Self-editing webinar – members only
Hello folks
We’ve got another self-editing webinar coming up on 6 July at 19:00 (UK time.)
If you want to submit some work for me to RIP APART WITHOUT MERCY then:
a) Mwah-hah-hah. I look forward to feasting on your bones
b) Please give me a chunk – maximum 300 words – in the comments below. Please include your name (or I’ll just use your Townhouse handle.) Also the title of the piece, and just one short sentence telling us what kind of book it is. (Plus something about the set up of the snippet, if we need to know.)
I won’t be able to use everything. In the past, I’ve been able to get through 3-4 pieces in the hour.
Please don’t submit your work below if you’re not a JW member: we won’t be able to use it.
Please also don’t submit your work unless you are comfortable having it discussed publicly, cos public discussion is exactly what’s gonna happen.
All clear? Yes? No?
Yes! Tremendous. Look forward to seeing you there.
Shall I be the first to offer up a sacrifice to the editing gods?
Catherine D, The Knitter’s House, historical fiction set in 1590s York.
–
Six months they’d had, when their concerns -looking back- had been few. What to eat. How early they could reasonably retire to the bedchamber. The views of their neighbours on why a young couple were living with his father. How to make ends meet with Francis’ apprenticeship terminated. Though at times those concerns loomed large, the joy of their new marriage carried them through.
But then came the call to muster. The day would be forever etched on Jane’s memory, as among all the able-bodied men of York, somehow Francis, her Francis, had been selected for the band of seventeen foot soldiers. To fight in a foreign war that meant nothing to him. He, who would cup his hands round a stray bee indoors and release it onto a borage flower, asked- no, forced- to take up arms he knew not how to wield, for a cause he little understood, against folk he had no quarrel with. How she had railed and wept. They had tried everything in their power, but without money to purchase his exemption there was no way out.
He left in summer. Leaves turned and fell and there was no news. Wintry storms blew in, churning up Foss and Ouse alike, piercing cloaks and houses with their chill winds. New bride and father-in-law struggled silently, separately, while waging their common battle against hunger and cold. Commissions for flax thread saved them and shredded Jane fingers. Leonard’s own quavering fingers picked up his tools and leather whenever the light permitted, and together they tightened belts and purse strings.
Lovely to step back in time to read this, Catherine
Thank you Lynn. It’s lovely to see you around today. I’ve missed your presence here.
Aw, nice to pop in. Lovely to take a peak at your story again – how’s the write going?
Got distracted by the months of enforced homeschooling and then a sudden urge to submit a non-fiction proposal. Nearly ready to press send on that one then will return to the past. And you?
Ooh, sounds interesting. Got all tied up writing my WIP,a novella, now doing the JW Self edit course. It’s all made my head buzz a bit!
Here goes … this is a YA novel with a non-binary protagonist.
‘I reckon bowling for my birthday,’ Justin says as we’re walking home across the Heath. ‘Retro, right?’
‘Sure,’ I say, as if I’m any sort of barometer of cool.
‘Padma’s coming, obviously,’ he says, giving me a sidelong glance. I’m not paying attention; a group of guys is coming towards us, passing a football between them as they walk, kit-bags swinging from their shoulders.
‘Hey, Dean,’ one of the boys says, nudging another, ‘it’s your boyfriend. Sorry, your girlfriend.’
‘Sam,’ I say, acknowledging him as I walk past. I give Dean a polite nod. ‘Alright?’
‘Don’t even,’ Dean says. ‘We’re not friends, okay?
‘Dick,’ Justin mutters.
Dean shoves me, hard enough that I go reeling into Justin. I reach out for something to anchor me, and grab onto the strap of Dean’s bag, which comes off his shoulder and explodes all over the grass. I fall on top of his scattered possessions, one more piece of rubbish he’s thrown away.
His friends are all laughing – at him as much as at me. Dean starts scooping up his junk, red-faced. A change of clothes for after football practice, a can of deodorant. I hold out a pair of boxers, hung on the end of one finger, and he grabs them with a curse and turns to go.
Pushing myself up, my hand rolls off something Dean has missed. Holding it out to him, I call, ‘Hey, you forgot your…’
My voice trails off as I read the label. I’m no doctor, but even I know what Prozac is.
‘Shut up, Luca – that’s not mine,’ Dean snaps. Then he punches me in the face.
At that point I forget about his name on the pill bottle, because bloody hell, that hurts.
‘EATING OUT’ is a piece from the second chapter of an urban novel set in London of the 1970s. Jack, a young innocent from the sticks, has joined a team, and is taken out by the group to celebrate in a restaurant.
‘Do you like the meze?’ said Kate, all ringlets, freckles, and Californian. Except she was from Dulwich.
‘I do. But what’s privet doing in it?’ I said, holding up a leaf.
‘Bay-leaf,’ whispered Rick. ‘Want another beer?’
‘Please.’
Rick strolled off with his rolling, sailor’s gait. Kate stared at the menu. She had a show-business smile. Big lips and dazzling teeth.
‘He reminds me of some lads I knew up North,’ I said.
‘He was a miner, until he killed a man. Some chap ran over his border collie with a milk float. Rick thought he did it on purpose and beat him to death with a pickaxe’
‘No.’
‘Oh yes. Served eight years for it. Studied criminology in nick.’
A shadow swept across the table.
‘Did she say I killed a man in Ripon, just to watch him die?’ Rick set down two pints. ‘Kate makes up stories. I was no bloody good as a miner. Studied at night school and did my diploma at Teesside.’
‘You believed me. That Rick killed a man,’ she said.
‘I did.’
‘Kate.’ Rick’s look said, ‘not now’.
‘Oops.’ Those huge, laughing eyes. ‘Rick tells me I go over the top a bit. Wonderful to have you on the team. Maddy spoke up for you. She likes you. I can see you like her.’
‘Rick, cradling his beer, looked at the ceiling.
‘Let’s say Maddy made an impact on you as well. I see these things,’ said Kate.
Rick grinned at me. ‘Bit much, isn’t it? Full on. Listen. Maddy has a partner, Jim. Been an item for ever. Take my advice. Keep your love life outside of work.’
‘But you and Kate -’
‘I know,’ he said and drained his glass. ‘I speak from experience.’
Rebels and Cocktails is a period romance set in 1969. Its theme is entitlement and how it affects a person.
Here goes. Thanks for the mauling 🙂
Prologue – Saturday, 19 July 1969
Like a town crier from yesteryear ringing a handbell while shouting “oyez, oyez, oyez,” the trawler’s foghorn relentlessly announced the newcomer, causing every dockworker to stop his chores and turn a curious eye towards the curtain of mist.
This time they were not disappointed—the boat glided into view, revealing a woman standing in the bow, pure and angelic in white. A Venus, she was a sight for defeated eyes at a time when most ordinary residents had given up on dreams and ambitions. Her beauty beheld an enchanting promise of fortune and good luck.
When she disembarked, the men caught sight of her magnificence: the sensual curves of plump breasts, swaying hips rhythmically playing against her white dress, her elegant long stride, and black hair bouncing against her back like a racehorse’s tail. She could not hide her zest for life, her youth, or her pedigree.
At the entrance to the quay, a black DeSoto waited. Next to the vehicle, a man in a camel coat took off his hat, revealing salt and pepper hair. He held the passenger door open. “Buongiorno Signorina, sono Mustafa, il tuo autista. Ti porto alla villa.”
The woman removed her sunglasses. Red lips accentuated her pale complexion; her eyes, ice blue, pierced those of the man and twinkled. “You lost me after ‘buongiorno,’ Amico. My Italian is—let’s say, limited.” She flicked the butt of her Gauloises cigarette into the turquoise water next to the pier.
The man didn’t flinch. “I’m sorry, miss. I am Mustafa, your driver to the villa. I take you there now.”
She smiled. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m Geena.”
From a Comic Crime novel, chapter two, set between 1960s and 2020 under COVID.
I know it reads badly but I’ve been worrying at it for months and I cannot get it to jell.
Miranda’s heavy limbs yelled ‘drunk’, but her mind was clear: ask her to solve a mystery and she would have the criminal in an arm lock before you could say: “Bother, I have to collect the children.”
Miranda tapped her fingers on the bottle, thinking. COVID restrictions were making her restive. Tier 4 liberty? That was a laugh. Christmas Day should have been their one day out of lockdown, but yesterday Trap and Trace contacted Phillip. Now they were all in isolation and he wasn’t even ill. He deserved arsenic, if only she had some handy.
Their day had been fraught: presents elsewhere, the turkey void filled with tantrums (mostly hers). Finally, the children were in bed, and Phillip asleep in the armchair. Miranda, drumming her fingers, was toying with the idea of a second bottle of champagne. She had played twenty games of robot-bridge, finished her book, given up with Christmas TV, and it was only 9 o’clock.
Then the phone rang.
She stared at it. The landline face said:
“No caller ID”
Not Cat or Steph, her colleagues in the SeeMs Dog Detective Agency. They used her mobile.
Not her mother or sisters. They had a FaceTime call a couple of hours ago.
Possibly one of Phillip’s work colleagues who like to reply to her ‘hello’ with a surprised: ‘Oh, it’s you, Miranda!’
However, unlikely even those hard workers would be busying away on Christmas Day.
Probably spam.
The phone went to answer machine and went dead. It rang again.
Grudgingly, she picked it up.
“Do you play bridge?” Asked a voice.
“What?”
Did she hear that right?
“Do you?”
What kind of spam call was this? And on Christmas Day!
“Yes, why?”
“Then you can help me,” said the voice with a firmness that echoed the kids’ most lethal teachers.
“The Descent of Chloe Jackson” is a set of connected short stories, picking out moments in the lives of an extended family over the course of the 20th Century. This is Susie’s chapter. It will become apparent shortly that Susie and her family are down from London to pick the hops…
Chapter 4
Susannah Morris
Harnham, Kent, England
Friday 30th September 1904
There was one thing Susie wasn’t going to miss; her fingers and thumbs were all blotchy, yellow and black. Liddy said you’d never get rid of it. Susie tried again in the cold water from the standpipe, but she didn’t have no soap, and the stain didn’t budge.
She filled the kettle, and trudged back to the hut. The whole camp was awake; small fires burning outside all the huts, families having breakfast. Aunt Sal had their fire going already, and Alice was breaking eggs into the pan. Jessie sat by the hut door, combing out her hair before tying it up again; it was almost black, and straight as anything. Not like Susie’s. The kids were up, poking in the mud with twigs; Wilf and Sid finding creepie-crawlies to scare little Flo. Susie put the kettle on the fire. One of the forked sticks was wobbly, so she pushed it in a bit.
Mummy normally had the bread cut already, but yesterday’s loaf was just sitting on the little table. ‘Where’s Mummy?’
Aunt Sal smiled funny, like when she had one of her good stories to tell. There were always good stories, especially at the weekends when the dads came down and they all got boozed up. Mummy never said nothing, but Aunt Sal always told stories.
Alice and Jessie both stopped what they were doing, and smiled funny, just like their mum. There was definitely a good story coming, probably about Mummy. Like the one when she climbed on a table and sang “God Save the King”, or when she fell on her arse, pissing in the hedge on the way home. She probably had one of her headaches. ‘Is she still in bed?’
Some more bones for the feast… 😁
Jon Dixon. From The Perfection Engine, a fantasy novel. The main protagonist gets a visit from some children whose lives she’s saved some months before, at great cost to herself.
He’s trying not to stare, his eyes flicking towards me and immediately away, his face a study in barely concealed shock and dismay.
“That night,” he says. “You saved us. Saved us all.”
“And you saved me,” I say. “I am alive because of you.”
“But…”
“No. No buts. I am alive. And that is all that matters for the moment. Thank you.”
Karven flushes slightly. Stares directly at me for the first time, solemn as a priest for all he’s only twelve. He reaches behind him, to his belt pouch, and brings out a package wrapped in oiled paper. He proffers it, then stops in confusion and embarrassment as he realises I cannot even take it from him, let alone unwrap what it contains. He drops his gaze again.
“We found these,” he says.
Small fingers, black-nailed, shaking, rustle underneath the paper’s ragged edges, peel them back to reveal the contents.
A book, bound in leather, slightly charred and stained with… blood, is that? No. Don’t dwell on that. My favourite book, of all the books I owned – Jeloneth Hulda’s ‘Curiosities and Conundrums’. I was reading it to the skippers the night of the attack, all of us rapt in its wry observations and baroque descriptions of far-away places and marvellous escapes. The sort of escapes that never happen in reality. Escapes where everyone survives to live and laugh another day, unscathed.
I picture the skippers, digging through the rubble with childish hands to rescue this little fragment of a vanished life, and I’m touched beyond measure at its presence here, and the thought behind its return. But it is the other item that makes my heart stutter and my throat constrict. I blink away the sting of tears.
There, cradled in Karven’s hand, metal and glass glinting in the sun from the west window, are Steeltooth’s spectacles. One lens is cracked and clouded. The silver frames are blackened now and warped by heat. My father’s glasses. Perhaps all that remains of him except for memories. And, for the moment, all those memories are fused with fire and blood and horror.
Nice to read some of this again, Jon 😊
Doesn’t it make you want to read Curiosities and Conundrums too? I wonder if that’s in my local library…
Hahaha! 😁 The best I can do is say that there are a few quotes from this seminal work among the fictional epigraphs at the front of each chapter! This is a particular favourite:
‘There are those who swear that in the frigid reaches of the Northern Lands live those who can transform themselves from humans into animals. For myself, I give this preposterous tale no credence as a travellers’ myth to chill the blood at night by lonely hearth-fires. As for beasts transforming into humans, though… that is another matter.’ [Hulda’s ‘Curiosities and Conundrums’, Chapter VI]
Aw, terrific, Jon! Remind me of the footnotes in Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell. Gorgeous extra snippets of fancy
Thank you, Lynn! Hulda is a terrific writer! Much better than me! And ‘Curiosities’ is his best book. 😄 Though I’m also very partial to Maelius The Elder’s ‘The Barque of the Archaist – Being The Collected Letters and Thoughts Of A Navigator Upon The Seas of History, With Many Curious Digressions and Diversions In Some Wise Philosophic, Metaphysical And Instructive’. That’s a six-volume set, though, so a bit of a read! 😂
Well I love your writing just as well as Hulda’s. I trust Maelius The Elder’s six volumes are ready and waiting too. The most substantial reader magnet ever served up?
I second that! Great idea Catherine
Well, I love it too, and I’m reading it for the first time. What invention!
Carole Arnold.. The beginning of the prologue to a thriller ;‘Payback’ set in present day London. Kelly, who runs a security business, is waiting in the hospital for news about his operative who has been shot during a lorry hi-jack.. The man is not only an employee but is his friend and his brother -in-law.
The smell of fear hangs in the air; breaks through the strong layer of disinfectant which penetrates the closed door into the small room. He doesn’t notice. Blood is all he can smell. All he can taste. The metallic bitterness of it, even now, stings his tongue.
When the paramedics pushed the trolley through the swing doors , he had not been allowed to accompany it. Instead, he had found the men’s toilets. Had washed off, as best he could, the dried blood coating his hands. On his palms, his fingers and under his nails. But, like Macbeth’s wife, it felt as if the blood was trapped still, inside every pore.
Earlier, he had stripped off his jacket. Had pressed it, as hard as he could, against the other’s abdomen, in an attempt to slow down the red pouring from the wound. Even when the jacket was sodden, heavy and wet with the scarlet body fluid, he had kept going, impervious to the bitter cold of the night air.
‘Stay with me Dan. It will be all right. Everything is going to be all right,’ he had told the man on the ground. As is by saying the words aloud it would make them true.
Had repeated them again and again. A mantra.. But, he had known it for the lie it was. Had seen already in his life, too many injuries like this. It was never going to be all right. And, in the other man’s eyes he had seen that same knowledge.
Consumed with an angry, restless energy, he prowls around the small room. Round and round. Like a tiger in a cage. The room is too small for him. Too small to contain both him and his rage.
Author: Ryan Lege
“The Ethereal Legion” is the story of what happened to the Ninth Legion when it disappeared around 118AD.
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It was common knowledge among experienced soldiers that the day after a battle was always worse than the battle itself. It was particularly awful if the day was hot and worse, if humid. At least in winter, the foul odors of rotting flesh, urine, and the feces of dying men and horses remained locked in the icy clutches of the season. But when Avidius awoke that morning, he found the day after the Battle of Noble Hill, tolerable. That was until a gust of wind sent the canvas flaps fluttering as he sat at his desk examining a sketch of Ilynsar’s defenses, engulfing the inside of the tent with a rank smell.