Book Update

Having failed miserably to get near the book all week due to work commitments, I resolved to resurrect my ‘red pen’ edit this afternoon. Fionnuala and the hatchlings were off to visit my wonderful mother in law, so I had the house to myself. Deciding to sacrifice my weekend long run, I settled down to the grind of poring over every line, sentence and page of the latest draft. Deep joy, I know.

Seven hours and copious amounts of toast and Diet Coke later, I sat in my hoodie and pyjama bottoms, a happier man. I’d managed to cut a swathe through twenty chapters of the book, leaving me nine short of the finish line. My brain is frazzled, I’ve a three day old beard and the thousand yard stare that all aspiring writers are well familiar with. All being well, this time next week I should be finished.

I was more impressed by this, given my mind was already chopped liver, facing a Doomsday deadline next week for delivery of a big report for the powers that be. This necessitated me going into work on Saturday, something I haven’t had to do in a very long time. I loathe giving up my weekends, even for time and a half, but needs must and all that. Ten hours hammering away at a keyboard is not great preparation for an editing frenzy the following day.

The silver lining, as ever, are my wonderful beta readers. I received fantastic feedback from one of them this week. I won’t say who they are, as they are the shy and retiring type, but the words ‘Killed’, ‘Betty’ ‘I’ and ‘How’ feature in their blog name. It was just want I needed, when at a low literary ebb. Encouraging without being gushing and constructive without being soul destroying.

After this final self edit, I’ll be reviewing and tweaking the manuscript in line with my beta feedback. Then it will be forwarded to my editor, Laura, to turn the lumpy, rough diamond into a sparkling jewel. I’ll then launch myself into the lions den of querying agents and pestering publishers. I’m less nervous of this as I was a few weeks ago. If all else fails, I will (self) publish and be damned.

My blogging and running have both suffered this week, due to the pressures of work but, at the end of the day, the job pays the bills so it’s a reluctant priority for me. I’m hopeful that by midweek there will be less pressure coming from that arena, and I’ll be able to focus on more enjoyable pursuits. I’ll be back running tomorrow lunchtime as I need that break from my computer screen in the middle of the day.

Oh….and for those of you that don’t know, the book is titled ‘The Kirkwood Scott Chronicles – Skelly’s Square,’ and is the first part of a YA urban fantasy set in modern day Belfast. Our eponymous hero is a twenty something paper pusher battling a tragic past, spiralling mental health issues and a life going nowhere fast. All that changes when he meets a mysterious homeless girl who may hold the key to vanquishing the imaginary demons in his mind.

There’s just one problem. What if they’re not imaginary? Kirkwood finds himself at the centre of an ancient battle between supernatural forces of good and evil, struggling to save the planet and retain his own sanity in the process. All set against the murky backdrop of Belfast street life. It’s taken me a year to write and I’m very proud of it. I hope you all get to read it one day. Thank you as ever.

Are you writing a book? At what stage of the process are you at?

Who are your favourite Young Adult authors? Apart from me, that is?

Would you read ‘Skelly’s Square?’

I Need Your Help

I’m hoping to announce some BIG news on the blog over the next few days regarding the fantasy novel I’ve been working on for the last year – ‘The Kirkwood Scott Chronicles – Skelly’s Square.’ But before then, I need some help from my fellow writers. Can you recommend any literary agents or publishers who are currently accepting submissions in the above genre? Below is a summary of the plot to help.

The book is set in modern day Belfast, Northern Ireland, and tells the story of our eponymous hero, a twenty something university graduate languishing in a dead end job, who has recently been dumped by the love of his life. He is also attempting to come to terms with a traumatic childhood experience and cope with crippling OCD which results in his life being controlled by a series of tortuous routines.

All that changes when he meets a mysterious homeless girl, Meredith Starc, who he believes holds the key to freeing him from the horrors of his past and present life. The two join forces and are hurled into an supernatural battle between ancient forces of good and evil, fighting for supremacy of the planet on the streets of Belfast. Kirkwood comes to realise that, in order to slay his own personal demons, he must first overcome an enemy whose power and cruelty the planet have never seen before….Colonel Augustus Skelly.

The book is part of a planned trilogy and is an urban fantasy primarily aimed at the young adult market, but accessible to anyone aged 13-103 and beyond. It’s a supernatural fantasy but firmly grounded in the urban setting of modern day Belfast where it tackles gritty themes of mental health, homelessness, addiction and self harm. It is largely character driven but contains dollops of action and adventure, topped with a sprinkling of Northern Irish humour.

Intrigued? Interested? Or not your cup of tea? Whatever your take on the above, any recommendations or suggestions will be gratefully received.

I’m Writing A Book….Still

So, after three weeks of staring forlornly at it, I’m finally taking the plunge and starting work on my debut novel again – ‘The Kirkwood Scott Chronicles – Skelly’s Square.’ When I signed off last time, I had almost completed the fourth draft. I think another week of consistent editing will complete that process, maybe less if I get a good run at it. I’m off work today, so should be able to make some headway.

I’ll post further mini updates over the weekend. In the meantime, thanks to everyone who has supported me through this literary hiatus.

The Kirkwood Scott Chronicles – Skelly’s Square

Over the weekend I received a raft of feedback from beta readers regarding the first 15 chapters of my debut novel – ‘The Kirkwood Scott Chronicles- Skelly’s Square.’ Its an urban fantasy aimed at the Young Adult/New Adult market. Set in modern day Belfast it tells the story of our eponymous hero, a twenty something underachiever ravaged by a mental illness which dominates every waking hour of his life.

All this changes over one bizarre pay day weekend when Kirkwood’s not so cosy, alcohol sodden existence is turned upside down by a chance encounter with a young homeless woman, Meredith Starc. He realises that she may hold the key to unlocking the traumatic experiences which scarred his childhood and now manifest themselves in the form of the malignant Augustus Skelly.

Skelly lives in Kirkwood’s head and controls his life via an intricate series of compulsive routines which Kirkwood must perform in order to keep at bay crushing feelings of guilt and anxiety. Put simply, bad things happen when Kirkwood fails a routine. Very bad things. The routine is everything and hangs on the roll of dice every morning.

It could be anything from a fifteen mile run to inane mental gymnastics involving question and answer sessions with a work colleague. It doesn’t matter, as long as it is completed to Skelly’s satisfaction. Meredith has her own problems. Living on the streets, since the death of her best friend, Emily, she spends her days at the bottom of a wine bottle, trying to avoid the many dangers that rough sleeping in Belfast entails.

Thrown together, Kirkwood and Meredith must become unlikely heroes in order to untangle the mystery that is Augustus Skelly. A figment of a damaged psyche or a more sinister figure preparing to unleash an ancient evil that threatens the world as we know it? They must overcome their own inner demons in order to triumph in a supernatural battle of good versus evil which has raged across the cosmos for countless millennia.

Sound interesting?

Well, I’ve been overwhelmed by the response from the beta readers. The initial feedback has been incredibly positive and helped calm this novice author’s frayed nerves. I never thought I’d hear the words ‘awesome’, ‘brilliant’ and ‘excellent’ used to describe my little story. If I dropped dead tomorrow, and hopefully I won’t, then I would die a happy man. The responses have validated the last eight months of writing, no matter what happens next.

The betas have truly risen to the mark and I want to thank them publicly for the time and effort they’ve put into their responses. It hasn’t been a total gush-fest and they’ve offered constructive and valid comments which I aim to implement in order to strengthen the structure and plot; in addition to spotting a shedload of punctuation and grammatical issues. I never knew commas and quotation marks could make such fascinating correspondence topics.

I’ll be sending out the next 15 chapters of the book to the betas later today, with more confidence now. I was apprehensive about this process but now see the benefits of throwing myself to the beta wolves. Even though we still have a long way to go, Kirkwood is a step closer to seeing the light of day. I will continue to blog daily and hope you keep popping over to follow his progress. Thank you everyone for your continued support.

Would the above book synopsis catch your eye?

What do you make of the world of Kirkwood Scott?

What have been your beta reader experiences?

History Is Written By The Winners

When my OCD was at its worst I was a slave to my own thoughts. They controlled me from when I opened my eyes in the morning until last thing at night. The obsessive thought would settle like a toxic dew and only lift temporarily whenever I completed the corresponding compulsive act. This normally involved tortuous mental routines which would leave me physically and mentally drained.

At the time I didn’t know I had OCD. Like many others I thought OCD was ritualistic hand washing or cleaning, neither of which I was prone to. Instead I thought I was a deviant, the only person in the world having the unwanted and deeply disturbing thoughts and images which assailed me from all sides, at all hours. These were very, very bad thoughts. Which therefore made me a very, very bad person.

When my OCD was it’s height I must have had thousands of such thoughts every day. Multiply that by the days, weeks, months and years and you get an idea of the numbers involved. The scale and complexity of the disorder is staggering. OCD is a jealous, possessive mistress that demands your total attention. It ruled my life with an iron rod; brutal, relentless and utterly forgiving.

My already fragile self-confidence plumbed new depths. I believed the OCD was part of me, as opposed to an alien mental disorder which could be managed by medication and other therapies. I was consumed by guilt and shame. I despised what I was becoming, what I had become. Every day brought fresh horrors and unspeakable scenarios. When I was lost in a routine it was as if time stopped. Nothing mattered except the routine. Nothing.

The key to my incarceration was disclosure. I finally summoned up the courage to tell Fionnuala the truth about what was going on inside my head. She didn’t flinch, she didn’t judge, she didn’t run straight to the divorce courts. Instead she researched my symptoms online, effectively diagnosed me and encouraged me to seek the medical health I required. She was there when I needed her most. Her love broke the chains.

Disclosure involved transparency, courage and honesty on my part. There was a risk involved but after I took that first step, the beast lost its hold over me. It thrives in the darkness where it wriggles and squirms, growing in guile and deception with every passing day. It whispers false truths but shirks from the light. When I saw it’s true face, the beast lost its power over me. It shrivelled and skulked, retreating into the shadows to lick its wounds.

You might be reading this today in the grip of obsessive, irrational or addictive behaviour. You know what you are doing is damaging but you cannot stop. You are alone and broken, you see no way out of your predicament. If you are, then I hope this post is of some comfort to you. You are not mad, you are not evil and you are not tainted. But you do need help. Take that first step and ignore the voice.

The voice is not you, it cannot be allowed to drown out your true identity. Rise up and fight back. Rebellion leads to freedom. Freedom to live the life you were created to live. Do not let the enemy within triumph. Fight back. Treat your self inflicted wounds as battle scars, red badges of courage and honour. History is written by the winners, by the victorious and not the vanquished. You are a winner. Start writing your story today.

Are you battling demons today? How are you coping?

Flash Fiction Challenge – The Mirror

The sight of a well dressed man hunting through discarded till receipts is never an edifying sight. However, needs must, and I did unearth this beauty for today’s Flash Fiction Challenge. The rules are as ever. Well, there are no rules other than create a piece of fiction based upon the contents. You can write as little or as much as you want. All we ask is that you namecheck A Fractured Faith and link the post.

I will reblog my favourite stories. This is highly subjective on my part and there is no prize or winners and losers. It’s just an exercise to get the creative juices flowing and encourage fellow bloggers to flex their literary muscles. The response to the last challenge was great and I’m hoping for more of the same this time. Even if you aren’t participating feel free to share this blog with your readership in order to offer them the opportunity.

So without further ado I give you…..The Mirror.

Flash Fiction Challenge – A Song of Fire and Mints

Flash Fiction Challenge – A Song of Fire and Mints

http://mused.blog/2018/08/12/flash-fiction-challenge-a-song-of-fire-and-mints/
— Read on mused.blog/2018/08/12/flash-fiction-challenge-a-song-of-fire-and-mints/

This creepy, atmospheric piece from Chris ticked a lot of my boxes in response to our recent Flash Fiction Challenge. All we were missing was Fox Mulder and The Cigarette Smoking Man. Chris is a very gifted writer. Please support his blog.

Flash Fiction Challenge

Feeling a little creative today? Well let your fingers do the talking then. A few weeks ago I told you of my interest (some might call it weird fascination) with discarded till receipts in shops. I would look at them and then imagine the life of the person who had made the relevant purchase. What sort of day were they having? Where were they headed? And with who? To do what?

The last challenge provoked some great pieces of writing and I hope todays will as well. Apologies for the tatty receipt. It has been living the back pocket of my jeans for a few days now. I know. Gross. But for those struggling to read it the person in question bought:

  • 1 packet of Fox’s Glacier Mints
  • 24 pack of Diet Coke (cans)
  • £20 of diesel (gasoline)
  • Hmmmmm. Interesting. Looks like someone was planning a road trip. And a man or woman after my own heart regarding their love of Diet Coke. And as for the mints? Well, somebody wanted to freshen up their breath for some reason. The plot thickens? Have I got your creative juices flowing? Are you up for the challenge. There are no rules. All I ask is you give this blog a shout out in your related post.
  • Your pieces can be as long or short as you want and I’ll reblog the best ones. Let me know what you think. Happy writing!
  • Are you up for today’s flash fiction challenge?
  • What Makes A Good Writer?

    I wrote yesterday that I’m taking a mini blogging hiatus over the next few days as I focus on completing the third draft of my novel. I’m happy to report that progress is being made as I now have the first 14 chapters, roughly 12000 words, in a coherent running order. Yesterday was the first time I saw a tiny chink of light at the end of this very long tunnel. My jumbled thoughts were coming together into a more structured, seamless story.

    At the heart of this process remains the blog, There would be no book without it as the daily routine of writing has given me the self belief to bring the story which has been bouncing about in my head for the best part of a year to life. While I’m still an utter novice as an unpublished author at least I have the blog to fall back upon if the former dream never comes to fruition. My dream is to write for a living but, if not, my writing will always remain a passion.

    I’ve been blogging consistently for 14 months now but it still baffles me as to what makes a good writer? What baffles me even more is when fellow bloggers ask my advice on the same subject. I never know what to say as I have no creative writing qualifications or any real grasp of the mechanics of writing. I just tend to sit at my keyboard and the posts and chapters tend to write themselves. In some ways it’s akin to an out of body experience. Sometimes when I read over a piece again I don’t even recall writing it.

    Does that make sense? So I’m sorry if my answers to such questions come across as a bit half baked. Because I don’t intend them to be. Consequently I’m going to return the serve today and bounce the question back to you lot. What attracts you to a writer? What makes you want to desire more of their thoughts and words? What lures you into the imaginary worlds they create and tempts you to give up your valuable time to curl up with them in your favourite chair?

    Over to you. What makes a good writer?

    At Least You Know Where You Stand With A Zombie

    When it comes to scary movies I’ve never been one for vampires and werewolves. Now don’t get me wrong, I’ve dipped my toe into the Twilight series. The werewolves do share our surname after all. But Bella did need a good shake by the end of it all and I was kind of hoping that the oh so perfect Cullen clan would have been wiped out in the final battle. Oh that the entire lot of them had been wiped out by a rampaging zombie horde.

    Yes, I’ve always been a zombies man. The most terrified I’ve ever been in a cinema was when, aged seventeen, I went to watch George A. Romero’s ‘Dawn of the Dead’. Partially terrified by the content of the movie but more so that I would be flung out for being under age. You see, zombies are the most misunderstood of creatures. Which is why I’ve always had a soft spot for them. Note to self – never reveal to a zombie you have a soft spot. It will probably end in tears.

    Zombies are not evil per se. You will never find a zombie plotting world domination while stroking a cat on its knee. Or constructing a death ray machine capable of reducing us all to dust. That’s all a bit above their pay grade. No, zombies are quite content just shuffling about and eating any humans that are stupid enough to stray within arms’s reach. It doesn’t take much to please a zombie. Just feed them. Regularly.

    It’s the people who created the zombies who are the bad guys in all this. And that would be er….us. This is excellently captured in ‘The Walking Dead’ where the undead have effectively become a backdrop to the main story where our heroes battle the real monsters – their fellow man. Zombies don’t lie and steal and betray. There’s no need for them to as the survivors are doing a perfectly good job of it themselves.

    Our natural instinct is to fear such apocalyptic scenarios. That classic icebreaker – ‘What would you do in the event of a zombie apocalypse?’ has us all breaking out into a cold sweat. Personally I don’t think I would last five minutes. Unless Fionnuala was there to hold my hand. My survival skills are minuscule at best and I’ve even less common sense; although my marathon running might give me a fighting chance of at least outpacing them for 26 miles or so. Following that I would most likely expire quickly afterwards. Ho hum.

    The bonus of a zombie rampage is at least you know where the real monsters are: clue – they’re the shuffling, stinking undead wanting to gnaw on your neck. In the real world we have no idea where the monsters lurk, but oh they lurk. The difficulty is they look no different than you or I. It can be that handsome, respectable guy you meet at the bar; or the unassuming woman you strike up a friendship with at work. It can be anyone, anywhere and at anytime.

    They don’t even have to be part of your real world. Don’t believe me? Go online and prepare to enter a whole new world of pain. Catfishing, ghosting, bullying, blackmail, it’s all there. People who you think you know and can open up to turn out to be figments of warped imaginations. They get a kick out of inflicting venom and bile from behind the comparative safety of their keyboards and phone screens.

    Fear is fear and pain is pain whether it’s le being chased from your home in the dead of night by the armies of dead or realising that the real monster is the person you thought you could trust and rely upon. At least you know where you stand with you local, neighbourhood zombie. He may not have your best interests at heart but he’s consistent if nothing else. He might munch on your heart for a bit. But he’ll never break it.

    What are your views on this post. Please comment below. Let’s talk!

    Witches Road

    They killed him on the Witches Road. Men with black masks and blacker hearts. Two rapid starbursts of white death lighting up the night sky as the silent, wooden sentinels looked impassively on. The body dumped at the roadside where his blood mixed freely with last nights discarded pizza crusts and tonic wine, the communion of the damned. 

    The years roll by but the memories bite back harder, each passing anniversary another crushing blow to the fragile tendrils of hope in the hollow hearts of those left behind. A cross where he fell, meaningless words on a marble monument. Flowers that die where he died.  Tears are shed and harsh words spoken but nothing changes.

    Six years it cost them. One year for each orphaned child he left behind him on the roadside. Jesus wept. There was nothing good about that Friday. They raised their glasses as the Romans raised their cross. ‘Forgive them Father for they know not what they do.’ Oh they knew what they did that night alright. Every war has its casualties they shrugged. As casual as that.

    I run the Witches Road. I run past the spot where they ended his life and my thoughts run on and I think of that night. The horror, the struggle, the realisation that it was over. And I pray for his family but can’t find it in my weary soul to pray for the hard men and their hard hearts. I run on and I never stop for I fear the Witch. She whispers seductively for me to stop and rest, to catch my breath. But I run on for I know her lies and to stop is to never start again.

    So they live their lives and they drive their cars. Along the Witches Road. And they feel no remorse for they fought the good fight like their fathers and their fathers before. They returned the serve. They terrorised the terrorist and every death is regrettable. But sorry? They’ll never say sorry for that would be weak. And weak they are not for they are the people and the people are strong and just. They sleep the sleep of the righteous and God help the man who cries foul murder of them. 

    Yet she is no man. They had heard the old stories but there is no Witch just like there is no way any man will stop them from walking down the street with their heads held high. Where were you when our shops were being blown to pieces and they were shovelling the remains of our loved ones into bin bags? Damn you to hell and damn your Witch too; tired old tales from tired old folk with too much time on their hands and too little wit between their ears.

    They were found in their beds. Twelve years to the day. Their faces twisted and gnarled like the trees under which the trigger was pulled. We scratched our heads and nobody spoke what they were thinking. Heart attacks they said. In their sleep. They would have known nothing about it. Both big men who liked their beer and fags. Natural causes they said. Nobody believed them. There was nothing natural about the look in their eyes. They saw. 

    I run the Witches Road. I run past the spot where he fell. Fresh flowers by the marble. Teddy bears too. Grandchildren now. I smile as I run but not for long. For this is her road and I dare not stop.

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