From stone tablet to e-book

“There’s always room at the top,” said Daniel Webster. But who exactly he was addressing in his famous quote is up for discussion, seeing that he was a thorough-going elitist and excelled at being at the top.
However, it is true that there is always room at the top for those who set their sights on lofty peaks even if they come from lowly beginnings. For example, just look at the history of the Presidents of the USA including the present incumbent in the White House.
And there’s always a demand for talented, gifted writers, with relevant things to say.
These are challenging times for publishers, even perhaps the hardest times ever for traditional publishers. Remarkably it is only one generation ago that books and publishing had not really undergone significant change since the time of Caxton.
We, however, are already living in future-shock!
Nowadays it is fair to ask who or what is a publisher.
In times gone by, the publishing world was dominated by the big boys. The likes of Oxford University Press, Doubleday, Hodder Stoughton, Penguin Books, Faber and Faber, and Thomas Nelson to name but a few.
Now it is more likely to be ‘johndoepublishing.com’.
In the 19th century a whole new era in publishing began. A series of technical developments, in the book trade as in other industries, dramatically raised output and lowered costs. Stereotyping, the iron press, the application of steam power, mechanical typecasting and typesetting, new methods of reproducing illustrations—these inventions, developed through the century and often resisted by the printer, amounted to a revolution in book production.
Today a brave new world technological revolution has transformed the industry. We are on the verge of such dramatic and irreversible change that could effectively mean the demise of the printed, hold-in-your-hand, paper book.
Ray Bradbury’s book, Fahrenheit 451, depicted a society where books were systematically burned. In our society we simply don’t need them (printed books that is) anymore. We may see the end of the printed book in our own lifetime. Like Winston Smith in George Orwell’s 1984 we may need to search furtively in the backstreets and alleys of proletariat towns to find copies of old decaying books.
Publishing is about to take a leap into the future. The word out on the streets is change or die. Those who are always looking into the past are often blind to the present.
We can now read books on our laptops, iPads, and cell phones. It is so convenient. I can sit on train and carry a thousand books on my Kindle and access, read, interrogate, highlight, or listen to any of them within seconds.
Public libraries will one day no longer have books on shelves; instead, there will be terminals where we can ‘plug’ in and download any and every book ever written into our own personal private mini-chip. No matter what your point of view is, such a prospect is mind-blowingly amazing.
But where does all that leave publishing?
We have gone from the stone tablet to wax impressions, from papyrus to parchment, from paper to the e-book. It is difficult to predict the future of the printed book, but publishing and publishers will remain. They will, I am sure, change to meet the demands and the fashions of the times we live in. The ability to adapt is, after all, the difference between commercial success and bankruptcy.
To end my blog here’s an excerpt from Wikipedia:
“Although electronic books, or e-books, had limited success in the early years, and readers were resistant at the outset, the demand for books in this format has grown dramatically, primarily because of the popularity of e-reader devices and as the number of available titles in this format has increased. Another important factor in the increasing popularity of the e-reader is its continuous diversification. Many e-readers now support basic operating systems, which facilitate email and other simple functions. The i-pad is the most obvious example of this trend, but even mobile phones can host e-reading software now.”
I love the touch, the smell, the sound of turning a page in the candlelight when I am reading a real book in bed, but the future is at hand.
In the not too distant future, our children’s children may well ask, “Grandma what was a book?”

But writers will always be needed…
Won’t they?
And of course there will always be room at the e-Top.
What is your view of the changing publishing industry?

Some brief thoughts on marriage

This blog comes from someone who fails miserably most of the time at ensuring a trouble-free relationship for my spouse.  Flowers and chocolates as gifts to say ‘I’m sorry’ are pretty transparent these days, even when the chocolate delicacies come in a cute little box tied with ribbons and cost £1 a sweet.

Is forgiveness infinite just like Jesus said or does patience of the spouse finally run out when you find yourselves in an emotional cul-de-sac?

It would be miraculous to have a spouse who has the patience of a saint; but alas we are after all human aren’t we?

In the area of conflict resolution marriages are like battlefields where both sides believe they are in the right and the other is wrong.  But those who resolve serious conflicts know that there is always a middle ground, a place where opposing parties can meet, shake hands and finally begin to appreciate the other party’s viewpoint.

That’s where reconciliation, peace and love begin to happen albeit slowly at times.

For Christians, Jesus is a mediator and peace maker. He doesn’t just deal with the superficial issues but gets right down deep into our souls where the hurt is, where misunderstanding is rife, where disagreement is often allowed to fester into something bigger.

How do we book an appointment with Jesus? We ask, we pray. His diary is always open to us and there’s no charge.

Queen's Diamond Jubilee - a lesson in humility

It is a common enough assertion in society that immigrants do the jobs that most of us are unwilling to perform even when we ourselves are destitute and unemployed. Speaking to an Anglican priest yesterday he mentioned a part of the priestly vestments that in these times is rarely worn. A small insignificant part of the priest’s apparel that might easily go unnoticed. Yet sometimes the smallest thing has the greatest meaning.

The ‘maniple’ is an embroidered piece of silk worn over the left arm and resembles a hand towel. The maniple is there to remind the priest that he is a servant of God. That underneath the rich robes and gowns the priest is first and foremost a servant to all.    In the Bible we read in the gospel of John chapter 13 that because there was no servant at the Passover meal Jesus himself took up the towel and a bowl of water to wash his disciples’ feet. A menial task performed by the Son of God who was prepared to humble himself at every opportunity to fulfil the Father’s will.

In 1967 the Roman Catholic Church gave an instruction that ‘The maniple is no longer required.’ Do we also carry within our hearts an instruction that the wash cloth is no longer required? 

It is on this day all those in Great Britain and the Commonwealth group of nations celebrate and give thanks to God for Her Royal Majesty Queen Elizabeth for her servant heart towards her subjects over the past sixty years.

Blog of First Pages - A Ghostly Encounter

BURY ST. EDMUNDS

In the year of 1908

It was twelve months or more since I had left my tutoring post at the University of Cambridge. You may recall that I recorded in my journal the extraordinary events that befell me during a short vacation at Caister-on-Sea in the east of England. The experience of coming face-to-face with the supernatural had for many months quite an unsettling effect upon my mind. As a fundamental materialis,t I had comfortably reasoned away in the closet of my mind any belief in the hereafter, gods, ghosts and ghouls of any size or shape. The existence of a nether world which was inhabited by immaterial beings was to me absurd. To what purpose would these elements exist? So much nonsense is written about these things and sometimes even by meritorious professors who, during the day expounded on science, human history and rational philosophy and by night seemed to lose their wits and descend into sheer nonsense.
Look at Arthur Conan Doyle whose fictional hero Sherlock Holmes, unremittingly champions the high skills of forensic science, and robustly dismisses all kinds of sentimental notions and pseudo-magical deceptions; yet Doyle the creator of this arch-realist maintains in his private aspirations, a belief in Spiritualism, albeit after the untimely death of his wife Louisa which occurred only a short time ago. I can accept that the loss of a dearly beloved can lead one into the realms of misguided beliefs in heaven and life after death, because it is surely an assured way to assuage the pain and anguish of death, and the stark truth of human mortality. I read with sympathetic contempt of these situations that drive intelligent men into the mire and mists of worlds whose main currency is hocus pocus and mumbo jumbo and whose chosen language is utter gibberish. Why even the established Church of England entertains such spurious utterances, glossolalia, a babbling tongue in a non-existent language as the dictionary rightly defines it.

Since writing this first page Fred has completed over 15,000 words of this epic ghost story set in Edwardian Bury St. Edmunds. The first story 'Borders in the Mists' is available on Kinde for just 77p here http://tinyurl.com/7yap7lf

Dragon Story Part 2

“Well I believe you mate because I had a similar experience when I was young!”
The third guy said nothing but just smiled.
“Tell us about it.”
“It was just as you said except I kept feeding it all kinds of stuff. I even spent my pocket money and went down to the butchers every Saturday morning and bought a bagful of cheap red meat. I was scared of it so I used to open the door a crack and throw it in to the dragon. Outside I could hear it eating the raw meat really hungrily and in seconds there was silence and I knew it had eaten the lot.”
“What did you do next? Did you tell your Dad like I did?”
“No I was scared to. I didn’t know who scared me most my Dad or the dragon. I wanted to tell my friends about it and all the grief it was causing me but I just couldn’t bring myself to speak about it.”
“Do you still have it then?” said the guy who’d killed his dragon.
“No fear! One night I was in bed and I heard a mighty crash from the basement. I got up and ran downstairs. My Mum and Dad were there already and my Dad had a baseball bat in his hand.”
“Stay back my Dad said to me and Mum, I think there’s a burglar in the basement!”
“As he said this the basement door was broken into pieces and the dragon’s head looked out straight at us. Then a flame of fire came from its mouth and nostrils and the baseball bat in my Dad’s hands got burned up in a flash and all the hair on my dad’s head was singed off.”
“Blimey!”
“My Dad shouted run…run for your lives!”
“We turned and fled and didn’t stop until we were across the street from our house.”
Then disaster struck. The whole house seemed to shake and great billows of fire came out the chimney and windows then the walls of the house toppled and the dragon appeared in the middle of the debris. The dragon looked at us and I began to shake in my carpet slippers, I thought we were all going to die. But the dragon flapped its’ huge wings and flew off and I never saw it again. By the time the Fire Service arrived the house was nothing more than a smoking pile of cinders. My Mum started to cry and Dad looked shell-shocked and I felt really bad.”
“That’s worse than my dragon. At least we still had our house.”
The other guy looked at both
of them and just shook his head sadly.
“What about you? Did you have a dragon when you were a kid?” They both asked.
“As a matter of fact I did” he said quietly.
“What happened tell us please?”
“Well my tale is like yours but different as well.”
The other two guys sat waiting to hear his story.
“Like you both I went into my Dad’s old shed and found a tiny little dragon in one of the plastic pots. It was tiny and could barely open its eyes. It had probably just been born!
I picked it up and carefully held it in the palm of my hand. It was no bigger that a small bird’s egg. I looked at it for a while and even though it was cute I knew that if I let it grow it would become a menace to me and my family. Like what happened to you guys.”
“What did you do with it then?”
“I simply closed my hand over it and crushed it. When I opened my hand I could see it was dead. I took it in the garden and got a spade and buried it just by the compost heap. That was the last time I saw it.”

If you enjoyed this story you will enjoy Fred's ghost story set in Edwardian England 'Borders in the Mists' available on Kindle http://tinyurl.com/7sfcvur

3 Guys in a Pub – A Modern Parable - Dragon Story

3 Guys in a Pub – A Modern Parable

Part 1 

There were these three guys sitting in the pub, old friends, having a pint when one said “What was the worst thing that ever happened to you as a child?”

One of the friends spoke up and told this story.

“I think I was about six when my Mum and Dad moved house. The house belonged to my Granddad who’d died. Well it was a big old dusty house with loads of rooms and even a cellar. I was exploring the rooms when I saw a door off the ground floor hall. Opening it I saw a long flight of stairs going down. It looked creepy but I wanted to know what was down there so leaving the door open wide in case I wanted to escape I went down. At the bottom of the stairs there was another door. It creaked as I pushed it open. It smelled horrible, all stale and dusty and  there was strange smell I hadn’t smelled before. It made me feel sick.” 

 “As I was saying it smelled horrible and it was pitch dark in there. And then I heard something move in the blackness and I nearly died of fright I was so scared. I pulled out my torch and switched it on and scanned the cellar. At first I thought there was nothing there but then the light of the torch picked out a little pile of debris, bits of paper and wood and stuff and then the pile of stuff moved! I thought it was rat or a mouse.”

The other two looked at the guy and both said simultaneously “What was it?”

“Hang on I’m getting there…I went over and shone the torch down on the pile and kicked at it with my trainer and then I jumped back. It was a dragon! A tiny little dragon and it was so cute so I bent down and took it into my hands and it looked at me and I swear it smiled at me but it ponged awful.”

 “I put it down and thought I’ll get it some food and water. I ran upstairs and got a saucer of milk and some bits of bread and took it down to the dragon. It drank all the milk and ate all the bread it was so hungry.” 

“That night I could hardly sleep I was so excited that I had a secret pet. I didn’t tell anyone but every day after school I’d feed it and give it milk and in a short time it grew to the size of a cat. It didn’t want the milk and bread anymore so I gave it leftovers. All kinds of food; burgers, chips, chocolate, Pepsi and sometimes the dregs of my Dad’s beer! It loved it all.”

“Then over Christmas, because of all the excitement and presents, I forgot about the dragon for a few day’s but after Boxing Day I went down to see if it was okay. Blimey,

when I opened the door what I saw scared the life out of me! It had grown to the size of a tiger and as soon as it saw me it leapt forward and a bolt of flame came out of its mouth. I just managed to shut the door in time. I ran screaming up the stairs straight into my Dad’s arms.”

“What’s got into you lad? And what are you doing in that dirty old cellar I told you never to go down there!”

I was just about to get a wallop when my Dad saw how frightened I really was. He bent down low and held my arms and said “Come on tell what’s scared you? Something down there is it?”

“Yes, yes Dad it’s a blooming dragon!” I blurted out.

“A dragon? Don’t make me laugh!”

“I’m not lying Dad…I’ve been feeding for months…go and see for yer’self but be careful cos it’ll burn you up.”

He gave me this daft look then went down the stairs.

“Just crack the door a bit Dad don’t…please don’t let it out!” I shouted.

He did as I said, just peeped, probably just to humour me, but in flash he slammed the door shut and I saw him quaking in his boots. From inside the cellar came a great roar and then the paint on the door started to blister.

He rushed past me and in few minutes he back with a big axe in his hand and a hosepipe in the other. My mum looked through the kitchen window at us.

“Jill when I shout ‘turn it on’ you turn the water on full blast okay?”

“Okay George.”

“Right son we’re going down together and I want you do to do your bit understood?”

“Yes, Dad but what are we going to do?”

I really didn’t want to deal with this.

“When I fling the door open you are going to hose that dragon so he can’t spit fire and I am going to run in and chop its bleeding head off.”

“Ready? Jill! Turn the Water on!”

My dad flung open the door and there was the fearsome dragon but before it could spit fire I fired a jet of water straight down its gullet. My Dad, screaming like a banshee, dashed into the cellar and with one fantastic swipe of the axe lopped its head straight off.

“Later we chopped it into bits and put it in black bags and put it out with the rubbish. That was the last I saw of it, thank God.”

If you like reading Fred's stories you can visit www.fredhurr.org to find out more and also purchase his latest ghost story on Kindle at http://tinyurl.com/bwl74cv

 

Blog of First Pages

What is this?

The first page of a new piece of writing that floated into my head in the early hours today. I have written so many first pages of novels that never got finished that once in a  desperate moment to get published I thought I would put them altogether and make a book out of them and call it simply ‘First Pages’.

What is this first page? Well it could be as GK Chesterton once said “The finest book I never wrote.”

***

The day was lost. Even in the morning in the broad golden sunlight something good, almost imperceptibly, was slipping away from me. Like a strange cat that pausing silently on its way across the lawn for a brief moment stays its progress to look in your direction then carelessly moves away disappearing into the thick foliage of a bush on the margins.

I stood at the window staring aimlessly out at the world. I pulled the net curtain aside to see more clearly. I could see alright but my mind was still hurting from the last night’s alcohol. The night before was a raw dim memory and all that mattered now was how best to forget. How best to move forward. A forlorn hope of days now spread out before me, a bridge to the next weekend.

My life had become a slow painful graduation from cork to empty bottle. Sometimes I spent my last dollar on some cheap whiskey from the supermarket and sat alone in the dark watching the shadows move in and out of my mind and around the silent room, thinking of nothing at all. Or I was at so and so’s party drinking other people’s booze. The guilt was theirs not mine. All I had to do was be sociable until the fog descended in my head and the bass throaty blast of a horn interrupted my lucid thoughts. Seemingly endless pain followed. The headache of a fool. The clang of a bell and the distant horn still blowing somewhere in my head and pieces of my burdened soul being wrecked again on the jagged rocks.

It wasn’t always like this.