10-book 3D Bookshelf

THE BLANK PAGE

23:58 Nothing

23:59 Nothing

00:00 Aaaarrrgghhhhh! Nothing, not one single word in 24 hours.

The blank sheet mocks me with its silence. I place my pen, carefully… methodically… alongside the white rectangle. I am furiously calm, controlled. Yet, at the same time I am depressed, disconsolate and very tired.

I repeat my daily mantra.

“Sleep… …a good night’s sleep.

I’ll write again tomorrow.

The story will be waiting for me.”

Then I leave the study and go to bed, to a night of sweating, tortured restlessness in which stories threaten to wake me up, but they barely visit, let

alone linger. Come the morning they are gone, and I am bone weary.

Back to the study I go and stumble, almost sightless, to the chair.

I rub my eyes as I sit.

Then I stare, and I stare, and I stare…

The blank page is no longer empty. It is covered with a handwritten script. No pen that I possess could have written that letter. It was written by a quill, as indicated by the tiniest of splashes where the nib broke free of the friction of contact with the paper.

I read a little of it.

I close my eyes and shake my head. When I open them again the writing has changed to plain English.

It reads:

I read it again and again.

It’s a prank, that’s what it is, just someone’s idea of a joke. It has to be… But… how did the prankster get into my study? Why would they use a quill and

write in such a florid, medieval style and use that atrocious accent? But the accent had changed before my very eyes. How was that possible?

As I read it for the umpteenth time the writing begins to fade.

“No, no, no, no…” I grab a pen and snatch out another sheet of blank paper. My hand blurs as I copy the letter. By the time I have finished the ink has vanished from the original sheet.

But I have my copy.

And I have a smile on my face.

“Thanks Erik.” I murmur as I begin writing, with a fervour that I have never experienced before. Page after page after page… and I sleep as deeply and comfortably as I could ever have imagined was possible.

Three short months later I produce a collection of short stories all derived from

the advice and reassurance of the letter from Erik, Baron Von Itzmaitael of Storrieland.

Do I publish them?

I think about Erik’s words.

“Let them wallow in mediocrity.”

I decide to let others read the stories, but I refuse to lose heart if they never make it to the press.

They are my gems, written for me.

And I love each and every word of them.

The End

TOO CLOSE TO SEE

I have written my stories, and they are wonderous to behold, but...

There is something not right with them.

Don’t get me wrong. I love them. They are my babies, and I know them end-to-end and back-to-front.

They are good stories I am certain of it.

But still the feeling persists.

Torn between joy and frustration, I read them over and over again, day after day and still the “wrong” feeling persists.

I am on the point of giving up and filing the stories away when I discover another handwritten note on my desk in the study.

I copy as I read.

It’s a revelation to be sure, but I can’t deny the facts. They are so new, so young and immature and that is why I fret so.

They, and I, need fresh – less emotionally tied – eyes to look at them to see the mistakes and to help them

grow and improve.

So, I register with a writer’s workshop.

The End

A THUNDEROUS SILENCE

So, I’ve posted my stories, feeling confident that they will attract comments as I have performed many reviews without receiving responses from at least 50% of the authors.

I wait.

I wait.

I read profiles as I wait.

“C4C” hmm?

“Nudge me if I forget” hmm?

“…return substantial reviews…” hmm?

“…return useful reviews…” hmm?

My old anger and frustration return. What the…? I am seething. I want to rip new ones into those people who have not, and who will not, return reviews. Some of whom have acknowledged the reviews

via email, so they know that they “owe”.

I refrain from a blanket lambasting of the defaulters, because a broad brush like that would hurt those who genuinely have a reason for not returning the reviews.

I slam my fists onto the desk so hard I hurt my hands. Such is my frustration.

Bed and sleep. Don’t hold on to the anger, let it go.

The study is abandoned as I stomp out and go to bed.

Tomorrow it will all be better.

Tomorrow comes and I’m still angry.

Back to the study, an email missile of destruction building in my mind. A nuclear holocaust to ensue once it has been launched and to hell with the fall out!

But… again I find a handwritten note. I check the signature “Erik, Baron von Itzmaitael of Storrieland”.

The storm of fury abates as I read, remembering to copy it before it dissipates as the others had.

As I copy the last word, the original version fades back to a blank sheet.

Over and over, I read Erik’s words. Pride and anger want revenge against those who have defaulted on their promises, but I find truth in Erik’s advice and so I resume my wait. Pride is assuaged and anger defused.

Only those who are worth respect will make the effort and deserve the title “honorary friend”.

This time the wait is filled with calm.

The End

MISCONCEPTIONS

Finally, the reviews arrive. Most are genuine, helpful commentaries that indicate weakness, areas for improvement and those areas that are already working well.

Submission after submission is reviewed.

Review after review is balm on my nerves as they encourage me in my efforts to improve.

Then…

Then I get a slap in the face, a knee in the groin, my eyes scratched out and I get bitch-slapped for a piece of flash fiction that I wrote purely to amuse myself and to discover if anyone else could see the humour.

Clearly – CLEARLY – this particular reviewer has no sense of humour

whatsoever.

There was not one part of the story that was not shredded.

I do not understand.

If something is so bad, why bother reviewing it?

If you have nothing good to say, why bother saying anything?

The ultimate irony is that the reviewer has attended a workshop to make them a better writer, AND they are a goddamned teacher.

I have never been so glad to NOT have someone as my teacher, as I would walk out of the class and denounce the individual as being a devil-worshipper, or such like, just make sure that they are burned at the stake.

Furious? No, I am beyond furious. I want REVENGE. I want to hurt that particular reviewer so that they never

come near me, and hopefully they learn never to do that to anyone else ever again.

I print out the review just to have the satisfaction of tearing it into the tiniest of pieces. I’m angry with the reviewer and I’m angry with myself for letting the reviewer get to me.

A return review is very definitely in order.

But not now… not while I am angry. I need to know why that person has been so mean-spirited, heartless and brutal to me when I have not seen, or read – let alone reviewed any of their work.

Pen down. Take deep breaths. Restore my equilibrium and add a little distance for a while.

I go out to the local park, let the fresh air clear my head, and think about what my new friend Erik would do. I decide to go back and CALMLY return the review.

Apparently, Erik has some advice for this situation too.

A letter awaits me in the study.

The copy remains as I read, and copy, Erik’s observations.

I wonder where he finds his inspiration, is he an author? Has he been there, seen it, done it, made the film, and does he bear the scars beneath the T-shirt?

Whoever, or whatever he is, I am grateful for his counsel. He pours sweet-scented oils over my ocean of troubles, and I come to realise that the ocean is

little more than a single drop carelessly spilled and so easy to clean up.

The End

REVIEW FROM A GOD

I have received a review from someone who is a high calibre reviewer that has been published, many times over. Their review is excellent and incredibly helpful, for that alone I am grateful.

However, I now face the daunting task of returning that review. That wouldn’t be so bad if they were asking me to review a very rough first draft. Even someone like me could find something to say that might prove useful.

The problem is their material is ready for publication. It has also been reviewed by others who are more experienced at giving critique than me.

What the hell can I possibly say that will not sound like ass kissing praise?

How can I avoid sounding like I’ve lost my mind and talking complete and

utter rubbish?

I read, and re-read, the material vainly searching for any errors that they may have overlooked.

It looks like I’m going to have to default and hang my head in shame. I write an email to say thanks for the advice and to apologise for not being able to make any suitable contribution to their works. Then leave it as a draft.

I really don’t want to default.

Luckily Erik intervenes with another of his letters.

I nod as I read his letter. It seems so obvious now, but I am so glad that he took the time to explain it.

I suspect that IMHO is going to be slightly over-used, but I’m not as worried as I was.

Erik’s right.

I am entitled to my opinion even if it is different to everyone else’s.

The End

PREPARATIONS

The story is strong, well written and polished to the nth degree, so… now what?

I ask around and hear things like “headline” or “elevator line”, and “query letter”, and “synopsis” and “manuscript”.

What?

I thought I’d finished with the writing. How can there be so much more, and such strange stuff to write.

Oh, COME ON!

So, I start panicking. Well, why not? I start to get the feeling that this is some kind of ridiculous joke and I’m the butt end.

If my pen was made of rubber, it would be drooping right now.

It takes a while, but I pick myself up

and start to investigate what these things mean. After reading 1001 web pages, and blogs, and forums I am only slightly less confused than before.

A deep sigh carries the word “HELP” between my lips, and I hope Erik is listening, wherever he is.

He is.

And he responds.

My wrist aches after copying that, my eyes are tired, and my head is buzzing with the hum of a thousand thoughts.

I take a deep breath and follow it with a huge sigh as I push my chair back. That is a lot to take in. It is a lot to do, but it doesn’t seem quite as daunting as it did before.

The paper is left on the desk when I get up and stretch and flex my wrists and neck, easing the tension of copying so quickly.

Erik may not have given me a perfect answer, but he has calmed my nerves, and I can face those next tasks with much less trepidation.

The End

CROSSROADS

Finally, I’m ready... aren’t I?

In terms of the work to prepare all the written materials, yes.

So now what?

I’ve just come from the “writer’s” direction, and I need to make a decision about which way to go. Publisher, Agent or Independent Publication?

How do I find a publisher? How do I find an agent? How do I choose where to do my own independent publishing?

I’ve reached this crossroads, and I am stuck, turning one way, then the next and then the next, only to start over again.

Publisher?

Agent?

Independent?

My head starts to spin, and I feel panic

rising.

Deep breaths, that’s what Erik would recommend, deep breaths.

I decide to go searching for agents and publishers and immediately hit a barrier. I have to specify a genre for my story, and I am not altogether sure where my story lies. It takes less than fifteen minutes for me to become frustrated to the point where I feel it is hopeless.

I switch to a search for “self-publishing” sites, and I face a similar problem. What genre is my story?

In less than thirty minutes I am demoralised and in desperate need of a break. I hear the call of the kitchen – it is talking far louder than my “author’s voice” at this time – and decide to have a tea break.

On my return I find that Erik has been busy again.

I facepalm, but that doesn’t keep the wry smile from my face. He’s only really telling me what I already knew but have chosen to forget. Now that he has pointed out the obvious, I have direction and purpose once more.

Look out friends – here I come!

The End

HEARTBREAK

I’ve made my queries and sent my submissions.

I’m waiting.

Waiting for the responses.

The first comes quickly.

“Rejected”.

I shrug and manage a smile. It’s all right. There are others out there that may succeed.

It’s fine.

The next two are the same.

My weak smile is exhausted.

More and more come back “rejected”.

With each reply I feel that I am what they are rejecting, not the stories.

I stop writing. Not one word. I can’t focus because the “cuckoo” of doubt has

taken up residence and any enthusiasm has been evicted like an unwanted sibling.

When the mail comes, I don’t want to open it. I know what I’m going to find, and I really don’t need to see that word again.

Rejected!

I leave the study and spend the day in the kitchen, the lounge, the bathroom, the bedroom, the garage… anywhere but the study.

Once my haven, it seems such an unfriendly place now.

Sleep produces dreams in which the word is written in neon letters that spread across the rooftops of my neighbourhood. The word terminates in an arrow that points to my home.

Morning comes and sleep heavy eyes unwillingly open.

I drag myself from my pit of despair

and make myself go back to the study.

With only the slightest of pauses I open the door.

I look to the desk and get a glimmer of hope.

Erik has written another letter.

I scan a few replies. No sign of the word “rejected”. I shake my head as I find, “no thank you”, “not what I am looking for”, “not suitable for the current market”, in fact anything except that damned word!

I snatch up my document tray, attach a new label to obliterate the word “rejected” and then write, all in capitals,

“NO, THANK YOU”.

All of the response letters slide into it very easily, and the label is just so much more reassuring. The imaginary chill in the study disappears and that feeling of sanctuary returns.

I smile and sit down at the desk, the chair feeling comfortable once more. Moments later I resume writing.

The End

SUCCESS

The flow of “no thank you” messages continues and though it’s not anything to make me happy, I am not unduly distressed – thanks to Erik.

Then comes the fateful day.

A letter that does not say “no, thank you”. In fact, it says the opposite.

I let the news sink in slowly.

They want my story. Oh, My Fairy Godmother… They want my story!

Crazy laughter spills from my mouth, I am sure that I am grinning like a moron who’s just caught on to a very bad joke.

My heart races, jumps, skips and dances. “Yeeeeeeeehaaaaaaaaaaaa!” I scream at the top of my voice.

I want to tell someone, anyone… no everyone! Party time. What should I do,

who should I tell? Hah! That’s an easy one to answer – tell all those jerkoffs who ever tried to make me believe my work to be unworthy of publication. That would be soooooooo sweeet.

I dash to the kitchen and grab a beer. The lid twists off and I down it in one slow, smooth swallow. I shouldn’t have done that as it makes me feel so light-headed, and I am sure that the stupid grin on my face is going to become permanent.

A short story being published in a magazine is something to celebrate. All right, so it’s not a novel, but it is published!

Despite my intention to stroll back to the study, I trot back and throw myself in the chair and spin around a few times, giggling like a little kid.

Then I see it.

A letter from Erik.

I am surprised by the advice, stunned by the revelation and distraught at the loss of my friend and confidant.

Each one of his letters has been so helpful, but it’s not a “he”, it’s a “they”. I wonder how many of the voices have names that I might recognise. It seems appropriate that they should maintain their anonymity.

I raise an imaginary glass. “Ladies and Gentlemen, I thank you all from the bottom of my heart for all that you have done, for all of us, not just for me.”

I spend the next few hours producing attractive hard copies of each of the letters. When the collection is complete, I go to a nearby photography shop and buy glass-fronted frames, and picture hooks, sufficient for every letter.

On my return I reorganise the study and hang the letters above the desk so that I never lose sight of the wisdom of Erik, and his colleagues.

The End

Trahira.

Trahira.

Trahira.

THE RUT

My latest effort has been an epic in every sense of the word.

For twelve months I have been living the story. Each character has become a phantom that follows me everywhere.

The dialogue echoes around my head, snippets of conversations, favourite lines all compete to be heard.

All this is cool when I’m still writing the story, but now that the tale is told and out in the market, it’s a real pain in the butt.

A blank page becomes filled with echoes of the heroes and villains from the epic. It overshadows everything, frustrating my efforts to start something new.

I snatch up the sheet, screw it into the smallest ball I can and lob it toward the

bin. It misses. I pick it up and try again. I play until it goes in, only to find that I am still in the rut of the last twelve months of writing.

What can I do? It’s still in my head.

I look for inspiration in as many places as it may exist, but the vacuum that follows such a long devotion swallows the glimmers of hope.

Day after day the haunting continues.

Then I get a letter from Erik.

That’s easy for Erik to say. I sigh in desperation.

It’s a knee-jerk reflex and I feel stupid the moment I have the thought. The concepts folder catches my eye. I pick it up and note the weight. There has to be something there that will get me out.

With the folder under my arm, I leave the house and walk to my local coffee shop. A couple of lattes later and I’ve read all the notes. A couple of them have caught my eye. One of them makes me giggle because it’s so stupid. That decides it for me. Even if I only make myself laugh, I’ll do it!

Stupid, funny and outrageous ideas float into and out of my head as I make my way back home.

This… is gonna be fun!

The End