…it will come as no surprise to some of yeez to learn that as a wee boy at school in Docklands, Govan in Glasgow, Master Gallacher was a bit of a ‘smart-ass’…a trait that has doubtless recognisably carried forward into my more advanced years… always first to raise my hand to try to answer the teacher’s questions… always striving to be first finished with the classroom-bound written exams so I could, “…go ootside and play, noo, please Miss?”… comes now ‘The Writer Age’… the Scribbler-at-Large... pensmith of novels… blithely transferring the contents of what’s left of my wee grey cells onto the laptop, hopefully for international reader consumption, and possible approbation… thus far, yer Lordships and Ladyships of the e-Reading Universe have wrought unbounded kindness and generosity on my WURKS, by downloading my baby masterpieces on a regular basis… Kindlers Listers, all, yeez…
If you’ve ever taken a writing course of any kind, you’ve probably heard that phrase.
If you haven’t, the meaning is pretty simple: don’t come out and tell your readers everything they need to know. Instead, show them examples and specific situations that support what you’re trying to say. Doing so often solidifies your points a little better than straight telling.
…far be it from this ol’ Scots Jurassic scribbler to blow his own bagpipe, but in seems a groundswell has taken place whereby enuff other writing folks deem my supposed prowess in the craft sufficient for them to entrust their own wee literary baby masterpieces to my eye for, either/or/or both, proofreading and copy editing… I posted the undernoted to my Facebook page a few days ago, and am gratified to have received enquiries from other quillspersons already… (if yeez don’t let them know where yeez are, how else are they gonna find yeez, Mabel?)… as they say in all the classic notices like this… ‘quotes available by return’…
To my Author/Wannabe Author Friends:
Over the past couple of years, I’ve been honoured by approaches from fellow writers and bloggers (established and beginners) to bring my professional writing skills to bear on THEIR work. It has developed into…
…as a writer, I’m often asked, ‘why give yer stuff away for free?’… this ol’ Jurassic Scots scribbler can be as charitable as the next man… but, with a nod to my Caledonian heritage, and to quote a famous writer of the past, “…his generosity knows bounds!…”…delving into the wunnerful WURLD of self-publishing ten years ago, heralded an entire raft of nuances and ‘tricks of the trade’on Auntie Amazon’s Kindle… all in the quest of finding the sweet spot for broadening my readership, and seeing the sales and downloads graphs head skyward… experimentation was the order of the day, mixing and matching the various methods of tempting subscribers… Free Promo spells… auction bids… then Goodreads Giveaways, throwing as many as five or ten copies of books at a time at lucky draw winners… Facebook readers’ groups, much more satisfying, because at least the author gets to…
I heard from three writer friends so far that they’re currently writing their autobiography – or memoirs… I wouldn’t be a writer if I didn’t consider writing my own after getting the idea. But I had to see that this won’t work.
We all know the saying when a writer has the idea for a story in his/her head, it needs to get out and be written. It is a true saying. And that’s why after I got the idea of writing my memoirs two minutes later the idea had been disappeared out of my head again. I figured this meant that this story doesn’t want to be written.
There are many reasons for not writing my autobiography: I always considered great minds, great personalities, famous and respected people do have an autobiography or biography… but me? Who would want to read about my life? It has been normal! In fact, it was extremely normal I think it would be boring to read about it. Yes, there were struggles, so many that it wasn’t an easy life – but these struggles are only important to me! Compared to other people’s problems and challenges mine were so minor.
I understand there are people traumatized as children or young adults and writing down their story might help. I heard about an actress who wrote her memoirs when she was 18 years old. Come on! 18? At that age, you discover that you are legally an adult. Was your life so freaking bad as a teenager? If yes, fine; if no, would I have to read about 15 years of overly dramatic boredom? With me, it’s different!
And I won’t write about a life that is so full of happiness, greatness, adventures and fantastic pictures, which would paint a completely wrong person. Like people who live their life on Instagram. Their lives are full of fantasy, greatness, fun, happiness and impressive pics. How many times do I see some friends of friends posting pics of their vacation in Australia! All people with Koalas on their backs! They all are happily beaming into the camera (except the Koala, whose 400th pic it is that day). One could almost think Australia was only built for Koala vacation. And yes, I’m just kidding.
But I refuse to write about a colorful life that I never had. I don’t need to impress anyone; I don’t need to publish my mistakes and wrong decisions in my life. I only need to make sure one person is going to be good with my life – and that’s my former child-self.
I want that little AJ looking into the future and saying: “Okay, this is the AJ I want to become later. She might not always do what society tells her to. She might not always have decided for the best, and sometimes she’s clumsy and a bit helpless; she trusts people too easily and when she was younger. occasionally she was blind when it came to guys. But hey – she is herself. She’s always been herself. She still has jokes in her head and has incomparable humor. And even though when she’s on the ground, flat on her belly, she gets back up and fights. With pride in her heart and her chin high.”
And then there’s another reason: Writing my autobiography or memoirs, wouldn’t that mean, I never want to be forgotten? I want people to remember me. I figure, to the ones who have me in their heart, they’re going to keep me there. And I doubt I would ever find the impertinence to expect the entire world to keep me for eternity.
What IS eternity? – Yes, I know. The definition of eternity can be read in every dictionary, right? But that’s not what I mean.
From what I hear a priest has described eternity like this: “You see a dove picking up a sand grain at the beach, taking it into its beak, flying up to the moon, letting the sand grain fall. Then the dove flies back to the beach for centuries, picks up the next sand grain, flies up to the moon for centuries, lets the sand grain fall. And again it flies back to the beach, picks up the next sand grain, flies up to the moon, and so on; until it has transported the last sand grain of that beach up to the moon. By then – eternity has just started!”
Would I ever want to be remembered by people – in all eternity? (Or until the Earth explodes, but that’s another story). No, I don’t. I’m going to be at a place, where heaven is surrounding me. I wasn’t great; I wasn’t the best thing humankind has ever seen. Shoot the damned bird. LOL
I think you know what I mean.
Yes, my loved ones, my friends, and my family. Keep me in your hearts. But don’t expect me to write down all my life for people to read it. I keep secrets. At one point, let me go.
Do you write your autobiography or memoirs right now? What is your reason to write it down?
…it takes a l-oooooooooo-ng time for this ol’ Scots Jurassic to adapt to new things… I didn’t start wearing long trousers until I was about 15 years old… when I acquire a new cellphone (I believe they’re called ‘mobile phones’now), it takes an absolute age for me to understand what WURKS differently from the old one… and as for calculators, to this day, I still eschew them in favour of using my mental arithmetic skills, honed at the desks of great Scottish primary school teachers… and I recall when I moved to Hong Kong as a fully-fledged Master of the Financial Universe in 1980, it was all of six months before I dared attempt to eat the local Chinese food (which, of course, is excellent fare, by the way)… little wonder then, that as an Author of some ten years standing now, it has taken until now to embrace…
…it had to happen sum’time, I s’pose… I had a wee inkling recently that certain parts of my body were getting involved in stuff that I had no clue about… those of yeez who’ve followed my ‘Guess what bits of him are falling off, this week?‘ saga of late, will know that so far, since February dawned six weeks ago, upper parts of my inner thigh were attacked by an Angry Alien Abscess, which created the new Black Hole ofGovan, perched on my inside leg… my meagre immune system railed manfully against that onslaught, but succumbed to an attack of the Shingles Squad, converting the left side of my face to a doppelgänger of the Phantom of the Opera, mask an’ all… that fusillade from pain-hell managed to infiltrate my left eye, blurring the vision so much I couldn’t properly see SKYNews on the television (a blessing…