Last year I watched a few writer friends successfully complete NaNoWriMo, the National Novel Writing Month, and a splinter of envy edged its way inside me. How had they mustered the energy, the discipline to write 50,000 words in one month? I was in the defence force – discipline had been my life, from ironing five sets of white uniforms on a Sunday evening, to achieving a mirror polish on my shoes. Yet I could not find it in me to manage 50,000 words in a month.
You may be laughing. You may know authors who get up every day and write religiously for three hours. These unicorn writers rise early, shower, clean their teeth and arrive at their desk like newborns, bright-eyed and brimming with ideas. But for me, the idea of NaNoWriMo was akin to a fairytale. Yes, I wrote and released Patrick the War Man in 2020. And yes, I released The Hag in 2021. But to write a book in a month? That kind of wizardry belongs in one of my books.
And so I wondered, when is the ideal time for me to write? Is it early in the morning, when the Eastern Koel is whooping in the tree outside my bedroom window? Despite his naughty cuckoo tendencies, he’s the ideal alarm clock with his repetitive call. Perhaps it’s later in the afternoon, as the smudge of storm clouds appear in the western sky. That pause, between the wind dropping and the first few drops of rain, that could signify my time to sit down and tap away. Or maybe I should wait until the evening, long after the Australian air force jets have finished their noisy manoeuvres over our house?
Should it be in spring time, as I stay indoors to reduce the dreaded bane of hayfever? No one can ignore the call of fresh growth, and new ideas bursting forth like blossoms. Or should I write in the midst of summer, as I avoid the hot sun and subsequent lupus flare? No, no, it will be better in the stillness of winter, when we are encouraged to go within, to relish the shorter days, eat warming foods, and contemplate our brief lives.
And then I realised all of these times are the perfect moment to write, because in each moment there is a snapshot, a unique sight that warrants describing. I am further blessed to have friends in the Northern hemisphere, and each day on social media, I see the exact opposite of what is going outside my own window. It’s a steamy, overcast day here, but other friends are experiencing snowfall, short days, and lingering chill.
Inspiration is everywhere. If I need to write a gloomy scene while it’s blisteringly hot, I know I’ll find the perfect picture and description online. I can’t currently visit London or San Francisco without a lot of hassle, but there will be someone online showing us exactly what it’s like in these cities right now. I love this immediacy, this intimate glimpse into a far-removed, exotic landscape, especially when so many of us have been housebound. And in a world that has been picked up and shaken like a snow globe, it’s reassuring to see that the seasons continue, that life still goes on.
Perhaps I can’t muster 50,000 words in a month, but I know the rhythm of the seasons will inspire me to explore, imagine, and eventually complete my next story.
Follow this link to read Kim’s Meeting the Author’s interview …
I’ve been thinking a lot, recently, about how to convey the art of giving life to an image through words.
I am a storyteller and my medium is free-verse poetry. In recent times, I have been doing a lot of writing that is in partnership with an image. My intention is to have the image – the voice of the image – driving the poem. I should probably provide an example of what I’m on about. I recently took a photo of two birds on the wing. It was a bad day in the world – rotten things happening, a storm was imminent, and two birds were flying. Here they are:
I try to make it my business to write every day and this image – on that day – spoke to me. Here is the poem:
go (my love) let’s go
let’s fly away
across the face
of the creeping
you and I
I hear the thunder
over everything . . .
but we –
you and I –
than any storm
my love . . .
Nothing special, but picking up on:
· The mood of the day.
· General despondency arising from local and world news etc.
· Covid misery.
· An approaching storm.
· Two birds (Sacred Ibis) flying before the storm.
· One bird leading the other.
The poem attempts to capture all of those things in the voice of the leading bird. Or so I assume from my own reading of the poem.
I find that most pictures really do tell a story. I’ll show another. In this case I had encountered a native orchid (the common bird orchid) on a ramble up onto a local mountain. Native orchids are a treat to find at any time, but this one in particular had a highly suggestive peculiarity – apparently common to all flowers in the species. I bet you see it immediately.
Here is the image:
I wanted to use this image for my next poem, and it could have gone a couple of different ways. I’m thinking of frogs, oysters, and teenage rebellion in the range of choices. Why?
· Frog – that yawning gape looks like it might have a tongue ready to unfurl, legs set to leap.
· Oyster, because that may just be a pearl.
· Rebellious teenager because . . . just because really.
Here is the poem:
the pretty (llurp)
wot you lookin’
a flower . . .
I can’t have . . .
’m jus . . .
leave me . . .
Clearly, I find images suggestive and, in writing, it is my wish to convey something of what I’ve seen, or heard, to a reader. To make my perception available to a random someone else.
So what goes in to an image interpretation. I’ll choose a fresh picture that I haven’t yet written about and explore a few possible part-answers.
Here is the image:
First question -not what is it, but what does it look like.
· Insect eggs
· Bugs, flies, wasps.
My sense is of living creatures in a state of suspension of some sort.
· If the primary object could speak, what would it sound like?
· Does it speak? What might it want to say to you (observer, writer, reader)
What will the next thing to happen be (if we had a subsequent image)?
· Emergence from the cocoon/egg.
· One at a time
After that . . .
· I’m not sure, but
· Let the initial writing response set up the subsequent possibilities
That’s as far as I think I can go with brainstorming this particular image. What I am confident of, though, is that if the image suggests a beginning, and perhaps a middle, the act of writing (capturing) those ideas will suggest the ending.
What do you think? I haven’t written the poem/story to go with this picture. I’d love to hear your thoughts.
Do you want to know what the image is of? It is a variety of quaking grass gone to seed. That is another point perhaps worth making. Every picture tells a story. It isn’t necessary to go a long way from home to find inspiration of this kind.
I’ve put out a number of books, now, in what I have taken to referring to as picture poetry. The common feature of all of them is that I allow the images to speak to me. Feel free to peek inside.
Frank Prem has been a storytelling poet for more than forty years, and has spent his working life in various parts of the public psychiatry system in Victoria (Australia).
He has been published in magazines, e-zines and anthologies, in Australia and in a number of other countries, and has both performed and recorded his work as ‘spoken word’.
He and his wife live in the beautiful township of Beechworth in the North East of Victoria.
Frank has published several collections of free verse poetry –
Small Town Kid (2018)
Devil In The Wind (2019)
The New Asylum (2019)
Herja, Devastation (with Cage Dunn) (2019)
Walk Away Silver Heart (2020)
A Kiss for the Worthy (2020)
Rescue and Redemption (2020)
Pebbles to Poems (2020)
As well as Picture-Poetry books –
A Beechworth Bakery Bears e-Book (2020)
A Beechworth Bakery Bears e-Book (too) (2020)
Voices (In The Trash) (2021)
The Beechworth Bakery Bears (2021)
Sheep On The Somme (2021)
Waiting For Frank Bear (2021)
A Lake Sambell Walk (2021)
I’ve often wondered why so many of us are obsessed by our unique spirals of DNA, to the point of spending endless hours searching through immigration and naturalization documents on Ancestry.com?
When I mailed my spit-in-a-tube to be analyzed, I told myself this venture was purely an exercise in “method-writing.” In the same way Marlon Brando inhabited Stanley Kowalski in Streetcar Named Desire, I would “become” Alienor Crespo, the protagonist of my latest novel, Zahara and the Lost Books of Light. Alienor goes to great lengths to research her family tree. As her creator I felt obligated to do the same.
On the evening my results arrived in my Inbox, I clicked the link with no premonition of what was in store.
I was not surprised by all the Eastern European yellow and green, with a small dash of blue for the Baltic’s and the UK. I was philosophical about finding 6 great aunts and uncles on my mother’s side who I had no idea existed. My detachment, however, turned to deep curiosity when I investigated my dad’s side of the tree and started the hunt for the orphanage where he’d told me he’d been raised. If I’d taken a selfie at that moment, more than a hint of fanatical purpose would have shone in my eyes. I didn’t leave my dinner to burn on the stove but I would have if given half the chance.
The next day, over morning coffee, I got on the phone with the nun in New Jersey who maintained the archives of what was once the Nazareth Trade School. While we spoke I was looking at an online record of ‘students’ in residence, my nine year old father’s name written in surprisingly neat cursive, ten lines down from the top of the page.
(Image from Ancestry.com)
“He was with us until he was seventeen, except for some time in an orthopedic hospital,” the Sister told me.
That made sense. My dad used to say that being in the hospital after he came down with polio was the best year of his childhood. The Children’s Ward was where he learned to play chess and was introduced to Shakespeare’s plays. We didn’t have many books in our house but without fail Dad read his copy of Hamlet once a year. Now that I’m older, I can appreciate the significance this held for him.
Grandma Anna had been unable to support three children on her own during the Great Depression. She had placed my father at the orphanage/trade school when he was nine years old. She failed to visit him for eight long years and when she came to pick him up she was using a different last name than his, recently married, and ready to reunite her family.
No wonder Dad was a quintessential outsider who, when he met my mother, told her that his own mother was dead. Not true and after I was born there was a family reunion of sorts. But I was never close with my grandmother. The trauma endured by my father had marked him for life and as a child I was not the more forgiving person I’ve become.
So there he was, or at least the ghost of him, behind the walls of the orphanage in the photograph. For the first time I tried to see the world through his eyes. Somehow this allowed me to love him in spite of his deserting me the way his own mother deserted him. Maybe that’s why, when I wrote Alienor Crespo’s story, I decided to give her the gift of seeing through her ancestor’s eyes. In the end she too finds meaning in the painful discoveries she makes while recreating her family tree.
Follow this link to read Joyce’s previous interview …
The Pen is Mightier than the Sword, so my Keyboard is my Machine Gun – David Wake
Having just packed in the day job (advice to writers: never give up the day job) to write full-time, I find myself thinking a great deal about a previous day job. I used to work in computer science research. We were trying to invent the internet and, in hindsight, all the elements were there, but we never put them together. My field was the human-computer interface. I’m an SF writer, so thinking about technology is the new day job. (I also write steampunk with The Derring-Do Club adventures and ‘miscellaneous’ with Roninko and Crossing the Bridge, but the SF is I, Phone and the Thinkersphere series, although cosy mystery next.)
So, in preparation for the new lifestyle, I’ve been reorganising my office space v e r y s l o w l y. It’s ludicrous that now I’ve the time, I’m re-organising to be more efficient. Surely, when time is precious and shared with something else, that’s when you should be more efficient?
One thing I have changed is my keyboard. It’s a shiny (literally as there are lights under it) Ergodox split, ortholinear, tilted, customisable, ergonomic keyboard with thumb clusters.
“Excuse me, a what?” you ask.
Split, so you aren’t hunched over the keyboard straining your shoulders. Ortholinear (or columnar) means you aren’t bending your fingers in weird ways. Tilted for less wrist strain as you don’t have to rotate your hands onto the keyboard. Customisable for those endless hours fiddling with the layout. For more, much more, see below.
And, finally, ergonomic, which is code for expensive.
Thumb clusters hold a collection of twelve keys pressed by your thumbs. It is insane that the right thumb, the most dextrous of our digits, is only used for the space bar and that the left thumb, the second most dextrous digit, is only used for the same spacebar. (It’s also insanity that we only use our thumbs on our phones.) My clusters currently have space, return, ctrl, backspace, home, end and dedicated keys for copy, paste and find – all just under my thumbs.
You can change what the keys do. If you don’t like the double quote there, then have it here. My writing has a lot of dialogue, I used to be a playwright, so having to press shift+2 is a strain on my little finger. The solution was to move it over the apostrophe (which is the US layout) and swap it with the semi-colon. You have to look at a keyboard to understand the improvement and these tiny, little refinements are a step backwards as my fingers no longer know where a key has got to. But slowly I shuffle forwards. It’s a massive rabbit hole and I don’t think a week has gone by that I haven’t changed something. Recently, I had to type an email address and I found that I didn’t have an ‘@’ key anymore! I’d removed it. I catch myself wondering if I really need those number keys. I could easily have written it as ‘shift+two’ above.
I’ve not had the nerve to switch from the standard Qwerty layout to Dvorak or Coleman-DH.
Lockdown had elements of a blessing in disguise and a chance to re-evaluate life. These changes will hopefully bring benefits. Just thank goodness, I didn’t go mad and start obsessively doing something insane. Oh, by the way, I also have a 46 key keypad to supplement the keyboard for shortcuts, volume control and all those keys I’ve taken off the keyboard.
My partner described it as ‘sharpening pencils’, that habit that writers have to avoid doing any actual writing.
Like most things, it’s a balance, of course. I spend my whole day here (well, no, there are actual pencils to sharpen), so I may as well make it as comfortable and efficient as I can. You should too. I’m not suggesting that you switch to an Ergodox (although I do), but, importantly, I’m advising you to look at your setup and how you use it.
Seriously, look after yourselves. That’s the moral of this ‘Friday with Friends’. You may not have carpal tunnel syndrome… yet, but now is the time to do something about it. So, get a better keyboard (office chair, computer screen, reading glasses… etc) as soon as you can.
To see David Wake’s previous interview on MTA, go here:
I’m a writer. That’s what I do. Three novels and one comic, along with a random seasoning of short stories can attest to that.
Over this last year, thanks to the extra time… given… to us by the world’s health scare, I have started three new novels and been endlessly editing another comic. Does that sound productive?
Don’t be too impressed. There is a reason I used the word “started” and not “finished”. Despite having extra time, I have actually found it more difficult to focus on my work.
I don’t think I’m alone here. Since I was given the opportunity to write this article, I have even been putting it off. I started to ask myself, “Self, why are you being so lazy?”.
“Well, lazy isn’t completely accurate,” myself replied. Then what is the best way to describe it?
It all comes down to why I do what I do, why you do what you do, what we do what we do. Ultimately, it’s because all of us want to be happy.
I don’t mean the just momentary, smiling wide happy like I get from eating doughnuts. I think I’m being inaccurate again.
A better word than “happy” may be “satisfied”. Getting what you want from the results of your actions. (Again, eating doughnuts may apply here but your waistline would likely argue.)
So what haven’t I been getting from my writing over the last year that I had been getting the years before? Oddly enough I think that, in the lonely work of writing, I found satisfaction in the interacting with people.
It started with the people in my head (who I have always thought were more interesting than I am). Then it became introducing them to people at book launches, signings, and conventions. That was the part that has been missing for the last year.
Several months ago, I joined an organization called the Fraternal Order of Eagles. “People helping people” was right on the sign in front of the building. It is a fine group of people I highly recommend you check out when you have a moment.
What does this have to do with anything I have talked about thus far? It will all come together in a moment.
The Eagles often run fundraisers for local charities. A short time ago, they were looking for ideas to do just that.
That was when I had a two birds with one stone moment. Okay, that may not be the best analogy in a group called Eagles but we’ll just go with it.
I remembered really enjoying going to conventions, talking to people, introducing them to my characters and their stories. I also remembered that it was a decent part of my income, selling the books I wrote that introduced said people to those that lived in my head.
And the Eagles meet in a nice, wide open building. Could we actually hold a convention there? It would be a small one (it’s a meeting hall and not a convention center, after all) to be sure, but it would be a chance to interact with people again!
It would also make money for a local charity. In this specific case an organization called Solace Tree. They provide grief counseling for children, teens, and adults. Truly a worthy goal, I hope you would agree.
Remember that “people helping people” thing? The Fraternal Order of Eagles thought a convention was a good idea. But wouldn’t holding a convention be kind of self serving then?
Well, as I have been asking people in the community if they will come to the convention that we have come to call Aerie-Con, I have been pleasantly surprised at the enthusiasm that they have shared at the idea of a new convention coming to town.
So, is Aerie-Con self serving? In all honesty, I would have to say yes. But, after all, I am people, too! There is nothing that says you can’t enjoy yourself while trying to do some good in the world.
Actually, raising funds for Solace Tree is the stated goal of Aerie-Con but it is more than that. Humanity, no matter how nerdy or introverted, is still a social creature. So the convention is also bringing people together and this brings us back to the two birds with one stone!
To synopsize: in deciding to try and make others happy, I am finding myself becoming happier as well.
Maybe that’s the secret. If you want to be happy, try making others happy. It’s even more satisfying than doughnuts.
Thank you for inviting me to your blog Meeting the Authors for a Friday with Friends chat Camilla, it is such a delight to be here again.
I have a new release, or should I say rerelease!
My debut novel has been re-released with Next Chapter Publishing, Bloodstone The Curse of Time #1. This YA Fantasy novel is primarily prose but each chapter starts with a short poem, so there are masses of poems!
Good grief, it has been an interesting and somewhat daunting experience relinquishing control of my book to someone else – especially as I’m republishing a version and if you are a control freak like I am… there are obstacles, difficulties and invaluable lessons to be learnt.
Metadata, title changes these all effect your novel and make the process much more complicated. But I am hoping that the initial niggles will be overcome and it will be worthwhile.
Change is challenging but sometimes you have to embrace change to move forward.
At least with the second novel in the Curse of Time series I won’t have this problem as Golden Healer will be all new, starting from scratch! Yeah. Good news I’ve just heard: Bloodstone is to be in the Ingram Catalogue with access to bookstores. And Next Chapter have also revamped their cover design process for these editions, with full sleeve covers that will look great on a shelf and attract the eye of potential customers.
I’m thrilled to announce I am also a contributing author in a new release coming out soon (Pandemic inspired,) with a winning poem contribution entitled Hope is and a short piece of writing about my thoughts about the pandemic. This is to be published by Chantelle Atkins, more about that soon…
With regard to Bloodstone, I have all sorts of plans, at the moment I am arranging an impromptu launch with the lovely author community.
I’ve managed to link the old reviews on Goodreads but sadly can’t do that with Amazon due to the title change and metadata issues which means I have lost over twenty precious reviews on Amazon on the original version! Ouch. All is not lost, some lovely friends are going to re-review.
So, if anyone can help, re- reviews and new reviews gratefully received for the new version!
Thank you, lovely peeps.
Fifteen-year-old Amelina Scott lives in Cambridge with her dysfunctional family, a mysterious black cat, and an unusual girl who is imprisoned within the mirrors located in her house.
When an unexpected message arrives inviting her to visit the Crystal Cottage, she sets off on a forbidden path where she encounters Ryder: a charismatic, perplexing stranger.
With the help of a magical paint set and some crystal wizard stones, can Amelina discover the truth about her family?
A unique, imaginative mystery full of magic-wielding and dark elements, Bloodstone is a riveting adventure for anyone interested in fantasy, mythology or the world of the paranormal.
Next Chapter Publishing – YA fantasy The Curse of Time series:
Sometimes notes can jar,
Music’s unexpected tunes,
Driving out the sadness vibes,
Sweet silent stringed perfection.
The next day, after my memorable visit to the Crystal Cottage, I felt supercharged, buzzing with energy, ready for my pre-arranged band session with my friends. The crystals had triggered my creative energies. Today, I had music on my mind. Things were looking up, and meeting Leanne had given me hope that life could only get better.
My mobile rang just before I had intended to set off. I couldn’t believe it, it was
Ryder. I hadn’t heard a word from him since our last meeting. He surprised and
perplexed me by asking if he could join our band session. How could he have known our practice was today? I hadn’t mentioned it to him, yet he seemed to know about it. I couldn’t stop debating how odd this revelation felt. In the end, I agreed he could join us.
The prospect of seeing Ryder again thrilled me. Nevertheless, I wondered if this was the best time to get together. I couldn’t wait to tell my friends about him, but I wasn’t too keen on him meeting them now. He’d somehow taken the choice right out of my hands.
My mind journeyed back to the day I’d first encountered him. Ryder had appeared down a pathway that my mum had warned me not to travel on. My first experience with him had been swift, and he had disappeared just as fast. Then, there was that weird experience with the portrait of my dad turning into the haunting image of Ryder. I sensed danger. There was something different about him compared to other boys, eerie almost, but I couldn’t decide whether to trust him or to stay away from him. The threat from those other boys and their intentions that day had vanished with his unexpected but welcome arrival, and yet my concerns suggested he’d been shadowing me, following
me for some reason.
To see MJ Mallon’s previous interview on MTA, go here:
My alter ego is MJ – Mary Jane from Spiderman. I love superheros!
M J Mallon was born in Lion city Singapore, a passionate Scorpio with the Chinese Zodiac sign of a lucky rabbit. She spent her early childhood in Hong Kong. During her teen years, she returned to her father’s childhood home, Edinburgh where she spent many happy years, entertained and enthralled by her parents’ vivid stories of living and working abroad. Perhaps it was during these formative years that her love of writing began inspired by their vivid storytelling. She counts herself lucky to have travelled to many far-flung destinations and this early wanderlust has fuelled her present desire to emigrate abroad. Until that wondrous moment, it’s rumoured that she lives in the UK, in the Venice of Cambridge with her six-foot hunk of a rock god husband. Her two enchanting daughters have flown the nest but often return with a cheery, heart-warming smile to greet her.
MJ’s writing credits also include a multi-genre approach: paranormal, best-selling horror, supernatural short stories, flash fiction, and poetry. he has worked with some amazing authors and bloggers compiling an anthology/compilation set during the early stages of COVID-19 entitled This Is Lockdown and later she wrote a spin off poetry collection, Lockdown Innit.
She’s been blogging for many moons at her blog home Kyrosmagica, (which means Crystal Magic,) where she celebrates the spiritual realm,her love of nature, crystals and all things magical, mystical, and mysterious.
MJ’s motto is…
To always do what you Love, stay true to your heart’s desires, and inspire others to do so too, even if it appears that the odds are stacked against you like black hearted shadows.
Her favourite genre to write is …
Fantasy/magical realism because life would be dull unless it is sprinkled with a liberal dash of extraordinarily imaginative magic!
Her eclectic blog shares her love of reading, reviewing books, writing, and photography: https://mjmallon.com/
When I was in grade school, I wrote a poem that was published in the school paper. If my memory serves, it went something like this:
We have a little system that we do each night,
And when we do this, we never fight.
Mom is the one who washes, of course,
Dad dries them off, the father the boss,
And I am the little boy who puts them away,
Who goes to school every day.
Certainly not a great poem but it was the first piece of my writing ever to be published. Little did I realize it at the time, but that experience unexpectedly came full circle years later during my midlife. While this latter career was based on my writing talent, my first career was based on my artistic talent.
When I was seven years old, I was taken to see my first Broadway show, Oklahoma. From then on, I wanted to be a scenic designer…the person who creates those pretty stage pictures. Growing up in New York City, I saw nearly every show that opened on Broadway. I studied at various places to become a designer. I got into the scenic design union after passing a very stringent test and worked at CBS-television. There I designed such shows as Captain Kangaroo, The Merv Griffin Show and The Jackie Gleason Show.
Things were going well…until they weren’t. The TV shows moved out of New York, and I was left designing soap operas and commercials, which didn’t suit me. Since my wife was from San Francisco, a city we both loved, we decided it was an ideal time to move across county. I had no steady job at the time, my daughter was not yet enrolled in a regular school, and the landlord gave us a bunch of money to vacate the apartment so he could renovate it and raise the rent. We took the money and moved across country.
I got work with the San Francisco Opera painting scenery and we found the Victorian house we always dreamed about. Again, things were going well… until they weren’t. My wife, Ellen, contracted a rare liver disease. There was no cure nor liver transplants at the time. The prognosis was three years. And indeed, she did die three years after the diagnosis.
It was an extremely difficult time, but Ellen had a great sense of humor that helped us cope with the situation. It also surprisingly thrust me into a speaking and writing career. After Ellen died, I realized how beneficial therapeutic humor was during her terminal illness. It helped us rise about the situation and, if only momentarily, gave us a reprieve from the challenging time we were going through.
I wanted to share with the world what I had learned about how humor could enable us to rise above any situation. I joined the National Speakers Association to find out about the ins and outs of being a professional speaker. I had almost failed speech in college because I feared getting up and speaking in front of a group. But here I was speaking to groups of upwards of 1,500 people because of my passion about the value of therapeutic humor. And it was the speaking that led to my writing career.
At one speaker’s convention, I kept hearing colleagues say, “If you want to accelerate your speaking career, you need to have a book.” It seemed like every speaker I heard that year was saying, “You need to have a book, you need to have a book.” When the conference ended, I went back home, put together a book proposal on the benefits of humor. After numerous rejections and revisions, my literary agent sold The Healing Power of Humor to a mainstream publisher.
The book hit a nerve with readers. I think it was, in part, because of Norman Cousin’s book, Anatomy of an Illness, which talked about his personal journey of healing himself with laughter. Even though my book was published way back in 1989, The Healing Power of Humor is still going strong today with a 40+ printing and a 9th foreign language translation.
One book led to another. For example, the hundreds of uplifting quotations I didn’t use in the first book became the basis for the second. That book led to a series of quotation books that got reprinted in many different formats with several different publishers. And those publishers continued to release several of my other non-quotation books.
Comedian Jerry Lewis has said that Allen Klein is “a noble and vital force watching over the human condition.” Klein, also known as, “Mr. Jollytologist”® and “The Ambassador of Light”, shows audiences worldwide how to use humor and positivity to deal with life’s not-so-funny stuff. He is an award-winning professional speaker, a TEDx presenter, and author of 30-plus books including, The Healing Power of Humor, You Can’t Ruin My Day, and Embracing Life After Loss. His latest book, The Awe Factor: How a Little Bit of Wonder Can Make a Big Difference in Your Life was named by SpiritualityandPractice.com as “One of the Best Spiritual Books of 2020.”
I was coming up for air following the release of Gone Viking: A Travel Saga, delighted and humbled by the connections with new friends and readers around the world. And while that odyssey took me across half the planet, the explorer in me, unsurprisingly, remained unsated.
Much of that journey’s appeal were those moments of mystery akin to the original Scandinavian Sagas, when there wasn’t always a conclusion. No answer, solution, nor even a clearly marked finish line. Those dreamy expanses where horizon and cloud comingle in misty swirls. You convince yourself where you are is real, and beyond that, perhaps, lies the magic that fuels everything. Meanwhile, tangible, imagined, physical, emotional, geographical and spiritual boundaries remain. At times by our own making, other times, imposed upon us.
While Gone Viking: A Travel Saga embraced the adventure, playfulness, and discovery inherent in travel it remained, I believe, within acceptable parameters. Now I’ve gone “viking” again, a series of voyages toward the unknown. Only this time I’m setting rule books aside. We’ll play fair; make no mistake, just not necessarily within guidelines. And I welcome you. There’s always room for another adventurous wanderer, another Viking. But this time, our destination lies elsewhere.
This venture was unlike any I’ve experienced—the result of travel restrictions, yet through it all the world opening anew—a depth and breadth of connectivity that simply wasn’t there before pandemic was our norm. This may also be the most ambitious expedition I’d undertaken. As a recently appointed Fellow of the Royal Geographical Society, I felt an obligation to do justice to what every traveller craves, the experiences we pursue—exploration no longer being shuttling one’s husk between locales accumulating passport stamps, but mental, emotional and tactile transport between places, times, and sensory touchstones, occasionally glimpsing just what it is we’re doing here.
Gone Viking II takes place over a number of years—before, during, and after the voyages of Gone Viking: A Travel Saga—what preceded the first epic trek, what else occurred at that time, and what followed. All of this reflecting a changing world in which travel restrictions became our new normal. Invariably these wanderings, recording the world around us, emerge as scribbles in journals, our present day version of scribes putting quill ink to velum. Once more I’ve done the same; with a weatherproof pack and blank notebooks. Again I’ve gone viking. Only now, it’s a journey beyond boundaries.
This, from what may be my favourite journal, dog-eared and embossed with a map of the world, frayed pages held in place by an elasticized band, while taped to the inside back cover is a photo of me and my dad:
“Travel. The allure of escape, exoticism, and yes, for some, bragging rights. For the rest of us it represents time-warp slivers of childhood—when this world remained a place of mystery, adventure. Where you can live, for a spell, a hero’s life—desert sand, high seas and buried treasure. X marks the spot to other worlds, imagination, moments when the universe is nothing more than pure potential.”
I was on the sofa in our tiny highrise apartment, the ambient score a rattle of shopping cart wheels on sidewalk, reminiscent of passenger trains slowing through town, crossing roadways. Clack-clack, clack-clack … clack-clack, clack-clack. Identical journeys in their way. Somehow synesthetic. The same familial line of sensory sounds associated with every peregrination—whirr of rubber on bitumen, rumble of engines asea, and the wind-fueled rustle and snap of mainsail and jib.
I remembered losing myself in the incubating whoosh of a bow parting ocean in feathers of froth, a blend of cocooned isolation combined with utter connection. And the comforting, familiar yet foreign hum of coach tires speeding on sand—coastal highway where road was literally the coast, low tide sand that stretched for miles to the dunes at Te Paki. Speed limit on the beach: 100 km/h. The light there at that time was the same as where I am now—flat, dampened sunshine, the kind that makes you squint, tear-up, and question your emotions. Every photo from that long, dreamy trip is over- or under-exposed, muted in a way I now realize captures the experience precisely.
Back to the train, or more accurately, trains. We’d been living with covid for what seemed a very long time—numbers spiking again at an alarming rate. And I was attending a lecture, virtually. Propped up in a nest of plump pillows, feeling like a sultan, a steaming cup of coffee to hand. Travel author Monisha Rajesh spoke to us through laptop screens, as she was the presenter for London’s Royal Geographical Society lecture series. The subject? Her travels around the world on eighty trains, some of the world’s most scenic.
It had been a year since my own travel plans had been cancelled as a result of the pandemic—flights, accommodations, rental cars and commuter trains—refunds received, some forgone, airline points reinstated and turned into cash. From a traveller’s perspective things looked dire, other than a pleasant but fleeting debit balance on the credit card. So along with a stack of travel-lit, -logues and -memoirs, I was doing my best to quell wanderlust as best I could. And for a jonseing dromomaniac, Monisha’s globe-spanning lecture was an ideal, albeit temporary cure.
When we eventually swapped messages, I was pleased to learn one of her favourite experiences on that expansive journey had been her travels in Western Canada, specifically through British Columbia and the Canadian Rockies. Interestingly, the same pockets of planet a globetrotting friend from Greenland described as her favourites as well. When I rode a similar route aboard Via Rail, I felt much the same. Even as a local I was awed, slicing through mountains of sandstone, limestone and shale, a route I’d bisected many times in a car, but somehow from the sliding perspective of a train the same land’s renewed. Invigorated. Old stone reborn.
I hope you’ll join me for this excursion. While the beauty of our ongoing journey, individuals met, and windows onto life’s meaning remain ajar, I believe this new viking voyage, shared space and travel, resonates now more than ever.
(From Bill Arnott’s travelogue Gone Viking II: Beyond Boundaries, sequel to his award-winning bestseller Gone Viking: A Travel Saga.)
Bill Arnott is the bestselling author of the award-winning Gone Viking: A Travel Saga, the travelogue sequel Gone Viking II: Beyond Boundaries, the suspense-thriller series The Gamble Novellas, the poetry collection Forever Cast in Endless Time, and the #1 bestseller Bill Arnott’s Beat: Road Stories & Writers’ Tips. For his Gone Viking expeditions he’s been granted a Fellowship at London’s Royal Geographical Society. When not trekking the globe with a small pack and journal, or showing off cooking skills as a culinary school dropout, Bill can be found on Canada’s west coast, making music and friends.
Connect with Bill on social media: @billarnott_aps
To see Bill’s previously published interview, go here …
Dash to the supermarket on the way home from work. Pile the bags into the car boot and head for home. Pour myself a drink while I put it away; the first in five days but I deserve it after slaving from nine to five, or rather eight to six for a demanding boss.
Check my phone to confirm where we’re meeting tonight – glad rags or casual?
8.30 in the pub for a quick bite and then on to the new club which has just opened. Smart casual it is then as I browse my wardrobe after the quickest bath in history. No time for wallowing tonight – people to see, dancing to be done and with a bit of luck, some flirting thrown in for good measure. The night is young and so am I. Bring it on.
‘Hi Mum. In case you haven’t guessed, it’s your favourite daughter, Lisa, and yes, I am after something. How are you fixed for Friday night? Do you fancy a bit of babysitting with the monsters? – er, I mean your adorable grandchildren.
‘Great. Paul can pick you up about 7.30 if that’s OK. We won’t be back late, but it’s ages since we’ve had some time to ourselves and we wanted to try out the new restaurant that’s just opened. Perfect. Thanks, Mum. Love you.’
‘Paul, what do you think about going out somewhere on Friday? We could try the cinema, or even splash out and go to a show. The kids are old enough to be left on their own and we’ve got to start trusting them sometime. I said Katie could have her friend for a sleep-over and John will be out with his mates.’
‘Anything interesting on TV tonight? It looks as if it’s all the usual repeats. Maybe we should sign up to one of those streaming programmes, or even buy some films on DVD. Do they still make them? I’ve out of touch with all this new technology. What do people do for entertainment these days?’
‘Hi Jen. It’s me, Lisa. I wanted to sound you out about this football bash on Friday. Are you going?
‘Yes, I wasn’t sure but let Paul talk me into it. You’ve been before. What are they like? Knowing that lot I imagine it’ll be a bit riotous.
‘Really? That’s sounds good. I’ll book a cab and then we won’t have to worry about driving. Great, we’ll see you there. If you can’t beat them, we’ll have to join them.’
‘Nanny Lisa. Mummy says you’re coming on Friday to look after us while she and Daddy go for a Can-oo-doodle. Can you bring me some sweeties? And will you read me a story? And can we make some cakes like we did last time? That was fun. I promise I’ll be ever so good. Love you lots.’
‘This lockdown is driving me crazy. Do you remember the times Friday night was party night? Funny how people always used to say Saturday was their big night out, but for us it was always Friday. Perhaps because that was the first time you asked me out, and Saturday you would be down the pub with your football mates. Now the highlight of my life is a trip to the supermarket. Which reminds me, Paul, we’re running short of pretty much everything so we need to stock up. I’d better make a list.’
Same old, same old. Will it ever end? At least we’ve got our date for the jab. We’ve got to be at the health centre for 11 next Friday. I hope it’s not pouring with rain. Roll on the Spring.
I’m beginning to lose the plot. If it wasn’t for the date on my laptop, I wouldn’t know whether it was today or tomorrow. It’s come to something when I’m reading the holiday ads, even if there’s no chance of getting away this summer if things continue as they are.
Things are looking up. The news is more positive, the sun actually shone today, and I’ve just seen the first daffodils in the garden.
I don’t believe it. My collection of short stories proved so popular I’ve already had people asking about my next one, even though it’s in a totally different genre. All that time making up stories to keep the grandchildren amused has paid off. I’m now officially a published author.
I check my dairy for the zillionth time even though I know the venue and date off by heart. The cab is booked for next Friday. I’ve Googled the route for the posh West End hotel who are hosting the event in case the taxi gets lost. The new dress is hanging ready in the wardrobe, and the hairdresser is booked for 10 o’clock. Even if I don’t win, the publicity will ensure my name is known in all the best literary circles. My acceptance speech is prepared and I’ve rehearsed until I’m word perfect. What could possibly go wrong?
Baby P was sadistically abused, tortured, and killed by his relatives. I read this story as a child in the paper and was horrified. It was an early taste of the pure evil that runs in this world, and the horrors that humans are capable of inflicting upon each other.
That’s not the most cheerful introduction to my work, or indeed to me. But I like to get straight to the point.
From an early age, I experienced immense rage at cruel injustice that plagues our world. When I was seven, I watched Titanic, and one scene made me weep. It wasn’t the scene where Jack died. It wasn’t the scene where the other passengers died. It wasn’t even when Rose spoke solemnly of how Jack had saved her.
No, the scene that pulled my prepubescent heartstrings was when Cal and Lovejoy set up Jack to make it look like he had stolen the ‘heart of the ocean’ necklace. Jack was chained to a pole at the bottom of the ship. Later, Rose rescued him.
Seeing Jack unjustly accused of something he hadn’t done, and being a prisoner in such a nasty way, made tears fall from my eyes. The cruelty of it all; the unfairness, and the possibility that he would drown, all for a crime he hadn’t committed, made me unbelievably sad.
As I’ve grown up, I’ve witnessed many distressing things in film and TV shows. Game of Thrones, Breaking Bad, The Sopranos, and Dexter are all fantastic shows. And they have all yanked at my heartstrings, shocked my pulse rate, and let screams tumble from my larynx.
Why do I enjoy this? Why do I love to consume such vile, terrible scenes in the media I watch?
I think a lot of it comes from the sheer, heavy accompanying emotion. It shows us what humanity is capable of, but also the good that comes out of it. When I saw Jack in that position, I wept. But it made the ‘payoff’ of Rose coming to rescue him, even more triumphant. The cruel injustice followed by the heroic display of compassion and empathy flooded my heart with relief.
It’s like when a serial killer or rapist is caught and sentenced to jail. The crimes they commit are appalling. But knowing they will spend the rest of their lives rotting in a prison cell because of the brave men and women that put them there is comforting. It is a big relief to know that for every evil person out there, there are two or three good ones ready to put things right.
The worst kind of evil, for me, is committed in the name of good. My favourite Disney film is The Hunchback of Notre Dame. (Unsurprisingly, one of Disney’s darkest.) The villain in that movie is one of Disney’s most petrifying figures. He is also certain of his righteousness.
There are people in this world that use their beliefs as a weapon to instil fear into others. What these people believe doesn’t really matter, because they all think the same. That their cruelty is justified, their means are necessary, they are correct, and somehow more important than other people. In my young-adult novel Anne, the antagonist is Anne’s abusive father who beats her mother and uses his extreme religious beliefs to justify his cruel behaviour. He condemns his unfaithful wife as a ‘fornicating slut.’
Egotism is a big fuel for cruelty. Psychopaths possess high degrees of narcissism and grandiose. When researching my novella Psycho Girl (the second novella in my duo-storybook Every Last Psycho), I watched movies like The Silence of the Lambs, Psycho, The Hand that Rocked the Cradle, and The Bad Seed. The same traits came up. Eerie calmness. Cool self-assurance. Determination and skillful intelligence.
A psychopath is a master manipulator. Someone who knows how to twist the emotions of empaths and regular people. Not all evil is committed by psychopaths, which is weirdly more chilling. At least psychopaths can blame their atypical brain patterns. What sort of horror causes a perfectly ordinary person to colonise an entire society of people? Or molest children, or murder their family?
Ultimately, I can’t go out and stop all the evil that is in this world. But I can cast some light by bringing these people to the forefront. If I write characters who are cruel, nasty, self-absorbed and vicious, I can juxtapose them with characters who are good-hearted, selfless, compassionate and kind. In my novel Around Midnight I contrast the kind-hearted protagonist Megan with the manipulative ‘bad boy’ Vince. He sucks Megan into his calculating clutches. But her light prevails.
Balance is the key to everything. The universe has a balance of light and darkness. If we understand and stay aware of the darkness, we can combat it. Then we can help stream in more light through the blinds.
To see Zarina’s previous interview on MTA, go here …