'Ankle' sock puppeteers...?

No writer wants a bad review, but I think overly exuberant reviews, when they come from people they know, can be just as damaging.

The writing of reviews, it seems, these days, almost demands perhaps as much skill as the author of the book itself, many different kinds, genres in themselves if you like; those that are genuine usually entirely evident, but those that've been written by close acquaintances, sticking out like sore thumbs; not fooling anyone.  And outside of sock puppeteers, who are just downright losers, such reviews are almost equally annoying, not to mention detrimental to the success of that book regardless of how well intended they are.  Can turn a potential reader away.

For instance, below is usually the kind of thing written by family or friends (perhaps a bit over the top by example, but you get the gist) or those people that you struck up a rapport with on your writing journey; other writers still in the early stages of their own journey maybe, but people who don't realise yet that the rest of us with more experience have become increasingly savvy about such things.  And all trying to help, yes, but usually even the greatest works don't come with such glowing recommendation as some of the reviews we can see have attached to them, and so they can actually have the exact opposite effect - especially when we read the sample of the work they pertain to, for I don't know about the rest of the population, but a writer can usually tell from the first few words of anything as to whether it was written by someone who's taken the time to learn at least something of their craft or not, but certainly a discerning reader will soon be able to tell bad from good too, regardless of what the reviews say.

"This was the best book in the history of the world, I highly recommend that you put down whatever you are reading now because, nothing, and I mean NOTHING will ever match up to this masterpiece by this exciting new author who has broken new ground and kept me so enthralled by this storyline that I neglected my kids and took a few days off work to finish it.  My life will never be the same again; I just wanted to dive into that world, for I truly felt I'd become a part of it. I have never read anything quite as good as this in my entire life.  Off now to buy every other title by my son/daughter/bestie/dad/mum/cleaner/hairdresser/myself.

If I could give more than five stars, I would."

Personally, not many people in my real life have read my own books, and I prefer it like that, because they don't have to like my books because of our relationship, that's just ridiculous, but in general, while we all know that, no one ever says they don't, not usually anyway, everybody so sugar-sweet, scared to offend, they'll usually say they do.  But if they have read my work, they can have a tendency to ask me what I want them to say in their review.  Sweet sentiment, but entirely annoying; I would hope that they enjoyed it enough to formulate their own opinion.

"Whatever it was it made you feel."  Is usually what I say, and they look at me more funnily than normal, even, I imagine, over email; wondering why I'm passing up the opportunity to manipulate a potential five star review - but then they're not in my writing world; they don't know the obvious nature of these things.  "Unless of course you hated it, and then I'd really prefer you didn't publicise an opinion." - which, seemingly goes against my point about honesty in reviews, but is just being honest, for no writer actually wants to see a bad review, no review at all being better imho.

I've never really had a bad review, my couple of three stars still very good comments, just weren't to both those people's tastes in that particular book's entirety, and I know that's because, whether you like my stories or not, I do strive to present the best possible work according to where I am in my writer's journey, have studied the art, I do slave over my words, a bit obsessive compulsive with them actually, and so for the most part, your 'bad review' could only be so maybe because of a matter of taste - but then we would hope that you'd be able to decide that from the very beginning, from the synopsis and the sample, and that you'd move on to a work more suited.

I get it though; those close to us want to show their support, and giving an honest review with anything less than five stars could potentially cause an atmosphere between us - as far as they're concerned - it's just not what you do when you know the writer personally; your duty to show support regardless, as most do with most anything else in life.  And so the old cliché about not mixing business with pleasure has never been truer in my opinion, than the personal friends of an author when reviewing their books.

I have even gone as far as asking my online writer associates to be less than exuberant in their reviews, have stressed the need for them to be honest, as over enthusiastic reviews are obvious - as we're all coming to know in the world of indie publishing.  I've even had some writers change theirs from something akin to the example above, suggesting to them what they might focus on, but only if they agree, and by example, I try to review their work completely honestly too, no sugar coating, concentrating on what I thought was good about it only, contacting them personally if there was something about the story I thought was completely lacking to the point that I felt I could only give a bad review if I were to be sincere, usually choosing not to give one at all.  And so, if they can't take that level of honesty which is only intended to help, they have no place in my circle of writer friends.  But then, I think they all know that about me by now, as do the people in my 'real' life.

I sometimes have no interest in the genre they write in either, e.g. if its overly religious, and so I don't want to read it at all, and sometimes when I have felt obligated to reciprocate, I've just become completely annoyed with it, and so I tell them so.  It doesn't mean it's bad, no, its just not for me, and in those cases, I just cannot bring myself to write a review - after all, as a completely honest person (of whom you should be entirely aware, apparently, for having stated that here about myself in the first place) saying there that 'I hate this kind of thing' might not go down too well, would cause a rift.  And of course, it could be the best thing since sliced bread for those who do like to get all spiritual and shit, but I'm just not qualified, or at least not the best person to judge, because I would never have looked twice at that book normally if I'd never known the person who wrote it.

There are many other kinds of reviews too; those that simply provide a synopsis of the story; information already on the book's page, sometimes with spoilers, but not mentioning the cleverness, the characterisation, the eloquence and other stuff we as writers would prefer to see mentioned, recognition of the fact that what we worked really hard at trying to put across; the emotion we wanted to induce from a reader, all better than another recap of the story.  And while some are completely innocently written almost as synopses, I can't help but think that some reviewers either do this thinking that they're helping, or maybe because they really have nothing good to say at all - and in which case it would be better not to comment.  Or maybe, it's just that, as many say, they're not writers themselves, and therefore feel a bit intimidated, don't know what the hell to say, but feel they have to put down something out of respect because they do know you.  But that's alright, even a couple of words, like, 'I really enjoyed this book' comes across more genuine than an over the top rave review - unless of course the book really does merit one, and that, I can't help but think, will come across too; the words will magically appear without you even trying; not as contrived as a review that'd been manufactured to try and say the same thing.

I have some such genuine comments on some of my own works and, that if I'd known those people personally, I might've asked them to bring it down a notch, but then, perhaps I'm analysing too much; think people will be suspicious of them because of what does go on, but perhaps I'm looking wa-y too hard and I tell myself that I do have to remember that some people really do enjoy people's books that much where they do become almost animated about it.  And that is always highly appreciated.

It's often said that writers are good 'liars' because they spend their time creating stories, I know I am, but I only use my powers for good in giving reviews and in life, could never feel comfortable 'sock-puppeting', would feel ashamed of myself; kidding no one but me, despite my skill for being creative in that I could be entirely convincing that they'd been written by someone else; know how to change writing styles accordingly.  But this kind of tactic just wouldn't sit well with the essence of who I am, would have the exact opposite effect on me in fact; I'd feel like a total loser, I'd know they weren't real, and so I guess I have a good sense of integrity, which is why I can sleep at night; no, no one can ever accuse me of such underhanded practice should I ever become that well known.

I can't help but think a good review is one that does rave a bit, does give four or five stars, but also, somewhere in-between the glowing recommendation maybe something else pointed out about it too (but, again, only if merited; don't go looking for it) not necessarily negative, per se, but simply an opinion, perhaps an element the reader would liked to have seen or didn't enjoy too much, or what they felt might've been better. Whatever, but a good balanced opinion, and most of all, a good honest review, for it is often this that readers judge a book by, and especially, other writers; I know I do.

Lastly, I do see this topic coming up all the time, as I do blogs and comments expressing a general intolerance of people who've never tried in any way to hone their craft, simply vomiting up a story and putting it up for sale because they can; most not realising that, like anything, writing is a trained skill, yes, even the best talent needs honed to be able to present a professional body of work.  And so, I think it's only a matter of time before those people realise that they'll get absolutely nowhere with that kind of approach, together with creating false reviews, or by allowing their friends to write glowing references for them, which as I've said, speak for themselves, for ultimately they'll make absolutely no money - which is surely why they're doing it as opposed to the 'love' that a real writer has for the written word, the laborious part of it treasured, embraced, as it should be.  And when they get fed up with trying, realise that the rest of us or onto them, then perhaps things really will settle down as they disappear, and we who try to do it all the honest way, the hard way, won't be grouped in and bogged down with all the bad apples that are currently in that barrow for sale.  A candied apple might be attractive on the surface, but it needs to be succulent on the inside too.

These dog treats will kill your dog... VERY suddenly.

I just watched a very interesting documentary on CBC's Marketplace about this popular chicken jerky treat which I've always bought at Costco; thousands of dogs are dying all over... including my last one... of sudden kidney disease because of these treats, and its been going on for years.

There is something in the glycerin.  Check out their Facebook page to see what others say, and also the CBC's website on this documentary which, I  understand is also going to air through the US on Saturday 29 September.

These and other treats made in China, should be avoided at all cost.  And the packaging, as do many dog treats, fool you into THINKING they're made in your own country.  Canada, doesn't even have regulation for dog food.

Love, your dog?  Spread the word.


CBC Article/video
Waggin' Train's Facebook page

This documentary on Marketplace, made me truly angry; I gave my dog a Waggin' Train chicken jerky treat every day and he too died very suddenly of kidney disease. Thankfully, I haven't been to Costco in months, where I used to buy them, so my current dog hasn't had any for a long time, but coincidentally, or is it, as a young dog, he no longer gets sick like he used to for no apparent reason. 

Rest assured I will do my part in spreading the word about this. It also makes me sick that there is no regulation of dog food in Canada. I don't care what this company's videos say, how they spin it; all the tests that came back from various countries, with suspicious elements in them, belonged to Waggin Train treats all made in China. 

That's good enough for me.

My book is being showcased today

Today 'Indies Unlimited' are featuring my new and improved Prickly Scots book on their wonderful site dedicated to showcasing indie writers.  So I would truly appreciate your support to help spread the word by coming and clicking on any or all of the social media buttons on its page, and even if you could leave a word or two, that would be amazing.  My writer friends, I'm relying on you especially, and If you haven't heard of Indies Unlimited, it offers many different ways for quality indie authors to get noticed; sneak peeks like this, which also includes getting listed in their library for a year, guest posts, competitions, and all manners of other interesting ways.  you should check it out.  Please don't make me look like a 'Billy-no-mates now, will ya?'

Thanks for your help and support.  Click here to take a look at the sneak peek and hopefully you will click on the social media buttons below it - just pretend its one of those meme cartoon thingies or a cat picture.

My writing journey over the Alps

As I wandered through those Alps; arduous, never-ending, I encountered many an obstacle along the journey; reached icy plateaus demanding I go back the way I came, to re-tread paths that I thought I'd conquered, and becoming stuck there, sometimes, exhausted, to simply hibernate in a cave, a lone wolf, naïve, hungry, no oasis to quench my thirst.

And I wonder why, for sometimes I'd thought it was pointless, sometimes still, as well.  And besides, there was a road that I could've driven, as others do, a more direct route, smooth and simple, undemanding, crossing boundaries with ease, apparently, and all that should be an obstacle.

But what would I know of the mountain at all, the intimacy of its spiritual essence, its disposition, for those would've eluded my grasp, the magnitude of pride and honour that commands to be scaled?  But my passion intrinsic, my sensibilities committed to the nature of the beast within, like no other I know.  I'd soar that mountainous terrain, sprout wings, learn how to fly, yes, and pass that old road by.

And when I did start out on that venture, blind at first, nocturnal, skulking in the dark of night, eyes eager, flashing; green, then red, so green, and then so red, a young wolf, arrogant, treading ahead without observing the lay of the land, those very rules dictated by the head of the pack from which I chose to stray to charter new territory with maverick way, and where sense was the only thing to be found on sheer cliff faces that scoffed and told me to turn around.

And I did, discovered trails to at least pinnacles low, and clambered upon them, scrambled, my body, exhausted, starved, depleted, resting there till dawn when I could survey my domain, all that I would claim to know.  But when daylight broke, my imaginary reward; that vista, hazy, still, an early morning mist lingering on a precipice, a gaping mouth to swallow me whole, still, daring me to find a foothold to climb to the limit of the sky where an abyss of imagination waited to be soared, or to plummet me to a bottomless pit of no substance.

And catching sight of higher peaks off in the distance, my name whistling between them, I reached a treacherous terrain of which I knew better now, jagged, unwelcoming, infinite, detrimental to body and mind, but inviting all the same, challenging, goading me all the while, in that I did not have strength, dared me to continue that quest at my will, at my peril, threatened that it'd eaten stronger than I.  Yes, easy to hitch a lift, that road right there, beckoning.  But what of respect; of staking my flag?  No, that road has no end, no honour, no destination where I would go.

Forward, the only way, the hard way, and as it should be, lest I lay down and died, lest I relinquished all that I could prove myself to be.   And so I ate but a berry or two along the way, to sustain the body that feeds my mind, as I dragged it across a rocky terrain of high and low, my latent madness to accompany me, hearing it whisper all the while, encouraging, but mocking me all at once, confusing me, as I inched forward, for I could only inch, to reach out and grab that, which came into my sight.

Yes, I summoned that strength instilled in me from another terrain, another madness never mine to claim, but of which I suffered, conquered against the odds to return me strong, that brought me to my battle here today, where, at last, I may reach, on hands and knees, dizzying heights of a pinnacle of which I may breathe thin air to leave me breathless, for through my blindness, the very pain of my vision, I see vistas, laid out before me in pastures bright, and a mossy hill to roll down upon that will stop me at the feet of a couple of Sherpa's waiting at the foot of the Himalayas.  But I don't need them now.  Do I?

"Fuck off Sherpas," I said.

**Important Note**

The above post started out as a blog post about my writer's journey, it was only meant to notify my readers that an end of an era is here; in that I have actually been able to put the words, 'Final Edition' on my Prickly Scots titles.   Many will know that I have written many other stories since, but Prickly Scots has seen me through the years of my training, was the first book I wrote as an adult, initially, without any kind of training, and has been rewritten and rewritten time and again the more my skill evolved with the necessary training and by gaining experience as a writer - my Golden Gate Bridge, if you like.

However, over the last few weeks, the entire book got yet another overhaul, each chapter lovingly edited three times each, to try and implement something of the writer I am today - a very hard task when you have to deal with all the errors and rookie mistakes of your previously amateur self; I could've written a whole new book in this last month.  And I found while doing it this time, that I knew it would be the last, I didn't actually need, or want to change it much at all - a first.  That of course, as easy as the edit was this time, brought me to a realisation, of how far I've come these last seven years; from the early days of joining an amateur writing site, where I started to understand more of the formulaic aspects, onto becoming top writer there, to the writer I am today, who has garnered the attention of some pretty important people, including, recently, a highly respected international best selling author who sent me a lovely message based on something else I wrote, and told me that she had purchased one of my books.  Humph.  Now, if that doesn't mean that I've scaled a mountain or two, then I don't know what would.  I can only hope that it might hold up to her expectation.

Again, Prickly Scots Pts I & II are finally complete, if you have either of these, or the collective volume, please update your copy on both Amazon and Smashwords (especially if it’s a really old one, my God please do that!) and make sure that the copy you have says 'Final Edition' under the title on the first page.

Finally, not only did I complete Prickly Scots', but also earlier this year, I revisited my entire body of work, and brought it all up to scratch too, so, if you own any of my other books, they all may be updated (even if they don't say Final Edition) for they are all far more sophisticated than their early editions were - and beautifully formatted and indexed too.

I have no choice now to get on with all my new stuff now that my babies have finally left home.  I might even go out in the sun, and... oh yes... I found a little puppy under my desk.... his name is MacGregor, apparently.

Save a buck and get the two books for one here at Amazon or Smashwords

When is a cliché not a cliché?

When you put it together with another one.

With the complete rewrite of both Prickly Scots Pt's I and II nearing completion (go get the latest free update if you already have the book; Pt I contains many, many changes; fifteen additional chapters you'll want to read before Pt II is released, and the beginning of the book completely rewritten) I decided that perhaps the otherwise serious covers might throw people off as to the true nature of this book -  largely a comedy.  After reading recently about the importance of book covers, I decided to have fun with it instead.  However, the picture is not without merit... rather appropriate, actually, considering some of the irascible characters to be found in the story... namely a sentient flower race that take on the traits of whichever country the mysterious Blue Phenomenon has sent them to.  

I wonder which country that could be?

Note:  5 August 2012 - This book is temporarily unavailable.

Words are (truly) Cheap

So true!

Why is it that everything, and I mean, everything in life, is so bloody expensive, mass-produced or not - well... that is, all, except e-books?

But back to this picture here; it absolutely blows my mind that people will pay this, even upwards of $5.00, for (oftentimes, a weak) coffee – and oftentimes more than just once a day too – something that took only seconds to make by anyone at all, and that can be dismissed almost as instantly as simply being a poor experience if it's distasteful, but an experience, no doubt, they'll repeat over and over again, yet, most don’t want to pay more than $2.99, for what can often be the result of years of slogging, to read a lovingly compiled book; many expecting to pay just 99c – which, if it also happens to be weak, they’ll feel completely hard done by and suspicious of every other book that dares to ask for such an outrageous price.  There’s something wrong with this picture, literally; people obviously willing to feed their stomach willy-nilly, but not the mind; insult to their intelligence or not, a book has more value, surely, than what will end up at the bottom of a toilet bowl when all's said and done? Even if some books are better deposited there too.  But don't the two normally go together; body and mind?

Why then, do we put up with being so undervalued as authors?  The answer to that is of course obvious, all authors know that; the indie world of publishing making it easy for anyone at all to publish a book. This results in millions of people all trying to undercut each other in the hopes that their cheapie will sell millions.  But only the lucky few achieve that kind of success, usually with supreme marketing skill - or the funds to pay someone to do it for them - providing of course they've produced a well-written book.  Marketing, a harder task even than actually writing a book, in my own considerable effort (which after six months of following advice and sacrificing much of my valuable writing time, to that end, religiously putting the work in, but no matter how I much I do, no matter how many places I advertise, I don't see a difference in sales, and am at the point of seriously considering going back to contacting agents (they shouldn't be as busy, these days, should they?)

Don't get me wrong; undoubtedly it's a wonderful opportunity for authors to publish books that mainstream publishers perhaps won't even glance at, but there has to be some kind of distinction other than price, to discern between those who've actually taken the time to study the art and put their life and soul into writing books.  They need to break free from the tsunami of mediocrity and amateurishness that can barely splash around a few words; people with no understanding of the formulaic aspects of writing because they haven't bothered to take it seriously at all.  Yes, the slush pile, as far as I can tell, anyway, is now on the reader's computer in these modern times, via Amazon and Smashwords and other distributors, and no longer just the traditional publishers' desk - which, for all we've ever said about them, we might now have a better understanding of.  But still... books are no different from anything else that's widely available; and so, I ask again, why is it, in an expensive world of everything else, that e-books, and the talent that's put into many of them, are ALL EXPECTED to be so underpriced?

Just like the thousands of coffee shops we have to choose from, and anything else for that matter, there's good and there's bad, cheap and expensive, Dollar stores and Harrods, and everything in-between.  Why then, when many people see a book priced at more than $2.99, do they balk at it?  Why, even, when they see it being offered for free, which I personally completely don't agree with outside of promotional giveaways, and which did absolutely nothing for me in Amazon's KDP programme, do they value it even less than that?  It just doesn't make sense.  It doesn't seem fair.  But then, the world never has been.

This kind of low pricing is completely outrageous; any hard working author's work should be rewarded; they have a great skill, and, if they're like me, give up many aspects of normal life to bring the world stories for the love of it - and by author, I mean, any who've actually taken the time to at least try and hone their craft, whether still early on in their writing journey or not, and not one who simply thinks they can sit and type out a story because everyone at the BBQ say they're hilarious when recounting what happened last Saturday night.

And so, I’m happy to start seeing that certain organizations are beginning to try and come up with ways to separate the English from the (double) Dutch.  But perhaps an entrance exam, or something, like the one I had to pass to be employed as a freelance writer, or maybe we should have to prove something of our credentials at least - I don't know; I'm not the one with the answer, just a lowly writer, working for a pittance.  But one needs to be arrived at, soon, for true talent deserves to emerge from under the tidal wave that is the sea of indie publishing.  Hopefully, these companies are doing this with a view towards upping the prices of well-written books, too, and that people will start to bear in mind the old cliché, 'that you gets what you pays for'.  With everyone and their dog crying for pay rises these days, I think its high time, authors had a commensurate level of compensation as well - writing simply for the love of it, or not; if it's professional, published and available to the public, then it deserves more than the paltry amounts we seem to have accepted that they go for in our otherwise over-priced with everything else world.  Four or five books that can be kept for an eternity = the price of one designer coffee, gone in minutes?  Hmmm....

Also, on the whole coffee analogy thing, it seems appropriate to mention that it's unfortunate that the most popular chains are where most people tend to flock to, of course this happens because everyone else goes there, the human race inclined to be automaton, mainstream an inevitability.  But hasn't individual, true, talent, supposed to have been liberated in the indie publishing world?  Were we not supposed to be sitting in independent coffee shops stirring Grande cups of libretto at our leisure by now, chewing on our grubby laptops while staring into the universe and sharing the ideas that came from the strange abyss of imagination we've always travelled because that's what the people said they wanted?

Why then, in a so-called indie world of publishing, should we have to, increasingly, feel the need to appeal to a mentality that has no problem shelling out a fortune for a cup of froth simply because it's the flavour of the month?  Why do many writers jump on the copycat bandwagon that will inevitably drown the rest of us in the way that wizards and vampires (and undoubtedly to come, fifty ways to drink a coffee) have done?  Indie or not, someone, somewhere, is still telling the world what they're going to like next... and that's a shame.  Fashions and trends are one thing; but everything, everyone, pretty much, is the same all over the world.  And the ironic thing... people actually do this for the money?  Wake up and smell the sea-salt, that boat sailed; you're supposed to be an inventor; YOU create the next big thing.

As Alanis once said, I hate the world today.  And by the world, I do of course mean many aspects of the Internet and it's anti-social media - which I pretend to slot into with only a slightly better shape than I ever did in the real one as an oft misunderstood artist type.  And sadly, for all I hated about the real world too, it seems to have stopped percolating different varieties of coffee altogether, blending them all now in a huge gigantic melting pot that has cheapened, but not in my book, the true art of what being a barista might once have been.

Drama Queen

Poets are fairies… kind of

spreading their mystical word

All with long hair… probably

and glasses… sensitive rhymester nerds

Yeah, can be seen in coffee shops… usually

staring blankly out the window

herbal tea in coffee mugs… maybe

stirring everything but inspired libretto

Most of them smoke weed… obviously

I mean come on; poems are serious shit man

Stoking up words of paranoia... typically

and calling it enlightened inspiration

Ye-ah... they’re all fucking weirdoes, poets

floating around with chewed pens and grubby laptops

smiling melancholy at nature and stars… fucking souls

Get a real job... ya freaked out crazy crackpots

- S P Mount -

Puppy: Pee, You, Pee-Pee. Why?

Most people say 'good morning, lovely weather' when you encounter them on a lonely street - well, that is, if they don't walk by you looking everywhere but in your direction.  But when you have a dog, it’s a definite factor that makes you have to talk to strangers, and okay, the weather is unseasonably inclement thereby averting that particular cliché this morning, but here's a conversation that's seen me giggling since I came in from my first walk of the day - talk about inspiration for a character in one of my books.  But be warned, it's pretty disgusting, so leave now if you're all about bluebells, fireflies and butterflies.

"Is he friendly?" a woman in a baseball cap shouted from half a mile away above the traffic noise on Broadway; people driving to work and the students on their way to UBC packed into any number of  hi-speed number 99 busses like refugees on a banana boat, a rush hour on a road that runs right through Vancouver that's akin to a black hole vortex.

And even though I knew what she'd said just by the very predictability of it, my piss elegant sensibilities showed their annoyance that someone as refined as me would be expected to scream back on the street to tell her that my miniature schnauzer, freshly groomed and on his lead, was in fact social.

"Excuse me?" I said, cocking my ear, getting closer and showing an obvious irritation, not really one for talking to strangers anyway, let alone first thing.

Getting closer, I saw she was part Native American and perhaps fully lesbanian, everything about her unabashed too, from body language to dress sense, a person who knew exactly who she was and no problem displaying herself to the world.  Admirable; despite being a very private person who loves to keep you guessing, I love people like that.  Some way behind her, a scruffy looking dog whom I was concerned might run out onto the main thoroughfare, as some dogs do when they see another regardless of how well trained they are, was busy sniffing in the tufts of weeds outside an apartment block that needs knocking down, if you ask me.

"Is he friendly?" She repeated in that what might be considered a red neck Canadian working class accent.

"Yes, but, yours isn't going to run out onto the road when he sees him, is he?" I said, me being a little bit of a dog whisperer; predicting how it might react, her little dog still sniffing something or other, yet to notice us.

"Acht, he's been hit once before, eh... he knows better," she said completely unconcerned, which made me laugh inside; already able to tell who this person might be; her sense of humour all too rare, one that could've even been Scottish - might've been, actually; many Natives in Vancouver, apparently, with some Scottish blood in them (usually from their grandfather, for whatever reason).

And sure enough, little scruffy came toddling along; his nose soon up the nether regions of my dog, sniffing him with an urgency as mine tried to turn around to do the same, resulting in that never-ending snaking, nose-to-tail thing.

"Is he a Schnauzer?"  She said, a gruff element to her voice, to which I replied politely that he was, "Half Pomeranian and Yorkie", she said pointing at hers, "fat little bastard, old, twelve, getting bald, doesn't know if he's comin' or goin' eh... how old's yours?"

"Three and a half," I said, completely amused, my morning grimace turning upside down now as I watched the dogs compete in their pissing competition against the newspaper deposit stand outside the convenience store, the old Korean lady inside straining her neck to try and disapprove through the bars on the window and a plethora of telephone card posters.

At that point Scruffy started licking up the amber/yellow pee-pee that'd formed a little puddle in a crevice on the ground, and the woman just looked at him as he did, completely unconcerned.  Now, I'm well aware that you shouldn't really touch someone else's dog, let alone push them in case they snap at you, despite the fact you might otherwise be Dr Doolittle, but I couldn't help myself; I would never allow my dog to lick a jaggy nettle (as we call stinging nettles in Scotland) in case it'd been peed on, never mind the sting, let alone drink from a fountain of it.

"Eew, don't do that puppy," I said, gently trying to push him away, but Scruffy's focus on the pee entirely, he refused to budge.  "God, dogs are so disgusting sometimes," I said, trying to walk away in an effort for the woman to do the same if only to stop her dog from drinking the pee-pee.  But she didn't; just standing there waiting until it'd finished, and then she laughed.

"Hah... I'm sure most men would want to do the same thing if they thought they could get away with it," she said, as I raised my eyes at her, not sure if I'd heard right, outside of the entire male species just being insulted, what kind of person says that to anyone, let alone a stranger they just met?

"Uh, I don't think so." I said, clearly wanting to leave now, finding myself actually contemplating what she'd said because I'm a deep thinker, already pretty sure I could probably find some truth to it, if I was so inclined, on the Internet.  (I'm not.)

"What's his name?" She said, insisting on keeping me engaged.

"MacGregor," I said.

"Ooh that's sophisticated," she said, and pointed at hers, again laughing heartily.  "Poochy."

I laughed all the way home, and still giggling at her complete candidness to the point I had to write it down here.

Don’t know if I could spend a whole day with someone like this, but I am sure I could create a wonderful character from her if I did.   And I'm pretty sure Poochy probably has a very good little life - a true 'dog's life', as it were - regardless of his disgusting habits.

Who say's I'm a snob?

The Groom Room

This blog is posted here purely for anyone living in Vancouver, BC, doing a search for The Groom Room - 3728 Oak Street, Vancouver, BC V6H 2M3 - a dog grooming salon.  Anyone else might be disinterested.  

DON'T GO THERE!

This is what the owner, a bitchy little man, says on his website: 

Jay Jay's goal is to see his clients leaving happy and satisfied.

PHHHT!

Could've fooled me buddy!  Read on to find out why; but at least it gave me good cause for a blog rant:

**

The Gloom Room

Are we really pampering our pets when we take them to a grooming salon, or are we putting them through a day of hairdressing hell?

There's a lady I know, whom, as a white man, I affectionately call my 'Chinese Mom'.  This lady lives in the past; thinks of computers as what the bible calls 666, yet is always asking me to look up things on my 'machine' for her; companies with good reputations for both maintenance work on her property and reputable businesses to service items like her 1960's answering machine or a cobbler for her thirty-yr-old boots.  Yes, refusing to update anything, or buy new, despite the fact she has more money than a small African country.

She calls me every other night to discuss the state of the world today; her philosophy; 'nothing's as good quality as back in the old days' - which, trust me, she's still immersed within behind the mysterious wrought iron gates that fortify both front and back entrances to her building, heavily padlocked too, her house, a veritable and well-preserved museum depicting life exactly as it was in the last century; stuffed with pristine artefacts, good as the day they were bought.  Better, maybe.

Her most consistent observation is about how people aren't polite any more, that they're unprofessional, lack-lustre, self-serving, and, for the service industry, astonished that its staff just don't seem to care.

Now, of a different generation, I've always raised my eyes at that; thinking she just hasn't moved with the times; still expects everyone to smile and say 'good day', servicemen to wear peaked caps and give a cheery wave from the window of their trucks as if we were all living in a fifties utopia.  But she might just have a point; may have converted me, after all, made me wish that I'd been born in a different era.

The horrendous experience I had this morning at 'The Groom Room' (or as I found out, more gloom, than groom) - a dog grooming service on Oak Street, Vancouver  - left me stunned, and, as an otherwise quiet and calm person, saw me screaming like an Irish fishwife as I left the place, my blood not just proverbially boiling, my eyes popping like a futuristic gargoyle on crack, other customers needing to duck lest they got zapped by the laser cross-fire of my glare.

First, I should point out that The Groom Room's website goes to great lengths to say how professional they are, praises the owner as if he's the second coming; is comprised of self-praising comments and testimonials comprising of, in my opinion as a writer well used to deciphering such applaud, manufactured reviews, and, if not, at least purely selective; not open to receiving general comments from their customers.   Now I know why.  But we have social media to express ourselves, these days - platforms not just for Kamikaze Stanley Cup rioters to jump from.  Yes, word of mouth, not literal anymore as might've been in latter day, but a way to share our experiences, good and bad, to get to the truth of it.  And this one was so horrendous, I want to shout it from the satellite in space.

When I was told to come back five and a half hours later to pick up my dog, I expressed complete surprise at that length of time, questioned it, and was told, before the girl going into great detail as to what the procedures were for grooming a dog, that 'its not just your dog we have to groom'.

"Yes, "I said, "I do know what's involved, but I did make an appointment.  Are you telling me that my dog will be locked in a cage for most of the day, waiting around at every turn for the next stage, grooming, washing, drying, whatever?"

And I'm not sure she understood English exactly, as they do state that they have an 'open room policy', but quickly, she said 'yes' to this, and obviously shocked that I was unhappy with that answer; convinced, I suppose, by her blank expression, that that's what I'd wanted to hear.

"Well that's a bit much, " I said, again, still maintaining calm; knowing how to be civilised, "what happened to my appointment, I don't want to leave him in a cage for the entire day; he's just not used to that?"

"Well, you still want us to do?" she said, obviously wanting me to say 'no' now.

"Well I'm here now, and he is overdue, so I suppose so," I said against my better judgement, "but I will have to reconsider in the future."

Then, someone, apparently, the owner, comes through from the grooming station, the guy whose managed many stores before opening his own according to the website that also claims he might just be 'best in show' himself, but in actual fact, surlier than a pit-bull with a toothache, the kind of owner you might see flouncing pretentiously through a high end hair salon, and declares that they 'don't have time to do him today', dismissing my dog with his hand as he saw to the next customer, obviously deeming me an awkward one off the bat; a cheek to have even questioned their operation.

"Well, after that... no; I don't want him to stay here now, anyway," I retorted, still, relatively calmly.

"Whatever,' he said, as I walked out the door, again with a flick of his hand.

Yes, the top-dog owner of this apparently highly acclaimed business, shouted at me more bitchily than the actual bitches running around him behind the counter, more-so than two drag queens double-booked in a sleazy night-club might have each other.  And so that's when I lost it; coming back through the door to shout like the aforementioned fishwife; pointing out the actual meaning of the word 'appointment', closing with a statement that he can look forward to a 'nice testimonial' on his website - but then, of course, they don't invite honest general opinion.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he shouted, again with a flick of his wrist, regardless that he was checking in the other victim   a man in a business suit who might just have been happy to have his dog incarcerated for his working day.

And while as a business owner myself, I don't always agree that the customer is right, I damn well would never speak to, or dismiss anyone like the owner of this business did to me; a new customer, who simply, and reasonably, I feel, objected to a five and a hour so called 'appointment' to groom my mini-schnauzer, leaving him in what is tantamount to a production line, one where he wouldn't get to pee, eat, walk, nothing.

Dog business is big business, in this city and I thought it was too good to be true from such, an, apparently, highly acclaimed place; getting an appointment with only a few days notice, but if I'd known my puppy would be stuck in an assembly line for the entire day, I wouldn't have bothered booking.

So beware; find a groomer that actually works to a schedule, dedicates time to your pet - which generally should be about two and a hours to three for most small to mid-sized dogs, in my (other) experience - and not pushed and shoved around waiting for the next stage in the grooming process, oftentimes cooped up in a small kennel in a hot room and feeling abandoned.

If this is how the owner of The Groom Room treated me, I can only imagine how he'd treat my dog when I wasn't there to see.  And talking of which, I wouldn't even speak to my dog, with as much disrespect as he showed to me, a paying customer.

So yes, my Chinese mom might just have a point, common courtesy and professionalism far less than pedigree these days, it seems.  An extinct breed, right enough, no wonder she locks herself away from society and craves the good old days where people knew the meaning of customer service.  No wonder, that she'd rather resort to using '666' than go out into the world in person.

Me no stupid, me no silly, me hing oan tae ma daddy's willy

Writers, when was the last time you looked in your documents folder?  Cleaned it out, even?  I've spent the entire afternoon doing that, and not before time for I never have on this computer before, and I've had it for over two years now - and as someone who's constantly writing, that's a lotta lotta slush, and I still have my old computer to go through; many stories on there that I keep meaning to resurrect.  Another day.

All I know is that every time I wanted to open my Prickly Scots manuscript in Word, that I had to plough through a whole plethora of stuff even using the 'finder' option on my iMac that's supposed to make it easy.   But still, when a hundred copies of it exist, all with similar titles, it can get a bit confusing.  So what do I do?  I take the time to determine which are no longer current, save them somewhere else, a new folder created purely for Prickly Scots books, and then I dropped the originals in the trash.  'Hah, ya bastards', I say maniacally, but still wise enough not to take the trash out yet; ye-es been so burnt before with that, that St Pauls admitted me for two weeks, treating me with cold baths three times a day.  And sure enough, when I tried to open those files, the computer told me in that sanctimonious arrogant voice that may or may not have been real, that I couldn't cos they were in the trash.  So, after rooting through that - a task that rather unpleasantly reminded me of my impoverished childhood - I reinstated them and then had the bright idea to start afresh; allocating simple names that denote each version of them, whether for Kindle or Smashwords, as well as numbering the parts I, II and I & II - so six in all.  "Hah ya bastards," I say again, still not trusting to empty the trash; trust issues having stuck to my shoe from the murky trail that led up to the path of my life obviously; long since relying only on my own direction.

But, as I was doing this, what I found was a metaphorical treasure chest, and being a little bit obsessive compulsive (but in a good way, apparently) I couldn't stop there.  No, I went through each and every document containing the most obscure titles, which of course weren't titles at all, but the first few words of the document that I had never named (although there was a piece I wrote entitled.  Scooby Doo, a Ménage et trois and the Coconut Organs - a travel story about the Seychelles in the Indian Ocean).  Ahem.  Won't be doing that from hereon in, and in fact I've already named this blog's document, so I can recognise it instantly in the future.  For that's what I found; tons of blog articles, enzines, short story entries, complaint letters (my, I am extremely good at those; I even scared myself) nasty letters to my neighbours (well, he was neglecting his dog) letters to the SPCA, smart comebacks to various online sites and forums, absolutely pathetic submission letters for my works (remember the days we all thought we needed agents?  'Hah, ya bastards.') Millions of poems, tons of reviews that I've saved from all my little pieces that I realise are flying free all through the Internet, my college writing notes (very methodically transcribed, I have to say - impressive - or anal retentive, one of the two, either way I was obviously a brown noser.)  Even other people's manuscripts, some of which I had to really concentrate hard on to make sure they weren't mine at all, and some from pseudonyms who are me, but for 'whom'  I use different voices (hence not immediately recognising them.)  Wow!  There were so, so many chapters from my books, the same ones, edited over and over and over all in separate documents from the one before, so many, many copies of my books and again individual chapters and excerpts from those same chapters.  Projects I've started, and keep meaning to come back to, countless documents with 'ideas' and things I've heard in passing, or that occurred to me at some point, and which I never seem to consult, and a lot more to boot (which I'm surprised my computer was able to, given how heavily laden it was).  But double that; I remember making the very unwise choice once upon a time, to have Word automatically create a back up copy of anything I create, and I still haven't found how to reverse, so I guess I have a back up of this blog too now.  But it's my mission now to find that bastard thing and get it switched off as well, before it all starts piling up again.

Now, what about the trash, I hear you scream, well as we say in Scotland (or, at least we did) about a man and his son jumping out of an aircraft, for whatever reason, with only one parachute - or maybe it was jumping from a block of flats -  but anyhoo... 'Me no stupid, me no silly, me hing oan tae ma daddy's willy) ooh, good title for this blog,  ye-es, that'll be sure to bring a few new people to my rambling... hmmm.... but now if I rename this, I'll have two copies with different titles.  See the problem?  So feeling sanctimonious myself now, already decided to blag on this blog about the fact that not only have I cleaned my house this week due to the outrageously long time my housekeeper has gone away on holiday for, I cleaned out my computer too. 

I also had the smarts to find some blank cd's to make copies of all my books, no cold baths for me this time, ya bastards, and so, not only doing that, but reinserting them to make sure the bastard computer isn't lying to me again, I sit back with a metaphorical glass of scotch and a cigar, and invite the metaphorical neighbours round to witness the delete button being pressed.  But the moment spoiled when I did; the turncoat saying there was something locked in there, and did I really want to delete that too?  'I mean, like really?' it said impersonating Regis on Who Wants to be a Millionaire, leaving me in doubt all of a sudden, of something I was so sure about.

'God no', I thought, bastard's probably an integral part of fucking everything and I know it weren't in there yesterday... as an old English friend of mine would 'of' said - cos I emptied a few less precarious things then.  So reinstating it, only perhaps, back to whenst it came, I tried again, and everything disappeared with that wonderful whooshy noise like someone's fag end being sucked out an aircraft toilet, and despite the new files in the new folder, I cringed a little as I went to open them.

'Hah, ya bastard, I win," I said.

Now, I don't do dishes, never have, will hide the dirty bastards anywhere, under the couch, under the sink, whatever, on the patio even, if the dishwasher needs emptying, but another old friend of mine always said, 'if you rinse, as you go', it won't be as bad.  Never! I spat into her face, but I think she might just have had a point.

When souls attack... fighting back

It goes without saying that most of us are sick to death of our frikkin' alternate selves gallivanting through all parallels of existence, damaging the reputation of our purer than pure souls.  Right?  I mean, when all is said and done, there can only be one soul.  So what happens when two corporeal selves actually physically touch (and I know, like me, you've spent many a sleepless night wondering just that)? 

And what would happen in the metaphorical 'sorting office' if your evil other kills you, will your soul go the right place... the appropriate afterlife?  Well this experience I had last night has the answers to that and more  - although I have no idea why my alternate self chose to suddenly materialise in my bed; I didn't know whether to be flattered or frightened.  This tiny stand-alone chapter of prose (isolated from the regular styling of Warped Mirrors, a paranormal comedy) is one of two, the second, near the end of the book, a spoiler).  So, come, come fly with me through the universe and find out what's there... or not.

Ch. II The Universe

Silence.  I find myself simply being in some natural state amid an endless environment, bottomless, no up, no down, simply direction all around.  Freezing, scorching, everything in-between, but yet I do not suffer; I am not burning, nor I am cold, for I am part of it.  Floating, soaring, sentient, everywhere at once, and yet nowhere at all, my spirit delivering me both to where I have, and haven’t been.  But not for much longer; time, of which there is none, is running out; Divine Intervention losing His tolerance; tranquil infinity bored with such humanly concept.  Omnipotent, yes, for in this present I am one with everything that exists and that does not, has once been, but yet to become.  Nothing, where I am, not even I, yet I am rich; own all that is not corporeal.  No one thing here that can contain any other, yet still they do.  And then I see them; magnificent colourful spheres, invisible, so beautifully patterned, remotely scattered within folds of seamless, infinite and intricately weaved fabrics of space, time and dimension, painted by hands of gods, hitherto unimagined vistas.  And I am in control, at least for now, master of sorts, a god myself of this divergent realm; the energy encompassing me, obeying the command of simple thought, traversing me through a vast container fashioned simply from all that I am, until it emerges me in some other galaxy, a place, that too, is part of me, or I it. And as I knew it would, it looked exactly as I had always known, even though I had never seen it before in any lifetime.  And the solitary planet shimmers luminously; red, amber, green, and above all others, implores me to become a part of it.  For I can be, I already am.  Entrancing, it is, but entrapping, pitiful, inviting.  I don’t want to go, and I won't, though I will arrive in less than an instant, or never in this eternity.  But as alluring as it might be, as ensnaring, I will leave if I do; for I can; yes, I am in control of the stellar chariot that draws me towards it - at least for now; stronger than the impostor, I know.  Soaring within it, motionless, yet speedily, leisurely, willingly, hesitantly, hurtling towards both a place of euphoria and, perchance, of eternal damnation, if I don’t.  A place impossible to comprehend in my waking state, conceived of, perhaps, but impeded by human limitation.  And it is as well, for we should not know.  I see that now.   Beings that lived, that died, burning, thriving, hostile, beguiling, insisting that I befall unto them to be less than all I can be or more than I am.  But still, this moment is not mine.  Yes, I have a choice, for this celestial crossroad is not my eternal walk home.  

Not yet.

Things I’ve come to realise since my cleaning lady went on a seven-week vacation

1.     That my life has changed irrevocably, the meaning of ‘line up’ now quantifying the fact that the dishwasher will indeed not empty itself.

2.     That there might just be something to being a bottle collector; I could most certainly supplement my income with the amount of empties that I’ve just had to deposit for those less fortunate - either that or I could learn a new musical skill.

3.     That my fridge might just be a portal to new worlds with intelligent life forms.

4.     That it’s not just politicians with dirty little secrets hidden within their cabinets.

5.     That unlike the dishwasher, my oven will clean itself even if its skill does seem to be restricted; missing the nooks and crannies of the hotplates as it does, but no matter how much I try to encourage it, the microwave just can’t match those obliterating kind of temperatures; what just might be inspiration for a wanna be Picasso evident on all three sides, top and bottom.

6.     Where the expression ‘breeding like rabbits’ was begat from when I looked under the furniture.

7.     That ‘Lysol Ultimate Bathroom Cleaner’ might ultimately rein from the bathroom throne; providing shining hope for the murky minions there, ‘tapping’ into its skills even in the kitchen, but for whatever reason it has a grudge against my beautiful wooden dining table; wiping it clean, sure, but beating it into a dull submission ‘to just think about that!’

8.     That it is not minor earthquakes in the region, after all, that make the pictures on my wall askew from time to time, for there have been a couple of shakes recently and still they’re as straight as the last time I adjusted them just after my cleaner left two weeks ago.

9.     That windows of opportunity ‘clothes’ themselves when doors doubling as laundry baskets no longer will.

10. That despite Nancy Sinatra’s claim; shoes do not take on a life of their own.

11. That, in contrast to number ten, toys really do come alive when no one’s around – either that or someone’s running a doggy day care here when I’m out.

12. That judging by the water’s absolute refusal to drain in the shower, it might just be time for a haircut.

13. That the outdoors has, under false pretences, taken credit far too long for the fresh aroma of nature that I always thought was particularly skilled in permeating, even in winter, the smallest cracks of my doors and windows.

14. That contrary to what their name suggests about their disposition, baseboards really don’t skirt any issues at all.

15. That the dog doesn’t mind taking a bath now, not after the last time I rinsed him down in there; the tub doing a highly impressive impression of the dank mucky puddle up the park.

16. That there’s no treasure in that old trunk in my study as I always fancied there might be.  No, now I have to put that retirement plan to bed! (See what I did there?)

17. That silver might just be an impostor; in fact it’s a cotton lining to be discovered behind every soft downy cloud.

18. That my bathroom windowsill might have a point; spreading gossip that I’m metrosexual as has been its tendency of late; perhaps its time to go back in the closet?

19. That if you don’t pick up the party favour from your Godson’s christening - a love heart shaped picture frame attached to a nicely tied blue ribbon containing iced chocolate almonds - that fell on the floor when you were cleaning the dresser, that the dog will accuse you of having held out on him all this time.  Yes...  a false labour saving method is the art of procrastination when one considers the mark on the carpet that the ingestion of his very first taste of sugar will undoubtedly deposit later.

20. That the canine species might just be more intuitive than we think, vacuums really are obnoxious sucky bastards.

21. But the biggest thing I’ve learned since my cleaning lady abandoned me?  That what highly manipulative parents say is true; anything can be turned into a game; stopping in-between chores to write these little notes and rather enjoying it, the place sparkling now to the point where I might have missed my vocation – but I rather suspect that’ll be a one time deal only - but at least I got to write as well.
  
22. That I might not be paying her enough - but... then again... anyone who can take a frikkin' seven week unpaid vacation, might just be doing better than me!

I think I’m good for two weeks now, only five to wade my way through.

Oh... comma-on now!

Oh geez!  Even though I swore blind I'd never personally ever look at one (in particular) of my earlier books again in terms of editing, somehow what I used to think was really great now makes me cringe with embarrassment pretty much no matter what excerpt I randomly choose from it - at least in terms of technical skill, not the storyline itself.  And yes, I had a few people proofread it too - and I trust that they advised to the best of their ability... at that time.   But it obviously didn’t cut it – unless my standards are, as I've been told, too high? (But can there even be a limit to quality?)

I really think I'm going to have to though, go through that book in its entirety in terms of the little things, that is. Comma over-usage for one - something I've long since known about myself and thus far have tried to dismiss as being unimportant enough to not have to go back in and fix in older works.  But now that I've looked, I feel that the overuse is just completely unacceptable.  Thankfully its something I'm not guilty of anymore but it does leave me wondering how I could've been so over-exuberant in the first place?

I dread the thought of doing this edit though.  Perhaps I have to approach it methodically; one chapter at a time and only when I really feel like it (which will be absolutely NEVER) and try not to completely rewrite every sentence as I always want to do when I go back over most of my old stuff; time consuming to the point where I could've written a couple of brand new novels at least and without the same kind of stress attached. 

I have numerous projects on the go at the moment, but somehow it's in my head now that this edit has to take priority.  Funny thing is though, that I wonder if the general reader even notices, or cares if they do; people do seem to love the book and no mention ever made of the stuff I, as the (erstwhile) proud daddy of, wanna change – such as a lack of contractions - something I still have to check myself for forgetting to use.  Anyone would think my name was Data.

I wonder if I'm just being obsessive, or if every writer goes through this?  Will there be something else I want to change in six months time about that same book?  Would it be better not to even look at my old stuff and just get on with what I'm doing now?

One thing's for sure though; I have long since adopted a 'say it as it is' policy when helping out other new writers - a polite honesty for which I've often been berated in amateur societies where most stroke each other's egos, and so these days I only employ any help I think I can offer where I think it might actually be wanted... nay... where deserved.  But I say, if there was more of it instead of treading on eggshells, perhaps later on in the writing journey people like me wouldn't be looking back thinking like I do now and wasting so much time correcting everything.  Yes, that's right, it wasn't my fault!  Lol.  

But I guess that's why it's called a journey; a nice place to arrive at when you do, somewhere to breathe out the view; things suddenly starting to make sense without you even realising it.  And when you really think about it, to have these kinds of moments where you just want to open up a time portal and go back and slap yourself silly - or in my case, grab myself by the crown of the hair and bash my head hard right through to the back of my computer repeatedly until it sinks in once and for all - can only be a good thing.

I’m doing the first chapter today – even though I think I might’ve done that one the last time I stressed out about comma usage; masking it in the first couple of chapters, sneakily leading the reader to believe these wouldn’t be overused in the rest of the story, but hopefully hooked by that point, they wouldn't care a hoot.  But then again, would they notice, really?  I mean, if someone well on their way on their writer's journey didn't when they actually employed them, would a reader know any better?  Hmmm - perhaps the answer to that is, only the more discerning ones would.

But I've promised myself to just try and concentrate on the obvious minor things and not do a complete rewrite this time - and maybe that'll be the next thing I'll discover that I've subliminally learned on this never-ending journey.  Huh - ye-ah... and I'll also discover I was the winner of the mega-millions even though I didn't actually have a ticket.