2nd October, 2017
I’ve been killing things in peoples gardens this week. No, that’s too hard; I’ve been assisting the hostas and other perennials into the autumn. They (the hostas) have already got big brown holes growing through them, so I guess they seemed pretty keen on the idea themselves before I showed up with the snips (a literal term, just to make clear).
As for the begonias… begotten and b’gone. A shame as I’ve really started to enjoy their colours and waxen way of doing things. That must mean that I’m past the point of youth because no-one in trainers thinks that begonias are cool. Not that I’m in trainers any more, or even anything that has a stripe stitched along its side; my footwear is beige and has been for some time. These are not good signs, but beige goes better with the colour of the foot well in my car.
At least I’m still not yet convinced by roses, but that might only be a matter of time. On the other hand, I do tend to a lot of roses and have to yell bloody murder when they destroy another of my shirts. There’s still time…
Not that there’s much time left for Derek Gainsborough’s biography, The Brine in Me. I’ve found myself at the pointy end of 108,000 words, and there’s really only a last act to follow. As we know, last acts are the jokers of the act-pack. No-one really cares if you don’t take your time, just make sure you send the reader away with a warm feeling that the world has fallen pointless now that they have reached the end. Those are the sort of riches that writers scribble around for.
Epilogues? Do me a favour… I mean use them if you like. I do, but think of them like a fully loaded gun. If you have to use all the ammo, then you’re probably not doing it right.
So that’s where I am with The Brine. It has been, and continues to be a pleasure to write. But one does like to reach the sour end of these things, much like finding a campsite at dusk. Of course there’s the slabbering madness of putting a tent up once you make destination, and we’ll just call that the second draft.
I have loved hanging out with the ensemble of characters that fill your time when fiction writing. They say what I want them to say. They are for one reason or another, across two novels, a bloody disgrace, and I disassociate myself from all of their narrative necessities. We’ll have to how it goes with the protagonist of my third novel, Clyde Barrbough, but he’s already on the bizarre side of the tracks as far as concept goes. A Morris dancing hedgehog farmer that goes scrotum to scrotum against the worst that the spirit world can flush his way. It’s going to be a more feminine novel. As before, I have started with a title and worked my way into the tone of what the title tells me. I can’t give you the title yet, though. But she’s worth hanging a book around.
It’s a fantasy piece so I suppose there’s going to have to be maps drawn. I’m going to go to about 1/100th scale though, so the whole bloody thing unravels across your front room. If you’re reading in the toilet then you’re going to have to live with a substandard level of enjoyment, and recognise that that is probably your own fault. If you buy an eReader version then I may chuck in a sat nav. You’re welcome.
In other news, I have previously said that I do not endorse the watching of cinema sequels. I stand by that even though it has been tested as deficient and wrong, and can assure you that Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2 has a joyous and spontaneous credibility, and its director a sure touch with classical Hollywood motion picture principals. It’s somewhere over the rainbow, passed The Life of Brian, with its credulity hanging from every corner and waiting to go off like a firework. Or a lit fart.
Now I’m not suggesting that it was a good film; merely that I love to see a dog chasing its own ideas around. Grab a pirate copy, but buy your books legit.
Thicker than thieves, came apart at the seams, then the sad goodbyes…
JW Bowe xx
P.S! Anna urges me to point out a fantastic and seasonal nutrition technique that I found out very recently. All those apples that defy the very sense of all the growing that they’ve been through and drop to the ground, don’t leave them to a couple worms that can’t manage a quartile of Bramley; slip out of your corduroys and go have some nutrition by strimming them instead. The resultant accidental osmosis from the apples feels great and should only leave you marginally blinded by Bramley rind.
Wear goggles, not just a face mesh’n’helmet. It really isn’t enough to deal with the intensity. I was as surprised as you will be if you do not heed that wisdom.
If you enjoyed this blog, and you’re impatient for something else to read, feel free to bunch up close to a free sample chapter from JW Bowe’s debut novel, The Meifod Claw, which is available now at Amazon, iTunes and on various other international eReaders.
You can also double up your sampling by following this link to the forthcoming fictional autobiography of The Meifod Claw’s wheelchair-in-chief, Derek Gainsborough. His life and apologies will be released next year under the sail of The Brine in Me.
JW Bowe can also be unearthed on YouTube and in various other ways through the Serious Biscuits homepage. Scroll down for further links, action and disclaimers.
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