March 24, 2023 · 11:18 am

Pressed for time? I can help with your shout-out!

Whether you’re a self-published author or a band distributing your music independently, your press release is there to sell your product and inform the reader or listener. It’s a summary of your work and also a little about your background too. A good press release can be the difference between your book or album being picked up for review or not, or receiving that all-important exposure through an interview. Hey, it may even lead to interest from a publisher or label!

There’s a lot of PR agencies who know this, which is why they’ll charge you a lot of money for a press release and PR services. The truth is, with a bit of diligence, research and work, you can compile a list of fanzines, webzines, magazines or publishing houses provide a link to a sample of your writing or a ZIP file of your album, and send it for consideration yourself.

However, one thing you’ll definitely need is a press release to go with it. As a musician, writer and editor with over 25 years experience, I know how hard it is to get exposure for your words and music and also about using the right words to promote it effectively.

“But I’m already a writer!” I hear you cry indignantly. “Why do I need you?”

I’m not going to argue on that score. BUT do you ever use the phrase ‘another pair of eyes’? Send your work to beta readers? Consider working with an editor? The truth is, another person’s input, completely independent of yours, can make a real difference. (Plus, you won’t need to worry about bigging yourself up if you’re the modest type!)

So, here’s the hustle. I charge £20 per press release. I can’t guarantee a lucrative recording contract or a multi-book deal with a major publisher, but I can promise you that you’ll save a bit of money while promoting your hard work!

So get in touch with me to find out more.

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July 2, 2020 · 4:21 pm

The Player

I first saw the player one morning in May. Since everything started to happen back in 2020 – and let’s be honest, it’s still happening – I decided to build a morning walk along the beach into my daily routine. Now I know what you’re thinking – “If I lived that close to the beach, I wouldn’t need a global pandemic to get me out there enjoying it!” Guilty as charged. Sure, I’d taken a stroll or two along the beach in the past – mostly as a way to evangelise my town to any friends and family who came to visit, but I’d never really taken the time to appreciate it for what it was. These days, I do appreciate it, in lots of different ways, and I’m not too proud to admit that I’d been missing out.

Anyway, back to the player. Spring had not so much as sprung, as reluctantly rose from a crouch with aching limbs – but nonetheless, here was some real sun that I could feel on my face. It glistened on the waves as they gently lapped the sand and I was surprised that there was nobody else around. Usually there’s a dog walker or two, and I’d joined them as one of the morning regulars since starting my routine. Sorry, I’m going off on a tangent again. I guess I didn’t think I’d have that much to say but then again, it’s been a long time since I’ve spoken to anybody.

So, there he was on the beach. At first glance, I couldn’t make him out. it looked like some bizarre piece of ship wreckage sticking out of the sand, but as one of the few very small clouds in the sky passed over the sun, I got a clearer view. He was sat at a grand piano. At least, I think it was a grand. It certainly wasn’t one of those ones your grandmother used to have, or that you see in old Western movies. Unsurprisingly, I was instantly reminded of that film where a woman plays a piano on the beach. At first, I thought this was someone paying homage to that, or parodying it for some student film or sketch maybe? Transfixed, I continued to move closer, until I could make out the player. He had dark hair, and was wearing a suit – somehow this made everything seem even stranger, even though if he was sat there in surf shorts and flip flops, it would still have been strange.

Then there was the music. When I was working, back when everything was normal, I used to love to write while listening to music. I like all sorts of stuff, but instrumental music seemed to work best – soundtracks and classical mostly. So, I had a basic working knowledge of piano concertos, the classic stuff as well as the contemporary. And yes, the soundtrack for that film that this whole scene reminded me of sometimes featured. This was different though. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. Sometimes, just for a fleeting moment, it sounded like some of Hayden’s chamber stuff, then I thought I could detect a bit of Rachmaninov, then what could have been one of the player’s own compositions – strangely discordant, with crazy time signatures, then off into some random honky-tonk. It was the weirdest thing, but even stranger was the fluidity with which he moved between every style, making it sound like one crazy continuous piece, that you all at once knew, but didn’t know at all.

That probably doesn’t make any sense to you, but it’s difficult to describe. I don’t really know why, but it started to make a little more sense to me when I got a little closer to the player. His suit wasn’t any kind of dinner suit, business suit or tuxedo that I had seen before. It seemed to shift before my eyes, like I couldn’t quite focus on it. For a couple of seconds, it looked like it was made of some kind of weird fabric that shimmered, reflecting the sun and casting radiant mini-rays all around. Then a moment later, it turned into a sport jacket and slacks, then into something so impenetrably black that I could make no creases or folds out at all.

By now I was about 10 feet away, taking all this in with growing incredulity.

“Hey!” I ventured. “Sounds great! Thanks for brightening up my morning!”

The instant it was out of my mouth, I wished I could have said something more profound than this jaunty herald. I suddenly got the sense that this was a pivotal moment of crucial significance, and what I said would matter.

I needn’t have worried. The player continued to play, oblivious to my presence. I stepped a little closer, and ventured round the piano, getting a frontal view as well as from both sides. The shifting suit continued to shift, and the man’s impassive face just maintained the same expression. When I was stood directly in front of him, he didn’t even register, but just appeared to look right through me. It’s so weird to say this now, but it was like his face was doing the same thing as his suit. One minute he looked like a handsome movie actor in a pivotal cinematic scene, the next he was a gaunt wretch of a thing, with eyes that…I can’t describe it…they just seemed to make him look like someone who’d seen things that nobody else had ever seen. Then at the next glance, he looked like everyone’s favourite jovial party host, rousing the guests with one of his good-natured renditions.

As I was pondering over the whole otherworldliness of the situation, a thought stuck me. What if somebody else comes along? What will they do? What will I do? Where I lived wasn’t a bad place to be, but there were still some deviant kids who liked to cause trouble – probably just out of boredom. What would happen if they showed up? Then, coming the other way, I could see a woman in the distance, striding along as a Golden Retriever bounded on ahead in search of the length of driftwood she’d just thrown in front of her. As she got closer, I recognised her as one of the morning walk regulars and took comfort in the fact that she at least wouldn’t do anything disruptive.

The dog had returned to her side now and as they drew closer, I got ready to make conversation, with an ‘I know, right?’ expression on my face. The fact that the dog didn’t do anything instantly made me curious. It walked right past the player – just for a fleeting moment turning its head quizzically in his direction, then plodded up to me. I absentmindedly scratched behind the dog’s ears as I watched its owner close the distance between us.

“Don’t mind him, he’s just saying hello!”

She did not acknowledge the player at all as she walked straight past him. Before I could stop myself I said:

“Can you not see him? The man at the piano?”

She looked at me quizzically, saying she didn’t know what I meant. I made some hurried correction, saying that I’d seen someone on the promenade playing the piano yesterday and did she see him? That seemed to make more sense to her and of course, she said that she hadn’t. Relieved that I hadn’t created a scene but more confused than ever, I made to look as if I was gazing whimsically out to sea, so she wouldn’t think I was being weird just standing there. She carried walking with her dog behind me and a carried on watching the player. There! A bit of Mozart was it? Then some sort of weird, free-form jazz thing, I don’t know, I can’t really describe what it was.

That was when the idea struck me. We have all this technology at our fingertips and take it for granted to the extent that we forget we even have it. I took my phone out of my pocket and held it up. I wish I hadn’t. When I looked at the player through my camera, it was as if we had both been transported to…I don’t know where, some strange dimension, it was like…well, it sounds like such a  corny thing but it’s the best way I can describe it…It looked like the player was in Hell. I can’t unsee what I saw. He was surrounded by searing flames but the piano was completely untouched and his face remained impassive, at least until the flesh on it bubbled and melted, sliding off his skull before my eyes. Shouting out in horror, I pulled my camera away from my eyes and looked at him again. Everything was just the same as before, with him playing impassively away – with his face still very much intact. Despite what I’d just witnessed,  I couldn’t help myself, and held my phone up once more, ready to drop it from my field of vision if the same thing happened again. This time there was no fire. Now, the player was sat in a stunningly beautiful glade, with shafts of golden sunlight streaming down through the trees and countless flowers blooming all around. Ah, I thought. So this is the Heaven version – of course, how silly of me.

I couldn’t make sense of anything and was a moment away from just turning on my heels and running – just to put some distance between myself and something I couldn’t possibly understand. But there was one more thing to try. I switched my phone camera to video setting and held it up again. This time, the player was sat in a barren dust bowl of a place, the air thick with some sort of strange cloud. It shifted momentarily and I could just make out the skeleton of some enormous building, something that looked ultra-modern, but that had also been in a state of ruin for hundreds of years. Whether this change of scenery was a result of me switching to video, or just a coincidence, I don’t know. What I did know is that I’d had enough. Backing away from the player until he was a good 30 feet away, I turned round and ran all the way home, clutching my phone.

All of a sudden, it felt like I was in possession of the most amazing thing in the world but also the most terrifying thing in the world. I went into my bedroom and gave myself a moment, then looked at my picture gallery. I don’t know if it was disappointment or relief I felt when the last two pictures I’d taken now showed as corrupt files. I almost didn’t bother trying to play the video, but I did.

I know this didn’t happen at the time – I was only filming for a few seconds – but I swear, when I played the video back this time, it was different. The player stopped playing. He looked up directly into the camera. At me. My heart almost leapt out of my chest as he spoke:

“What you do next will decide the future.”

And, for the couple of seconds that it took him to say this, his surroundings were brought into vivid detail. He was sat in some kind of haunting, apocalyptic landscape, the burnt-out remains of skyscrapers behind him, as a number of shambling figures lurched about in the distance. I attempted to play the video again, but just like the photos, it was now showing up as corrupted. I wish I could tell you that the first thing I did was run back out to the beach, but I didn’t. I lay for the rest of the day on top of my bed, in a state of high anxiety and turmoil, until sheer nervous exhaustion lured me into a deeply uneasy sleep, full of dreams, fire and screams. When I awoke, still feeling absolutely exhausted, I hurriedly put on my shoes and headed out to the beach once more. The player was gone.

I don’t know why I’m writing this now, weeks after. Nobody will believe me and I’m the only person who saw it, but I guess I just feel the need to document it all somehow. What did he mean? Who was he? Believe me, I’ve tried to make sense of it, but the whole thing is too much for my mind to comprehend. I must admit, I’d been losing focus in my life before the player arrived. At least now I have something to think about, and something to work for. After all, nobody needs to know where I got the idea from, do they?

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February 28, 2023 · 12:28 pm

Do you review?

Ah, reviews. They’re the nectar of the gods as far as self-published authors are concerned. And not just the ones who write historical Greek fiction.

If someone has:

  • Happened upon your book amidst the millions of other self-published titles
  • Bought or downloaded it
  • Taken the time to read it
  • Been significantly moved to pass comment in some way

…perhaps then, you may receive that hallowed review. Proof that reviews are such a sought-after thing is clear to see. If you’re anything like me, you’ll have an in-box peppered with emails, often which start with the words ‘greetings to you’ or something similar, asking for a copy of your book for free so they can review it, or even more contentious, ask you to pay them money for a review. This is because people know we self-published authors value reviews, and as with anything that has value, it will be monetised. That’s human nature.

Whatever your opinion on paid-for reviews may be, the truth is, the real value is in a genuine review from someone who has bought your book out of curiosity with no other motive, and felt the need to comment. Personally, I’d take an ‘enjoyed it but not brilliant’ genuine 3 star review over a paid-for 5-star one all day long. It gives me valuable and honest feedback for one thing. That can show me things I may need to develop or things I can work on.

A positive review from a fellow author (who you don’t know!) is also super-valuable. It lets you know that you’re doing something right and the reader can see the bones of what you do, as well as the flesh you’ve spent hours grafting onto it.

So, whether you’re a reader, author or both, please take the time to leave a review. Glowing praise is obviously brilliant, but constructive feedback is ultimately more valuable.

Let me know what you think in the comments below.

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January 12, 2023 · 12:31 pm

Resolving to write

Now all the celebrations have died down, one thing that many of us think of when it comes to January are new year’s resolutions. Whether that’s to exercise more, eat more healthily, or finally finish that book we’ve been working on for years. Hey, you may have even decided that it’s time to start that book you’ve been talking about writing for years. Wherever you are on your literary journey, the truth is, the overbearing, inbox-invading new year’s resolution is rarely your friend. But why?

Too much pressure
Well, it puts pressure and expectation on you for on thing. Now, I’m not saying having goals is bad, of course it isn’t, but choosing to start your book because it’s the time of year when you’re expected to make an effort can seem a little forced. You can still make a resolution, but just make it a bit more realistic. Something like ‘I promise to make a start’ or ‘I’m going to spend some time researching ideas.’

Break it down
The key thing is, breaking your book-writing process down into manageable chunks. There’s so much to think about after all. Genre, format, length, target audience, time, cost, artwork, promotion, marketing… the list goes on and it can easily start to look overwhelming. Just approach things one bit at a time. For example, you could say to yourself: ‘January is a quiet month. I’m going to spend a couple of hours each week throwing some ideas around’. Or if you already have an idea, try expanding it into a rough story arc.

Get involved
Even when you’re not writing, you can do a lot of research into the marketing and promotion side of things. Look on Twitter to see how people are promoting themselves, follow other writers, promoters, reviewers and businesses to get a feel for how it works. You’ll feel yourself getting immersed in the ebb and flow of self-publishing, and that can really help when you get going. Why? Because there are thousands of others who are on exactly the same journey as you and hearing about their frustrations and even successes can be helpful and insightful.

Just write something
Like many of you, I have a notepad of ideas and half-formed stories, some if which will never see the light of day. The important thing is though, I wrote them down. One of them I turned into a short story which just came out of one image that sprung into my mind, which I wrote down. Even if you don’t have an idea, just start writing something. Even if it’s a ramble, a blog like this or a journal, you’re getting yourself into the rhythm of writing, and that’s always a good thing!

So whatever your goals, dreams and aspirations for 2023 are, I wish you the best of luck!

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December 19, 2022 · 2:28 pm

The Span part 2 (Dungeons and Dragons fiction)

If you’ve stumbled on this post because a conveniently-placed keyword, make sure you read part one first!
To everyone else, let’s see how this pans out…

Just for legal purposes, certain non-player characters and places named in the story are the property of Wizards of the Coast who make Dungeons and Dragons, but the character names are the creations of my players.

5 Hamlin

“But son, that’s not the life for us and you know it isn’t. I know you want to go off and explore like your friends have done, but well, not everyone is born to be an adventurer.” It was strange, considering he couldn’t remember a lot of the other things, that this fateful missive from his father was etched on his memory. The old man thought he was some kind of sage, a wise old scholar who others turned to for advice. In truth, Hamlin now realised with a bitterness that had come with age, that his father was nothing more than a failed wizard. Hamlin could see it all now he’d decided to step away from it and strike out on his own. His father simply couldn’t come to terms with the fact that his son had a passion to do something that he’d never been able to do – live a life through his magic. Oh sure, he’d cultivated a reputation for himself that he’d ‘been around’ and ‘seen things’ but in reality, most of that was vicarious living – transcribing spell scrolls for aged wizards and researching potions for shopkeepers. Hamlin’s mother had been more supportive. At least that’s the impression he’d got. The poor woman wasn’t allowed to have an opinion of her own most of the time.

As a young adult, Hamlin could now look back on those occasions with new eyes, when his mother had attempted to offer her thoughts and observations, only to be overridden by her husband’s assumed sagely knowledge. Poor woman. She was trapped and she knew it. You didn’t walk out on a marriage in the village, it just wasn’t the done thing. Still, its traditionalist structure had one thing going for it. It encouraged young men to go out and explore and find a trade. Unbeknown to his father, Hamlin had been studying magic too. He’d grown up with a house full of books, scrolls and potions and decided quite early on that he wanted to get involved on a practical, rather than scholarly level. Of course, he’d had to display some of his knowledge to his family, to show that he was studious, but as far as he was aware, they expected him to settle into a scholarly life and eventually take his father’s place. He’d turned it over in his mind for weeks, then finally decided that there was never going to be a good time to tell them, so he came out with it. That’s when his father has said what he did. His mother had sat quietly in the background, only once catching his

eye. That glance told him everything: “Go. Because I never will.”

So that’s what he had done, and here he was. Out in the real world. Whatever that meant. So far, it looked pretty much the same. Sure, he’d been paid handsomely by a farmer to frighten away a pack of wolves that were preying on his livestock (there were few substitutes for a good old fire spell) and got the odd conjuring gig at a tavern or two, but surely, there was more out there? He’d heard about Phandalin from a drunken old halfling who had been very appreciative of his performance in a tavern. In truth he hated lowering his skills to such a base level, but it was a necessity. It kept food in his belly and put a roof over his head, and importantly, taverns were a great place to pick up information. Apparently, Phandalin had a couple of good taverns and the rumour was that something “big” had happened nearby. As well as offering Hamlin some more opportunities to earn money, maybe this place could offer a little more? Maybe here would find the adventure he was looking for.

6 Riley

“Sabbatical? But what for? Surely you live a fulfilling enough life here?” Abbot Aluisus was incredulous.

Riley Pyrescream attempted to answer: “It’s not that, it’s just…”

“Your scholarly applications have been invaluable to us…and what’s more, you seem to have a real affinity for the garden and what can be gained from it. We face enough criticism for not getting involved – we always have – and well, since you completed your initial studies, you’ve managed to transform that garden from an old cluster of shrubs and forgotten flower beds to something we can use, and prove our worth.

“yes abbot but…”

“And of course, we’ve come to rely on you to keep us safe. Brother Aldred tells me there’s really nothing else he can teach you when it comes to the unsavoury but necessary art of self defence. And he should know!”

Aldred had been a soldier before he hung up his halbard, battle weary and tired of death. His calling, he’d told Riley once, had simply been a desire to get away from battle and all the talk that comes with it. Retiring wasn’t enough. There was always someone who would call on your experience. Even here, that proved true. Riley imagined though, that seeing off the odd wolf or wandering goblin was a small price to pay for the relative solitude the monastery offered. Then, there was the inevitable request that your knowledge needed to be passed on. As the youngest and most able-bodied brother, Riley had been encouraged to be the recipient of Brother Aldred’s knowledge. This involved some monthly training along with his regular studies, which at first the old soldier seemed reluctant to give, but it soon became clear to Riley that sharing his skills gave him a lot of satisfaction. And, Riley suspected, that wasn’t just because he’d finally found someone to pass the role on to.

Whatever Aldred’s motivations, Riley enjoyed the training and coupled with his limitless thirst for knowledge, it had given him the seed for an idea. The brothers were expected to take a sabbatical much further along on their monastic journey, so it was no surprise that the old Abbot was so taken aback.

Nevertheless, Riley gathered himself: “Abbot. I’ll be much more use to everyone once I’ve given my studies a degree of practical application. And just think of the knowledge I could bring back here? This monastery needs to stick its head out and explore once in a while if it wants to actually understand what’s going on and continue to be of use to people. I’m young enough to be the person to do that, and I’m more than capable of looking after myself.”

Whether it was because he was impressed by the younger man’s speech or had simply grown tired of the argument, Abbot Aluisus had relented, and here Riley was, in Phandalin. He’d overheard a group of travellers at a roadside inn, something to do with ancient magic and a cave, and that Phandalin was the nearest town. This was timely to say the least. He’d been on the road for a month or two already in search of adventure but when it came down to it, he didn’t know where to start. On his travels he’d seen passing parties of adventurers looking much more weathered and experienced than himself and had begun to have doubts. He’d been considering the prospect of returning to the monastery with his tail between his legs when he overheard the conversation. Riley had made his mind up there and then.

7 Kalistie

“Well, you know what? That’s it! I’ve had enough of you both telling me what to do, and enough of this place!”

Kalistie hurriedly gathered up her pack, which had been waiting in a semi-ready state for some months now, waiting for the day that her parents finally gave her enough grief to tip her over the edge.

“Kalistie, please. Just listen.”

Her father fixed her with his most earnest look, delivered from beneath arched brows that

showcased more of the elven side of his heritage than the human one:

“It’s going to take us some time to settle here. The people of Saltmarsh haven’t had many dealings with our kind. We’re not traditional seafarers. But what I have learned is that a lot of trade goes on here. The market’s a lively place, and you really need to start helping out now the business is growing. People pass through quite often and well, you know, adventurers are always in need of weapons. And there’s no finer weapon than…”

Sensing another of her father’s pride-filled monologues about the elegance of Elven longbows, Kalisti made for the door of their small stone dwelling, opening it only to be assailed by the now familiar – and increasingly resented – stench of fish guts, the result of this morning’s catch. Though she’d taken to her heels as soon as she got outside, she could hear her father at the door, shouting after her:

“One day daughter, you’ll realise that life is something you can’t run away from!”

She told herself not to look back. She didn’t want to give him any indication of doubt. She wasn’t becoming a downtrodden footnote to this place’s history, subservient to her father’s dreams, just like her mother had been. There was nothing for her here. A dead-end place where life kept going round in the same circle. To keep herself from going completely mad, she’d escaped into music; shutting herself away in her tiny room, constructing songs of escape and adventure. What she really wanted though, was some real adventures to sing about. Sure, she’d overheard people talking about what had gone one at that decrepit old house just along the coast from the town – something about an old wizard – but that was as exciting as it got around here.

The one positive thing she’d got out of this wretched place was the chance to catch a song or two from some of the travelling bards who occasionally performed in the Snapping Line. It was a lifestyle that intrigued her. Passing from one town or village to the next, earning enough to keep going, picking up tales, gaining experience and…well, seeing the world. That was something she yearned for, but as long as her mother and father had anything to do with it, something she’d never have the opportunity to do. Much as she resented them, she grudgingly admitted that the skills her father had taught her could come in useful, because she surmised, life on the road could be dangerous and it always paid to be able to look after yourself. Even her mothers obsession with boring needlework and crafts might help her clothes stand up to the rigours of the outdoors a little longer. She supposed on some level that she’d miss them, but as for this stinking place? No chance. She was never coming back.

8 The Cave

Most of what Gundren relayed to the adventurers was as he had told it to Kaldir, though the wily thief could spot the emphasis the Rockseeker brother place on his words, and how he deliberately locked eyes on certain members of the party when he mentioned treasure, the magical forge and weapons.

“So what about these wizards you mentioned?” asked the youngest male of the party.

Just as he had asked Kaldir when they first met, he now asked the would-be adventurers:

“Does the name Mormesk mean anything to you?”

Gundren looked around the party expectantly. This time, there was no recognition registering in their faces. The barbarian type seemed especially perplexed, glancing nervously around and appearing more troubled by the walls than by the prospect of encountering any magic. The female however, seemed to show more interest at this point than when the prospect of treasure was first mentioned.

“Well, as you may have already noticed, I’m a dwarf. Myself and my brother Nundo here knows all about what that cave once was. Like I explained just now, wizards used to work there with the dwarfs and Mormesk, well, he was the last wizard stationed there. The forge, the spells, and the weapons, everything was put to good use to try and give the dwarves the edge over the invading orcs but after the invading forces finally broke through, it was lost, along with Mormesk.”

“So if he died, what’s the problem?” asked the woman.

“Dying in battle leaves a soul restless, and when that soul once resided in one of the most powerful mages in the land, not even death can keep it from wandering.”

It was then that Nundo spoke then for the first time.

“It’s my belief that Mormesk’s spirit is the cause of all this. He’s down there in the mine somewhere and you need to find him.”

At this point, the younger Rockseeker brother rummaged in his pack, eventually pulling out a couple of parchments.

“I’ve drawn up a map of how to find Wave Echo, though that part is fairly simple. The other parchment shows a map of what we know about the cave. I’ve been in there myself several times, and because I spoke to The Gauntlet before they departed, I’ve got a good idea of the area they didn’t explore. It’s a pretty safe bet that’s where you’ll find Mormesk.” Nundo placed both rolls down on the heavy oak table that lay between the would-be adventurers and the dwarves, then looked expectantly at each of them in turn. Perhaps surprisingly, it was the barbarian who reached for the maps, glancing at each of his newfound companions as he did:

“I entered this town after crossing these very mountains, not by following the Triboar Trail that the rest of you spoke of. I descended into the foothills not far from the peak that the cave is shown to lie beneath, so I will lead the way.”

Whether it was that none of the party thought it wise to argue with a barbarian, or they were simply glad not to have to make a decision, they consented. Gundren seemed pleased that they had agreed to the adventure, and Kaldir felt relieved that his reputation remained intact. It was always a talking point in the dwarven community when one of their number chose a vocation that didn’t involve digging tunnels, mining for ore or smashing up boulders, especially when that

vocation was one such as his.

“Excellent. Then may I suggest that you spend the rest of the day exploring Phandalin and stocking up on any supplies you need? I’ve made arrangements at the Stonehill Inn, so you can get a good meal and bed down for the night when you’re done.”

The journey to the cave entrance in itself was uneventful, with just the odd travelling tradesman or two casting a cursory glance at the eclectic party of adventurers. Brom cut a solitary figure as he strode ahead in the stoic manner of someone who completely at home in the outdoors. The party travelled in awkward silence for a while until Cronos, not addressing anyone in particular, spoke up, inclining his head towards Brom:

“Strong and silent there won’t want to lead the way once we get into that cave, I grant you. But me? Well, let’s just say I’m used to skulking around in the dark. I’ll be glad of a little cover. We’re

way too exposed around here.”

After they rounded a particularly large rocky outcrop, they could see the barbarian hadstopped in his tracks to point at an opening about 20 feet in front of him:

“It is as the dwarf said. The entrance lies here.”

With that, the barbarian held out the parchments, signalling all at once that his part wasdone, and that he had no desire to navigate his way through the caves. The adventurers looked at each other, before Cronos took them from him, glancing over to where the narrow entrance was:

“Alright then. Let’s go.”

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December 8, 2022 · 12:35 pm

The Span part 1 (Dungeons and Dragons fiction)

So, something a little different for this blog!

As I’ve mentioned before on this blog, I play Dungeons and Dragons (which is great for any writer wanting to get the imagination going!) and sometimes I’m Dungeon Master. That’s great for me, because I get to write a story that a group of my friends play along with! It’s great dreaming up encounters for them and frustrating when they come up with reactions to situations that I never expected!

Anyway, a while back, I wrote a short story which was based on those players and how they met as they embarked on the first adventure I wrote for them. I had lots of fun fleshing out their character descriptions and shared my work with them afterwards, which they enjoyed a lot! It was also my first attempt at writing fantasy – a genre I love, but had never written in before, so I’d welcome any comments regarding that!

Just for legal purposes, certain non-player characters and places named in the story are the property of Wizards of the Coast who make Dungeons and Dragons, but the character names are the creations of my players.

So here’s part one of the story…

1 Unfinished business

It seemed like an age since Kaldir had got the word out, hoping for enough of a response to get things moving. He knew enough about the various inns and taverns in and around Phandalin, and he’d even reached out to some of his less than savoury contacts down the High Road in Neverwinter, for maximum exposure. His contact had stressed that he needed trustworthy people for the job, but tough ones nonetheless. And where do adventurers go when looking for work? Picking up rumours in taverns was all part of the job and by the gods, there were enough of them in that city.

It was in such a place that he’d got talking to a fellow dwarf called Gundren Rockseeker. A while back, Gundren and his brothers had uncovered none other than the lost mine of Phandelver – something every dwarf knew the stories of. Located in Wave Echo Cave, tales told of not just boundless minerals to refine but none other than the Forge of Spells itself. The forge had entered into dwarven folklore around 500 years ago and had been searched for ever since. If it could be found, and restored to working order, then countless weapons could once more be imbued with magical properties – and the dwarfs who found it imbued with much wealth as a result. Rockseeker was eager to get the place up and running again, knowing that it would open the door to some much needed prosperity in the area. The thing was, it had become overrun with goblins and a network of bandits, all overseen by a shadowy figure known as The Black Spider.

This was more that the Rockseekers could deal with and clearly, they needed the help of some adventurers to find out what was going on. They enlisted the help of the Gauntlet, a seasoned band of adventurers who had happened upon Phandelver while travelling. True to their word, the Gauntlet flushed out the Black Spider and his followers on an adventure that took them far beyond Wave Echo Cave and into the Neverwinter Wood.

All this was being relayed to Kaldir at great length, and he had spent the last five minutes wondering when Gundren was going to get the point. However, he knew all too well how much his kind enjoyed a story, so he indulged the dwarf. Besides, he’d heard of The Gauntlet himself, so it was interesting to hear an account of their adventures from somebody who had actually spent time with them. As if reading Kaldir’s mind, Gundren slammed his tankard down on the roughly-hewn tavern table:

“So, that brings us up to date I think.”

“Go on,” Kaldir said.

“The Black Spider may be gone, but something’s still not right in that cave. There are no bandits or goblins, that’s for certain, but when I sent a party of my lads in to start investigating, they came out again pretty sharpish.”

Kaldir had to admit he was intrigued. He didn’t need to say anything and his fellow dwarf could see it in his expression, continuing unprompted:

“They saw ghouls in there, and zombies. Just for a fleeting moment, but even in torchlight, there’s no mistaking that pallid flesh…not to mention the stench.”

Gundren paused then, looking around him at the tavern’s other occupants to check that none were within earshot before lowering his voice to continue:

“There’s been tales of an ancient evil lurking in those caves, long before the Black Spider arrived on the scene. And I know even though they got rid of him, the Gauntlet didn’t explore every part of it. One of their party was fatally wounded in there after a particularly nasty encounter and once they’d set out to do what they came to do, they were eager to move on.”

Kaldir was even more intrigued but equally perplexed: “Ancient evil? But how did the Black Spider keep his network operating, take control of the caves and not find it?”

“Exactly the question I’ve been asking myself” replied Gundren. “That’s where you come in. I need you to assemble a new group of adventurers and find out what’s going on.”

“Seems straight forward enough, I’ll just do the rounds, spread the word, put up a few…” Gundren held up a hand, interrupting Kaldir. “There’s something else you should know, about this ancient evil I spoke of. Does the name ‘Mormesk’ mean anything to you?”

Kaldir’s heart seemed to skip a beat. “Yes I’ve heard the name … it’s been used to liven up campfire ghost stories and warn children away from places they shouldn’t be going for hundreds of years…surely he can’t still be around?”

Gundren held up a hand again. “Here’s what I know. Wizards once tended the Forge of Spells, working for an ancient race of dwarves to create all manner of weapons. Mormesk was the last wizard stationed there before the last great orc invasion. No doubt he had good intentions at the time, but who knows what’s happened since then? It may be nothing, but for me, well, it’s too much of a coincidence. That’s why we need to discover what’s going on, so we can finally get the mine working again, so all the Gauntlet’s hard work won’t be for nothing, and so we can get some damned money flowing into the region again. The gods know we need it.”

Gundren took a quaff of his ale, drained the tankard and wiped his moustache on his sleeve before continuing: “We need you to expand the Gauntlet’s span since they’ve moved on. Enlist some new recruits and find out what’s going on. You know the drill. We’ll need a well-balanced party with monster-slaying experience but I’d certainly make sure there’s a magicuser or two…”

The Rockseeker brother left the sentence unfinished, but it was clear to Kaldir what the inference was. He believed that Mormesk was still around. One thing was for sure, if it turned out to be true, the bards would have a few more verses to compose for their campfire tales when all this business was done with.

“OK Gundren, I’ll get to work. Before I do though, there’s a few things I need to get straight. In my experience, adventurers are only really interested if there’s any treasure to be found. The chances of me finding a band of eager paladins to do the job for nothing more than the wholesome joy of ridding the land of a bit more evil are slim to say the least.”

“Of course, Kaldir, of course. Very well then. Anything the party finds inside is theirs – once we can be sure that the mine is clear and we can get to work. Now, get the word out and inform anybody who is interested that they should meet at the Townmaster’s Hall in Phandalin. We’ll see you there.”

That was over a week ago and now, Kaldir sat anxiously in the Townmaster’s Hall. Even though he had no control over who, if anybody would hear the call, he nevertheless felt responsible, and glanced nervously around the old building, which so far was devoid of would-be adventurers. Currently the only other occupants – the Rockseeker brothers Gundren and Nundo – were sat to Kaldir’s right, and both were glancing over expectantly in his direction. One of the things that came with being a thief was the assumption that you knew things, got things done, had connections and made things happen. Kaldir had ensured that all the correct free-spirited underworld contacts with even freer tongues received word of the trouble in mines, and surely, anything with the potential for treasure was always guaranteed to capture the attention of adventurers, wasn’t it? Just as he was beginning to think he’d have to call in a few old favours to assemble a party himself, the hall door opened.

2 Brom

The sun rose slowly over the Sword Mountains, and Brom greeted its first rays with a grateful heart. By the end of this day, he would reach Phandalin, and hopefully be able to find out more about the mysterious goings on in the nearby cave. The possibility of treasure didn’t interest him at all, but treasure rarely came without its associated risks, and risks were something he needed to take if he was to complete the trial. It was a long time since Brom had left the relative safety of the Bearheart tribe in the forest to embark on the Trial of Awakening and he was a long way from home. The amount of time he spent away from the tribe and what he did in that time were decisions to made only by him, but so far, he’d encountered little that he felt tested, or even educated him. The trial was about exploring the world, discovering more about it and bringing this knowledge back, for the good of the tribe. If he did this, he would become a Den Ward, a title never before bestowed on any in his family. Family. The word immediately made him think of his mate Corla, and little Abrom. Having only just opened his eyes, he closed them once more. Just for a moment he was back within the safety of the tribe, lying next to her, the dying embers of the fire of the previous night still casting a warm glow on her pale skin, as Abrom began to stir, eager for his feed.

Brom shook his head and opened his eyes. It would be a long time before he would see them again and he would have to get used to it. He’d not seen nearly enough to consider himself ready, and wondered how he would know when he was. The tribe elders had assured him that it would be clear to him eventually, at some point on his adventures, he would awaken on a morning just like this one, and feel deep inside his heart that he was truly awakened and could return to the tribe.

His thoughts shifted to Phandalin. It was a town he knew, and towns meant people. Brom preferred warm bearskin and a canopy of stars to cold stone and rowdy gatherings but his dealings with the dwarves from Kraghammer had at least give him some introduction to the outside world. Brom and his tribe were leather workers and as the barbarian had soon learned, leather was something that was always in demand – good quality leather even more so. He could still remember the day, when as a young man, he’d accompanied some of the older tribesmen out of the woods to a trading post. A party of dwarves had arrived in search of supplies, and one had cast an experienced eye over a money pouch that he’d made – the first item of his own that he was allowed to bring. The dwarf nodded and added it to the items for trade. Since then, he’d had a number of dealings with dwarves, so felt that he was a little more prepared than he might otherwise be for meeting those who had reached out for help. Mining was the stock and trade of many a dwarf and though Brom could think of nothing worse than spending time deep underground, he knew that the adventure, whatever it would have in store for him, would contribute a great deal to his awakening. It was on one of these trading trips that he’d heard the dwarves talking about Wave Echo Cave, and the possibility of treasures lying within. Maybe this could prove to be the spark he needed to light the flame of his awakening, and begin his own journey?

With a sigh, Brom rose to his full height, drawing his bear skin about his broad shoulders. The touch of it between his fingers reminded him of his first ritual the Trial of Cub Warding – this was becoming a real morning for memories. As a younger man he had longed to be a Cub Ward but had heard of the dangers from older tribesmen. It wasn’t just the fight with the bear they said, though that was bad enough. It was finding someone who was willing to risk their own child, all for the sake of granting the candidate a chance to earn the title. He remembered the knot of anxiety in his stomach as he crouched next to Rantra by the fire, and asked her if he could take Rento into the woods. She looked at him for a time, then nodded once, solemnly. She’d lost her own mate to the trial, so it must have been even more difficult for her to agree. She must have seen something in Brom however, sensed his natural leadership qualities and trustworthiness. Try as they might, the elders couldn’t keep the looks of surprise off their faces when they learned that Rantra had agreed – surely she would be the last person in the tribe to say yes? So moved were they, that two of their number volunteered their own children for the trial – saving Brom the task of asking another two tribe members.

The whole philosophy of the Bearheart tribe was one of respect. They lived symbiotically with the bears of the forest, honoured the creatures’ strength, cunning and strong family bond. It was this respect that led to the stipulation that no weapons be used in the trial. The candidate must lead his ‘cubs’ – three of the tribe’s children – into the forest and wait for a bear to arrive. When it did, it would make for one of the children, whereby the candidate would engage the bear in unarmed combat and kill it. Only then would they earn the title of Cub Ward and have the right to wear the skin of the bear he killed that day. As well as adding to his already intimidating appearance, it served as a constant reminder of his trustworthiness – and it was exceptionally good at keeping the cold mountain air at bay. Breaking camp, Brom began his descent from the mountains and made for the small cluster of buildings in the distance far below.

3 Hilir

“Go on darlin’ sing us another one…I’m enjoying the view!”

The cheers that followed this latest drunken outburst sounded equally inebriated, but it wasn’t anything Hilir Dyernina hadn’t heard before. Jeering drunks washing away their worries with warm ale were a necessity of the job and it had always been that way. She’d been on the road and earning her own keep since she was young, finally persuading her father that she was old enough and responsible enough to leave home. He’d understandably been especially protective of her when she was a child, ever since the day when that creature…she was grateful she had no memory of her mother’s abduction. Her father had rarely spoken about it and when he did, it was usually only to express his regret that he hadn’t got to her sooner, and that he hadn’t been there to fight the creature off. Partially because she was frightened to hear the truth, but also because she feared upsetting him further, she’d never asked her father if he thought her mother could still be alive. He’d said she was “attacked and taken” never that she had been killed. Was it irrational to hope that her mother was alive? Most probably. But even the slightest prospect helped to give her a purpose in life.

In the intervening years, she’d built up quite a reputation for telling tales and weaving her words together with enchanting sounds from her viol. The more you travelled, she reflected, the more experiences you had to share, and so it went on. Nights like this were a hazard of the job. The rowdiness had quickly turned to violence, and she had to duck to avoid a tankard of ale which had been inaccurately flung by a young man still getting to grips with his ability to handle his ale. He hadn’t been throwing it it her, but at an older dwarf who was berating him for his lack of drinking ability. Hilir knew the innkeeper well, and a quick nod and a hand gesture to him as she ducked and scurried towards the entrance conveyed what the two needed to know: Everything was fine and she’s come by and collect her payment in the morning.

Wisely, she’d chosen her lodgings at a more sedate inn up the road on the outskirts of the town. She found it was easier to practice her playing and also to rest and well…contemplate her ‘power’. Hardly a power she thought, but then what else was it? From what little she’d learned from her father, magic was used on that fateful day when her mother was taken and somehow – perhaps because she was young and her mind eager to soak up the energy – some of it had leached into her. She’s never call herself a wizard, but the ability to cast a number of spells was something she’d started to develop alongside her musical trade. The roads were dangerous and though she teamed up with other musicians and players who often travelled together to keep each other safe, her abilities had got her out of a number of dangerous scrapes already. The sound of animated conversation up ahead brought her attention back to the present:

“Look Wilbor, you’re too old for any of that carry-on now, and so am I! Our adventuring days are over. Leave it for the young ‘uns.”

“But Jens, it’s perfect! Not to far away…probably lots of treasure…bet there’ll only be a goblin or three to see off…”

“Leave it Wilbor! You can go if you want, but I won’t be joining you.”

As Hilir got closer, she could see two middle-aged men totter tipsily away from the town’s notice board, their conversation trailing off as they walked further along, suddenly forgetting all about what had got them so animated. Alongside the usual requests for farmhands, advertisements for home-brewed ale and requests for general labourers, she saw what had caught the two old adventurers’ attention:

“Adventurers wanted. Those skilled in blade or magic may apply. All treasure can be kept. Interested parties meet at the Townmaster’s Hall in Phandalin on…”

The date was two days from now. Hilir was well-travelled and quickly worked out that she could reach Phandalin in time. She’s been there before but a long while ago, and not from this direction. Still it was workable. There was a gap in her schedule in which she’d planned to work on her spells anyway…maybe this could be the adventure she was looking for to really try them out?

4 Cronos

Cronos couldn’t fail to see the irony of the path his life had taken. The son of jeweller, who was himself the son of a jeweller (and so it went on), gems had been a part of his life since he was a young boy, over 150 years ago. He’d been curious since he first set eyes on a shimmering topaz that his father was crafting into a necklace to gift some visiting dignitary or other, and his fascination with gems had stuck with him ever since. The smithing, tinkering and smelting he could do without. Breaking away from the family business was virtually unheard of in tight-knit traditional gnome communities, and those who did were considered virtual outcasts as a result. So Cronos bided his time. In the intervening years he helped his father out as best he could but it was when the box arrived that the die was truly cast.

“I can’t get to those settings to replace the stones if I can’t get in the box.,” his father had said, after a fruitless hour tinkering with the Nackle family heirloom.

“Father, Tana already said she doesn’t care about what’s in the box, just that the gems…” “I know that son, but like I said I need to get inside…”

Just then, the bell jangled to indicate someone else had entered the workshop. His father left the workbench in the room at the rear, after which his fawning voice could be heard, attempting to pacify a representative from the Turen family who was asking how the wedding ring was coming along: “I assure you, it’ll be ready in time for the ceremony…I want it to look its best, as I’m sure you do as well.”

Their exchange continued as Cronos began to study the key hole on the box. Surely it couldn’t be that difficult could it? He’d tentatively reached for the needle-thin tweezers that his father used for delicate work, an idea forming in his mind. He could never really explain it. Somehow, he could develop a clear mental picture of each of the tumblers, willing them to move in his mind before he actually moved the tweezers. On this day, he would never know if it was pot luck or that the lock was a simple one. Either way, with a satisfying click, the box opened, as did the path of Cronos’ life. The family business expanded into locksmithing, and it wasn’t long before he was helping people get into chests and sometimes helping them get into their own houses, after they’d lost their keys following to much time spent in the tavern.

Then one evening in that very tavern, Cronos had been approached by a seemingly innocent-looking halfling, saying he was a member of a special guild, just for people like him, and would he like to join? It turned out there was a ‘test’ that anyone wishing to join had to take. He winced inwardly now, remembering how gullible he’d been. Was it the lure of the gem that he’d been asked to steal from the locked house? Perhaps. Boredom with his life? Maybe. Whatever the reason, he’d decided to leave everything behind and throw his lot in with guild. Whether what he was doing was right or wrong took second place to the thrill of adventure and the possibility to add to his ever-growing collection of gems.

Then one day, he’d seen an old woman sat on the low bench that surrounded the well of the square in the town where he was currently residing, awaiting the next job. She was sobbing, staring at her hand. As he drew closer, he could see the determination in her face, even through the sobs. It seemed like she was willing something to appear…then it clicked. The ring he’d stolen last night. Not from some rich dignitary who wouldn’t miss it, but from this poor woman, who looked for all the world like she’d lost all that she had left.

Whether it was an epiphany or a crisis of conscience, he didn’t know. All he did know was that he had to leave the guild. However, ‘leaving’ the guild wasn’t an option. Running away from it in the dead of night was. He knew he couldn’t return home, not just because he wouldn’t be welcome, but because he feared putting his family at risk from the vengeful guild. He’d instead taken to a life on the road, a travelling odd-job man who never stayed in one place too long. It was one of these mundane jobs that had led him to where he was today. The mayor of the town he was staying in had asked him to repair the notice board, which was in a terrible state. Embarrassed at himself by what he had become, he’d agreed to take a look at the creaking ruin in exchange for a night’s stay at the inn. It was on this board that he saw the notice. Nobody would come looking for him in Phandalin.

The story continues next time!

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October 4, 2022 · 3:47 pm

Can’t help yourself when it comes to self-help?

Well-being and self-help in general is something that has enjoyed a much higher profile in recent years. Whether that’s Insta feeds offering all manner of wise words and inspirational photos, or famous faces speaking out in public about their mental health struggles, awareness is continuing to grow. That’s a good thing.

But to be honest, nobody likes enforced wellness, much in the same way as they don’t like enforced fun (think back to that company away-day when Dean went full-on SAS Who Dares Wins). We should be encouraged to think about our mental health in our own way. That’s not to say wellness books don’t have their place, but it’s all about finding the ones that work for you.

Thinking outside the box when it comes to wellness is important. You don’t have to restrict your reading to books labelled as ‘wellness’. Lifestyle, cookery and fiction are all linked to down-time and the act of reading itself, whatever the subject matter, is good escapism. It encourages conversation, much in the manner of book clubs. Though I’ve discussed those in an earlier post, they can be a great opportunity to meet new people who you have something in common with.

Writing is another form of wellness. Personal journals are everywhere these days, and some people get a lot out of writing down their thoughts, plans and observations. Or you could write a blog like I’m doing now, or even a story or two. Getting my creative juices flowing and writing something is a great form of self-care for me, because it makes me feel like I have created something, and contributed to something somewhere. That gives me a small amount of satisfaction. It may sound a bit simplistic, but it works for me!

Ultimately, self-care is about more than having a bath with candles, an audiobook and a herbal tea (though that does sound nice, come to think of it), so find your own wellness, your own way.

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August 10, 2022 · 12:02 pm

Want a new perspective? Go to an old place

Thinking that I may as well go old school to try and generate some sales, I recently had some fliers printed up for my book, which I dropped off at my local bookshop and library. As any self-published author will tell you, it’s so hard to get noticed these days and marketing yourself is like a full-time job in itself, so I thought I’d try to cover at least one extra base.

The print shop was about a mile away from my house, so what better idea than to walk over there in the stifling heat of the hottest day on record here in the UK to pick them up? Anyway, shade-hugging as I went, I found myself walking through my old neighbourhood on the way. It’s not somewhere I usually have to pass through, even though I walk into town regularly. The first thing to hit me was the presence of a nice-looking coffee shop that I would’ve been very grateful of back in the day. The second thing I noticed was how different that and other recent builds had made my old street look.

Once these cosmetic changes had settled in though, I was left with a strange feeling, part nostalgic, part melancholic. It was as if for a moment, I was transported back in time, and my mind of that time was inside my head of now (I realise how weird that sounds). It reminded me of all the goals and ambitions I had back then, the things I’d just done and the things I would go on to do. I don’t know why such an inconsequential thing as walking over to a shop to pick something up got my imagination going, but it did.

So if you find yourself in search of ideas, a fresh perspective or just a change of scenery, take a stroll around somewhere familiar from your past. You never know where it might lead.

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July 15, 2022 · 1:00 pm

The Thing at 40 – Growing up Carpenter

Like many people growing up in the 1980s, a trip to the corner shop for a video on a Saturday night was an integral part of my weekend. Of course it wasn’t me usually doing the renting, which meant a fair old smattering of sci-fi and horror – such was the preference of my Dad. Naturally, I’ve inherited his love for the weird and wonderful, which was why back in 2018 found myself at a concert by the horror master himself, John Carpenter.

For those not in the know, as well as directing his films, Carpenter composed and performed the score for the vast majority of them himself. As far as critical acclaim goes, his crowning achievement is of course Halloween, and, it was this timeless chiller that brought him fame. But as the 80s turned into the 90s, the fickle beast that is Hollywood turned its bristly back on Carpenter, which is why I’m especially glad to see him making such a success with his music, and indeed the most recent Halloween movie.

There’s also been a buzz surrounding the 40th anniversary celebrations of his cult sci-fi masterpiece The Thing, none other than my favourite movie of all time. In 2018,  backed by a band of skilled musicians, including his son Cody, Carpenter took to the stage to the strains of Escape from New York. That movie’s central character is of course Snake Pliskin, played so memorably played by Kurt Russell – a regular go-to lead man for Carpenter, and also the lead in The Thing. It’s a great performance, complementing perfectly the atmosphere of paranoia and creeping menace that permeates the film.

It is of course famously grisly as well, thanks to the still eye-popping work of special effects maestro Rob Bottin. I think the first time I heard about The Thing was not through my aforementioned father, but his eldest cousin. I spent many a childhood holiday seeing family, and it was on one of these holidays that he told me about The Thing. “They’re all stuck at this outpost in the ice…nobody knows who the monster is…” “It’s too scary for you to watch now…maybe when you’re older.” Those words stuck with me, and unsurprisingly, it turned out to be a favourite of my Dad’s too. At the time, our only copy was a version copied off the TV onto a VHS tape. Imagine the reaction when my Dad discovered that I’d accidentally recorded over it with American Football. Years later, I bought him an original copy for his birthday as a replacement, and the incident became a running joke.

He’s sadly no longer with us, but I know if he was sitting with me when I recently watched my special Blu Ray edition, just like we used to do on Saturday nights long ago, he would’ve said: “I used to have this taped off the TV.”

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June 29, 2022 · 2:58 pm

Counting towards your write-a-day

On the art of writing, literary legend Ray Bradbury is quoted as saying: “Just write every day of your life. Read intensely. Then see what happens.”

This is great advice. But I must admit, I’ve been guilty of not writing a lot this week. Sorry Ray. I have in fact had my editing head on, working on a collection of short stories for a fellow author, my writing head being temporarily placed in its glass specimen jar on my office shelf. Wherever my head is at though, my mind is always wandering. Indeed, with my running head on, I let my mind wander free and it’s often when huffing and puffing through my local park that I come up with some of my best ideas.

By now, I’m starting to look like Cerberus, the ferocious three headed dog from Greek mythology. Or maybe a really lame hydra. I’m going to stick with the head analogy though. Indeed, it’s mythical creatures like this that first fired my imagination as a child. Having the Jason and the Argonauts movie and Tolkien’s The Hobbit evangelised to me by my father were probably a lot to do with a lifelong love of fantasy that hasn’t left me. To take nothing away from the immense skill of CGI artists, it was the second Ray of my blog, Ray Harryhausen’s stop-motion labours of love, that first drew me in to the fantasy world. I read a Twitter conversation recently featuring people from different generations all offering their thoughts on how much of an impact the iconic skeleton fight scene from Jason and the Argonauts had on them, their childhoods and their writing.

Role playing games are great too. I’m sometimes a player, using my vivid imagination to paint the scene presented to myself and my fellow adventurers by the Dungeonmaster. Sometimes though, I’m the Dungeonmaster myself, delighting in dreaming up adventures for my players to experience. I’m probably guilty of not spending enough time genning up on the rules and too much working on painting a picture, telling a story and dreaming up dialogue for the characters they’ll meet. But that’s my point, I guess. I’m using the game to nurture my imagination, and I figure my players will forgive a bit of furtive rule book fluttering in favour of a more enjoyable adventure.

What I’m getting at is that, whether you’re not using it all the time to write, your imagination is always there. It’s a well of ideas, some of which will inevitably come to you when you least expect them to. Use your mind creatively in different ways and you’ll be exercising it and keeping it primed and ready to dream up your next creation.

And no, writing a reply to this blog won’t count towards your write-a-day – though it would be really nice if you did all the same! Or, feel free to follow me and say hi on Twitter. I follow back and don’t snore (much).

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May 13, 2022 · 1:51 pm

Test the Waters

OK, OK, I’ve made the obvious analogy of the literary ocean and throwing your work in it before, but sometimes it really can feel like that. Writing is hard. Marketing it is harder.

Sure, you can throw your hard-earned at any number of social media-savvy agencies who will promote your book and it may even work, but the hard truth is that with the freedom of self-publishing comes the reality that everybody is doing it. And that’s great. Let’s just make that clear SELF PUBLISHING IS GREAT.

So what does it mean? It means that even with a serious advertising budget, you’ll be up against some serious competition to get noticed. That’s why it’s a good idea to test the waters with your first foray in to self-publishing. OK, so you’ve been slaving away at your 100,000-word fantasy epic for months – years and it’s finally ready. Now, the world will know the true power of destiny and the irrepressible lure of the Tanthis Stone…but wait. Rush headlong into marketing it with no experience and it’ll probably just end up being read by your eccentric Auntie and Jeff your old college friend. And maybe Alison from work.

When I say experience, I don’t mean time served as a social media executive, either. I’m just talking about the experience of self-publishing and marketing and everything that brings. It’s tough, and a relentless grind. Doing it first with a shorter novella, like I did, is a sensible idea. Don’t get me wrong, I’m proud of my novella Whisper Wood and worked hard at it, but I’m glad I used it to get some experience. I’m always learning and that’s the best way to look at self-publishing. Don’t expect readers to come to your book, take it to the readers, tell them why they should read it.

Comment on other authors’ stuff and write too. I’m genuinely grateful to fellow bloggers who follow and share my updates on here – each of them on their own creative journey. The same goes for Twitter’s supportive and fun #WritingCommunity. There’s enough space for us all, so let’s get writing!

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