The sat nav took him straight there, but the blue lighting up the sky would have been guide enough. He waved his badge in any face that dared to prevent progress until he found himself in a quiet oasis of white marble and tension. His footsteps echoed as he crossed to the stairs, ignoring the milling SOCOs and the shocked uniforms trying to console a weeping, middle-aged woman who still clutched her Mr Sheen. One could always tell the importance of the victim from the seniority of the main man at the scene. This was as good as it got. “Where have you been?” snarled the Chief, wiping the sweat from his brow with an already-sodden handkerchief. No doubt the Mayor, the PM and every ‘the’ in-between had already been on the phone. “Got here as fast as I could,” he answered, his voice calm despite his anger at the dog and pony show. The three other sudden deaths he’d been assigned since he’d come on duty had done without such esteemed courtesy calls, but then they hadn’t plastered their face all over social media. She’d had one billion subscribers, so it was rumoured. The number meant nothing to him. He could count his friends on his fingers. It was good enough. Better than most. They’d left the scene as they’d found it. The empty bottles of expensive vodka and prescription drugs made the cause pretty bloody obvious. The quantity of vomit, though, that was unusual. She’d tried, failed, then tried again? His eyes scanned the huge, white room, looking for the second trigger. A rose gold iPhone lay propped against the far wall's skirting, its clear protector smashed into a smattering of plastic confetti on the thick carpet. He held the phone over her staring eyes and the screen lit up. The call log was all he needed to see: sixty-six outgoing calls to forty-one numbers made between three and four in the morning, the longest lasting ninety-three seconds, the shortest just three. He popped the phone into an evidence bag and dropped it on the bed. The Chief blocked his path as he tried to leave. “Well?” the man snapped, reserving his charm for the forthcoming press conference. “Suicide.” "Shit... You sure? Not an accident?" He shook his head, saddened by the desperate emptiness hidden by a life so publicly full. He turned to look at the still-silent phone. “No one picked up," he explained. "And no one called back.” Image by Arek Socha from Pixabay
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My heart soared, but then a cynical voice made itself heard. Sure enough, after all the flattering paragraphs came the words I hoped not to see, but suspected I would: 'contributory contract'. Reputable publishers do not ask their authors for money. That's worth repeating for the benefit of any budding authors reading this: reputable publishers do not ask their authors for money. Is it pathetic of me to be disappointed anyway?
I don't think there's a better sharing story than O. Henry's The Gift of the Magi so I'm not about to reinvent the wheel. Instead I'd like to remind everyone that a 'share' on facebook can sometimes be the kindest, most thoughtful and least expensive gift a person can give a struggling author at this time of year. Image by Terri Cnudde from Pixabay
I've just been wrapping Christmas presents to send to family in Scotland. I think it might have taken longer to pick a courier than it did to shop for the ruddy things! There was a day when I'd have efficiently considered the options, made a decision and stuck to it, putting it behind me without a second thought. Now, I'm a mess of second-thoughts, sure I'm going to get it wrong, sure that I'll save myself another 2p if I just look at another dozen websites. What's worse is the certainty that my parcel will now go missing because I didn't take out the insurance which would have taken the total cost from £6.53 to £18.53. I will be worrying endlessly over my parcel's journey until I get the (free) email that tells me it's arrived safely. At least I hope I'll get an email... Maybe they'll get back at me for not taking out the five different extra cost options by deliberately chucking my parcel in the warehouse corner with the huge, illuminated sign over it saying 'NO INSURANCE: HELP YOURSELF'? (I checked the print-it-yourself label: there doesn't seem to be a code on it for 'cheapskate sender', but...)
I'm not as bad as J, I tell myself, who spent four years picking a television because the manufacturers were sure to bring out a new model just as he bought one. Or R, who has always taken forever to select her choice from a menu, convinced that the other one she fancies is bound to be better. (Perhaps restaurants should start selling insurance: 'Make sure you get the meal of your dreams! For a small (i.e. exorbitant) fee, if you don't like your first option, we'll give you your (pre-selected) second option for nothing!'?) And I'm definitely not as bad as C, who would have paid for the most expensive courier, with insurance, with a text, with a signature, with tracking, with a framed photo of a smiling delivery driver personally handing said parcel to my mum. (C's seen all those youtube videos of crystal vases being chucked over fences. It happens all the time!) I'm considering starting a rumour that kindles will self-destruct if the owner doesn't leave a book review. Or that one in every million book reviews wins a lifetime's free shopping on amazon? Or that amazon gift vouchers are only valid if at least £3 is spent on a book by Karen MacRae or K L MacRae? Or maybe that heaven is getting full and only review writers will now be admitted? At least one of these must be true. After all, you read it on the internet. Woe is me! I've been battling with the latest chapter of the third Shaper book for days now. It's about Nystrieth, the main baddie, the Black Shaper who can kill with a glance, feels zero remorse and has evil plans for the world. We got a hint of his traumatic early years in A Shaper's Birthright, but it's the third book that will fill in the rest. It's all in my head, of course - I know him nearly as well as I know myself - but I'm finding it almost impossible to get it on paper (okay, screen). How does one condense the critical turning points of a life into a couple of chapters, especially when it's all retrospective and has to be easy-to-read, well-flowing prose? Now add in the challenge of making it sound appropriate for the age the character is at the time the event happened because we're reliving it through his eyes, but keeping it interesting to the adult reader. Way to make things difficult for yourself, Karen! Which brings me to the title of this post. I've just heard a friend of a friend's dog gave birth to thirteen puppies last night. My problems pale into insignificance. Time for a break and grateful thanks that I am not she (the dog or the owner).
How many times, I wonder, have I wanted to be able to say those words and actually mean them? I think I've always been too ready to believe the best in people, too trusting, too desperate to be liked. I was once told by a boss at the horribly sexist American company I worked for in the 1980's that the ideal female employee had a soft exterior, but a hard interior. Me? Apparently I had it round the wrong way. Soft as putty on the inside, all hard as nails on the outside: a direct result of trying not to let people know just how much I cared. It's a hard habit to break.
Sometimes I find myself wanting to scream at people about how their behaviour upsets me, how their thoughtlessness and inconsideration make my moods tailspin into my boots, about just how much their lack of support hurts me and that I would never treat them in that way so why do they think it's okay to treat me like that? What do I actually do? I smile and say, "It's fine, don't worry" or "It's okay, I understand" or "It's no big deal, I do it too." Do you know what? It's not and I don't. There's a reason the women in my books don't take any shit from anyone. Hell, if you can't do it in real life, how else to get it off your chest? Which reminds me... I have an idea for a new book. I wonder how many of you will recognise yourself? *Exit one soft-boiled egg with an evil cackle. As a first time mum, most pregnant woman can't think further than the joyful (i.e. terrifying, debasing and, OMG, painful) arrival of their bundle of delight and wonder. I suppose I should have recognised the feelings as I was writing Kat, but, let's face it, it's been a while. Ironically, it was knitting I was first reminded of when, in the weeks after I proudly declared the manuscript finished, I had to reformat everything, work out how the hell to get images to stay in place on the kindle conversion software, learn how to use photoshop, come up with a blurb, synopses and descriptions, set up an amazon author page and work out keywords, pricing and a whole load of other stuff. Anyone who has ever knitted will recognise the sinking sensation of looking at all the different bits of the gift you've just lovingly crafted and realising you've got to sew the bloody thing together before you can give it away and forget about it. If only babies, and books, were that simple. Granted, I could give Kat away and forget about it, but, instead, I find myself learning even more new software, trying to get to grips with the world of digital marketing, writing advertising copy and analysing sales data. You see, it's not okay not to be there for your baby. All mums know that.
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