A Little Thing about Punctuation

I'm not a "grammar Nazi" (horrible term), but I do strongly believe in the importance of proper punctuation in written communication*.

Punctuation exists for one reason, and one reason alone: so that the readers of a document are able to determine how its author would like them to read it. It sets the rules for how a sentence should be construed. As such, there really aren't any rules about how punctuation should be applied. People will tell you there are, but there aren't. Take, for example, the work of Agatha Christie - she abuses hyphens like they've done her some personal injury, but you get her point.

The only rules lie around the common interpretation of the symbols we use. For instance, we all know that a full stop (or 'period'. Ew...) signifies in our minds that we should pause and take a mental breath. Or a physical one, if reading out loud. Similarly, a comma indicates a lesser pause, and a semicolon somewhere in between; though we should only use the semi when we're going to continue along the same lines with the second half of the sentence (or when separating items in a list which follows a colon).

As long as there's agreement and understanding on what these little dots and squiggles mean, you really should use punctuation how you see fit. And word order? Well, that matters hardly at all; hardly matters at all, in fact.

But God help you if you can't tell the difference between there, their and they're. That's just stupid.

*There's a subtle difference between grammar and punctuation, but that's not really the point here.

The Queen’s Democracy: An Utterly Fictitious Political Satire

Anthony Flair paused by the mirror and adjusted his perfectly tied tie, checked his crisply starched collar one more time, and dismissed any lingering doubts about the smile. They accepted the smile now. It was okay.

The door was opened for him – Rupert, this morning, wasn’t it? Or David – and he stepped out into the grey, unrelenting drizzle of yet another day in office. It was brightened temporarily by the pinging flashes of a handful of bored paparazzi across the way. There, too, was that Nick guy from the Beeb. Pleasant chap, wasn’t he? Must keep his guard, though, can’t be too friendly with the press, never know what they’re going to say next.

The car door thunked closed behind him with a satisfyingly British air of Jaguar solidity. Something in that, perhaps, some rhetoric about nationality? Could do with a bit of that these days. Perhaps mention it to Alex Clodwell later – he always knows the right thing to say. The driver was new this morning, wasn’t he? Normal pool was all off with avian flu or something, hadn’t that been the note on the table? Nearly ate it instead of the toast again. Darling Charlie had grown so exasperated with him about working at the breakfast table, but he’d promised her another baby and everything had been alright.

A towering pile of papers sat on the crumpled leather seat beside him, a permanent passenger on his daily commute. He idly wondered who put these files there, and whether or not he was meant to do something with them. No-one had ever said, and no-one had checked that he had ever done so much as glance at them. Not for the first time, he wondered whether there was one of those yellow books on Prime Ministering for stupid people.

Traffic was bad this morning. Nothing new there, not that the mayor seemed to be doing anything about it. He’d have to have a word. Actually, perhaps not. Scary little guy, the mayor. Glad he could ship him out of the party to look after the city, really. Better to just imagine he was doing something. He was bound to be. There was no reason to haul him up about it if he didn’t have to. Yeah, that was it he would just –

Funny. He didn’t remember the car being upside down this morning. Yet here he was dangling awkwardly from his seatbelt. Why would that be? And what were all those sounds, those wailing ones? For a moment his heart leapt – there wasn’t a terrorist attack somewhere in the city was there? Oh, the sounds were getting closer. Maybe it was somewhere nearby. And he still seemed to be upside down for some reason. Oh, and the papers, the papers were scattered all over the car. Someone would be angry. He had no idea who.

Ah, a friendly face. She would know what was going on. He tried to speak, but nothing came out. She just smiled at him and said nothing, and out came a hand with something shiny in it, and suddenly things were a bit wobbly, and was it getting dark?

---

Oh, the sumptuous pleasantness of waking between crisp white sheets on a sunny morning, with the breeze playing through an open window. Perhaps it was early, and he could stay in bed for a while. No sound from the kids’ room, good. A quiet, insistent beeping from somewhere though. Whose alarm clock was that? Damn. Still, keep your eyes closed, pretend you’re asleep, Anthony. Don’t break the spell.

Perhaps Charlie was enjoying it, too. Maybe she was awake and they could, well, you know. Look the other way, Lord, we are about to make another believer. He stretched a hand sideways to feel for her. Hmm. Metal. Cold metal. Why was there cold metal on the bed? Maybe this was one for the eyes to deal with.

He tried to open them. Hmm, must have slept well, they were welded shut. He tried again. That’s better, open now. Blink once, twice. That doesn’t look like the ceiling. Why doesn’t that look like the ceiling? The lights are different, that’s why.

Suddenly it occurred to him that perhaps this wasn’t his bedroom. He raised his head and looked around. A small room in a hospital. Why was he in a hospital. His heart started beating faster, and the beeping became more insistent. Sitting up was out of the question, his muscles wouldn’t respond. Why not? A sedative, maybe? He’d had one of those once, paralysed him almost completely. Bit of an overdose.

He sank back into the pillows, breathing deeply to calm himself. OK, so he was in a hospital. Something must have gone wrong somewhere, but he was safe now. He didn’t even feel too bad. Perhaps a nurse could tell him what was going on. Ah, there was one now, maybe she would be able to help.

“Excuse me.”

Nothing. She just carried on fussing around the bed, tucking him back in, twiddling dials on the machine next to him. Try again, perhaps.

“Er, nurse?”

Nothing. She just adjusted the angle of the bed slightly, sitting him up, and then walked out of the room without a backward glance, the door shutting softly behind her.

Time passed unevenly. Sometimes glancing out of the window at the grey, anonymous buildings which made up the entire view would waste a whole quarter of an hour. At other times, minute examination of his surroundings passed no more than thirty seconds, whilst feeling like an aeon.

The door opened smoothly, on silent hinges, and a middle-aged doctor with greying temples entered the room. Classic, competent British doctor. Heart and soul of the NHS, that sort of thing. A silver fountain pen in his coat pocket. He came and sat in the chair at the side of the bed, reading his notes for a few moments before raising his eyes – they were a startling blue.

“Good morning, Mr. Flair. How are you feeling?”

The voice was low and resonant, and deeply reassuring.

“I, er, I’m fine doctor. What’s wrong with me? Why am I here?”

“Do you not remember the car crash, Mr. Flair?”

The man on the bed shook his head.

“No, nothing after breakfast. What happened?”

“You were hit by a bus, Mr. Flair. Turned the car over. No real harm done though, bit of muscle damage in your back and neck, and a scrape or two from broken glass. Nothing that ought to keep you out of action for too long. Just need to rest for a few days.”

“My wife. Can I see my wife?”

The doctor rose again, the warm smile back on his face.

“She was here whilst you slept, Mr. Flair. I’m sure she will be able to return this afternoon.”

Once again he was alone with his thoughts.

---

When the door opened again, another middle-aged man entered the room, this time with an unblemished head of black hair and a far more serious look on his face. He was followed in by a tall, slim, younger man, who has an earpiece in. The younger man went straight to the window, glancing out and around carefully before turning the blinds to exclude the world.

“Clear, sir,” he said to his boss, but remained facing the window. 

Ah, thought Anthony, this will be the security debrief. All feels rather familiar. That’s why Charlie isn’t allowed in yet. She’ll understand, obviously. He scratched around the corners of his mind for the month’s password, and eventually alighted upon it.

“Rhubarb,” he said to the elder man, who looked at him with an expression of utter and bizarre confusion.

The younger accomplice helped him out.

“That’s MI5 for the month, sir. I did pass on the list.”

“Yes, yes,” said the elder irritably, as if it was all too regular an event to be shown up by his junior. “Well, Mr Flair,” he continued, “it seems you have your wires crossed. We’re not from security. Or rather, not from the security forces with which you are familiar.”

Anthony’s heart beat faster again, causing the machine to his side to start bleeping furiously. The younger man crossed the room quickly, and with skilled fingers instantly silenced it.

“Thank you, Roberts,” his superior said. “Now, Mr. Flair. A quick question, and then some answers. First of all, what does QDF mean to you?”

Anthony racked his brains. Nothing. Abolsutley nothing. He shook his head.

“Ah, good. As I’d hoped. It may help to know that when we have a  male monarch, we are the KDF. It means Queen’s Democratic Force, Mr Flair, and if even our illustrious Prime Minister is unaware of us, we are doing well. Her Majesty will be pleased.

“What are we, then? Well, most of the time our work is done in the background. This is certainly the most impressive, public thing we’ve done since I joined the service. Don’t like the style myself, but there you go, it's not my place to make the decisions.”

“Why?” asked the now thoroughly flummoxed PM.

“Ah, you see, that’s to the very core of what we do, Mr. Flair. We help, where possible, to make sure the right thing is done. We are interventionaries, you might say. A little tweak here, a quiet word there, a subtle blackmail from time to time. All in the name of ensuring that this country stays on the straight and narrow, you see, no matter who happens to be at the helm.”

He paused, folding his hands on his lap, apparently satisfied for now. Anthony summoned the strength to speak.

“Are you telling me the Queen has a roving force of mercenaries enforcing her decisions about how the country is run? That’s dictatorial!”

The man shrugged slightly, a benevolent smile still upon his face.

“You might look at it that way, Mr Flair, though there is no need to be quite so dramatic. You yourself have been accused of ignoring the people on occasion, yes? We do nothing more than Her Majesty’s bidding. She wishes the voice of the people to be heard, Mr. Flair. We are their megaphone, you might say.”

“And what does Her Majesty want me to hear that she could not tell me herself?” the Prime Minister spat.

“Come now, Mr. Flair. No need to take that tone. Her Majesty merely cares that her subjects are listened to on key topics.”

Anthony Flair sighed. He couldn’t understand how it could come to pass that Her Majesty felt unable to discuss policy with him, and that she needed to reach him in this manner.

“What would Her Majesty like to suggest?” he asked wearily. The man smiled and leaned forward, whispering into the Prime Minister’s ear. The PM’s reply was immediate and resolute, his voice filled with horror.

“Never!”

“Very well, Mr. Flair. We will pass your response to Her Majesty. She will make a decision.”

“A decision about what? What decision?”

But the question went unanswered. Both men swept from the room, and the door closed silently once more. He was left alone. Lengthening shadows hinted at the closing of the day, and yet there was no sign of Charlie and the kids. And what of the press secretary – surely he should be preparing a note to the nation? And there never was a proper security debrief, was there?

---

Newsflash

Government sources say they are still puzzled by the vanishing of the Prime Minister on Tuesday morning. He was seen on CCTV leaving Downing Street in his usual car, but both car and driver mysteriously left their police escort seven minutes into the journey, somewhere near Pall Mall. The car vanished and cannot be traced, along with the driver and the PM. Mr. Flair’s emotional wife, Charlie, made this plea on the steps of No. 10 today:

“If anyone has Anthony, please just let us know he’s alive. Please. All he wants to do is serve the people. Please just let us know. His children miss him so terribly.”

---

When Anthony Flair woke the next morning, the two men were once again in his room. He tried to speak, but found that he could barely lift his head. The older man smiled at him.

“Good morning, Mr. Flair. Her Majesty has given her answer. Do you want to hear it? I believe you should just about be able to nod. Is that right, Roberts.”

“Correct, sir. Just his head.”

“Excellent. Down to business, then. I shall ask a series of questions, Mr. Flair. Just nod or shake, OK?”

Nod.

“Good. Now, do you remember why we came to see you yesterday?”

Nod.

“Do you remember what I asked you to consider. Or, rather, asked you to consider not doing?”

Nod, nod.

“Good. Now, Her Majesty was quite emphatic last night. She was terribly upset that you seemed unwilling to change your mind. ‘Such a waste’, I believe she said. But she was unwavering, Mr. Flair. She sees your decision to go ahead as being utterly against the will of the people. She has sanctioned me to ensure that you do not go ahead. Do you understand?”

Shake, shake.

“Ah, I see. Well, if you decide to go ahead, we will be required to stop you, using one of our fascinating range of specialist techniques. And if you decide to change your mind, you may return to your family unharmed and unaltered. So, would you like you change your mind?”

Stillness for a minute. Shake, shake.

“Are you sure, Mr. Flair? One last time. Would you like you change your mind?”

Shake, emphatically this time.

“No? Very well, then. Her Majesty will be upset, but she was very resolute on this one, I’m afraid. Mr. Roberts, if you would be so kind.”

The young man turned from the window and produced a thin syringe from his coat pocket. He flicked off the cap as he approached the bed, then roughly grabbed Anthony’s arm, turning it so that he could access the veins on the inside of the elbow. There was no pain as the needle bedded home, and no sensation as the orange liquid entered his body.

---

Newsflash

The Metropolitan Police anti-terrorist branch today confirmed that they have no solid leads in the case of PM Anthony Flair, whose mind has been left irreparably altered by non-surgical means. Mr Flair was found in a central London location last Friday, stripped to the waist and with the phrase ‘No war in Iraq’ tattooed onto his chest. Unconfirmed reports of an arrest in the case were made last week, but no further details have emerged. Mr. Flair has himself spoken for the first time, apparently expressing surprise that he was once allowed to run the country, and asking why he was allowed to do so.

In related news, police are labelling as ‘hearsay’ reports that stand-in PM Gareth Black was briefly reported missing just hours before the key speech in which he pledged not to follow the United States on their ‘modern crusade’ in the Middle East. More to follow.

It's all in the mind

One of the things I've blogged about to some reasonable extent in the past is my tendency to have a lot more going on behind my eyes than I let on. I'm not talking about intelligence (actually, I have a lot less of that than most people think), but rather my incessant imagination, which regularly runs away with itself.

One of the real world things I repeatedly daydream about is what it'll be like if I'm lucky enough to follow my dreams and become an author. Here are a few of the conclusions I've come to:

1) I'm going to have to get a new wardrobe, since this will be part of the identity of my alter-ego. 
2) I'm going to regain a little of the individuality which has been mercilessly ground out of me by office life.
3) I'd really like to have a room with a view in which I can write.
4) I will be able to justify buying: (a) a small laptop for writing on the move; (b) lots of Moleskine notebooks; (c) more pens. I like pens.
5) I'm going to have to get better at organising myself. 
6) I'll actually have to do some writing from time to time instead of spending my days developing exciting plot lines but never writing stories to go around them.
7) I may have to learn to touch type instead of looking at the keyboard every few seconds.
8) I'll be able to justify finding the perfect keyboard.
9) I'm going to end up spending a lot of time surfing the net. 
10) I think people will be surprised. 
11) I really hope I don't have to do any signings where my friends live. 
12) I'm going to have to learn to take criticism.
13) I'm going to have to learn to edit my stories.
14) I'm going to have to learn how to play piano (nothing to do with writing. Just one of those things).

That's it. 

Can you smell snow?

Wintry feelings today. Thoughts turn to Christmas, and to snowboarding, and other activities enjoyed in the dark, dormant months. The darkness and the coldness combine with shuttered windows and bright lights to induce sentiments not felt for some time. I long for winter in summer and for summer in winter. And in autumn and spring, I anticipate, and grow restless.

Winter is book reading time, and book writing time. As the days draw in and it becomes too cold, wet or treacherous to venture far from home, the mind begins more than ever to turn in on itself, to wander further into the realms of the imagination. Summer may be a fertile time for plants, but winter is when literature is grown and harvested.

Perhaps this winter my labours will bear fruit at last. A good book is there, bubbling under the surface, ready-written, if only in my mind. To the page it must be committed, and then... and then, well, who knows?

Train Station Book Sales

I'm sure I can't be alone in my urge to buy books in train stations. That is, after all, why even the coffee shop on Platform 6 at Sheffield station has a considerable range of books and magazines on offer.

I understand the theory: you're going on a long, boring train journey. What better than a book to keep you entertained? It makes perfect business sense, of course.

Except I think there's something deeper there. I think there's a link to the romanticism of train journeys. I've blogged on the subject before (here). Bookshops, too, are powerful places, full of possibilities, of chances to experience all that life has to offer.

Combine the two and I believe you create an irresistible draw. There is a common thread running through both - the opportunity for adventure, the chance to take a step into the unknown.

The same is wholly true of shops selling Moleskine notepads at stations. The very thought of writing in a Moleskine diary whilst travelling by train is enough to send me into raptures.

WHSmith have noted the extent of the effect, of course, positioning their shops in practically every medium or large station in the country. The strategy is tinged with genius.

The urge to write is strong in me today. I wrote last night, into the wee small hours, keeping Jen awake with my constant tap-tap-tap (sorry, sweetheart). It was gold, too, the good stuff. Not pouring out of me like it used to, but I like to think I've replaced quantity with quality.

I've done my usual trick of making myself believe that this might be the one, the book that gets finished and submitted. I'm not bored of it yet, despite a temporary diversion into the world of sci-fi (a weird place, full of words I wouldn't dare use in 'real' fantasy, like synchrotron), and that's a good sign. To come back to a book so often gives me hope that I might see this one through. I'm a bit of a plot magpie, and that has to stop if I'm ever to get anywhere.

So, the dream is still alive, dreamt in the hours between when I'm meant to be asleep and when I actually get there.

I'll keep writing this post, every so often. It's littered throughout the history of the blog in so many forms. One day I won't have to write it any more. One day.

Frustration

I've been thinking about frustration because it's a serious issue, likely to go from simmering resentment to full-on rage in a very short space of time.
My personal frustration stems from the situation in which I find myself with regard to the ever-widening gap between my dreams of being an author and the reality of my day job. I wish to write, but until I am successful I have to keep earning money. In order to do this, I have to continue working in a job with which I am not all that enamoured, despite what I might sometimes say.
There are benefits to the job, of course, but there are also serious drawbacks. Chief amongst these is my mental state after a day in the office. Spending 8 hours in front of a computer having to be moderately intelligent leads to a serious deficiency in imaginative and literary power come the eveningtime. Whilst I am often afforded the time in which to write, I typically lack the willpower or creative talent with which to do so (okay, so the talent bit is missing all the time, but I like to fool myself that this is the result of my job).
This, of course, is a bit of a problem, since I need to be able to write in order to quit the job, and in order to write I need to not be working on anything else. This is my personal definition of frustration. What's yours?

Resolve

Resolve is, as you would expect, rather different to ambition, as was probably made clear in the last post. If they were the same, it would be called 'ambition', and the dictionary would be one entry shorter.

The single positive which has emerged from this week's return to the office is that I am now more determined than ever to find a way to make a living on my own terms, without having to pander to the schedule of others. Writing is probably my only way out of this, unless I suddenly re-kindle my interest in woodwork and train as a carpenter (unlikely, but you never know).

So, time to make a New Year's resolution, then. This year I will write a book and attempt to get it published.

Or make some really nice furniture...

The Ambition of Authors

Like most Authors (capital 'a'), I'm fairly ambitious in the area of having a book published. This should not be mistaken for proactivity. For years, I have had ambitions of getting something out there, but have been rather lazy about it. I intend to bring a halt to this pathetic state of affairs, either by trying hard to get published, or (and this is the show-stopper, ladies and gents) by 'giving up'.

The art of 'giving up' was first introduced by the French, and had been perfected by the time Hitler swept across Europe. On hearing that he was on his way with hordes of drunk, screaming Nazis, raping and pillaging as they went (so sue me for slander, I dare you), vast swathes of France simply dropped their pants and bent over for him. To be fair, a sizable portion didn't just faint and surrender, they formed La Resistance instead, and good on them. If I was French, I'd hope to be descended from one of those guys, not one of the cheese eating surrender monkeys.

But enough about the French. They did the 'giving up' thing in style, and I could never hope to match their achievements. If I gave up on the writing thing, it would be low-key, subtle, a slow decline in the (admittedly already erratic) weekly word count, rather than a full-scale dive off the Beachy Head of writing. I would give up in such a fashion that, wait for it... you would hardly realise.

Gone would be the ambition, the drive, the constant desire to make it, replaced instead with a laissez faire (there's the French for you again, inventing whole phrases about simply not giving a shit) attitude to the world of literature which might actually see me pick up a book by an author I've not already read to death (disclaimer: no authors were harmed in the making of this library).

I would flourish, reading book after book, not letting my creative juices out, bottling them up inside so that suddenly I became the life of the party, the go-to man in a crisis of wit. And before long, I would have to start writing some of this stuff down. Maybe thinking about a book or two.

Damn. Damn it all.