Just a little something I ran up today. I intend to make a lot of creativity films in the coming months. Just limbering up.
Just a little something I ran up today. I intend to make a lot of creativity films in the coming months. Just limbering up.
Tags: art, authenticity, books, brain training, business plans, creative writing, creativity, fake authenticity, flow, genius, ideas, IQ, meditation, novelist., novels, refocussing, senses, writers, writing
I know this blog started out as just a writers blog, but it’s morphed over the years into something resembling a general creativity blog. I talk about writing a lot because that is the thing I did for 30 years professionally and so my information on that subject has a lot more perceived credibility. Plus I conceived CGP originally as a training methodology for writers before I realised it had ramifications for artists and musicians too. Little did I know how the focus of my jedi training would change over time. I slouch corrected.
It was I guess inevitable, in hindsight. You see I’m also a professional photographer, film maker and artist, and I’ve spent lots of time teaching those things for money. As a multi-platform artist I know that it’s true: the principles of creativity are the same no matter what your medium, and for several of the last posts to this blog it’s becoming clear to me (and to you too) that this is not just a writers blog, it’s a creativity blog.
I regularly talk about other disciplines, and the last post is an ideal example about making the transition from artist to writer. But the same is true the other way, how do you make the transition from writer to artist? Can’t draw? Learning to draw like Matisse is hard, but learning to draw like you is easy. Photography requires no drawing. Screen printing is more about ideas than about art skill. What you can and can’t do is not the issue. Creativity is.
Creativity is what makes the difference between mediocre films, photos, stories and paintings, and truly life changing, awe inspiring, GREAT ones.
Ponder this for a while: how does the way you work in your medium translate to another? Could doing work in another medium like music, art or photography inform your writing? Could writing your ideas in prose inform your art? Give it some thought, train your senses by spreading out from the confines of your safe zone.
Bring your art alive.
On the subject of photography I’ve found this authentically brilliant ebook and video course by a young guy called Evan Sharboneau, who has a lot of creative skill in photography. I’ve been recommending this book and video course to everyone I know, because it’s such a fast and enjoyable way to make your photos “pop”. If you have a basic DSLR, the desire to make creative images and some time, for less than the price of a high speed, large capacity memory card for your camera you can get this really useful, inspiring and comprehensive course which could help you win photo competitions, and with ease. Snap over to his web site for more details. You won’t regret it.
Of course I am compelled on an almost daily basis by the voices in my head to remind you that my course WRITING FIT is the only complete 8 hour audio course to understand your needs as a creative writer and give you the tools to enhance them, permanently. The only writing course which confirms in detail what you always thought was true about your creativity and original ideas.
Watch out for my new health and life training courses in the coming months. And the new web site is almost ready, www.creativelifetraining.com. It’s going to be very cool.
Warm regards from the Unified Field creativity labs,
until next time
Tags: authenticity, brain training, conversational hypnosis, creative writing, creativity, fake authenticity, flow, genius, hypnosis books, ideas, IQ, meditation, milton erickson, personal pain, revolution, science fantasy, senses
Fifth in a series of 7 Pastiches of Little Red Riding Hood in the style of my favourite authors. Use these to help you enhance your creativity, become a successful writer and be more happy and fulfilled in your creative life.
This time around I bring you a further retelling of the Red Riding Hood story, drawn from the original text LITTLE RED CAP by the Brothers Grimm and in the style of one of my boyhood favourites, Ian Flaming. I am such a huge Bond nut, it was hard not to do this one first, but I paced myself. I wanted to put a lot into this one. Afterwards I shall give you the matching commentary as to how it was done, and so on for all 7 stories. I hope you enjoy it, but be warned this one is a gritty spy story modelled around the gritty spy stories of Ian Lancaster Fleming. So there is death, sex (or at least the hint of it) and then a bit more death. Ok, pay attention double er . . . I mean, introducing Commander John Bane.
Commander John Bane carefully slipped the compact and powerful Zeiss Victory binoculars out of the pocket of his new black Berghaus backpack and pressed them against his eyes, smoothly turning the ribbed focus wheel with his index finger to bring the cabin into view. The air was intoxicatingly scented with pine sap, and all around him in the velvety darkness small animals hurried around looking for late night meals in the dusk. He was fully covered in fitted, black clothing and was lying very still. Lying so still in fact that the scurrying fauna ignored him, one or two of the unidentified creatures even running over his legs in their evening haste.
The girl was in there, he felt sure of it, and her grandmother too perhaps . . . Although, he noted with calm professionalism that the single matter-of-fact gunshot he heard on his approach might suggest at least one of them was already dead.
His journey to the Swiss German border was swift, having only started a mere 18 hours earlier in London. The head of Department OS9 had called him to an urgent personal briefing in her office. She was a brisk former Admiral and although occasionally betraying a liking for him in her motherly gaze, was quick to stifle any notions of favouritism or coziness with him by being extra curt and businesslike. So, as always at these meetings she pretended not to care about him, and he did her the respect of pretending not to notice.
“Commander Bane, good, please sit down. I’d offer you a drink, but you can’t get comfortable, you have a plane to catch. You’re booked on the next Lufthansa flight to Stuttgart.” She briefed him on the situation quickly while handing him a dossier to read on the plane.
A Swiss courier, Heidi Rotkapp, had inadvertently seen something she shouldn’t have on her last trip into Germany and had been promptly kidnapped. She’d been snatched at her grandmother’s house in the Black Forest, by Lake Constance in Baden-Württemberg on the Swiss German border. Intelligence indicated it was most likely a man they had been after for some time, a former Bulgarian secret service operative called Anton Schlecht-Wolf. He was most definitely a person of interest.
Bane’s eyebrows had gone up at the mention of that name. The Admiral saw the look. “I thought you’d be pleased. This is the first time we’ve seen him in years. I’d say don’t lose him again . . . but, you want that more than I.”
Schlecht-Wolf was the man responsible for the limp Bane tried to cover up at all his physical exams over the past few years. The Wolf was a nasty piece of work, kidnapping, extortion, and even some say cannibalism, although Bane thought that last was a rumour spread by the man himself to accentuate his myth.
Bane had almost captured or killed him in Siena, Italy, but Schlecht-Wolf had escaped by sticking a bowie knife two inches into Bane’s thigh and jumping out of a fifth story window into a glass conservatory. His body was never found, and Bane suffered months of painful surgery and physical therapy to get back into shape and on active duty.
The tiny triangular tip of the blade had chipped off against his femur and was still lodged in the muscle somewhere causing him a painful reminder of Schlecht-Wolf whenever he ran or jumped. The recovery from the shame of letting the bastard slip through his fingers was going to be much longer although, by the sound of it, relief was at hand.
On the flight, breathing the cool conditioned air and sipping a large Maker’s Mark bourbon on the rocks, Bane enjoyed several moments of private pleasure at the thought of finally drawing a line under that particular case. And in his luggage, authorised by his department for international travel, he had just the tools draw that line, and draw it in blood.
His standard issue Browning L9A1 Pistol, special issue Osprey body armour (light and thin enough to fit under any clothing), and most important a special purchase just for this trip, an exquisite hand made Bowie knife by Scottish knife maker James Noble.
The stewardess who served him was blonde, tall and slim. Delightfully not too slim, he noted with a grin as she turned to walk away from him. Her name was Fanny, a pretty name which of course carried no double entendre in Germany or Switzerland. He hoped sincerely she hadn’t caught his slight flicker of amusement when he read it from her name badge. She was clearly flirting with him. When giving back his Euros in change for his drink, she had held her other hand gently under his. Her touch was cool and soft.
Later before landing she had paused on her way up the aisle, checking baggage was stowed for approach, and she had asked him if everything was okay. As she did so she made a show of checking his seat belt, totally unnecessary as it was already firmly secured. Her head was close enough to his face for him to smell her hair and the warm scent of the perfume rising from her neck. Her hair smelled deliciously of almonds and the perfume he recognised immediately as Cefiro by Floris of Jermyn Street. So, an Anglophile and expensive tastes too? That all boded very well. She smiled and moved on, but it wasn’t till he unhooked the belt after landing that he found the slip of paper with her Stuttgart phone number written on it. A bold move, and one which had probably broken a tenet or two of the doubtless strict Lufthansa company policies, but in this case she had judged correctly that he would be receptive. He tucked it in his breast pocket and got off the plane.
As he breezed through customs he was in a good mood, and as collected his bags he refocussed with difficulty on the matter in hand. There would after all, he grinned to himself, be plenty of time for Fanny some other time.
The temperature on the forest floor by the lake was dropping rapidly, and Bane snapped the poppers on the high jacket collar and pulled the black woollen ski mask over his face. He looked at the cabin windows through the Zeiss binoculars once more, finding them all lit, but as if through thick curtains. That would be useful later. It was getting colder, and he saw the first plume of a newly lit fire emerging from the rustic chimney stack. It was time.
Slowly and without a sound he picked his way down the slope, making good use of the soft soled black hunting moccasins he wore to minimise any cracking of twigs. He planted his feet quickly but carefully, on patches of the forest floor with minimal twigs and leaves. The evening dew had softened the leaves so there was very little rustling as he approached the cabin. His clothing was soft and tightly fastened to him, so there was no noise from it as he moved, and he listened very carefully to the ambient sounds and made sure any noise he made was well below the noise of the forest. In this manner he traversed smoothly across the clearing towards a woodpile near to the North East wall of the cabin.
He almost tripped over a pile of groceries and a broken wicker basket in the driveway on his way to it, but saw them in time and hopped over them without breaking his stride. He crouched by the woodpile and looked around. He couldn’t be seen from inside unless he stood up. He took this moment to check his equipment. Gun in its holster on his right hip, safety off and one round quietly racked into the chamber. Knife in its buckskin sheath on the back of his left hip . . .
Light flooded over the top of the woodpile. Someone was checking the windows. Had he racked the gun too loudly? There was a voice momentarily, deep, very close, expressing boredom in Bulgarian. Then the light folded back into darkness. He had to move.
He pulled the Browning and went around the house, clearing the corners professionally in case there was a guard outside. Nobody. At the back door he soft checked the handle, turning it very slowly, finding it locked, but also noticed it was freshly screwed shut around the door frame. Hmm. They were taking no chances. Only way in or out was round the front. Fair enough. Front it is.
Inside the house Heidi Rotkapp watched the back door handle at the end of the kitchen turning on its slow rotation and back. Someone was here! Could it be someone to rescue her.
She was duct taped to a chair and the shoulder of her red dress was torn, revealing the top of her brassiere and several large bruises. She looked from the kitchen back into the room and watched the large man Schlecht-Wolf and his two thugs sitting by the fire they just lit. They were drinking vodka and talking in what she assumed was Russian or maybe Polish. Languages never were her strong suit. Her native language was German and although her English was perfect, learned when she went up to Oxford, she knew no other languages well enough to know what they were saying.
It seemed they were unaware of the movement of the door handle and continued to chat amiably. One of them, the giant with the crew cut, had just checked the window again, not because he heard something but just for something to do, it appeared. He had just risen up slowly and ambled over to it, eyes on her her all the way across the room. As he drew the curtain the boss man, Schlecht-Wolf, had said something that sounded like a kind of query, accompanied by eyebrow raises. “Az sŭm tolkova skuchno” the giant had replied under his breath. That didn’t sound like Russian.
The brute had shrugged and ambled back across the room, again keeping his eyes on her as he did so, only dropping them to his friends again as he sat down. He was an ugly man, well over six feet tall, stubbled hair covering a flat topped cranium which looked like a helmet, heavy brows and a thick nose with a wide mouth with thick lips.
The other two men were equally ugly. The smaller one looked as though he had been crushed by gravity, squat like a troll or a gnome. He had slightly prissily trimmed hair, almost too meticulously coiffured, and one droopy eye slightly bigger than the other giving him a permanently quizzical expression. Whereas the giant’s voice was deep and booming, the gnome has a lisping and slightly rasping high voice. She could see his larger eye was surrounded by angry purple, and couldn’t resist a slight smile about that.
But the ugliest of all was the boss, the Wolf man, Anton Schlecht-Wolf. Wiry dark hair culminating in thick mutton chop whiskers, browless, dark, beady eyes and a wet, gaping mouth filled with widely spaced, pointed teeth. He was big, not tall, but bulky, like a weightlifter. The ease with which he bossed around his two goons bespoke a concealed violence and cruelty which he kept under the surface. He used this evil aura to control anyone who displeased him. It came off him like a warm breeze of suppressed anger all the time. He slapped the goons playfully and they actually flinched as they laughed, as if to reassure him they were not a threat. Classic dog behaviour, she thought to herself.
To her however Schlecht-Wolf had been creepily calm and pleasant, from the moment they grabbed her outside the house and brought her inside. The calmness was jarring and it added to the horror of the man. Anyone who looked the way he did and radiated those palpable waves of violent intent, and yet was uniformly civilised and cultured in his manner set up a sort of confusion in the mind. It was one of his tools, the joy of playing with people’s minds, clearly one of his fetishes.
At first they had sat her in a chair by the kitchen door and brought her a cup of tea. It was unsettling but pleasant. Then at one point later on, after much careful and polite questioning, the Wolf man apologised, patted her gently on the knee and deliberately moved away with his back to her. He made a big show of it, starting to put wood in the grate in preparation for a fire, as if accidentally ignoring her for a moment. It was then the goons got to work on her.
They bound her roughly to the chair with tape and started slapping and poking her, at first almost jovially, then harder and still harder till her face grew as red as her dress. Then they took it in turns to set about her, the giant punching and slapping her with his huge ham hands, the gnome painfully pinching nerve clusters in her arms and legs with a kind of cruel glee. The giant seemed bored and professional, knowing how hard to hit to cause immense pain but little lasting damage. The gnome was feverish in his work for some reason, growing agitated, and each time he touched her she could feel he wanted to do more, to go further, to cause more pain and actual harm. To tear her flesh rather than just pinch at it excruciatingly.
Then finally he snapped, like an angry child, and he brought his quivering sweaty toad face close to hers so she could smell his stale fishy breath. He grabbed the sleeve of her dress and with a high scream of rage and frustration tore the sleeve clean off, cutting the soft part of her elbow as it parted across it. He began to stuff the sleeve into her mouth and she screamed through it. The giant looked over to Schlecht-Wolf for instructions, and the Wolf man paused then nodded slightly. The giant grabbed the gnome by his shoulders and lifted him from his feet as easily as one might pick up a child. The gnome shrieked and kicked, but almost casually the giant slammed him up against the wall so hard it jerked all the breath out of the squat figure, and then dropped him to the floor in a heap. The giant rubbed his hands on his trousers and turned back to Heidi. He took the cloth, surprisingly gently, from her mouth and tearing a strip of the material, bound the cut on her elbow. Then he stood aside to await further orders.
At first the gnome was stunned and disoriented but then he had roared and launched himself at the giant. The giant didn’t move until the last second. He grabbed the gnome by his throat and holding him up in the air he punched him in the eye with his giant ham fist, dashing him to the ground, where he finally lay still. Schlecht-Wolf muttered in English, “ok enough”. He walked right over to Heidi and spoke to her very softly, right into her ear so she had to strain to hear him. “Listen very carefully . . .” The he had fired his gun right next to her other ear. Her ear was still deaf and slightly ringing even an hour later.
So the torturing and the fighting had stopped eventually and the giant had picked up the fallen gnome, roused him back to consciousness and poured him a glass of vodka which he grudgingly accepted. The gnome’s tone was apologetic. They laughed a little and began to talk. After that they had seemed to lose interest in her. Perhaps they were resting and they would go at her again later. They would probably not let her sleep and wake her every hour or so through the night for more beatings. She suspected the gnome would not be allowed to touch her after his outburst, so she braced herself for the giant’s full attentions.
That is until the door handle moved. Until that happened she had become resigned to the fact she was not going to make it out of the cabin alive. But now someone was there, and they were being very discreet. Perhaps they would rescue her after all?
Outside, Bane was ready. He took a small object the size of an apple out of his pocket, prepared it and threw it as far as he could towards the rear of the house. The grenade went off seconds later, giving him just enough time to run to the front door and wrench it open. The back windows in the house shattered from the force of the explosion, but the heavy curtains prevented the glass from shredding everyone in the room. Heidi was screaming. The noise was so loud and shocking that no eyes were on the front door when John Bane slid into the room, feet planted and firing crisply, putting a bullet in the back of the gnome’s neck and the giant’s shoulder.
Before he could fire again Schlecht-Wolf turned fast and twin muzzle flashes in the air previewed the arrival of a couple of closely grouped .45 bullets in the centre of Bane’s chest, sending him crashing backwards through the flimsy dividing door into the bedroom. Silence fell, punctuated only by the giant’s painful curses, the reverberation of the girl’s scream and the odd tiny tinkle of falling glass.
Schlecht-Wolf looked down at the gnome. Large hole in his neck, blood pooling fast. Dead for certain. The giant was hissing Slavic obscenities and clutching his shoulder, but then composed himself, gritting his teeth and looking to Schlecht-Wolf for directions. Schlecht-Wolf nodded to the empty bedroom door, and cursing and puffing, entered the darkened kitchen pulling Heidi on her chair along with him. He stood there in the gloom watching the giant move cautiously into the bedroom. Heidi also stared. It was so quiet. What was happening?
Suddenly a thud, a grunt and sharp crack followed by a scream. The giant fell back through the doorway clutching an arm bent at an eccentric angle. As if in slow motion, standing on his chest as he fell was a man, dressed entirely in black, riding the giant down to the floor like a lumberjack on a falling tree. When they hit the floor the man trod down hard with a twist and the giant was still. Schlecht-Wolf fired wildly three times but missed. He stopped firing and the dark figure rose and levelled his own gun.
Schlecht-Wolf grabbed Heidi by the neck but kept the gun fixed on Bane. Heidi could hear him trying to slow his breathing. Finally Schlecht-Wolf spoke, almost conversationally. “Body armour, Commander Bane? That’s not very sporting.”
“This isn’t sport, Schlecht-Wolf, this is war. And you are my prisoner.” Heidi could see Bane’s blue grey eyes in the slit in his ski mask, his voice was level and convincingly cruel.
Schlecht-Wolf coughed. “The only one of us with a mrŭsna kurva . . . uh sorry dirty whore as a prisoner here is, er, me. Ms Rotkapp has not been very shall we say forthcoming about what she knows, so after I have finished with you I shall continue our conversation until she does. And she WILL!” he wrenched at her neck causing her to punctuate his speech with a yelp.
Bane shouted. “You’re not leaving this cabin, Schlecht-Wolf. You’re not getting away . . .”
“. . . a second time?” Schlecht-Wolf interrupted and then laughed, wetly. “Yes, Heidi, you see Commander Bane and I know each other quite well, I’ve beaten him before, you see. Now you get to watch while I do it again . . .”
He tensed and straightened his arm as if to fire, but Heidi suddenly drove her feet into the floor hurling them both hard into the heavy back door. Schlecht-Wolf’s grip on her neck loosened and she pushed forwards shouting with the effort, flinging herself with the chair to the ground. As she hit the floor she looked up to see Bane propel himself forwards tearing the ski mask from his head as he went and clutching at something at his left side. He brought it to the front as he collided with the Wolf man.
Schlecht-Wolf opened his eyes in time to see Bane’s face very close and feeling the impact of his body on his. How had he closed the gap so fast? Then he noticed a cold feeling spreading through him, realising with a small pang of regret it must be a knife in his chest. He looked up into Bane’s eyes, which were flaring with triumph. “Not today, Mr Wolf,” said Bane quietly, as Anton Schlecht-Wolf’s world went dark.
Bane had checked Grandmother Rotkapp’s ancient dusty Mercedes for fuel and was going to drive Heidi to the local village hospital. She was badly bruised and shaken although it seemed she was basically okay. Physically at least. But she should see a doctor just in case.
When he came back inside she was sitting on one of the chairs by the fire. Her dark red hair was catching the firelight and her deep blue eyes were large and searching. He put his gun on the table and sat beside her, touching her forearm and hand. Her pale lightly freckled skin was so soft he could hardly feel it under his fingertips. Her voice, steady at first, was accented with German, but her English was flawless.
“Fortunately my grandmother was away when I arrived or they would have caught her too. You know? They were waiting for me . . . I had no supplies and decided to walk to the village to get food . . . and so I was coming back with groceries, some wine and cake for grandma. And then they . . .” she stopped speaking and bowed her head, tears of relief finally flooding her eyes. “Thank you” she said in a whisper.
“No” he said, “Thank you. If you hadn’t acted I’d never have got him. You took action and that took a lot of guts.”
She lay her head against him. Bane comforted her, but his attention was elsewhere. His chest burned, the body armour spread the impact of the .45 bullets but his chest would be bruised for weeks. The giant had grabbed him by the throat, but he’d broken the huge arm with the butt of his Browning and drop kicked him out of the door. Most of these aches and pains were familiar to him and would heal, experience told him that. Nothing a shower, some freshly laundered clothes and large bourbon wouldn’t fix.
But there was another sensation, an old familiar ache, and one that for the first time he welcomed. The tiny triangle of steel glowing painfully in his thigh muscle, reminding him of Anton Schlecht-Wolf for the very last time.
Writing like Fleming is easy if you’ve read as many of his books as I have, but the key is sensual detail. Fleming was a well known lover of sensation, experiences, places, food and women. And these details were always very precise. He also knew what he considered to be the best of everything, and strove to discover it for whatever application he had; shampoo, watches, typewriters, clothes, food, coffee, you name it. What the best was, and why it was so darn good.
He also travelled extensively in Europe and the far east, knew America well, and used these travels in his work. But mostly he was a sensual writer and his prose is laced with the language of the senses, the touch of things, the smell, the taste, the light, and the sounds. Infuse your work with these details and almost instantly you are writing like Ian Fleming.
Oh and I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, The Wealthy Writer by Nick Daws and Ruth Barringham is truly wonderful book, containing a lot of insider information I wish I’d known before I tried making a living writing online. As I’ve said before Nick is one of the few writing coaches whose work I really respect, and on the strength of this work, Ruth is also one of my new favourite teachers. Most other ebook writers give you a 50 page cut and paste fest full of decent but unoriginal material and charge the earth. In my experience Nick does the exact opposite of that. This book is no exception, a huge 259 pages of densely packed professional advice to get you on the road to being a professional, and yes, wealthy writer. To purchase your own little piece of heaven follow this link. You won’t regret it.
Many thanks, be well and if you have any questions about this blog or the course please don’t hesitate to contact me, I’ll be very happy to help.
Tags: adult author, art, authenticity, bestsellers, books, brain training, creative writing, creativity, flow, genius, hypnosis books, ideas, IQ, literary novels, man booker prize, nostalgia, novelist., novels, senses, spy novels, typewriter, writers, writing
Fourth in a series of 7 Pastiches of Little Red Riding Hood in the style of my favourite authors. Now I bring you a further retelling of the Red Riding Hood story, drawn from the original text LITTLE RED CAP by the Brothers Grimm and in the style of the Dream King, Neil Gaiman. Afterwards I shall give you the matching commentary as to how it was done, and so on for all 7 stories. I hope you enjoy it, but be warned this one is a dark horror story modelled around the Victorian Jack the Ripper or Dr Jekyll tales. Those below the age of consent or of a sensitive disposition should look away now. That said, come with me into the London fog with…
How she was found and the butcher shop display he’d made of her, so violent, so destructive… the doctor, a man not given to emotional outbursts, had to steady himself on the dresser as he breathed deeply and spoke as how he’d never seen the like. He was an animal, this killer, this wolf in the coat of a man. Posing the body like that, they muttered darkly in the corners of the candle lit room, is either the work of an evil man, or as one wag quipped, an ordinary demon.
Grandmother, an honorary title at best, also slain with a single, terrible knife swipe to the throat after hearing the screams of her ward and arriving at the bedroom door, lay in the hallway, her boots peeking around the wainscoting at its foot. It was she who had sent the red haired girl to the shop for wine and cake, to be shared between her and the other girls who worked at Grandmothers house down here at Three Oaks in the East End of London.
The girl, Miss Hood, had begun her journey back to the house of medium repute from the local shop in Wood Lane, it seems. Detective Inspector Lumberjacke sat in the corner, a procession of vague figures came and went, some to scrape and clean, some to catalogue and box. He considered her earlier journey as he watched her take her last, seeing it in his minds eye like a magic lantern show, slide after yellowing slide painted in gay colours, stained with cigar smoke and dust.
Lumberjacke, eyes closed, could see Miss Hood skipping to the shop along the cobbles by gaslight, choosing the cake and wine, and bidding the shopkeep good day intending to return… But the dark figure in the doorway blocked her path. The shopkeep said only that the man was tall, and all that could be seen of him in light from the gaslight under the shadow of his broad brimmed hat was his whiskers and his large, stained and long teeth as he smiled. The shopkeep, Mr Redcap, said he didn’t hear all of what was said to the girl by this imposing gentleman, but he described the tone of voice as a sort of low rasping whisper. The snippet he heard was something about not liking cake so much as apple dumplin’s, and all looking at her bosom. The voice sounded like the throat of the speaker was full of earth, he had said quietly, and adding with a visible shudder that it was not a voice he would forget in a month of Sundays.
The shopkeep viewed her listening to the man’s proposal, nodding and smiling sweetly, and waving a slightly distracted farewell to Mr Redcap, she had accompanied this wolf back to Grandmother’s house. Any other man making so untimely a proposal would have a sharp reply; “that’s my eye, Betty Martin” or “shut yer bone box” she normally would have shot back. But this proposal, these silken, gritted syllables were delivered in such a tone you would not refuse, or so it seemed.
Of the journey back nothing was known, but upon being observed arriving back at Grandmother’s house, the girl gave the basket of goods to one of her “sisters” Elizabeth Bones, and said to go with the other girls and eat, she wouldn’t be long. Miss Hood turned and ushered the man into the downstairs front bedroom.
Miss Bones stated when questioned that the man was tall, as tall a man as she had ever seen, a giant likely, and she momentarily feared for the safety of Miss Hood, for she might be crushed beneath his enormous frame. But she had brushed this thought aside, she added tearfully, with thoughts of cake… Doubtless she could have done nothing against this monster even if she had come to Miss Hood’s aid, Lumberjacke mused.
What then? Miss Bones had turned, thoughts of cake in her mind, but as the man entered the room she caught a fleeting glimpse under the shadow of that great hat of one huge eye and one enormous ear. She recalled ruefully thinking they would be all the better to see and hear with, but chided herself for such frivolous thoughts. That cold eye would give her nightmares, she said after a long pause.
Miss Hood shortly called for drink, and after a gravelled reproving voice in the background repeated verbatim, “…and the gentlemen says not one of them short bawdy house bottles, a proper size.” The ale was brought, and the door was closed into its hole.
Then the crime. Within minutes of the door touching it’s frame, the first screams, then the last cut horribly short.
Lumberjacke rubbed his beard and asked one of the passing constables to give him a cigarette. The young man obliged, first rubbing a bloodied hand on his rough dark trouser, and carefully teasing the smoke from its box without hardly touching it.
Although he very much needed to know what had happened here in order to assemble clues and form some idea of who had done this horrifying thing, the crime itself was unobserved by any living soul. The ferocity of the blows and the cuts bespoke a large and strong man, and the intricacy and precision of the posing spoke of a derangement far beyond Lumberjacke’s experience. And the girl, Miss Hood, so pretty in the single vignetted photograph by the bed, now slick with dark fresh blood. How had she come to this end? What crime had she ever committed which fit such brutal punishment?
He exhaled and rocked back in the chair as the work continued, letting the men complete their work while he tried to marshall his thoughts and regain his composure.
It was there, he could feel it. Try as he might, the scene was so, disarrayed. So seemingly random. What was the motive?
Then he felt it. It was not a pleasant feeling, but it welled up like a sudden fear of heights or a noise in the night when you are sleeping. The thought, like a tiny apologetic sliver of doom, beckoned to him, just outside of his notice, a small thought which asked politely to be heard. He dismissed it angrily three times before he relaxed and squinted cutty-eyed out of the corner of his mind, reluctantly and helplessly, and let it in.
Was the man real? Was he a demon? A wolf demon come to Earth to slay the weak and the beautiful for his own psychotic pleasure? That was nonsense, he protested weakly, base hysterical tosh! But was it? Was the unknown a lie simply because it was as yet unknowable? The thought tried again. It craved his attention more strongly and he listened grimly to it’s message.
Do the fallen gods crave to mutilate and destroy the bodies of men and women for their own edification? In the absence of our praise and worship do the fallen reach out and take the red water of our life and meat of our bones? In these cobbled streets of night do they take their red and pink worship in the form of our blood and flesh?
With the still, cold ripple of realisation in the pit of his stomach, like the flickering knife which had just stolen worship from the flesh and blood of poor Mary Hood, he knew in his heart it was true.
You can tell the amount of relish I poured into this story. It’s a dark tale, and befitting my feeble attempt at emulating the Dream King comes from an angle that you might not expect. I don’t know about you but I love Ripper stories, and I’ve always wanted to do one. But Red Riding Hood as a Ripper story, have no clue where that came from and it didn’t occur to me until I sat down to write. It was a flicker of an idea from my subconscious and I went with it.
I found out after about 2 nanoseconds research that Neil Gaiman has already done his own version of Red Riding Hood, of course he has. As by this point he’s written so many stories covering every conceivable mashup and reworking of popular myths and odd slants on fairy tales, I’d be more surprised if he hadn’t. But I went with it anyway because a) I REALLY wanted to write the story once I’d thought of it, and b) ploughing ahead and making it work even if you think it’s impossible is something I encourage my students to do, even if it “fails”. It’s up to you to decide if I was successful.
The thing is Neil’s style is quite hard to categorise, but you know it when you see it. There is a magic realism edge to almost everything he does, wether fantasy of science fiction, and mythical beasts lurk in the shadows of all his tales. You don’t so much write like Neil as a attempt to psychically channel him.
I couldn’t find any commentaries about his work so a quick trawl of the internet came up with the following:
He starts with the whole story, then tells why
He writes outside the box, full of magical realism
He crafts a thorough setting, vivid places
Okay, I don’t really know if any of that’s true, but it sounded right. So you start out telling the whole story and then backtrack and explain how it happened. That way of you foretell something horrible is about to happen you get a fair amount of suspense. You write outside the box, coming at the reader from odd angles they don’t expect and introducing elements which don’t necessarily belong in the story but make them work and creatively sew them into the fabric of what you’re doing. And finally make sure that the overall flavour of the environment you are telling the story in is alive with gorgeous telling details.
To get a feel for the era, I read a wonderful book, The “1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue” which is available many places online. It contains many slang phrases which are long out of use but provide a tangy flavour of the times, phrases like “cutty eyed” or “my eye Betty Martin” or “Shut your bone box” and the concept of “bawdy house bottles” being short measures. In fact the title “a wolf in the stomach” is slang for being hungry. The original title was “an ordinary demon” and you can argue which was better yourself.
So I laid out the direction of the story pretty fast in the opening paragraph. It’s totally clear where we are and what we’re talking about. If this story was part of an anthology you would assume we were talking about Jack the Ripper, but of course you get clues, Grandma, Grandma’s House, Miss Hood, the Wolf and pretty soon you are getting the idea. Then we explain how we got here.
The out of the box element is the detective’s speculations about the gods, and how fallen gods might seek their worship in other ways. I have to say I really liked that little twist. It could have just been an ordinary murderer or maybe a werewolf, but that was for want of a real word, not really “Gaimany” enough for me. If you want to write like Neil then you have to go the extra mile, you have to not just put a twist on your stories but twist them around a few more turns. Then you stand back whistling and act like nothing is wrong, even point somewhere else in the room and say “what’s that over there”, and let the audience find the extra twists, and smile when they do.
Neil Gaiman is by this point not so much a writer as he is a magician and showman with words. What he’s saying is not very complex and if you look under the hood (if you’ll pardon the pun) what he’s actually doing is (like the secrets behind all baffling illusions) almost mundane. But the massive degree of showmanship, misdirection and distraction of the settings and overall mood lull you into a sense of security, wandering along looking at the scenery. Then BAM you wake up and you are off the beaten track and you wonder how he persuaded you to go so far away from home.
He is the Derren Brown of magical realism.
All themes discussed in this blog are expanded in my course, WRITING FIT: Creativity Coaching for Writers which is out now. Of course I would be overjoyed if you would also subscribe to my free monthly newsletter. It’s an especially good time to do so at the moment as I am part way through a free 6 part mini course based on CGP. Don’t worry if you missed the first part, I will be putting links to all parts in each subsequent parts. Hope you enjoy it.
Many thanks, be well and if you have any questions about this blog or the course please don’t hesitate to contact me, I’ll be very happy to help.
Tags: addiction, adult author, art, authenticity, bestsellers, books, brain training, business plans, conversational hypnosis, creative writing, creativity, drugs, fake authenticity, flow, genius, hypnosis books, ideas, IQ, literary novels, man booker prize, meditation, milton erickson, Neil Gaiman, Nick Daws, nostalgia, novelist., novels, personal pain, refocussing, science fantasy, senses, spy novels, suffering, typewriter, writers, writing, young adult books
Third in a series of 7 Pastiches of Little Red Riding Hood in the style of my favourite authors. Today I give you another retelling of the Red Riding Hood story, culled from the original text LITTLE RED CAP by the Brothers Grimm and in the style of the late, sorely missed, Douglas Adams. Afterwards I shall give you the matching commentary as to how it was done, and so on for all 7 stories. I hope you enjoy it. So now, let’s get to it…
3. Zen and the Art of Whup-ass (after Douglas Adams)
VOICE OF A BOOK: (over twinkly starlike music) In the Nut Tree Nebula there is a planet known as Three Oaks, a surprisingly named place because a) there more than three oaks there, and b) in fact every piece of land on the entire planet is covered with trees.
It was speculated in the past that the name comes not from three OAKS, but three YOLKS. But this has since been discredited as a transparent ruse by the Three Oaks Egg Marketing Board. Someone certainly had egg on their face.
In any event you would assume, and who could blame you, that the major industry of a planet covered in trees would be wood.
And bird guano.
And actually those are two of the major industries, but not THE major industry…
This eventually became clear to ARTHUR DONT, an Earthman, and FRED PERFECT, an Alien of deliberately indeterminate lineage, who at the time of our story were strolling nonchalantly along in the forest of infinite unbroken trees. They had clearly just been jogging as they both had towels around their necks. Although on closer inspection neither had broken a sweat, both were a little paunchy, and it was impossible to run in a straight line on that planet for longer than about 4 seconds without running into a tree. In any event, they had towels.
Fred is about to explain to Arthur why they can’t leave.
FRED PERFECT: We can’t leave, we haven’t seen all the sights. I tell you Arthur, this place is amay-zing, you dig? Trees as far as the eye can see…
ARTHUR DONT: Which is not very far because of all the trees. At this point I’m craving a cup of tea and any kind of view that’s not obscured by tree trunks.
FRED: But don’t you feel at one with nature, surrounded by all this wood?
ARTHUR: Can’t see the wood… too many trees! And what sights? All we’ve seen for four days is trees. All the same. All on the same level.
FRED: Communing with nature, come on, doesn’t it speak to you, man?
ARTHUR: I talk to the trees, but like YOU, Fred… they don’t listen to me.
FRED: Okay okay, I get it. You wanna go. According to the guide it’s actually not far to the next ranger station, somewhere called Grand Mars Haus?
VOICE OF A BOOK: And indeed it wasn’t far, because a mere quarter league further down the road (or the distance it takes a man to stumble in bedroom slippers across bracken in an hour) in a grove of the aforementioned Woodfer Trees, they arrived at the Grand Mars Haus Ranger station.
FRED: Hello? Anybody home?
ARTHUR: Why do they paint Ranger stations to look like cottages made out of candy?
FRED: Tradition I think. Hello?
RANGER: (muffled) Hello? Who’s there?
FRED: Ah hello, you don’t know us, but we are Fred Perfect and Arthur Dont, tourists. We were wondering if you could direct us to the next transport station, or perhaps give us a lift?
RANGER: (muffled) Ah. Please come in, lift the latch and come in.
ARTHUR: For some reason I have a very bad feeling about this.
VOICE OF A BOOK: Inside the dark and dingy station the Ranger loomed large, a huge furry creature stuffed into a tiny ranger uniform clearly not meant for him.
FRED: Oh, hello. Gosh, sorry but er what big eyes you have.
RANGER: All the better to see you with. In fact they are very sensitive to light so can you close the door, there’s a good chap.
FRED: Of course. (FX: creak, slam)
ARTHUR: And sorry to mention it but I’m struck by, well, what big ears you have.
RANGER: Bit personal.
RANGER: Okay so they are, you know, all the better to hear you with, but veeerrrrrry sensitive so stop shouting.
ARTHUR: (softly) sorry.
FRED: And er, can’t help noticing, but you know, what big, uh, oh dear, teeth you, er…
RANGER: Okay, enough already… (FX: growl, gnash, scream, GULP)
FRED: (inside the Ranger) Arthur?
ARTHUR: (inside the Ranger) Yes?
FRED: (inside the Ranger) I don’t think this guy is the Ranger.
ARTHUR: (inside the Ranger) Whatever gives you that idea?
FRED: (inside the Ranger) Apart from the fact he just gobbled us up whole, you mean?
ARTHUR: (inside the Ranger) Oh be quiet. At least there are no trees in here.
(FX: muffled knock knock from outside)
RANGER: (muffled) Who’s there?
LITTLE RED: (muffled) It’s Little Red, come to deliver cake and wine.
RANGER: (muffled) Please come in, lift the latch and come in. Ha ha ha… Oh shit!
(FX: Roar, battle sounds followed by final howling roar and a disgusting wet ripping sound.)
LITTLE RED: You boys okay in there?
ARTHUR: Thank god you opened him up in time and let us out. Although now there’s air around my face oh god I can smell how bad this is… Augh! Who are you, anyway, slightly built, gore covered woman?
LITTLE RED: I’m Little Red. I don’t open up wolves. I open up cans of whup-ass. This laser axe here is my can opener.
FRED: Ah. Thats a bit of cliché, isn’t it?
LITTLE RED: You got a smart mouth for a man covered in giant wolf guts.
FRED: Point taken.
LITTLE RED: Let’s go, I’ve got a ship waiting. Zipgun Beetlebrows needs you. Bring the monkey.
ARTHUR: (fade into distance) You know Zipgun? What is whup-ass? Is it a martial art? Where are we going? Is there tea? Hey, what monkey?!?
VOICE OF A BOOK: And so it was that our heroes found their way out of the forest through the guts of an evil wolf creature from the planet Grimm, reconnected with their friend Zipgun Beetlebrows via their meeting with the tiny but gorgeous warrior princess, Little Red, and how they established that when all’s said and done, planet Three Oaks’ major industry was in fact small, feisty, bipedal female-dispensed cans of whup-ass.
Another enormously satisfying pastiche based on my love of dear late Douglas’ work.
The keynotes of his style are a razor wit, word play, and an attitude culled from the different parts of his personality. Ford Prefect, or Fred Perfect as he is known here, was the classless, adventurous guy who’d been everywhere and done everything, travelled widely and knew how to do things. He was enthusiastic and up for new experiences. Arthur Dent, or Dont as I have him here, was the opposite, middle class curmudgeon wearing a dressing gown and slippers who didn’t want to go anywhere or do anything, was constantly grumbling, wanting tea and not being able to get it anywhere they travelled, and contantly self depreciateing and yet wanting to be appreciated.
These two opposing personalities were the driving force of the Hitchhiker’s series, and I feel they were aspects of Douglas, wanting to be the adventurous Ford, but feeling like Arthur. Travelling and experiencing the sensual pleasure of new things and places and experiences, but being a bit crestfallen that he couldn’t get a proper cup of tea anywhere but home. Their arguments and bickering drove the plot and gave Douglas time to put forth his own ideas about Life, The Universe and Everything through the opinions of his cast.
All the place and character names, like in Philip K Dick’s work, are puns or jokes, but in common with Sir Terry Pratchett they are much more overt, staunchly British, and much less in-jokey than PKD. You always knew with Douglas, as with Sir Terry, that if someone had an obviously funny name which was begging for a joke, that at some point that joke, the very reason they were named that way, would be along shortly and would be worth the wait. Slartibartfast springs to mind.
And the woman were always very strong in his tales, modern women who stood up for themselves and never took any BS from the clearly childish male characters. In tight situations it was the women, and in rare cases and to his own surprise more than anyone Arthur, who stepped up and saved the day.
Douglas also had this way of writing long sentences with many clauses, sometimes with two or three asides inserted within commas, and yet no matter how long or wordy the sentences got, he refined and doubtless said them out loud until they read smoothly and naturally.
When all was said and done Douglas had a lot to say about life and had an unquenchable thirst for it. He chose comedy as a platform for his ideas, the way PKD chose science fiction as a platform for his philosophy. I tend to think of his stories not as stories, not in the way Neil Gaiman tells stories, but as yarns, a tall tale which entertains and informs while leaving you with a happy camp fire glow, and the comfort of knowing you can always come back to it or retell it to each other whenever you want to.
All the themes discussed in this blog are expanded in my course, WRITING FIT: Creativity Coaching for Writers which is out now. You can also subscribe to my free monthly newsletter. It’s an especially good time to do so at the moment as I have started on a free 6 part mini course based on CGP. Don’t worry if you missed the first part, I will be putting links to all parts in each subsequent parts. Hope you enjoy it.
Many thanks, be well and if you have any questions about this blog or the course please don’t hesitate to contact me, I’ll be very happy to help.
Tags: adult author, art, authenticity, bestsellers, books, brain training, conversational hypnosis, creative writing, creativity, douglas adams, fake authenticity, flow, genius, hypnosis books, ideas, literary novels, man booker prize, meditation, milton erickson, Nick Daws, nostalgia, novelist., novels, personal pain, refocussing, senses, suffering, typewriter, writers, writing, young adult books
Second in a series of 7 Pastiches of Little Red Riding Hood in the style of my favourite authors. Today I give you another retelling of the Red Riding Hood story, culled from the original text LITTLE RED CAP by the Brothers Grimm. Afterwards I shall give you the matching commentary as to how it was done, and so on for all 7 stories. I hope you enjoy it. So now, without much further ado, and not that there has been any ado before now…
EXT. FOREST – NIGHT
A red haired young woman, LITTLE AUBURN, about 19 years old, in a blue hooded sweatshirt is walking along a forest path. A supermarket grocery bag in her hand. She has white cutoff trousers and silver glittery shoes. She seems ill at ease. Her shoes tick tick tick on the path and echo a little. The wind blows in the trees, whipping the tops making a lot of noise. She pulls up the hood over her hair and walks more quickly. Before the fade there is a faint throaty laughter and a dog barking.
INT. KITCHEN – NIGHT
MOM is in the bright colourful kitchen wearing a 50s style house dress and apron, cleaning up after baking. The curtains are full length and dark green and the floor is a geometric black and white pattern. It has the flavour of 1950s diner about it.
There is a vinyl record playing on a record player. She wipes the tops and brushes flour off the top into her hand. She puts a book back on the shelf, “BAKING FOR MOMS” and the old fashioned wall telephone rings. She takes off the apron and answers it, brushing flour from her front with the apron. Halfway through the conversation she bends down and picks up a large sink plunger and holds it ready, as if preparing for her next task.
(shouts as to deaf person)
Hello! Hi mom! Yes. I know you’re not well, you called me earlier, remember? I’ve sent LITTLE AUBURN over with some wine and some cake! Wine and cake! Mulled wine and a little carrot cake! Carrot! For the love o’Mike, mom, wine and cake! Did you lose the batteries in your hearing aid? What? No don’t turn it off to save the the batteries! I keep telling you they are not expensive, and there’s no point if you can’t… Anyway I told her to stay on the path and to take great care! Care, not hair! No, of course I didn’t go with her! I’m talking to you now on the phone. Jeez Louise, mom!
The record skips and repeats the same notes over and over and Mom looks at the skipping record with a strange look of foreboding on her face.
EXT. FOREST – NIGHT
LITTLE AUBURN walks along the path, tick tick tick, and an uneasy just audible drone begins on the soundtrack as she walks. She walks faster and faster and the trees rustle louder and louder. Eventually she’s running. She looks behind her as she runs.
She runs and runs and the drone gets louder until BAM!
She finally gets to a road and a car blazes past, horn going, almost mowing her down. The hood falls back reveling her hair and an apple drops from the bag and leaps out of the bag all in slow motion. The apple drops on the ground in slomo and comes to rest. She gasps for breath, looks around and catches her breath. She smiles, the shock has emboldened her. She seems to be relaxing a little.
Don’t run off the path. I will take great care. Don’t run off the…
Good evening, Little Red Haired Girl.
Woah! Who’s there? Stay back, Mister, I got a knife.
She grabs a butter knife out of the bag and flourishes it about inexpertly.
A shadowy figure leans agains a tree on the other side of the road. He’s smoking a cigarette. He laughs genially and flicks the butt.
Woah yerself, ginger. Cool your jets, no need for the blade, mon cheri. I don’t bite, although my name is Mr WOLF. That might be a hair hard to swallow, but I maintain that I mean you no harm. Now tell me, child, where might you be going to, in such an all-fired hurry on this fine night?
I see. What’s in the, uh, bag?
The bag. Le sac. The gladstone. What’s in the tote, mon petite dejuner?
Oh, the bag, it’s cake. Carrot cake. And wine, mulled wine. Some, uh, fruit. My grandma is ill, and I’m taking her wine and cake. And fruit. T-t-to grandma’s house. Her house. F-f-for grandma.
Understood, understood. And forgive me, but where might it be, this, “Grandma’s house”, eh?
A good three quarters of a mile yonder on into the wood, under the three oaks? With the nut trees below? You surely must know it.
As he replies we sometimes see his eyes. Piecing blue.
That I do. Three quarters of a mile, eh? What they’d call a quarter league in the olden days. Heh heh. You know a league was defined as the distance a man could go on a horse in an hour? Not many people recall that in these crazy times.
Listen to me rambling, you’ll be getting cold. Be on your way, but take your time, sugar. Smell the flowers, enjoy the air. Don’t rush! Hop skip. I’ll stand guard and mind you aren’t followed. Okay?
Uh okay. Thanks Mr WOLF. Sorry about the knife thing. You’re very kind.
Not a problem.
Well goodnight then.
WOLF replies with a rigid wave of the hand like a sideways karate chop.
She crosses the road and strolls off into the darkness. The drone begins again, more loudly this time, along with some echoing music, perhaps a Jazz tune with a brushed snare drum, upright bass and finger snaps.
Mr WOLF emerges from the shadows. He is a thin, good looking young man, with black slicked back hair, a quiff and long sideburns. He is wearing a purple suit. He walks to where LITTLE AUBURN was standing and watches her vanish into the dark.
We see briefly behind him and not too clearly a dog crosses the path and disappears into the foliage.
Mr WOLF makes a soft coyote howl as he looks up at the full moon and begins to talk to it.
Oh mother moon, what a tender young creature! What a nice plump mouthful! She will be better than the old woman. I must be crafty so as to catch both.
He goes as if to howl again, but stops when he sees the apple she dropped. He picks it up. He tosses and catches it. He regards it in his hand for a second then takes a huge crisp bite out of it, and while chewing with his mouth open begins to laugh around the huge juicy mouthful.
Still laughing and chewing he swings a large axe up onto his shoulder and follows LITTLE AUBURN as if he has all the time in the world.
and now my COMMENTARY
Again this was enormous fun as I am a giant fan of David Lynch, and have seen most of his films more than once. I have also read a number of commentaries of his work.
The thing to bear in mind about David Lynch is that he is a surrealist painter first and a filmmkaer second. His stories are more like moving paintings. Events sometimes don’t make a lot of sense, and critics and viewers often assume that these events are “random” or “wacky” in some way. The thing is they are almost always deliberate, and yet Lynch is not necessarily completely aware of what it means either. He employs internal logic, often culled from dreams or daydreams, and goes with his gut about wether something belongs in the story or not.
Almost everything in his films is there as symbolism or humour.
Dogs and Record players are almost always significant, usually heralds of some kind of evil. Often he uses colours for the same ends. You may recall he has a fondness for red curtains and black and white tiled floors.
People in Lynch movies speak somewhat archaic 1950s English. They frequently seem as though they are in fact IN the 1950s no matter what the date on the calendar. In fact they speak such odd phrases I felt totally able to drop some of the dialogue in verbatim from the original classic Grimm tale.
Sound is very important, and he uses sound with these symbolic cues, dogs, curtains, swaying trees etc. to convey uneasy moods and impending doom.Sometimes sound is speeded up, sometimes it is reversed. But it is all deliberate and not at all random.
What’s the sink plunger about? Humour. Often characters will hold random objects while speaking. Sometimes it’s the actors choice and Lynch goes with it because it feels right. Sometimes he will get an urge to include something because it’s found on set. Sometimes he brings it in specially.
What is the significance of the apple? It falls out of the basket and the wolf guy finds it and gobbles it up without hesitation. A metaphor for gobbling her and her grandma up? Unlikely as it seems chopping them with the axe is on his mind. Perhaps it’s nod back to the original tale but in any case it’s entirely up to the audience as to what that means to them. I know what I think it means to me but it’s an abstract thought, something which can only be conveyed with a series of pictures.
That’s the essence of David Lynch, sound and pictures, living paintings. It’s all about mood and overall feel rather than specifics of story and plot.
Tags: addiction, adult author, art, authenticity, bestsellers, books, brain training, business plans, conversational hypnosis, creative writing, creativity, david lynch, fake authenticity, flow, genius, hypnosis books, ideas, IQ, literary novels, man booker prize, meditation, milton erickson, Nick Daws, nostalgia, novelist., novels, personal pain, refocussing, senses, suffering, typewriter, writers, writing, young adult books
I am a writer and creative life trainer based in Somerset, UK. This blog is all about creativity and the things you can do to create it in yourself.