My husband and I stayed up very late last night, binge-watching the last five episodes of The New Pope, season two. I think the last time we did this was for The Marvellous Mrs Maisel, possibly my favourite TV show of all time. On paper, a surreal, ecclesiastical drama and a witty, laugh out loud comedy couldn't be more different. In practice, they are both beautifully shot, the acting is excellent and the settings and costumes are fabulous but, most of all, the dialogue is absolutely wonderful. For a change, I'm not bored by a storyline I guessed in episode one, disappointed by shortcut writing that clumsily fills in blanks or grumbling about holes in the plot. Instead, I'm wishing that I'd written it!
At the moment, however, my mind is steadfastly refusing to produce much of anything. Since releasing Dig Three Graves in January, I've written only three things. The first was Last Christmas, a short story. The second was And Then There Were Three (Musketeers), another short story which fills in a little of the background to the Kat Farthing novels. The third was the opening chapter for the next Kat Farthing novel. I spent a whole day on it and only made it to 688 words; for me, a very poor effort. Worse, when I read it a couple of days later, I realised it was rubbish. Sigh. It seems that my mojo has left me and I'm not sure how to get it back. I've been told that writing something, anything, no matter how crap, every day can help break writer's block. It's worth a try, yes? A bit of flash fiction, a waffle about nothing much, a short story, a standalone scene... A lot of it will never see a pair of eyes other than mine, but some might make it on here and, you never know, maybe the next HBO blockbuster will come out of it. I live in hope :)
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When I embarked on writing Kat, I didn't have much more in mind than giving myself something to do, having another go at writing a novel and, perhaps, making a little money. I knew nothing about writing styles, official (convoluted and frankly ridiculous) genres, agents, the publishing process, the horrendously competitive literature market or how sharks start circling as soon as you stick your head above the parapet. Let me tell you something: writing sucks. Sure, I enjoy the actual writing process and, yes, I love getting nice reviews, but my mental health has become a rollercoaster, the apathy in some quarters is heart-breaking and, when I first sat down at my keyboard, I had zero intention or desire to learn about self-publishing, digital marketing, Photoshop, business accounts, profit and loss statements, and a whole host of other crap that my life would be infinitely better without. So I've decided to cut one drag out of my life: Facebook.
It's a start. PS Can anyone tell me how the heck to remove a redundant Facebook 'like' button?! Scottish glossary
shortarse: a derogatory word for someone who is shorter than average manky: filthy piece and jam: a jam sandwich bawheid: idiot Sassenach: a derogatory word for an English person GLASGOW, JANUARY 1972 They skulked downwind in the shadows, the muffled scrapes of frozen feet shuffling on flattened snow travelling too short a distance to offer a warning. Those who were wise avoided their various lairs or travelled in packs. From the rest, from the stupid, the blasé and the unwary, prey was selected and picked clean with the precision and expertise learned from years of tyranny. The largest of the four risked the arctic conditions to take woollen-clad hands from his pockets and shake a cigarette from its crumpled home. A grunt through the grubby scarf covering his face called his minions into a tighter huddle, their bodies blocking the racing wind from the match rasping against the narrow strip of sandpaper. Thin lips sucked greedily then slowed before casually passing the baton, its tip glowing scarlet as the wind snatched its share. A strict pecking order was observed as the prize was passed to each in turn, the lowest of the group getting a bare second’s inhalation before blistering heat threatened his lips. He almost didn’t register it. His eyes wide with amazement, he slapped his neighbour on the arm, the forgotten fag end flying southwards on the winter gale. The other boy growled at the impact and raised his fist, but the retaliatory punch stalled as an immature brain failed to compute what its visual system was processing. From twenty feet away, they gaped upon the slim figure of a younger boy in clothes that screamed attentive, well-heeled parents. They didn’t see the exquisitely carved cheekbones and chiselled nose, the generous, Cupid-blessed lips or a pair of long-lashed, mocha eyes that would learn to melt hearts with the barest twinkle. All they saw was the astounding colour of his skin. Through the clouds of snow, the boy trudging behind the rarest of sights in this whiter than white part of Scotland could only see the dark outline of a kid in a hood and the perfect imprints of a pair of brand new wellies. But he could smell the cigarette smoke and felt his stomach churn with apprehension. Deep in his coat pocket, a small fist closed firmly over two coins. When he reached the end of the shortcut, he could see the school bullies had arranged themselves as a barricade before the figure in the leak-free wellies. The icy newspaper lining his own boots squelched as he shifted his weight. He weighed up the risk of running for the gap on the far side, knowing in his head that backtracking would make him late, knowing in his heart that all he’d be doing was delaying the inevitable. Undecided, he edged forward, trying to hear what was being said. The words rushed past on the wind, only one or two clear in every three. He took another step. And another. “It’s the midget!” “Oh, crap,” he thought, glad his granny couldn’t hear him. The taste of soap filled his mind nonetheless. “What’d yuh think, shortarse? D’yuh think it’ll rub off? If I gie him a slap, my han’ would turn manky like him, the dirty darkie? Him whose old man steals food from oor table? Him who shud gae the fuck hame.” The small boy didn’t understand the parroting of parental bigotry. He knew the tone, though, and he could see the hands that itched to tear the warm coat from black skin, the feet that twitched to test the true colour of its blood. It’d be him next, if he was still there when they were done. But… if not today, it would be tomorrow or the next… Hell (more soap), they’d got him bang to rights on his very first day; Granny’s precious savings ripped from his hand, his belly growling come lunch time and only a piece and jam for tea. He’d managed to avoid them in the days since, but they’d not let him pass now. Not now they knew Granny had too much pride to let her boy join the long paupers’ queue. As his thoughts raced, the bully’s apprentices moved beyond words to actions. Prods became shoves became a game of passing the parcel, the rich kid’s polite pleas drowned out by grunts and laughter. Beyond, the leader stood to one side, blocking free passage, bright blue eyes fixed on the lump of a puny fist concealing cash. It might have been choreographed by a higher power, that instant in which a beautiful boy in brand new wellies and a short boy with soaking wet socks changed their lives. A mahogany fist drew back just like dad had demonstrated. Behind, a wild scream of defiance rang along the alley and two stubby legs slipped and slid northwards, a mousy brown head a battering ram, skinny arms wheeling. The ferocity of the double attack allowed the two a few second’s advance. Fast wee hands pummelled anything in their path while more precise jabs were aimed upwards at chins and noses. But two eight-year-old weaklings are no match for a gang of four eleven-year-old bruisers and the youngsters soon found themselves eating bloody snow as their pockets were expertly patted down between unnecessary, vindictive punches. “Pick on someone your own size,” came a strangely smooth, yet clipped voice, almost like something off the radio. The weight lifted from the prone bodies as four turned to face one. About the same height, but thinner, wirier, with floppy blonde hair and a tatty, ill-fitting school uniform and pair of old gym shoes, his hands and face red with the cold, the bullies saw a bawheid who’d add nothing to their coffers. The bullied saw a potential saviour. “Fucking Sassenach,” sneered the leader. “Take yer nose oot o’ oor business, ya English bastart.” He took a step closer with each word, an alpha male establishing his presence. Flanking him, three grinning loons kept pace. The blonde turned so quickly his body was a blur. The roundhouse kick sent a right foot whipping a full 360 degrees from ground to head in the blink of an eye, its heel aimed directly for the smug face who’d unwittingly postured its way within range. The connection sent ripples of power through chin, shoulders, torso and finally knees. Rolling eyes hit the snowdrift first, the unconscious mass behind it flopping to the ground like a fish out of water. There was a moment of stunned awe before the three lackies eyed each other nervously and backed off a few steps, heavy breathing fogging the air between them and their unwelcome adversary. The lanky blonde just smiled, his arms loose at his side, his body relaxed and ready to repeat his performance. A low groan interrupted the stand off. All turned to watch as the fallen leader pushed his way to sitting, his vengeful eyes tearing holes in the boy who’d spoiled his morning. “Cheatin’ bastart,” he mumbled through swollen lips. The sound of the bell was a face-saving reprieve; Mr Mason’s unrelenting attitude to tardiness more than sufficient reason to postpone proceedings. Urgent hands pulled the eldest boy from the snow and the four swaggered off, promising vengeance while making sure to keep their distance from the scarily confident stranger. The boy in the brand new wellies was the first to break the silence. “My mum’ll kill me,” he said, looking down on a torn pocket and stained trousers. His head came up slowly, his mind switching to more important matters. “How’d yae dae that?” “Mair important, can yae teach me?” The smallest boy unfurled his hand to reveal two shiny coins then tipped them into his pocket. “I’m nae gaeing hungry agin. No way.” The blonde’s smile stretched into a grin. “It’s karate. I did it… I used to…” There was silence as the grin subsided and he tried to get his thoughts in order, tried to find a handful of words to explain death and loss and poverty and what used to be. He covered the telltale vibration at the corner of his mouth by introducing himself. “I’m Tommy, Tommy Farthing. I just moved here.” The beautiful child held out a resolute, chocolate brown hand. “I’m Jamie McKenzie. It’s my first day.” The wee kid interrupted the handshake, impatient for the answer to his question. “Michael Harper,” he said. “So can ye?” Tommy could see the challenge in his eyes. “You got guts, little man. You can have my back any time. And, yes, I’ll show you what I can.” He turned to the coloured boy. “And you’ve got one hell of a right. A bit more weight behind it and you could have done some damage.” Twenty minutes later, Eileen McKenzie opened her front door, dishtowel in hand, her four-year-old peeking through her legs. Her elder son looked like he’d been pulled through a hedge. On his left was a lad only half his size with a bloody nose and thoughtful eyes. On the right was a tall blonde wearing practically nothing but a cheeky smile to protect him from the weather. “And what happened to school?” she asked, hands on hips, her eyebrows nearly as high as her widow’s peak. Jamie looked up through his eyelashes and shrugged beguilingly. “A wee bit of trouble on the way, mum, but we handled it.” Eileen put on her sternest face. “We?” she asked, looking the mismatched trio. “And who dared give you ‘trouble’?” Her son changed the subject by appealing to his mother’s soft spot. “We only came hame so ye could fix Michael’s nose and mebbe gie him my auld wellies? Tommy could dae with a pair o’ gloves tae. Then we’ll heid straight back, promise…” Soft brown eyes welled up on command. “Mr Mason’ll gie us grief without a note, but…” She caved like she always did, her bark infinitely worse than her bite when it came to her boys. “Ach, you’ll get a note, don’t you worry. Now, inside, and get those wet clothes in front of the fire.” She got the three settled in the kitchen and went rummaging for old wellies for the wee boy and spare clothes to warm that poor boy’s scrawny frame. Once their bellies were warm and full, she’d get out of them who dared to rip her Jamie’s jacket. Whoever was responsible wouldn’t know what’d hit them when she tore it out of their backsides. Back downstairs, her arms full, she found only crumbs and empty plates in the kitchen. Dumping the clothes on the table, she heard an impatient, “Git lost, Connor. This is fur men only,” from the lounge. Smiling, she snuck through the dining room and eased the door open just enough to spy. There, in their underpants, were the three eight-year-olds, their arms in the air, their faces as serious as priests during confession. Connor pranced around them, a stick in his hand, making like Errol Flynn. “One for all, and all for one,” the three boys intoned together, looking up at the imaginary sword points that formed a lopsided pyramid of steel above their heads. Eileen felt tears prickle the back of her eyes and quietly closed the door. She knew only too well how much ‘trouble’ lay ahead for a darkie, a shortarse and a Sassenach in this day and age. Best they faced it together. She shook her head at her romantic nonsense. It wasn’t like it would last… |