Aime McNee’s postcard. I wasn’t gravely wounded, more like a minor flesh wound.

I took the same advice I’d give to people who are starting exercise: something is better than nothing. I simply couldn’t focus on another big project/life event. I needed my writing to be a release for a change.

Some of the things that took over (in no particular order):

• Competing in the British Weightlifting Masters’ Championships (I won the M55, 79kg category).

• Taking (and passing) a level 3 BWL technical official exam.

• Decorating my office (with my wife’s excellent help).

• Supporting my son through his GCSEs (26 exams! He’s only got 8 left now).

• Doing extra shifts at the garden nursery to earn actual money now.

• Massive work projects (that require creativity), such as editing the descriptions of my ebooks on Amazon and curating my YouTube channel content.

The latter two were done with the help of Claude, who, like every new employee, requires careful handling at the beginning while I show them the ropes (but thankfully not where the toilets and coffee maker are, or how to work the photocopier).

At £18 a month, Claude has been a valuable hire. For all the writers and publishers panicking about AI (and rightly so where content creation is concerned), paying for something to help me with strategy, planning, marketing and research (all of which take up valuable time and mental energy) has been invaluable.

I now have time and space (and a fresh smell of paint in my office) to help me focus on the third draft of my novel, The Letter.’

To get me into the mood, I watched the three episodes of the ‘Film Noir’ documentary on the excellent Talking Pictures TV channel. They are also sponsoring a Film Noir festival in Weston-Super-Mare in the autumn, which I shall be attending.

I’ve got a six-week push to concentrate on writing before I go on holiday. I’ll keep you posted on the editing.

Thanks for reading.

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It snowed on Friday, the week before I started work, but the sun came out on Wednesday. The general public goes mad at the first sign of sunshine: demanding lawns be cut and panic-buying bulbs.

I was expecting full pace when I walked in, and I got it. Orders are flying in, second-hand, from the boss who’s at Dorchester market. My first job is cross-traying the tomato plants: moving them from sturdy planting trays to lighter, cheaper, selling trays. The price difference between the trays is only pennies, but with thousands of them used every couple of weeks, it adds up. The pots are fiddly, and my fingernails soon fill up with compost. I remind myself to cut my fingernails before my next shift.

Thirty-year-old Joe, who’s worked at the nursery since before the pandemic, tells me the tomatoes are popular, but it’s too early to put them down. ‘People buy them, put them in their greenhouse, and wonder why they die.’

‘When should they plant them?’ I’m thinking of getting some myself this year.

‘Not until May, when there’s no chance of frost.’

‘You should have your own YouTube channel,’ I say. ‘Joe’s gardening tips.’

He rushes off, mumbling to himself as he reads his hastily written notes. ‘We need two shelves of wallflowers and two shelves of tomatoes,’ he calls to me.

The long plastic tunnel has only half-grown plants. ‘The pansies are ready,’ Joe says.

I push a six-shelved trolley dutifully behind him. You see these trolleys outside supermarkets: the flowers and plants you pick have to get there somehow. My role is to fetch and carry, to push and pull, to load and unload, to pack and unpack flowers, plants, vegetables, trays and pots. Six packs, twelve packs, ‘fifteens’ and ‘eighteens,’ are the most common.

Everything is labour-intensive, and much of the work is divided by gender. The ‘boys’ fill up trays and push trolleys around while the ‘girls’ plant the thousands of seedlings into the trays. But, during the busy morning periods, it’s everyone doing everything, everywhere, all at once. Some of the ‘girls’ are in their sixties, others are on breaks from university and only here for a few weeks. Putting new employees onto the payroll costs hundreds of pounds, so the nursery likes having regular returnees.

Once the orders are picked and the trolleys watered, we have to clear space in the tunnels to put the growing trays down. Every square centimetre counts, with trays laid out in defined patterns, like a giant Tetris game, leaving only a gap down in the middle just wider than my walking shoe. I think back to my silver service waiting job, thirty-six years ago, as I carry a laden tray in each hand, placing one foot in front of the other on the damp matting. Balance, flexibility, strength and a sense of humour are required.

Joe’s like a London cabbie before sat-nav, remembering the orders, with dozens of different fuschias and calibris, laid out. The boss’s brain is even more impressive, issuing directives from the market, knowing where gaps are in each tunnel, what’s growing where and what needs to be planted next. As the days and weeks pass, my familiarity with the operation improves, and I’m given different tasks to do on my own.

The pots need to be put into the growing trays by hand. A job that’s mostly done in the quiet winter months, but the mountain of ‘twelve-pack’ trays that filled half the huge shed when I arrived in March has been eroded to a pile in one corner. I have to put six of the twelve-holed pots into a flat tray and stack them ten high to rebuild the mountain.

Apart from the hand-filled hanging baskets, every pot is filled with compost by a machine. I feed the trays on the conveyor belt. The compost arrives in five-foot cubes covered in plastic. The machine pulls the compost out of the plastic and spews it into the trays. Joe takes the filled trays and stacks them in another Tetris pattern on a low wire trolley. When things go smoothly, it’s a simple job that settles into a steady rhythm.

We switch from easy flat-packed ‘twelves’ to niggly ‘eights’, which require much shaking and jiggling to separate the trays before loading them. Twisting, turning, bending and shaking a hundred trays in the next twenty minutes causes my back to tighten up. Trays stick, and pots fall off the table. I scramble madly to get them replaced before a gap appears on the conveyor belt.

One of the girls pushes an empty trolley into the shed and asks if there’s another one ready yet. It’s cool in the shed, but the tempers heat up as demand for more trays increases.

A loose pot gets stuck in the machine, and Joe curses as production stops and he winches the belt down.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ Joe shouts.

I welcome the stoppage as I stretch my back. Then we’re off again.

Working at the nursery is like having my own dementia-prevention programme: physical activity, social interaction, learning new tasks and having to remember lists. I work in the fresh air two mornings a week, with people all committed to the same outcome. It’s easy to see what you have done at the end of a shift, and there’s satisfaction in seeing the plants you’ve helped grow flourish and be sold.

Compare that to a job where you measure productivity (or lack of it) by the number of emails you’ve sent or hours spent in meetings. We live in a bizarre world where some jobs are deemed desirable, and others less so, but job satisfaction is often ignored.

I finish work on time, get home, scrub my hands with my nail brush, shower and eat. My time is my own for the rest of the day. No emails, no messages from psychopathic bosses late at night. The work contract is clear: turn up, work hard, get paid, go home.

How was your day?

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Arthur leant against the sandstone wall outside the church. He’d thrown down his scythe and run up the hill as soon as he heard the church bells ring out. He clutched his chest and drew in three shallow breaths. The humid air was thick and sank down into his heaving lungs.

Mary peered over the wall. Her face was as pale as finely ground flour, and her blonde hair hung in strands poking out from under her white cap. ‘Quick, Arthur, they’re coming again!’

Arthur pushed off the wall, tearing his waistcoat that had caught on a nail. He stumbled to the wooden gate under the porch roof to the churchyard.

Mary beckoned him from the church entrance; one door was already closed. ‘Hurry!’ She put her hand over her mouth.

Arthur felt a cool breeze come up the hill and surround his neck. He shivered as his sweat cooled and his shirt stuck to his skin. He dared not turn around: he knew they were close from Mary’s expression. He gasped and shuddered as he sucked in the cold air, knowing not what it might contain.

The gate latch was stiff, and it took three attempts to open it. Arthur staggered along the stone path. He blinked and wiped his eyes, but he couldn’t see Mary now. He looked left and right at the nearest gravestones—their inscriptions fading as the darkness rolled over them like fog on a river. Arthur reached into his waistcoat pocket and took out his flint and stone. He tugged at his frayed shirt hem and tore a strip of linen away. He knelt to strike the flint.

‘Arthur!’ Mary’s distant voice reached him, but Arthur couldn’t tell from which direction.

Strike, strike, strike, spark! Arthur cupped his hands around the cloth and gently blew. The cloth turned red, and flames flickered at the edge. Arthur lifted the strip by the other edge.

‘Stay back!’

Arthur heard his words echo from the stone paving and then nothing. The silence wasn’t just the absence of noise—it was the opposite of noise, as if the silence was a living entity, married to the blackness.

He called out to Mary, but the word was swallowed by the dark before it left his throat. Arthur gasped again before putting his hand over his mouth, suddenly afraid of inhaling the darkness. He dropped the useless cloth, its flame long gone.

Am I dead? Is this Hell?

Arthur recalled his sins and transgressions over the last week and then thought of his good deeds. Surely I haven’t been that bad, Lord?

He felt something cold on his nose, then his eyes and his mouth. He hairs on his neck rose and then on his forearms. Defenceless, he regretted leaving his scythe in the field. He turned one way, then the other, his arms outstretched, trying to push the darkness away. He shivered and felt the urge to curl up on the floor.

No. Not now.

Arthur took a step into the unknown and felt ice crunch under his feet. The paving stones were slippery underneath, but they were there. This wasn’t Limbo. He took another step. The darkness pushed back, and Arthur leant into it, as if pushing his haywain up the slope on a hot August afternoon.

The thought of sunshine and warmth seemed distant, but encouraged him. ‘Mary,’ he shouted again. This time, the word came out. Arthur thought he could see shapes now in the darkness: tall, thin figures with arms hanging down like branches from a willow.

‘Mary!’

The figures swayed, and one leaned backwards. Arthur pushed forward and sang his favourite ditty,

‘Oh, the girls of Thurlestone

Aren’t so pretty,

and the girls of Kingston

Like to nag,

But the girls from Craddock

Have big titties,

and best of all,

they love to…’

The figures moved back.

‘Arthur…’ the voice was faint.

Arthur looked down and could see his feet. He sang again and saw the stone path leading to the church. He pushed forward. ‘Mary!’

‘I’m here, love.’

Arthur swung his arms wildly, trying to push the intangible darkness away. The figures faded and diminished until nothing was left but the ice on the path and frost on Arthur’s beard.

Mary ran towards him, her face red from crying. ‘I thought I’d lost you.’

Arthur picked her up and squeezed her ample waist. She smelled of apples and baked bread; she smelled of life.

‘Where did they go?’ Arthur said.

‘They don’t like joy.’ Mary wiped some frost off Arthur’s beard. ‘They feed on fear and despair.’

‘I told you the light should win, my love.’ Arthur patted his pocket with the flint and stone.

Mary lifted the hem of Arthur’s shirt. ‘Oh, look. You’ve torn your waistcoat and shirt. I’ll have to darn them again.’

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I’ve been swamped by work since my holiday and have had little mental space for editing my novel. Strangely, free writing from prompts seems to work a different part of my (limited) brain.

I’m on top of things now and need to get back into the flow of editing before breakfast. Thanks for reading.

I would either have to be a creative genius or a raving narcissist to publish something without any extra eyes seeing my work and giving me feedback. Independently published work does not have to be of a lower standard than 'traditionally' published.

A good editor is essential, and I am lucky that Ian Ayris () agreed to edit my current novel.

I first ‘met’ Ian online in the Pen to Print writing workshops, which he tutored. We shared a love of Dickens, Chandler, Tolkien and good writing in general. I met him in person at the ‘Book of the Year’ awards in 2024 when my novel, ‘The Poster,’ was awarded the runner-up prize.

I knew when I finished the third draft of my latest novel (The Letter) that I needed some guidance. While parts of it showed flashes of promise, it was a bit flabby and out of condition.

I asked Ian if he could help, and he responded enthusiastically. He took his time with the editing process, but it was worth it. He sent me a 100-page report (!!!) on the novel and suggestions for improvement.

Here are some examples of his feedback, starting with an overview of each Act.

“Character and Conflict

In true noir style, the first chapter introduces both the protagonist [Hawkins] and a mysterious woman [O’Donnell] seeking help, firmly establishing both genre and voice. A man jumping from the window at the end of the first chapter establishes the cat and mouse tone for much of the story to come. The entrance of another mysterious woman [Orlova] with a diamond enquiry, a missing woman [Porter], a Housing Scam, a MI6 operative, a note from famous author - Arthur Ransome, and a Forgery operation, Act One is packed with narrative potential.

The Set-ups

The first act is the set-up of all set-ups – ending with the Hawkins beaten by some nefarious Russians, sending the reader hurtling into Act Two with a million questions and a genuine fear for the fate of the main character. Relationships with DI Thompson and Kate Allenby are also set up to be important.

Key Takeaways

● Strong genre establishment and tonal clarity

● High volume of plot threads introduced rapidly, perhaps overwhelming for the reader

● Ending provides effective momentum into Act Two.”

This helps me understand things from an outside perspective. He gave me a summary of what worked and what could be improved in structure and pace.

Ian then provided analysis on each of the protagonists and major supporting cast.

“Each of the Supporting Cast has a responsibility to have an impact on the story. Allenby is instrumental in uncovering the Housing Scam investigation, and is pivotal in the character development of Hawkins. Thompson plays a key role as Hawkins link to the Police force and the courts. Pounds plays the role of steady moralist - a catalyst for Hawkins character development. Saunders has, along with Allenby, the most persistent impact on Hawkins - much of the plot deriving around the fear of Hawkins not finding his rent.

I am concerned that the Old Men do not pull their wait in terms of impact, slowing the story for the sake of unneeded local colour. The participants in the major plot lines - the Porters, Shaw, Hancock and Douglas - are instrumental, although I think the Douglas plot line may be cut or streamlined the story. Mrs Jenkins and the lady in the Chemist work well to give a flavour of the times.

Key Takeaways

● Protagonist arc is strong but initially passive

● Antagonist threat levels are inconsistent

● Supporting cast generally contributes effectively.”

This helps me look at what I can do to make the effective characters better and where I need to reduce/remove others’ involvement.

Ian then went into a deep dive of the major characters, including their speech patterns and interactions with the protagonist:

“Dialogue analysis

The use of Hawkins’ name by Mrs Orlova conveys formality, politeness, emphasis, authority and intimacy:

● ‘I’ve lost something, Mr Hawkins. Something valuable to me and I would like you to find it.’ - formality

● ‘Are you able to help me, Mr Hawkins?’ - seduction

● ‘I would prefer this to be kept private, Mr Hawkins.’ - intimacy

● ‘Really, Mr Hawkins, do you expect me to believe that?’ - authority

Mrs Orlova sometimes exposes her limited English - creating the effect of contrived vulnerability:

● ‘This diamond is a family, what do you say? Loom?’

These give Hawkins the opportunity to correct Mrs Orlova and give him a false sense that he has some power or control in the conversation. This manipulative aspect of Mrs Orlova’s character allows her to maintain control of a conversation.”

I hadn’t thought about this in such depth while I was writing. I am now. Do you do this when you’re writing?

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I’ve only given you three sections from the 100-page report, but it’s enough to show you how thorough Ian was. It was above and beyond what I expected.

However, when I looked at the whole document and the amount of work I had yet to do, I was overwhelmed: I felt like retreating to the mythical cabin in the woods.

It’s taken me a couple of weeks to digest and get going again. Like anything, the first step is the hardest.

Ian laid out the major priorities for me, plus secondary and tertiary. I am revising in that order. It’s going to take some time, but I am convinced this novel will be my best one yet.

Thanks, Ian!

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First, I’m highlighting five books I’ve paid full price for. I normally buy second-hand books, or borrow from the library, or use one of the local book swaps, but the library didn’t stock any of these.

I was happy to pay full price for these books so the authors would get their royalties. I either know them personally or have read their Substacks and want to support their work.

1. These beautiful postcards came as a bonus in the boxed set of two books (part 1/part 2) of ‘s ‘I Don’t Want a Job’ (published by The Pound Project).

It was a delightful surprise opening the post and handling these beautifully crafted items. Neon literary magazine (sadly folded) used to create chapbooks and items like this. In a digital age, it’s nice to see someone creating nice things (affordable, too).

Amie expresses much of what I’ve thought over the years: work sucks. It doesn’t make you lazy if you don’t want to hold down a shitty job that saps your energy and creativity.

The second book gives some great ideas about how you can live as an artist and create, promote and sell your art. I am failing to describe how this whole project enthused and delighted me.

2. 20 Hacks for the 24-Hour Athlete. Brian McCormick

I’ve known Brian McCormick for over ten years now: he’s a basketball coach and coach educator. His lessons and ideas apply to many different sports: if you are a parent of a teen athlete, he’s worth reading.

3. Six Attempts, White Lights: Kazem Panjabi.

Kazem is a fellow weightlifting coach and technical official. He has generously given me his share of samosas when they are too spicy for him. This is a handy little book about preparing for and undertaking weightlifting competitions: a bit like Brian’s, it was written for his own athletes before being published.

It needs editing and better formatting to allow the excellent content to shine through (I did tell Kazem). The section on eating before and during a competition is invaluable.

4. Class: Stephanie Land.

You may know , from the TV series, ‘Maid.’ She’s an excellent writer and I recommend her Substack. Her life has been tumultuous and arduous, like many women in her position. More power to her writing elbow for sharing what life is like on food vouchers.

This is a well-written autobiography about the author's final year at college as a mature student, single-mum and house cleaner. It lacks the narrative drive of 'Maid' but it’s worth reading. (She gets bonus points for mentioning the Green Bay Packers and Seinfeld).

5.Katya Cengel: Bluegrass Baseball.

I don’t know Katya, but she was mentioned in the same YouTube show as me before Christmas.

This book is great: I have no interest in baseball, but I liked the Ron Shelton movies. I do have an interest in people striving hard to make it, and the realities of sport outside of the big time. It's well written and reminded me of 'Nomadland': delving into the life of an under-reported America.

There you have it: how I spent my disposable income helping fellow authors who have taken the time and effort to create something useful/fun/ original. Thanks to them all.

Of course, you could buy one of my books and help support me.

The Best of the Rest.

• A Curtain of Green and Other Stories: Eudora Welty. Wonderfully descriptive and rich stories of eccentric characters in the poor, rural Southern USA.

• The Road to Middle Earth: Tom Shippey. A fantastically detailed, organised, researched and written book about the origins and backgrounds of Tolkien’s works. Shippey tackles Tolkien’s uninformed and lazy critics head-on. I couldn’t put it down.

• The Lost Traveler: Sanora Babb. Sublime novel about a family experiencing highs and lows in Kansas in the 1930s. It's semi-autobiographical, and Babb writes with clarity, passion and drive.

• I Cheerfully Refuse: Leif Enger. Excellent dystopian novel that combines great writing with an interesting plot. Moving and thought-provoking, with great descriptions of life around Lake Superior.

Do you have a favourite book you’ve read in 2026? Please share in the comments.

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I wrote the following from a prompt in the Gotham Writers’ weekly ‘Write-In.’

Kitchen Mishap

If I listed all the mishaps in one day of my life, it would be as long as my forearm. If I listed all the mishaps in a week, I’d need to sellotape several sheets of paper together. If I listed all the mishaps in a year, I’d increase Finland’s GDP by half a per cent thanks to the increase in tree exports.

I read a book called ‘The 7 Secrets of Success,’ its oxymoronic title aside (how can anything published be a secret?), the author spent most of her time talking about all the good things that had happened to her. Not once did she acknowledge the sweet embrace of Dame Fortune: her college-educated parents, her white skin and blonde hair that opened more doors than the old dude outside the Savoy, and her husband—who worked as a financial trader—providing a safety net for any risks she took.

I finished my bottle of wine and threw the book at the pile of dirty laundry in the corner of my bedsit. If I had all her attributes, or at least the two most prominent ones that were able to push the doors open at least two seconds before the rest of her body followed, I would also be able to write a book about the ‘importance of networking,’ and ‘winning the room.’

My normal-size breasts and saggy hips didn’t distract anyone from what I was saying. The men in any room were quick to pounce on my ideas and claim them for their own, or worse, ignore them. I’d earned my degree in business the hard way: part-time at South Bank while cleaning hotel rooms and bar-tending at the comedy club. I was qualified but in debt.

Forget winning the room, I’d settle for a draw.

I kicked the coffee table away from the sofa, dislodging two books and three old copies of the BBC Good Food magazine. I’d been given a six-month description, I mean prescription, I mean, what is that damn word? Subscription! There it was on the tip of my tongue.

I needed something to soak up the wine. The kitchenette looked like a scene from ‘Casualty,’ but with pots, pans and vegetable peelings instead of surgical instruments and plastic gloves scattered across the worktop. The charred remains of my creamy penne, chicken, chorizo and spinach effort from the March issue sat in the saucepan resentfully. I’d mutilated the recipe despite following the instructions as best as I could. I never knew what a ‘handful’ meant, and I didn’t own a tablespoon, so I guessed the measurements.

I scraped the goo onto the saucepan lid - my two plates were dirty - wiped a fork on my cardigan and took a bite. I crunched and swallowed the hard pasta. I needed to put more chicken stock in next time. Still, it was solid enough to line my stomach.

I needed a clear head for my morning presentation. My ideas for energy efficiency had been ignored, my analysis of sales trends dismissed. Instead, I’d been asked to prepare a proposal for healthy eating in the staff canteen. Being a black woman, my place in the kitchen had been decided for me.

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The first draft was completed in 15 minutes, then I read it to the group. I’m always amazed at what comes out of my pen in such a short time.

Then I’m humbled and inspired listening to the other writers who come up with different (and better) work than mine. As a sports coach, I think you need to play/compete to test where you are. The feedback you get from the competition is essential to improve.

While writing shouldn’t be a competition (despite the fact we’re all competing for readers’ attention), putting your work out there is a chance to test and receive feedback about your work.

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However, one of the pitfalls is having to promote your own work (although I understand even ‘traditional’ published authors also have to put in increasing amounts of legwork). In an environment where everyone is competing for a declining audience, and AI-generated slop is overwhelming platforms, how can one author, with no existing fanbase, gain traction in readership?

If you’re looking for the silver bullet, stop reading (maybe go to my site and buy one of my books?).

I’m going to share a couple of things I’ve done recently that have led to minimal gains: you might be able to improve on what I’ve done or avoid the same mistakes.

1: Storygraph Giveaway

The attentive reader may remember that I tried a Storygraph giveaway for ‘The Poster’ last year. It didn’t generate any sales then, but it put the book in front of 50 new readers, three of whom left reviews.

This time, I offered 250 free (digital) copies of Stone and Water in the November/December giveaway. The one good thing about Storygraph is that you get up-to-date statistics on what is happening. You can see this in the dashboard below:

Two thousand four hundred people entered the giveaway; at least some of them must have read the description, and one hundred and fifty-five people liked it enough to add it to their ‘To-read’ section.

Six weeks after the promotion finished, and after one ‘congratulations’ email from me and a follow-up ‘please leave a review’ email. I now have three reviews of Stone and Water on Storygraph.

Be careful what you wish for. Here is the first review that was posted:

Needless to say, this promotion has generated zero sales for Stone and Water. Your work may do better.

• Cost= £36

• Time = about one hour.

• Sales= zero.

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2: Libraro

This site allows you to upload samples of your work, with a whole manuscript available for readers who want to know more. Its stated aim is to bypass agents and put writers’ work in front of ‘decision-makers.’

I was given a free code that allowed me to upload one book. I did that in May last year. You can see the responses in the picture below:

I was an early adopter of the site, so my book was one of only a handful on there, and maybe that was a problem. Now, with more users, I still haven’t generated any traction.

• Cost= zero.

• Time = about one hour.

• Sales= zero.

This was worth a punt, but I wouldn’t pay to add another book.

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3: Wattpad

This site was mentioned by another Substack writer: , and so I thought I’d give it a go. It appears to be filled with AI-generated RomCom slop, so I wasn’t holding out much hope.

I have had a few comments and messages, but all from people professing to take my marketing to ‘the next-level’! I’ve uploaded three sample chapters of both my books and left them there. I’m not investing any more time into this.

• Cost= zero.

• Time = about one hour.

• Sales= zero.

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4: Writing Magazine

I submitted an author profile with some blurb for a feature in ‘Writing Magazine.’ WM offers its subscribers this opportunity for free (subscriptions cost £5 for 5 issues and is worth doing for the ‘publishing updates’ alone.

For the first month after its publication, my Amazon sales figures showed the usual tumbleweed rolling across my screen. I bumped into my fellow Green Bay Packers fan in our village, John, at a Willand Rovers match, and he said he’d seen me in WM! I had told him several times about my writing, previously.

He said the article was good. I asked if he’d bought my book. He said, ‘no.’ I left it there.

Then, I saw him in January at another Rovers match. After consoling each other about the Packers’ dismal end to the season, John said, ‘Guess what I got for Christmas?’

I guessed right: his wife had bought him a copy of ‘The Poster!’ Hoorah!

• Cost= zero (I was already a subscriber; otherwise, £5).

• Time = about one hour.

• Sales= 1.

So there you have it: all that PR work for one sale, and that was almost a word of mouth anyway. I’ve sold far more books to people in Willand than in the rest of the world put together!

You can buy my books from the links on my author website.

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Thanks to everyone who voted in my ‘Choose your own adventure’ post. The results are here:

If you have time, please read both pieces, and then you get to vote in the poll at the bottom. No gerrymandering here: everyone can vote.

If you don’t like either or had a favourite piece from my previous posts that you would like expanded, please leave a comment.

n.b. no AI-generated slop here: all slop is of my own creation!

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Travel Light

Once you’ve seen one Supernova, you’ve seen them all. But Nebulae are different- each one a spectacular arrangement of different colours and shapes that are so vast as to be incomprehensible unless you are a light year away. I spent hours in the viewing gallery when we travelled past a Nebulae, sipping on a cocktail while reclining in the melder-couch that adapted to my ageing body.

I’d taken passage for a year on the Superfast Ship Tracey. The faster-than-light engines, the plush accommodation and the plexiglass viewing galleries were all state-of-the-art; the pinnacle of imagination, design and engineering. Until they left the naming to some bureaucratic drone in a grey basement somewhere.

My quarters were on the third floor of the mid-section, forward of the biodome but aft of the food and entertainment hall. It meant I could turn left out of my door for peace and tranquillity, or turn right and be absorbed into the throng of people. I sometimes flipped a coin rather than having to make a decision—it was my holiday after all—an ancient silver dollar with an eagle on one side and a profile of King Donald on the other.

The coin was one of my few possessions—we’d been told to travel light, one suitcase was enough. My zero-G baller gloves took up too much space, but I never liked to borrow a pair from the gym. Mine were worn in and fitted my hands like a… Well, you’d think gloves would fit your hand, but most don’t.

I got into an argument with Sheila from 2C about gloves. She told me to stop being so precocious. I told her it was easy not to care about them when you had the hands of a digital clock—she dropped more balls than anyone. She dropped me next.

Returning to my quarters, I saw the red light flashing by the comm-screen. The Captain had left a shipwide announcement about a short diversion to view an uncharted black hole.

‘We’ll stay far enough out of its pull to be safe,’ she said. ‘But near enough to see what stars are being dragged in.’

I clicked on the green tick icon to say I approved. I was in the minority. The passengers vetoed the Captain. When I ate my tacos in the evening, I heard three passengers discussing the physics of black holes. What was a Starship Captain’s knowledge and experience when these three idiots had seen ‘The Black Hole’ running on screen 7 of the multiplex the week before?

The Captain might know about the stars, but she had a terrible sense of timing.

National Park

Tom drove across the deserted moor on a Thursday evening after school. His route to his mother’s home followed the River Exe winding back to its source on a barren slope. The car windows were down because the A/C was broken and would cost £376 to repair. Despite his head of department salary, Tom was stony-broke.

He shifted down to second as the road tightened and turned left. He knew the cattle grid was ahead and braced himself as his barely-legal tyres rattled across the metal. No cattle had roamed the moors for a century, and even the Exmoor ponies had been hunted to extinction for their meat and hides, going the way of the wolf and the bear before them.

Tom slowed down as he reached the crossroads and wound up his windows. He checked the revolver in the side pocket of the driver’s door. The reavers were rumoured to be hunting again, pushed in from the coast now the herrings had migrated south and the food supplies diminished. The staffroom was awash with tales of the reavers eating human flesh and sacrificing unsuspecting civilians who got caught travelling alone.

Tom had sneered until he’d had the message from his wife about their son, Will.

‘He’s got Ebola. He might not make it.’

The message had come in over the school satellite link, taking up valuable data space from their budget.

The head teacher had tskd, before adding, ‘We need that capacity for our payroll transfers,’ with a straight face. None of the teachers had been paid for three months. They’d taken to siphoning off pupil rations from the lunch boxes. A step so low, Tom didn’t think he could sink any further despite his growing hunger.

He gripped the wheel and stared forward into the setting sunlight. Shapes made long shadows towards his car. The shapes revealed themselves to be humans, or creatures who were once humans. They were dressed in a mix of rags and furs, dishevelled and gaunt. Dozens of them. Three long-legged dogs with ribs protruding under their pale skins raised their heads.

Tom steered left, driving over the ferns and the gorse, his teeth rattled, and a molar, long overdue for a filling, protested, sending searing pain into his skull. He winced and closed his eyes, forgetting where he was for an instant. The next thing he knew, he was upside down.

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Mike Hawkins is a divorced Burma veteran with PTSD struggling to work as a P.I. in Ipswich. Alcohol and regrets fill his days until a woman walks into his office carrying a letter addressed to the famous author, Arthur Ransome. Inside the envelope is a diamond. The woman wants to know if it’s genuine.

Set against a backdrop of a rebuilding Britain where local people are struggling to get a footing in the new world order, while big business is seeking to profit, Hawkins realises there is more to life than his own woes.

This is a change of genre, time and location from both of my previous two novels: The Poster and Stone and Water.

I’m not sure I’m working any quicker, but I think I’ve got to the nub of the story sooner than with the previous two novels. My first draft was a messy flow that left more loose ends than a trainee hairdresser.

On my second draft, I concentrated on separating the two protagonists and their struggles and worked through each individually. I wanted to make sure their stories and motivations made sense.

For this last draft, I wove the two sections together, threading the sub-plot through the main plot while trying to maintain pace and tension. Although time appears to be linear, events and circumstances rarely follow in nice sequences (not for me, anyway).

I’ve also attempted to weave in the backstory of how Hawkins got his PTSD. This gave me a chance to write about the jungle!

Next up: I’m going to get another pair of eyes on this and ask for a critical appraisal. I need this outside perspective before diving into the nitty-gritty. I don’t want to expend time and effort perfecting paragraphs, only to cut them out later on.

I’m happy with the progress so far, but there’s a lot of work still to be done.

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In other news, we have been surrounded by flooded roads over the last two weeks. A blocked drainage outlet has caused chaos on one B-road and then this happened on Tuesday:

That’s a lot of water! The road is normally about 1.5 metres above the level of the stream and the fields are about a mile long and 400 metres across. The floodplain usually works, but this shows how much rain must have come down.

The BBC are replaying their audio version of Rosemary Sutcliff’s ‘The Eagle of the Ninth.’ (Thanks to for sharing this).

I’m not one for listening to the spoken word on podcasts or the radio, but I did love Sutcliff’s books when I was growing up. She never seemed to talk down to the reader.

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I enjoyed the chance to read ‘Martin Chuzzlewit,’ watch several movies (the BBC hosted a Hitchcock season), and spend a few days in Cornwall at Duloe, near Looe. I started 2026 refreshed and invigorated, despite the freezing weather!

Standing in the stone circle at Duloe: the inspiration for my novel, ‘Stone and Water.’

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Here’s a short essay I wrote from a writing prompt in my regular Friday night group at Gotham.

I don’t ever want to be too old to skip.

If I’m too old to skip, then I’m too old to laugh, too old to express joy—too old to live. I think most people aren’t too old to skip; people get old because they don’t skip, rather than because they become too old to skip. They choose not to skip, and then they can’t.

The expectations of life—the seriousness, the maturity, the burdens of responsibility—create crushing weights upon people’s chests, like the stones placed upon Giles Corey’s chest in ‘The Crucible.’ The career-obsessed drones cry out for ‘more weight,’ and then post on social media about their work, as if it’s a good thing.

Instead of skipping for inner joy, they indulge in external vices in an effort to balance the scales: alcohol to cope at the end of the working day; methadone to fill the void of having no relationships except transactional ones; and cocaine to fuel their work habits and ‘powering through’ 70-hour working weeks.

At some point, the physical toll caused by indulging in alcohol and client-entertaining meals at fancy restaurants has to be paid. Physical exercise becomes another urgent addition to the ten-twelve working-hour day for the corporate professional; instead of skipping for free, they trudge their way to the treadmill before, during, or after work.

How things have changed since the nineteenth century, when the proletariat were sent to the treadmill by their overseers as punishment for minor infractions: not making their quotas, failing to buy goods from the factory owner’s shops, joining the Chartist movement, or protesting against the inhuman conditions and asking for the law to be changed to make ten hours the maximum they had to work in one day.

The workers eventually won, and the age at which children could be forced to work rose and rose, giving them time to be educated, to rest, and have the energy to play and, if they chose, to skip. Now it is the professional classes that pay money to use the treadmill.

Sisyphus was condemned to pushing a rock up a hill; now people pay for similar toil.

Let me skip outside: forwards, backwards, arms in the air, fast ones, or higher ones. Let me get out of breath, and smile, and feel the joy, as if in love, or young and carefree. You can keep your drugs, your status symbols and your chemsex (no, I didn’t know what that was either, until an acquaintance of mine was sentenced for twenty years in a Spanish gaol for murdering a male escort in a chemsex bout).

When I’m too old to skip, I’ll know it’s time to go.

Skipping is a mindset: even if the body becomes frail or suffers from ailments, a twinkle in the eye can remain if you are a skipper-at-heart. Someone who wants to live life rather than exist.

Let me skip my way into the twilight of my life and not give a damn what anyone else thinks.

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Remember, you can read about both my novels on my author website here.

The expeditionary-marine crawled behind the stack of empty crates and wiped the sweat from his forehead, smearing the camouflage make-up. He was near the spaceport… and salvation. He’d been separated from his squad two hours ago and had to scurry from boulder to boulder in what little cover there was on this stretch of lizard-infested scrub.

Jake’s helmet was strapped to his dusty webbing, his rifle clipped to his chest and a pair of binoculars dangled from his neck: the straps twisted like a garrotte around the radio mike attached to his throat. Heat, dust, thirst, and ill-fitting equipment: Jake had enough to worry about without the enemy patrol on the side of the mountain above him. He’d hoped his squad would be here, but he couldn’t see them. They could be ahead, hidden or dead.

Sgt Trevis, known as ‘Dad’ by his squad because of his kind nature and prematurely balding head, was leading them to the coast. His sturdy presence kept a semblance of discipline after the rout, his firm hand on Jake’s trembling shoulder during the last firefight had stopped Jake from turning tail. Instead, he cleared his weapon blockage, loaded another battery pack, and aimed at the enemy soldiers’ feet on dad’s advice.

Sgt Trevis had issued clear, calm orders. ‘Their force fields only go to their knees, remember, lads.’

Whomp, whomp. Jake shrunk behind the crate as he felt the air vibrate. The enemy’s dual rotor chopper pushed dust and grit into his eyes, mouth and nose. The chopper moved on and Jake tried to spit but there was no saliva left.

He peered around the crate and saw black-robed grunts carrying laser carbines. His squad had been fooled once by the primitive-looking enemy whose unburdened movements were faster and more fluid than the heavily burdened expeditionary marines.

‘Racing snakes against tortoises,’ Sgt Trevis had said.

Those were the last words Jake had heard before the explosion. He didn’t know how long he was out: the dual suns and thirty-two hour days played havoc with his internal clock. When he regained consciousness, he was alone.

A small grey lizard peered over the crate. Its tongue flicked in and out while it lifted one foot then the other. Jake smiled. Reptiles were similar on most planets and reminded him of home. Then he heard orders being yelled in the alien tongue. The lizard scampered away and Jake, with no shell to retreat inside, curled up, ready for the worst. He wished Dad was there with him.

The voices diminished. Jake peered around the crate. The grunts were moving west towards the mountains.

The coast is clear. Jake ran to the edge of what looked like a warehouse. A patch of grass and shrubs grew around the rear of the building, watered by a leaky tap. Jake knelt under the tap and felt three drops of warm water on his tongue before he thought about turning the tap. The pipe coughed and spluttered while brown water ran out. The water turned red and, finally, a dirty yellow. Jake filled his helmet and dropped a puritab into it and swirled it vigorously.

While he waited for the puritab to dissolve, Jake looked around. Something red was under a row of green leaves. He bent down and saw half a dozen strawberries - a minor miracle, probably grown from a coloniser’s discarded picnic waste. He popped one into his mouth and felt the soft juice ease down his throat. He devoured the rest.

A stone scraped.

Jake froze, a line of red juice caught in his stubble. He gripped his weapon with sweaty palms and turned slowly.

If you liked this, then you’ll love, ‘The Poster.’

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The shells of new houses were being built in the field across the road from our end-of-terrace ex-council house on Henley View. The infilling was gradually obscuring the view of Henley, and instead of the sleeping giant-shaped wood, we saw breeze blocks and foundations.

I pulled up my jacket collar, climbed over the five-bar gate and looked for the house closest to being completed. It didn’t have a roof, but it did have a first floor, so the ground rooms had ceilings of sorts. I curled up in a dusty corner and tried to sleep.

The next morning, shivering, I returned home and took my mother a cup of tea in bed. She emerged later on, bleary-eyed, without saying a word. I kept my head down and tried to avoid confrontation in a wary peace like two border guards on either side of the Berlin wall.

Two days after my eighteenth birthday, I was thrown out again. We’d gone out to eat in the only restaurant in the small town where I lived—a rare treat—on the Friday. I met some friends later and went to The Palace nightclub and drank my first pint of beer. One was enough. I knew what alcohol could do, and I was determined not to let it happen to me.

At Sunday lunch, my mother was complaining about not having enough money to buy clothes. I suggested she stop drinking for a week and use the saved money to treat herself.

‘Out!’ she shouted, her face red from Cinzano. ‘Out! And don’t come back.’

I went upstairs and packed a suitcase. My younger sister watched me in silence. I walked down the road with her to the phone box and rang my grandparents. My Grandpa, an ex-Regimental Sergeant-Major in the Eighth Army who was no stranger to heavy drinking, came to pick me up. He went into my house and, five minutes later, returned.

‘Your mother’s been drinking,’ he said.

I nodded. It was an open secret that was never discussed—enabling some people might call it now. Christmases revolved around ‘stocking up’ on booze: bottles and bottles to be shared between my mother and her parents. My sister and I sitting on the floor below the worst layers of yellow cigarette and pipe smoke that clung to the ceiling and stained the wallpaper (and our lungs) while the adults drank and drank.

So being told by my Grandpa that my mother had been drinking was like being told by J.D. Vance that Donald Trump had an erratic personality.

I stayed at my grandparents’ house for a few weeks until I moved on and joined the army. My military career was brief: curtailed by a broken ankle. I was medically discharged and left with my Bergen, desert boots and a couple of thousand pounds in my bank account. I had calloused soles from marching but the abrupt end and sense of abandonment had also left me with a calloused soul.

I turned left out of the barracks gate—life might have been different if I’d turned right—and headed into the town. I had no destination in mind and nowhere to sleep that night. The travel agents had flight offers printed on index cards posted in their window. I went in and booked a ticket to Los Angeles, one way. I slept on a bench at Heathrow Airport that night and caught the flight the next morning.

Six months later, with darker skin and a smaller bank balance, I returned to the UK on a gloomy November morning. I stood under the train boards at Paddington station with no idea where to go. I took the next train out and disembarked in Taunton, a medium—sized town I hoped might have some work.

I walked into the town with all my worldly possessions: my Bergen, a new kit bag with some discounted Nike trainers, jeans and shirts bought in NYC and a ‘Go Bo Go,’ t-shirt that has since become a collector’s item. I had eighty pounds left in my pocket. I found the job centre and they said the conference hotel on the edge of town was hiring. The lady in the job centre rang the supervisor for me and set up an interview for 1400 hours.

I bought a local paper and a pasty, and scoured the smalls for accommodation. I used a precious ten pence to ring a landlady and made an appointment to see her at 1700. Rent was thirty-five pounds per week for a room in a shared house.

Despite the chill, sweat was dripping down my back by the time I’d walked the two miles to the hotel. The barman gave me a pint of water that I downed in one. I was interviewed by a young lady with too much lipstick and white concealer who said I could start the next day. I’d need black trousers, black shoes and a white shirt. I shook hands and calculated my expenses. It was going to be tight.

The landlady was nice, she was a nurse in the hospital, and I could move in straight away. My room had a double bed, a wardrobe, a chest of drawers and a TV. One set of linen was provided. I treated myself to a pint of milk and a packet of teabags from the corner shop and took a long shower. I lay in my new bed and thought myself lucky.

In December 1990, I had food (Christmas banquets at the hotel meant plenty of extra meals on shift) and shelter and was earning more than I was spending. I spent Christmas Day working and enjoyed it more than any other Christmas that I could remember.

Thirty-five years later, and I own my own house. Outright. Friends mocked me for always wanting to overpay my mortgage and for worrying about being in debt. ‘It’s cheap interest,’ they said. ‘You can borrow more.’

They didn’t understand. I wanted peace of mind. I wanted security for my children and a place they could call home. Something I’d never had when growing up.

I’m fortunate now. Many people aren’t. It’s why I detest schmaltzy movies like ‘The Holiday’ where people whinge about their first-world problems. (It’s a Wonderful Life is much more realistic, despite the angel.)

I’ve subscribed to the Big Issue for the last five years. This excellent organisation is designed to give the vendors a ‘hand-up, not a hand-out.’ If you aren’t in a position to financially help others, at least give them the time of day and spare a smile and a kind word.

Happy Yuletide to all my readers. Thanks for giving up your precious time to join me on my journey.

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There are three weeks left this year, and I shall have some more time to read. I’ve set aside ‘Martin Chuzzlewit’, by Dickens, for the Yuletide period when I am off work. In the meantime, here are my recommendations, plus the full list and a brief review of each.

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Top 5 Books

I’m only including books that are new to me (I did re-read a couple of my all-time favourites, including The Lord of the Rings, but that would be cheating), rather than ‘new’. I avoid the hype and try to read what stands the test of time.

Four of my top-five books: I don’t know what it says about me, reading these old, mostly rural books, with a lot of poverty in them.

In no particular order:

1. An Owl on Every Post: Sanora Babb. A memoir about a young girl’s life on the Colorado plains in the 1910s. A sublime piece of writing that is hard to praise too much. I want to read everything this woman wrote now.

2. Changing Places: David Lodge. Funny, clever and well-written novel set in 1969 about two academics swapping positions. Laugh out loud in places. Satirical look at the two different cultures, and the day-to-day detail is spot on.

3. Whose Names are Unknown: Sanora Babb. Sublime novel about two families of Oklahoman farmers who migrate to California after several droughts. The writing and detail of the lives involved are fantastic.

4. The Winter of Our Discontent: John Steinbeck. A fantastic novel about a small town shop assistant who deals with failure, success, greed, altruism and familial harmonies and tragedies in almost equal measure. Steinbeck captures the human condition within a humdrum setting. Sublime.

5. The Intellectual Life of the British Working Classes: Jonathan Rose. Excellent account of the autodidact tradition amongst communities across Britain. It shows a desire for knowledge and self-improvement that has sadly been lost and replaced by consumerism.

Have you read any of these?

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The Full List

1. Cloudland Revisited. S.J. Perelman. Witty collection of essays recalling books read and silent movies watched as a youth and revisited as an adult.

2. The Headspace Guide to Mindful Eating: Andy Puddicombe. Useful book about paying attention to what and how we eat. Fifty pages too long.

3. The Root of His Evil: James M. Cain. Enjoyable dark comedy novel about a waitress marrying into money and falling out of favour.

4. Oppositions: Mary Gaitskill. Thought-provoking essays that are intelligent and nuanced. Recommended.

5. That Old Ace in the Hole: Annie Proulx. A pleasant, immersive ramble around the Texas Panhandle at the turn of the century. Location and characters are excellent.

6. Poverty, by America. Matthew Desmond. Detailed, passionate and evidence-based book about the causes of poverty in the USA.

7. Drive: James Sallis. Terse, atmospheric short noir novel about a stuntman/heist driver in LA who is double-crossed. Enjoyable, if brief.

8. Orbitsville Departure: Bob Shaw. Simple SF novel with some outdated tropes. I couldn’t see it being published today. Good in parts.

9. Changing Places: David Lodge. Funny, clever and well-written novel set in 1969 about two academics swapping positions. Laugh out loud in places. Satirical look at the two different cultures, and the day-to-day detail is spot on.

10. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn: Mark Twain. I last read this novel about 45 years ago. The narration, social, geographical, and cultural backgrounds are excellent. It’s a great read until the last few chapters, good overall.

11. James Tiptree, Jr. The Double Life of Alice Sheldon: Julie Phillips. An excellent biography of this elusive SF author. It covers Sheldon’s life in detail, with insights into her confused sexuality, depression and attempts to find her way in a series of interesting jobs before writing as Tiptree.

12. Ten Thousand Light Years: James Tiptree, Jr. A collection of short stories, some of which are difficult to read because of the layout and techno-babble. A couple of good ones.

13. An Owl on Every Post: Sanora Babb. A memoir about a young girl’s life on the Colorado plains in the 1910s. A sublime piece of writing that is hard to praise too much. I want to read everything this woman wrote now.

14. Glencoe: John Prebble. A detailed account of the massacre of highlanders in 1692. A sorry mark in our history, and the author, who served in WWII draws some comparison with the genocide in that conflict.

15. A Guide to Tolkien: David Day. An A-Z of major and minor characters, places and legends from Tolkien’s works. A nice ‘filler’ that I read in small doses between other books.

16. The Player of Games: Iain M. Banks. Excellent SF novel about a games player being sent to an alien universe to play a master game. I devoured this in a few settings. I last read it in 1988.

17. Puttering About in a Small Land: Philip K. Dick. A good, enjoyable novel about three people in two marriages in 1950s L.A. None of the characters are likeable, but their infidelity and motives are believable.

18. The Editor. Sara B. Franklin. An interesting, well-researched, labour of love biography of Judith Jones. One for the foodies, I think.

19. The Outsiders: S.E. Hinton. The genius voice of a young ‘Greaser’ set over a life-changing week. Feels fresh and relevant (if USA-based) today.

20. Orbitsville Judgement: Bob Shaw. Easy-to-read conclusion to the SF trilogy. Feels more like a Western in parts, but finishes with hard SF.

21. A Tragic Honesty: Blake Bailey. A long biography of Richard Yates. It’s well-written and enlightening, but hard-going to read about the decline of Yates’ physical and mental health. The title says it all.

22. The 5 Types of Wealth: Sahil Bloom. A guide to improving your life by focusing on 5 areas: time, social, mental, physical and financial wealth. Clearly aimed at ‘executives’ who are at risk of burnout. The anecdotes are all based on ‘entrepreneurs’ who realised there was more to life than chasing dollars (once they already had a tonne). Some good points in it.

23. A Stained White Radiance: James Lee Burke. Atmospheric crime novel. I read it 25 years ago. A good holiday read.

24. Ruined City: Nevil Shute. A well-written but dull novel with a social message about paternal capitalism.

25. The Intellectual Life of the British Working Classes: Jonathan Rose. Excellent account of the autodidact tradition amongst communities across Britain. It shows a desire for knowledge and self-improvement that has sadly been lost and replaced by consumerism.

26. Clear: Carys Davies. Short, eloquent and poetic. But, unlike a lot of ‘literary’ books, something happens!

27. The Life and Death of a Druid Prince: Anne Ross & Don Robins. Interesting account and speculation about an archaeological find from the 1980s.

28. Flanagan’s Run: Tom McNab. Pulp novel based on the 1931 Trans-America road race. A mix of sports reporting with social commentary. An easy read.

29. It’s Me, O Lord!: A.E. Coppard. An amusing and informative autobiography by one of my favourite short story writers. He’s economical with some of the facts but entertaining nonetheless.

30. The Genius of John Ruskin. Ed. John D. Rosenberg. Collected writings of the 19th-century polymath. Inspirational in parts but dull in others. His writing improves over the years.

31. The Conquest of Plassans: Emile Zola. A nineteenth-century novel set in rural France. I found it hard going in places, funny and tragic in others.

32. Eight Hours From England: Anthony Quayle. A vivid semi-autobiographical novel about the author’s frustrated attempt to coordinate resistance fighters in Albania in 1943. It hums along and is well-written.

33. The Last Day of Lincoln Charles: Gordon M. Williams. A smutty novel about a 19-year-old black American soldier who has a nervous breakdown in a British seaside town in 1965. It reminded me of Jaws: the local businessmen try to stop the police from broadcasting bad news and taking appropriate safety measures.

34. The Outsider: Frederick Forsyth. A ripping yarn of an autobiography. Low on detail on his family life, high on intrigue and adventure. Not your average author.

35. From the City, From the Plough: Alexander Baron. A fantastic, semi-autobiographical novel about an infantry battalion preparing for, and participating in, the D-Day invasion. Superbly written, tragicomic anecdotes that capture the life of the soldier.

36. The Pyramid: Henning Mankell. A collection of short stories and a novella about Wallander’s first cases. The translation appeared stilted, but entertaining enough.

37. Eagle in the Snow: Wallace Breem. My third time reading this classic historical novel set in Britain and Germany at the end of the Roman Empire. The prose is excellent, the characters well drawn and subtle, the build-up and sense of doom mixed with hope and the detail of the logistics involved are absorbing.

38. Trial by Battle: David Piper. Short novel set in Malaya in WWII with an excellent semi-autobiographical account of jungle warfare and confusion.

39. There’s No Home: Alexander Baron. A well-written, but limited novel, about a British battalion stationed in a Sicilian town in WWII between battles.

40. Driven: Donald Driver & Peter Golenbock. Terrible ‘auto’ biography by one of my favourite Packers players. Avoid.

41. The Siege of Krishnapur. Flabby novel set in a town in India during the nineteenth-century mutiny. The author shows off his ‘research’ for long periods, making it a dull read.

42. The Return of the Native: Thomas Hardy. Excellent novel about realistic and flawed characters and their rural life at the end of the nineteenth century.

43. That Glimpse of Truth: 100 of the finest short stories ever written. Ed. David Miller. A huge collection of stories that I read in small bites between other books. Some great work in here from varied authors. A pleasure to discover new ones.

44. The History of Luminous Motion: Scott Bradfield. A stream of consciousness novel about a disturbed eight-year-old boy and his bedridden mother and weird friends. Well written.

45. The Moon is Down: John Steinbeck. Short, well-written novel about a fictional town invaded and occupied in a European war. Shows the humanity of both sides.

46. Whose Names are Unknown: Sanora Babb. Sublime novel about two families of Oklahoman farmers who migrate to California after several droughts. The writing and detail of the lives involved are fantastic.

47. Wyrd Sisters: Terry Pratchett. Funny novel that uses Macbeth as a template for farce and magic. I haven’t read it for 30 years: the wordplay is superb.

48. The Lord of the Rings: J.R.R. Tolkien. I haven’t read this for about four years. I’ve read it over a dozen times now, and enjoyed it just as much as the first time. Probably more because I could enjoy the detail.

49. Thud!: Terry Pratchett. Disappointing Discworld novel. I last read it 20 years ago, but it seems overcomplicated now. Not his best.

50. Stories Volume 1: Ray Bradbury. A huge collection of his short stories (956 pages) that stretch from Carnivals in the Midwest to the rocky mountains of Mars. It’s a mixed bag: some are very good, others are just ok.

51. The Silent Guides: Steve Peters. A confusing book about psychological development. I’m not sure who it’s aimed at. It seems like it’s for parents, but it’s too gobbledygook. It’s too simplistic for anyone with knowledge of sports psychology.

52. Stealing Fire: Steven Kotler & Jamie Wheal. Pretentious and arrogant book that sneers at normality from the viewpoint of the privileged few. None of these authors ever seems to have to do the weekly shop, the school run or clean a toilet.

53. Animal Planet: Scott Bradfield. Truly original novel about animals who talk and gain independence (of a sort). It’s funny, well-written and topical, despite being written 30 years ago.

54. Range: David Epstein. An interesting general science/anthropology book about the benefits of generalisation before specialisation. It has good examples and is well-referenced.

55. Galactic Empires 2: Ed. Brian Aldiss. Great collection of SF stories from the 1940s, 50’s and one from the 60s. Aldiss’ commentaries are excellent.

56. The Winter of Our Discontent: John Steinbeck. A fantastic novel about a small town shop assistant who deals with failure, success, greed, altruism and familial harmonies and tragedies in almost equal measure. Steinbeck captures the human condition within a humdrum setting. Sublime.

57: Fallen Leaves: Will Durant. An interesting collection of philosophical essays about life, science, art, war, education and history. Some of the attitudes are a bit dated (written in the mid-late twentieth century), but some are as relevant today as they were then.

58. The Dying Earth: Jack Vance. Laborious and scattered fantasy collection of stories. It reads like a Dungeons and Dragons campaign.

59. Judge Dredd: The Complete Case Files 05: John Wagner & Alan Grant. A collection of some of my favourite stories from when I was an avid subscriber. Block Mania and The Apocalypse War are still entertaining now.

60. The Military Institutions of the Romans: Renatus. A classic text written in the fourth century by a scholar looking to halt the decline of the Roman fighting capabilities. It’s full of interesting details about life in the legion, as well as general maxims about war.

61. The Night of the Jabberwock: Fredric Brown. A comedy-thriller set in a small town in the Midwest USA. The protagonist is a newspaper editor who seems to drink about three bottles of whisky over one night, and still stands! Short but good.

62. Strontium Dog Volume One: J. Wagner, A. Grant, & C. Ezquerra. Classic comic strip from 2000AD.

63. Run the Lydiard Way: Arthur Lydiard & Garth Gilmour. A guide to middle- and long-distance running by the successful coach. Written in 1978, some of the ideas and evidence are outdated, but it’s a useful look at how his system worked.

64. Yet More Penguin Science Fiction: Ed. Brian Aldiss. The third in this series of classic SF short stories I’ve read. Nice to dip in and out of.

65. The Condition of the Working Class in England: Friedrich Engels. A grim, detailed account of the absolute misery of working life in England in the early 1840s. It’s a tough read, but worth it

So, there you have it. If you have any suggestions or thoughts on the list, please leave a comment. Thanks for reading.

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Happy Thanksgiving to my American readers. I’m sharing another piece of flash fiction for you to enjoy in your post-turkey stupor.

I’m about ready to tackle my third novel, The Letter, again after a much-needed break. I was explaining to my friend, Rob, while walking across the Blackdowns last Sunday, how writing a novel was hard work. It’s such a huge task that it takes a lot of energy and concentration to do it properly (at least as properly as I am currently capable).

I find that in life overall, many people can do superficial work and gain a superficial understanding, but to do deep, thorough and meaningful work is a rare thing. Anyone who does leave the shallow puddle and wade into deeper waters is taking a risk. But the rewards are greater too: I’m not talking financial rewards, just the satisfaction of doing things well.

A.I. can’t give you that. Nor can binge-watching Netflix’s latest low-brow content, designed for people ‘double-screening.’

What do you do that takes full concentration and challenges you? Does it leave you satisfied, fulfilled and wanting to do more? I hope so.

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Following on from part 2, Ricardo, the captain of the duke’s lancer squadron, has been captured by the rebels. He sees them eating horse meat…

Ricardo spun around to look in the direction the woman was pointing, but he couldn’t see anything past the fires.

‘How do I know that’s true?’ He knew there was no reason for the woman to lie, but frustration was driving his actions. He’d been outfought, outmanoeuvred and was now outnumbered: there was no point lashing out because he would be struck down in seconds.

The woman held out her hands in a conciliatory gesture. ‘I’ll take you to see her, Captain.’ She nodded at the guards who stepped closer to Ricardo. ‘You can go back to your meal, Orryn,’ she added. ‘And Halline.’

Orryn nodded and disappeared into the shadows.

Ricardo blinked. The woman was softly spoken, but men were responding to her gestures and commands without hesitation. There appeared to be absolute dedication amongst the rebels.

The woman held out her right hand. ‘I am Nasyra.’

Ricardo looked at the long muscles in her forearm: a bowman’s arm. ‘I’m not shaking hands with a traitor.’

‘Still on ceremony, Captain?’ Nasyra lowered her hand. ‘Fair enough, but there’s no one to parade past here.’ She gestured around the camp. ‘Fancy plumes and gold braids are all just target practice for us.’

Ricardo winced. It was as if she had read his mind or knew about the parades. She might have been the one shooting arrows that killed his first horse.

‘Come.’ Nasyra strode out of the firelight.

A shove on his elbows from the guards pushed Ricardo forward. He heard the horses before his eyes could adjust to the night. The moons were yet to rise; only starlight allowed him to see the picket fence at the southern edge of the camp.

‘One, two, three…’ Ricardo counted thirteen horses: two were missing. He saw Asphila’s silhouette, the tallest of all the horses, and bent down to pluck a tuft of grass. He held the grass in his palm. ‘Good girl, have they harmed you?’

Asphila pulled back her lips, her white and yellow teeth visible, and chomped the grass in Ricardo’s hand.

Nasyra patted Asphila’s shoulder. ‘I told you, Captain, we’re not savages. The two horses we butchered were lame and in distress. It would have been cruel to let them live, and we cannot afford to let good meat go to waste. Our people are hungry.’

‘Waste?’ Ricardo snapped. ‘They were only lame because you shot them and speared them!’ Asphila reared back at Ricardo’s change of tone.

‘There, there.’ Ricardo reached up and patted Asphila’s neck. ‘I’m not cross with you, girl.’ He looked around his horse but could not see any guards posted behind her. Maybe the rebels were complacent now that his squadron was defeated. He didn’t know where the rest of his regiment was, but he expected they were pursuing other bands. Rescue was unlikely, and there was no point trying to escape this far from water.

‘She needs water,’ he said.

The only source of water big enough for all the horses was west, at the foothills where the melted snow flowed down from the mountains. More people would be there, forced to migrate away from their homes and failed crops.

Ricardo picked up another tuft of grass: this one was slightly damp with dew. Asphila snickered with pleasure at the moisture in her mouth. ‘I’ll get you out of here, girl,’ Ricardo whispered.

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In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this.

Ricardo’s head throbbed, like the drumming of hooves he’d heard on the plain. He opened his eyes and saw five rebels sorting through a pile of discarded military equipment. One man looked familiar: his broad shoulders and long hair were not unusual among the enemy, which was composed mostly of woodsmen, farmers, and miners. It was the double-headed axe that dangled from the leather thong on his wrist that was unique. The rebel turned to look at his prisoner.

‘I know you,’ Ricardo said. His voice croaked, his mouth was dry, and his lips were cracked. ‘You’re Koberic the executioner.’

The executioner flinched, as if struck by a glove. ‘Don’t call me that. My name is Orryn, and the only people I kill are the oppressors.’

Ricardo blinked. His wound had reopened, and blood was trickling down his forehead into his eye. The blinking was futile, and his hands were tied behind him, so he kept his eye shut. He squinted at the executioner; he’d never seen his face before—it was marked with pox scars, his nose looked like it had been broken half a dozen times, and two teeth were missing. Yet, the executioner did not look grotesque. Something was different about him.

A kick in his ribs caused Ricardo to grunt.

A thin rebel with a scar on one cheekbone waved a cavalry sabre at Ricardo. ‘Up you get, lancer. Time to see the boss.’

Ricardo crossed his legs and rocked forward to his knees before staggering upright. Pins and needles stung his calves, so he stomped his stockinged feet to get the blood moving again. He looked at the rebels to see who wore his leather boots but couldn’t see them.

The rebel prodded Ricardo with the sabre. ‘Move.’

‘Careful where you put that,’ Ricardo said. ‘It’s designed to be used from a horse. If you trip, you might hurt yourself.’

‘If I trip, this sword is going right up your arse!’ The rebel laughed. The others joined in, except Orryn. His expression never changed. He walked silently, serenely, aside from the group.

‘Maybe I could turn him into an ally,’ Ricardo thought. ‘He did use to work for the duke, after all.’

Round hide tents were scattered around four campfires without any pattern or order that Ricardo could see. A month ago, he would have sneered at the lack of discipline, but this ragged band had defeated his squadron. There was no lack of fury when they fought despite the singing and laughing around the fires. Ricardo estimated about forty rebels were in this camp; it couldn’t be the only one. How could it be when they’d defeated a whole squadron of the duke’s cavalry?

Where were the rest of the rebels? The duke had two other squadrons in his cavalry regiment, and maybe they would fare better.

The smell of meat cooking washed over Ricardo: his mouth salivated and his stomach rumbled. He saw a huge haunch turning on a spit. ‘That’s a horse leg,’ he thought. ‘They’re eating our horses!’

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Feedback in the comments will be welcome. You can read the foreword to the story here.

I’ve also shared some recent reading and thoughts on my favourite books below the flash piece.

The Rigel Chronicles: Part 1

Ricardo took off his tarnished helmet and used his sweaty bandanna to wipe the dried blood from his forehead. The twin suns were low in the dusty western sky. Like two egg yolks in a frying pan. Eggs! I haven’t eaten an egg for two weeks.

Two weeks of skirmishes, advances and retreats over the plains as his squadron was whittled down from fifty lancers to only a dozen, with three spare horses. Each rider and horse carried at least one wound. Neric and Georgios were barely able to ride: they were tied onto their saddles because of wounds that seeped yellow pus. If the rebels found the squadron now, Ricardo would have to decide whether to stand and fight or to flee—and leave the dying lancers behind.

Ricardo rued the day the duke had promoted him to captain, the day the tough decisions had become his to make. He smiled a dry smile at how pleased he’d been to receive the red plume and gold braid and how fine he looked on the parade ground. The red plume and gold braid acted as a target for the rebels in their first ambush. Ricardo had felt the air full of arrows and spears that all seemed to be aimed at him.

Only his horse’s body protected him after he fell. Then a counter-charge led by Decald scattered the rebels up the hillside and gave Ricardo and the other wounded time to patch up and find new mounts.

‘Sir, we need to move.’ Decald’s voice croaked with thirst. ‘If we don’t get to cover by sunset, we’ll be sitting geese on this plain.’

Ricardo replaced his helmet, minus its long-gone plume, and clapped Decald on a broad shoulder. ‘What I wouldn’t do for a plump goose now, eh?’ He put one foot in a stirrup. ‘Mount up!’ he said to his remaining men.

Leather and joints creaked as the men mounted in a wave, not in one crisp movement like the parade ground drills Ricardo had once loved. He pointed with his lance at a hill to the north; a spinney of trees grew on the southern slope. ‘We’ll shelter there, men. Where there’s wood, there’s water.’ He set off at a trot.

Declan pulled alongside his young captain. ‘About that other thing, Sir. The men are on their knees; they need meat and blood if they’re going to have to fight again.’

Ricardo shook his head. ‘It’s not up for debate, Sergeant.’ The Lysanders cherished their horses more than their wives – unsurprising because of the amount of time they spent with them. Eating horse flesh would be as horrific as eating a friend.

‘Yes, Sir,’ Declan looked ahead.

Ricardo sighed. He knew his sergeant was right. An empty stomach sapped morale more than any of the rebel talk about the lancers being the weapons of the rich, oppressing the poor.

A cool breeze blew from the east. The grass rippled as dusk settled upon the squadron. Ricardo sniffed. He stood up in his stirrups and raised his left fist.

Declan reined in alongside. ‘Aye, I smell them too.’ The scent of unwashed men and animals overpowered the smell of dry grass.

Ricardo heard a rumble. His mouth dried even more. ‘Ride,’ he shouted. ‘Ride!’ He kicked his heels into his horse’s flanks.

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The joys of comfort reading

I had a ramp-up of workload in my day job in August and September that used up a lot of my brainpower. This included a fair amount of ‘creative’ work that sapped energy differently from the past couple of years. This includes redesigning my Excelsior website. With my brain like a bowl of mushy peas every evening, I was in search of comfort, rather than stimulation, to read.

The books I reached for reminded me of what a good book can, and should, do: it should transport us to a place, a time, or a feeling far from where we are now. Too many books that I see ‘recommended’ are too damn ‘worthy’. Reading them feels like a chore, rather than a pleasure. I woke up in the morning, looking forward to reading these two.

First up was ‘Eagle in the Snow,’ by Wallace Breem. I’ve read it three times now and love the detail, scope, and human side of the burdens of leadership. I know it’s a cliché for a middle-aged man to read books about Romans, but Breem is different. There is a depth to his writing that the likes of Simon Scarrow (one book was enough for me) won’t reach.

Then, this edition of ‘The Lord of the Rings,’ by J.R.R. Tolkien (look at the exquisite covers by Alan Lee).

I’ve read this a dozen times and yet still enjoyed it. I especially liked those parts not in the films (excellent as they are): the Barrow Wights, Tom Bombadil and Goldberry, the Scouring of the Shire. I then read the appendices (again) to read what happened before and after the events of the main book.

Tolkien knew how to create characters that we wanted to spend more time with. Much emulated, but few have got close to his magic.

It was my birthday last week, and I was lucky enough to receive some books and some money to spend on books! I chose all second-hand books because they are either out of print or a damn sight cheaper than new editions.

Have you read any of these?

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I was bad from a young age, you see. At least, that’s what my teachers used to tell my parents. Back when they were together.

‘He was born bad,’ Miss Kennedy said.

‘He’s naughty all the time,’ Miss Oliver said.

The vicar got in on the act too, telling me off after choir practice. We were supposed to wear white ruffles and blue smocks over our white shirts but I hid the ruffles behind the organ the week before Easter Sunday. I mean, who wouldn’t do that?

‘He’s a bad boy,’ the vicar told my mum after he dragged me home down Church Street. Me up on my toes trying to keep up with him in his swishing black cassock and long strides. My left ear is larger than my right and I swear it’s from where the vicar towed me.

So much for forgiveness.

Once you get the label of being bad, it’s hard to shake off. Report cards are handed over to new class teachers in new schools, which mark you out before you even get started. I didn’t have a physical label that said, ‘naughty boy.’ Except for that time Mrs Bowen made me wear one for a week after answering back in History. Stupid old cow.

Still, I listened carefully to the subjects that interested me: History, Geography and Chemistry. We got to make fire extinguishers in Chemistry. It didn’t take much Maths to realise that if you tripled the ingredients you get triple the foam power. Boy, did that work! Instead of a small strip of foam, like toothpaste squeezed over two brushes, I had buckets of the stuff pouring over the Lab table.

That ended my Chemistry career. But better to go out with a bang than a whimper, I s’pose.

I understood the lessons when I wanted to, but they didn’t let me answer the questions.

‘Not now, Richard.’

‘Put your hand down, Richard.’

Always accompanied by a sigh, or a roll of the eyes, or a chalky palm to the forehead as if they were performing in an amateur dramatics group.

I think they wanted me to give up. Especially after my dad left and my mum took to drinking. That added another label to my collar, but my home wasn’t so much broken as shattered. My homework was downgraded, and my essays were marked lower: easy to do when the assessments are subjective. But they couldn’t do that with Maths and Physics because the numbers don’t lie. They were my most challenging subjects but I worked hard to get the results I needed.

‘Fuck them,’ I thought.

I used my time in detention and the peaceful library at lunchtime to get my work done. The librarian didn’t call me bad. He let me study, and I helped stick the cards into the front of the books. He painted miniature lead figures in his spare time. I loved the colours of the flags and shields of the knights on their proud horses.

Still, it all came to nothing when my mum drank even more than usual: two bottles of Cinzano in one night. I pleaded with her to stop, to drink some water and to eat some food. She threw her glass at me, breaking my nose, half-melted ice cubes hitting my eye, and I fell backwards into the mantelpiece, banging my head. I fell to the floor. My tears fell further.

‘Get out,’ my mum slurred. ‘Get out of my house.’

That was the last time I saw my mother.

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Here it is:

The whole process took me three hours. That’s three hours not writing or earning money but, as I enjoy tinkering, I’m not begrudging it. Here’s how I did it:

1. The first hour was spent researching a hosting/design platform, as well as how to register a domain name. I used jmarshallauthor.com rather than jamesmarshall, to reduce the amount people need to write. I ended up choosing Wix because it seemed simple, affordable and I liked the look of their samples.

2. Wix guided me through an AI prompt that did most of the design heavy lifting. Here is where AI is useful. It asked me what the purpose of the site was, what type of background and tone, and some key things I wanted.

I discarded a couple of options (anything to do with candles, blankets and soft focus: AI can only use what it’s given, and I shuddered at being lumped in with the candle-scent-for-inspiration mob) and settled on the black background. It also came up with this logo:

3. The last part was me uploading images and copy for the site. The AI autogenerated three blogs for me, but that was overstepping the mark. I set up space for my three books, with links to Amazon for purchase, with images. I added an ‘about me’ section and also a ‘Q&A’ part. The latter is one of Kelly’s ideas because Google likes tracking bullet points and clear answers.

It was as simple as that. I have some familiarity with moving things around on a website, but I’m not a coder. There was a lot of dragging images around and dropping them into boxes. Wix has nice lines and sections to help it all match up neatly.

Ten days later, I noticed that half of my visitors were from the USA (thank you), so I added a USA flag by each book’s ‘purchase now’ button with a direct link to my books on Amazon.com (you’re welcome).

I don’t know whether it will generate more sales, but I have somewhere to signpost interested people. I know that this Substack newsletter has NOT generated sales, so I need something that Google can pick up.

I can now get back to writing my third novel.

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Thanks to for reviewing Stone and Water on his YouTube channel.

“New books by Thomas Pynchon and... James Marshall! And many other writers ALMOST as interesting as the both of them put together!”

Who cares about the New York literati when I get a mention from the Master Bather himself?

Writing Magazine also published a mini-profile of me this month:

This might be a ‘Vanity-metric’: something to show your granny but it doesn’t actually make a difference to sales. We shall see.

Thanks for reading.

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I press my hands and feet against the doorframe and strain as my father tries to pull me through. He’s got forty years of strength gained from choppin’ and luggin’ and carryin’ and buildin’.

‘Heave,’ he says, his arms wrapped around my waist.

‘No,’ I say through my tightened lips. I feel the blood pumping into my neck.

‘Heave,’ he says.

I feel my grip loosening. ‘No!’ A fingernail rips off as I scrape the door; a shooting pain runs up my finger and into my head. I collapse on top of Father and his crumpled black suit. His grip loosens as he regains his wind. I push off him and helter down the stairs two at a time, my long white dress picked up to my knees, the darned veil obscuring my vision.

‘Come back,’ Father shouts from behind me.

Mother appears in the hallway; her pale blue cotton dress hangs off her thin bones like a kite on a windless day. Her curves are no longer curvy. She lifts a hand. ‘Dorothy.’

I skelter around her, ‘Sorry, Ma,’ and run out of the front door, across the white porch and head down the lane. I’m not getting married today. No way, no matter what my parents say. The lane is about a mile from the highway, and the fields on either side lie empty after last month’s harvest.

I don’t know where I’m running to, but my destination ain’t that wedding. Somewhere else, somewhere Bobby and I can be alone.

I have to slow down: I’m built for sprinting, not long distance, especially in my condition. I hold my stomach; there’s no sign yet, but I know I’m expecting. Bobby was none too careful the first time we did it, nor the second, and I lost count after a dozen rolls in the barn.

My parents don’t know about us. They think I’m in love with Jack. At least they’ve told me I should be in love with Jack. Jack, who’ll be waiting at the altar with the eleven other grooms. Their brides are happy to marry their kin. But I’m not marrying my cousin for no one. Not Father, not Mother, not the preacher.

I hear the mechanical cough, cough, rumble, and bang as our pickup truck starts. I jump over the fence and hear the rip of my dress. I tear off my veil and leap from furrow to furrow across the stubbly field.

‘Come back here, girl!’ Father shouts.

Boom! I flinch as I feel the air sliced with buckshot. I zig and then zag. Father’s a bad aim and he could get unlucky with a warning shot.

The crick at the end of the field marks the state line and safety from Uncle Zach’s jurisdiction as County Sheriff. I weave around the old tree stump and dash towards the willow that bends over the crick.

‘Stop there, girl!’ Father’s voice is fainter now.

I scramble down the wet bank and splash across the muddy water; my dress drags and sags behind me. Ruined. I push through the reeds and collapse on the dusty footpath, my chest heaving and a vein throbbing in my temple. Thank the Lord I’m not in Kansas any more.

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Read my latest novel:

Available on Amazon in the UK and the USA

Other News.

I’m in the middle of revising my third novel, ‘The Letter.’ I finished the first draft last November and left it until I’d completed Stone and Water. A friend asked me if I’d started my next novel, and when I said I was on the second draft, he said: ‘Writing or editing?’

This is one of those questions that non-writers ask* because they seem to think that ‘writing’ is one thing and ‘editing’ is another.

Apart from when my pen first writes on paper, everything else is revision. When I transcribe my terrible scrawl onto my laptop, I’m already revising. I spot errors, correct grammar and rearrange sentences.

Is this writing or editing?

Yes.

I count this as my first draft: once the document is complete and I have 80-90,000 words in order.

For the second draft of The Letter, I read through and noted any gaps in the story, continuity errors and loose ends. Mistakes are made from when I first start a book and finish it: I forget a key point, or have two people say the same thing!

In this book, there is a major plot revolving around International diamond smugglers and a sub-plot about domestic fraud and exploitation of the vulnerable. I’ve separated the two plots out and put them in separate documents. I’m halfway through revising the major plot to see if it flows, has tension and pace, and makes sense.

Once I’ve done the same with the sub-plot, I aim to splice the two pieces together again.

The next stage will be going through and improving the writing: trying to make each paragraph sing and be a pleasure to read.

The next stage will be tidying up the punctuation and layout.

Is this writing or editing?

Yes.

If that sounds like a lot of work, it’s because it is! I don’t remember anyone saying writing was easy. However, I hope the end product is worthwhile and people enjoy reading it.

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*Other questions non-writers ask include:

1. “How long did it take to write?”

2. “Where do you get your ideas from?”

3. “Can I have a signed copy so that when you’re famous, it will be worth some money?” (Probably the most annoying and insulting at the same time).