On Saturday, after leaving Chip in Giuseppe’s capable hands, Sue suggested an hour at Bantock House, because despite having lived in Wolverhampton her entire life, she’d never been. It’s somewhere I’d return to on a nice afternoon for a walk. The gardens are lovely and the house’s interior is a backwards glance; I could definitely see myself lounging in the billiard room…even though that was only for the blokes. Not fair.

I’m working on compiling my poetry into a digital file, which one day I’ll print off. I’d like to have a ring-binder of all of the poems I’ve written over the years (or as many as I can find – I’m sure there are hundreds of things I’ve lost or thrown away). A lot of it’s bad dreadful, especially pre-2006, but it’s important. I want to have something physical and substantial to one day pass on to another person (lucky swine). If I can ever afford a printer and ink cartridges, I’ll get to work on assembling it. Yet another project to keep my idle mind occupied…so far I have 200 pages in the file, and that’s not including some of the lengthier poems, such as The Long Song of Charleyboy. Yikes.

Last night saw me play host to another classic Kentberry cake night. Let it be known that if my dream of owning a bookcafé ever come to pass, I am calling it Kentberry Says. ;) Now, then…Naomi knows thedirect route to my heart - sweet things, free shoes and Whittard tea. Lisa came over and I destroyed them they were mercilessly whipped at we played Buzz, ate everything, drank tea and grape juice, committed to a night out in the near future, talked about anything. Terrific.

We made blueberry muffins based on this recipe and used Shortbread Extraordinaire as a base for some messy/jammy Eye of Sauron cookies. I am not kidding. I never jest when biscuits are involved. The man in my local corner shop must thing I’m mental; I only go in occasionally, always at night, and I’ve only ever bought one thing at a time – peanut butter, marmalade, mustard…and now jam. All these spreadable delicacies. What must he think of me?

Less than a week until the Paris excursion…I can’t believe I will finally be stepping foot on the hallowed grounds of Roland Garros. It’s not real. I hope Rafa’s got his restraining order ready. I also hope the weather’s good and that I can find French copies of the Harry Potter books…I will break my own rules and reach into the savings for those lovelies.

Now, may the weekend do ya fine, sai. Here’s a poem drudged up from the vaults to see you on your way…there are so many pieces I never posted anywhere or did anything with, it seems a shame.

Brush strokes

Painter General,
commanding the colours;
a storm on the continent,
splashing a talent they’d
be blind not to spy
and devour,
sup it, savour and taste
every aspect of flavour,
your richness, a tang
that my tongue can’t abide.

I miss it, and you,
creeping close with
each shuttering eye,
the dreams I endure,
next night lying long,
we cast off on
a raft in my mind.

And I find
when I wake
ne’ermind where
currents take me,
you are not there,
you are ahead, still -
reaching far, sparking
brilliant with life.
Burn on, now. Be bright.
I will watch, cheer
you on from behind.

Painter Gentle,
one thought left
to haunt me:

We were wrong not to try.

She’s a girl, and maybe that’s all there is to know about her. She’s average and, as with all average people, only strange things are allowed to happen to her.

Isn’t that always the way?

“‘Think Avarice will be pleased to see us?’

‘Couldn’t care less. We’re talking to her.’

‘She seems brighter now she’s away from It.’

‘I know. Weird.’”

DOORSFACT #7: It took me some time to settle on Sybil’s name. I wanted to give her something vaguely old-fashioned, and considered other names such as Dorothy, Agnes and Sidney, which I really liked. Sidney ultimately felt too masculine and reminded me of the Scream films – although the girl gets a fair amount of screaming done, this ain’t a horror movie. My thoughts slid next to Sybil and it felt right.

@Detective_Halo

@DacreKnox

Next week: What options will there be for readers of Doors? I’m going to talk you through the different formats available so you can decide which one is best for you. Obviously it’s the paperback.

Doors 101.1: It begins! – Read the beginning of Doors and preview the front cover.
Doors 101.2: Influence – Discover which writers and musicians inspired the story.
Doors 101.3: Rusty Halo – Meet one of the main characters and see what makes him tick.
Doors 101.4: The Door - When is a door not a door? When it’s the basis for a surreal novel…
Doors 101.5: Dacre Knox – Meet Dacre Knox, socially inept detective who’s handy about the house.
Doors 101.6: Plan D – Write much, write quickly, don’t worry about what comes after.

Congratulations to everybody who worked hard on the performance, and thank you for bringing the words to life in such a wonderful way.

Yesterday was a surprise day off. I’m morphing into one of those awful folk who don’t know what to do when they’re not working. We drove to York because it’s another place we’ve never been. It was lovely; I found a soap dish, managed to only buy three books, and tried a vegan peanut butter milkshake from this place. Amazing.

We didn’t go inside the Minster because admission is so darn expensive, but it was certainly beautiful to walk around:

Whenever we go to Chester, walking along the city walls is a must, so we made sure to cover a good stretch of York’s walls. Afterwards we took a boat ride along the river, saw the original Terry’s chocolate factory, watched some ducks, ate apricots and raisins, then as it started to rain we began the steady drive back to Mordor.

There are still many locations on the list of British Places What We Haven’t Seen Yet, but this is another one to cross off. After Paris I’m thinking the Jubilee Bank Holiday could be used for another trip, perhaps to Haworth…

Nothing special is planned for the rest of the week. I’m doing battle with another long stretch of consecutive working days, so we’ll just march on and think about what’s waiting at the end of May – boat trip down the Seine at night, frites under the Eiffel Tower, quiet reflection in Notre Dame, long walk through the Louvre and Napoleon’s apartments, Versailles, visiting Mr Wilde at Pere Lachaise, possibly even Disneyland if there’s time, and of course, the hallowed ground of Roland Garros…and damned if we’re not having dinner at Hard Rock Café, too. I am so ready to switch off for the week, not worry, not work, just exist in the city I love best.

Stycling along the canal on Saturday, under old bridges and through muddy ditches.

Sometimes I wish he was a person so he could journey and see all there is to see. If he was human he’d be overweight, overbearing, over-enthusiastic, overeverything. He would have furry Hobbit feet and a grand grey moustache.

Now, if anyone’s ever tried my baking and complimented me on it, it should be known that damn fine cakes are clearly a family trait. Susan made a batch of coconut key lime cupcakes (vegan, of course) and oh, dear God, they are sublime.

Cake is a good note to end on. Undulations went well from what I hear; Marley says all of the Doors bookmarks I posted up were given out, and lots of people were interested in the poetry that was used in the show. Spread the word, spread it far. Okay, Nottingham isn’t that far. But it’s a start.

The trick to pulling together a novel is that there is no trick. You’re on your own – every writer does it differently and might tell you a thousand different things. All I can tell you is what I did and hope you don’t attempt the same, because honestly, I made a hash of it. Still, we got there in the end.

On 15th May 2010 I sat down to start writing Doors. It was always called Doors and, though Halo was first called Lasco and Knox wasn’t even a thought, the path trodden has, for the most part, been one first planned for. Four complete drafts, several hundred sheets of paper and seven empty biros stand between then and now. Oh, a fair few yards of typewriter ribbon, too…

“‘Is it a good idea?’

Rusty’s reply is instant. ‘There are no good ideas. Just ones you like more than others.’”

DOORSFACT #6: It’s taken two years to bring Doors from first words to final publication. Altogether, I have six draft manuscripts – one handwritten first draft, another produced on my typewriter, a word processed second draft, a third draft, a final ringbinder draft shown in 101.1 and the finished version, which is a .pdf.

@Detective_Halo

@DacreKnox

It’s been quite a journey. Here’s another short extract for the road. We’re over a month into Doors 101 now, but there’s still some road to cover. 71 days to go!

“‘Dacre, I don’t appreciate your tone. We’re here in one piece, aren’t we?’

Rusty navigates the village’s empty main road, leading past the little shop. He pulls into one of two parking spaces and turns off the engine. He seems proud to have defied death so many times in quick succession.

‘It’s debatable,’ Dacre replies, looking at Sybil in the rear-view mirror. The three of them unclip their seatbelts and get out of the car. Sybil’s hands are saking. Dacre feels like he’s just been born, hasn’t a clue what he’s supposed to do with these things called feet.

‘Can we get a sandwich?’ Rusty eyes the little shop with distrust. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if they only sold divorce papers and a meandering death.’

‘Sounds delicious,’ Dacre says, holding out his hand. Rusty reluctantly relinquishies the car keys. ‘We’ve already kidnapped a teenager today. The least we can do is not kill her and all known local wildlife.’

@eilidhwow with her free proof copy!

Next week: There’s somebody else I’d like you to meet – Rusty and Dacre’s very own Little Miss. Sybil Harlow is such a lamb.

Charleyboy’s Walk

You stand at the start of
the last bow, the long song of
Boy, gone and done now,
we made it through though
don’t no one know how.

See Charley, a killer,
our hero, not caring
what’s said, no, on
the run from courts
and gestapo.
On trial, confessed, in
prison rags he is dressed,
to be locked up and pressed,
life sentence with interest
piled on top like whipped cream
at one of them rip-off
coffee shops.

He legged it and
pegged, ran for it, Charley
once laid plans for it,
favours cashed in, a
getaway made.
Now see him, this madman,
treading up a coast path,
talking to himself on
what he knows is
his last of all days.
As he waves off the cab man,
hops a fence, finds the
cliff path, his thoughts pass
to a familiar face.

Copper at the office, now,
conferring with the judge
and how this maniac was
allowed to get away.
Colleague brings an envelope
says inside is a note
which he really must see.
Copper sighs, holds his head,
slips it out, fills with dread,
reads brief swirls of threat
and yes, cruelty.
Worlds like this
issue only from
minds made at the
mint of Sir Charley.

Copper reads it several times,
as if he might sponge the lines,
simmer in him as he
heads out due West.
Letter said to find him next
where land ends, mummer’s quest -
he must go to save the
one he loves best.
Poor man’s out the door in
a minute, stomach heavy with
lead in it, weighing down all
his fast fading hopes.
Whether Boy has his wife or
little girl, he knows not,
only knows in a whirl
he must go, before it
all goes to pot.

At land’s end he confronts
fabled nemesis, and now
it’s come to this, he
cares for rules not a dot.
No back-up, no radio;
to the cliff alone he goes,
face-off against the man
with no inkling what a
monster he makes.
Copper once thought him insane,
sees him now as an animal
far beyond reckoning,
happenstance,
sort of nutter who
watches men burning,
doesn’t help, but turning
gives a song and
a dance.

No reasoning with such
a mind, no salvation, no
sentence, no tertiary fine
could redeem.
Charleyboy Blue, not a
real human being.
Not stitched from feeling,
nor possessor of seams,
want or dreaming,
a brain reeling in
possibilities of
torturous schemes.

If curiosity is cat killer,
consider boredom the filler,
a prelude to the
night’s starring role.
Charley plots it dead careful,
from the court to the wherefore
he’d fly: made the clifftop his goal.

There he waits for the
coming of an old friend,
middle-aged with a sore head,
one who chases to
ends of the Earth.
Charley’s not got shoes or socks,
toes curl over the rocks,
over the edge of the
end of the country.
When copper gets there
it’s darker, wind’s biting sharper,
sees a man on the cliff,
looking out on the sea.
He can’t see his daughter,
is she dead in the water?
Old girl bleeding slow in the grass?
He finds Charley’s eyes,
sad smile a surprise,
shakes his head before
old copper can ask.

“You said you took what was
dear to me, is all this a ruse?
You’ll kill me, and briefly,
mentioned on the news -
my bravery, the death of me,
if you’re sad give to charity,
then once again it’s all
about you. You’ve killed
all and sundry,
never discriminatory,
and it’s my turn at
the head of the queue.”

There’s a silence, a quiet,
stoppered only by wind,
smell of salt and soft evening glow.
The two men assess,
eyes split a grudging caress,
before a murmur -
Charleyboy saying no.

Friend, I didn’t lie,
fool or use you,
wanted merely to move you,
get you up here for a
true bird’s eye view.
You hold front row seats
for an unfathomable treat -
death of all that is
precious to you.

Copper starts to protest,
says the ones he loves best
are at home, tucked up
safe and warm.
Charley says not so fast,
there’s one last chap
you look past -
who keeps the bread warm,
name on every work form?

I am the job and
the passion and
overtime pay,
the frustration and anger
and in my own little way
I’m your drive, your ambition,
a career-long admission
of need, to collar and
admonish a wolf shaped
from greed, mission on
repeat, a frictional friendship
we’ve both grown to need.
Face it, sweetheart,
on confrontation hate breeds,
and each time I win my
own ego it feeds, as I swell up
with pride your reluctance recedes.
Swore to catch me and, oh
how poetic this reads.

I’m the past, present, future,
the postulant suture,
an itching that won’t go away.
You hate me, abhor me,
in sick ways adore me,
and you’re here now to
watch me on my way.

I say thank ya, sir.

Copper starts understanding,
sees the plan fast unfurling:
what you love
best in
the world.
His girls, yes, of course,
but beneath that a cause,
fighting a crusade he can’t win.

Without Charley,
what else for him?

Steps forward, not knowing
what he’d do if he caught him,
the man known as Charleyboy Blue.
The Boy sees him coming,
turns and goes running,
see it clear, now -
nought else left to do.
Long walk off a short cliff,
over down into abyss,
copper don’t lean to see if
he dies in one piece, or few.

He stands stunned with the
wind on his fingers,
for hours he lingers,
thinking that now I jump too.
On rocks he imagines
a body, bad mangled
and bloody, head smashed
into two sizeable chunks.

He just about manages to
keep a hold on his lunch.

He is there for a long time,
‘til it’s far into night,
Charley not crawled up
to declare it a ruse.
Desolate, copper turns,
wanders down to the cliff path,
to a past life,
no longer one with
a muse.

We are all such geeks, I love it. One last book, then we’ll move on, I promise. All I care about for the next few days is this…

Come, come, commala…

Most people do as little as possible with their Sunday nights. I went to Cineworld with Lisa to see Backstreet Boys. Y’know, as you do. They were performing live at the O2 with fellow boyband New Kids On The Block, as part of their “NKOTBSB” world tour, and 300 venues across the world were showing a live stream. It was BRILLIANT. Oh, how my 90′s heart ached…at the end BSB dropped the K-Bomb – Kevin’s coming back for the next album! And AJ’s going to be a dad.

I never said I had good taste in music.

For something slightly more tasteful (almost as tasteful as these vegan pancakes, not quite as tasteful tasty as Rafael Nadal winning yet another claycourt title this week), this might be of interest:

Click to view the full-size image. If you’re in the Nottingham area on Sunday, why not drop by and enjoy music, mayhem and dance from the marvellous mind of Marley? One of the poems that appears in my WSA-shortlisted collection, Revolve, entitled ‘Riverbed’, is used as part of the performance. I really wish I could be there, but unfortunately the bookshop beckons! Best of luck to the performers and every body else who’s contributing to the festival this weekend.

I’ll leave you with this short video, filmed at the same time as my recent interview with Naplew Productions. In it I talk briefly about what I need in order to write, namely those three most crucial things - tea, cake and rabbits!

This week I do battle with the Tax Man once again, and undertake my second Bill Quest in as many weeks in order to make my rent payment. I like to think the Tax Man does this to me so that I will write to him again, and again and again and again…lonely man.

If you’re going to develop an inexplicable crush on a fictional character this year, make it this one. Dacre Knox is Rusty’s partner in crime prevention – he has dark hair, darker eyes, likes to think he’s lost in the swirl of his twenties. He opts for microwave meals because they don’t require any effort, takes pride in ironing his shirts, enjoys correcting other peoples’ spelling mistakes, is partial to biscuits with cream in the middle. He can’t drive or afford to pay bills, but he gets by. He’s one of those people that life doesn’t leave alone, as much as he’d like it to.

Dacre isn’t one for serious ambition. So long as everything’s presentable and in its proper place, he remains quietly content. What a doll. He does fancy himself an artist…

“Dacre Knox is in his early twenties, lives alone, likes playing board games.

Dacre Knox is his real name. You say it so it rhymes with baker, or undertaker.”

DOORSFACT #5: As mentioned above, Dacre cannot drive (he considered taking lessons but gets awfully travel sick). However, he has very strong opinions on how a car should be driven, and lectures Rusty at every opportunity.

@Detective_Halo

@DacreKnox

Artist’s impression

The Twitter giveaway was a great success, thank you to everybody who entered! The lucky duck who won a free proof copy of Doors is @eilidhwow – your book is on its way to you and should reach you soon; you’ll also find a bookmark tucked inside. Read it any way you will, just be sure to let me know what you think!

Next week: The key to success is good planning. I’m going to share a couple of tricks I made use of to pull this novel together – the most crucial of which is a decent overview!

Of classics or poets,
whether he knows, does not show it
or whether he really has not
got a clue. Science or fantasy,
cheap thrills or literary,
I care most for the place
he might stow it.

In no order or perfect,
it all serves as comment,
find the shape of his
soul on the spines.
Old editions stand creased,
new ones in regiments neat,
minor loves of his life
propped in lines.

I do not measure the worth
of a man by the span of
his hands, by his girth or
his best well-laid plans.
I judge him on shelves,
on the sense of himself
found in crossing
these imaginary lands.

And if he knows me as well
as I know him by his shelves,
there’ll be space left
for books still to be.
We’ll make a gap for the stories
he’ll next be exploring -
perhaps one day,
written by me.

Rich kid’s shortbread

The name of this is a Kent Tribe in-joke, as it was made for a family request. If you’ve ever had Millioniare’s shortbread then you’ll already know where this is going – smooth chocolate and caramel, heaped on top of the very best Shortbread Extraordinaire. My caramel is hard and crunchy as opposed to gooey, so don’t bite into this unawares if your teeth are wobbly! The quantities listed are for an 8″ round of shortbread. Continue reading for the recipe and more photos…

INGREDIENTS:
100g soya butter
100g plain flour
75g golden caster sugar
25g brown rice flour
Pinch of salt
Pinch of baking powder

FOR THE CARAMEL:
175g caster sugar
150ml boiling water

FOR THE CHOCOLATE:
200g vegan milk chocolate
1tbsp soya single cream

METHOD:
1. Preheat your oven to 160C/gas mark 3. Grease an 8″ round cake tin.

2. Cream the soya butter and golden caster sugar together in a bowl, until light and fluffy. Sift over the flours and add the salt and baking powder, then mix well until you have a fine, powdery texture.

3. Press the shortbread mix into the cake tin, using your hand or the back of a metal spoon to firmly press it down. Mark the round into 8 even slices, then transfer to the oven. Back for 40-45 minutes, or until the top is golden.

4. Once ready, carefully remove the shortbread from the oven. Leave for 10 minutes, then place in the fridge to cool completely. Whilst it’s cooling you can make the caramel.

5. Boil the water in a kettle and pour into a saucepan. Add the caster sugar and stir until it dissolves. Whilst this is happening, heat your hob on a high setting.

6. Once the sugar has dissolved, place the pan over the heat and allow to boil rapidly. This is will take 10 minutes or so – let the syrup boil; eventually the bubbles will subside and it will turn a light golden brown. When this happens, remove the pan from the heat and stir until it relaxes and you have a thick, runny caramel.

7. Remove the cooled shortbread from the oven. Pour the caramel on top, using a spoon to smooth it over evenly. Remember, it’s boiling hot so be careful not to touch it, however tempting it may look and smell! Once done, return to the fridge to set.

8. To make the chocolate topping, heat water in a saucepan over a medium setting. Break the chocolate into pieces and place in a glass bowl. Place the bowl over the pan and stir until it melts. Add the cream and stir to create a smooth, glossy covering.

9. Remove the set caramel shortbread from the fridge and pour the chocolate on top. Again, use a spoon to smooth it over evenly, then once again return to the fridge. Leave for a few hours at least (ideally overnight) to make sure everything is rock hard.

10. When you’re ready to serve, remove the tin from the fridge and use a sharp knife to cut around the edge of the circle. Place a plate on top, then flip it over to remove the shortbread in one complete round. Carefully turn it over with your hands so that it’s “shortbread side up”. With the original marks you made as a guide, use the sharp knife to cut it into pieces. You will have to press hard to get through all that crunchy caramel and chocolate! Once in eight relatively sensible pieces, I then snapped it off into smaller chunks by hand. Leave on the side for an hour so that it doesn’t break your teeth, then serve with tea, or just treat yourself to an indulgent snack. Enjoy!