Pregnancy -Bodies in a Window – Paperback/Hardback/Kindle

Posted on by Opher

For all you addicts who have been following these irregular instalments. Here’s the next. This is based on my mother and a schoolgirl friend who found herself pregnant at sixteen. My Mum went around to her house, talked to her, told her not to listen to pressure but to think it through for herself. When she decided to keep the baby my mum helped her with the things she needed. My Mum was a wonder.

I fitted these things into the novel. You can buy the whole thing for the investment of a few shekels: Bodies in a Window: Amazon.co.uk: Goodwin, Opher: 9781986269544: Books

Excerpt – Bodies in a Window Paperback 

Looking out through that window, standing beside death, peering at the world outside, it struck me that we were all stranded within the parameters of our own narrow lives – the fashions and attitudes of our youth and old age. We were victims of our times and ourselves. There was no such thing as individuality and freedom. It was an illusion. All life ran its course and ended in scenes like this. We were all trapped within the limitations of our days. Outside that window was another world. There were all manner of things happening. It was a panoply of everything you could imagine – rich and eventful. Life went on. It was only in here that it had stopped. In here everything had changed. All values and endeavours had been rendered meaningless.

Chris told me about poor June. She’s pregnant. It’s been preying on my mind ever since he mentioned it. I can’t stop thinking about it. I’ve seen so many young girls get themselves pregnant. It messes up their whole life. Poor girl’s only sixteen and she’s such a nice lass. She hasn’t had time to enjoy herself. Her life’s only just begun. I feel so sorry for her. I can’t stop thinking about it. There must be something I can do.

I remember when I was sixteen. There was a bloody war on. We had a time with all those Yanks coming over here. Those were the days. They had so much compared to our boys, they seemed so rich and sophisticated. I remember them saying the definition of a brassiere – one yank and it’s off. But we had such good times dancing at the Palais. They’d promise you the earth, with their stockings. Real silk stockings, mind. You couldn’t get stockings over here in the war. Girls used to pencil in a line up the back of their legs to make it look as if they were wearing stockings. Some girls would do anything to get their hands on some real silk stockings – and I do mean anything. I never fell for it though. I could see right through their line – smarmy gits those Yanks – so smooth talking – they’d charm the knickers off a nun. But I don’t blame them. There was a war on. You didn’t know if you had a tomorrow. You had to make the most of life. We all did.

We had such fun. We danced home down the streets with the ack-ack guns pounding away, the searchlights, big Bertha up and down the railway line booming out its great deafening roar, the drone of bombers and orange burst of explosions as we tried to knock out the Jerry planes, red hot chunks of shrapnel falling in the road around you – and we were so full of it we were dancing down the street – immortal – not even wearing our tin hats. Not that they’d do much good it one of those great lumps of metal hit you on the head. You were a goner. But we didn’t care. It wasn’t going to happen to us – and it didn’t. Nothing happened to any of us. Well, apart from a bunch of my old school friends. They were queuing for bread and got wiped out by a doodle-bug – took out the whole street. That was tragic. But we didn’t care about those bombs or all that shrapnel – didn’t have a care in the world. We were completely blasé about it all. It was fate – if your number was up then that was it – nothing you could do about it. Put all those thoughts to one side and not give a fig. You had to live for the moment and enjoy yourself while you could. Who knows what tomorrow may bring? We were alive and that was all that mattered. Just the fun and excitement, the music – and dancing – dancing down the street as if you were as light as a feather. They were good days.

Of course a lot of those girls lived to rue it. All those promises from those sophisticated American soldiers with their smooth talk, snazzy uniforms and money. They got them pregnant and disappeared like ghosts in the night. Some of them lied about their names and took advantage but some were genuine. It was a job picking one from the other. They were all fancy with their chocolate, chewing gum and nylons. They had money to burn, all dolled up with their caps and creased trousers – so smart in those uniforms. They swept a young girl off her feet. They were going to whisk you off to a new exciting life in the States – made it sound like wonderland – the yellow brick road – the sparkling lights, big city and no rationing. Things were tough over here with rationing and many families living in poverty. Lots of girls fell for it. Except it wasn’t really like that. Even for the ones who did marry. It wasn’t all bright lights and big cities. Some found that life out in some dead end town out in the middle of the plains, in the middle of nowhere, was about as far away from wonderland as you could get – an unremitting dust of nothingness that they were marooned in. Then a lot of those poor boys never came back to deliver on their promises anyway, no matter how genuine they were. They are still over in France and Germany. Poor kids. Even if they meant every word they spouted they never lived to deliver on it. Even worse, I suppose – a lot of the ones that did come back were in no state to get married. They weren’t the same gay, carefree young boys who’d gone out. Even the ones who came back in one piece were not the same. They came back haunted and changed. Despite all those promise made by all those young men there weren’t many couples who lived happily ever after. Life is hard. You learn that the hard way.

Reality isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. A moment’s pleasure and a lifetime to pay. Poor June was going to find that out, the poor mite.

Bodies in a Window: Amazon.co.uk: Goodwin, Opher: 9781986269544: Books

Sex Education – A passion for Education – The story of a Headteacher

Posted on by Opher

This was back in the seventies at the start of my career.

Excerpt – A passion for Education – The story of a Headteacher

I’d never heard of PSE as it was then called. I was a biology teacher.

In the normal course of my lessons I came to the section on reproduction and as a natural part of the lesson opened up various discussions on sex and rounded it off with a lesson on contraception and sexually transmitted disease.

The lads seemed to appreciate it. Some of the questions were obviously geared to attempting to cause me embarrassment but when I fielded them honestly they realised that I wasn’t going to get phased by it. It was obvious to me that there was a huge level of ignorance and interest and a great need.

This was before the age of the internet, in a post-60s culture which still had vestiges of 1950s prim prudishness. Information and contraception were not easy to get hold of. Sex was not freely discussed. They were desperate for frank discussion and advice and very receptive.

I thought no more of it.

Mike my head of department, who wandered in and out of my lab while I was teaching, had noted that I was doing sex education with the lads.

‘Does the Head know you’re doing this?’ He asked.

‘No,’ I replied slightly baffled. Why should the Head know? It was only sex education. Most schools in the country were doing it.

‘I think you’d better check with him first.’

I went and checked. He said NO.

Introducing sex education was a major event. We had to get a majority of the staff in favour of such a controversial venture. He agreed to put it on the staff meeting agenda for discussion.

The staff meeting agenda went up and sure enough there it was at number 11.

We had our meeting and went through seven items.

‘Ah well’ I thought. ‘It will be featured next time.’

The next staff meeting came round and it was now number 14. Seemingly lots of really important issues had come up and required urgent attention.

The following staff meeting had fifteen items but sex education was not one of them.

I fumed.

I drew up a list of staff and went round to discuss sex education with all of them one by one. I even included both deputies. By the end of a week I had the agreement of every member of staff with only two abstentions, both of whom were catholics who abstained on religious grounds.

I went back to the Head and presented him with the fait accompli. I softened it by explaining that it was obvious that there wasn’t time to discuss it at staff meetings with all the pressing issues that had to be addressed. The crux of the matter was that the staff were almost unanimous.

He blustered.

It would need governors’ approval. I would have to take my case to the governing body.

I produced a presentation and amazingly won the approval of the governing body.

At my next meeting with the Head I may have inadvertently had a slight air of triumph.

That was soon put to rest.

The governors were only the first obstacle; the whole idea had to be put to parents. It was obvious from his attitude that he felt confident the parents would disapprove.

Unfazed I drafted a letter to parents with a reply slip and had it sent out.

Miraculously there were no objections and most gave their approval.

I once again returned to the Head’s study.

‘You know, Chris,’ he said thoughtfully, finally admitting defeat. ‘These lads are red blooded Englishmen. You can’t tell me that they can watch films of young girls masturbating without being affected.’

I sat there staring at him.

It was obvious that he had not read any of my information and had his own idea of what was involved in sex education. In his mind sex education equated with pornography. His mind had gone down the line that I would be showing pornographic films to the boys.

It had taken me a year and a half to get approval. I realised, in that moment, that a little bit more verbal explanation might have saved a lot of effort.

A passion for Education – The story of a Headteacher eBook : Goodwin BSc (Hons) NPQH, Christopher: Amazon.co.uk: Kindle Store

Another body – Bodies in a Window

Posted on by Opher

I am standing in the hospital next to my dead father, peering out the window.

Here is another body or two. I introduce another character. Can you glimpse where this is going?

Excerpt – Bodies in a Window

Joe and I are mates. We go back to the year dot – blood brothers. We were brought together as babies as we were the same age and lived a few houses away from each other. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t know Joe. We grew up in each other’s houses and were out on the streets as soon as we could totter along. It was quiet on our estate. There was hardly any traffic, and the cars there were had careful drivers who always looked out for us kids. We rode our little trikes up and down on the new concrete slab road without any danger. Our mums knew we were safe. They didn’t have to worry. Those streets were out playground. We learnt to roller-skate, played tennis using the concrete blocks as our court, climbed the trees, hoicked frogspawn out of the ponds, played football, cricket and block. We were as wild and free as leaves in the wind.

 When we were little Joe and I had our gang – the Black Arrow Gang. We had our flag that we’d made together – a black arrow that we’d painted on a square of old sheet that we’d tied to a stick – Joe and I had drawn it and stitched it up ourselves. We were right proud of that flag. We’d also built a gang house out of mud. We’d dug up clods of grass and made cement out of gooey mud to stick it together. We’d built these walls up as high as our chest and then covered it with an old tent to create this huge room where we held our parlays. It was serious stuff that gang. We had solemn discussions about what we were planning to do and took notes and everything. No messing about. We really got into it. All the members had to swear allegiance to the gang. We cut our thumbs with penknives and mixed our blood so we were blood brothers until death.

Bodies in a Window: Amazon.co.uk: Goodwin, Opher: 9781986269544: Books

Writing the Phil Ochs book.

Posted on by Opher

Writing the Phil Ochs book.

In order to want to write about anyone you have to have a love and great affinity for them. You are going to spend a couple of thousand hours of your life deeply immersed in them and their lives. You have to enjoy the experience.

Right from the sixties I have been a fan. Those early albums played a huge role in my development. His words inspired me. Phil was a hero of mine. Spending hundreds of hours in his company was going to be a pleasure.

Having twisted the arm of a reluctant publisher who did not even know about Phil Ochs and had to be persuaded that he was an important person worthy of a book, with sufficient ardent fans to make a book viable, I secured a contract.

That was the start.

Setting up

The first thing, before a word is put on a page, is to set up. To gather together your source material. I had most things. Over the years I had accumulated nearly everything Phil had done or had been written about Phil. I had all the books, every single album and a mass of bootlegs. I was a huge fan and had gathered everything. I had to check to see if there was anything missing; anything I needed to hunt down.

Starting The Process

It’s one thing having things for pleasure and quite another studying them to write about them. I began reading and making notes.

The Structure

Fortunately, the structure for the book is more or less dictated by the format of the series. The aim was to write about every album and every single song Phil Ochs had released. I had to write an introduction. Write about each album giving the background and details and then write about each and every song shedding insight into its content, meaning and importance. Easy. Well, actually not quite so easy. Some songs were not quite as simple to interpret as might appear, particularly the later ones. I had my own feelings and understanding but was that the same as Phil’s intention? Or other peoples’ opinion? I could only listen, delve, think and express my views.

Starting

I started reading the biographies and listening to all the albums. I had to get in tune, gather my wits, open my ears and allow the spirit of Phil to take over. I knew that it was a responsibility. The major songs were not a problem. The rarer ones were the most important. There were some that I’d glossed over. We all had our preferences. I had to give them equal weight and listen to everything.

Pen To Paper

Or at least finger to keyboard. I’m a one-finger typist but I can go quite fast.

Task number one was to do the layout. I put the headings in. The introduction, the albums, all the songs. I had a skeleton. I now had to apply the flesh.

I then wrote the introduction. It came spilling out.

The Albums

One by one I worked my way though, album by album. I sought the details of studios, producers, labels, personnel. I wrote about the times, the creation of the album and as much detail as I could muster. The internet was invaluable. I could check out different facts, chase things up and fill in the blanks. At times I felt like I was a detective on the case at others that I was piecing together a jigsaw.

The Songs

I then played the songs, one by one, analysing the lyric, thinking about the meanings, how it was written and why. Finding words to describe what Phil was trying to say and how the song was put together. Not always easy to find words. Phil was a master of lyrics. How was I supposed to shed light on his creations? They were too important to mess up. I could only give my views and interpretations. At least others could use them as a sounding board. They might disagree. That’s fine. The most Phil’s songs are talked about the better.

The First Draft

At times the process was hard. Working up to eight hours a day, concentrating, trying to find words that were right, sapped the energy. There were days where I was tired and could not be bothered, days when I was fired up and ready to go. Fatigue sets in. Writing is a lonely task. Friends get bored with you going on about minute details. You spent hours at your desk tapping away. Hours with headphones listening, relistening, studying, scribbling.

Finally you have done the last song, completed the bibliography and it is complete.

Rewriting

Of course, it isn’t anywhere near finished. What you have is a first draft. It was put together in pieces. There is the little task of rereading it and changing the disparate parts into a coherent entity. The facts are there but does it flow? Is there annoying repetition? Does the style change? Is it coherent?

Getting that right takes a good rewrite.

Editing

Once you have the second draft the nit-picking begins – the grammar and punctuation, sentence structure and spellos. It’s amazing how they annoyingly proliferate. No matter how many times you reread they still pop up.

The Publisher

When you’ve done all you can you send it off. There’s always a fear. Will they like it? Will they reject it?

Last Edit

Having a professional objective eye run over the writing always turns up a few things that require addressing, the odd repetition or section that requires a rewrite.

The Wait

That’s it! You wait!

Finally, months later, a package arrives containing your ten copies and you hold the finished product in your hands. You have your book.

The book is up there on line on the Amazon site and Publishers site. It’s out for order in book stores. The publisher does a little marketing. You sit and anxiously wait for the reviews. What do people think? Have you done justice to Phil?

I hope so. I really hope so.

The Back Cover Notes

Posted on by Opher

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.