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Hughie's Ziff - by Bullamakanka

 
A collection based on Stirring the Possum, Taking the Micky, Going Troppo, Trying it on, Put the Mock on and being an all round bad bugger

We are moved

October 30th 2006 10:37
Yes, Bullamakanka has moved to www.bagmansgazette courtesy of Orble.

This blog will, due to time constraints, be wound up shortly.

I'm just to busy to write two blogs at the moment.

I would like to thank all and hope that you will join me at Bagman's Gazette.



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Insulting the Publisher

October 23rd 2006 11:01
It was a dark and stormy night. . .

This is a clear cut case of publishing suicide for a writer. You would be surprised how many would be authors use this or similar opening lines to their novel.

If you need a storm at the beginning of your story you will need to find a way to put it across that is not cliché.

Two examples:

Sometimes, out of the dark of a moon-less and stormy night comes a tale of woe and misery so horrible you just have to sit down and laugh. This is such a story. From; The Man With No Ears

The storm had raged across seven thousand leagues of the Great Waste. It bullied the dunes as they ran before the wind. What little vegetation there had been, was now gone. No life remained in the wake of the storm. Only the dunes that rolled with the storm were left. From; The Helengon Chronicles, Invasion


If you can’t get past that “Dark and Stormy Night” your great opus is doomed to the slush pile.

Clichés are the bane of writers, we have all fallen prey to these words of self destruction. Even the character whose defining trait is the use of clichés is becoming cliché.

Best to just avoid them where ever possible.

So don’t be a sitting duck, put your nose to the grindstone, keep a stiff upper lip and knock them dead.
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The Rejection

October 22nd 2006 01:54
Yes, it happens to me as well, the DREDED REJECTION LETTER.

Okay, look at it like this, you’re a publisher sitting in your office. On one side of your desk is a pile of manuscripts. Perhaps as many as two hundred of them, and that’s only today’s post. Well, the truth is that it doesn’t work that way. The truth is, that most publishers do not accept unsolicited stories.

You see, there is a Catch 22. Publishers will look at your work if it is submitted by an agent, Gotcha, agents generally require that you have a contract with a publisher before they will take you on as a client.

Oh yeah, if you are a celebrity and have written a load of banal drivel you can be published tomorrow.

Don’t look at me like that, it’s not my fault.

Don’t like it? Quit now. Honestly.

Of course you could be one of those people who are pig headed stubborn, your work is the worlds best (insert genre here) novel ever written. It was spell checked and everything.

‘Did you send it to an independent editor?’

‘No. I told you it is perfect, I even used the spell check twice.’

Get the point.

Here is a secret. Don’t tell anybody. Okay. I mean it.

If you write Scifi, fantasy or romance then there is probably a book shop that specialises in your genre, in your closest capital city. So what? I hear you say.

Well, did you know that there are conventions for genres where you can actually meet and talk with publishers and/or agents.

You can find out about such conventions at specialist genre book shops.

Give up, never!
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Agony on Ecstasy

October 20th 2006 09:46
Well it’s tonight. For sure. I’m on a promise. It’s all I can think about. I have it all planned, right down to the last detail. The parents are in Noosa. The wine is in the fridge. The table is set and the lasagne is in the oven as per my mothers recipe. I can feel Suzi in my arms all ready. The curve of her back as it flares into her hips and re-curves around her bottom. I can see her shape as she lies on the rug in front of the open fire. Mmm I’ll run my hand up her thigh, around her waist and over her slight tummy to cup her firm breast as I kiss her neck. Running my lips across her shoulder as I gently roll her onto her back. Brushing my tongue across a nipple as I slide my leg between hers we move as one into that union that brings... Oh Shit! I forgot to get the condoms. What time is it? Thank god it’s only seven. Suzi won’t be here for an hour. Plenty of time to get to the chemist shop. Sliding to a stop in front of the chemists I dash for the door. As I enter the first thing I notice is there is a girl behind the counter. Shit, shit, shit, what more could go wrong? Be cool. Act like you know what you’re doing, it’s no big deal. As I front up to the counter the girl asks, ‘Can I help you?’
‘Yes, thank you. I would like a box of condoms.’
‘Three, six or twelve?’
‘What!’
‘Three, six or twelve?’
‘Oh. Ummm, Well I know I’m not a three and don’t think I’m a twelve. I’ll have the sixes thanks. I shove the package into my coat pocket and head for the door. As I open it I hear a noise and turn to look at the girl. Her shoulders are heaving and there are tears running down her face. I ask her if she is ok. She just nods her head and I leave. What a strange chic. I open my front door and know instantly that the lasagne is in trouble. As I pull the smoking casserole dish from the oven the door bell rings. Suzi, she’s early. I open the door with a big smile and the red rose I bought just for the occasion. What a shock, it’s Mrs O’Leary from next door. She looks at the rose then says, ‘Your parents asked me to look in on you.’ Craning her neck to look over my shoulder. ‘Something burning,? She askes.
‘What, oh no, not really. Just forgot my dinner. No problem.’
‘Well. If you’re sure. As I said your parents did ask.’
‘Yes, yes I’m sure. Thank you. Must go. Dinner you know. Bye.’
Shutting the door as fast as I can without actually slamming it I look at the clock. Great, I’ve ten minutes to spare. The door bell rings. Shit that old lady O’Leary just won’t give up. I jerk the door open abruptly only to see my angel, Suzi, standing there.
‘Hi’, I say holding out my rose, ‘Come in.’
‘Who’s that old lady looking over the fence.’
‘Her? That’s Mrs O’Leary.’ I say, thinking there was going to be hell to pay when my parents get back. As I lead Suzi into the lounge I ask her if she would like a glass of wine. She says, yes that would be nice. In the kitchen as I’m searching for the cork screw I notice the lasagne on the counter, stone cold. I scoop the centre out and put it in a smaller bowl then shove that into the microwave. It takes another frantic ten minutes to find the cork screw. I grab the bottle of wine, pull the foil off only to find a screw cap. Taking two glasses of wine into the lounge I hand one to Suzi and sit down next to her on the sofa. Sipping my wine I realise that I don’t know what to say, how to go from a glass of wine to passionate sex, what to do next. Taking the safe option I get up to light the fire. My mind is racing. All the love scenes I have ever seen in the movies, everything I have ever read, I don’t know what to do. At least the fire is going. ‘So, um, would you like something to eat?,’ manages to get past my lips. ‘I guess so,’ Suzi replies. I go to the kitchen and turn on the microwave and then light the candles on the dining room table. I call Suzi and get her seated at the table just as the microwave pings. Be right back I say as I rush back to the kitchen. I grab the bowl of salad from the fridge along with the oil and vinegar set and take them out to the dining room then go back and grab the lasagne from the micro wave and dish it out onto two plates. With a plate in each hand I’m heading back to the dinning room when I notice the bottle of wine on the kitchen table. I put a plate down, tuck the bottle under my arm, pick up the plate and put the plate down, open the door, pick up the plate and serve dinner. As I sit down I realise that we have no wine glasses. I smile at Suzi as I get up and retrieve our glasses from the lounge. After dinner we retire to the lounge. With the bottle of wine and our glasses. Suzi sits on the sofa and I put three CDs in the player then join Suzi on the sofa. She slides over and rests her head on my shoulder. Heaven is just a heartbeat away. I’m sure of it. I put my arm round her shoulders and pull her that little bit closer. Now what? What should I do? Why don’t these situations come with instructions? Oh God, why do I have to pee now?
‘Excuse me. I’ll be right back.’ I say.
‘Me too,’ Suzi giggles
‘Ok, it’s at the end of the hall.’ While Suzi is gone I turn off the main light and turn on the table lamp in the corner of the room. Suzi returns and I take my turn. When I return Suzi has turned off the table lamp and is sitting on the floor in the half circle of fire light. She looks like a goddess. I sit on the floor with my back against the sofa and my feet stretched out to the fire. Suzi moves over to where I am and lies down with her head in my lap facing the fire. I grab a cushion and put it under her head before she notices my growing condition. We stay like this for some time, talking but saying nothing. I stroke her hair. Run my finger around the contour of her ear and down the line of her jaw and back again. I have never felt anything as fine as Suzi’s skin. Becoming bolder I slide my hand down her arm and across her tummy. She captures my hand and guides it to her breast holding it there. I give it a bit of a squeeze and she rolls over so she is facing me. I slide my hand up under the back of her shirt. Along her spine to her bra. Panic. There is no catch. Just smooth fabric from one side to the other. It’s not fair. I practised with one of my mother’s bras on a pillow until I had mastered the catch with one hand. Where’s the catch? Suzi turns onto her back and guides my hand to the buttons on her shirt. I bend down to her upturned face and find that the human spine won’t bend that far. Suzi arches up and kisses me. I’m in trouble. No piece of clothing should be allowed to have so many small buttons. Suzi sits up and kisses me again. I undo a button and get a kiss. Another button, another kiss. I’m beginning to think that there are not enough buttons in the world for the joy of undoing them. Twelve buttons, twelve moments of bliss. Then a black lace bra across pale skin as I slip her shirt off her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. There is no art in the world that can capture the perfection of a well formed breast behind black lace. I almost feel like a vandal as I fumble with the catch nestled between the twin mounds of Suzi’s breasts. The catch gives way and the bra follows the shirt. I can hardly breath for fear of spoiling the picture in front of me. I look down and find that my shirt has somehow become unbuttoned and Suzi is running her hand across my chest and circling her finger around my nipples. She slips my shirt off, stands up and pulls me to my feet. I reach out to her and she comes into my arms. The feel of her bare skin against mine is beyond description. I am only vaguely aware of my pants falling to my ankles. Our tongues playfully fence and I find the button and zipper that holds Suzi’s pants up and then find her silky smooth bottom as we sink to the floor. We explore the terrain of worlds not visited before, hands moving across the uncharted expanse of bare flesh, time takes a holiday and we are immersed in the single minded beast of passion. Suzi whispers in my ear, ‘Do you have the condom?’ My heart stops and my mind races as it tries to change gear. The condom? The question draws only a blank. No there it is, the required answer. Paper bag. . . coat pocket. . . bedroom floor. As I disentangle myself from heaven I’m saying ‘Yes, it’s in my pocket, don’t move, I’ll be right back.’ Running down the hall to my room I notice how cold the house is. Grabbing my coat off the floor and pulling the paper bag out I rip it open and stare at the box “Six Premium Quality Condoms, Ribbed for you greater pleasure.” Tearing into the box in my haste as I run back to the lounge I pull off one of the small packets. I drop the box and its contents on the sofa and lay down next to Suzi on the floor. As I snuggle up to Suzi’s back I realise she is chilled so I get up to put some more wood on the fire. Then I run back to my bedroom and drag the doona off my bed and take it back to the lounge wrapping it around us as I lay down behind Suzi again. I gather her into my arms and run my hand along her thigh and side. We lay there waiting to warm up a bit, watching the fire grow, and letting our passion return with the warmth. Suzi turns around to face me, kisses me then runs her tongue across my lips, her hand sliding down to reaffirm our agenda. She asks for the condom. Taking it from my unresisting hand she places it where it belongs, slowly rolling it on. She then rolls onto her back dragging me with her. Entering her slowly hoping my inexperience doesn’t show, we move together in our need, building to the supreme climax. As I pass my point of no return a disturbing scene slowly unwinds itself in words of fire across my ecstasy. Three, six or twelve? ‘Oh. Ummm, Well I know I’m not a three and don’t think I’m a twelve. I’ll have the sixes thanks. The voices sear their way through my being and my minds eye is focused on a box that says “Six Premium Quality Condoms, Ribbed for your greater pleasure.”
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Rights of Passage

October 19th 2006 13:14
Adult Theme

Rights of passage, you stopped wetting the bed, your first two wheeled bike, your first passionate kiss, first sex, getting your drivers licence.

Yes, there are many rights of passage we look forward to. The question is, do these rights of passage have any real meaning today? Do we grow and mature from the experience? Or is it just another thing to brag about? There are still societies in the world where the Right of Passage is more than just another short lived thrill gathered along the way to becoming an adult.

Standing with nothing but a spear in the face of a charging lion is certainly a thrill. But it is also a real test, a test of courage and strength of character, beyond reading a book and ticking boxes on a sheet of paper to get a learners permit.

First sex is a big one. But admit it guys, your first sex was a frantic wank in the toilet. Hardly a character building experience was it. Then when you do manage to find the courage, or you and her are drunk enough, it happens.

Was there love, was there caring, or was the first thing you did was to call your mates to brag about it. Was there anything to brag about? After all how long did it take to get your rocks off? Now be honest, this is your first sex. How long? Sixty seconds? Ninety seconds? Hardly the worlds greatest lover, eh.

Do you really think your partner was thrilled with the performance? Do you really think she wrote six pages of poetry in her diary describing the raptures of ecstasy she experienced. I don’t think so.

Did the experience help you mature into a better person? Did you gain a meaningful insight into life and relationships?

Now I’m all for sex and I don’t want to stop you from having it. The point I’m trying to make is, that when it comes to sex, your perspective is important. Are you making love or just having sex? When you’re making love the most important person in the equation is the person you’re with. Their pleasure is everything. If you can’t live with the word “No” then you are in the wrong relationship. If you can’t face the lion you are not ready to be an adult. If it’s just sex then leave the money on the table when you leave.
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Editing, some more

October 19th 2006 05:28
Why am I harping on this theme?

Well, while there is a market for just about anything you can write, no matter how sick, depraved, misspelled, poorly punctuated or badly edited, by far the largest market (meaning readers) requires good editing practices


[ Click here to read more ]
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More Bloody Words

October 17th 2006 10:34


I’m sorry, I just can’t help myself. Words are what we write for others to read


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Editing, what is this shit? Words

October 14th 2006 13:12
Words are a writers stock in trade.

The question is, do you have the right stock


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Editing, what is this shit?

October 13th 2006 22:10
Editing, what is it? Well, for many people it is checking the spelling and punctuation in their writing.

Does this make the writing any better? Or is it the vain hope of a pedantic comma chaser that correct English will, somehow, make up for a dead boring story


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Three Finger Jack

October 12th 2006 11:06
They call him Jack. Little do they know. He walks the road from Bealiba to. . . well nobody knows. But I know. I know his whole life, or at least as much as one can after a hundred and thirty years. Little enough of it there is to tell.

He walks the road. Him and his dog. Most often, during the half moon, at that time of day where dusk becomes full dark in the blink of an eye. He can be seen leaving an empty block at the south end of town. He walks north east up the main street and out of town. Just him and his dog. People have said that if you listen carefully you can hear him talking to himself or to the dog. Well, that’s what they say. His clothes are of an older time, his shirt and pants of a coarse material and boots of the hob-nail variety that give a faint metallic sound on the pavement


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19 Posts dating from September 2006
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