Seeing Stars

Or how Microsoft made me lose the will to live.

I find that the back stories for characters can take on a life of their own 

With a critical eye on the structure of Tankard’s Legacy’s yet to be titled sequel, I realised that the personal history for James Tankard had started to grow with the tenacity and reach of a creeping vine. My research had led me to Ireland, the Philippines, Jamaica, even Orkney. Left brain told me: highlight and delete. Right brain was a little more cautious…this was a story ..in its own right. Hold on there a darn minute!

I considered the popularity of the ‘chapbook’ format. Cheaply printed, affordable, the very first pulp fiction that,once read by the whole family, would be recycled as kindling or bum fodder. Thus, there are very few surviving copies to peruse, perhaps the odd Victorian miscellany of songs and scores calling itself a chapbook, but certainly not the well-thumbed pamphlet of 'Moste Terrible Tales' that I envisaged.

So, why not write my own chapbook of that olde pyrate Tankard’s adventures upon the high seas as related by an amanuensis well-versed in his life history? 

My thoughts turn to Aphra Benn who has to be one of the most intriguing women of her age. Her most famous work is 'Orinoco', inspired by her travels to Surinam, South America. No one seems to know for sure what took her so far from home, but it is likely she was involved in espionage on behalf of Charles II, since she was granted an interview with him soon after her arrival back in England. While there, she was perfectly placed to garner information about deputy governor Byam and his shenanigans, which was of great interest to a king fast losing control of the greedy souls exploiting the riches of the New World in his name.

I can’t help but feel it’s something of a liberty to presume to know a real historical character well enough to include them as a character in my book. Perhaps I am just afraid because I lack the profound knowledge and acuity of Hilary Mantel in transforming the dry facts of history into stunning interpretive fiction . Or, perhaps nearer the truth, I just like to pull someone out of history and make them my own without the responsibility of living up to historical fact. 

The lives of Cheng I Sao, Alexander Selkirk, Woodes Rogers, William Dampier have all fed into my stories, but James has been manufactured from scratch, albeit with a physical resemblance to a certain public figure based in my locale. Deciding on the chapbook format gave me free rein to indulge my imagination in inventing his life and history and away I went. I cut and pasted the existing text into a new Word document and spent the next two hours spinning the yarns of his history.

Then I blinked. 

Why were my contact lenses suddenly fuzzy? 

I peered more closely at the document and my heart began to pound. I felt slightly lightheaded. Every character in my 5-page document had been transformed into an asterisk.

What had I done? What hadn’t I done? 

With growing horror I packed up my laptop and sprinted across town to the Mac shop. My beautiful, slim, silver lappy was slowly succumbing to some tubercular cyber-disease, killing off my documents one by one…so I thought.

The boys at the Mac shop soon realised otherwise. They’d witnessed disappeared wedding photos and missing dissertations, and done their utmost to rehabilitate tearful customers beating their heads on the floor in despair. However, they’d never seen a document turned into stars. 

“I don’t think we can do anything,” they warned me. “It looks like a Microsoft issue.”

And it was. 

Ipad in hand, compassionate computer nurse, Sam soon found a forum of fellow victims.  Windows 2011 was the culprit. Like me they'd just been hammering away at the keyboard for hours only to watch their hard work turn into nothing. Even the saved document was corrupted. Unless you’d backed it up. I’d been about to…but too late. 

Aren’t you always just about to back up when these things happen?

Outrage, fury…resignation. By the time I’d taken leave of the Mac boys, I felt utterly drained. That a company is so huge and invulnerable it can roll out a product with such an unholy glitch bothers me immensely.  But The Mac guys were so sympathetic, so determined to unearth any possibility of resurrecting my work, it was salve to the blow MS had delivered. 

I reminded myself – this could have happened to the document of my new novel, instead of the first chunk of a novella  That could have meant losing six hours of pure, intense, in-the-zone creativity.  Then I remembered that I had actually printed out the original back story of James Tankard. It wasn’t beyond redemption. Perhaps this time round I’d write it even better.

One thing is for sure - this time round, I’ll write in Pages!

There Might Be Even More Giants...

There seems to have been quite a flurry of interest in my posts on Jack the Giant Slayer, and so I feel inclined to continue with his adventures.

When Jack took leave of the King of England's court he donned his slippers of swiftness and strode on over hill and dale until he saw an extraordinary sight - two giants who had but one head between them, and spoke by throwing their head from one to the other.

Swiftly covering himself in the cloak of invisibility Jack approached, brandishing his sword of sharpness, so that as the head was tossed mid-air between the two giants, it took only a single stroke from Jack to slice it in two, whereupon the giants fell dead to the floor.

Near to where the giants had sat was the entrance to a cave and Jack went inside to seek the giant's treasure (for it seems that giants are wont to hoard treasures in their caves). He followed a dimly flickering light that led him to a huge room furnished with a table and chair. The table was strewn with bones, and Jack turned to see a great cauldron bubbling away over the glowing embers of the fire.

But Jack then heard a sound of moaning and groaning and weeping. He followed the sound to a great dungeon full of men and women. The dungeon was the giant's larder. When Jack explained, as he unlocked their jail, that he had slain their captors the people were overjoyed to escape their grim fate. They crowded out from the dungeon and showed Jack where the huge chest of the giants' treasure was kept. The chest was locked fast, but Jack's enchanted sword made light work of that and jewels and gold coins spilled forth as he cleft the chest in two.

One of the captives was an earl who owned a castle not far from the cave, and he invited all to celebrate their freedom with a great banquet there. The party was in full swing when they heard knocking on the castle gate. It was a messenger who had come to warn them that the dead giants had a two-headed nephew by the name of Thunderdell, and that hearing of his uncles' brutal demise he was sworn to avenge their murders.

All was dismay at this news, but Jack just laughed and promised them a great spectacle. He stepped outside and cut through the drawbridge with the sword of sharpness so that it would only bear the lightest weight without collapsing, and then he stood at the edge of the moat awaiting Thunderdell.

As the giant grew near and saw Jack he roared with fury and came running with great rumbling steps, but Jack wore his slippers of swiftness and ran around the moat taunting the giant, pulling his cloak of invisibility on and off, so that he disappeared and appeared at will, goading the giant to even greater rage.

At last the giant was gasping for breath, waving his club and screaming with rage while Jack, still laughing in his face, began to retreat along the drawbridge and back inside the castle. Thunderdell began to follow, but under his great weight the drawbridge began to crumble and the giant tumbled into the moat. Before he had a chance to pull himself out Jack cut off both hideous heads to the sound of a great cheer from his audience. Jack smiled and took a bow before returning to finish the feasting and celebration.

Well, our Jack was never one to tarry, and the very next morn he continued with his travels on and on until he came to a vast land, dry and barren, with hardly a tree or a blade of grass to be seen. It was almost dark and Jack was tired and hungry. At long last he came upon a tumble-down building with a faint light burning within. He knocked on the door and an old man answered. Jack asked for shelter and a bite to eat and the old man replied that he could only offer a straw bed upon the dirt floor and a bowl of thin soup.

Jack accepted the meagre offerings with a smile and remarked upon the lonesomeness of the place. The old man's face hung with sorrow as he explained that once he had been lord of a great fertile land of plenty. "But at the top of that mountain in a great grim castle resides a giant called Galligantua with his friend the Sorcerer. Galligantua one day demanded the hand of my only daughter, and when I refused him he took her by force  to keep in his castle. The sorcerer transformed her into a milk-white doe before casting a spell which ruined all of my land, destroyed my castle and turned me into a decrepit old fellow helpless to defy them."

The former lord's eyes filled with tears at the thought of his dear daughter, but Jack told him that he was Jack the Giant Slayer, and that all giants were the same to him. "But it is no good," the old man said, shaking his head. "Two griffins guard the gates of the castle. They never sleep and any who pass will be torn to shreds by their great teeth and claws."

Jack then showed the old man his enchanted cloak, shoes and sword and reassured his host that he would rescue the princess and break the sorcerer's spell. At dawn he woke and put on his cloak and shoes and in one bound he was at the top of the great mountain. The two griffins sat either side of the castle gate, their huge eyes burning and flames shooting from their beaks as they lashed their spiked tails, but Jack passed them, and once he was through that gate he turned and hacked off both their heads with a single stroke of his enchanted sword.

Once he was within Jack saw a beautiful silver horn hanging from the wall. Beneath it were written strange magical words, but with his cap of knowledge Jack could read them as clear as his own name:
"He who once this horn doth blow, shall the giant overthrow. He who blows it twice shall make fall the  gates, towers, roof and wall. Who blows it thrice within that hour shall break the sorcerer's power."

Jack gave a gleeful laugh before putting the horn to his lips. As he blew Galligantua looked out of the window and demanded, "Who dares disturb me?" Where upon Jack cut of his head with the sword of sharpness. Jack then blew the horn twice more and the great castle rumbled and fell to the ground in a great heap of stones revealing the awful winged figure of the sorcerer so poisoned with evil he was more beast than man. Jack pressed the horn to his lips and blew it thrice more, and as the third note resounded through the air the sorcerer gave a terrible scream and burst into flames.

Jack then felt the ground shift beneath his feet and the mountain sank into the earth and all around him was transformed into green fields and lush forests alive with birdsong. A crowd of people and animals emerged from the trees and Jack saw that leading them was a milk-white doe staring beyond Jack, so that he turned to see what transfixed her.

Even Jack was amazed, then. For instead of a castle a beautiful palace rose up behind him and from it came striding a handsome man with dark curly hair smiling from ear to ear. When Jack looked again the doe had changed into a young girl who hurled herself into the man's arms with a joyous shout of, "Father! My father!"

The man of course was the lord returned to his former vitality and the girl was his daughter.

What could happen next, but that Jack married the girl and lived happily ever after. He continued to kill giants of course, but then when only the least troublesome giants remained trembling for fear of Jack in their caves, he felt that perhaps he could afford to be merciful and left them to die of old age.

The End.

Many thanks to Ruth Manning Sanders for her many volumes of wonderful tales from around the world.

They Might Be Giants ... continued

So far, so good for Jack the Giant Slayer. Plenty of gruesome deaths to those foolish gargantuan oafs, thanks to our Jack. But, come on, where's the princess? Every fairy tale hero seeks a princess, surely?

Well, here goes.

Jack continued his travels, until one day he met by chance another man, tattered and torn, hungry and afraid. The man explained that he was the king of England's son, that he had set out on a quest to rescue a princess who had been imprisoned in a castle in Wales by a demon.

His quest had been beset by disaster, thieves had fallen upon his party, robbing everything, horses, clothes, weapons and food and killing all apart from him. For he had left the group sleeping to seek a drink of water, and had returned to find all fallen.

Jack clapped him on the shoulder and said, "We will continue together!"

The prince thanked him but reminded him they had naught to eat and nowhere to stay, so what were they to do?

"I am on my way to kill a three-headed giant who lives in a castle near here. That's where we'll sup, and that's where we'll lay our heads."

He told the prince to hide in the forest while he dealt with the giant, and the prince obeyed, convinced he'd seen the last of Jack.

Jack strode boldly up to the castle gate and knocked upon it. Three great ugly heads peered angrily over the gate and each head demanded, "Who knocks?"

"Nobody but your poor cousin Jack," answered Jack and hung his head sadly.

The three faces all scowled and peered more closely at Jack. "We don't know of any cousin," said the heads. "What brings you here? And why the long face?"

Jack shook his head and said, "I bring terrible news dear cousin. The king of England's son is marching on his way here with an army of sixty thousand men, and has sworn to kill you."

The six eyes immediately began to leak great salty tears of fear. "Oh, but what shall I do? I can deal with three hundred - a hundred to a mouth - but no more! Oh, dear cousin I am done for!"

"Can you not hide?" asked Jack, and watched the giant slowly turn the idea over before he answered: "Yes, Jack, I can hide! I can - I have a vault in my cellar. You, cousin, lock me within and when he arrives offer the king of England's son and his army a great feast and tell them I have gone to visit my uncle up in Scotland!"

So Jack locked the giant in the vault and went to fetch the prince. The ate until they could eat no more, then slept soundly upon feather beds until the sun rose.

In the morning Jack found the giant's treasure chest and gave the prince as much gold and jewels as he could carry. then he found the finest horse in the stables and sent the prince on his way before unlocking the vault and releasing the giant.

Well, the giant had been so afraid he had hardly slept at all and all three heads twitched with nerves.
"Ah, Jack!" he cried. "They spared you!"

"Aye, all is well," said Jack. "They ate your food, took some treasure and a horse and are now marching on up to Scotland! But you have plenty of horses and treasure still, so be glad."

The giant was glad, and asked Jack what reward he would like for saving him.

Jack shrugged, then said, "Well, I saw a few old things in your bed chamber that I'd quite like. A tatty old cap and cloak, a rusty sword and some moth-eaten slippers."

The giant sighed."Dear Jack," he said,"those are my greatest treasures. The cap will give you all knowledge, the cloak makes whoever wears it invisible, the sword is enchanted and whatever you strike with it will be sliced into pieces. And those old slippers are also magic, they will take you in one bound where ever you wish to go. But when all is said and done, you saved my life, and so now they are yours."

Jack took his gifts and left. (If you wish for some more gore, then Jack slipped on the cloak and hacked off the three heads of the giant. If you wish for justice, then Jack left the giant as he was.)

With the slippers on his feet, in a single bound Jack caught up with the prince who was getting near to the castle where the princess was confined.

"I'll go ahead and announce your arrival," said Jack, and in two steps he was at the castle. He made his way through the great gates expecting to find the princess locked away or bewitched into a sleep, but to his surprise he found the princess happily sitting upon the throne as though the castle belonged to her. In fact the enchantment of the demon was to have turned her kind heart cruel.

When she heard of the prince's arrival she immediately ordered a banquet, and spent that evening making eyes at him, telling him that he was her hero and her true love. But then just as she was taking her leave she wiped her lips upon a handkerchief and tucked it her bosom. Then she looked into the prince's eyes and said, "Show me that handkerchief in the morning, or you will be hanged from the battlements!" The prince laughed and answered, "I shall know where to find it!" But such a threat, even in jest, made him uncomfortable.

But Jack slipped on his cap of knowledge and knew exactly what the princess planned to do. Later that night she conjured up the demon and gave him the handkerchief which he carried away to his lair deep within the earth. Jack donned his cloak of invisibility and his slippers of swiftness and followed the demon. The demon placed the handkerchief upon a his table and retired to bed, whereupon Jack snatched it up and took it to the prince.

The next morning the prince gave the handkerchief back to the princess and she giggled and flirted as though that were her plan, but that evening after dinner before she went to bed she kissed the prince upon the lips, then said: "Tomorrow you must show me the lips that I last kissed, or I will order for your head to be cut off!"

"I will show you my own lips," he answered with a smile. The prince was glad of the kiss, but much troubled by her words.

That night, once more, the princess conjured the demon. She scolded him for his carelessness about the handkerchief but gloated over how they would kill the prince in the morrow and then placed a kiss upon the demon's lips.

Of course, Jack had seen all this, and followed the demon as he plunged into the darkness of his lair. Jack drew the enchanted sword and sliced off the demon's head and took it back to the prince.

The next morning when the prince presented the head to the princess she gave shriek and fell to the ground in a swoon. When she woke her enchantment was broken and remembered naught of what had happened. And so it was the prince who took the princess back to the palace to marry her, and Jack was rewarded with a knighthood, but it he preferred not to tarry at court ... there were more giants that needed his attention ...

They Might Be Giants

Engrossed in research, both obscure and obvious, and with one eye on the latest deadline, it's a surprise to come up to the surface and find that you are actually leaning toward the zeitgeist.

Why is it trends seems to arbitrarily spring up in films, books and TV? Who would have thought that after Anne Rice there would be anything left in the sexy vampire/ werewolf genre? And just why is it there is a sudden fascination with remaking traditional tales such as Snow White, Hansel and Gretel, and most recently Jack the Giant Slayer, for a grown-up audience?

Having digested the curious facts of alleged giant skeleton artefacts and nephelim-believers online, I decided to read all the folk tales of giants that I could get my hands on. My favourite has to be the collection by Ruth Manning Sanders (my regard for that woman deserves its very own blog post) which includes both Jack and the Beanstalk and Jack the Giant Slayer - two very different tales, aspects of which appear to have been amalgamated in the latest big screen adaptation.

You know the first story: sold the cow for beans/angry mother/climb up beanstalk/steal things/giant dies as result of fall. But Jack the Giant Slayer, you are probably less familiar with.

Are you sitting comfortably?

Then, I shall begin.

Once upon a time, a long time ago, lived Jack the son of a Cornish farmer. And at that time there also lived in Cornwall a giant named Cormoran. He was a hungry giant, and he ate animals and people with equal gusto.

People became afraid that soon enough he would eat every last one of them, so the mayor and the council locked themselves in a room to decide what to do about the giant. While they were deep in discussion there was a crash of broken glass and there was Jack springing through the window and demanding to know what reward they would offer for the life of Cormoran.

They shook their heads doubtfully, but told him that the giant had treasure in his cave beyond all imagining, and that he was welcome to it all should he conquer Cormoran.

Jack set off with a pickaxe, a horn, a shovel and some long thin planks and rowed across to the giant's island. As the giant slept Jack dug a huge pit before the entrance to his cave and covered it over with the planks which then concealed with wreathes of seaweed. Then he put his horn to his lips and blew as loud as he could.

The giant rose with a roar of anger and ran out of the cave in pursuit of one so impudent as to wake him, but though he could see Jack too well, he did not see the trap laid for him. Heedless, he trod upon the planks which splintered beneath him and he tumbled into the pit. Before he could attempt to scramble out Jack planted the pickaxe into his head, and Cormoran was dead.

Jack found many chests of gold and rubies and pearls - he was now rich indeed! The townsfolk were overjoyed, not just at the giant's death but at Jack's generosity, for he gave away his wealth to anyone who was wanting. Jack was awarded with a fine sword and belt that bore the legend: 'Here's the valiant Cornishman, Who slew the giant Cormoran'.

Now Jack decided this was good career to pursue and set off to Wales, for it was said many a bad giant dwelled there. Indeed, Cormoran's cousin, Tantarem lived on the Welsh border, and when he heard that Cormoran's murderer was on his way, he rubbed his hands. Revenge would be his.

One afternoon on Jack's journey, he grew tired and thirsty and stopped by a stream in a wooded dell to drink and take a nap. As Jack slept Tantarem came to the very same stream to fill his pitchers with water. When he saw the young man he looked him over carefully read the words on Jack's belt and was delighted with his good luck to stumble upon his cousin's killer so soon.

Tantarem gently draped Jack across his shoulders and carried him back to his castle to cook him up for supper. Jack woke up to see the path to the giant's home strewn with bones and thought how he must think of a good plan quickly if he were to escape the same fate.

The giant tossed Jack into a cold stone room high up in the castle and returned to the dell to retrieve his water pitchers. There were no windows, only a small barred grating. When Jack peered out he saw he was too high to jump, but then he discovered a coil of rope in a dark corner of the room. He was just about to use the rope to make his escape when he heard the approach of the giant. What to do?
Quick as flash Jackhad an idea, he made a running noose in the rope and tied the other end fast to a beam in the roof. As the giant was fumbling with his key to unlock the door, Jack threw the noose from the opening and around the giant's neck. Jack pulled the other end with all his strength until the giant's protests grew silent. Then Jack crawled through the grating, down the rope and cut of the giant's head. That was the end of Tantarem.

On Jack went into Wales and he chanced upon the house of a much feared two-headed giant. He knocked upon the door and asked for shelter. Now Jack's reputation preceded him, and the giant knew he must use his cunning to defeat 'the giant-slayer'. So, he pretended all was well and invited Jack to stay the night.

Suspicious, Jack bid the giant good night and slipped out from under the rough blanket, placed a block of old wood in his stead, and lay down to sleep in the shadows on the floor. Sure enough, in the dead of night the giant stole into the room, brandishing his big studded club and beat the bed with all his might, shattering the wood to pieces.

In the morning when Jack went down to breakfast the giant stared with four incredulous eyes, and asked Jack, "Dis you sleep well?"Jack replied that he had apart from a great rat running over his bed and batting him with its tail.

"What a hard head you have," muttered the giant, then served up a great breakfast of porridge in two seven gallon bowls. Both began to shovel the porridge into their mouths, again the giant was amazed to see that Jack's meal was disappearing as swiftly as his own.

Unbeknownst to him Jack had a great leather bag under his shirt, and for every spoonful of porridge that went in his mouth he scooped several handfuls into the bag.

When the giant remarked on Jack's hearty appetite, Jack rubbed his belly and said, "I would eat that all over again. Let me show you my trick." He then took a knife and slit the bag so that all the porridge slopped out onto the floor. "Giant you may be," he goaded, "but you cannot do such a trick!" Whereupon the stupid giant snatched the knife from Jack and slit open his own belly. Another giant was dead.

To be continued...

Nichiyoubi

On Sunday, funnily enough, I'm going to watch 'Sunday' 

The synopsis of the film refers to a 'perpetual fear of Sundays' stemming from the protagonist's childhood experiences. So, I began to wonder, what memories of Sunday could I dredge up from the past? Were they positive?

My first thoughts turn to the Velvet Underground song, Sunday Morning; a little sad, regretful for past mistakes, but 'praise the dawning' -  there's the note of optimism - so Sundays can't have been all bad for Lou Reed.

I recall Sunday mornings being busy, but without recourse to worship. We weren't a church-going family, and an obligatory half hour of Songs of Praise in the evenings was the only concession to the sabbath.


In my early years, obsessed with a certain afternoon drama serial, Sunday was just a bundle of hours to be endured until I could indulge in witnessing my dearest fantasy become reality: animals ruling the planet over humans. The day after Saturday was, to me, simply 'Planet of the Apes' day.

Indeed, preparations for the compulsory roast dinner and visiting Granddad were the chief preoccupations. So having been fortified by weak Robinson's squash and stale broken biscuits at my granddad's home, having admired his marigolds, koi carp and immaculate housekeeping it was time to head back to consume the roast dinner. My tasks were simply to make the mint sauce (if it was lamb) and set the table in the front room with two tablecloths and the kept-for-best faux-bone handled flatware.

But, the overwhelming memory of Sundays for me is of the post-prandial naps my parents took in their armchairs. Their faces completely obscured by the tented pages of the Sunday papers, their activity finally quelled by the heavy meal, thus the house fell into a hush that dared not to be disturbed. No telly, no radio, no boisterousness.

No one around that was likely to call.


Complete and utter boredom.

When I go shopping on a Sunday these days, occasionally I'll see a notice in the window of a closed shop, 'Let's Keep Sunday Special'. 

Special? 

Well, maybe -  if it means I can wangle a nap! 

But that's not really on the cards, so I'll just go for keeping Sunday fairly interesting instead.

How about you?

How I Turn an Abyss into a Cornucopia

I take a great gasp of virtual fresh air as I splutter to the surface. It's time to lay out some thoughts. For the past couple of weeks I have been so immersed in the process of writing and plotting my sequel to Tankard's Legacy that there has been no room in my mind for anything else.

I get to write twice a week - three times, if I'm lucky or dogged enough to pin down the time. I have to plan what I'm going to do so that the slot isn't wasted, but allow myself leeway if serendipity presents me with something - usually a book -  that offers me information, context or colour that will add to the story.

Deadlines are also important. It fixes my mind so that I don't start arranging coffees with friends or decide I need to go shopping when I reach a tricky bit. Sure, I have my 'water-cooler', staring-out-of-the-window moments, but I don't let them hijack my time.

At 28, 000 words, I'm at the point where, without the tao of Larry Brooks, I would be terrified of the gaping holes in the story, teetering on the edge of panic over how threads will tie and losing sleep over how to resolve the twists and turns and characters' stakes into a satisfying ending.

But I am keeping the faith. The pieces to fill the spaces will, I know, come through the process of examining what needs to happen to make this a darn good story and then giving myself specific tasks to work on. It sounds very business-like, but in fact it focuses and sharpens my creative processes.

I have four boxes set out on four pieces of paper:

• Box one: the set-up (which includes the inciting incident and the first plot point)
• Box two: the response (smack in the middle is the first pinch point and ends with a midpoint which transitions part two into part three)
• Box three: the attack (smack in the middle is the second pinch point, the second plot point separates parts three and four)
• Box four: the resolution

The set-ups are a good way to start a writing session. I know which characters I need to introduce and what their stakes are, so this is how I get stuck in as the caffeine begins to percolate through my system. Then after about an hour the 'zone' is nigh. I can sit and write for at least another 90 minutes without feeling time pass. Last weekend three hours passed without me noticing. Everything is smooth and flowing, and I can hear the dialogue and see the facial expressions and movements of the characters playing through my mind like a film. I can feel sad, happy or excited as I write, and hope that this will come across to a reader.

Again, using Brooks' techniques, when I am mulling over plot ideas, writing them down as a series of 'what ifs' is a neat way to see how the whole idea will play without wasting 2,000 words finding it doesn't. It also works for the initial idea for a novel to see if it has the strength to go the whole hog.

For Tankard's Legacy it was: what if a girl living a lonely isolated life on a far off island is kidnapped by pirates looking for her father? What if her father isn't who she thinks he is? What if the pirates believe she will lead them to their treasure, but she doesn't actually know how to help them? What if she isn't who she thinks she is?

Basically, if the answers to these questions are a rich source of possibilities that lead to more 'what ifs' then it's a good chance your idea will hold water and sustain itself for the length of a novel.

And the novel itself, no matter that it has been meticulously planned, seems to develop a flavour of its own as it grows. It can be surprising how from its shadowy presence in my imagination it shifts into a reality of its own which is deeper, stronger... yet somewhat unfamiliar.

So, for now, Book Two of The Treasure of Orphir Chronicles still has no title. It's fairly tatty at the edges with typos and  names and dates missing, but I have 50 odd pages of a story that didn't really exist before Christmas, and that for me is a little bit of magic.

Slightly foxed but still desirable

Do you ever buy those old books with marbled paper inside the cover, that have translucent sheets of paper to protect the colour plates or engraving? Those little rusty freckles known as 'foxing' are strewn along its pages like the liver spots on an elderly hand. It's a book that has lain unexplored perhaps for decades in a cold dank place, so that when you open it the whiff of mildewed paper catches in your nostrils.

As I pick up such a volume I wonder what secrets besides the story printed on its pages will be revealed to me.  For the most satisfying discovery, I find, is a little message revealing that the book was a gift for that one ephemeral birthday inscribed with such elegance in ink, or a book plate announcing that this book was a reward for diligence in scripture or outstanding achievement in physical education.

Once upon a time the recipients of these gifts retained their anonymity. Just who was Cyril Scarborough who attended Wimbledon College in 1922? There was no accessible means to trace them before the internet.

Such was the information included inside the front cover of a purchase that I made last year from a charity shop. It was its book-plate as much as the charming illustrations of Mortimer Menpes in 'World Pictures' that piqued my interest. That school name rang a bell. Wasn't that where Paul Merton went to school? Was it possible that Cyril Scarborough was another notable pupil? And so to the search engine I turned - with interesting results.

Thanks to the labyrinthine tentacles of Google, I found that I have in my possession a book that formerly belonged to a man who having attended the Catholic Wimbledon College and receiving said book for Syntax Class, went on to become an army chaplain during WWII.

A courageous man of the cloth simply for doing that, I thought, but caught up in Dunkirk, he turned down a boat back to Blighty, feeling it his duty to stay with the soldiers who had no option but to remain where they were. He spent the rest of the war at various prison camps offering spiritual succour to prisoners and vanquished citizens, alike. This included, most notably - and most exciting for me - a spell at Colditz. Immediately the book I had bought gained an added fascination. I imagined it forlornly waiting in a silent dusty library while its owner plied his ministrations in one of the most infamous prisons of WWII.

A few years ago I bought an 1883 copy of The Boys Own Annual. Expecting a tome of ripping yarns toeing the conservative line of thought, I was somewhat surprised to find that it propounded quite liberal politics - very much lionising William Wilberforce and his anti-slavery crusade. Within its pages I was entertained by explorer narratives, seafaring tales, and detailed instructions as to how to undertake taxidermy as a rewarding pastime. But most movingly, out dropped an old letter from the Conservative Club in Aylesbury which had been used to map out chess manoeuvres by the previous owner of the book.

In my family it was compulsory to write in the front of a book that you were giving as a present. Yet, somewhere along the line I fell out of the habit. Perhaps it's because I unconsciously acknowledge that it will be heading to Oxfam once it has been read, and to daub it with a personal message will actually undermine its retail value to a potential customer attracted to an almost-pristine volume.

The desirability of a second-hand book must depend on what we seek. Are we happy to acknowledge that we are the custodians for someone else's property? For we too will quit our existence, and our books, ex libris Jane Doe, will once again be resold or donated and thus scattered to the winds of fate.

Who will be the next person to pick up my volume of 'Image Makers' and wonder who took the trouble to write 'April 28th 1987' inside the front cover, and why.

Perhaps, as they flick through the glossy pages of Hollywood idols, they will understand that it was a way to mark exactly when that special moment took place when the book I had coveted for weeks finally became more than just an item on a shelf.  As I paid over my keenly hoarded pocket money it became my treasured possession and, sitting on my bookshelf still, it offers an ever-open doorway to possibilities and dreams.