, living costs etc etc. A bit of a reality check, in other words, while making good telly.

Today's 'subject' was a 40-ish bloke from Sheffield who had a lifetime dream of moving to Oz. He had a 16 year old son from a previous marriage and was remarried to a nice lass; they had two small children. The lass clearly thought the world of him, but he came across (whether in reality or by skillful editing) as a selfish bastard. The lass didn't want to move at all; she had loads of friends and family in the UK and didn't want to leave them behind. He was quite happy to leave everyone behind - including his 16 year old son.

The week went from one disaster to another. Their UK house was valued at a good £50k less than they thought it was worth, so they'd struggle to afford a similar property in Oz, let alone the 4 bed with swimming pool he wanted. He'd have had to take a lower responsibility job with a pay cut; and to afford the lifestyle she'd have had to work too. That was fine with him, even though she didn't want to because of the kids.

By the end of the show it was obvious that emigrating was pretty much the worst thing they could do. The couple were interviewed separately and she said that much as she hated the idea, she would do it for him because 'at the end of the day he was the most important thing in her life'. When they interviewed HIM, he said that if he chose Oz and she chose England, they would talk it over a lot and then he would get his own way, 'simple as that'. But if worst came to worst, they would split up.... Whether she ever saw those comments, and what happened if she did, wasn't made clear.

When I'm writing my crime/noir stories I sometimes wonder if they're a bit unrealistic, but watching this you realise that there are little tragedies going on behind closed doors all over the country and writing about dark, selfish people is actually a lot more realistic than you might think.

Back to the grindstone

After a long break courtesy of bank holidays, bad weather and general not-wanting-to-workness, I finally settled down to writing again today. It wasn't much - a short, thousand word story about killer crossword puzzles for my crime anthology - but it's the first time I've put fingernail to keyboard in nearly a month.

I say 'grindstone' in the title of this post but actually it feels great to be back at work again. Like many writers I get fidgety if I have too long away from the craft; sometimes 'fidgety' is the least of it and 'irritable' or even 'exasperated' might describe my mood better. I saw a quote recently about writers never having a holiday because even when they're not physically writing, they're still working on ideas, and it rang very true. Sometimes all those ideas build up and build up until you just have to get them down on paper, or explode. Luckily for the walls and carpet I managed without the explosion but this particular story has been fizzing around my brain since before Christmas and it's still a relief to get it finished.

Happy New Year - and new story

Now it's time to wish everyone a very happy, prosperous, healthy and successful 2011.

To kick things off, I'm delighted to report that Paragraph Planet will be featuring my latest 75 word story, Home for Christmas, tomorrow (1st January 2011) for one day only. Do go and check it out if you get time between nursing your hangover and washing your shirt for work. ;)

Merry Christmas

Just a quick line to say 'Merry Christmas' to all my family, friends, readers and assorted associates. ;) Hope it's a good one, hope you have a good relaxing break - and hope you don't get snowed in. *rolls eyes*

I'll 'see' you all in the new year, if not a bit sooner.

Drip... drip... drip

That's the sound of a very, very, painfully, very slow thaw, which is currently going on beyond our windows. Last Saturday we had around 6 inches of snow and it's been so cold since that it's still been lying virtually untouched. But today the temperature rose to *gasp* one degree celsius and the snow has gradually been retreating. It's still so cold, though, that it's creating massive icicles on all the gutters, of our house and just about all the others. Some of them are incredible - about 3 feet long and hanging, Sword-of-Damocles-like, over peoples' front doors. I don't want to be underneath them when they finally break off and fall.

It's also the sound of the thawed water coming through our utility room roof. Our newly replastered utility room roof... Dave shot out with a broom handle and knocked as much snow away from the gutter above that section of roof as possible and we're hoping that will limit the damage, but for now we have an ominously spreading stain on the ceiling and I'm standing by with buckets. Still, if that's the only damage we suffer after more than 2 weeks of terrible weather, we'll have been lucky.

In writing news I've finished yet another crime story and also scribbled a daft little Christmas-themed flash. I submitted the latter to Paragraph Planet but if they decide not to use it I'll post it here as a way of saying 'seasons greetings' to everyone. Watch this space.

Notfrog update

Earlier in the week I finally sat down to write to Hotfrog and ask for my profile (missing, presumed lost in action) to be removed.

After a day or so I had a perfectly pleasant response... which told me that without a company name they... wait for it... could not find my profile.

Only problem is, they didn't give me a company name. I wrote back to explain this and haven't heard since.

My profile is now missing presumed dead, and if even the site administrators can't find it, what hope have I got?

It doesn't inspire much confidence in their search parameters...

Brrrrrr....

As promised over the weekend the temperatures rose... slightly. Here in Birmingham it reached the dizzy heights of 3c. Woo. Saying that, most of the snow has now gone, apart from a few smears along shaded roads and pavements. In Windermere it's a different story. When we left on Saturday there was about six inches of snow lying on the ground and it had got so cold that the local stream was starting to freeze over, and the bottle of water we always leave inside the car had frozen solid!

We're so glad we sold the Mondeo and bought ourselves a (small) 4x4. When we made the decision, after getting snowed in so badly last winter, we laughed and said 'that's one way of making sure we never get another bad winter'. How wrong we were! And how much better off. The Mondeo struggled on snow and ice; our new Skoda Yeti sailed across it all as though it wasn't there. We're very grateful and very relieved to be mobile again.

On the mend...

Apologies for the long silence; I've been recovering after undergoing minor surgery at the beginning of last week. Thankfully I didn't have to stay in hospital but I did need a general anaesthetic which left me a little woozy and I've also been getting over the surgery itself. Glad to say I'm on the mend now and even managed a little writing today for the first time - a 75 word mini-story about an episode from my childhood involving a cactus!

The hospital I had the surgery at was the new Queen Elizabeth in Birmingham. It's only been open since mid-summer and is absolutely huge with 30 operating theatres and several miles of corridors - they have to employ volunteer guides at reception! It's wonderful, though. Spotlessly clean, nicely decorated, and all the staff seemed to be going out of their way to be friendly and informative. No more grumpy receptionists! No more patronising doctors! It made the whole ordeal much less of a, well, ordeal...

Hotfrog? More like Notfrog...

Yesterday I received an email telling me that I'd had a profile entered for me at the 'small business directory' Hotfrog.

I'd never heard of the site before, but never one to pass up a promotion opportunity, I set about checking it wasn't spam and seeing what it could offer me. According to the spiel in the email each profile gets an average of 280 hits a day, which sounded encouraging... but after much tearing of hair I've concluded that most of those hits are frustrated advertisers trying to *find* their profile, rather than potential customers.

The email itself was distinctly unprofessional. There was no link to the main Hotfrog page, nor was there a link to my newly created profile. Instead, having told me that I had a profile, it invited me to create one of my own. Huh? And the only link anywhere in the email was to a 'create a profile' dedicated webpage... which also had no links to the main homepage or to anything else. If I wanted to access the main site, I was told, I had to search for it on Google or one of the other main search engines.

I didn't think I needed to create a profile since one already existed. I did, however, need to amend that profile, because the address they'd quoted for me was actually for one of my publishers, Byker Books, and there was no mention of a link to my web site (surely one of the main reasons for being on a directory like this in the first place). I went off, dutifully, to Google for the main site.

Once found, this proved to be an even bigger disappointment. The home page looks amateurish, with a couple of search boxes, a few non-clickable links and a lot of Google ads. You can't search the directory by name, only by place/post code and category - and there's no list of categories. So if you want to find your own profile (or that of anyone else) you have to guess which category it's been created in and you have to know the address. You can't search on one or the other - both boxes have to be filled in. I tried a couple of different combinations, including writer/Newcastle and publisher/Newcastle, neither of which brought up my profile. What they did bring up was an uninspiring 'Yellow Pages' style listing, in no apparent order. Where this ran to more than one page, the back button didn't work. And each page I visited was awash with yet more Google ads.

So. I have a profile, but I can't find it. If I can't find it, what chance have any of my readers of stumbling across it? How is it ever going to be seen by those '280 hits a day'? More worrying, I couldn't see any sign of a link to amend a profile, which means the incorrect address on mine is presumably there for all time. Even more worrying than that, there appears to be no way of getting a listing removed if you don't actually want it. All you can do is unsubscribe from the email notification service.

As I said above, I'm all in favour of new ways of promoting myself and my writing - but they have to work for me. I'm left with the impression that Hotfrog is much less about promotion for its participants, and much more about yet another way to cram Google ads down internet users' throats - and presumably get paid for the privilege.

I'm not impressed.

Finishing touches

I'm just putting the last spit-and-polish to a new story for that crime/noir anthology I mentioned a few weeks ago.

Mind you, when I say 'new' I'm taking liberties, really. I first started the story so long ago it's buried in the mists of time, and I'd never finished it because I got hopelessly bogged down.

On re-reading I realised that I'd been trying to make it too long, and cram too much in, with the result that it lost focus and tailed off into pages of waffle and pointless dialogue with far too little action. There was a story in there somewhere if I hooked it out, though, so I cut away a lot of the later portion of the story, which wasn't very good, and added a whole new ending with what I hope is an entertaining twist.

I'm much happier with the result, which is about the same length but now actually *goes* somewhere, and it just shows that nothing you write is ever wasted, however awful it might seem at the time.

Star gazing

Dave has just started his lifetime's ambition - a part time, distance learning astronomy degree. As you might expect, part of the course work involves observing stars and other objects in the sky, taking measurements of movement, identifying colour and brightness etc etc. Birmingham is hopeless for that sort of thing - it doesn't get dark there so much as orange, thanks to all the street lights - but rural Cumbria is much better, and over the weekend it was clear enough and cold enough to pop out a couple of evenings to gaze at the heavens.

On Saturday we took the car out to a layby part way up a hill to one side of Lake Windermere, where there's a good uninterrupted view of the northern and western half of the sky. When we set off it was clear (and very cold). By the time we'd arrived, only about 20 minutes later, some stubborn high cloud had drifted across and refused to budge. We saw odd frustrating glimpses of the Plough and one or two other bright stars, but nothing else, and we were beginning to turn blue.

On Sunday we didn't even bother with the car, just walked up the road at the back of the house, which eventually comes out onto country lanes in the hills behind the town. Again there was a good view north and west; again it was bitterly cold and this time the sky was clear. It's amazing what you can see when there isn't a constant haze of artificial light; stars were popping out in the most unexpected places. The very bright moon took away some of the clarity but Dave still saw more than enough for his studies. And this time we'd dressed appropriately in umpteen layers and boots and thick woolly scarves, so we didn't even feel the cold.

I have a feeling we'll be doing lots more star gazing in the months to come, as the seaons gradually change and new stars become visible. Thank heavens we spend so much time in an area where we can actually see them...

Currently reading

The last couple of weeks I've been reading 'The Evil Seed' by Joanne Harris (of 'Chocolat' fame). Recently I read her 'Blackberry Wine' and loved it, and was hunting around in our local W H Smith for another of her books to try. I saw 'Chocolat' and very nearly bought that, but then this title leapt off the shelf at me. The cover looked suitably creepy and the blurb sounded really intriguing, full of the suggestion of ghosts and general other-worldliness. I put 'Chocolat' down and bought this instead.

The first thing I found on opening the book was an author's note. Books quite often have explanatory notes from the writer, of course, but they tend to be at the end, once a reader knows what happened and wants some further information. This was at the start, and seemed basically to be trying to disassociate Ms Harris from the book. It was the first one she'd ever written, some twenty years ago. It had been out of print for some time, and only republished at the request of her readers. It had been through some further edits but was mostly still untouched.

It all sounded a little... strange. And when I started reading I soon saw why, because the style was surprisingly different from the seamless, beautiful prose of 'Blackberry Wine'. It was disjointed, with odd unannounced changes in point of view and chapters written in either first or third person depending on which character they represented. On top of that, characters seemed to do the oddest things, like chasing baddies half way across a county in the middle of the night without so much as a torch, and the only explanation was that this was all a bit spooky and supernatural.

The pages turned fast enough because I wanted to know what happened, but I can't really say I enjoyed the experience. The plot became steadily more and more melodramatic and the characters were just plain irritating. By the time I finished I was reading with gritted teeth, and the ending was so dark as to render the whole book rather pointless. Although there were flashes of Ms Harris's later brilliance, I won't be reading this again, whereas 'Blackberry Wine' has gone on my shelf of treasures to be savoured at a later date.

It raises interesting questions about whether writers should give in to their readers' demands. Yes, it sells more books; but if a reader only read this they might go away with a very unbalanced view of the author's capabilities. I'm not sure I'd want some of my earliest writing efforts to ever see the light of day!

Just finished...

I've been scribbling away the last couple of days on a new short story, inspired by recent news events here in the West Midlands. There's been a sudden rash of schools targeted by arsonists - more even than usual - and I was vaguely scratching my head and wondering why. Then a little imp in my head piped up with a wonderful theory and I just had to turn it into a story. I'm not going to give the whole thing away but I will just say 'never trust the headmaster'.

I don't often write stories based on news events; too often they've been and gone before I've managed to think my way through an associated plot. For crime stories, though, a trawl through the newspapers can be invaluable. There are so many people doing so many strange and dark things that it's a positive well (sink-hole?) of inspiration.

Forbidden fruit?

The spam is getting worse, but what an image this particular subject line conjures up:

"Every man should have a huge banana between his legs."

It must be something about the way my mind works, because I've immediately started to think of all sorts of naughty little stories. Bad Fiona. You'll have to blame the spammers.

In the wars...

On Saturday night we went out with friends for a smashing meal at a Thai restaurant in Knowle. The food was delicious and the restaurant very stylish (I set my heart on a beautiful Thai silk scarf that dangled enticingly above our table, but I was good and left it behind.) The only problem was the chairs. I sat down and realised I was a long way from the table, so grabbed my chair to pull it closer. What I didn't realise was that it was solid carved wood, weighed about half as much as a Thai elephant, and wasn't going anywhere. My hand slipped straight off again and I bent back two fingernails so badly that I ate the meal with one hand.

Then this morning our bathroom window jammed shut. It's probably the damp weather we've been getting, coupled with unseasonable warmth, that has made the wood swell. I heaved and shoved and pushed and joggled. Eventually the thing flew open - and promptly banged shut again, straight onto the knuckle of the same hand. It's made a lovely bruise, and typing hurts. Ow.

On a brighter note, I've been getting a sudden rash of spam emails promising me 'Miracle ErectionPills [sic] for you'. All I can say is, if they can give me an erection it'll be a miracle indeed.

Now it's the monitor

Having fritzed my laptop the other week and had to rush out and replace it, I've now spotted that my trusty old monitor is on the blink. It's hardly surprising. I bought it in about 2000, as one of the very first flat screen monitors which at the time was very ground-breaking. Since then technology (as ever) has moved on, leaving my monitor trailing along behind, and it had also faded or 'muzzied' over the years so I was having to sit closer and closer to pick out any detail. Of course, that wasn't doing either my back or my eyes much good, so today I decided enough was enough.

"Let's go to the big branch of Curry's in the Bull Ring," Dave said. "They'll have plenty of choice there."

They might well have, if they still existed. Good grief. We've only been away from Brum for 3 weeks and suddenly everything has changed. That store has vanished without trace, without even a note on the window to tell us where our nearest alternative is, and is in the process of being replaced by yet another teen clothing shop. There are now 953 teen clothing outlets in Birmingham city centre. And nowhere to buy computers.

We drove out to a suburb where we knew there was a Currys and by some miracle that had survived. And I've bought myself a very nice 18.5 inch crystal flat screen that makes reading text a breeze and looking at pictures a pleasure.

But I'm left wondering what's going to break down or give out next...

Comedy 'riches'

Last night we headed for the Glee Club in Birmingham city centre with a couple of friends, to see the American comedian Rich Hall. In case you haven't heard of him, he turns up quite regularly on tv shows such as QI and Have I Got News For You, and also did a recent series of documentaries about different film genres in the US. Although he hails from Montana he's settled in Britain and has a remarkably British sense of humour. He's caustic, he's sarcastic, sometimes he's downright vitriolic - but he's always very, very funny.

He seems to write all his own stuff and also improvised large chunks of the show, picking on hapless members of the audience and weaving jokes around their relationships and job titles. He had immense fun with one energy manager, for instance, and with a headline he'd recently seen in an Irish newspaper: 'Cork Man Drowns' ("His name was Bob."). He also began with a terrific piece about the Conservative Party Conference, currently taking over a large section of Birmingham city centre around the ICC with the result that parking is almost impossible. "When I say I'm pleased to be here," he deadpanned, "I meant I had to walk all the way from the far side of Edgbaston."

We spent the evening helpless with laughter... which was just as well since the seating arrangements were far from ideal. Around 400 people crammed into a small hall, with tables, is not conducive to space - I've seen sardine tins that were roomier. It was hot, it was squashed, and the poor folk who ordered meals spent the next half hour trying to eat them without elbowing both their neighbours in the ribs (or worse). Rich Hall is clearly a very popular act and you can understand the Glee Club management wanting to cram in as many folk as possible, but this time they went a little too far.

Great night out, though - and we even got a ride back in our friends' swanky new car!

Another chance to see...

Just in case you missed seeing my tiny story 'That Sinking Feeling' on Sunday 19th September, there's another chance now that Paragraph Planet have uploaded their September archive.

Click on the archive link and select Sept 19th from the drop-down box in the middle of the screen. Like my previous Planet entry, 'Rollercoaster Ride', this is based on an episode from my childhood and yes, the neighbours really were that annoyed!

While you're at it, have a look at the entry from Sept 12th which was written by friend and fellow-writer Sharon Maria Bidwell, which is stuffed full of vivid imagery in only 75 words.

You'll be able to catch both stories until the end of November.

Minor disaster

Dave and I were travelling back to Birmingham on Sunday. We always take our last bag of trash to the local tip (rather than leave it somewhere to niff, or bring it all the way back). That morning it was hammering down with rain and there was a big queue for the recycling bins. In the rush the wrong bag got thrown out - the one containing all my work files.

I lost quite a bit. Two whole ring-binders full of work - one a novel in progress, the other a collection of short stories I'm hoping to submit somewhere. On top of that I'd jammed in all my birthday cards, and at least one birthday present. But a cd is replaceable; work isn't. Luckily I had most of the contents saved on a flash drive, but I've still lost all my handwritten notes - and the list of exactly which stories were included in the anthology.

I've spent today printing out two copies of everything so I can keep a copy in each property and not have to ferry files about. I've also slowly rebuilt the anthology, using an out of date copy of the contents list and a good deal of detective work. It might not be 100% back to how it was, but it's getting close.

I still go cold when I think of that bag getting thrown away... but I'm very very grateful that at the last minute I decided to pack my flash drive in my suitcase, not that bag. That really would have been a disaster...