Here’s my short story, Dog, which was featured in a horror anthology called: Beyond The Hallow Grave, which you can get here.

DOG

I’m finally going to share my story. I’m not even sure I want to, but I feel like I have to. I haven’t told anyone what happened for over thirty-five years. I was only fourteen and nothing made sense. I’m forty-nine now, and with all the time I’ve had to think, it still doesn’t make sense. I guess I hoped that by never talking about what happened that it might make it less real, or make the whole thing disappear.

I didn’t even talk about it when it happened. Even during the conversations I wasn’t so much quiet as I was absent. People had shouted in my face but my mind was blank, numb and empty. But, as this is the last night I’m going to be alive, I need to share my side of the story. It’s not out of bravery or some desire to change. It’s because I’ve lost, and my story is my final fuck you to whatever caused this tragedy. I don’t care what happens to me after this. 

Who knows what I could’ve made of my life. It was on the horizon, glistening under the sunrise full of options and possibilities. I loved physics and would’ve probably pursued something in that. Sure, forty-nine isn’t exactly the end of my life, but I feel as though the sun is setting on that horizon, and on it is nothing but death and decay.  

I drag a plastic chair away from the kitchen wall and place it facing the steel counter. I sit and take a breath, cracking my fingers back to loosen the rigid joints. I shuffle in the seat, but it seems to have been deliberately designed to create discomfort.

Everyone read about what happened in the newspapers, heard about it on the radio and saw the pictures on the TV, but nobody ever got my side. They didn’t need it, because of what they saw when they found us. Any time I felt like talking about it my throat tightened and burned, and my heart thumped. Evil’s hand grabbed my neck and squeezed until the words were crushed. It wanted me to be the only one who knew, so I could suffer alone.

I came close to telling my aunt, Jaz. All the words were in a letter, but something compelled me to tear that letter up and throw it in the bin before I could send it. I even had a documentary maker visit, excited to be the first to get my story, but I sat there in total silence and stared at the poor kid, probably traumatizing her. Whatever force was at play teased me, letting me think I had control over what I was doing, then it reminded me that choices don’t exist.

Last I heard Aunt Jaz died of cancer. For her, the last thirty-five years were a series of ailments until her body gave up. It’s hard to tell what’s true or false when it’s all second or third-hand info.  

I look up at Danny, a young man so relaxed from his hair to his toes that I’m amazed he’s ever awake. He hangs his chef’s apron on a hook behind the kitchen door and turns to me. “If you’re gonna talk for long, keep the phone plugged into the charger. Battery’s crap so it’ll die on you in about three minutes.” He runs his hand over the immaculate kitchen counter as though there’s some dirt still there. “I’ve been meaning to get a new phone, but the fuckers cost more than rent. Fuck London.”

I chuckle. “Thanks, Danny. I appreciate it.” He’s a good man. Deserves a lot better than being in here, cooking for and serving people who don’t appreciate the importance of what he does.

He takes his jacket that’s draped over a chair. “You remember how to send the video, right?” He hands me his iPhone.

I’m glad I never had one. There’s too much going on in my head to have just as much going on in my hands. “Yeah. Once it’s recorded, I open the message, write the number in that bit at the top, press the photo icon that opens your photos and choose the video. Then I press that arrow that sends it up.”

Danny chuckles. “Yeah, you send it up.”

I take the glass of water from the steel worktop and have a sip. I haven’t eaten all day and the water swims through my body as though it’s cleansing the rusty pipework. My hands tremble so I clasp them together.

“And what else?” Danny asks.

“Don’t eat any of the food,” I reply.

“Yes, that. Though I’ve made you a couple of sandwiches for when you’re done. They’re on the bottom shelf. A farewell surprise.” He nods, pleased with himself. “I was thinking the more important ‘anything else?’”

I raise a finger, remembering. “Don’t look through your photos. Unless I want to see things I can’t unsee.” I smile.

“Exactly. What people do in their spare time is their business.” Danny takes the keys to the kitchen from his pocket and has one last look around the room. “And once you’ve sent it, delete the video. I don’t want to feel compelled to watch it.”

“Thanks, Danny. I remember how.” I stand up and shake his hand. “You’ve been a good friend.” He half smiles. I think I’ve made him uncomfortable. Perhaps being acknowledged as a friend by me is a bad thing, but I mean it. Danny seems like someone who understands pain. Sometimes you can just tell by the way someone looks at you, or the tone they use.  

He walks towards the door. “When you’re done, leave the phone in the charger. Then lock the door and slide the keys under it. I’ll head back after I’ve been for a few drinks and get everything.” Danny scratches his cheek and opens the door. “Good luck, Ray. I’m sad to see you go, but I’m obviously happy for you. I hope things work out.” He turns and closes the door.

Things will work out, just not how he imagines they will. I go and lock the kitchen door from the inside. I don’t want anyone to interrupt me and my audience of none. The air feels heavy, suffocating. I’ve held onto this for too long.

I drag my feet to the pile of boxes Danny placed at the ideal height for me to film from and lean the iPhone against the five-litre can of olive oil, unlocking the phone with Danny’s password. His birth year, 1991. I switch the choices on the camera to video and press the icon with the arrows in a circle so it shows me. My face on the screen makes my heart heavy. Is it the effect of the screen or are my eyes that lifeless? I see a wasted life, buried beneath fear and confusion. Could I have done anything differently? The lone thick black hair on my head is the only thing of my past that hasn’t packed up and run away. It’s a reminder.

My finger moves towards the red record button but I hesitate. What am I hoping to achieve with this? I don’t really know, perhaps peace. Perhaps acceptance. It doesn’t matter. I need to share what happened. But keeping quiet has served me well these decades. Why risk it? What if it comes back? I don’t care.

“No turning back,” I tell the air, hoping if it’s listening it knows I mean business. I press the button a bit too forcefully; knocking the phone down so put it back in place. It’s recording.

I walk back to the chair and my body feels not so much lighter, just empty.

“Hey Becca, remember me? Your cousin Ray?” I shake my head. “That’s a stupid question, of course you do. What I mean is, remember the me you knew as a kid before that day? Not the one from the news.” My voice cracks and my mouth is already dry. I take a sip of water and lick my lips. “I hope life’s been good to you and you got to become a vet like you wanted.” I smile at the camera, wishing I’d looked after my crooked teeth better.

“I want to tell you my side of things, because I want to answer questions you might have. You might not even have any. Maybe you don’t even give a shit. But if you do, I’ll try. I might not be able to answer them all. I haven’t been able to answer a lot of them myself, but I hope it helps.” I slump in my seat, already exhausted. The air gets colder and I fold my arms.

“In 1986, Mum and Dad did another of their summer trips to Avebury, near Stone Henge. I dreaded it every year. They loved that Avebury had the largest megalithic stone circle in the world. I still don’t know what megalithic means. I think it’s just a more powerful word for unnecessarily big. I’m not sure and I don’t really care.” I shrug.

“People think the place contains psychic traces of ancient people and times. And there’s no end to the ghost stories. From a lady in a white hood who haunts Avebury Manor, to a rock that crosses the road at midnight. Sounds fun but it’s far from it.” I gaze into the kitchen corner then back at the camera. Bringing up ghosts makes me uneasy.

“Mum and Dad would swarm like flies with other weird-minded people to sit in the center of the stone circle to meditate. They’d try to suck in this invisible energy and they’d go and touch the big stones. I never quite got it back then, being a kid. But what was so empty in their lives they had to try to fill themselves with something invisible? It was as though they hoped whatever they needed would be carried to them by the wind, or transmitted through a rock. I found it so weird. So desperate.” I sit up straight.

“Looking back, I feel like they were tricking themselves, believing in something they couldn’t see, hoping it’d bond them, because there was nothing else tangible apart from me. I don’t think I ever even saw them kiss each other.” I scoff, feeling slightly guilty, because they probably would’ve gone their separate ways if they didn’t have me. I trapped them. I run the back of my hand over my forehead to wipe the sweat.

“I hated them for wasting my summers. I was a kid. I should’ve been spending the holidays playing football with friends or falling in love with girls who had no interest in me. Instead, Mum and Dad dragged me away from any chance I had at a normal kid’s life. I tried to be part of groups during term times, but Dad didn’t like the kids at my school. He’d say the parents had negative energy and that it was likely transmitted onto their child. Sometimes Mum would come by the school early to take me out of it. I thought it was because she wanted to spend time with me, but it turns out it was just to get me out of school sooner. Only reason I was even in school was thanks to Grandma insisting they send me. Thank fuck she existed. Rest in peace.” I kiss my fist.

“So, while kids bonded during the most important years of their lives, I stood in a field with a bunch of old folks and touched cold rocks. The biggest crime a parent can commit is to make their kids prefer being in school to being on their summer holidays.” I take a breath. This is weighing me down and the resentment towards my parents bubbles, but also a deep resentment towards myself. I’m blaming myself for their problems again. But it pisses me off. I was a fucking kid.

“We always stayed in a barn a few hundred yards outside the stone circle. I showed you photos of the barn once and you said it looked like a place old people die in. It was stuck in some forgotten era and didn’t even have a TV! There were about twenty houses on the road, all backing onto fields, and yet we spoke to nobody from any of them. We got funny looks off the neighbors a few times, but that was about it.

“I’d spend the days walking around the barn looking for anything to capture my imagination. During the nights I wished I could be magically teleported back to London so I could have the life a kid should have. It would’ve been okay if I could play with the other kids, but my parents had an ability to make us repellent to anyone that didn’t fit their criteria. With another kid I could’ve had a great time in those fields, but instead, I’d have to talk to flies and whatever creatures I’d find crawling around. One summer I spent three hours talking to an ant in my room.” I shake my head at the ridiculousness of it. “That was the best part of the holiday!”

“I wished you and Aunt Jaz could’ve joined us, but you were both smarter than to waste your summers.” I stop for a moment. My heart clenches. I don’t know if it’s glad I’m finally talking about this, or trying to eat itself. 

“Some nights Mum and Dad left me alone. They’d go off into the fields and do whatever they did with the other energy hunters. I sometimes heard chanting and caught the flicker of candlelight in distant fields.” My neck muscles tighten. “Hold on, Becca.” I worry I’m not alone. I get up and grab a cleaver from its hook on the wall and place it by the chair, out of camera shot. Not that it’ll do any good. I sit back down and feel slightly safer.

“I’d count the minutes in my room. It had nothing but an old wooden bed, an oak bedside table and a single window. The window faced out onto the endless fields. There was also a wardrobe built into the wall, but I preferred to keep my clothes in my suitcase. I don’t know what it is, but something about wardrobes built into walls scares me. They’re more like doors to a neglected place as far as I’m concerned. I made sure my suitcase blocked it as well.

“A lot of the time I’d stand in Mum and Dad’s room and stare out of the window into other houses where families sat together. They were homes filled with smiles, togetherness. I’d end up walking around this barn getting freaked out by noises that old houses make. It was as though the barn was talking to me through its creaking. Probably telling me to stop stomping so heavily, or to wipe that bit of jam off the precious wooden floor.

“I looked everywhere I could for any sign of fun. Only thing I found were tools - a shovel, a hatchet. I took a torch and kept it with me in case the lights went out. Once, I got so bored I used a screwdriver to take a chair apart, just so I could figure out how to put it back. I did manage to find an old book under the sofa, The Magic Cottage by James Herbert, but Dad took it off me and threw it away before I could even open it. He’d tell me, ‘You don’t need someone else’s imagination to entertain yourself when you have your own.’” I shuffle in my seat. “He had this weird idea that other peoples’ imaginations pollute your own, diluting your clarity of thought and messing with your energy, somehow killing its purity. It’s safe to say Dad was a moron.” I poke my fingers into my lower back, wishing I could be bothered to stretch in the mornings. But even with so much time, it was the last thing on my list after-sit, nap and stare at the wall.

“Anyway, you get it. I was bored, my parents shouldn’t have been together and they shouldn’t have been parents. I’d complain, cry, beg, but they weren’t going to let me go home. About three weeks into this six-week hell, I tried to walk all the way back to London. I got about a mile into it before night descended over the nothingness. It was all flat fields and the occasional tree. The silhouette of a horse or something appeared in the distance, but it was perfectly still. It was the strongest case of the chills I ever got, so I turned and ran back to my summer prison. I don’t think I’ve ever run faster. I decided the only option to get through summer was to try to get into the energy nonsense.” That same chill attacks the back of my neck so I rub it. 

“I remember the day clearer than anything else in my life. It was baking hot. The kind of heat where you take a shower, dry yourself, and then instantly sweat again. The day was weird from the start. I woke up with a burning in my mind, like something was broken and I didn’t know how to fix it. I cried that morning for no reason other than I couldn’t not cry. All I wanted to do was go back to bed and sleep until the summer was over.

“I dragged my heavy legs down the creaky barn stairs and my dad packed the picnic basket. He was on his knees rolling his meditation blanket methodically and gently. I felt like he cared about that blanket more than he cared about me. He wiped his long hair away from his face and smiled up at me. The bright light caught his face and made him look more welcoming than he had in a while. ‘Are you ready to feel the buzz?’ He clenched his fist and the tiny muscles on his weedy arms became more pronounced.” I mimic the gesture to the iPhone.

“Dad looked happier than I’d ever seen him. No idea why. It’s nice to think that, though, isn’t it? That sometimes people can be happy for no reason. Makes it feel like it’s possible to be happy more often if there’s no reason attached to it. He stood and straightened his t-shirt, then came and gave me a hug. I almost burst into tears again. For a moment he felt like an actual dad, rather than someone just playing the role of one when he thought he had to.

“Mum was smiling too. She’d tied her dark hair back and wore a bright blue dress that stopped at her knees, like she used to when we’d go to my grandma’s on weekends, before Grandma died. Mum always wanted Grandma to see her looking her best, so that Grandma wouldn’t worry. Mum still had a hint of worry in her eyes, but that seemed permanent since the day her and Dad came back from hospital and she was no longer pregnant. I didn’t realize the severity of it back then.”

I take the biggest breath I have for years. I’m not sure I’m ready to confront the next part. I glance at the cleaver.

“Sorry,” I tell the iPhone, as though Becca might actually watch this video and not instantly delete it. I rub my temples and steady myself. I take another sip of water.

“We went to a field together, as a family, like the families I’d seen in the houses. The grass was green in patches, and flattened and duller where people stepped on it around the rocks. Beyond the rocks a tiny hill cut out the distant view, likely just more fields. That’s all this place was, fields, stones, a pub that claimed to be haunted, and shops where people sold smaller colorful stones. If you weren’t in Avebury for the stones, then you were likely an alcoholic or lost.

“Even in the sweaty heat, it was pretty windy. Probably because the trees were so far apart. Maybe they knew about social distancing well before our time.” I chuckle to myself, but notice my face fall on the iPhone screen. I don’t have the right to joke with Becca.

“Mum and Dad got straight to stone touching. Both pressed their hands on opposite sides of the rock and stood there with their eyes closed. So. Damn. Boring. I watched for what was about ten minutes but felt like ten years. Dad patted the stone like it was a pet. ‘You ready to try?’ he asked me. I falsely smiled and walked over to the giant stone. It was pretty impressive to see something so big. But that was about it. I had no need to spend time with it. I pressed my palms against the cold grey stone and pushed, trying to eek out whatever was supposed to be inside it.”

I hold my palms out open to the iPhone. I mime pushing against a rock, my fingers tensed.

“Mum and Dad asked me if I felt the energy. I genuinely felt nothing; just annoyance that my hands were touching something hundreds of other people had touched, probably without washing their hands. I concentrated, imagined colors in my mind, begged for something, but I felt absolutely nothing. I started to wonder whether I was lacking something and if I was the one with the problem. ‘Yeah, it feels kind of fuzzy,’ I lied. I took my hands off the stone and opened my eyes. Mum and Dad smiled. ‘It’ll take time but that’s a good start, Ray,’ Dad said. Mum’s smile was bigger than I’d ever seen.” I scoff.

“I figured I may as well carry on lying throughout the day. Touch a stone, say it’s warm. Touch another stone, say it made my neck twitch and my head lighter. I hoped it’d make time speed up. Eventually we sat and ate our picnic, thankfully. Dad had made those coronation chicken baguettes you loved when you’d visit. I even remember the bread being that perfect, spongy softness that we always hoped for when we’d go to the bakery. Even though the day was dull, at least it felt like we were a family. Mum and Dad even took an interest in what I had to say, for once.

“I told them about a computer game a kid at school claimed he could get early versions of from Japan. It was called Castlevania and was due out in September in Japan, but not in the UK until 1987. It was about a vampire hunter who has to kill Dracula in his castle. Dad hated the thought of me playing computer games and he worried that games would make me lazy. Mum seemed a bit more open, though. ‘Maybe for your birthday we can talk about you having some games.’ She shrugged at Dad who shook his head.”  

I scratch my nose and rub my neck. Something about talking to a camera makes me tense. I like feeding off peoples’ reactions, but all I can see are my own and I don’t like them.

“Do you remember that Christmas we came to stay with you and we played Duck Hunt all night? That’s what this conversation with Mum and Dad reminded me of. They were letting me be a young, and they seemed to like me that afternoon. It felt like we could be friends, not just family. I guess the trade off was showing them I could be what they wanted in a kid by pretending to feel the energy. 

“But sadly our bonding was ruined by some other energy hunters. ‘Laura! Benik!’ a nasal voice called out. I turned to the source and a guy in his early twenties who looked like he hadn’t had a haircut since birth walked towards us. He wore a vest to show off his developing arms, and shorts way too wide for his stringy legs. It seemed all of his exercise went into the upper half of his body. He was flanked by two girls styled out of the same catalogue, who wore gowns that likely swept up every piece of dirt from the grass.

“Mum’s eyes lit up and she bounced up to her feet faster than a released spring. She hugged the man she called Lucas, while Dad was much slower to stand and shake Lucas’ hand. He greeted the two girls, Paula and Larissa, who nodded at him like he was a teacher. They shook Mum’s hand from as far as their arms would extend. Chat turned to energy.

“I stared at the few clouds to busy myself. I made out an ostrich, a shark, and a creature I made up. I called it a Bagdola. The Bagdola was big as a tree, arms like a bear, and could eat stones. I imagined it eating all the stones in Avebury, and then we might not have to come here any more. Mum and Dad talked to Lucas about things like ley lines and entities, and then Lucas showed them a little white hexagonal box. It had circular mirrors on the sides and a dial on the top with a compass. Lucas said there were magnets in it. Apparently it helped people to balance out their energy. All they had to do was hold the box out in front of them. I imagined the Bagdola could pick Lucas up and throw him miles away, then boot the box into the nearest river.

“Mum didn’t hesitate to grab the box of pointlessness, and that’s where it got way too boring for me. So I got up, dusted the baguette crumbs off my shorts, and told Dad I wanted to go and explore. Anything was better than watching people stare at someone holding a box.”

The strip light on the kitchen ceiling flickers. I look up as though my eyes will do anything, but the flickering continues. I reach for the cleaver and place it on my lap, out of camera shot.

“Dad told me to stay within the rock circle. To be fair, that was a pretty massive area, and he wanted me to be back in a couple of hours, max. So off I walked, away from the boredom and into the unknown that was also likely to be boring. I walked around the outer part of the stones, thinking I’d do a lap and see what caught my eye.

“It got busier towards the Tolkien trees; apparently inspiration for the Ents in The Lord of the Rings. People tied ribbons to the wishing tree but a frog distracted me. I dropped to my knees to pick it up but it leapt away. ‘Do you want me to follow you?’ I asked it, and it leapt away, so I took that as a yes. It jumped away out of the stones and up the tiny hill on the outskirts of the stones.”

The light stops flickering and dies. I’m sat in darkness, so I stand and take the iPhone. I unplug the charger.

“Sorry, Becca.” I lean against the sink and put the cleaver down on it. I stand in the streak of moonlight streaming through the window bars. I turn the tap on and fill my glass with water then take a sip. I turn the tap off and plug the charger in and hook up the iPhone. I’m a bit silhouetted, but it doesn’t matter.

“I obviously followed the frog. Who cares that it was outside the stones? It was all fields, and over the hill that seemed more like a swollen speed bump were more fields. If it was a spooky wood I would’ve never followed the frog, we know how that stuff tends to end! But I could still see the stones from where I was and it was all so open and sunny.

“I followed the frog for a few minutes, into longer grass up to just above my knees. The frog jumped, but this time it vanished. I looked around, confused and worried that I’d been imagining this frog, such was my boredom. But I took a step forward and my heart leapt back in my chest so hard it knocked me back onto my ass. I crawled forward and there was a pit, about a grown man and a half deep, and the same wide.

“I couldn’t see the frog but a dog as dark as soot stared up at me. And I swear, Becca, this was no normal dog. It had the shape of a normal dog, like a Great Dane, but there was something missing. First thing I noticed was that it looked sad, forgotten. And it was damp, but I don’t know with what. It was almost slimy.” I rub my thumb and forefinger together. “I stood up and took a step back. The dog oozed the stench of an old bin bag full of rotten food, and that horrible choke-inducing smell you get when people burn sticks in their gardens. I retched and swallowed a bit of vomit, not wanting to throw up into the pit and onto the thing. It gave me that feeling you get when something gets into your chest. Know what I mean? As though if I had a soul it was trying to break out of my body to run away.

“The dog had these bony legs, like they’d been squeezed, and the muscles just hung off it. The nails on its paws were broken too. But what hit me the most was how expressionless it was. There was something off, like it wasn’t real.”

I choke up. I’ve never spoken of this dog since that day and I worry it’ll somehow appear right in front of me. I place my hand over the cleaver handle and run my eyes over the corners of the kitchen.

“But it was real, Becca. It stared right at me. Its eyes weren’t like the dogs we know though. You know how Turbo looked at us with curiosity and playfulness? This dog’s eyes were black all over. There was a hint of orange behind them, like a dull flame in the dark, but it was all so numbing. The skin on my left forearm itched uncontrollably and I raked my nails up and down it. I wanted to rip my forearm off and throw it away.” I mime scratching down my left arm and remember how deep my nails went.

“I wanted to run but my body wouldn’t budge. I was compelled to call out to the dog, but it just stared. I wanted to leave it, but even though it looked out of this world I started to feel sorry for it. I asked it, ‘What’s your name?’ Nothing. It didn’t look like it had a collar and I couldn’t see a way for it to get out of the pit, thankfully. I looked around for an owner, but it was just me and this dog.

“The frog seemed okay though. I spied it by the dog’s back leg. The frog jumped around, trying to get out of the pit, and that’s when I saw something I could never have imagined, Becca.” I bite my bottom lip and the pit of my stomach burns.

“The dog, in a flash twisted its head to near a hundred and eighty degrees. A barbed tongue stretched out of its mouth, grabbed the frog and pulled it into the dog’s mouth. The dog turned back to me and stared, expressionless, frog’s blood on its lips.

“My body never felt so weak. I inhaled my shock, turned to run and fell face first into the turf. Grass and dirt went in my mouth and nose. I scrambled back to my feet and bolted, pulling grass out of my teeth. I was too scared to turn around but imagined the dog leaping out of the hole and speeding towards me to take a chomp out of my calf, or worse yet, neck.”

“I got to the top of the small hill and turned back, relieved to see nothing. I nearly cried and I saw that my blue shorts had a darker pool of blue where I’d pissed myself. I looked towards the stones and everything on this side of the hill was back to comforting and boring. I took my t-shirt off and tucked it into my shorts so most of it hung over the piss-stain.

“I returned to my parents and whispered to my dad that I’d found a dog in a pit and what it had done. I hoped that we would get the dog taken away by someone so I’d know it wasn’t lurking. ‘Are you making stuff up again?’ Dad asked. But I think he could see how scared I was, so he stood up. He glanced towards my mum for acknowledgement, but she was sat leg-to-leg with Lucas, discussing that stupid box. ‘Show me where,’ Dad said, and we walked to the long grass.

“When we got there, we couldn’t find the pit. ‘Are you sure you saw anything?’ Dad asked, frustrated. ‘I swear I did,’ I told him, and then he looked down at my shorts and must’ve seen a bit of the piss stain under the t-shirt. He huffed. ‘Right, go home and change.’ He shook his head at me like I was a disappointment! I asked him to go to the barn with me, but he said he couldn’t, because he had to get back to my mum. At the time I didn’t realize, but it’s obvious now he was going to keep an eye on that slimy shitbag, Lucas.

“So, I walked back to that miserable barn alone, terrified that a hell hound was going to leap out at me. All I wanted was for my dad to be a dad in that moment, but he didn’t care. I didn’t want to be spoiled. I just wanted to be more than an inconvenience.”

I clench my jaw and slump to the floor, holding the iPhone as far away from my face as the charger wire will stretch and with the cleaver by my side. I’d take my anger out on the boxes of onions if I wouldn’t have to clean it all up afterwards. 

“I got back to the barn and washed some bits of grass off my teeth then showered. A nasty acidic taste hung in my throat. I was scared that every time I turned my head that I’d see that dog. Thankfully I didn’t. I closed the curtains in my bedroom and went to sleep. It was about four o’clock in the afternoon. I hoped when I woke up it was the next day, and some part of me didn’t want to wake up at all. I feared that if I opened my eyes I’d see the dog standing on the end of my bed, it’s broken nails digging into the duvet and that barbed tongue aimed directly at me.”

I swallow, not knowing how much more I can share. It’s all too raw, even thirty-five years later. My body seems ill equipped to deal with all the sensations running through it and I fear I might even piss myself right here.

“When I woke up only a couple of hours had passed. The sun poked beneath the curtains, but I had no interest in it. I turned to the wall away from the window and closed my eyes. I tried to think of happier times, like when our families went camping on the beach in Cornwall. Do you remember Dad being cocky about how he could put up a tent faster than everyone else? Then the wind blew it into the sea and he had to run in after it.” I laugh, and it feels good. “Those are the memories that have kept me going all these years. I just wish there were more of them.

“Happier times gave me some renewed hope that this summer wasn’t going to be total rubbish. All it would take was one great moment to lift everything.

“I tried to sleep again. But then something scratched at the door. I hoped my mind was messing with me and I covered my ears with my pillow and buried my head under the duvet. But it got more frantic, like something was desperate to get in. The tighter I covered my ears the worse the scratching got! ‘Go away!’ I yelled, falsely brave. I stared at the door as the scratching persisted. ‘I’m not letting you in! Leave me alone!’ I sat up and reached across to the bedside table, opened the top drawer and took out a pen.” I shake my head. “What the hell was a pen supposed to do? I guess I thought it might be enough to put up a fight.” I clench my fist at the camera.

“The scratching sounded all around me, as though something was trying to scratch its way through my skull and deep into my brain. This was an invasion in my senses. I rubbed my temples but it only hurt and I dug my nails so deep into my head I felt blood. ‘Pissoff!’ I yelled and leapt out of bed. The adrenaline hammered my body. I charged at the door, the pen now held up by my head, ready to stab the foul creature.”

I hold my fist up to the screen in that stabbing motion from that day.

“I opened the door and shouted, only to see Dad stood there, pale as a sheet. The energy flooded from my body and I fell to my knees and dropped the pen. I sobbed and my dad sat by me and pulled me into a hug. He didn’t say anything, he just hugged me.”

I unplug the iPhone from the charger. I can’t sit still anymore so I pick up the cleaver and pace the kitchen. I hate the darkness, so I open the fridge to get some light into the room. I check all the corners and keep the cleaver out of sight of the camera, but close to me.

“I curled up on the sofa in the living room and watched Dad chop pieces of wood with the hatchet. The sofa had that old musty smell, as though dust had won the battle and the cushion covers would never recover, but it was somehow comforting. I wondered how many invisible bugs lived in the cushions and pictured a civilization of bacteria at war for territory.

“I stared at the fire, numb, hoping the flickering would calm my mind. The mind plays horrible tricks, though. I was sure I saw the fire form into the expressionless face of the dog. ‘If there was a dog and it was damp, you’d see the paw prints or some dirt from its feet, so you’ve nothing to worry about, Ray,’ Dad said.

“The sun had set and Dad chopped the last piece of wood. I nodded. What he said made perfect sense, but it didn’t matter. ‘We’ll give your mum another twenty minutes and if she’s not back we’ll have dinner. He looked at the clock on the wall – 9:45pm. His shoulders slumped. At the time I thought it was from all that chopping wearing him out. I sat up on the sofa. ‘Can I stay with you and Mum tonight?’ I asked.

“I expected him to say ‘yes’ instantly. But there was a ‘but’. That was the problem with this family, there was always a ‘but’. I could stay in their room, of course I could, but he needed to meditate for an hour first. He said I’d be welcome to sit and watch him, though, but that I’d have to be completely quiet. I really didn’t want to be alone, so when Mum didn’t show up we ate and then I watched my dad sit still and take long boring breaths.”

I plug the iPhone back into the charger and scratch my chest. It’s itching for some reason, maybe the polycotton from this horrible green boiler suit, but it feels deeper.

“I watched Dad for about five minutes and I tried my best to remain perfectly still, but I coughed. That’s all it took, one cough. He didn’t even open his eyes. He asked me to leave the room and said he’d come and get me when he was done. I couldn’t believe it. He’d seen me shaken, disturbed, terrified, but all he wanted to do was re-align himself or whatever the fuck he was supposed to be doing. I stomped out of his room, making sure to slam every door and clatter whatever I could on my way. I got to the door to my room and froze. My heart stopped dead. A little mound of soil was perfectly placed in the middle of my doorway. It smelled of bins and burning. I called out for Dad. ‘Dad there’s soil! The dog, the dog!’ But he didn’t respond.” I rub my forehead.

“I sped down the stairs, leapt over two at a time and I ran to the chopping block and grabbed the hatchet. I crept back up to my room, my chest rising so high it nearly touched my chin. I was ready to swing through that dog’s expressionless face. But the pile of dirt was gone. I entered the room and checked every drawer, every crack, even the terrifying wardrobe, and then slammed the bedroom door shut.

“I buried the hatchet under my pillow and opened the curtains to close the window in case the beast could leap through the narrow crack. I tried to avoid looking out onto the dark field, but one flash across the emptiness was enough. Far in the field, silhouetted against the darkness, the outline of slimy fur caught in the moonlight. That’s what I saw that night I tried to walk back to London.

“I shut that window and pulled the curtains across. I leapt into bed and gripped the hatchet. I grabbed the torch from my bedside table and shone it around the room, corner to corner, praying I didn’t reveal the dog. I’d never been so awake, so alert. I hoped Dad would come and get me once he had finished meditating, but he never did.”

I put the iPhone down a moment to scratch the back of my hand.

“I kept the torchlight moving from corner to corner. I don’t know what time it was, but I heard the front door close and footsteps. Then something smashed and my heart pounded. Armed with my hatchet, I walked towards the door and opened it a crack. Mum was back and she picked up pieces of a vase she’d knocked over. She swayed towards the fridge, the back of her dress covered in grass stains like she’d slid down a hill. I knew better.”

I raise an eyebrow to the iPhone screen.

“She took a bottle of wine from the fridge, sat on the sofa and stared at the wall. She pulled the strap of her dress back over the right shoulder and drank straight out of the bottle. I caught a glimpse of Mum’s face and her mascara was all over it.

“Every muscle in my body ached and I felt dull all over. I dragged myself into bed and turned the torch off. I put my head against the pillow and gripped the hatchet like it was my favorite childhood teddy bear. For a moment I wanted to stick the hatchet through my own face, but instead I cried. I was suddenly exhausted and fell asleep.”

The hot feeling in my chest is overwhelming. “Hold on Becca. I’ll keep talking but I need to get something.” I put the iPhone on the floor and walk to the freezer. I open it, grab a tray of ice, take some cubes and wrap them in a kitchen cloth. I unzip the top of my boiler suit and press the cloth to my chest and take deep breaths.

“The next morning at the breakfast table was just cold. Mum’s head was down the whole time and the stench of alcohol and regret poured out of her. And Dad’s meditation must have not worked, because everything he did had a little bit more aggression to it. His fork hit the plate a little harder, he’d take a sip of juice and hit his glass against the table rather than place it. We were only eating omelets, but he cut it like he was trying to saw a piece of wood. I hadn’t even touched my food. My appetite was lost along with my desire to live.”

I walk back to the sink and sit in front of the camera again.

“I could barely keep my eyes open. I woke up about fifty times that night, sweating, shivering, and having muscle spasms. I was beginning to feel like my body was no longer my own and I was really irritable. Dad was chewing his food like he always did, you know, fucking slowly. It was like that time we had those homemade pizzas. We’d finished ours and he was still chewing his first slice.” I mimic how Dad used to chew, slowly moving my jaw like a camel, chewing out of the left side, then the right side. “It was like he was trying to dissolve the food in his saliva before he could swallow it. This time, though, I didn’t find it funny. I wanted to take the bread knife and slit his throat.”

I raise a hand as though pleading my innocence. “I hated thinking that, trust me. I didn’t even know I could have that thought. Maybe it was the lack of sleep. It scared me a lot. I wasn’t seeing him as a father anymore.”

I’m done with the cloth, so I take it out of the boiler suit, rest it on my lap and zip the boiler suit back up.

“Dad told Mum what happened the evening before. ‘He was acting weird yesterday,’ Dad said. He, like I wasn’t sitting right there. He wouldn’t look at me. Mum finally looked up to glimpse my face. She turned back to Dad. ‘Maybe you should take him on your walk today.’ That was her solution, to work me into one of their activities, not to do something for me. I scratched my fork against my thigh, trying to distract myself from getting angry.

“Dad stood up. ‘Why don’t you take the kid? Or are you worried it’ll stop you being as free as you can be?’ He pushed his plate off the table. The smash made me jump and the omelet slapped against the wooden floor. Dad stormed up the stairs to their room. Then Mum threw her fork after him and followed him while chucking out every swear word she could think of.

“She slammed the door to their room behind her, and all I heard at that point were muffled shouts. I should’ve been sad or angry, but it was weird, Becca. I was almost catatonic. It was like I couldn’t emote in that moment. Or my heart and my mind wouldn’t let me. I didn’t even notice I’d pushed my fork so hard it’d ripped through my shorts. 

“I thought I may as well eat, just to fill the silence. I cut only a tiny section of the omelet and placed the forkful into my mouth. I chewed but I couldn’t taste the egg. And the texture, it changed with each bite, from soft to rough. Rough like the grass I’d gotten a mouthful of the day before, but it was tougher. The more I chewed the tougher it got, and one bite released this hellish taste of rotten chicken, and a smell of rubbish and burnt sticks filled my face. My eyes watered and I retched.

“I fell out of my chair and coughed up this black slime. Something tickled the back of my throat and I reached in to pull it out. I pulled a stringy, black, slimy hair out of my mouth. Then another. And another. They kept coming and filled my throat. I tried to shout for help through the choking, but the muffled shouting in Mum and Dad’s room drowned everything out. I pulled hair after hair until a pile the size of a cat was by my head. I looked around for that damned dog, but there was nothing. Why was it tormenting me? ‘What do you want?’ I yelled. But I was alone, shaking on the floor.

“I caught my breath, got up and poured as much water as I could down my throat and spat the foul taste into the sink. I swept up the hair and put it in a plastic bag, so I could show my parents. I walked up the stairs but stopped half way. I listened to more of their muffled shouts. Something smashed and I realized I didn’t want to tell them, because they didn’t care. I dumped the plastic bag of dog hair in the bin and went to my room. I sat and stared at the wall, waiting for one of them to reluctantly take me with them.

I wipe my hand across my nose. It’s getting colder in here. I touch the radiator but the heating is on. I grip the cleaver and check the corners.

“Later, I walked through a field with Mum, but she didn’t say a word. This was the most pissed off she’d ever looked. I reached my hand out, hinting that I wanted to hold hands, hoping she’d take it. I caught her glance at my hand, but she ignored my invitation. My heart couldn’t take any more, so I just came out with it.”

I slap my chest with each word. “Do you regret me?” I shake my head.

“In a flash and with the coldness of the stones she loved to touch, she simply said ‘no’. That kind of question should hit someone deeply! It should make them think, not about their answer, but about why someone is even asking such a thing!”

I notice I’ve pressed the cleaver into my right thigh. I move the cleaver away and put it back on the floor.

“That question should’ve hurt her. Why would I feel so low that I needed to ask this? But she just said no, didn’t look at me, and we walked on.”

Tears creep into my eyes and I take a moment to dwell on that scene. “In that instant, my Mum became Laura and I became nobody. I don’t remember the rest of that walk, but we got to a house and that prick, Lucas answered, smelling like he had a stick of incense burning up his arse.

“Mum ushered me through the house to the back garden. There was a tennis ball, and thankfully the fences meant I couldn’t see any fields. Mum told me Lucas was going to do some healing for her and left me out there. Then they locked the door from inside and off they went. Three hours I stood in that garden kicking the tennis ball, alone. I had no drink even though the sun shone right on me, and I had to piss in the corner of the garden. I knocked on the glass door at one point but was left ignored.”

I rest my head against the wall and take a breath. The tears stream down my face. “Have you ever felt like you didn’t belong in this world, Becca?”

I get up and pace the kitchen again, trying to scratch the discomfort out of my left forearm.

 “Back at the barn that evening, I sat in my room to the soundtrack of Mum and Dad shouting at each other some more. I imagined the rest of our lives. Would we go back home and become a happy family? Would I ever have any friends? Would Mum and Dad stay together or divorce? Who would I live with? Would I live with either or would they give me up? It seemed more likely they’d give me up. I started to think that I was wrong to think of myself as a trap, keeping them together. They didn’t give enough of a shit about me to think of me as a trap. They were trapped by laziness, and not wanting to start from zero.

“I couldn’t sit here any more. I hated them, but I also loved them. I wanted this to work. I wanted to make more good memories to push the bad ones out. I decided to make them feel the love I hoped was still somewhere. I snuck out and I sat by a rock in one of the fields. It was six o’clock and I expected they’d notice I was missing in an hour when it was dinner time, worry and then come to find me. Then when they found me we’d have a family hug and at least feel a moment of togetherness. That’s all I wanted. That feeling would be enough to tell me we mattered as a family. That I mattered as a son.”

I stretch my legs out. My knee pops.

“But they never came. Eleven o’clock and nothing. Just me sat among the stones I hated in total darkness. I cried and I cried. I felt a slight chill and rubbed the goose bumps on my arms, but then was compelled to scratch my left forearm. I scratched and scratched, dug my nails right in until bloody lines formed. I stood up and I pounded the stone, wishing I could topple it. I kicked it, spat at it, swore at it. It took my parents, and now it had the blood from my fists.

“Defeated, I turned to go back to the barn of misery. At the end of the field there was the dog, silhouetted in the perfect darkness. The slimy sheen rose and fell with its breath.”

I start to tremble and my voice quivers. I place the cleaver in my lap.

“That dull orange I’d seen in its eyes before, it was more of a fire now, and this time the dog walked towards me. That fucking walk, it was rigid and bitty, like its limbs were breaking out of a stone casing. But the thing is, you can’t scare someone who no longer wants to be alive. I shouted at the thing. ‘Fuck you!’ And I walked towards it. It didn’t run away, but it backed away, and I followed. It’s stench hung in its path and I pulled my t-shirt over my nose.

“I was so angry. I called it all sorts of names. Before I realized, we were in the long grass and it jumped down into its pit. I looked down on it, that expressionless face, and I kicked some dirt onto it.

“It didn’t even react. It felt nothing. I kicked more dirt onto it. I dug my hands into the soil and threw it in the dog’s face. Still no reaction. It was numb. It was just a shell, walking the earth emptily. I shouted for it to leave me alone. I wished it would choke on the soil.

“I threw a stone and it was a great shot. Right in the dog’s nose, but it didn’t even react to that! I threw pile after pile of soil on it. It must have been hours and I’d barely covered its paws and I was exhausted. ‘Leave me alone!’ I begged. ‘Just leave me alone, please…’ It just fucking stared and I screamed into the sky. All the pain inside me came flooding out.”

I lay on the floor of the kitchen and aimed the iPhone down at my face. My eyes were red from the tears about to burst through.

“Then I stopped looking at this dog like it was my enemy. I pitied it. It was rejected, living in a pit, misunderstood and ugly. Numb to feeling. My eyes stung and the burning I felt in my stomach became fiercer. I sat and swung my legs over the side of the pit and I jumped in. The stink no longer bothered me. I inhaled it.

“I extended my hand and the dog came and sniffed it. The dog opened its mouth and that nasty barbed grey tongue stretched out. It was like a snake and it wrapped around my arm all the way up.

“The barbs didn’t sting, they comforted me and made my body warm. I stroked the dog’s slimy head and it retracted its tongue. The scratches on my arm were healed.”

I wipe the tears out of my eyes. “I know it sounds fucked up, Becca, but it’s true.” I check the corners of the kitchen.

“I pulled dirt down from the pit wall to give myself a way to climb back up, and I took the dog. He was coming with me and he was going to be the family pet. For some reason I though a pet would replace the lost little brother or sister I was supposed to have.

“We must’ve got back to the barn around two in the morning. I walked in and Mum was passed out on the sofa, two empty bottles of wine by her side. There was dried blood under her nose and the fire crackled. ‘I got us a pet,’ I told her. But she was out cold.

“The dog sniffed her and then followed me up the stairs. I went to my room and took my trainers off, then went to see Dad to tell him the good news. I opened the door to his bedroom and it was a mess. Clothes, a broken lamp, a drawer smashed on the floor. Yet somehow, at two in the morning, he was sat on his mat meditating! ‘I got us a pet,’ I said, and I noticed the blood on his lip and clumps of his hair on the floor.”

I roll onto my side. My energy is completely gone.

“He didn’t give a shit though. ‘I think you should say hi to him,’ I told Dad. But he cleared his throat. ‘I’ve got a lot I need to process,’ he said. ‘Go back to bed and we can play whatever game this is tomorrow.’

“I stared at him. I couldn’t believe he wouldn’t even look at me. Then, without warning, the dog opened its mouth, swung its head and lashed its tongue half way through Dad’s neck. Dad fell sideways and his blood pooled the wooden floor. The dog retracted its tongue, looked down at Dad, then swung its head back and lashed its tongue up and down, beheading Dad. With its fucking tongue!”

Coldness washes over my body. I can’t quite believe the words myself.

“I didn’t even try to stop the dog. I was paralyzed. The dog stared at me and I worried I was next, but he ran out of the room. I chased him and got to him right as he took a bite of Mum’s face. He twisted and chewed and when he released her, the left side of her face was a fleshy mess, her eye squashed and bloody. I collapsed to my knees and screamed. But the dog took chunks out of her shoulder, her chest, her waist, and her legs… Fuck… When he was done that wasn’t Laura lying on that sofa. I held her but I couldn’t even grip her, it was all blood.”

I run to the kitchen bin and throw up. I sip some water and face the iPhone again.

“I swear it, Becca. I didn’t do it. I looked back at the dog and he was gone. I don’t remember anything after that. But from the police reports, I’ve been told they found me sat on the sofa, my mum’s destroyed body in one arm and my dad’s head in the other. They say the bloody hatchet was on the floor. But the dog must’ve put it there.

“I never told them it was the dog, because I was so traumatized. I barely believed it myself. I thought maybe I’d gone mad. Maybe I did do it. But I didn’t. I know I didn’t.

“The police searched the entire place and I hoped when they found the dog hair in the bin they’d ask more questions, but they never found it. Just a plastic bag full of spat out omelet.”

I try to stand up but I collapse and sob onto the floor. I’m holding the iPhone but I don’t even know where it’s pointing anymore.

“I didn’t do it, Becca. I swear it. The dog did it. The dog did it.” I look up and see it in the corner. I haven’t seen it in thirty-five years. I throw the cleaver at it and scream. It disappears but the smell of bins and burnt sticks remains.

My breathing calms and I look at the phone, still recording. The one black hair on my head shines with sweat. “I’m sorry, Becca.” I stop recording.

I take a piece of paper from my pocket and type Becca’s number into the phone. I attach the video. This is it. I’ll send the video, go back to my cell, and tomorrow when I’m released I’ll kill myself. I’ve been thinking about the best way for a while. I tried hanging myself in my cell, but the makeshift rope was shit and it failed. I’m going to jump off one of those bridges that let people cross over motorways.

My thumb hovers over the send button. Why do I want to torment Becca? What is this going to do? It’ll only hurt her. She’s moved on, let her live in peace. I put the phone on the kitchen counter and scratch my arm. She’ll only think I’m even crazier. I’m overcome with shame and I delete the video.

I look to my right and the dog is next to me, staring, expressionless. I put my arm around it and stroke it. I bury my tear-covered face into its slimy fur.

I get up and place the iPhone in the charger on the counter. I open the fridge and take out the sandwiches Danny kindly made - coronation chicken. I wolf them down, nearly choking. I walk over to the cleaver, pick it up and put it back on the hook. “I’m sorry, Danny,” I tell the air. I wish it could be different, but I can’t wait until tomorrow. I have no control over what I’m doing.

I grab the chef knife from its hook and thrust it into my neck. I don’t even feel it. I’m numb. I collapse onto the floor and my blood flows into my fading eye line. The dog approaches, sniffs my blood and licks it. It faces me, expressionless, but then the fire in its dead eyes explodes. It opens its mouth and wraps its jaws around my head.

This year I was asked to create a course on writing character for the amazing online learning platform, Domestika. They filmed it over a few days in their studios and a team of brilliant people helped me to sound less like a rambling idiot than I usually do. You can see the trailer here.

In the course, I give you the tools you need to develop a variety of compelling characters with their own storylines and adventures, and exercises to help you to enjoy that development process. I also go through my own example so you can see the method in practice.

If you’re the kind of person who prefers online learning to reading then you’ll probably get a lot out of it. I have over 1,000 writers as students and 100% positive reviews including these:

“It is one of my favorite courses on the web. I love how through his extensive experience he gives us tips and advice to unleash our creativity and create a solid plot based on our characters. Without characters there is no story and thanks to this course you will be able to work more on your story from the inside…”

“That's the first course on writing that actually inspired me to write something. During the course, I came up with my main character, the world she lives in, supportive characters and the story. I never thought I could create something like that :)
Thank you for such a great course, Mark!”

If you’re interested in the course, use this link here. If you want a discount email me on mboutroswrites@gmail.com and I’ll create a code for you.

If you like reading scary stories, I was lucky enough to contribute to a horror anthology with some brilliant authors.

Grab a copy from any of these Shamazon links:

Amazon US - https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08MB3XQ18

Amazon UK - https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B08MB3XQ18

Amazon India - https://www.amazon.in/dp/B08MB3XQ18

Amazon Australia - https://www.amazon.com.au/dp/B08MB3XQ18

Amazon Canada - https://www.amazon.ca/dp/B08MB3XQ18

1. Should I do a writing course?

I’ve written a blog on that here. I would say yes, but ultimately it comes down to who you are and your financial situation. I personally wouldn’t recommend the two day courses you get over a weekend, as you can get that kind of information in a book for 5% of the cost. But there are people who love those. My advice is to do a long course, or evening course stretched over months, or a Masters if you can afford it. The longer courses give you the chance to get to know the other writers too, and that’s really valuable, especially when you need to vent about how hard it is! It really depends on you and what level you’re at. If you’re weak at structure, there are structure workshops that may help, and others for character and genre. You can never get enough knowledge, but get the knowledge that best helps you and doesn’t leave you bankrupt! If you’re nervous about investing, there are online communities you can join to meet other writers. They can be full of great info.

2. Do you have a productivity routine?

Early morning for me. Get up and write while everything is peaceful. Go to the same desk, write facing the window and get on with it. And on writing days I try to avoid emails until 4pm. I used to get up at 5am and write, but recently it’s been harder. It’s important to not criticise yourself too much when you’re not being hugely productive, especially as there’s a pandemic! Everyone has different habits and routines that work for them. It’s interesting to read what others do, but find what works for you. Here’s an article from another blog about writing habits.

3. Is it easy to make a living writing?

No. There are too many factors that are out of your control and your income can vanish just as quickly as it appeared. My advice is to get a part-time job that doesn’t drain you creatively. Freelancing in other areas is also useful, as you can accumulate a wage then take a break to write before looking again.

4. How do you get over writer’s block?

I’ve written about it elsewhere, but I don’t believe in it. You’ll always encounter problems when writing, but the idea is to write through them and to let yourself write badly when you need to. Nobody will ever see the bad writing, but it can help you to solve a problem and get to the right place. If you call it writer’s block it sounds a lot more powerful than it is. When really it’s just ‘trying to figure out a story problem.’ Switching your mind to something else also helps, as your mind will be subconsciously trying to solve the problem. I’ve found solutions while washing dishes, swimming, cleaning, doing a puzzle. Don’t punish yourself for not having all the answers instantly. They’re there, they just sometimes need time to come out.

5. Will you read my script?

A few people have asked me to read scripts, and I’ve had to say no a lot. It’s because of time. If you send me a half-hour script, that’ll take up one hour to one and a half hours to read and give decent feedback on. I also spend a fair bit of time reading scripts for friends and colleagues already. What I might start doing, is once every two months pick someone at random who has requested a script read, and read a script for them. I’ll come back on that one!

In television if you get something picked up, you have a ready-made audience who you will access. They can love or hate your work, but it will be put in front of them. In the world of the indie author you’re casting something into total emptiness in the hope someone finds it. There are ways to make it more visible, but it still doesn’t mean it will stand out.

I’ve written two fantasy novels, which it’s safe to say are weird. I’ve created species, a world and committed to my weird imagination. It’s been a real slog getting them in front of people and a steep learning curve where I’ve wanted to remove them from existence a few times.

A friend directed me to a book blogger @laurenatread who I approached and paid for an honest review. I warned her the book is weird, almost setting myself up for her to tell me it’s awful.

But she liked them and better than that, she got what I was trying to do.

There’s no greater feeling for a writer than when someone understands your work. It reassures you that you’re not insane. Sure, there are things I still dislike about my first book, but there’s also a lot I love about it that I need to remember.

Here are the reviews:

Heroes of Hastovia 1: The First Adventure

Heroes of Hastovia 2:Rise of the Deathbringer

Both books are available on Amazon

Heroes of Hastovia 1

Heroes of Hastovia 2

Hope you’re all doing well. I had a few questions come in but these are 5 I picked by closing my eyes and moving a pen up and down. This is a trial to see if this QnA thing works so let me know in the comments if it’s worth carrying on with or if my answers are nonsense. We can start a conversation here so it’s useful to others too. My answers are opinion based on what’s worked for me. That doesn’t mean they’re right for you. Only you can judge that and more often than not, I am wrong.

Hope it’s useful.

Question 1: Once you've written something, how would you gauge whether it's good enough to persevere or best to say, "I don't think I'm good enough for this"? 

I think once you finish something you know how happy you are with it, and if you’re happy it’s turned out how you like, then to me that’s good enough. The other judges of what’s good enough are audiences, producers and publishers. We can only judge whether we’re happy and proud of what we’ve created.

If you ever think ‘I don’t think I’m good enough for this’ and stop, then you’re not going to learn and improve. If you think ‘I don’t think I’m good enough for this’, and then look at what you can work on, then you have a chance. I have a folder of scripts that will never see the light of day, but they’ve all made me better at writing and one day I might have the ability to fix them. It’s all about practice.

I tend to do a lot of prep before writing. Such as character development, and structure outlining, so I know the story is dramatic and makes sense before I’ve written a word. Then when I’m done writing I ignore it for two weeks so I can come at it with fresh eyes. I send it to two or three trusted readers in that time. Not loved ones unless you can trust them to be brutal. Send your story to people who understand writing or people who like the kind of genre you’re trying to write. There’s no point sending a sci-fi to a horror fan who hates sci-fi, they’ll hate it. Tell whoever you send it to that you want to know what doesn’t work.

I have a rule. If one person flags something and I disagree, I’ll think about it and do what I think is right for the character and story. If two people flag the same thing, change something even if you don’t agree.

Once you have the feedback, read the story back, then see what changes you want to make. Redraft as many times as you need, and then once you’re happy with it, it’s good enough. It’s really about mindset. I regularly think I’m not good enough, so it’s about perseverance and learning. There’s a bizarre belief that people are either good writers straight away, or useless. It’s total nonsense. Practice is what makes you good and chances are the first script you write will be one you look back on with some degree of shame!

Question 2: Where's the line between defining your character/s so they have depth and not starting to direct?

Only define what’s important if it impacts their character. If it’s important to you that your character is tall, highlight it. If it doesn’t matter, don’t. You should know all those things, but unless it is relevant or impacts your character’s worldview, then don’t bother stating it. Also, aim for more characterful descriptions that leave things open to interpretation but still highlight key characteristics that are deep. Look at this example in The Big Lebowski of the Dude:

‘We are tracking in on a fortyish man in Bermuda shorts and sunglasses at the dairy case. He is the Dude. his rumpled look and relaxed manner suggest a man in whom casualness runs deep. He is feeling quarts of milk for coldness and examining their expiration date.’

This defines characteristics by matching them to physicality. His look is only important because of what it suggests about him as a human. It’s really down to you how far you go. But less is more and you don’t want to info dump because it just slows things down.

The main thing is to make sure whatever you do flag is important. Also, the Dude example is written by directors hence the ‘We are tracking…’ Writers shouldn’t direct in the writing so wanted to flag that in case I mislead anyone!

Question 3: I define race as well as age, gender, build when first introducing a character. I then panic that if the character is bad or does something wrong people will assume I have assigned race because of it. But, equally, I don't want to not define race as I don't want an all white cast :-) Any tips?

I wouldn’t panic. Characters do good or bad things based on their goal and situations, so as long as motivation is clear you won’t have a problem. If someone does something because it’s racially motivated, then that’s a character choice again and that’s when you might enter that territory.

If my character is black and pushes a white person because the white person pushes in front of her in a queue, it’s nothing to do with race. It’s to do with feeling annoyed at someone being an arsehole and reacting as the character would react. Depending on who she is she could react by doing nothing, pushing him, telling the doorperson, or pouring some water in his bag.

If my character is black and pushes the white queue jumper because she dislikes white people or believes the white person is pushing in because of racial prejudice, then people can safely assume I assigned race because I’m addressing race in my work.

It’s all about why characters do things. If you can make motivation clear you’ll be fine.

Question 4: What is your favourite screenwriting book?

By far, Writing for Emotional Impact by Karl Iglesias. I love this book and it reminds you of the importance of engaging your audience. I’d recommend it to anyone at any level of writing.

Question 5: If you were to start as a writer now, what would be the top 4 things you would do and in what order.

If I decided I want to be a writer now, I’d:

1. Get a part-time job - I worked full-time and it ruined my hours and killed my productivity

2. Study - I’d read three books. The one mentioned above - Writing for Emotional Impact. Plus Save the Cat by Blake Snyder, and The Idea, by Erik Bork. That will cover the concept, the characters, and the structure. I’d then watch a show that is in my genre and make a note of all the dramatic beats

3. Develop - Spend more time developing character and story before jumping into it. Do character questionnaires, write log lines, and do a scene by scene outline of the script

4. Write and redraft - The process is: Write, Write, write, write, cry, write, cry, write, hate self, keep crying, write more, feel good for 3 seconds, send story out, cry more, write, sleep

Basically, I’d build in positive writing habits that teach me patience and in the long run they’ll help increase my productivity so I don’t rush into a script without being well prepared. The main thing though is I would commit by not wasting time on jobs that aren’t contributing to my goal.

Thanks for all the questions. Hope this wasn’t awful.

When they asked me if I wanted to write an article for their ezine I was honoured and over the moon. Imposter syndrome torments me regularly, and I hope the article helps those who suffer the same self-doubt.

The ezine is full of great insights (from the other writers and industry folks) and it is a must-read for any writer.

You can read the article in the ezine

And to learn more about the contest, which I advise all writers to enter, go to their website

There are many things that get in the way of writing that range from things we have control over to things we don’t have any control over. They include among may more:

• Bills to pay

• Debts

• Having to care for a family member

• Having kids

• Having several jobs

• Being sick

• Having a hangover

• Working insane hours

I will always sympathise with people who have responsibilities and struggle to write because of ill health. However, if your excuse is social life and hangovers (I’ve come across this one a lot), then you really need to decide whether writing is something you really want to do. I used to drink at least three or four times a week, and it’s no surprise I have had work produced since I cut those wasted hours out of my life.

Below are tips for you to carve out time. It can be tiring, because after a long day of doing the things you have to do, it’s a struggle to get into the headspace for writing. Some tips will hopefully help, while others just won’t suit your lifestyle, but find something that works for you, or that you can craft to work for you. Only you can take those first steps.

Fifteen minutes a day

If you have kids, are working silly hours, and have an endless list of chores, then this is the tip for you. Find fifteen minutes a day and force yourself to write. Even if it’s scribbling notes in a book and staring at the wall and thinking. That fifteen minutes a day will build a habit. Make it at any point in the day. Fifteen minutes a day will make it easier for you to get your head into a longer shift when that rare time comes, as it’s often starting that is tough for someone who hasn’t written for a while. Even if you don’t write a word, you’ll be developing ideas in your mind.

Use Google Docs

Google Docs have doubled my efficiency. You can work on them offline and then they autoupdate when you’re next online, so if you’re commuting it’s easy to edit on your phone while on the train, tube or bus. If you’re at work and bored you can always sneak on and do a bit of your work. There’s no saving and sending documents all over the place. It’s all in one easy, always accessible place. I find nothing more anxiety fuelling than having notes all over the place.

Morning pages

This is a technique taken from The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron. As part of a course you handwrite 3 pages every morning, splurging whatever you want onto the page. It acts as a creative exercise and is therapeutic at the same time. I’d recommend that anyone who is stuck for inspiration and struggling with incorporating writing into their life buy the book. It asks some tough questions of you but I found it made me take writing more seriously. The morning pages aren’t the easiest thing to do for those with hectic schedules, but try them once and see how you get on.

Say no to things

If you want to write it needs to jump up in your priority rankings. If you crave writing but are going out three times a week to socialise, then you’re knocking out three nights and the following three mornings. Ask yourself what you really want, because when you’re saying yes to things that aren’t crucial, you’re saying no to writing. There is always a reason to go out whether it’s a birthday, a work event, or just a Tuesday, but nobody will ever publish or produce the story you haven’t written yet.

Start early or late

I’m definitely an early morning writer. I get up before most people and start writing. it’s when I feel most productive before the torment of other people kicks in and emails and calls might derail me. Others swear that writing by night is the way forward, but what both habits have in common is that they operate when most people are asleep. So find that time where the world leaves you alone and start writing. It’s tougher for those with children, but if they have a sleep routine then you can work your writing routine into that. I find this easier in the summer when it gets light early.

Schedule time

Put time in your calendar that is sacred and can only be broken by a family, work or personal emergency. Everything else can get lost. When my wife had a course on Tuesday nights I blocked my Tuesday nights out for writing and nothing could move them unless it was serious. It worked wonders for me, because it’s easy to say yes to things if you have a blank calendar, but start respecting your writing time and structuring other activities around it.

I hope one or more of these tips help. If you have any writing tips add them in the comments and I hope you find the time to get to where you want to be.

Happy writing.

If I ask you what someone is like and you say they are honest, that is a character trait, and character traits often inform how someone interacts in certain situations. It’s up to you to know why they are honest. What made them primarily act through the prism of honesty? Like anything to do with character, it is the job of the writer to know why they are the way they are and why they are doing the things they do.

If you ever get stuck when developing character and can’t think of traits, below is a list. Character traits should never be something you just pin onto a character as an after thought. They should feel realistic. This list is just to inspire, so don’t use it as a substitute for spending time developing your character.

This list can also inspire flaws, as when you look at why your character has a particular trait you may unearth some crucial backstory. Someone isn’t just born over-cautious, that behaviour is formed through experiences, whether they had over cautious parents, or if they saw the extreme results of recklessness and have ever since decided caution is the best way forward. Therefore their flaw could be they are risk averse.

I haven’t organised the list in terms of negative and positive traits, because I believe that can be misleading. A trait is positive or negative depending on its impact on your character and how it makes them interact with the world and others. Also, it’s to do with perception.

Always remind yourself that traits come from somewhere. If I’ve spent the last few years being homeless, perhaps I’m resourceful and untrusting, as I’ve learned that my only way out of the situation is to do things for myself, and maybe I got let down by someone so I find it hard to trust. Your task when choosing traits is to be able to explain where they come from in regards to your character.

Character trait list:

Logical

Lovable

Loving

Loyal

Mad

Malicious

Materialistic

Mature

Mean

Mechanical

Miserable

Modest

Moody

Moronic

Nagging

Narcissistic

Narrow-minded

Nasty

Naughty

Neglectful

Nervous

Nosy

Obedient

Obnoxious

Obsessive

Obstinate

Opinionated

Orderly

Outrageous

Paranoid

Passionate

Pathetic

Patient

Patronising

Peaceful

Perceptive

Persistent

Personable

Persuasive

Perverse

Pessimistic

Petty

Petulant

Picky

Pioneering

Placid 

Playful

Plucky

Plodding

Pompous

Predatory

Prejudiced

Pretentious

Principled

Profound

Prudent

Puritanical

Quiet

Rash

Rational

Reflective

Relaxed

Reliable

Resentful

Reserved

Respectful

Resourceful

Responsible

Ridiculous

Rigid

Romantic

Rowdy

Rude

Ruthless

Sadistic

Sanctimonious

Secure

Scornful

Scrupulous

Secretive

Selfish

Selfless

Sentimental

Sensible

Shameless

Silly

Sincere

Shy

Skilful

Sly

Smart

Sneaky

Sociable

Sordid

Stingy

Stubborn

Stupid

Suave

Superficial

Surly

Sympathetic

Tactless

Tasteful

Tasteless

Temperamental

Tense

Thorough

Thoughtful

Thoughtless

Tolerant 

Touchy

Tough

Uncharitable

Understanding

Unfriendly

Unkind

Uptight

Unrealistic

Unreliable

Unruly

Unstable

Untrusting

Vague

Vain

Vengeful

Vindictive

Vivacious

Weak

Wild

Willing

Withdrawn

Witty

Adventurous

Affable

Affectionate

Ambitious

Amicable

Amusing

Analytical

Arrogant

Articulate

Athletic

Authoritative

Balanced

Belligerent

Benevolent 

Bitchy

Blunt

Boastful

Bold

Boring

Brave

Bright

Brilliant

Calculating

Careless

Cautious

Charismatic

Charming

Chilled

Cold

Compassionate

Confident

Conscientious

Considerate

Controlled

Controlling

Courageous

Cowardly

Crafty

Creative

Cunning

Curious

Daring

Decisive

Demanding

Dependable 

Desperate

Destructive

Detached

Determined

Devoted

Dictatorial

Difficult

Dignified

Diplomatic

Dishonest

Disobedient

Disruptive

Disrespectful

Educated

Efficient

Eloquent

Empathetic

Erratic

Encouraging

Energetic

Enthusiastic

Envious

Evil

Extravagant

Facetious

Fair

Faithful

Fanatical

Fearless

Firm

Focused

Foolish

Forgetful

Forgiving

Funny

Fussy

Generous

Gentle

Genuine

Gloomy

Good

Gracious

Greedy

Gregarious

Grim

Grumpy

Happy

Hard-working

Harsh

Hateful

Helpful

Heroic

Honest

Hostile

Humble

Hyper-critical

Idealistic

Idiotic

Ignorant

Imaginative

Impatient

Impartial

Impulsive

Incisive

Inconsiderate

Indecisive

Independent

Indiscreet

Inhibited

Innovative

Insecure

Insensitive

Insightful

Insincere

Insulting

Intelligent

Intense

Intolerant

Intuitive

Irrational

Irresponsible

Jealous

Judgemental

Killjoy

Kind

Lazy

Liberal

I know so many writers who dwell and dwell before they write their first draft, like it is their only shot and it has to resemble the finished product. It is important to do a lot of character development, and outline your story, and in my opinion know your beginning and ending and key beats, but you have to at some point write the draft. 

Six months ago I spoke to my friend and his story was in the same place it is now - his head, and it hasn't developed any further. There comes a point when you have to release the words onto the page. It's scary, and often things change and scenes don't work, but you have to get through the draft. Get the story down, make your notes, and respect the process of redrafting. My first draft always goes through a few passes and I'll edit on the way, but a lot of people I know believe in the vomit draft where they won't look back. Just get from start to finish your way and fix in the redraft. Whether it’s puking it or plodding through, get it done.

If you're waiting until you have a large chunk of time to write the draft, it will likely never happen. Set aside smaller chunks of time. Set targets. I often write early in the morning before work so I don't get the frustration and guilt hanging over me all day.

There are stages to writing - development, draft, redraft, redraft, redraft, redraft, cry, redraft, redraft, redraft, redraft, cry more, redraft, redraft, redraft, redraft, redraft, redraft, drink water to hydrate so you have more tears, redraft, redraft, redraft, redraft, redraft, weep and consider a career change, redraft, redraft, redraft, redraft, redraft, redraft, redraft, redraft, redraft, redraft, redraft, redraft, redraft, redraft, redraft, redraft, finish and get a cold from emotional exhaustion crushing your immune system.

Don't fear the first draft. Be comfortable with the fact that it will always be flawed, and accept that it is something to mould, shape and work on. It's your story draft, to make sure it all works, and bits may not, but now you know so you can go back and fix them.

In the Shawshank Redemption, Andy Dufresne crawled through a river of shit to come out clean on the other side. Accept your first draft is a river of shit. Crawl through it then clean up.

Happy writing. 

• My job is long hours

• My kid/ wife/ dog is an asshole

• I’m scared to write it in case anyone steals it

• I don’t have time

• I have too many social commitments

• Did I say my dog is an asshole?

This is the difference between wanting to be a writer and going through the pain, to having a vision of the dream of writing, where you’re telling a room full of hangers-on anecdotes of your experiences at awards ceremonies, while doing the backstroke up and down your infinity pool with your BAFTA resting on your belly.

I get that there are factors that hinder writing. It’s like any art, you suffer for it, and some people genuinely have too many responsibilities to prioritise it, but if you really want it you will find time. Here are some suggested ways to do it. Different ones will work depending on your situation. Maybe none of these work for you, but use them for inspiration to find your way:

• Get up earlier and write before work, before the torments of the day kick in. It only takes one call or email to destabilise your mind, so get your writing done while the rest of the world rests. Also, this helps you fight frustration during the day. I find if I haven’t written I spend the day annoyed with myself. If you do it early you can be smug for the rest of the day.

• Set up a Google doc. You can work on this online and offline and on your phone and computer. It updates on whatever device you’re on so you don’t have to email yourself documents and you can work on ideas on the commute to work. Obviously don’t do that if you’re driving, that would be stupid. If you don’t know what a Google doc is just search online as I’m sure there will be someone who walks you through it.

• Protect time. Actually create writing time. Set it in your calendar. You might not feel inspired when the time comes, but sometimes sitting there blankly and thinking is still developing something. Even if you write a few words, it’s still writing.

• A friend of mine swore by doing 15 minutes a day. He said it was achievable, and often he would over run, but knowing it’s just 15 minutes makes it easier to find the time and then you run with it. Also, this creates a habit and that’s really what it’s about, creating positive habits.

• Remove the distractions. My PS4 is at my mum’s, because otherwise it will call to me and I will answer, then a month will go by. If you are weak like me, create separation from the distractions that call out to you.

• Prioritise. If you love writing as much as you say, then it will come before certain social occasions. You have to learn to say no and not feel guilty for it. Writing is looking after yourself so when you say no to something, you’re sometimes saying yes to yourself.

It’s hard to get into the habit. When I gave myself a year to just write, I spent at least 2 months having naps and going for walks and doing everything apart from writing. Once the habits set in, I now find it easy to do, even if it is still sometimes exhausting.

The point is, whatever your situation, there are always ways to make it work because we have so much technology at our disposal. Find what works for you and write your damn story.

Good luck.

It’s annoying. It really is. At this point where your script is good enough for you to think producers want to see it, you should also be trying to get an agent.

However, despite the closed doors, there are plenty of places that are looking for new scripts. It takes research online and looking at production company websites which is boring but you’ll have to accept that being a writer is two things - writing and business. The business is building contacts and learning about the industry. My advice would be to start a spreadsheet (horrible word), where you list production companies and whether they accept unsolicited work or not, so when it comes to future send-outs, if you still don’t have an agent, then you know where to go and where to not bother with.

I didn’t have an agent for ages yet still had my scripts read by a lot of companies.

The best starting point is to watch the shows you love, and if you think ‘I wish these people made my show,’ then watch the credits. Look for the producer and the production company. Often production companies make shows for channels. Some are made in-house, but that’ll be clear from the credits.

Then go to the company website and often they’ll list a general email address which tends to go to reception. That will give you the format of the email, for example info@mark-boutros.tv or something. Then you can try the different variations of that company. For example:

Sarah.Cheese@mark-boutros.tv

scheese@mark-boutros.tv

sarahcheese@mark-boutros.tv

You get it. Sometimes it will be easier to get that email address and the production company site will list it. Keep in mind, freelance producers may not be at the company any more when you email, but there is normally an out of office that lists who you can get in touch with.

You can also email the general email address, info@wherever.com and ask the question. Mention you know they don’t take unsolicited scripts but would they be keen to read your story about… The worst they can do is say no and repeat their policy of not accepting unsolicited material. If the company doesn’t say whether they do or don’t take unsolicited material, then you can ask this general person who the best person would be to send your work to.

Producers are always on the look out for the next great script, and nobody wants to be the person that says no to something that goes on to be a hit, so try your luck with a query email, and if it doesn’t work, move on to the next.

So the advice is, reach out to people. Email them, don’t pester them, but ask the question. The worst they’ll do is say a polite no, and it’s not personal.

Also, get your script into competitions. It’s a way to get noticed, gets agents interested in you if you do well enough, and it keeps you sane because it’s something that could lead somewhere. What we need when we’re writing is hope. The hope something could happen.

Any questions get in touch.

Good luck.

I’ve done a few talks at universities recently and the most common question I get asked is: ‘How do I get an agent?’ This is more for screenwriting as I don’t have one for novels.

Firstly, never ever pay anyone money for any sort of service to help you get an agent. There is no talk or seminar you need to attend that costs you anything. There is a useful book listed further down which has a list of every agency, but that is as far as I would go spending anything, and if you’re good at searching online you won’t need it.

In terms of what you need to do, the process is different for a lot of people, but you need two things:

• A script, preferably two scripts as often people want to see that you can produce high quality stories consistently

• A list of agencies to approach (where the book can be handy if you don’t want to search yourself)

The first is obvious, but it’s incredible how many people think they can approach an agent with an idea and that’ll be enough. Agents need something to sell, and you are providing that thing, so make sure it’s ready and fully formed.

The second is the tedious one. You have to do some research. It only takes some online scouring and if you search ‘script agents’ people will have compiled lists. Search ‘TV agents’ and that gives you the names of some big agencies too. It’s not hard, it just takes a bit of resourcefulness, and if you want to get into writing you’ll need a lot of that to keep you sane and to find work to pay the bills as at the start and for many years, writing alone isn’t enough.

Do your research on each agency, by which I mean look at who each agent represents and check their submission requirements which are often clearly listed on the site. Someone once told me that you only get one shot with an agent. That person is an idiot. If your work is good but not quite right for them, they will be keen to read something else in future. It’s likely you only get one shot if you send incomplete work and an incoherent query email where you call yourself a legend.

Speaking of query emails, once you think you’ve found an agent you think would be great, it’s time to write that.

It’s not too hard to write and you need to take the pressure off yourself. If they say no, it’s not personal and you should be approaching more than one agent at a time.

Here are some tips:

• Be polite - A big part of writing is the interaction between people, so it’s important you are pleasant and not an egotistical a-hole. Who wants to work with unpleasant people? Sadly, more people than you think, but let’s not be one of them. There’s a thin line between being confident and being wedged in your own arse. Also, your agent will be sending you to meet people. They want to know their client has basic manners when inflicting them on another human.

• Get the person’s name right - It sounds simple, but if you’re sending out a few agent emails you may screw this up. I have. It is a common mistake. I once had someone get in touch with me for advice and they called me Dave. I didn’t care, Dave is a strong name and I can see myself being a good Dave, but a lot of people do get offended and think if you can’t get their name right then what hope do you have?

• Say why you’re emailing - A lot of people just email attachments and very little else. It’s nice to say ‘I’m emailing because I’m looking for representation and hope I can be a good fit for you. I’ve written a story about (explain concisely) and wondered if you were taking new people on and would consider reading it?’

• Share your background - Say why you want to write, why you wrote the story you’re sending in, and what you plan to do. It’s important to show you’re thinking of the next script and entering contests and schemes etc… Also, this is for when you have meetings with producers, but the Why is becoming crucial in a lot of meetings because authenticity and experience sells these days. Know why a story matters to you, your view on the world and why you need to say it.

• Optional - Be flattering. I’m polite but not sycophantic as it’s not genuine. Some people do better with that than me, so if this particular agent has a client you love mention it. Up to you.

Basically, be polite, be approachable, show you’re doing the work. Then be prepared to wait a while for them to read your script. Some can take up to 8 weeks. That’s why you should send your work to 2 or 3 agents at a time and get to work on your next project while you wait.

It is easier to get an agent when you have some commissioned work under your belt, but it’s not always easy to get that. There are junior agents at agencies who if they love a script will be open to taking on new writers, so don’t lose heart. I had about twenty rejections before my first agent, and that only came about thanks to a referral from a friend.

My second agent was off my own back, but I’d had a broadcast credit and some other experience at that point and two scripts they could try to sell. I spent several years without an agent so don’t lose heart if you don’t get one with your first attempt. Also, when you get an agent it doesn’t guarantee you a flourishing career. It helps to legitimise you and makes you feel like a real writer, but you still have to be patient and make sure you never stop trying to build your own contact base. If you put everything on your agent you won’t get far and it’s not fair on them. It’s a partnership.

A good resource for finding agents if you can’t be bothered to trawl the internet is to invest in this:

Writers' & Artists' Yearbook 2019

The 2020 edition is released in July 2019.

This book is useful for anyone seeking an agent for fiction too. It will still require you to do some internet research though when you make a list of agencies. The idea is to go through, jot down the ones you think would be interested in your kind of work, then do a bit more research on them and approach.

Good luck and remember, rejection is a part of the process. There will be plenty more, but if you really love writing then the high points are worth the struggle through the crushing lows.

Before I ramble on, all you have to do is look at the layout. The binder on the left is where the magic is, and it has saved templates for novels, screenplays, radio plays etc... to make life even easier! 

It also lets you set word goals so you can see when you're getting closer to achieving them which is a nice and sometimes painful feature. 

These are just some of the features, but for me the true brilliance comes from the organisation. Being able to keep your research in one place and your character biogs just makes for an incredibly easy writing process. You can also split the screen so that one half is your manuscript or screenplay, and the other is your notes so you don't have to click between windows and get annoyed. Just go full screen, shut out the disturbances, and everything you need is in the binder. 

Once you're done, you just export in the format you need as well by compiling. 

Other great things are:

• It's Final Draft compatible, so the script you write can be exported to FD.

• You can export in .mobi and .epub files if you're an independent author which is great for sending people advanced copies.

• One of its features is a name generator!

• It also auto-saves.

For me, it increased my productivity and de-cluttered my brain. You don't NEED Scrivener to write, but if you want to take organisation and efficiency to a new level, it is worth the low cost. 

Happy writing!

Don't ignore that wandering mind, because it's a sign that there is something wrong with that scene. It’s a horrible moment but you should consider the following.

- Is there enough conflict? By that I mean, is someone trying to get something and making a tough decision, putting something at risk in order to get it? Does their desire for something culminate in a progressive complication that pushes the story forward? Every scene should make us want to move on to the next, answering some questions and asking new ones, raising the pressure on the main character, even in the minor victories. 

- Is the character behaving truthfully? If the character is angry in the previous scene, is their behaviour and approach in this scene being informed by that emotion? Always keep the emotional throughline truthful. 

- Is the character passive? A character having things happen to them is boring. It's amusing for a moment in comedy, but you need your character to be active. Their actions have to have consequences. If something is going to happen to them, it needs to be because they caused it. Watching someone make tough choices and suffer the consequences of those choices is far more engaging than watching someone constantly have things happen to them like they have some kind of curse. We want active characters because they make us cheer for them, swear at them, and that hooks us in. Your scene needs to show an active protagonist so we can connect to them. 

- Does the character make a choice? We need characters to make tough choices. To do things that put them on the line for that thing they want. Your scene should have a choice that is difficult for the character, but essential for them to get what they want.

- Is the dialogue working? Make sure there is subtext in there. Every line of dialogue should serve multiple functions. Behind the words is motivation and emotion, and dialogue is often informed by what a character wants. Words and actions need to move the story forward and reveal things to us. If your character is one note, on the nose, and expositional, go over it, take out unnecessary information and keep it flowing.

- Is there movement? Is there emotional movement? For example, I walk in to a meeting, I'm positive I'm going to get the promotion which will give me enough of a bonus to pay off the debt to the gangsters who have threatened me. I'm sure it's in the bag because I have dirt on my competitor. However, it backfires because unknown to me, the boss is sleeping with my competitor. Not only have I lost the promotion, but my boss is appalled I would use such underhanded tactics, so I'm fired. Suddenly things look negative, and I'm in big trouble and need a new plan.

- Is there too much exposition? We all have those scenes where we need to explain a lot of our world and get crucial yet mechanical information over. My advice is to put it in an action. Two people conversing to give us information is boring. Put an extra layer in there. For example, in a drama of mine, I have to explain an entire society, so I do it in the form of a presentation where there is an opposer in the room. It adds tension and gets the info over without making it clunky. Also, if a character needs to know something you can put time pressure on them. They need information, and it is dense, but they need it now because someone is chasing them. Think of exciting ways to present exposition while moving the story forward. 

- Is the scene necessary? The toughest thing to decide sometimes. Often there are scenes that survive drafts because we love them so much when they really had no place. Pull the plug. Cut the chord. Stop wearing those old pants with the holes in them. I guarantee you, you won't miss the scene and I’m a firm believer that nothing ever dies in writing, it gets reimagined into the next project or elsewhere in this one. 

Ultimately it all comes back to character development. I hope some of these are helpful and help you to tell a story you’re proud of.

Think of scenes as mini stories within the story.

Happy writing.  

But before you do, make sure to check these last crucial details so you don't hit any big problems along the way. 

Are the stakes high enough?

You will tire of hearing this, but it's the most crucial question to ask yourself, because if nothing is at stake, if failure doesn't have dire consequences then your audience won't be as engaged. Also, there should be a double threat with the stakes. The personal to your character, and wider implications to the world they inhabit. If they fail not only will there be some kind of metaphorical, if not literal death, but the world will also suffer.

For example, you're a former detective, shamed and now wallowing in self-pity and regret having failed to catch a killer. That killer is back and they're goading you, and they've kidnapped your ex. What's at stake? Your redemption and the life of someone you once cared about. Those are personal, but the wider threat, this killer is on the loose again and each day you don't catch them, they kill another person. If you fail, there's a lot of death and this might be enough to push you from wallowing to suicide. 

Is the inciting incident clear and big enough?

This is the moment that kicks your character out of their comfort zone and pushes them into action. The first thing you tend to see is your character in their normal life, whether they're a ballerina or the angry alcoholic that hangs out on the same bench each day waiting for death. Something needs to happen that destabilises the norm and starts the story. The What If? 

For example, someone may sit next to the drunk and offer him one million pounds if he does a job for him. That job is to kill someone, and with nothing left in his life, maybe the man will take the job, but he would be conflicted about it which makes us relate to him, because we've all had difficult decisions to make in our lives, though hopefully not on that scale! We've established he's at his lowest, so to him the risk is probably worth the life-changing reward, but it already throws up so many questions. How did the man get this low? Will he be able to go through with it? What would we do in that situation? Why is he chosen? A later complication could come in the form of him showing up to kill the person, and it's his brother who abandoned him. He could then decide not to kill him, but that angers the man who gave him the opportunity. There you have progressive complications, twists and turns, which all came from an inciting incident and lead to the character having to make very difficult choices. 

As an exercise, think of some inciting incidents from films or a series, or spot the inciting incident when you next watch something. Think of it as a disturbance to the character's life, or simply a stranger coming to town. Your character's every day life is the town, and the stranger is the disturbance, whether it be a person, lottery ticket, package etc... In Amelie (2001), she discovers a box behind a bathroom tile and wants to reunite the box with its owner. 

Does your character make enough irreversible, difficult choices? 

One of the biggest flaws in stories I read, and sometimes my first drafts is that not enough happens. There need to be big moments in the story where your character makes choices there's no coming back from. This is when we really get to know the character, through their actions. Take Walter White in Breaking Bad (2008) who makes so many difficult decisions that push him deeper into the darkness and mean he can never go back to a normal life. 

Is the crisis a true crisis and illustrative of how bad it can get?

Make sure the crisis you build to is BIG. Often it will be when all hope is lost, death is in the air, and maybe there has even been a death. The protagonist has lost the thing they wanted, or lost to the villain, but it is in this crisis that we see true character, where they learn that what they wanted may not have been what they needed, and they have the power to move forward and complete their journey in the major climax. 

Can you answer these questions about your protagonist?

What makes her special?

What does she want more than anything?

What's her biggest fear?

What is her external goal?

What is her flaw? It normally relates to something she hasn't gotten over. An emotional wound.

What is her coping mechanism? It could be an addiction or some form of distraction or displacement.

And do the same for your antagonist. 

More info on character development can be found on the character development questionnaire.

Have you avoided?

- Passive characters - It's a tedious note to get and you may in your early writing work, because it's easy to create a normal character and surround them with larger characters who bring the complications. Make sure your character is active and makes tough decisions. The best piece of advice I ever got was 'Don't protect your main character.'

- The protagonist being constantly told what to do - Obviously different stories have different needs. For example, in a fantasy where a girl has fled during her village being burned down and her parents being killed, she will have no idea what to do. The world is a mystery, and she will need some kind of mentor to guide her and explain the world and tell her what to initially do, but eventually, there comes a point where she will have to make choices to reveal her true nature. Other characters who are less helpless need to be driving the action far sooner.

- Heavy exposition - This is tricky as some stories require hefty amounts of exposition, but think of ways to put it in action so it’s less jarring.

So in summary. Make sure the stakes are high so we emotionally engage with your character and want them to succeed. Make sure the inciting incident is gripping and starts a sequence of life changing events. Make sure the character has to make hard choices, revealing their true self, and that they drive the action and push the story forward.

Hope this was helpful.

Happy writing! 

Questionnaires can be tedious, difficult, and at times they feel pointless, but they're so important because they challenge you. The better you know your character, the more three-dimensional they will come across. Also, if you can't fill out the sheet, then you know you're not that well connected to your character yet and should do more work. It also gets you writing anecdotes about your character which can be useful for boosting your dialogue and helping you to learn more about the character dynamics within your story.

Most of what you write in a character questionnaire won't see the light of day, but subconsciously, you have so much more information to call upon should you need it. It's really useful in getting into key questions of motivation as you'll learn WHY your characters do the things they do and that gives them so many layers that make them interesting. For example, a brutish, dominating character is great, but why are they like that? What is it about their past or their desires that makes them behave that way?

Your character is the heart of your story, so focus on character, develop character, know your character, love or hate your character, then enjoy the journey you go on with them. The better you know them, the easier rewriting will be. You can learn more about character in my book The Craft of Character.

Below is my questionnaire. Adapt it to be your own, add and remove questions, and develop your own system of working to do what works for you, but put the work in. Remember, everything has an impact, even things like height. If I’m tall, how does that make me feel? Do I like that I’m tall? Do I hate it? Everything feeds into something psychological. The intention of this questionnaire is to give you a profile of your character to take forward. Characters always grow as we write them and they might surprise us, so for any questions that focus on an event or key moment, think of the scene and write it. Let your character exist, then once you start writing your story allow the character to lead you.

Happy writing.

CHARACTER QUESTIONNAIRE

BASICS

What is your character’s name?

Where does their name come from and does it carry any significance?

How old are they? How do they feel being at their current age?

What is your character’s gender? How do they feel about their gender and how does it shape their view of other genders?

What is your character’s sexual orientation? How does it shape their world view and feelings about other sexual orientations?

Appearance: What is their build, height, weight, hair colour/ style, dress sense? How do they feel about all of those things? Do they see themselves as attractive?

How do they walk?

How do they sound?

CULTURE, RACE, POLITICS AND RELIGION

What is their race? How does it make them feel about the world and themselves? 

What is their class background? How does it make them feel about the world and themselves? 

Are they religious? How do they feel about religion?

How do they feel about politics?

How do they feel about authority?

THE CORE

What do they want more than anything and why?

What do they need more than anything and why?

What is their flaw and what experience does it come from? 

What is a lesson they need to learn about themselves through the story?

What is their coping/ defence mechanism? 

What do they represent in your story?

Do they believe they deserve to get what they want? Why?

Do we like them/ sympathise with them? Why/ why not?

What makes us want them to succeed/ fail?

What will happen if they fail? How will it impact their world?

What are the major decisions they have to make in pursuit of their goal?

What are the irreversible choices they make?

What are they most scared of? Why?

What are their hopes/ dreams? Why?

Are they an introvert or extrovert? Why?

FAMILY, FRIENDS, FOES, HOME AND LOVE

What is their relationship with their parents like? How does that make them feel?

What is their family life like? 

Do they have siblings? If yes, what is their relationship with them like and how do they feel about that relationship? 

Do they have any children? Do they want children?

Where did they grow up and what do they think about it?

Where do they live now? Are they happy/ sad there?

What is their ideal living situation?

What are they like to live with?

Do they have many friends?

Who is their best friend and what makes them a best friend?

Who is their worst enemy? Why?

Who do they hate and why?

Who do they love/ fancy and why?

How many relationships have they been in?

How would they describe their first sexual experience?

What is their idea of the perfect date?

What is the worst date they’ve ever been on?

Have they ever been in a fight? If so, what happened?

What’s the biggest argument they’ve ever gotten in to?

What are/ were they like at school?

WORK

What do they do for a living? 

How much do they earn? How does it make them feel?

Why do they do the job they do? 

What do they do if they’re struggling at work?

What do they want to do for a living?

What is their ambition?

How do they feel about their colleagues?

How do they feel about their boss?

What are they like to work with?

PERSONAL

What stresses them out? Why?

What would they change about themselves? Why?

What is the biggest lie they’ve ever told? Why?

Three words they’d use to describe themselves? Why?

What would they say is their greatest strength? Why?

What would they say is their greatest weakness? Why?

Do they have any disabilities? How do they feel about it?

Do they have any allergies/ intolerances? How do they feel about it?

Have they ever had any major sickness or injury? How did it impact the way they view life and the world?

Do they believe they are special in any way?

How do they feel about conflict?

Is there something your character wishes they were better at? Why?

Do they have any addictions/ habits? Where do they come from?

Do they like routine or spontaneity?

Do they seek the validation of others?

What is their biggest secret?

What is their biggest regret, and why?

What makes them happy and why?

What do they do to relax?

Do they have a hobby? If yes, what is it? 

Who are their idols and why?

How do they feel about animals?

Do they have any pets? If yes, how do they feel about them?

If they could be anyone, who would they choose to be?

Do they have any hidden talents?

What is their star sign? Do they care? 

Do they have any phobias and are they linked to any trauma?

If they could change one thing about the world, what would it be?

Do they have a favourite quote? What is it?

Do they engage in debates on social media? If yes, what is a debate they got involved in?

What would be the top 3 things on your character’s bucket list? Is there someone they want to experience those things with?

If they could, who would they bring back from the dead and why?

If you met them for the first time, what would you think about them?

What are they like when they meet people for the first time?

Are they open to new experiences or set in their ways? Why?

Are they open or closed minded?

Are they impulsive? Why?

TASTES

What is their favourite TV show/ magazine/ book/ computer game/ form of entertainment?

What is their favourite meal?

What would be their last meal and why?

What kind of music do they like?

What is their favourite song? Is it significant?

What is the last concert/ gig they went to?

What is their favourite sport?

KEY MOMENTS

What was the happiest day of their life and why?

What was the saddest day of their life and why?

What is their most treasured memory? Why?

When was a time they showed courage/ bravery?

When was a time they came face to face with their phobia?

When was a time someone showed them genuine generosity?

When did they believe they knew what love is?

What was their most memorable interaction with a random person?

When was a time they felt immense shame? 

What is the one moment they would revisit and change if they could?

When was a time they were proud of themselves?

AND WHEN YOU KNOW ALL OF THAT:

List twenty to thirty things that stop them getting what they want. It'll help you to figure out what obstacles they will face, both internal and external

Good luck!

When you’re starting out and you see a problem in the way a character behaves, or a flimsy story beat you might think, ‘It’s fine, nobody will pick up on that tiny thing.’ They will. And the only reason you don’t deal with it at the time is not laziness, it’s that you’re not sure how to and you’re not confident enough that you’ll be able to. You can with practice and learning more about your craft.

There are people who think you are born a storyteller and you can’t teach it. Consider these people morons, like that clown who believes climate change isn’t real and somehow has the responsibility of running a country…

I got accepted onto a Creative Writing masters years ago and a friend said to me, ‘You don’t need that, it’s for people who don’t know how to do it.’ His intentions were good but he didn’t know how badly I wanted to write. I listened to that friend and for four years I carried on working the job I didn’t love while trying to write in the evenings and weekends until I had a near breakdown and various other aspects of my life suffered. It took hitting an extreme low to decide to give up the financial security and to do the course the little voice in my head was crying out for me to do. The only reason I ignored that voice for so long and listened to all others was fear.

‘What if I do it and I am bad?’

‘Should I really spend this money on a course? I can use to go towards a home one day?’

The answer to these questions is simple.

‘What if I do it and I am bad?’ Of course you won’t be amazing at the start. You have to learn, practice, develop and exercise the creative muscle that has atrophied for years. When we first learn to walk we also suck. Accept you will not be amazing from the first word and take the pressure off.

‘Should I really spend this money on a course? I can use it to go towards a home one day?’ The big thing with doing something creative often comes down to finances. Art is hard to make money from. It’s not impossible, but it’s hard. But would you rather be on your death bed looking back and think:

‘Great, I bought a home when I was 30, doing the things society expected me to do.’

Or, ‘I’m so glad I did that course which fulfilled me, where I met awesome people who shared a lot of the same insecurities, and are now some of my best friends.’

I was scared that if I committed and failed, then I would be worthless. The truth is, with writing, there is so much rejection, but you have to put it down as part of the process, and you’ve only really failed when you stop trying! You are never worthless when you’re sharing something that comes from you. 

The course was the best year of my writing life. I got to write scripts and learn theory, which at the time I thought was nonsense but has been incredible and means I understand more of what is discussed in writing books. It’s scary to take a year or two out of the norm, but you can find balance with part-time courses, and you need to think, what fulfils me?

I would recommend a writing course to anyone wanting to write. I know that’s easier said than done, because they cost a lot of money and you may be at a point in your life where you have kids and more responsibilities and feel that ship has sailed and hit an iceberg. There are courses that cater to whatever life people lead, that’s the beauty of them, you just have to dig around the internet for a while. There are even weekend ones which are cheaper and teach you the basics, which is handy if you then want to further your learning through books. If all courses are a financial burden, then if you dig around the internet long enough you can find blogs. You’d also be amazed at how friendly the writing community on Twitter is with sharing advice and experience, so if a course is a no-go, there are many ways to get more educated.

I’ve recommended some books in this post. I’m only suggesting these books because I think they’re good.

Do the thing that scares you, the thing that challenges you, and the thing that makes life seem richer. If you want to be a writer, nurture that side of your life, and put it first for a while. It’s never too late, but don’t put it off until it’s a lot later. The list of excuses only grows.

Good luck!

Below are some books I recommend. There are affiliate links that take you to purchase the book if you want it. It also means I get some money for promoting it at no extra cost to you or the author. Also, there’s obviously my book The Craft of Character, but this list is dedicated to ones I haven’t written!

I think it’s most useful to read books once you’ve tried to write. Explore, experiment, then read.

Writing for Emotional Impact - Karl Iglesias

This is my favourite screenwriting book. Karl Iglesias looks at the psychology of the reader and audience. We’re in the business of creating emotional experiences, and this book explores that. How to make every page carry us forward, deeper into story and engage us further with character. There are hundreds of dramatic techniques to improve your dramatic writing from character development, narrative and dialogue. There’s a great section on flaws as well.

On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft - Stephen King

This is a fun read if you’re a Stephen King fan, but still useful if you’re not. It’s part memoir and part educational but has some valuable lessons in storytelling from one of the best. One of the cool things is seeing where his own experiences have linked into some of his stories. This is a story in itself so makes it an entertaining education if you find the more academic texts a bit tedious. He really hates passive verse…

Save The Cat!: The Only Book on Screenwriting You’ll Ever Need - Blake Snyder

When I first read this I loved it. It offers you a beat sheet, and breaks down good techniques for writing your draft of a screenplay. There are also some amazingly useful passages on character and distinctiveness and I'd pay close attention to the section on log lines. However, do not take this book as prescriptive. It’s a great one to read because it’s easy to understand, but sadly this has become a bit of an industry go-to, and some gatekeepers will use the Save the Cat structure to critique a script without really understanding storytelling or the flexibility of the form.

The Hero with a Thousand Face - Joseph Campbell

As a fantasy writer, I love this book. Campbell outlines the hero's journey through the change and transformation that occurs within character, and the departure from the ordinary to the extraordinary world. There's a lot of depth to this book and it is a fun read. 

The Idea - Erik Bork

This is a book you should read before you commit to a story. Erik defines what makes a sellable and engaging idea. Get this book and save yourself months of hard work. Erik explores the seven elements he believes are essential for any story idea to be viable. I recommend you read this before you read anything else.

Writing Screenplays that Sell - Michael Hauge

Michael Hague looks at story concept, character development, theme, structure and scenes. Most of us love writing for art and to express ourselves, but there’s also the point of making actual money. This book is commercial with advice on how to market yourself and how to make it commercially.