Category Archives: General musings

General musings on life, the Universe and how stuff works

General musings

The best time of the day to write


Since the 1980’s I’ve been an habitual early riser. It may sound odd, but I have difficulty sleeping in after half past six. No Alarm clock necessary. This is probably a hangover from days when I travelled and commuted the length and breadth of the UK. Edinburgh, Manchester, London, Bristol, Cardiff and all points east and west. Going where I was sent, doing the job I was paid to do, then getting home, sometimes as late as nine at night. So I got into the habit. It’s programmed into my body clock.

At six or earlier, I’m generally up and working sometimes in my dressing gown, sometimes already dressed, researching, pounding keyboard or answering emails. No-one, apart from my dog, to butt in. Peace and quiet allowing time to ease into the writing zone before the day job begins. I’ve found I can get almost a full days output done before eight, and then make ready for whatever late day or evening shift I’m on.

This is my routine, rain or shine. At the moment mostly the latter, which is very nice. And when I have what I call a ‘flow’ going, when the ideas line up neatly into pure narrative, I reckon I can lay down a good fifteen hundred words in just over two hours. So for me at least, early morning has become the best part of the day to write. It’s oddly relaxing.

General musings

Minor change to blog title


Blithely carrying on in my usual ‘full-speed-ahead-and-damn-the-torpedoes’ way, I hadn’t really noticed how many Martyn Jones’ there are out there. From Psychologists and Gynocologists to artists and politicians. So in order to distinguish myself from them and make it easier for people who want to actually find my specific profile, I’m changing my ID title from a simple vanilla ‘Martyn Jones’ to ‘Martyn K Jones’. WordPress was easy, but Facebook, as usual, is proving more user fiendish, demanding verification via cell phone text. This for me is problematic. I live in an area with poor cell phone reception, and two requests for a verification code from Facebook this morning have so far met with a blank wall. My phone is registering an average of 30-50% signal strength. Still no text.

Technology and social media. You gotta love ’em.

General musings

Life, as seen from my deck


Before I came to Canada, I had no idea about what I now call ‘deck life’. Yet now Summer is here, that is where I find myself living and writing. If it wasn’t for the mosquitoes after nine pm, I’d probably end up sleeping out here as well. Not that there are many mossies around at the moment. They usually arrive three days after a rain shower, and there’s been no rain since last Sunday. Just in case there are any strays wafting about, I’ve lit the mosquito coils and citronella candles.

Angie is off at her yearly conference in Squamish, so until tomorrow it’s just me and the Dog, chilling, drinking beers and getting dive bombed by Hummingbirds on their way to the feeder. Watching the glorious British Columbian daylight fade from blue through a dusky violet into broad indigo bands around the horizon, and the 8:40 flight passes overhead from Vancouver. The dog in next doors yard, a curly haired mutt, barks sporadic greeting at the world, and a tiny cooling breeze strokes my feet therapeutically. Et in Arcadia ego.

It’s not all fun because there are hard choices to be made. Do I get another beer from the fridge? Or do I simply sit here listening to far off conversations, watch the odd boat go past and let the stress drip from my bones. Choices, choices. Would I like some tea and a Digestive cookie before I reluctantly go to bed? Well goodness me, so I do.

Have hardly written a thing over the past week, barely two thousand worthwhile words, but after all the travelling, I’m having a little private time out.

General musings, Observations

I keep on hearing this….


Browsing through varying LinkedIn forums, I keep on coming across sweeping broad brushstroke statements to the effect that most self published works are poorly formatted and written rubbish. If this truly is the case, then why bother stating the obvious? Of course badly written, scrappy looking work won’t sell. But what is also true is that even brilliantly written, spectacularly perfect work may not sell either because it is not what the market wants right now, and as is repeatedly demonstrated, not even the ‘professionals’ get it right. Remaindered book shops being the singular living proof.

Yet, if we are to believe what some say, to self publish is to be forever damned by the traditionalists. Had the temerity to put a piece of work in the public domain without their consent? Only to be denied access to wider bookshop markets because the distributors won’t list a work with less than so many thousand pre printed stock available? Even then, will mainstream bookstore buyers touch self published works? Experience says no. Unless someone knows something I don’t, and I’d love to hear of a low cost entry level way into this section of the market. Apart from the eBook route.

So, what to do? Do I, as one who chooses to eschew the traditional publishing route of Agent and Publisher repeat what I did for so many years, write, submit, then wait, and wait, and wait, only to be handed a non specific “Sorry, no.” after three (or even on one particular occasion, six) months? Or simply go for it full thrust, transition, and try to blow a hole through the blockade like some of my characters repeatedly do in ‘Falling’ and ‘Darkness’? Should I ‘write for the market’ like we are all exhorted to do by creative writing classes and tutors? Okay, say I, but who defines what the market actually wants? What is ‘The Market’? I don’t know. The literary marketplace is diversifying so rapidly, I don’t think anyone else really knows, either.

‘Writing for a market’ might be the ‘safe’ option, but I’ve never really cared much for ‘safe’. If I did, I’d never have slung a leg over the saddle of a horse or motorcycle. Even after repeated falls and many bruises. Or handled bad tempered animals with teeth bigger and more dangerous than a large diameter circular rip saw. Or any of the other dangerous pursuits that get my heart pounding. So I write what I want. Not what others would have me write.

On the whole I think those who demonise independent self publishers do both themselves and their employers / companies a great disservice. Whenever I hear someone vouchsafing thus, it makes me extremely reluctant to deal with their company. To me they represent an elitist world view, rather like the voices who simply can’t bring themselves to believe that an English market town grammar school boy could become the most celebrated playwright in the history of the English language. Shock horror! The man never even went to University! How dare he! Yet the name of William Shakespeare echoes across time, even four hundred years on. One small town boy made good.

But then, we all have to start somewhere, be our journey in this life short and spectacular or slow and barely noticed. The only sin is not to try. Damn the dissenting voices.

Distribution, General musings

A big thank you to Kobo


I’d just like to say a big thank you to the support guys at Kobo.  For their sheer dogged professionalism when dealing with a troublesome nobody.  I.E. Me.  It may have taken a few days but they came up with the goods, and cynical old me is seriously impressed.

The royalty payments issue has a solution, which will be applied in the morning, UK time.  The uploaded Kobo eBook editions will follow, and other distribution processes allowing, will be available shortly. For the first time in what seems an age I’m feeling guardedly optimistic.

At present I’m having a suspiciously nice time.  Have just come back from a quintessentially British event called ‘The Pudding club‘ at the Three Ways Hotel, Mickleton, Gloucestershire, England.  Kind of a dessert lovers medieval banquet without the food throwing, off key singing, mock jousting or cosplay. Their Bread and Butter pudding is a smooth revelation to the taste buds, surpassed only by the flavour firework display on the tongue called Lemon & Lime Charlotte. Laura and Jo conjured a booking for this very popular weekly event, seemingly from nowhere, bless both sets of their tiny cotton socks, and a good time was had by all. We even bought the cookbook. Recommended for the more mature foodie.

General musings

While waiting on Kobo to do their thing…..


While in Stratford we’ve logged on to a secure (ish) Internet connection, NSA & GCHQ surveillance (It’s for your own good-honestly.  Yeah.  Right.) notwithstanding, I’ve felt confident enough to email the Kobo people my bank transfer details to set up that part of my profile before the Kobo editions of ‘Sky’, ‘Falling’ and ‘Head of the beast’ are uploaded.

Two observations on traveling in the UK.

Firstly; Costa coffee is an essential to life, the universe and sanity(Yay! They serve cream!).  Tried all the rest, and I’m afraid Costa have you all beaten.  Hands down.  Sorry guys.  Their Chocolate twist pastries are also divine.

Secondly; Despite potholes, I’d almost forgotten how much more fun it is to drive a car (Even a Diesel) with a manual gearbox.  Even if the roads are seriously crowded.

The jet lag is fading, and I’m beginning to feel a lot more human.

Cerberus, General musings

The problem with writing dystopian sci-fi


Writing as I do about possible dystopian futures, it’s a bit of a shock to the system when reality crowds in.  Either my perception has shifted, or there is something very deeply wrong around my old home.

From when I was last here two years ago, Stratford upon Avon is definitely looking careworn.  Which is kind of odd for a major UK tourist destination.   Whilst Waterside by the Theatres is as tidy as ever,  grass in the other public parks and places we visited last night is either uncut or a little frayed round the edges.  Flower beds not as well-tended as I recall.  The little triangle of park between Grove Road and Rother Street was a case in point.   Almost everywhere there’s an air of neglect and cutbacks.  Five stores in Wood Street alone empty and up for rent.  Quite a number of changes in tenancies.  I counted at least four Estate Agents Offices closed down and moved on in Sheep and Ely Street.  And everywhere the pale ubiquitous dysfunctionality of CCTV and Wind Turbines.  Cameras, cameras everywhere, yet not a one to see.  I was half expecting some tattered old man to lurch up to me and recount a dire tale about shooting Albatrosses, or at least a pigeon, and being cast into the outer reaches of society.  To languish undying in a living purgatory for the great sin of hubris.

In some ways I’m reminded of the decline I observed in the 1970’s.  The party is over, and someone has to start collecting the glasses, recycling the bottles, cleaning the toilets, and giving the old place a damn good airing.

Angie and I dropped by the Kingfisher fish and chip shop in Ely Street, bought two portions of fish and chips, one of which was too much for us, so we donated the untouched other to a guy begging on the Tramway Bridge.  It should have been hot enough, and either he was a pretty good actor or that boy looked cold.  Having backpacked the Cornish coast path during the late 1980’s I’m no stranger to a cold, damp English June.  Yet there’s a sensation of a chill in the air, perhaps even the soul, that won’t quite go away.

My brother is always telling me that despite the difficulties we face making a new life away from home, we made the right choice to get out of the UK when we did, and from what I’ve seen to date, certainly the old place looks in need of a good tidy and scrub.  Nanaimo may be part North American strip mall, but City Hall does spend taxpayer dollar on infrastructure, and there aren’t half the potholes in the roads that I’ve had my teeth jarred with today.   Quite frankly I find myself more than a little shocked at the condition of the motorways and major A roads.  There must be a booming trade in fixing car and truck suspensions.

On the other hand, the people seem more resilient, and one gets the impression of a desperately cheerful ‘Keep calm and carry on’ zeitgeist in places like Truro, St Austell, Bath and Stratford.  What I’m certain of is this; times are hard, and getting harder.  The part living nightmare of Paul Calvin’s mid 21st century England is closer at hand than I’m really happy with.  It’s one thing to write about decline and decay, but to see it happening right in front of you is another matter.

General musings

Whoops! Facebook strikes again


Still jetlagged, but now in my home town (ish) of Stratford upon Avon, UK.  Have not been logging on to my Facebook account for the simple reason that I’ve had no secure connection.  Now I’m locked out of my ‘professional’ and public Facebook because it ‘doesn’t recognise’ my laptop.  I’m on the move for the next eighteen days, and silly me, forgotten the answer to my security question, which is currently on a piece of paper at home, in a locked file several thousands of miles away in Nanaimo BC.  Still, there’s always my personal Facebook, which I’ve managed to keep up and running.  Although I won’t be making that ‘public’.  Too much family and personal stuff.  Ergo it will have to wait until I get home.

This raises two problems; firstly I was going to let a couple of old mates know that I’m in Stratford this weekend because there’s a beer festival going on.  I was rather looking forward to catching up and either hiding from the rain under canvas, or enjoying the sunshine with a good English pint in hand, having a damn good chew over old and new times.  Still, I’m not beaten yet, and ways and means will be found to make contact.

General musings

Happy Birthday #WritersBlock


It’s almost my birthday, which I always find mildly depressing.  Yeah, yeah, another year, another milepost, another reminder that Tempus is well and truly Fugiting.  Meh

I take heart that I share my natal day with a number of more luminescent luminaries.  Walter Schirra, Astronaut.  Liza Minelli, Actress and Dancer. Jack Kerouac, Writer.  Marlon Jackson of the Jackson 5, Singer.

One thing I’d forgotten was that I almost share a birthday with the late, great Douglas Adams, creator of the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy.  By one day.  Which makes me want to go all Marvin the Paranoid Android. 

“Birthdays.  Don’t talk to me about Birthdays.”

“I hope you know I’m feeling very depressed.”

“Not getting you down am I?”

Happy Birthday and RIP Douglas Adams, whose original radio show lightened many a dull college revision session.

General musings, Observations

Norovirus; an unpleasant experience #norovirus


Half past ten. Think I’ve contracted a bout of the Norovirus bug that’s going around. Have just spent an intensely unpleasant three hours trying not to trip over the dog during repeated dashes to the bathroom.

Had been feeling mildly nauseous and vaguely out of sorts since about eight. The diarrhea kicked in about half past eight without any fever or noticeable aches and pains. Projectile (First time since I was about seventeen and very, very drunk indeed) vomiting began after the main bout of diarrhea came to a halt; following a mild case of stomach cramps like there was an elastic band around my stomach. Bout of vomiting came to an end with a sudden hot flush which passed within ten or fifteen minutes. Slightly gassy stomach in the aftermath. Pulse is thundering a little, but nothing dangerous, less than 110 and decreasing. Cramps have settled into the sensation of having a tightly knotted rope digging into my midriff.

Outlook is windy with occasional downpours.

Fortunately Angie and I have a bathroom each, which is just as well because mine now stinks despite air freshener, a shower, and a scrub down with disinfectant. Have taken the precaution of leaving a book and my reading glasses in there, because I have the feeling this is going to be a very long night.

Update: Six thirty am. Bad night with little sleep and multiple episodes. Angie has it too, so that’s both of us out of action.

General musings

Vancouver for the weekend


Walking away from the keyboard for a couple of days while the eBook submission process grinds through for Head of the Beast. Off to see Cirque Du Soleil’s Amaluna in Vancouver tonight, and we’re making an overnighter of it.

In the meantime keeping my eyes and ears open. You never know what will kick off a good idea.

Cerberus, General musings, Memories

Ploughing on with the next volume


I’m pushing on with the next volume of the Cerberus series, specifically the fallout from a gangland killing from my opening of ‘A falling of Angels’. Getting a volume out in the public domain always leaves me with the need to do more. My attitude is, “Okay, that’s done. What’s next?”

As I was driving in to work, I was going through some of the ideas for ‘falling’, and have been taking a stroll down a rather shadowy memory lane. Well, not so much lane as dark alley. Drawing on my own brush with motorcycle gang culture, back in the late 70’s and early 80’s. Those three or four years were crazy days, and some of the people I rubbed shoulders with back then still provide me with useful material. Not that I’ll ever name names, times, dates and places.

Loyalties, once given, should not be withdrawn without serious provocation or penalty. That was the core of the code I lived by. Betrayal was considered the worst of crimes against your chosen peer group. The rule is that you don’t grass. Ever. What happens doesn’t get discussed outside your group. Exile or death are the penalties. Omerta rules. That was the zeitgeist, and I got to see it up close and personal, enough to understand it well. Observed in the flesh, without any rose tinting of glasses.

At the time I recall reading Hunter S Thompson’s “Hells Angels”, but the reality was never quite as he made it sound. Not that I ever had much first hand contact with real, full patch chapter members, although I had a nodding acquaintance with a couple. Some days were fun. A hell of a lot of fun. The parties were almost legendary. We got stoned, smoked and drank a lot. We built and rebuilt motorcycles. I got the reputation for being ‘mad’, although no-one would ever explain why. I was a positive pussycat compared to most of my contemporaries. Some of whom would beat up on people for a word out of place. Sometimes for no reason at all, just for the hell of it.

In the end I simply walked away from it and kept on walking, but the fascination of ‘the life’ as we referred to it back then, remains with me. The casual, almost blasé attitude to sex, violence and illicit substances, which I never really shared. The heavy metal music which sometimes still touches an amused nerve. The sheer camaraderie and non-judgmental brotherhood of it all. The two minor gang wars witnessed from the sidelines. Eighteen friends and boon companions dead in five short years to drunk driving, accident, one murder, and two suicides. You might say it got a little rough for a while.

A couple of decades ago I toyed with the idea of writing down my experiences, and planned a memoir with the working title “Black leather, red blood”, but in the end decided not to. Time has degraded my memory of the events, and after thirty plus years I don’t trust memory alone except for the broadest of brushstrokes. Most of my notes got burned or lost, and we all have to move on. Perhaps it’s better this way.

General musings

Who is opening my post?


A letter from my Mother arrived yesterday. A Christmas card. It had been opened. This is not the first time, and has been going on for the last twelve months. Every letter or birthday card from my Mother in Claverdon, England, has arrived with seals peeled back, envelope flaps torn and marks on the contents. No other post from the UK arrives in this condition. I have spoken to my Mother about this matter on the phone, and last year forbade her to send anything of any importance of value, like documents or birthday money. I’ve even lodged formal complaint.

Despite the fact that my writings contain accounts of how the future EU morphs into a hideously theocratic regime that can only exist by murdering millions of dissidents and converting them into foodstuffs, or how said regime murders the British Royal family, I do not think that I’m on any kind of security ‘watch list’. Instead I prefer to think that one of the Postal employees covering the Claverdon area in Warwickshire is a light fingered tea leaf looking for easy pickings from old ladies sending letters to their sons in far off lands.

Newsflash; there are no pickings, all funds transfers are electronic, and all important documents get hand delivered by friends and family coming to and from Canada, because we don’t trust the UK Post Office any more.

General musings

Taking Christmas off


Angie and I have been talking about our relationship, and realise there’s considerable fence mending to do. So this Christmas we’re going for a break at a nice out of the way hotel with a balcony, great scenery, nice seafood, far from the drama and excitable high pitched squeaking. No presents, no cards between us, no Internet or phone calls from the 22nd until the 28th. I’ve put a few trinkets up around the house just for the look of things, but this year Christmas is going to be a very low key affair.

The kids are in England, family is scattered all over the globe, and for a change it’s just us. No tree, no Christmas shopping, no overloaded credit cards, no heavy meals we’re only going to have to sweat off in January. Nothing like that. Just a thorough detox. Massages, mud wraps and spa treatments. A relaxing break chilling out in whirlpool baths, reading a good book with a glass of fine wine, and getting a head start on the New Year. We’ve done our duty as far as family is concerned, catering and feeding, cleaning up after, and pandering to almost every whim for years. Now it’s our turn.

The only thing I plan to celebrate this year is Angie’s birthday on the 25th of December.