When downloading your manuscript into a POD template, watch out for widows and orphans.

I expect I may have lost a few of you already; those who know the widows and orphans I’m talking about, and those who couldn’t give a damn. For anyone who may not have come across these words in the typographical sense before, and would like to know, let me explain.

A widow is the short last line of most paragraphs, especially one less than half the full measure. Particularly unpleasant is a widow consisting of only a single word.

In a block of display type, I advise eliminating an unwanted widow by adjusting the size of type or resetting in a different typeface. If this doesn’t work, adjust the paragraph by cutting or adding a word or two to the text.  

When typesetting a book I’m not so pedantic, unless it is the last line of a paragraph that carries over to the top of the next page. This widow is nasty and should be got rid of by editing the text. If you really can’t cut anything from the paragraph, go back until you find a word or short sentence you can live without. This will pull the widow back to the bottom of the previous page, and sit at the end of the paragraph where it belongs.

An orphan is a first line separated from the rest of the paragraph by occurring at the foot of a page. Most templates avoid this happening by automatically replacing it with a line space, but watch out for it anyway. Unless you want to be accused of being ultra fussy by re-writing a previous paragraph on that page, just add a line space. The type will not come to the bottom of the page, but will look better than an orphan.

You have hopefully spent a lot of time, and probably a great deal of money, editing and perfecting your work. It is also important to ‘proof the finished galleys’. Take a little extra care and check the look of the printed words sitting on the page.

I’ve have recently been investigating the feasibility of living again in the UK. Why? Well, that is a topic for another article. The reason for writing this is to tell of my shock at discovering that landlords are still allowed to discriminate against minority groups: This time, the unemployed, disabled and single parent family.

Virtually every advertisement for property to let ends with the clause: NO DSS. (It should be: NO DWP, as the Department for Social Security has long been called The Department for Work and Pensions, but that is being pedantic.) The point is: If you can’t work, for any reason, you can’t live in my house.

I remember the signs when I was a boy that stated No Blacks, No Irish. And my grandmother telling me that in her days it was: No Jews. Anti racial legislation inadvertently put paid to landlords openly displaying their prejudice against people they saw as dirty, lazy, non paying scum.

Okay, I see that one should be entitled to try and ensure that a potential tenant is clean, trustworthy, and will not abuse ones property, but to automatically exclude all persons on the grounds that they are in receipt of welfare payments is just as wrong as assuming all prospective Black, Irish and Jewish tenants are disreputable.

I delved deeper into the reasons why this could be. The most common excuse given is basically: Fear the landlord will not get his money. That sounds reasonable to me. But also in some experiences, “All dole scroungers are #*@% junkies."

My naive astuteness suggests that no one in the chain is willing to do a little more work.

The departments responsible for making rent payments no longer want to undertake the effort of paying the landlord direct. They use the warped reasoning, “It abuses the claimants’ human dignity and makes them less responsible for their own finances.” No it doesn’t. It means the landlord is no longer guaranteed his rent.

The letting agencies do not want the extra work to justify their fees by ensuring that benefit claimants are indeed ‘responsible for their own finances’.

And the landlord is too lazy to undertake his own vetting and would rather hand over the task to unscrupulous, even lazier agents.

It all looks to be a mess, with property values on the rise, homelessness increasing, and government departments unwilling to do anything about it. That’s a pity because I can’t see as it should be like this at all.

In the meantime, I’m now looking to live somewhere other than England; where the full rent is less than the ‘top up’ I’d be expected to meet in the UK. A two bedroom detached house overlooking the sea on a Greek Island: 300 Euros a month. Vs. Poxy one room flat share in London: 300 pounds a week. No contest!

_

The first thing I have to tell you: 
I have only the vaguest idea what I am doing here.

The reason I’m doing this: 
It looks like fun, and I am no party pooper. (That’s why pictures of me dancing often end up on weird websites.) But I've been invited to join a blog tour by the delightful Hannah Loughrey: http://www.amwriting.wix.com/hdloughrey

So let’s begin:

What are you working on?

I’m editing. I wish my answer could be more interesting, but I assume it must be honest.

Being an Indie Author, (Don’t you love that description? Please don’t call me a self pubber.) I can’t just bung any old crap at a publisher and wait for their suggestions. I have to edit on my own.

In the old days I had money to burn and would pay for professional help. Now I have to lie back on the couch and analyse myself. (I am therefore self certified and am now found to be sane.)

I may also be alone in as much as I enjoy the process of editing. I often query writers when they complain, analogising visits to dentists. I think of the process of editing as an opportunity to bond with my baby after the discomfort of gestation and pain of childbirth. Yes, I find writing a hurting experience and can’t bring myself to trust those who say they enjoy writing. It’s probably because I’m a slow two fingered typer with the story in my mind always a chapter in front of my struggling fingers. It’s exhausting, I tell you.

How does your work differ from others in your genre?

I don’t have a genre. I have three books published. The first is ‘Featherstone Rogue Tales’; a sexy romp with an affable randy teenager set in the 1960s. The second is ‘Another September’; an action packed murder mystery thriller adventure. And just released, ‘Shadow of the Fatal Tree’; an historical fiction based on the true life of Jenny Diver, the notorious 18th century pickpocket. The book I am at present editing, I defy anyone to give a genre. It’s entitled, ‘India France Hope/Maid in Thailand’ and is the autobiography of a mixed race infant, ghost written by her father in her own voice.

Why do you write what you do? 

I write to fulfill the three grand essentials to happiness: Something to do, something to love, and something to hope for. Why? Because I’ve been around long enough to know some serious shit and figure the world also ought know it. 

How does your writing process work? 

I am someone that I recently found out, is called a ‘pantser/pantzer’. (Both spellings are unknown to my dictionary, but the meaning would be undeniably accurate.) I write by the skin of my pants in as much as most of the thoughts I wake up with each day, are added to bits I’ve already written. I work on many different projects at a time, rather like casting my seed upon stony ground and occasionally pissing on them to see if anything grows. It’s not the clever way to write and I don’t recommend it to others. But it’s the way I’ve always lived the rest of my life. Why plan for something that might never happen? 

Okay, I have answered the questions as truthfully as I know how. Now I must try to figure out how to ‘tag’ this blog to those I enjoy reading and feel will be more enlightening. Here goes:

http://www.tericrosschetwood.com/

http://www.tlgray.blogspot.com

http://kaycimorgan.com/

http://jessepearle.com/

http://broomfieldsbox.com/

My 4 year old daughter is learning her alphabets. Yes, plural. She is learning the Thai alphabet at the same time. It’s amusing to see her singing along to the rhymes devised to aid rote memory, and hearing her la, la, la, through the middle bit.

But it has got me to thinking on why in this day and age; the alphabet is still being presented in such an arbitrary and illogical format.

I mean: Why ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ, when QWERTYUIOPASDFGHJKLZXCVBNM makes more sense?

When children get onto the reading/writing stage, the characters are all mixed up differently anyway, so the order of the letters in the alphabet makes no difference.

I don’t recall any songs or rhymes from when I learned the alphabet. We children slavishly copied the letters using a stick of chalk to scribble onto a black painted board the same size as an iPad. Yes, that was in the 1950s, not 1850s, though paper was still in short supply.

The Alphabet letters were pasted on the walls in 4 panels around the classroom. I still visualise the alphabet broken down in those 4 parts. A-H on the chimney breast/I-L in the alcove/M-R to the left of the window, and the rest on the right.

When I wrote longhand, I never thought of alphabet. Now on the keyboard, I wish I was taught QWERTY. Q-P on the chimney breast, A-L in the alcove, and Z-M on the wall to my right.

Still, too late for me and maybe also for you, so let us now think of future generations. If I was inclined, I’d go back to college and return with degrees, so my theory will garner respect. As it is, all I can do is ask you to think about what I say and not dismiss me as crackpot. I say: Teach our children QWERTY. Split the alphabet in two blocks; a left hand block and a right one.

And hope it doesn’t take them 60 years to ask, “Why?’

While on the subject, I’d like to make two more points.

I’ve noticed that most alphabet books are in fact written by professors with a list of degrees following their names longer than the word count inside. Why? The job should be given to a graphic designer. They are far more qualified to produce an alphabet book.

For a start: The typeface should closely follow the style of hand written words, i.e. one based on Century Gothic Sans Serif. I have a copy of an alphabet book that some smart arse professor had printed in Cooper Black. Why? The shapes of the letters look nothing like they should.

EXAMPLE:

Same language, same letters, different shapes: 
Which typeface makes more sense to use?

Secondly: Illustrate the book with images found in the 21st century. I mean, T for Top. What kid today is familiar with a top? If Professor Knob must illustrate D with a Desk, then for Pete’s sake don’t draw a hole for an inkwell, and grooves to rest pens.

I’m flipping through such a piece of tripe now. U for Uncle with a picture of a paedophile, H for Hen; any kid knows the picture is a chicken. Q for Quilt? I for Ink? The date of publication is 2008. Even back then kids didn’t use ink or have quilts. I give up. I’m going to produce an alphabet book that makes sense.

Watch this space.

Like so many others, I spend my casual hours surfing the internet rather than watching television. (Most of my friends on facebook prefer to read books, but hey, we’re none of us perfect.) There is one site in particular that I enjoy: Snopes.com. It’s a dedicated team of researchers who look into spurious claims and outrageous sounding items presented as facts and reported to them for investigation. I often consult Snopes when coming across items of news that strike me as being suspicious. The site also sends me items I might have missed.

It endorses my long time held belief that there’s one hell of a lot of evil bastards out there. And an even greater number of dumb fuckers who fall for a wide variety of scams, spoof news reports and appeals.

Today I received a typical update. It includes several conspiracy theories regarding the missing Malaysia airliner, though none yet that blame Barracka Bamma (sic), and most amusingly the following:

Red Bull contains bull sperm.

200 million year old dinosaur egg hatches in Berlin museum.

Okay, good fun, but what’s the point (other than profitable enterprise) of Spoof News Websites, when so many lack the sense of irony to be allowed to read such crap?

Criminals, of course, have a field day reaping the gullible into exposing their valuable profile data. Phishing scammers they’re known as. I call them aunts, though swap the ‘a’ with a ‘c’.

This is the latest that I’ve seen:


“We have been sent a sample of your blood analysis for further research.
During the complete blood count (CBC) we have revealed that white blood cells is very low, and unfortunately we have a suspicion of a cancer.

Wite Blood cells 1200 Low
Hemoglobin 12 Normal
Platelets 19000 Low

We suggest you to print out your CBC test results and interpretations in attachment below and visit your family doctor as soon as possible.”

The c...crooks obviously work on the premise that a fair proportion of their spammed victims has recently had a blood examination and is easily fooled into clicking the link. I don’t think you have to be particularly stupid to fall for this one, just scared shitless into believing it might be true.

To the evil bastards who send out these foul e-mails I say: Just ask. You can have my identity. It’s of fuck good use to me. Why don’t we meet up for a pint and a friendly ‘chat’?

It’s Polling Day in Thailand

But you’d know that, right? The voting hut here in our village has been open for an hour. As I write, no one has yet turned out to cast their vote. Why? you might ask. Is it because the process is too complicated? It looks totally confusing to me, then again, so do most products of Asian logic. My step son had to enlist in the navy because he was turned down by the army on the grounds that he couldn’t swim. You explain that to me.

Are they not voting in response to anti government protesters urging the population to boycott the polls? No, this village is red and always has been. Nor is it apathy that is keeping folks away in their dozens. The simple fact is that not a single candidate has been round with the money. My wife has already picked out the new frock she intended to buy with her 500 baht. ($15 or 10 pounds in proper money.) She is buggered if she will use her democratic right for free.

Now wipe that silly look off your face that seems to say, “What? Vote buying? Disgraceful,” and ask yourself: What happened to the money I was promised for my vote last election? You know what money. The money you were promised. The tax cuts. The lower interest rate for your mortgage. The investment on your behalf for better welfare payments, education, healthcare…Add what you will to the list.

Democracy shows its honest face for a while here in the Land of Smiles. It puts its money where its mouth is and coughs up cash in advance as opposed to promises of payment after it’s too late. My friends here know they’re going to be shit on anyway, by whomever. As too, do you, deep inside.

A friend on facebook asked for some reminiscences of growing up in Portsmouth. I may well now be in my season of mists and mellow fruitfulness but it does allow me to recall with fondness my spring days.

Wartime rationing had abated though things were still short in supply; we went without a lot, but my peers and I didn’t feel deprived. Until Coronation day came.

During that sunny June afternoon in 1953, I became aware for the first time that fruit came in more exotic packaging than apples and pears. We had a street party and were each given a mug with a picture of the new queen on it. But the biggest surprise was the strange looking object sitting on top. “It’s an orange,” I was told. I can see that, I thought, but what is it called? I eventually realised it was called an orange and wondered why the banana sitting alongside wasn’t called a yellow. (That’s not true; I just thought you’d enjoy the joke.) However, it was the first time I’d seen an orange, and that was long before I had a banana.

Portsmouth was paradise for us kids in the days before the words health and safety were joined together by wicked Nanny Spoilsport. Every street had at least one bombsite. Piles of rubble could be quickly reformed as castles and fortresses, as disused Anderson shelters became secret caves and dens.

We were allowed to play with matches. Fireworks were proof of manliness, testing the nerve of challengers who dared to claim they could hold the lit penny banger longer than you could. The true hero was the one who didn’t let go at the last moment. One’s ego remained intact, even if the inevitable explosion smarted more than admitted.

Stunt cycling was a ‘had to do sport’ in the days when BMX meant Billy Mannings eXperience. Every cycle was custom built to specifications laid down by whatever bits and pieces could be scavenged from bike carcasses discarded as write offs. A frame came from here, wheels, preferably the same size, from there. Add a chain, saddle, pedals, handle bars, brakes optional, and you were in business ready to test your skill.

We’d hold speed trials on Portsdown Hill. Stamina tested by being able to cycle to the top without getting off and pushing; endurance proven by stopping for nothing as we raced for the fun fair at Clarence Pier. That’s where our real daring would be defined.

This could only happen in winter, when the seas were roughest. There’s a walkway running from Clarence pier up the Battery, about a yard wide with a mile drop on either side. Timing was crucial. A big breaker would smash against the sea side of the wall and crash over the top. You had only seconds to make the sprint to the other side before the next wave would claim your life, or at least give you a good soaking. We all survived, but the long ride home, soaked to the skin in mid winter is something you never forget.

I’m often accused of dwelling too much in the past. But I’m not alone. I’m helping my daughter learn her alphabet. D for Desk. Why is it illustrated with a drawing of a desk like the one I sat at in the middle of the last century? Why, there is even a hole in the top for the inkwell to sit. Even I was allowed one of the new fangled Biros.

T for train. The accompanying picture is of a steam locomotive. ??? I look for the date of publication. 2008. Okay, P for Plane has jet engines, but I never hear a mother enticing her child to open his mouth for a spoonful of yuck by making jet engine sounds. It’s still a Lancaster bomber that delivers the load, and trains go, “Choo, choo, choo.”

I remember being taught that Q is for Quill. I see children today don’t need to know that. So why is I still linked with Ink? Ink in a bottle, not in a cartridge.

I predate decimalization, so should be excused for not caring how many gigabytes there are in a ram. 22 yards make a chain. I know that very well, though it has never done me any good. But why are cars still advertised by the amount of miles they can travel on a gallon of fuel? I challenge anyone to give me the kilometre per litre figures without recourse to a calculator. And I doubt very much if anyone would understand how economical their car is to run if given the answer.

“How tall are you now, sweetheart?” I ask my granddaughter. “3 feet 2 inches,” she replies. She’s young enough to know better.

I see two women in the coffee shop. One is holding her hands apart and giggling. I’m sure she is telling her friend it is all of 8 inches. How impressive would it sound if she said 20 centimeters?

We have two scales of measurement for temperature. They are used discriminately depending on whether the weather is hot or cold. “Phew, it ain’t half hot; must be well into the 80s.” Eighties Fahrenheit? “Blimey, it ain’t half ‘tatters; dropped to minus 2 last night.” I hope that’s minus two centigrade?

Come on you youngsters, get with the times.

By the way, if anyone ever asks, “On which eye did Nelson wear a patch?” The answer is: Neither. In real life, Nelson never wore a patch, even though he was blind in one eye. Don’t ask me which. I haven’t a clue.

I now realize that ‘birthing a baby’ is no light metaphor when describing the launch of one’s novel.

Having spent the weekend handing out cigars, announcing to the world (Well, family and friends on facebook), the safe arrival of 1.9lb, 336 page, FEATHERSTONE Rogue Tales, I now relax into my role of responsible parent.

I sense knowing smiles from you who have children of your own, and hopes for encouragement from those, who await with anticipation, the arrival of their very own first child.

I am finally a fellow author. Today, I bathe in the clichéd glory of belonging to such a noble brotherhood, and can tell aspiring authors that the feeling is better than a kick in the nuts, just.

Now, I don’t want to bore you with loads of baby talk but the urge is difficult to resist. If you say, “Yeah, been there, done it,” you probably won’t want to read any further. This message is aimed at those who say, “Wow, what’s it like?”

FEATHERSTONE was conceived not long after I joined scribophile.com. He gestated for about 9 months, growing from the embryo of a short story, through the stages of four novellas, into the bright bouncing baby I hold in my hands and love dearly.

I mention scribophile.com because it was there that I finally felt: Yeah, I really can do this writing stuff, and if it wasn’t for scribophile there would be no FEATHERSTONE. You see, when I enrolled, the form asked for a pen name. I didn’t know I could enroll with my own name, yeah, that’s how dumb I can be. I thought for a while, and then ‘Featherstone’ emerged.

I was certainly no virgin. I’d mixed with writers before, copulating here and there in the murky world of advertising. I’d kept journals, having no confidence in my memory. I write proper letters to people, often correcting drafts from my lawyers, but didn’t think it proper writing.

“You should write a book.” The immortal words spoken to many, encouraging them to sit down and start was also my inspiration. “Tell what you know,” was the common advice given.  “Start with short stories,” I was told after presenting my 100,000 word autobiography. It was good advice I ignored.

I am lucky in as much as a close friend of mine is a professor of English. She kindly offered to edit my first action/adventure novel.  The manuscript was returned. The first couple of chapters had more writing in her red pen than my original words typed in black. The rest was left uncorrected. Not because it was immaculate; she couldn’t be arsed to read any more.

I had 90.000 words on my old blog. I reshaped them into a novel and submitted it to numerous agents and publishers. That’s how my bathroom came to be decorated in rejection slips. My experience with agents and publishers might form the topic of a future note to you. It will certainly be longer than this one.

“Give it up,” was the advice I gave myself. Fortunately, I ignored that as well. I started writing short stories. I couldn’t take further advantage of my professor friend, but knew I needed feedback and critique. Online writing groups were the words I gave Google.  It gave me a choice of 19,078,165,000 sites that fitted my search, delivered in only 0.024 seconds. I took me a little longer to eventually give scribophile a go. The rest, as they, is history.

The total process has taken four years. It has cost probably close to half a million words, not in the right order, but none of them wasted. I am loathing to giving advice, but that never stops me. To all you pregnant writers I say: “Be prepared for miscarriages and still births, but don’t stop shagging. The practice might not make perfect, but is definitely fun.”

Crickey, has it been a month since I last wrote? And I call myself a writer. I feel ashamed. I owe a letter to my father and feel even worse about that. The problem as I see it, especially with story writers, is that we get so engrossed in our characters’ lives that we forget to have one of our own.

“And what did you do today?”

“Well, I’ve conquered the evil forces of Zog, rescued a princess, fell in love, only to be betrayed, survived a shipwreck, and raised a family on three shillings a week.”

“Oh, really? I thought you’d been playing on the computer all day long.”

There’s no answer to that. Another month has gone by and I have to confess that when it comes to relating my recent experiences, all I can say is: “I’ve been playing on the computer,” while others in the real world have been combating evil forces, rescuing people in distress, falling in love, handling bad relationships, surviving disasters, and coping with living under dire conditions.

“And what do you intend to do about it?”

“Think of excuses? Look, I’m not ‘playing on the computer’. I’m working, Okay?”