charles barrow's writing

Peace on earth and goodwill to all. Photo is the author's own

I've never read Peter Pan and I don't think I've ever seen the (Disney) film either; though I did once sit through the awful Hook, starring Robin Williams. Strolling through Kensingston Gardens earlier this week, however, I came upon this bronze statue of Peter Pan. I guess I knew it was there somewhere but wasn't really expecting to see it where I found it. It was a gift to the gardens from author J.M. Barrie, and the boy who never grew up has been in residence here since 1912. It's a lovely statue, with Peter atop a tree stump with woodland creatures and fairies around his feet. He doesn't look anything like the Disney version, thank heavens, he maybe most resembles Christopher Robin from the Pooh stories, or perhaps they both look like regular Edwardian boys, straight out of the nursery, with mops of hair and smock tops. Boys who believe in the magic and mystery of childhood. When I got home I picked up a copy of Peter Pan and began to read. I though

Further to my Joyland post below; the ultimate big wheel - or The London Eye to give it its official name - to be found on the South Bank of the Thames in London (I've posted a photo of it previously). This boy is huge. I took a ride in one of those glass pods years ago and the view of the City from the top of the wheel is incredible. It revolves very slowly and doesn't stop, so you enter and leave your pod while the wheel is still turning. It's the ultimate funfair ride, albeit at a walking pace, I don't do thrills and spills. I don't recall the Eye being used as a location in either films or books, though I'm sure it must have been. One of those glass pods would make a great place for a lovers' tryst (think Sleepless in Seattle atop the Empire State Building), or an exchange of information in a tale of espionage (imagine James Bond trapped in one of those pods with a ninja assassin). Hitchcock would have put it to good use without a doubt.

I'm currently reading Joyland by Stephen King and enjoying it very much. I read many of his early novels when I was younger, the horror novels (The Shining, Carrie, Salem's Lot) and they scared the pants off me and I had to give up on him. But I've came back to him lately when I picked up 11.22.63 and raced through it. It involves a time-travel conundrum and the assassination of President John Kennedy (the title refers to the date he was killed). Anyway, that wasn't a horror story, it was a tense thriller and I admired it a lot. I'd forgotten what a good writer King is and it was nice to be reminded. Similarly, Joyland isn't a horror story, though it has some creepy moments, and I'm enjoying it and the writing.  I suppose the world of the carny and the funfair, as we in the UK would call it, has been in my subconscious then, and as I've travelled around this winter I've spotted a couple of merry-go-rounds at Christmas Fairs and taken snaps of th

I wrote a post recently (see 'ponder and mull' below) extolling the virtues of staring into space, daydreaming. I'm satisfied to (re)discover that someone I have a lot of time for, Julia Cameron, says we shouldn't feel bad about doing this and we should consider it a way of refilling the well of creativity. That is a great way to think of it, and I like this concept a lot. I would always listen to Julia's advice since I read her book The Artist's Way years ago. She really helped to focus my mind at a time when I wasn't so able to do so myself. I still write my 'morning pages' to help clear debris out of my mind and keep on the right track, I don't write them every day but maybe a couple of times a week. I'd really recommend checking out her books if you are stuck, have writer's block and can't move forward.

I've hit a real hitch. My latest story is written and is being edited now (self edited - yes I own a fine toothed comb). I've been feeling good about the whole enterprise when, boom, out of nowhere I see a book cover that torpedoes my heart. It's the book's title that actually poses a problem for me. It name checks its main character in the title, an uncommon name which, unbelieveably, I've also given to a main character in my story. W.T.F? I'd not seen this book before, so it is a complete coincidence. I might have thought 'Ah well, whatever.' and still gone with the name if the book in question had been a little backwater publication, but it isn't. It's had great reviews, I notice, and some prominent publicity - which makes it all the more weird that I'd not seen it in bookshops or online thus far. Anyway, the upshot is that I have to find a new perfect name. A difficult, fraught, exasperating process which you'll know all about if you&

Who was it said that genius is 99% perspiration? Einstein? I should probably Google that. I don't think it was him, although he'd know better than anyone. I've recently read that Woody Allen reckons that 80% of success is just turning up. He turns up a lot in my local multiplex so I'm happy that he knows what he's talking about too. These are both high percentages but then sometimes the stakes in success are high. I've been turning up a lot at my writing desk recently. My day job work pattern has changed and I have much more time to devote to writing, and I'm putting in the hours. I'm showing up, I'm perspiring (but I'm still no genius).

Gah, I missed my Halloween deadline. Is it too late to post photos of pumpkins? Of course not. These aren't carved into ghoulish and gruesome faces but presented straight off the vine as beautiful as nature intended. Nothing says Halloween like a pumpkin unless you count Freddy Krueger, Michael Myers, and flesh eating zombies. I don't actually clebrate Halloween. Perhaps 'observe' is a better word than celebrate. It seems to have bumped Guy Fawkes Night right off the calender and I'd much rather watch fireworks lighting the sky than the neighbourhood youth causing havoc door to door. Also I'm not good with horror. Blowing up Parliament? Fine. Who hasn't thought of doing that? But evisceration, murder, black magic, hauntings? No thanks. The last horror film I sat through was probably Friday 13th, the original one, it scarred me for life and I've avoided any scary film since. I read ghost stories occassionally, Victorian ones, I can handle 19th century h

Another slightly odd statue. This one is recognisably David but in a campier incarnation, posing like a catalogue model with his jacket slung over his shoulder. Still, he looks great and his modesty is preserved by the foliage. Photo is the author's own.

Staring into space is something I do an awful lot of. My friend Jane, a very talented artist, says it's important for creative minds to spend time quietly thinking things over, it's an important part of the process. You aren't just staring idly into the middle distance you are turning and sifting ideas, wrestling with concepts, flexing and refining your craft. Thanks to this wise, and rather appealing, advice I never feel guilty when I'm watching clouds scud in from France, or leaves chasing each other along the pavement, or steam rising slowly from a coffee as dark as my four a.m. fears; I'm working hard damn it.

Number 1 in what would be a great series of Signposts I Never Expected to See on the South Coast of England. Photo is the author's own

Again my attention is caught by a succession of amazing athletes and my focus on my writing diminishes as I get caught up in the drama and inspiration of the Paralympics. Some extraordinary people doing extraordinary things, often against extraordinary odds.

I got heavily rained on today and felt quite chilled. I bought the ingredients for a spicy Squash soup for dinner. I saw Christmas cards for sale in two different shops this afternoon. The leaves on the Horse Chestnut tree at the end of the road are starting to curl at the edges. I picked up a second-hand copy of Breaking Bad Season One box-set for watching as the evenings draw in.

So the Rio Olympic Games end in a thunder of fireworks and celebrations. Team GB finish second in the medal table and come home with a record haul of medals. I have loved watching the Games. I have watched sports that I'd never have thought would grip me and I have been gripped. Amazing stuff. Now I have to return to real life and pick up my work-a-day routines. I realise, glumly, that if there was an Olympics for writers I wouldn't qualify, wouldn't even get picked for the team. My recent word output has been dismal. I'd better get back into training.

I had to be very patient and sit very still in order to get this Jackdaw to come close. I like a Jackdaw. They are strutting little characters. I  like their silvery cap and black face. Plus they have pale grey eyes which sometimes look blue in certain lights. In my current John Mann story (the one still in progress) I do have a character called Jack but not Jackdaw as I thought that was too on the nose. Photo is the author's own

August has come around more quickly than I'd planned for, but summer has finally arrived with it. Although, then, with that comes outdoorsy distractions, beach, country walks, and to top them all the Olympics kicks off and I can hardly tear myself away from the tv coverage. Still, I contine to stick to my eight minute work day morning routine of writing and editing. As stated previously this may not seem worth the while but it's surprising how much work I can get done. It keeps the progress ticking over and more importantly it keeps the story fresh in my mind, and at the forefront, so that when I do get a decent block of time, on a day off, I can really focus in on what needs to be done.

I am intrigued by this picture. It's part of a hoard of found photos (or rather, a stack of negatives found in a junk shop) and it was taken sometime in the 1920s or 1930s. For me it evokes Brideshead, the inter-war years, the River Thames, Oxbridge, but in all events a bygone era. And who is the young man with the serious face? He's gazing, not at the photographer but deep into his own thoughts. What is his story? His name? Who is he rowing and where? Did he have a happy life? Make it through the war that is coming? Or does he fall into that lucky generation that was too young for the first and too old for the second, like my grandfather. Though I don't think he saw it that way. Copyright, on the back of the postcard, is credited to Pavey and Gilbert and there is a web address www.paveyandgilbert.co.uk but Google can't find it. As far as I can discover Pavey and Gilbert were a London couple who probably took this picture, and more, their names were on the packets h

Further to my Big Cat post: I should have posted this picture last week, it slipped my mind, I don't know why. I'm pleased with it. Her name is Tequila. Photo is the author's own

Work on my next book, John Mann - At Day's End, came to a juddering halt a few months ago because my day job became so stressful that I was no longer able to be creative, or concentrate on it. It seemed ironic to me that the very time I needed an escape mechanism, a release valve, I was unable to run away to the fictional world I have created. It was a frustrating time. General feelings of lethargy and distraction were joined by a burden of guilt at time passing and no writing or editing being done. Things were getting bad and there was a feeling of desperation that led me to decide to give up on my writing; just stop, without the third installment of John Mann's story being finished and published. Things really got that bad. Then, last week, I heard in passing about someone who works on their writing for just eight minutes a day, and recommends it as a habit. Just eight minutes? For a fraction of a second I scoffed at the idea. Eight minutes of effort could hardly be worthwh

I took a trip to the zoo. A friend told me it seemed a very retro thing to do, and so it was I suppose. I remember a visit to London Zoo when I was a youngster although, oddly, it's the crowds of people I recall rather than the animals. On this recent visit I was taken with the big cats, as opposed to being taken by the big cats, which is a rather different thing altogether and one which stirred another retro memory. I recently re-read some Ray Bradbury short stories, amongst them a tale called The Veldt. I won't spoil the ending if you haven't read it, but it involves some creepy kids, some far future technology and a pride of lions on the open grasslands of Africa. This story made quite an impression on my young mind that has stayed with me down the years, so it was interesting to return to it recently and discover that, while it had lost some of its power to unsettle it was still enjoyable none-the-less. And thoughts of it returned to me as I strolled around the big

...on shifting sand Photo is the author's own

Is it possible to get Editor's block, as opposed to Writer's block? An anxiety about taking words off of the page as opposed to putting them on? If so then I am suffering from it at the moment. I know what needs to be done (I'm sure I do), I know what needs smoothing out (or think I do), what needs close attention (or maybe not), and slimming down (or leaving well alone).

Went to an Orlando vigil last night. Forty-nine names were read out. Forty-nine. I was enraged and heart broken and attending a vigil scarcely seemed like an adequate response but I wanted to do something, I wanted to stand in solidarity. And maybe thoughts and prayers can cross oceans to reach those who lost a loved one.

I've been reading a lot of American novels recently, or America-set novels is probably more accurate. So I've been tuned in to an American sensibility, and partly daydreaming in one (although not even in my worst dreams do I get any understanding of the Trump fiasco).  What all this inspiration has done is, simultaneously, make me long to visit the States again at some future date, and cast my mind back to a New York trip I made in 1989/90. I visited over New Year and so spent the very last few days of the Eighties and the very first few of the Ninties there. I ticked all the tourist boxes; Empire State, World Trade Centre, Statue of Liberty, Central Park, Broadway, the Guggenheim, Christopher Street, Tribeca, I stayed in Brooklyn, I rode the subway, smoked Marlboro, tipped the coat check, watched cockroaches in the appartment, ate Chinese take away (or was it take out?) from white folding top cartons, and I watched the Big Apple come down at the stroke of New Year in a very

I didn't enjoy my recent moaning posts and today I'm happy to post on an upbeat note. I traded in my Apple products for Samsung, phone and tablet, and all is right in my blogging world again. And to prove the point I am uploading a photo, because I can, because it's now easy to do.  I like this photo a lot, and I'm proud of it. This is a Black-headed Gull and it looks as though I must have been 300 feet in the air, flying alongside it, but I was standing at the end of Yarmouth Pier. I have more seagull photos which I'll post. Bird pictures sit well within the world of John Mann. Photo is the author's own.

This post could be read in conjunction with angry post below. I've just spent the past four hours trying to upload a photo from my new iPad onto this blog. I couldn't manage it. I tried every trick that I know and then spent a very long time looking for forum posts on the topic, time I could have spent writing several blog posts. Finally I find a forum discussing the fact that you cannot upload photos from an iPad to Blogger. I don't believe it. Someone else suggested that in fact it is possible but you have to use the Blogger app. I go to the iTunes Store. No Blogger app. It is no longer available at the iTunes Store. I can hardly believe this either. My angry post detailed my frustration that I'd bought an iPad and it no longer allowed me to do certain things that my old (cheap) Asus tablet had allowed me to do without any problem. To that list can now be added, my iPad won't allow me to blog as I want to. This brings much anger, sadness and frustration. I

Do you ever notice a theme connecting the books you seemingly choose at random to read? I have a major theme running through recent reads and I've only just realised it. I keep reading writers who are writing about writers - and in one case a writer who is writing about a writer who is writing about a writer. It's like a nest of Russian dolls, one inside the other. Perhaps, subconsciously, I am choosing books with this theme, in fact the more I think about it the more likely it seems. In a previous post I wrote how much I enjoyed Wonder Boys by Michael Chabon, a book about an author with writer's block who teams up with a would be young novelist. Since then I have read The Shock of the Fall by Nathan Filer about a boy who deals with his mental health issues by writing and sketching in a journal. Then I read Oracle Night by Paul Auster about a writer who buys a blue notebook to begin writing again in order to help heal himself after a terrible accident. He writes a story a

Because I always hope to find a second curious fish sculpture. Photo is the author's own.

That's it! I've had enough! The reason this blog suddenly has a new look to it is because I bought a new iPad. A dream purchase. I'm thrilled with it, generally. Except it won't Bluetooth with my phone, or my wireless speaker, and I can't add extra storage, or anymore buy cheap music from the Google store. But apart from that, perfect. Oh, and another thing. It hates Blogger. The trouble I have typing here in anything other than the default font you wouldn't believe. All my previous posts were typed in Arial, my Android tablet was happy to choose it and use it but my iPad? No. It takes me umpteen attempts, most of which fail. It just ignores my choices or the screen freezes on me. If I had any hair I'd tear it out. So for the sake of my mental wellbeing, and in order to continue posting here, I'm giving in to it and going with the default font. Grrr.

This picture intrigues me. I assume Kitty was a real person, peddling her wares in a London backstreet. Frying-pan Alley exists, I checked in the London A-Z, it's near Petticoat Lane. I bet Kitty had some stories to tell, after theatre crowds, gentlemen suitors, royalty maybe? Or a life of grinding poverty and a gin soaked old age? I hope not, I hope she had a good life and made a good end. I'm thinking Eliza Doolittle from My Fair Lady here. Photo is the author‘s own

No apologies for wandering off topic (I have a topic?) but Spring is here in a wonderful blaze of warm sunshine, day after day of it, and I wanted to celebrate it. So, some glorious daffodils in bloom and a gorgeous magnolia in bud.  Photos are the author's own

I may not have had a great visit to Stonehenge, see below, but I did get this photo of a Rook. It's out of focus of course, you wouldn't expect anything else from me, but I'm pleased with this. This is the closest I've got to a bird yet. The rooks are everywhere at Stonehenge, in all the fields and skies around, but oddly none settled on the monument itself, that I saw. Perhaps there's an ancient bylaw prohibiting it. I wonder if there is a myth surrounding the rooks at the henge, like there is for the ravens at the Tower of London? Anyway, I was pleased to get a snap of a rook in particular because I've named a character Rook in Book 3  of John Mann's story. He's a ruffian. I bet a rook could take care of itself in a bust up. Photo is the author's own

I visited Stonehenge recently. Is it heresy to say I was left rather cold by it? There was a keen wind blowing across the plain but that wasn't entirely to blame for my experience. These stones are iconic (there's an overused term for you) and their history is compelling but standing at a distance from them I got nothing from them at all. I have a huge respect for our heritage and I understand that a million visitors a year cannot be allowed to clamber all over them but I found it very difficult to be moved by a group of stones just by staring at them. To be able to lay a hand on one might have added to my understanding. Photos are the author's own

"Dazzling, seemingly effortless writing." This quote is from a Sunday Telegraph review of Wonder Boys by Michael Chabon. I just finished reading it today and it's shot into my top ten best ever books chart, to keep company with Chabon's The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay which I read a few years ago. I'd had Wonder Boys on my bookshelf for a while. It never seemed the right moment to pick it up, but you know how sometimes a book chooses you? It comes along when you're ready for it, need it even. That's what I feel happened with Wonder Boys. I'm not one for writing book reviews. Trying to condense an entire plot into one paragraph seems rather discourteous somehow. But I will tell you that two of the main characters are a middle aged professor, and mid-career novelist, Grady Tripp and his young student and would-be author James Leer. Tripp has writer's block and no idea how to finish his 2,000 page, seven years in the writing novel Wonder

I'm deep into another edit of John Mann - At Day's End. It's hard work of course. I've just found a loose thread which I will inevitably have to pull on, just to see what unravels so that I can stitch it back together. One of my favourite aspects of the editing process, which is not normally a fun pastime, is finally being able to turn to my Edit Boards. As I write a story I get words and phrases, ideas and prompts, pop into my head. I don't always want to stop right then and back track to add them into what I've previously written so I record them onto post-it notes and stick them onto the Edit Boards until later. Well 'later' has now arrived and I'm transferring the saved words and phrases into the story. They won't all find a home there of course, some are just destined for the bin. This is an enjoyable process for me, I enjoy this part. This isn't a struggle. As I transfer the contents of a post-it into the story I'll remove it f

Writing is hard. I knew that when I set out to tell John Mann's story just over two years ago (after an innocent and inauspicious beginning, recounted elsewhere on this blog), but writing it in the format that I have has made the job much harder than it needed to be I'm sure. I rather liked the idea of writing the story in serial form, it seemed more manageble that way, seemed like something I could commit to and stick with, and it never did Charles Dickens any harm I reasoned. Well, I have been committed and I have stuck but, damn, it's been difficult. I actually think I missed the whole point of serialising. I think I should have published a handful of chapters at a time, maybe on this blog, rather than in short story - verging on novella - format on Smashwords. For one thing it's made the gap between stories appearing much longer but it has also committed me to certain story strands and I hadn't forseen that consequence at all. For example, I create a charact

I saw these mannequin's heads in a fleamarket window in London. I think there is something inherently unsettling about them. They aren't exactly lifelike but obviously they look just human 'enough' to send a chill down my spine. Many, many years ago I watched an Anthony Hopkins film called Magic. He plays a ventriloquist with a scary looking dummy and, if memory serves, the dummy begins to voice Hopkins' thoughts, pursuades him to commit murder. The dummy begins to take on a life of his own. This is the stuff of nightmares, if you ask me. You might also ask me at the same time why, then, I borrowed a Susan Hill novel called Dolly from the library yesterday. The dolly of the title is kept in a shoebox under the bed and can be heard crying at night. The book has a picture of an old, cracked porcelain doll's face on the cover. Horrible. Not the sort of image I want in my head when I close the book and turn the light out in bed at night. Whatever possessed me to cho

I've recently had an intriguing idea for a story. Great. But it's plaguing me, not so great. I'm trying to focus on finishing my current story (editing, editing, always editing) and this new one keeps jumping up and down in front of me like an annoying six year old child on a sugar high. I've made notes on 'new one' as thoughts, arcs, characters occur to me. I jot it all down as it comes to me but it's not enough to keep it quiet. 'New one' is greedy for my time and attention. I really shouldn't moan about inspiration and ideas tumbling out but they are rather distracting when they aren't about the story I'm currently working on. And  I'm loathe to turn my back on 'new one' too completely in case it's no longer there when I turn back to it at a later date. These things can vanish in a blink, as I'm sure you know, they are as ephemeral as a ghost.