Open book

Writers have rituals. Charles Dickens would walk around his house, or take long walks at night. Alfred Lord Tennyson would walk with his son saying his latest poem out loud. This is something those who are not creative do not understand. To them the writer is procrastinating, lazy, or worse playing games. That is not true. The creative process just doesn’t happen it takes time for the brain to work out what to put on the paper. Inspiration comes at anytime not when you try to recall it. All writers have had writer’s block. The mind is closed to anything creative. Therefore the frustrated writer must do things that bring the inspiration to the forefront. This is when the writer is misunderstood. As a spouse/partner of the writer it is their job to assist not nag the creative genius. How you may ask? First make sure there are no distractions, such as children, and pets. They make the best reason for a writer to find an excuse not to write. The environment for a writer is important.

Sorting through the family photos can be an enjoyable experience. There will be those moments when reflecting on the picture we remember sad moments. After my mothers death I asked for one thing, the family photos. For what reason I never really thought. Maybe to hide the embarrassing ones of me dressed as a little girl called Monica for a fancy dress competition. Don’t think I won. There was one photo I knew on what day it was taken even though it was torn at the edges. June 3 rd 1953, the day the Queen was crowned. Our street had a party for the children inside some one house. Sandwiches, cake, ice cream and jelly would have been the menu. It was after all just after the Second World War and the rationing of food was coming to an end. I look at the picture and wonder what happened to the others who sat down at the tables. I grew up with them, many I played Cowboys and Indians. I think I was always an Indian. Okay, I like the feather hat. With a few of them I played doctors and

The book is finished and has even been edited by a professional editor. Those who have read it, and some are English academics tell me it is very good. So why hasn’t it sold? Do I need to revisit and re-edit? I took several books off the shelf on ‘editing your work’. They all seem so broad in suggestions as to what I might need to do. Of course there is always the reader critic who also happens to be an editor. The problem like so many today is my lack of cash. This is my dilemma and like all problems I sit and mull over looking for the best solution. I will read again Michael Seidman book “The Complete Guide to Editing Your Fiction.” If my memory serves me well I didn’t really find it helpful the first time because I had already had the book edited and there seem nothing wrong with it. Maybe I should look for over long sentences. My protagonist is a very likable young man; he does have extra baggage with his very large family. The sub plot carries the story along

A presenter must always be aware of the type of people in the audience. Each person listens and learns differently. As writers do we ever consider the reader in the same way? What we write must be of interest to the reader or they won’t bother to read it. How many times have you started to read a book only to put down after a few pages? Never to pick the book up again and to disregard the authors other books. I analyzed three books I started but gave up on and found the writers hadn’t taken into considered the type of person I was. The first type of person we must consider is the ‘what in if for me’. The reader needs to get something out of the book without too much hard work. The writer must give the reader a reason to continue reading. In the mystery writing genre this can be accomplished by holding back a secret only to hint at what it is to the reader. They will continue to turn pages to find out the answer. Remember it has to be something worthwhile rather than a red herr

I have never been a star struck person for me they are just human being who have had the luck and in some case the talent to become famous. After all we all started the same way out of the womb of our mothers. Some may have arrived in privileged surroundings but they are no better than you or I. I remember the staff at Goldman Sachs when Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger visited the office. Those middle-aged ladies were acting as though they were thirteen and Justin Beiber had arrived. I continued to work ignoring a man who has since left the state of California in a mess. My instinct was right and I still believe he needs acting lessons. So you will be surprised to know I was once star struck. I had just finished the Vogue cover shoot with photographer David Bailey. It was David who in the nineteen sixties made people like Twiggy famous. We had agreed to work on a Japanese advertisement reminiscent of Curt Jurgens in The Blue Angel. I never saw the finished product but I p

Like so many authors I am in search of an agent. I had one, a brilliant one based in London with the William Morris Agency. Then they closed the agency in London and Steve Kenis started his own agency without a literary department. So my journey began. First I asked friends who write and several came up with good ideas. Willard Hope suggested I looked under a rock then he had just lost his agent in a very nasty divorce. His wife was his agent had run off with a very young ghost-writer from Philadelphia. Other writer friends recommended I send out query letters. So I did and found most went to the black bin filing cabinet beneath the desk. I needed to be creative and catch the attention of an agent who has the same taste as myself. I placed Madama Butterfly by Puccini in the CD player and let the music wash over my tense body. The tension faded and I began to be inspired only it wasn’t for an agent. An idea for a new book fizzled inside my head. I wrote the idea down k

I rarely take notice of dreams unless I can use them in a story. The one’s I usually remember are more like a Jackson Pollock painting than a coherent image. So when I had a recurring dream that someone had stolen my underwear from its drawer I realized there was a reason for it. All I can remember in the dream is waking up and find my underwear drawer open and empty. I checked out the dream interpretation on line and found nothing very helpful. In another search I found a very interesting if not simple explanation as to what is a dream. “Dreams are the little dramas our minds make up when the "self" system is not keeping us alert to the world around us.” If this is true then my mind has more dramas than an American daytime soap. Friends often ask me to interrupt their dreams. I use common sense logic as to where they are in their life suggesting the dream is about their current situation. My fear of flying (because I am not in control of the plane) is alw

French mine artist Marcel Marceau creator of Bip the Clown died in September 2007. I was fortunate to meet him on a live BBC radio four “Woman’s Hour” program. The interviewer was Sue MacGregor along with a family member from the Robert Brothers Circus. Topic was the importance of making people laugh. Marcel told several stories about how he gather the idea’s for Bip the Clown from what he saw on the street. It wasn’t just a man slipping on a banana skin but observation on how people stand and walk. I will always remember him miming standing at a fireplace with a drink in his hand. You believed he really had a drink. When I was teaching others how to learn the art of the clown I would always tell them to look at how people behaviour in public. Marcel said he would sit in a shopping centre in Paris just people watching, how he would love American shopping Malls. When friends say they are bored I suggest they go to the Mall and people watch. It is truly amazing how we hum

There are times in your life when you think that someone else has a hand in your density. After watching “The Adjustment Bureau” last night I now question if those people exist. It is a beautiful love story, except for a group of men in suits and hats spending their time trying to break up the loving couple. He is destined to be the President of the United States and she a world renowned dancer/chorographer but not together. Creatively brilliant. Matt Damon and Emily Blunt were perfectly cast while Terence Stamp seemed a little wooden. I was hoping they didn’t cop out and make a cheesy ending and they didn’t. During and after watching the film I began to wonder if they the Adjustment Bureau had been playing with my life. Okay I know it’s just a movie but it leaves you thinking and to me that is the sign of a good movie. Be careful which door you open, it could lead you away from your own destiny. I pushed open the revolving door into Corporate America a complet

Bill Wyman base player of the Rolling Stones asked if we would be interested to direct ‘Willie and the Poor Boys’ a half hour music special. The scene was to be nineteen fifty’s at Fulham Town Hall, London. When local bands would play on a Friday night at a local dance hall. Ringo Starr was going to play the janitor, a cameo role at the end of the film. We hired several professional dancers besides inviting the public to turn up in period costumes. Like all films the music was pre-recorded and the many wonderful musician played along with soundtrack. (I have listed the musician below) We had six cameras shooting the action but behind me where eight international news camera capturing the event with so many famous rock stars on stage. After the first take I took Bill on one side and told him they lacked energy. Expecting Bill to be diplomatic with the rock stars he walked back on to the stage and said, “The director thinks we stink and need to get some energy.” They did with gr

In the film ‘Murder Story’ Sir Christopher Lee was hired to play Willard Hope a writer of mystery novels. He dies half way through the film, since we couldn’t pay him for the whole shoot. An actor of his quality is worth the fee he receives but this was a very low budget movie. He is found in a closet strangled in fact we used a toilet. This was the only small room in the house in Amsterdam. After our first take, the cameraman pointed out it look like Dracula had died. Sir Christopher had spent years creating other characters; sadly the public seem to remember him as Count Dracula in the Hammer Horror movies. We quickly change the make up so Sir Christopher looked more like himself as Willard Hope. I invent the story we lost his open eyes in the darkness of the closet, another case of British diplomacy better known as BS. In one of the earlier scenes he and co-star Alexis Denisof were walking down a side street in Amsterdam passing one of the many window sex stores the

Oh my blessed Socrates Self control individually Myself action for myself happiness I mourn your loss I love your morality Vauvenargues, La Rochefoucauld, Nicolas Chamfort Buried in their own hypocrisy and delusion All animals have morality Not all animals are equal Free us from the slavery of democracy The politician and criminal are but the same Mirrored through the looking glass of the community Man steals from man Only the rats are left to pick over the pieces Nietzsche believed in the supreme man The Tea Party believed they are the supreme race Reagan and Thatcher the empire demolition dream team Jenga politics for the workingman The decline of the American global dictatorship World peace after the death of the human race Only the bankers, politicians and Justin Bieber wannabe’s Left alive to sing for their supper Nail me to nihilism

The Eurythmics once again asked us to direct their music video ‘Sister are doing for themselves’ featuring Aretha Franklin. We were shooting in Detroit, Michigan so Aretha Franklin didn’t have to travel too far from her home. It also meant that I saw another part of America at the time when Detroit was a booming car-making city. The producer told me Miss Franklin was just about to arrive. I told Annie Lennox that I would go and meet Aretha so Annie didn’t have to be interrupted having her make up applied. Aretha’s car arrived with its number plate Zooming but Aretha wasn’t inside. A long black limousine pulled into the Studio parking lot. The driver ran around the limo and opened the car door. Miss Franklin stepped out of the limousine dressed in a red suede dress and coat. Ermine tails hanging down from the coat. She knew how to make an entrance. I greeted her as though I was meeting the Queen of England after all she is the Queen of Soul. She was very gracious took my

Writers are often asked what books influenced them. We all have our favourite books, understanding what inspired you as a writer is very important. I have five books that I feel not only inspired me but set my creative journey. The Jacaranda Tree by H. E. Bates At the age of twelve it was one of the prescribed reading books at school. Set in Burma during World War Two as the Japanese forces invade. With the great British stiff upper lip mentality a small English community set out on journey to escape. Full of prejudices, bitterness, tension and insoluble conflict the adventure begins. H. E. Bates captures the locality, the heat and dryness. It was this that has been trapped in my mind all these years later. You feel the weather and although I have never been to Burma now Republic of the Union of Myanmar. I feel I know something about the country even if it was a long time ago. Paterson the protagonist takes his Burmese mistress and her young brother along with him. As a twelve y

I am not one of those people that kiss and tell. I respect the artists I have work with even if some of them have not been as friendly as they could be. Bob Dylan was not one of them; his professionalism and warm heartedness endeared him to everyone. Arriving from England to make two Bob Dylan music videos in Los Angeles I was excited to work with such a great musician. They were ‘When the Night comes Falling from the Sky’ and ‘ Emotionally Yours ’. The production company had made base camp at United Methodist Church on Highland just below the Hollywood Bowl. Filming was to start on Cherokee Avenue just off Hollywood Boulevard. Just before Bob Dylan arrived for the scene I had entered a store selling nuts and dried fruit. The owner a tall thin man with an enormous black moustache was obviously not happy with a film crew outside his store. We had a permit to shoot on the street but the production company hadn’t given any under the table money to the store owners. I asked the ang

Whatever happened to laughter in the world? No one seems to be laughing anymore. The world is facing a crisis more serious than monetary problems, a greater threat than wars, plagues and corrupt politicians. The world is losing its’ funny men. There are a few professional clowns who perform in the theatre and most of them have joined the race for more quick money, the escalator to greed. Their performances tend to be the same now as when they started. Very few make comment on the society in which they live. Laughter is the most powerful peaceful weapon to use to make change. Yet the funny men are at the bottom of any list of importance. In 1972 Clown Cavalcade I formed, with the ultimate aim of rectifying the situation. The company lasted fifteen years teaching hundreds the art of comedy. It was not foreseen that it would have to exist in an environment that had no room for a sense of humour. We have certainly experienced what the early Christians must have felt in our strug

When the clock ran rivers of time, And the men knew what an orgasm was, Little girls no longer played with dolls, Another scientist committed suicide. All the drunks and drug addicts drank carbonized water, Homosexuals stopped swishing their cigarette smoke, And the U.S. Mail was delivered on time, Another politician resigned. The world series was over for ever, Only Speilberg made films, And the radio played Chinese Rap, Another dentist ran a red light. The Cadillac ran on water, Scuba diving was compulsory, And the gym was only for fat people, Another preacher gave up God. The police stopped beating the good guys, The therapist did therapy, And the Actor took a proper job, Another fireman smouldered with anger. Today Aids was eradicated from the world, The homeless had homes, and no one was hungry, Abuse was a dead word, Dreaming Utopia.

The laughter was false and loud bringing the attention of the other passengers to the open door of the subway train. She stood tall in her four-inch heels open toed shoes. The length of her legs was longer than most would have expected. White and bruised around the knees she wore no stockings or tights. Talking to a short Hispanic man whose fascination with her could only be rivaled by a Steelers fan for his team. She sat, as a young lady from a Swiss finishing school would have been taught. Only when she was seated did it occur to her that her short black skirt was no longer covering the purple panties. Hopping up and down on her seat she pulled the skirt down and crossed her long white legs. The Hispanic man consumed her with his eyes. Her constant loud chattering didn’t alter his attention. Had he looked carefully at the size of her hands and feet, her bouncing Adams apple he would have realized. This she was in fact a he; from the cheap clothing and bruised knees she/he was