Sharing Secrets with Phantoms (a.k.a. How to Look Like a Complete Nutcase, Part I)

My wife (Princess Spendalot, She of the Shoes) came home from work the other day. I knew she was home because she stood at the door to my study doing her little ‘cough, cough’ routine. So I greeted her with the usual ‘Nice to see you’re home; fancy a foot massage and a glass of wine?’ stuff, and she rather pointedly asked me who I’d just been talking to.

I realised I’d been at it again.

See, when I’m writing, I need to ‘meet’ my characters, so that I can understand them; so that when I commit them to paper, I can show them doing what nature intended them to do, not what I or my plot needs them to do.

I’ve found that, for me, the best way to do that is to start a conversation with them. Unfortunately, that can make me look like a nutcase. Meh...if the glove fits...

I imagine myself out and about with them, at a football match, or having dinner, or (my preference) walking in a quiet forest with a stream running beside us. I listen to what they tell me (although, of course, it’s me who’s doing all the talking...hence the nutcase thing) and I make mental notes of how they talk to me, because that’s how I get to feel not just their unique speech patterns, but their attitudes to certain things. And with attitude comes depth – we start asking deeper questions about why a character feels a certain way about something.

Take Gaby Dunbar, for example. Gaby’s a supporting character in my crime novel, Brogan’s Crossing, but when I ‘walked and talked’ with her, I started to realise that she’s probably one of the strongest characters I’ve created. We went for a walk in the countryside – I chose Birnam Wood in Perthshire, because I used to walk the softly sprung pine needle paths there when I was younger, and because I find its fresh forest smells and cooing wood pigeons relaxing – and we spoke about her early years, and her relationship with her mother, and how her father died and the effect that had on her, and about her sister and how there’s always been animosity there and what's causing it.

I asked her why she chose law enforcement as a vocation, what her career aspirations might be, why she feels so strongly about meting out justice on behalf of those who can’t claim it for themselves, and how she sees the future: how governments are changing their attitudes towards crime and punishment, and what needs to be done to restore the deterrent element of any punishment. Gaby’s answers surprised me, but gave me a chance to go back over the character sketch I’d drawn for her and add detail; detail that (I hope) brings her to life and makes her someone who readers can respect and identify with.

Don’t get me wrong: you don’t need to mash everything you know about your characters into your manuscript (in fact, please don’t, because there’s only so much backstory a novel – and a reader, however patient – can take); but you do need to know how your characters will react to, say, a waiter spilling a drink over her, or her mother chiding her about still being single and childless at 35 years of age. If you know these things and more about your characters, you’ll not only make them realistic, consistent, flawed and believable, you might just create a spin-off character or two who can stand on her own as a protagonist in a future novel.

I was having dinner with Gaby Dunbar when my wife walked in on us. Embarrassing but, no, I don’t feel cheap – I’m a happily married man. Besides, Gaby let me into a few secrets I’m fairly sure she wouldn’t tell anyone else – not even her mother.

Never Name Your Baby 'Cumbernauld'

I splurged a whole load of guff yesterday about how I go about getting a novel from 'I've got an idea...' to 'I'm finished!' But I didn't really go the whole hog. See, every novel needs a tag to identify it. A title. And, for me, the process of picking that tag always brings on one of my biggest nightmares.

There are writers out there who can pluck earth-shattering titles from nowhere, and God how I envy them. They hack away for a month or three creating a masterpiece, then tag their babies with names like 'Angels and Demons', 'Deathwish' or 'The Empire Strikes Back'. Lucky ****ers.

I, on the other hand, tagged one of my works 'Pretence and Palliation'. Yup, I did. Notwithstanding the obvious limitations (one day I hoped to market this novel to the Americans, who spell it 'pretense'), it just sucks. Big time. I know it sucks because I lost count of the number of people who read my work on authonomy and said, 'Jack, this is a cracker of a page-turner, but what's palliation mean?' I had another go. 'Beyond Reasonable Doubt'. Better...but I still hear sucking.

I knew then that getting the title right was going to take a horrific few months, and I knew there would be sleepless nights, sweaty brows and much scoring with that blood-red pen. After all, I'm the man who once wrote a short article about constipation and called it 'Winnie Won't Poo'.

What the hell was I thinking?

Now, I could start a list here of all the crappy book titles I've come up with (imagine Eddie Izzard and his renaming Gerry Dorsey to Engelbert Humperdink sketch - Zingelbert Bembledack, Tringelbert Wangledack, Slut Bunwalla, Klingybun Fistelvase, Dindlebert Zindledack, Gerry Dorsey, Engelbert Humptyback, Zengelbert Bingledack, Engelbert Humperdinck, Vingelbert Wingledanck…wait, wait, wait - go back one...), I could do that, but all it would do is annihilate any self esteem I have left as a writer. Let me just say that I think I'm learning what it takes to name my babies. When I'm conversing with friends about my latest novel and they bowl the inevitable 'So what's it called?' question, I no longer mumble 'Cumbernauld' and change the subject. I beam and say 'Brogan's Crossing' - and almost instantly I see them put a name to my lead character and begin thinking about what changes must be taking place in this guy's life to make him 'cross' to some other path. (Either that or I've bored the buggers speechless.)

And that's the secret to naming your work: knowing your work. Know it inside out. Focus on your theme, the underlying message that you're trying to get across to your readers.

Look again at those titles up in paragraph two. Each one tells you exactly what the novel is about. More than that, it tells you that the writer knows how to focus on what the story is about. But 'Pretence and Palliation'? Sheesh.

I'm not saying 'Brogan's Crossing' is the best title I could come up with, and I'm sure if I ever hook an agent or publisher she'll have (I hope) a few words to say. But it's a step in the right direction.

And if you're struggling to find the perfect title for your manuscript and you're about to turn to the Scotch, try The Random Book Title Generator. It's an excellent website for getting started.

Good luck.

Giving Something Back

Some Writing Tips (from a novice)

Many new writers don't have a clue where to start finding things out; everything from how to get started writing a book; how to keep going when all you want to do is trash the thing you've spent months creating, who to turn to for help, finances, resources, blah-blah-blah. I thought I'd try to help, because I've had so much help from others in the industry. I'm no expert, believe me, but I do have a passion for writing. Knock yourselves out with this, and good luck with your writing. By the way, this is Australian-centric, since that's where I live :)

OVERVIEW

* Forget about getting rich quick. That's unlikely to happen. It might, but it's unlikely. But if it does, good for you. Uh, spare some change?

* Read self-help books (see list below for my favourites) and find out what makes a good book (and a reader) tick.

* Attend courses on writing technique, as many as you can afford

* Meet up with other writers, join on-line forums, blogs, etc - don't work in isolation.

* Know your subject.

* Sit down and write!

* Put your work aside, let it stew for at least a month. (get rid of the dead goldfish that's been staring at you for the last month, bond with the kids (or are they now young adults?), try your hardest to remember your wife's name...assuming she hasn't divorced you)

* The serious editing stage. Edit for everything you can think of. Aim to put out the best work you can. Polish, polish and polish some more!!

* Make the decision: do you want to try getting it published? Or is your manuscript destined for the bottom drawer?

* Sit down with a bottle of your choice and pat yourself on the back (no one else will do it for you) and think about how you'll reward yourself for your hard work.


THE MYTH ABOUT GETTING RICH

Let's be honest, it's not likely to happen, is it? Most novelists in Australia earn less than the minimum wage each year, so the chances are you won't be able to rely on your literary skills to pay the rates bill. There are those who make a lot of money, of course. The headline-grabbing book deals are what get our attention, after all. But for every rich writer there are a thousand on the breadline. There are many reasons why publishers, editors and agents say 'Don't give up your day job!' and that's one of them.


READ SELF-HELP BOOKS

Like any trade, few people are born with the writing skills and industry knowledge necessary to create a competitive product that publishers will feel comfortable taking a gamble on. I started by reading the 'Idiot's Guide', and worked my way through textbooks on plot, dialogue, character and viewpoint. Here's a list of my favourites, but some may be out of print:

The Complete Idiot's Guide to Creative Writing / Laurie E. Rozakis, Ph.D. / Alpha / ISBN:1-59257-206-5 (excellent starting point)

The Everything Guide to Writing a Novel / Joyce and Jim Lavene / Adams Media / ISBN: 1-59337-132-2 (again, a good starter)

Novel Writing / Evan Marshall / A&C Black / ISBN: 0-7136-6852-0 (this is my bible, and you can't fail to get your novel finished using Marshall's method)

Plot and Structure / James Scott Bell / Writer's Digest Books / ISBN (13): 978-1-58297-294-7 (planning a novel? Read this...)

Twenty Master Plots / Ronald B. Tobias / Writer's Digest Books / ISBN: 1-58279-239-7 (twenty? There's really just forda and forza!)

Creating Unforgettable Characters / Linda Seger / Owl Books / ISBN: 0-8050-1171-4 (everything from paradoxes to dialogue and stereotyping)

Characters and Viewpoint / Orson Scott Card / Writer's Digest Books / ISBN (13): 978-0-89879-927-9 (great in-depth study guide)

The Author's Toolkit (a step-by-step guide...) / Mary Embree / Seaview Publishing / ISBN: 0-9700682-0-4 (how to get started, avoid the pitfalls, etc)

The Art of Dramatic Writing / Lajos Egri / Touchstone S&S / ISBN: 0-671-21332-6 (the daddy of them all, although biased towards the playwright)

The First Five Pages / Noah Lukeman / Fireside / ISBN (13): 978-0-684-85743-5 (how to avoid the rejection pile by presenting your most professional work)

Give 'Em What They Want / Blythe Camenson & Marshall J. Cook / Writer's Digest Book / ISBN: 1-58297-330-X (enter the lion's den of publishers and agents...and keep your head)

The Oxford Style Manual / R.M. Ritter/ Oxford Uni. Press / ISBN: 0-19-8605641 (grammar, style, punctuation...it's all here)

The Oxford English Dictionary / Catherine Soanes / Oxford Uni. Press / ISBN (13): 978-0-19-860454-9 (good enough for me, but try the web if you want the biggest)

Roget's Thesaurus / Susan M. Lloyd / Longman / ISBN: 0-582-55635-X (you'll never be stuck with a weak noun or verb again)


ATTEND COURSES ON WRITING TECHNIQUE

Various writer's centres and course providers can help you here. I recommend the Queensland Writers Centre as an excellent resource, and Varuna has a great reputation, too. In addition, some manuscript appraisal agencies will offer mentorships. Flood Manuscripts in particular offers a service which I consider to be second to none.

Many universities offer full-time courses on creative writing, and some offer part-time or distance learning options. Browse the web for the most up-to-date offerings.


DON'T WORK IN ISOLATION

How can you write a story about people (the crux of all tales, after all), if you shut yourself away from the rest of the world? Answer: you cannot. This is another of the reasons a publisher or agent will say 'Don't give up your day job.' Get out and about. Meet people. Watch how your friends and colleagues interact. Pay attention to the detail of their speech patterns, hand movements, eye movements, and anything else you can stare at without getting yourself arrested. It's called 'observation', and without good skills in this department you'll miss a lot as a writer and your writing will suffer for it. Even if you think you have those skills - and who am I to argue? - if you have nothing to observe, your writing will suffer.

Join a writers' group. Join a blog. Contribute, make friends and be sociable. The side-effect of that is this: you'll probably find other writers who are of the same experience level as you; they may well be keen to critique your work in return for your critique of theirs. A search of the web should trawl up some great writer's blogs.


DO YOUR RESEARCH

Research is something that can be your friend, and your worst enemy. When you've done your research, you can write with authority, write with more passion,and more confidence. Your writing takes on a believable feel to it and every reader will appreciate it.

When research takes over your project, however, it's your worst enemy. Background research can become an excuse not to write anything for days or months on end, because 'I'm researching at the moment...' Yeah, right. Many writers do just enough background research to get them started on their stories. As they write they leave 'stubs', little marks on the page (I use three question marks in square brackets - [???]) to tell them they need to do some follow-up research on some small detail, also known as 'spot research'. When you start writing your draft, do not stop. If you need to check something out, do it later, if you can, and leave yourself a note on the page that you need to follow up.


SIT DOWN AND WRITE

The tautologists among you will be tisking and tutting - sit down and write...Okay, so lesson 1 is: keep your writing tight! But whatever you do, before you've got anything to edit, get it down on paper first. And that takes a hard slog. Most fiction comes in somewhere between 50,000 to 300,000 words (drat those fantasy bricks), but even 50,000 words takes a bit of doing. I write crime thrillers, so I'm aiming at the 90,000-110,000 word market.

One thing's for sure: if you don't get yourself in front of your computer (please, don't use a typewriter...or a chisel and sandstone, it's so passé) you'll never get anything written.

I know it's hard sometimes. Hard to get started. Hard to keep going. Hard to stop, for some folk. I get round those problems by working to a plan. It's an organic plan that changes a little as my story matures, but it's still a map of where I'm going. In builder speak, 'I need to know roughly where to erect my trusses'), Usually, I aim at a specific milestone. I don't have to achieve that milestone in a day, or any particular time frame, but I make myself sit at my computer for a given amount of time each day. You can do the same. If nothing comes, go over something you've already written - it'll probably spur you to write something else.

Another thing I do is get something under my belt before I have breakfast - even if it's only 350 words (about a page). It helps me because I see that I've already started on my day, and my goal is that little bit closer. Someone I read once, called it the 'nifty three-fifty'. That works for me.

On a good day I aim to write 1,500-1,700 words. Sometimes it's more, sometimes it's less. If I complete those words (let's take the average i.e. 1,600) in, say, eight hours, it will take me about an hour to write 200 words (this is drafting). At that speed, it'll take me 550 hours to complete the discovery draft (first draft) of a 110,000-word novel. That's a long time. It's a long time to be looking forward to having a completed draft that I can start to polish. It takes resolve, commitment, patience. But if I can do it, you can do it. WRITE!


EDITING YOUR DISCOVERY DRAFT

Note: it's called the 'discovery draft' because this is where you discover all your plot holes, weak characters, poor dialogue, etc

Sort the obvious spelling mistakes - running spell checker as you write the draft just doesn't work for me because it slows me down, gets in my way.
Sort the obvious grammar mistakes - again, grammar checking now will help.
Think about your chapter breaks - you'll want to prompt your readers into reading on to your next chapter, so start thinking about how you can heighten the tension.


STEW IT

Now, put the thing away and have a break from it. Get some distance between you and your characters, your plot, your writing style. Go to Corfu. Visit the Himalayas. Take some chocolate to the guards outside Buckingham Palace. Whatever you do, take your mind off your novel and have a break. For at least a month.


SERIOUS EDITING

Like it or not, editing is essential if you're to send out your best work. And why would anyone send out anything less than the best? Printouts work best for me at this stage. I need to see what's on the page from a reader's perspective. Print it double-spaced, so that you can annotate without being too cramped. This editing procedure is iterative. I may take you ten edits, it may take you forty. Don't give up. It's all about sending out your best work - either to publishers and agents, or to your friends and relatives. Whoever you intend showing your work to, surely it's also you that's on show. Don't be scruffy.

My first edits are usually for plot holes - the ones that can't be fluffed around and shouldn't be there in the first place. I rework from there, add anything that expands the story or clarifies anything that's confusing to read.

It's up to you how you edit, of course, but I go on to look at the quality of my writing: tautology; sentence structure; paragraph and chapter structure; overuse of adverbs and adjectives; wild and wonderful metaphors and similes that just don't work (my personal downfall); showing, telling, and showing and telling; dialogue that's ordinary, hard to follow or too informative. The list is almost endless for this edit. If you're writing suspense, your hook, intensity and prompts (how you hook the reader into your sentence or paragraph or chapter; how your scenes increase in intensity from beginning to end; and how you leave the reader wanting to read more - either another sentence, another paragraph or another chapter).

Once I think I'm happy enough o have someone else read my work, it's over to my good mate, Steve. I'm lucky that I have someone who I can call on to give frank, honest and knowledgeable feedback. If there's no one in your circle of friends who can (or is willing to) do that for you, it's time to check the web and get yourself into a writer's circle.


MAKING THE DECISION

It's a nerve-jangling moment, the first time you let your work out of arm's reach. I know some writers who are content to create a 90,000-word novel and let only family and friends read it. That's up to them.

I want people to read my stories. It's a personal choice for each of us. And only you can make it.


THE PAT THE BACK MANOEUVRE

The slog is over. Or is it? Depends on whether you want to try getting your work published or not. Most writers work alone (notwithstanding what I said above about getting out and about). Few non-writers recognise the hard labour involved in creating a novel - from concept to research to planning to drafting to editing to guaranteed rejection from agents and publishers who are so over-worked they don't even have time to write a polite acknowledgement of your existence (they're not all like that, of course.)

So, sit back and pat yourself on the back. You've finished a novel. You're happy with it. You've done something that few people have done.


THE WRAP

That's a very rough and ready overview of how I write, and the sub-text of it tells you why I write. You'll find ways to improve on my methodology, no doubt, so don't be afraid to do what comes naturally to you. Write the way that works best for you.

If you decide to sit and write a novel (or stand and write it...it's up to you), or a book of non-fiction - good luck. Stick with it, knuckle down and it'll be finished in no time. And the chances are you'll have something you can be proud of.

Go write it. And good luck!

Daffith - The Idiot's Apprentice

I told you a while back that I’m an idiot. But just in case you’re under the impression I’m the only idiot from my village, here’s a story about my greatest rival for the post of Village Idiot.

I was out with some friends a few weeks back, at a place called Manly, a suburb of Brisbane way out on Moreton Bay – seafood, sand, swaying palms, kids chucking footballs at pelicans – and there’s a marina full of all kinds of boats (that's a picture of it.) Looking across at the masts and gel coat gleaming in the sunshine, I supped a few coldies and thought of a summer sailing trip I took with a couple of mates when I was a younger man back in Scotland. Let’s just call these guys Daffith and Norbert. That’s their names, after all, and us idiots like to keep things simple.

Norbert came up with the idea of ‘the boys’ heading away for a weekend on his yacht, while ‘the ladies’ went off and did whatever it is ladies do. So we packed provisions (beer and a bottle opener) and drove across to the west coast where Norbert had The Wee Beastie moored at Dunstaffnage marina, near Oban. There are lots of uninhabited islands around there, and the marina has a pub called The Wide Mouthed Frog – a great combination of facilities if you like beer and sailing.

We arrived in Dunstaffnage just after seven on Friday night. The plan was we’d spend the evening sailing down the coast to Kerrera, a small island just south of Oban, anchor there for the night, then on Saturday morning sail to Tobermory, the hip-swinging razzmatazz and gambling capital of the island of Mull (population: three sheep and a retired school janitor).

Norbert parked the car and I nipped round to the trunk to pick up our stuff, under the assumption that we were heading down the gangplank to the yacht. Not so. Norbert had amended the plans and led Daffith and me straight into the pub (to collect his winnings on a bet, he said.) We’d have a couple of pints, then lug the gear down to the boat and head off while the light was still good.

Eight ales and six hours later, it’s pitch black and we’re singing at the tops of our voices, staggering down the nine-inch wide gangplank with five fathoms of cold Atlantic ocean a few inches either side of us – three blind idiots with no sense of balance (thanks to that beer), no sense of direction (yup, the beer again), each with a bag over his shoulder and a crate of warm beer in his hands.

Now, I can’t really recall what I’d expected from Norbert’s boat, but it fell a good few feet short of those expectations. I spent the night with Daffith’s stinky foot by my nose, and the strong pong of diesel coming from the engine compartment did nothing to ease my suffering. I craved water, but unable to find a light switch or a torch I resorted to popping a warm beer to quench my thirst. (Because? Yup – I’m a fully qualified idiot.) I was all beered out by the time the sun came up just after 4am (Scottish summers can be so unforgiving to the afflicted), but believe me when I tell you I was positively sprightly compared to Daffith.

Norbert’s insistence that we stuff a hearty breakfast into us before getting under way was probably what caused Daffith to barf. Frankly, I found the gentle swell of the harbour quite therapeutic, especially so since it was mingling with the aroma of bacon and eggs sizzling away on the stove. But Daffith turned his back and chucked an imperial bucketful all over the boat next door – much to the displeasure of the retired couple only a few feet from us who were, at that very moment, washing down their decks.

I don’t know what all the fuss was about – they had their bucket out anyway; and no real harm was done. Maybe they were peeved that we’d woken them at 2am with our inglorious rendition of ‘New York, New York’. In any case, Daffith started to get some colour back on his cheeks after our neighbours’ swearing had blown itself out. Then we were off to Tobermory.

Norbert manoeuvred us out of the harbour about noon and I suppose that’s just about when I realised I had some genuine competition for the title of Village Idiot. Our Captain handed out life jackets (the type that come with a gas canister that inflates the thing when you pull a rip cord – the asthmatic’s delight) and insisted we put them on – the sea was rough. Rough enough to set Daffith off again.

Feel free to picture the scene: Daffith draped over the gunnel, chundering into the grey Atlantic ocean, which is doing its best to slam the boat hard enough to make him fall in. After a while he takes a break and joins us up at the tiller, making light of his condition but studiously avoiding the word ‘beer’. The sails are whipping something fierce, the boat’s bucking like a bronco with fleas and the salt spray has us all soaked. Even Norbert’s turning a bit limey, so I look at Daffith - and that’s when I notice his life vest is on back to front. I’m just about to tell him when a wave knocks us sideways. Daffith falls backwards, almost toppling over the side and into the water, and in his blind panic to grab something to steady himself he pulls his rip cord and inflates his back-to-front life jacket.

I realised three things that windy afternoon on the Atlantic ocean halfway to Tobermory. First, if the wind changes its mind and says you ain’t going to Tobermory, then you ain’t going to Tobermory. Second, Daffith’s eyes bulge like footballs when he’s choking. Third, I have some serious competition for the title of Village Idiot.

Haggii and Their Addresses (by KazzaBP)

When I first met Jack Ramsay, I was a naive girl. I knew little about Scotland... or Australia, for that matter. Befriending a man 'from away' has been a very interesting experience. Educational, to say the least.

Way back then I asked Jack what, exactly, a haggis was. If you've read his blog posting, 'The Idiot', you have an an idea of the tale he told me. And, like the trusting girl I was, I believed him. It wasn't until some time later that I discovered the truth; that haggii are NOT snorkle-nosed pond dredgers with ferocious attitudes, but rather, they are mild-flavored plants that grow on an island off the coast of Scotland. The same island where Scotch tape was invented, in fact! If you're not familiar with the succulent plant, it is similar to a cactus. (Two or more of them are called cactii, of course. Haggis, haggii. Cactus, cactii.) I can't believe it took me so long to figure out he was pulling my leg! Snorkle-nosed pond dredger, indeed! Who, in their right mind, would eat one of those??

Jack thinks he's so smart! But he can't fool me... I always discover the truth!

Below is Burns' famous Address to a Haggis. I love this poem. I've memorized it, even though I know that my pronouciations are off and I don't have a Scots accent. I am The Butcher of Burns, no doubt about it. In celebration of Burns Day, which Jack has told me is January 25th, and to commemorate the publication of Jack's 'The Idiot' in my hometown newspaper, The Irregular, I've written my own poem about haggii. For even though I now know the truth, I will forever think of haggii as fierce little Scottish critters who dredge their pond bottoms with their snorkley noses. Sheesh. I used to be so gullible!

Address To A Haggis
by Robert Burns

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the puddin-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o' a grace
As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o' need,
While thro' your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An' cut you up wi' ready sleight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like ony ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!

Then, horn for horn,
they stretch an' strive:
Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve,
Are bent lyke drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
"Bethankit!" 'hums.

Is there that owre his French ragout
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi' perfect sconner,
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him ower his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro' bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread.
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll mak it whissle;
An' legs an' arms, an' heads will sned,
Like taps o' thrissle.

Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o' fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,
Gie her a haggis!

Address of a Haggis (i.e. The FARM, 252 Spruce Pond Road, Territory 2 Range 1, Bingham-Kennebec Purchase, West of the Kennebec River, Maine, USA)
by Kazza for Jack

A Scotsman told this girl from Maine
That haggii roamed our hills and plains,
Our Highlands split, the clansman claimed
In times long past.
And when they rent t’was left behind
A dredger fast.

This Highlander had honest face.
Alas, in Maine there is no space
For haggii to take o’er the place.
Not at The FARM!
Their snorkel-nose does cause disgrace!
(T’is long’s my arm!)

Now Scotsmen on their wee small isle
Believe the haggii can beguile
Large men who find the kilt in style
(Like Scotsmen do)
And then, a peek makes this girl smile,
(Yup, they’ve got two!)

These clansmen cinch their armor up
To hunt the haggii for their sup
(I think that they should wear a cup
While on the quest.
For haggii, fierce, will always lunge
At groin or chest!)

These hairy Scots are not afraid
They capture dredgers when they raid
The pond; through thigh-high water wade
To snare the beast.
With nets and ropes, they make the grade
And have their feast.

While over ‘cross the Pond, in Maine
This native girl has made it plain
She’d rather all the ponds to drain,
She learned a lesson.
From on the shore she takes her aim…
Fires Smith and Wesson.

Not only does she have her prize,
The bullets, they did tenderize
The haggii, which are bigger size
Than Scotsman’s beast.
(Of course they are! We feed them well
Herein, Down East!)

Ye Pow’rs wha mak mankind your care,
Remember Scots, and how they fare,
Those kilted men still use the snare
But it’s not fun.
Wee sleekit coorin timorous beasties
Die best by gun!

Happy Robbie Burns Day, Jack.
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Photo of Loch Katrine in Scotland copyright by Tina and Andrew Thomson. Photo of Flagstaff Lake, Territory 4 Range 4, BKP WKR Maine (USA) by Chuck Bessey


The above photo was taken in Gray (note: spelled with the proper 'a', instead of 'e') Maine. The emblem on the uniform is like an old friend to me: My father wore that same one for the first 19 years of my life. The large-sized gentleman to the right is a bull moose, and as you can see, I could not possibly confuse him with a Scottish haggis. He might be 'sleekit' and a 'beastie', but 'wee coorin tim'rous' he's not!

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

Trapped Between the Slats (By KazzaBP)

I'm trespassing here on DUD without my pal Jack's prior knowledge. Jack is a dedicated writer, and he's been busy lately doing some serious writing and editing. I, on the other hand--while a writer--have been doing nothing but flubbing off. Twiddling my thumbs while I wait for the inspiration to create the next great American novel. It's a good thing I'm a patient woman, that's all I can say.

Anyhoo, don't blame Jack for the content of this blog entry. The man can't be held responsible for this woman's wayward mind and sometimes uncouth sense of humor. He'll either forgive me when he reads this, or he'll quickly delete. I'll chance it, and see. I'm not working on an amazing novel like Jack is...but I AM brave. And just a little bit foolish, too.



Okay, gals and guys, grumblers and grinners! Have you read it? Have you scanned down through this article? Have you paused--lingered, perhaps--as the image seared itself in your mind, like it did mine?

Get it out!!! By all that’s hairy, shrunken, and shriveled, get it out! And I don’t mean get what’s hairy, shrunken and shriveled out of the CHAIR! That’s HIS problem! I mean get the image out of my mind!

Oh, for Pete’s sake! For MARIO’S sake!

Good Lord.

There is so much wrong with this picture, this story, this newspaper article! First off, the question must be asked…what makes ‘news’. Hmmm? Seriously, is this ridiculous episode worthy of being memorialized in print? Distributed to thousands of unsuspecting readers? Will this man—this naked swimmer/sun-bather—ever be able to show his face in public, again? For, as sure as the sea is salty, the poor fellow’s nether regions will forever be associated with his name! Mario Visnjic! Is it fair to do that to someone who is, quite obviously, not all ‘there’. (Because some of him was trapped between chair slats, you see…)

Heh. What an idiot. And Mario, if you are a reader of DUD or GAG, I would say that to your face, too. I’d hug you while doing it (if you were dressed, that is), but I’d tell you true.

You’re a dipstick.

How long have you had those things? Most of your life, I would assume. Certainly long enough to recognize your little buddies’ vagaries and propensities! Holy smokes…

I’ve simply got to say this. IF I was a man, and IF I was brazen enough to go swimming in the nude at a public beach, and IF I was then so dim-witted that I’d sit in a SLATTED chair afterwards…well. There’s no doubt about it. If my Joe Fridays got wedged (good Lord!) between two pieces of wood, I would never—and I repeat, NEVER!—call Beach Maintenance for help. No way, no how!

Could the discomfort of being trapped in my chair ever compare to the humiliation factor involved when total strangers then have to cut me out of it? Because, of course, they couldn’t cut me out without LOOKING at me! Arrgh! I can picture it, now! And I shouldn’t! No! I should never have that image seared into my brain.

And what follows the looking, Mario? The LAUGHING!!! The rolling on the ground. The gasping for breath, the side-splitting shrieks. The cell-phone calls to REPORTERS who print your humiliation in the newspaper! Maybe, even, the photographs! Because, trapped like that, I would be powerless to stop them, right? Short of lunging at them with a heavy wooden chair swinging from my…gah!!! Holy moley…no way in the world would I suffer through that humiliation. No way!

Nope. What I would do is sit still. Wait for sunset. Pass the time until the dark of night brought--not only cold temperatures--but DARK! So no one would see me!! With my private parts (for they SHOULD be private, Mario) smooshed between the slats of a chair on a public beach! A chair where other people sit!!! Did you ever think about THAT, Mario? That other people might want to recline in the sun in the very same chair that your naked, hairy bum was plastered into? Hmmm?



Aw, man…have a care for the rest of us! That’s just gross.

So…my plan of action, if I was a man who had shown a tendency to be as numb as a pounded thumb, would be to WAIT. Until the night grew cold or hell froze over--whichever came first. I’d sit there anticipating the time when those little fellows shrunk back up again. Shriveled, withered, ascended. Slipped through those wooden slats all on their own, thlupp, and released me from my confinement and my mortification.

Problem solved. Chair in one piece. Dignity intact. (All right, all right… I’m trying to be generous, here. There’s no way you’ll ever be able to hold your head up in public again, but I’m a kind woman and don’t wish to add to your humiliation. Anymore than I already have, that is…)

Chances are good that this kind of thing will never happen to the men up here in Maine. For one thing, we have no nude beaches. For another, our men tend to have more common sense than our good friend, Mario, displayed. And lastly--and most importantly—we are hardy folk, and impervious to the cold.



Mario, my friend, don’t do that again. Ever. Learn from your mistakes. But if you simply can’t help yourself, if you just can’t swim on a public beach in a suit or sit on a towel like the rest of the civilized population does, then please, man. Please.

Disinfect the chair before you leave.