The Idiot (by Jack Ramsay)

I’m Jack Ramsay, and I’m a gullible idiot.

There. I thought I’d best start with honesty. I’m also a husband, a writer of the most frustrated kind, a pen-pal to Maine’s very own magnificent Karen Bessey Pease , and an immigrant to Australia. But, back to the idiot thing, if you’ll indulge me.

An idiot, if dictionaries are to be believed, is a layman; a stupid person. But some definitions go further and describe me – sorry, ‘idiots’ – as having an intelligence quotient of less than twenty-five. Okay, so I might have an IQ slightly higher than that, but having the combined brainpower of six idiots, in my book at least, still makes me a lot of idiots. The word ‘gullible,’ of course, isn’t in any dictionary. Check it out if you don't believe me...

Such claims are all very well, in a ‘Saturday night after a few beers with the boys’ kind of way, but I have irrefutable evidence stretching over many years to corroborate my assertion. The examples are many, and the good Lord knows they’re varied in the extreme, but let me take you back to the day I first realised just what it takes to secure the title ‘idiot of all he surveys.’

I grew up in Scotland, on a farm that nestles in the foothills of the Ochil Mountains near Perth, gateway to the Highlands. Okay, truth time again, they’re Hills. But if you stand at the bottom and look up, knowing you have to get to the top, they’re pretty daunting in a grassy, rounded, picnic-on-a-Sunday kind of way.

After school I’d hang around the smoky little bothy where my dad and a few of the farm men retreated to fix their machinery when it broke, as it often (rather conveniently) did in winter when it’s too cold and rainy and mucky to be outside.

One afternoon at the end of March I was sitting on my favourite five gallon drum, ignoring the wrestling rats in the corner and trying my hardest to emulate my peers – drinking overly sweet tea that had been stewing on the fire since breakfast, laughing at the right times and nodding at the wisdom spouting forth from such admirable fellows – when something Grieg the Grieve said made my ears prick up. The ‘Grieve’ is the foreman, incidentally.

He was planning a haggis hunt. The very next day!

Sure, I’d eaten haggis before, many times – I’m a Scot, and there isn’t a Scot alive who doesn’t incessantly crave the succulently meaty flesh and sweet wood fired flavour of the most cunning prey on the moors – but I’d never been on a hunt. Platefuls of haggis had always magically appeared from my mother’s kitchen, surrounded by the ubiquitous guard of honour of mashed tatties and chappit neeps (also known as ‘mashed turnips’ in the English-speaking world.)

When I questioned the origins of our national dish the shepherds and drovers laughed at me, then I sat listening in awe as they told of the last great Perthshire haggii hunt (‘haggii’ is the plural of haggis, just for reference – say hag-eye) which had claimed the lives of four novice hunters in a netting gone wrong. The more they divulged of that fateful morning some ten years before, the more I found myself compelled to claim my right to hunt the haggii. I saw my chance to prove myself.

I, Jack Ramsay, would become the youngest haggii hunt champion in living memory!

And so, after one or two well-placed hints from me, the anvil played host to a whispering confab, and when the huddle broke up I was invited along to what promised to be something extra-ordinary: we were to stalk the (apparently) infamous snorkel-nosed pond-dredging mountain haggii – a very dangerous species, but the tastiest of them all. Barely able to contain myself, I leaned closer as Grieg the Grieve outlined in hushed tones the equipment we would need, and his plan of attack.

We were to leave for the ponds by sun up. My dad agreed to call the school and inform them of my absence – it wasn’t every day that a boy became a man, so a day out of class was acceptable, even laudable.

Next morning I rose before dawn, taking care to follow Grieg the Grieve’s instructions to the letter. After all, what idiot would squander his chance at infamy by failing to rendezvous at the meeting place or bring the essential tools of the haggii hunt or wear every last item of protective clothing necessary to tackle an amphibious horde of such devious beasts?

Not I! I’m Jack Ramsay!

In the next room I heard my father preparing himself for the hunt, talking in whispers with my mother and enjoying his first joke of the day – he was always such a considerate, jovial man – but my tasks were pressing and I had no time to share in that particular hilarity. I made a few final checks, zipped myself up and struggled the half-mile to the school bus stop, where I was to be collected by Grieg the Grieve in his Land Rover. Then to the hills, where we’d meet my father.

So it was that I found myself waiting impatiently by the side of the road in the farm manager’s holey old wetsuit, his lead weights around my waist and his snorkel by my ear, ready to dredge every pond in Perthshire in search of my quarry. So it was that my knees came to buckle under my burden of fishing nets, wooden stakes, sledgehammers and oxygen tanks, a combination which, even on that cold April morning, brought sweat to my brow and a desert to my throat.

And so it was that, as the school bus rounded the corner and headed towards me, its occupants’ mouths agape, their fingers pointing, I realised without a shadow of a doubt – I’m a gullible idiot.

But, like I said, the word 'gullible' isn't in any dictionary...

NB: No haggii were harmed in the telling of this story.

First published in The Irregular newspaper, Kingfield, Maine, USA – June 2009

A Warm Welcome

A few weeks ago, my good friend Karen Bessey Pease let me read her magnificent YA novel, Grumble Bluff. The messages and themes in Karen's novel really struck a chord with me, and after searching within myself I came to realise that Karen and I share a common view on the subject of bullying.

My loathing for that type of behaviour stems from personal experience as a youngster in school, but also from stories my mother related to me, of what life was like growing up in a small village in Perthshire during the Second World War. Times were tough, thanks to food rationing and the influx of school children from Glasgow and Edinburgh. But for my mother things were even tougher. She was the eldest of a fairly large family, and two of her younger sisters were born with learning difficulties. That made them 'different' and they soon became targets for the school's bullies. Of course, as the eldest, my mother had to stick up for her little sisters.

So, having established a common bond, Karen suggested that she, and some of her friends who also have an interest in the subject, should write a column or two for the Down Under Dunder, and I'm delighted to say that very soon I'll be extending a warm welcome to Karen, to Lynne Kenney, PsyD - author of the forthcoming book The Family Coach Method - and (hopefully) many other writers who can offer support or links to online resources.

If we can ease the pain of being bullied for even just one child, it's a start.

Down East Drizzle- A Maine Author Ponders Authonomy

As an author on Authonomy since the end of January, I’ve had ample time to ponder the convolutions of the site. I believe—I HOPE—that the premise behind the creation of this HarperCollins website was a just and honorable one. That it was what it touted itself to be: a traditional publishing house looking to track down new talent in a non-traditional way. By having new authors submit samples of their work, by asking them to make public a portion of the products of their talent, the folks at HC aspired to have five almost-ready-to-be-published manuscripts handed to them at the end of each month. Manuscripts that had already been reviewed by other gifted writers; and then tweaked, proof-read, and edited by the authors themselves.

It seemed like an excellent idea. It certainly sounded good to me, on that very first day when I uploaded my YA novel, Grumble Bluff .

And then I took a look around.

I’ve been a writer for most of my adult life. In the traditional manner of query letter to agent, or cover letter to publisher, I’ve submitted articles, short stories, anecdotes, and novels countless times over the years. I’ve played by the rules every time. I have the rejection letters and cards to prove it. My badges of courage, I call them. For it takes a whole truckload of willpower and nerve to continually offer up these pieces of my heart and soul to a callous and over-worked publishing industry employee. I understand that there are thousands of other authors just like me, who are waiting for the chance to tell their story. Hoping for their shot at a lucky break. I know the chances are slim-to-none that anyone in the industry will ever take the time to read my most excellent endeavor. And so, Authonomy seemed like a terrific alternative to the traditional route I’d been taking.

But, you see, we aren’t just conjurers of words. Writers are people, too. Human beings. Imperfect creatures who desire to have that end-of-the-rainbow title: Published Author. And because we ARE human, we sometimes act in ways that are not flattering to our race. Authonomy, because of the hope it tenders, has become a miasma where anticipation wars with integrity. The concept seemed sound. Have authors read manuscripts and honestly review and judge those books-in-the-making! Encourage them to make helpful suggestions and give thoughtful opinions. And if the reader truly, sincerely believed that the manuscript was publishable and/or showed great promise, then the reader would ‘back’ the book, thereby propelling it upwards towards the coveted Editor’s Desk.

Every author wants the same thing. A chance. Just one opportunity to be offered the deal of a lifetime. But, sadly, not all manuscripts are publishable. Not every story written is written well. And perhaps most importantly to a publishing house, very few of them have a commercial value. Regardless of these facts, books are very often ‘backed’ or ‘placed on a shelf’ simply to reap a return backing or to get a ‘favor’ from another member. Some members on Authonomy have literally placed their lives--and their writing--on hold while they stare at a plasma screen for hours on end, reading one t0 three chapters of a manuscript. They write a comment (or sometimes, they don’t!) often not longer than a sentence or two, and frequently with no useful words of advice—then ‘back’ the book, and move on to another. And yes, I’ve been disappointed to observe that some authors ‘back’ a book simply to make a ‘statement’, or out of spite for another author, or to receive a backing for their own book—and NOT because they believed the manuscript they placed on their shelf had what it takes to make it all the way. This ‘you back me, and I’ll back you’ negates the whole purpose of the site. And may very well snatch a publishing opportunity from a very talented writer who has too much integrity to sink to those same levels.

This is not ‘sour grapes’. I do not have a manuscript in the running for the ED. I’m not in this competition anymore, as I was fortunate enough to have a literary agent pick up Grumble Bluff. I’ve been reading for the pleasure of it, for the networking, and for the delightful experience of meeting other authors who are just like me. Men and women who have a story to tell. Kindred spirits who are facing the same struggles as I am, and who hope and pray for the same outcome that I do.

I understand frustration. I identify with desire. But this system is flawed, in my opinion. If HC truly wants to ferret out the freshest talent, this is not the way to do it. With the current Authonomy system, all HC will discover is who, exactly, is willing to bend and break the rules to get what they want. They’ll learn which authors have the ability to abandon all semblance of a ‘normal’ life, in order to devote every waking hour to promoting their books. Perhaps that is what they are looking for. A fellow Authonomite recently suggested that HC might very well be looking for those authors who are willing to give the marketing of their manuscript everything they’ve got--regardless of whether or not that manuscript exhibits great talent, imagination, mechanics or magic-making ability. Because an author who will promote a novel with religious fervor (which can be tweaked and re-worked by an expert until it is a viable money-maker) is an extremely valuable asset. I hope that’s not the case. I hope we all aren’t part of an anthropological experiment.

Because if we are, I think we’ve failed the test.