Friday, 20 January 2012

Let's have some fun.


‘Have you heard that the easiest way to get into print is..............’
Ridiculous isn’t it?  We would never begin a sentence without knowing the ending.  Have you ever heard a bad joke-teller, who leaves out bits and has to stop in the middle to insert the parts he has forgotten?  He knows how it ends and indeed he knows all the component parts, but he has no structure.  These are the things we need to examine before we can even think about writing a novel.
Over the next few months I would like to help anybody who is interested, to enter the rewarding world of writing.  I must stress here that mine is not THE way to write; it is merely A way.  Whether you are tasked with writing an essay at school, are writing to a loved one or simply feel compelled to write something, but have difficulty knowing where to begin, I hope these blogs will help you.
So where do we begin with our novel?  How do you eat an elephant? – One bite at a time!  This is the way forward.  We begin with the sentence, which has a beginning, a middle and an end.  Every sentence is important; every one tells a story. 
OK then, let’s have some fun with sentences.  Let’s say we want to describe he/she/it travelling down a hill.  We might begin with:
John went down the hill.
Not really very interesting, is it?  How about:
John walked confidently down the hill, showing off his new clothes.
This tells us a little more about John.  He is confident and he has new clothes.  Let’s try again:
John swaggered down the hill, his gleaming new duds telling everyone that he was the man.
Is this the same John who ‘went down the hill?’  Now let’s try Jane.
Jane went down the hill.
Again not very interesting.  Let’s try:
Jane staggered down the hill through remains of burnt-out buildings, holding together her torn dress, peppered red by the crimson droplets spraying through her broken lips.
You can’t actually ‘break’ lips, but it doesn’t seem to matter here.  Think of a picture in all its detail before trying to describe it.
I’m sure you can think of countless scenario’s that could be told in a sentence and it is something I often practice in my head when out walking or engaged in something about which I don’t have to concentrate.  It is extremely useful and also helps me to keep the general theme of the story close at hand.  Here are a few more examples just for fun:
He flew down the hill faster than anyone or anything had ever done, wings rigid, talons outstretched, ready to pluck up the rabbit that would never see him coming.
Notice the fast pace of the writing.
He stood rigid with fear as the ghost floated towards him, moonlight making the path she took look like silk.
No, that’s a bit stumbly (please don’t try looking up the word; you know what I mean).  Let’s use metaphor:
His face was ashen as the moon painted a silken path, leading the ghostly apparition right to him, to steal his very soul.
Yes, that’s a bit better.  Now do you see what fun you can have choosing the best words to describe an event?
BEGINNINGS
The first few sentences of a book or short story can be all it takes to cause a potential reader to either continue reading or put it down, never to pick it up again.  We have to capture readers immediately or risk losing them forever.  Consider the following:
With winter over, spring had arrived.  The snow had gone but there were still traces of frost around.  The air was cold and the sun reflected off the lake.
This tells you everything you need to know, but it doesn’t paint a picture.  How about:
Winter was over.  The snow had gone but the sun had not yet chased away the frost that froze time in the grassy shadows under the bushes.  The air was crisp with chill and anticipation as glints of sunlight flashed across the top of the lake, energising the water and promising the World its annual rebirth.
This tells the same story but it also paints a picture in the reader’s mind.  Incidentally, this is the preface to my YA book Beyond Dark Waters.  A book or a story might be interesting to the writer, but he/she knows that the interesting bits are balanced by necessary introductions and explanations.  The reader doesn’t and if the less interesting part is at the beginning, that is how it will be judged.
So what is the solution?  Why do we have to begin at the beginning?  Why not jump to an exciting time and then backtrack?  My first book The Diary of an Innocent began at the end because the actual beginning was me catching a tube to work.  Here is the start:

I have never thought of myself as a bad person.  I still don’t.  I have led an ordinary life with my wife and our two children.  I still lead that life.  I am not a religious person, only attending church at christenings, weddings and funerals, although I was raised as a Catholic.
The difference now is that I understand where I fit into the whole scheme of things.  I used to admire people who die for their faith, from the saints of old who were persecuted, to the latter-day martyrs who use explosives and die by their own hands, or by the hands of others.
I said the beginning was simply me going to work, but still I worked at it.  I wasn’t trudging to work.  In fact I was happy and wanted to reflect the fact in my description.  Did I succeed?  You tell me:
            The day began like any other warm August morning in London.  I was swept along by the crowds of commuters, down steps and escalators and onto the platform, finally squeezing myself into one of the silver tubes that streak around under the busy city streets.  I stood there, bodies pressed against mine, people with lifeless eyes and blank expressions, trying to detach themselves from this unnatural place. 
I think I gave it a fair shot.  Now let’s try a story we all know: Cinderella.  We could start at the beginning:
“Haven’t you lit that fire yet?” screamed Matilda, causing me to spin round on my already grazed knees.
That would work.  Now let’s try the middle:
I would not have believed that putting on one slipper could have been so life-changing, as the hushed crowd gazed in my direction, each girl wishing she was me.  Who could have foreseen this change in my life from my humble beginnings as the servant to my three horrid sisters?
Then of course we could revert to the beginning of the story.  Now let’s try the end:
Their fate was in my hands.  Should I forgive and forget, or should I think of a fitting punishment for the three who made my life so miserable?
A story can begin at any exciting place, so if we want to tempt people to read our works, we should really think long and hard about our beginnings, and try to give them a taste of some excitement.
I hope this has given you some food for thought.  Writing, even short descriptions, can be a lot of fun, as well as being the starting point for going on to greater things.  Practice is the greatest thing that will make us better writers and the amount we put in is far outweighed by the pleasure we can take out.
I’d love to hear from you whatever stage you’re at in your writing.  In my next blog we’ll delve a little further into this fascinating world.
www.desbirch.com

Sunday, 8 January 2012

So you want to write?


Many people, at some time in their lives, will need to or want to write something from which somebody else can gain pleasure.  Whether we are at school or out in the world, sitting in front of a blank page can be daunting, but the sheer joy of having written something that another person enjoys, can be within the grasp of most of us.
I have never looked at a blank page, trying to think of something to write, because I follow a few simple rules that allow me to have fun with writing, even if I end up exhausted.  Learning to write, like learning to play a sport, firstly requires us to learn the rules.  You might think that you don’t need these rules as you already speak the language fluently.  Rules of a language are not static.  Language is a living thing that alters its form to fit in with society.  For those of us whose memories of school are very distant, we might find that some of the rules we learnt have now changed.  For instance, how many of us over 35 years old know what a determiner is?  (hint: they used to be called definite and indefinite articles).  Did you know that there are only 2 verbal tense forms in the English language?  We don’t have to know all the rules; just as many of the main ones as we can learn.  Once we get used to them, writing becomes much easier.
Over the following few months I would like to help people to enter this fascinating world where words can be a bandage or a sword; a declaration of war or a peace treaty.  It has been said that everybody has a book inside that is waiting  to escape.  I am not setting myself up as an expert, I simply want to pass on some of my experience to anyone who thinks he/she might need it.
So, what do you want to know?  Where to find ideas, first person v third person, How to write a plan etc.  Most authors would help new writers if they had the time.  Here I would like to invite questions from anybody from essays to a full length novel (I am not well versed in poetry so please direct poetic questions elsewhere (deliberate pun!)).
If you would like me to answer a writing problem, Just ask on this site and I will do my best to cover it.  What have you got to lose?  Just think what you have to gain.

Saturday, 17 December 2011

Christmas Story 2011


THE DANCER


Was I doing the right thing?  Only time would tell.  I had told no one of my decision, for they would think I had lost my mind, having worked hard all year towards this honour, and now about to give it all away.
There he stood apart from the rest, his eyes searching for even a hint of friendship on the faces of his peers.  He had been born different.  It was not his fault but it denied him the parity which the others took for granted.
I smiled as his eyes found mine and his whole face lit up with a broad grin.  Here was one for whom life was a struggle; one born without talent, one born different, but one who still found a reason to smile.
He walked over to me, his steps springing with excitement.
“I bet you’re looking forward to the awards ceremony tonight,” he enthused.
I tried to play it down because I knew that he knew that he would never be so honoured.  Never, that is, until this year.
“You might win an award yourself,” I ventured.  “You never can tell.”
“Oh I’ll never win an award.  There is far too much talent out there.  I’ll bet you get one though.”
“What me?”
“Oh come on, you’re the best dancer that has ever been!  You’re bound to win!”
It was true that I had won this award a number of times, but this year I had thought about it long and hard.  It is easy to shine when you have talent.  Everybody likes you and life is good.  This one was born different which made him stand out for all the wrong reasons.
The others shuffled together, occasionally glancing in our direction and laughing.  They were so unkind to him that they would not even utter his name.  I had to refer to him as ‘the unfortunate one’ which was far kinder than the names they called him.  When we were together, I called him my friend.
I glared back at the group who then looked away and wandered off together.  I still commanded respect as one who had won the award more times that anyone else.  My friend noticed the glare.
“Oh don’t worry about them.  They really don’t mean any harm.  It is Christmas after all.”
Even with all the bullying and name calling, he still refused to say anything bad against any one of them.  That was the point at which I decided to follow through with my plan.  I would go to the boss and tell him that if I won an award, he should give it to my friend.
I hesitated before entering the office.  He was a good man but his sheer size frightened me.  He sat on a chair, his belly pressed up against the desk and a big cheery smile on his face.  He listened intently to my suggestion.  I made certain not to make it sound like I was expecting an award.  He sighed and spent a few moments in deep thought before he replied.
“That is a very noble and generous offer.  Every year I honour the best eight.  The ones who have excelled in some way throughout the year.  You’re a dancer.  You have worked hard and achieved a high level of skill.”
“Yes but that’s only because I was born with a talent that I enjoy doing.  He has no talent but still he does his work and remains cheerful, even though he has very few friends and through all the bullying.  Don’t you understand the difference it would make to his life if he were to win an award?  Everybody would love him!”
I realised that I had raised my voice to a very great level and now that I had finished talking, there was an ocean of silence, only to be broken by the boss sighing once again.
“I understand what you’re saying but unfortunately there are no awards simply for being good.  That brings its own rewards.  Think of how hard you have worked all year for this honour, but now you want to turn it down; the reward for being good far outweighing the award for being the best at something.  It would however stop all the bullying if he were so honoured.”
He stood up and moved his massive form across the room towards the window.
“If only there were a way to give him an award.  If only we could find something that only he could do.  If only......”
He stopped in mid-sentence and remained absolutely still for a moment, staring out of the window.  Then I heard a deep rumbling which grew and grew until the very room vibrated.  A deep belly laugh shook his whole body and I backed away in fear and confusion.  He was laughing so hard that he struggled to regain his chair.  I didn’t understand and so I left the office feeling sad that I had not been taken seriously.
The evening of the ceremony had arrived and we all gathered on the lawn in front of a temporary stage on which the winners would stand.  The fog had worsened and we jostled for position to get the best view.  Then the boss arrived with his notes in his hand and the names of those to be honoured.  My name was the second to be called and, proud though I was to have been honoured so, I would still have swapped places with my friend.  The cheering died as the boss held up his hands for silence.
“This year I am sorry to say, we have run into difficulties.  It is a very dark day for our little community as we are in danger of not being able to fulfil all of our orders on time, and you all know what that would mean.  I have been wracking my brains trying to think of a way out and at last I have found the one who, if he accepts this award, can lead us forward and save the day.”
The hopefuls were all looking round, wondering who was among them that could rise to such an occasion.
“This award is number nine and the greatest ever given.  It is for one who is trustworthy, hard working and reliable.  One who will lead us out of this darkness and steer us in the right direction.  The winner of this award is........... Rudolph.

Wednesday, 28 September 2011

Website opening

I will have my new website up and running shortly.  In it will be all the links you will need to contact me or view my books.  I would love you all to drop in and have a look.  www.desbirch.com
Des

Saturday, 6 August 2011

More from 'The Diary of an Innocent'

The girls decided that they wanted to build sandcastles, so I took them to a nearby gift shop to buy buckets and spades and of course, flags for the sandcastles.  These were chosen with extreme care as the little people who would take over the castles later, would have to know which ones belonged to them.  Building sandcastles is a craft that I rediscovered a few years previously. It required the right amount of water mixed with the right amount of sand and the right story to go with the building project.  If I had boys, the castles would probably have been at war with each other.  The girl’s stories however, were usually of princes and princesses, and their ensuing betrothal.     Today was no exception and the castles were well under way, when Emma noticed something missing.
“Daddy,” she said in panic.  “Where are they going to get married?  We have to build a church!”
“Mummy can build us one over there,” I said as I nudged Alison’s leg and pointed to a spot on the sand. 
“Oh no she can’t!” was Alison’s instant reply.
I gave her a puzzled look.
“That’s the main road past the castles.  You can’t build a church in the middle of the road!  How would the horses get round it?”
I had not realized she had been following the plot!
“Yes, silly daddy,” said Chloe.  “You choose where it goes mummy.”
“And I thought that I was supposed to be the master builder!”
Alison, as always had a reply.
“You be the builder and I’ll be the planning office.”
“Yes,” said the girls in unison, although I am certain they did not have the least idea of what a planning office was.
The work was eventually completed.  Mummy had a little trouble with the steeple but we all helped out and with a little more water, many hands and a hastily found excuse for not building it very high, it was just left to me to complete the story.
“What time do you think the little people will come tonight, daddy?” whispered Emma
“About seven o’clock.”  Alison’s quick reply took me by surprise.  I had opened my mouth to answer, but her sudden reply prevented me from closing it as I turned to look at her.
“Just about the time little girls go to bed?”
Of course, Silly daddy!

Thursday, 28 July 2011

New award for Beyond Dark Waters

Author Des Birch receives the ePublishing Consortium “Writers Award of Merit”
Beyond Dark Waters by Des Birch
Beyond Dark Waters by Des Birch presents a totally original story precept.  The author succeeds in weaving facets of life that all face including fear, misunderstandings, courage and compassion.  The main character is transformed into the necessary forms to understand how all of life is connected.  It is rare to find a book that can be highly recommended by many.  Beyond Dark Waters goes beyond this expectation and should be mandatory reading for all people.
Beyond Dark Waters is hereby recognized for story originality, depth of interwoven plotlines and delivering a significant message during the rights of passage into adulthood.  Des Birch has achieved an accomplishment with this book as well as other published works has earned him the ePublishing Consortium Writers Award of Merit
Des Birch was born in Limerick, Eire but moved to England when he was a baby. He moved from Buckinghamshire to Norfolk when he was ten, but attended a private school near Southampton. He has two children whom he has raised on his own since they were ten and eight respectively. He works in engineering but has gained a BSc and a Dip. Pol. Con. with the Open University. He also gained a TEFL diploma with which he spent two years teaching in Spain. Des now lives in Norwich with his wife Julie.  He is also the author of The Redemption, The Diary of an Innocent and Different Eyes.

Friday, 22 April 2011

Naughty Story

THE WAIT
            The queue was long in the dark, dismal room.  People waited like sheep, standing in endless lanes, occasionally shuffling forward, only to continue with their lonely vigil.  ‘They’ were in charge; ‘they’ said when you could move forward to your fate.
            She looked around her nervously.  Officials in plain clothes stood around nonchalantly, but she knew that they were really secret police.  Cameras viewed them from every wall, watching for the slightest hint of change in the faces of the men and women, resigned to their fate.
What would it be like this time?  She glanced around her again, but he was not there.  Perhaps nothing would happen!  More people entered the room, their looks immediately compliant with their surroundings.  She shuffled forward again.  As the angle of her view changed, her eyes were drawn to the dark panelled door.  Her heart missed a beat, for she knew what lay behind that door.  She had been taken through it before.  She shuffled forward again, rounding one of the bends, when she saw him.  His back was to her but she would know him anywhere.  This tall, blond, muscular man in a plain white, short-sleeved shirt; the man who had first led her through the dark panelled door.
She stood there looking at the ground, trying not to call attention to herself.  Perhaps he would not notice her.  She looked at the long queue in front of her and as he turned and smiled, she knew the fate that awaited her.
“Come with me,” he said as he took her roughly by the upper arm and led her towards the panelled door.
She made a weak attempt at struggling, but it was more for show than as a serious attempt to break free.  There were looks of pity on the faces of the others, but also of relief that it was not they who were being led away.  Suddenly, boredom was what they sought.
She was pushed into the almost empty room as the blond man closed the door.  There was a large table in the centre with restraining straps at the four corners.  She backed up against the wall, a cold shiver running over her skin.
“Are you ready to hand over the book now?” he asked as he stood in front of her.
She stood silent, her eyes lowered.  He took off his shirt in readiness for the task ahead, his muscles bulging.
“I see that you’ve not yet come to your senses!”
He spun her round to face the wall, leaning her forward to balance on her hands.  She was paralysed in that position as his hands slid around her body and began to unfasten the buttons on her blouse.
“Are you sure you won’t hand it over?” he asked as he lowered her arms, slipped off her blouse and unclipped the catches on her bra, sliding it from her shoulders and dropping it to the ground.
He turned her round to face him.  She made no effort to cover her naked breasts.  His hands cupped them, squeezing the nipples.
“I do have ways of making you hand it over,” he said menacingly.
“Then you’d better do your worst, Claus,” she said as she threw her arms around his neck and pressed her lips onto his.
Her trembling body was obedient to every touch of his powerful arms.  His hands and mouth contorted her body until she cried out in ecstasy.  He easily picked her up, her limp body resigned to his will as he placed her on the table.  She obediently stretched out on the cold surface,   as he restrained her wrists with the straps.  Then his hands tore at the rest of her clothes until she lay naked, feeling the straps being tightened around her ankles.
Now he could slow down, teasing her body with his hands and lips, certain in the knowledge that she couldn’t escape.  She moaned at his touch.
“Please!” she begged; “Oh please!”
She thought of the people standing in the queue who would hear her pleas.  They would feel pity at a young girl being tortured.  If only they knew!  The door was not locked.  Anybody could just walk in and see her lying there spread-eagled naked on the table.  Perhaps they would join in with the ‘torture’ and Claus would have to let them, otherwise their secret would be known.  Her feelings grew more intense at this thought.
He lay on top of her and she gasped as he entered her.  He moved slowly at first, agonisingly slowly until her body strained at the bonds.
“PLEASE!” she begged.
The people in the queue would once again feel pity for her.  His movements grew faster and more powerful.
“Are you going to hand over the book?” he gasped.
“No! No! No!  Oh GOD, Nooooooo!
“Are you sure?”
Yes! Yes! Yes!  Oh GOD, Yessssssss!
Suddenly she was dressed again and standing at the front of the queue.  She obediently handed the book to the woman behind the desk.  The woman glanced at her, tearing out the first page and stamping the military insignia on it.
She picked up the book and returned it to her bag.  Putting her money in her purse, she headed for the front door.  The blond man held it open for her.  She tapped him on the arm and he bent down to hear what she had to say.
“You were magnificent!”
“Thank you madam,” replied the bemused man.  “We’ll see you again next week.”
“Oh I do hope so,” she said, as she left the post office and looked forward to the next pension day.

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