The writer’s only responsibility is to his art. He will be completely ruthless if he is a good one. He has a dream. It anguishes him so much he must get rid of it. He has no peace until then. Everything goes by the board: honor, pride, decency, security, happiness, all, to get the book written. If a writer has to rob his mother, he will not hesitate; the “Ode on a Grecian Urn” is worth any number of old ladies.
An artist is a creature driven by demons. He doesn’t know why they choose him and he’s usually too busy to wonder why. He is completely amoral in that he will rob, borrow, beg, or steal from anybody and everybody to get the work done.
My own experience has been that the tools I need for my trade are paper, tobacco, food, and a little whiskey.
Writing is - Ninety-nine percent talent . . . ninety-nine percent discipline . . . ninety-nine percent work. ”
I guess you can’t do better than that.
This is part of an interview that took place in New York City, early in 1956.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Love 'em or hate 'em
Publishers get a lot of bad press – from writers, but where would we be without them?
Self Publishing
Way back when, when I was younger and even more foolish, I tried self-publishing – it seemed like a good idea at the time and the road to riches. I mean, the writing part was relatively easy, so how hard could selling be?
Don’t do it! Don’t touch it unless you have nothing else to do but promote your books and cold call every bookstore and chain from coast to coast. And even if you do sell them, there’s no guarantee you won’t get most of them back. You see there are damnable things called “returns”, which means if the bookstore doesn’t sell your babies in a reasonable period of time – reasonable to them, that is – they’re going to send them back and you’re going to write them a cheque, and your garage will be full of books no one wants.
There are vanity publishers out there, hundreds of them...most are honest and some who just want your money. But nevertheless, take my advice and go the regular route: find an agent, or find a commercial publisher; that way you can put your car in the garage overnight.
Take heed! Miguel de Cervantes (1547-1616) knew all about it back in his day when he wrote. “There are men who will make you books and turn ‘em loose into the world with as much dispatch as they would do a dish of fritters.”
Don’t do it! Don’t touch it unless you have nothing else to do but promote your books and cold call every bookstore and chain from coast to coast. And even if you do sell them, there’s no guarantee you won’t get most of them back. You see there are damnable things called “returns”, which means if the bookstore doesn’t sell your babies in a reasonable period of time – reasonable to them, that is – they’re going to send them back and you’re going to write them a cheque, and your garage will be full of books no one wants.
There are vanity publishers out there, hundreds of them...most are honest and some who just want your money. But nevertheless, take my advice and go the regular route: find an agent, or find a commercial publisher; that way you can put your car in the garage overnight.
Take heed! Miguel de Cervantes (1547-1616) knew all about it back in his day when he wrote. “There are men who will make you books and turn ‘em loose into the world with as much dispatch as they would do a dish of fritters.”
Publishers, God bless 'em
“Now Barabbas was a publisher.” (Thomas Campbell 1777-1844), and often wrongly attributed to Lord Byron. Which probably explains why he ended up where he did – Barabbas, not Byron.
But that’s beside the point. According to “Notes and Queries” there was a famous incident when Napoleon ordered the execution of Johann Palm, a German publisher who had been printing subversive pamphlets. Later, at an authors’ dinner, Campbell gave the toast, “To Napoleon!” Consternation reigned. Campbell went on, “I agree with you that Napoleon is a tyrant, a monster, the sworn foe of our nation. But, gentlemen – he once shot a publisher!”
But that’s beside the point. According to “Notes and Queries” there was a famous incident when Napoleon ordered the execution of Johann Palm, a German publisher who had been printing subversive pamphlets. Later, at an authors’ dinner, Campbell gave the toast, “To Napoleon!” Consternation reigned. Campbell went on, “I agree with you that Napoleon is a tyrant, a monster, the sworn foe of our nation. But, gentlemen – he once shot a publisher!”
Word Power
Every agent and editor has the power to reject your writing. But only you have the power to be, or not to be a writer.
Dementia Novella
Dementia Novella: The symptoms are a wholly irrational urge to get into print; so says the literary agent Frensic in Tom Sharpe’s “The Great Pursuit”. If that was true in 1977 when the book was published, how the disease has spread. It has assumed plague proportions that threaten the survival of the dedicated writer of fiction who might actually have produced something worth reading. No longer can you approach an agent or publisher with some expectation of at the least getting a hearing and a promise to read your offering: more likely you’ll get a polite form reply wishing you better luck elsewhere, or else be ignored.
I don’t blame the agents or publishers. I blame the disease that can be contracted by touching a PC or Mac with a word processor installed. Unfortunately, unless there is a massive worldwide power failure and writers are forced back to the dark ages of manual typewriters, I see no cure. The literary world is doomed to the continuing spread of this dementia.
I don’t blame the agents or publishers. I blame the disease that can be contracted by touching a PC or Mac with a word processor installed. Unfortunately, unless there is a massive worldwide power failure and writers are forced back to the dark ages of manual typewriters, I see no cure. The literary world is doomed to the continuing spread of this dementia.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
A few writers on writing
The reason why so few good books are written is that so few people who write know anything.
Walter Bagshot 1826-1877
A man starts upon a sudden, takes Pen, Ink, and Paper, and without ever having had a thought of it before, resolves within himself he will write a Book; he has no Talent of Writing, but wants fifty Guineas.
Jean de Bruyère 1646-1696
(Sounds to me as if they’d both have agreed with the theory of the 99%! And fifty guineas for a first book, in those days? Wow!)
Literary success of any enduring kind is made by refusing to do what publishers want, by refusing to write what the public wants, by refusing to accept any popular standard, by refusing to write anything to order.
Lafcadio Hearn 1850-1904
There is only one trait that marks the writer. He is always watching. It’s a kind of trick of the mind and he is born with it. (And I’m sure he meant to include ‘she’)
Morley Callaghan 1903-1990
Almost anyone can be an author; the business is to collect money and fame from this state of being.
A.A.Milne 1882-1956
Writing is one of the few professions left where you take all the responsibility for what you do. It’s really dangerous and ultimately destroys you as a writer if you start thinking about responses to your work or what your audience needs.
Erica Jong
This is what I find most encouraging about the writing trades: They allow mediocre people who are patient and industrious to revise their stupidity, to edit themselves into something like intelligence. They also allow lunatics to seem saner than sane.
Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.
If you want to get rich from writing, write the sort of thing that’s read by persons who move their lips when they’re reading to themselves.
Don Marquis
(The trouble with that theory is most of those people now watch reality TV or play video games)
Writing is easy; all you do is sit staring at a blank sheet of paper until the drops of blood form on your forehead.
Gene Fowler 1890-1960
(Maybe he should have tried something else)
And maybe the dreamers and wannabees should take note from Sean O’Casey (1880-1964) when he said that when he stepped from hard manual work to writing, he just stepped from one kind of hard work to another. Let’s face it, writing for money is a job.
Of course Benjamin Disraeli probably blabbed our innermost secret when he wrote, “When I want to read a good book, I write one.”
One last thought, from Papa Hemingway – The most essential gift for a good writer is a built-in shock-proof shit-detector.
Walter Bagshot 1826-1877
A man starts upon a sudden, takes Pen, Ink, and Paper, and without ever having had a thought of it before, resolves within himself he will write a Book; he has no Talent of Writing, but wants fifty Guineas.
Jean de Bruyère 1646-1696
(Sounds to me as if they’d both have agreed with the theory of the 99%! And fifty guineas for a first book, in those days? Wow!)
Literary success of any enduring kind is made by refusing to do what publishers want, by refusing to write what the public wants, by refusing to accept any popular standard, by refusing to write anything to order.
Lafcadio Hearn 1850-1904
There is only one trait that marks the writer. He is always watching. It’s a kind of trick of the mind and he is born with it. (And I’m sure he meant to include ‘she’)
Morley Callaghan 1903-1990
Almost anyone can be an author; the business is to collect money and fame from this state of being.
A.A.Milne 1882-1956
Writing is one of the few professions left where you take all the responsibility for what you do. It’s really dangerous and ultimately destroys you as a writer if you start thinking about responses to your work or what your audience needs.
Erica Jong
This is what I find most encouraging about the writing trades: They allow mediocre people who are patient and industrious to revise their stupidity, to edit themselves into something like intelligence. They also allow lunatics to seem saner than sane.
Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.
If you want to get rich from writing, write the sort of thing that’s read by persons who move their lips when they’re reading to themselves.
Don Marquis
(The trouble with that theory is most of those people now watch reality TV or play video games)
Writing is easy; all you do is sit staring at a blank sheet of paper until the drops of blood form on your forehead.
Gene Fowler 1890-1960
(Maybe he should have tried something else)
And maybe the dreamers and wannabees should take note from Sean O’Casey (1880-1964) when he said that when he stepped from hard manual work to writing, he just stepped from one kind of hard work to another. Let’s face it, writing for money is a job.
Of course Benjamin Disraeli probably blabbed our innermost secret when he wrote, “When I want to read a good book, I write one.”
One last thought, from Papa Hemingway – The most essential gift for a good writer is a built-in shock-proof shit-detector.
Friday, August 15, 2008
The Necessary Man
I promised myself I wouldn’t do this. I promised myself this blog would be all about writing. But I’ve got to get one political opinion off my chest and say that I think Barack Obama is what is called “The Necessary Man”: the man who turns up when needed, at just the right time. He is akin to J.F.K. and Pierre Trudeau. There is the style, the élan, the class that catches a nation’s imagination – hell it catches the world’s imagination. The world likes Barack Obama, and if America is to reassert herself as world leader and moral compass then she needs this Necessary Man.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Can they all be wrong?
“Immature artists imitate. Mature artists steal.” Lionel Trilling wrote that, and a lot of other writers have said pretty much the same thing: among them Tom Lehrer, Alexander Pope and Quentin Tarantino – an eclectic bunch. I guess by that they mean ideas are public property, available to anyone: the important part is what you do with them.
And once again the immortal Dr. Johnson had something to say on the subject when he wrote to some unfortunate, “Your manuscript is both good and original; but the part that is good is not original, and the part that is original is not good.” Kind of proves the point, doesn’t it?
And once again the immortal Dr. Johnson had something to say on the subject when he wrote to some unfortunate, “Your manuscript is both good and original; but the part that is good is not original, and the part that is original is not good.” Kind of proves the point, doesn’t it?
It's getting harder
Writing is harder these days, not only because of the number of people trying to get into it, but the number of untalented people trying to get into it. The system is getting choked.
What can I say? The man was right.
“If you’re a singer you lose your voice. A baseball player loses his arm. A writer gets more knowledge, and if he’s good, the older he gets, the better he writes.”
“If the public likes you, you’re good. Shakespeare was a common
down-to-earth writer in his day."
“I’m a commercial writer, not an ‘author’. Margaret Mitchell was an author. She wrote one book.”
“Those big-shot writers could never dig the fact that there are more salted peanuts consumed than caviar.”
Mickey Spillane (1918-2006)
“If the public likes you, you’re good. Shakespeare was a common
down-to-earth writer in his day."
“I’m a commercial writer, not an ‘author’. Margaret Mitchell was an author. She wrote one book.”
“Those big-shot writers could never dig the fact that there are more salted peanuts consumed than caviar.”
Mickey Spillane (1918-2006)
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Distraction by gadgets
There’s no question about it. Our attention spans are becoming increasingly short. I blame it in electronic gadgets: principally cellphones and pagers and those inventions of the devil, blackberries.
Now I’m among the first to agree that the telephone is useful: in fact it’s hard to imagine modern life without it; and word processors and e-mail and the Net make for quick and easy communication despite rendering the art of letter-writing all but dead. (See previous post)
But when I am sitting with someone, hopefully having a meaningful discussion, and that person has acquired an involuntary tic that compels them to check a damned gadget every few minutes, or they rudely interrupt our conversation the moment a call comes in instead of letting it go to an inbox, then I know gadgets are fast taking over, and mankind is doomed to become a second class citizen and electronics will eventually rule the world.
It’s enough to make me wish for a catastrophic, world-wide power failure – well, almost, because I’ve forgotten how to do semaphore and my inkwell has run dry.
Now I’m among the first to agree that the telephone is useful: in fact it’s hard to imagine modern life without it; and word processors and e-mail and the Net make for quick and easy communication despite rendering the art of letter-writing all but dead. (See previous post)
But when I am sitting with someone, hopefully having a meaningful discussion, and that person has acquired an involuntary tic that compels them to check a damned gadget every few minutes, or they rudely interrupt our conversation the moment a call comes in instead of letting it go to an inbox, then I know gadgets are fast taking over, and mankind is doomed to become a second class citizen and electronics will eventually rule the world.
It’s enough to make me wish for a catastrophic, world-wide power failure – well, almost, because I’ve forgotten how to do semaphore and my inkwell has run dry.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Online Books
They say the future of writing lies with online books: The ubiquitous ‘they’ again, the omniscient ‘they’. I don’t know about you, but paging down on a computer screen, or PDA or whatever other device is used doesn’t seem to be catching on; at least not so you’d notice. I’ve got books online, and the only remarkable thing about them is the lack of downloads. Of course this may be my fault, but I can’t help thinking the real reason is that most people would still rather hold a book in their hands; feel the weight of it, smell the paper, turn the pages, perhaps make notes in the margin. Online books are for certain kinds of information where we swoop around like birds of prey searching for tidbits, gathering text for specific purposes.
And what happens then? If you’re like me, and you probably are, you print it out to read at leisure. It comes back to the feel of paper in your hand. I think the future of the printed book is pretty secure; at least until paper gets as expensive as gasoline.
As House of Anansi President, Sarah MacLachlan recently said, “The question you really have to ask yourself is, ‘Do people really want to read a 320-page book on a screen?’ There is not yet an interface that is pleasant enough to do that with. I might be naive, but I actually believe that once there is a device that can deal with a digital file like a book then we will come up with a solution to that problem.” She added “I don’t believe that we will be left in the dust.”
And what happens then? If you’re like me, and you probably are, you print it out to read at leisure. It comes back to the feel of paper in your hand. I think the future of the printed book is pretty secure; at least until paper gets as expensive as gasoline.
As House of Anansi President, Sarah MacLachlan recently said, “The question you really have to ask yourself is, ‘Do people really want to read a 320-page book on a screen?’ There is not yet an interface that is pleasant enough to do that with. I might be naive, but I actually believe that once there is a device that can deal with a digital file like a book then we will come up with a solution to that problem.” She added “I don’t believe that we will be left in the dust.”
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Letter Writing
Letter writing as a form of communication is to all intents dead and E-mail has delivered the coup de grace. Those who argue that E-mail has greatly enhanced the frequency with which we keep in touch don’t get it. Letters were a leisured form of written communication; they were snapshots of our lives, and required thought and some effort. They required paper, pen, envelopes, stamps and a trip to the postbox. E-mail on the other hand requires nothing but a few hurried words and a tap on the ‘send’ key. Presto, like lightning it arrives next door or at the other side of the world. And now there is ‘texting’ on cellphones which further reduces the message to minimalistic shorthand.
As a boy, I remember my grandfather retiring to his study after breakfast every day to write letters: to friends, family, his brothers in Canada and Sweden. They were letters about nothing and everything: his garden, his grandson, the state of the world, books he had read, of ships and shoes and sealing wax.
I wonder; does anyone still do that? Does anyone sit at a well-worn desk, slide a clean sheet of bond paper from a pigeon-hole and write, simply for the pleasure of communication?
Sadly, I doubt it, and I doubt they ever will again unless...and then they probably wouldn’t know how, because not only has the art of the letter vanished, but also the ability to write legibly, and the ability to compose a half-decent sentence.
As a boy, I remember my grandfather retiring to his study after breakfast every day to write letters: to friends, family, his brothers in Canada and Sweden. They were letters about nothing and everything: his garden, his grandson, the state of the world, books he had read, of ships and shoes and sealing wax.
I wonder; does anyone still do that? Does anyone sit at a well-worn desk, slide a clean sheet of bond paper from a pigeon-hole and write, simply for the pleasure of communication?
Sadly, I doubt it, and I doubt they ever will again unless...and then they probably wouldn’t know how, because not only has the art of the letter vanished, but also the ability to write legibly, and the ability to compose a half-decent sentence.
Friday, April 18, 2008
So sue me!
Far be it from me not to defend an author’s rights, but isn’t J.K.Rowling being just a bit dog in the manger by trying to stop RDR Books publishing the Harry Potter Lexicon? I mean, it’s not as if she exactly needs the money, and she did give the lexicon a “fan site award”. However, from a different point of view I’d be delighted if she sued me – what huge free advertising? Maybe I’ll use Professor Severus Snape as the antagonist in my next Maxim Gunn story. After all, Jean Rhys used Charlotte Bronte's Mrs. Rochester in "Wide Sargasso Sea."
Thursday, March 27, 2008
There's no right way to write
There is no roadmap for writers. There’s no arrow saying “You are here”, with a lot of other signs pointing to other places you may or may not want to go. You can only look back at where others have been and learn. Then you must go into the unknown, the places marked on the map “Here there be dragons”. This is the only way to progress in your journey, because to stay on the well-trodden path is merely to revisit what has already been done. Exploration will find your unique voice.
There is no right way to write. Read: novels and screenplays; learn from others, see what they did and then find your own voice.
The books will tell you about structure, about beat, about subtext: all very necessary particularly the last one if you write screenplays. But don’t let them take over your own ability to tell a story. There are only three real cardinal rules. Every story must have a beginning, a middle and an end. You must engage your audience immediately, keep them engaged throughout, and then finish off with a bang, or at least give them an ending that leaves them guessing. But whichever way you do it, there’s got to be a “wow” factor. Your reader or cinema viewer has got to put down your book or walk out of the darkened theatre thinking they’ve had their money’s worth and are going to tell someone else about it.
There is no right way to write. Read: novels and screenplays; learn from others, see what they did and then find your own voice.
The books will tell you about structure, about beat, about subtext: all very necessary particularly the last one if you write screenplays. But don’t let them take over your own ability to tell a story. There are only three real cardinal rules. Every story must have a beginning, a middle and an end. You must engage your audience immediately, keep them engaged throughout, and then finish off with a bang, or at least give them an ending that leaves them guessing. But whichever way you do it, there’s got to be a “wow” factor. Your reader or cinema viewer has got to put down your book or walk out of the darkened theatre thinking they’ve had their money’s worth and are going to tell someone else about it.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
I am a writer
I am a writer because…
I am a writer. I have self-published six books and have two more with an agent. These two have Big House names written all over them.
I am a writer. I have received both kudos and criticism. I like the kudos more.
I am a writer. If you don’t enjoy my words, that only means that you don’t enjoy my words. Nobody made you Literary Critic God.
I am a writer. The fact that I earn my living from a day job subtracts nothing from this fact.
I am a writer. My heart goes pitty-pat at the sight of new editions of Writer’s Market and Roget’s Thesaurus.
I am a writer. When my computer goes pffft, or the electricity fails, I resent the loss of my word processor more than I care about the Internet access or television.
I am a writer. I cannot imagine not writing.
AND - I am the last boss I’ll ever have. Of course that doesn’t take into account my agent, my editor, my publisher and the people who read my books, who all think I work for them. Actually, it’s the other way round. In their own way each of them works for me.
I am a writer. I have self-published six books and have two more with an agent. These two have Big House names written all over them.
I am a writer. I have received both kudos and criticism. I like the kudos more.
I am a writer. If you don’t enjoy my words, that only means that you don’t enjoy my words. Nobody made you Literary Critic God.
I am a writer. The fact that I earn my living from a day job subtracts nothing from this fact.
I am a writer. My heart goes pitty-pat at the sight of new editions of Writer’s Market and Roget’s Thesaurus.
I am a writer. When my computer goes pffft, or the electricity fails, I resent the loss of my word processor more than I care about the Internet access or television.
I am a writer. I cannot imagine not writing.
AND - I am the last boss I’ll ever have. Of course that doesn’t take into account my agent, my editor, my publisher and the people who read my books, who all think I work for them. Actually, it’s the other way round. In their own way each of them works for me.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Typewriters
Today’s generation can’t comprehend the aggravation of having to use manual typewriters and eraser fluid. Those were the times when writing was a labour of love, literally.
Imagine pounding out screenplays and novels with two fingers, emptying bottles of eraser fluid. No cut and paste, no insert, no spell-check, no page numbering, no perfectly turned out product from a laser printer. In the pre-computer days writing was about love of writing and perseverance, about producing something that looked like a manuscript dug up after half a century in the ground and handing it to a typist in the hope she, yes she, could read it and produce something an editor wouldn’t chuck in the garbage. If we still had to do that, there’d be a damned site fewer manuscripts and screenplays written, and the ones that were would come from the heart, written in heart’s blood.
Writers today have no idea what it was like before computers and word processors. It was a constant battle; stabbing at a mechanical keyboard, eternally reaching for the whiteout as you stumbled around with two fingers, cursing a wishing you’d had the sense to go to typing school, but remembering that if Hemingway could do why not you. People wrote because they really wanted to and were prepared to put up with the inconveniences. And because there were none of the conveniences we take for granted in word processing, if you changed you mind or wanted to revise a chapter or a page it meant typing the whole damned thing again, or scribbling endless little hieroglyphics in the margins, pasting fragments till the manuscript looked like one of the Dead Sea Scrolls. I tell you, the writing life back in those days was for the dedicated few.
Publishers actually had what were called slush piles and had readers whose job it was to sift through all those unsolicited manuscripts from hopefuls like me just in case the next Steinbeck or Hemmingway was lurking in the dust. Publishers actually encouraged authors: today if you don’t have an agent and send an unsolicited MS, it’ll end up in the shredder.
There’s a saying which probably contains a lot of truth. “Everyone has a book in them, and in 99% of cases that’s exactly where it should stay.” As I said, I blame the computer. Today, anyone can slap together a few of hundred pages and call it a book, and the sad part is it’ll be beautifully presented thanks to those word processors. Look at bookstore shelves: there are hundreds and hundreds of books that will never make a penny, and many are so badly written it’s frightening. But what’s more frightening is why any publisher would want to risk their reputation by turning them out.
Life’s a mystery. Writing is part of life. I just wish sometimes the computer had never been invented and then only those writers who had the passion to write and maybe had something worth reading would make it past the shredder.
Imagine pounding out screenplays and novels with two fingers, emptying bottles of eraser fluid. No cut and paste, no insert, no spell-check, no page numbering, no perfectly turned out product from a laser printer. In the pre-computer days writing was about love of writing and perseverance, about producing something that looked like a manuscript dug up after half a century in the ground and handing it to a typist in the hope she, yes she, could read it and produce something an editor wouldn’t chuck in the garbage. If we still had to do that, there’d be a damned site fewer manuscripts and screenplays written, and the ones that were would come from the heart, written in heart’s blood.
Writers today have no idea what it was like before computers and word processors. It was a constant battle; stabbing at a mechanical keyboard, eternally reaching for the whiteout as you stumbled around with two fingers, cursing a wishing you’d had the sense to go to typing school, but remembering that if Hemingway could do why not you. People wrote because they really wanted to and were prepared to put up with the inconveniences. And because there were none of the conveniences we take for granted in word processing, if you changed you mind or wanted to revise a chapter or a page it meant typing the whole damned thing again, or scribbling endless little hieroglyphics in the margins, pasting fragments till the manuscript looked like one of the Dead Sea Scrolls. I tell you, the writing life back in those days was for the dedicated few.
Publishers actually had what were called slush piles and had readers whose job it was to sift through all those unsolicited manuscripts from hopefuls like me just in case the next Steinbeck or Hemmingway was lurking in the dust. Publishers actually encouraged authors: today if you don’t have an agent and send an unsolicited MS, it’ll end up in the shredder.
There’s a saying which probably contains a lot of truth. “Everyone has a book in them, and in 99% of cases that’s exactly where it should stay.” As I said, I blame the computer. Today, anyone can slap together a few of hundred pages and call it a book, and the sad part is it’ll be beautifully presented thanks to those word processors. Look at bookstore shelves: there are hundreds and hundreds of books that will never make a penny, and many are so badly written it’s frightening. But what’s more frightening is why any publisher would want to risk their reputation by turning them out.
Life’s a mystery. Writing is part of life. I just wish sometimes the computer had never been invented and then only those writers who had the passion to write and maybe had something worth reading would make it past the shredder.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Introducing Maxim Gunn
This blog being about the Maxim Gunn adventures, and not being a blockhead, I thought I’d give you a chance to read a couple of pages of the first story “Maxim Gunn and the Chaos Project”. So, first the blurb, and then...you never know, you might like it, so read on.
Maxim Gunn, agent extraordinary, takes on one last official mission before resigning from the Organization. Wanda Liszt, arch criminal: dark, beautiful and deadly, has found Sheba’s Necklace, the legendary rope of emeralds that bestows great powers on its possessor. Her plan: Chaos in Africa, after which she, as Great White Queen will pick up the pieces and rule the greatest empire the world has ever seen. Gunn is ambushed by a Mongolian archer, fights a starving jaguar, wrestles a monstrous freak, and pits himself against an albino swordsman in his desperate efforts to thwart her. The explosive climax takes place in the Swiss Alps.
CHAPTER ONE
“I swear,” Maxim Gunn announced, with feeling, “that after the next job I’m going to quit.”
Cynthia Ffoote took a chocolate from the box at her side, unwrapped it carefully and popped it in her mouth before replying indistinctly. “I wish I had a pound for every time you’ve said that.”
Gunn unfolded from his arm chair, and stood by the window, hands in pockets, looking onto the street below. “This time I mean it.”
“So, you mean it. And what would you do?”
Gunn shrugged. “God knows. But look at all those people down there. They lead normal, productive lives. No nasty surprises except at income tax time and hardly anyone ever tries to kill them. They’re perfectly safe and happy.”
“And mostly bored out of their skulls,” Cynthia replied.
“Why should they be?”
“Not much excitement in the average nine to five job, you know.”
“I’ve had enough excitement to last a life time. And who said I’d do something boring?”
Cynthia closed the chocolate box firmly, got up, and went to stand behind him, chin on his shoulder and arms around his waist.
“I can't see you behind a desk. You wouldn’t last five minutes.” She peered into the street and said. “Look at that man down there, the one in the dark suit with a raincoat over his arm. What d’you think he does?”
Gunn followed her gaze and picked out the object in question. “Respectable business man. Happily married. Two kids and a dog, and spends two weeks a year in Benidorm.”
“Yes. Something like that, I suppose. But the sun’s shining, not a cloud in the sky, and he’s carrying a raincoat. That tell you something about him?”
Gunn twisted round and grinned at her. “He doesn’t take chances.”
Cynthia gave him a triumphant smile. “Exactly. You want to be like that?”
“No,” Gunn replied, firmly. “But there are a lot of things in this world that aren’t dull, and I’m still going to quit after the next job. It’s very definitely time to say, ‘Up the Organization.’”
The girl rested her dark blond head against his chest. “I’ve got to admit there are times when I wish you would.” She pulled away and looked up into his eyes. “But I don’t think you will. I don’t think you could. I think you live for the excitement. It’s what makes you what you are, and it’s what you’re good at. Wouldn’t you miss the people you know?”
Gunn kissed her forehead. “You don’t miss people in this kind of life; you just remember them. Anyway, you’ll see. And while we’re on the subject of seeing. Did you...?”
“See the man watching the house? Yes. Who is he?”
Gunn’s eyes widened. “I’ve no idea. But no doubt we’ll find out.” He looked down at her from his six foot two height, blue eyes twinkling. “I wonder why anyone would want to keep an eye on me?”
Cynthia’s face took on an unusually cold expression. “So long as it’s not that woman.”
“Wanda Liszt? Do I detect a hint of jealousy?”
Cynthia put her hand on his arm. “She frightens me, Maxim. She’s ruthless, and so cold; and you know she wants revenge more than anything.”
Gunn laughed, delightedly. “She does add a bit of zest to life, doesn’t she?”
Cynthia shook her head in mild exasperation. “See what I mean? The minute there’s a thought of something happening you’re up and running to meet it head on. You’re hopeless.”
Gunn tried to look offended. “But I haven’t done a thing,” he protested. “And anyway, while there are people like her in the world I’ll...”
“You’ll never quit. And just for that, you can take me to dinner tonight at that new place. I hear it’s very good, and very expensive. Your lies are going to cost you, Maxim Gunn.” She glanced at her watch, and gave a sharp exclamation of annoyance. “Damn. I didn’t realize it was so late. I must fly.”
As she gathered her things, Gunn asked. “What’s the great rush? Something vital, like a hair appointment?”
Cynthia’s look was withering. “If you like, I’ll turn up for dinner in curlers.”
Maxim Gunn, agent extraordinary, takes on one last official mission before resigning from the Organization. Wanda Liszt, arch criminal: dark, beautiful and deadly, has found Sheba’s Necklace, the legendary rope of emeralds that bestows great powers on its possessor. Her plan: Chaos in Africa, after which she, as Great White Queen will pick up the pieces and rule the greatest empire the world has ever seen. Gunn is ambushed by a Mongolian archer, fights a starving jaguar, wrestles a monstrous freak, and pits himself against an albino swordsman in his desperate efforts to thwart her. The explosive climax takes place in the Swiss Alps.
CHAPTER ONE
“I swear,” Maxim Gunn announced, with feeling, “that after the next job I’m going to quit.”
Cynthia Ffoote took a chocolate from the box at her side, unwrapped it carefully and popped it in her mouth before replying indistinctly. “I wish I had a pound for every time you’ve said that.”
Gunn unfolded from his arm chair, and stood by the window, hands in pockets, looking onto the street below. “This time I mean it.”
“So, you mean it. And what would you do?”
Gunn shrugged. “God knows. But look at all those people down there. They lead normal, productive lives. No nasty surprises except at income tax time and hardly anyone ever tries to kill them. They’re perfectly safe and happy.”
“And mostly bored out of their skulls,” Cynthia replied.
“Why should they be?”
“Not much excitement in the average nine to five job, you know.”
“I’ve had enough excitement to last a life time. And who said I’d do something boring?”
Cynthia closed the chocolate box firmly, got up, and went to stand behind him, chin on his shoulder and arms around his waist.
“I can't see you behind a desk. You wouldn’t last five minutes.” She peered into the street and said. “Look at that man down there, the one in the dark suit with a raincoat over his arm. What d’you think he does?”
Gunn followed her gaze and picked out the object in question. “Respectable business man. Happily married. Two kids and a dog, and spends two weeks a year in Benidorm.”
“Yes. Something like that, I suppose. But the sun’s shining, not a cloud in the sky, and he’s carrying a raincoat. That tell you something about him?”
Gunn twisted round and grinned at her. “He doesn’t take chances.”
Cynthia gave him a triumphant smile. “Exactly. You want to be like that?”
“No,” Gunn replied, firmly. “But there are a lot of things in this world that aren’t dull, and I’m still going to quit after the next job. It’s very definitely time to say, ‘Up the Organization.’”
The girl rested her dark blond head against his chest. “I’ve got to admit there are times when I wish you would.” She pulled away and looked up into his eyes. “But I don’t think you will. I don’t think you could. I think you live for the excitement. It’s what makes you what you are, and it’s what you’re good at. Wouldn’t you miss the people you know?”
Gunn kissed her forehead. “You don’t miss people in this kind of life; you just remember them. Anyway, you’ll see. And while we’re on the subject of seeing. Did you...?”
“See the man watching the house? Yes. Who is he?”
Gunn’s eyes widened. “I’ve no idea. But no doubt we’ll find out.” He looked down at her from his six foot two height, blue eyes twinkling. “I wonder why anyone would want to keep an eye on me?”
Cynthia’s face took on an unusually cold expression. “So long as it’s not that woman.”
“Wanda Liszt? Do I detect a hint of jealousy?”
Cynthia put her hand on his arm. “She frightens me, Maxim. She’s ruthless, and so cold; and you know she wants revenge more than anything.”
Gunn laughed, delightedly. “She does add a bit of zest to life, doesn’t she?”
Cynthia shook her head in mild exasperation. “See what I mean? The minute there’s a thought of something happening you’re up and running to meet it head on. You’re hopeless.”
Gunn tried to look offended. “But I haven’t done a thing,” he protested. “And anyway, while there are people like her in the world I’ll...”
“You’ll never quit. And just for that, you can take me to dinner tonight at that new place. I hear it’s very good, and very expensive. Your lies are going to cost you, Maxim Gunn.” She glanced at her watch, and gave a sharp exclamation of annoyance. “Damn. I didn’t realize it was so late. I must fly.”
As she gathered her things, Gunn asked. “What’s the great rush? Something vital, like a hair appointment?”
Cynthia’s look was withering. “If you like, I’ll turn up for dinner in curlers.”
Welcome to the writers life
This is a thing of bits and pieces, of quotations, aphorisms, thoughts and other unconsidered trifles of the writing life. Feel free to comment, add your own thoughts and ideas. Stay away from destructive criticism, bad language and vulgarity: life hands out enough of those and nobody needs them here.
First quote: Dr. Samuel Johnson said, “No man but a blockhead ever wrote, except for money.” It’s a good point. The trouble is that it’s so hard to get anyone to pay you for your efforts. Still, roadblocks never stopped a writer from trying, and Winston Churchill said, “Never give in, never, never, never.” And to that end I’ll direct you straight to my website at http://tauruspub.net/ – which is Taurus Publishing.
Links to Mobipocket.com – this is the easy one because the Reader software is free. Anyway, just search for Maxim Gunn and you'll be able to take a look at the six books available. Who knows, you might even buy one.
The other link is to Amazon.com and so to the Maxim Gunn books. Take your pick, but I recommend Mobipocket – Amazon owns them anyway.
Stay tuned – there will be more.
First quote: Dr. Samuel Johnson said, “No man but a blockhead ever wrote, except for money.” It’s a good point. The trouble is that it’s so hard to get anyone to pay you for your efforts. Still, roadblocks never stopped a writer from trying, and Winston Churchill said, “Never give in, never, never, never.” And to that end I’ll direct you straight to my website at http://tauruspub.net/ – which is Taurus Publishing.
Links to Mobipocket.com – this is the easy one because the Reader software is free. Anyway, just search for Maxim Gunn and you'll be able to take a look at the six books available. Who knows, you might even buy one.
The other link is to Amazon.com and so to the Maxim Gunn books. Take your pick, but I recommend Mobipocket – Amazon owns them anyway.
Stay tuned – there will be more.
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