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Herein you will find scribbles and daubs, words and images, poems, photos and paintings, stories and comment; some stuff will be finely cut like a diamond, while some other stuff will be like a shattering of smashed glass.
Both glass and diamonds are nothing without light, so I can promise there is a light in all the work here and every glimmer is precious.
Scroll and click for more, tarry awhile and turn over some stones. Continue reading
I’m not sure what type of writing I prefer but if I can probably narrow it down to two – they are writing novels and writing film or TV scripts.
I think it’s because each of those forms allow you to write proper ‘stories’ with plots and characters. For example it’s exciting to throw a random plot twist at the characters and see how they react; then follow them to the end to see how everything gets resolved.
There’s time to get to know the characters a bit, time to chill with these new and interesting people. It’s also a bit like that with painting, especially painting portraits, where you don’t know where that first mark on the canvas is going to lead, who is going to emerge from that mess of form and colour.
I suppose that it’s a bit like that for all art-forms – the creation of something out of nothing but an idea. But then, isn’t it a bit like that for science and engineering too? Isn’t it a bit like that for every facet of human existence, from making a cup of tea to designing a spaceship?
There’s nothing special about writers and artists.
Anyway, my work-in-progress includes adapting two of my books into television scripts.
It’s going great so far, in fact both books seem to lend themselves to the visual style of a television script. The books are Bums and Boys from the Backfields and each story is being developed into a six part TV drama. Both books are set in the industrial/post-industrial town of Elchurch on the South Wales coast but they are very different books in other respects.
Here’s a sneak peek
A little poem from my new collection – Blodyn – click here for more info
In the dark
In the late dark, a visitor
From a summer, long departed
Teased from winter’s slumber
Deceived by central heat
And a wall to wall mat
A microdot of consciousness
For a moment sharing awareness
As it slips across my clutter
(This is a very raw and unedited bit of rambling, posted here as an example of the sort of thing that I write when I’m thinking about what to write but can’t actually get writing.)
Around ten past midnight on the cusp of Monday February 7th and Tuesday February 8th, 2017.
I wrote a little blog article between yesterday (Sunday) and today (Monday). It’s all about Trump and Brexit. Its premise/conclusion is that the ‘Libtards’ have to apologise before we can move on and develop a better system (if there is even a need for a ‘system’). But, a better system of what?
- How do we get on and look after each other?
Anyway, despite it having been a miserable day in some ways, the fact that I finished an article of sorts has made it a good day. It wasn’t easy and I had to plough on despite feeling that it would never make sense. In the end I think it does. It’s called ‘It’s not too late to say sorry’.
Less than a week ago, I published Blodyn, a book of my poetry, old and new, despite having only recently written blogs about how rubbish poetry, or at least the poetry industry, is.
Anyway, putting Blodyn together has sparked anew my interest in and love of writing poetry, so here goes:
Verses for a purpose
They need bundling
collecting in a net
They need releasing
one by one
They need repeating
Each one is a gem
a coruscating gem
A method of seeing
Caress them in your hands
Speak them with your mouth
Stroke them with your voice
Bring them home
Let them gather
Let them drift
Let them fly
Catch them as they pass
Love them while they last
Stars are special
Stars are light
Stars are real
Stars are bright
Must be time for bed; it’s nearly one a.m.
On December 15th 2016 from 5:45pm until 7:00pm I will be at Cardiff Central Library reading from and discussing two of my novels – Boys from the Backfields and Cheats and Liars. I might also discuss some of my other books and possibly talk a little bit about the publishing process.
The two novels
Boys from the Backfields is a murder mystery set over half a century. The story begins in the 1960’s when Mick a young teenage boy and his little gang witness the murder of Betty Fish while out blackberry picking around the Backfields council estate in South Wales. Mick is haunted by this tragic event for the next 50 years until finally the truth is revealed and the mystery is solved.
Cheats and Liars is set in an affluent inner suburb of Cardiff and follows Brian Llewelyn, ‘The Greatest Living Artist in Wales’ as he comes to realise that his success depends on the sycophants, cheats and liars that share in it. The novel follows Brian as the foundations his life is based on crumble from under him and he has to redefine what is important.
There will also be plenty of time for any questions from the audience.
This is part of the Library’s Open Space Events series and it’s free but space is limited so it might be best to book through Eventbrite where if you search ‘Open Space Cardiff’ you should be able to find them, though, as I write this it may be too early for the December event’s listing.
The BEBS is a very prestigious award made just once – I mean how could it be awarded more than once – it’s for the Best Ever Book after all.
My latest book ‘To Me’ beat all other competition from all time, past, present and future hands down.
I would just like to express my thanks to the BEBS and to myself for writing such a marvellous award-winning tome.
I love publishing
I have published ten of my own books including novels, poetry, short stories and miscellany. I have also published or helped to publish books for many other people.
Sales of my books are steady but modest but I still have to publish them and will continue to do so. I love publishing and I’m good at it. So, if you feel the same and have to publish your own work but don’t have the time or skills to do it yourself then come to me and I’ll help you.
I won’t rip you off but I will charge you for the work I do. How much work I do is up to you, for example if you just want the book designed, typeset and formatted for printing the cost will be between £300 and £800 depending on what condition your original document is in and how much there is to do- average is probably £400 – £500.
This service depends on you supplying the manuscript as an electronic document such as Word. It does not include editing but does include cover design and the help you need to get you set up with Creatspace and Amazon so that you can publish the book as a paperback and/or as an ebook.
If you want any editing services then I will charge you a reasonable rate for my time.
Everything depends on exactly what you want help with so please contact me by filling in the form below to start the conversation.
To Me is the title of my next book. It’s been written specifically for myself and it is dedicated To Me, but I don’t mind if others read it.
I think everyone should have their own ‘To Me’ book. Luckily I have the experience and skills to publish my own.
Using Print on Demand it doesn’t really cost anything but time plus the cost of any printed copies, and you can buy just one copy if you like.
I’m working on the final edit, it looks like it will end up being about 103,000 words and 310 pages long in an 8.5″ x 5.5″ format.
Here’s a sneak peek of the cover:
Signed copies of my novels now available from my website
Another extract from some work-in-progress on my new book ‘This is It’
NOTE: After writing this I forgot about it for eleven years, if I hadn’t I would definitely have made that first million.
This Time Next Year
(How I make my first million)
Hi! It’s seven minutes past ten in the evening; it’s Monday May 16th 2005. This is the beginning of the story of how I made my first million. As of now, I have no idea how I’m going to do it, but do it I will. This time next year I’ll be a millionaire. Continue reading
Another snippet from This is It.
(Disclaimer: I can’t guarantee precise historical accuracy – all these memories may be mixed up and reconstituted in a skewed way, probably due to the bin-bag full of potent Mexican grass we consumed during the period – it was the sixties after all!)
In 1969 when I was seventeen I went to London with my friend Dave. He picked me up in a transit van from where I lived with my parents and my siblings in the small council house on the outskirts of Llanelli. Dave was a roadie; well actually Dave was a brilliant guitarist but worked as a roadie in London at the time. He was a couple or more years older than me and he died in his twenties but that’s another story. Dave was one of my two best friends – the other one was Stu, who was younger than me and who also died in his twenties – that’s another story too of course. Continue reading
The first chapter of my novel The Boys from the Backfields
The door to my past opened easily, it was a surprise. I’d intended to confront Angel directly, but she was out when I arrived. Considering her profession, she should have changed the locks.
I was hiding in the attic when she came back in.
I’d climbed up there to see if I could find any clues among the bits we left behind when we’d gone to LA in the nineties. The questions raised by the anonymous emails needed answers. I found a heavy wooden box crammed with old photos, and two large manila envelopes, stuffed with my scribbles about the events that had come to define my life.
I was sitting in an old deckchair waiting for Angel to go to bed. The answer had to be there, in those damp, limp bundles, some detail I hadn’t realised was important when I’d written it down.
My cell phone vibrated as another text arrived. It was my PA, Helene, again. No. I couldn’t think about work, or too much about Helene. I had to focus. The past had to be resolved before I could think about the future again.
I wrote the first ‘book’ in the late seventies, when I felt I was able to give some time to myself, after half-a-dozen years of frantic success. Hell, I even considered retiring then, before my thirtieth birthday.
The paper was thin and stained, but the typewritten text was still crisp and bold.
I started to read.
1963 – 1973
Have you watched those wildlife programmes on the television and seen the images of big cats dealing with porcupines? That was me and trouble. I sniffed at it in a circumspect way, and then, when it showed any sign of life, I ran like hell. That was me usually, but that day the taunting just got to me.
The smirking face begged to be squashed into the muddy grass of the field. It was a wet summer and I had recently come into that phase of life that marks your earliest memories, the few vivid incidents from early childhood that you remember when you eventually emerge into the heaviness of adulthood.
The boy’s name was David, an innocent sounding name for what was a vile specimen of childhood. Like the serpent in the Garden of Eden, he slithered and oozed his way around my consciousness, an evil, ugly, smelly, little boy. I knew him as Snobby, a name that invoked gross images of dirty dried-up snot and filthy fingernails. Continue reading
I’m chuffed that my novel Bums has had its first review.
Here’s the first chapter of my novel Cheats and Liars:
“Are you ready?”
I’m in the kitchen snaffling a crumpet dripping with raspberry jam. Of course I’m not ready. I’m never ready. I am a work in progress.
“Come on. You don’t want to be late for your own exhibition.”
I gulp. A crumb of crumpet sticks in my throat. I cough and the crumb dislodges. Jam stained spittle dribbles over my lip.
“Look at you.”
She tuts and picks up a damp dishcloth.
After she rubs the goo from my mouth and from the lapel of the blue linen jacket I grab the car keys.
“I’m driving,” she says, taking the keys from my hand. “You can drink. You always do. Just try not to offend too many people.”
“What’s it matter? They stick like dry shit whatever I say.”
“Brian! You may be known as the Greatest Living Artist in Wales but nobody likes an arsehole.”
“Like? What’s like got to do with it? They don’t care and I don’t give a toss. It’s not real Lizi; it’s a performance.”
“Then perform, pretend.”
She’s right, and I’ll need to drink so that I can stomach the unspeakable pricks. Every year I bare my arse and they come like slime to a stagnant pond, for I have no talent and they have no taste. This isn’t my life. This is some jerk spewing on cotton canvas and picking the overfull pockets of the privileged and the gullible. The gentle boy in me is lost; he’d feel sad to look through these eyes now, to see my betrayal with its parade of pseudosmilers and its fake humility. I am a hollow husk, devoid of depth. I am dead.
I strut into the exhibition hall, late, of course. Lizi’s at my side, as always.
“Fuck,” I say.
“Ssh! You don’t have to do this,” she whispers.
“Huh! What would these maggots feed on then?”
“Shut up Brian. Behave.”
But I’m right, it’s always the same. The blood-sucking creatures are here like tics on a donkey, creepily reverent expressions turned towards me. Continue reading
Walter? What sort of a name was that to give to a child born in 1995? Walter Andrew Nankeville. You don’t need much imagination to know what nickname he acquired in later life. To be fair his parents were decent sorts, hard working and honest, and they only wanted the best for their one, and as it turned out, only child. Walter was quite happy in the nursery and infants’ schools and for the first few days of the primary school. Then the naturally cruel older boys, as soon as they found out his full name, gave him the nickname that from then on moulded his character and his attitudes to life.
When he was just eight years old he decided that he hated his parents and never spoke to them willingly again. They, poor innocent souls, never understood why they had bred such an ungrateful surly child, even until the day they both died in a pointless car accident when Walter was a broody fifteen. His feeble parents, pathetic even in the method of their demise, skidded on a patch of spilt butterfat and ended up upside down, skulls shattered, on the concrete forecourt of a Lada garage.
By then he’d already become entrenched as a true loner. All around him his peers joined football teams, went to the cinema, and started on the painful adolescent discovery of sex. Walter kept his own company, and, to the other teenagers at his school, seemed to live up to his nickname. Walter developed passions of course; he collected things, coins, stamps, and the addresses of pen-friends he never wrote to.
In the summer after the death of his parents, the children’s home that had taken him in sponsored him on a holiday to Wales. Walter didn’t mind being sent to Wales, he wouldn’t have minded staying in his room at the home either. Unfortunately, one of the staff at the adventure centre, some sort of patron saint of lost causes, decided to take on the challenge of Walter’s lethargy and apparent disinterest, and made it her task to get him out of bed in the morning and push him into some sort of activity.
Walter realised that he had to do something with his body while his inner self brooded its way through his earthly existence so he didn’t even mind that. He elected to go walking around the hills near the reservoir, on his own of course. Betty, his motivator, was not very happy at the prospect of Walter making the solo trek, but, she reasoned, it was better than him lying in bed all day and it might at last provide the trigger that would begin the process of him recovering from the tragedy of his parents’ deaths. Continue reading
Some work in progress to show the conceit of the writer – when I say the writer I mean any person who considers themselves a writer, including myself, for you have to be conceited to believe that anything you write is of any interest to any other person. It’s no good saying you write only for yourself – what would be the point of that?
I suppose there’s a book in that – ‘The Conceit of the Writer’, it may have already been written, but this is not about that, this is about me. So, the following piece is the first few paragraphs of the first draft of the sort-of-autobiography I’m writing.
The sort-of-autobiography has the provisional title of:
THIS IS IT
a selection of poems from The Words in Me
Dogs and Lambs
My sister-in-law talks about dogs as if
they were people
and eats lambs.
The s is important
it sneaks up softly
The animals have it
They depend on us humans
and we love them to death.
low brick walls
and cover the tarmac
with white globules
In their rooms
they keep grime
to hide futures
you know the score
in a movie
or a tv show
or just one
we’re allowed to be flawed
it’s ok as long as in the end
we’re fucking good at our job
in my real life i’m an artex ceiling of cracks and fissures
with some small redemption
it’s kind of arse-backwards ain’t it?
There are those that wake with still closed eyes
And grunt and hide and live in lies
They swallow anything that comes
And lay to rest with nothing done.
Then there are the ones that see
That live their own humanity
They show their beauty in the night
And when they leave they leave a light.
On the cool May water patient ducks do their duckly duty and chilled out swans lurch in almost imperceptible leaps. One, a big one by the sound of its wings, flies berserkly, its feet still in the water behind the bushes, where I lay with a girl in the long rushes. A hard-nailed dog, paws stiff as death chews a fluorescent tennis ball and vaguely obeys the small man, whose narrow dark eyes acknowledge, but only out of duty. The pond is not warm now. Was it ever? Even when the old works of undulating metal disgorged its useless vigour. This place is a place where times collide and all roads cross. My fathers, survivors though they were, naturally, thought they were here to stay, thought they could walk on the water. That pond, that cool May pond, that clean green pond, that home to dutiful ducks and chilled out swans, started with their sweat and with their water. The cross-ponds bridge, the tidy tarmac, the grass, the dog shit, the drunken piss. See – even now the waters come – even now but with less pain. An angry crow, helpless, or it could be a rook, anyway, it has a big yellow beak and it craws loud and angry at the new road and the thick-wheeled cycles and the motorised wheelchair, and most of all most of all, it shouts at the patient ducks. ii A dying pylon collapses, its corpse disintegrates. The three parts of its giant insect body, decomposing prey to the acetylene burners and the maggot men with their big yellow jaws. iii A slow pad over the arc of the Pont d’Agen to the tarmacked path, where the long rushes were and a nervous coot, scoots, home to its dying mother. iv Like a lost turtle, out of place, the ghost of my future is barely seen by the thick meat frame and quick cold eyes of men, protecting their brood, with their stares. I am alone, more akin to my dead father, less at home than I was as a child, even though then, I stole and lied and cheated at cards, when I could get away with it. Without a dog, or a bike, or a young child, or even a girlfriend, I walk on purpose even though I’m not going anywhere, just crossing and looping and thinking of then and thinking of now and thinking of then again, as I avoid the cold sharp stares. v Polly the dog makes a nuisance of itself. The little girl craws its name like an angry black crow. Her mother tugs, it’s time, time, it’s always time to go. vi This is a moderate place it hovers between then and now between here and there existing only because of a random coming together of the right sort of stuff but it still hurts. vii Under the arc of the Pont d’Agen cars flow; the scintillating heat of their breath settles on the new black road, and she sighs, and she hides her secret methods. But she knows, and she will recover. viii It’s time, and time again, time to let the dreams vaporise and settle and hide in the black tarmac, and wait for a new reality.