Category: Uncategorized

When you are a writer, there comes a time when you realize that it is time to send your work off into the world.

When I wrote “Gone to the Dogs,” my novel about a fictional 1970’s sitcom, I initially queried it with several literary agents. This method, I was told, was the way to get your work in front of a publisher.

But the lot of a literary agent is not an easy one. The risk inherent in signing a new client is enormous, especially when your livelihood depends upon a successful outcome. If it were me, I would stick with my tried and tested clientele.

But, there are other routes for the would-be writer to attain that hallmark of quality and public recognition. One that is open to all is the writing competition.

The great thing about writing competitions is that someone will carefully read your work. Someone will carefully weigh it up, poring over your every word, simile, and idea. The judgement comes with a total level playing field. You could have a Booker Prize or a computer held together with gaffer tape. It makes no difference. You will be equal with your peers.

It is a wonderfully empowering feeling, knowing that someone knowledgable is giving your writing a chance. It is also the source of something even better; hope. You get a lovely feeling when you send your entry off to a competition. I generally don my suit and practice my speech in the mirror. I think about all the new readers who will check out my work, after seeing my name in print, and, if there’s a bit of money on offer, I look up the all of the possible bespoke options I could have on my new German sports car!

The challenge then becomes finding these competitions. It can be something of a hit and miss affair, particularly if you are looking for an opportunity that closely fits the type of content you provide.

Wouldn’t it be great then if someone had done all of this leg work for you? Well, at least one person has.

Christopher Fielden is one of these heroes. His website is a remarkable resource for the writer. If a competition is worth having a look at, the chances are that it is included within this noteworthy body of work.

Chris has made things a lot easier by categorizing these opportunities so that finding the correct placement is a lot easier. Whether you want to find a chance for your novel, short story, flash fiction, or non-fiction essay, Chris has done the hard miles and has found the right spot for you.

The site also provides details such as entry fee, maximum word count, renewal frequency, and prize fund. In short, everything that a future competition winner, like you, would need.

Furthermore, if you are unsure where to start, and need a few hints and tips, then Chris, once again, is your man. He can offer quality learning material, both paid and free, to send you on your way with confidence.

The only choices that are left are which competitions to enter and which sports car to buy.

Good luck, and enjoy your writing.

Join Chris at http://www.christopherfielden.com or follow him @ChrisFielden

On this day, every month, I stand here, looking down into the valley. From my vantage point, I can see the dusty track as it snakes up the hill towards my village. I survey the scene for movement.

The sun slices down from its cerulean shelf, and I crouch to sit on a rock. My bare feet kick at the dust, sending into swirling into the scorched air. As it calms and settles, some lands on the small stack of books that sit neatly tied to my left. These are the ones I shall return today.

The sun is in the West now. The few trees now jag shimmer-shadows across the road. Still he does not come. I no longer know if I see his truck, or if it is my desire that paints it onto the canvas before me. I know her every note and misfire; her every dent and patch of rust; I love the way that it jumps, leaps, and lurches towards me, like an ailing mountain cat. But most of all, I love the books.

Old Javier’s mobile library is the most beautiful miracle, an oasis of quenching knowledge amidst the futile hopes of the farmers and the panners. He calls me “El Pequeno Sabio” – little wise man. Though if I were that wise, I would have known he would be late.

I am straining my eyes now. I stopped looking for the black smoke hours ago. Now I look for pinpricks of light. I do not even know if her headlights work.

When I arrive home, the generator is popping. Mama looks at me, seeing the same books under my arm. The tears on my face reflect in the saline of her eyes. She clutches me, warm, sweet, and begins to deliver the news.

On the 12th October 2019, Kenyan Eliud Kipchoge ran the first ever sub-two-hour marathon in Vienna. It was thought to be one of the last great barriers in sport and was truly a moment in athletic history.

It is the historical nature of sport that has always enthused me. As a fiction writer, it is wonderful to think that these stories can become embellished with the patina of fiction, as the years pass.

It also gives me great pleasure to look back at the great sporting moments of yesteryear and imagine the stories behind them. My own book, “Gone to the Dogs” deals with a similar theme, but this time in the realm of situation-comedy. For a writer, nostalgia is a powerful driver.

Eliud Kipchoge’s sporting triumph sent me scrabbling around in my pile of books until I finally laid my hands on the “Eagle Sport Annual – No. 6.” As you can see, it is a battered old tome, but to me, it is truly beautiful. In it are some exquisite pieces like; “Patsy Hendren’s Cricket School;” “Meet Johnny Haynes;” and, for a book published in 1957, “Table Tennis – Classic Style.”

I wonder if, whether in fifty or sixty years, whether small boys and girls will gather around stories of Eliud Kapchoge’s running triumphs? Perhaps there will be autobiographies or films or novels of impoverished students running miles to school each day? Will we remember Kapchoge in the same way as Sir Roger Bannister, the great Brazil side of 1970, Red Rum, Mark Spitz, or Jesse Owens? Will those of a certain age become unnecessarily dewy-eyed over the running genius of this legendary Kenyan, Eliud Kapchoge?

I ask because nostalgia feels wonderfully comfortable to me, though even I admit, it is not as good as it once was. Even today, I will defend it bitterly. Was Pele better than Messi? Was Prost better than Hamilton? Was then better than now?

I’m still dealing with my own love of the past, in my fiction. Through my work-in-progress, I am delving into the past of Cornelius Thryke, one of the stars of my own fictional sit-com and novel “Gone to the Dogs.” Maybe I’ll decide that’s where I want to stay, in a world of dubbin, cricket sweaters and retired sports folk running quaint public houses, all with plenty of hearty pipe-smoking thrown in.

Perhaps Eliud Kipchoge would like to join me.

In the September of 1921, at the age of six years old, Cornelius Arthur Thryke was sent away to school. It was to come as something of a shock to a child more used to roaming freely through the soft countryside, playing pirates and soldiers as he went. A similar plan had been laid out for Henry a few years earlier, but such had been the elder brother’s consistent escape attempts, that he was, by then, home schooled with mother, Vera.

Augustus would accept no such outcome for Cornelius. “One of your sons will receive an education!” he is recalled as crying at Vera. “Cornelius shall go away to school!”

The establishment chosen was Greyowls Preparatory School for Boys, which itself was a three-hour steam train journey from the comfort of Little-Sodbury on the Wode. Cornelius’ school days feature heavily with his writings, so much so that I am able to pass the baton onto our host for the time being.

“In 1921, I was sent to Greyowls Preparatory School for Boys. I was kitted out in my grey flannel shorts, blazer and cap, with a bright red tie clutching at my throat. Mother walked me to the station, carrying my small case for me. It was still sunny and warm, and I longed to throw off the shackles of my new, itchy uniform and dash off into the fields and copses behind the station house. But I could not. Mother was holding my hand tightly and looking straight ahead, as she strode.

We arrived somewhat early for the train, though I could only tell the time from the sky back then. Mother took me into the tearoom. She ordered a pot of breakfast tea and two small macaroons. We sat in the corner table, so that we might observe the platform from the comfort of our seats. I am not sure, to this day, whether I knew what was happening, or not, but I remember the silent tears that rolled down her powdered face. A pipe-smoking man leant out from behind an enormous newspaper to gaze upon her. I felt a flush of anger. This was my time with her.

“You do remember where you should alight the train?” she enquired, presently.

“Yes mother, I replied.” I looked at the tag, tied to the handle on my case. I was to become this label. Whatever and wherever it was. Would I ever come back here? To the warmth of mother’s gingham folds and floral pastry scents? Even Father had shaken my hand this morning and pressed a penny into it. Was I coming back? I felt the hotness of tears upon my cheek.

“You must so try to be brave, my soldier,” said Mother, trying to soothe us both. “It will soon be the holidays and you will come back for a while.”

For a while? A couple of days before, in the fading light of a late summer eve, I had had a similar conversation with my brother, Henry. How worldly wise he had seemed to me at that time. We were sitting in our den, deep into the woods. Reflecting here and now, as that sun was lowing, my childhood, blissful as it had been, was also fading.

“Will I like school, Henry?”

Henry raised himself up onto his elbows and looked long at me. I wondered if I has misspoken. Presently, he removed the straw from his mouth and gave a reply.

“Perhaps you shall.”

I was heartbroken! Even at that young age, his words shook me! Were we not of the same cloth? He had run away so many times, would not I?

“I shall not!” I spat, indignantly. “Shan’t so! I shall be back here, the very next day! Even if I must run all night!”

Henry reclined once more and cupped his head in his hands.

“Then I will wait for you here.”

And there was venom and intent in my words, but as I bade Henry farewell on that morning, some of that strength left me. As Mother and I sat in that station tearoom, quietly sobbing into our macaroons, the rest of it faded into nothingness. I was to be an unwilling school-boy, as if there was ever any other kind?

Presently, Old Jack, the Stationmaster, poked his head around the peeling red door.

“Ma’am?” he said, gruffly. Mother bowed her head. I climbed down from my chair and grabbed for the handle of my case. Her hand came down on top of mine and our eyes met.

I’m not sure how long we remained there, but Old Jack coughed loudly to gain our attention. Behind him steam was billowing onto the platform.

“It’s time, ma’am.”

As I began to drag my case along the floor, she collapsed back into her chair and let out a shrill wail. Jack placed a hand on my shoulder. “Let me help you with that, young master,” he purred, in a kindly drawl. “Be a brave lad for your mother.”

I did not dare to look back. The world had scooped me up and I was bundled onto the train.”

I recently participated in my first flying lesson. It took place at a local airfield on a glorious autumnal Saturday. The lesson had previously been cancelled, due to high winds, so I was grateful for having so much luck with the weather.

After some ground instruction as to the controls and general operation, I followed James, my instructor for the morning, to one of the hangars near the Control Tower.

Inside was a wonderful craft – the Ikarus C-42 light aircraft. James removed one of the side panels, revealing the simplicity of the structure inside. The plane was a long, aluminium tube, around which the composite shell sat. It was beautifully straightforward. The cabin was neat and compact, with just enough room for the two seats; one for the pilot and one for the passenger and was fronted with surprisingly few dials on the instrument panel. It was a perfect exercise in functionality and simplicity; designed to do a job and to do it well – over and over again. Unsurprisingly, my lean mind came to the fore. I began to admire the design, with its tightness and focused accuracy. I had been drawn into the thinking that a plane must be an incredibly complex thing, but the Ikarus C-42 was stunning. There was no superfluousity, no contamination of the vision. It was clean, clear, simple, and I loved it!

With absolutely no effort, James pushed the plane out of its hangar and onto the concrete. The time was rapidly approaching when we would take to the skies. I climbed in and was instructed in how to strap myself into the seat. James did the same and soon the engines were started. With headsets donned, we radioed the tower for a take-off slot, and trundled out onto the runway.

It was as we picked up speed that the lightness of the craft came into its own. Take-off was achieved with the minimum of fuss and the minimum of runway. Once again, I found myself marvelling at the efficiency of this brilliant flying machine. We began to climb and, the landscape with which I was so familiar, receded into a patchwork of miniature mappings. I was beginning to think that I was hooked.

The cockpit of a small plane is a wonderful place to sit back and reflect. When you realise that not much interaction with the controls is required, you are free to relax and enjoy the views. I flew over places I had worked; streets on which I had ran and roads on which I drove daily. They all looked so different. So calm and serene.

I guess that is what a good storyteller does. They present what we know, what we are familiar with, and the give it a fresh twist; something that makes us look anew. Something that draws us in with widened eyes.

When I wrote “Gone to the Dogs,” this was something that I attempted to do. I loved the old sit-coms of the 1970’s. They had a warmth and a camaraderie. As the years since their initial broadcasts have passed, many of them had arrived at anniversaries, thirty, forty, fifty years since that first outing into the public consciousness. Much-loved faces had passed and documentaries had been made, with beautiful, grainy footage of the stars, almost like a second family, proclaiming what wonderful times they had had. “Gone to the Dogs,” is my homage – to view that zeitgeist, from a fresh perspective.

It is a similar story with my current work-in-progress, “Thryke: The Man That Nobody Knew.” I first came across the character Cornelius Thryke when I wrote the novel, “Gone to the Dogs.” I instantly liked him and wondered about the story that had brought him to the point at which he had wandered, almost fully formed, into my consciousness.

It was time to zoom up in the plane. To view Cornelius’ lifescape anew and from a fresh perspective. At the time of writing, I am still up there. I don’t know quite what we shall find, quite what we shall learn, or see, but I do know one thing: I’d love you to join me on the journey.

“Gone to the Dogs” is available here, in the site shop.

An early extract of “Thryke: The Man That Nobody Knew,” is also available in this blogpost.

“The Day I Nearly Drowned,” by Dreena Collins, is a collection of remarkable short stories that span the gamut of human experience.
One such story is “A Screech of Seagulls.” Here, in a saline opening, Collins describes a beach.

“To reach it, you had to clamber across many metres of ramshackle, irregular pebble and rock, strands, sometimes heaps of dried, black bladderwrack, husks of crabs and clams. It smelt sour, sharp. Briny.”

Such is the power of Collins’ craft, that one can almost feel the seaspray as it cascades gently onto skin. It is easy to imagine the agony with which each word has been selected, weighed, replaced and set.

Accurate use of language is a skill to be admired in any writer, and Dreena Collins is tremendously gifted in this arena. As a fellow writer, there is always something to learn when reading an artist of Dreena’s calibre.

“The Day I Nearly Drowned,” is a sustained performance of granular virtuosity that will draw the reader through emotion and the painful joy of living.
I would thoroughly recommend both this book and its equally compelling predecessor.

This patchwork of life is an easy 5 from 5 rating. Links to purchase “The Day I Nearly Drowned” and “The Blue Hour” are available in the shop.

The author, Stanley George, describes “Please Wipe Your Boots” as follows:

“This memoir covers the hilarious adventures of a new apprentice as he experiences the incompetence, laziness, pranks and dubious activities of the GPO engineers.”

The GPO, for the uninitiated, was the General Post Office, the Civil Service department responsible for delivering the telephone service in the UK.

This is what George captures with evocative charm and humour – the wonderful characters and shenanigans of a 1960’s Civil Service workplace.

George pulls together a tremendous collection of anecdotes that will have the reader guffawing in incredulous bursts. I, myself, also worked in the Civil Service in the early 1990’s. Much of the pranks, schemes and japes that George so brilliantly describes were fading, but there were definitely echoes of them in the uniform corridors and hiding holes.

George writes in an unassuming and easily readable style and this is the perfect book for relaxing and allowing a leisurely couple of hours to drift past. A funny and sometimes moving book. Thoroughly recommended. 5 out of 5.

Good news readers! I am currently working on an offical prequel to “Gone to the Dogs,” called “Thryke: The Man That Nobody Knew.” Here, amongst other things, I will post snippets and tasters to whip you all up into a slathering, purchasing frenzy. In this extract, Cornelius recalls a friend of his father’s – the heroic Reverend Biggleswade Smart.

“Dear Diary,

Well, my old friend, I read something rather sad in the newspaper today. I may well be coming to that age when I shall begin to peruse the obituaries with a greater air of dreadful expectation than I approach the columns of births and marriages. It is many years since I was announced in the first, and long since have I given up on the idea of being included in the second. The obituary column, however, seems to loom large and I search it for my name on an almost daily basis. If it does not appear, then I assume that I must go out for milk.

But today, today jarred me a little. Writ bold, with an obituary commensurate with his life, was the name Reverend Biggleswade Smart. Biggles was no ordinary parish priest and, the fact that he was firm friends with my father always struck me as strange and incongruous. Uncle Biggles, as he insisted that we call him lived a wonderful life, bursting with joy and colour. He kept a deep red motor racing car that he had careered around all of the best tracks, collecting arms of garlands and silver. On a Saturday he was always to be found, with the bonnet covers folded back, tinkering away with some wrench or tool. Father felt him to be frivolous. You could tell from the way he rolled his eyes at the giggles our fireside cocoa-stained stories. But I also think Father lived vicariously through the deeds and successes of his chum. Biggles, the champion motor racing vicar. Reverend Smart was also a fine opening bat and always scored well when he strode onto our square. Mother claimed that father had once petitioned the bishop to have Uncle Biggles banned, on account of his expertise with the willow. It was said that Biggles had a first-class batting average of nigh on sixty and that the England selectors had begged for his services on more than one occasion. I do not know if this is true, but I do know I once saw him smite a mighty six that span the weathervane atop of the church spire. Such was the larger than life character that was Biggleswade Smart. Lives are seldom lived that way in these modern times. Perhaps I should write a screenplay in remembrance of him. I would play him myself.”