Sorry the blog is late, I just couldn't get it done on Friday.

Innocent words aren't they? "Sorry it's late, I couldn't be bothered until it got close to the deadline..." is what the words could mean. "I had a hard time getting my ass in gear because I was hungover/tired/doing 'fun' stuff..." Or even "This project isn't that important to me."
Usually though, the words are spoken in a flustered and apologetic manner and it's genuine. For me, I do try hard not to let anyone down and for the most part I am believed - for which I am thankful - but most of the time, for me, it's: "Sorry it's late, I've been silly and taken too much work on and now I'm trying my hardest not to let ANYONE down and I'm starting to let EVERYONE down." That's how it was for me last week. I felt terrible about it but feeling terrible doesn't get the work done, does it?
So I worked hard. I worked until 8:30, 9:30 and 10pm. I didn't take a lunch break, I ate sandwiches at my desk and I slogged my guts out. The two lovely ladies whose books I had to get out have now been assured that they are at the printer and the books are on Amazon. Now on to this week.
It's all my own fault, I realise and understand that, and I am the only person who can reduce the work pile - I can't delegate this. So yesterday, after a 300mile round trip for a meeting, to come home and find my daughter had cleaned and tidied the kitchen, cleaned and tidied the bathroom as well as taking care of the animals for us, was SUCH a relief.
I suppose what I'm saying is this:
I work hard, I feel that I work hard. Sometimes the work doesn't go down as fast as I'd like but I refuse to put out shoddy or incomplete work and I am catching up. I am thankful that people trust me to help them on their journey and I hope that I will never let anyone down to the extent that it's irredeemable or irretrievable - I know how that feels and I don't ever want to be the cause of it. My family seem to understand that I work hard too and for that, I am again, thankful.
Yesterday was productive for me. Trev (Hubby) knows that all my projects are on the back-burner while I build up my business, so I don't dare to think about Red or Celtica or Dusty for the moment but yesterday, on the many hours we were travelling, we spoke about my writing and it helped. It's not fallen into place just yet, I can't pack everything to one side and do my own stuff but it's percolating. It's bubbling away at the back of my mind and it is going to be better for the wait. Celtica is going in a different direction. I've written half a book - 45,000 words and I have to cut out MOST of it. That's the bad news... The good news is actually GREAT! Instead of the one book I've started, it looks like Celtica has at least three or maybe four books, all in that 45,000 words and once I finish all of this work and can concentrate on her, Red and Dusty, I'll be able to buzz along and get so much out there.

So, I'm really sorry it's late, but I do think it'll be worth it.

You've probably seen those memes that have a set of pictures: What my mum thinks I do, What my friends think I do, What I think I do and finally: What I actually do. Some are amusing and a lot are sometimes, painfully true.
If you're a creator: writer, author, poet, painter, sculptor, blogger etc. what do you want to achieve from your work?
Personally, I'm happy enough muddling along, writing when I can, creating new worlds and situations for characters in my brain-box. Of course I'd love to be discovered, who wouldn't... but then again, I wonder if I'd then hark back to the 'good old days' back when I could do as I please, muddle along, write when the feeling took me rather than have deadlines hanging over my head, editors and publishers hounding me for the next installment, pressure mounting, tension getting the better of me?
A book a year is very often the norm but is it possible to keep on creating with the same freshness, the same unique spin as your first novel? Does the industry take its toll on your imagination, making you jaded and burnt-out? As a creator, think about that for a moment. Think about your life now as you struggle to make ends meet, pay bills and do your thing between work and the day-to-day getting on with living that you have to do.
If you finally got your dream to be a full-time creator in your specific field, would it be just that, a dream job or could it turn something you thoroughly enjoy right now, without the constraints of 'You HAVE to get this done!' into another grind that you're going to hate, hate, hate by the end of the day?
Be careful what you wish for, it may come true.
On the other hand, it could very well turn into that dream job. 'Choose a job you love and never work a day in your life again' - I have a confession to make. You've probably guessed it by reading to here, but I suppose I'm scared - just a little bit - scared that I'll fail, that I'll let my readers down, that my stories will become 'samey' and predictable. I suppose that's why I try different genres, different characters, different situations but guys, I'll be really honest here, I don't EVER want my books to be the reason that someone starts writing - don't get me wrong, I DO want to be an inspiration to others to write, but if anyone ever read my stories (or just one) and thought "I can do better than this rubbish!" I think I'd be mortally wounded, gutted, cut to the quick!
So, while you may see my picture, smiling and looking serene and confident, that's just another picture on the 'What my readers think I do' - the next picture is of me, disheveled, wide-eyed, sleepless and worried that some day, the idea well will run dry and I'll resort to re-hashing something I've already done. There's only one way to combat that, I think. You have to ALWAYS be true to one person - yourself. When you go down the route of working to specific targets and templates, you leave yourself wide open for the sameness to creep in and steal your individuality.
So, what do you think you do?
I know what I do, I write because it's what I love. I write for my pleasure and if someone else enjoys my work, then it's a double-whammy-bonus! I hope you'll never find my writing 'samey' because I hope to *place the deity of your choice here* that I'll have stopped before that day arrives.

What do I think I do?
I please myself first and pleasing one person always is better than sometimes pleasing none.

D Michelle Gent has three full novels and a series of six short stories out, she has been Editor for a global magazine and Producer of a number of Indie movies in the last few years.

What does this mean: 'A good book'?In my case it doesn't have any holy inference, but that's me.
A 'good' book to my mind, is one that grabs you from the get-go, takes you off to 'another world/time/place' and doesn't let you go - even when you've closed it - and sometimes not even once you've finished it.
My tastes in reading matter are eclectic and varied. I like all sorts of subjects, titles and authors. Bernard Cornwell is a firm favourite, as is Stephen King, not to mention some of James Herbert's and Dean Koontz's tales. Terry Pratchett of course will almost always get my vote, his Discworld is second to none.
Those storytellers are masters of their craft, geniuses at deflection from the every-day and magic-weaving of situations that could easily have been more ordinary. They are recognised the world over and rightly so. But what of the new breed of storytellers? Where are they coming from now?
You probably know there's a revolution happening in the world of publishing, a shake-up of things that have stood for decades - centuries - without being challenged to any degree of success. But here they come, not necessarily banner-waving or slogan chanting, demanding attention of readers, but they are edging their way into the minds and hearts of readers nevertheless and it has taken new technology to enable them to do it. The Indie Author is here and I believe they are here to stay.
The 'Big Six' have not relinquished control just yet and personally, I don't think I'd want to see the 'Trad-Pub' disappear, but there certainly is room for everyone in this market and the sooner they realise it, the better off the readers will be.
I would like to see a number of Indies band together and grab a chunk of the market share. I understand that it will take more than a few in order to grasp this particular nettle but it can be done, I'm sure of it. Maybe as many as a hundred or more, but once the balance is adjusted, the 'Big Six' could become the 'Big Seven' or even the 'Big Eight or Nine'. Then I can see a future where the Indies will have as much say in the market as ever the Trad Pub giants ever did.
There is only one thing that holds the Indie Author back and I know, I know, it's been said before: The Indie Author needs to take control of their quality as much as the rest of the market does. Until the independent author gets their act together and puts out a solid defence with edited, professional-looking books, there will still be no competition for the Trad Pub.
But, in light of recent success stories - the non-edited and horrendous writing of a certain Fan-Fic-turned-Trad-Pub series, it would seem that there is still room for talented, meticulous and savvy writers out there.
Go on, give an Indie Writer a go.


D Michelle Gent has three full novels and a series of six short stories out, she has been Editor for a global magazine and Producer of a number of Indie movies in the last few years.

I had permission to have a go at the story before The Stone - No Soul Unturned and here it is:

The Stone Prequel

As man discovered the wonders of the world in which he lived, he was also discovering secrets too - secrets of nature and magic, the earliest of sciences. Rituals were perfected and ceremonies were performed and man developed his sense of self.

As man progressed and evolved, he learned how to interact with nature and how to harness and interact with the power which swathes the world.

Man has always looked to the stars but it is only in the last century that the stars have come within reach – or is that not quite true?

There is a place where the stars have been within reach for centuries; a place which draws men of science and nature to it and then repels them or envelops them. It is a place of utter revulsion, of deep and dark fascination.

It has been used as a place of worship for aeons and because it has been kept secret, passed on through tales and stories told but never written, it has been lost and rediscovered many times over.

The ancient Druids knew of this place and it is because of their knowledge that they migrated far away from where their religion began. Over the centuries, the Druids moved and settled in other magical and influential places around the country but they never returned to the most powerful and most magical location. They never returned to the Midlands.

It is told of in their most dark and dreadful story. The tale of the evil which man is capable of and which has been captured in an object not of this world. If the story is to be believed, then there is a stone buried in the exact centre of our country and it holds more misery, evil and devastation than can be imagined even in these blasé times.

In one religion there is a promise of a second coming, a return of one that delivers salvation for mankind but nature is a thing of balance and if there is something which will deliver salvation, then there is also one that will deliver damnation.

The Druids have been the protectors of nature and of man from their earliest times, protecting one from the other and making peace afterwards. What happens, then, when both nature and man need protection from something otherworldly?

A meteorite fell to earth, destroying all in its path as it came. Over centuries it lay undiscovered but it waited patiently for the catalyst which would awaken it.

Druids were not the only performers of ceremonies and there were those who preferred the influence of power rather than nature in their rituals. Some performed ritualistic sacrifices and many were drawn to the place where their power seemed magnified for a time.

The killings were residual and the evil seeped into the ground and was drawn into the meteorite. The power that had lain dormant since the Druids had vacated was awakened and what it sensed excited it.

No one remembers how the meteorite was discovered - no one remembers or no one survived to tell the tale. There was a Blade manufactured from the alien metal and it was used in further sacrificial ceremonies. The ceremonies were performed on the exact place that the meteorite had been found and with each evil deed committed the power grew. The Blade had the capacity to steal the released soul and to increase its energy. Each drop of blood that was shed in the name of evil dripped onto the earth and sank below the surface to the place where the meteorite had lain. The droplets fused together over time and they became solid as stone and as black as the hearts of those that killed in the name of self worship.

The entity that was captured in those droplets of fused blood began fighting with the Blade for the souls of the sacrificed and as the stone grew in size, so grew its influence. It began drawing more evil to it and the Blade was busier than it had ever been. Droplets of blood were adding to the Stone and it was soon the size of a goose egg.

By the time the Romans had left the shores of this country, the sacrifices had become so frequent that the Blade was renowned throughout the realm as a thing that could make a King of any mere man and a God of any King.

The Blade was hunted, found and eventually stolen and the Stone became dormant. If it had any thoughts then they had been that it was locked in a battle with the Blade and one or the other should have been ruler. If it had any thoughts such as that, then they were wrong for without the Blade, the Stone was nothing and without the Stone, the Blade was useless.

The man who would be King found out to great cost and the King who would be God paid his cost with his life and his soul.

The Druids knew of the Stone’s power and they also knew that if they were ever to prevent the Stone from regaining its power, the Blade and the Stone should never be reunited and so the Blade was lost forever. A group of Druid Elders returned to the Midlands to lay the Stone to its eternal rest where it could no longer influence the thoughts and deeds of man. They performed their ancient ceremonies and recited their earliest rituals and they sealed the Stone with Nature’s magic.

Still the Stone exerted certain influences over mankind and a great house was built, with a new place of worship. The house prospered for a long time, though whichever family owned it seemed to be forever wealthy, they were never graced with good fortune. Death, misfortune and tragedy threw a pall over the household and the people that lived there. Not only family members, but visitors, servants and locals died in tragic accidents, by the violent deed of another or by their own hand.

The house was abandoned and allowed to fall into disrepair until a small group of Supernatural Explorers visited the house. They set up their camp inside the main hall and set their equipment to record the eerie happenings that had been reported since before the history of the great house.

That first night, the curse of the Stone struck again. A great fire tore through the house, killing the three investigators in the conflagration. The fire and how it started was a mystery but on the same night, there were reports of an Unidentified Flying Object and others of destructive ball lightning.

Has the Stone been reunited with its energising power source?

Over the past decade and more, sightings of ghosts, spirits and eerie occurrences have been reported more and more frequently and it is only a matter of time before another group of Psychic Investigators, Ghost Hunters or Followers of some cult or another find themselves drawn to the Stone’s resting place and what will happen when it is disturbed once more?

Halloween

October 31st didn't have much significance back in the dark ages or so historians seem to think. The day was just the one before All Soul's Day (or All Saint's Day) but over time it has snowballed into something much bigger even than the original celebration itself.

It is the time when Ghoulies and Ghosties and Long-Leggity Beasties walk amongst us to terrify us all.

I suppose that it makes sense in the fact that the evil spirits and incarnations, devils, demons and other wicked beings got to thinking "Hey, the Goody Two-Shoes get their own day so why don't we have ours? We can make more mischief and mayhem on the evening before, whilst they're preparing for their big day and aren't concentrating on us. Let’s PARTY!!!"

Any excuse for a knees-up, those demons...

But it’s not just the Yanks that celebrate Halloween, although America has taken the celebration and twisted it into something far bigger and more commercial than I remember from my childhood - Hey! My childhood was NOT that long ago!

Halloween is more about candy* and dress-up in America and less about keeping evil spirits at bay and that ethos has crept its way across the 'Pond' to Good Old Blighty and has insinuated itself over our traditions and customs (much in the same way that Christianity did with the celebration of the Goddess Eostre and also the 12 days of Yule) and I'm afraid that the fear-factor has gone.

Halloween is now celebrated on the closest Friday and Saturday to October 31st and if Halloween falls on mid-week you can see ghosts, vampires, witches and weirdos walking about unfettered for more than a week.

How times have changed.

At one time it was thought that as the dark winter nights drew in, evil spirits came out for longer periods (makes sense - the longer the dark nights were, the more time the spirits had to do their thing). The Celts used bonfires to drive the evil spirits away. As the Celts celebrated New Year on November 1st, the coming of winter, it made sense to clear away anything that would make a bad start to the brand new year - that included the evil influence of spirits.

It became a time of spooky stories and scaring the hell out of each other and perhaps the odd practical joke (which sometimes turned bad and people got injured or killed... no? Oh, just me then...).

In 'Deadlier... Than The Male' - my first novel - I wrote a little about the festival of 'Feralia'. Now, as convenient as that may sound for a significant celebratory night in a Werewolf society, it is not a made up word. It really was a festival and it was woven around the celebration for the souls of deceased relatives. However, Feralia was celebrated on 21st February, not 31st October - I took artistic licence on that I'm afraid.

So why do so many people celebrate - or at least mark the occasion - of October 31st?

It is because there are strange and inexplicable occurences that we still can't get to grips with and the human mind likes to know what's what and have everything neatly parcelled and labelled as definite. We are the smartest species on Planet Earth and we know everything there is to know about... well, everything - right?

Not really, no.

If we knew everything, there would be no religion and no superstition and therefore no Halloween, no Easter and no Christmas.

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*Candy - chocolate, sweeties and other confectionary items.

Jack The Ripper – one name that the majority of the Western world’s population have heard of.

It conjures imagery of murky fog and dark alleyways, of victims lying gutted in the street and ‘stalk and slash’ murder.

When I was writing my new novel Cruel...and Unusual I had to go into intensive background research on the perpetrator of these murders and the possibility of previous atrocities. I researched the weather, the dates, even the possibilities of other - previously unconnected attacks - and I researched the language that the people of Whitechapel would have used. Not necessarily to use all the information, but to get a ‘feel’ for the era I was ‘working’ in. I even read the novel Dracula by Bram Stoker in order to further my research on how lives were lived in that time.

I had to read autopsies of the victims and I began to wonder what really did happen to the man the world knows as Jack The Ripper?

Of course, because my work is fiction, I can make the tale fit my story, but that’s not how it works in real life, is it?

How did he get away with the crimes scot-free?

What drove him to attack those women?

What would cram a person so full of inexplicable hate that he would snap the restrictions of his mental restraints and slaughter the women in such a violent and horrifically bloody manner?

The majority of us ‘normal’ people that interact with other human beings day in and day out would perhaps think “OOOH!!! I could just kill him/her...” but it never gets past the inside of our ‘civilised’ craniums (crania?) and it certainly never ever gets through to the act of making those preparations to commit such an act and to commit it in order to be certain of getting away with it. No ‘normal’ person would go to the trouble of hiding evidence that points in our direction and misdirecting any suspicion that could possibly come our way or, almost never.

So, Jack The Ripper – madman or criminal genius?

I’ve asked a lot of questions in this article and I’ll leave my ‘audience’ to answer the majority for themselves – exercising the imagination so to speak.

I will however, give my own views on what I believe Jack The Ripper was. I will steer clear of presuming to know who did it – I cannot possibly claim to have performed a feat deserving of the title ‘Case Closed’ but I do have an opinion.

I believe that the man that London was so terrified of back in 1888 was a little man – not necessarily small in stature but not one that was noticed – or taken notice of. He craved attention and nothing that he did – no matter whether he was at the pinnacle of an illustrious career or on the bottom rung of a very long ladder – made him believe any better about himself. I believe that he used the murders and the ensuing panic in the streets to enable him to feel fulfilled – more of a man, more important in some way, less frustrated in his life. He used each experience, the emotions – both felt and witnessed – in order to enrich his own existence, but did he succeed?

Is that why he stopped?

What prevents history from repeating itself?

What would we – the public, the authorities – do in the event of a repeat?

Was it only one man? Some of the murders were similar, but others were different enough to make one think very carefully. Some were performed with almost clinical precision – others, even the last one, Mary Kelly, was executed with such rage and oblivious hatred that precision was thrown out the window and hack and slash were more gainfully employed.

I know what happened to him at the end of my novel, but my novel is fiction. I don’t believe that anyone has the answer now; it’s been far too long to prove anything.

I know there are theories aplenty – which one do you believe, dear reader?

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Yes, I know it's late but you know me... I'll be late for my own funeral (I hope).

What does Halloween mean to you?
For me, it signals the transition into winter. The leaves are turning and falling and the branches are starting to look bare. Soon we'll have a frost and then snow. The dark nights will really kick in when the skies are grey and the sun doesn't stick around for long but that's ok, I'll get some writing done.
I have my fabulous new office (a mess at the moment, so no pictures) up in the attic of our house. The views are great - not incredible, that may come later - I can see over fields from one window. I have a lot of ideas rattling around in my brain-box - not just ideas on characters, stories and plots, but ideas to get the most out of my chosen career. Yes, I think I've finally made that transition too. My hobby has become my career.
I wrote a piece for a fabulous site: The Review and that gives a little insight into my childhood beginnings as a storyteller.
I wrote a couple of poems a while ago and they're Halloween themed so I thought I'd share them here too.

Halloween

'Twas the night of Halloween, when all through the house

Some poor hungry creature was killing a mouse;

Her stockings were holey, her cloak was threadbare,

An anorexic Vampire in need of health-care;

The humans were rotting, still tucked in their beds,

She kept coming back with a need to be fed;

She had just started wondering if her body would keep,

If she settled down for a long winter's sleep,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

She sprang from the floor to see what was the matter.

Away to the window she flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow

Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,

When, what to her wondering eyes should appear,

But a Vision in black, on his face was a sneer,

He thrust out both hands, so fast and so slick,

She thought for a moment it must be St. Nick.

For held at arm’s length and struggling lots,

Were two frightened children, a pair of twin tots

"Now, come out of hiding. Come and see here!

You’ve a choice on this night and you have to be clear!

You have to make haste and you have to come now

You want to be a Vampire, but do you know how?

Come partake of this feast for soon we must fly,

If you come with me, we shall take to the sky.”

So down from the window she dropped to his feet,

And devoured the two children he’d brought for her treat.

And then, in a twinkling, as she wiped her mouth,

He took her hand and they rose to head south.

She felt so secure as they flew all around,

Descending on victims where they could be found.

Soon she was dressed in her victim’s clothes,

And her beauty shone through like a new budding rose;

As he glimpsed at her feeding from every new throat,

He started to realise he had good reason to gloat.

His eyes -- how they twinkled, his manner most merry!

As red dripped on white, each drop like a cherry!

His humourless smile was drawn up like a bow,

And the fangs that were glimpsed were as white as the snow;

He was distracted, by a Slayer they were seen,

But laughing and killing she slaughtered him clean.

When sunlight was nearing they decided to hide,

In a purpose built coffin a new double-wide.

He admitted then, he had watched a long time,

“I waited most patient till you could be mine.”

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,

Soon gave her to know she had nothing to dread;

He spoke no more words, but went straight to his sleep,

And filled near to bursting she started to weep,

Then waking once more he took her in an embrace,

To give her reassurance, the future they’d face

Together forever not even death could them part,

For long ago, far away, she had captured his heart.

“I was lost and alone till you came to my sight,

My saviour, my darling, we shall rule the night.”



It Wasn’t...

 

The fleeting shadow that passed you on the darkened streets that you thought was a stray dog?

The person behind you that you thought was coincidentally going the same way that you were?

The feeling you got that there was something behind you that you thought was your imagination?

It wasn’t.

 

The glint you thought was the lights on a car passing the house?

The caller that hung up as soon as you answered the phone you thought was a wrong number?

The movement you saw from the corner of your eye you thought was your imagination?

It wasn’t...

 

The flicker of a shadow you thought was the wind blowing the branches of the tree?

That noise you thought was the central heating switching on?

The sound you thought was the cat bumping against something?

It wasn’t!

 

The shadow was someone checking you out.

The person was seeing where you live.

The feeling was instinct, you should have taken notice.

 

The glint was light reflecting off a knife.

The caller was making certain you were alone.

The movement was the knife being raised to cut the phone line.

 

The flicker was someone in the garden.

The noise was someone forcing the window.

The sound was someone on your stairs.

 

Are you scared yet?


Happy All Saint's Day!