The Gordonston Ladies Dog Walking Club, by Duncan Whitehead, Reviewed.

An unusual title for an unusual book. I was unsure what to expect from this book, which as I write this, has been listed as a finalist in the 2013 Readers’ Favourite annual International Award Contest in the humour category. There’s certainly an element of humour in the story and its presentation, and I did laugh out loud quite a lot whilst reading. So, I wish it well in that contest. Comedy isn’t noted for its ability to travel, so my enjoyment of the humour, as a Brit, suggests this one has managed that trick rather well.

If I say that the book is a ‘light’ crime novel, you might get the idea that it is a different type of book than the one I actually read. There is a deal of the minutiae involved in the lives of the many characters, all of whom are well drawn. Lots of detail and some repetition that describes the people and their lives; many of which are about to be changed. Superficial appearances are shown to be misleading. Love and lust are interchangeable for some of the protagonists here and the element of cheating is not uncommon, giving the whole community a slightly seedy feel.

I found myself rooting for some characters, only to discover in later pages that they weren’t the innocents I had first taken them for. The pettiness, selfishness, ambition and deceit of the characters come across well, so that their ultimate fates, initially apparently unjust, become almost desirable.

There are several surprises along the way in this well-plotted novel. I found myself quite convinced I had the identities of villains and victims sorted early on, only to discover that clever wording had fooled me. I enjoyed the read, even if it was a little longer than might have been absolutely essential. I suspect that the inclusion of so much detail was a way of conveying the very ordinariness of the lives that were introduced, only to then prove that these lives were, in fact, not at all ordinary. A good read that I recommend.

Donkeys’ Years, by Michael Frayn, Reviewed.

First produced at London’s Globe Theatre in July 1976 (coincidentally the year in which my novel, Breaking Faith, is set, and a year of drought and heat wave in UK), this three act play is another demonstration of Frayn’s very British humour.

Although described simply as a play in three acts, this is much more like a farce, in the true British, dare I say English?, tradition. If not actually a farce, it could be taken as a parody of the style. It has all the ingredients: sexual misunderstandings, English sexual reserve, hypocrisy disguised as custom, bedrooms and, of course, the loss of clothes for the female and trousers for the male. I imagine the reader would have to become watcher in order to determine whether this is truly farce or the parody I suspect.

It is, of course, full of humour, poking fun at the stuffed shirts of academia, politicians and the servile subclass of those who serve such pretentions. There is much repetition, which, on the page can be a little wearying but on stage would work a treat, given good actors. The action is confined to a single location for each of the three acts and this serves to emphasise the claustrophobic and sheltered nature of the attitudes encapsulated by the cast. These are people who have no understanding of what most of us would call the ‘real world’. Privileged, spoilt and elevated beyond their natural abilities, they posture and pose their way through life completely unaware of the priorities faced by ordinary people outside their favoured circle.

The thread of lust, disguised as admiration until alcohol allows for honesty, permeates the play. The single female representative is the focus of all male attention, apart, of course, from that of the gay vicar (another stock character of English farce). There is little concern for the damage done to either lives or property by their barbs and actions. The level of achievement for most of the protagonists is well above their natural abilities and is an effective way of pointing out how birth and class can elevate beyond desert.

So, a social statement, but one so well submerged in humour that it may be missed by the less attentive. And the humour is brilliant. It had me laughing out loud and frequently, much to the distress of a fellow worker who shared the small room that serves as a temporary sanctuary from the busy and noisy office in which I perform my day job. The jokes come thick and fast, many derived from simple misunderstandings made clear to the audience but hidden from the characters.

I thoroughly enjoyed this play and would definitely attend a theatre for a performance.

Related articles

• Clouds, by Michael Frayn, Reviewed.
• Humour? Funny?

A Present for the New Year.

Last year, at around this time, I published a short story as an ebook via Smashwords. I wanted to put it on Amazon Kindle as well, but they make it nigh on impossible to do so as a free book. It was, and remains, a free book for those who enjoy my writing.
It struck me that there are still many people around who don't have ereaders, so I'm posting the story here for those who'd like to read it. It's a bit of silliness wrapped in the celebrations that end one year and begin the next, a light-hearted romance with mildly erotic undertones, written tongue-in-cheek in the hope of entertaining.
Enjoy. (Oh, and if you feel so inclined, I'd love a review, placed anywhere you feel appropriate. Thanks)
And let me take this opportunity to wish all who visit these pages the very best of life for the coming twelve months that we have labelled 2013. Have a great New Year.

But, Baby, It's Cold Outside

For all that it's black as the proverbial out there, I'm required to venture forth if I'm to retain credibility in the current lover's eyes. First, there's the unexplained and ill-defined noise, which I ignore. Then, coincidentally, the light goes out, provoking a performance worthy of the heroine in those supposedly scary black and white B movies from the forties.

The failure of the light turns out to be nothing sinister.

'Just a blown bulb.'

'Replace it, then.'

'Call me an old romantic, but wouldn't firelight serve us better?'

The response is unprintable and indicates an unhealthy reliance on artificial light. So, once I've restored adequate illumination, I'm ordered outside to see what made the noise.

'Me?'

'It's your house.'

'As the woman, shouldn't I stay in the warmth and safety of my home whilst you, Macho Man, go fight the marauders?'

'Along with the rest of your gender, you claim equality. You have to deal with the downside as well as the up.'

'So far, I've experienced little up, except the obvious, and I'm pretty sure that's been as much benefit to you as it has to me.'

He raises his eyebrows but not my hopes and I know I'm onto a loser; it doesn't help that my statement wasn't the truth, either. I wonder, in passing, why him? And then recall his superb taste in clothes and cars, his delicious and sensual touch, and the generous cut of his wallet, which has so far afforded me access to three first nights, a private viewing and the best table at Egon's. I can stand a little misplaced equal opportunity for the luxury and privilege that are his accessories. Wimpishness isn't the cause of his reluctance; he sincerely believes equality of the sexes means I should do whatever he'd be prepared to do on my behalf. Daft, I know; but he is a man, after all.

Being rural, I ignore strange noises in the night, examining their cause in full light of day, if at all. He's a townie who puts up with the shouts of drunks, the screams of distressed women, the whistling of fools and the constant clatter of traffic past his trendy pied à terre but is made suspicious by the noise of something falling over outside.

'It's just that old gate I stacked against the side of the house. The wind's blown it over.'

'Didn't sound like a gate falling over to me.'

'It's pitch bloody black out there. How am I supposed to see anything?'

'Use a torch.'

'Batteries are flat.'

'Well, we'll open the curtains and turn on all the lights, assuming they work.'

'They do. Mostly.'

Raised eyebrows indicate his lack of faith but he accepts. 'Good.'

'And your monster of the night is just going to hang about out there, awaiting discovery, having received the signal of our intent?'

'Our?'

'We're conspiring jointly in the process, even if I'm the active member and you're merely the source of ideas.'

'Mmm.'

I rise, turn on the spot. 'Look at me.'

'Yes, very lovely.'

'You really expect me to venture forth into the wild night with…?'

'Put something on and stop making excuses.'

I don seductive red satin recently abandoned, rather than the woollen protection I know is appropriate. It'll be cold out there. New Year always is. But I won't be gone long and I intend to continue where we left off after the interruption of the unidentified noise. I suggest he turns on the downstairs lights, front and back, whilst I plunge into the frozen void.

'You're not going out there like that on your own, are you?'

'Are you coming with me?'

'Are you mad?'

I try a simple facial message but it doesn't get through. Insufficient intimate togetherness yet for such subtlety to connect, I suppose. 'Exactly how am I supposed to go outside without you, yet not be alone?'

A pause for consideration. 'Be quick, then. I'll worry about you.'

'Not enough to accept my plausible explanation.'

He avoids the shrug that his body and my expectations demand and makes do with a non-committal grunt.

'Not enough to be the gentleman?'

'Equality of opportunity. This is yours.'

'But I don't crave such opportunity. In any case, I'm not worried by the noise.'

Another grunt; distinctly negative and indicative that this is the end of the discussion, as far as he's concerned. That much of his subtlety I have learned.

Outside, it seems even darker than the proverbial and I wait for light to issue through the curtains he's supposed to be opening. I wait. And slowly freeze. The darkness remains; unilluminated, unmoving and unmoved by my presence. I understand I am irrelevant to the void and begin to wonder if I represent a similar rank of importance to him.

At last, a faint glow signals the start of his simple task, but at the front of the house. I left by the back door and he saw me. Is this contrary action merely pique at my rational response to his irrational fear? Or is it simple idiocy? Hardly the latter. I don't get involved physically or emotionally with imbeciles. Not deliberately, anyway. But I wonder why I've become so attached to a man who's beginning to seem remarkably like a prat. Except, he has his good points. The fact that he's unjustly wonderful at that most subtle of interpersonal activities adds to the attraction of his wealth, devastating good looks and multiple connections. I ponder, for a fraction of a second, whether I might be a tad guilty of superficiality here but I expunge that unworthy thought and recall the extraordinary evenings, nights, afternoons and mornings I've experienced since we met.

The light at the back escapes at last through the raised kitchen blind and the drawn dining room curtains. I examine the area of garden I can see and note that the soft cold stuff assaulting me is snow, augmenting the frost already formed. Nothing moves but flakes of lightness and the tips of visible vegetation, shaking in the gale. It occurs I've denied any idea of what I'm supposed to be seeking and a question might afford me re-entry before I freeze further. I open the back door and call into warmth I'm tempted to re-enter.

'What sort of noise?'

He is by the fire; I can tell by the distance his voice has to travel. 'I told you.'

I have no recollection of either being told or, if I have been told, of the message. 'No, sorry, that doesn't help.'

'Oh! You're useless. There's something out there. Just see what it is.'

'Well, there's a large area of garden, mostly immobile and recumbent under a falling blanket of snow, except where it's sufficiently fragile to be disturbed by the howling gale, of course. There's a fence, beyond which lie several thousand acres of fields, forests and hills, dissected by a river, currently out of my field of vision ...'

As I list the inventory, he emerges into the kitchen.

'Idiot! I mean something moving, something that shouldn't be there!'

'Ah. An alien? Ghost? Creature of the night, specified or un? Perhaps a monster from nightmare? A serial killer out for a midnight stroll? A lynch mob intent on suspending a victim, if not its credibility?'

'God, you're obtuse. And I'm freezing here with that door open in my robe...'

'I suggest you shut the door in your robe and give me a…'

'Look, it was a sharp slithering sort of soft thudding scraping noise.' And he shuts the door. Not the one in his towelling robe, but the more substantial wooden portal to the house, before I can ask from what direction this comprehensive oxymoron of a sound emerged.

Disconsolate at being left out in the cold, wearing a garment designed to lure the eyes of men to my assets rather than protect them from frost, and unsocked wellies that barely insulate my feet from frozen ground, I begin a rapid exploration. Alcohol has lost supremacy by now and the threat of frostbite dictates I make a simple circuit to rule out any obvious cause before I return, bold cold and brave, to conquer his residual concerns with passion, before the night freezes my ardour: I can rest assured that his will not diminish in the waiting.

The corner of the house allows the gale to swirl increasing flakes into a small tornado that lifts my scandalous hem and spatters snow against the skin beneath to melt and slowly slide in wetness down my legs. But there's nothing in the intervening darkness, between the dim light at the back and the dimmer light at the front, to suggest a monster might be lurking at that side of the house. I pass, unmolested, beside the solid brick barrier to the front garden; neat, hedged and deserted.

Beyond the hawthorn and beech runs the narrow lane that leads eventually to the hamlet where my nearest neighbours celebrate the new arrival. And I recall we haven't made the usual ritual this time: I have no coal or logs, no money, salt or bread to enter with and bring the luck we all desire. Though, on being questioned, I'll deny any interest in or subjection to such craven superstition as 'first-footing'. In any case, he's supposed to perform that particular ritual, as the man.

The front garden is also devoid of alien beasts, hobgoblins and mass murderers. I lightly skip along the beds of resting flowers, past the blank front door and across the white blanket that is now the drive. His red Ferrari, encrusted with a soft layer of white icing, like a little boy's birthday cake, is exhibited at his insistence for the hungry eyes of the envious before the garage door, behind which skulks my wheeled utilitarian box. Fooled by softness, I forget the constant puddle and slip on the ice it has now become. The robe helpfully lifts so that my naked buttocks slide along the frozen surface until the stone kerb brings me to a halt with only a spine-jarring jolt and superficial injury to my fast freezing passionate parts. I curse the night, rub the offended rump and other bits and struggle upright, glad no one saw my pratfall and exposure.

The last side of the house, also in darkness, reveals no sign of monsters but there is evidence of some disturbance in the drifting snow. Tracks of recent footfalls meander, and the broken gate, which had been leaning against the house, has fallen onto the path. I right it. But will he believe I was correct in my original supposition when I give him this solution to his mystery?

I turn the corner and tumble headlong over a dark huddled shadow that mumbles. I land against the dustbin, upside-down with my head buried in a small drift, and moon into the moonless night. An unknown hand molests my unprotected flesh and then hoists me back to my feet and suddenly I'm at the back door.

He is there, in gratitude no longer worried by the door in his robe, which he's removed to reward my bravery with his undiminished and evident passion. The robe, that is, not the door. Behind me looms the huddled shadow that caused me to befriend the dustbin.

He cries out in alarm. I turn, ready to attack and defend.

''Appy New Year, m' dear. Shorry 'bout the clision back there. Dropped me lump o' coal an' I was tryin' to fine it. Firsht footin' an' all that.'

It is the redoubtable Miss Fobiter; she of the three facial hirsute warts and fixed leering grin. I grin back, hopefully without the leer, and wrap my robe more tightly.

By the time I've turned, he's vanished into concealing darkness within and I'm left stumbling my thanks to my nearest neighbour and inviting her in for customary seasonal cheer. The picture of departing gratitude, flouncing as though no longer quite so pleased with my solution to his fears, suggests I'll see New Year's Day arrive without his close company.

'Thought you'd be on your own, like me, don't y'know?'

I wonder whose car she thinks she passed on my drive and then recall her reputation as a woman resistant to normal consumer pressures. She probably didn't even notice it, or worse, thinks it's mine.

My neighbour, whose first name she reserves as a mystery, insists on two full choruses of Auld Langsyne, which I'm powerless to resist. To my surprise, he returns to join in this ritual, his robe replaced. She greets him with a cursory assessment that suggests she finds him, because he's a man, wanting. But she accepts the second glass of cheer he politely offers. Two hours of pointless chatter pass as the fire slowly settles in the grate and he grows glassy eyed. At last, she decides it's time she visited other neighbours. I hold him close about the waist as she departs into the snow and we close the door on night.

With her departure, my role in his earlier exposure is recalled and expressed in word and deed, the repelling hand shoving me unceremoniously back into my armchair.

'If you think you're having your wicked way with me after letting that dirty old hag see me naked, you've another think coming.'

'I don't think she was interested in you; naked or otherwise.'

'You should've warned me. I don't like strange women seeing me undressed.'

I'm being unfair and mighty inaccurate when I suspect, aloud, he's anxious at being found wanting. He sulks at the unguarded, unfounded suggestion the alcohol encourages me to make, and I watch him climb the stairs.

He lingers at the turn on the landing taking all promise of passion with him. 'A real woman wouldn't take no for an answer.'

Unsure whether this is an invitation or simply another assault, a reminder of my imperfections, I return to the fire, unwilling to be seen as coercive and determined to play the part of the injured party to the bitter end. I place more logs onto the embers, refill my glass with the last of the Chivas Regal I bought him for Christmas, and stare into the flames, imaging what might've been and recalling New Years that started more auspiciously.

Lurking at the back of my mind is the suspicion that he'll forgive me, once he finds the bed a little wide and cold without my company. Just to encourage that idea and persuade him of my value, I sneak outside and bang the metal dustbin lid with the coal shovel. I'm back in front of the fire, waiting on the hearthrug, by the time he reaches the security and warmth of me and the blazing logs.

I invite him to open the door in my robe. He does so willingly but, as I surrender to his delicious demands, I hear the gate fall over again and await his protest. Oddly, he seems preoccupied and doesn't even mention the noise, this time. Aahhh.

###

I hope this little piece of seasonal fun has amused you. Please consider it a gift in appreciation of your time and support.

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The Amulet of Samarkand, by Jonathan Stroud, Reviewed.

Balancing humour with the elements of a thriller is a difficult task to carry off, but Jonathan Stroud does it with style in The Amulet of Samarkand. What's more, he does it without expletives or sexual content, so you can happily encourage your youngsters to read this story.

Set in England sometime in a near future, it depicts a society in which the rich and powerful are all magicians. Politicians, in particular, are shown to be ruthless, manipulative, selfish and totally lacking in conscience; much, in fact, the way they appear to most of us in reality. The author uses his considerable writing gifts to mock the powerful and portray them as people who use their positions to get what they want without reference to the general public, who are treated with contempt by this society.

The main protagonists ought to be unsympathetic characters, but the reader warms to both the young, inexperienced, clever and vengeful apprentice magician, Nathaniel, and the wicked, conniving, powerful and devious demon, Bartimaeus, he conjours from 'the Other Place' to help him achieve his ambitions. Told from the first person, by Bartimaeus and the third person viewpoint of Nathaniel, the story develops plenty of impetus as the writer takes us into a world of ambition, greed, danger and treachery.

The humour is mostly of the type that brings a smile or a nod of admiration, but there's also the occasional belly laugh. And, I suspect, younger readers, particularly teenage boys will find plenty that will make them laugh out loud here.

It's a well-written story, with plenty of twists and turns and building drama leading to the inevitable denouement, which provides a satisfying and action-packed climax. The characters, even the minor roles, are written with an attention that allows the reader to form empathy and develop many other emotional responses appropriate to the different personalities.

I thoroughly enjoyed this work of great imagination and I applaud the author's method of bringing reader's attention to the depth of corruption in politics without preaching or ramming messages down throats. Humour is undoubtedly the most effective tool in the satirist's armoury and Jonathan Stroud uses it to great effect.

I have no hesitation in recommending this damn good read to all and sundry.

Alphabetical Order, a Play by Michael Frayn, Reviewed

Michael Frayn - Cambridge - 2011 (Photo credit: Chris Boland http://www.distantcloud.co.uk/ )

Plays are, of course, intended to be seen, experienced, rather than read. However, as a writer who has had a radio play broadcast by the redoubtable BBC, I have an interest in play scripts, and enjoy reading them as well.

Michael Frayn has a reputation as a playwright who understands comedy. And Alphabetical Order is a great example of his strength in creating humour. The stage setting remains unchanged throughout the 2 acts, except for some 'tidying' essential to the story. So, the whole action takes place within the library of a local newspaper and involves the librarians and some of the reporting and editorial staff.

Having worked on a local paper, as a photographer, I have some empathy with the characters portrayed and some understanding of their peculiar pressures and priorities. The characters are well drawn, using the playwright's only real tool; that of dialogue. It's possible to picture them on the stage from the script, because they are so well described by their chosen words and what they have to say or what is said about them by other characters; the essence of a stage play.

The action is minimal, as is the plot, but the play covers a great deal of ground in terms of character building and relationship development. There are plenty of jokes and many occasions given to laughter, both with and at the characters. But there is pathos too. The aura of gentle decay and the overriding sense of futility combine with the overall frivolity of the dialogue, which hides those secrets that lurk beneath the surface of the spoken text. So, there are some surprises but the drama plays out more or less as expected.

The denouement is slightly surprising in the way it happens, but the reader realises that the outcome was, in fact, inevitable, given the natures of the characters and their employment. Typical of the very English setting and characterisation, there is a lot more beneath the surface, unstated but alluded to, making the play a multi-layered experience.

I enjoyed this, and recommend it to those who enjoy their drama in thoughtful but gentle comedy form.

The Writing Week.

Another busy, if interrupted, week.
I had begun the read aloud edit session of the NaNoWriMo novel (provisionally titled An Avenger Unseen) and got as far as chapter 15 before I realised it needed some major surgery. I'm writing this as a comedy thriller, with the emphasis on the comedy. But I realised I'd gone too deeply into the thriller aspect, and my male protagonist had adapted a tone unsuitable to his narrative. So, I went back to the beginning and I've so far re-written the first 5 chapters.
I've written a short story, which will need editing next week. And I completely re-wrote a story I'd started some time ago and never submitted. This one has gone to the Writers & Artists Yearbook contest. Wish me luck! If you're interested in entering writing competitions, you might have a glance at the page tabbed 'Writing Contests' above. There are a great many links to such contests there.
And I finished reading and have therefore reviewed, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. The review is just below this post if you're interested.
Kate was home for the weekend and she's just returned, her boyfriend driving her to the station for her train.
It's my brother, Steve's, birthday tomorrow, so we had he and his lovely wife, Alison, round for the evening last night. Great night, but too much wine meant I wasn't up to much writing this morning!
The car has now been serviced and is again safe and quieter for the replacement of the box on the exhaust.
And the drive is now clear of snow, which is slowly melting away anyway.
Those are the interruptions I mentioned. I like to think of them as reasons for not having done much, but I know they're really excuses.
That, however, is enough for now.

Stuart's Odd Definitions (SODs): Politician

Image via Wikipedia

I thought I'd add a little dark humour and devise some definitions of my own. Since I generally rely on the Shorter Oxford English Dictionary (SOED) to inspire my 'real' definitions for the Daily Word Spot, I thought I'd use the acronym SOD for my own odd definitions. Here's the first of what will become an irregular series.

Politician: noun - unreliable representative of the people; a corrupt official; opinionated orator; self-obsessed child; blinkered follower of party dogma; greasy pole climber; a person with their snout in the trough; demagogue; someone with ideas fixed by reference to a dubious past; a person suffering retarded development and needing undue attention from a large pool of otherwise insignificant strangers; an immature seeker of attention.

As is evident from my definition, I have huge admiration for politicians as a class of individuals. After all, they have, over the years, managed to persuade large numbers of people that they act in the interests of their constituents, whilst ensuring that their own goals are given priority. They've achieved that most unusual feat of fooling most of the people most of the time: in this case, mostly a reflection of the weariness and indifference of the voting population. In a democracy, politicians are supposed to represent the views of those whose region they serve. In reality, of course, they invariably either bow to pressure from their party machine and thereby distort or delete their personal election promises, or they put forward their own views regardless of any conflict these may have with those of the people they're supposed to represent.

So, a pretty worthy bunch of reprobates, thoroughly deserving of our continued support. They'll undoubtedly maintain their positions of power and influence and use them to gain greater rewards for themselves and those they favour, whilst the rest of us lie back and let them trample over us, thereby receiving the respect and treatment we deserve.

So, I say, well done politicians. May you all receive the rewards you so richly deserve.

What say you?

1672 - Giovanni Cassini discovered Rhea, one of the many satellites of Saturn.

1922 - BBC Radio began daily newscasts in the UK, starting a tradition that has grown over the years to inform, educate and, sometimes, irritate the hell out of the listeners.

Free Book for Xmas, Help Yourself, and Smile.

It's about time I rewarded my readers with a small gift, so I've published a short story in ebook form for all of you. But, Baby, It's Cold Outside is available through Smashwords for all ebook formats and platforms. All you need to do is click here.
For those of you who don't have an ereader, no problem. You can download a couple from here, just by clicking on the links:
For the Kindle on your PC, click here for UK and here for USA & rest of the world.
For the Adobe ereader, click here.

But, Baby It's Cold Outside is intended for an adult readership and I wouldn't recommend it for anyone under 15 years of age, though there is nothing either crude or violent in this story of an interrupted NewYear's Eve between lovers.

But, Baby It's Cold Outside

I'm seeing in the New Year, with my chosen lover, in front of the fire. Wonderful. Until, that is, an unidentified rural noise makes the townie nervous and something must be done to restore the magic.

Enjoy. And an early Happy New year to all. By all means, spread the word to your friends and family. I'd like to give the gift to as many people as possible. Spread the joy, I say.

Author Interview with Karen Pokras Toz

Hello Karen, please tell us about you, as a writer.

Well – I wasn’t always a writer. I enjoyed reading as a child and had many stories floating around in my head that I wanted to write. Unfortunately, I was not very good at writing, or at least I didn’t think I was very good. Math was my subject. I always believed you were either a math person or an English person, and so I never pursued writing. In school I studied finance, accounting and law. My writing was always with numbers. Thirteen years ago, I heard a news story on television and began creating a novel based around this single event – all in my head, of course. I’m not sure what made me decide it was time to put pen to paper, but at some point last year I began writing. I am now hooked!

Your middle grade book is NATE ROCKS THE WORLD; perhaps you’d you give us some insight into it in a few sentences.

This is the first book in the NATE ROCKS series, about a quirky young boy who draws cartoons that come to life. NATE ROCKS THE WORLD uses humor and adventure to show that even kids can accomplish great things. The book is geared toward 7-12 year olds.

How did you come to write this particular book?

I knew I wanted to write a fun book that would encourage kids to read. The inspiration really came from my children. My oldest son is an artist, my daughter is very creative, and my youngest loves to role-play. I sort of combined all three of these traits to come up with my main character, Nathan Rockledge.

Do you have a favourite character from the book? If so, who and why this particular one?

That is such a hard question because I really love all of my characters. Of course I love Nate, but I think Nate’s mom is my favorite. She tries so hard to cook and sew be the perfect mom and housewife, stumbling every step of the way. I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a little bit of me in her.

Where can people buy your books?

NATE ROCKS THE WORLD is available online in both print and digital copies from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Smashwords, the Apple Store and many more outlets.

Print copy - direct from publisher

Print & Kindle - Amazon.com

Nook, Sony Reader, Apple, Kobo & others

For a complete list, please visit my website: www.karentoz.com

What qualities does a writer need to be successful?

For me, determination, focus and commitment are key. Everyone has a story to tell – I truly believe that. There are so many resources out there to help you along the way. Grammar, style, and technique – those are all things that can be developed over time with the right guidance. It took me 13 years to realize that.

What’s your working method?

I am a morning person. I like to try to get up an hour earlier than I need to, make my coffee, and get writing. I do write sporadically during the afternoon when it is quiet, but nothing beats that morning time for me.

What’s the single biggest mistake made by beginner writers?

Well, speaking as a beginner, I would say rushing has been my biggest mistake. Also – it is worth the investment to have both a professional editor review your manuscript, and a professional designer to create your cover.

To what extent are grammar and spelling important in writing?

Grammar and spelling are so important! Mistakes jump off the page at readers and can be major distractions and turn-offs. You want your reader to drift into your story without having to re-read sentences. Hopefully, between my editor and myself, I won’t be eating my own words!

How much do you revise your MS before sending it off?

I honestly lost count!

Many authors see marketing as a bind. What's your opinion on this, and how do you deal with it?

Marketing certainly takes away from writing time. I am doing all of my own marketing. I really don’t see any way around having to market your own material – especially for a debut novelist such as myself. It has definitely been a challenge, as I have no previous experience in this arena. However, at the same time, I have found it quite rewarding and have developed some wonderful relationships. Trying to find the right balance between marketing time and writing time is key.

If there’s a single aspect of writing you find frustrating, what is it?

Definitely editing – and editing – and editing some more. As a writer, I always find myself asking if my manuscript is finished. Should I add anything, should I take something out, have I caught all my typos, is the tense consistent, and my personal favorite: are all the commas in the right place? Even with a professional editor giving the manuscript a once over, it is a never ending and exhausting task.

Is there a particular feature of writing that you really enjoy?

I love writing dialogue. I think it is because with dialogue, I can just get straight to the point without worrying about setting up the scene correctly... or maybe it is because with three kids, I can rarely get a word in edgewise!

What are you writing now?

I’m working on two projects actually. I am revisiting my first manuscript, which I never published, called invisible. It is the story of a woman who finds herself suddenly famous and thrown unwittingly in front of the paparazzi. I hope to release invisible by early 2012. I am also several chapters into the next book of the NATE ROCKS series.

Do you have a website or blog where readers can visit?

I have both! I love to blog. I write about my daily life as a mom, writer, wife... basically it is just me rambling about whatever happens to be on my mind at any particular moment. Every week, I post a ‘Friday Five’ where I sum up what’s been going on in my little world and can be found at http://kptoz.blogspot.com If you read something you like, let me know! Comments really make my day.

I also have an author website www.karentoz.com . Here you can find information about my book, including reviews, a free chapter download, and purchase information.

Given unlimited resources, where would you do your writing?

That’s an interesting question. I think I could probably write anywhere as long as I had a quite space, my laptop, and a large carafe of coffee!

Where do you actually write?

I write at home – often in the living room or in the bedroom. I find those rooms to be the most peaceful. I like quiet when I write. We are in the process of setting up an office in one of our spare rooms, so perhaps I will enjoy writing in there as well.

Thank you so much for having me!

Stuart's Daily Word Spot: Malapropism

Malapropism: noun -  taken from the surname of Mrs. Malaprop, a character in R. B. Sheridan's comedy ‘The Rivals’ (1775) noted for her misuse of words: unintentionally humorous misuse or distortion of a word or phrase; use of a word sounding like the one intended (homophones) but ludicrously wrong in the context.

Used well, the deliberate replacing of words with different ones can really make a humorous scene.

‘If it’s true that Jesus sent them gabardine swine into the sea to drown, it’s not very Christian, is it?’ (Gadarene).

‘Them women was jus’ sayin’ that there fellah’s fallacy ain’t nowhere near as huge as ‘e says it is.’ (phallus)

Picture: Overlooking the Yorkshire Dales.

Stuart's Daily Word Spot: Epigraph

Epigraph: noun - superscription of a letter or book; imprint on a title page; an inscription on a tomb, building or statue; a legend on a coin; motto.

‘The grave of Spike Milligan bears an epigraph characteristic of the comic’s humour; “I told you I was ill”.’


Nothing suitable on Zemanta, so a picture from Crete, with absolutely no connection to the word defined.

Stuart's Daily Word Spot: Bowdlerize

Image via Wikipedia

Bowdlerize: verb – (Thomas Bowdler (1754–1825) was an English editor, who published an expurgated edition of Shakespeare.); to expurgate a text by removing or altering material considered improper or offensive, emasculate.

Bowdler’s numerous and often silly cuts and edits to Shakespeare have immortalized his name as another word for censorship.

‘It seems some people never learn from history: Bowdler did his best to emasculate and sanitise Shakespeare and produced a laughable piece of work as a result. But others continue in his name and Bowdlerize many works, replacing evocative expletives with meaningless euphemisms and chopping out great chunks of text that fail to fall into their peculiar definition of what is or is not acceptable. Idiots; the lot of them. Perhaps these same folk would like to paint clothes on the numerous wonderful nudes? Certainly, there have been those who added fig leaves to classical Greek sculpture in order that ‘ladies’ would not be offended by the sight of carved genitalia. Such prudishness invariably declares more about the minds of the censors than about those they presume to protect from what they perceive, with their foul interpretations, as offensive or evil.’