Three Hoodies Save the World

Constant moaning and whinging about everything

Archive for the month “February, 2017”

It’s a plot make me feel old.

I’m fully aware that I didn’t crawl out of my shell a month ago. And my shaving mirror in the morning reminds me that I’m not exactly in the first flushes of youth, but the world seems bent on making me out to be some kind of antediluvian relic.
Why?
I may have mentioned that I’m rewriting the second novel wot I ever rit. The only problem is that I lost half of it a long time ago when I moved back to England. And now, after 177 pages I’ve come to the end of what I have and I’ve completely forgotten what happened next.
Well just write keep writing and it might all come back to you; or just write a new and exciting end, you might say. It’s not as if I’m not without some experience after fifteen completed novels.
The thing is, though, I have a vague memory that the original end was exactly how I wanted it – even though although I can’t remember how.
Now, back to the plot to annoy me. After rummaging around in the chaos that is my garage I found an original MS on a floppy disc, written in Word 2a. I know, a bit old and the 386 computer upon which it was written (the first PC I ever built) rusted away to nothing nearly two decades ago. But when I went to a computer shop the other day and asked if they had an external floppy drive, even the manager, the sixth person they questioned, gave me a look of utter vacancy.
“A what?” he asked as if I was demanding something like the egg of a Golden Orc or a piece of the missing link. His smile of disbelief, when I explained, nearly earned him a sore nose.
I’ll find one. I really will. But then when I do and look at it, if I find that what’s on there is the same as I have now, I’m going to scream and scream until I’m sick.

Two hours later.
    I found a floppy disc reader – good old Maplins. And guess what. When I opened it up, the floppy had even less of the story than I had on my computer. what a waste of thirty quid.
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I checked my spam.

I checked my spam.

I don’t do this nearly as often as I should but last evening I checked my spam folder.
Blogger does a really good job of hiding it (and it’s contents) away from me. And it’s a good job, too.
After ten minutes of trolling the several hundred entries my previous assumptions of being a man-of-the-world were shattered.
Apparently I’m not a man-of-the-world at all; I’m an innocent. I had no idea such delights could be carried in pockets or other intimate places. And as for one particular item that apparently spends its life nestled within…well perhaps I’ll leave that to your imagination. And almost without exception all are links to other sites guaranteeing to enrich ones lives beyond all measure.
Who on earth would buy this stuff? Even if it really exists and is not just a convenient way of placing one’s bank details into the possession of people aiming solely to empty our bank accounts, would anyone really be that foolish? Presumably they must exist or the spam posts wouldn’t be sent with such annoying regularity. So, unless I’m the only one left in the known universe who doesn’t both check and eradicate the spam folder, I urge others to do the same. It’s worth it just for the giggle.

If I’m foolish enough to close my eyes.

Did you notice a serious disturbance in the force on Valentine’s day?
Well if you did it was my wife. I could give any number of pathetic reasons, and even working fourteen hours that day wouldn’t and won’t be enough to save me.
I have to admit it with shame. I forgot. There, it’s out loud. I forgot Valentine’s day.
It doesn’t matter that I’ve remembered the last thirty two with near Teutonic reliability; it won’t save me. I forgot, and because women always know about that stuff – she didn’t.

What’s really worrying me, though, is that she took it very well. Too well in fact, considering the heinousness of my crime. I’ve barely slept since, knowing, just knowing that retribution is sure to follow. But almost a week’s lack of sleep may just be the beginning of my penance. My beloved has a large carving knife collection. I don’t know why since she favours just one, leaving the other enormous shards of shiny bright steel honed to a razor’s edge within permanent viewing distance perhaps as a warning.
So if you don’t hear from me again, well forever, then you’ll know.

9 Best Grammar Tools For Writers

Have a look at these great links.

Nicholas C. Rossis

You may remember Mary Walton’s recent guest post, 10 Proofreading Tools For Writers. This is another fine list of author resources compiled by her. Oh, and here is one of my favorite comics of all time:Grammar Cyanide and Happiness | From the blog of Nicholas C. Rossis, author of science fiction, the Pearseus epic fantasy series and children's books

9 Best Grammar Tools For Writers

The most interesting, fascinating book can fall down if the grammar is poor. No reader will want to continue if the book is too difficult to read. That’s why your grammar is so important in everything you write. If you find that you don’t know enough about grammar to skilfully edit your writing, you’re in luck. This guide will show you nine online tools that will really help you out when you’re in a bind.

  1. Academized: Invest some time in your writing skills and read this guide. It’s comprehensive yet easy to understand, making it perfect for writers. By reading it, you can get a good…

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Here In My Arms

Another great one from Kay

Suddenly they all died. The end.

Sky full of neon,
Holding you in my arms – let’s
Watch as the night shows

Us her stars. Diamonds
Twinkle in the deep dark of
Night, but none of that

Matters with you in
My arms. Sun chases moon, night
Chases day, but none

Of that matters with
You in my arms. Stay here for
Ever, here in my arms.

(c) 2017. All rights reserved.

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From the mouths of brats

“When are you gonna write about stuff?”
I’d been so immersed in my new novel that it took me a few seconds to realise that the words had not come from my mind, but my daughter, about to leave and presumably wreck her car – again.
“Define stuff, my petal.”
“You know, words and things.”
I leant back and grasping one of my paperbacks, riffled through the pages.
“There, words – and stuff.”

That’s a pretty good likeness of her, I think. She has more teeth now, but I do wish she hadn’t filed them all to a point.
“You know, words and stuff that normal people can read.” I began to feel unaccustomed irritation.
“That’s pretty good coming from someone whose reading life transitioned from My Little Pony to Fifty shades of whatever it was. Ponies to sado-masochism.”
“Well I read all of Harry…”
“Don’t talk to me about Harry B****y Potter. If you do I’m going to…” I forget what it was I was going to do because with a sneer she turned and darted for the stairs.

“And you’ve never read any of my work so how do you know what’s in it?” I rebutted.
“Wouldn’t want to,” her distant sneer came back, “who wants to read about space aliens and people wot live forever in agony. What I want is normal stuff. You write it and I’ll read it.”

She headed off to the stables leading her hobbling mother behind her. The other day her favourite pony, Limping Louis ground its paw, or hoof into my wife’s foot for no apparent reason except perhaps for fun. Maybe the old nag has read fifty shades as well, he’s always been a nasty little sod.

Amazon Notifications Regarding Copyright

Being a victim of the pirates this is timely advice.

Nicholas C. Rossis

Amazon | From the blog of Nicholas C. Rossis, author of science fiction, the Pearseus epic fantasy series and children's books Image: dailyfinance.com

Image this: You have the perfect campaign lined up, and are counting the days before you finally start paying off the cost of those ads.

Then, you receive an email from Amazon accusing you of copyright infringment. Your book has been taken down for now, until you prove it is, indeed, written by you.

This is what’s been happening to several authors, who have received the dreaded copyright notifications from Amazon. Specifically, they’ve received the following email:

Hello,

We are writing to you regarding the following book(s):

Title:[book title]

During a quality assurance review of your catalog, we found content (text and/or images) that is widely available on the web. You can do an online search for the content inside your books to discover which sites are offering the content for free. Copyright is important to us – we want to make sure that no author or other copyright…

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After eight hours of sleeplessness I decided.

After trying, and failing yet again to get some sleep last night, I finally decided that I would rewrite the book I mentioned yesterday. Now I must completely transmogrify chapter two, which is a flashback, containing a plethora, nay a surfeit, in fact a superfluity of the word “had”. I hate had. In most cases it’s totally redundant but manages to creep into my work and just as I think it’s finished, grins and shoves up a middle finger to remind me of my folly.

The only thing is, as I’ve lost the last hundred or so pages, I’ll have to try to remember how it went. Or even write an even better ending than before, which might be difficult since I’ve forgotten how it went in the fist place. I’ll work on it again tonight when I’m not getting even a second’s sleep again.

Here’s MK 26 of my newest painting. It won’t let me stop. Maybe that’s why I’m not getting any sleep.

My beloved daughter (allegedly) still says that it’s rubbish. And she really knows rubbish as it takes her five minutes to sidle past all the c**p just to get to her permanently unmade bed.

Beldren – Cover Reveal

If it’s from Jo, you know it has to be good.

Amaranthine by Joleene Naylor

It’s here! The new cover for Beldren’s Tale of the Executioners!

BELDREN SPECIAL COVER.jpg

The year is 1687 in the fourth Tale of the Executioners. Beldren, a former indentured servant, suffers the same fate as many others of his kind – the promised land and money never materialized, despite having done their time. When Matthias suggest they take their due, Beldren is skeptical, but what else does he have to do? It’s a choice he may live to regret.

FREE on Smashwords!

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A new one – sort of.

I’ve been in a quandary for months about what I should write now that my year off has ended, but I just can’t decide.
Perhaps I should rewrite the second novel I ever wrote; one that I lost interest in after the twentieth edit. It took me three months of research to get the facts right and I thought it was pretty unique at the time.
What’s beginning to change my mind up is that nobody has ever written one just like it. Here’s the first chapter – hopefully one that would make people want to know more.

It had been an uneventful evening in their quiet bungalow on the fringes of Dartmoor, right until the point that the snarling, horribly enraged tiger burst through the lounge door and bit off Ethel’s son’s head. By most people this would have constituted an act of considerable annoyance. Ethel, however, simply waved away her son’s cries and watched her soap obliviously.
    Besides, the evening before, the three headed snake slithering greasily through the central heating grate only to swallow her Jack Russell hadn’t even provoked a flicker of surprise by either she or her husband Fred, sleeping off six pints of bitter oblivious to the giant scaly cockroach burrowing free from the top of his balding head.
    ‘Come on, up to bed Robert.’ Ethel said, taking off her glasses at the closing credits and rubbing absently at the painful indentations on the bridge of her nose. Eleven year old Robert, curiously unaffected by the savage attack, considered arguing. After all it was Friday and there was no school tomorrow, but his mother’s voice was firm. He knew that particular tone of old. She’d been tired and unusually irritable lately – as they all had. Even he, five stone of youthful and normally unquenchable vigour, sometimes found it difficult to climb from his bed at the moment.
    After a dutiful peck on his mother’s maggot covered cheek, and deftly avoiding the roaring torrent of water now pouring through the fireplace, he climbed slowly up to bed and pulled on his pyjamas, too tired even to be irritated by the smelly gorilla that had taken to sleeping with him lately.

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