A lonely journey, never alone

THE WRITER’S LIFE

Yesterday was my monthly visit to Milton Keynes to see my children, the last time before Christmas and two days before the eldest turns teen. Tomorrow, my son will be legally allowed to have social media accounts, and become a part of humanity’s existential crisis, recorded for future historians. Today could be his last day of relative innocence. Farewell son, see you around…

Lonely Journey

I wrote recently of a girl I’d created in a short story, who’d found herself helping many others, while also having issues of her own. She was frustrated, because while she worked tirelessly and quietly with no recognition, others sought to claim credit for her actions. In that story, she doesn’t find a way out, but one finds her, as everything links up at the end. Sometimes, it can simply be someone walking into a life.

There’s a story out tomorrow, which will only be on this blog and then adapted for The Unfinished Literary Agency, my forthcoming second anthology. It’s also about a girl, who’s looking for something her son once wrote, but which he largely forgot about. My own son wrote part of a story some time ago, then gave it to me and we planned to finish it together. The life of the pre-teen has many distractions, just as his teenage years will, so the story was forgotten. But the original purpose of The Unfinished Literary Agency was to write the stories of others, which they themselves couldn’t. So it seemed fitting that I should finish the story, in which a mother looks for something her son started, to find out what became of it.

If my own mum were to look for things I’d written, she’d be somewhat spoiled for choice. Unlike a lot of the family history I’m writing for my other book, my stories are already out there. And in a family link-up, it was my own son who pointed something out to me yesterday.

The odd vanity search aside, I rarely search for myself online (inside, all the time, but not online). When I do, it’s just to see what people are searching for, besides the obvious (the search terms are varied: LGBTQI, animal sentience, steam punk, psychological writing, atheism, the human condition…). I don’t bother with outdated ‘Search Engine Optimisation’, nor any AdWords, preferring the natural order of Google to take care of things.

I didn’t need to be writing for long, before a simple search for my name (omitting the writer bit) more or less filled Google’s first page of results, simply because of all those who share my name, I’m the most prolific (I do write a lot). In any case, I’m usually logged on to my own Google account, so I see a slightly different screen to the public offering. So I was pleasantly surprised when my eldest pointed this out:

Google Box Screenshot

Apparently, Google has given me a box. Google thinks that anyone searching for my name will most likely be looking for me, so they’ve given me a box, which says I’m an author. I rarely call myself that (I prefer ‘Writer’), but if that’s what Google says, I’m pleased I’ve been given a box. So that was nice.

Whatever my children end up as, they’ve been encouraged to be the best that they can, at that which they enjoy the most, and which gives the most back. They’ll have many shepherds through their years and they’ll guide and inspire others, sometimes without knowing it, in their real and online worlds.

Like the girl in my story, I haven’t found a way, but one found me. It was other people, and in life just as on Google. Sometimes, you realise they were always there. Sometimes, you remember:

“Let’s run!”
“Why?”
“Because one day we won’t be able to.”

Farewell boy, see you around young man.

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Theory of relative generality

THE WRITER’S LIFE

Writing history can often require a lot of self-discipline, especially when the researcher is keen to learn much, about many things. And so it is with a character I’m creating in a new story, and with me. In science fiction and in fact, there are links, concentric circles and cycles, which give a thing structure.

Relative generality

It’s a fact that all links on Wikipedia eventually lead back to philosophy, and Wikipedia is a very pleasant way to spend a few lost hours, just clicking on links and reading more and associated articles around a subject. Most of my family history research has been in online archives, censuses, and local history groups, but Wikipedia is also useful (and distracting) alongside.

I was researching my maternal nan’s house in Tudeley, Kent, and the records are thinly spread, but I’ve concluded that the house was originally built as a farm house for farm workers. This would be entirely in keeping with my family’s farm labourer roots.

The first family I can find living there were the Bowles family, listed in the 1881 census. Given the size of history (it’s as big as space, and that’s very big indeed), I can only research and write so much, when it’s going into a book based around my family. So tempting as it is to wander off, I’ve tried to restrict myself to the relevant details, including the first recorded use of buildings and the more interesting stories of those who lived within and thereabouts. But like the universe in sci-fi, and philosophy on Wikipedia, everything can eventually link back. I like to form circles in writing, at the same time metaphorically placing rings around things for further reading.

History and economics are cyclical, and it was by coincidence that I watched a documentary on British invasion recently: Not the days of empire and slavery (none of my family’s employers’ families have links to the slave trade, but if they had, I’d have delved further. As it is, they were wealthy but self-made, and with a social conscience), but further back in ancient history. Most of my ancestors were farm labourers, with housing that came with the job. Like my family life, it was communal but not communist. It’s the farm workers and farming itself which led me on a digression into the further past.

I looked at invasions of Britain, or immigration into the country. Thanks to recent advances in DNA technology, research has found that Britain has a long history of immigration and invasion before that which is generally known, as it’s only now being discovered. Long before the Roman and Norman conquests, Britain was home to prehistoric natives, as far back as the Stone Age. In Ightham, where we lived for 12 years, there are remains of Palaeolithic settlements. Recent discoveries suggest that one of the first invasions of Britain was an altruistic and evolutionary movement, when Stone Age implements became tools. The hunter-gatherers of the time developed farming, eventually growing crops and raising livestock. As an aside, the so-called Celtic invasion was more one of fashion invading culture, as humans became more artistic.

Pinning down a definitive family line is especially difficult when the family played mainly supporting roles in history, rarely making it into anything recorded outside of the census. But it’s romantic to think that our ancient ancestors may have been some of those friendly invaders who taught the cavemen to farm.

Having researched my family name already, establishing it as (in our case) either an occupational one (we fished from lakes), or residential (lived beside lakes), I decided to take another quick digression back in time, to find the origin of the word the name is derived from: Lake.

The word has its roots in Anglo Saxon, so it’s logical to conclude one of two things, even with the little recorded history of individuals I have: Either we were part of the Germanic tribes from continental Europe from the 5th century, or we were here already, living by lakes, or fishing, and then we took up farming. It’s impossible to confirm either way, but returning to romanticism, we were always a peaceful folk, either exploring and discovering, or working in communes to improve a way of living. We were always a bit left-wing.

In the family history book post-digression, I’ll be in Ightham for a while longer, recalling more personal stories from the past, linked with wider events in history. As it moves forward, it will end in the 1980s, times of change for the country, and for us as a family, when one of the owners of the big house becomes involved in a Stock Exchange scandal, and we have news reporters camped at the end of the driveway. It was also the time of the Cold War, and the eve of great global changes, in politics and elsewhere.

Back in sci-fi land, I’m writing the last two stories for The Unfinished Literary Agency (out in January), with one set in a post-human world of animals and machines. There’s a human there, finding her way around on a planet where her ancestors once lived. She’s trying to find something for her son, back on her own home planet. It’s a plot device, which allows people to speak in fiction about that which they can’t in real life. It’s what The Unfinished Literary Agency was set up for, way back in her family’s history, and she thinks it will help her son. He’s lost, as she once was, unsure of how worlds revolve outside of physics. But it’s quantum physics which connects us all.

Each of us is linked, through no more than six degrees of separation. Like me, the girl is trying to connect past and future to make a circle among others, where people can find their place.

Life can’t be reset, but look inside yourself, and you will find the return to innocence. And from there, that’s the beginning of the game, of another life.”

Perspectives of generations

THE WRITER’S LIFE

My factual self is variously in Germany, France, and a garden in Kent, in the Second World War, and the 1970s and 80s. These are very strange places to find myself spread around. In different places and times, are people I looked up to when I was younger, for different reasons than I do now, and some no longer here. There are times and places I better understand, because of those people. The geography and history cross over many times in the factual book I’m writing, just like the dimensions of space and time in my science fiction. But this is actual, not surreal…

Airship plansBluePaw90

Until recently (until I started writing this book), Philip Howard Byam-Cook was a man known only to me as “Sir”, because that’s what my dad called his boss (his wife was addressed as ma’am), not as far as I know through any instruction to do so, but as a mark of respect from a humble man such as my dad, grateful of employment and a home. To this day, I address former school teachers similarly, and those in respected positions (a professor, for example, to me, is “Sir”, unless advised otherwise by that person). As someone who’s left-wing in many things, including wealth distribution, and as a science fiction writer, I can see that solutions to such issues are a long way off. For as long as there are employers and employees, I respect those who respect others and who have empathy with fellow humans.

Back in the 70s and 80s, when I saw Mr Byam-Cook, he was a friendly, posh chap. He was very tall, lived in a big house, and I had no agenda to question where all that had come from, because my parents had jobs and our family had a home. The house was in the middle of its own private woods, so I really couldn’t give a hoot, as we didn’t say in those days. I got splendidly lost in those woods as a child, and as a teenager, I smoked lashings and lashings of cigarettes. If I’d taken the trouble to stop being a confused teen and learn more, I might have appreciated what I had around me. All I needed to do was talk.

I can only dream (or write) of how life would have been if I’d had the internet back then, but I’d like to think it wouldn’t keep me locked up indoors, not exploring those woods.

Not far from where I live now, is where Mr Byam-Cook’s accountant had an office (as a solicitor, Philip was on the boards of a number of companies). I have the internet, and now I can find out what I didn’t back then about my parent’s boss. The tall, friendly, posh lawyer was a quiet hero.

This in an extract I found in Wars and Shadows: Memoirs of General Sir David Fraser (ISBN-10: 0141008598), a WWII memoir:

One of the last significant memoirs of the Second World War, seen through the eyes of a young Grenadier Guardsman. David Fraser has had two careers: as one of Britain’s most distinguished soldiers and then as one of our leading military biographers. His childhood passed in grand houses in London and Scotland, but he was the son of anything but conventional parents, who are sketched out in this book in all their bizarre and entertaining individuality. Fraser’s accounts of becoming a soldier, the life of his regiment, and his role as a young officer, are brilliantly written classics of their kind. After the War he rose through the hierarchy until he became GOC the British Army of the Rhine and Vice-Chief of the Defence Staff. 

David Fraser writes:

War crimes, and war crimes trials, impinged a lot on our existence. A friend of mine in the Batallion was Philip Byam-Cook, who was on the edge of a highly successful career in the law and who was, therefore, much in demand in the world of war crimes investigations, on one side or another. One evening he appeared in our Battalion Headquarters Officers’ Mess. There were only two or three of us there and Philip approached me.

‘David, I’m looking after a very senior officer in the RAF. Do you think we could put him up? He’s over there as a witness in a war crimes trial.’

Of course we were delighted (the visit lasted more than a week), and the more delighted because he proved to be a particularly charming person, an Air Marshal, Ivelaw Chapman. Sir Ronald Ivelaw Chapman, as he became, had been shot down on a raid over Germany, had escaped, been recaptured, tortured in order to extract the names of those in the Resistance who had helped his escape, and was now our guest.

I had many long talks with him. I seldom remember a more impressive man. He told me, under my no doubt impertinent and immature probing, exactly what had happened to him – how he had a gravely injured shoulder from the crash, how the Gestapo interrogators had beaten him on this shoulder, on and on and on. How he admired some of the Resistance chain who had helped his escape – ‘wonderful people!’

I never met a person with less bitterness. He spoke of his tormentors at that time with something like pity.

‘I could see they didn’t like what they were doing. They were quite young – I was sorry for them. I knew their feelings would give them hell one day.’

Such encounters – few in life – show what grandeur the human spirit can attain. The former German commandant of his prisoner-of-war camp (a decent man, he said) was being arraigned and ‘I felt I had to do, say, something for the fellow if I could. That’s why I’m here.’

Philip Byam-Cook had found him as a witness for the defence. He became an Air Chief Marshall and Vice Chief of the Air Staff. He did me – an unimportant Grenadier officer – a lot of good.

My parents might have considered themselves less important than others, but just like that Grenadier officer, they were there, helping others, and their acts have influenced me. They were part of the supporting cast for Philip Howard Byam-Cook, the aspiring lawyer in the story above, and who became inspiring for others.

The internet allows me to research the little-known history of those people my parents worked for, so that I can record their history in this book. The democratisation of the internet means that writers like me can record the stories of those which weren’t recorded at the time, because the means and notability wasn’t around those people. In writing the stories of the other people, myself and others are building a greater record of all of humankind, linking everything up.

It turns out there’s a rather poetic link back, as this small digression into a further past ends, and I move back into the present past, that of my time with my parents. Before I left that small online humanitarian pocket of the Second World War, I found out a little more about Air Chief Marshal Sir Ronald Ivelaw-Chapman GCB, KBE, DFC, AFC (17 January 1899 – 28 April 1978), cited by Wikipedia as A senior commander in the Royal Air Force in the middle of the 20th century and the penultimate RAF commander-in-chief of the Indian Air Force.

Born in British Guiana to a successful merchant. He came to England with his parents in 1903 and attended Cheltenham College. He served at the end of the First World War, then in 1929 he helped in a successful evacuation of the British Legation in Kabul amidst a civil war. Forced to make an emergency landing, he was rescued by an Afghan royalist officer, and later awarded the Air Force Cross for his handling of the incident.

And this story from World War II:

On the night of the 6/7 May 1944 Ivelaw-Chapman was flying as second pilot of a No. 576 Squadron Avro Lancaster on a mission to bomb an ammunition dump at Aubigne in France. His aircraft was shot down by a night fighter and Ivelaw-Chapman went on the run. Because of his experience and knowledge Churchill ordered the French resistance to do all they could to help him return to England, he was to be killed if he was in danger of being captured by the Germans. He was captured by the Gestapo on 8 June 1944, the most senior Bomber Command officer to have been captured by the Germans. Churchill’s fear was unfounded as the Germans did not realise his importance and he was treated as an ordinary prisoner of war.

After the war he was promoted to air vice marshal, then air chief marshal in 1950, and took command of the newly-formed Indian Air Force. On his return to the UK he became Air Officer Commanding-in-Chief at Home Command in March 1952, Deputy Chief of the Air Staff in November 1952, and Vice-Chief of the Air Staff in 1953, before he retired in 1957.

I found memorabilia online, signed by Sir Ronald and acquired from the old West Malling air field. Although the village is home to over twenty blue plaques, for whatever reason, Sir Ronald doesn’t have one. It’s nevertheless another nice link with the past to discover, and one I wouldn’t have found if it weren’t for my parents, but which I’m now able to bring to more light in all the rich history surrounding them.

In amongst all of his adventures – between the wars in 1930 – Ronald married his fiancée, Margaret…

***

There’s some sort of magic at work as it all links up. From here, the book goes back to Ightham, and life with my parents’ respective sisters, both called Margaret.

Between chapters, I’ve got some more sci-fi and horror to write. My virtual self, split over multiple times and places, taking the time to find things out. And I only write them down just in case, they should die.

I hope people are similarly haunted by me when I go.

Silent Gardens will be published around March next year. My other books are available from Amazon and can be ordered from any book shop, or requested at libraries.

The thin veils of symbiosis

THE WRITER’S LIFE

There’s a story I’m writing, about a girl who’s never sought attention but now has everyone’s. Pretty much me in reverse, sort of a not-me. The girl in the story has things on her own mind, which she can’t tell others, while all those others enquire of her mind to help them. Thank whatever, I’m not that girl then. And yet, it’s true that I’m in every single one of my stories in parts.

symbiosisSymbiosis in nature

Fictional me has been as busy as my factual side, making my actual self an engaged writer (always a nice thing to be), splitting myself over two projects and with the two different genres (sci-fi and family history) becoming a symbiotic feeding mechanism. And I’ve nailed what it is, how one style of writing can help with another.

With factual writing, there’s much more to write, because it’s already there. Research reveals the facts, which the writer then tells as a real-life story. I’m a writer who likes to link things up and tie them off, so writing historical pieces about my family’s places of work and home means the links to the central characters are already there. It’s the sheer volume of recorded factual history which gives the writer so much to think and write about.

In fiction of course, we start with a blank page. These are stories which haven’t been written, of people and places who’ve been created. With no recorded history, the writer has to fill it in, at least between the lines, to make the fictional narratives strong.

So with so much to write factually, there are many unused thoughts and ideas, as it’s edited down. There are new things, never personally encountered before, which provide fresh ideas, and those can drive fiction. It’s actually quite easy to turn things in, when you look at a picture of a figure standing by a Scottish loch, and notice a ripple in the water behind. I’ve been a serious writer now for five years and I’ve only just worked that out. If others have been similarly wondering, you’re welcome.

Fictional me has stories lined up for publication over the next four weekends now. Next up, is ‘A Girl, Sheldon Cooper and Peter Cook’. Mindful that I’d never written another story which could somehow be linked to a specific different one (but still stand on its own), this one was a mix of two things: A Girl, Frank Burnside and Haile Selassie (my – award-winning – children’s story), and Cyrus Song. It’s a story set in 2042, about a girl, a cat and a dog. In 2042, AI home assistants are ubiquitous and have universal translation algorithms (possibly thanks to the Babel fish, and a stoned ethics committee somewhere), which of course allows the three to talk.

Elsewhere and after that, there’ll be ‘Quantum Entanglement in Hamsters’, which examines a part of the human condition (apparently I’m good at that) in the context of a pair of Roborovski hamsters, called Hannibal and Lecter.

Next there’s a restaurant review of ‘August Underground’s Diner’, then ‘Another Nativity (For the Stage)’ at Christmas, the latter being a re-write of one of my old stories, originally a story about a nativity play, now made into a play of that story for the stage (pretentious, me?)

In the factual world, I’m still snooping around houses, gardens and people, in 1970s and 80s Kent, and in the Second World War (in France and Germany). I have a good feeling about the book (always completely unreliable and not reflective of future sales), it being one where I’ve really been able to free my inner, real self in the stories of others.

Just as the modest sales of Cyrus Song generate blips of The Perpetuity of Memory, it seems my theory is vindicated: That each book I write, is better than the last (in a different genre), improving my depth in the former, and that each subsequent book fuels sales of the previous ones. Silent Gardens (A Quiet History), a factual story, will attract curiosity in what else I’ve done, just as my sci-fi in Cyrus Song has led people to look at my old horror in The Perpetuity of Memory. The Paradoxicon (including ‘The Director’s Cut’) gets the odd look, and A Girl, Frank Burnside and Haile Selassie stands on its own.

All of which leads me to predict with no confidence at all, that my next anthology, ‘The Unfinished Literary Agency’ will be well-received and garner further interest in my preceding titles. Meanwhile, I’ll move onto the next (Cyrus Song II, Infana Kolonia, and Forgive me No-one).

In my life-within-a-life, I’ve added some furniture to this blog. There’s a filing cabinet, where all posts are filed by month (going all the way back to the start), and a drop-down category list, intentionally made to be more Vogon, in its grasp of English (“I write blog”, “I write film” etc. but it’s true that “I write satire”).

Meanwhile, the girl continues to deal with a slightly lost son, trying to help him and his parents, and his sister. She’s recently taken one her own parents’ liberties away, having phoned the police when her dad went missing, warning that surrendering his license might be the price, but valuing his life more. She has an auntie who’s cut off because her dad can’t drive, and therefore with nowhere to go at Christmas. She has a sister with whom she’s estranged, despite her efforts over five years. This year, she’s asked that any remaining differences can be put to one side, as she’s made amends for past damage she’s done. She’s suggested that a reconciliation would be nice for their parents at Christmas, and that come the time, they can share driving duties to get everyone together. The girl is keen to get her kids and have them stay for New Year. She hates going out, but she’ll do all this. She’s right in the middle of everything and everyone, yet no-one seems to know.

The same girl is helping several friends with personal matters of counselling. One is a vulnerable girl expecting a baby (not hers, as she’s a girl) and until recently, the child was due to be taken from the mum. So the girl wrote letters, she transcended the situation and saw a way that everything might be saved. She saw something in her friend which others didn’t. While everyone else was cooing over a baby they might not see, and saying fuck to the system on social media, this one girl stayed silent. She was the only one who’d been honest with the mum about the chances of losing the baby, and as the only one right, the one to get the blame when it happened. So she risked her friendship, yet no-one knows because nobody speaks of her. She’s lonely and only craves recognition, not help. She writes it all down.

The factual and the fictional, writing as many people, about many others. Symbiosis in the real and the imagined, a thinly-veiled heart.

Life in bifocal time frames

THE WRITER’S LIFE

There are simple ways to look at complex issues. For example, all human conflict is rooted in an inability to see others as alternative versions of ourselves. We are all human after all, and everyone is host to a ghost, shadow self, where thoughts are suppressed, because we know those thoughts are wrong. At my age, I’ve seen plenty, including my hateful drunken ex-self, and a rebellious teenager.

Stempunk cat

As I continue to work my brain out, with reading and writing (while sometimes smoking weed), I’m realising things, only now that I have the time to think in solitude. I can see how that’s sometimes a self-perpetuating mechanism to greater insanity, but I did hit a proverbial wall this week.

Writing my family history book, I was thinking about how I became a writer (via the catalyst of an alcoholic breakdown), but more wondering why I hadn’t found it earlier and not wasted all that time. Since my illness, I’ve been on a journey of discovery, very much like being a teenager again.

With a nearly-teen son of my own, and the shelter and counselling I gave those stray youngsters at the squat, I’m perhaps more in touch with those feelings than I was when I myself should have been learning about the world. And that’s where it seems to have gone wrong, through no-one’s fault but by a combination of me and the system.

Aged five, I’d sit in class and daydream, and many were the times I was summoned back to the room I was already sitting in by a teacher. A few teachers and subjects aside, and despite the efforts of my parents to get me into grammar school, neither primary nor secondary education engaged me. I excelled in maths, English and the sciences, but I neglected other subjects, including history, which now engages me a great deal. And the syllabus was so linear, there was little opportunity to explore beyond it and link things up, as I like to do, to better comprehend them in a larger context. Of course, we were sans internet then.

At primary school, I’d already earned the name, “Ponder: a small Laker that thinks a lot,” as that teacher put it. I was more into visual art at primary school, drawing and painting. And again, I showed promise.

I remember one class project, just after we’d returned from a day trip to London. We’d seen the changing of the guard and we’d been asked to draw a picture from our day. I drew a line of horses, with guards mounted on them, with their feather plumes and so on. And I drew the back view: a line of horses’ arses. Truth is, I couldn’t draw horses’ faces, but when I was asked why I’d chosen my particular angle, I explained that everyone else was drawing the fronts of the horses round the other side, and there was no room for me. That’s quite deep for someone who’s six. But then, to this day I won’t walk between a street artist and their subject, for fear I end up photobombing a drawing.

It’s far from acceptable for a teenage boy to be playing video games in a leisure centre, in full view of the rest of the class running around in the fields outside. But Tehkan’s Bomb Jack was far more my thing than football. My rebellious teenage self levelled this as concentrating on something I excelled at, rather than wasting time on something I hated. Although I was generally a bit of a twunt, I can’t help thinking I had a point.

To their credit, I had many fine teachers at both schools, but they were also bound into a system: one which conditioned children in preparation for entering the world of work, either in a factory or an office. And that, is where the system went wrong, with me (although granted, I helped) and many others, and it still goes on.

I spent 11 years with no aspirations greater than wearing a blue or white collar. I didn’t have pushy parents, and the honest, modest jobs they did allowed them time with us kids. So I worked in print for 25 years, a mostly enjoyable time and certainly with many fond memories. Becoming a writer was logical, making all those things which could be printed and shared. However it happened, I’m glad it did. To paraphrase Douglas Adams, I’m in a place I never realised I wanted to be, but I like it here.

My children and those around them are hopeful that the Tories will be consigned to history soon, so that my kids and many others might enjoy a free higher education. They get that human jobs are being made redundant by technology now, just as they were by machines in the industrial age. Young people need to be able to fill the remaining jobs, the ones AI can’t do (yet), but that’s a long-term vision, something right-wing politics seems blind to.

For whatever reason, my children admire their radical writer old man. On the one hand, anything’s better than what I was a few years ago. But on the other, although not everyone approves, I’m really proud that they’re interested in writing, especially because their dad can write so many things, from bedtime stories to surreal whimsy and horror.

As a many-hatted writer, I’m either doing nothing at all or everything at once. So despite my resolution to break from other genres, I’m finishing my second anthology alongside my family history book, with the latter a constant while I write the last few short stories for what will now be called ‘The Unfinished Literary Agency’. The fictional agency is a theme cropping up in a few of my stories, and although none of the 17 in the book will be incomplete, the title is perhaps a statement of intent: I will not stop writing, when it’s my life and that’s one I enjoy now for the most part (with anxiety, depression and their mates along for a chat while we ride life’s bus).

There are two more short stories published over the next couple of weekends, and the remainder may remain unpublished outside the new book. At least one is the kind of story which has no market or home, except in my own volume. The running list of stories is looking good, and part of the reason I place importance in the titles of my tales:

The office of lost things
Pink sunshine
Reflections of yesterday
The difference engine
Of mice and boys in 1984
A young captain plays it safe
Are ‘friends’ electric?
Diary of a teen in the woods
So long and thanks for all the animals
The long now clock
Quantum entanglement in hamsters
Zeigarnick’s kitchen
The girl with the snake scarf
A girl, Sheldon Cooper and Peter Cook

Plus three more, and possibly some bonus tracks. Some of the stories are retained on this blog and may be revised, while others have been previously published elsewhere. Like The Perpetuity of Memory though, I’ll curate the newer stories into a bigger whole, so that it’s a collection of short stories within a longer narrative.

There are simple ways to look at complex issues, and one piece of advice I’ve given all those young people I’ve met and still see: Be the best that you can be, at the thing you enjoy the most. Then you can give the most back. Some things can’t and shouldn’t be simplified, but by transcending them, you can make them easier to understand.

I’m on a permanent guilt trip anyway, but it’s a guilty pleasure while my former teenage self haunts the current one and they both realise what they’re supposed to be doing.

To ponder a whispering spirit

THE WRITER’S LIFE | DEAR DIARY

I think about words a lot, and I think a lot about words. My favourite word at the moment, is kintsukuroi, which means “More beautiful for having been broken,” and I apply it to people, as well as to objects. “Whisper” is also a nice word, having many meanings in various contexts, but also suggesting a whisper, or one who whisps…

Lonely Robot
Matt Dixon

My family name is Laker: one who fishes on lakes, as opposed to a Fisher, who might fish streams or rivers. At primary school, I had one matron-like teacher who called me “Ponder”, and she was on to something. I just spent the first 42 years of my life not thinking about it, which is quite a paradox. So too is my departed aunt, to whom Cyrus Song is partly dedicated.

My mum’s sister Margaret, was spirited away in 1993, aged 51, by that bastard cancer. The even more tragic thing is, she’d have loved the modern world, for all it could do for her. She’d have doted on my children, and taken an interest in what I’m doing. And the funny thing is, I believe she’s doing all of those things right now.

My belief that the human soul survives the body is all over this blog. I believe we’re all one day free of our physical bindings, to explore the universe as ethereal beings for eternity (therein lie personal heaven and hell, covered elsewhere on this blog), that what we call ghosts are all around us, in a form we can’t always see, and that Bowie was right: Knowledge comes with death’s release.

Although I didn’t realise or appreciate it at the time, my auntie was just like I was when I took on the role of adopted uncle with all those young people at the squat (also on this blog). She was slightly radical, realising that a 14-year-old boy (me, her nephew) was likely to be bored when visiting his nan and aunt (they lived together, in a war memorial house). So she rented me what were then X-rated (horror) films on VHS. She was wicked, cool and sick, as the kids would say.

Margaret was hugely into royalty and royal history. In her day, her research and reading was through books and libraries. In later life, I’m fascinated by the subject myself, like my aunt tapped on my shoulder. What might she make of the internet? How is she, being a part of it? She has a supporting (and linking) role in my next book.

After much debate, I’ve decided how I’m going to write (to present) my brief history of a family. The intent has always been to give my parents an everlasting gift, made with the hands which they made for me, and which I eventually found out were for writing. Even that has an interesting anecdote behind it: When I began to favour my left hand over my right (in 1971), my mum’s health visitor (as we had in those days) advised tying my left arm behind my back, so that I would somehow realign as “normal” by being right-handed. This was common practice in the day, when being left-handed was considered some sort of sinister curse (thank fuck they weren’t all over gender and sexual identities back then, I’d have been drowned). In later life, I’ve been grateful of my “defects”. I feel kintsukuroi.

As a further aside, when I was at school, around 10% of the population were southpaw. When I was married and taking the kids to school, I asked the head teacher what the percentage was among pupils. It was around 40% (let’s say 42), demonstrating that there were once many potential lefties.

In a funny way, my left-handedness has been linked with my life. Where once I ran companies, voted Tory and was generally a right-wing capitalist arse (and drinking heavily), now I’m a impoverished writer, but a happy one, having found all that’s left-wing, joined the Labour Party and embraced wider communities, where I’ve identified myself (and smoked weed). I’ve written in my stories about fallen angels with broken wings, mainly misunderstood characters, learning about themselves, and it’s always the right wing which is broken.

But back to the book, written with the left hand, which has a heart tattoo on it: It’s the story of two people, who would always be little-known, because no-one had written about them. I was only a part of the story from 1970, and the book will be about the places we lived as a family, and where my parents worked (large country houses, and a couple of schools). With all of the research material conveniently within reach, I’ll just be the curator of the story, putting my fictional character skills to use in bringing the real-life characters in this book to life on the page (given my plaudits, I should be able to pull that off). It is of course of somewhat limited interest, but both mum and dad have their own interests and hobbies, so the story will be sprinkled with QI-style factual stories and anecdotes from periods of history which my two characters saw (at least one of which has a royal connection), and they’re inspiring people, as others will see. And of course, such is the democratisation of writing through digital self-publishing, it’ll be a proper book, with an ISBN and all that represents (a copy filed at The British Library etc.)

As a writer, I can create immortality, for my vain and insecure self, wanting to be heard one day, and for others. I somehow feel I’ll be getting in touch with my auntie Margaret more, like I should’ve done when I was younger. She’s a spirit guide, because she was there in the background too, along with others, some still with us and others no longer. But my belief in immortality and of gaining knowledge permits me the comfort of knowing they might all appear in the book, as characters with depth, not because there’s a part of me in them like my fictional characters (although I’m in there biologically), but because it might feel sometimes like they’re guiding me too. It’s a quiet story, a whisper of the blood.

I’m really going to enjoy this busman’s holiday into a new genre: The sci-fi, horror, and sometimes children’s writer, off to speak with the dead. To ponder and whisper, to think about fish in a pond, and to whisp.

Life beside the lake (by bus)

THE WRITER’S LIFE

I’ve found myself somewhere I never realised I wanted to be, in a position where I could take some time off if I wanted to, but I don’t know why I’d want to do that. So rare is my current circumstance that I don’t really have a name for it: perhaps a forelog, that being the opposite of a backlog. I’ve got new stories lined up for publication over the coming weeks, allowing me to concentrate instead on a matter of the heart.

Lake fishing

As an aside, my family name is one derived from a profession: a Laker was one who fished on lakes, where a Fisher fished rivers. The matter of heart, is a book about some of the Lakers.

Meanwhile, there are two short stories in the sausage machine. ‘So Long and Thanks for all the Animals’ is a nod to Douglas Adams only in title. The story begins with strange carvings found in nature, and a device discovered by two school friends while metal-detecting in a woods. What if our planet was trying to give us a message, and the first thing we noticed was the self-harm marks it had made on itself?

‘The Long Now Clock’ is about a caretaker at the Long Now Foundation, which houses a clock designed to keep the time for 10,000 years. The story revolves around a conversation she has with her android assistant, about a message picked up by SETI. The two of them speculate on what might come, concluding in part that any visiting race with the technology to come to Earth would most likely be one so far evolved that they’ve transcended war. The story is mainly dialogue, as a robot and a human compare what it’s like to be each of two co-existing species, and of how each envies the other for different reasons.

Like my most recent short story, ‘Diary of a Teen in the Woods‘, “a metaphysical tale of the spiritual, subconscious world”, the next two have an element of surrealism, while retaining a plausible grip on science. They’ll be in Schlock web zine, where I’m pretty much a staff writer, and one recently compared with surrealist writers like Julio Cortazar and Otrova Gomas for Cyrus Song, and whose stories arealways underlined by a salient sense (and deep understanding of) the human condition”, according to one review of my anthology.

It suits me not having to punt work around, and Schlock’s editor has supported me as a writer from the start. Now that I’m better established, mine is a name which readers are used to seeing on the cover, and with over 50 stories accepted by the editor, they must like me. I know that I have favourite writers in the various periodicals I read, and I’d feel it almost a personal affront if one of them left their publications. Plus, I’m lazy, but only like all those other writers who don’t leave what’s effectively a house publisher, and who feel a loyalty to their readers.

All of which means I have a few weeks’ clear water, during which I’ll maintain my forelog but concentrate mainly on my next book. The book has become a well-known secret in some small circles. It’s the format which has caused me trouble: How to tell the story; how to write the book. But after much internal dialogue, I’ve come up with what I think is the best way to write the book as the gift it is, using the gift I’m expressing gratitude for.

It’s a book about two people, who passed through some noteworthy estates when they worked for the owners. They’re two people who may have gone otherwise unnoticed, if their son hadn’t become a writer. After all I put my parents (and many others) through when I was drunk, and now that our relationships are closer than ever, writing a book about them seemed a nice gift, made by the hands they gave me, and which I subsequently found out were for writing. So the book will be a collection of stories and anecdotes, mainly about the things my parents did and the historical places of interest they worked, and how that influenced me in later life, eventually to write the book, but it’s not about me. Over the next few weeks, I’ll be plotting it, writing the basic structure and beginning the narrative. It’s still pencilled in for publication in March next year, and I’ll have a second anthology out not long after, now with the working title ‘The Importance of Discovery’.

When writing has become my life, I don’t see any reason to take time off. This period of being ahead of oneself is like a busman’s holiday, and one taken beside a lake.