Look out Madeira!

‘The Kindle has landed! Now, lions lie down with lambs, lovers, lycanthropes, swashbuckling pirates and bloodsucking vampires, all of them brought to life through the simple touch of a button.

The young are reading again. Kindles, iPads, phones or Sonys, matters not they’re all ‘cool’ – the ‘whys and wherefores’ don’t come into it – kids are crunching words as well as graphics and that’s gotta-be-good. Yes, I too love the feel of a quality book and have hundreds of them stacked behind me at the moment – within reach – most of them about Africa; guess I’m a little tunnel-visioned, but overall, the eReader, in my opinion is set for an all time positive jump up the charts. Digital downloads have already leapfrogged, Amazon’s paperback sales. Die-hard naysayers shake their heads at this so called, flash-in-the-pan stuff – but youngsters with nimble fingers and a bold eye for the eco-friendly are snapping up eReaders by the lorry load! For the visually challenged and oldies like me – words can be zoomed and tuned to suit. Big as letters on Scania number plates if that’s what’s needed. Good reads are being downloaded faster than I pick up five pound notes from the pavement. This year will see the ‘net-waves’ red hot and rocking with great reads – hopefully my ‘Sons of Africa’ will be amongst them when I upload in April...

So get on with reading my taster storyline; the next shovelling of ‘An English Boy’s Wanderings in Africa’... y’know you love it.

Tired now; going to bed. Wonder what tomorrow will bring?

Jeff

... The ship’s Captain thought it a good idea for his passengers to stay for a full day in Madeira. Fathers, kids and handbag toting mothers swept inland; well-endowed with English bon hommes and warm sunshine we flocked as mindless sheep, ready for the slaughter. Predatory shopkeepers flung open their doors and within that first two hours, Brits flinched of their money and carrying more rubbish than a rag-man’s hand cart trundled back towards the docks; most of them none the wiser – counterfeit watches lashed to their wrists and genuine ‘Made in China’ Toledo steel paperknives stowed as presents, or maybe as trade goods for The Dark Continent.

Medallioned men in jeans and open-necked shirts waited in ambush around every corner – shoe-shine boys with their boxes and brushes; ‘Two-bob I cleanayourshoes – very cheap very quick me do a good job, yes?’ So the men let them and their wives sat on handy benches and watched. The shoe-shine men rattled in Portuguese and smiled politely at the women. ‘You haveathebeautifultits’ was what they were really saying, but the women just smiled back and nodded benignly – clueless. ‘Such friendly people,’ one woman said.

At last, back on board and locked away asylum-like for our own safety the Captain steered our ship southwards, down towards the equator. Every day the promised sun came up again, big and warm and the ice cream cones became more mountainous. My arms and legs and the red ring around my neck were going brown; I had moved from ‘raw pom’ to the coveted status of one quarter colonial – the browner I got, the more colonial I became and instead of looking back through the ship’s wake for one last glimpse of Blighty, my eyes searched more for southern horizons. Somewhere over that misty edge of the Atlantic Ocean lay adventure – Africa. I remember the realization as though it were yesterday. I remember shivering with excitement. I was changing. Sandals and socks were done away with – knee-length flannel shorts were swapped for those more suited to the tropics; shorts that were properly short and let your legs gorge on sunlight and salt air. Barefooted and semi-brown I watched Madeira waddle away in the haze. Three days later we hit the Equator.

‘Flying fish!’ mother shouted and flung out her hand to starboard. Not until I was thirteen did I believe the bit about ‘squirting water out of their bums’ for them to get airborne – the fish, not my parents. Anyway, the weather got hotter and every kid on board got lumbered with dab-on pink stuff for prickly-heat. We all stared at the ocean; watching for the Equator. Today we ‘cross the line’ – it said so on the ship’s notice board. Must have looked away ‘cause I missed it...

Gotta be Wessensday!

People are asking who I’m publishing with. The short answer is me... self pubbing with Kindle, Smashwords and a couple of other reputable electronic publishers. For hard copy will most probably go with Amazon’s, Create Space. Heard good things about them. Haven’t hawked my work around any of the big publishers – not that I would say no if they offered to take me on – providing the ‘deal’ is a good one.

Publishing is changing. New writers are no longer nurtured and grown to maturity, they have to do most of the leg work before sending off their masterpiece... then they wait... and wait. Can’t be arsed, so doing the proofreading, formatting through a pro in the States to suit whichever E company, cover art (using some of my son’s Africa pics and some of my own) and editing via other learned people who don’t want nearly a grand up-front to read my work. The book is out there in a space of weeks instead of years, my commission return is 75% instead of eight or ten at best as a new writer, and the rights are mine. I keep control. Set the price to within non-extortionate limits and if the writing and storyline are both good, should get a good return for my efforts; forever – ad infinitum – not dumped on the scrap-heap when ‘Millicent’ thinks my book is ‘out of fashion’.

Sent, Sons of Africa to one of London’s bigger agencies; haven’t sent it anywhere since. Sink or swim, my way’s the way it’s gonna be. This was their reply;

Hello!

Sorry, this email fell into the murky depths of my inbox. I did indeed get it and our reader is currently raving about it, so I’m going to take a look and will get back to you soon.

 All the best.

*******

Then, later... much later...

You’re a great writer. It’s pacey, you’ve got a way with dialogue and you know how to build narrative tension. You throw the reader right into the story and immediately engage with him, which is key to any great writer, commercial or otherwise.

That said... I just wasn’t convinced about the story. I know you’re going to resent me considering our previous conversation about how only vampires are currently in vogue, but this just felt a little bit old fashioned.

 That said... I would love to see anything else you’ve got in the pipelines as I think you could write a cracking upmarket thriller.

All the best,

*******

Doh! Will I be sending it out again? Guess I would rather grow hair on my eyeballs. End of rant.

Dropped in the threatened story from another genre. My book, my story, after this it’s back to An English Boy’s...

Think you’ll see the funny side...really happened...hope it entertains; ‘night everyone and thanks for staying on...

Jeff

APPARENTLY, WE’RE ALL THE SAME? (Sorry, no vampires)

Not too long ago, it was perfectly acceptable to go into a shop and ask for a book about Pygmies. Now it seems that all the Pygmies have mysteriously been replaced by tribes of ethnic colouring and vertically challenged origins, and apparently, can no longer be referred to as, ‘little black people’ either. I did exactly that, albeit innocently, and my reference to nomadic little black people went down like a dropped jug at a séance.

The young lady who was serving me stared at me in abject horror, habitually straightened her ‘Jennifer’ badge and informed me that ‘being of different colour and smaller than ourselves wasn’t a crime.’ Then I felt my wife tugging at my coat, which usually means there’s trouble brewing and please let’s go before the police get here.

I ignored the coat tugging, gripped the counter more firmly and dug in for the fight. That was the moment my wife disappeared. She had sensed that my state of political incorrectness was about to reach its crescendo.

‘So what, exactly do we call them?’

Suddenly, the young lady behind her redoubt of books and pencils seemed unsure of how to deal with the situation and with up-stretched trembling hand, summoned her department supervisor.

The shop’s zealot with her very own, ‘Judy’ badge swept to her rescue.

‘What seems to be the problem?’

‘Pygmies.’ I got in quickly.

‘Pygmies?’ chirruped the supervisor and then peered over my shoulder as if a throng of little people with spears, bows and poisoned arrows had followed me into the shop.

‘I’m looking for a book on the subject?’

Now they were both confused. Books about gardening or the breeding habits of Vietnamese ladybirds they could cope with, but Pygmies? Obviously not.

The ‘Jennifer’ lady rallied and now that support had arrived squared herself for battle.

‘It was the way you said it,’ she pointed out, a little too gleefully for my liking. A sort of, ‘Now my mother’s here you’re going to get it.’

The supervisor stepped into the breach. This was the type of situation she had been trained for; you could sense the mental wheels ripping through her store of sensitive subjects. The needle stopped at, ‘politically incorrect situations and how to deal with awkward customers’. She looked at her underling and demanded more information.

‘What, exactly happened?’

The Jennifer lady’s face, hardened. ‘He called them; little black people.’

I grinned at her. I was enjoying myself; my adversary had been sucked in for the showdown.

‘So what exactly would you have me call them?’

‘They’re human beings like everyone else in the world,’ Jennifer trilled.

I shook my head and looked at her boss. ‘Fine. In that case, I would like a book about human beings, preferably those who live in the forests of equatorial Africa.’

The boss-lady appeared satisfied that I had seen the error of my ways and had given in.

‘Could you be more specific, sir?’

‘Pygmies,’ I informed her. ‘Little black people?’ I held my hand at just over waist-height. ‘About so big?’

Silence. Then Jennifer, seemingly on the verge of tears; ‘You’re doing it again! I should report you to the race relation’s people.’

‘For what reason?’ I spoiled. ‘Or have I missed something?’

The supervisor took off for the rear of the shop then just as quickly, marched back with the supervisor’s supervisor in tow, a tall, beaky looking man in his early sixties. Then I got another rendition of, ‘What seems to be the problem, sir?’ Explained the situation and watched with growing admiration as the more worldly, commander-in-chief of my favourite high street book shop, defused the confused, calmed the waters with great aplomb and pointed me in the direction of all things related to Pygmies.

‘The lady in the far right hand corner, sir she will help you find what you are looking for.’ And with a courteous nod of the head, left me to it.

‘Which one?’ I asked the now, almost composed Jennifer, for I could make out two assistants of different stature and origin discussing whatever at the back of the shop.

‘The little coloured lady on the right,’ she offered, and for me that was enough.

*

Definitely Monday...

Here comes the second episode of ‘An English Boy’s Wanderings in Africa’. Tried to keep it light and quick moving; nothing worse than unnecessary BS. To all of you who made it this far – thank you – never done this blog stuff before so things can only get better. Will post this then hit the sack. Been working on ‘Sons of Africa’ since five this morning; eyes like crushed radishes, but don’t care, the book’s so bloody good. All you Africa addicts are going to love it. Might well post something different next blog; something from a little book I’m finishing off for all you Kindle-ites out there in the ‘Amazon’. One of ten, two-minute-stories. Just for the record, I think Kindles are great. Why? We’ll talk about it soon. Gotta sleep now...’night.

...Three months later and I was losing my lunch to the Bay of Biscay. Waves the size of fifty-ton Bedford lorries banged off the side of France and thumped our boat up and down; side to side like a plastic duck in its north Atlantic bathtub. The dining rooms were almost empty. Stewards lifted up bits of wood at the edge of our table to stop knives and forks and soup from flying all over the place. Sometimes the ship shuddered. I mean, really shuddered; sort of death throes. One old lady screamed. Someone said the propellers were coming up out of the water. Everywhere reeked of sick; the toilet floors were awash. People wanted to die. I think someone did. Mother stayed in her bunk and my dad brought dry toast and tea for her from the dining room.

‘You’ll feel better after eating something,’ he promised, but she didn’t and chucked the lot up.

Sometimes I went on my own; to the dining room. The waiters were really friendly. Think they were frightened of my dad, though – he was sort of rough looking; hands like coal scuttles. He’d been in the war and down coal mines. On Friday nights he always went out and got drunk. Shouted a lot and sometimes fell over the front step when he came home, but we loved him; worshipped him – even when I got the buckle-end of his belt and couldn’t sit down for a week. Anyway the rough seas didn’t last and we sailed from muddy brown to azure waters. The sun came out and so did a hundred wan and weary passengers; off the pointed end of our ship the dumpling shape of Madeira Island rose up from the ocean. Some kids pointed and shouted, “Africa!” – knob-heads.

*

When we docked, locals in dodgy, overloaded boats paddled alongside our ship. More like canoes than boats. Some locals came on board or lined the key selling their gaudy brass fiddly-things, sombreros and other catch-penny crap. Those who stayed on their boats waved their arms; ‘Sheeeling!’ they shouted up to us. ‘You throw a sheeeling inawater!’ Us kids flattened bottle tops and threw them instead. We got the ‘bastard’ word when the divers surfaced and what were no doubt, other foreign obscenities; so we gave them the good old, Brit two-fingers with a thumb poked between them. One kid peed through the railings. Happy days. I still missed England but not as much as the day before. I was learning new tricks....

Saturday morning - I think?

Sorry – been rambling along – maybe I’m poised at the entrance to ‘old fartdom’. Africa? Yes I remember it well. Maybe if I dropped in the occasional ‘excerpt’ things might liven up; so here goes – from my soon to be finished, ‘An English Boy’s wanderings in Africa’, this is how it all started. Still pretty rough but stick with it. We’ll get back to the serious stuff later...

‘An English Boy’s Wanderings in Africa’ ( a lighter side of my life)

In the fifties, to yours truly as an eight year old, the word ‘Africa’ translated roughly as, ‘Tarzan, his girlfriend, Jane and some crazy chimp with roll-back lips’; all of which, before my mother’s announcement, had little bearing on my cherished, unnoticed existence. Then my life changed – forever. Up to that moment, what really mattered was England, her green and verdant fields, my grandmother’s house, her apple pies and pickled onions sweet and sour enough to die for. An occasional glimpse of Valerie Wesswell’s knickers didn’t go amiss either. But all that came to an end…

...‘We’re going to live in Africa,’ my mother chirruped and had I realised the effect, four letter words had on grown-ups I might well have used them there and then. ‘On a big ship, sweetheart. Bigger than from George’s toffee shop to Sanderson’s at the end of William Street?’ She looked at me with big eyes. Maybe I was supposed to explode with excitement, but at eight years old, going to Africa was way down on my Christmas list. ‘Africa, darling? where the Zulus live?’ I remember her leaning on the ‘ooolooos bit, but I wasn’t impressed.

‘Why?’

‘To live, sweetheart.’

I’d worked that one out for myself.

‘But we live here.’

Mother nodded; long, sweeping ups-and-downs like one of those American oil derricks.

‘Your father and I have decided.’

‘What about me? What if I don’t want to go?’

‘You’re being silly, Jeffrey. Why wouldn’t you want to live in Africa?’

I could think of a thousand reasons. All of them linked to stings, claws and big teeth.

‘Well?’ Mother was getting ratty. ‘Why wouldn’t you?’

By this time, the special effects people inside my head were jumping out of windows.

‘I don’t like snakes.’

Arms went up in the air.

‘It’s not like that.’

She was lying. Everyone knew there were snakes in Africa. Even the kid next door and he was pretty dumb.

‘And lions. They eat people. I’ve seen them do it.’

Her eyebrows must have been linked to her arms because they went up as well.

‘Only at the pictures, Jeffereeee! All that Tarzan stuff isn’t real.’ Arms and eyebrows came back down. ‘Anyway, not for months, yet. Somewhere around the end of October; there’s still ever so much to organise.’

That was that; we were going. My life had just been bollocksed.

‘What about bonfire night?’

Bonfire night was big – I mean huge – on any kid’s calendar – and I already had fireworks. Twenty, two-penny bangers and a bag full of rockets hidden away in the coal shed. The bangers were for tying to the rockets; prototype, high-altitude smart bombs – the then equivalent of Tomahawk cruise missiles. Cats hated them; so did old people. One of them went down old man Sager’s chimney and nuked his fireplace.

‘I’m sure there’ll be bonfire nights in Africa. You can go to one there.’

I squirmed in my seat. There was more to it. Fog and candles in jars for signalling up the alleys. Ham lumps and mushy peas all mixed up in a mug. And the smell of burning wood and burning sofas burning the tar between the cobbles. Everything burned on bonfire night. To an eight year old, these things mattered.

‘What about the cat?’

‘You’re grandmother’s having him.’

‘Why can’t he come with us?’

Another irritable shake of the head; ‘Timmy wouldn’t like it there; too hot.’

She was lying again. The snakes would eat him. Running away was now a priority; with my cat and my fireworks. A day at my grandmother’s house then head for the woods. At least until it got dark...

continued...

I smoked back then; a lot. Cigarettes, coffee and naivety went well together; all these things the stuff of struggling writers. Saw myself as a young Rider Haggard / Stuart Cloete / Brett Young super clone. Fantasising was the easy bit – stringing together words that would entertain and mean something was quite literally, another story. Anyone can be taught how to write and thousands do make a respectable living from it, though from out of those thousands, rise very few who can weave a tale that makes a man or woman step willingly beyond the boundaries of the real world. My first ever line? Maybe someday I’ll tell you. For now – you will have to suffer the ramblings of an old prospector...

Back in ’84, literary agents (most of them) were real people. They cared and nurtured new talent. They answered letters; I mean actually wrote them and signed them with fountain pens, used their name instead of ‘dot-coms’, said things like; “ Your spelling and punctuation aint so hot but your writing is fantastic! Yes really!” To one such agent, a certain Carol Smith who is now herself a writer of note, I am and always will be much indebted. Without her encouragement my modest skills would have been put to some lonely road-side grave. Never once did she suggest I change genre from adventure to vampire driven fantasy – never once did she lose a query or give up on me. Sadly, those days are disappearing. Time us writers took control; let he or she be judged by the readers – when all is said and done it is they who buy the books; not the agents. Good stories live forever...

The Beginning

Twenty six years ago I bought a book that changed my life. I’m a Piscean; so a dreamer by nature and the said book really twisted my dream-dial to full power. Those of you who know me are already nodding your heads and hopefully, smiling – be that retrospectively. Anyway, the journey is a long one so best I get on with it...

For me, 1984 seemed as good a year as any for losing my job – crashing head-on whilst driving a company vehicle didn’t go down too well with my employer. Neither did driving in England on a Southern Rhodesian driver’s licence. So, albeit on friendly terms, yours truly was made redundant, relieved of his ‘micky-mouse’ licence and sent off to starve – preferably up some little known street where little known people such as me wouldn’t be noticed.

I wanted out. Nostalgia quickly turned to rampant homesickness for Africa and I fired up the Silver Reed typewriter...