You still have to sell!

Writers, we love to write, don’t we? That’s the best, even if NaNoWriMo can make us a little jittery (I know I had a wobble last week). But if you’re a writer, or an artist or creative of any kind, you know how wonderful it feels to be in the zone.

The converse of this: you still have to sell. 

For indie authors, it’s all down to us.

This is why friend and fellow author, Paul English and I were selling our books at the local car boot sale last Saturday. My husband Cliff was there too with his some of his lovely artworks. He’s a very important member of the team as he has the transport (that’s his bakkie in the background) and the tables and the all-important awning were borrowed from his school.

I have to tell you, it was not a great success. I sold a copy of ‘The Silver Locket’ very early on, but that was it! No other sales of anything! A couple of sniffs… and a couple of people said they’d come back next time. And there will be a next time, in two weeks.

I mean, who wouldn’t want a lovely book for a Christmas present?

Ah well, there’s always next time.

Meanwhile I’m planning some Black Friday and holiday offers – stay tuned out there!

NaNoWriMo Week #1

nanowrimo 2019

Okay, I can’t stop long: brain to squeeze, imagination to let fly, words to get down…

I was feeling confident to begin with; I had a bit of a head start: the main characters were waiting for me and I already had parts of their stories. Some of you might remember, young Sam and his little boat, Johannes the retired engineer, feisty Albertina, the two little aunties and shopkeeper Abdul.

So I spent a day or two reviewing and re-writing. Big mistake! I wasn’t getting the flow. No-one speaking to me, so no-one was guiding the story ahead. (You have to remember, I sit back and let my characters do the work).

Temporary crisis of confidence. Why am I doing this? There’s nothing there! NO story to tell!

But then I ran out of old stuff and started out again. Now we are moving forward. Scenes are emerging before my eyes, there is an overarching theme, there’s going to be a road trip, and I can see a little vervet monkey sitting on a book shelf. The monkey tells me he’s called Felix, but I’m not sure where he fits in yet. But he will.

Oh, and there will be mystery… and magic… and a stick fight…

 

Heads back down, fellow NaNoWriters! I hope it’s going well.

Take a moment

Take a moment by Chris Hall lunasonline

Look up at that little tree,

sparkling in the moonlight,

lit up by the stars.

Take a moment to remind yourself

of what is truly precious.

One life, one planet,

last chance.


Written in response to Sadje‘sWhat Do You See‘ photo prompt.

NaNoWriMo here I come!

nanowrimo 2019

But not officially.

I’m going to write, write and write some more under the ‘NaNo’ umbrella, but just for me, just as I did last year. That was pretty successful. I have the recently released ‘Following the Green Rabbit‘ to show for it!

I don’t do unachievable targets. I don’t set myself up to fail.

I’ll consider around 30,000 words a major success. I won’t have finished a new book, but I’ll be well on the way. And that suits me.

I’ll be touching base out there in ‘twitter-land’ and I’ll post a little weekly update to brag (or shame myself).

And for a little light relief, I’ll be continuing with the what do you see?’ challenge, which has recently been revived by Sadje.

Good luck to everyone who’s doing this! See you on the other side.

 

The Audition

what do you see by chris hall lunasonline

Freya admired her newly-polished talons. She glanced over her scaly shoulders at her wings, freshly adorned with the finest lapis lazuli, mined by the dwarves of Zendor. The elves had done a fine job on her.  It had cost her several gold coins from her secret horde, but it would be worth it. She was ready for the audition.

As a young actress she’d been an extra in the final Lord of the Rings film. She hadn’t enjoyed flying on by herself all the way to New Zealand. It had been exhausting. But there’d been no way she would have agreed to go in one of those flying metal contraptions, crated up like an animal. And then, after all that, her scene had ended up on the cutting room floor.

Her other big regret was to have just missed the part in the BBC TV series, Merlin. She’d have loved to have worked with John Hurt, but they’d said she was too pretty. Fair enough, she’d thought; the role had, after all, been for a considerably older dragon, and a male at that.

Now she was pinning her hopes on the Game of Thrones. This could be her big break!


Written in response to Sadje‘s ‘What Do You See‘ photo prompt.

And in memory of our friend, Hélène Vaillant. I’m so pleased that Sadje has revived this!

Yearning

he's here by chris hall lunasonline

All alone in the

big brass bed

you wait.

 

You’re late, my love!

 

Your body craves,

shivers, aches

with unfulfilled desires.

 

Where are you, my love?

 

A door bangs

A shutter creaks

He has come.

 

You are the moon

He is the night

You shine in his darkness

 

Engulfed by his touch,

slave to the rhythm

of his dance.

 

Later, in the empty bed

You wonder:

Was he really here?

 

Two ruby red droplets

on your pillow.

The legacy of his love.

 

 

The return of the San man

the return of the san man by chris hall lunasonline

I return to the cave behind the koppie one last time. I’m alone. My story-teller has finished his story now. Still I am drawn to this place where the veld stretches out to the smudge-blue mountains.  It is late afternoon, when the sun’s red-orange afterglow becomes a purple-haze dusk; when the air is alive with spirits.

Inside the cave, my hand traces the outlines of the eland and the hunter who stands, bow and arrow poised, taking aim at the beast. A shadow moves across the scene and I turn to see the figure of a man outlined against the burning sunset. For a moment I think it’s the story-teller. But no, this is someone else.

He’s dressed in a long blanket; a string of beads decorates his head. He carries a long, stout stick which he lays against the cave entrance before stepping silently into the cave.

The San man.

He points at the eland and at the hunter. He turns to me and our eyes meet. His are the colour of the early morning sky. They tell me that he was that hunter and this was the first eland he ever killed. Killing an eland made him a man.

He beckons me over to another drawing. A lion and a man stand next to a bush which has strips of meat hanging from its branches. The man doesn’t fear the lion, because they are friends. The man shares his meat with the lion and the lion does the same with his kill. They belong to the land and the land belongs to them.

Together we walk to the cave entrance and stand looking out across the veld as the sky darkens; two tiny figures in a vast universe.

When I turn to look at him, he has gone.

Another conversation with my characters

all 4 books

“Nice review of ‘Sextet’, Ms Hall,” says Connor, as Cynthia hands me a cup of coffee. “Would you like a little something in that?” He waves a hip flask in my direction.

I shake my head. It’s a bit early for me.

Connor pours a liberal slug into his own cup. “Of course, I find a slim volume always has an appeal; like those novellas that Leonardi chap’s written. I must say, I do like his work.”

“Connor did very well with both his poetry collections at the Edinburgh Book Festival.” Cynthia smiles at him proudly.

“Publicity, d’you see.” He takes a mouthful of coffee. “Isn’t it time you gave our book another little push? I mean, we know you’ve only just released ‘The Rabbit’…” he chuckles. “‘Released the rabbit’, rather catchy that, eh?”

I nod in acknowledgement. I have used that, corny as it may be.

“Oh, it’s a lovely story, Ms Hall. Quite charming!” Cynthia interjects. “That nice young woman, Ellie Scott, enjoyed it too, didn’t she? So nice to hear from her.

“Our book’s done well in the ratings, but it doesn’t seem to have achieved quite the sales we might have hoped, does it?” Connor rubs his chin.

“I thought it would’ve sold loads more by now.” Gina drains her coffee.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you all ab…”

I’m interrupted by an instantly familiar beat coming from the flat upstairs. Gina rolls her eyes. “Not again! I’ve woken up to that song every morning since Bob moved into Lucy’s old room,” she sighs. “Hold on.” Gina gets to her feet and hurries upstairs.

“It has become a little tiresome,” says Cynthia.

“You can always bunk in with me, old thi… Cynth.”

Cynthia looks at him sharply.

The music stops. Moments later Gina returns followed by Gary and Bob who has Fingers perched on his shoulder. The little monkey chirrups when he recognises me, launching himself from Bob’s shoulder, via the back of Cynthia’s couch, onto my lap.

Gina, Gary and Bob squeeze onto the couch and look at me expectantly. I stroke Fingers’s head.

“The thing is, I may have made a misjudgment with the title.”

“How so, Ms Hall? I think it’s a lovely sentiment, using that pretty song from Carousel.” Cynthia beams.

“You mean the Liverpool football team anthem. That’s what it’s properly famous for.” Gary thrusts out his chest which is clad in the latest LFC team shirt. “Best team in the world!”

“That’s just the point, Gary,” I say. “Not everyone would agree.”

“Me Nan wasn’t best pleased with yer title. You know, being an Evertonian, like,” said Bob. “I mean, she did read it, but only ’cos of Fingers being in it.”

Hearing his name, Fingers sits up and chatters.

“Do you think that’s the reason? The title?” asks Gina.

“Quite possibly. Certainly in the UK.” I remember the reaction on Twitter back in July.

“So what would you call it?

“I’m not sure, Gina.”

“How about ‘We are the Champions’,” suggests Gary.

I frown.

“Don’t be daft, Gary,” Gina digs him in the ribs.

“Well, we were all champions in the end, weren’t we?” Gary holds his hands out. “I mean, Connor here…”

I hold up my hand. “Don’t give away the plot!”

“No, well, y’know what I mean.”

Cynthia turns to Connor. “What do you think? You’re so good with titles.”

Connor rubs his hand across his face. “What about ‘The Ruby Necklace’? Pierre giving Lucy that necklace is your inciting incident, isn’t it?”

“That fits in so well with your first book,” Cynthia claps her hands together. “The Silver Locket followed by ‘The Ruby Necklace’. That would be perfect.”

“And after that, ‘The Solitaire Diamond’..?” Gina touches her engagement ring.

I nod slowly. I wonder, maybe I should change the title?


The music referred to is ‘Blue Monday’ by New Order, which my flat-mate played loudly every morning for the whole of our last term at university.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FYH8DsU2WCk

 

Welcome to the House of Books

The House of Books Barrydale

 

Hemingway drains his whisky glass and picks up his rifle,

stomps from the room.

Sadly, the last we’ll see of him.

His clipped and perfect prose

Done for good.

 

Sylvia surfaces for the last time, before disappearing

below the lapping waves,

one last word on her beautiful blue lips.

No, not waving.

Gone for good.

 

Pass the purple prose and the sugar-pink poetry,

the long-winded sagas and the tea-time trash.

Just give me the facts!

 

Boris burbles, bright but bonkers.

I said the facts, sir!

Thatcher, Thatcher, school milk snatcher!

Not what history will recall.

HIS story?

 

What about HER story?

Diana, princess betrayed

Norma Jean?

Her story says it all.

 

Drop the pretense.

Give me something I can believe.

 

Believe in the beauty of fine-tuned fiction:

the gentle rustle of pages turning,

the perfume of old paper.

Behold the tranquility of a mind engrossed

and a spirit at peace.

 


Inspired by a visit to ‘The House of Books’ in Barrydale, South Africa. It lives up to its name!
Eccentric owner, Anton, is pictured above.

Trance

Trance by Chris Hall lunasonline

My storyteller falls silent, staring at the distant smudge-blue mountains. Sitting on the still-warm rocks, he is a ‘there-not there’ presence beside me.

The sun sets quickly here. Now the great African moon, reclining serenely on her back, casts a soft glow over the darkening veld.

All is still.

Soon the broad African sky is star-pricked velvet. Orion, the hunter, with his belt of three she-tortoises hanging on a stick, stalks across the western sky. The frothy plume of the Milky Way is a handful of ashes, cast into the sky by a Bushman girl to light the way for her people to return home.

Long, long ago was that past-time when the great herds roamed the plains: springbok in their multitudes, steenbok, kudu, eland and wildebeest. Then there were lions and elephants in the veld; and jackals, wild dogs and hyenas; great giraffes and rhino, small hares and porcupines. Now only their ghosts remain, painted on the cave walls behind me.

A huge 4×4, lights ablaze, erupts across the highway below, shattering the silence. My storyteller shakes himself and stands. He turns to me, nods and walks away. 

I remain.

All is silent again, but the spell is broken.


In case you missed it, this is the story my storyteller told