Now at 50,000 words, I am past the half-way milestone for my third novel. I'm thrilled by the multiple directions this manuscript is taking me. My discoveries are rich and I never cease to amaze myself at how things pan out differently to what you originally outline as a backbone to your project. The tangents are numerous, but all somehow seem to magically connect and bring me back to my core focus.
I allow myself some brief respite, and today I have a few upbeat lines to share on the greatness in all of us.
The Greatness in All of Us
I guess it's in those instants.
Those fleeting instants when we surpass ourselves.
At times, these instants are small.
But then they can be larger than life.
We leave the shadows behind and dance into the light.
Where we bypass the diktats and boundaries.
And together, we glow and transcend.
Because it takes no God to see the greatness in all of us.
We connect and inspire. That's what we do.
We may fall, but we never give up.
And when we are sick of our mortal coils, we somehow rise again.
Yes my friends, no need to gloat or pretend.
We are, in our own way, heroes.
Wednesday, 29 April 2015
Thursday, 2 April 2015
Wartime Girl
After Gone Girl, The Girl on the Train, Girl, Interrupted, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, here’s my own Wartime Girl...
Below is my entry for the Writers' & Artists' Yearbook Short Story Competition 2015: ‘Wartime Girl'. I wrote this short story in November 2014.
‘Found ya.’
I looked up and saw Daddy smiling. His uniform was torn. His black tin helmet was missing. His small silver-coloured badge dangled from his dirty ripped-open shirt. Daddy’s face was black with smut. He was bruised and bleeding, but his smile remained.
‘Follow me,’ he said, in a calm and reassuring voice; the same voice he used when I was afraid, especially when the street lamps went dim at night and we were forced to stay inside.
He stood at the attic doorway, his back leaning against the frame. I knew then that I was safe and that none of the screams and loud explosions or the annoying siren noise outside would ever get to me. He was here now.
Daddy motioned for me to approach and extended his hand, told me to clutch tight.
He led me down the attic stairwell and across the landing, hastily scurrying past my bedroom and down the stairs again to the ground floor. The inside of the house was dark, only intermittently lit-up by outside flashes of white and dazzling light, which were accompanied by tremendous roars like lions spitting bolts of lightning.
On the way down I caught sight of Polly on my bed. She was my favourite doll and I cherished her so much.
‘What about Polly?’ I asked.
‘Blimey! We don’t have time,’ Daddy said.
Tears filled my eyes as he dragged me downstairs. We halted at the front door.
‘Nuff’ said. We have to leave, Christina,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘But before we step outside, I want ya to do something very important.’
I wiped my tears away with my wrist and nodded without really knowing why.
‘We won’t be coming back home for a while and we don’t have time to take Polly with us. There’s nothin’ we can do about it,’ he continued.
He crouched and our gazes locked. He was at my height and his face was only inches away from mine.
‘But no worries,’ he said. ‘We’re goin’ to play a game. You’ve been hiding. Now it’s Mummy’s turn to hide. And she said that if we find her, she’ll have a surprise for ya.’
I looked at Daddy in amazement. ‘Really?’
He nodded and smiled again. It was forced, I could tell, but it didn’t really matter. I couldn’t wait to be with Mummy again and find out what the surprise was.
‘You’ll get your surprise only if you follow a few rules, all right darlin’? And whatever happens outside, you must do what I tell ya.’
I was curious to find out what new game Daddy had invented, especially since it was dark and way past my bedtime. I loved his stories, his impromptu treasure hunts. He was a gifted storyteller and generous with his imagination. I was always eager to listen.
Daddy pursued, ‘There are three crucial rules you must follow no matter the circumstances. Firstly, you hold onto my hand and never, ever let go of it. Secondly, you close your eyes at all times. And thirdly you will open your eyes again only when I say so and after I have counted to ten.’
The rules seemed simple enough to me. I nodded. ‘I understand, Daddy.’
He nodded in turn and a flicker of pride momentarily conquered his gaze.
I closed my eyes as we crossed the threshold and ventured into the street. I fended off the urge to look up at the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral, a regular habit of mine. Instead I gripped his hand firmly and we began to walk faster and faster. But I walked at Daddy’s pace, not mine. It was hard and I wasn’t used to it.
The noises were even louder outside, and I think I even heard our neighbour, Mrs. Cunningham, scream, though I wasn’t sure why. I was tempted to catch a glimpse of what was going on, but decided against. I didn’t want to lose out on the surprise in store for me. So I forced my eyelids to remain shut, grinning in the process.
‘I’ll start counting now,’ Daddy said. ‘It won’t take long…'
'One.’
I’d played outside in our street so often that I didn’t really need to know what our surroundings were like anyway. I’d played all summer on our doorstep. Oftentimes, Michael Bates would walk up to me and ask if I wanted to be goalie. I hated football, and besides Michael never had a ball or any other teammates to speak of. I’d tell him to leave me alone and he’d walk away, hands in his pockets, sulking. I much preferred to play with my best friend, Emily Cunningham. She had a skipping rope, and her doll was just like Polly, only that she had more clothes to choose from and a miniature set of porcelain tea cups and a tea pot. She was much more fun than Michael could ever be.
‘Two,’ Daddy said, interrupting my thoughts.
The ground was somewhat different. It was overturned and jagged. Cobbles were missing and I kept on treading in gaping holes dotted around us. Moments later I even bumped my shin on a pile of rocks. It hurt like hell and I began to cry again. I wanted to let go of Daddy’s hand and rub my painful bruise. It felt swollen and dense.
‘Sshh. Be strong now,’ Daddy whispered.
He paused. ‘Three. We’ll soon be there.’
I clutched him with a tighter grip and dug my nails into his palm.
‘Was that Mrs. Cunningham screaming? Why does the ground feel strange? Where’s Mummy?’ I asked in an uncontrolled flow of words.
‘Everything’s goin’ to be all right, Christina. Mummy’s not far,’ Daddy replied, simply ignoring my other questions.
‘Four.’
We marched on.
The siren I heard earlier on that evening wailed again, hurting my ears. Daddy picked me up and swung me close to his chest. I could feel his heart thumping like a fist knocking on a door and I smelt something burning and unpleasant, just like when Mummy would sometimes forget the porridge on the stove and it would turn into a burnt mass of black mash.
‘Five,’ Daddy said.
He held me tight as he started to run. I buried my face into his chest and he ran his fingers on my head before placing his palm on my nape and pressing it to keep me still against his sweaty body. A wave of heat submerged us. Daddy’s heart was beating faster and I felt him swerve as I heard the sound of a crackling fire, louder, much louder than any chimney fire we’d ever lighted at home.
‘Six.’
‘What’s that smell? Why is it so hot?’ I said in turn.
No reply.
I distinctively heard the voice of Michael’s daddy, Mr. Bates, crying in the distance. He screamed, ‘Michael…!’ with intense rage and suffering. It seemed so close to us. It was overwhelming and painful to the ear. It added another twist into my already tense stomach knot.
‘Go to the shelter, Bates!’ Daddy hollered, before tilting his head down.
He whispered ‘seven’ in my ear.
Daddy continued to run. It felt like a dream, as if I was being carried by a giant who’d whisked me away from my home back to the land of giants. Yet I felt somewhat secure in his grasp. I tried to ignore Mr. Bates’s sorrow and buried my face even deeper into Daddy’s chest.
Mr. Bates’s tears were drowned in a medley of screams and motion of people running around us. In the distance I could hear the fire engines approaching during each pause of the wailing siren, by far the loudest noise in the street.
‘Eight.’
‘Daddy, why is Mr. Bates crying and why are all these other people screaming?’ I asked, this time hoping for an answer.
‘There’s no need to worry,’ he replied. ‘They’re just trying to scare us, but it won’t work. I don’t think they’re very happy we’re winning the game.’
I knew he wasn’t telling the truth. Surely no-one else was familiar with the game we were playing, but I wanted to believe him anyway.
‘Nine.’
Suddenly he put me on the ground and let go of me. I continued to close my eyes and fumbled around like a blind person trying to secure his clutch. I was panicked.
‘Daddy, don’t let go!’ I cried out. ‘Where are you?’
It was only a matter of a few seconds, but I was alone in my darkness with the sounds and smells of evil fury dancing all around me.
Daddy finally seized me by the shoulders and spun me around gently. Standing behind me, he led me for several footsteps and told me to duck as we entered a stairwell. With each step down, the outside world became increasingly silent. Yet with each step down, I felt a thud of fright echoing in my heart.
And when no steps were left and the noise outside had faded, he said, ‘Ten. You can open your eyes now.’
I was relieved the game was over. And so I did.
The room was dark, lit only by several candles on a table in the centre. We were in a cellar, a makeshift shelter.
People were gathered around Mummy who lay in the far-end corner of the room. I couldn’t quite see her and had no clue what the fuss was all about. So Daddy and I approached.
The people made way for us and scattered to other corners of the room. And by doing so, only Mummy was left.
Blankets had been placed on the ground beneath her. She sat, her legs spread on the floor and her back leaning on a large and dirty pillow pressed against the wall. She was half-naked and she carried a sleeping baby, rocking it gently in her arms.
She looked up at me and smiled. It was one of those smiles which meant nothing more than sheer happiness and relief. She stared at me for a moment and then directed her gaze once again to the baby.
‘What’s going on?’ I said.
Daddy and Mummy both laughed in complicity, but not loudly so as not to wake up the baby.
Daddy rested his hand on my shoulder and I looked up at him. ‘Remember the bump in Mummy’s tummy?’ he said. ‘Well, a little boy was growing inside. Now he’s come out.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘He’s your little brother, Christina. He’s your little brother!’ he said cheerfully.
I was speechless and utterly shocked. It felt as if someone had knocked me on the head with something heavy. Tears of a totally different nature sprang from my eyes, trickled down my cheeks. A drop even splashed the baby below me.
Mummy raised a hand and caressed my face. Daddy kissed me on my head. It was a blessing and it brought us smiles of joy.
And on that dark night of September 1940 we huddled together and cried.
Below is my entry for the Writers' & Artists' Yearbook Short Story Competition 2015: ‘Wartime Girl'. I wrote this short story in November 2014.
Wartime Girl
by Simon Duke
‘Found ya.’
I looked up and saw Daddy smiling. His uniform was torn. His black tin helmet was missing. His small silver-coloured badge dangled from his dirty ripped-open shirt. Daddy’s face was black with smut. He was bruised and bleeding, but his smile remained.
‘Follow me,’ he said, in a calm and reassuring voice; the same voice he used when I was afraid, especially when the street lamps went dim at night and we were forced to stay inside.
He stood at the attic doorway, his back leaning against the frame. I knew then that I was safe and that none of the screams and loud explosions or the annoying siren noise outside would ever get to me. He was here now.
Daddy motioned for me to approach and extended his hand, told me to clutch tight.
He led me down the attic stairwell and across the landing, hastily scurrying past my bedroom and down the stairs again to the ground floor. The inside of the house was dark, only intermittently lit-up by outside flashes of white and dazzling light, which were accompanied by tremendous roars like lions spitting bolts of lightning.
On the way down I caught sight of Polly on my bed. She was my favourite doll and I cherished her so much.
‘What about Polly?’ I asked.
‘Blimey! We don’t have time,’ Daddy said.Tears filled my eyes as he dragged me downstairs. We halted at the front door.
‘Nuff’ said. We have to leave, Christina,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘But before we step outside, I want ya to do something very important.’
I wiped my tears away with my wrist and nodded without really knowing why.
‘We won’t be coming back home for a while and we don’t have time to take Polly with us. There’s nothin’ we can do about it,’ he continued.
He crouched and our gazes locked. He was at my height and his face was only inches away from mine.
‘But no worries,’ he said. ‘We’re goin’ to play a game. You’ve been hiding. Now it’s Mummy’s turn to hide. And she said that if we find her, she’ll have a surprise for ya.’
I looked at Daddy in amazement. ‘Really?’
He nodded and smiled again. It was forced, I could tell, but it didn’t really matter. I couldn’t wait to be with Mummy again and find out what the surprise was.
‘You’ll get your surprise only if you follow a few rules, all right darlin’? And whatever happens outside, you must do what I tell ya.’
I was curious to find out what new game Daddy had invented, especially since it was dark and way past my bedtime. I loved his stories, his impromptu treasure hunts. He was a gifted storyteller and generous with his imagination. I was always eager to listen.
Daddy pursued, ‘There are three crucial rules you must follow no matter the circumstances. Firstly, you hold onto my hand and never, ever let go of it. Secondly, you close your eyes at all times. And thirdly you will open your eyes again only when I say so and after I have counted to ten.’
The rules seemed simple enough to me. I nodded. ‘I understand, Daddy.’
He nodded in turn and a flicker of pride momentarily conquered his gaze.
I closed my eyes as we crossed the threshold and ventured into the street. I fended off the urge to look up at the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral, a regular habit of mine. Instead I gripped his hand firmly and we began to walk faster and faster. But I walked at Daddy’s pace, not mine. It was hard and I wasn’t used to it.
The noises were even louder outside, and I think I even heard our neighbour, Mrs. Cunningham, scream, though I wasn’t sure why. I was tempted to catch a glimpse of what was going on, but decided against. I didn’t want to lose out on the surprise in store for me. So I forced my eyelids to remain shut, grinning in the process.
‘I’ll start counting now,’ Daddy said. ‘It won’t take long…'
'One.’
I’d played outside in our street so often that I didn’t really need to know what our surroundings were like anyway. I’d played all summer on our doorstep. Oftentimes, Michael Bates would walk up to me and ask if I wanted to be goalie. I hated football, and besides Michael never had a ball or any other teammates to speak of. I’d tell him to leave me alone and he’d walk away, hands in his pockets, sulking. I much preferred to play with my best friend, Emily Cunningham. She had a skipping rope, and her doll was just like Polly, only that she had more clothes to choose from and a miniature set of porcelain tea cups and a tea pot. She was much more fun than Michael could ever be.
‘Two,’ Daddy said, interrupting my thoughts.
The ground was somewhat different. It was overturned and jagged. Cobbles were missing and I kept on treading in gaping holes dotted around us. Moments later I even bumped my shin on a pile of rocks. It hurt like hell and I began to cry again. I wanted to let go of Daddy’s hand and rub my painful bruise. It felt swollen and dense.
‘Sshh. Be strong now,’ Daddy whispered.
He paused. ‘Three. We’ll soon be there.’
I clutched him with a tighter grip and dug my nails into his palm.
‘Was that Mrs. Cunningham screaming? Why does the ground feel strange? Where’s Mummy?’ I asked in an uncontrolled flow of words.
‘Everything’s goin’ to be all right, Christina. Mummy’s not far,’ Daddy replied, simply ignoring my other questions.
‘Four.’
We marched on.
The siren I heard earlier on that evening wailed again, hurting my ears. Daddy picked me up and swung me close to his chest. I could feel his heart thumping like a fist knocking on a door and I smelt something burning and unpleasant, just like when Mummy would sometimes forget the porridge on the stove and it would turn into a burnt mass of black mash.
‘Five,’ Daddy said.
He held me tight as he started to run. I buried my face into his chest and he ran his fingers on my head before placing his palm on my nape and pressing it to keep me still against his sweaty body. A wave of heat submerged us. Daddy’s heart was beating faster and I felt him swerve as I heard the sound of a crackling fire, louder, much louder than any chimney fire we’d ever lighted at home.
‘Six.’
‘What’s that smell? Why is it so hot?’ I said in turn.
No reply.
I distinctively heard the voice of Michael’s daddy, Mr. Bates, crying in the distance. He screamed, ‘Michael…!’ with intense rage and suffering. It seemed so close to us. It was overwhelming and painful to the ear. It added another twist into my already tense stomach knot.
‘Go to the shelter, Bates!’ Daddy hollered, before tilting his head down.
He whispered ‘seven’ in my ear.
Daddy continued to run. It felt like a dream, as if I was being carried by a giant who’d whisked me away from my home back to the land of giants. Yet I felt somewhat secure in his grasp. I tried to ignore Mr. Bates’s sorrow and buried my face even deeper into Daddy’s chest.
Mr. Bates’s tears were drowned in a medley of screams and motion of people running around us. In the distance I could hear the fire engines approaching during each pause of the wailing siren, by far the loudest noise in the street.
‘Eight.’‘Daddy, why is Mr. Bates crying and why are all these other people screaming?’ I asked, this time hoping for an answer.
‘There’s no need to worry,’ he replied. ‘They’re just trying to scare us, but it won’t work. I don’t think they’re very happy we’re winning the game.’
I knew he wasn’t telling the truth. Surely no-one else was familiar with the game we were playing, but I wanted to believe him anyway.
‘Nine.’
Suddenly he put me on the ground and let go of me. I continued to close my eyes and fumbled around like a blind person trying to secure his clutch. I was panicked.
‘Daddy, don’t let go!’ I cried out. ‘Where are you?’
It was only a matter of a few seconds, but I was alone in my darkness with the sounds and smells of evil fury dancing all around me.
Daddy finally seized me by the shoulders and spun me around gently. Standing behind me, he led me for several footsteps and told me to duck as we entered a stairwell. With each step down, the outside world became increasingly silent. Yet with each step down, I felt a thud of fright echoing in my heart.
And when no steps were left and the noise outside had faded, he said, ‘Ten. You can open your eyes now.’
I was relieved the game was over. And so I did.
The room was dark, lit only by several candles on a table in the centre. We were in a cellar, a makeshift shelter.
People were gathered around Mummy who lay in the far-end corner of the room. I couldn’t quite see her and had no clue what the fuss was all about. So Daddy and I approached.
The people made way for us and scattered to other corners of the room. And by doing so, only Mummy was left.
Blankets had been placed on the ground beneath her. She sat, her legs spread on the floor and her back leaning on a large and dirty pillow pressed against the wall. She was half-naked and she carried a sleeping baby, rocking it gently in her arms.
She looked up at me and smiled. It was one of those smiles which meant nothing more than sheer happiness and relief. She stared at me for a moment and then directed her gaze once again to the baby.
‘What’s going on?’ I said.
Daddy and Mummy both laughed in complicity, but not loudly so as not to wake up the baby.
Daddy rested his hand on my shoulder and I looked up at him. ‘Remember the bump in Mummy’s tummy?’ he said. ‘Well, a little boy was growing inside. Now he’s come out.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘He’s your little brother, Christina. He’s your little brother!’ he said cheerfully.
I was speechless and utterly shocked. It felt as if someone had knocked me on the head with something heavy. Tears of a totally different nature sprang from my eyes, trickled down my cheeks. A drop even splashed the baby below me.
Mummy raised a hand and caressed my face. Daddy kissed me on my head. It was a blessing and it brought us smiles of joy.
And on that dark night of September 1940 we huddled together and cried.
Saturday, 14 March 2015
Confessions of the Demon’s Junkie Slave
“Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand.” – Harsh words by George Orwell, but they ring so true to me.
Ever since the beginning, my writing has taken a central role in my life. What started as a weekend hobby, slowly but surely came to haunt my evenings and sometimes lunchtime hours. I feel an urge to write, an urge to make progress and beef up my manuscripts. And in between writing sessions, I ponder over what I’ve written and how I can tackle the next stages. The demon of writing no longer lurks in the shadows; it gnaws at me, it invades my mind. It forces me to be alone in my struggle, and I lay there powerless, unable to share some of the weight on my shoulders. Only when I sit and resume the typing, does it leave me alone, albeit temporarily. It’s like a stubborn and spoiled child relentlessly seeking attention, never giving up until it gets what it wants. So, as a weak and undisciplined father, I give in to the demon’s submission hold and feed it what it desires. I’d like to say that I sometimes manage to turn the tables on the demon, that I’ve tamed it, but I’d be lying to you. I let it conquer me, for all dark is not pitch black. My understanding is that the demon is the one who provides me with my fix. He’s the one who nurses my addiction. He’s the one who prescribes my daily doses and injects the substance in me. And that dark magic, dear readers, is creativity. It’s a powerful drug which fuels my imagination, and I crave for it. As a junkie, all I can do is embrace the demon and its torture, and do my best to keep it at bay when other matters in life supersede and must be dealt with.
Today the demon allows me to momentarily escape the manuscript and write these words on what is a historical day. On March 14, 2014, ‘Out of Bounds’ was released. I mark my first anniversary as a published author!
A lot has happened during the year. Lessons have been learnt and decisions were made which have shaped my life as an author. The demon hasn’t let me sit back and rest on my laurels. Oh no! While seeking the public’s attention, he pushed me to write more and more. This time last year I was in the early stages of writing ‘The Perfectionist’, I was actively searching to get my first book reviewed, and I was building a social media presence. Now, a year later, ‘The Perfectionist’ is written and its fate will be determined in the next few months as I eagerly await more feedback from literary agents. On a side note, I was recently pleased to see one agent described the book as one with “an intriguing storyline” and that I write “with some flair”, but ultimately it was a no-go. I also wrote a short story set during the London bombings in WWII which I submitted for a competition; it’s called ‘Wartime Girl’ and results are expected this month (fingers crossed). And finally I started work on my third novel and today I am about a third of the way in.
The demon will undoubtedly force me to return to it as soon as I have published this blog entry. I will plead for a quick coffee break: just a simple request for a man with a painful illness. I hope it will be lenient with me. The demon lives by the motto ‘Eat, sleep, victimise, repeat!’
‘Eat, sleep, victimise, repeat!’
‘Eat, sleep, victimise, repeat!’
“Eat, sleep, victimise, repeat!” I hear its voice…I guess it’s time for me to go back to the manuscript.
**
Here is a reminder of where you can find ‘Out of Bounds’ (I have only included the main e-stores).
Remember, the price for the ebook version has been lowered. It’s currently at $1.99 – a bargain!
Paperback
Createspace: https://www.createspace.com/4667753
Amazon.com: http://www.amazon.com/Out-Bounds-Simon-Duke/dp/1495929906/ref=sr_1_42?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1394823084&sr=1-42&keywords=out+of+bounds
Amazon.co.uk: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Out-Bounds-Simon-Duke/dp/1495929906/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1394823147&sr=1-1&keywords=simon+duke+out+of+bounds
Amazon.fr: http://www.amazon.fr/Out-Bounds-Simon-Duke/dp/1495929906/ref=sr_1_cc_1?s=aps&ie=UTF8&qid=1394823195&sr=1-1-catcorr&keywords=simon+duke+out+of+bounds
Ebook
Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/419130
Barnes & Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/out-of-bounds-simon-duke/1118931454?ean=2940045768825
KOBO: http://store.kobobooks.com/fr-FR/ebook/out-of-bounds-24
FNAC: http://www4.fnac.com/livre-numerique/a7525633/Simon-Duke-Out-of-Bounds#st=out%20of%20bounds&ct=Tous%C2%A0produits&t=p
Ever since the beginning, my writing has taken a central role in my life. What started as a weekend hobby, slowly but surely came to haunt my evenings and sometimes lunchtime hours. I feel an urge to write, an urge to make progress and beef up my manuscripts. And in between writing sessions, I ponder over what I’ve written and how I can tackle the next stages. The demon of writing no longer lurks in the shadows; it gnaws at me, it invades my mind. It forces me to be alone in my struggle, and I lay there powerless, unable to share some of the weight on my shoulders. Only when I sit and resume the typing, does it leave me alone, albeit temporarily. It’s like a stubborn and spoiled child relentlessly seeking attention, never giving up until it gets what it wants. So, as a weak and undisciplined father, I give in to the demon’s submission hold and feed it what it desires. I’d like to say that I sometimes manage to turn the tables on the demon, that I’ve tamed it, but I’d be lying to you. I let it conquer me, for all dark is not pitch black. My understanding is that the demon is the one who provides me with my fix. He’s the one who nurses my addiction. He’s the one who prescribes my daily doses and injects the substance in me. And that dark magic, dear readers, is creativity. It’s a powerful drug which fuels my imagination, and I crave for it. As a junkie, all I can do is embrace the demon and its torture, and do my best to keep it at bay when other matters in life supersede and must be dealt with.
Today the demon allows me to momentarily escape the manuscript and write these words on what is a historical day. On March 14, 2014, ‘Out of Bounds’ was released. I mark my first anniversary as a published author!
A lot has happened during the year. Lessons have been learnt and decisions were made which have shaped my life as an author. The demon hasn’t let me sit back and rest on my laurels. Oh no! While seeking the public’s attention, he pushed me to write more and more. This time last year I was in the early stages of writing ‘The Perfectionist’, I was actively searching to get my first book reviewed, and I was building a social media presence. Now, a year later, ‘The Perfectionist’ is written and its fate will be determined in the next few months as I eagerly await more feedback from literary agents. On a side note, I was recently pleased to see one agent described the book as one with “an intriguing storyline” and that I write “with some flair”, but ultimately it was a no-go. I also wrote a short story set during the London bombings in WWII which I submitted for a competition; it’s called ‘Wartime Girl’ and results are expected this month (fingers crossed). And finally I started work on my third novel and today I am about a third of the way in.
The demon will undoubtedly force me to return to it as soon as I have published this blog entry. I will plead for a quick coffee break: just a simple request for a man with a painful illness. I hope it will be lenient with me. The demon lives by the motto ‘Eat, sleep, victimise, repeat!’
‘Eat, sleep, victimise, repeat!’
‘Eat, sleep, victimise, repeat!’
“Eat, sleep, victimise, repeat!” I hear its voice…I guess it’s time for me to go back to the manuscript.
**
Here is a reminder of where you can find ‘Out of Bounds’ (I have only included the main e-stores).
Remember, the price for the ebook version has been lowered. It’s currently at $1.99 – a bargain!
Paperback
Createspace: https://www.createspace.com/4667753
Amazon.com: http://www.amazon.com/Out-Bounds-Simon-Duke/dp/1495929906/ref=sr_1_42?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1394823084&sr=1-42&keywords=out+of+bounds
Amazon.co.uk: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Out-Bounds-Simon-Duke/dp/1495929906/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1394823147&sr=1-1&keywords=simon+duke+out+of+bounds
Amazon.fr: http://www.amazon.fr/Out-Bounds-Simon-Duke/dp/1495929906/ref=sr_1_cc_1?s=aps&ie=UTF8&qid=1394823195&sr=1-1-catcorr&keywords=simon+duke+out+of+bounds
Ebook
Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/419130
Barnes & Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/out-of-bounds-simon-duke/1118931454?ean=2940045768825
KOBO: http://store.kobobooks.com/fr-FR/ebook/out-of-bounds-24
FNAC: http://www4.fnac.com/livre-numerique/a7525633/Simon-Duke-Out-of-Bounds#st=out%20of%20bounds&ct=Tous%C2%A0produits&t=p
Monday, 23 February 2015
Synopsis – The Perfectionist
Synopsis – The Perfectionist – by Simon Duke
1988. A severed and decomposed head belonging to an unidentified old man is found rotting in an Iowa corn field. Confronted with this gruesome discovery, rookie reporter Gerry Stokes is urged by the local sheriff and his newspaper editor to cover up the affair. But the truth can't be concealed forever.
2010. Stokes, now an arrogant and unpleasant sex-driven, yet seasoned veteran journalist at the Chicago Tribune, must at last atone for his wrong-doings as the shunned-upon past returns with a vengeance. Payback ultimately comes in the attractive form of Sarah Howard, a nostalgic but committed young woman, who believes she has identified the old man as being her own long-lost grandfather, Ted Callaway. Unwilling to be exposed by the young woman, Stokes is forced into an investigation to discover the truth of what happened twenty-two years ago.
Looking for Callaway's killer leads Stokes to an even more sordid truth: Callaway is one of many victims; people seemingly chosen at random across the nation by a serial killer who has been at large for more than two decades: a killer so cunning that he has flown under the radar of the cops and the FBI by navigating through the loopholes of the federal law enforcement system while respecting a unique and horrific modus operandi. By fine-tuning methods of execution, the killer seeks artistic perfection. He is "the Perfectionist".
As the case is in full swing, Stokes's parents die in a tragic car crash. Reluctantly he must temporarily halt his pursuit and travel back to Iowa for the first time in years to take care of the funeral with his brother, Joe. Stokes faces Joe's anger regarding his decision to leave the family hog farm behind and never come back. Little does Stokes know but this tragedy and its aftermath impact him more than expected.
As the hunt for the killer progresses, Stokes becomes obsessed with the case and questions his own selfish nature. The evil lurking behind the investigation causes a gradual attitude shift inside him as he looks back on his former Iowa life, this time with feelings closer to regret. He not only tries to resurrect a difficult relationship with Joe, but he also begins to feel a mixed array of emotions for Sarah who becomes a crucial part of his life, in some ways his anchor.
2013. Three years later, the investigation is given a new lifeline after Stokes is alerted to a series of gruesome Colombian neckties in California. Stokes realizes that the Perfectionist, who had been dormant for a long time, is still at large and has resumed his hunt for new victims. The current nature of the murders and the media buzz around them put the FBI in the hot seat, and Stokes must confront their determined lead investigator, Special Agent Elliot Keppler, to obtain confirmation that his killer is still active.
At the same time Stokes is quick to identify a promising path to journalistic success. He sets himself an ambitious and innovative target; a risky objective preventing him from keeping law enforcement in the loop, one which may very well merit a Pulitzer prize and pave the way to fame: he wishes to publish a truly special book; a book, which for the very first time in publishing history will give the police the means to capture a serial killer. And not just any serial killer... America's greatest and smartest: the Perfectionist. Using the potential shared success generated by such a book as bait, Stokes finds unlikely help along the way from Frank Craven, his editor at the Tribune; Dr. Ken McFarland, a forensic autopsy technician and old friend; Prof. Dennis Morton, a criminology professor; and James Henry Johnson, a death row convict - all of whom acknowledge the need to proceed in discretion. But to keep his book project alive, he has to keep on hiding the full truth from the FBI. And by doing so he becomes a Person of Interest, arousing Keppler's suspicion.
With such high stakes, the pressure is on. Stokes is in the race of his life to discover the killer's identity and publish his bestseller, while bending the notions of what can be considered ethically right.
Sunday, 25 January 2015
Keep Calm and Never Give Up
Yesterday I reached the symbolic 10,000 word milestone for novel three. At times the writing just seems to flow and pour out of me. It’s funny how the words were written so naturally, when oftentimes compiling sentences can be very laborious and tedious if you’re not in the mood. In fact I think my approach to novel writing is slightly shifting. I used to set myself a daily target: 1,000 words, or at least a minimum of 500. That way I could think about daily progress. I was relentless yet comfortable. That strategy was applicable for Out of Bounds, a bit less for The Perfectionist. And I know it’s still early for this third opus. I tend to write less frequently. But when I do, I pen down more words... I’m liking the shape my manuscript is taking.
I’m also beginning to dive into my main character’s mind and becoming more and more familiar with his way of being and thinking. I guess I’ve become a real method actor/writer! With regard to the subject matter of novel three, alas I cannot say much at all for the time being. I’m not someone who puts the cart before the horse, and I’d hate to jinx the whole undertaking. All I can disclose though is that it’s my first non-US setting and closer to my roots.
Before I can tell you more about novel three, I have to update you on novel two, The Perfectionist. It’s been three weeks now since I’ve started contacting literary agents (mainly in London), and so far, not much to report. That’s normal. Most agencies will only get back to me in 6-8 weeks’ time. With the exception of a few promising leads, those who already have replied have been rejections. It’s tough, it hurts your pride, but it’s part of the game. I’m facing stiff competition (agents receive hundreds of manuscripts). Moreover I have no idea if my submissions are timely or if the subject matter is of relevance in the agents’ eyes on a given day: their opinions are subjective.
Here’s a good example of a rejection I got last week:
“Many thanks for sending us this proposal, which I read with interest. I considered it carefully but I’m afraid on balance it just doesn’t quite grab my imagination in the way that it must for me to offer to represent you. So I must follow my instinct and pass on this occasion. I’m really sorry to be so disappointing, but thanks for thinking of us. Of course this is a totally subjective judgement, so do try other agents and I wish you every success.”
That’s a kind “No”, isn't it?
I later found out that this was a standard and automated form of rejection. However, I have received a few personal replies too reflecting how agencies must remain “sensitive to the demands of the commercial market”. I was also told by one agency that the novel is not “something it could be 100% confident of being able to handle successfully”. I wonder. What does it take to reach 100% confidence, assuming that such a level of confidence exists?
I bear no grudges and I am not disappointed. It’s all part of the process of seeking representation. I write these words more as means to illustrate the difficult road ahead of writers seeking to be published.
On a side note, I should have news in March with regard to my entry for the “Writers' & Artists' Yearbook 2015 Short Story Competition”. The deadline for submissions is February 15th, and after that a panel of judges will decide on a shortlist. More of a short-term project for me, but my fingers are crossed for Wartime Girl.
I’m also beginning to dive into my main character’s mind and becoming more and more familiar with his way of being and thinking. I guess I’ve become a real method actor/writer! With regard to the subject matter of novel three, alas I cannot say much at all for the time being. I’m not someone who puts the cart before the horse, and I’d hate to jinx the whole undertaking. All I can disclose though is that it’s my first non-US setting and closer to my roots.
Before I can tell you more about novel three, I have to update you on novel two, The Perfectionist. It’s been three weeks now since I’ve started contacting literary agents (mainly in London), and so far, not much to report. That’s normal. Most agencies will only get back to me in 6-8 weeks’ time. With the exception of a few promising leads, those who already have replied have been rejections. It’s tough, it hurts your pride, but it’s part of the game. I’m facing stiff competition (agents receive hundreds of manuscripts). Moreover I have no idea if my submissions are timely or if the subject matter is of relevance in the agents’ eyes on a given day: their opinions are subjective.
Here’s a good example of a rejection I got last week:
“Many thanks for sending us this proposal, which I read with interest. I considered it carefully but I’m afraid on balance it just doesn’t quite grab my imagination in the way that it must for me to offer to represent you. So I must follow my instinct and pass on this occasion. I’m really sorry to be so disappointing, but thanks for thinking of us. Of course this is a totally subjective judgement, so do try other agents and I wish you every success.”
That’s a kind “No”, isn't it?
I later found out that this was a standard and automated form of rejection. However, I have received a few personal replies too reflecting how agencies must remain “sensitive to the demands of the commercial market”. I was also told by one agency that the novel is not “something it could be 100% confident of being able to handle successfully”. I wonder. What does it take to reach 100% confidence, assuming that such a level of confidence exists?
I bear no grudges and I am not disappointed. It’s all part of the process of seeking representation. I write these words more as means to illustrate the difficult road ahead of writers seeking to be published.
On a side note, I should have news in March with regard to my entry for the “Writers' & Artists' Yearbook 2015 Short Story Competition”. The deadline for submissions is February 15th, and after that a panel of judges will decide on a shortlist. More of a short-term project for me, but my fingers are crossed for Wartime Girl.
Friday, 9 January 2015
Out of the Cave
Greetings again from the darkness. First of all, I wish you all a happy and exciting new year. 2015 will be a year of change and ambitious undertakings. Personally, I'm off to a flying start. Batteries recharged after the Xmas break, I am now tackling the search for novel representation in full swing. For the past few days I've been contacting literary agents in London. They tend to more or less ask for the same thing: a good cover letter, a proper synopsis, and an excerpt from the novel's manuscript (anything between the first 10 pages to more than 50). So, I am casting the net wide and will hopefully reap some results in the weeks to come.
Now it's a game of patience. The wait can be short (I've already received one rejection); it can be long (most literary agents need 6-8 weeks before getting back to you); or in some cases it can be endless as you may never get a reply. It's an exciting time nonetheless. The full manuscript of 'The Perfectionist' has been read by three people so far, but these people are close to me. Now I'm sharing a part of the content with professionals. The pressure is somewhat different, heightened even. Needless to say, the next several weeks mark a critical milestone in my journey as a writer.
So a lot of nervous finger tapping in store for 2015. Hopefully some of it will translate into some further productive writing... talking of which, today I have a draft blueprint of novel n°3 in my mind and tentatively sketched down on a piece of paper. I'm not sure when I'll start writing seriously on this and beefing it up. Neither do I know if this is the one big idea I will commit myself to pursuing relentlessly for the months to come, but I've got a feeling deep down that these rough notes may lead to more magical moments of creativity. I hope to have more news soon, but for now back to my writer's cave.
Now it's a game of patience. The wait can be short (I've already received one rejection); it can be long (most literary agents need 6-8 weeks before getting back to you); or in some cases it can be endless as you may never get a reply. It's an exciting time nonetheless. The full manuscript of 'The Perfectionist' has been read by three people so far, but these people are close to me. Now I'm sharing a part of the content with professionals. The pressure is somewhat different, heightened even. Needless to say, the next several weeks mark a critical milestone in my journey as a writer.
So a lot of nervous finger tapping in store for 2015. Hopefully some of it will translate into some further productive writing... talking of which, today I have a draft blueprint of novel n°3 in my mind and tentatively sketched down on a piece of paper. I'm not sure when I'll start writing seriously on this and beefing it up. Neither do I know if this is the one big idea I will commit myself to pursuing relentlessly for the months to come, but I've got a feeling deep down that these rough notes may lead to more magical moments of creativity. I hope to have more news soon, but for now back to my writer's cave.
Wednesday, 24 December 2014
Auggie Wren's Christmas Story
One of my all-time favourite Xmas stories: "Auggie Wren's Christmas Story" by Paul Auster.
Check: http://www.xtec.cat/~dsanz4/materiales/auggie_wren.pdf
The story also constitutes the first part of the closing chapter (5. Auggie) of the 1995 movie "Smoke", which I've embedded below.
The movie is directed by Wayne Wang and Paul Auster.
Writer: Paul Auster.
Leading roles in the scene: Harvey Keitel and William Hurt.
I hope you enjoy this great story-telling as much as I do.
I wish you all a fantastic Christmas and all the best for 2015!
Check: http://www.xtec.cat/~dsanz4/materiales/auggie_wren.pdf
The story also constitutes the first part of the closing chapter (5. Auggie) of the 1995 movie "Smoke", which I've embedded below.
The movie is directed by Wayne Wang and Paul Auster.
Writer: Paul Auster.
Leading roles in the scene: Harvey Keitel and William Hurt.
I hope you enjoy this great story-telling as much as I do.
I wish you all a fantastic Christmas and all the best for 2015!
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