Entering America – Extract from ‘Farther from the Sun’.

Posted on by Opher

I can remember being stunned, elated and full of disbelief. Pregnant. The creator of new life. Amazing. I was to be a father.

3.5.01

 

If one has rights then all must have them.

15.9.01

 

In 1971, under the auspices of Pete Smith, for whom travel was a mind expanding necessity, we applied to go over to the States on a student Visa. We had to go to the American embassy to get orientated. They told us stories about English people not understanding American gun policy and hence getting themselves shot.

We were told of one unfortunate guy who had his back blown out by a neighbour because he was climbing in through his own front window having forgotten his key. The neighbour mistook him for a burglar. An easy mistake to make. Could happen anywhere!

The American diplomat explained to us that Americans shoot first and ask questions later.

We were told not to walk around in certain areas or districts. It seemed that every city and town had a no-go area and every American was looking for an excuse to blast you full of lead. We were warned about race hatred, religious fervour and swearing. Contrary to Hollywood films, it seems that many Americans considered it a shooting matter if sworn at.

Seemed you could get shot for almost anything.

We were warned about the evils of drugs. It seems that one puff on a ‘reefer’ and you were hooked. Not only that but it turned you instantly into an insane degenerate. All your values disappeared and you inevitably got gonorrhoea, pregnant and became insane. Not only that but you had to steal and whore yourself to get a further ‘fix’. Wow! I never knew that. Any hint of interaction with drugs would result in our instant deprtation or worse!

We were warned about communists. Communists were seeking to undermine American values. They, under many guises, such as student visas, sought to get into the country and ferment insurrection. He looked closely at each one of us as if peering into our souls, seeking out the slightest hint of communist ideology lurking in the crevices of our minds. It made us all very uneasy. I’d never been involved with any communist party but I certainly believed in equality and fairness. I suspected that might well be sufficient to ban me, lock me up or even have me lynched. Fairness and equality were not fundamental American values – competition and capitalism were. This was the land of the survival of the fittest. Speaking about anything that smacked of socialism could get you shot.

We were told of all the wonderful American values and what the nation stood for and all the other activities for which we could be instantly deported.

It seemed an extensive no-do list. I was concerned that I might not even remember it all and inadvertently find myself booted out for some minor indiscretion or other – like not paying sufficient respect to the American flag or not taking the vow of allegiance seriously. I could easily become deported for grinning at the wrong time. It was quite daunting.

The diplomatic official, without any hint of irony, explained to us that we were being privileged in that we were being allowed a look at the free world in action.

It didn’t actually sound very free to me.

After we’d proceeded through the six months of paperwork necessary to enter the ‘home of the free’, we found ourselves on a plane bound for New York.

At embarkation we were ushered along in a lengthy slow moving file. When it came to our turn we were scrutinised by a solemn Customs Officer. He dramatically opened a huge black book and scanned down the names to see if we were included. This contained all the names of communist sympathisers, fellow travellers and political activists. It had trades unionists, who were obviously commie sympathisers, and druggies, criminals and miscreants. There were a lot of people who were not allowed to be free. Nobody ever knew how they compiled this great mass of names, the book was massive, but if your name appeared in it you were forbidden entry.

As we stood there in front of this official from the land of freedom, we couldn’t help running through the checklist of possibilities for our exclusion. There seemed an infinite number of reasons why our names might find their way into inclusion in such a tome. I was surely guilty and hence unworthy of entry into the land of purity and apple pie. I harboured thoughts of equality and real freedom of thought and mouth. I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. I might pollute an American.

We waited for the finger to come to rest as it trailed down the endless list of names. The fucking thing was a full six inches thick. It was was huge. We stood there trying to look innocent for ages. The names were tiny and arranged in neat columns. There had to be half the world in that book.

I couldn’t help wondering if they actually did have all of Cuba, Russia and China in there to start with.

Absurd.

I strained to see how many Goodwins his finger was progressing through. There had to be a lot. We were an awkward bunch. It was genetic, you see.

If your name was in the book you were put on the next flight back and refused entry. You had no recourse to appeal. You were not told the reason why your name had got on to the list. That nice Mr McCarthy had decided that America could only be kept free if unAmerican ideas were completely eradicated from the country.

At last the customs officer seemed satisfied. He looked at us with a stony face, his grey eyes piercing into ours like swords.

“Are you, or have you ever been, a communist?”

Incredible, I thought. If I was a Russian spy or a communist agitator I was hardly likely to answer yes. I felt like asking what he meant. Did he mean had I ever joined the communist party or did he mean to question my philosophy? Did I believe in equality and ‘To each according to their needs – from each according to their ability”, because if that was the case then I was obviously a communist. But then if he meant did I subscribe to the fascist totalitarian apology for Socialism as epitomised by Russia then I would have to admit to being more of a Menshevik. But then this was most probably not the time to enter into discussion regarding the semantics of politics, was it?

“No.”

“Do you know anyone who is a communist, or have you ever known anyone who was a communist?”

Of course I had.

“No.”

He closed the book and let us in.

21.9.01

 

What rights does a gannet have as it clings to the rugged rocks of a windy cliff? As it hangs in beauty on the edge of the wind with its white feathers glistening in the sun? As it steals fish from the trawler’s nets?

15.9.01

 

Being a father was not going to change my life-style or me as a person. It was exciting. But it was not going to be cramping.

Little did I know.

Little did we know.

3.10.01

 

What right does a slug have as it crawls across a path?

15.9.01

Extract from ‘Farther from the Sun’ – The Rock Music Class

Posted on by Opher

The Rock Class is killing me. They are all avid experts who expect me to know everything inside out, after all, I’m the one being paid. In order to justify this income, I have to be the font of all knowledge and lead them further than the known. It is not enough to trot out the obvious, one has to reveal the obscure and tell the tale. Not only that, but the obscure has to be wonderful and the tale revealing and captivating. I have to illustrate it with personal insight, experience and whatever else comes to hand.

I thought I knew it all but I have to delve and research. My lessons at school I can teach standing on my head but this is taking effort. Each week I prepare handouts with biographical details, influences and explanation. These show a professional in-depth expertise. I purchase records and scour the second-hand shops. I buy books to provide me with even more background. I’ve accumulated enough to do a dozen PhDs. I’m really getting into it but it is taking over my life. I don’t have time for anything else.

The problem is that there are very few gems to be found in the obscure and it is very hard to come up with insights that satisfy someone whose life seems extraordinarily tied up with a particular artist or genre. I’m expected to shed further light on someone they know inside out.

I come across the Dylan freak. He actually publishes a magazine with a worldwide readership. In the magazine are in-depth articles on the use of the word ‘blue’ in Dylan songs. He invites me round to see his collection. He has an impressive 1000 albums or so. They are all Dylan. Here is the first album original US pressing, British Pressing, German, Japanese, reissues. There are 40 copies of the first album. Likewise, we go through the rest until we get onto the bootlegs. I am staggered.

He opens some drawers and they are full of audiotapes, hundreds and hundreds of audiotapes, all meticulously catalogued. Chronologically organised live performances. Dylan farting in 61, coughing in 62. He begins playing me snippets to show me the way he substituted a word in this song in 64 and rearranged it in 65. He not only has them but has listened to them all and seems to know them inside out. It is depressingly impressive.

We finish up with his video collection. I find myself looking at a little dot in the centre of the screen. It is about the size of a fifty pence piece. It wavers about and if you use a lot of imagination you can see it is actually Dylan in a spotlight on stage. The soundtrack is distorted to hell and barely recognisable. There are hundreds of them. He spends his life exchanging tapes to complete his collection. Quality does not seem to be a requirement. We are looking at fanatical completism here.

I return home to review my hour input on the significance of Dylan to the development of Rock Music. I am dealing here with a topic that, in his eyes, could not be adequately covered in anything under 5 years of intensive analysis. My bootleg recordings of the fabled electric Newport Festival and the Judas exchange at Manchester Trade Hall are obviously lightweight.

I become aware that it is not likely to satisfy my Dylan nut.

Another of them has a similar obsession with Pink Floyd. His bootleg collection exceeds my entire album collection.

I despair.

When I mention the object of their adulation I can feel their eyes burning into me with something verging on patriotic zeal. They analyse my words and gestures. Am I doing justice to it? Does it reveal the essence? Do I eulogise sufficiently? Am I correct? Do I make a gaffe over some biographical detail? Do I understand the music, the lyrics, the soul of the artist? We are talking religion here. I am messing with the bible.

I toy with bringing them in. Involving them in presenting the class on their idols. I toy with asking for their advice. Neither option is viable. I am being paid. They also want to hear me give just significance to their idols. I get by. Somehow I always manage to do justice to the band in question and can fall back on time limitations.

They seem happy.

29.10.01

Writing a Book takes a Team!!

Posted on by Opher

Writing a Book takes a Team!!

 

What is quite apparent is that writing a book requires a team of people. Rarely does one person have a complete skill set to handle the task.

Writing a book entails:

Having the imagination to envisage the novel.

Having the ability to create a plot.

Having the writing ability to create interest in a reader.

Being able to invent characters.

Being perceptive to see flaws in the plot.

Having the knowledge of grammar, punctuation and spelling to be able to correct mistakes.

Possessing the ability to make the language flow and create pace.

Being able to describe the novel in such a way as to create interest without introducing spoilers.

To possess the artistic skills to design a cover.

To build up the social media connections and other media connections to market the book.

Creative people rarely have the objectivity or skills to redraft, edit or see the flaws in their writing. They require a methodical editor to point out necessary improvements and corrections.

A person skilled at writing may not be at all skilled at design or even able to create an enticing and succinct back cover blurb.

Building up social networks, writing press releases, doing book signings and developing contacts, takes time. Most writers would rather be writing and might well be hopeless at communicating in other ways.

A team can hone and present a book to optimise its potential.

Writing a good book and selling it requires a good team. That’s why writers form relationships with publishers and Literary Agents.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/s?k=Ron+Forsythe&ref=nb_sb_noss_2

An experience in Italy – extract from ‘Farther from the Sun’.

Posted on by Opher

Italy was where my father was stationed in the war. He was a dispatch rider and was billeted with an Italian family. They treated him like a son.

We’d tootled into Italy in our old Bedford van and wended our way up and down and around the old coast road because we couldn’t afford the tolls on the new motorways that cut straight through the mountains, with miles of tunnels and sections on trestle bridges spanning the gorges. Besides the scenery was better off the tracks and we were in no rush.

We trundled up to the top of a mountain to get a view. There was a little village near the summit and we parked up to stretch our legs and get a feel of the place. This was Italy. We hadn’t been in it long. It smelt like Italy. There was a different flavour to France. The air was hot and fragrant even at this height. Below us, we could see the sea. The sky was clear azure. Villagers went about their business among the olive trees. Herds of goats picked at dried tufts and bleated. An old woman walked down the road with a headscarf and gaily patterned heavy-duty peasant dress balancing a huge basket of vegetables on her head. I wanted to take her photo but was too embarrassed. It would have been as if her whole life had been reduced to the status of some quaint bit part, a touch of old-time colour, to be nothing more than an anachronistic sight. ‘Hey look at the old peasant woman!’

Arrogance. We were the spoilt twentieth-century kids staring in wonder at the quaintness of reality, as she went about her business.

An old man in a dusty ragged suit, grubby unbuttoned granddad shirt and battered hat trotted past on an ass. His face was as gnarled and furrowed as the old olive trunks. He stared at us as he rode past. We nodded. He smiled through gappy teeth and said something that we could not understand in guttural Italian. This was his world. To him, we were the oddities. He shook his head and laughed.

Who knew more? The old peasants still working the land as they had done for generations? Or the alien interlopers from the modern world beyond the bottom of this mountain? And how much of what either of us knew about life was in the slightest bit important?

We got back in the van but it wouldn’t start. We pointed it down the steep incline and let it roll and then, when it had built up considerable momentum, tried to bump start it. The engine turned. The engine backfired and belched smoke. It chugged and died and blasted great clouds of black soot as it rained explosions to echo back at us from the surrounding hills but it would not start. There was no doubt about it. It was dead. Something unpleasant had befallen its innards.

We pulled over to review the options. Lifting the bonnet revealed that the engine was still in place. We prodded and checked. All the bits seemed to be there and stuck on right. The connections were connected. We turned it and checked sparks and fuel. We had exhausted our repertoire and were at a loss.

Below us, the sea sparkled and the town shone white against it. We decided to let gravity assist and roll our way down to the town. It looked straightforward. In reality, it was hair-raising. The roads were steep and windy. The van quickly built up speed and without power did not grip the road or perform in any way conforming to normality. Without acceleration, the bends became less negotiable. Even the brakes did not seem to bite. We lurched and careered, swaying and veering, threatening to bounce off the road, screeching round tight bends, leaning over dangerously, pretty much out of control. Fortunately, the roads were clear. Another herd of goats and we’d have been over the edge and bouncing down the rocky outcrops. We shuddered around corners on two wheels, leaning precariously, righting ourselves just in time for the next bend. It wasn’t so much a controlled rolling down the hill, as a mad race. You didn’t control the van so much as fight with it to limit its destructive urges. It bucked and shook and threatened to roll over and take off. I could imagine the brake linings glowing orange-red. You could smell them overheating. Perhaps they would boil the brake fluid? Catch fire? Who knew?

The road gradually became less windy and steep, to a point where the brakes starting exerting some influence and our descent smoothed off to a controllable rush. We started to breathe and began to imagine that we might survive the journey. We had reached the main road in one piece, still moving at speed and somewhat out of control. Fortunately, at the junction nothing was coming and we had a clear path. Somehow we had survived. There was much loud cheering.

The van still had a lot of momentum and there was a slight gradient but it soon became apparent that we were slowing down. The game had changed. Instead of trying to slow the beast down, we were now into the business of trying to conserve our speed in order to reach the town.

We did. The van silently trundled along the seafront as a leisurely pace and we came to rest at the first garage and only garage in town.

Taking a few minutes to compose ourselves following our hair-raising experience, we finally disembarked to make enquiries concerning repairs.

It had a workshop. Three mechanics came out to look at the crazy hippies in the beat up and exceedingly dead van. They chattered and smiled and seemed friendly enough. We spoke no Italian and they spoke no English but we got along. They checked the engine and shook their heads. It was serious. They pushed it in and got it on the ramp for a real going over.

We thanked them and went off for something to eat. On our return, we discovered the result of their deliberations – a burnt-out valve. We were going nowhere in a hurry. There were no parts available and no centre in Italy for Bedford parts in the whole of Italy. They were going to have to send to England. It was going to take a week. This was a disaster. The van was our home. The four of us lived in it. We had no money for accommodation.

The van was in bits on the ram and, despite the language barrier, the import of our predicament must have communicated itself amply. They smiled and laughed. Through some means that was entirely gesture and subliminal, it was conveyed to us that it was OK. We could stay in the van on the ramp. There was an old dingy toilet we could use.

Every night the men went home and locked us in the garage and went off laughing. Every morning they unlocked the door and knocked on our windows. Thus it was that we spent a week in the lazy seaside town of Firenze and lived in a garage on a ramp. Pete and Julia were supposedly on their honeymoon. The four of us had a great time.

15.9.01

 

Rights are tenuous. You have to hold them dear and fight for every inch. They are never conceded lightly.

15.9.01

Marketing your book.

Posted on by Opher

Marketing your book.

 

You have written your book, rewritten it, redrafted it, and edited it. You have sweated over the cover notes and strained your brain over designing the front cover.

You now hold the finished product in your hand. It looks good. It reads well. It sounds interesting. You are filled with great satisfaction. All those hours have resulted in this. You created it. It is your baby. You conjured it out of thin air.

It isn’t over.

Having your book, and being delighted with the product of all those hundreds of hours of work, is the easy bit. Now you have to market it. If you do not market it then it will be unread. Nobody will even know your book exists.

Marketing is all about presenting it to your audience. You have to promote it and make people want to read it.

You have to sell it.

Marketing is a merry-go-round. It involves press releases, social media, book signings, blogs, interviews, calling cards and endless promotion.

You can work harder on marketing than you did on writing.

This is where I go wrong. I have written over sixty books. I enjoy writing. I don’t enjoy marketing! I don’t have the time, energy or inclination.

Designing the cover

Posted on by Opher

Designing the cover

 

No matter how good your book is nobody is going to know that until they start to read it. The only things they have got to go on is the book cover and what you have written about the book on the back cover. If you are not a well-known name you have to rely on attracting potential readers through the visual medium.

An eye-catching cover, along with enticing back-cover notes, might just convince a reader to take a chance on you as a new writer.

I remember having a depressing conversation with an editor. He asked me how many Sci-Fi books an average Sci-Fi fan might read in their lifetime. I enthusiastically replied ‘thousands’. He was more sceptical but asked me how many good Sci-Fi books, by established writers, were already published and out there. We left that hanging.

He then asked me to imagine I was going on a long flight and I wanted to buy a novel for the journey. He told me to imagine I was browsing the Sci-Fi section at a book shop. Would I be more attracted to an Isaac Asimov or an Iain Banks that I had not read than taking a chance on a Ron Forsythe?

It was a tad disheartening.

All one can do is to design a cover that attracts, like a flower touting for bees. The cover can be a make or break. It has to stand out from the crowd.

A cover should say something; it should visually relate to the story. It is a statement. It tells the reader what the book is about within a scan of the eye.

The cover should also capture something of the author.

A picture says more than a thousand words.

Designing a cover is crucially important.

Here are the covers I have designed for my books:

The Back Cover Notes

Posted on by Opher

The Back Cover Notes

  

Having written the book, redrafted it and thoroughly edited it, you might think you have finished, but you haven’t. You might have written the best novel ever written but nobody would know. In order for anybody to know how good it is you have to persuade them to take a look.

There are millions of books out there. Why should anybody select yours to read?

One way that people select a book to read is by reading the cover notes.

There is an art to writing cover notes. You have to reveal, tantalize, entice and yet not spoil the plot.

A well-written back cover will make a reader want to find out more.

The power of the back cover notes should not be underestimated. They are crucial. Without good back cover notes your book will not be selected.

The wonders of Editing.

Posted on by Opher

The wonders of Editing.

Having written the book, restructured and rewritten/redrafted the text, it is time to start the editing.

Having now achieved a book whose ‘shape’ and story you are happy with, it is time to make sure it works for readers. The writing has to flow so that a reader becomes absorbed in the story and not the words. If a piece of writing works, it creates pictures in the readers head, it conveys emotions, the characters come to life and the world inside the story becomes real.

Part of the success of a story is the sentence structure, the grammar and the spelling. Clumsy sentences, spellos and bad grammar break the spell. Once the spell has been broken, the whole of the magic you have worked hard to create dissolves.

Editing requires objectivity. Objectivity is almost impossible because, having created your ‘baby’, you are emotionally connected. When you read back through your work you are subjective, you know exactly what you meant. Your brain reads it as it imagines it is, not as it is. Your bad habits, failings and wrongly learnt language are glossed over. But to a reader these faults stand out.

I have discovered that if I read a piece of my writing over the shoulder of somebody who is reading it, all the faults jump out at me. It is as if I am seeing it through their eyes. Unfortunately, I do not have an editor hidden away in the cupboard to bring out as required so, initially, I have to do it on my own.

Unlike with redrafting, I have to leave the novel for a period of time before starting to edit.

When the time is right I start. I need to summon my full concentration and focus on the work word by word. The task is to analyse each sentence in order to make it flow, to create a variety of length and complexity so that it reads easily and the language has interest for the reader. I have to avoid repetition, correct spelling and grammar and ensure that the correct words have been selected, the ones that contain all the subtlety and nuance required.

A novel is a long piece of writing. Editing can be daunting. It can be tedious and frustrating. When I am editing I will often work eight to ten hours a day. I am focussed on completing the task. I tend to work fast.

I usually edit a book twice. It is amazing how many glaring errors make it through the first time.

Then I send it off to one of my editors. They bring a totally objective eye to bear.

When the document comes back to me I am always surprised by the amount of work that still needs to take place. My editor will have noted lots of repetition (of words and ideas – I have a habit of putting things in twice, often reworking the same idea with different words), grammatical errors, sentences that do not work and the odd spelling mistake. Once these mistakes/improvements have been pointed out they are obvious.

Every writer needs a good editor. Being objective with ones own writing is almost impossible.

Redrafting is looking at the big picture; editing is looking at the minutiae.

When fully edited the book is now ready – but that is not the end of the story!

The Process of Redrafting.

Posted on by Opher

The Process of Redrafting.

 

I love writing but I used to hate redrafting and editing. As my skills developed I have grown to love them both. They do not create such a feeling of satisfaction but they are fulfilling. Redrafting and editing is hard work. There is always great enjoyment to be gained from completing something difficult.

After I have produced the first draft I immediately start redrafting while it is still fresh in my mind.

I read through and begin fleshing out the bones. While my first draft may be forty or fifty thousand words, my second draft could be a third longer. It is as if the first draft is a skeleton on which I then place the flesh.

This is also the time when I attempt to focus on the areas that do not really work and rework them. This is when I flesh out characters, look at consistency, address areas of the plot so that it makes sense and start addressing grammar, punctuation and flow.

Usually, I will then leave the novel in order to gain more objectivity.

When I am ready and eager, I come back to it. The second redraft is the process of making the reading a smoother process. This is where I begin addressing sentence and paragraph structure in order to make the language flow.

My second redraft will usually add more words to the novel.

By the time I have completed the second draft I am usually ready to edit, but I may well play about with certain sections that I have been unhappy with until I am satisfied.

At this point, I am usually exhausted by the process and the novel. I need a break from it. Writing and redrafting require great concentration and effort. You have to hold the whole structure of the book in your head and mentally manipulate it. I always need a break.

As I normally have two or three projects going at the same time I can turn my attention elsewhere and happily leave it.

By the time I have completed redrafting it is ready to go off to my editor. Editing requires objectivity.

The way the writing process works with me.

Posted on by Opher

The way the writing process works with me.

I am an obsessive writer. I find writing compulsive.

The first thing that happens is an idea or inspiration will trigger a process in my brain. That might result in a compulsion to write something down immediately in order to capture that idea.

Once the seed is planted the idea may lie dormant in my head for a while. It will require other ideas. It will have created problems that need solving. It will need a setting. It will require characters. It has to have a plot.

On occasion, this all happens at once. I start writing the original idea and the other ideas, characters and plot pile in and I find myself desperately writing to keep up. I am a one-finger typist.

Some of my ideas have lain dormant for years, waiting. I find myself mulling them over; searching for a way in. It’s similar to looking for a crossword puzzle answer.

Some of my novels are closely plotted. Each chapter laid out complete with pen pictures of characters and settings. Other books flow organically. The characters appear fully formed; I have a picture in my head of the story and the ending; I merely allow it to flow.

Writing like this is the easy part. I find it joyful and fulfilling. The novel consumes me. Nothing else is of importance. I wake up in the night with my head buzzing with ideas, developments and solutions. I cannot wait to get writing. Often minor characters grow into major ones. Characters change and develop. Plots change. A novel takes on a life of its own.

Left completely to my own devices (which is rare) I will write from morning into the night until exhausted with just short breaks for coffee or a snatched snack.

A day’s work would result in between thirty and fifty pages.

I do not reread or edit as I write. I allow the novel to flow out of my mind on to the paper.

I find the process very satisfying.

The day starts with a blank screen. By the end of the day, I have created the start of a world. By the end of a few weeks, I have created a whole world.

But that is the beginning, that is the pleasure. It is what happens next where the real work begins.