Nutmegged

It's no big deal, but I sold my first print copy of Booker's World to a lady in America this morning. It gave me a decent feeling, one hopes to feel again at times. Nothing to do with money, for we all know if you're chasing money you'd be better off being a politician, a banker or a film producer.
But I think it was nice to that someone you don't know takes the time to check out your blog and buy the book because the character was of interest. I knew Don Booker could speak to someone someday. The upcoming web series is going to be great to work on. Bringing the old renegade out into the world.
So thanks very much to Rita Smith in way off Ohio for marking a small milestone for this new writer.

Here's another cut chapter from the novel.

Friday, January 29, 2010

Leon was in a filling station back in 2005 waiting in line to pay for a sandwich he had just bought for his lunch. A burly man stood before him paying for his fuel. The man asked the attendant if she, or any other member of staff wanted to purchase a laptop computer. The girl politely declined.
Leon knew I was on the look out for a laptop at the time so he asked the man could he see what he had. The man said he didn't have them with him, but they were top quality and came with their own carry bag. It sounded good to Leon and he gave the man his phone number to organise a rendezvous.
Within an hour the man had called and a meeting was set up at the filling station for the following day.
Leon called over that night and told me the story. Without a second thought I gave him €400, happy with the offer.
Leon returned to the filling station the next day and noticed the burly man sitting in a car at it's side. He walked over to where the man was parked. They exchanged pleasantries. There was a second man in the passenger seat and a third in the back. The burly man took the laptop from its bag and gave a demo to Leon.
“Probably burn the fingers off me,” Leon laughed. There was no laughter back.
“Do ye wan de fuckin' thing r not?” the burly man with pace.
“Sure,” Leon said. The man in the back then produced a camcorder.
“I'll throw it in for a ton,” he said. Leon told him he didn't have another hundred Euro.
“Much have ye?” he asked.
“€30,” Leon responded.
“I'll give it ta ye,” the man in the back sighed. The burly man started to put the laptop and the camcorder into the bag.
“Count tha monay there fur mayy,” he said to Leon. Leon started to count.
“Kape it doun ye gobshite,” the burly man said. Leon did as instructed. Fifty. One hundred...one fifty....
He finished counting it. The burly man handed him the bag. Leon handed him the cash.
“Besh bit a bishness you or may ill do all dayy,” the burly man said before driving off. Leon didn't argue.
An hour later he was back and handed me the bag.
“Put my neck on the line for you today. There's a camcorder in there belonging to me. They wanted a hundred for it, got it for thirty. Fuckin' eegits!,” Leon beamed. I thanked him before opening up the bag to reveal a large warehouse catalogue and also some bubble wrap. A silence befell my room for what seemed like a day.
“Shafted,” Leon said eventually, looking on in disbelief.
Shafted wasn't my first thought. I was down four hundred big ones. Leon seemed more concerned about the thirty he was down. Various obscenities flowed from his mouth. I really wanted to ask him how could he have been so fucking stupid, but the time didn't seem right. He went over the events in his head again.
“They must have swapped the bags when I was counting the money”, he gasped.
“What are we going to do?” I asked.
“Oh, hold on there a minute until I ring the cops?” he said sarcastically, before storming out of the house leaving me there with one of Ireland’s most expensive laptop carrier bags. Leon returned a few days later having calmed down with the aid of gin.
“Can't believe a member of the travelling community got the better of me,” he said despondently.
I couldn't believe it either. It had taken me over ten weeks to save that money. Leon's promise to return the money to me as soon as he could never materialised, and never will, given his current abode.
I had to admit in the ensuing months that it was a pretty decent scam. I thought about writing a script surrounding this episode some time back. A short film.
But when I brought karma into the equation, I really couldn't wish that kind of ending on anyone.
I still have the bag. It's seen me through three laptops at this stage. Perhaps someday not only will I have one of Ireland’s most expensive bags, but perhaps the oldest one as well.
I wonder if I‘ll ever have anyone to pass it on to.

*************

Read other cut chapters from Booker's World here.

Creative Bones

Sunday see the official launch of Booker's World. Almost twenty months now since I first put finger to key. My first efforts at writing many moons ago was done with a pen and paper. I wrote my first screenplay by hand first. But since then that practice has wilted to a virtual stop. It's a way of writing I don't want to lose completely.

Next week begins a new round of attempting to get something off the ground. Glad I've kept the character of Don Booker going all the way through Ireland's woe. I'm not sure what I expected when I set out to write Booker's World. I took a character with his back up against the wall, but one where I felt needed to come out the other side, maybe even the better for the experience. I also felt when I began to write it that Ireland appreciated some endeavor. Reality situations as I sourced help with my book as far back as this time last year told another story.

Whatever happens in the years ahead, the journey of a writer starting out with a goal is wrote about here as it happened. I definitely never expected it to be easy and am glad that modern day publishing and trends means options are open to the new writer.
If new writers were to get a little more support then our various bodies dealing in the Arts would be eventually more self sustainable. The Arts provide masses of benefit to a culture and also to society. It has been proven time and time again, yet forward momentum in implementing more entrepreneurial approaches within its structures has been slow. I'm not sure of all the reasons for that, but I'm sure I'll learn as I go. They can only work with what they have at their disposal, but there is an opportunity there that is not being fully exploited.

I'll get Sunday out of the way first. The Bounty Bar in Trim, Co Meath between 2-4pm for anyone wanting to pop along. A few readings, a little food and even a little music.

Here's the latest piece that did not make the final draft of the novel. The rest can be read here.
The Sun's out and the breeze is free. Who knows, it might even be a good Summer. Time, like everything, will tell.

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

Mattie’s been asleep for the best part of twenty-four hours now. I hope it's sleep he's in and not a coma! There's definitely a significant breathing pattern and a slow dribble from his mouth forming a stain on the pillow I gave him. I really ought to buy darker coloured pillow covers. For a man without a maid, it's definitely the way to go.
Today was definitely a lot better than yesterday. My only other attempt at a novel ended by page fifty. That was over twenty years ago. I had found myself off work due to an accident which left me with a rather colourful ankle, sizing itself so it no longer fitted into a shoe. Well, none that I had anyway. During my school years my favourite home assignments were when my English teacher gave us a title for a weekend essay. I think it was from there I developed my interest in writing.
He was the type of teacher who cared for willing students but never forced his thinking or ideals on them. His teaching methods were always based on questioning, both at me as a person or work I put before him for a grade.
He taught me so much by making me think for myself. By thinking a little out side the box. Encouraging me to explore areas in life I maybe hadn't thought about up until that point. Teacher’s I came across could have taken a lesson or two from him.
Later in life I found out he had quit teaching to pursue his own writing, which came in the form of historical explorations in all things erotic. I'm not sure where he is based now, or if indeed he is still alive, but if I had a way to tell him he inspired me in my early days, I would. I'm sure he'd take it as a compliment. It's certainly one I'd take from anyone in the years to come.
Mitch is practically here all the time now. I know there is something going on with him. I get the feeling he is waiting for me to ask. I've no problem with it, it leaves me with so much more time to spend up here working, without having to continually take the journey downstairs to check if Mum is still alive. He's seems in form. I just don't like intruding into people's life. I don't burden others with my troubles and in ways it works out well because others tend not to burden me with theirs. I know that sounds cold, but it works well for me.
I'm sure it stems from not knowing one's father and having a Mum who could have easily have been called Havisham. Cold, heartless and bitter.
I don't feel any of those negative qualities rubbed off on me in any life-long way. I'm sure Mum, when she met a new man, (and there were many) set out from the very first instance with plans in mind how she could screw him over. By the time she was in her mid-fifties she had it off to a fine art.
I watched men cry in my living room on occasion. I actually found it quite funny. Not the broken hearts they developed after a time with Mum, but the knowledge that they were merely a pawn in a game she was playing to compensate for the way my father had treated her before he left. When your privy to a sub-plot it can be quite amusing. Then again, I've always had a strange sense of humour. It's been to my detriment at times, but those are other stories.
Mum, if she possessed a creative bone, could have done well in writing books about men from a woman's point of view. I'm pretty sure of it. I can only assume my creative side comes from my Granddad who dabbled in fiction writing. Not sure if my father was the creative type. It's just a family trademark that he’s never spoken about. I've grown to accept it. It's not like he can be there to encourage me in my own endeavours or offer support and guidance anymore. Those days are long past. I'd look well getting read a bed time story now, wouldn't I?
So it really doesn't matter to me who he was though I would not be human if i didn't give it a little thought sometimes.
It was definitely a case of once bitten twice shy with Mum. Maybe that ethos rubbed off a little on me too. I just know she did the best she could do. There was always food on the table, the men she kept always had money, so i was never bullied for the clothes I wore on my back. I can't say I went without.
That makes me luckier than most so when it comes to upbringings. I'm definitely not at the bottom of the scale. I know Leon took many a beating from his old man. His mother was lost in her own addiction. He told me once he had actually seen her with a needle in her arm. Only the universe knows what that did to him. He was only ten.
Right now I'm using the greatest thing my mum ever passed on to me to get by. And that's survival. It's seems such a selfish thing to say when you consider what others have to overcome. It's when I bring myself back into that mode of thought, where I find the blessings that have been bestowed on me. It's where I find how lucky I am. It's where I find what it is I want to become. Lord of the Milky Way with Special Responsibility for Everything. I'm sure I could make it a better place.

Solitude

Here's the latest chapter from Booker's World cut before the final draft.

Monday, January 18, 2010

It was one of those days when every attempt to sit down and do a little work was met with an annoyance. There are times I wish I could delve further into my withdrawal. Purchase a wood cabin deep in the mountains of no-where. One with a comfy writing chair. A place free from unnatural noise and most of all, people. I'll call it Solitude someday.
I was once again woken up with an intrusive visit into my space. Before 10 am too, which is never a good thing. I pass my days by starting them as late as possible. It was Mitch...again! I really must get a lock for my trap door. I can't be having this. He asked me how he would look with hair. I mean ‘what the fuck?’
“I'd say you'd look fine,” I said.
“Why?” I continued, reaching for the coke bottle outside my bed. My mouth was so dry my tongue stuck to it's roof. I’ve got to give up smoking.
Mitch went on to explain that his audition had been unsuccessful but the producer had him in mind for a character in his next project. The role required Mitch to grow back his hair. I've never understood that about Mitch. He seems to have all the growth properties he needs to wear his hair anyway he chooses yet he prefers to go bald. My own chooses to grow at different paces in different areas of my head. In some areas it refuses to grow at all. It's either shave off the lot or resemble a scarecrow. I look bad enough as it is without giving Worzel Gummage a run for his money.
Mitch went on to say he had to grow the hair to shoulder length and tie it up in a pony-tail. The producer was sending over a script as soon as the writer had it finished.
“It's an apocalyptic look at the world seven hundred years from now,” Mitch said proudly. “No dialogue”.
I wished him well and sent him on his way. I attempted to go back to sleep but as usual once awake that was it. So i got up.
After lunch I set about editing more pages from the book. It's exhausting work I find. Hard on the eye and hard on the mind. In an effort to save a tree somewhere I’m working off the screen. It’s important to do your bit. As I sat to do a little more my phone went off. Chester. I answered.
I was met with a barrage of abuse. Well, it wasn't exactly 'abuse' but Chester as much as told me i was about as useful as a leper in a leper colony. Wanted to know why I wasn't doing any work on his Facebook page? Helping with promotion and all that! I told him in no uncertain terms I had my own stuff going on and I didn't have time on my hands.
“What things?” he asked.
“I'm writing a book.”
He laughed loudly and hung up.
I've let wankers like that put me off before, but not this time. I shook the incident out of my head when it went off again. Text message.
Chester.
You're a waste of space.
I wanted to reply but held back because I wouldn't lower myself. I’d leave it with him. I decided to go for walk. I'll edit tomorrow.
I would have enjoyed the walk had it not been for my thoughts which were as usual conflicting among themselves in my head. Perhaps Chester is right. Maybe I am the laughing stock. Is a will to prove these people wrong enough reward for all the hours spent doing it? Am i missing out on some important things? Who the fuck wants to read about a recluse as he slides down towards forty when they can read people like Stephen Fry or J.K Rowling?
I hate the way I allow people get into my head. That's my own failing and I'm aware of it, but diagnosis is nothing if left untreated. Least that's what Mum used to say.
“There's a pill for everything,” she’d say, almost in triumph. None that's going to give Mum her memory back anytime soon.
On the walk home I took the positives from the day and decided to get stuck in the minute I got back. I turned off my phone there and then. Mitch would be gone, Mum already so. There was nothing to stop me, except for that person who came into my sight as I went in my front gate. I knew who it was even from a distant. As it approached it was confirmed. Mattie was back.
The cold snap had put pay to his travels. With no work and the land frozen solid in Holland he had no choice but to abandon and come home. It was a ten day trip back.
“I could have flown home in an hour,” he started. “If I had the money.”
He fell asleep shortly after I got him fed. So i guess I'm stuck with him now for a while. Months ago there was no one about the place. Now there seems to be someone here all the time. I'm actually glad he's back and safe. I didn't smell any drink off him. Which is a good thing.
It's after nine now and I felt the day was a complete waste of time for me. All my plans for the day never materialised. If I was normal I'd take it with a pinch of salt and just stick it down to ‘taken it on the chin’.
So it bothers me why I feel I now must work deep into the night to compensate, when a few early nights would do me the world of good. But beds are cold this time of year and anyway, what's a bed without a lover?
As I listened to a soloist play piano in my head I wondered if Tina’s was on Facebook, somewhere?

*************
Read other cut chapters here.

Read the Sonny Strange Novella for free here.

Mrs. Robinson

I'm launching Booker's World offically on Sunday, April 17. The following day I get to start on the second one which I'm looking forward to. Writing through the night for months on end. It's not how I'd like to be riding out the recession, but it comes pretty close. Below is another cut chapter.

Monday, January 11, 2010

For the first time in many months I heard Mitch come into the house this morning. The reason for this was a night I spent in complete solitude, alone with my thoughts, unable to sleep. It was the longest night. I tried everything I could to tire my eyes out. All in vein. I watched TV, read some of Bill’s wisdom, I even reverted to counting sheep. Nothing worked. My bed side clock reminded me as every second passed through on it's way to becoming a minute and then on to hours. I heard every lonely one of them. Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock. My eyes remained wide open through it all.
Eventually the silence was broken when the boiler kicked in around 6am to heat the house a little. It's important the house is warm for Mum before she wakes. I'm thick-skinned in many ways and it's a good job I am sometimes. Mum is different. Her skin is now receding, trying desperately to melt into her bones. A chill in those bones could be fatal at her time in life. I hope this cold snap ends soon, I have no money for oil until later in the week, and even at that i can't stretch it much more than I am at the moment.
I got up and went downstairs and asked Mitch if he would mind sticking around for the day. I told him I had not slept. He told me he would. He's a good bloke. I returned to bed and after a couple of hours I finally managed to sleep. I slept into the early afternoon, until a stupid chime entered my dream state. When I woke it was still there. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I rose and looked out my window. Below, parked as if abandoned, was the ice-cream man. Temperatures in the negative and there he was. I continued to watch. The driver was just about to pull off when Mitch entered my view. Broad and brisk, he walked up to the van. Money and ice-cream cones were exchanged. The driver left and Mitch left my view.
I returned to my bed and put on the news on the TV. Bad weather, gangland murders, and the stepping down of Northern Ireland's first minister, Peter Robinson, for a short time so he can help his allegedly corrupt and adulterous wife through her mental breakdown. I'd missed this one. Seems that Iris Robinson, Peter's wife, was playing tootsies with a nineteen-year-old man. Not only that, she borrowed money off a couple of builders so she could help her toy-boy to set up in business. She then tried to commit suicide, just before the story broke late last week on the BBC documentary programme, Spotlight.
I took a flick through my news sources here and in the UK and every one of them were all over the story. The slant they are coming at it is from the corruption allegations, the sex on the side aspect taking second billing. Peter Robinson looks like a man beyond his years, the stress with coping with his wife's infidelity in the public domain very visible. At least he’s not hiding like Tiger. I switched off the TV. I feel I may put my foot through it soon. As a child it was a source of joy, of entertainment, of misguided believes that the world could be a perfect place and I could do my part while drinking Coca Cola.
Instead I've done nothing, even my notions of a new beginning this year slowly disappearing. Trust me to resolute to take up walking as part of a new healthier regime just as nature decided to make my small little world a trecherous place to walk.
Maybe if I get some money from somewhere I'll be able to make sure next year's resolutions don't disappear so quickly. I'll buy a pair of skies. It's nearing midnight and I’m tired. I better go down and let Mitch head off. I’m a little sniffly. I may raise a glass of Lemsip.

Here's to you, Mrs. Robinson.

A Write New Year.

Here's the latest cut chapter from Booker's World.

Friday, January 1, 2010

I stepped out at midnight into the cold air. Next door to me, a fraternity of foreigners were ringing in the New Year with the thundering vibration of thump-thump music. It is the sort of noise one would have to be soporific to enjoy.
In the distance a crowd of drunken revellers of my own nationality stepped outside and sang their merry hearts out. We won't be hearing any of them audition at the X Factor later in the year. There were no fireworks.
I went back inside and drank a coffee to heat the bones. It was hours before I slept with the racket going on next door. I thought about going out and complaining. Visions of a scene best written by the great Alfred Hitchcock, had me deciding against it.
I'd let them have their fun. With the passing of the year I figured there was good reason to celebrate. There still seemed to be money for merriment, so maybe things are not that bad.

I had a mid-day three mile walk. It was an effort to go outside and do it. I had a short conversation with myself and weighed up the options. One, I could stay indoors and maybe get fit next year. Or two, get up off my arse and begin today. I went for option two, as I really need to turn a corner in terms of my condition. I've put it off for too long.
I'm sorry, I just find walking incredibly boring. Why can't we all be just given a decent embodiment to carry us through life? If they insist on death being the end of it all that is then perhaps they could cut that privilege off at about the 125 year mark. I reckon I could get through most things I want to do in that time span if I didn't have to take up precious time of my day in a battle against cardiac arrest.

I wondered as I walked if other writers feel tired after time spent being creative. I've done some pretty hard labour in my past, but i have never felt the weariness I feel after sitting for a number of hours tapping away at my computer keys. The best way I can describe it is old.
As the air burnt away at the remaining hair on my head, I slowly warmed to it and spent the next half an hour taking in the beauty of a frozen day under an eternal blue sky. I cleared my mind of thought and just enjoyed it. I am not going to look upon it as a chore. If I do that I'll be through with the exercise come the end of the week. With a bit of luck I'll put twenty miles on the clock this week and shake the old bones out. Next week, I'll lift the pace a little. I hope it works and I don't get some old niggles back.
“One step at a time,” as Leon used to do, on occasion.

Mitch was just leaving when I got back to the house. He was sporting scratches on his face, the result of two girls tearing strips off each other over some dude who was already heading down the street with someone else. It was something Leon would have done. The next generation of players already on the loose. I wondered how Leon might have fared against this generation. I wondered what lines they used.
Mitch told me he was getting out of the bouncing game. It just was not worth it anymore and that he had handed in his notice.
“Ireland’s mental on alcohol,” he claimed.
He said he had a long time ambition to be an actor and felt it was time to pursue that. I should say so too Mitch, you're no spring chicken. You may be built like a brick shit house, but what you aiming for here? Bruce Willis' arse double? Mitch left without mentioning what we had discussed the other night. I guess neither of us want to bring it up.

I ate an apple for breakfast. I flirted with the thought of not showering until the house had heated up a little, but I thought if people in their 80's can jump into freezing and polluted seas on the coldest days of the year then i should not be such a wimp.
I was the better for the decision as I made my way back to my room and spent an afternoon in editing hell. I don't think I would make a good editor.
Thoughts of avenues open to me with regard how I'm going to put a book together and make the process more enjoyable for myself are now beginning to come at pace. I need a plan. One I'll stick with. One that does not place me in the negative to quickly. I lean toward negativity with each passing year. Another flaw that need rectifying.
I'm happiest when I'm here, tapping away. But when it comes down to nit picking through material and trying to accomplish what all writers desire, a structured narrative that some people may want to read, I get the feeling the ultimate pursuit will take far more out of me than any film script ever did or days working with concrete.

I admire those people who chase that end. Often times for little reward in a saturated market. I want to count myself among them. I won't say I gave up a solid job to pursue it. The job gave me up. If anything this recession has provided me with, is the time to learn ten times more about the workings of this world than I had ever garnered laying pipes in dangerous holes. I get the chance to chase a dream, for the time being anyway.

*************

Read more cut chapters here.

Culled, But Not Forgotten

Here's another chapter from Booker's World that did not make it through the editing process.

Thursday, December 31, 2009.

I was trying to think of an entry for the final one of the year. I stumbled across it while travelling through thought. The first thing that came into my mind when I wrote it was this -

Picture a place ten years from now. An elderly somebody goes to bed. Their eyes now to frail to read, a kindly carer has placed an audio aid into their ear, a Christmas gift that soothed the guilt of the children who had put them there. This piece of contemporary technology, the size of a pea, will read the latest bestsellers that top the weekly book charts. Sounding like a cheap rip-off of Morgan Freeman's voice, the particular book being listened to by the elderly person is titled, How To Kill An Old Year.
But the gadget has no built in mechanism to help with severe loss of hearing on the part of the user. So all the elderly somebody hears is, ‘How to kill an old dear,’ sending them into a state of panic so severe, they are forced to rely on heavy sedatives to see out their days. Some might even say it wouldn't be a bad way to go.

I've logs burning in the stove. They crack in celebration of the dawn of a new decade. I suspect with cutbacks they will be the only fireworks around here until the Dáil reconvenes in late January. I remember in years past, fireworks lighting up whatever sky was chosen for us to celebrate the birth of a New Year. Though that hour is a few turns of a clock away, I don't expect to see any. If I do, I'll probably complain. Fireworks are fuck all use to people with no roof over their head.
I don't mind having a quite last day of the year. I remember a time that was not as so. In venues, where we were packed in like sardines, sometimes so full of festive cheer that we even kissed the wrong people. Leon did that quite a bit. There were slaps, I have to admit.
“It was worth the shot,” is all he would say of the rejection, rubbing the side of his face better, and moving on to the next.
Mitch said he would stop by tonight if he wasn't on duty up at The Bronco doing door duties. Not many would be attempting to kiss him, I assure you!
I still haven't heard from Mattie. One can only hope he is safe somewhere. I'd like to hear from him if for no other reason than to dispel the images I sometimes see of him face down in a puddle of beer on some table in a bar in Amsterdam. Knowing him he will be doing everything in his power to keep them intact. Probably at somebody else's expense.
I used to relish the passing of every year. Buoyed by the fact it was another one out of the way. Maybe because, for the most part it wasn't vintage like the years wine get sometime. Maybe it was due to the weight of expectation I placed on their shoulders with each passing one. Maybe because my lottery numbers didn't show up. Maybe because my own will to get to where ever it is life has to take me, was not the will of any great master plan, if indeed there is such a thing.
So as I enter a new year, indeed a new decade, I think I'll put into practice what I have learned this year and just not expect anything from 2010. I'll just let the year unfold as it intends too.
The last entry is written. Remember those loved ones with hearing impairments when choosing the titles of future audio books. It may very well be the difference between a happy New Year or the beginning of a bad one. It all depends on which way you choose to look at things.

*************
Other chapters from the book which also didn't make it can be read here. I'll post more in time.

The Trials of Leon Jackson

Here's another extract from the original draft of Booker's World which did not make it through the editing process.


Tuesday, December 29, 2009

“I did a spot of editing today,” as they say in language posh. As I rummaged through a box today, I came across a story Leon wrote six years ago. I remembered it for one reason. It was the only piece he ever showed me personally. I recall the night.
Life wasn't offering much to me, but the comforts of home were the best money could buy. Leon called over. He looked a little weary, but I had seen him worse. He wanted my advice on something. He took a folder which he held between his arm and side and gave it to me.
“Read that,” he said, removing a small bag of grass from his pocket. He rolled one up into a joint that deserved a place at the centre of some bohemian art gallery behind a glass frame.
I took three pages from the folder and began to read. The short story was written by hand. Three pages of, well, I'm not sure what it was. I definitely laughed. I remember that. But it disturbed me and frightened me also. When I finished I was not sure what to say to him.
“What you think?” he asked.
I'm nobody to be giving critique on anything, never mind anybody else's writing and that's the view I gave. He handed me the joint before frustratingly saying that for once in my sorry life could I remove myself from the fence and actually have something to say.
I shrugged my shoulders and he left. I smoked what he had left me and read it again. In my own mind I felt it was something I could read more of.


One week later Leon was back. He told me he had wrote the story late one night after an argument with a girl he was living with at the time. He admitted he was both drunk and high as well. It became a little clearer to me then.
“Just give me a straight answer,” he asked. “Did you like the story?”
I told him I did. He then told me he was giving up all his vices and was really going to pursue a career in writing.
‘Join the fucking queue,’ I said to myself.

His three main vices were drink, women and weed, in that order. He informed me he was going to give all three up, one by one over the coming week, and then begin what he hoped would end in a novel. I wished him well.
Like every career paths, it can be all just the roll of a dice. Who says the dice can't roll your way, even if it is just once. First to go was Jane.
Leon and Jane had been together about three months. She allowed his infidelity on the basis she had studied 'Men' as an obscure degree subject for a year in some fake on-line college. She dropped out after the end of the first year content in the knowledge she had learned all that she needed to deal with them. Jane was an eclectic type, the initial intrigue, drawing Leon into wanting to spend more than just one night with her. In hindsight I think Leon was drawn to women like Jane in his unsuccessful pursuit to find a way to live his life. Women who challenged him, but understood his failings.
In fairness it went well for a short time. It had to have for them to move in together. But soon it was falling apart.
Jane didn't mind infidelity, but she still wanted to be held after sex. Leon did not do holding after sex. His excuse always the same. He had to rise at 6am for work. There was no time for such folly.
Jane hung in for as long as she could before walking out on Leon the very night he told me of his plans to write a novel. I'm sure Leon planned it that way. After all, it was Valentine's night. He had spent it in my house, helping me celebrate my birthday with a crate of beer I had bought. She was gone when he got home. He changed his phone number the next day and never heard from her again. Last I heard she had re-enrolled to continue her studies. In a real educational facility on some humanities buzz.
By the middle of the week Leon had finished his bag of weed. Not content with finishing his reserve in a social capacity, he opted to lock himself in his bathroom, a white tiled reflection of bleakness and smoked what was left in one sitting. Soon he was close to something that complemented the colour of his surroundings and enjoyed the cold feeling the rim of the toilet bowl gave him between bouts of sickness and scenarios that bent his mind. He lost a little weight that night.
The drink was not as bad as it could have been. A couple of nights of sweats and shakes. On the third day, after an encounter with a figure that looked like John Candy with horns he was over the worst. In the last week of February, a shiny new laptop had been purchased and he sat down, rearing to go.

But nothing came. Day after day of thought. Crunched sheets of naked paper, born from frustration. He chipped a tooth chomping pen tops. But not one word.
The days turned to a week and nothing happened. Nothing came forth. It was at this juncture Leon decided he needed a stimulant. He settled for a muse first. Her name was Daisy. Abandoned by love, Leon's whispered words were music to her rather large ears.
It didn't last. Cuddling issues! No, a muse would not be his inspiration.
She left and Leon returned to the weed. For a few days he felt it might work. His head raced with ideas about many things. Great ideas. His body however wouldn't move. He just could not make his fingers tap the keys.

By morning his ideas were gone through memory loss and thoughts of space trekking hippies ploughing their way through the cosmos were replaced with thoughts of multiple rejection letters and meetings with executives who used him as the source of amusement to get through their day.
The cycle repeated itself until he knew weed was not the answer.
He returned to the drink but well, once he was drinking there was no time for writing. It was always a revolution of drink and suffering sleep. The laptop gathered dust.
It was at the tail end of this binge that he confessed to me that he needed all three in his life if he was to get back to his novel, but he had to find levels which would provide the ingredients he needed to write about the things he wanted to write about. Each of them had the power to suppress somewhat the weakness' the others plagued upon with. And somehow, in some freak twist of evolutionary fate, that's what Leon felt would work for him. He failed of course; gauging levels was never his thing.


I wonder how other writers express themselves when it comes to wrangling with words. I'm sure not all need anything more than what the quiet can offer. But then I know of others, insane from substance, some so far gone they found their final solace down the barrel of a gun.
Could it also be possible to label writing a disease, just like alcoholism? For it's bleak daring addictive properties?
Is there even a case for them to be studied jointly as part of a degree course? A double major. Could there be a great thesis within their study? Or even a PhD ?
Sure as hell won't be me writing it anyway. The only thing I'll be writing are these last few words that you are now reading... at this very instant. Good Night.


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Sonny Strange novella, free download here.

Dating Leon

Below is another extract from Booker's World which didn't make the final draft.

Monday, December 14, 2009

Leon was three weeks into another spell of sobriety. His brain burned with boredom, unable to grasp life without the turmoil. Things had a way of having little meaning for him, unless he could see them through the tail end of a whiskey bottle.
"That's where you find the answers,” he would say. "Trouble is, I can never remember them next day."
Leon spent most of his sober days around at my place, living off my kindness. To be truthful it was good to have him around. It was during these times he showed his wit and it flowed well enough to induce some laughter from me. I never laugh easily.
There was this one time. Leon, when sober, was paralysed with shyness. He felt that he should join a dating site and check out what was available in the dating market. Perhaps his soul mate lay in wait for him, somewhere in a posh apartment in Dalkey, complete with contemporary decor and croissants and orange juice at dawn. It had to be worth a shot.
So he spent the day filling in on-line questionnaires that were advantageous to him, before departing with €120 of my money for a yearly subscription and access to mail features, winks and profiles with pictures.
“She's in here, I know she is,” he said excitedly.
Now, I never minded Leon stopping by, and even eating me out of house and home, but when he took over my computer that was another issue. I had my screenwriting to be getting on with. That was my way of absorbing life instead of having to live it. Day after day he sent mail out to potential candidates, the shyness sober living iced him in, melting away behind the warm glow of my computer screen.
Leon, being of shallow disposition sent mail to beautiful women who never mailed back. In the mean time Leon was getting attention from places he didn't want it, including a 63 year old fitness fanatic called Betty from Achill Island. That's how it played out for weeks, before he gave up and went back on the beer.
“I can't function,” were his parting sober words.
He returned a week later to check his inbox and was mildly surprised to find a mail from a girl named Sabrina who was living in Gort. Mails were exchanged and soon a dalliance was arranged in a restaurant in the town of Ballinasloe. Leon took the bus across.
It started well. They had a common interest. They both adored wine. Soup was shark fin, and they shared spare ribs in a barbecue sauce before ordering the main course. On arrival, the scene changed.

Sabrina, whose dinner was slightly cool, complained to a waiter and left him in no doubt that she was enraged with the service.
“Ease up,” Leon pleaded with her.
She gave him the evil eye, raising a fork and pointing it at him. She ranted for a few moments, totally ignorant to the jaw dropping clientele in the restaurant before finishing -
“And if you're not man enough to accept my right to stand up for myself, I'll pay for this meal, and you can fuck off with yourself”.
After that, Leon was utterly convinced insanity was the way to a brighter future and returned to the bottle, with plenty of success, in terms of the bottle.
On a sheet of paper I found earlier today, a headline. Typed in block capitals.

WHAT HAPPENS TO A PLAYER WHEN THE PLAYGROUND DISAPPEARS?

There are no words beneath in answer. He could never find an alternative way of living that filled the gap left by his addiction. Though he did try, just not with any lasting conviction.
On the back of the sheet I found what looked like a password. Intrigued, and on a whim, I entered it into the old dating site he once belonged too and was surprised that my little effort at being one of the Hardy Boys was successful. I felt the surge of a hacker run through. I made my way to the Inbox, clicking gently, hunting for that last great sad love story.
It was empty.

Don Booker

Who is Don Booker? It's a question I get asked sometimes, and to dispel accusations that I comment politically or otherwise under some false hood, maybe today would be a good time to write about how the character of Don Booker came about.
For that, we have to go back to the late Summer of 2009. I found myself in a bit of a hole, a film project I had worked on for free for 6 months was pulled just six days before the shoot date. I'm not going in to the ins and outs of that, I felt let down by the so called driving force behind the project.
It was then the full impact of my unemployment hit me in the face. Jobs were disappearing from job websites and newspapers. The ones that remained I didn't get. While working on the film project I felt it was time well spent, as it provided an opportunity for the future. When that went, the future didn't look so bright.

I found myself having a meet-up with an old friend, a very talented musician by the name of Gerry Tully. We'd worked together back in the hey-day, but life lead us off in many directions, and apart from accidental run in, we didn't really see much of each other.
Gerry, who has endeavored to cut out his own creative path, particularly in the area of music, kinda knew what I was up against. He suggested keeping a blog, and when he asked me what it was I always wanted to do, he said why didn't I write a book.

Within 24 hours Don Booker had been born and this blog started. Most of the early writing was posted here until I fully understood who the character was, and then trying to create a story around him.
That took 3 months in total but I finally got there, through a combination of writing everyday and planning how the type of book I wanted to write could be structured.
I'd certainly be lying if I said Don Booker isn't pretty political, the injustices of life pulling him closer and closer to the brink of nihilism.
The book started pre-Lisbon 2. We find out who Booker is, and what it is that ails him. While at times it made for bleak material Don always retained a little humour. It was the only way, I, as a writer, could tackle some of the themes I chose to explore throughout the novel.
During the course of intensive editing, I lost half the book. A lot of the political, you will be pleased to know, was cut. 100,000 words in total. That's nearly another book!

Over the coming weeks I will delve deeper into who Don Booker is and what he was created to stand for in the long term.
'Sure, Don Booker's not a real Irish name,' some say.
The one thing I wanted to avoid was the stereotypical Irish male with the character. Ireland has been badly sold internationally over the last 2 years. Though I do a little 'bad selling' on this blog, it is purely to highlight all that I deem wrong with Ireland at the present. Trust me when I say, on behalf of the majority of people, it has nothing to do with the ordinary person living in this land.
In the 'free world' we are governed by politicians joined at the hip via party systems, practicing a form of Capitalism that has failed. Implemented into policy in the hunt for power is the practice of a wayward understanding of Darwin's 'survival of the fittest' theory. People, victims of agendas time and time again.
Don Booker was created to voice things in a way that may offer others something to think about. Perhaps in time find ways to act on some of the injustices Booker sees around him. Sonny Strange has a similar role, as do a few more characters you will meet in the months ahead via the web series.

It was not so much about the book, but what the book would stand for by the end of it. And then to be more than an armchair activist when it comes to addressing some of the social inequalities many people have to face.
My job as a writer now is to find ways to making people interested in becoming part of a relevant change, even if that takes a lifetime and may have to be done further afield. Hopefully ways can be found for it to be done here. But given the walls put up in front of me of late, at the time of writing, it is difficult to see how this is going to come about.

I will have the 50 books I ordered at the end of next week. Finally 'out there.' It's not going to be everybodys read with their cup of tae, but it may resonate with some. And perhaps those are the people most important to me, so maybe with a bit of luck, opening the pages of Booker's World can spread the ideal behind it a little further afield and get it started.

I am posting some of the pages my editor and I cut from Booker's World here again over the coming months. For the most part they are not in the final draft of Booker's World, though the odd sentence of paragraph may be familiar, but are much different after the many re-drafts. With each piece I post, I'll include more detail on Don Booker and maybe include a little more insight regarding the process I took to write the book. It may benefit any new writers thinking of starting their own first book.

I wrote the original book in the present as I wrote it. I dated each piece, but by the end I did away with the dates in favour of Chapter Headings, but not traditional ones. I felt it worked a lot better from a reading point of view. Writing to the environment of the day that was in it at the time helped me shape Don's reversal from near nihilism to a livable, sometimes humorous form of absurdism. Philosophical, or just the musings of a bitter middle aged man? That's for the reader to decide now.

The chapter below was based on a thought I had on that particular day of how great it would have been to be a fly on the wall the night the bank guarantee came about, the reason this country is now on its knees. Such are the strange workings of the writer mind sometimes. Flies and politics. Where would you get it?
Thanks for reading.

Sunday, August 23, 2009

My bedroom is in my attic. It's like another world up here, quiet, still and peaceful. Near the stars. A number of weeks ago a fly sat at the corner of my computer screen. I tried to blow it away, but it wouldn't budge. I thought about removing it, but the little bugger provided an indication to life that existed outside my little world.
Up here in my room I have books, Leon's musings and a computer. It's all I need right now. I go out once a week, for a ten minute governmental issued duty and that apart, for well over a year now, that's the way it has been. Of course I use the other rooms in the house, but this is where I’m most at home. It is my space, my haven, my place of solitude. Until now that was.
Marty, as I named it, was still there the next day and the next. I thought it may already be dead, but following a close inspection under a looking glass which I picked up cheap on E-Bay, I noticed it was growing everyday. I began taking notes and doing diagrams, and by the end of week two I was intrigued. I gave Marty a flick and it flew off around the room before returning and taking its place upon my lunch. I studied as Marty ate some of it.
The days flew by and Marty reached Bluebottle status. A realisation came over me. An epiphany almost. Marty was just like Leon used to be. Liked to lie around, eat and live at the expense of others.
I'm all for people, and insects, making their own way in the world. If my life had brought me to a state of reclusiveness that was not of my making, and I had to accept it because no one cared, I felt Marty should do the same and not be living off me. I flirted with the thought of studying him in more detail and perhaps writing a report on it for people who were into flies, but instead I caught Marty in the palm of my hand, opened the window and watched as it flew off dodging raindrops. He was now my eyes and ears to the World and it made this particular day a little easier to get through.
I know there are people out there capable of justifying a lifetime of easy living studying things of no importance at tax payers and philanthropists expense, but I never could. If I was that way inclined, I would have went to college and learned to use words like Moreover, and not be dabbling in the area of new words that spring from my sometimes erratic mind.
I do that sometimes. Make up words. If it was good enough for James Joyce, it’s damn well good enough for me, though I’ll never be capable of understanding him on a literary level. I’m just too damn dumb.