Icy's Blunt Pencil

Friday Flash - Waking Up

noreply@blogger.com (Icy Sedgwick) — Fri, 27 Jan 2012 08:53:00 +0000

Dry lips moved without words inside dusty bandages. Empty eye sockets stared into the suffocating darkness of millennia. Voices echoed in the world beyond, voices strange and unfamiliar. Rotting ears strained to hear, and a lost mind struggled to understand. Ragged nails tore through ancient wrappings. Fingers more like talons scraped against thick painted wood. A panicked corpse thrashed against imprisonment.

The tourists moved away to another part of the museum, taking their cameras and guidebooks towards ancient Rome. A figure stepped forward from the shadow of Anubis. White hands pressed against the cold glass. Hungry eyes looked down at the sarcophagus, reading the story spelled out in hieroglyphs. Blackened lips curved in a smile to see the turmoil inside the case.

"Soon, my pretty, soon."

The necromancer turned away.

Creepy Houses

noreply@blogger.com (Icy Sedgwick) — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 09:54:00 +0000

Abandoned Mansion, Ostrowo, Poland
Photo by Michał Żebrowski

If you follow me on Twitter or Facebook, you might have seen me talking about a dream which actually unsettled me. I rarely remember my dreams, and when I do, they've often just been weird as opposed to actually creepy or even scary - in fact, I don't even remember ever having had a nightmare. However in this case, not only did I remember my dream, I also dreamed about the same thing twice. In this case, that 'thing' was a house.

Naturally the details of dreams fade, but I remember it was a large house set in some kind of parkland, with a cemetery nearby. In the first dream, I simply visited it, and can only remember the large square entrance hall with the marble floor and balustrade running around the upper gallery. In the second dream, it transpired that my parents had bought it - for some reason their room was downstairs at the back of the house, and constantly in shadow due to the trees outside. My brother and I had rooms on the upper floor, but at opposite ends of the house. Mine was reached via an absolute maze of corridors that all looked alike, and I hated the fact that we were so spread out throughout the house. I got the distinct impression that the house enjoyed the isolation.

There was nothing really wrong with the house, apart from its peculiar decor, a mixture of wood-panelling and 1970s kitsch, but the whole time I was there, I felt continually as though I was being watched, and a general air of discomfort hung over the place. For the nights following, I found myself unwilling to go to sleep for fear of returning to a house that, as far as I know, was created by my imagination.

Borley Rectory, said to be one of the most
haunted houses in England - now demolished

So what is it about houses? It's hardly surprising I'd be dreaming about them, considering the focus of my PhD upon haunted spaces in cinema, and my fascination with the Gothic as a literary device. Houses are supposed to provide warmth and shelter, not harbour threats or danger. Yet houses reflect the living - they're transformed into homes by the activity of their inhabitants, inanimate shells gaining animation by proxy. How often do we return from periods away from the home to find they have become cold and almost unfamiliar? We don't feel comfortable in our own home until our presence has returned the semblance of warmth and life.

It is the privileged position of the house as primary provider of shelter, the place in which we are at our most vulnerable during sleep, which grants the abandoned house, or simply a house which has stood empty for some time, that special air of creepiness. An abandoned house no longer fulfils its function of providing shelter - with no inhabitants, it ceases to exist according to its purpose, and becomes instead an arrangement of bricks and mortar.

Consider, too, the vast array of literary and cinematic examples of the haunted house. Yes, we have examples of ghosts haunting spaces other than that of the house (I'm thinking here of Ghost and its subway spectre, or the cab driving phantom of Ghostbusters) but the ghost's primary location is that of a domestic space. Naturally we are therefore conditioned to view old or rundown houses as being potentially haunted, and it is entirely possible that we project our own beliefs into the space, generating the signs and signifiers of a haunting ourselves. In many cases, abandoned houses are met with the words "Oh it's so sad", as though we feel a sense of sympathy for the house itself. Imbued with life by its inhabitants, a residue remains following their departure.

I can only assume that a combination of these factors, along with my own interest in the paranormal, the history of the Gothic and my experience with 'haunted' houses, has conspired to create an imaginary space in which to explore these feelings of dread and discomfort. I'm choosing that reading of the dream - I don't even want to consider it as some kind of metaphor...

Photo Prompt 69

noreply@blogger.com (Icy Sedgwick) — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 09:12:00 +0000

New prompt available!

If you want to use the prompt, all I ask is that you include a link to this entry and a credit to me for the photograph, and that you post a link to your story in the comments box below so I can see what you've come up with! If you don't comment on this entry, then I can't comment on your story.

The 69th prompt is Dead Leaves.

All photo prompts are my own photography - you can find more of it on Flickr. You can also buy my prints from Deviantart. 20% of all proceeds go to charity - the other 80% go towards my PhD fees!

iBook Author app - good or bad?

noreply@blogger.com (Icy Sedgwick) — Sun, 22 Jan 2012 11:59:00 +0000

I read this article in the Metro newspaper last week, and found it online. For those of you who hadn't heard, a new iPhone app has been released that allegedly makes it even easier to publish books yourself. The iBook Author app lets you drag a word file into the app, and it does all the hard work by fixing the format and layout. Apparently users (note users, not writers) can fiddle with the layout and add photos and videos to their books. Oh dear me. While on one hand I applaud the recognition given to the e-publishing phenomenon, on the other hand I cannot help but groan that the writing process has been devalued to the extent that it's now simply the input portion of an app, in much the same way that anyone with the Instagram app now thinks they're a photographer.

Writing is not simply a case of chucking something together in Word, dropping it into an app and then making it available for sale through iTunes. Putting together a book should be a process that involves writing a draft, getting feedback from beta readers, and preferably having an experienced editor look it over. Hell, teach yourself the basics of HTML so you can code the thing yourself! I'm all for self-publishing, and I'm not saying that self published writers can't put out books - I've read some very, very professional self-published books that give the traditional publishers a run for their money - but I am saying that they need to look at the wider picture. Don't make the mistake of thinking that typing The End means your book is finished, and ready for public consumption.

The thing that bothers is me is that some people choose the self-publishing route for the better royalties and the greater degree of control over their work, and they're the writers who put in the effort, learn how to market and generally do quite well. They've weighed up the pros and cons of self-publishing, read up on it, and are determined to produce something that's just as good as, if not better than, something a traditional publisher might put out. Other people choose the route because their work as been consistently knocked back by agents and publishers alike, and instead of stepping back to look at what's wrong with the work itself, they just decide to put it out themselves. If that's you, then for God's sake get some feedback on why no one will take a punt on your project, and really work on it until it shines before you put it out there (unless you're one of those unfortunate writers whose work simply isn't classifiable, in which case you have your work cut out for you when it comes to marketing).

If you're hell bent on using this new technology, then how about this?

1 - Write the very best book that you can.
This should be a no-brainer, but don't just throw any old thing together and trust it will sell.

2 - Have trusted readers look it over.
I don't just mean your spouse or your mother. Have a set of beta readers whose opinion you trust, and who won't be afraid to tell you if something's not working. Other writers will provide invaluable feedback in terms of craft, while voracious readers will be able to give you their opinion in the context of what they read anyway.

3 - Get an editor to look at it.
You really do need an editor of some description, both in terms of typos, grammatical errors and other technical factors, but also in terms of flow, pacing and general storytelling. It's shocking how many e-books I've tried to read, only to find sentences peppered with bad grammar, repetitive words and typos.

4 - Spend some time playing around with covers.
If you're no good, ask the design department of your local college, enlist the help of a design-savvy friend, or invest in the services of a book cover designer if your budget stretches that far. People DO judge a book by its cover and just throwing something together in Photoshop will look terrible.

5 - Now use the app!
You will have a polished book that will be a credit to you, and will help boost the reputation of self-published books.

Friday Flash - Fold

noreply@blogger.com (Icy Sedgwick) — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 09:15:00 +0000

Becky and Karl sit opposite one another. A naked bulb hangs above the table, casting a harsh circle of light across the game. Becky reaches forward and tosses another handful of poker chips onto the pile. Karl displays his cards - three of a kind. Becky groans and drops her cards facedown onto the table.

March 23 1997. Becky and Karl walk down the street, discussing ways to celebrate their six month anniversary. They pause at the cinema, scanning the posted list of film times. Becky wants to see Liar Liar, having seen all of Jim Carrey's films so far. Karl insists they see the special edition of Return of the Jedi - he doesn't much care for Jim Carrey. Becky points out she hasn't seen Star Wars or The Empire Strikes Back. Karl replies that he is paying for the tickets, so it should be his choice. Becky spends the duration of the film counting the number of times Karl uses money to get his way.

Karl looks at the hand he has been dealt and scowls. He swaps out two of his cards with the third player, a silent figure who sits in the shadows. Karl's expression morphs from annoyance to hope. Becky ups the ante and calls it. Her Royal Flush beats his two pair.

August 13 2004. Becky and Karl discuss their wedding plans. Karl wants a small civil ceremony at the local registry office; Becky wants a big church wedding, followed by a lavish reception. Karl argues about the guest list - he doesn't want to make a fuss. Becky sulks, asking if she isn't worth that much to him. Karl relents, not wanting to start married life under a cloud. They are married at St Martin's, with the reception for two hundred people at the local country club.

Karl pushes his stack of chips around the table as stares at the cards in his hand. He glances at the silent figure. Becky adds more chips to the pile in the centre of the table. A bead of sweat bursts forth on Karl's forehead, and trickles down the clammy skin to be lost in the foliage of his eyebrows. Becky calls it. Karl knows his lowly pair will be beaten; Becky rakes the chips across to her side of the table.

November 30 2008. Becky asks Karl why he spends so much time at the office. He claims he needs to put in the overtime - if he doesn't do the work, they'll find someone else who will. He thinks of Sara, the receptionist with the short skirts and see-through blouses. Becky threatens to leave if he doesn't change jobs. Karl thinks of the expensive dinners and lavish holidays, paid for by Becky's trust fund. He calls a recruitment consultant.

Karl takes two new cards from the silent dealer, slotting them into the fan in his hand. He struggles to suppress a grin - the new King and Queen fit in well with his existing cards. Becky notices the flicker at the corners of his mouth and bites her lip. She calls it, choking back a sob to see Karl's Full House.

May 18 2009. Becky goes to see her sister's new baby, and realises she is broody. After spending the afternoon with her niece, she goes home and tells Karl she wants to start a family. Karl doesn't want children - he feels that they're too much of a commitment. Becky insists that they try anyway. After six months, she visits the doctor, and discovers she can't have children. Karl commiserates with her, and celebrates with his friends.

The third player drops a handful of cards onto the table. A Full House. Becky looks at her mismatched hand, and Karl frowns at his lowly pair. An equal pile of chips sits on either side of the table. Becky and Karl fold, stand up from the table, and walk away.

September 12 2011. Becky and Karl sign their divorce papers.

Mid-January Update

noreply@blogger.com (Icy Sedgwick) — Tue, 17 Jan 2012 09:10:00 +0000

Yesterday I introduced myself again over on Write Anything - albeit myself as a writer, not as a person. It's part of their project to get the readers of the blog to get to know the contributors. I like to think that the two are actually fairly closely linked, but it got me thinking again about how little I actually include of myself on my blog. I read other blogs in which people discuss their lives and let their readers get to know them, but unless you're a subscriber to the theory that a person's soul is laid bare in their fiction, or you 'read' the images I use as photo prompts, then I guess I'm a bit of a shadow of myself online.

Maybe I should use 2012 as the time to change that? Well we're halfway through month one, so how has the year been treating me so far?

As well as my introductory post I've already mentioned, I've also had a post on Write Anything about why writing needn't be a chore, and posts on Fuel Your Writing suggesting ways to get back into your writing routine after Christmas, and also why writing what you know shouldn't be taken so literally.

I've posted two Friday Flashes in 2012 - Spot the Mistake, a slice of silliness, and The Bell, a Gothic tale set on a lonely moor. If that weren't enough, Metro Fiction were also kind enough to publish my short story, The Hen Night. It's not my usual genre but then again, considering I've posted fantasy, horror, steampunk, historical and even science fiction, who's to say what "my genre" actually is? The Guns of Retribution is a pulp Western, after all!! I'm just not a writer who wants to get hung up on what genre I should, or shouldn't, write. I understand the marketing implications but sorry, I'm not going to quit writing what I enjoy just to satisfy a few hardcore genre fiends.

Speaking of Westerns, I can now say that paperback copies of Guns are available from A Reader's Heaven in Lithgow, New South Wales, if you're in the area and want to pick one up. I'm thrilled to see the copies on an actual bookshelf! With any luck they'll appear in UK stores this year too but fingers crossed on that. Work is progressing on the sequel, and my beloved bounty hunter, Grey O'Donnell, is now giving me ideas for short stories as well as novellas, so hopefully 2012 will be a year in which he meets even more people! My current plan is to get book two written by May, in order to start work on book three in the summer.

But so far, all I've been talking about is writing. What else have I been doing? More of my spare time than I'd care to admit has gone into playing World of Warcraft (I know, I know, I got sucked in) but work is well underway on the infamous PhD, as I work my way through reading existing texts on the topic in order to compile a literature review. Best of all, I've booked a holiday in Venice! I last visited the Italian city in December 2006 and I've been itching to go back so I am very, very excited at the prospect of visiting again. My camera and I will be inseparable!

Photo Prompt 68

noreply@blogger.com (Icy Sedgwick) — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 09:14:00 +0000

New prompt available!

If you want to use the prompt, all I ask is that you include a link to this entry and a credit to me for the photograph, and that you post a link to your story in the comments box below so I can see what you've come up with! If you don't comment on this entry, then I can't comment on your story.

The 68th prompt is Frost.

All photo prompts are my own photography - you can find more of it on Flickr. You can also buy my prints from Deviantart. 20% of all proceeds go to charity - the other 80% go towards my PhD fees!

Friday Flash - The Bell

noreply@blogger.com (Icy Sedgwick) — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 09:04:00 +0000

The road stretched away across the moor, disappearing and reappearing with every undulation of untamed land. Edward Fenwick peered into the distance in both directions. The view yielded only miles of lonely heather. He fished in his horse's saddlebag for the creased square of parchment.

"Well this is a fine business. Digby's map surely shows Cransland House, yet there is not even a cow shed to be seen!" Edward looked down at the horse. The mare whinnied, and bent her head to nibble at the grass verge.

Edward took his pocketwatch from his waistcoat. Only 3pm, and yet the shadowy fingers of dusk already felt their way across the moor. A cloud crossed the face of the low sun, and Edward shivered. The crammed dwellings and clamour of London could never prepare him for this.

"I am late! Thirty minutes, no less. I should have taken the cart that was offered," said Edward.

He gazed across the moor, as if expecting the dilapidated old hall to materialise before him. Nothing. Not even a sheep or cow to break the monotony of the view.

A gust of wind danced around Edward, carrying a faint ringing. The mare lifted her head and pricked up her ears; Edward leaned forward in the saddle, straining to make out the sound. Regular yet insistent, Edward recognised the call of a small bell. He flicked the mare's reins, but the horse refused the budge. Unable to urge her forward, but keen to discover the location of the bell, Edward clambered down out of the saddle and set off down the road.

Hidden by a swell of moorland, another road crossed the empty landscape. A wooden post gave directions where the two roads met, and a mound of earth lay heaped at the foot of the sign. Edward ignored the westward arm pointing toward Cransland House, focussed instead upon the mound. A narrow wooden contraption protruded from the ground, topped by a small copper bell. Sheltered from the sudden gusts of wind by the ground's swell, the bell continued to ring.

Edward snatched his hat from his head and turned it in his hands. He spun around, casting wild glances in all directions. As before, he was alone on the moor. He crossed to the loose mound, searching the ground for clues as to the grave's occupant. Stories tumbled through his mind unbidden, tales told by his old nanny about the witches and vampires buried at crossroads. Even at the age of 43, he found himself unable to pass through London's many crossroads without wondering about the ground beneath his feet.

Edward mopped his brow, his teeth chewing his lip in time to the bell's call. Leaping devils pranced before his mind's eye. His feet tried to direct him back to the mare. He shook his head, trying to dislodge his thoughts.

"Come along now, this will not do. You cannot believe in such superstitious nonsense," he chided himself. "You have heard the stories of premature burial - some fellow could be gasping his last down there while you dither up here."

The bell's ringing grew louder, as if in reply. Edward forced himself towards the mound. Nestling his gloves inside his hat, his fingers got to work on the soft earth. The soil broke apart and fell aside as he scooped handfuls to his left and right. His red face shone with a halo of sweat when his fingertips finally brushed the splinters of untreated wood.

"Hallo there, I am here! I shall have you free in a moment!" called Edward. He hauled the last of the clods behind him, laying bare a rough wooden box, some six feet tall and three feet wide. Edward worked his fingers into the crack between the lid and the box, pulling upwards with all the strength his accounts clerk arms possessed. His mare neighed somewhere in the deepening twilight behind him, a call filled with panic.

"I shall be back, dearest horse!" shouted Edward, looking back over his shoulder as his hands finally pulled the lid free.

Edward looked down into the coffin, expecting to see a grateful face gasping for air. The box was empty, lined with rough sackcloth. He looked up to see if the trapped victim had hauled themselves to freedom when he called to his mare. Nothing but shadows surrounded him. He turned back to the coffin.

Something hit Edward square between the shoulderblades and he tumbled forwards. The last thing he felt was sackcloth against his face.

Photo Prompt 67

noreply@blogger.com (Icy Sedgwick) — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 09:27:00 +0000

New prompt available!

If you want to use the prompt, all I ask is that you include a link to this entry and a credit to me for the photograph, and that you post a link to your story in the comments box below so I can see what you've come up with! If you don't comment on this entry, then I can't comment on your story.

The 67th prompt is Church.

All photo prompts are my own photography - you can find more of it on Flickr. You can also buy my prints from Deviantart. 20% of all proceeds go to charity - the other 80% go towards my PhD fees!

Friday Flash - Spot the Mistake

noreply@blogger.com (Icy Sedgwick) — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 09:00:00 +0000

The Duke of Finchall sat on the wide stone steps, his chin resting in his palm. A handbill advertising the Ninth Brazenaar Companion Competition dangled from his other hand. The Duke watched his faithful companion scamper around the courtyard, claws scraping against worn stone.

“My lord, may I offer you a drink?”

The Duke looked up. His squire, Rivar, stood behind him, caught in a low bow. A serving girl stood behind the squire, bearing a steaming flagon on a silver tray. The Duke looked at the flagon, and back at Spot. Visions of the trophy, once again out of the Duke's grasp, danced before his eyes.

“I'm not thirsty,” he replied.

“Very well, my lord. Can I interest you in something else?”

“Have you got the competition trophy lying around somewhere?” asked the Duke. He thought of his neighbour, Baron Darkrown. The Baron didn't need yet another piece of silverware to add to his impressive collection. I don’t even have a collection, thought the Duke.

“Alas, I do not.”

The Duke turned around in time to see the squire dismiss the serving girl.

“I thought we might win this year, Rivar,” said the Duke when the girl was out of earshot.

“As did we all, my lord. But I am quite sure that Spot did not intend to urinate on the Chief Judge.”

“No, I'm sure he didn't. But he did it all the same,” replied the Duke.

“And I am sure he did not mean to start a fight with the other competitors. He was merely full of excitement at leaving the castle." The squire stole a glance at Spot, now pouncing at dancing shadows in the corner.

“You are probably correct, yet do it he did.”

“And if I am honest, I would venture that Spot also did not mean to devour the Adjudicator.”

The Duke shrugged in reply, and gazed across the courtyard. Spot snapped at a butterfly that veered too close to his head. A kitchen boy inched around the edge of the yard, eager to avoid Spot's lashing tail.

“Spot? Here, boy.”

The Duke whistled and snapped his fingers. The rare Gudmundian Spotted Dragon whipped around and lumbered across the courtyard towards his master. Spot lowered his massive head and allowed the Duke to scratch behind his horns. The dragon thumped his hind leg in appreciation. The Duke sighed.

As much as he loved his companion, he couldn’t help but wish his mother had given him a puppy.

[Book Review] The Little Stranger

noreply@blogger.com (Icy Sedgwick) — Tue, 03 Jan 2012 12:41:00 +0000

I picked up The Little Stranger by chance, since it was only £2 in HMV. The fact it's a ghost story naturally caught my eye, and the fact it's set in a crumbling old house in the 1940s was a bonus. Written by Sarah Waters, The Little Stranger was published in 2009, and shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize.

The story is narrated by Dr Faraday, a Warwickshire doctor called to attend a sick maid at Hundreds Hall, the dilapidated country seat of the Ayres family. The family are almost destitute, ruined by the social changes wrought by the Second World War, and Dr Faraday soon finds himself becoming a family friend. We're given an inkling that all is not well early on, when the sick maid complains of how creepy she finds the house.

Dr Faraday reminds me a lot of Stevens, the uptight butler narrator of The Remains of the Day. He's caught in his own internal class struggle, fighting against his working class upbringing as he seeks to ingratiate himself with the failing aristocratic Ayres family. He also reveals a lot about himself through his careless asides, and most of the time it becomes blatantly obvious what is going on, without Faraday being at all aware of it. I lost count of the number of times I cringed on his behalf.

It's a strange book in that things don't really get going until page 141 or so, and it was more a vague sense of interest in the mundane activities of the family that kept me reading. By page 141, the famous pacing finally kicked in and I found it truly gripping reading. I'd speed through whole chapters at a time, squeezing in reading time wherever I found five minutes. Waters builds up the tension surrounding the haunting, all the while keeping Faraday as the voice of reason, making the reader decide for themselves whether the house is haunted or not.

I wouldn't necessarily label The Little Stranger as a ghost story per se, but I would label it as a supernatural thriller, or perhaps a psychological chiller. Waters captures 1940s speech patterns, and while some of her descriptive passages border on unnecessary, when she really hits her stride, they paint the picture of an old house caught between its glory days and decay, inhabited by shades of their former selves. Perhaps the house is haunted after all - if only by its owners.

The opening section aside, it's well-written and a truly enjoyable read.

Four blunt pencils out of five!

Photo Prompt 66

noreply@blogger.com (Icy Sedgwick) — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 09:30:00 +0000

New prompt available!

If you want to use the prompt, all I ask is that you include a link to this entry and a credit to me for the photograph, and that you post a link to your story in the comments box below so I can see what you've come up with! If you don't comment on this entry, then I can't comment on your story.

The 66th prompt is Red Tunnel.

All photo prompts are my own photography - you can find more of it on Flickr. You can also buy my prints from Deviantart. 20% of all proceeds go to charity - the other 80% go towards my PhD fees!

A New Year Dawns

noreply@blogger.com (Icy Sedgwick) — Sun, 01 Jan 2012 09:08:00 +0000

It is now New Year's Day, the first day of yet another new year, albeit one with the added bonus of an extra day. Of course, if you believe the conspiracy theorists, one extra day won't make up for losing most of the year due to catastrophe, but I tend not to subscribe to the peculiar cultural phenomenon of conspiracy theories. Therefore, the obligatory 'New Year' post beckons. It's almost de rigeur if you have your own blog to witter on about the new year at some point, with some devoted to ill-thought out resolutions, others dedicated to where the word 'January' comes from, and yet more considering torn between a discussion of what went on in 2011, and what they hope will happen in 2012. With that in mind, I thought long and hard about the content of this post, and I didn't particularly want to roll out a list of "this is what I did in 2011". It would be fairly straightforward, and look something like this;

Got accepted onto a PhD programme, and began work on said PhD.
Quit my job as an office manager in London and moved back home to the North East.
Got another job teaching graphic design software on a part time basis.
Had a book published, and had stories appear elsewhere.
Took up ghost hunting.
Started up my own email newsletter (subscribe here, if you want)

Dull, huh? Instead of doing that, but on a grander scale, I decided to have a look at what I wrote at the start of 2011. It turns out that in my New Year post, I chose three words that I wanted to use to 'signify' the coming year. I chose Acceptance, Create, and Silence. Now, considering I had several stories published (both online and in print) and my pulp Western novella, The Guns of Retribution, was picked up and published by Pulp Press, then I guess you could say that superficially, I did quite well with Acceptance. However, I'm still utterly incapable of accepting certain things, both about myself and the human race, so I think that my mark for Acceptance should probably be "Good effort, could try harder." As for Create...well, that one is a no-brainer - I created stuff all year long, be it stories, knitting projects, digital artwork, etc. So that's a big green tick in that box. As for Silence, I didn't spend much time doing nothing, and I spent the latter part of the year running too close to burn out for my liking, so again, big 'Fail' for me on that front.

But I think I'd like to do the same again for 2012. I'll no doubt forget all about the endeavour by the end of the week, but at least I've made the effort, yes? So what three words will I choose that I hope will sum up my coming year?

Perseverance
I think anyone who's followed me on Twitter knows I have my 'off' days, and yes, I do have days when I consider throwing in the towel. But that runs so far counter to my stubborn streak that it borders on uncharacteristic, so I'm choosing Perseverance. No matter how many bad reviews I get, no matter how many times a story just won't come together, I'll keep going, even if it means putting a work to one side for a while and coming back to it later. I will just keep going.

Commitment
For someone so grounded in practicality, I can be terribly flighty, skipping from one project to another. I think it's the illusion that the more things I have on the go, the more I'm getting done, but all I'm really doing is using one thing to procrastinate so I don't have to do another. I need to start committing to what I'm doing, so if I decide to spend an hour reading a text for my PhD, then that's what I'll do - I can check Twitter or play Warcraft when that hour is up. Likewise I need to stop starting a project, only to start world building for the next one before I'm even halfway through. One at a time, please.

Calm
Silence didn't work for me last year, but I'm taking a different tack this year. I tend to overreact to things I think are going to be more problematic than they turn out to be, and I find it difficult to sit and relax. Naturally that makes it difficult to get anything done if I'm constantly wound up, so I intend to build a short portion of relaxation time into my life. Whether that's playing video games, listening to Mozart, or simply reading a good book, it's a time to let my brain unwind and my batteries recharge.

Anyone else got any words they want to use for 2012?

Friday Flash - A Different New Year's Eve

noreply@blogger.com (Icy Sedgwick) — Fri, 30 Dec 2011 02:15:00 +0000

My New Year themed Friday Flash can be found over at my Fowlis Westerby blog - simply click here to read A Different New Year's Eve!

In the event you'd like to read a more vintage Icy New Year flash, then New Year's Dance, my story from last year, starring Captain Scarlight and Methuselah, can be found here.

Happy reading, and Happy New Year!

National Novel Reading Month

noreply@blogger.com (Icy Sedgwick) — Thu, 29 Dec 2011 21:32:00 +0000

John Wiswell has been discussing National Novel Reading Month over on his blog. January is the designated month, with the intention being that participants will finally dust over one of those classic novels they've had lurking on their shelves, and delve into literature the way it used to be. I suppose the definition of 'classic' is possibly somewhat flexible, but no, I don't think Bridget Jones' Diary or The Da Vinci Code count. I have to confess a particular fondness for Wilkie Collins having read The Moonstone a couple of years ago, and having just finished Sarah Waters' The Little Stranger, I began his short story collection, The Haunted Hotel & Other Stories, just before Christmas. I'm probably two thirds of the way through the eponymous story, and I'm thoroughly enjoying it. Sadly, it doesn't count as a classic novel, so I'll just have to hope that I get it finished before long, so I can break open the 'proper' classic I shall be reading in January.

So what will that be? Well, I've had the intention to read it for some time, but providing I've finished reading the Collins collection, then I'm going to give The Time Machine a whirl. I've read War of the Worlds (naturally also by HG Wells - give yourself a slap if you didn't know that) and I enjoyed it, and I felt like it's about time I read some of his other work. After all, it's a science fiction classic, and I've seen various film adaptations, but I've never read the source work. I might not write sci fi but I certainly enjoy reading it, and I find it somewhat remiss of me not to have read it! If I finish it in time, then I'll finally get around to Jane Eyre. I've meant to read it for some time but I've always found something else I'd rather read, but after the many glowing reviews given it by my mother, I feel I should probably read it sooner rather than later.

What about you? Will you be joining in?

Photo Prompt 65

noreply@blogger.com (Icy Sedgwick) — Mon, 26 Dec 2011 09:28:00 +0000

New prompt available!

If you want to use the prompt, all I ask is that you include a link to this entry and a credit to me for the photograph, and that you post a link to your story in the comments box below so I can see what you've come up with! If you don't comment on this entry, then I can't comment on your story.

The 65th prompt is Tunnel of Light.

All photo prompts are my own photography - you can find more of it on Flickr. You can also buy my prints from Deviantart. 20% of all proceeds go to charity - the other 80% go towards my PhD fees!

Friday Flash - A Christmas Ghost in the Old West

noreply@blogger.com (Icy Sedgwick) — Fri, 23 Dec 2011 08:48:00 +0000

There can’t be many things more welcoming than a roaring fire in the middle of winter. Snow lay heaped in piles outside, but we warmed ourselves in front of the small parlour’s hearth. A grandfather clock in the corner ticked away the minutes, and dull chatter floated through from the main bar of the saloon next door.

“My momma always brought a fir tree into the house for Christmas,” said Billy. His eyes shone with whisky’s fire, and he smiled. “My daddy thought it was dumb but my momma insisted. Said if it was good enough for Queen Victoria, it was good enough for her.”

“Mine too. Said that’s what everyone did back in the old country,” I replied. My mother was mighty keen on keeping that English tradition going, even in the middle of Arizona. I spent hours trekking through the woods up in the hills looking for the right tree.

“Christmas was the only time the whole family got together. Christmas, and funerals,” said Billy. “My uncle used to get us round the fire, and tell ghost stories. Say, do you know any?”

“I’m not sure I do,” I replied.

“You must know one! Come on, boss, it’d be just like my ol’ family Christmas.”

Billy stared at me with that wide-eyed smile of his, and what can I say? I couldn’t refuse.

“I can’t tell you stories, but I sure could tell you somethin’ strange as happened to me one year.”

“You seen a ghost?”

“I do believe I did. See, my grandma came over to America with my folks, and she always used to tell me stories. I never knew what was real and what she made up, but she always said the dead carry lanterns. Big ol’ heavy lanterns, with a flickering green light inside, so they can light their way to the other side.”

“That’s creepy.” Billy’s smile faltered, and he swirled the dregs of his coffee around his mug.

“That’s what she said. I never paid it no mind, she said all kinds of crazy things, y’know? Anyway. A few years back, I must’ve been about fifteen, I went up to the Apache lands to do some tradin’ for the town. I did my business, and headed back to town just after it got dark.”

I knocked back the last of my own coffee, feeling the warm gritty liquid slide down my throat. Billy stared at me, those whisky fire eyes eager for more of the story.

“I remember ridin’ back, the snow reflectin’ the moonlight so it was clear as day, when I saw someone by the side of the trail. When I got up close, it was a young woman, just standin’ there in the snow. Pretty little gal, though not a real beauty like Peggy Marsden. The little lady was just a shade too pale, her big eyes dark in that white face of hers.”

“What was she doin’ out there?”

“I asked her. She didn’t hear me at first, just looked at me like she’d never seen a man before. I asked her if she needed help, and eventually she said she was lost. She didn’t know her name or where she lived, so I offered to take her into town. She wouldn’t get on the horse, but just walked alongside, holdin’ on to the bridle.”

I shivered. I hadn’t thought about this in thirteen years, and come to think of it, Billy was the first person I’d told.

“We got down the trail, right to where it forks in two, and she just stopped. One road went to town, the other led to the river. A few folks had farms along the river road, and when she pointed to the signpost, I figured maybe she belonged to one of them, and she’d realised where she was.

“It took me a couple of minutes to realise she was pointing at the bottom of the signpost. Somethin’ lay in a heap, covered in snow. She kept starin’ at me, and jabbin’ her finger, so I got off the horse and looked. I think my heart stopped for a minute when I brushed the snow off a cold, dead face. The same face that belonged to the girl I found by the side of the trail.”

Billy gasped. I nodded, staring into the fire. The warmth of those flames did nothing to banish the chill I felt just thinking about that poor little lady.

“I turned to look at her, and she just stood there, starin’ down at me. She was finally lookin’ at me, instead of through me, and my heart just broke to see her lookin’ so sad. But afore I could say anythin’ she brought an old lantern from behind her back. A green flame flickered behind the glass, and she walked away from me. I kept watchin’ that flame until it disappeared into the night.”

“What did you do?” asked Billy.

“I dug her body out of the snow and rode into town. Told the marshall I came across her as I was ridin’ home. Turns out she’d been out lookin’ for a Christmas tree for her momma when a passin’ gang came across her. They dumped her body after they killed her.”

“That’s awful, boss,” said Billy. He stared into the fire. “Do you think she ever got to the other side?”

“I hope she did, otherwise that poor little gal’s still wanderin’ around out there.”

“I guess at least someone found her.”

“True. If I hadn’t found her then, she might’ve been there ‘til spring. As it was, a posse caught up with the gang. Some hung, some went to Yuma.”

Billy picked up his whisky.

“Little miss, if you’re listenin’, merry Christmas.” He raised a glass to the lost soul of Retribution. We toasted her journey to the other side, and drank in silence. I thought of her, and Peggy, and everyone else I’d known, and wished them all a merry Christmas too.

* * *

Merry Christmas from me and my bounty hunter, Grey O'Donnell! If you enjoyed this story, then his book, The Guns of Retribution, is available in Kindle format from Amazon US and Amazon UK, as well as in paperback.

Photo Prompt 64

noreply@blogger.com (Icy Sedgwick) — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 09:20:00 +0000

New prompt available!

If you want to use the prompt, all I ask is that you include a link to this entry and a credit to me for the photograph, and that you post a link to your story in the comments box below so I can see what you've come up with! If you don't comment on this entry, then I can't comment on your story.

The 64th prompt is Christmas Fairground.

All photo prompts are my own photography - you can find more of it on Flickr. You can also buy my prints from Deviantart. 20% of all proceeds go to charity - the other 80% go towards my PhD fees!

The Beauty of the Barter

noreply@blogger.com (Icy Sedgwick) — Sat, 17 Dec 2011 10:33:00 +0000

I've often lamented that I find it somewhat difficult to patronise actual bricks-and-mortar bookshops, something I'd dearly love to do if only it were possible. Newcastle City Centre boasts only two bookshops nowadays, both of which belong to chains and neither of which stock the books I require for my PhD, so I have little choice but to head to Amazon and buy online.

Of course, as much as I think it's important to spend money in actual shops, sometimes it's nice just to find somewhere to go to discover new books. Sure, libraries offer a vast array of books and it costs nothing to borrow, but what about those times when you don't want to have time constraints put on your reading, for fear of incurring overdue fines? Enter the second-hand bookshop.

I used to be a big fan of the Book and Comic Exchange in Notting Hill when I lived in London. You'd take in your old books, get 50p cash (or £1 credit, although that seemed to go down to 50p) and find new books. Obviously it's a bit far to go there these days, but living in the North East has a distinct advantage - the famous Barter Books is in Alnwick, home of Alnwick Castle (which stood in for Hogwarts' exterior in the first two Harry Potter movies).

Barter Books began way back in 1991 when Mary Manley opened a secondhand bookshop in the front room of Alnwick's old Victorian railway station. These days it occupies the whole building, and offers a range of books, both fiction and non-fiction alike, while a growing CD and DVD section has been added to meet demand. Some of the books are extremely old, some outdated, and others almost brand new, but the whole system works upon the idea of the "barter" - you take in a pile of your old books, and the shop issues you with a valuation receipt, which can be redeemed against new purchases. Anything they don't want they'll return to you. So today, I took in two huge carrier bags of books and got almost £20 of credit, which I spent immediately on books about film theory.

I can't actually recommend a visit enough. The fact it's in an old Victorian railway station is cool enough, and the trading principle is even better, but the choice available is by far its biggest selling point. The fiction covers most genres, sporting both well-known names and unknowns, and the non-fiction variety is brilliant. Sure, a lot of the books are massively out-of-date (don't expect any recent photography texts) and some of them are so old they probably need restoration, but you can find some real gems among the titles on offer. Indeed, the two film books I bought were cheaper to buy second-hand in Barter Books than they would be to buy second-hand through Amazon - and that was before I even cashed in the credit from the books I put in to barter.

Barter Books is a beautiful building, and it's got a wonderfully welcoming atmosphere, and I feel rather lucky to live in the same county as a shop dedicated to sharing books.

Friday Flash - Incommunicado

noreply@blogger.com (Icy Sedgwick) — Fri, 16 Dec 2011 08:49:00 +0000

This is the last in my superhero series - for the time being, at least. I know everyone's been enjoying them but if I'm honest, I'm getting bored writing them, and you have to love what you write. Don't worry though, I'm sure I'll go back to the saga at some point. In the meantime, I give you...

Incommunicado

From: Icy Von Doom

To: Dr Online

Subject: CA

I note CA took the bait. Expect a postcard from Vegas soon.

From: Dr Online

To: Icy Von Doom

Subject: RE: CA

CA touched base yesterday with Miranda Sparkles. Has announced intention to switch his crime-fighting efforts to Monaco. News breaks tomorrow. Suggest WIN?

From: Icy Von Doom

To: Chief Superintendent Barry Beckers

Subject: Crime prevention

Good morning Barry,

We have received a communication that Captain Astounding is safe and well, but has decided that the Mediterranean community of Monaco could better use his expertise than our fair city. In the wake of his absence, please consider my Armed Response Division as being entirely at your disposal, should the need arise.

Ever your servant,

Icy

From: Chief Superintendent Barry Beckers

To: Mayor Parker

Subject: CA's disappearance

Had an email from Von Doom. Has offered us her armed response people now CA has gone. Suggest we take her up on her offer - better to have her on side.

From: Mayor Parker

To: Chief Superintendent Barry Beckers

Subject: RE: CA's disappearance

Agreed.

From: Chief Superintendent Barry Beckers

To: Icy Von Doom

Subject: RE: Crime prevention

Icy,

Many thanks for your offer, have spoken to Mayor and he agrees with me, we would like to accept. Look forward to working with you.

All the best,

From: Icy Von Doom

To: Dr Online

Subject: RE: CA

Stupid fools took the bait. Espionage team to be briefed and re-fitted as Armed Response Division asap.

Also, grant bonuses to PR team. Genius.

Guest Story - Cause for Complaint

noreply@blogger.com (Icy Sedgwick) — Tue, 13 Dec 2011 09:40:00 +0000

I've got a bit of a treat for you today - instead of some insane rambling from me, I've got a very special guest story by Emma Newman! She's on a mission to release a year and a day of weekly short stories set in her Split Worlds universe, and this is the seventh story.

If you would prefer to listen to an audio version, you can find it here, and you can find links to all the other stories as they are released here. Or do what I did and sign up to the newsletter! You can contact Emma through the Split Worlds site or in the comments section if you'd like to host a story too.

Cause for Complaint

The clock mounted above the door chimed four, indicating an impending customer from the city of Oxenford.

"At least it's not one of the Londinium lot," the shopkeeper muttered, slipping his bookmark into place as the clock hands returned to marking one minute after nine o'clock.

The bell jangled as the door was thrust open. "Good morning sir," he smiled at the young man who strode up to the counter, face pink with anger. It happened to match the dandy's waistcoat beautifully, but the shopkeeper didn't remark upon it.

"I wish to make a complaint!" The young man punctuated his statement with a slap on the counter top.

The Shopkeeper removed his glasses to better peer down his nose. "I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me shopkeeper, I want to complain about that potion. It didn't work."

"That's impossible," the shopkeeper replied. "You must be mistaken."

The young man's rage made his sideburns quiver. "Mistaken! Don't you know who I am?"

"Of course I do sir. You are Xavier Rubiginosa-Rosa, third and youngest son of the esteemed Oxenford family, recognised by the Collegiate and held in high regard by the Chancellor. I've had the pleasure of serving your family and the residents of the Great Cities for several hundred years and I can assure you, in all that time I have never once had a complaint."

The Rosa spluttered. As a member of the Great Families he had superior status, but it was hard to recall when faced with the age and confidence of the owner of the Emporium of Things in Between and Besides.

The shopkeeper remained calm. "Perhaps you could explain why you perceive a problem, and I will endeavour to resolve the issue."

"So you admit there may be cause for complaint? Ha!"

"Not at all sir. Since the founding of this establishment, there have been five occasions upon which a customer came with the intention of complaining. Every time, the problem lay with either the interpretation or execution of instructions, or simply a poor choice of product for a certain set of circumstances, stemming from a lack of sufficient information at the point of sale. I can and will assure you, once again, the potion will have worked perfectly."

The Rosa blinked as he struggled to process the monologue. Over the centuries, the shopkeeper had perfected his delivery; providing just enough detail to make sense to the customer and delivered in just the right tone to lull them into a state of mild confusion. It usually resulted in a sale as the customer avoided the embarrassment of having to ask for something to be repeated. There had only ever been one person it hadn't worked on. The shopkeeper forced the thought of her to the back of his mind and listened to the young man.

"I followed the instructions perfectly and the girl it was intended for drank it all. It was mixed with orange juice, nothing else, as you said."

"I see. Go on."

The customer lowered his voice even though there wasn't another soul in the shop. "And it did the opposite to what I wanted. She started questioning my motives… realised I wanted to…" he cleared his throat, moving on, "and then she listed, with remarkable eloquence, all the reasons she would never want to spend another moment in my company. She said she'd never had such clarity and then she left."

Towards the end of the account the shopkeeper plucked out a spotless white handkerchief and polished his glasses. It was impossible for dust to land on the enchanted lenses, he simply wanted something to do as he realised something had gone horribly wrong.

"Does that sound like pliability to you?" The Rosa demanded, the memory of failure reigniting his anger.

The shopkeeper had no doubt the expensive potion would work. Either the Rosa had used it incorrectly, or had not used the correct potion. Then he remembered the other order he'd sent out yesterday afternoon. "Did you personally take delivery?"

"Yes, and I checked your delivery boy's marque. When will you admit you're at fault?"

"When there is no doubt," the shopkeeper replied. "Would you give me a moment to double-check the properties of the potion?"

The Rosa nodded, taking to pacing as the shopkeeper hurried to his back office. He pulled the cord that struck the hammer against the lamp, the clang waking the sleeping sprites trapped inside the glass globe. The tiny creatures flitted in panic, emitting their pure white light once more. The ledger confirmed the new delivery boy had been given two packages, one containing a pliability potion, the other an elixir of eloquence. As both orders were considered sensitive, the bottles had not been labelled, as requested.

"Bloody fool!" he hissed into the pages. He'd asked the Agency if he was fully trained, how could they let such an idiot enter his employ? He could feel a stern letter brewing.

The shopkeeper slammed the ledger shut, he'd have to placate not only the angry youth, but also the Lilium who'd received the pliability potion in error. Hopefully he hadn't needed that eloquence for anything important.

He went back into the shop, considering all he knew about the Rubiginosa-Rosa family and how best to exploit it. "I believe I have an explanation sir. I recall you describing the young lady as having red hair."

"Yes," he said. "Is that important?"

"And that she is of mundane descent, and indeed the potion was used in Mundanus?"

"Yes."

"Ahhh," the shopkeeper nodded. "I see what's happened. One of the reagents used in the potion is very sensitive, and can have extraordinary side-effects in a particular set of circumstances. The young lady must have dyed her hair, I understand it's very common in Mundanus these days, and should she be a natural blonde or brunette, well, the effects of the potion can be quite unexpected."

"Why didn't you make that clear when I ordered it?" The Rosa shouted.

"How could I do anything but assume you knew her hair colour sir, would you not have been offended if I'd asked?"

"I suppose so… gosh… you're telling me she isn't a natural redhead?"

The shopkeeper put on a mask of sympathy and appropriate embarrassment. "A most unfortunate way to discover such a thing sir, but yes, that's the only explanation. The side-effect may have inadvertently saved you from investing too much time in one unworthy of your attention."

"Gosh," he repeated, tugging at his cravat as he considered the horror.

"Perhaps a soothing bath in restorative salts would be in order. I'm happy to sell you these," he lifted a box down from the shelf near the counter, "at half price, as a gesture of goodwill so we can put this unpleasantness behind us. These are infused with delicate new hope and a soupçon of optimism. Just the ticket I feel. Yours for the reduced price of a sigh of disappointment."

The Rosa nodded, no doubt he had plenty of them. The shopkeeper caught the sigh in a silk bag insulated with eider down and apple tree shavings, tying it quickly.

"Thank you shopkeeper," he said, watching him wrap the box in brown paper and tie it with string. "I'm terribly sorry about the shouting earlier."

"All forgotten," the shopkeeper smiled. "Do come again."

Shortly after the Rosa left, the clock chimed four. He wondered if it was an angry Lilium with the expected complaint, but a lady entered instead. Upon seeing the empty shop, she rushed to the counter, tears streaming down her cheeks. He recognised her as the Lilium's betrothed.

"Shopkeeper," she sniffed. "I need something for a broken heart."

"Oh?"

"My love has been sent to India for twenty years! He was certain he'd be able to talk his father round but… but the words failed him, he said."

"Oh dear," he said as sympathetically as he could whilst filled with relief. Even if he'd realised what happened, the Lilium was unable to do anything about it. "I'm sure I have something that will help. And please, do stop crying. Time and reasonably priced magic heal all wounds."

Photo Prompt 63

noreply@blogger.com (Icy Sedgwick) — Mon, 12 Dec 2011 09:36:00 +0000

New prompt available!

If you want to use the prompt, all I ask is that you include a link to this entry and a credit to me for the photograph, and that you post a link to your story in the comments box below so I can see what you've come up with! If you don't comment on this entry, then I can't comment on your story.

The 63rd prompt is Christmas Tree.

All photo prompts are my own photography - you can find more of it on Flickr. You can also buy my prints from Deviantart. 20% of all proceeds go to charity - the other 80% go towards my PhD fees!

Why I Suck At Marketing

noreply@blogger.com (Icy Sedgwick) — Sun, 11 Dec 2011 20:37:00 +0000

I've been posting regularly to my Blunt Pencil for a while now, and after much thought, I've decided I don't want my blog to be nothing but flash fiction or posts about writing. I'd like to start sharing more about my experiences as a writer - you never know, maybe you'll be feeling the same way and we can all offer each other support. Plus, I think it's about time I starting admitting to a little vulnerability, don't you?

Well, I was at an event on Saturday night where I had an opportunity to try and sell a few copies of my pulp Western, The Guns of Retribution. A grand total of two were sold, and it's really made me examine just why I'm so appalling at self-promotion. I mean, who better to sell my story than me? The only person who knows it better than I do is the main character, and unless I get a ouija board out, Grey isn't going to be talking to anyone any time soon. I should be able to walk up to someone and start talking about my book...but it's not that easy, is it?

The first stumbling block is the fact that I'm abysmal at engaging strangers in conversation. I was never the most gregarious of folk to start with but seven years of living in London have conditioned me not to speak to those I don't know. I don't find myself to be in the best position to recommend myself, and the idea of randomly walking up to someone fills me with a small degree of alarm. Of course, it's all about context. Were I to be walk into a knitting group, and find myself among a group of film scholars, things would be different, but to walk up to someone with the intention of trying to sell something? Well, that just brings us onto the second stumbling block.

I'm not the type of person who likes to harrass people about what I do. I see some people in my Twitter stream who seemingly post nothing but tweets reminding us of the availability of their book, and after a while it becomes white noise. Sure, I'll post occasional links to my own stuff but I don't want my Twitter account to become the cyber equivalent of the incessant TV ads that go from "mildly annoying" to "downright abhorrent" due to the frequency with which they are aired. I like to talk to new people on Twitter because I like the conversational side of it, and if they happen to buy a book after chatting to me, then great. But to start talking to someone with the sole intention of selling something? Eek.

The problem is, I know it has to be done. The Guns of Retribution won't sell itself. I can tell you that it's a story about a young man named Grey O'Donnell, who flees his native Arizona after a run-in with the local heavies, only to return six years later as a fully-fledged bounty hunter on the trail of a murderer. His path crosses that of Jasper Roberts, his former adversary, who is now the crooked sheriff of his hometown, Retribution. Roberts has no intention of letting Grey get away from him for a second time, and a collision course is set between the two. I can tell you that it's got train robberies, shoot outs, hangings, fist fights and a femme fatale. I can ask you not to be put off by the fact it's a Western, and rather to view it as an action tale set in the Old West.

Or I can point you towards what others have said. Paul D Brazill described it as "a joy, containing all the action and adventure of an old school western", while Heath Lowrance called it "a strong Western full of action, honor, betrayal, and fast guns". Old West maestro Edward A. Grainger even said "If you buy one book today, make it The Guns of Retribution". Pulp Serenade gave me this wonderful review, the highlight being "The Guns of Retribution is at its best when the excitement runs high. There’s a visceral, tangible element to Sedgwick’s writing that gives the story added punch."

So why can't I market my own book? Obviously it's something I'll be working on in the New Year, particularly as I work on the sequel, but how about the rest of you? Anyone got any hints or tricks they use when promoting their work?

Friday Flash - Where is Captain Astounding?

noreply@blogger.com (Icy Sedgwick) — Fri, 09 Dec 2011 22:24:00 +0000

City superhero, Captain Astounding, has gone missing just days after we published his opinion piece, beseeching the good people of this City not to fall for Icy Von Doom's recent recruitment drive. The alarm was raised yesterday evening after two separate incidents saw the use of the A Signal, with no response from the Captain. Police were forced to contain an armed robbery at the City Bank and a riot at the City Prison with no assistance from Captain Astounding. Two scheduled appearances, at the City Library and City General Hospital, were also cancelled after the Captain failed to arrive.

"It is a matter of some concern, yes. We had the signal lit on two separate occasions and there was no sign of him. We have no other way of contacting him. We didn't even want to make it public knowledge due to the security risks involved but we hope that someone may have information," said Chief Superintendent Barry Beckers. "If anyone has seen anything, or knows anything, then we ask they come forward."

Gossip columnist Miranda Sparkles has suggested that Icy Von Doom may have had a hand to play in Captain Astounding's disappearance, describing the villain's alarming animal squads as being "the perfect disposal method". However, the supervillain has been away from the city on a research trip in the south Pacific for several days, and her Corporation strenuously deny her involvement.

"We can categorically state that Ms Von Doom has had no involvement with the disappearance of Captain Astounding, and she wishes his speedy and safe return along with the rest of the City's population," said Von Doom's righthand woman, Dr Online. "Though personally, I think it's a shame that Captain Astounding is incommunicado. After all, the winner of the £136million lottery jackpot has also disappeared and the City needs the Captain's expertise in locating the missing man."

We will bring you more on this story as it develops, but any citizens with any information on the disappearance of the Captain are to contact the police immediately.

12 Days of Christmas

noreply@blogger.com (Icy Sedgwick) — Wed, 07 Dec 2011 09:24:00 +0000

Illustration - Copyright Icy Sedgwick

I'm a big fan of Writer's Digest, and I got an email yesterday summing up their latest posts. This one in particular caught my eye - a 12 day plan of simple writing exercises! A kind of "Twelve Days of Christmas" for writers, if you will.

I'll post them in full below if you don't want to follow the link, but I think I'm going to try doing each one. The Twelve Days of Christmas actually begin on Christmas Day, and lead to 5 January (also known as Twelfth Night, the day on which your decorations should come down) but I'm going to work the other day, and start on December 13, with an exercise per day to end on Christmas Eve! I might post them, I might not, but at least it should get me writing.

Who's with me?!

The 12-Day Plan of Simple Writing Exercises

Day 1: Write 10 potential book titles of books you’d like to write.

Day 2: Create a character with personality traits of someone you love, but the physical characteristics of someone you don’t care for.

Day 3: Write a setting based on the most beautiful place you’ve ever seen.

Day 4: Write a letter to an agent telling her how wonderful you are.

Day 5: Write a 20-line poem about a memorable moment in your life.

Day 6: Select a book on your shelf and pick two chapters at random. Take the first line of one chapter and the last line of the other chapter and write a short story (no more than 1000 words) using those as bookends to your story.

Day 7: Write a letter to yourself telling you what you need to improve in the coming 6 months.

Day 8: Rewrite a fairy tale from the bad guy’s point of view.

Day 9: Turn on your TV. Write down the first line that you hear and write a story based on it.

Day 10: Go sit in a public place and eavesdrop on a conversation. Turn what you hear into a short love story (no matter how much you have to twist what they say).

Day 11: Write the acknowledgments page that will be placed in your first (next?) published book, thanking all the people who have helped you along the way.

Day 12: Gather everything you’ve written over the previous 11 days. Pick your favorite. Edit it, polish it and either try to get it published or post it on the Web to share with the world. Be proud of yourself and your work.