Apologies for being away for so long but holidays, finances and cars have got in the way of writing and blogging just recently. Thank you to the lone viewer from Canada. I could do with more of that and also anyone from other English speaking countries (Australia, New Zealand, South Africa etc) and also those with good English from Scandanavia to join the two from Sweden. And is it really true that Kazakhstan and Mongolia are internet dead spots...?
Anyway, on with the blog.
I have been reading The Deceit by Tom Knox (Harper 2013), and it highlights a couple of important points even in chapter one.
Consider this, right at the start, were the viewpoint character is on th outskirts of Cairo:
The taxi stopped in the City of the Dead. Victor Sassoon stared out of the dusty cab window, adjusting his spectacles, and cursing his seventy-five-year-old eyesight.
Great first sentence, but who misread the name as Vidal Sassoon, the famous hairstylist? The present participles could be replaced by past participles but, this time at least, the simultaneity is OK.
Later we have this:
The drive took merely ten minutes, past the last of the Fstimid ossuaries, past the final tombs of the Abbasid nobles, past an Ottoman mausoleum adapted into a car repair workshop.
I get it - the author has been there and actually seen these things. And Sassoon is an expert on such things. But does the reader really care? Or bother looking these things up? I had this problem with a main character of mine where her bedroom was filled with Georgian furniture. Yes, she loved it, but who else gave a shit if it was deigned by William Gomm? Nobody, I bet. That's why I had to introduce it to the reader by her having a new friend round, Besides it made it more immediate. I was wondering if Knox could perhaps have introduced his facts in diary entries or letters and perhaps concentrated on how impatient or uncomfortable the Sassoon character felt in the grubby taxi.
Jacl Orchison
August 30, 2014
Saturday 30 August 2014
Friday 29 August 2014
My biographical bit, part 16: University 7
It seems strange that I ever made it out the other side with a PhD, especially being a self-critical doubter by nature. But hard work and method won out.
Being in the Chemistry Department was never without its drama. And there was never smoke without fire - quite literally. One day there were visitors and a senior member of staff was showing them his research lab. The lab had two doors, one at either end. The students in there managed to set light to something at both ends, temporarily trapping the visitors inside (ooops). I spotted a fire in the photochemistry lab once (some elecrical fault had ignited methanol, I believe). I also incinerated the floor next to my bench with sodium hydride - it burnt a hole in the fire blanket and the fire brigade dumped the lot on the lawn in the quadrangle outside. Nothing grew there for years, apparently. But by far the worst episode, which was in no way amusing (in fact it was deadly serious) was the fire in the lab next door where work was lost and people injured (Des McNamara and Harjit Gill). Indeed the professor's diminutive wife put Des out in the sink. The building and equipment suffered a lot of smoke damage, too.
Someone else mangaed to set light to a carcinogenic substance (HMPA, hexamethylphosphoramide)in the fume cupboard, and was later seen actually in the fume cupboard cleaning up all the crap. One wit (Judith Buck) was heard to comment that the guy would have tumours on his tumours. No idea if this ever came to pass. Also, there were rumours of solvent-sniffing competitions (not for abuse but to detect what was in the mixture) and pure ethanol punch. Neither could be substantiated. One thing I do know, though: acetone (the main ingredient in nail varnish remover) is great for getting rid of wasps. One squirt and they're done for.
Next time - back to normality!
Jack Orchison
August 29, 2014
Being in the Chemistry Department was never without its drama. And there was never smoke without fire - quite literally. One day there were visitors and a senior member of staff was showing them his research lab. The lab had two doors, one at either end. The students in there managed to set light to something at both ends, temporarily trapping the visitors inside (ooops). I spotted a fire in the photochemistry lab once (some elecrical fault had ignited methanol, I believe). I also incinerated the floor next to my bench with sodium hydride - it burnt a hole in the fire blanket and the fire brigade dumped the lot on the lawn in the quadrangle outside. Nothing grew there for years, apparently. But by far the worst episode, which was in no way amusing (in fact it was deadly serious) was the fire in the lab next door where work was lost and people injured (Des McNamara and Harjit Gill). Indeed the professor's diminutive wife put Des out in the sink. The building and equipment suffered a lot of smoke damage, too.
Someone else mangaed to set light to a carcinogenic substance (HMPA, hexamethylphosphoramide)in the fume cupboard, and was later seen actually in the fume cupboard cleaning up all the crap. One wit (Judith Buck) was heard to comment that the guy would have tumours on his tumours. No idea if this ever came to pass. Also, there were rumours of solvent-sniffing competitions (not for abuse but to detect what was in the mixture) and pure ethanol punch. Neither could be substantiated. One thing I do know, though: acetone (the main ingredient in nail varnish remover) is great for getting rid of wasps. One squirt and they're done for.
Next time - back to normality!
Jack Orchison
August 29, 2014
Wednesday 18 June 2014
Being a writer, part 13: Real examples 4
This time I'm going to compare the openings of two novels by the same author.
EXTRACT 1
The village slowly began to shake off its slumber and come to life. Slowly because nothing ever happened with speed in that part of Wiltshire; a mood of timelessness carefully cultivated by the villagers over the centuries prevailed. (The Fog by James Herbert (1975) and published by NEL)
EXTRACT 2
The small mounds of dark earth scattered around the graveyard looked as though the dead were pushing their way back into the living world. The girl smiled nervously at the thought as she hurried from grave to grave. (Shrine by James Herbert (1983) and published by NEL/Hodder and Stoughton)
Which of these is better?
The second by a long way. Let me explain.
In the second extract we have, very quickly, place, image, action and a question (who is the girl and what is she doing?).
The first extract, however, is badly written. You don't need both 'slowly' and 'began to' as they imply the same thing. Neither do we need the repeated 'Slowly' or 'because.' That way we can get rid of the incorrect semi-colon and replace it with a dash. Prevailed refers to the timelessness not the centuries and should be placed as such. Also we don't need 'carefully,' since for the villagers to cultivate an atmosphere over centuries they would have to be very careful indeed.
So, overall, the first exract should read as follows:
The village slowly shook off its slumber and came to life. Nothing ever happened with speed in that part of Wiltshire - a mood of timelessness prevailed, cultivated by the villagers over centuries.
There - that's better. Same meaning, six words less.
But there's still another problem: who wants to go to a place where we are told directly nothing ever happens?
Jack Orchison
June 18, 2014.
EXTRACT 1
The village slowly began to shake off its slumber and come to life. Slowly because nothing ever happened with speed in that part of Wiltshire; a mood of timelessness carefully cultivated by the villagers over the centuries prevailed. (The Fog by James Herbert (1975) and published by NEL)
EXTRACT 2
The small mounds of dark earth scattered around the graveyard looked as though the dead were pushing their way back into the living world. The girl smiled nervously at the thought as she hurried from grave to grave. (Shrine by James Herbert (1983) and published by NEL/Hodder and Stoughton)
Which of these is better?
The second by a long way. Let me explain.
In the second extract we have, very quickly, place, image, action and a question (who is the girl and what is she doing?).
The first extract, however, is badly written. You don't need both 'slowly' and 'began to' as they imply the same thing. Neither do we need the repeated 'Slowly' or 'because.' That way we can get rid of the incorrect semi-colon and replace it with a dash. Prevailed refers to the timelessness not the centuries and should be placed as such. Also we don't need 'carefully,' since for the villagers to cultivate an atmosphere over centuries they would have to be very careful indeed.
So, overall, the first exract should read as follows:
The village slowly shook off its slumber and came to life. Nothing ever happened with speed in that part of Wiltshire - a mood of timelessness prevailed, cultivated by the villagers over centuries.
There - that's better. Same meaning, six words less.
But there's still another problem: who wants to go to a place where we are told directly nothing ever happens?
Jack Orchison
June 18, 2014.
Tuesday 17 June 2014
My biographical bit, part 15: University 6
There are things you wouldn't believe that go on in a chemistry lab, perpetrated by highly qualified graduates too. This is the stuff of the Dick of the Day award mentioned last time.
The reaction that crawled out of the pot on its own was, of course, one of mine, but there were others. Like spending all might isolating a product by column chromatography only for it to go off. Like the reaction that went from clear to yellow to green to blue and, finally, black. Like incinerating the floor next to my bench when a tin of sodium hydride caught fire (I was banished to the chemistry library for weeks for that one)...
My friend Phil Thomas (he of the long walk from Grantham) was once pressurising a massive chromatograohy column, known as the Drainpipe, which contained kilos of silica and litres of solvent, and he forgot to open the tap...Bang! The thing sheared in two with a mighty crack and dumping of its contents. He did this with a smaller one, too, where the pieces of flying glass miraculously missed everyone. He also once spent all night in the lab, where he was still there at 4am when the security man came round, and went to sleep between the bookcases in the library.
Pete Amos, a newcomer when I was in my last year, got off to a bad start when, on the very first day when he introduced himself, he sat on the end of my bench - always a bad idea with chemicals around - and broke some NMR tubes with samples in them soneone else had left for me to analyse. This had to be the fastest winner of Dick of the Day. Yes, he fitted right in!
Andy Hobbs once lovingly isolated the wrong product because he'd forgotten to scrub the acetone out of the acetylene he was using, and set light to a pyrophoric lithium compound on the balance - crimson flames licked at the ceiling tiles.
The fun just continued...
Next time, more cock-ups, fires etc.
Jack Orchison
June 16, 2014.
The reaction that crawled out of the pot on its own was, of course, one of mine, but there were others. Like spending all might isolating a product by column chromatography only for it to go off. Like the reaction that went from clear to yellow to green to blue and, finally, black. Like incinerating the floor next to my bench when a tin of sodium hydride caught fire (I was banished to the chemistry library for weeks for that one)...
My friend Phil Thomas (he of the long walk from Grantham) was once pressurising a massive chromatograohy column, known as the Drainpipe, which contained kilos of silica and litres of solvent, and he forgot to open the tap...Bang! The thing sheared in two with a mighty crack and dumping of its contents. He did this with a smaller one, too, where the pieces of flying glass miraculously missed everyone. He also once spent all night in the lab, where he was still there at 4am when the security man came round, and went to sleep between the bookcases in the library.
Pete Amos, a newcomer when I was in my last year, got off to a bad start when, on the very first day when he introduced himself, he sat on the end of my bench - always a bad idea with chemicals around - and broke some NMR tubes with samples in them soneone else had left for me to analyse. This had to be the fastest winner of Dick of the Day. Yes, he fitted right in!
Andy Hobbs once lovingly isolated the wrong product because he'd forgotten to scrub the acetone out of the acetylene he was using, and set light to a pyrophoric lithium compound on the balance - crimson flames licked at the ceiling tiles.
The fun just continued...
Next time, more cock-ups, fires etc.
Jack Orchison
June 16, 2014.
Sunday 1 June 2014
Being a writer, part 12: Real examples 3
Another two examples for you. Both excerpts are from published novels. They are examples of committing some sort of gaffe (or gaffes) on the first page, even in the first paragraph. Your first page must be perfect!
EXCERPT 1
High up in the thin mountain air of the Andes, Professor Kent looked out for one last time over the moonlit beauty of the ancient ruins of Machu Picchu, stretching away along the valley's edge three hundred feet down below. Only ten minutes earlier he had been lying sound asleep in his warm bed in the Hotel Ruinas, not far from the world famous UNESCO heritage site, when suddenly, without warning, he had been shaken from the depths of sleep by two strangers (Pyramid (2007) by Tom Martin and published by Pan Macmillan).
We get what's happening, but where the hell was the editor? We don't need the word 'up' in the first line, we can replace 'looked out for' by 'gazed.' We don't need 'down' in line two. 'Sound asleep' is a cliché. The research is obvious. 'Suddenly,' which we should never use, means the same as 'without warning,' so this is tautological. And we know he's asleep - what is wrong with replacing 'from the depths of sleep' by 'awake?' And, oh dear, my critique is nearly as long as the passage chosen...
EXCERPT 2
In the distance a dust devil skimmed along the horizon, its trajectory zigzaggig with uncanny intelligence. The Bedouin believed such dust storms to be the restless spirits of those who lay unburied, bone-naked, lost in the harsh desert. Was this a bad omen? Worried that the roughnecks might think so, I glanced over. The field workers, big, fearless men, their overalls blackened with grime and oil, were paused in awe, tools in hand, staring at the phenomenon (Sphinx (2010) by TS Learner and published by Sphere).
If a dust devil is on the horizon, then it must be in the distance, so there is no need for the first three words. Also, how could it be seen to zigzag at that distance? We don't need 'that' in line three, and neither do we need the question. It would be better to say 'Worried the roughnecks might think this a bad omen.' And then there is the real clanger: any guy with his tool in his hand is not going to be doing any work! Unintentional humour kills off all the seriousness the author is trying to build.
This one had ne laughing out loud.
Jack Orchison
June 1, 2014.
EXCERPT 1
High up in the thin mountain air of the Andes, Professor Kent looked out for one last time over the moonlit beauty of the ancient ruins of Machu Picchu, stretching away along the valley's edge three hundred feet down below. Only ten minutes earlier he had been lying sound asleep in his warm bed in the Hotel Ruinas, not far from the world famous UNESCO heritage site, when suddenly, without warning, he had been shaken from the depths of sleep by two strangers (Pyramid (2007) by Tom Martin and published by Pan Macmillan).
We get what's happening, but where the hell was the editor? We don't need the word 'up' in the first line, we can replace 'looked out for' by 'gazed.' We don't need 'down' in line two. 'Sound asleep' is a cliché. The research is obvious. 'Suddenly,' which we should never use, means the same as 'without warning,' so this is tautological. And we know he's asleep - what is wrong with replacing 'from the depths of sleep' by 'awake?' And, oh dear, my critique is nearly as long as the passage chosen...
EXCERPT 2
In the distance a dust devil skimmed along the horizon, its trajectory zigzaggig with uncanny intelligence. The Bedouin believed such dust storms to be the restless spirits of those who lay unburied, bone-naked, lost in the harsh desert. Was this a bad omen? Worried that the roughnecks might think so, I glanced over. The field workers, big, fearless men, their overalls blackened with grime and oil, were paused in awe, tools in hand, staring at the phenomenon (Sphinx (2010) by TS Learner and published by Sphere).
If a dust devil is on the horizon, then it must be in the distance, so there is no need for the first three words. Also, how could it be seen to zigzag at that distance? We don't need 'that' in line three, and neither do we need the question. It would be better to say 'Worried the roughnecks might think this a bad omen.' And then there is the real clanger: any guy with his tool in his hand is not going to be doing any work! Unintentional humour kills off all the seriousness the author is trying to build.
This one had ne laughing out loud.
Jack Orchison
June 1, 2014.
My biographical bit, part 14: University 5
Last time I'd reached the various people that were in my PhD lab during 1981-1984. I'd forgotten one other guy: Wole Shode, another African postdoc. He was a serious and conscientious chap and didn't hold with all our cavorting and pissing around!
One of the things we used to do was play five-a-side football against the other research labs. Our team was okay and I played in goal.
These are the two incidents I remember best:
1. A shot came through a sea of legs, took a slight deflection to my right then, when I was wrong-footed, a big one to the left. I just got down in time to push it round the post.
2. The ball was bounding towards our goal pursued by an enemy striker. All I could do was advance to the edge of the circle to cut down the angle, and I saved the shot too. Pity it was point blank with my genitalia. We were winning 1-0 at that point, but ended up losing 3-1 because I couldn't move.
Then there was the Dick of the Day Award.
This was the basically the top of the head and the ears of a Space Hopper (remember them?) with a cocktail stick in the top bearing a flag made from a sticky label that said Dick of the Day. Dick was underlined. It was specially awarded to any chemical cock-up committed in the lab and was a trophy to be worn with pride on your bench until the next incident, which was hopefully by someone else. It reminded us that a man who never made a mistake never made anything. At least that was our excuse.
Next time: recipient events of the Dick of the Day award - and other gross errors and unbelieveable events.
Jack Orchison
June 1, 2014
One of the things we used to do was play five-a-side football against the other research labs. Our team was okay and I played in goal.
These are the two incidents I remember best:
1. A shot came through a sea of legs, took a slight deflection to my right then, when I was wrong-footed, a big one to the left. I just got down in time to push it round the post.
2. The ball was bounding towards our goal pursued by an enemy striker. All I could do was advance to the edge of the circle to cut down the angle, and I saved the shot too. Pity it was point blank with my genitalia. We were winning 1-0 at that point, but ended up losing 3-1 because I couldn't move.
Then there was the Dick of the Day Award.
This was the basically the top of the head and the ears of a Space Hopper (remember them?) with a cocktail stick in the top bearing a flag made from a sticky label that said Dick of the Day. Dick was underlined. It was specially awarded to any chemical cock-up committed in the lab and was a trophy to be worn with pride on your bench until the next incident, which was hopefully by someone else. It reminded us that a man who never made a mistake never made anything. At least that was our excuse.
Next time: recipient events of the Dick of the Day award - and other gross errors and unbelieveable events.
Jack Orchison
June 1, 2014
Monday 26 May 2014
My biographical bit, part 13: University 4
I graduated with first class honours in Chemistry in 1978, and I knew that I wanted to carry study further. I began a PhD, still at Nottingham, in sythetic organic chemistry under the supervision of Don Whiting - he was a Reader in organic chemistry, in the UK the next payscale down from Professor.
And so began a whole new era, and some very odd stuff along the way. Mostly down to the daftness of the people in the research lab, C29, who were there at various times: Dane Toplis, trumpeter and research technician, who was always a laugh; Ray Denman, a chubby guy who loved his dogs who was a Demonstrator to undergraduates; Roland Smith, postdoctoral researcher, who was known as either the Baldy Moron or Mr Semi-Erect but whose intelligence was not in doubt and did not walk around in a state of dubious arousal; Andy Hobbs, known as Hobbs the Gob (or HG for short) who always bragged how great he was until his girlfriend left him and he crashed his car into a bridge, luckily wothout injury; Paul Clawson, whose Danish grandfather changed his name from Claussen after the war, fellow chess player, and the only person I know to have saved on a student grant, who was always stirring mixtures in conical flasks - it looked very simple but was actually a delicate reaction of a carbonyl ylid; Phil Thomas, known as Dick Brain (or DB for short), fellow chess player, and very high on the list for entertainment value with many lab cock-ups; Clive Till, postdoctoral reaearcher who got his PhD at Southampton, and who had the ability as a personal timepiece - you could set your watch by him when he rolled up at 10am every day, who had a girlfriend called Rowan from Huntingdon (or Humpingdon as we called it); Khalid Khan, lothario, and the palest Pakistani I've ever seen; Peter Amos, known as Groper for his wandering hands, who was Roland Smith's morning running partner; Samuel Yeboah, postdoctoral researcher from Ghana, who wondered how I got to be always filtering off fine crystals (I kept some odd hours); then there was me - the guy who once managed to get a crappy brown froth to ooze out of a flask before I'd even put the solvent in or heated it up. There was a special award for that, bestowed by the lab members, but that is for next time.
Jack Orchison
May 25, 2014.
And so began a whole new era, and some very odd stuff along the way. Mostly down to the daftness of the people in the research lab, C29, who were there at various times: Dane Toplis, trumpeter and research technician, who was always a laugh; Ray Denman, a chubby guy who loved his dogs who was a Demonstrator to undergraduates; Roland Smith, postdoctoral researcher, who was known as either the Baldy Moron or Mr Semi-Erect but whose intelligence was not in doubt and did not walk around in a state of dubious arousal; Andy Hobbs, known as Hobbs the Gob (or HG for short) who always bragged how great he was until his girlfriend left him and he crashed his car into a bridge, luckily wothout injury; Paul Clawson, whose Danish grandfather changed his name from Claussen after the war, fellow chess player, and the only person I know to have saved on a student grant, who was always stirring mixtures in conical flasks - it looked very simple but was actually a delicate reaction of a carbonyl ylid; Phil Thomas, known as Dick Brain (or DB for short), fellow chess player, and very high on the list for entertainment value with many lab cock-ups; Clive Till, postdoctoral reaearcher who got his PhD at Southampton, and who had the ability as a personal timepiece - you could set your watch by him when he rolled up at 10am every day, who had a girlfriend called Rowan from Huntingdon (or Humpingdon as we called it); Khalid Khan, lothario, and the palest Pakistani I've ever seen; Peter Amos, known as Groper for his wandering hands, who was Roland Smith's morning running partner; Samuel Yeboah, postdoctoral researcher from Ghana, who wondered how I got to be always filtering off fine crystals (I kept some odd hours); then there was me - the guy who once managed to get a crappy brown froth to ooze out of a flask before I'd even put the solvent in or heated it up. There was a special award for that, bestowed by the lab members, but that is for next time.
Jack Orchison
May 25, 2014.
Being a writer, part 11: Real examples 2
I'm going to let you compare extracts from the beginning of two novels, one published, one not (yet). I wonder if you can tell which is which?
FIRST EXTRACT
Alan Greening was drunk. He'd been boozing all night in Covent Garden: starting at the Punch, where he had three of four pints with his old friends from college. Then they'd gone to the Lamb and Flag, the pub dowwn that dank alleyway near the Garrick Club.
How long had they lingered there, sinking beers? He couldn't remember. Because after that they'd gone to the Roundhouse, and they'd met a couple more guys from his office. And at some point the lads had moved from pints of lager to shorts: vodka shots, gin and tonics, whisky chasers.
SECOND EXTRACT
'George,' Olivia says, 'are you a bad person?'
I take her little hands in mine and kneel down to her level, completely disarmed by her. I gaze at the pretty face with the sparkling blue eyes below the blonde hair and the black hair band, knowing I can't lie to her. 'I've been a very bad person.'
'Are you going to do bad things to me, like make me deaded?'
'No, sweetheart, but you do need to pretend you're my little girl for a while. There's something I need to finish. I think you can help me.'
The first is from The Genesis Secret (Harper, 2009) by Tom Knox, the second is from one of my works in progress, entitled Victim.
The trouble with the first passage is that it's a boring pub crawl itinerary and you don't care about Alan Greening and his drunken mates. Chances are, you've already switched off. This is not the way to start a story.
The second passage sucks you in, even if I say so myself. The named characters speak and interact, coming to life in the process, we are in the head of the creepy, evil George, and we are shown (not told) that the two characters have a captor and captive relationship, that the captive is very young. And it poses questions: what has George done and what has George yet to do? Doeas George tell lies? Does Olivia survive? This is why we read on, why we turn the pages. Make the reader care, make the reader ask, and you'll not go far wrong.
Jack Orchison
May 25, 2014.
FIRST EXTRACT
Alan Greening was drunk. He'd been boozing all night in Covent Garden: starting at the Punch, where he had three of four pints with his old friends from college. Then they'd gone to the Lamb and Flag, the pub dowwn that dank alleyway near the Garrick Club.
How long had they lingered there, sinking beers? He couldn't remember. Because after that they'd gone to the Roundhouse, and they'd met a couple more guys from his office. And at some point the lads had moved from pints of lager to shorts: vodka shots, gin and tonics, whisky chasers.
SECOND EXTRACT
'George,' Olivia says, 'are you a bad person?'
I take her little hands in mine and kneel down to her level, completely disarmed by her. I gaze at the pretty face with the sparkling blue eyes below the blonde hair and the black hair band, knowing I can't lie to her. 'I've been a very bad person.'
'Are you going to do bad things to me, like make me deaded?'
'No, sweetheart, but you do need to pretend you're my little girl for a while. There's something I need to finish. I think you can help me.'
The first is from The Genesis Secret (Harper, 2009) by Tom Knox, the second is from one of my works in progress, entitled Victim.
The trouble with the first passage is that it's a boring pub crawl itinerary and you don't care about Alan Greening and his drunken mates. Chances are, you've already switched off. This is not the way to start a story.
The second passage sucks you in, even if I say so myself. The named characters speak and interact, coming to life in the process, we are in the head of the creepy, evil George, and we are shown (not told) that the two characters have a captor and captive relationship, that the captive is very young. And it poses questions: what has George done and what has George yet to do? Doeas George tell lies? Does Olivia survive? This is why we read on, why we turn the pages. Make the reader care, make the reader ask, and you'll not go far wrong.
Jack Orchison
May 25, 2014.
Saturday 3 May 2014
Being a writer, part10: real examples
Today I'm going to look at the start of a real novel to see if it is good or bad. It goes like this:
Call me Ishmael. Some years ago - never mind how long precisely - having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world.
This is the start of Herman Melville's 'Moby-Dick.' The ridiculous hyphen apart, generations of writers and critics have waxed orgasmically about this opening and Melville's authority and 'voice.' But, in truth, the passage stinks.
It's sloppy and lazy, and makes Ishmael look like a flake who floats from one whim to another - and someone you don't care for very much. Not what an author needs. Oh yes - Melville goes into great detail later on about the anatomy of the whale only to call it a fish - what a plank!
He fails to put the situation in context, in scene, and to show proper reasons for Ishmael's departure - you wouldn't go to sea on a whim in the nineteenth century.
How about this instead:
I dropped my bag on the harbourside and took a last look at the grey, prospectless town that had given me only intermittent work, shoddy accommodation, and that unfaithful bitch in my bed.
'Hey, Ishmael! You comin' or what?'
I turned to see the first mate waving to me, the ship rigged and ready, and behind it a brightening horizon. I picked up my things and almost ran up the gangplank.
Okay, so I've just made this up and it's not exactly deathless prose, but I hope you get the idea. The character doesn't have to name himself, the passage shows his state of mind, and compares the new and the bright with the grey and the despised. It shows both problem and goal in a way the other version doesn't.
Next time: more openings.
Jack Orchison
May 3, 2014.
Call me Ishmael. Some years ago - never mind how long precisely - having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world.
This is the start of Herman Melville's 'Moby-Dick.' The ridiculous hyphen apart, generations of writers and critics have waxed orgasmically about this opening and Melville's authority and 'voice.' But, in truth, the passage stinks.
It's sloppy and lazy, and makes Ishmael look like a flake who floats from one whim to another - and someone you don't care for very much. Not what an author needs. Oh yes - Melville goes into great detail later on about the anatomy of the whale only to call it a fish - what a plank!
He fails to put the situation in context, in scene, and to show proper reasons for Ishmael's departure - you wouldn't go to sea on a whim in the nineteenth century.
How about this instead:
I dropped my bag on the harbourside and took a last look at the grey, prospectless town that had given me only intermittent work, shoddy accommodation, and that unfaithful bitch in my bed.
'Hey, Ishmael! You comin' or what?'
I turned to see the first mate waving to me, the ship rigged and ready, and behind it a brightening horizon. I picked up my things and almost ran up the gangplank.
Okay, so I've just made this up and it's not exactly deathless prose, but I hope you get the idea. The character doesn't have to name himself, the passage shows his state of mind, and compares the new and the bright with the grey and the despised. It shows both problem and goal in a way the other version doesn't.
Next time: more openings.
Jack Orchison
May 3, 2014.
Tuesday 22 April 2014
My biographical bit, part 12: Chess adventures 2
Chess matches even extended to the University Championships. One of these was in Birmingham (England), a concrete jungle but at least it had its own railway station. One night our team went out on the piss and we were very much the worse for wear after, in my case, much rum and blackcurrant and possibly a Vindaloo. Our chain-smoking top player, John Stephen (a geneticist who knew a guy called Michael Jackson - regrettably not the singer) was violently ill with such a diet but still got up the next day. I kept everything down and spent all the next day expecting vomit to emerge at any time. It was a shame really, because we were up against a Cambridge team - I was wasted by some lank-haired, limp-wristed individual and the team was soundly thrashed.
Even after University my chess ezploits continued. I got a postdoctoral position in Swansea making peptides, and lived on the Gower Peninsula. I played for a little village club called Pennard for three years (even against the University teams), where the standard was such that it hovered between the two top divisions of the West Wales league and I played on either board 1 or 2, depending on availbility and illness. I didn't learn from Birmingham that chess and drink really didn't mix, one night sitting up with our team captain (Adrian Davies) drinking Carling Black Label when his wife and son had sensibly gone to bed. I blacked out when I tried to stand up and don't remember how I got home. I won my first competition when I was there, however. Also, the British Championship came there one year. I got 4/11 in the Major Open section.
After Swansea, I went to Orpington in Kent where I worked at Coates Brothers. It wasn't a happy time for me, though I liked my landlady (Sheila Crouch). More of her another time. I played chess for the local club the eighteen months I was there, between learning to drive rather late in life (whatever you do, don't drive in Sidcup at lunchtime!). The form was similar to Pennard and I did briefly have to scale the heights when our top player was injured in the Cannon Street rail crash (he broke his arm). My last competitive over the board game was on April 17, 1990, against Sevenoaks.
For a long time during all this I did play postal chess, not to mention the big interest I had in chess playing computers, and I achieved a rating in this up to BCF200 (Elo2200)! I haven't played any chess seriously since sometime in 1991 (probably around the time I lost interest in the pop charts and Freddie Mercury died), but that was because the time consuming game had been overtaken by meeting my wife, Christine.
Jack Orchison
April 22, 2014.
Even after University my chess ezploits continued. I got a postdoctoral position in Swansea making peptides, and lived on the Gower Peninsula. I played for a little village club called Pennard for three years (even against the University teams), where the standard was such that it hovered between the two top divisions of the West Wales league and I played on either board 1 or 2, depending on availbility and illness. I didn't learn from Birmingham that chess and drink really didn't mix, one night sitting up with our team captain (Adrian Davies) drinking Carling Black Label when his wife and son had sensibly gone to bed. I blacked out when I tried to stand up and don't remember how I got home. I won my first competition when I was there, however. Also, the British Championship came there one year. I got 4/11 in the Major Open section.
After Swansea, I went to Orpington in Kent where I worked at Coates Brothers. It wasn't a happy time for me, though I liked my landlady (Sheila Crouch). More of her another time. I played chess for the local club the eighteen months I was there, between learning to drive rather late in life (whatever you do, don't drive in Sidcup at lunchtime!). The form was similar to Pennard and I did briefly have to scale the heights when our top player was injured in the Cannon Street rail crash (he broke his arm). My last competitive over the board game was on April 17, 1990, against Sevenoaks.
For a long time during all this I did play postal chess, not to mention the big interest I had in chess playing computers, and I achieved a rating in this up to BCF200 (Elo2200)! I haven't played any chess seriously since sometime in 1991 (probably around the time I lost interest in the pop charts and Freddie Mercury died), but that was because the time consuming game had been overtaken by meeting my wife, Christine.
Jack Orchison
April 22, 2014.
Sunday 13 April 2014
My biographical bit, part 11: Chess adventures 1
My chess adventures, which I promised last time, began when I was seven years old. I, and my dad (Albert), were taught by my mum (Jo) via my aunty Jane (who, sadly, is no longer with us). My dad (who has also passed away) was my first opponent and, for years, my only opponent, but I easily left him behind. When I was twelve (when I also learned to play Scrabble - more of that another time), I played Anatoly Karpov, then World Junior Champion, in a simultaneous display where the grandmaster plays many opponents at once. I lost of course, but it opened my eyes to a wider and much tougher world out there. It was also the year of the notorious Fischer-Spassky match (1972) where the American seized the title from the Russians who'd held it since the second world war. The book on the match by Svetozar Gligoric was my first chess book.
I joined Leicester chess club when I was 15 and started playing league games there. I won my first one as an unknown when old Harry Tharp left his queen en prise. I also played for my school, Wyggeston Boys' Grammar School, as it was then (It's now Wyggeston and Queen Elizabeth College)back when it had strong players like Mark Hassall, James Essinger and Richard Pennington. I did all right, though not as well as two people I met during this period - Glenn Flear and Mark Hebden, both of whom became grandmasters and made a living out of the game!
I also attended chess competitions (called congresses) and never really sparkled. But at eighteen I went to university in Nottingham. At their height (when they had international masters John Emms and Jane Garfield playing for them) they had seven teams and I was in the second team. It was here that my solidity and endgame play improved and I started achieving a grade of about 150BCF (about 1800Elo). The matches were always something to look forward to, and the most vivid memory I have (apart from drawing with the team from Sutton in Ashfield when we turned up late a player short) was our teammate Phil Thomas having a post mortem on his game with the opponent at Grantham, who we beat, and him missing the last bus home. He walked the 26 miles back to university and arrived the following day at breakfast time! (Phil was a fellow PhD chemist, by the way).
More chess adventures next time.
Jack Orchison
April 13, 2014.
I joined Leicester chess club when I was 15 and started playing league games there. I won my first one as an unknown when old Harry Tharp left his queen en prise. I also played for my school, Wyggeston Boys' Grammar School, as it was then (It's now Wyggeston and Queen Elizabeth College)back when it had strong players like Mark Hassall, James Essinger and Richard Pennington. I did all right, though not as well as two people I met during this period - Glenn Flear and Mark Hebden, both of whom became grandmasters and made a living out of the game!
I also attended chess competitions (called congresses) and never really sparkled. But at eighteen I went to university in Nottingham. At their height (when they had international masters John Emms and Jane Garfield playing for them) they had seven teams and I was in the second team. It was here that my solidity and endgame play improved and I started achieving a grade of about 150BCF (about 1800Elo). The matches were always something to look forward to, and the most vivid memory I have (apart from drawing with the team from Sutton in Ashfield when we turned up late a player short) was our teammate Phil Thomas having a post mortem on his game with the opponent at Grantham, who we beat, and him missing the last bus home. He walked the 26 miles back to university and arrived the following day at breakfast time! (Phil was a fellow PhD chemist, by the way).
More chess adventures next time.
Jack Orchison
April 13, 2014.
Saturday 5 April 2014
Being a writer, part 9: Tense and point of view
We're almost ready to start writing but we need to decide on two things.
The first is what tense to write in. To me, this is simple: past tense. Stories have happened. However, the present tense does lend immediacy to the text and some writers, like Hilary Mantel, do write in the present tense. I find it annoying, though, rather like it's an illiterate ramble of some bloke down the pub.
Having disposed of the first point, the second is not so simple. Who is telling the story? Whose mind(s) are we in? If there is only one viewpoint character we have the choice between 'I' (first person) and 'He/She' (third person). I find that first person often doesn't ring true because it gives the impression the writer (rather than the reader, which is what we aim for) really was there and knows everything happened, when mostly we know this cannot true. There are exceptions, like Clive Cussler - I can well believe him. The first person can get very close to the character, but a reader can only see what the character sees. Third person has the advantage here because we can have more than one viewpoint character (hero/villain, hero/sidekick, lover/lover etc) and see more facets of a story and know what more than one person is thinking. But be careful - many viewpoints get confusing unless you have the skill of someone like the late James Herbert. And neither should you want to write from an omniscient (God-like) viewpoint where we know what everyone is thinking - that is not realistic, either, and leads to a dull 'telling' narrative.
Next time is writng time...
Jack Orchison
April 5, 2014
The first is what tense to write in. To me, this is simple: past tense. Stories have happened. However, the present tense does lend immediacy to the text and some writers, like Hilary Mantel, do write in the present tense. I find it annoying, though, rather like it's an illiterate ramble of some bloke down the pub.
Having disposed of the first point, the second is not so simple. Who is telling the story? Whose mind(s) are we in? If there is only one viewpoint character we have the choice between 'I' (first person) and 'He/She' (third person). I find that first person often doesn't ring true because it gives the impression the writer (rather than the reader, which is what we aim for) really was there and knows everything happened, when mostly we know this cannot true. There are exceptions, like Clive Cussler - I can well believe him. The first person can get very close to the character, but a reader can only see what the character sees. Third person has the advantage here because we can have more than one viewpoint character (hero/villain, hero/sidekick, lover/lover etc) and see more facets of a story and know what more than one person is thinking. But be careful - many viewpoints get confusing unless you have the skill of someone like the late James Herbert. And neither should you want to write from an omniscient (God-like) viewpoint where we know what everyone is thinking - that is not realistic, either, and leads to a dull 'telling' narrative.
Next time is writng time...
Jack Orchison
April 5, 2014
Sunday 23 March 2014
Being a writer, part 8: Settings and scenery
Your novel setting can be very important, sometimes rivalling a character. You probably know what I mean - the exotic for romance or spy/intrigue, the dark urban sprawl for detectives, gangsters and serial killers. And graveyards and Gothic mansions for horror. But some of these border on the cliché.
Now, I like horror, but this doesn't mean monsters, vampires, ghosts, werewolves etc need be present. Think for a moment about how vile people can be to each other. What secret might a respected businessman hide? What about bent police and lawyers? What might ordinary people believe or be members of? What could be worse than some violent and pernicious organisation operating right under your nose in a small, picturesque village? Disappearances, strange symbols, a derelict building, a dead tree, hidden mine-workings etc might be relevant, as might be computer hacking, phone tapping or internet trolls. All this can be particularly bad for your characters if they can't trust the authorities...
It also pays to use places you know. Of course you call them something else and take a few liberties with their geography. And look into their history - you never know what you can dig up.
Jack Orchison,
March 23, 2014
Now, I like horror, but this doesn't mean monsters, vampires, ghosts, werewolves etc need be present. Think for a moment about how vile people can be to each other. What secret might a respected businessman hide? What about bent police and lawyers? What might ordinary people believe or be members of? What could be worse than some violent and pernicious organisation operating right under your nose in a small, picturesque village? Disappearances, strange symbols, a derelict building, a dead tree, hidden mine-workings etc might be relevant, as might be computer hacking, phone tapping or internet trolls. All this can be particularly bad for your characters if they can't trust the authorities...
It also pays to use places you know. Of course you call them something else and take a few liberties with their geography. And look into their history - you never know what you can dig up.
Jack Orchison,
March 23, 2014
My biographical bit, part 10 : University 3
My time at University was an academic success (I got a first class honours degree where I came fourth in the year), though rather less so in terms of accommodation chosen or relationship-wise. With the latter I was a fool and should have tried harder. Caroline, sorry for being an idiot - I really didn't have the words.
It's funny what else you do remember, though. In Cripps Hall we had a tuck shop (a place you could buy snack foods), and there was one guy called Paul Jackson who was obsessed with a type of chocolate bar, called Cabana, which was chewy and cherry flavoured. He was a chemist, too. We must be a strange lot. Gerry Pattenden's Tomato Lecturs was proof of that. And Lynne Frost hiding stark naked in her boyfriend's bed when the cleaner came in. Then there were the old sticks of sodium that went boom in the campus lake - the same place they used to hold the Raft Race.
Each Hall in the Fresher's Week built a raft out of what they could find and though there was much sinking and cheating there was one genuine (and stunning) victory by Willoughby Hall who romped away from the field like they were professionals.
These were also the days of Fortran 77 and an early computer game (on mainframe only) called Dungeon (a derivative of Dungeons and Dragons, I guess) where many a student and postgraduate with access to a terminal wasted a great deal of time. Then there was Sargon II, a very crude (and extremely bad) chess programme. I can tell you Sargon II was a better ruler of the Kingdom of Akkadia than a chess player.
Which brings me to the chess adventures I'll go into next time.
Jack Orchison,
March 23, 2014
It's funny what else you do remember, though. In Cripps Hall we had a tuck shop (a place you could buy snack foods), and there was one guy called Paul Jackson who was obsessed with a type of chocolate bar, called Cabana, which was chewy and cherry flavoured. He was a chemist, too. We must be a strange lot. Gerry Pattenden's Tomato Lecturs was proof of that. And Lynne Frost hiding stark naked in her boyfriend's bed when the cleaner came in. Then there were the old sticks of sodium that went boom in the campus lake - the same place they used to hold the Raft Race.
Each Hall in the Fresher's Week built a raft out of what they could find and though there was much sinking and cheating there was one genuine (and stunning) victory by Willoughby Hall who romped away from the field like they were professionals.
These were also the days of Fortran 77 and an early computer game (on mainframe only) called Dungeon (a derivative of Dungeons and Dragons, I guess) where many a student and postgraduate with access to a terminal wasted a great deal of time. Then there was Sargon II, a very crude (and extremely bad) chess programme. I can tell you Sargon II was a better ruler of the Kingdom of Akkadia than a chess player.
Which brings me to the chess adventures I'll go into next time.
Jack Orchison,
March 23, 2014
Sunday 16 March 2014
My biographical bit, part 9: University 2
Back in my University days (people took more pride in what it was and didn't call it 'Uni'), it was a time for joining clubs and societies because there wasn't the distraction of computers, mobile phones, game consoles or wall-to-wall television. These clubs were joined in Freshers' Week ('Week One')and I joined those for chess (more of that another time), snooker (I was rubbish at that: the best break I ever had was 18), backgammon and, surprisingly for a boring git like me, the Badminton Club.
This was the biggest mixed society on the campus and was extremely successful and popular. Because of this you had to play doubles or mixed doubles and it was great for meeting girls (that weird, unattainable species I knew little about). I had friendships of sorts with two girls called Anna and Elaine, although they didn't seem too interested, and then there was Sarah Binner who insisted on sticking her tits out at any guy with a pulse...I wasn't that cheap or desperate, even if she was. This club was also where I first encountered a guy called Kevin Maughan (an older fellow chemist, it turned out) and he was just awesome. He even played in international events. Some people joked he was really studying for a joint honours degree in Chemistry with Badminton.
With the backgammon, our team got to play others (by arrangement rather than in a league) and there was one time we were in Sheffield near where serial killer Peter Sutcliffe (better known as the Yorkshire Ripper) had struck - and he was still at large! We were glad to get home, even if he only murdered women.
The first week at University was one for organised trips into Nottingham. One of these was to the ice rink where Torvill and Dean used to practice. Regrettably, I was not on a par with them - my first (and last) attempt to skate ended prematurely when I fell over, tripped up a number of other people, and ended beneath them all, rather like in a collapsed rugby scrum!
More University adventures next time.
Jack Orchison
March 16, 2014.
This was the biggest mixed society on the campus and was extremely successful and popular. Because of this you had to play doubles or mixed doubles and it was great for meeting girls (that weird, unattainable species I knew little about). I had friendships of sorts with two girls called Anna and Elaine, although they didn't seem too interested, and then there was Sarah Binner who insisted on sticking her tits out at any guy with a pulse...I wasn't that cheap or desperate, even if she was. This club was also where I first encountered a guy called Kevin Maughan (an older fellow chemist, it turned out) and he was just awesome. He even played in international events. Some people joked he was really studying for a joint honours degree in Chemistry with Badminton.
With the backgammon, our team got to play others (by arrangement rather than in a league) and there was one time we were in Sheffield near where serial killer Peter Sutcliffe (better known as the Yorkshire Ripper) had struck - and he was still at large! We were glad to get home, even if he only murdered women.
The first week at University was one for organised trips into Nottingham. One of these was to the ice rink where Torvill and Dean used to practice. Regrettably, I was not on a par with them - my first (and last) attempt to skate ended prematurely when I fell over, tripped up a number of other people, and ended beneath them all, rather like in a collapsed rugby scrum!
More University adventures next time.
Jack Orchison
March 16, 2014.
Being a writer, part 7: Sequels, trilogies and series
It might seem a bit odd to consider future stories before you've even written one, but it's an important aspect nevertheless.
First of all, it tests your main character(s). How strong are they? How pro-active are they? Is the enemy hard to take down in one go? Can they develop even further than envisaged for the first story? And, will readers still be excited by the new situations you create later on? You must also consider the time period between stories - whether that is nine months or seventeen years, for instance. Adulthood, generations, babies and children, change of work or location or friends or attitudes, vigilance or complacency etc, not to mention the rise or recuperation of the bad guys, can all change things dramatically and for the good of the overall concept. However, I don't recommend a string of seven books like Harry Potter, or the six of Jean Auel's Children of the Earth - readers will get fed up and not read them all. I think any collection should be four at the most.
The seoond thing to remember is that more than one book changes how you approach the first - more things can be left unresolved and there can be more subplots and more characters (which might be introduced late, or even not all, in the first book - think of Will in Philip Pullman's Dark Materials trilogy). You will find yourself coming up with bits for later books as you do the first and, hey presto, they will be part done when you come to them.
So, is your story self-contained, or does your concept have 'legs' - the ability to go further?
Jack Orchison
March 16, 2014
First of all, it tests your main character(s). How strong are they? How pro-active are they? Is the enemy hard to take down in one go? Can they develop even further than envisaged for the first story? And, will readers still be excited by the new situations you create later on? You must also consider the time period between stories - whether that is nine months or seventeen years, for instance. Adulthood, generations, babies and children, change of work or location or friends or attitudes, vigilance or complacency etc, not to mention the rise or recuperation of the bad guys, can all change things dramatically and for the good of the overall concept. However, I don't recommend a string of seven books like Harry Potter, or the six of Jean Auel's Children of the Earth - readers will get fed up and not read them all. I think any collection should be four at the most.
The seoond thing to remember is that more than one book changes how you approach the first - more things can be left unresolved and there can be more subplots and more characters (which might be introduced late, or even not all, in the first book - think of Will in Philip Pullman's Dark Materials trilogy). You will find yourself coming up with bits for later books as you do the first and, hey presto, they will be part done when you come to them.
So, is your story self-contained, or does your concept have 'legs' - the ability to go further?
Jack Orchison
March 16, 2014
Friday 28 February 2014
Being a writer, part 6: Milestones
Milestones are very important. I'm not talking about those in life, or even your job or writing career, but rather those to be found within your story itself. Let me explain.
In your notes, or in your head, you will have your beginning (where, when and with whom the story starts), an ending (if not the definitive one) and a number of scenes that simply have to be in your story (you may even write these first). Taken together, these are your milestones.
Imagine now you have a flat surface in front of you and your milestones are threadable plastic beads you have glued to the surface in the right order. Now consider your story as a long piece of string. Thread the string through the beads and knot the two ends. Now you will notice two things: the important bits are anchored in place, but the string can go where it likes between the milestones. This is why I hate rigid planning - it kills off the ability to introduce new and better ideas, especially those that paint the hero into yet another corner - there is no safety of a wiggly piece of string, just a some taut tightrope you are likely to fall off. Yet with the milestones we can do what we like and yet never lose sight of what really matters.
Jack Orchison
February 28, 2014.
In your notes, or in your head, you will have your beginning (where, when and with whom the story starts), an ending (if not the definitive one) and a number of scenes that simply have to be in your story (you may even write these first). Taken together, these are your milestones.
Imagine now you have a flat surface in front of you and your milestones are threadable plastic beads you have glued to the surface in the right order. Now consider your story as a long piece of string. Thread the string through the beads and knot the two ends. Now you will notice two things: the important bits are anchored in place, but the string can go where it likes between the milestones. This is why I hate rigid planning - it kills off the ability to introduce new and better ideas, especially those that paint the hero into yet another corner - there is no safety of a wiggly piece of string, just a some taut tightrope you are likely to fall off. Yet with the milestones we can do what we like and yet never lose sight of what really matters.
Jack Orchison
February 28, 2014.
My biographical bit, part 8: University 1
In the UK you apply to five Universities, go to interviews, get offers and then hold two of the latter, awaiting your results. My choices back in 1978 were:
Birmingham (UK, not Alabama)
Nottingham
Leeds
Newcastle (upon Tyne)
Southampton
I got offers from all of them, held onto Birmingham and Nottingham, but it was Nottingham I went for because it was (and still is) a lovely campus University. I got in easily and I was there for six years - I did a degree and PhD in Chemistry. My elder son is there now, studying Physics.
For the first two years I was in Cripps hall of residence, which was luckily the nearest to the Chemistry department so I could almost roll out of bed and down the hill to lectures in the morning. I have some notable memories from there: such as Dave Brown, the biology student who lived next door to me, who had dope-cake in his room (I never had any, by the way!). Then there was the mystery person that threw up one night in our shared bathroom - I have my suspicions that it was one of the medics from upstairs. They were responsible for the sour milk fight in our block that so affronted the cleaning lady, the feisty Vera Irwin, that she demanded a written apology before she'd even start to clean up the stinking mess. Tea time was always great and we had competitions to see who could eat the most toast, especially on Saturdays when piling into the TV room was a must to watch Dr Who and then, later, football (soccer) on Match of the Day.
More University next time.
Jack Orchison
February 28, 2014.
Birmingham (UK, not Alabama)
Nottingham
Leeds
Newcastle (upon Tyne)
Southampton
I got offers from all of them, held onto Birmingham and Nottingham, but it was Nottingham I went for because it was (and still is) a lovely campus University. I got in easily and I was there for six years - I did a degree and PhD in Chemistry. My elder son is there now, studying Physics.
For the first two years I was in Cripps hall of residence, which was luckily the nearest to the Chemistry department so I could almost roll out of bed and down the hill to lectures in the morning. I have some notable memories from there: such as Dave Brown, the biology student who lived next door to me, who had dope-cake in his room (I never had any, by the way!). Then there was the mystery person that threw up one night in our shared bathroom - I have my suspicions that it was one of the medics from upstairs. They were responsible for the sour milk fight in our block that so affronted the cleaning lady, the feisty Vera Irwin, that she demanded a written apology before she'd even start to clean up the stinking mess. Tea time was always great and we had competitions to see who could eat the most toast, especially on Saturdays when piling into the TV room was a must to watch Dr Who and then, later, football (soccer) on Match of the Day.
More University next time.
Jack Orchison
February 28, 2014.
Sunday 23 February 2014
Being a Writer, Part 5: Writing time, place and method
So, you're ready to start writing your novel. You have enough material. You know the genre. You're excited about it. But you need to make time for it, and that means when you won't be disturbed by your partner or kids. Let them know the time is yours. Regular application is the key, so don't worry about some massive word count per session you've heard other people achieving. Set your own and keep to it even if you are uninspired or ill or bored or worried. Writers write, remember!
Carve out little places for yourself where you work best and feel the most comfortable. This could be at the dining table, on the bed, or in the car at lunchtime (all favourites of mine), but you need to try things out to see what works for you.
And you have to get the words down. It doesn't matter if you hand-write it first and type it up later (as I do) of if you type it directly onto your computer. Just get that pesky story down somehow! And you don't need to worry about those things called style and voice. These come from writing your story, your way. They come from being honest, from being you. It stands to reason that copying another's style or following some recent fad is a bad idea. It's your story that matters, and that can only come from you. The real you. So get out there and sock it to them, and believe in your idea because it will be as good as anyone else's. And probably a whole lot better.
Jack Orchison, February 23, 2014.
Carve out little places for yourself where you work best and feel the most comfortable. This could be at the dining table, on the bed, or in the car at lunchtime (all favourites of mine), but you need to try things out to see what works for you.
And you have to get the words down. It doesn't matter if you hand-write it first and type it up later (as I do) of if you type it directly onto your computer. Just get that pesky story down somehow! And you don't need to worry about those things called style and voice. These come from writing your story, your way. They come from being honest, from being you. It stands to reason that copying another's style or following some recent fad is a bad idea. It's your story that matters, and that can only come from you. The real you. So get out there and sock it to them, and believe in your idea because it will be as good as anyone else's. And probably a whole lot better.
Jack Orchison, February 23, 2014.
My biographical bit, Part 7: Backtracking part 2
Suffering from a bad cold today, but here goes...
One of the things people remember from their past the most strongly are the deaths of relatives, or at least the stories associated with them if they were too young at the time. For me, three stand out in the time period we've covered so far (up to going to University).
1963: My paternal grandfather, Peter Orchison, was from Montrose in Scotland. He worked in a pharmacy and liked motorbikes, and died aged 58 from a heart attack. He smoked, which didn't help of course. But at least he still had all his hair! He had four children with my dad's mother, Helen (a nurse at Stracathro), though they never married because she was still married another man and it was difficult for women on their own to divorce in those days. My dad, Albert, was the youngest after Lily and George. They lived in Brechin. Another brother, Jack, died in infancy and I believe I am named after him.
1971: My maternal grandfather, Joseph 'John' Philips, a teacher and former army officer, was from Shropshire but lived most of his life in Leicestershire. He was present at the partition of India in 1947. When he was 15, he escaped from an unhappy childhood with his blind mother, Florence, and his philandering father, Percy; he lied about his age and joined the army, where he also contrived to change his name (from the original Joseph Enoch Philps). He had high blood pressure as he got older and although he ahd tablets for it I doubt he took them. He died of a stroke - also aged 58, also with a full head of hair! (This worries me slightly: I'm 54!)
1979: My maternal great grandmother, Lilian Weeks, who died aged 88 of complications following a fall and a broken hip. I knew her as Nana and, as far as I know, she never did a day's work in her life. She had three daughters and a son (Peggy, Joan, Eileen and Harry). Peggy ran away from home. The interesting thing about my great grandmother, though, was that nobody has ever got past her when they try to do the family tree. She destroyed certain papers before she died, obviously to hide something. We will never know whether it was an affair, illegitimacy, divorce etc that she was ashamed of, but the more you look into it the more it seems her whole life was a lie...
Anyway, must blow my nose and dose myself up...
Jack Orchison, February 23, 2014.
One of the things people remember from their past the most strongly are the deaths of relatives, or at least the stories associated with them if they were too young at the time. For me, three stand out in the time period we've covered so far (up to going to University).
1963: My paternal grandfather, Peter Orchison, was from Montrose in Scotland. He worked in a pharmacy and liked motorbikes, and died aged 58 from a heart attack. He smoked, which didn't help of course. But at least he still had all his hair! He had four children with my dad's mother, Helen (a nurse at Stracathro), though they never married because she was still married another man and it was difficult for women on their own to divorce in those days. My dad, Albert, was the youngest after Lily and George. They lived in Brechin. Another brother, Jack, died in infancy and I believe I am named after him.
1971: My maternal grandfather, Joseph 'John' Philips, a teacher and former army officer, was from Shropshire but lived most of his life in Leicestershire. He was present at the partition of India in 1947. When he was 15, he escaped from an unhappy childhood with his blind mother, Florence, and his philandering father, Percy; he lied about his age and joined the army, where he also contrived to change his name (from the original Joseph Enoch Philps). He had high blood pressure as he got older and although he ahd tablets for it I doubt he took them. He died of a stroke - also aged 58, also with a full head of hair! (This worries me slightly: I'm 54!)
1979: My maternal great grandmother, Lilian Weeks, who died aged 88 of complications following a fall and a broken hip. I knew her as Nana and, as far as I know, she never did a day's work in her life. She had three daughters and a son (Peggy, Joan, Eileen and Harry). Peggy ran away from home. The interesting thing about my great grandmother, though, was that nobody has ever got past her when they try to do the family tree. She destroyed certain papers before she died, obviously to hide something. We will never know whether it was an affair, illegitimacy, divorce etc that she was ashamed of, but the more you look into it the more it seems her whole life was a lie...
Anyway, must blow my nose and dose myself up...
Jack Orchison, February 23, 2014.
Sunday 9 February 2014
Being a writer, Part 4: How many projects?
How many things should you work on at once? How many projects? One? Two? Three? Eleven?
Different people would give you different answers. Some say, definitively, that it should be only one. This way there is nothing else to distract you and you finish each novel one at a time. But this is too simplistic. There may come a time when either you get writers block, get stuck or fed up, or realise (perish the tought) that your precious blockbuster isn't working. Then what? You need backup.
I have found that it helps if every 30,000 words or so you start a new story. A proper writer should have no shortage of ideas for this, and it allows these ideas to come to life instead of being forgotten or dusted off after five years. So my answer to the question is: four. One at its end and in the editing stage, one at about 60,000 words, one at 30,000 words and one about to start. Believe me, it's miles batter than the sequential approach, and eventually you will be putting out completed novels on a regular basis.
Of course there is always the temptation to pursue every idea you have, but this will stop when time doesn't permit it. There will come a natural point to end this 'call of the filed.'
Jack Orchison, February 9, 2014.
Different people would give you different answers. Some say, definitively, that it should be only one. This way there is nothing else to distract you and you finish each novel one at a time. But this is too simplistic. There may come a time when either you get writers block, get stuck or fed up, or realise (perish the tought) that your precious blockbuster isn't working. Then what? You need backup.
I have found that it helps if every 30,000 words or so you start a new story. A proper writer should have no shortage of ideas for this, and it allows these ideas to come to life instead of being forgotten or dusted off after five years. So my answer to the question is: four. One at its end and in the editing stage, one at about 60,000 words, one at 30,000 words and one about to start. Believe me, it's miles batter than the sequential approach, and eventually you will be putting out completed novels on a regular basis.
Of course there is always the temptation to pursue every idea you have, but this will stop when time doesn't permit it. There will come a natural point to end this 'call of the filed.'
Jack Orchison, February 9, 2014.
My biographical bit, Part 6: Backtracking part 1
So far we've got up to where I was about to go to University, but of course all sorts of other things had gone on during that time period. It's time to fill some of them in.
The first thing that comes to mind are the pets I've had. Apart from Wiggly the goldfish that I won at a funfair and only lived a month, the pets consisted of hamsters and dogs.
I had two hamsters, one after the other, called Tubby and Susie. Tubby was a big male, and by far the more interesting; he specialised in eating, climbing and escaping and is the only hamster I've come across to live long enough to go bald! We (my sister and I) both got a hamster at the same time from our Aunty Jane (sadly no longer with us even though she'd only be 62 now), but it was Tubby who got the reputation. Twice he got out by gnawing his way out of his cage, but this was foiled by reinforcing it. He could stuff a gargantuan amount of food in his cheek pouches and climb up the front of the cage in a way that would make mountaineers tacking an overhang feel jealous. And he had the strength to lift the cage front and get it wedged where there was enough space for him to get out. On this lucky occasion, he managed to drop about three feet to the floor without hurting himself and scuttle behind the cooker. The only chance of luring him out was food, so there I was with a piece of cheese in position, waiting patiently for his weakness to have an effect. He gradually emerged, grabbed the cheese and sat there boldly scoffing it until the fickle hand of fate descended to end his escapade (I was eleven years old and once got a school merit mark for my essay about him).
When I was thirteen, we acquired two dogs. They were mongrel litter-sisters called Emma (also caled Boo and who lived to be 12 and died of parvo-virus) and Jeannie (also called Ted and who lived to be 14 and went senile). They were devoted to each other as well as the family, were good guard dogs, and so well behaved they could be taken for walks without a lead. However they did sometimes roll in hedgehog shit. They were easy to please with cheap dog food (we didn't have much money - indeed we never seemed to have much) and for treats they had half a Rich Tea finger biscuit each. They were very affectionate but hated thunder and fireworks. One day we were stupid enough to go out on Guy Fawkes night and we came back to pandemonium in the kitchen (where the dogs had their bed). In their fright they had gone berserk and scratched or chewed three doors. My dad went ballistic. Having them meant we were limited with holidays, usually to some rainy week or fortnight in a caravan somewhere, playing cards or Monopoly, armed with a massive box of chicken flavoured crisps (potato chips). I had long since left education and home when Emma and Jeannie died, but they'd left their marks in my heart and they were two very sad days indeed.
Next time I'll look at some more human comings and goings from this period.
Jack Orchison, February 9, 2014.
The first thing that comes to mind are the pets I've had. Apart from Wiggly the goldfish that I won at a funfair and only lived a month, the pets consisted of hamsters and dogs.
I had two hamsters, one after the other, called Tubby and Susie. Tubby was a big male, and by far the more interesting; he specialised in eating, climbing and escaping and is the only hamster I've come across to live long enough to go bald! We (my sister and I) both got a hamster at the same time from our Aunty Jane (sadly no longer with us even though she'd only be 62 now), but it was Tubby who got the reputation. Twice he got out by gnawing his way out of his cage, but this was foiled by reinforcing it. He could stuff a gargantuan amount of food in his cheek pouches and climb up the front of the cage in a way that would make mountaineers tacking an overhang feel jealous. And he had the strength to lift the cage front and get it wedged where there was enough space for him to get out. On this lucky occasion, he managed to drop about three feet to the floor without hurting himself and scuttle behind the cooker. The only chance of luring him out was food, so there I was with a piece of cheese in position, waiting patiently for his weakness to have an effect. He gradually emerged, grabbed the cheese and sat there boldly scoffing it until the fickle hand of fate descended to end his escapade (I was eleven years old and once got a school merit mark for my essay about him).
When I was thirteen, we acquired two dogs. They were mongrel litter-sisters called Emma (also caled Boo and who lived to be 12 and died of parvo-virus) and Jeannie (also called Ted and who lived to be 14 and went senile). They were devoted to each other as well as the family, were good guard dogs, and so well behaved they could be taken for walks without a lead. However they did sometimes roll in hedgehog shit. They were easy to please with cheap dog food (we didn't have much money - indeed we never seemed to have much) and for treats they had half a Rich Tea finger biscuit each. They were very affectionate but hated thunder and fireworks. One day we were stupid enough to go out on Guy Fawkes night and we came back to pandemonium in the kitchen (where the dogs had their bed). In their fright they had gone berserk and scratched or chewed three doors. My dad went ballistic. Having them meant we were limited with holidays, usually to some rainy week or fortnight in a caravan somewhere, playing cards or Monopoly, armed with a massive box of chicken flavoured crisps (potato chips). I had long since left education and home when Emma and Jeannie died, but they'd left their marks in my heart and they were two very sad days indeed.
Next time I'll look at some more human comings and goings from this period.
Jack Orchison, February 9, 2014.
Saturday 18 January 2014
My biographical bit: Part 5
In the UK at age 16, we take exams called GCSEs now, but back in my day (1976, this was) they were the O-Levels. It was a blisteringly hot sunmer (following a really bad one where it snowed in June) when sitting in some exam room was the last thing anyone wanted, but I came out of it with 5 As and 7 Bs. These days the A grade is subdivided into A and A* - I don't know where my As would have stood.
I stayed on at the same school (which was starting to become a sixth-form college)to take the A-Levels, which is what you need for University, and got A in Chemistry, A in Biology and B in Pure and Applied Maths. But, behind those results is a story.
It was a story of rivalry. In Biology, Vinod Patel (who I've mentioned before) and Greg Evans were the people in question - I was always behind the former and just ahead of the latter in every test going. In those days there was a thing called the special paper which top students could do; Vinod did it but Greg and I did not. And we were glad: Vinod passed the damn thing but only got a B in the main A-Level. Greg and I got As. The year's prizes, though, were to Vinod for the main Biology prize and to myself for the Owen Wilshere Natural History Prize for the best write up of the Biology field trip (okay it was virtually the only write up...).
In Chemistry I was always behind two guys called Joe Liebershuetz and Chris Le Bas, but in the A-level year (1978) I nabbed the Thirlby Chemistry Prize from them. Even better, Joe and I both passed the special paper without the extra pressure compromising our performance. We got A grades, as did Chris (Joe and Chris got the Maths and Physics prizes).
I applied to do Chemistry at University, where my choices were Birmingham (England, not Alabama), Nottingham (where I ended up), Leeds, Newcastle and Southampton. Oxford and Cambridge were not for me. It was a strange thing that 34 years later my son, Jamie, also went to Nottingham, though he is a physicist.
Jack Orchison, 18 January, 2014.
I stayed on at the same school (which was starting to become a sixth-form college)to take the A-Levels, which is what you need for University, and got A in Chemistry, A in Biology and B in Pure and Applied Maths. But, behind those results is a story.
It was a story of rivalry. In Biology, Vinod Patel (who I've mentioned before) and Greg Evans were the people in question - I was always behind the former and just ahead of the latter in every test going. In those days there was a thing called the special paper which top students could do; Vinod did it but Greg and I did not. And we were glad: Vinod passed the damn thing but only got a B in the main A-Level. Greg and I got As. The year's prizes, though, were to Vinod for the main Biology prize and to myself for the Owen Wilshere Natural History Prize for the best write up of the Biology field trip (okay it was virtually the only write up...).
In Chemistry I was always behind two guys called Joe Liebershuetz and Chris Le Bas, but in the A-level year (1978) I nabbed the Thirlby Chemistry Prize from them. Even better, Joe and I both passed the special paper without the extra pressure compromising our performance. We got A grades, as did Chris (Joe and Chris got the Maths and Physics prizes).
I applied to do Chemistry at University, where my choices were Birmingham (England, not Alabama), Nottingham (where I ended up), Leeds, Newcastle and Southampton. Oxford and Cambridge were not for me. It was a strange thing that 34 years later my son, Jamie, also went to Nottingham, though he is a physicist.
Jack Orchison, 18 January, 2014.
Being a writer, Part 3: When to start writing
I have found that writng ideas come slowly: a character, a scene, a coversation, somewhere to start, a setting, an ending etc., and you have to note all these down before you forget them. It takes months or even years for such things to coalesce into a coherent story idea, but the important thing is that your idea will tell you when to start writing. Plan all you like, it is your character(s)who give the kick up the backside. And it might not be gentle. One of my stories started not with a quiet knock on the mental door but practically hammered it down and announced its existence.
It's a matter of an idea achieving a critical mass, rather like a nuclear reactor - nothing happens on the action front until this is achieved, nothing useful is generated. But once achieved you can be hauled away into some fictional space and shown all sorts of things you never thought possible - and all by your characters. Mind you, it works only when characters are rounded three-dimensional types with real lives and aspirations and who you feel you know.
And are you swept along by your idea? Does it seem to flow? With that will come justification and vindication of your idea. Notice that what I suggest is not sitting down and planning everything in minute detail, as some recommend, and neither is it sitting down with a blank page (and no idea) waiting for the Muse to turn up. Neither of these works: either you get bored and don't finish or you never get beyond the first couple of chapters. Go for the compromise, wait for critical mass, and a fictional someone will tell you when to start writing.
Jack Orchison, 18 January, 2014.
It's a matter of an idea achieving a critical mass, rather like a nuclear reactor - nothing happens on the action front until this is achieved, nothing useful is generated. But once achieved you can be hauled away into some fictional space and shown all sorts of things you never thought possible - and all by your characters. Mind you, it works only when characters are rounded three-dimensional types with real lives and aspirations and who you feel you know.
And are you swept along by your idea? Does it seem to flow? With that will come justification and vindication of your idea. Notice that what I suggest is not sitting down and planning everything in minute detail, as some recommend, and neither is it sitting down with a blank page (and no idea) waiting for the Muse to turn up. Neither of these works: either you get bored and don't finish or you never get beyond the first couple of chapters. Go for the compromise, wait for critical mass, and a fictional someone will tell you when to start writing.
Jack Orchison, 18 January, 2014.
Saturday 11 January 2014
My Biographical bit: Part 4
One of the problems with going to a grammar school back when I did was the school sports: cricket and rugby. Although football and hockey were introduced later, it was too late for me - I was never going to be a sportsman.
In cricket, I couldn't throw to save my life and I was scared of the ball because it was hard. And I was vindicated. In one session, one of my friends, Vinod Patel (a great rival later in biology) went to catch a shot someone had skied and was vertically under it. The ball eluded his grasp and hit him on the head.
In rugby I was too small and light, and such events as a ghastly head clash with a lad called Neil Alexander where he was knocked out and I got a horrible black eye, or where I got squashed by Charlie Cronin who was twice my size, were no fun at all. And there was a funny story, too. In one game, I stole the ball from Jonathan Whitaker, the school captain, and ran the full length of the pitch with only the full-back between me and scoring a try. He was Martin Hides, regarded by some as a wimp who was more at home playing music. Well, get out the violins...he tackled me, and what should have been a spectacular event, well, wasn't. And there was an intersting corollary to this. Tim Chapman, who excelled at singing (Barbers Shop Quartet) was a slightly built lad, not unlike me, but when he was padded up he was the fearless goalkeeper for the school hockey team.
Next time: Getting to University.
Jack Orchison, 11 January, 2014.
In cricket, I couldn't throw to save my life and I was scared of the ball because it was hard. And I was vindicated. In one session, one of my friends, Vinod Patel (a great rival later in biology) went to catch a shot someone had skied and was vertically under it. The ball eluded his grasp and hit him on the head.
In rugby I was too small and light, and such events as a ghastly head clash with a lad called Neil Alexander where he was knocked out and I got a horrible black eye, or where I got squashed by Charlie Cronin who was twice my size, were no fun at all. And there was a funny story, too. In one game, I stole the ball from Jonathan Whitaker, the school captain, and ran the full length of the pitch with only the full-back between me and scoring a try. He was Martin Hides, regarded by some as a wimp who was more at home playing music. Well, get out the violins...he tackled me, and what should have been a spectacular event, well, wasn't. And there was an intersting corollary to this. Tim Chapman, who excelled at singing (Barbers Shop Quartet) was a slightly built lad, not unlike me, but when he was padded up he was the fearless goalkeeper for the school hockey team.
Next time: Getting to University.
Jack Orchison, 11 January, 2014.
Being a writer, part 2: Writers as readers
When we are engrossed in writng our stories it is easy to forget to read those of others. Why should this matter? I hear you say. Well, the answer is simple.
There is a strong link between what we write and what we like to read. Indeed, what you have read in the past has shaped your ideas as a writer whether you realise it or not. Carry on reading in your favourite genre(s) - these stories are your friends, so why would you abandon them? Read them for the latest trends, techniques, popular areas, upcoming writers, how the established ones adapt etc., and which publishers are doing what.
The subject areas that interest me the most are horror (which is why I carry on reading Stephen King, Graham Masterton, James Herbert etc)and history, so I also devour CJ Sansom, Bernard Cornwell, Stewart Binns etc. I would love to write a historical novel, and still might, but the research is huge and detailed, so be warned on this. It is better to stick to what we can make up!
But, with all this writing, and reading other people's stories, we are forgetting something. We need to read non-fiction, too - something that informs our writing. It is important to occasionally live with your head in an encyclopaedia, a learned text (as I did once with a book called Death in England), or in the ether by surfing Wikipedia (find an interesting article and follow the links).
So don't forget to be a reader. We should all be readers. Only some of us are writers.
Jack Orchison, 11 January, 2014.
There is a strong link between what we write and what we like to read. Indeed, what you have read in the past has shaped your ideas as a writer whether you realise it or not. Carry on reading in your favourite genre(s) - these stories are your friends, so why would you abandon them? Read them for the latest trends, techniques, popular areas, upcoming writers, how the established ones adapt etc., and which publishers are doing what.
The subject areas that interest me the most are horror (which is why I carry on reading Stephen King, Graham Masterton, James Herbert etc)and history, so I also devour CJ Sansom, Bernard Cornwell, Stewart Binns etc. I would love to write a historical novel, and still might, but the research is huge and detailed, so be warned on this. It is better to stick to what we can make up!
But, with all this writing, and reading other people's stories, we are forgetting something. We need to read non-fiction, too - something that informs our writing. It is important to occasionally live with your head in an encyclopaedia, a learned text (as I did once with a book called Death in England), or in the ether by surfing Wikipedia (find an interesting article and follow the links).
So don't forget to be a reader. We should all be readers. Only some of us are writers.
Jack Orchison, 11 January, 2014.
Tuesday 7 January 2014
My Biographical bit: Part 3
Last time I had just got into grammar school. It was one of those places where teachers and pupils (called students now!) all called you by your surname (last name), Grace (inclding the Latin benedictus) was said at lunchtime, there was a cane in the Head's office and discipline was kept by the Deputy Head, Roy McKenzie. Or rather he and his clones. It seemed that whenever trouble was about to occur anywhere, he would pop up out of the ground to put a stop to it. This uncanny knack (or were there really copies of him?) earned him the nickname 'Kenzoid.' There was also Norman 'Butch' Hadley who taught chemistry and is responsible for my path in life, and Dennis 'Griswold' Cooper who taught biology. I'm not sure how the latter came about, but it could be after the police dog in Top Cat or after Clark Griswold in National Lampoon.
I never showed much inclination for writing back then, although my first year English teacher did comment on my report that I was 'talented but lazy.' The place did have its share of ghastly things, like cross-country running, bullies, and Jeremy Smith - and arrogant braggart and Chelsea supporter - who lived next door to me, but it was also where I found my feet in the chess team and with some new friends. One of these was a black lad called Mark Gittens who not only was a better chess player than me, he was the most determined person I have ever met. He was driven to achieve something due to a poor background, and got into Dentistry which was a fantastic feat for him.
Next time: more about grammar school.
Jack Orchison, 7 January, 2014.
I never showed much inclination for writing back then, although my first year English teacher did comment on my report that I was 'talented but lazy.' The place did have its share of ghastly things, like cross-country running, bullies, and Jeremy Smith - and arrogant braggart and Chelsea supporter - who lived next door to me, but it was also where I found my feet in the chess team and with some new friends. One of these was a black lad called Mark Gittens who not only was a better chess player than me, he was the most determined person I have ever met. He was driven to achieve something due to a poor background, and got into Dentistry which was a fantastic feat for him.
Next time: more about grammar school.
Jack Orchison, 7 January, 2014.
Being a writer, part 1: Who are you?
Welcome to my first writing blog of the new year.
The question in the title seems absurd, but who are you when it comes to writing? I'd bet you have little idea at all. Are you great with people and raring to push your novel onto an unsuspecting public (chances are you would prefer a traditional publishing contract), or do you hide behind your words and prefer to go for an e-book? And how do you want to brand yourself? Clever titles? Irresistable blurb? Great covers?
And what do you want to call yourself? This is no idle question - it matters a lot. Some people are blessed with an alliterative name like my friend Mike Martin, others use initials (like JK Rowling) to hide gender, like another friend who writes as CJ Harter.
Then there are pseudonyms. When I was thinking about what name to write under all sorts of anagrams suggested themselves, such as Jackson Rioch, John C Corakis and even Aron J Hiscock, but in the end I decided that my own name would do just fine. True, my family and work colleagues might be surprised by my stuff, but that's their problem, not mine. Besides, I'm the only Jack Orchison in the UK and that must have something going for it!
So, give a great deal of thought first of all about what you want to achieve, how you present yourself, and march forward confidently once you know.
Jack Orchison, 7 January, 2014.
The question in the title seems absurd, but who are you when it comes to writing? I'd bet you have little idea at all. Are you great with people and raring to push your novel onto an unsuspecting public (chances are you would prefer a traditional publishing contract), or do you hide behind your words and prefer to go for an e-book? And how do you want to brand yourself? Clever titles? Irresistable blurb? Great covers?
And what do you want to call yourself? This is no idle question - it matters a lot. Some people are blessed with an alliterative name like my friend Mike Martin, others use initials (like JK Rowling) to hide gender, like another friend who writes as CJ Harter.
Then there are pseudonyms. When I was thinking about what name to write under all sorts of anagrams suggested themselves, such as Jackson Rioch, John C Corakis and even Aron J Hiscock, but in the end I decided that my own name would do just fine. True, my family and work colleagues might be surprised by my stuff, but that's their problem, not mine. Besides, I'm the only Jack Orchison in the UK and that must have something going for it!
So, give a great deal of thought first of all about what you want to achieve, how you present yourself, and march forward confidently once you know.
Jack Orchison, 7 January, 2014.
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