(Image credit: Ugurlu Photographer)

Dateline: July 18th, 2011:

I've just read an interesting article in the New York Times on typos.

Echoing the writer's view, I'd agree that for some writers, it's all about the story, while for others, it's more about the words.

In the dim and (thankfully) distant past, I've had occasion to (or the misfortune of) reading some pretty scathing reviews on works by popular authors, most notably James Patterson, Dan Brown and Jeffery Archer. The tone of the reviewers was snooty, supercilious, patronizing (to the reader) and ultimately infused with a sense of "we know good writing and this ain't it!" It was very much a case of a narrow metropolitan elite, grounded in a very narrow interpretation of literature, broadcasting their views on what is 'good literature'.

The operative word here is: their.

I think there's a strange sense, predominently in the 'arty' side of culture, where mass appeal is seemingly a bad thing. I'm probably comparing oranges with pears, but it doesn't appear to work that way with consumer products, e.g. The iPhone.

Just to declare an interest in this debate: I am an unashamed populist.

I love commercial fiction and taut, concise, descriptive language with short words and minimal exposition. Perhaps this is due to my former career as a journalist who had to crunch things down to the essence.

Back to the reviewers/critics: Comments ranged from poor plotting, poor spelling, poor characterization, etc. I think it is poor form to slate a book in its entirety, especially given how much effort someone has put into it.

It's so much easier pulling things down than building them up. Thank God critics are rapidly becoming a spent force.

Criticism, whether good or bad, should be left to readers.

Reportedly, James Patterson was criticized by another bestselling author Stephen King for being a "terrible writer". Patterson's response: "I am not a great prose stylist. I'm a storyteller. There are thousands of people who don't like what I do. Fortunately, there are millions who do."

Get writing.

Dateline: Today (Wednesday, 21st May 2025. 1.15pm GMT)

Am I the only writer who cringes - just a little bit - when reading some old writing that seemed profound at the time and (with the benefit of older eyes and experience) views their work as muddle headed and/or somewhat pretentious?

On second thoughts, scratch that!

I wrote what I wrote.

I’m too old to to be precious!

-S-

(Image credit: Muhammad-Taha Ibrahim)

(Image credit: Nappy Studio)

Dateline: July 9th, 2011

One of the reasons I left journalism was that, although it was one of the most exciting, unpredictable and exhilarating areas of work I've been involved in, it was also one of the most reactionary, morally dubious, hostile and insufferably 'unmeritocratic'.

Perhaps that's because journalism has always been a trade and not a profession, as with doctors, accountants and lawyers. Journalists do a great job in promoting themselves and creating an air of mystique around their craft. However, the internet has put paid to notions of their supremacy/superior skills in critically analyzing a story, or indeed being the most authoritative voice for breaking news.

There are some excellent practitioners out there, but sadly, the echoes of their work get drowned out by the screaming headlines of the hacks whose home is the gutter press. Forgive the tortured prose...

By the way, some of my best friends are journalists. Honest!

Dateline: Now (the date of this post)…

I haven’t the foggiest idea why I originally gave this piece the headline ‘Poll’. I’m far too lazy to even think about why I did, so I’ll put it down to a case of: ‘It must have made sense at the time!”

-S-

(Image credit: Nappy)

Dateline: July 5th, 2011.

Question:

Why at a time when technology has made things easier, quicker and, arguably better, doesn't there appear to be more prolific writers around?

Maybe there are some out there, but perhaps they're more 'ubiquitous' than unique, showcasing their talent through blogs in specialist rather than general areas.

Publishing is changing at such a fast rate, that it's difficult to identify the modern day Isaac Asimov, John Creasy, Agatha Christie or Barbara Cartland.

There is currently one notable exception: Brazilian writer Ryoki Inoue, who has written over 1,200 books. He may be the closest thing to a modern human writing machine as you can get. Given the predominance of English in the world of literature, there may not be much scope for someone writing in volume in Portuguese to gain a wider audience (Paulo Coelho is an obvious exception). There also may be a bias towards translating the more literary foreign works. Inoue writes highly commercial fiction.

Even more impressive a producer is Professor Philip M. Parker, who has around 200,000 books to his credit. Well, he was helped along by a number of powerful computer programs that he developed, which enables him/them to write/compile a book in 13 minutes.

I have to confess to being a fan of James Patterson's production methodology. Sometimes a stream of ideas is so huge, so intense, so overwhelming, that you need to write like a maniac - or collaborate with other writers - just to keep up!

Forgive this brief moment of indulgence. Future posts to this blog will discuss themes, issues and characters from my books. They may range from the sublime to the ridiculous, but hey, isn't that what life is about?

Dateline: Present Day.

“Hello, the name’s Intelligence. Artificial Intelligence.”

-S-

Excerpts:

He Lived a Life

Mr B was a backyard brewer of illicit brandy, ex-black ops in Burkina Faso, a buccaneer in the Bay of Bengal, and sole survivor of a bomb blast in Baghdad─according to Mr B.

Mr B also owned the unimaginatively named Mr B’s─a coffee cup-sized cafe-cum-wine bar squeezed between a former cobbler's and charity shop in Lorimar Lane. The thoroughfare itself was a rutted and raggedy rat run adjacent to a heaving high street that was more hum and hustle than buzz and bustle.

The previously lacklustre lane leapt into legendary status as the location of a lounge bar─boringly branded ‘The Bar’─that was closed down after a fatal shooting involving yapping yahoos who came back blasting after being blocked from entry by bouncers in wake of their boisterous behaviour.

Mr B was not the type of man to miss an opportunity to be the main character in a movie-like moment of mayhem and murder, and claimed he was actually there when the hullabaloo happened. He shouted out to everyone within earshot that he was─to use his own words─“slap bang in the epicentre of the eruption.”

As his story went, he was soaking in the last few rays of the dying summer sunshine and smoking a cancer stick, when the three turned-away thugs drew down on the duo of dismissive doormen.

“Boom, boom, boom!” Mr B would yell, seemingly deriving a sickening satisfaction from the scenes of savagery. He would smile as he shaped his slender fingers into an imaginary shotgun. He relished and revelled in the slack-jawed shock and spine-chilling terror on the faces─and in the voices─of his captive clientele.

…/

The Eulogy

The thickset man in the made-to-measure suit, with dyed and powdered hair parted at the side─and an ashy, gunmetal grey pallor to his dark skin─was my father.

Having made a brief visit between the ages of ten and eighteen─handsomeness had left his face decades earlier─replaced by a permanent scowl that pretended to be a smile; but it didn’t fool anybody. That rictus grin was now permanent, courtesy of an embalmer’s expertise. It gave my dad the expression of a man whose tongue had lost the sweet taste of joy and was forever sampling the biting flavour of bitterness.

The copper-coloured casket carrying him was lined with crumpled cream satin that clashed with the purple and white carnation stuck in the buttonhole of his light grey suit with burgundy pinstripes. The jacket was rucked up at the collars as if he was forced, not gently placed into the coffin, and his dark blue tie was askew. His shirt though, was starched, crisp, white and perfectly ironed.

My father’s dead eyes bulged behind eyelids that had been closed shut by my mother following the massive heart attack that took his life. She used a two-pence coin after they kept flicking back open after she tried fixing them with just her fingers. She mentioned that she was going to ask the undertaker to either sew or glue them to make sure they didn’t pop open again.

Although he was very deceased and lying in a casket, childhood memories of his stern gaze flooded my soul─and caused my heart to somersault in shameful fear.

There was another reason for my thumping chest. I was there charged with one, very important duty─to deliver the eulogy.

As I stood in the pulpit, I felt the eyes of a congregation staring at me, waiting for the eldest son to speak eloquently and engagingly with electrifying words that encapsulated the life of a man they knew as a friend, colleague, and a pillar of the community.

They packed every available inch of the church, from behind the crossing to the clerestory. There were suppressed coughs, sniffles and snuffles and the typical soundscape expected at the funeral of a man of the people; a God-fearing family man who took his vows seriously and served his community assiduously─until Death came calling to drag him into the afterlife, way too soon─even at 72─and deserving of a fitting tribute.

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