It might appear peculiar in the cold light of the written word but watching people is a pastime that gives me a great amount of pleasure. I’d like to qualify this by explaining that I don’t hide behind hedges with binoculars or peer out from shaded places with two holes cut into a newspaper. I’m talking about the active engagement of observing total strangers as they go about their business in public places. I know for a fact that I have been ‘spotted’ myself whilst doing this and I am sure that many have considered me to be rather odd. A backwards glance can sometimes be the calling card of a harsh critic.

In those unguarded moments when we are not aware of being scrutinised we all resort to our inner behaviour and reveal much more about ourselves than perhaps we realise. It would be considered rude, for example, to pick one’s nose during a conversation but in the very private sanctity of a car it’s a very different matter. Those who do that seem oblivious to the fact that the windows around them allow light to pass out as well as in.

It is in the public arena, however, that we all fall into a middle ground; a space where we are vaguely on our best behaviour but still engrossed in our private world. It is this state of affairs that fascinate me. Not so much for the specific incidents or events that may unfold but more for the way that a given individual might react, behave and respond. By observing that, I feel, I am gaining a unique character sketch which reinforces the differences between us.

We all do it, whether we are aware of it or not. It’s part of the mechanism which makes us find people attractive; It motivates us to meet new people (or avoid others). We are, as the Americans say: ‘checking each other out’ all the time. Artists have a real knack of doing this but it is not clear if they are artists because of it or in spite of it. Of course, when I say ‘artists’ I am referring to that classless group of people which includes writers, actors, painters, poets and more.

It’s an essential skill for an actor to know the subtle nuances of any given personality type - from the way they raise their eyebrows, for example, to their choice of footwear. Similarly, a writer needs to have an extremely detailed mind-view of a person to bring that character to life in words. Perhaps more so in the case of fiction writers as they are telling us about people who don’t exist and to lie effectively they have to be convincing.

The thing that I like to do most is imagine that everything around me is a tightly rehearsed theatrical production being staged just for my benefit. When I do this, in a place like a coffee bar, the choreography is exquisite as I am able to hear conversational exchanges as they occur and watch all manner of scenarios unfold. On the whole, in these locations, I have found that a lot of men talk mostly about ‘things’ - things they own, things they’d like to own or things they’re passionate about. Women, on the other hand, seem to talk about people and who did what to whom and when. This is a grossly unfair generalisation but the snippets of dialogue that filter through the hubbub do seem to support that premise, time and again.

So the next time you are out and about, take the time to absorb the people around you. Embrace them (figuratively of course) and soak in the rich diversity that is: US. We are an incredibly interesting bunch and as the saying goes: ‘If you can’t find a particular ‘type’ in any crowd, be aware that it might just be you’.

—-

Footnote.

As a comedy footnote to this particular piece, I thought it might be amusing to include a description of the circumstances in which it was written. Partly as a commendation of my technology (which you will see later) but mainly to demonstrate my last point.

I had wandered into a local coffee bar which has a variety of seating. From the tall, breakfast style bar chairs with tables to smaller armchairs and finally - the most jealously guarded of all - huge, enveloping sofas. I was disappointed to find that all the premium spots were taken and was determined to have a comfortable ‘sit-down’, so you can imagine my excitement when I saw that one of the armchairs had been separated from its table and was cast aside next to the massive glass partition which overlooked the river.

Although there wasn’t a table I could use, I reasoned that I could manage by having my laptop on my knee and the coffee on the floor. Having made myself comfortable I attempted to plug in all the various electronica I had brought with me but this was a precarious task. The sides of the armchair were just about armpit height which severely restricted my movement and, as I was struggling to balance things on my lap, the wi-fi dongle that I usually carried slipped off to one side as I leaned over to reach for my coffee.

In a moment of slow motion horror, I watched it land neatly into the cup beside me and sink like the Titanic as I wrestled with wires. Desperate to save the poor thing I leaned over and accidentally emptied the contents of my bag in front of me. I dipped my hand into the hot drink, salvaged the device and shook it  - spraying steaming drink onto the people next to me (who, bizarrely, didn’t notice) - and reached for a handkerchief, which came out bringing the contents of my pocket with it. Lee Evans or Norman Wisdom couldn’t have devised a routine funnier in that moment but in spite of its comedy potential, I was less than amused.

As the spectacle subsided, I was aware that whilst most of the people around me were enjoying a serene break as they sipped their mineral waters or read the newspaper, over there - in the corner by the window - was a strange chap, juggling his toys, whisper-swearing, and throwing things about. If I had been looking for a slapstick character to observe, unfortunately it was I, on this occasion and I know that my fiasco had not gone unnoticed.

Much later that same day I switched on the gadget to see if it was beyond redemption but was delighted to find that it was unscathed by its ordeal (as you can see from the photo). Testament, I think you’ll agree, to its robust design (and perhaps just a little good luck on my part).

Madeleine was blessed with sensational good listens.

English is full of colourful phrases and mysterious words that we often use everyday without ever thinking of where they came from nor what they actually mean. This is one of the things that makes the language so unique and rich with texture but when you analyse some of these ideas they quickly start to quake under the scrutiny of observation.

In writing, it is always agreed that one should avoid clichés like the proverbial plague and there are good reasons why this is prudent advice. The use of an over familiar phrase indicates that the writer has taken the safe and comfortable path of describing an event or scene in such a way that we are readily able to digest the various aspects very quickly. But by doing it through the use of pathways laid down by others they are missing the opportunity to bring new dimension and value to the idea being conveyed.

Take for example, the phrase: ‘He was as dull as dishwater’ (or often: ‘ditchwater’). Whilst we might understand the idea that a person might be as uninteresting as waste water - opaque, grey and unpleasant, by using this phrase the writer has failed to recognise that by renovating the familiar with a new and personal twist they could have illuminated the concept in the reader with a startling freshness. So, for example, a writer could have said: ‘He was as dull as a stormy day’ which suddenly has a range of connotations which can be expanded upon. It is this altering and highlighting of the ordinary which makes all art more original and inspiring.

The next example I’d like to examine is a case where an idiom has become so well used that the meaning is actually bizarre when the laws of grammar are applied to it. If someone was describing an attractive woman they might say that she was ‘Good looking’, or possessed ‘Good Looks’ however this description seems to defy rational language logic on a variety of levels. This can be demonstrated by changing one of the words. If the phrase had a rule which defined its meaning then it could be applied to a variety of other attributes. So, for example, if that woman had a beautiful voice would we say that she had ‘Good listening’? If she wore sweet perfume would we describe her as having ‘Good smells’? In actual fact - because they still make sense in a mysterious and antique way - we could, in fact, use those descriptions as they quite clearly reference the original phrase and throw fresh light on an old idea.

Finally, my attention is drawn to ancient words which become startlingly unusual when put under the spotlight. Just recently I was concerned about a splinter of wood which had become lodged in my finger and in conversation I described it as a ‘spell’. Aside from the etymology behind this particular word, it occurred to me that at some stage, somebody must have determined a series of measurements which define a ‘spell’ in terms of its size. At what size does a ‘spell’ become a ‘splinter’ or even a ‘sliver’? Is there an actual size? As big as a matchstick? (how big is one of those?) As big as a drumstick?. There seems to be a whole division of unspoken scientific understanding at work here and we seem to know instinctively the dimensions involved. But someone, somewhere, at some point must have taken time to put boundaries upon it. 

English is pebble dashed with such words, phrases and ideas, many of which have fascinating origins washed ashore on the beach of our daily speech. As a writer, nothing is more powerful than researching, expanding and restoring them with a new and invigorating architecture. Conversely, a writer who is content to make the ‘ordinary’ tell their tale will remain forever; ordinary.

With my daughter’s permission, I would like to showcase a piece of prose that she wrote and performed for her GCSE drama exam today. When she rehearsed it in front of me last night I was almost moved to tears, not just by the gentle Dublin accent which she spoke it in but also for the depth of maturity which it conveyed. I was convinced that she was reciting James Joyce at first and was stunned to hear that she had written it herself. The conviction of delivery and depth of feeling in the written words was astonishing. Not surprisingly, she received the top mark for writing and performing this monologue which looks set to bring her an A-star. I am very proud.

~

I always wanted to be an explorer. To visit England and Europe and the USA, and to voyage the sea to one day come home again and be the same woman I started out as. He will have developed a heart beat by now, fingernails and tiny, tiny closed eyes. I knew it would happen. A small lump of naive life all curled up inside of me, slowly taking away parts of my body to nurture his own and I hate it. The doctors refuse to take him out of me because they say it’s not my choice who lives or dies, that it’s not my choice which way he comes out of me.

They tell me he’s my responsibility, it’s my responsibility. Do you think I was responsible for that? Do you think if I showed them my bruises, and the cut above my left thigh they’d change their minds? They scrutinize me at the question as they pry over my sickly ever-growing stomach, they say I’ll be a fantastic mother - that my husband will be overjoyed. Who? Who are they to tell me to give myself up to another human being just because he grew inside of me? If the doctors, who claim they care can’t help me, then I’m sure the backstreet dealers with their sweaty palms and their shabby back pockets can. They lure me in with their makeshift instruments and their shallow eyes; maybe it’s something to do with the way they promise me my life back.

Above anything else, they promise me my life. I’m being pushed into a position where I have to choose between moral right or living half the life I ever lived …and that’s not right. That’s not right! Why should I have to conform to their idealistic biased male regulations to be considered a ‘real’ woman?

A woman has every right to be a woman just as every child has the right to be a child. The female population of Ireland is being condemned and deprived of their right to be their own by the Irish government, and I’m going to do whatever it takes to change that. This isn’t my only option. I’m leaving for England for the first time, and I’ll do whatever is in my power to change something. Anything. A woman isn’t defined by the way she was sculpted, a woman is defined by her state of mind. And anyway, I always wanted to explore.


Hope Slater. March 2012.

This is not the sort of thing that I’d usually write about but as it’s the kind of activity that fills much of my ‘spare’ time I thought it worthy of some kind of documentation. I spend a lot of time trawling through boxes of clutter at carboot sales and tend to prefer either ‘house clearance’ sellers or merchants of collectables and vintage or antique nick-nackery. Occasionally, the ‘general public’ throw up the odd gem or two but as a rule it is these traders that have the sort of stuff I am looking for.

So, what is it that appeals to me so much? Ideally, it is objects that have had a ‘life’. Those forgotten possessions and treasured objects that hold within every molecule a trace of the life of their owners. As a writer, this is deeply fascinating for me and my mind races with the domestic scenes and scenarios that these things hold within them. From the ‘orphaned photographs’ to the very personal ephemera such as pipes and wallets.

My primary interest is in the area of forgotten technology and in particular radios. In an age where digital technology threatens the lifeblood of the printed word I find it extremely interesting to look back to a time when the ‘spoken word’ and music was populated around the nation by the very simple technology of electro-magnetic physics. This was a world of rapid advances - from the early days in the 1920’s, radio blossomed to become the primary source of popular entertainment and ultimately revealed to an innocent audience the onset of the horror of a world war. Today, we can hardly conceive how that must have felt, but at the time radio was the era’s Twitter. It’s all they had.

During and after the war the radio played a pivotal role in depicting the changing society which was evolving much faster that many of the war’s survivors could comprehend. From the days of the jazz bands and the dawn of rock and roll the radio and its associated living room furniture dominated the fashionable and humble homes alike. Where we now have Japanese wide screen plasma television screens, back then they had Marconi valve sets.

Just recently I was lucky enough to pick up a speaker cabinet at a boot sale in York for a mere three pounds which, given the gamble of it actually working, was a bargain. I had spotted it from a distance as I know what these things look like. It was in decent condition and had obviously had a gentle life in someone’s attic (or Grandpa’s front room) since it had been bought many, many years ago.

When I got it home, the first instinct was to wire it up and see if the diaphragm still worked and how it sounded. I hotwired my ipod to the cables and it sounded great which inspired me to embark on a restoration project, not only of the cabinet but also the internal wiring. The woodwork was badly stained with years of nicotine and the fabric grill was torn but I could see the potential and how it would make a beautiful valvepunk addition to my own home.

The wood was a combination of bird’s eye walnut, maple and cherry of different hues which made a spectacular pattern underneath the layers of aging shellac lacquer. The veneer was peeling in places but nothing that couldn’t be patched up and to one side was what I believed was a brass volume console. What follows is my account of various stages in the process of cleaning this ‘treasured item’ back up to respectability and useage.

—-

Photo diary.

This is how it first looked against the fresh spring grass.

Once I’d got it home the first thing I did was take the whole thing apart and strip the lacquer off [1,2] as It was badly scratched and bore the signs of a lifetime of use. The chemicals involved often cause the veneer to lift and there was already a few places where it had come off [3] but generally, it was in reasonable condition (given that it was more than eighty years old.) [4] One of the most fascinating things I discovered when I took it apart was the fact that it had a sticker on the back which told me it was made by ‘F Waterhouse Ltd of Dudley Hill Road, Bradford’ (the place of my birth) and inside there was a pencil inscription that told me it was built on the 22nd October 1938 (just a year before war broke out.)

As you can see here [3], there is quite a bit of microscopic damage but the wood grain promises to look as terrific now as it did when it was built. you can see some of the loss of veneer which I will probably not repair. My intention is to treat the wood with beeswax (as opposed to the original finish) and worry about replacing the missing sections later.

Having stripped and sanded the cabinet with wire wool I am now ready to work on the speaker grille, back panel and internal workings (leaving the waxing till later). The original grille (front) was made from a coarse fabric that was sprayed bronze [5], however the degree of nicotine (and probably coal smoke) damage was too great for it to be saved. From a local craft shop I got some hessian to wrap around the wooden panel opening (behind).

Originally, the fabric had been glued with shellac. This was sanded away, cleaned up and the new hessian was spray glued into position and fixed with a staple gun on the inside [6]. The back panel has the original maker’s mark [7], so I decided not to change anything about this section other than a brief wipe down. Also on the back panel are the main input contacts. These are wonderful examples of art deco styling [8].

The original volume control was set in a metal dish which was black, or so I thought. I soaked it overnight in Brasso and discovered the polished brass underneath [9]. Using brand new brass screws this was fitted back into the opening. The wiring was perished and this was all replaced and reconfigured to work with powered or non-powered input [10]. Having refinished and repaired as much of the cabinet as possible, I waxed the exterior several times over the course of a couple of days and began to reassemble the unit [11]. Finally, I used more new brass screws to affix the back plate after filling the void with acoustic foam [12].

The final result. Not only very high quality sound but a beautiful piece of furniture. The waxed wood now has a satisfying depth and lustre. Not bad for £3!

There is nothing quite so emotionally moving and spectacular than seeing the return of geese in their annual migration. It marks the return of spring, the onset of longer days and the promise of summertime. Just recently, I was lucky enough to witness this brief spectacle and was halted in my tracks by the silent majesty of it all. I was compelled to stand and watch for many minutes as flock after flock moved slowly from one side of the sky to the other until they filled the entire panorama.

What struck me the most was the feeling that these birds carried with them some deep compulsion and purpose; to not only leave when they did but also to return when they were mature enough to desire offspring of their own. The mighty effort involved in flying such huge distances was inspiring and in the quiet of the moment I imagined how they had spent the winter dreaming of the land of their childhood and secretly passed down stories to their grown children of the place of their birth.

I wanted to write a very purple piece of prose which conveyed some of these ‘flighty’ ideas and sketched out some notes. The following is a draft of that idea and I know that it needs much more crafting to be of the architecture it deserves. I may or may not get around to this in future blogs. My reason for attempting such a task is to reinstate the daily task of writing and to get the mechanisms of ‘thoughts-to-words’ back into gear after a period of weeks where I had put it aside.

Against a sanguine and Constable sky; that chief organ of sentiment rippled with blues, gold and white, a stirring advances. The trees, with their blackened fingers gently waving in the twilight breeze, timidly display the faintest suggestion of green. The joyful soliloquy of Blackbirds, calling their news of cats and worms to the world from highest, falls into a hush of expectation as nature itself prepares for arrival. Long has been the season of darkness with its biting frosts and slippery floor. The entombed fish beneath opaque rivers have dreamt of release for long enough but now a seachange is about to occur and they leap, knowing what is about to unfold.

First, an arrow; like an archer’s shot, cuts silently through the expanse above. Gracefully ebbing ever forward; the pointing leads the others on. Then, from beyond the rooftops; another then another until a squadron, a thousand strong fills the air. The magnificence of their triumphant formation brings a calmness and in that moment all is breathless with anticipation. These Canada Geese are returning from warmer isles to their childhood; that holy ground they know of as home.

A place imagined while strutting the sun baked terraces of foreign lands as World Service voices crackle from a distant transistor speaker. Amongst trees strange and wonderful, perhaps, they dreamt of the green and pleasant valleys of their youth. Or maybe they were in the ancestral lakes of the new found lands preparing to brace their feathers against Icelandic wind like ancient mariners as the thrill of epic adventure pulled them back to the striped lawns and pleasure boat bobbing lakes of the promised land.

Since late autumn, when they fled the mist and advancing cold, each heart has held desert island memories both distant and grand. For nearly half a year they have been away in places known only to them and the news of their exodus grew with each measured advance. Each beating wing now brings thoughts of country lawns and rivers broad, by flowered dale and cricket pitch. A land where bread falls from the sky and the grass is lush with morning dew.

This place where they will choose a mate and rear their young who will grow in two seasons to depart once again when the sun retires to that ‘other place’. Some will return and some will never but therein lies the circle; the turning carousel of life which depicts the passing of time. Their arrival proclaims the start of a new page. It is the dawn of our springtime when all is fresh once more and the year lays out before us like an unpainted canvas, waiting for the wings of fate and destiny to paint the tableaux as they will.

A small part of my mind has been closed off for about twelve weeks now. I have walked the corridors outside its door many times, hesitating to perhaps look in as if checking on a sick child. Each time, however, I have resisted the temptation and gone about my business satisfied that all was well within.

For a while I became concerned that what lay in that room had withered and died - faded away into nothing more than a clouded memory but something drove me on to persist with my absence and let it have time to rest. Instinctively, I knew that the thing which I had confined had been worked harder than it had ever been for some time and needed to recover.

On the sixth of December last year I completed the final chapter of a novel that I had poured myself into, intensively, for a little more than six months. Carving out an average of a thousand words a day, it staggered into bed at just short of one hundred and fifty thousand words. I knew in my heart that those words were, quite possibly, not assembled in the right order and might even be the wrong words for the job. Certainly, there were more than required but for the time being they served the purpose of painting the picture I wanted to release from my imagination.

Since that day in December I have made no attempt to put my fingers to the keyboard to write anything of substance. With the exception of a few journal entries I have observed a complete abstinence which has been due in part to having nothing of any interest to say. So complete was my exploration of the grand designs of my novel idea that I had exhausted every creative avenue and emptied all the resources I had for new ideas. Rather than face the futility and disappointment of flogging a crippled steed I concluded that a sojourn was better than a battle. Far better that I let it lie than try to ride the stumbling creature and fall, taking the humiliation which that brings.

I am convinced that my inactivity these last few months are not a case of writer’s block (which, in any case, implies that a writer cannot move forward) so much as a case of a writers ‘conclusion’ - a situation where a train of thought finally arrives at its intended destination. Having disembarked from the train I find myself now striding the platform’s length looking at posters for other exciting places to visit.

But now it is time to unlock that attic room. I have heard the plaintive cries from within and know that the thing is alive and well. Awakening from winter hibernation, it now seeks sustenance and attention which I once more feel capable of offering. Our time apart has been a period of recovery for us both as I have spent my time living a life and observing the very things which I have previously attempted to document. Now that the dark days and icy winds have receded, my internal store of snapshots and character sketches is renewed and together I believe that we can, once more, embark on adventures new as spring begins to surge around me. Sometimes a change is as good as a rest. When the words won’t flow - don’t force them (they are unforgiving). Do something else instead.

I don’t doubt for a minute; the old adage that we all have a book, somewhere deep inside us just waiting to get out but, from what I understand of the way that the publishing game works, there are certain ingredients that you need to bake a successful cake.

The Cathedral of Wonderful Imaginings is usually ‘novel’ shaped for most writers and whilst many succeed in building a palace we are willing to visit, others create a shrine of obscurity that is devoid of any congregation and I began to wonder why that was. There seems to be something at work here between the pages of the very best (and worst) examples of these and I feel it’s something that any aspiring writer should at least be aware of. 

It seems to me that ‘popularity’ does not always equal ‘quality’. There are far too many examples of current best sellers that are abysmally written and the same was true of the past. However, there is a common thread that unites the good, the bad and the ugly when they surface as popular and often recurring successes.

If you met a friend who told you that they had been to the cinema to see the latest blockbuster I am certain that your first question would be: “What’s it about?” Likewise, if you told your friend that you had just read a new novel, they would ask you the same question. Chances are, they wouldn’t ask you: “Was it well written?” A question like that would seem churlish or petty minded in ordinary conversation but it is the first thought of editors, publishers and academics alike.

For most of us, watching a movie does not involve a conscious critique of camera angles, plot development and edit points. We are (generally) looking to be entertained and are responsive to the unfolding of a good story. In the same way, most readers can forgive quirky grammar and the occasional hole in the plot as our suspension of disbelief is open to the spinning of an intriguing tale.

Without mentioning any names, there are plenty of currently best selling books on the market which the intelligencia say should never have appeared in print but for those who are gripped by the story, the construction of academically correct prose is of little interest.

Which leads me to believe that the single most timeless ingredient in any story is the premise - the actual ‘thing’ that it is about. If you can get that right then your readers will be with you. Unfortunately, the editors, agents and other gatekeepers feel quite differently and any aspiring writer should be well aware of that. The drive to keep every page tight and exciting is very important in such a fiercely commercial arena. If you can do both, the rich shores of literary fame are well within your reach.

A synopsis.

Two, middle aged friends find their life-paths crossing - after having had no contact since their student days - when a terrible shared secret comes screaming through the years to haunt them, threatening their sanity, freedom and comfortable lives.

Evidence surfaces, when Joshua (the ten year old son of the family who had just moved in to the former student flats) finds a ring in the back garden. This leads to further discoveries of human bone and a police inquiry quickly links the house to the era and the two main characters.

As the story unfolds, we hear personal accounts of the sequence of events told by Dave (a respectable dentist) and Tom (an IT consultant) and see how their viewpoints differ. However, in the process we see how the secrets they each keep (from themselves and each other) have shaped who they have become. These statements are set against (and woven amongst) present tense revelations as the inquiry unfolds, revealing that the girl was a flatmate of Dave and Tom, who was not lost on a backpacking holiday as the reports had suggested in 1976

We learn from Tom and Dave that their extreme student lifestyle - constantly in search of the ultimate thrill - led (through a combination of drink and mushrooms, on Halloween weekend) to the drowning of Clare (an archeology student), in the bathroom at the house.

We hear from Tom that the secret he kept from Dave was that he had sex with her almost-dead body, causing her to drown. However, we learn from Dave that it was his idea to dispose of the body (to hide their grisly excesses) instead of reporting the incident.

Having tried a variety of methods (including food processors and a bonfire in the garden) they are satisfied that the incident is behind them, but rivalry between Dave and Tom reaches a climax when Tom tells Keith about the party. Dave had stolen Keith’s girlfriend and the tension between them was already there.

Now, in the present day only Dave and Tom know the full truth but the police (as yet) can’t directly link them. That is, until Keith arrives back on the scene. Dave convinces Tom that the only way to retain their anonymity is to make sure that Keith doesn’t reveal all that he knows.

However, following the ill conceived murder of Keith, fresh evidence emerges which irrevocably incriminates both Dave and Tom but for different reasons. From beyond the grave, Clare appears to have had a hand in posthumous retribution.

Thrillers, Killers ‘n’ Chillers is a webzine that aims to do what it says in the title - at least to thrill and chill (they haven’t and wouldn’t advocate anyone killing just yet!) It is faithfully dedicated to writing and reading short stories and flash fiction in the most daring of genres, including crime, noir, action, thriller, horror, weird, spooky, supernatural and slice of life. As long as a story hits one of the criteria or, even better, transcends them all, then this is the place for it. It’s edited by horror and urban fantasy author, Lily Childs; crime writer: Col Bury and best-selling thriller author: Matt Hilton.

As a special and tantalising treat on this spookiest of nights, they have cooked up a week-long festival of writing called: “Hellicious Halloween” and there are some despicably dark delights for you to shiver to over the coming few days. Thirteen tales of horror by twelve excellent writers - a blend of terror, fear, emotion and humour. There you’ll find classic gothic versus contemporary urban life (or death); traditional pumpkinistas versus animist tree-atricals.

They’ve announced the line-up in advance (so you’ll know what there is to look forward to) and the first story of each day will be published at 9am. The second at 6pm - UK (GMT) times. Enjoy, and please support the writers by giving your feedback - especially a certain J. Bramwell Slater who just happens to open and close the selection. He is rather dear to my heart.

Read and log your support > Hellicious Halloween writing festival

THE LINE UP

31 October 2011
AN UNQUIET SLUMBER by J. Bramwell Slater
CONFESSIONS OF A JACK-O-LANTERN by Harris Tobias
 
01 November 2011
BLOODY TRUCE by Erin Cole
TOBY’S LAST HALLOWEEN PARTY by Keith Gingell
 
02 November 2011
THE MONKEY TREE by Sean Patrick Reardon
PICK YOUR OWN PUMPKIN by Chris Allinotte
 
03 November 2011
MNF by Absolutely*Kate
HALLOWEEN LOVERS by Phil Ambler
 
04 November 2011
WHAT FATE IMPOSES by Patricia Abbott
SMASHING PUMPKINS by Gill Hoffs
 
05 November 2011
BACK WHERE I BELONG by Dorothy Davies
THE FACE OF EVIL by Kevin G. Bufton
 
06 November 2011
DINNER FOR ONE (OR, THE MAD MORTICIAN OF BRINDLE STREET) by J. Bramwell Slater

—-

DON’T FORGET you can delve into the fascinating mythology of my own work in progress at a number of sites:

Uncle Reggie’s Magic Radio

Reginald Merryweather on Twitter

Reginald Merryweather’s personal blog

Quote:
“Various style guides and national varieties of languages prescribe different guidance on dashes. Dashes have been cited as being treated differently in the US and the UK, with the former preferring the use of an em-dash with no additional spacing, and the latter preferring a spaced en-dash. As an example of the US style, The Chicago Manual of Style still recommends unspaced em dashes. Style guides outside of the US tend to diverge from this guidance. For example, the Canadian The Elements of Typographic Style recommends the spaced en dash – like so – and argues that the length and visual magnitude of an em dash “belongs to the padded and corseted aesthetic of Victorian typography.” In the United Kingdom, the spaced en dash is the house style for certain major publishers, including the Penguin Group, the Cambridge University Press, and Routledge. But this convention is not universal. The Oxford Guide to Style (2002, section 5.10.10) acknowledges that the spaced en dash is used by “other British publishers”, but states that the Oxford University Press—like “most US publishers”—uses the unspaced em dash.”
(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dash)

- so there.