I have sometimes thought it would be fun to do a regular “here’s a question, give me your opinion” type blog, rather like the theologian’s cafe.

I haven’t the time to do this on a daily basis, but I do have a question you may wish to advise me on

On Friday I always do certain household chores.

Today is Friday.

In my eagerness to clean the hallway properly, I have knocked over a large glass flower bowl, a present to my partner from a friend.

It was beautiful. It was antique. It was coloured. It was heavy. It was expensive.

It is now smashed into a thousand pieces.

When in a little while I try to explain this mishap, will it help if I quote this Buddhist proverb?

“All created things are liable to destruction.”

Later – What happened?

Saved!

My partner had taken part in a worse disaster, which made my little accident look like nothing.

www.wakeoftheraven.com

http://www.amazon.com/Wake-Raven-Graham-Worthington/dp/193424807X/sr=8-1/qid=1170299933/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1/102-4790616-8172131?ie=UTF8&s=books

I loved you, so I drew these tides of men into my hands

      and wrote my will across the sky in stars

To earn you Freedom, the seven-pillared worthy house,

      that your eyes might be shining for me

When we came.

Death seemed my servant on the road, till we were near

      and saw you waiting:

When you smiled, and in sorrowful envy he outran me

      and took you apart:

Into his quietness.

Love, the way-weary, groped to your body, our brief wage

      ours for the moment

Before earth’s soft hand explored your shape, and the blind

      worms grew fat upon Your substance.

Men prayed me that I set our work, the inviolate house,

      as a memory of you.

But for fit monument I shattered it, unfinished: and now

The little things creep out to patch themselves hovels

      in the marred shadow

Of your gift.

It is in fact a dedicatory poem, titled “To S. A.” from the beginning of Seven Pillars of Wisdom: a Victory, by T.E. Lawrence (Lawrence of Arabia) first published in 1922, and dealing with that part of the 1914-18 war that was fought in Arabia.

It is generally agreed that S. A. refers to Salim Ahmet, a young Arab boy who Lawrence was fond of (cough) who died of typhus at age eighteen. However, in a more philosophical sense, Salim is probably used here to represent the aspiration to freedom of the Arab nation, who were used by the British to defeat the Turks, and later betrayed by them at the conference table. This distressed Lawrence considerably, as he was aware, even while fighting alongside the Arabs, that this betrayal was probable.

A particularly wince-making part of this story is that Lawrence, having completed the first manuscript of 350,000 words, lost it at the railway station in Reading, in England, and had to write the whole thing again. Any author now reading has just left to pour himself a stiff drink.

As no one guessed correctly, the $5,000 prize remains unclaimed.

http://www.wakeoftheraven.com/

http://www.amazon.com/Wake-Raven-Graham-Worthington/dp/193424807X/sr=8-1/qid=1170299933/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1/102-4790616-8172131?ie=UTF8&s=books

This is part of a first draft, and probably needs some work.

Tania, a schoolgirl, is speculating on life, with special attention to mankind’s main eternal fascination.

She looked at him occasionally from the corner of her eye. He was very slim, and the muscles of his stomach made a nice lumpy pattern with a little hollow at either side. There was hair on his chest, but not too much. Betty said that all men had lots of thick hair on their chests, but Betty was stupid. She said that if a man didn’t have a lot of hair on his chest he wasn’t allowed to get married to anyone, and that’s where they got all the priests from. She was really stupid. Father O’Brien had hair in his nose, lots of it, and on his ears, and he was a priest, and if you had hair in your nose you had to have hair on your chest. But he was old and fat and nobody would want to marry him even if he had tons of hair.

Father Colin didn’t have hair in his nose, or on his ears. He was nice, and he smiled a lot even though he was very serious. His chin was very smooth, and Silly Betty said he didn’t have to shave because he was so holy. But he did shave, he smelled of something that men put on when they shave, and she had smelt it when he talked to her. Father Colin told her to come to his office when Sister Agatha was mad at her, just before they left Paa, and he had sat down whilst she stood so her eyes were on a level with his. He had nice brown eyes and his voice was soft. He told little jokes and made her laugh, even though he was supposed to get mad at her for disobeying Sister Agatha.

She didn’t dare to look at his eyes too much; it made her embarrassed and….

Further excerpts on http://www.wakeoftheraven.com/

http://www.amazon.com/Wake-Raven-Graham-Worthington/dp/193424807X/sr=8-1/qid=1170299933/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1/102-4790616-8172131?ie=UTF8&s=books

When people learn that I’ve written a novel, their most common question is “what’s it about?” I find that hard to answer, as my novels follows the joys and sorrows of a number of characters who behave not so much as people should, but as people do, and that involves them in everything life throws at people: romance, religion, money, politics, employment, illness, high ideals, pettiness, honesty, crime, power, helplessness, fear, greed, love…. You name it. If it’s part of life, that is what my series of novels is about.

So I usually cop-out, and say “it’s historical,” or “it’s about people in the century just gone.” And so it is. But whether they are good or bad people, I do not say, but leave for you to decide.

Wake of the Raven is the first novel in a series, which commences in 1951, a few years after the Second World War, when an accident causes a wave of events to radiate out, affecting the lives of a group of people.

Subsequent novels follow these people’s lives as the war-scarred  fifties give way to the swinging sixties, and onwards to the far different, technology dominated end of the century.

As the years pass, society changes, and these changes are seen through the eyes of the ageing characters. I am interested in three areas of change: sexual attitudes, religious attitudes, and economic conditions. 

This first in the series is set in the early months of 1951, and Tigercage – not yet completed – covers the remainder of that year.

It is possible that before I complete Tigercage I will complete Zorn, a speculative story about a group of young people on holiday somewhere in the Mediterranean in 2035.  

Finally I have preliminary notes for The Stone Man, where I examine the life of a character caught in a struggle between formality and spontaneity at about the present time.

Only Wake of the Raven is published as yet. It is a fairly long novel at 448 pages, and can be obtained directly from the publisher through

www.wakeoftheraven.com

or if you prefer Amazon….

http://www.amazon.com/Wake-Raven-Graham-Worthington/dp/193424807X/sr=8-1/qid=1170299933/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1/102-4790616-8172131?ie=UTF8&s=books for the USA

http://www.amazon.ca/Wake-Raven-Graham-Worthington/dp/193424807X/sr=1-3/qid=1172506486/ref=sr_1_3/702-0001799-1860068?ie=UTF8&s=books for Canada

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Wake-Raven-Graham-Worthington/dp/193424807X/sr=8-1/qid=1172506560/ref=pd_ka_1/202-8172680-6430203?ie=UTF8&s=books for the UK

It’s my birthday today.

Now that I’m thirteen I can stop telling lies about my age, cuz I’m not frightened they will kick me off xanga anymore.

From this day on everything I say and do will be as pure as the driven snow.

All the snow here is melting and turning to slush by the way.

www.wakeoftheraven.com

http://www.amazon.com/Wake-Raven-Graham-Worthington/dp/193424807X/sr=8-1/qid=1172176652/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1/102-4790616-8172131?ie=UTF8&s=books

“Do you expect me to talk, Goldfinger?”

“No Mr Bond, I expect you to die.”

I love that snappy bit of dialogue from Fleming’s seventh Bond novel, first published in 1959 and filmed in 1964. It’s probably the best of the twelve, and one of the longest at about 80,000 words.

None of the series were long, some as short as 60,000 words – about 200 pages – and all were based on effective description of exotic settings, to which Bond had usually been sent by the gruff, concise of orders of M. 

There, in ancient Istanbul, in sun and rum Jamaica, in neat Switzerland or quaint Japan, the swift acts of murder, torture, betrayal and love take place between glamorous, ruthless, decisive people, with little concern for the interior dialogues of doubt and confusion by which we ordinary, non-Bond people grope our way through duller lives.

And coincidence is always on his side. Let 007 jump off a plane in the vast city where he is to defeat the villain, and he only has to walk into the nearest hotel bar to accidentally meet the beautiful woman brooding in the clutches of the loathsome villain.

Usually the villains were smarter than Bond, but fortunately this swelled their egos, causing them – when they imprisoned him, which they usually did – to gloat and explain their genius, rather than kill him quickly, and so he – being a cool Brit rather than some kind of greasy dago – always managed to turn the tables and drown them (Mr. Big in “Live and Let Die”) or shoot them (several) or bury them in guano (i.e. birdshit, the fate of “Dr No.”)

Before they died though, these villains were often allowed a piece of dialogue explaining why he, Bond, was a wastrel, poisoning mind, body and soul with late nights, vodka martinis, fast women and two packs a day of those ciggys with the three rings made specially for him at that place on Thingy Street in London. And Bond didn’t argue with them, because he knew they were right, but so what? He was there to save Britain from evil, so we could all watch cricket in peace, not to do yoga classes.

Then Bond would kill them, and that shut their mouths, and a pity he isn’t here now to deal with some of these politically correct twits who now infest us, especially that friend of mine from Bradford who will keep talking to me about vegetarianism, and who eats all kinds of weeds and grass whilst pulling faces of the most hideous delight, plainly in a state of exaltation at the thought of all the vitamin Z and oxy-bono-whatisit he’s getting down his gullet….

But I digress.

Bond didn’t worry about that crap. Cholesterol and cancer never entered his vocabulary.

And that was probably the reason why Bond stands supreme as the twentieth century’s action hero: massive ability, and not too much crippling thought or conscience, but yet enough to make him human, as was his creator, Ian Fleming, whose bon viveur lifestyle eventually killed him.

That was Fleming’s style. But it isn’t mine, because I’m more concerned with how ordinary, real life people get into extraordinary messes, which I find that they do regularly. and I like to get inside their heads, and find out why they do the strangest things. Below are the links for my first published shot at doing so, at about twice the length of a JB novel.

www.wakeoftheraven.com

Amazon >>>> http://www.amazon.com/Wake-Raven-Graham-Worthington/dp/193424807X/sr=8-1/qid=1170299933/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1/102-4790616-8172131?ie=UTF8&s=books

Perhaps the world is in need of a little lubrication, and I should run up to the North Pole with an oil-can and apply a few drops, so that it turns with less of a maddening slowness.

Were I not such a refined Englishman I would say that things are proceeding in slow squirts, like a pig pissing, as we say in the north, though I’ve never watched one closely enough to know if this is true or not.

Amazon got my title online within a couple of days of my publisher announcing the new title, but it’s taken them two weeks to put the cover pic in place, which has teed me off exceedingly, as – I think – the artist designed a striking cover, much better than my own attempts.

So it has been doubly annoying to have gone onto amazon every day for two weeks and see the vacant piccy place glaring at me like an empty eye socket in a skull. Who knows, perhaps they may even post a summary before too long, or a few words of the text.

None the less, despite these shortages, a few people have risked a few bucks, evidenced by amazon giving me a ranking a few days ago, although I don’t know as yet how many. But of you are one of them, then thanks, thanks very much.

Also my own site is online – www.wakeoftheraven.com – where I am undercutting amazon by a few bucks. I’m not happy with this site. It needs some work, including the provision of an email feedback for people worrying that their payment might just vanish into the blue with no book arriving. so that is something I need to get onto.

Finally I have my own site for handling supply to readers of “Wake of the Raven,” published and in stock, and later “Zorn” and “Tigercage,” not yet completed.

http://www.wakeoftheraven.com

This is my own site

built by my publisher, Mill City Press, of Minneapolis, who handle distribution for me, and it can supply worldwide

I prefer that you use it rather than Amazon, because Amazon gouges authors for so much commission that we have to keep the price up, and still ends up working for less money than the guy or girl who passes the donuts and coffee to you at Tim Hortons. But Amazon own the fame system, so what else can you do?

But, on his own site (like this above) an author can afford to knock it down towards production costs, and still make enough money (not usually a fortune) to ensure his ability to sit the long hours needed to write his next novel without having to eat his dog.

This is my dog (actually my sister’s, but he listens to me)

He is clever. He is cute. He is lovable. He is faithful

He is also edible

But if you prefer to use amazon….

If you happen to search me, no I’m not the guy who wrote the book on chemistry, or metallurgy, or whatever. He’s someone else, and he’s sod-all to do with me.

Things are chugging along slowly with me right now. I don’t feel like doing a new entry, but I do feel like posting, so….

People ask me what my novel is about, and I’ve thought that I would do some kind of a post on that when I’ve got my systems more set up. However, a lot of that depends on other people, and I can’t control it - for instance, amazon.com takes weeks to enter all the info when I new book comes onto their site – so I’ll start now.

Corruption.

This is a major theme with this novel, and almost certainly will be with all of this series. I don’t mean just the sort of corruption as when a politician diverts cash into his own pocket, although that would be a good example. I mean the ever present corruption of people saying one thing and doing another, seeking to control others yet themselves doing as they wish.

It is against this background that my heroes contend with the joys and pains of their lives. They are ordinary people, capable of both heroism and foolishness, trying in confusion to find their way to their own personal heaven, in a world whose pathways were marked out by a bewildering mix of the good, the greedy and the insane.

Look!!!

The front cover of a novel!!!!!!!

My novel, which goes to the printer’s on Monday, 8 of January!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And, unless there’s a disaster (like they print it upside-down, or the printer guy gets his tie caught in the works and gets hauled in and mangled into mincemeat, or something) I will get the first copy for approval in about one or two weeks.

Monday 8 January 2007 >>>>>>>> Okay, so now it’s gone to the printers, and I’m twiddling my thumbs now till it comes back. In the meantime, how about an excerpt >>>>>>>>>>>>

From “Wake of the Raven,” chapter 19,”St. George’s Day.”

But they were on holiday, and his mind tasted the long past flavour of being a small boy, scrambling over the remoter rocks of some English bay, tiny metal bucket and spade clutched in one hand, the other steadying him against the rough, slimy surface that grated beneath his sandals, watching the green slimy weeds rise and fall with the cold English waves, seeing the patient black mussels constantly covered and uncovered. Then a clumsy step on the uneven rock would bring his shin sharply down onto its hard roughness, and with a cry he would retreat from that sport to the smooth sand, to splash water onto the injury and gingerly touch the stinging bright red abrasion.

Raising his eyes from the throbbing injury, he could make out his parent’s distant deck chair, and in a few paces he would pass into the host of other holidaymakers drawn to the beach by the brief glory of the uncertain English summer. Pale men in swimming trunks, the sun glistening from the sweat of their balding temples, their wives dumpy in flowered swim suits, peering through dark glasses into bags where sandwiches lurked. Unknown children like himself running shouting between the deck chairs, the thomp of footballs kicked by boys in their glorious teens, who leapt and fought for the ball with warrior shouts, the sparse soft beginning of beards on their young chins.

Waiting for the first copy to come from the printers is like watching paint dry.

An excerpt: “Wake of the Raven,” chapter 1, “Papa Rice’s.”