David Hall's Blog

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I should have given up as soon as I saw the police van pull up outside.

Foolishly, I thought I would sit it out and take my chances. After all, I had the perfect viewpoint to watch them. In fact, to watch everybody. From the fifth floor, I was close enough to determine one shady character from another, and yet high enough to be unobserved. Anonymously present. Like a checkout assistant at any U.K. supermarket chain, where the customer is always boring.

There was nothing but the arrival of the boys and girls in blue to create a serene environment. Even the pigeons took flight for fear of being picked up in dealing stolen breadcrumbs. The two officers cut across the communal ‘gardens’ in what could have otherwise been a still-life image. Well, not quite still life. This place was never truly still unless you counted the council workers. There wasn’t even any curtain twitching by the residents. Not here. Instead, CCTV cameras hung from open windows on selfie sticks.  Observation. People watching.  Police watching.  It seemed an essential tool for staying out of jail and to improve creative writing.  Both of which appealed to me in equal measure. I pulled my stool a little closer to the window and began to document.

The building opposite had forty three courses of mottled red bricks above the top floor window. Apologies.  It wasn’t a window; French doors with a Juliette balcony. The devil is in the detail. Still life. I had begun to take notice of the previously un-noticed. The bland and boring became, or rather remained, bland and boring but with a lot more detail surrounding their nature, thus making them ever more bland and boring. It was all thanks to the purchase of a new creative writing course book. A complete guide. Thick and expensive.

The first lesson: to observe. It wasn’t what I had expected if I’m being straight but I went with it, as you do when you’ve shelled out a fair sum of money. The book urged me to observe. Everything. The contents of my coffee table had never before been so analysed and documented. A single pencil became a Faber Castell 2B graphite and clay blended pencil. There appeared no end to the futility of my observations. That was until I was advised to cast my eye beyond the flat’s four walls and digest every morsel of real life that was served. It took me no longer than a minute to realize that one could easily choke on the finer details of the life hitherto un-noticed.

The police had knocked at a flat on the ground floor. My inner observer told me to clearly define their body language. Hmm, ‘casual with a suggestion of laziness’. They were laughing as he chewed gum and she rested her hands on hips. Her hips, not his. It was difficult not to be led down a path of thought when you already knew the back story. There was always gossip on the estate. Gossip about gossip.

The ground floor residents, let’s call them Suspect A & Suspect B for ease of reference, had some designer clothes stolen from the washing line. Designer clothes. Suspicious, given their low level government based income. Maybe they were good savers. The clothes stolen had actually been shoplifted by Suspect A. It appears that there is no honour among thieves after all. I anticipated that the law were here to kill an hour in their day.  Nothing more.

Such thoughts intruded my thought processes as I tried to focus on the finer details of the uniformed visitors. Suspect B, dressed in her Disney-themed pyjamas had opened the door and inadvertently let ‘Gnasher’ out. I wasn’t sure what the dog was called but it was sweet in a ‘she’s turned out well considering’ kind of way. She was one of those terriers (I get them a bit mixed up) all full of muscle and human legs. Anyway, Gnasher had made a run for it, past the police and across the ‘gardens’. Her attention however was caught by movement to her left. That’s when the fun really started.

For an inner city area we do ok. We have trees. Three of them in our communal ‘gardens’. My wife says they are Cherry trees and so that’s what they must be. Beautiful flowering buggers. The little ASBO-ettes, also referred to as children, appear to be particularly taken with them in the Spring. Throwing missiles into the tree to knock the blossom off provides a respite from less enjoyable activities. But this was December. No blossom.

At the base of Tree 1 however were three branches, maybe six foot in length and half as wide. Their collected position was down to one natural condition: A hound’s instinctual need for a pile of sticks from which to gather, distribute, and collate. However, this was a stick collection on steroids. I have seen body builders with smaller legs than some of those make-shift limbs down there. And who owned such a stash? There were several dogs on the estate. Some wanna-be punk terriers that chased the postman on a daily basis. Miserable bugger anyway. But no dog dared to even cock his leg over the wooden merchandise. This was Gnasher’s stash. Even I made sure that Gnasher wasn’t prowling the ‘gardens’ before I started documenting her human friendly tree products.

Gnasher had already sprinted to the tree. It was a given. Whenever she was out, she made a bee line for it. If she needed a pee she would do so under the burden of balancing a log between her chops. Then she would run. Carefree. Three foot of pure, solid cherry wood protruding each side of her jaws. It was an accident waiting to happen.

In hindsight, I think it must have been the noise of Suspect C’s mobility scooter that enticed Gnasher to charge.

Suspect C was of indeterminate age, she could have been 30, she could have been 50. She wasn’t a slight woman by any sense but insisted on dressing in clothes not befitting her build. In the summer, given a warm day by U.K. standards, se would bask on the lawn between the dog turds and the overflowing bin store. Either two provided a welcome distraction from what was on show. And it was a show. With extras. The matinee was on, the curtains were raised and the audience had been invited onto the stage and then given a full tour of the private dressing rooms. Comprendez? On such occasions my observations on dog shit became refined. Very refined.

Suspect C was known to use a variety of mobility aids ranging from the scooter (assumed use for quicker amphetamine and dope drops), walking frame, and a walking stick. These changed on a daily basis depending on some unknown formula.  Naturally the week would also include three or four days when no such aid was required. She is healed. It was a miracle, of sorts. Everybody had a back story for Suspect C too. She had throat cancer. She had just had a stroke. She had anxiety after her recent burglary. It was all true, of course, it said so on her disability benefit application forms, allegedly. Maybe I do her a dis-service and she is just an unlucky type. Possible.

I still believe it was the high pitched whinny of the electric scooter or the pungent odour of skunk that hung over Suspect C, or a combination of both, that sent Gnasher flying, stick in jaw, into Suspect C’s scooter. We shall never know for sure. What I did learn is that the KickBack Twin 50 mobility scooter can be overturned by a charging dog with a 6 foot battering ram.  Who knew?

Suspect C fell gracefully from the cockpit. Like a veteran sea captain that refusing to leave her ship.  She remained clutching the control stick until the very last.  Alarming, and yet mysteriously beautiful.  Her landing wasn’t so sensitive though and I could see her slipping and sliding in what I had been forced to observe within an inch of it’s foul dog shit life. Sometimes you’re just shit out of luck. Literally. Suspect C was scrabbling to stand up but appeared more anxious about the spilled contents of her buggy basket. I looked closer.

On the path laid a dozen clear bags, their merchandise on show for all and sundry to see. Suspect C, our very own mobile pharmacist.

Maybe it was because Gnasher had been around drugs her entire life but she wagged that little mottled tail and barked, and repeated several times only stopping when the two police officers woke up and sauntered over to see what all the noise was about. Say what you like about Northumbria Police but give them an upturned mobility scooter and they can process the life out of the situation. Suspect C was banged to rights and carted off (without the need for any walking aids).

The devil is in the detail. Suspect C found her devil in Gnasher, and in fairness she had a point. Suspect A&B saw the devil in the police. Not the only ones for sure. The police refuse to make the effort to identify the devil in anyone, resulting in a middle aged lady driving around in a mobility scooter selling drugs. Me? I now see the devil in everyone and everything. Thanks to that bloody thick and expensive book. I don’t like to think about what Exercise 3 will lead to…

What about you my darling readers? I haven’t forgotten you. Did you ever buy such a writer’s guide and how did you fair? And how important are these details to you? I would love to hear about your writing experiences – have you found yourself studying an unusual subject as part of research?  Please send all responses by postcard…

Thank you for reading. If I had a gold star you would get it for sure.

The highly regarded reviewer Nikki DeMc  has published a review of Love Line. WOW!

Nikki DeMc writes:

 “Too many men in her life had asked for her understanding and on occasion she had tortured herself further by giving it.” ~ Love Line

For all those who have ever admired someone from afar and wondered if their crush would ever notice them, this one is for you. Love Line by David Hall is a playful, flirty short story with the right amount of sensuality, humor, and suspense. 
 
In his debut publication, Hall brings to life likable characters and situations that readers will relate to.  Catherine has been admiring Marcus, aka “Tube Man,” every weekday on the London Tube for a year, fantasizing about the time she actually captures his eye.  Just when Catherine and her friends are convinced this infatuation is never going to go anywhere, a mishap finally gets Marcus’ attention. Will Catherine be able to use this to her advantage and propel the two of them into a relationship? And, if so, will it be the dream relationship she has been envisioning for a year?
 
Gabrielle Zevin, in her novel The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry , states that great writers must master the art of the short story.  I would say that Hall is off to a wonderful start.  Love Line is a quick, fun read with an unexpected ending that will leave you wanting more. My regular readers know how difficult it is for an author to surprise me, but Hall succeeded. I highly recommend this story especially, although not exclusively, to fans of chick lit.

I know readers aren’t always inclined to give indie authors a try, but what better way than with a short story – no long term commitment!  Love Line is available electronically on Amazon.

Just giving some thought to a new front cover for Love Line, staying loyal to the theme but with an injection of romance.

Here’s the two versions.  Going to play around with it for a bit but any suggestions are most welcome.

D

 

Men are not women. And vice versa. I didn’t excel at school but I do remember learning that much with a little help from Vicky Taylor, as we snuck off behind the school bike racks. Yes, I know what you’re thinking. He grew up in the 70s and they had a bike rack at school, even then? But it’s all true, for the most part. Anyway, the important thing is that even at such a tender age I discovered that men are different to women. Physically. I dedicated my adolescent years to uncovering the differences in nature (pun alert!) and by my early 20s was something of an expert in the field. Despite a frustrating lack of physical research work in the field, I still considered myself something of a sage on the matter, and would walk around with a profound smugness plastered over my spotty face. I didn’t know then that there would be a time in my mid-40s when I would spend two weeks living as a woman but we’ll come to that later.

Fear not, I’m not about to waffle on about the fact that men are women are from different planets. That’s been done to death. No, what I wish to share in our collective moment together is far less profound. I want you to picture something, ready? A man, let’s call him David, for ease of reference, publishes a short story on a very well known publishing platform. David’s story is a romantic comedy with a little suspense. It’s Chick-Lit for want of a better explanation. There, I’m sure hypothetical David wouldn’t mind us saying that. Well hypo-Dave is nothing if not impulsive and shortly after publishing the story, he decides that the story would be better received if written by a female author. There’s no evidence to support his rationale, just a hunch. Impulsive is as impulsive does. The next morning he wakes up with a fuzzy head and a female name tattooed across his e-book cover.

Penny Drop. A joke name. Not so much of a joke when I, I mean he, realises what a tit he has just made of himself. Surely, what has been done can be undone though, I hear you cry. Well, the answer to that has to be yes and no. You see, hypo D wasn’t content with just dipping his toes in the murky waters of the opposite sex. No, none of this, ‘let’s see how this goes for a week or so.’ kind of common sense mindset. He, before becoming she, had been fortunate enough to find two decent souls to review Love Line. With the reviews imminent, Penny showed her true colours, and pushed herself into the limelight. She politely requested that the reviews use her name as author as David had ‘gone away’. The reviewers, for their part, showed little concern for his welfare, and rallied around Penny, like the prodigal sister returning home. As soon as the reviews were in, Penny started dismantling the foundations of hypo D’s existence. Wherever and whenever his name had once stood proud as author, she erased, defiled, and replaced. David was dead. Penny had seen to it.

Conviction. As fundamental as the ink pot (ok, word processor) to an author. It took only two weeks for cracks to show in Penny’s persona. For one, she struggled with the idea of not being able to display a profile picture of herself. Not a deal breaker, though. Penny Drop. Despite everything she had fought for and everything she envisioned, she fell short for the want of one thing. Conviction. He had written the story, not her. He was the author of chick-lit, not her. And he made a better woman than her. Penny Drop. A joke name. A name that lacked conviction. It was all his fault. For two weeks she had thrived, survived, and denied. And then it was over.

Hypo D came back stronger. His name now sits proudly on the cover of his book. Profiles show his picture. Reviews now bear his name. Yes, you may see Penny’s name here and there but she is nothing more than a shadow, a memory of a time without conviction. David Hall is a rather popular name, however. He will have to fight hard to stand shoulder to shoulder with his fellow Halls to shout, ‘I am a chick-lit knitter and proud.’ Conviction. It changes everything. Goodbye Penny.

authordavidhall:

The importance of reading right to the end lol

Originally posted on Books and Messy Buns:

Book Rate: ★★★☆☆ (3/5)

Review:

The last seven lines of Love Line were exactly what I needed to read.

Penny Drop wrote an enjoyable short story about a romance born on a daily train transfer to work. You get to know the main character as best as you can in a short story and find her quite relatable to. I personally found some of Catherine’s interactions with her friends pretty amusing too.

But then you read the synopsys (in the end of this post) and you’re waiting for the “suspense” bit… An you wait and you wait and then you think it’s coming and then you think it won’t not afterall. There’s only a few lines left to finish the book and you’re already thinking this has zero suspense, this is just the normal cutsie love story. AND THEN, in the last seven lines, BAM! You get the ending you wanted…

View original 177 more words

Well of course we can.  For the purists out there let me rephrase the question:  Can men write good chicklit?  Yes, that’s better.  Answers on a postcard please…

Alright, alright, I’ll hold my hands up.  I have a vested interest here.  I’ve written something purporting to be chicklit (but between you and me it’s more romcom – is there a difference?) and I’m curious if readers and fellow writers have any pre-conceptions about chicklit written by a man.  I’ve carried out a very brief online survey and the general consensus appeared to be ‘hmmm, not sure.  But it depends on the personality of the author.’  So like many great surveys of our time, not earth shattering news.  Although one respondent did suggest the appeal of reading chicklit written from the male’s perspective – crikey, this is getting complicated.  Is that still chicklit? I fear for the acronym that might be created for such a  genre.

My wee short story, Love Line, is written from a lead female perspective.  However, I am toying with the idea of writing a sequel from her lover’s perspective (a Marcus reveals all kinda thing) but not if you folks tell me this is a rotten apple.  An older colleague of mine once stated, ‘You can’t make chicken pie from chicken shit’ and I wonder if that might be apt here.

All thoughts are much appreciated to help me navigate these dark and mysterious waters.

Herein lies words of vulgarity from a dirty mouthed Londoner.  Please look away now if you are offended by bad language or Londoners.

Ok, there’s no easy way to say this.  I’m just gonna say it quickly and then you can be on your way.  I fucked up.  I recently self-published ‘Love Between the Lines’, a romcom come suspense short story.  It was my first time publishing and I was excited about the prospect of earning a small fortune, blah, blah… I don’t mind telling you I was pretty pumped about the whole thing.  The writing had been enjoyable, the plot coming relatively easily to mind.  The mood was upbeat.  Yeah, definitely positive.  Shit, I’m stalling, innit.  Well, I’m a hothead, too impatient for my own good; not road rage-esque but definitely on a short fuse – ‘wanna see how short this fuse is – go on, try me, try me, TRY ME.’  Fuck.  So, I get the story written – it’s good in places, but in others its not all that (my wife always wondered what the rest of this phrase was i.e. not all that what? But rest assured if something is not all that, it’s not all THAT).  Shit.  Stop distracting me.  So where was I? Yeah, then we get to editing.  I hate that bit.  Can’t be assed with it but I did it anyway cos I wanted this story to be better than the other stuff.  You know, like, put a bit more effort in.  Except I fucked up.  What? No not twice, just the once.  What you on about? Calling me a fuck up merchant are ya?  Come here and say that!!!!  Okay, sorry my misunderstanding – and yeah I think the creases should come out of your collar.  Tension, innit.

I can’t put this off anymore.  I gave my book the title ‘Love Between the Lines’.  Romance on the London Underground, bit of a romcom come suspense, more to it than meets the eye, or less, read between the lines, play on words, Bob’s your Uncle.  I liked the title.  My title.  But the platform I put it on suddenly announces ‘Oh yeah did we tell you that this little offering of yours won’t go on Amazon.’  I was, like, fuck you, and the high horse you rode on in.  So I went to Amazon and I thought I’ll upload directly.  Yeah. Two can play at that game.  Except I fucked up.  I didn’t like my cover and Amazaon had this software to design a better cover – you know, it looked better to me but the more I played around with the design, the less I liked my title.  Too wordy.  Too shit.  So I changed it to Love Line.  Impulsive.  Spur of the moment.  A fuck up.

So now I have two books, well one book with two different titles on two different platforms.  And I’m trying to promote them both.  Shit.  I don’t know to laugh or cry.  So anyway, I decided to merge them into one book, one title but still two sales platforms.  The title is Love Line now.  No Love Between the Lines.  Not for me anyway.  Just Love Line.  It was a fuck up.  But now it unfucked up.  Well, except the old platform still hasn’t accepted the change of title,so I guess it remain un-refucked up.  Innit.

So don’t come looking for Love Between the Lines, right.  Just hearing the words gets me fucking twitchy, innit.  Cos if you want that book, ask Malcolm, my errr concierge, if he has any merchandise, he’ll see you right.  Love Line, innit.

Uh, ok – this is awkward.  Let’s just get this over with shall we.  This is my first ever blog to promote my first ever published ebook, Love Line.  The book, you know the one I just told you about (can you remember the name without looking back – ha, I knew you couldn’t) is just about one of the funniest, laugh out loud short stories you are going to read this year.  Boy Scout promise.  Oh yeah and it’s available for download from Amazon.

Yeah, yeah – I know – you’ve got a zillion things to do and you really don’t feel inclined to click this and that.  I’m the same.  Hmmm, so what we gonna do? I want you to download this funny story (still remember the name? Go on go back and check, that’s okay) and you are determined not to do it.  How about if I tell you a little bit about it?  Would that change your mind? Ok then…

When an accident on the London Underground throws Catherine into the arms of Marcus, a man that she has held a secret crush on for a year, a slow and sensuous affair develops. Marcus appears to be the man of Catherine’s dreams until a shock discovery threatens to destroy their relationship. Will Catherine confront Marcus and risk losing everything? Will their love endure or has Catherine unearthed more than she will ever know?

This romantic comedy come suspense will transport you from outlandish humour to emotional turmoil via one irresistible journey.

So, it’s funny, yes, it’s chick lit meets suspense.  Sex, yes there’s a smidging of that too!

But you’re still not convinced are you?  And is the question on your mind:  Can a guy write good chick lit?  Well, I guess you’re never gonna find out…

For those of you who are brave or just silly enough to want to download their very own copy of Love Line, and be one of those that can proudly say to friends, ‘I was one of the very first people to read one of his books before he was famous.’

Here is the promised link: Love Line by David Hall

Laugh freely my friends,

David Hall