London's Stations, or, The Mystery of the Invisible Editor

For many months now, we have been invisible.

Why? For what possible purpose, for what conceivable intent, could this be the case?
There are no good replies... (Remorse is requisite. It is duly laid out, here, with penitential heart and truthful spirit.)

...Save for this: Lost in London. We (part of the newly functioning UK branch of Creative Works Int'l Media) know the train stations very well. They are a nice, fixed point in the ever-turning wheel of the city; they are magnetic, and deceptively spaced. A ten-minute wander in any direction can, at times, lead one to half a dozen stations. On the other hand, a three-hour ramble can lead one to precisely not the spot one had hoped to find. Lurking in second-hand bookshops. Market research, incognito. And such summer schemes.

Why incognito? --Valiantly, we go forth. Valiantly, we persist. (Despite that once the fabled spot is found, 'market research' often takes a backseat to grovelling among old children's books. Old travel guides. Old oddities, of diverse sorts.)

Valiantly, we find our way back to the station, having not discovered it: the secret to the perfect children's book. It is, after all, the new Philosopher's stone?

Join us, and see--

Details of our new forthcoming contests to follow.

Various Confusions With the Ds, or, When Not to Alliterate

Today, I found myself torn between dandiprat (n.s., a little fellow; an urchin: a word used sometimes in fondness and sometimes in contempt) and disrelish. However, at risk of over-alliterating, I shall choose the former:

Intense emotion wracked the bosom of little Charelzefride as he surveyed the tiny figure, high up, in the rigging of his father's ship. "O, that little dandiprat ," an officer said as he passed, evidently inclined to pay no attention to the lithe, monkeylike boy in the rigging. But Charlelzefride stood motionless as he contemplated the sight: his old enemy, alive and upon the same ship. The dandiprat's features twisted in mocking recognition; his lips formed the words:
"Tell no one about the map." Charlezefride nodded.

Less levity, more information should arrive by next post. If Our Readers have any questions, let them not hesitate to submit them (and, if they are common, we shall address them in posts) at this Ask-Our-Editors link: http://www.creative-works-intl-media.com/Writing-Books-Publishing-Ask-the-Editors.html

Fleshquake, or, A Word Perhaps Better Left to the Past, and Other Musings

Fleshquake. n.s. A tremor of the body: a word formed by Jonson in imitation of earthquake.

A word, one could say, perhaps better left to the past?

It is singular that, in our modern world of automatic newsfeeds and nonstop commentary, we have not the penchant for forming new (often beautiful) words that our forbears did. If human nature can be allowed to exhibit its fullest creative qualities, perhaps 'fleshquake' will do.

Cloris looked up at the Baron; her whole small being was wracked by a fleshquake. "If the Commodore holds my father's will, then please tell me this: Who will buy the peas for our army's offense?" The Baron had no answer for this nine-year-old's precocious questioning, for in truth, she was right. Without peas, they were lost.

Next, as I believe, will be a post on Why Children's Books?.

Things Lost Are Not Often What They Seem, Or, How I Found Dr. Johnson's Dictionary, Not Where I Thought It Was Hid.

I have found it--and we shall see if the finding augments, or rather detracts, from this Blog. A series on musings (for sometimes I find that finding an antiquated or strange word, and musing upon it, helps to inspire a story) is forthcoming, of which this is the first.

But I must explain.

Not, under the bed was it--not in the eternal abyss of darkness and despair, where souls of library books in torment await their accumulating fine--not in that black hole betwixt my bed's four feet, and the dusty floor--but in a pile of books by my door. Yesterday, searching for something else (and isn't that always the way) I found it, by chance, spilled to the ground as my hand knocked it out of place.

So here it is.

I will start with By-coffeehouse, a happy thought today.



By-coffeehouse. n.s. A coffeehouse in an obscure place.

Phyllis reached out her hand, searching through her laboured breath for an alleyway to dart into, a cubbyhole in which to evade her pursuers. She heard them, hot upon her heels--faster, she turned, not caring where she went, her frenzied lips forming the anguished words: 'O, if only there had been a by-coffeehouse!'

By-the-by, I must give heartfelt thanks to Liam's Pictures from Old Books for the images found here. http://www.fromoldbooks.org

A Holiday Scene, Or, How To Snare Even The Most Attention-Deficient of Relatives

It is the evening of a holiday.

You are all clustered 'round a table laden with the remains of a feast. Only a few derelict pieces of sponge cake remain; everyone's glass is nearly empty. Conversation flags. The children are somewhere beneath the table--you can feel them, tugging at your feet, and plucking at Great Aunt Meredith's shoes.

What to do?

All new news has long since been exhausted, and your relatives have started in on their favourite subjects--you respond, drearily, the with the same noncommital phrases they have heard time and time again, and still cease to understand. Old tensions rise. Old arguments stir. Sensibilities rankle.

What to say?

There is only another hour or two until you can righteously turn them out--time for a board game (only the rules are missing)--or, should you resort to turning on the television?

How differently things would go, if only you had a book to read aloud!

Reading aloud over a dinner table--an antiquated, funny old notion, from the bygone days when people would cluster around a piano in the tiny parlor, to be entertained. An adventurous notion, requiring relatives to put on their spectacles, crank up their character voices, and fall into the tale.

The children have crawled up from under the table; they wish to be involved. Little Alfred's chapter may take forever, but he feels proud at its end, for having navigated words such as 'pecuniary' and 'Herculean'. If it is a humorous book, all the better--the ice is instantly broken! No-one minds about Aunt Agatha's creaky voice, or Cousin Matthias' inability to differentiate between the female characters and the male.

When the evening is done, you may rest assured, they will come again. And leave their arguments behind.

Dream-Sequence, Or, A Lesson in Madness

Although dreams can occasionally frighten us, confound us, or startle us, though they bring out our worst social fears, or make us wonder whether we really are as sane as we assumed, there is one purpose for which dreams hold a continual charge. Never mind about analysing your dreams; sometimes they are best in their raw, emotion-filled, bizarre state. So it has been for ages past.

Dreams are a great source of inspiration.

Yes; from foretelling catastrophic events to revealing inner secrets, dreams have a long-established power upon the human understanding, coming as they do from the human imagination.

Just think, if you were given a space in which to tell stories wholly uninhibited by rational censors--

Well. Each night, each dream, is that space.

Here is an exercise:

1) Dream.

2) Without thinking too much about it, write it down. Don't worry if some of the details vanish into that black hole of oblivion, somewhere between the dreaming-consciousness, and the waking-consciousness. Neither should you be afraid to go back to your notebook and add details as they occur to you throughout the day.

3) Keep the journal handy; when you think of story ideas (when they spontaneously pop into your head, that is) write them down in this journal as well. For dreams, and story ideas, come from the same place--the more liberty you allow them to grow, the better they will turn out. When the story, like the dream, takes off by itself, that is the first step to writing well--semi-consciousness.

Take note of any recurring themes, symbols, or situations. If you truly think you may need help, perhaps a call to the psychiatrist helpline is in order. If not, analysing dreams can not only spur your writing, but help you to sort out your life.

And that is altogether a win-win situation.


For more ideas such as this, please visit http://www.creative-works-intl-media.com/http://www.creative-works-intl-media.com/chesterton-davies-ltd-books-workshops.html, and sign up for a workshop. Finding yourself is just the beginning of it!

Soon to be Seen, or, Next Thought

An essay on dream-interpretation

Storytelling, Or, Best-Laid Plans &tc &tc

There is an exercise employed, so I am told, by the great masters of the classics...one can see them, sitting around their café table (round, naturally: there is no hierarchy of creativity), sipping espresso or wine with impressionistic delight...one says to the others, 'Yesterday, I saw a duck with green spots on its back.'
'Really? And so?'

And so it begins. A story unfolds, tossed about by one of the artists with compelling skill--something heartbreaking, absurd, reflective. 'Yes, perhaps,' says the first, 'But actually, I believe what happened is this:' And he presents a story a little pithier, a little funnier, a little heavier, than his comrade's. Each takes a single image, and elaborates upon it, adding depth and the various exquisitries of his own wit, until it has spiralled out of control--the duck is no longer just a duck, but a hero, the spots the evidence of its remarkable passion, search for justice, fatal flaw.

At the end of the morning (or afternoon, or evening--this game can take place at any time, on any day), the masters bid each other good-day; they part, congenially, each taking up the thread of the story they have broidered in his own mind.

An ancient pursuit, and a thrilling one. It pulls past belief, into mythology; mythology is what we, as humans need in all times, in all circumstances.


(N.B. I had intended this post to be about Joan Aiken, but was diverted. Watch for next time: a review of Joan Aiken's book on Writing for Children)

Business Philosophy. Part I. Or, Why Publish BOOKS in This Day and Age?

Well. Books are essential, even in this day and age--more than that, they are themselves essences. At risk of being effusive, allow me to explain:

The touch and smell of a book. Books found, in mouldy corners, on dusty bookshelves, books discovered in a great-aunt's attic, books seized upon under cover of rain. Books opened, quested, to find--a world anew. There is no electronic equivalent.

Suppose, for one, you went to an open-air flea market. It is quite a gypsy flea-market--summons to mind those medieval portraits of fairs, bright colours encamped near bright colours, wagons, tents, camel-like horses chafing at the bit, dazzled onlookers seeking to buy their copper's worth of ribbon, of silk, of silver. You needn't be a connoisseur. The secret alcoves, containing hidden treasures--an old bird-cage, wrought in gargoyled iron; an ancient lamp, dusty with adventure; a roll-top desk perfect for writing letters of intrigue and experience (' Dear Isidore, Our hearts can no longer contain each other, for our lives have grown too full. Remember me, as I remember you, and above all remember that summer we spent by the sea, in which we discovered that cave, from whence the dread secret has encumbered our lives...).

And a stack of old books, ripe for opening. The world is yours...

Imagine this: a scene in which a child as well as a wizened sage may take pleasure.

Now, imagine a virtual marketplace, filled with the same wares...but in what form? Two-dimensional echoes, devoid of sensory value--no scent, no feel, no sunlight, no sound. The hawkers' cries do not ring out, all moves on a flat screen.

There is simply no comparison.

Books are artifacts.

So it is with books--so it is with literature. Take away the sense and smell and feel of the covers, the bindings, the pages, the ink-pressed characters that enfold to tell a tale, and you are lost. It is not literature, simply information, processed and uniformly packaged. And what mystery in a screen?

Dr. Johnson's Dictionary, or, Things Lost Beneath Beds

Dr. Johnson's Dictionary, or, Things Lost Beneath Beds

I intended to make this blog more than, as mentioned, Yet Another Literary Blog. I intended to begin with a pithy quote from Johnson's Dictionary, a tingling word to excite the senses and stir the mind. The latter intention, it seems, shall have to wait.

Why is it that books disappear beneath beds? There is a sort of piquancy to it, almost--a twist of fate that, if written the right way, could lean towards the tragic...

Nevertheless, we shall see about the first intention. My work takes me to far-off climes and dangerous territories of the imagination. I shall endeavour to explore dark secrets, heroic attempts, fantastic feats of courage and alliteration. There is much to learn in the world of books beyond what is written in the pages; one must go deeper still, to the essence of them, the heat and heart and light of which they are (at centre) composed.

Dr. Johnson will have to wait.