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How Do You Arrange A Day That Includes Brooke Shields And The Longest Game In The World?

It’s easy enough – and takes no planning.

You decide to take a walk in the sunshine in the afternoon, and plan to sit on a park bench. You do have a reasonably simple route, where you make a circuit of your neighbourhood. There are not many park benches, but you aim for one, fifteen minutes away. You sit, but it is not really in the sun, and even if it were your would not really be warm. So, you sit a short time, and continue on your way.

You are in a residential neighbourhood, Placid streets. Upscale houses. Not much traffic (except for one major thoroughfare, where you cross with the help of a pedestrian light. Then you are in a different neighbourhood, and continue on your way.

However, you come to one corner, and realize it is crowded with what appears to be white utility vehicles. There are many folk with armbands, helmets, and Walkie-Talkies. There are folk directing traffic. After turning one corner, the people, vehicles, and mounds of equipment increase. There are also a notable number of onlookers. There are also (quite a surprise) soldiers in uniform. However, there seems to be no alarm, no urgency, and next to no noise.

Upon turning onto another street, it becomes obvious that there is a film being shot in front of a particular house. There has been no attempt to stop pedestrians, so it is difficult to tell who might be there doing a job, and who are there attracted by the situation.What is most unusual of all is how quiet the whole scene is.

I do approach one lady with headset and Walkie-Talkie and clipboard. She is happy to talk. There is a murder mystery being shot for the streamer, Acorn TV. A series called “You’re Killing Me” starring Brooke Shields. I am asked to walk on the other side of the street. I am told to be careful walking through the leaves piled next to the curb, They are hiding the equipment cables. The show is to appear next year.

I did not (as far as I know) see Brooke Shields.

Later that night (to be accurate – very early the next morning), I awoke from sleep. It was around the time of a radio newscast, which I turned on, mainly to see who won the World Series Game. The news about it was that it was still on. So, I turned on the television, and got to watch the last hour of the longest baseball game. I was rooting for the other fellas.

DE UEL

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April Fools’ Joke – As Funny As Ever

851150

This is from a few years ago.

I glean through many sources after information of which agent,s and which editors, have purchased recent books that are similar to one of my manuscripts.

When I find someone I think will be compatible to some of my work, I research them. Then, if I think they would have a reasonable interest in my manuscript (and there can be a variety of reasons) I’ll send a query letter.

I prefer to go through this process of finding names a number of times in a row, instead of finding a compatible person, then immediately sending a query. So, when I find a person I plan to contact, I send this information to myself in an email. It can be weeks before I actually send a query to an agent or editor, and then it can be two or more months before I hear a reply.

Last week I came across the information that John le Carré has a new book coming out the end of this year. I adore John le Carré. This announcement unusually named both his agent and editor. I sent both to myself, and I imagine I would get to them in the next two or three weeks.

This morning, April 1st, I had notification of a rejection by an agent for my NATO Thriller. It was a refusal sent through the portal of the agency (which happens more and more). Since it was not an actual response by the agent, I had to go to my Sent file to see who I had sent the query to.

Uh-huh – it was the same agent as John le Carré. So, I actually got rejected before I sent the query.

Well – anyway – that’s how writers think.

(image)cdn.images.express.co.uk/img/dynamic/39/750×445/851150.jpg

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Is This Just A Test?

This is a Test  

But not “the” Test.


If it were a real Test

It would need

An answer


(Or two)

[Or multiple choice]

But It isn’t.  

It is a test

That announces SOMETHING,

Or,

To warn about Something,

Or,

To warn about a WARNING OF SOMETHING.  

A Test basically to say:

*IF* this was a test,

Then get your shit together,

Bend over,

And kiss your ass good-bye.  

THAT IS ALL.

 {It is that type of test}

DE

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A Ghost Story – True As True Can Be – To Lead To Halloween

A true story for All Hallows’ Eve, although it did not happen on Halloween.


And, I steal my title from the list of types of encounters with UFOs and Aliens from Space, where actual physical encounters result in injury or death. Admittedly, I experienced nothing but fright, but the touch is without question

.
  I was visiting the Bay of Fundy island of Grand Manan.

 I had booked a room in a bed and breakfast and arrived mid-evening. I went elsewhere for a meal, but did meet the owners, and noted there were a couple of others staying there. I returned around eleven, chatted to the owners and one guest, then went up to bed.

The room was top of the stairs and across a landing. Comfortably rustic with a radio. The bed was fine and I was not long getting to sleep.

  In the dead of the dark (no street lights here) I was awakened by the touch of hands on me. I was sleeping on my left side. One hand was over my groin and the other on my chest. There was also the weight of a body next to me and the pressure of an arm across my side.

I was initially surprised and confused but not frightened. Time probably stretched but it seems to me I lay like this for ten or fifteen seconds. Then, the very first coherent thought which came to me was that someone laying behind me could not have both arms over my body. There could not be two hands placed on the front of my body.

  I got out of bed very quickly and did indeed experience fear. I turned on the overhead light but saw nothing. I heard nothing. The temperature was not unusual. I was frightened and certainly uncomfortable, but I can’t say that that aura was present.

I went to the bathroom across the landing. The house was silent.

I returned to the bedroom, thinking both of leaving the light on and turning on the radio. But then I thought that that was just giving into fear, and might encourage the fear instead of ease it, so I did neither. I did not seem to take very long to get to sleep.  

The next morning I went downstairs for breakfast. I heard the owner talking to two other guests as I approached the kitchen.

Just as I entered she interrupted her conversation and turned to me. She said: “Let’s ask him. He’s the one sleeping in the haunted room.”  

I don’t know if they had been talking about ghosts or if something else had happened in the night. I relayed my experience and the owner then told the story of the house.

As with many buildings on the island it had been a farm house, with the owners also fishing. It was a century or more old and left to a daughter. When she herself got old and could not look after it, her family forced her to leave, something she fought against.

The present owners then bought the building and started taking in guests. However, whenever they attempted renovations, they were discouraged by having paint cans overturned, new wallpaper peeled from the wall, ladders moved, hammers and such hidden.

  The new owners’ daughter lived next door, and looked after the house when her parents went away (trips to Florida in the winter). She inevitably had to come over to the house and close doors, turn off lights, put furniture back in place.  

The old woman who was forced to leave had the reputation of being a mean and unpleasant person. I don’t know if she was taking a liking to me or not.

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It Is Friday The 13th And The Red Ship Passes: Part The First & Part The Second

PART THE FIRST

It isn’t that we had no warning.

Hell, even Paw, the cat/kitten.

Black as Death with one white mitten,

Knew it was coming.

Knew (perhaps) before the rest of us.

And fishing boats, the last couple of days,

Have left notes in the Message Box,

Down on the Lighthouse dock.

One of the notes had been relayed

From the brigantine, HMS Buzzard,

Informing of this passage into the harbour,

And the night this would be done.

So,

As Lighthouse Keeper,

I await

On the Lighthouse dock,
In my navel uniform,

Which I am sometimes

Expected to wear,

Since I represent the might

Of Majesty,

As sole subject, yet overlord,

Of the Lighthouse on Partridge Island.

Waiting for the Red Ship to pass.


I feel the still on the sea.

I understand why they have awaited

This shroud of fog.

I have,

With my vantage point atop the Lighthouse,

Seen the approaching ship,

With each of its lanterns

Glowing through red glass.

I can imagine the unfurled red sails.

So, I stand,
And I wait,

With my own red lantern,

And wish I were hunkered down

With Paw, the cat/kitten,

Who chose his hiding place

An hour ago.


PART THE SECOND

I had wished for Sister Darling,

Of The Rarified Church Of The World (Reformed),

To be with myself and Paw,

On this night.

And this passage.

She could offer both physical

And Spiritual comfort,

To Paw and me.

Paw likes to nestle beneath

Her wealth of long hair,

And I would like to touch it.


But she,

With both the Bishop of the Roman church,

And the Bishop of the Anglican church,

In their simple cassocks,
Unrobed of their vestments,
And also, with the Mi’kmaq Shaman,
Await on the dock, On shore,

In the deserted port,
To move this cursed cargo
Of human decay and death.

They will sing and chant their

Religious words of hope.

While I, when the time is right,

Will curl up in my greatcoat

Beside Paw,

And wait out the night

While these folk of Faith
Do the dirty business of God.

{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

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The Red Ship Passes / Part The First

It isn’t that we had no warning.

Hell, even Paw, the cat/kitten.

Black as Death with one white mitten,

Knew it was coming.

Knew (perhaps) before the rest of us.

And fishing boats, the last couple of days,

Have left notes in the Message Box,

Down on the Lighthouse dock.

One of the notes had been relayed

From the brigantine, HMS Buzzard,

Informing of this passage into the harbour,

And the night this would be done.

So, As Lighthouse Keeper, I await

On the Lighthouse dock,

In my navel uniform,

Which I am sometimes

Expected to wear,

Since I represent the might

Of Majesty,

As sole subject, yet overlord,

Of the Lighthouse on Partridge Island.

Waiting for the Red Ship to pass.


You can feel the still on the sea.

You can understand why they have awaited

This shroud of fog.

You can,

With my vantage point atop the Lighthouse,

See the approaching ship, with each

Of its lanterns

Glowing through red glass.

You can imagine the unfurled red sails.

So, I stand,
And I wait,

With my own red lantern,

And wish I were hunkered down

With Paw, the cat/kitten,

Who chose his hiding place

An hour ago.


{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

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HURRICANE

I knew,
By the way 

The hair on the 
Back of my neck
Stood up,
While facing into

The wind from the ocean,
That a hurricane
Was on its way.  

So, I didn’t need
Paw, my cat/kitten,
Black as a storm

With one white mitten,
To be caterwauling,
And racing around
The lee of the lighthouse,

At my feet.
He was not happy!
And maybe none of us,
Will be,
This time tomorrow.

{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2023 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

DE BA. UEL

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Gotta say, this is a very good (and succinct) introduction to Kafka (and I LUV “The Castle”) Kafka Interactions

My history with the work of Franz Kafka, a year before his centennial. || Dick Turner

Source: Kafka Interactions

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History As It’s Known In The Writing World

While reading some literary site about Amazon,, I came across the fact that “Harriet Klausner, an esteemed Amazon reviewer who wrote more than 31,000 book reviews, died”. All power to her – that is quite a feat. However, I took more note of her last name, one I had not thought of for a long time.

In my tenure as an author in the world, I have had four or five agents. And I am currently looking anew. At the far beginning of my time, before I was published, I had the New York agent Bertha Klausner – at the start of my career and near the end of hers. She started her agency before I was born and was working two months before she died in 1998 at the age of 96.

Back in those over the transom days, one stuffed typed pages into an envelope, sent them off with return postage on another envelope, and waited up to three months for a reply. And when it came back, you sent it out again. One of my envelopes went to the Bertha Klausner Agency.

However, when it came back, it had other people’s manuscripts in it, and (to my memory)  little handwritten notes politely saying no. Mistakes happen even at revered agencies, so I sent it all back explaining what had happened. She replied, with neither apology or thanks, annoyed that mistakes do happen and adding, “Say, you must have something. Do you want to send it to me?” Which I did.

As I said, communications were through slow mails (slow on her side, as with literary agents to this day).  I assume she was initially, both being polite though seeing some promise in what I wrote.

But after a year or so she said – in effect – ‘thanks but no thanks’, and I sent things to other agents and eventually sold my first novel by, indeed, sending it directly to an editor in New York over the transom,.

I don’t think I knew that Bertha Klausner had such a stellar career until I looked her up. An agent for decades, she had famous names like Upton Sinclair, Israel J Singer, Eleanor Roosevelt and Fidel Castro. She even represented actor Basil Rathbone.

I imagine I would have become a lost tale.

Dale Estey

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