Friday Flash - Not For Sale

Yes, Captain Scarlight and Methuselah have decided to take over my blog again. This particular flash was inspired by this week's writing prompt by Eric J. Krause - "A strange website promises something (good fortune? Unending power? Never-ending riches?)". No, the Captain doesn't have Internet access, but it was still an inspirational prompt...

* * *

"Have you seen this, Thusie?" Captain Scarlight leaned back in his chair, holding open the newspaper. His telepathic parrot sat on his shoulder, reading the advertisement.

Voodoo? You are not being serious, Captain?

Methuselah's words echoed around the Captain's mind. He shook his head; a conversation with the parrot left him feeling like his ears were full of water after a swim.

"Why not? She's offering to pay well, all she wants is supplies," said the Captain.

Methuselah leaned in to read the advert again.

MEN OF LOW MORAL FIBRE REQUIRED. THE FAMOUS MADAME LA STRANGE IS RUNNING LOW ON VOODOO SUPPLIES. CAN YOU HELP? MINIMUM PAYMENT 400 PIECES O' EIGHT. CONTACT THE MADAME CARE OF GOVERNOR TREBUS, THORNY ISLAND.

400 pieces of eight is a lot of money, that is true. However, there must be some catch.

"Oh catch schmatch," replied the Captain.

Why is a voodoo woman working with the Governor?

"Who knows? Who cares? Money is money, and things have been tight lately," said Captain Scarlight.

Very well, Captain. As always, you know best.

"Damn right I do. Now, to the Governor!"

* * *

Governor Trebus lived in a small shack a mile inland from Port Thorne. Dirty straw covered the roof, and old newspapers blocked holes in the thin walls. A scrawny dog guarded the front door.

I have a bad feeling about this, Captain.

"Oh shush, Thusie. It'll be fine."

Captain Scarlight stepped over the dog. It whined in protest. Methuselah gazed down at the furry bag of bones. A pang of pity plucked his heart strings.

The captain knocked on the door. It rattled in its frame, one hinge threatening to come away altogether.

Are you sure this is the right place?

"Oh do stop questioning me, Thusie. This is the Governor's mansion, alright. I have an indefatigable sense of direction." He wagged a finger at the bird.

The door creaked open. A woman with black dreadlocks peered out. Mould encrusted the eye patch over her left eye. Her right eye burned gold in a face the colour of burnt coffee. Rings hung from the bony fingers wrapped around the edge of the door.

"Yes?"

"Good morning, Madam. I am Captain Scarlight, and this is my parrot, Methuselah. I am looking for either Governor Trebus or Madame La Strange," said the Captain.

"You 'ave found dem both," replied the woman.

"Excuse me?"

"I am Madame La Strange, and I am Governor Trebus," said the woman.

I told you this was a bad idea.

"I 'eard dat!" said the Governor. She glared at Methuselah.

"Forgive my bird. He is telepathic," said the Captain.

I think she has potentially worked that out for herself.

"Yes, I 'ave. Dey are very rare, Captain. 'E could be very valuable," said the Governor. She eyed Methuselah with interest. The parrot sidled along the Captain's shoulder. He tried to burrow into the Captain's mass of tangled red hair.

"To me, he is priceless," replied the Captain. He pulled himself up to his full six feet and three inches. "Now, we have come here about the advert you placed in the newspaper."

"Ah yes. I need supplies but I cannot leave de island," said the Governor.

"Because you are governor as well as Voodoo Woman?" asked the Captain.

"No. House arrest."

"I see. Well what supplies would you need, in exchange for the 400 pieces o' eight?"

"Forget de supplies. I will buy de bird for 800."

"He's not for sale."

"1000."

"He's not for sale."

"2000."

You offer 2000 pieces o' eight for me, yet you cannot fix up your abode?

"6000 pieces o' eight. Dat is my final offer."

"No deal. Methuselah is not for sale, and I don't believe we can do business for your supplies. Forgive us for wasting your time," said the Captain.

He turned to leave. The Governor lunged for Methuselah. Her fingertips brushed his tail feathers before the Captain darted out of her reach. She tripped and fell at his feet, scrabbling at his boots.

The Captain bent down and grabbed a handful of dreadlocks. He lifted her up by the hair. She screamed, clawing at his hand. She struggled to get her feet back on the ground. The dog looked up, but ignored her plight.

"I have already told you, Methuselah is not for sale. If you ever lay one finger on him again, then Governor or not, I will have your guts as strings for my piano," said the Captain. He glared at the Governor. Hatred and fear mixed in her golden eye.

The Captain noticed a tree to his right. Methuselah sat on the lowest branch to bring it within reach. The Captain tied the Governor's dreadlocks around the gnarled wood. Methuselah flew back to the Captain's shoulder, leaving the Governor dangling by her hair.

"Good day to you, Governor," said the Captain.

The pair walked back toward Port Thorne. Captain Scarlight rubbed Methuselah's head.

"Don't worry, lad. I'd never sell you," he said.

Neither of them noticed the white fingerprints on Methuselah's tail.

The Impending End of The First Tale part 1

Commander Liss Hunt, Vertigo
City Resistance

On Saturday 20th February, 2010, I posted the first instalment of my very first web serial, The First Tale. I had no idea where it was going to go, or that a name I chose entirely off the top of my head was going to give birth to a concept of nine independent serials, linked only by their setting. My fictional Vertigo City will appear in a different incarnation in each tale, with the first version being a strange steampunk mix of Victorian London and a slightly 'fantasy' sprawling mass.

The serial will end on Tuesday, with the publication of the thirtieth instalment, and while I'm quite sad about it, I'm also excited about the prospect of starting The Second Tale, which is more of a noirish, 40s sort of affair about a jaded superhero. Anyway, about twenty instalments into The First Tale, I decided I wanted to collect the instalments together, give them a polish, and release them as an e-book - I wrote a post about it back in July. The original plan was to release a text-only version via Smashwords, and a fancy version including graphic elements via Scribd. This plan has now changed.

You see, Jamie Debree posted a link on Twitter to Lynn Viehl's Paperback Writer blog, and the content of Lynn's post got me thinking. Having read about their shoddy interpretation of their own guidelines, I don't really want to use Scribd now, and many other sites become incredibly confusing if you want to sell a PDF e-book that ISN'T for the Kindle. I was also worried that having two different versions of the same e-book for sale with different retailers might get confusing. So, I have come up with a solution.

Instead of having the choice between a regular e-book and a PDF with graphic bits, I'm now just going to have the one Smashwords version. However, there will be a link within the book to a page on my website, and from there you will be able to download a free PDF of the graphic sections that would have originally been included in the version intended for Scribd! (With me so far?) This includes a newspaper article on the Meat Beast, a society magazine piece on the Living Dead of Vertigo City, a Weimar profile on Liss, a hand-drawn map of the city, and a few other bits and pieces, all packaged up as Caleb's scrapbook. You don't need to see this stuff, but I'm hoping it'll give a greater insight into backstory for The First Tale, and hopefully it'll add a little to your enjoyment of the serial.

Are you all excited yet?!

Icy's Guide to writing Historical Fiction

Having read the excellent guest post by the equally excellent Carrie Clevenger over at Write Anything about writing historical fiction, I thought I might take the time to sit down, and have a bit of a chat about my own process. Lately I've been basing some flashes on local legends or historical anecdotes, and I've discovered I really enjoy doing so.

Fowlis Westerby
I first began flirting with history when I wrote my first novel, Fowlis Westerby. Fowlis himself is a ghost and therefore free from the restraints of time, but as he is originally a Cavalier, I needed to have some awareness of the English Civil War. Hazy memories of studying the Stuarts at school was clearly not enough, and I've been spending some time researching the period. Madame Blavatsky also makes an appearance, so again I delved into the history books to find out more about this fascinating figure.

Local legends and anecdotes
I've already written a post about the origins of the tale that inspired my flash about the Black Knight, but my most recent flash, The Resurrection Men, and an exclusive flash which will only appear in my forthcoming e-book, a tale named The Charterhouse Bullies, were both inspired by historical events. History can sometimes seem so dry and far removed from us. How can we connect with people and places that are long gone? Personally, I love reading historical non-fiction. Only this week, I've bought a book on Victorian social history, and another on medieval England (research for the third tale from Vertigo City). One of my passions is London history - I might be a Geordie but London is my current home, and I like to know where I'm living. Besides, London has a rich and eccentric history, and it provides ripe fodder for fictional prompts.

It starts
So how do I go about writing it? Well it usually starts with a book. I might be a film student but I do love reading. So there I am, reading about whatever has taken my fancy on that particular day, and something leaps out at me. One of two things now happens. Sometimes a story pops into my head, fully formed, that is designed solely to add a human face to an anecdote or legend. The rest of the time, the seed of an idea drops into the top soil of my mind, and I have to do a little gardening to get it to grow. By gardening, I obviously mean research, but you knew that, didn't you? Of course you did.

Research
When I say research, what is the first thing that pops into your head? If you thought, "Wikipedia", then get out of my classroom now, and don't come back until you've written "Encyclopaedia Britannica" 800 times. Wikipedia CAN be a useful source of information, but, like most things on the Internet, it is written and edited by ANYONE. Take what you find on it with a hearty dose of salt - much of it is written by experts for other experts but that won't stop some bored jackass changing the details.

Books
Instead, go to a library. Bloggers might be predicting the death of publishing but real books still exist, and they still contain an absolute wealth of knowledge. Read all you can about your chosen topic - accept what feels right, discard what doesn't. Remember that these will be mostly secondary sources and their primary sources might not be the most reliable. Even if you find primary sources, consider their original purpose and remember that they might be biased, and if they're memoirs, remember that people won't always tell you the whole story, and even if they do, the human memory is not infallible.

Media
If your historical period is after the mid-1800s, seek out photographs. Yes, some early photographs were faked, or fake merely in the sense that they are highly posed, but they'll still give you a greater clue to details, ambience and basic setting than any amount of description in a book. Photographs act as wonderful prompts anyway, but old photographs do so in a completely different way. Why not use old family photographs to write the invented histories of your ancestors? Experience media from the period in whatever way you can - Carrie also recommends listening to music from the period, but movies are also a good example. Yes, they may be sanitised, romanticised, or simply from one point of view, but what they DON'T contain often tells you more than what they DO. You can also check out paintings, engravings, or even tapestries. If you've got a local fashion or textiles museum, pay a visit - costume can tell you a lot about social convention or mobility.

Locations
If it's possible, visit locations. I write a lot in London so obviously I can pop out and see the places. Many of them no longer exist, but while the street or building itself has long since gone, there will no doubt be somewhere similar nearby. There is enough of London's strange atmosphere to soak up that I can get by on what I absorb simply walking around.

Eyewitnesses
If your piece occurs within living memory, then talk to people who were there. Again, be wary of rose-tinted spectacles or skewed memories, but you can still get plenty of details from a conversation with someone who experienced a period firsthand that you'd never get from a book. If it doesn't occur within living memory, then try and track down oral histories. There are several that deal with the Victorian period due to the sudden interest taken in the lower orders. The documentation is mind-boggling.

Immerse yourself and put it all together
Hopefully, if you immerse yourself in a period for long enough, you'll feel that little 'click' when it all comes together. Your idea will be rooted in a sense of 'reality' and your research will help bring a past time to life. This reality will breathe life into characters and places that are long gone - and hopefully you'll have a better sense of where you come from, and what has gone before. Go forth on your historical quest - and good luck.

Friday Flash - The Resurrection Men

Midnight mist swirled around my ankles. I stumbled, my foot caught under a tree root. At least, I hoped it was a tree root. I didn’t want to think what else might grab at my foot in a cemetery.

“So what you’re saying is, you won’t steal, you won’t run any doxies, and you won’t get a job. How else do you expect us to make money?” asked Will.

I noticed he didn’t struggle with the sack. Perk of leading a gang, I suppose. We do all the hard work, he gets the glory.

“Well, not this. It’s robbing bodies, Will! Digging up graves. It’s not right,” replied John. I couldn't see him in the gloom but his reedy voice carried on the still air.

“It’s not exactly digging them up when the diggers leave the damn graves open, is it?” said Will.

“Think about it, John. The surgeons pay a pretty penny for bodies. Plenty of money for little work. We're helping them with their studies. Medical advances, and all that,” said Richard.

“What if we get caught?” asked John.

“We won’t be. Anyway, we’ve done it now, might as well just go sell this ‘un, get our money and be off,” replied Will.

Will led us through alleys and dark streets to the back of a grand house near the Embankment. I almost dropped the sack twice on the way there. A crusty old man answered the back door. He wanted to send us away until Will told him about the sack. He didn’t want to see the contents but he said his master would. He made us stand in the back yard by the midden heap. I couldn’t see anything, but I could smell the pile of crap by my foot. Even rich people need to dump their shit somewhere.

The back door opened a crack. A rusty metal lantern thrust through the gap. I could just make out a tall gentleman with a shock of white hair. Shadows pooled in the folds of skin under his eyes.

“What do you want?”

“We’ve got a body for you, sir,” said Will.

“A body, you say? And where did you get this specimen?” asked the surgeon.

“The gallows, sir,” replied Will.

The surgeon stared at him. The skin around my neck crawled. Perhaps this was what the surgeon’s anatomical specimens felt like.

“The gallows, you say,” said the surgeon. “Do you mind if I examine the hand of the specimen?”

“Why?” asked Will. I shifted my feet. The acrid tang of sweat filled the air. I heard Will gulp. If he could smell our unease, so could the surgeon.

“Humour me.”

Will nodded at Richard. He pulled back the sack and lifted the left hand free. The fingers stuck out like solid rods. The skin glowed pale green in the lantern light.

“I’m afraid I cannot buy this specimen,” said the surgeon. He let the hand drop.

“Why not?” asked Will.

“The last hanging at Tyburn was this morning, yet the stiffness of the fingers would suggest this specimen has been dead for several days. I also notice discolouration to the skin, and soil clings to the nails, which tells me this specimen was only recently dug up,” said the doctor.

“So?”

“I care not what you do to make money, however I may not purchase specimens from grave robbers. I may only buy the bodies of executed criminals. Therefore I suggest that you take this specimen elsewhere.”

The door slammed shut. We heaved the sack back out into the alley behind the house. Will thumped his fist against the brick wall.

“Damn! I thought the old fool would take it!”

“You thought? We thought you knew he would!” exclaimed Richard.

“I knew this wouldn’t work, I knew it was a bad idea,” said John.

“So what are we going to do now? We can't very well leave this here,” I said.

“Maybe one of the other surgeons will take it. Just because they’re not supposed to buy it doesn’t mean they won’t,” said Will. Desperation raised his voice.

“Hush there, do you want everyone to know what this is?” said Richard.

“Hang on. The surgeon said he can only take an executed criminal,” I said. A plan tickled the edges of my mind.

“Yeah, and?”

“Well, grave robbing is a crime. Pretty much everything is punishable by hanging,” I said. A strange look of hunger came into John’s eyes.

“Your point? I suggest you get to it,” said Will.

“Well I think we’ve got ourselves a criminal right here,” I said.

Understanding passed between us as we looked at each other. We all looked at Will.

John called for a constable.

* * *

The image for this post is my own photo of Brompton Cemetery in West London, although most grave robbing went on in the small, overcrowded parish cemeteries in central London.

Track Your Writing Progress

Last week, I posted an entry about making your own motivation to write. I feel like I possibly left things hanging, as I missed out two of the Internet-based tools for helping you to write, for both keeping you motivated and keeping track of your progress. How remiss of me! So here I am, on my vacation, but still blogging to pass on what I know in the hope it may be of some use.

http://750words.com
Have you signed in to this service yet? It's very easy - I personally sign in using the Google ID I already have, although you can also sign in using Facebook, Yahoo or OpenID, as well as creating an account. The idea behind the site came from the famous notion of "morning pages" in The Artist's Way. I've never read the book, but I do know that author Julia Cameron recommends writing three pages, ideally longhand, in the morning. The idea is to purge the mind of random nonsense, to get it ready for creating. I've seen this described elsewhere as being akin to clearing the rubbish out of an attic before you can redecorate.

Well three pages equates to roughly 750 words, hence this site! You can use it for whatever you want - writing your novel in progress, keeping a journal, doing a brain dump...whatever! It saves your work as you go but beware, it won't save it beyond your current session, so if you're writing a novel, you'll need to copy and paste into Word (or similar). Personally, I use it as a brain dump of whatever is bothering me, so instead of keeping a journal or ranting at my loved ones, I let off steam and write about the things on my mind, thus clearing my brain and getting me ready for creative endeavours!

Now, I've managed to write on five days in August, and in that time, I've written 3,987 words. When you've written your 750 words (or more), you get to check out your stats for that day. Some of my most frequently used words for today's words were "because, done, first, know, people and write". Most of it was written about the present, and the primary sense used is sight! Beyond these somewhat random stats, you get a little scorecard, which is a neat little way to keep your motivation up. After all, you've written for four days straight - you don't want to break your streak, do you?

Write or Die
This is my other favourite tool. People need deadlines - it's so easy to find an excuse not to write if you think it isn't required or expected. As the About page says, "Many people find themselves unable to write consistently. I believe that this is because their reason to write is intangible. For instance, I want to write and finish a book because I want to be published and make a living as a writer. That goal is a long way away so I often find it difficult to sit down to the task of writing. Conversely, I'm in a creative writing class for which I manage to consistently write and finish projects (albeit at the last minute). I therefore draw the conclusion: A tangible consequence is more effective than an intangible reward."

If you want to use the application, just select either your word goal or time goal (handy if you only have ten minutes to spare), along with the consequences for not writing (four different modes that range from a pop up box reminder to the application actually 'un-writing' your writing) and the grace period (three options depending on how quickly you want the consequences to kick in) and away you go.

The idea is not to edit, so when you're finished writing, you have to copy and paste your text into an editor. The concept is based on doing your writing in a burst, and then editing later, at a more leisurely pace. Write or Die just wants you to get the words down - after all, you can't edit what you haven't written.

Which will you choose?
So there you go. Two tools to help you keep track of how much you write, or to make sure you keep writing! Go on, give them a go, or why don't you let me know how you've managed with either of them?

Friday Flash - Captain Karaoke

Here's my attempt for this week's Fiction Friday challenge on the Write Anything blog, also submitted to the Friday Flash collection. Prompt #169 was;

The note taped to the door said: See you at Wild Notes Karaoke Bar.

"Well I don't know about you, Thusie, but I've had a damn good night," said Captain Scarlight. He swayed along the quay towards their ship.

I do wish you wouldn't keep referring to me as Thusie. My name is Methuselah, said the parrot on his shoulder. Being telepathic, Methuselah didn't need to speak out loud. The captain screwed up his face as the parrot's words echoed around his brain.

"Don't talk to me in my head like that, you know it confuses me."

It is the only way we may maintain a conversation.

"Pah, I don't want to talk to you anyway," said the captain. "All you ever do is tell me off for drinking and being merry."

That's because all you ever do is drink and be merry.

"That is not true, not at all!"

The captain stumbled up the plank to the ship. He tripped onto the deck, driving his knee into the wooden boards. He yelped in pain.

Indeed, Captain, you are as sober as a judge.

The captain threw an evil look at Methuselah. He hauled himself to his feet and tottered up the steps to the next deck. A piece of paper fluttered against the door to his quarters.

"What's this?" he said. He pulled the paper from its pin, and squinted to read the awkward handwriting. The note simply said: See you at Wild Notes Karaoke Bar.

"Oh-ho! A karaoke bar!" Captain Scarlight grinned.

What on earth is a karaoke bar?

"It's just a pub with a house band. They play songs you know, and you get up and sing them," replied the captain.

I do hope you are not planning on attending.

"I have to! Look, I've been invited." The captain waved the note at Methuselah.

The captain spun on his heel and wobbled back down the deck. Methuselah flew past him. He let an air current carry him to a bollard on the quay. A karaoke bar sounded like his idea of hell, but he felt obliged to accompany the captain. Lord knows what might occur if Captain Scarlight went unchaperoned.

"Come on, Thusie, it'll be fun!"

You have already spent four hours in the local watering hole with your men. Why must you go elsewhere?

"Pah!" replied the captain.

Methuselah thought it best not to ask how the captain knew the location of the karaoke bar. It made life easier not to question, or even understand, his bizarre ways.

Wild Notes Karaoke Bar squatted at the end of an alley filled with trash. Ancient handbills papered its stone walls between narrow windows. The captain yanked open the door and sound poured out into the alley. Raucous laughter and bad music filled the air. The captain plunged into the sea of bodies.

A four-piece band stood on the small stage. They fought their way through an old sea shanty. What they lacked in ability, they made up for in boundless enthusiasm. One musician used a stick and three strands of rope attached to a box as a double bass, and he plucked the strings with gusto. A man lurched and rolled in front of them. His tuneless caterwauling hurt Methuselah's ears. He fluttered across the bar to land on the captain's shoulder.

"Ah, my kind of place!" said Captain Scarlight. He caught the barkeeper's attention and ordered a drink.
A young man sidled up to the captain. A gold ring dangled from his left ear, and a scar twisted up his cheek into his hair. Methuselah recognised him from the ship. The parrot looked past him and saw several of the younger crew members further down the bar. They gazed at the captain in awe.

"You got our note then?" said the pirate.

"Ah-ha! Jonno! I did indeed! Very good choice of venue, my boy," said the captain. He thumped Jonno on the shoulder and laughed. Jonno grinned, but rubbed his shoulder when the captain looked away.

"Rex met a wench at the last pub and she told us about this place. We thought you'd like it," said Jonno.

"And I do indeed. Have you boys had a go yet?" The captain gestured to the stage. The drunk man sat in a heap in front of the stage, his place taken by a swarthy man in red. He crooned an old classic, drowned out by the band.

"No, we're too nervous. But we wondered if you would?"

"Of course I will! Where do I sign up?"

"No need, sir. Our current customer was the last to volunteer. If you want to go next, just wait at the bottom of the stage," said the barkeeper.

"Splendid!" roared the captain. He pushed his way through the crowd to the stage. The boys from the ship loitered by the bar. Methuselah perched on a beer tap.

The crooner left the stage, shaking his head. The band helped Captain Scarlight up onto the stage. They conferred for several moments before the captain turned to the crowd. A hush fell over the bar.

"My good gentlemen, and lovely wenches!" said the captain. The crowd cheered.

Please, Captain, do not do this.

The captain glared at Methuselah across the bar. He held up his hand for silence. Methuselah stole a glance at the crew. They stood transfixed. The captain dropped his hand and the band broke into tuneless song. The crowd whooped and cheered as the captain shouted his way through the first verse. Methuselah shook his head in disbelief when the captain reached the chorus.

"Did you ever know that you're my heeeeee-rooooooo? And everything I would like to beeeeeeeeee? See, I can fly higher than an eeeeeeeeagle, and you are the wind beneath my wiiiiiiiiiings!"

* * * 

Captain Scarlight and Methuselah have appeared before in two previous Friday Flash outings! Check out Pieces O' Eight and Polly Wants A Cracker.

Einstein did say that time is all relative

I follow an awful lot of blogs, and I have to admit that I'm a very big fan of Dan Goodwin's A Big Creative Yes blog. I love his writing style, and the fact that he manages to encapsulate such common sense advice that can be applied to so many creative endeavours. So when I came across his post about developing creative motivation, it really struck a nerve with me, for two reasons. Firstly, I feel like I don't do enough writing myself, and secondly, it seems like not many other people do, either.

I don't do enough writing myself
I write my Friday flashes and my ongoing serial every week without fail, and I sometimes even work on separate flashes or short stories on top of these. I'm also in the process of editing my first novel, Fowlis Westerby. Still, I feel like I could be doing more. I have the time to write, I just get easily distracted. My problem is not necessarily one of motivation, more one of attention span. Once I get into the "writing zone" I can keep writing until something intrudes, but getting into that zone is tricky. I've already talked about 'unplugging' before as a way to eliminate distractions, so I'm taking small steps towards utilising the time I have. But if I don't write, then I have no one to blame but myself.

You tell me you'd love to write, but don't have the time
I'm often struck by quite how many people I know want to write. Some of them are writers, and they work hard on novels, flashes and serials. They fit all of this in around day jobs, or busy family lives. They are writers because, quite simply, they write. However, many people tell me they'd love to write, or "get back into writing", but they don't have the time. It's a common complaint, but it just tells me they don't really want to be writers. They like the idea of it, but the theory is more attractive than the practice. They're "far too busy" to squeeze in ten minutes of scribbling. Doesn't sound like they really want to do it, if you ask me.

Snatch time
Yes, I know you have a day job. So do I. Australian writer Benjamin Solah tackled this very subject on his blog recently. Now, I have quite a draining day job, and I often find I feel too tired to write when I finally get home at 7pm, so I snatch time where I can. I have an hour's lunchbreak - sixty whole minutes of writing time! Half of my hour-long commute to and from work is spent simply sitting on a tube train, so I grab writing time then.

Get creative
To start with, you only need to fit in a short period of writing. Even ten minutes is enough to get you used to making writing a part of your daily life. If you use public transport, you can write there instead of pulling out a paperback. Write in short bursts during the advert breaks of your favourite TV show. Schedule a ten minute writing session instead of gossiping on the phone. Wake up ten minutes earlier, and write before you go out. Skip watching that trashy soap and use the time to write instead. Hell, even write on the toilet - at least you know you won't be disturbed (I hope).

Give yourself permission to write
If you were an athlete, or an actor, or a musician, then you wouldn't hesitate in giving up time to practice or train. No one thinks twice if someone gets up at the crack of dawn to go swimming for an hour before work, and if someone spends their Tuesday evenings at a drama class, no one thinks any the less of them. Hell, even artists are given the time and space to be arty without anyone giving them any grief. But writers often feel silly asking for the room to write. Why? Is it because, realistically, the only equipment you need is a pencil and a piece of paper? Are we somehow maligned because our chosen vocation can be done anywhere, therefore we don't need to be left alone to do it? Well, as silly or uncomfortable as you might feel asking not to be disturbed for half an hour, or trying to justify why you can't stay for that last drink because you want to go home to write, it's what you're going to have to do if you want to write. It's a sacrifice, but you never get anything for nothing.

It's only because I love you
Maybe this all sounds incredibly harsh, but I'm only being cruel to be kind. If you want to write, then you will. You'll find a way. If you still feel that you can't spare the time...maybe take up something else. Writing isn't something you'd like to do - it's something that you must do.

The image for this post is by Col Adamson, and can be found in its original home here.