30 Mar 09
Mentored (Part 3)
Thanks to the Koestler Trust, I am now being mentored by Sally Hinchcliffe, a published author with an MA in Creative Writing from the University of London, taught by Julia Bell and Russell Celyn Jones.
After reading chapters 4 to 6 of the draft of my book, Green Bologna and Pink Boxers, Sally offered this advice:
Choreography and timing. Make it clear to the reader how much time is passing and where you are. Try to remember the layout of the jail is confusing to the uninitiated. For example, you wrote, “I parked my rolled-up mattress by the sliding door.” This needs more description. Where are you? You need to place your characters and yourself in physical situations.
Consider stepping back at some point and describing how the jail works. Such as the layout, terminology, even the fact that it’s for prisoners on remand. Now that your disorientation stage is out of the way, give the reader some clues.
There is a much better sense of yourself in these chapters, but be careful of editorialising. Tell us what you feel, but don’t tell us what to think. For example, you wrote, “‘OK,’ I said, worriedly trying to digest all of this advice that might save me from violence” That might save me from violence isn’t necessary because you need to allow the reader to know what to think.
Most of Chapter 4 is excellent. Nice pace. Well described. But I have a few quibbles with the prose. The end sort of dribbles off with the prisoner showing you the ants coming out of his wall where he sleeps. I’m not sure what that adds. I would be inclined to jump straight to the lockdown time. Ending a sort of “settling-in” episode on a downbeat, contemplative note.
Chapter 5 in comparison feels quite patchy. It has a stop-start rhythm. I would like to see it told as a more continuous story. For example, setting up the situation (crystal-meth glut), and then having the characters succumb to paranoia one by one, ending with the violence of the guards. As it stands, it ends with a bit of a whimper. The goon squad have come in, but after that it sounds like a Girls Scouts outing as you get your laundry changed out. Make the goon squad more ominous.
In general, think of each chapter as a short story to get the narrative flowing better. Then the thread and the narrative arc become clearer.
Each chapter has a clear theme, which is good. In general these three chapters feel solid and well realised, and would fit in well to the book however you slant it. Good stuff.
Sally recommended I read The War Against Cliché by Martin Amis. It’s a book of literary criticism, containing pieces on some of my favourite authors such as Tom Wolfe and Don DeLillo. Here’s Amis decorticating Hannibal by Thomas Harris:
Following the riot of paceless implausibilities that serves as the book’s climax, Hannibal and Clarice ecstatically elide. What is the more incredible, at this point: that Clarice should actually go off with the murdering bastard or that Hannibal would cross the street for such a charmless little rube? (It’s hard to think what woman would be capable of diverting Hannibal for more than five seconds. Mata Hari? Baroness Orczy? Catherine the Great?
‘Look at this crowd,’ Harris writes, ‘scruffy, squinty, angry, egg-bound, truly of the resinous heart.’ Vintage Harris: what does ‘of the resinous heart’ mean, truly, and what does ‘egg-bound’ ever think it means?
And for those of you following the progression of the opening page of Green Bologna and Pink Boxers, here’s the latest version I’ve asked Sally to breathe her fire on.
“Tempe Police Department! We have a warrant! Open the door!”
The stock quotes flickering on the computer screen lost all importance as I rushed to the peephole – it was blacked out. Boots thudded up the outdoor stairs to our Scottsdale apartment, setting my nerves further on edge.
Bang, bang, bang, bang!
Wearing only boxer shorts, I dashed to the bedroom. “Claudia, wake up! It’s the cops!”
“Tempe Police Department! Open the door!”
Claudia scrambled from the California king, her blond hair tousled. “What should we do?” she asked, anxiously fixing her pink pyjamas.
Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!
“Open the door!”
We searched each other’s faces.
“Let’s open it,” I said, not wanting to make matters worse. With Claudia clinging to my arm, I was hastening to let them in when – boom! – the door leaped off its hinges.
Big men in black fatigues and ballistic armour blitzed through the doorframe, aiming their steel at us. Afraid of being shot by some trigger-happy rookie, I froze, terror-struck. I could only gape as they converted my living room into a scene from a war movie.
“Tempe Police Department! Get on the fucking ground now!”
“Police! Police! On your bellies now!”
“Hands above your heads!”
“Don’t fucking move!”
As I dropped to the floor, they fell upon me. There was a beating in my chest as if I had more than one heart. Crushed by hands, elbows, knees and boots, I could barely breathe. Cold steel snapped around my wrists. I was hoisted like a puppet onto my feet. As they yanked Claudia up by the cuffs, she pinched her eyes shut; when she opened them, tears spilled out.
Click here to read Mentored Part 2.
Click here to read Mentored Part 4.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below. To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Showing posts sorted by relevance for query mentored. Sort by date Show all posts
Showing posts sorted by relevance for query mentored. Sort by date Show all posts
Mentored (Part 2)
Thanks to the Koestler Trust, I am now being mentored by Sally Hinchcliffe, a published author with an MA in Creative Writing from the University of London, taught by Julia Bell and Russell Celyn Jones.
The second session started with Sally helping me restructure the draft of a short synopsis of my book. The short synopsis is just for my own use, and states the basic structure of my memoir.
She also wants me to consider writing a long synopsis, breaking down each chapter to give the full arc of the story. The long synopsis will be a marketing tool. It needs to state why somebody would want to read my memoir, and what my book says about a larger world – I think exposing what goes on in Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s jail system is a larger theme, and Sally pointed out so is being an Englishman in an American jail system.
“You'll probably end up with two different versions of your long synopses,” Sally said. “One which is very much for your own use – the writing tool – for planning out the structure and what episodes go where, the other is the marketing tool, which you might send out to agents and publishers. At the moment we've only been looking at the structural one, until you get the structure of the book right, then when you're ready to be sending it out, we can work on the more polished version.”
Sally has suggested I get rid of the numerous anecdotes that do not move the story ahead. She wants me to list all of the anecdotes I have written, with a view to culling only the ones that are important. There’s so much material to be removed.
Sally pointed out my tendency to continue writing – “dribbling on” – after a particular episode and the chapter should have ended.
For homework, Sally set me the task of critical reading. She wants me to look at some books, to find some good prose and some poor prose, and to explain what works and what doesn’t. I am also to study how authors transition back in time. We both agreed John Updike is a master of such transitions.
She hopes this exercise will help me critique myself more.
Here’s my homework:
Good Prose, Poor Prose, Transitions
I’ve extracted these quotes from four books: Forget You Had a Daughter by Sandra Gregory, The Wolf of Wall Street by Jordan Belfort, Lucky by Alice Sebold, and Shantaram by Gregory David Roberts. (Shantaram contains the highest standard of prose I've ever seen from an ex prisoner. I couldn't put it down, reading all 933 pages in two weeks. It's about a heroin-addict bank robber on the run in the slums of India.)
Good Prose
Shantaram: I was a revolutionary who lost his ideals in heroin, a philosopher who lost his integrity in crime, and a poet who lost his soul in a maximum-security prison.
So much about the author is packed into this one sentence. The juxtapositions are strong.
Lucky: Betty had a face full of deep Main Line wrinkles. She looked like an exotic breed of dog, sort of a cultivated shar-pei, and she spoke with an aristocratic accent…
This description is compact, vivid and original.
Shantaram: Every time we turn the key we twist the knife of fate, because every time we cage a man we close him in with hate.
Good use of aphorism and poetry. It’s this style of writing that makes Shantaram such a wonderful book. Roberts constantly probes the big questions in philosophy, giving Shantaram universal relevance.
Shantaram: His love song echoed and rang a bell in every heart that heard him.
Poetic use of metaphor and personification.
Poor Prose
The Wolf of Wall Street: …some very obnoxious yuppies, seventy of them in all.
Belfort has a great story to tell, but his prose is weak. The word “very” appears on the first page and is used too much throughout the book. Instead of using very this or very that, one better word would do. Sheer laziness.
The Wolf of Wall Street: Thankfully, I was able to follow him just fine tonight, because I was sober as a judge…
The Wolf of Wall Street: In the past, I had stuck drugs up my ass too – going through this country or that – and it wasn’t a barrel of laughs.
The Wolf of Wall Street: …there was no denying that he was smart as a whip, cunning as a fox, ruthless as a Hun, and, above all else, loyal as a dog.
Belfort’s prose lacks originality. The above three quotes demonstrate his love of clichés. The third quote should be nominated for a clichés-per-sentence award. Prose like this makes me yawn.
Transitions
Shantaram: Listening to the band, watching the children, and thinking of Tariq – missing the boy already – I remembered an incident from the prison. In that other world-within-a-world, back then, I moved into a new prison cell and discovered a tiny mouse there.
Forget You Had a Daughter: No one ever knows it at the time but there are always signs or incidents in your life that try to point out the rocky path. Most of the time we fail to heed them. When I was 17 I went to Amsterdam…
Lucky: That May, after my rape, I arrived back to a congregation that was traumatized, no more so than Father Breuninger himself.
Forget You Had a Daughter: I close my eyes. We are together, my brother and I, riding on bicycles next to our house and there is a cartoon sticker on the red frame of mine. It is warm and breezy, the summer of 1971 and I am happy for sure.
Those are four examples of smooth and original transitions.
And here’s what happened to the opening of the book after incorporating Sally’s input – click here to read Sally’s input in Mentored Part 1.
“Tempe Police Department! We have a warrant! Open the door!”
The stock quotes flickering on the computer screen lost all importance as I rushed to the peephole – it was blacked out. Boots thudded up the outdoor stairs to our Scottsdale apartment.
Bang, bang, bang, bang!
Wearing only boxer shorts, I dashed to the bedroom. “Claudia Wake up! It’s the cops!”
“Tempe Police Department! Open the door!”
Claudia scrambled from the California king, her long blond hair tousled. “What should we do?” she asked, anxiously fixing her pink pyjamas.
Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!
“Open the door!”
We searched each other’s faces.
“Let’s open it,” I said, figuring not letting them in would make matters worse. With Claudia clinging to my arm, I was hastening to let them in when – boom! – the door leaped off its hinges.
A small army of SWAT – all black fatigues and ballistic armour – blitzed through the doorframe, pointing submachine guns. Moving with speed and unity, every other man entering our living room took an opposite direction, lining up in front of two perpendicular walls. Bracing to be shot at any moment, I froze – terror-struck.
“Tempe Police Department! Get on the fucking ground now!”
“Police! Police! On your bellies now!”
“Hands above your heads!”
“Don’t fucking move!”
As I dropped to the floor, they fell upon me. Crushed by hands, elbows, knees and boots, I could barely breathe. Cold steel snapped around my wrists. I was hoisted like a puppet onto my feet. As they yanked Claudia up by the cuffs, she pinched her eyes shut; when she opened them, tears spilled out.
“I’m Detective Reid,” said a tall burly man with long scraggy hair, and an intimidating presence. “English Shaun, you’re a big name from the rave scene. I’m sure this raid will vindicate the charges.” There was a self-satisfied edge in his tone of voice, as if he were savouring a moment of great triumph.
Dazed by shock, I fumbled around for an appropriate response. “There’s nothing illegal in here.”
He smirked knowingly, then read my Miranda and consular rights.
I wanted to put my arms around Claudia to stop her trembling. “Don’t worry, love. Everything’s going to be alright,” I said, concealing my fear.
“Don’t fucking talk to her! You’re going outside!” Detective Reid took a dirty T-shirt from the hamper and slapped it on my shoulder. “Take this with you!”
“I’m exercising my right to remain silent, love!” I yelled repeatedly as they pushed me out of the apartment.
“I told you not to fucking talk to her!”
Yelling over each other, they shoved me down the stairs. They briefly removed my cuffs, so I could slip the T-shirt on.
“Stand by the stairs and keep fucking quiet!” Detective Reid left me guarded by a policeman.
The heat of the sun rising over the Sonoran Desert soon engulfed me.
They locked Claudia into the back of a Crown Victoria, which sped off. Police in state uniforms, federal uniforms, and plain clothes swarmed our place. Every so often, Detective Reid and a short bespectacled lady conferred.
Neighbours assembled, fascinated.
Sweat streamed from my armpits, trickled from my crotch. I thought about Claudia. What will they do to her? Will she be charged?
Detective Reid bounded down the stairs, his air of triumph gone. “What’s in the safe, Attwood?”
“A coin collection and documents like my birth certificate.”
“You’re full of shit! Where’s the key?” he asked, intensifying the hostility in his voice. “You might as well just give the drugs up at this point.”
“The key’s on my key chain, but it needs a combination as well as a key.”
“What drugs are in it?”
“None.”
“Don’t play games with us, Attwood. Don’t force me to call a locksmith.”
“I’m not playing games.”
“We’ll soon see about that.” He sounded desperate.
I was about to volunteer the combination, but he whipped out a cell phone, and dialled a locksmith.
“Get in the back of that car over there,” said a policeman in his late forties with a rugged face. He looked the type not averse to taking a detour on the way to the police station to teach certain criminals a lesson. New to manoeuvring in handcuffs, I fell sideways on to the back seat. I straightened myself up, and he threw a pair of jeans on my lap. In the driver’s seat, he donned Electra Glide in Blue motorcycle-cop sunglasses, mouthed a stick of gum, and blasted a hard-rock radio station. Tapping the wheel, he bobbed his head slightly as he drove.
The sense of being on the road to losing my liberty increased my dread.
“Looks like we’re gonna be waiting outside,” he said, parking near Tempe police station.
Sealed in the Crown Victoria for what seemed like an eternity, I mulled over my predicament. Cuffed. Cramped. Sweaty.
“Bring him in,” someone radioed.
He parked by a mobile police unit. He uncuffed me, told me to put my jeans on, and escorted me to a man sat at a desk.
“Fill this out.”
NAME, DATE OF BIRTH, SOCIAL SECURITY NUMBER, HOME ADDRESS, OCCUPATION, WORK ADDRESS…
“I’m exercising my right to remain silent,” I said.
“You must fill this out, or else we’ll book you in as a John Doe, and you don’t want that.”
Click here for Mentored Part 1.
Click here for Mentored Part 3.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below. To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Thanks to the Koestler Trust, I am now being mentored by Sally Hinchcliffe, a published author with an MA in Creative Writing from the University of London, taught by Julia Bell and Russell Celyn Jones.
The second session started with Sally helping me restructure the draft of a short synopsis of my book. The short synopsis is just for my own use, and states the basic structure of my memoir.
She also wants me to consider writing a long synopsis, breaking down each chapter to give the full arc of the story. The long synopsis will be a marketing tool. It needs to state why somebody would want to read my memoir, and what my book says about a larger world – I think exposing what goes on in Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s jail system is a larger theme, and Sally pointed out so is being an Englishman in an American jail system.
“You'll probably end up with two different versions of your long synopses,” Sally said. “One which is very much for your own use – the writing tool – for planning out the structure and what episodes go where, the other is the marketing tool, which you might send out to agents and publishers. At the moment we've only been looking at the structural one, until you get the structure of the book right, then when you're ready to be sending it out, we can work on the more polished version.”
Sally has suggested I get rid of the numerous anecdotes that do not move the story ahead. She wants me to list all of the anecdotes I have written, with a view to culling only the ones that are important. There’s so much material to be removed.
Sally pointed out my tendency to continue writing – “dribbling on” – after a particular episode and the chapter should have ended.
For homework, Sally set me the task of critical reading. She wants me to look at some books, to find some good prose and some poor prose, and to explain what works and what doesn’t. I am also to study how authors transition back in time. We both agreed John Updike is a master of such transitions.
She hopes this exercise will help me critique myself more.
Here’s my homework:
Good Prose, Poor Prose, Transitions
I’ve extracted these quotes from four books: Forget You Had a Daughter by Sandra Gregory, The Wolf of Wall Street by Jordan Belfort, Lucky by Alice Sebold, and Shantaram by Gregory David Roberts. (Shantaram contains the highest standard of prose I've ever seen from an ex prisoner. I couldn't put it down, reading all 933 pages in two weeks. It's about a heroin-addict bank robber on the run in the slums of India.)
Good Prose
Shantaram: I was a revolutionary who lost his ideals in heroin, a philosopher who lost his integrity in crime, and a poet who lost his soul in a maximum-security prison.
So much about the author is packed into this one sentence. The juxtapositions are strong.
Lucky: Betty had a face full of deep Main Line wrinkles. She looked like an exotic breed of dog, sort of a cultivated shar-pei, and she spoke with an aristocratic accent…
This description is compact, vivid and original.
Shantaram: Every time we turn the key we twist the knife of fate, because every time we cage a man we close him in with hate.
Good use of aphorism and poetry. It’s this style of writing that makes Shantaram such a wonderful book. Roberts constantly probes the big questions in philosophy, giving Shantaram universal relevance.
Shantaram: His love song echoed and rang a bell in every heart that heard him.
Poetic use of metaphor and personification.
Poor Prose
The Wolf of Wall Street: …some very obnoxious yuppies, seventy of them in all.
Belfort has a great story to tell, but his prose is weak. The word “very” appears on the first page and is used too much throughout the book. Instead of using very this or very that, one better word would do. Sheer laziness.
The Wolf of Wall Street: Thankfully, I was able to follow him just fine tonight, because I was sober as a judge…
The Wolf of Wall Street: In the past, I had stuck drugs up my ass too – going through this country or that – and it wasn’t a barrel of laughs.
The Wolf of Wall Street: …there was no denying that he was smart as a whip, cunning as a fox, ruthless as a Hun, and, above all else, loyal as a dog.
Belfort’s prose lacks originality. The above three quotes demonstrate his love of clichés. The third quote should be nominated for a clichés-per-sentence award. Prose like this makes me yawn.
Transitions
Shantaram: Listening to the band, watching the children, and thinking of Tariq – missing the boy already – I remembered an incident from the prison. In that other world-within-a-world, back then, I moved into a new prison cell and discovered a tiny mouse there.
Forget You Had a Daughter: No one ever knows it at the time but there are always signs or incidents in your life that try to point out the rocky path. Most of the time we fail to heed them. When I was 17 I went to Amsterdam…
Lucky: That May, after my rape, I arrived back to a congregation that was traumatized, no more so than Father Breuninger himself.
Forget You Had a Daughter: I close my eyes. We are together, my brother and I, riding on bicycles next to our house and there is a cartoon sticker on the red frame of mine. It is warm and breezy, the summer of 1971 and I am happy for sure.
Those are four examples of smooth and original transitions.
And here’s what happened to the opening of the book after incorporating Sally’s input – click here to read Sally’s input in Mentored Part 1.
“Tempe Police Department! We have a warrant! Open the door!”
The stock quotes flickering on the computer screen lost all importance as I rushed to the peephole – it was blacked out. Boots thudded up the outdoor stairs to our Scottsdale apartment.
Bang, bang, bang, bang!
Wearing only boxer shorts, I dashed to the bedroom. “Claudia Wake up! It’s the cops!”
“Tempe Police Department! Open the door!”
Claudia scrambled from the California king, her long blond hair tousled. “What should we do?” she asked, anxiously fixing her pink pyjamas.
Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!
“Open the door!”
We searched each other’s faces.
“Let’s open it,” I said, figuring not letting them in would make matters worse. With Claudia clinging to my arm, I was hastening to let them in when – boom! – the door leaped off its hinges.
A small army of SWAT – all black fatigues and ballistic armour – blitzed through the doorframe, pointing submachine guns. Moving with speed and unity, every other man entering our living room took an opposite direction, lining up in front of two perpendicular walls. Bracing to be shot at any moment, I froze – terror-struck.
“Tempe Police Department! Get on the fucking ground now!”
“Police! Police! On your bellies now!”
“Hands above your heads!”
“Don’t fucking move!”
As I dropped to the floor, they fell upon me. Crushed by hands, elbows, knees and boots, I could barely breathe. Cold steel snapped around my wrists. I was hoisted like a puppet onto my feet. As they yanked Claudia up by the cuffs, she pinched her eyes shut; when she opened them, tears spilled out.
“I’m Detective Reid,” said a tall burly man with long scraggy hair, and an intimidating presence. “English Shaun, you’re a big name from the rave scene. I’m sure this raid will vindicate the charges.” There was a self-satisfied edge in his tone of voice, as if he were savouring a moment of great triumph.
Dazed by shock, I fumbled around for an appropriate response. “There’s nothing illegal in here.”
He smirked knowingly, then read my Miranda and consular rights.
I wanted to put my arms around Claudia to stop her trembling. “Don’t worry, love. Everything’s going to be alright,” I said, concealing my fear.
“Don’t fucking talk to her! You’re going outside!” Detective Reid took a dirty T-shirt from the hamper and slapped it on my shoulder. “Take this with you!”
“I’m exercising my right to remain silent, love!” I yelled repeatedly as they pushed me out of the apartment.
“I told you not to fucking talk to her!”
Yelling over each other, they shoved me down the stairs. They briefly removed my cuffs, so I could slip the T-shirt on.
“Stand by the stairs and keep fucking quiet!” Detective Reid left me guarded by a policeman.
The heat of the sun rising over the Sonoran Desert soon engulfed me.
They locked Claudia into the back of a Crown Victoria, which sped off. Police in state uniforms, federal uniforms, and plain clothes swarmed our place. Every so often, Detective Reid and a short bespectacled lady conferred.
Neighbours assembled, fascinated.
Sweat streamed from my armpits, trickled from my crotch. I thought about Claudia. What will they do to her? Will she be charged?
Detective Reid bounded down the stairs, his air of triumph gone. “What’s in the safe, Attwood?”
“A coin collection and documents like my birth certificate.”
“You’re full of shit! Where’s the key?” he asked, intensifying the hostility in his voice. “You might as well just give the drugs up at this point.”
“The key’s on my key chain, but it needs a combination as well as a key.”
“What drugs are in it?”
“None.”
“Don’t play games with us, Attwood. Don’t force me to call a locksmith.”
“I’m not playing games.”
“We’ll soon see about that.” He sounded desperate.
I was about to volunteer the combination, but he whipped out a cell phone, and dialled a locksmith.
“Get in the back of that car over there,” said a policeman in his late forties with a rugged face. He looked the type not averse to taking a detour on the way to the police station to teach certain criminals a lesson. New to manoeuvring in handcuffs, I fell sideways on to the back seat. I straightened myself up, and he threw a pair of jeans on my lap. In the driver’s seat, he donned Electra Glide in Blue motorcycle-cop sunglasses, mouthed a stick of gum, and blasted a hard-rock radio station. Tapping the wheel, he bobbed his head slightly as he drove.
The sense of being on the road to losing my liberty increased my dread.
“Looks like we’re gonna be waiting outside,” he said, parking near Tempe police station.
Sealed in the Crown Victoria for what seemed like an eternity, I mulled over my predicament. Cuffed. Cramped. Sweaty.
“Bring him in,” someone radioed.
He parked by a mobile police unit. He uncuffed me, told me to put my jeans on, and escorted me to a man sat at a desk.
“Fill this out.”
NAME, DATE OF BIRTH, SOCIAL SECURITY NUMBER, HOME ADDRESS, OCCUPATION, WORK ADDRESS…
“I’m exercising my right to remain silent,” I said.
“You must fill this out, or else we’ll book you in as a John Doe, and you don’t want that.”
Click here for Mentored Part 1.
Click here for Mentored Part 3.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below. To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Mentored (Part 7)
Thanks to the Koestler Trust, I am now being mentored by Sally Hinchcliffe, a published author with an M.A. in Creative Writing from the University of London.
I’ve received some emails asking what’s going on with the mentor sessions, and the book. It’s good news all around. With the help of my literary agent and Sally, I’ve been readjusting the structure of my jail memoir. Sally said her work is done on coaching me with that book now, and that we need to move on to what I’m going to write next. I only have a few more sessions left with her, so I hope to make the most out of them. My agent is giving the latest draft of the book a proof read, and if all is well he’ll be talking to publishers about it soon. I started taking jail notes back in 2002, so the book has been a seven-year work in progress. I’ve never spent that long on a single project before, so you can probably imagine how excited I am to be almost at the finishing line.
Before the latest revisions, the structure became problematic towards the end. Here are Sally’s comments on the end chapters of the book:
This section really doesn’t work as stands. The blog material is too patchy and interrupts the arc of the story – your relationship with Claudia and what is at stake with the plea bargain and sentencing hearing.
You need to concentrate on those elements which show the inhumane conditions of the jail – for once without the leavening of humour. You also need to show what has happened to people who don’t plea bargain and make it clear that one-by-one your codefendants are plea-bargaining. What’s at stake isn’t clear.
Make your feelings about the plea bargain much clearer. Why you took the decision. How it felt to do it. The letters you used are too distancing and abrupt.
You also need to show the aftermath of your break-up with Claudia. What you did during the next hour, day, week, month. Your reaction at the time. Not how you think of it now. Don’t worry about coming across as self-pitying. Stick to what actually happened as it felt at the time and it should not come across that way.
Disembowel yourself in those penultimate chapters. Don’t hide yourself behind letters and blogs. Show it through stories and incidents. Crank up the tension. Make it felt. Write it in the frame of mind from when it was actually happening, and you didn’t know what was going to happen next.
Then, when you have got everything set up properly, the last chapter [the sentencing hearing] can speak for itself.
Acting on that advice, I ditched all of the material culled from the blogs, and added anecdotes to show what was at stake with my legal situation, and how I felt about the break-up with Claudia. The blog material was written in a humorous voice that didn’t suit such a serious juncture of the book.
Sally also recommended I read The Gathering by Anne Enright, which won the 2007 Man Booker Prize.
The final thing the agent requested was a preface. He wrote:
Preface can be short - a couple of hundred words - just to familiarise the reader, at least in the UK, who will be unfamiliar with Arpaio and his jail system.
So this month’s excerpt is my draft of the preface:
Joe Arpaio of Maricopa County, Arizona boasts he is the most famous sheriff in the world. He feeds his inmates green bologna, and garbs them in pink underwear. He calls himself “America’s toughest sheriff,” but never mentions that he is the most sued sheriff in America due to the deaths, violence and medical negligence in a jail system subject to investigation by human-rights organisations including Amnesty International and the American Civil Liberties Union.
Arpaio was voted into office in 1992. He won four more elections, but his margin of victory plummeted – in part due to several highly-publicised deaths at the hands of his staff. They include Charles Agster, a mentally-challenged 33-year-old arrested for loitering. He was hog-tied, jumped on, punched and strapped into a restraint chair, where he stopped breathing. And Brian Crenshaw, a partially-blind shoplifter who the guards pulverised for failing to produce his ID. He was found comatose on his bunk with a broken neck, toes, and severe internal injuries. The list goes on, and Arpaio actually promoted some of the guards the court found responsible, earning him the “Angel of Death” nickname by his critics.
The majority of the inmates housed in Arpaio’s jail system are unsentenced. They have not actually been found guilty of the crimes for which they are being held. Yet the conditions in the jail system are far worse than those in the prison system where convicted criminals are housed.
Despite all of the adverse publicity and investigations by various departments of the federal government, Arpaio has managed to stay in charge and command a support base bordering on the fanatical. He’s had two books published, and was awarded his own prime-time reality TV show, Smile...You're Under Arrest!
Click here for Mentored Part 6
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below. To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Thanks to the Koestler Trust, I am now being mentored by Sally Hinchcliffe, a published author with an M.A. in Creative Writing from the University of London.
I’ve received some emails asking what’s going on with the mentor sessions, and the book. It’s good news all around. With the help of my literary agent and Sally, I’ve been readjusting the structure of my jail memoir. Sally said her work is done on coaching me with that book now, and that we need to move on to what I’m going to write next. I only have a few more sessions left with her, so I hope to make the most out of them. My agent is giving the latest draft of the book a proof read, and if all is well he’ll be talking to publishers about it soon. I started taking jail notes back in 2002, so the book has been a seven-year work in progress. I’ve never spent that long on a single project before, so you can probably imagine how excited I am to be almost at the finishing line.
Before the latest revisions, the structure became problematic towards the end. Here are Sally’s comments on the end chapters of the book:
This section really doesn’t work as stands. The blog material is too patchy and interrupts the arc of the story – your relationship with Claudia and what is at stake with the plea bargain and sentencing hearing.
You need to concentrate on those elements which show the inhumane conditions of the jail – for once without the leavening of humour. You also need to show what has happened to people who don’t plea bargain and make it clear that one-by-one your codefendants are plea-bargaining. What’s at stake isn’t clear.
Make your feelings about the plea bargain much clearer. Why you took the decision. How it felt to do it. The letters you used are too distancing and abrupt.
You also need to show the aftermath of your break-up with Claudia. What you did during the next hour, day, week, month. Your reaction at the time. Not how you think of it now. Don’t worry about coming across as self-pitying. Stick to what actually happened as it felt at the time and it should not come across that way.
Disembowel yourself in those penultimate chapters. Don’t hide yourself behind letters and blogs. Show it through stories and incidents. Crank up the tension. Make it felt. Write it in the frame of mind from when it was actually happening, and you didn’t know what was going to happen next.
Then, when you have got everything set up properly, the last chapter [the sentencing hearing] can speak for itself.
Acting on that advice, I ditched all of the material culled from the blogs, and added anecdotes to show what was at stake with my legal situation, and how I felt about the break-up with Claudia. The blog material was written in a humorous voice that didn’t suit such a serious juncture of the book.
Sally also recommended I read The Gathering by Anne Enright, which won the 2007 Man Booker Prize.
The final thing the agent requested was a preface. He wrote:
Preface can be short - a couple of hundred words - just to familiarise the reader, at least in the UK, who will be unfamiliar with Arpaio and his jail system.
So this month’s excerpt is my draft of the preface:
Joe Arpaio of Maricopa County, Arizona boasts he is the most famous sheriff in the world. He feeds his inmates green bologna, and garbs them in pink underwear. He calls himself “America’s toughest sheriff,” but never mentions that he is the most sued sheriff in America due to the deaths, violence and medical negligence in a jail system subject to investigation by human-rights organisations including Amnesty International and the American Civil Liberties Union.
Arpaio was voted into office in 1992. He won four more elections, but his margin of victory plummeted – in part due to several highly-publicised deaths at the hands of his staff. They include Charles Agster, a mentally-challenged 33-year-old arrested for loitering. He was hog-tied, jumped on, punched and strapped into a restraint chair, where he stopped breathing. And Brian Crenshaw, a partially-blind shoplifter who the guards pulverised for failing to produce his ID. He was found comatose on his bunk with a broken neck, toes, and severe internal injuries. The list goes on, and Arpaio actually promoted some of the guards the court found responsible, earning him the “Angel of Death” nickname by his critics.
The majority of the inmates housed in Arpaio’s jail system are unsentenced. They have not actually been found guilty of the crimes for which they are being held. Yet the conditions in the jail system are far worse than those in the prison system where convicted criminals are housed.
Despite all of the adverse publicity and investigations by various departments of the federal government, Arpaio has managed to stay in charge and command a support base bordering on the fanatical. He’s had two books published, and was awarded his own prime-time reality TV show, Smile...You're Under Arrest!
Click here for Mentored Part 6
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below. To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
07 May 09
Mentored (Part 4)
Thanks to the Koestler Trust, I am now being mentored by Sally Hinchcliffe, a published author with an M.A. in Creative Writing from the University of London. Sally recently read chapter 26 of my jail memoir, Green Bologna and Pink Boxers: Surviving Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s Jail. Here’s the start of chapter 26, followed by her comments.
I spent half a day in holding cells before arriving at a small two-man cell on the second floor of the Madison Street jail. It was about 2am. Light from the day room was filtering into the dark cell through oblong gaps in the door, illuminating my new cellmate cocooned in a white sheet, snoring lightly on the top bunk about two thirds of the way up the back wall. As I’d just come from a jail where men were prone to fight over the bottom bunk, I was grateful he’d taken the top. Delirious from two-days’ sleep deprivation, I was looking forward to a good rest. I thought my standard of living had improved – two-man cell, bottom bunk – until I noticed movement on the cement-block walls. Putting the movement down to hallucinations, I blinked several times. Still movement. Stepping closer, I saw the wall was alive with insects, and I flinched. So many insects, I wondered if they were a colony of ants on the move just like you see in documentaries. To get a better look, I put my face to within inches of the wall, and saw they were mostly the size of almonds and had antennae. American cockroaches! I’d seen them before downstairs in The Horseshoe, but nothing like this. A chill spread over my body. I backed away. As my night vision picked up, I spotted more insect shapes circulating on the ceiling, going in and out of the base of the fluorescent strip light. Every so often one dropped onto the concrete, and resumed crawling. Examining my bunk, it dawned as to why my cellmate had opted to sleep at a higher elevation: cockroaches were pouring out of gaps in the wall at the level of the bottom bunk. The area was thick with them. Placing my mattress on the bunk scattered them. I walked to the toilet, crushing some of them under my shower sandals. I urinated and grabbed the toilet roll. A cockroach darted from the centre of the roll onto my hand, tickling my fingers. My arm jerked as if it had a mind of its own, losing the cockroach and the toilet roll.
Using a towel, I wiped the bulk of them off the bottom bunk, stopping only to shake the odd one off my hand. I unrolled my mattress. They began to regroup and harass my mattress. My adrenaline was pumping so much I was losing my general fatigue. Nauseated, I sat on the stool and contemplated how best to get to sleep. I wondered how my cellmate was managing to sleep through the infestation and my arrival. I decided to copy his technique. I cocooned myself in a white sheet and lay down, crushing a few more cockroaches. The only way they could get to me now was through the breathing hole I’d left in the sheet by the lower half of my face. Inhaling their strange musty odour, I closed my eyes. I couldn’t sleep. I could sense them crawling on the sheet around my feet. Worried they were infiltrating my breathing hole, I constantly opened my eyes. Cramps caused me to shift onto my other side. Watching the wall, I was repulsed by so many of them just inches away from my face. I returned to my original side. The sheet trapped the desert heat to my body, coating me in sweat. I grew so uncomfortable, I had to open my cocoon to waft the heat out. Trickles of sweat tickled my body, tricking my mind into thinking the cockroaches had infiltrated and were crawling on me. It took a while to drift to sleep, and I only managed a few hours. I awoke stuck to the sweaty sheet, disgusted by the cockroach carcasses compressed to the mattress.
The cockroaches plagued my new home until dawn appeared at the dots in the protective metal grid over a begrimed strip of four-inch-thick glass at the top of the back wall – the cell’s only source of outdoor light. Then they disappeared into the cracks in the walls, like vampire mist retreating from sunlight. But not all of them. There had been so many on the night shift that even their vastly reduced number was still too many to dispose of. And they acted like they knew this. They roamed around my feet with attitude, as if to let me know I was trespassing on their stomping ground.
Sally’s comments on chapter 26:
– Good stuff. Very strong.
– Takes you right into the moment.
– Ends at exactly the right place.
– The writing does service to the story.
– Not too much extraneous detail.
For our fourth session, Sally asked me to meet her at the British Library, a building in Central London that Prince Charles once described as a “monstrous ziggurat,” and a “school for secret policemen.”
It’s a library quite like no other. Let’s start with the collection: over 150 million items (including 14 million books), that require 625 km of shelves; over 3 million new items added every year, requiring another 12 km of shelf space. The library receives a copy of every publication produced in the UK and Ireland. Its treasures include the Magna Carta and Leonardo da Vinci's Notebook.
Entering the library, I felt small. It was the largest building constructed in England in the last century, taking up 10 million bricks, and 180,000 tonnes of concrete. It has nine floors above ground, and five below. The foyer was like the check-in area of a grandiose hotel. I crossed the polished stone floor, and joined one of the many trails of student-looking types disappearing into the building. Further inside, many people were sat on the floor. There were rows of them at the foot of every wall, with laptops on their thighs, and cables running into the wall sockets. The screen glow reflecting on their faces added a ghostly aura to expressions mostly within the range of deep-thinking to tunnel vision.
It took a few flights of stairs for my first sighting of England’s Grande Armée of literature. The books were on shelves enclosed in glass columns bigger than most buildings. Mini skyscrapers shooting up out of sight, with row after row of books pressed against the glass, like prisoners watching their visitors arrive.
I tried to enter one of the reading rooms, where older highbrow types with eccentric asexual faces were gravitating, but I was rebuffed as I had no ticket.
In the café, Sally bought me a delicious pear juice.
In the last three mentored blogs, I’ve been polishing up the opening of the book. Sally put that to rest with this comment: “This is fine now. Be careful of over-polishing the first few chapters. Better to press on and revisit the beginning in the light of the rest of the book.”
Now we’ve seen what Sally likes, let’s look at Sally’s comments on chapters 8 to 11:
– These four chapters all feel a little thin. Perhaps stripped back too much.
– Might be an opportunity to introduce more about the jail system and why it’s so brutalising.
– At this point you can afford to introduce some moral ambiguity of your own, taking the readers with you.
– It’s difficult to balance introducing your own personal changes with avoiding editorialising. Do this by making your emotions more directly felt rather than summarised.
Let’s concentrate on Sally’s first and last comment. The writing has been pared back too much in certain areas and I am making the reoccurring error of editorialising. I’ve found a specific paragraph in chapter 8 that incorporates both of these weaknesses. The paragraph is about Alejandro who has already been introduced to the reader as a four-hundred-pound youngster arrested for shooting a car full of rival gang members with an AK-47. Here’s the paragraph:
Some of Alejandro’s victims were in critical condition, and if any of them died, he would be facing death by lethal injection. For a week, the condition of his victims made nightly headline news. Stunned by the shock of this inextricable linking of his fate with theirs, Alejandro watched these reports on the lone TV affixed high on the day-room wall.
Sally underlined the sentence in bold and wrote: Editorialising. Instead show us Alejandro’s reaction. Make it real.
Ok, I’m going to expand it, and try to make it real. Here I go:
Every night, just in time for the beginning of the news, Alejandro emerged from his cell with a look of dread, and positioned himself at the back of the two dozen or so noisy prisoners clustered in front of the old TV set fixed high on the day-room wall. When the news started, he’d move forward as if yanked by its familiar jingle. Sweating far more than the rest, he’d urge everyone to hush. Out of deference for the gravity of his situation, the heads of all of the races would order their youngsters to shut up. By the time the condition of his victims was reported, the unusual quiet – which in the jail meant something bad was happening to somebody somewhere – had drew the attention of the card and domino players, and even brought the hermits from their cells, doubling the size of the audience. I was sure that all of the men watching from the balcony and every corner and table of the day room were thinking the same as me: Will a victim die? What’s it like to be facing the death penalty? Alejandro would stand there, arms folded, his bulk swaying slightly, with a fear in his eyes as if he were not looking at a battered TV set that barely tuned in, but at a gun pointed at him by an executioner. The prisoners usually remained quiet, except for the night a reporter revealed that one of Alejandro’s bullets had exited through a girl’s nipple. That caused many groans and other sounds of displeasure. The reports invariably ended with his victims in critical but stable condition, none dead. After digesting this, Alejandro would set off relieved. He’d trudge up the metal-grid stairs, the hermits disappearing into the cells in front of him and the noise in the day room picking up behind him.
I'd like to end this blog entry with a big thank you to the people at Koestler. The progress I've made with Sally over just these four sessions has exceeded my expectations. I couldn't have been assigned a better mentor!
Click here to read Mentored Part 3.
If you are a publisher or an agent and wish to read sample chapters from my jail memoir, please email writeinside@hotmail.com.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below. To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Mentored (Part 4)
Thanks to the Koestler Trust, I am now being mentored by Sally Hinchcliffe, a published author with an M.A. in Creative Writing from the University of London. Sally recently read chapter 26 of my jail memoir, Green Bologna and Pink Boxers: Surviving Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s Jail. Here’s the start of chapter 26, followed by her comments.
I spent half a day in holding cells before arriving at a small two-man cell on the second floor of the Madison Street jail. It was about 2am. Light from the day room was filtering into the dark cell through oblong gaps in the door, illuminating my new cellmate cocooned in a white sheet, snoring lightly on the top bunk about two thirds of the way up the back wall. As I’d just come from a jail where men were prone to fight over the bottom bunk, I was grateful he’d taken the top. Delirious from two-days’ sleep deprivation, I was looking forward to a good rest. I thought my standard of living had improved – two-man cell, bottom bunk – until I noticed movement on the cement-block walls. Putting the movement down to hallucinations, I blinked several times. Still movement. Stepping closer, I saw the wall was alive with insects, and I flinched. So many insects, I wondered if they were a colony of ants on the move just like you see in documentaries. To get a better look, I put my face to within inches of the wall, and saw they were mostly the size of almonds and had antennae. American cockroaches! I’d seen them before downstairs in The Horseshoe, but nothing like this. A chill spread over my body. I backed away. As my night vision picked up, I spotted more insect shapes circulating on the ceiling, going in and out of the base of the fluorescent strip light. Every so often one dropped onto the concrete, and resumed crawling. Examining my bunk, it dawned as to why my cellmate had opted to sleep at a higher elevation: cockroaches were pouring out of gaps in the wall at the level of the bottom bunk. The area was thick with them. Placing my mattress on the bunk scattered them. I walked to the toilet, crushing some of them under my shower sandals. I urinated and grabbed the toilet roll. A cockroach darted from the centre of the roll onto my hand, tickling my fingers. My arm jerked as if it had a mind of its own, losing the cockroach and the toilet roll.
Using a towel, I wiped the bulk of them off the bottom bunk, stopping only to shake the odd one off my hand. I unrolled my mattress. They began to regroup and harass my mattress. My adrenaline was pumping so much I was losing my general fatigue. Nauseated, I sat on the stool and contemplated how best to get to sleep. I wondered how my cellmate was managing to sleep through the infestation and my arrival. I decided to copy his technique. I cocooned myself in a white sheet and lay down, crushing a few more cockroaches. The only way they could get to me now was through the breathing hole I’d left in the sheet by the lower half of my face. Inhaling their strange musty odour, I closed my eyes. I couldn’t sleep. I could sense them crawling on the sheet around my feet. Worried they were infiltrating my breathing hole, I constantly opened my eyes. Cramps caused me to shift onto my other side. Watching the wall, I was repulsed by so many of them just inches away from my face. I returned to my original side. The sheet trapped the desert heat to my body, coating me in sweat. I grew so uncomfortable, I had to open my cocoon to waft the heat out. Trickles of sweat tickled my body, tricking my mind into thinking the cockroaches had infiltrated and were crawling on me. It took a while to drift to sleep, and I only managed a few hours. I awoke stuck to the sweaty sheet, disgusted by the cockroach carcasses compressed to the mattress.
The cockroaches plagued my new home until dawn appeared at the dots in the protective metal grid over a begrimed strip of four-inch-thick glass at the top of the back wall – the cell’s only source of outdoor light. Then they disappeared into the cracks in the walls, like vampire mist retreating from sunlight. But not all of them. There had been so many on the night shift that even their vastly reduced number was still too many to dispose of. And they acted like they knew this. They roamed around my feet with attitude, as if to let me know I was trespassing on their stomping ground.
Sally’s comments on chapter 26:
– Good stuff. Very strong.
– Takes you right into the moment.
– Ends at exactly the right place.
– The writing does service to the story.
– Not too much extraneous detail.
For our fourth session, Sally asked me to meet her at the British Library, a building in Central London that Prince Charles once described as a “monstrous ziggurat,” and a “school for secret policemen.”
It’s a library quite like no other. Let’s start with the collection: over 150 million items (including 14 million books), that require 625 km of shelves; over 3 million new items added every year, requiring another 12 km of shelf space. The library receives a copy of every publication produced in the UK and Ireland. Its treasures include the Magna Carta and Leonardo da Vinci's Notebook.
Entering the library, I felt small. It was the largest building constructed in England in the last century, taking up 10 million bricks, and 180,000 tonnes of concrete. It has nine floors above ground, and five below. The foyer was like the check-in area of a grandiose hotel. I crossed the polished stone floor, and joined one of the many trails of student-looking types disappearing into the building. Further inside, many people were sat on the floor. There were rows of them at the foot of every wall, with laptops on their thighs, and cables running into the wall sockets. The screen glow reflecting on their faces added a ghostly aura to expressions mostly within the range of deep-thinking to tunnel vision.
It took a few flights of stairs for my first sighting of England’s Grande Armée of literature. The books were on shelves enclosed in glass columns bigger than most buildings. Mini skyscrapers shooting up out of sight, with row after row of books pressed against the glass, like prisoners watching their visitors arrive.
I tried to enter one of the reading rooms, where older highbrow types with eccentric asexual faces were gravitating, but I was rebuffed as I had no ticket.
In the café, Sally bought me a delicious pear juice.
In the last three mentored blogs, I’ve been polishing up the opening of the book. Sally put that to rest with this comment: “This is fine now. Be careful of over-polishing the first few chapters. Better to press on and revisit the beginning in the light of the rest of the book.”
Now we’ve seen what Sally likes, let’s look at Sally’s comments on chapters 8 to 11:
– These four chapters all feel a little thin. Perhaps stripped back too much.
– Might be an opportunity to introduce more about the jail system and why it’s so brutalising.
– At this point you can afford to introduce some moral ambiguity of your own, taking the readers with you.
– It’s difficult to balance introducing your own personal changes with avoiding editorialising. Do this by making your emotions more directly felt rather than summarised.
Let’s concentrate on Sally’s first and last comment. The writing has been pared back too much in certain areas and I am making the reoccurring error of editorialising. I’ve found a specific paragraph in chapter 8 that incorporates both of these weaknesses. The paragraph is about Alejandro who has already been introduced to the reader as a four-hundred-pound youngster arrested for shooting a car full of rival gang members with an AK-47. Here’s the paragraph:
Some of Alejandro’s victims were in critical condition, and if any of them died, he would be facing death by lethal injection. For a week, the condition of his victims made nightly headline news. Stunned by the shock of this inextricable linking of his fate with theirs, Alejandro watched these reports on the lone TV affixed high on the day-room wall.
Sally underlined the sentence in bold and wrote: Editorialising. Instead show us Alejandro’s reaction. Make it real.
Ok, I’m going to expand it, and try to make it real. Here I go:
Every night, just in time for the beginning of the news, Alejandro emerged from his cell with a look of dread, and positioned himself at the back of the two dozen or so noisy prisoners clustered in front of the old TV set fixed high on the day-room wall. When the news started, he’d move forward as if yanked by its familiar jingle. Sweating far more than the rest, he’d urge everyone to hush. Out of deference for the gravity of his situation, the heads of all of the races would order their youngsters to shut up. By the time the condition of his victims was reported, the unusual quiet – which in the jail meant something bad was happening to somebody somewhere – had drew the attention of the card and domino players, and even brought the hermits from their cells, doubling the size of the audience. I was sure that all of the men watching from the balcony and every corner and table of the day room were thinking the same as me: Will a victim die? What’s it like to be facing the death penalty? Alejandro would stand there, arms folded, his bulk swaying slightly, with a fear in his eyes as if he were not looking at a battered TV set that barely tuned in, but at a gun pointed at him by an executioner. The prisoners usually remained quiet, except for the night a reporter revealed that one of Alejandro’s bullets had exited through a girl’s nipple. That caused many groans and other sounds of displeasure. The reports invariably ended with his victims in critical but stable condition, none dead. After digesting this, Alejandro would set off relieved. He’d trudge up the metal-grid stairs, the hermits disappearing into the cells in front of him and the noise in the day room picking up behind him.
I'd like to end this blog entry with a big thank you to the people at Koestler. The progress I've made with Sally over just these four sessions has exceeded my expectations. I couldn't have been assigned a better mentor!
Click here to read Mentored Part 3.
If you are a publisher or an agent and wish to read sample chapters from my jail memoir, please email writeinside@hotmail.com.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below. To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Mentored (Part 9)
Thanks to the Koestler Trust, I was being mentored by Sally Hinchcliffe, a published author with an M.A. in Creative Writing from the University of London.
I had the last session with Sally. I figured I’d nailed the opening chapter of the prequel to my jail memoir, but Sally breathed fire on it. And I’m glad she did, as her criticism has been the driving force behind my improvement.
Before we revisit that chapter, I’d like to share Sally’s comments on the draft in general.
- overall it rattles along fine, there’s a much better sense of good anecdotes, although you could start some later and end earlier
- it’s only a first draft, so the writing will need fine tuning
- there are too many incidents, I have a good idea of the mayhem and lunacy, but it’s hard to keep track of all of the characters
- the sense of structure and journey is lost in places
- you need to bring yourself more into the story, what do you feel when you relive these experiences?
- check that you are not opening yourself up to new charges from what you’re writing, statute of limitations/libel laws
- the dialogue is a little clunky in places
I agree with Sally on all counts. So far this year, I’ve been wearing myself out just to get the story down. I finished it last week. It’s 96,000 words. Now I can start to address Sally’s concerns, put more of me in the book, and trim the fat. In regards to her last comment, I’ve just started interviewing the characters to go over the conversations and get the dialogue as precise as possible.
Now onto Chapter 1. One of my problems is not starting anecdotes in the thick of the action. Slowing the action down with too much explanation early on. My rewrite of Chapter 1 is a classic example of this. Here it is with Sally’s comments in parenthesis.
Chapter 1
(Is this the place to start?) When Gary pulled our money out, I thought he might get stabbed and robbed or end up buying rat poison. (The opening sentence is spraying too many possibilities.) Gary was a fellow Economics student from Liverpool University. (You are backing away from the action by offering this explanation of who Gary is too soon. Go straight into what’s frightening, before backing off. Close down on one fear, and get the reader hooked.) Tall and blond with a pointy nose, he resembled Tintin. It was 1989, and we were in a club called The Thunderdome in Manchester – dubbed “Madchester” by the media because raving had exploded across England from there. (Madchester, again, slowing the action down.) I’d seen ravers on the news – wearing loud colours, dancing in ways I’d never seen to music that sounded like it was coming from outer space – so I was hoping to find out what all the fuss was about. But I was unimpressed by the bare room, square and dark with a stage at the front, and with only a few people dancing to acid house. I’d decided to try club drugs, but having never met dealers before, their presence – all shiny sports suits, gold jewellery and shifty faces – worried me. I admired Gary for having the nerve to do something I couldn’t: walk up to strangers who might have weapons or be undercover cops (Again, spraying possibilities.) and buy drugs. I was relieved when he spun around with a big grin, and showed me two Ecstasy pills, and two grams of speed meticulously wrapped in little rectangles of paper.
“(Why are you using phonetic spelling?) Yer put yer gram of Billy Whizz in yer Lucozade,” he said, tipping the contents of one of the wraps into a bottle, “and swallow the White Dove with a big swig.” Committing to do drugs was one thing, actually doing them another. My heartbeat was growing louder, my hands trembling. But the desire to have fun was winning out over the terror of ending up in an ambulance and my parents finding out.
“Come on, get on with it,” Gary said, having already taken his Ecstasy.
Suspecting Gary had detected my fear was all the motivation (This language and phrasing is distancing when you’re just trying to say you didn’t want to appear to be a wuss.) I needed to dump the speed into my drink, and pop the pill into my mouth. Gagging on the chemical taste, I thought, Oh my God, what’s gonna happen to me now? “How long before I feel it?” I asked Gary.
“Within the hour.”
I spent the next thirty minutes or so convinced I was about to join the unlucky minority who die after taking drugs their first time (This slows the action down.) I kept having to check my pulse to reassure myself (This sentence is good because it demonstrates the fear more graphically.)
Here’s the rewrite. I’ve reverted to my preference for opening with dialogue.
“We want two E’s and two grams of Billy Whizz,” Gary said to the drug dealers.
“E’s twenty quid. A tenner for a wrap of Whizz.”
I was hovering behind Gary wishing my heartbeat would slow down. Having never done drugs before, I was afraid of the dealers: all shiny sports suits, gold jewellery, and shifty faces.
When Gary pulled our money out, I thought he might get stabbed. “Here you go.”
Almost imperceptibly, the dealer passed Gary the drugs. My relief began when Gary spun around with a big grin, and showed me two pills, and two grams of speed meticulously wrapped in little rectangles of paper. But the relief didn’t last long. I braced for undercover cops to snatch us while we had possession of the drugs. I couldn’t stop my body trembling, especially my hands.
“You put your Billy Whizz in your Lucozade,” Gary said, tipping the contents of one of the wraps into a bottle, “and swallow the White Dove with a big swig.”
Committing to do drugs was one thing, doing them another. My heartbeat was growing louder, my armpits moistening, But I wanted to have fun, and that was winning out over my terror of ending up in an ambulance and my parents finding out.
“Come on, get on with it,” Gary said, having already taken his Ecstasy.
Worried Gary knew I was afraid, I dumped the speed into my drink, and popped the pill into my mouth. Gagging on the chemical taste, I thought, Oh my God, what’s going to happen to me now? I asked Gary, “How long before I feel it?”
“Within the hour.”
Gary was a fellow Economics student from Liverpool University. Tall and blond with a pointy nose, he resembled Tintin. It was 1989, and we were in a club called The Thunderdome in Manchester. I’d seen ravers on the news – wearing loud colours, dancing in ways I’d never seen to music that sounded like it was coming from outer space – so I was hoping to find out what all the fuss was about. But I was unimpressed by the bare room, square and dark with a stage at the front, and with only a few people dancing to acid house.
I spent the next thirty minutes convinced I was about to die. I kept having to check my pulse to reassure myself.
So I’m back on my own now. No more Sally. I’m not even allowed to contact her for six months as a way of making me stand on my own two feet now the umbilical chord has been cut. Sally recommended I join some organisations, including the Society of Authors, and find readers in the writing profession to review my writing and provide constructive feedback.
Thanks to Sally and the Koestler Trust, I’ve achieved the goals I first set with Sally of finding a literary agent and a publisher. I’m truly grateful to them for enabling me to realise my dream of becoming an author.
Click here for Mentored Part 8
Post comments below or email them to writeinside@hotmail.com To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun Attwood
Thanks to the Koestler Trust, I was being mentored by Sally Hinchcliffe, a published author with an M.A. in Creative Writing from the University of London.
I had the last session with Sally. I figured I’d nailed the opening chapter of the prequel to my jail memoir, but Sally breathed fire on it. And I’m glad she did, as her criticism has been the driving force behind my improvement.
Before we revisit that chapter, I’d like to share Sally’s comments on the draft in general.
- overall it rattles along fine, there’s a much better sense of good anecdotes, although you could start some later and end earlier
- it’s only a first draft, so the writing will need fine tuning
- there are too many incidents, I have a good idea of the mayhem and lunacy, but it’s hard to keep track of all of the characters
- the sense of structure and journey is lost in places
- you need to bring yourself more into the story, what do you feel when you relive these experiences?
- check that you are not opening yourself up to new charges from what you’re writing, statute of limitations/libel laws
- the dialogue is a little clunky in places
I agree with Sally on all counts. So far this year, I’ve been wearing myself out just to get the story down. I finished it last week. It’s 96,000 words. Now I can start to address Sally’s concerns, put more of me in the book, and trim the fat. In regards to her last comment, I’ve just started interviewing the characters to go over the conversations and get the dialogue as precise as possible.
Now onto Chapter 1. One of my problems is not starting anecdotes in the thick of the action. Slowing the action down with too much explanation early on. My rewrite of Chapter 1 is a classic example of this. Here it is with Sally’s comments in parenthesis.
Chapter 1
(Is this the place to start?) When Gary pulled our money out, I thought he might get stabbed and robbed or end up buying rat poison. (The opening sentence is spraying too many possibilities.) Gary was a fellow Economics student from Liverpool University. (You are backing away from the action by offering this explanation of who Gary is too soon. Go straight into what’s frightening, before backing off. Close down on one fear, and get the reader hooked.) Tall and blond with a pointy nose, he resembled Tintin. It was 1989, and we were in a club called The Thunderdome in Manchester – dubbed “Madchester” by the media because raving had exploded across England from there. (Madchester, again, slowing the action down.) I’d seen ravers on the news – wearing loud colours, dancing in ways I’d never seen to music that sounded like it was coming from outer space – so I was hoping to find out what all the fuss was about. But I was unimpressed by the bare room, square and dark with a stage at the front, and with only a few people dancing to acid house. I’d decided to try club drugs, but having never met dealers before, their presence – all shiny sports suits, gold jewellery and shifty faces – worried me. I admired Gary for having the nerve to do something I couldn’t: walk up to strangers who might have weapons or be undercover cops (Again, spraying possibilities.) and buy drugs. I was relieved when he spun around with a big grin, and showed me two Ecstasy pills, and two grams of speed meticulously wrapped in little rectangles of paper.
“(Why are you using phonetic spelling?) Yer put yer gram of Billy Whizz in yer Lucozade,” he said, tipping the contents of one of the wraps into a bottle, “and swallow the White Dove with a big swig.” Committing to do drugs was one thing, actually doing them another. My heartbeat was growing louder, my hands trembling. But the desire to have fun was winning out over the terror of ending up in an ambulance and my parents finding out.
“Come on, get on with it,” Gary said, having already taken his Ecstasy.
Suspecting Gary had detected my fear was all the motivation (This language and phrasing is distancing when you’re just trying to say you didn’t want to appear to be a wuss.) I needed to dump the speed into my drink, and pop the pill into my mouth. Gagging on the chemical taste, I thought, Oh my God, what’s gonna happen to me now? “How long before I feel it?” I asked Gary.
“Within the hour.”
I spent the next thirty minutes or so convinced I was about to join the unlucky minority who die after taking drugs their first time (This slows the action down.) I kept having to check my pulse to reassure myself (This sentence is good because it demonstrates the fear more graphically.)
Here’s the rewrite. I’ve reverted to my preference for opening with dialogue.
“We want two E’s and two grams of Billy Whizz,” Gary said to the drug dealers.
“E’s twenty quid. A tenner for a wrap of Whizz.”
I was hovering behind Gary wishing my heartbeat would slow down. Having never done drugs before, I was afraid of the dealers: all shiny sports suits, gold jewellery, and shifty faces.
When Gary pulled our money out, I thought he might get stabbed. “Here you go.”
Almost imperceptibly, the dealer passed Gary the drugs. My relief began when Gary spun around with a big grin, and showed me two pills, and two grams of speed meticulously wrapped in little rectangles of paper. But the relief didn’t last long. I braced for undercover cops to snatch us while we had possession of the drugs. I couldn’t stop my body trembling, especially my hands.
“You put your Billy Whizz in your Lucozade,” Gary said, tipping the contents of one of the wraps into a bottle, “and swallow the White Dove with a big swig.”
Committing to do drugs was one thing, doing them another. My heartbeat was growing louder, my armpits moistening, But I wanted to have fun, and that was winning out over my terror of ending up in an ambulance and my parents finding out.
“Come on, get on with it,” Gary said, having already taken his Ecstasy.
Worried Gary knew I was afraid, I dumped the speed into my drink, and popped the pill into my mouth. Gagging on the chemical taste, I thought, Oh my God, what’s going to happen to me now? I asked Gary, “How long before I feel it?”
“Within the hour.”
Gary was a fellow Economics student from Liverpool University. Tall and blond with a pointy nose, he resembled Tintin. It was 1989, and we were in a club called The Thunderdome in Manchester. I’d seen ravers on the news – wearing loud colours, dancing in ways I’d never seen to music that sounded like it was coming from outer space – so I was hoping to find out what all the fuss was about. But I was unimpressed by the bare room, square and dark with a stage at the front, and with only a few people dancing to acid house.
I spent the next thirty minutes convinced I was about to die. I kept having to check my pulse to reassure myself.
So I’m back on my own now. No more Sally. I’m not even allowed to contact her for six months as a way of making me stand on my own two feet now the umbilical chord has been cut. Sally recommended I join some organisations, including the Society of Authors, and find readers in the writing profession to review my writing and provide constructive feedback.
Thanks to Sally and the Koestler Trust, I’ve achieved the goals I first set with Sally of finding a literary agent and a publisher. I’m truly grateful to them for enabling me to realise my dream of becoming an author.
Click here for Mentored Part 8
Post comments below or email them to writeinside@hotmail.com To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun Attwood
Mentored (Part 6)
Thanks to the Koestler Trust, I am now being mentored by Sally Hinchcliffe, a published author with an M.A. in Creative Writing from the University of London.
Here’s an article recently posted to Koestler’s website, that gives my mentor’s perspective on my writing development.
Mentoring Session One
“Mentoring is a strange balancing act: somewhere between befriending and tutoring, and one I'm still getting to grips with in my sessions with Shaun. I find it an interesting coincidence that we are the same age and we left university in the same year, but the paths of our lives since then have been radically different.
“Our first session was at Liverpool's Walker Arts Gallery Cafe, whose staff have an incredibly relaxed attitude to people occupying a table for two hours with nothing but a cooling cup of coffee. At times I am painfully aware that we are discussing the mechanics of 'keystering' drugs into prison while two immaculately dressed and blue-rinsed old ladies share a pot of tea and cakes across the room. Fortunately the acoustic in the cafe is echo-y and I hope our words don't carry too far beyond our table. Shaun initially sent me a mountain of stuff to read and I made detailed notes on the first three chapters. So much about developing as a writer is about having a sympathetic reader who can see what you're trying to achieve and tell you what works and what doesn't in that context. I'm trying to walk a narrow line – I don't want Shaun to lose his own voice and become a ventriloquist of mine, but then again, I can see how his writing needs to be sharpened and de-cluttered, so that his voice and his story comes through. I have marked up the text as I would a fellow MA student, holding him to the same high standards.
“We also discuss aims and objectives, filling in the planning sheet that Koestler have provided. Shaun is a man with a mission, and in a hurry. He wants to be approaching publishers within three months. I do a lot of expectations management about the pauper's life a writer leads. I'm hoping some of it sinks in. I walk out of the session feeling a little shattered, not helped by an epic four-hour, three-train journey home.”
Sally
“My first session with Sally went extremely well. Now that I have a professional pointing out the errors in my writing and coaching me on getting published, I feel I am about to make some serious progress. After reading the draft of my autobiography, Sally offered a variety of advice... She asked me to summarise the book in one sentence. I replied, “It’s the story of my rise, fall and redemption.” She asked me to write a brief synopsis, and recommended I read these two memoirs, Lucky by Alice Sebold and A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, and these two prison memoirs, Forget You Had a Daughter by Sandra Gregory and A Life Inside by Erwin James. When I told Sally about my high hopes of getting published as soon as I got out of prison, she said that if I was seeking immediate results, I need to find another occupation. Getting published takes years and my book must be presented in the right way because I only have one shot with each publisher, and in its present format my story would be rejected.”
Shaun
Mentoring Session Two
“Reading through Shaun's first blog, I find I have been cast as the dragon lady. His blog readers are appalled, but Shaun seems happy and more importantly the next tranche of work he sends me is radically improved, with all my comments taken on board. I realise the power of my position – the lightest word from me might send Shaun off down a wrong track; a worrying responsibility. We talk about the structure of the book and I find myself torn between making concrete suggestions and getting Shaun to make up his own mind. In the end we consider a couple of approaches for Shaun to try. I sometimes have to bite back my natural tendency to have and voice an opinion – this is not my book, when all is said and done. The mentoring relationship is strictly time limited, and at the end of this year he'll have to continue on his own, and fostering a dependence on me will not be helpful.”
Sally
“The second session started with Sally helping me restructure the draft of a short synopsis of my book. The short synopsis is just for my own use, and states the basic structure of my memoir. She also wants me to consider writing a long synopsis, breaking down each chapter to give the full arc of the story. The long synopsis will be a marketing tool. It needs to state why somebody would want to read my memoir, and what my book says about a larger world.
“For homework, Sally set me the task of critical reading. She wants me to look at some books, to find some good prose and some poor prose, and to explain what works and what doesn’t. I am also to study how authors transition back in time. We both agreed John Updike is a master of such transitions. She hopes this exercise will help me critique myself more.”
Shaun
Mentoring Session Three
“Shaun talks in his blog about 'homework' making me sound more school-marmish than I hope I really am. But I am trying to give him the skills of self-critique, starting with critiquing others. It's easy to become dependent on the opinions of others and lose the ability to see one's own faults. Each tranche of writing Shaun sends is better than the last, and my own critiques have had to become more nuanced. Sometimes he's overshot – I asked him to put more of himself into the writing, now at times I suggest he puts in less.
“We talk about general techniques and I am impressed by how much Shaun has anticipated my own tentative suggestions and going beyond them. The research he has put in is amazing, relying not just on his memories but on letters, and going back to the characters involved and even recording their speech to make sure he's got the dialogue right.”
Sally
“In the third session Sally offered this advice:
Make it clear to the reader how much time is passing and where you are. Try to remember the layout of the jail is confusing to the uninitiated...Consider stepping back at some point and describing how the jail works. Such as the layout, terminology, even the fact that it’s for prisoners on remand. Now that your disorientation stage is out of the way, give the reader some clues. There is a much better sense of yourself in these chapters, but be careful of editorialising. Tell us what you feel, but don’t tell us what to think... In general these three chapters feel solid and well realised, and would fit in well to the book however you slant it. Good stuff.
“Sally recommended I read The War Against Cliché by Martin Amis. It’s a book of literary criticism, containing pieces on some of my favourite authors such as Tom Wolfe and Don DeLillo.”
Shaun
“Every time I fill in my monitoring sheets after a session I have to count back to see how many we've done because I can't believe how far we've both come in a few short meetings. Half way through the project and Shaun is already producing writing that is both assured and at times powerfully moving. I'm fortunate in having someone keen to work hard and utterly dedicated – taking the few hints and tips I've made and running with them. I know I've been fortunate in my mentee (although I still don't believe that's a word) but the past six months have shown how effective this relationship can be.
“I said at the start that our lives had run along radically different courses but if they have diverged in the past, they are now converging. Increasingly we meet these days as writer and writer – sharing tips at our last session on avoiding the aches and pains of a laptop-bound sedentary life – rather than as mentor and mentee.”
Sally
Click here to read Mentored Part 5
Link to the original article.
I also received this email from the school I did my first talk about prison and drugs to:
You may remember coming to speak at Bishop's Stortford College earlier this year.
Our pupils rated your talk as the best one they had recieved all year !
I would very much like to invite you to give the same talk again next year.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below. To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Thanks to the Koestler Trust, I am now being mentored by Sally Hinchcliffe, a published author with an M.A. in Creative Writing from the University of London.
Here’s an article recently posted to Koestler’s website, that gives my mentor’s perspective on my writing development.
Mentoring Session One
“Mentoring is a strange balancing act: somewhere between befriending and tutoring, and one I'm still getting to grips with in my sessions with Shaun. I find it an interesting coincidence that we are the same age and we left university in the same year, but the paths of our lives since then have been radically different.
“Our first session was at Liverpool's Walker Arts Gallery Cafe, whose staff have an incredibly relaxed attitude to people occupying a table for two hours with nothing but a cooling cup of coffee. At times I am painfully aware that we are discussing the mechanics of 'keystering' drugs into prison while two immaculately dressed and blue-rinsed old ladies share a pot of tea and cakes across the room. Fortunately the acoustic in the cafe is echo-y and I hope our words don't carry too far beyond our table. Shaun initially sent me a mountain of stuff to read and I made detailed notes on the first three chapters. So much about developing as a writer is about having a sympathetic reader who can see what you're trying to achieve and tell you what works and what doesn't in that context. I'm trying to walk a narrow line – I don't want Shaun to lose his own voice and become a ventriloquist of mine, but then again, I can see how his writing needs to be sharpened and de-cluttered, so that his voice and his story comes through. I have marked up the text as I would a fellow MA student, holding him to the same high standards.
“We also discuss aims and objectives, filling in the planning sheet that Koestler have provided. Shaun is a man with a mission, and in a hurry. He wants to be approaching publishers within three months. I do a lot of expectations management about the pauper's life a writer leads. I'm hoping some of it sinks in. I walk out of the session feeling a little shattered, not helped by an epic four-hour, three-train journey home.”
Sally
“My first session with Sally went extremely well. Now that I have a professional pointing out the errors in my writing and coaching me on getting published, I feel I am about to make some serious progress. After reading the draft of my autobiography, Sally offered a variety of advice... She asked me to summarise the book in one sentence. I replied, “It’s the story of my rise, fall and redemption.” She asked me to write a brief synopsis, and recommended I read these two memoirs, Lucky by Alice Sebold and A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, and these two prison memoirs, Forget You Had a Daughter by Sandra Gregory and A Life Inside by Erwin James. When I told Sally about my high hopes of getting published as soon as I got out of prison, she said that if I was seeking immediate results, I need to find another occupation. Getting published takes years and my book must be presented in the right way because I only have one shot with each publisher, and in its present format my story would be rejected.”
Shaun
Mentoring Session Two
“Reading through Shaun's first blog, I find I have been cast as the dragon lady. His blog readers are appalled, but Shaun seems happy and more importantly the next tranche of work he sends me is radically improved, with all my comments taken on board. I realise the power of my position – the lightest word from me might send Shaun off down a wrong track; a worrying responsibility. We talk about the structure of the book and I find myself torn between making concrete suggestions and getting Shaun to make up his own mind. In the end we consider a couple of approaches for Shaun to try. I sometimes have to bite back my natural tendency to have and voice an opinion – this is not my book, when all is said and done. The mentoring relationship is strictly time limited, and at the end of this year he'll have to continue on his own, and fostering a dependence on me will not be helpful.”
Sally
“The second session started with Sally helping me restructure the draft of a short synopsis of my book. The short synopsis is just for my own use, and states the basic structure of my memoir. She also wants me to consider writing a long synopsis, breaking down each chapter to give the full arc of the story. The long synopsis will be a marketing tool. It needs to state why somebody would want to read my memoir, and what my book says about a larger world.
“For homework, Sally set me the task of critical reading. She wants me to look at some books, to find some good prose and some poor prose, and to explain what works and what doesn’t. I am also to study how authors transition back in time. We both agreed John Updike is a master of such transitions. She hopes this exercise will help me critique myself more.”
Shaun
Mentoring Session Three
“Shaun talks in his blog about 'homework' making me sound more school-marmish than I hope I really am. But I am trying to give him the skills of self-critique, starting with critiquing others. It's easy to become dependent on the opinions of others and lose the ability to see one's own faults. Each tranche of writing Shaun sends is better than the last, and my own critiques have had to become more nuanced. Sometimes he's overshot – I asked him to put more of himself into the writing, now at times I suggest he puts in less.
“We talk about general techniques and I am impressed by how much Shaun has anticipated my own tentative suggestions and going beyond them. The research he has put in is amazing, relying not just on his memories but on letters, and going back to the characters involved and even recording their speech to make sure he's got the dialogue right.”
Sally
“In the third session Sally offered this advice:
Make it clear to the reader how much time is passing and where you are. Try to remember the layout of the jail is confusing to the uninitiated...Consider stepping back at some point and describing how the jail works. Such as the layout, terminology, even the fact that it’s for prisoners on remand. Now that your disorientation stage is out of the way, give the reader some clues. There is a much better sense of yourself in these chapters, but be careful of editorialising. Tell us what you feel, but don’t tell us what to think... In general these three chapters feel solid and well realised, and would fit in well to the book however you slant it. Good stuff.
“Sally recommended I read The War Against Cliché by Martin Amis. It’s a book of literary criticism, containing pieces on some of my favourite authors such as Tom Wolfe and Don DeLillo.”
Shaun
“Every time I fill in my monitoring sheets after a session I have to count back to see how many we've done because I can't believe how far we've both come in a few short meetings. Half way through the project and Shaun is already producing writing that is both assured and at times powerfully moving. I'm fortunate in having someone keen to work hard and utterly dedicated – taking the few hints and tips I've made and running with them. I know I've been fortunate in my mentee (although I still don't believe that's a word) but the past six months have shown how effective this relationship can be.
“I said at the start that our lives had run along radically different courses but if they have diverged in the past, they are now converging. Increasingly we meet these days as writer and writer – sharing tips at our last session on avoiding the aches and pains of a laptop-bound sedentary life – rather than as mentor and mentee.”
Sally
Click here to read Mentored Part 5
Link to the original article.
I also received this email from the school I did my first talk about prison and drugs to:
You may remember coming to speak at Bishop's Stortford College earlier this year.
Our pupils rated your talk as the best one they had recieved all year !
I would very much like to invite you to give the same talk again next year.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below. To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Mentored (Part 5)
Thanks to the Koestler Trust, I am now being mentored by Sally Hinchcliffe, a published author with an M.A. in Creative Writing from the University of London. Sally recently read the middle section of my jail memoir, Green Bologna and Pink Boxers: Surviving Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s Jail. Several of the chapters cover a period when the Italian Mafia took over our pod in Towers jail. From that period, Sally likes a particular anecdote about Paulie.
Here’s the introduction to the Italians:
Young Marco was a new arrival to our pod. Within days of him moving into cell D15, he had the guards fetch two of his friends, Paulie and Hugo, from other parts of the jail to join him. No one was quite sure how he’d arranged this – I was flabbergasted – but rumours soon spread that he was the son of a Mafioso and bribery was involved. It also circulated that he’d won trophies for kickboxing, but he didn’t look the fighting type. He was short, with a happy innocent look about him. He had large affectionate eyes, and eyelashes long enough for women to envy. His thick brown tresses and olive complexion made him look unlike anyone else in the jail. From a distance, he seemed unimpressive, but close up, the self-confidence he radiated swept you away. He was in for punching someone. We shared the same attorney, Alan Simpson.
Lanky and with stately slicked-back salt-and-pepper hair, Argentinean Hugo idolised Marco and acted in the capacity of his butler. The son of Italian immigrants, he spoke Italian, Spanish, and English fluently. Although in his forties, he was prone to emotional outbursts, which he put down to his South American upbringing. He wrote love letters to his wife signed in his own blood. Listening to inmates tell sad stories and during church services, he often wept. He was facing deportation to Argentina where he claimed he was blacklisted as a political dissident and the government would execute him on arrival. I paid him cookies to teach me Spanish, a language I was determined to master.
The stocky Italian-New Yorker Paulie looked like a typical Hollywood Mafia goon. He had beady brown eyes, a boxer’s flat nose, and hairy sausage fingers that dealt out a nutcracker of a handshake. Every few days, he vented his anger on Hugo much to our amusement. But like Hugo, he was prone to crying, especially when talking about how much he missed his wife and kids.
Much to the astonishment of the guards and inmates a drawing of the Italian flag and a sign went up on the door of D15: LITTLE ITALY. I couldn’t believe my eyes, and laughed out loud the first few times I saw it.
Here’s the anecdote Sally likes:
“’Ey, England,” Paulie said, entering D10 with a scowl that made me squirm on my bunk. “I’ve come to you ’cause I know you’re the only one in here that’ll give me a straight-up fucking answer.”
“What is it, Paulie? You know I’ll help you if I can,” I said, sitting up fast to give him my full attention.
“You promise me you’ll tell me the truth no matter what I fucking ask?”
“Of course I will.”
“Well then. Tell me this then: do I have a fucking anger problem?” He stared at me as if he were a lie detector equipped to punish a wrong answer.
I pushed thoughts of Why me? out of my head and searched for something safe to say. “Here’s what I think, Paulie. You’re a really nice fella, but you do get a little excited every now and then. You’re an emotional person, and everyone likes you.” I hoped he’d leave it at that.
“So you’re saying I do have a fucking anger problem then?” he grunted.
I paused to find a better answer. “I try and stay as calm as possible during stressful situations, but I can see how you handle things a little differently and like to speak what’s on your mind.”
He looked up as if in deep thought. “So are you saying I do or do not have a fucking anger problem?”
Cornered, I risked being more specific: “I’d say that you don’t have an anger problem, but you do get angrier than most of us.” I studied his face.
He scratched his chin. “So you’re saying I do have a little bit of an anger problem?”
The jokey high-pitched way he’d said a little bit encouraged me to mimic him. “Maybe a little bit of an anger problem, but nothing to lose any sleep over.”
He leaned toward me and I flinched. His hand appeared to be coming for my face, but instead it found my shoulder. Rocking my shoulder, he said, “Thanks, England. I really appreciate your honesty.” Much to my relief, he marched out of the cell. He stomped down the stairs into the day room toward Hugo who was stood watching the TV. He stopped when his face was inches away from Hugo’s, and yelled, “England said I don’t have no fucking anger problem!” He thrust his palms into Hugo’s chest, knocking Hugo over a table. I felt partially responsible. “You don’t know what you’re fucking talking about!” Jabbing his index finger into Hugo’s face, he yelled, “Don’t ever talk shit to me again about no fucking anger problem!”
Here are Sally’s comments on the middle section of the book:
– Overall the writing in these chapters flows well, and it’s nicely paced.
– Not sure entirely that your chapter divisions work. Still feel too short, but it’s not a big deal at the moment.
– Thinking about the structure overall, you may need to cut some of this, but for now write it down and think about shaping and pacing later.
– Try reading some passages aloud to others, e.g.) the anger-problem conversation with Paulie. Do less and let the dialogue and situation speak for themselves.
– Overall this is better, but it shows signs of hasty editing.
– The letters you wrote from the jail work well in this context.
– Now need to look at the overall structure of the book. I’m beginning to lose track of what’s in and what’s been taken out.
Sally went on to explain that completing the book is not the end of the work. To market a book to agents, you need essential marketing tools such as a pitch letter, a chapter outline, a synopsis, a proposal… I’ve found writing these things to be more difficult than writing the book itself.
Here’s my attempt at a pitch letter:
Dear (agent’s full name),
I am writing to you on the recommendation of xxxxx. I have been approached by a number of literary agents, but she told me you are a wizard with memoir. Having read your site, I was pleased to see you have a prison writer in your client list.
I am the author of the blog, Jon’s Jail Journal (http://jonsjailjournal.blogspot.com/), which attracted international media attention to the conditions in Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s jail in Phoenix, Arizona. My blog only documented the final few months of my stay, so I have written a book about the twenty-six months I spent there.
Green Bologna and Pink Boxers: Surviving Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s Jail describes my journey through America’s most notorious jail system. It provides a revealing glimpse into the tragedy, brutality, comedy and eccentricity of jail life and the men inside. It is also a story of my redemption, as incarceration leads to introspection, and a passion for literature, yoga, and philosophy.
Sheriff Joe Arpaio is the most famous sheriff in the world, and seems to be at the peak of his fame with a book published last year and his own reality TV show. He makes his inmates wear pink boxers, puts them to work on chain gangs, and feeds them green bologna. But he is also the most sued sheriff in America due to the deaths, violence and medical negligence in a jail system subject to investigation by various human rights organisations. No book has yet been written from the point of view of one of Arpaio’s inmates. Most inmates are only there for a few months awaiting sentencing. During the twenty-six months I was there, I developed a deep understanding of the jail. This book would expose the inhumane conditions he has created, and could possibly save people's lives.
My crimes: I was convicted of money laundering and drug offences. I immigrated to Phoenix, became a stockbroker, and then a tech-stock millionaire during the dot.com bubble. I brought my love of the English dance scene with me, and threw raves. But I also used club drugs, and invested in them, especially Ecstasy. I was deported in December, 2007. I recently moved to London to start a job speaking to audiences of youths about drugs and the bad choices I made that led to prison.
If you think you might be interested in reading some chapters from my memoir, please let me know and I will send them on to you as soon as possible.Hoping to hear from you soon,
Shaun Attwood
I’m pleased to report that I’ve finally signed with a literary agent out of London. I met him last month. We got along really well. He has an impressive client list, and the right contacts to market my book in America. As many of you know, my original agent died of cancer last year at age 41, which was a great shock. With Sally and now this new agent helping launch my career as an author, I’m confident of achieving my next goal: getting a publishing deal.
Click here to read Mentored Part 4.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below. To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Thanks to the Koestler Trust, I am now being mentored by Sally Hinchcliffe, a published author with an M.A. in Creative Writing from the University of London. Sally recently read the middle section of my jail memoir, Green Bologna and Pink Boxers: Surviving Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s Jail. Several of the chapters cover a period when the Italian Mafia took over our pod in Towers jail. From that period, Sally likes a particular anecdote about Paulie.
Here’s the introduction to the Italians:
Young Marco was a new arrival to our pod. Within days of him moving into cell D15, he had the guards fetch two of his friends, Paulie and Hugo, from other parts of the jail to join him. No one was quite sure how he’d arranged this – I was flabbergasted – but rumours soon spread that he was the son of a Mafioso and bribery was involved. It also circulated that he’d won trophies for kickboxing, but he didn’t look the fighting type. He was short, with a happy innocent look about him. He had large affectionate eyes, and eyelashes long enough for women to envy. His thick brown tresses and olive complexion made him look unlike anyone else in the jail. From a distance, he seemed unimpressive, but close up, the self-confidence he radiated swept you away. He was in for punching someone. We shared the same attorney, Alan Simpson.
Lanky and with stately slicked-back salt-and-pepper hair, Argentinean Hugo idolised Marco and acted in the capacity of his butler. The son of Italian immigrants, he spoke Italian, Spanish, and English fluently. Although in his forties, he was prone to emotional outbursts, which he put down to his South American upbringing. He wrote love letters to his wife signed in his own blood. Listening to inmates tell sad stories and during church services, he often wept. He was facing deportation to Argentina where he claimed he was blacklisted as a political dissident and the government would execute him on arrival. I paid him cookies to teach me Spanish, a language I was determined to master.
The stocky Italian-New Yorker Paulie looked like a typical Hollywood Mafia goon. He had beady brown eyes, a boxer’s flat nose, and hairy sausage fingers that dealt out a nutcracker of a handshake. Every few days, he vented his anger on Hugo much to our amusement. But like Hugo, he was prone to crying, especially when talking about how much he missed his wife and kids.
Much to the astonishment of the guards and inmates a drawing of the Italian flag and a sign went up on the door of D15: LITTLE ITALY. I couldn’t believe my eyes, and laughed out loud the first few times I saw it.
Here’s the anecdote Sally likes:
“’Ey, England,” Paulie said, entering D10 with a scowl that made me squirm on my bunk. “I’ve come to you ’cause I know you’re the only one in here that’ll give me a straight-up fucking answer.”
“What is it, Paulie? You know I’ll help you if I can,” I said, sitting up fast to give him my full attention.
“You promise me you’ll tell me the truth no matter what I fucking ask?”
“Of course I will.”
“Well then. Tell me this then: do I have a fucking anger problem?” He stared at me as if he were a lie detector equipped to punish a wrong answer.
I pushed thoughts of Why me? out of my head and searched for something safe to say. “Here’s what I think, Paulie. You’re a really nice fella, but you do get a little excited every now and then. You’re an emotional person, and everyone likes you.” I hoped he’d leave it at that.
“So you’re saying I do have a fucking anger problem then?” he grunted.
I paused to find a better answer. “I try and stay as calm as possible during stressful situations, but I can see how you handle things a little differently and like to speak what’s on your mind.”
He looked up as if in deep thought. “So are you saying I do or do not have a fucking anger problem?”
Cornered, I risked being more specific: “I’d say that you don’t have an anger problem, but you do get angrier than most of us.” I studied his face.
He scratched his chin. “So you’re saying I do have a little bit of an anger problem?”
The jokey high-pitched way he’d said a little bit encouraged me to mimic him. “Maybe a little bit of an anger problem, but nothing to lose any sleep over.”
He leaned toward me and I flinched. His hand appeared to be coming for my face, but instead it found my shoulder. Rocking my shoulder, he said, “Thanks, England. I really appreciate your honesty.” Much to my relief, he marched out of the cell. He stomped down the stairs into the day room toward Hugo who was stood watching the TV. He stopped when his face was inches away from Hugo’s, and yelled, “England said I don’t have no fucking anger problem!” He thrust his palms into Hugo’s chest, knocking Hugo over a table. I felt partially responsible. “You don’t know what you’re fucking talking about!” Jabbing his index finger into Hugo’s face, he yelled, “Don’t ever talk shit to me again about no fucking anger problem!”
Here are Sally’s comments on the middle section of the book:
– Overall the writing in these chapters flows well, and it’s nicely paced.
– Not sure entirely that your chapter divisions work. Still feel too short, but it’s not a big deal at the moment.
– Thinking about the structure overall, you may need to cut some of this, but for now write it down and think about shaping and pacing later.
– Try reading some passages aloud to others, e.g.) the anger-problem conversation with Paulie. Do less and let the dialogue and situation speak for themselves.
– Overall this is better, but it shows signs of hasty editing.
– The letters you wrote from the jail work well in this context.
– Now need to look at the overall structure of the book. I’m beginning to lose track of what’s in and what’s been taken out.
Sally went on to explain that completing the book is not the end of the work. To market a book to agents, you need essential marketing tools such as a pitch letter, a chapter outline, a synopsis, a proposal… I’ve found writing these things to be more difficult than writing the book itself.
Here’s my attempt at a pitch letter:
Dear (agent’s full name),
I am writing to you on the recommendation of xxxxx. I have been approached by a number of literary agents, but she told me you are a wizard with memoir. Having read your site, I was pleased to see you have a prison writer in your client list.
I am the author of the blog, Jon’s Jail Journal (http://jonsjailjournal.blogspot.com/), which attracted international media attention to the conditions in Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s jail in Phoenix, Arizona. My blog only documented the final few months of my stay, so I have written a book about the twenty-six months I spent there.
Green Bologna and Pink Boxers: Surviving Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s Jail describes my journey through America’s most notorious jail system. It provides a revealing glimpse into the tragedy, brutality, comedy and eccentricity of jail life and the men inside. It is also a story of my redemption, as incarceration leads to introspection, and a passion for literature, yoga, and philosophy.
Sheriff Joe Arpaio is the most famous sheriff in the world, and seems to be at the peak of his fame with a book published last year and his own reality TV show. He makes his inmates wear pink boxers, puts them to work on chain gangs, and feeds them green bologna. But he is also the most sued sheriff in America due to the deaths, violence and medical negligence in a jail system subject to investigation by various human rights organisations. No book has yet been written from the point of view of one of Arpaio’s inmates. Most inmates are only there for a few months awaiting sentencing. During the twenty-six months I was there, I developed a deep understanding of the jail. This book would expose the inhumane conditions he has created, and could possibly save people's lives.
My crimes: I was convicted of money laundering and drug offences. I immigrated to Phoenix, became a stockbroker, and then a tech-stock millionaire during the dot.com bubble. I brought my love of the English dance scene with me, and threw raves. But I also used club drugs, and invested in them, especially Ecstasy. I was deported in December, 2007. I recently moved to London to start a job speaking to audiences of youths about drugs and the bad choices I made that led to prison.
If you think you might be interested in reading some chapters from my memoir, please let me know and I will send them on to you as soon as possible.Hoping to hear from you soon,
Shaun Attwood
I’m pleased to report that I’ve finally signed with a literary agent out of London. I met him last month. We got along really well. He has an impressive client list, and the right contacts to market my book in America. As many of you know, my original agent died of cancer last year at age 41, which was a great shock. With Sally and now this new agent helping launch my career as an author, I’m confident of achieving my next goal: getting a publishing deal.
Click here to read Mentored Part 4.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below. To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Mentored (Part 8)
Thanks to the Koestler Trust, I am being mentored by Sally Hinchcliffe, a published author with an M.A. in Creative Writing from the University of London.
Now that my jail memoir is finished and has found a publisher, I’ve moved onto writing the volume of my life story that encompasses everything up to my arrest. I submitted the first sixty pages to Sally, and she provided the following constructive feedback.
Think on two levels:
Level 1: The big picture. Story. Themes. Arc. Characters.
Level 2: Detail. Writing. Sentences. Clichés. Pacing. Language. “In the moment.” Editorialising.
– The first draft often has lots of faults at the detail level. This is not necessarily a problem as you can sort those out later. Don’t let your inner editor stop/slow you down.
– The aim of a first draft should be to get the big picture sketched out (but it doesn’t always work that way).
– Balance between plotting stuff out and just writing. You need to find what works for you.
– Ask yourself what is this book about (in a nutshell)? Who is it aimed at? When you’ve answered these questions, you can then decide which incidents and characters serve to tell that story.
– What are the themes? How can you best arrange the themes to hook the readers and satisfy them?
You also need to consider who’s going to read your drafts after this mentor program ends. Here are some ideas:
– Deploying blog readers.
– Joining a writing group.
– Your agent can act as an editor, but probably won’t want first drafts.
– Other readers won’t necessarily act as editors, but can give you feedback/ reactions.
– Ask: – for their initial reactions
– for any questions the draft has raised
– them specific questions: “Does X work?” “Should I start with Y?” in order that they think about the work in concrete ways.
My questions are:
– Who will be reading this book and why?
– How much of your own youth, childhood do you want to put in, and how much of Wild Man’s?
– What is the story arc? If you think of it as a cautionary tale, there are places where you make choices and things could have gone differently. You need to make these points clear (subtly!).
The first thing Sally wrote on the draft was “Why start here?” I opened with a childhood anecdote about Wild Man and me as a year ago Sally said I needed to explain my history with Wild Man more, but I’ve decided that Sally is nudging me in a different direction: the book needs to start with an anecdote more relevant to the theme of the book. The Wild Man anecdote should come later. The theme of the book is my rise and fall. But my rise and fall in what? Well, raving and the stock market were two of the main focuses of my pre-arrest life. A lady I told my story to recently expressed it in this nutshell: “Your story is the Manchester rave scene meets Wall Street.” In light of Sally’s advice, the best place to start the book seems to be my first rave and Ecstasy experience. That was a night that reshaped my destiny. So I’m going to end this blog entry with that anecdote. Bear in mind it’s only a rough draft and I’ll no doubt be rewriting it as many times as I rewrote the opening of the jail memoir – I stopped counting, but it was easily over a hundred times. Your feedback and suggestions on any improvements are most welcome, and please be as nasty as you like.
When I first saw ravers on the news – wearing loud colours, dancing in ways I’d never seen before to music that sounded like it was coming from outer space – I couldn't wait to get to a rave to find out what all the fuss was about. My excitement grew when Gary, a fellow economics student at Liverpool University, invited me to a club called The Thunderdome in Manchester – dubbed “Madchester” by the media because raving had exploded across England from there.
We arrived at The Thunderdome too early. The bare room, square and dark with a stage at the front, didn’t impress me. There were only a few people dancing to acid house. Gary, who resembled Tintin, haggled with the dealers. I’d agreed to try club drugs, but I’d never met a dealer before and their presence – all shiny sports suits, gold jewellery and shifty faces – worried me. I admired Gary for having the nerve to do something I couldn’t: walk up to a stranger who might have a weapon or be an undercover cop and buy drugs. When Gary pulled some money out, I thought he might get stabbed and robbed or end up buying rat poison. I was relieved when he rejoined me with a big grin, and showed me two Ecstasy pills, and two grams of speed meticulously wrapped in little rectangles of paper.
“You put your gram of Billy Whizz in yer Lucozade,” he said, tipping the contents of one of the wraps into a bottle, “and swallow the White Dove with a big swig.”
Committing to do drugs was one thing, actually doing them another. My heart was going fast, my hands trembling. But the desire to have fun was winning out over the terror of ending up in an ambulance and my parents finding out.
“Come on, get on with it,” Gary said, having already taken his Ecstasy.
Suspecting Gary had detected my fear was all the motivation I needed to dump the speed into my drink, and pop the pill into my mouth. Gagging on the chemical taste, I thought, Oh my God, what’s gonna happen to me now? “How long before I feel it?” I asked Gary.
“Within the hour.”
I spent the next thirty minutes or so convinced I was about to join the unlucky minority who die after taking drugs their first time. I kept having to check my pulse to reassure myself.
Gary’s face was the first to change. A look blossomed on it, like he’d just had an orgasm. He couldn’t stop smiling or stand still, and was exuding the kind of bliss you see on those old paintings of angels. He begged me to dance with him, but I hadn’t really enjoyed dancing since the days of punk rock, so I refused. Watching him bounce off as if he owned the place, I felt like I’d let him down. Frustrated at the drugs for not affecting me, I finished my drink. I was walking toward the bar when one of my knees buckled and then the other. I had to stop walking, but strangely, I wasn’t afraid. I tried to walk, but wobbled, and had to sit down. This interruption to a lifetime of walking normally didn’t faze me. I remained anchored to the floor with people walking all around.
Someone kicked me by accident. “Sorry, mate.”
I looked up at the smiling youth, and broke into a smile that refused to go away. Then something distracted my mind. It was the sensation of my T-shirt against my skin. I touched my neck. It no longer felt like my neck. I touched it again to make sure and sure enough felt the same sensation, as if my fingertips were feathers tickling my skin. Or were they melting into my skin ever so gently? Whatever was going on felt so good I just had to massage myself. Even breathing was a whole new experience. Each inhale went beyond expanding my chest. It sent ripples of pleasure throughout my body, even making my eyes tingle somehow. That my body was no longer behaving like it should created feelings of confusion and pleasure, but with the pleasure so much stronger. Not only was my body feeling exceptional, so was my mind. The forces at work were such I could only think happy thoughts. It was as if my smile had taken control of my brain, making me think things to keep my smile going. I remembered I was going to the bar, but that didn’t matter any more, nor did all of the things I’d been stressing about in my life such as losing my girlfriend, the engine problems with my car, and the calculus heavy five-thousand-word balance-of-payments essay due on Monday morning. Keen to make use of a good mood that was still elevating, I tried communicating with strangers by the medium of smiling. They smiled back just as emphatically, which was all the proof I needed that we were reading each other’s minds, conversing in a realm inaccessible to the uninitiated. As the club filled, time lost all relevance. Ravers were everywhere, saturating the room with body heat and enough colours to put the hippies of the sixties to shame. Watching them feed off each other’s hugs and grins, I wanted to get up and join them. My high kept climbing, overwhelming my brain one second and the next making me sway with pleasure and my eyes shoot up. I was so hot, I wanted to take my top off. My brain pondered this in slow motion until the urge faded away. The thud-thud-thud from the speakers and strange beeping noises were all making sense now. They were telling me to get off my arse and dance. The part of me that knew I couldn’t dance and feared I’d make a fool of myself had gone. I was bobbing my head, tapping my fingers against my thighs and rocking to and fro on the floor when Gary found me. Our big eyes locked in recognition of our like moods and we intensified our smiles.
“Come on,” he said, and I knew what he meant.
I followed him into the thick of bodies, until he stopped and danced. I jumped from side to side, trying to find my groove, and then settled into the same rocking motion as everyone else. We were a wave, a human wave with ripples, subject to the laws of physics governing fluids; only our laws were coming from giant black speakers blasting music that felt as if it were beating exactly at the rate of my heart. I was actually dancing, loving dancing, surprising myself with how natural it felt, experimenting with moves I copied from those around me, that is until everyone stopped dancing. Had someone turned the music off? No. There was still a trancey sound. Arms shot into the air. Whistles blew. A machine hissed out smoke. A black woman sang with a beauty bordering on the spiritual, tingling me all over, and I mean right down to the genitals. Then a few piano notes were struck, and we swayed, our fingers reaching into the beams of the sun laser. An air horn sounded, and for a moment I braced for a lorry to plough through the club. Such an absurd notion made me laugh. The soulful woman’s voice faded as DJ Jay Wearden mixed in a Guru Josh track: 1990’s... Time for the Guru… A haunting saxophone solo sent my eyes rolling up, and my eyelids fluttering. In the square room that had bored me earlier I was now one with God.
Is this the kind of opening story that would keep you turning the pages?
Click here for Mentored Part 7
Post comments below or email them to writeinside@hotmail.com To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Thanks to the Koestler Trust, I am being mentored by Sally Hinchcliffe, a published author with an M.A. in Creative Writing from the University of London.
Now that my jail memoir is finished and has found a publisher, I’ve moved onto writing the volume of my life story that encompasses everything up to my arrest. I submitted the first sixty pages to Sally, and she provided the following constructive feedback.
Think on two levels:
Level 1: The big picture. Story. Themes. Arc. Characters.
Level 2: Detail. Writing. Sentences. Clichés. Pacing. Language. “In the moment.” Editorialising.
– The first draft often has lots of faults at the detail level. This is not necessarily a problem as you can sort those out later. Don’t let your inner editor stop/slow you down.
– The aim of a first draft should be to get the big picture sketched out (but it doesn’t always work that way).
– Balance between plotting stuff out and just writing. You need to find what works for you.
– Ask yourself what is this book about (in a nutshell)? Who is it aimed at? When you’ve answered these questions, you can then decide which incidents and characters serve to tell that story.
– What are the themes? How can you best arrange the themes to hook the readers and satisfy them?
You also need to consider who’s going to read your drafts after this mentor program ends. Here are some ideas:
– Deploying blog readers.
– Joining a writing group.
– Your agent can act as an editor, but probably won’t want first drafts.
– Other readers won’t necessarily act as editors, but can give you feedback/ reactions.
– Ask: – for their initial reactions
– for any questions the draft has raised
– them specific questions: “Does X work?” “Should I start with Y?” in order that they think about the work in concrete ways.
My questions are:
– Who will be reading this book and why?
– How much of your own youth, childhood do you want to put in, and how much of Wild Man’s?
– What is the story arc? If you think of it as a cautionary tale, there are places where you make choices and things could have gone differently. You need to make these points clear (subtly!).
The first thing Sally wrote on the draft was “Why start here?” I opened with a childhood anecdote about Wild Man and me as a year ago Sally said I needed to explain my history with Wild Man more, but I’ve decided that Sally is nudging me in a different direction: the book needs to start with an anecdote more relevant to the theme of the book. The Wild Man anecdote should come later. The theme of the book is my rise and fall. But my rise and fall in what? Well, raving and the stock market were two of the main focuses of my pre-arrest life. A lady I told my story to recently expressed it in this nutshell: “Your story is the Manchester rave scene meets Wall Street.” In light of Sally’s advice, the best place to start the book seems to be my first rave and Ecstasy experience. That was a night that reshaped my destiny. So I’m going to end this blog entry with that anecdote. Bear in mind it’s only a rough draft and I’ll no doubt be rewriting it as many times as I rewrote the opening of the jail memoir – I stopped counting, but it was easily over a hundred times. Your feedback and suggestions on any improvements are most welcome, and please be as nasty as you like.
When I first saw ravers on the news – wearing loud colours, dancing in ways I’d never seen before to music that sounded like it was coming from outer space – I couldn't wait to get to a rave to find out what all the fuss was about. My excitement grew when Gary, a fellow economics student at Liverpool University, invited me to a club called The Thunderdome in Manchester – dubbed “Madchester” by the media because raving had exploded across England from there.
We arrived at The Thunderdome too early. The bare room, square and dark with a stage at the front, didn’t impress me. There were only a few people dancing to acid house. Gary, who resembled Tintin, haggled with the dealers. I’d agreed to try club drugs, but I’d never met a dealer before and their presence – all shiny sports suits, gold jewellery and shifty faces – worried me. I admired Gary for having the nerve to do something I couldn’t: walk up to a stranger who might have a weapon or be an undercover cop and buy drugs. When Gary pulled some money out, I thought he might get stabbed and robbed or end up buying rat poison. I was relieved when he rejoined me with a big grin, and showed me two Ecstasy pills, and two grams of speed meticulously wrapped in little rectangles of paper.
“You put your gram of Billy Whizz in yer Lucozade,” he said, tipping the contents of one of the wraps into a bottle, “and swallow the White Dove with a big swig.”
Committing to do drugs was one thing, actually doing them another. My heart was going fast, my hands trembling. But the desire to have fun was winning out over the terror of ending up in an ambulance and my parents finding out.
“Come on, get on with it,” Gary said, having already taken his Ecstasy.
Suspecting Gary had detected my fear was all the motivation I needed to dump the speed into my drink, and pop the pill into my mouth. Gagging on the chemical taste, I thought, Oh my God, what’s gonna happen to me now? “How long before I feel it?” I asked Gary.
“Within the hour.”
I spent the next thirty minutes or so convinced I was about to join the unlucky minority who die after taking drugs their first time. I kept having to check my pulse to reassure myself.
Gary’s face was the first to change. A look blossomed on it, like he’d just had an orgasm. He couldn’t stop smiling or stand still, and was exuding the kind of bliss you see on those old paintings of angels. He begged me to dance with him, but I hadn’t really enjoyed dancing since the days of punk rock, so I refused. Watching him bounce off as if he owned the place, I felt like I’d let him down. Frustrated at the drugs for not affecting me, I finished my drink. I was walking toward the bar when one of my knees buckled and then the other. I had to stop walking, but strangely, I wasn’t afraid. I tried to walk, but wobbled, and had to sit down. This interruption to a lifetime of walking normally didn’t faze me. I remained anchored to the floor with people walking all around.
Someone kicked me by accident. “Sorry, mate.”
I looked up at the smiling youth, and broke into a smile that refused to go away. Then something distracted my mind. It was the sensation of my T-shirt against my skin. I touched my neck. It no longer felt like my neck. I touched it again to make sure and sure enough felt the same sensation, as if my fingertips were feathers tickling my skin. Or were they melting into my skin ever so gently? Whatever was going on felt so good I just had to massage myself. Even breathing was a whole new experience. Each inhale went beyond expanding my chest. It sent ripples of pleasure throughout my body, even making my eyes tingle somehow. That my body was no longer behaving like it should created feelings of confusion and pleasure, but with the pleasure so much stronger. Not only was my body feeling exceptional, so was my mind. The forces at work were such I could only think happy thoughts. It was as if my smile had taken control of my brain, making me think things to keep my smile going. I remembered I was going to the bar, but that didn’t matter any more, nor did all of the things I’d been stressing about in my life such as losing my girlfriend, the engine problems with my car, and the calculus heavy five-thousand-word balance-of-payments essay due on Monday morning. Keen to make use of a good mood that was still elevating, I tried communicating with strangers by the medium of smiling. They smiled back just as emphatically, which was all the proof I needed that we were reading each other’s minds, conversing in a realm inaccessible to the uninitiated. As the club filled, time lost all relevance. Ravers were everywhere, saturating the room with body heat and enough colours to put the hippies of the sixties to shame. Watching them feed off each other’s hugs and grins, I wanted to get up and join them. My high kept climbing, overwhelming my brain one second and the next making me sway with pleasure and my eyes shoot up. I was so hot, I wanted to take my top off. My brain pondered this in slow motion until the urge faded away. The thud-thud-thud from the speakers and strange beeping noises were all making sense now. They were telling me to get off my arse and dance. The part of me that knew I couldn’t dance and feared I’d make a fool of myself had gone. I was bobbing my head, tapping my fingers against my thighs and rocking to and fro on the floor when Gary found me. Our big eyes locked in recognition of our like moods and we intensified our smiles.
“Come on,” he said, and I knew what he meant.
I followed him into the thick of bodies, until he stopped and danced. I jumped from side to side, trying to find my groove, and then settled into the same rocking motion as everyone else. We were a wave, a human wave with ripples, subject to the laws of physics governing fluids; only our laws were coming from giant black speakers blasting music that felt as if it were beating exactly at the rate of my heart. I was actually dancing, loving dancing, surprising myself with how natural it felt, experimenting with moves I copied from those around me, that is until everyone stopped dancing. Had someone turned the music off? No. There was still a trancey sound. Arms shot into the air. Whistles blew. A machine hissed out smoke. A black woman sang with a beauty bordering on the spiritual, tingling me all over, and I mean right down to the genitals. Then a few piano notes were struck, and we swayed, our fingers reaching into the beams of the sun laser. An air horn sounded, and for a moment I braced for a lorry to plough through the club. Such an absurd notion made me laugh. The soulful woman’s voice faded as DJ Jay Wearden mixed in a Guru Josh track: 1990’s... Time for the Guru… A haunting saxophone solo sent my eyes rolling up, and my eyelids fluttering. In the square room that had bored me earlier I was now one with God.
Is this the kind of opening story that would keep you turning the pages?
Click here for Mentored Part 7
Post comments below or email them to writeinside@hotmail.com To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
23 Nov 08
Mentored (Part 1)
Thanks to the Koestler Trust, I am now being mentored by Sally Hinchcliffe, a published author with an MA in Creative Writing from the University of London, taught by Julia Bell and Russell Celyn Jones.
My first session with her went extremely well. Now that I have a professional pointing out the errors in my writing and coaching me on getting published, I am confident of making progress.
After reading the draft of my autobiography, Sally offered a variety of advice. She said I need to rethink the structure of the book, as running the jail story in the odd chapters and the stockbroker/rave story in the even chapters is too confusing. She wants me to remove any characters and anecdotes that do not further the story, with a view to the book totalling 125,000 words or less.
She provided detailed feedback on Chapters 1 to 5, which some of you have read. She wants me to provide more background on the main characters such as Wild Man. To add more of my thoughts, feelings, motivations, and reactions, so I’m not so much a bystander. To describe things using all five senses, particularly the sense of smell. To provide more details about the environment, especially the prison buildings and cells. To simplify my prose and stop trying to be “showy,” for example, getting rid of all of my references to the classics, which she calls “cultural name-dropping” – we had a good laugh over that one. To increase my paragraph size – difficult for me as I find large paragraphs cumbersome. To stop italicising my thoughts because italics are better used for emphasis.
She asked me to summarise the book in one sentence. I replied, “It’s the story of my rise, fall and redemption.”
She asked me to write a brief synopsis, and recommended I read these two memoirs, Lucky by Alice Sebold and A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, and these two prison memoirs, Forget You Had a Daughter by Sandra Gregory and A Life Inside by Erwin James.
When I told Sally about my high hopes of getting published as soon as I got out of prison, she said that if I am seeking immediate results, I need to find another occupation. Getting published takes years and my book must be presented in the right way because I only have one shot with each publisher, and in its present format my story would be rejected.
Our friends inside who are aspiring writers – Jack, Shane, Warrior – have asked I keep them posted on what I learn from my mentor. So I’m providing the first two pages of my autobiography, with my mentor’s constructive feedback in bold, in the hope it will be of benefit to them, and anyone else studying writing. Other than the specific points in bold, she asked me to insert more of my thoughts and feelings, and to try and write some bigger paragraphs.
Chapter 1
“Tempe Police Department! We have a warrant for your arrest! Open the door immediately!”
The stock quotes flickering on the computer screen lost all importance as I rushed to the peephole.
Bang, bang, bang, bang!
Wearing only boxer shorts, I dashed to the bedroom. “Claudia Wake up! It’s the cops!”
“Tempe Police Department! If you refuse to open the door, we will use force to enter!”
Claudia scrambled from the California king, her long blond hair tousled. “What should we do?” she asked, anxiously straightening her pink pyjamas.
Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!
“Open the door! This is your last warning!”
We searched each other’s faces.
“Let’s open it,” I said.
Claudia clung to my arm. We hastened to let them in and – boom! – the door leaped off its hinges.
Pointing submachine guns, a small army of SWAT blitzed through the doorframe, and fanned out with military precision. – feels like a cliché, also, how did having guns pointed at you make you feel?
“Get on the fucking ground now!”
“On your bellies now!”
“Hands above your heads!”
“Don’t fucking move!”
Crushed by hands and feet, I could barely breathe. Cold steel snapped around my wrists. I was hoisted like a puppet onto my feet.
As they yanked Claudia up by the cuffs, she pinched her eyes shut; when she opened them, tears spilled out. – make into a longer paragraph, save the short ones for when you need them
“I’m Detective Reid. You’re a big name from the rave scene, English Shaun. – why did he tell you this? How did it make you feel? I’m sure this raid will vindicate the charges.” Detective Reid was a tall burly man with long scraggy hair and an intimidating presence. His gaze probed my inner self.
Dazed by shock, my mind struggled for an appropriate response. “There’s nothing illegal in here.”
He smirked knowingly, then read my Miranda and consular rights.
I wanted to put my arms around Claudia to stop her trembling. “Don’t worry, love. Everything’s going to be alright.” I said, concealing my fear.
“Don’t fucking talk to her! You’re going outside!” Detective Reid took a dirty T-shirt from the hamper and threw it at me. “Take this with you!”
“I’m exercising my right to remain silent, love!” I yelled as they pushed me out of the apartment.
“I told you not to fucking talk to her!”
Yelling over each other, they shoved me down the stairs.
“Stand by the stairs and keep fucking quiet!” Detective Reid left me guarded by a policeman.
The punishing heat of the sun rising over the Sonoran Desert soon engulfed me.
They locked Claudia into the back of a Crown Victoria. It sped off with my girlfriend of one-and-a-half years. – exposition, best either done explicitly or left out altogether
Police in state uniforms, federal uniforms, and plain clothes swarmed our Scottsdale apartment, their eyes burning with a mechanical zeal for – cliché the administration of justice.
Every so often, Detective Reid and a short bespectacled lady conferred.
Neighbours gathered:
“What’s all this about?”
“Some kind of drug bust.”
“Drug bust up there!”
“I know. They seemed so quiet.”
“You never can tell these days.” – did you really hear them say this? It needs to be explained somehow?
Sweat streamed from my armpits, trickled from my crotch. I thought about Claudia. What will they do to her? Will she be charged? – don’t italicise thoughts, unless you want to emphasise an important thought
Detective Reid approached me. “What’s in the safe, Attwood?”
“A coin collection and documents like my birth certificate.”
“You’re full of shit! Where’s the key?” Detective Reid asked, the hostility in his voice increasing. “You might as well just give the drugs up at this point.”
“The key’s on my key chain, but it needs a combination as well as a key.”
“What drugs are in it?”
“None.”
“Don’t play games with us, Attwood. Don’t force me to call a locksmith.”
“I’m not playing games.”
“We’ll soon see about that.”
I was about to volunteer the combination, but he whipped out a cell phone, and dialled a locksmith.
“Get in the back of that car over there,” said a policeman in his late forties with a rugged face. He looked the type not averse to taking a detour on the way to the police station to teach certain criminals a lesson.
New to manoeuvring in handcuffs, I fell sideways on to the back seat.
He threw a pair of jeans at me – how can you put jeans on in handcuffs? Need to explain more what happened and secured the door. In the driver’s seat, he donned Electra Glide in Blue motorcycle-cop sunglasses, mouthed a stick of gum, and blasted a hard-rock radio station. Tapping the wheel, he bobbed his head slightly as he drove.
The sense of being on the road to losing my liberty increased my dread and helplessness.
“Looks like we’re gonna be waiting outside,” he said, parking near Tempe police station.
Sealed in the Crown Victoria for what seemed like an eternity, I mulled over my predicament. Cuffed. Cramped. Sweaty. – good
“Bring him in,” someone radioed.
He parked by a mobile police unit, and escorted me to a man sat at a desk.
“Fill this out.”
NAME, DATE OF BIRTH, SOCIAL SECURITY NUMBER, HOME ADDRESS, OCCUPATION, WORK ADDRESS…
“I’m exercising my right to remain silent,” I said.
“You must fill this out, or else we’ll book you in as a John Doe, and you don’t want that.”
Here’s my revised version of the first two pages, incorporating her feedback.
Chapter 1
“Tempe Police Department! Open the door, we have a warrant for your arrest!”
The stock quotes flickering on the computer screen lost all importance as I rushed to the peephole – it was blacked out. Boots thudded up the outdoor stairs to our Scottsdale apartment.
Bang, bang, bang, bang!
Wearing only boxer shorts, I dashed to the bedroom. “Claudia Wake up! It’s the cops!”
“Tempe Police Department! Open the door! We have a warrant!”
Claudia scrambled from the California king, her long blond hair tousled. “What should we do?” she asked, anxiously fixing her pink pyjamas.
Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!
“Open the door! This is your last warning!”
We searched each other’s faces.
“Let’s open it,” I said, figuring not letting them in would make matters worse.
With Claudia clinging to my arm, I was hastening to let them in when – boom! – the door leaped off its hinges.
Toting submachine guns, a small army of SWAT blitzed through the doorframe. I froze in place. Terror-struck. In an instant, they surrounded us like a mechanical hand. Accompanying every gun aimed at my body was an avid squint behind tactical goggles. I braced myself to be shot at any moment.
“Get on the fucking ground now!”
“On your bellies now!”
“Hands above your heads!”
“Don’t fucking move!”
As I dropped to the floor, they fell upon me. Crushed by hands and feet, I could barely breathe. Cold steel snapped around my wrists. I was hoisted like a puppet onto my feet. As they yanked Claudia up by the cuffs, she pinched her eyes shut; when she opened them, tears spilled out.
“I’m Detective Reid,” said a tall burly man with long scraggy hair, and an intimidating presence. “English Shaun, you’re a big name from the rave scene. I’m sure this raid will vindicate the charges.” He had a condescending look in his eyes, and a self-satisfied edge in his tone of voice, as if he were savouring a moment of great triumph. He seemed dangerously childish.
Dazed by shock, I fumbled around for an appropriate response. “There’s nothing illegal in here.”
He smirked knowingly, then read my Miranda and consular rights.
I wanted to put my arms around Claudia to stop her trembling. “Don’t worry, love. Everything’s going to be alright,” I said, concealing my fear.
“Don’t fucking talk to her! You’re going outside!” Detective Reid took a dirty T-shirt from the hamper and threw it at me. “Take this with you!”
“I’m exercising my right to remain silent, love!” I yelled repeatedly as they pushed me out of the apartment.
“I told you not to fucking talk to her!”
Yelling over each other, they shoved me down the stairs. They briefly removed my cuffs, so I could slip the T-shirt on.
“Stand by the stairs and keep fucking quiet!” Detective Reid left me guarded by a policeman.
The heat of the sun rising over the Sonoran Desert soon punished me.
They locked Claudia into the back of a Crown Victoria, which sped off.
Police in state uniforms, federal uniforms, and plain clothes swarmed our place.
Every so often, Detective Reid and a short bespectacled lady conferred.
Neighbours assembled, fascinated, saying things like:
“What’s all this about?”
“Some kind of drug bust.”
“Drug bust up there!”
“I know. They seemed so quiet.”
“You never can tell these days.”
Sweat streamed from my armpits, trickled from my crotch. I thought about Claudia. What will they do to her? Will she be charged? Tired of being outdoors, I worried about where they might take me.
Detective Reid bounded down the stairs, his air of triumph gone. “What’s in the safe, Attwood?”
“A coin collection and documents like my birth certificate.”
“You’re full of shit! Where’s the key?” he asked, raising the hostility in his voice. “You might as well just give the drugs up at this point.”
“The key’s on my key chain, but it needs a combination as well as a key.”
“What drugs are in it?”
“None.”
“Don’t play games with us, Attwood. Don’t force me to call a locksmith.”
“I’m not playing games.”
“We’ll soon see about that.” He sounded desperate.
I was about to volunteer the combination, but he whipped out a cell phone, and dialled a locksmith.
“Get in the back of that car over there,” said a policeman in his late forties with a rugged face. He looked the type not averse to taking a detour on the way to the police station to teach certain criminals a lesson.
New to manoeuvring in handcuffs, I fell sideways on to the back seat. I straightened myself up, and he threw a pair of jeans on my lap.
In the driver’s seat, he donned Electra Glide in Blue motorcycle-cop sunglasses, mouthed a stick of gum, and blasted a hard-rock radio station. Tapping the wheel, he bobbed his head slightly as he drove.
The sense of being on the road to losing my liberty increased my dread.
“Looks like we’re gonna be waiting outside,” he said, parking near Tempe police station.
Sealed in the Crown Victoria for what seemed like an eternity, I mulled over my predicament. Cuffed. Cramped. Sweaty.
“Bring him in,” someone radioed.
He parked by a mobile police unit. He uncuffed me, told me to put my jeans on, and escorted me to a man sat at a desk.
“Fill this out.”
NAME, DATE OF BIRTH, SOCIAL SECURITY NUMBER, HOME ADDRESS, OCCUPATION, WORK ADDRESS…
“I’m exercising my right to remain silent,” I said.
“You must fill this out, or else we’ll book you in as a John Doe, and you don’t want that.”
Click here for Mentored Part 2.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below. To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Mentored (Part 1)
Thanks to the Koestler Trust, I am now being mentored by Sally Hinchcliffe, a published author with an MA in Creative Writing from the University of London, taught by Julia Bell and Russell Celyn Jones.
My first session with her went extremely well. Now that I have a professional pointing out the errors in my writing and coaching me on getting published, I am confident of making progress.
After reading the draft of my autobiography, Sally offered a variety of advice. She said I need to rethink the structure of the book, as running the jail story in the odd chapters and the stockbroker/rave story in the even chapters is too confusing. She wants me to remove any characters and anecdotes that do not further the story, with a view to the book totalling 125,000 words or less.
She provided detailed feedback on Chapters 1 to 5, which some of you have read. She wants me to provide more background on the main characters such as Wild Man. To add more of my thoughts, feelings, motivations, and reactions, so I’m not so much a bystander. To describe things using all five senses, particularly the sense of smell. To provide more details about the environment, especially the prison buildings and cells. To simplify my prose and stop trying to be “showy,” for example, getting rid of all of my references to the classics, which she calls “cultural name-dropping” – we had a good laugh over that one. To increase my paragraph size – difficult for me as I find large paragraphs cumbersome. To stop italicising my thoughts because italics are better used for emphasis.
She asked me to summarise the book in one sentence. I replied, “It’s the story of my rise, fall and redemption.”
She asked me to write a brief synopsis, and recommended I read these two memoirs, Lucky by Alice Sebold and A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, and these two prison memoirs, Forget You Had a Daughter by Sandra Gregory and A Life Inside by Erwin James.
When I told Sally about my high hopes of getting published as soon as I got out of prison, she said that if I am seeking immediate results, I need to find another occupation. Getting published takes years and my book must be presented in the right way because I only have one shot with each publisher, and in its present format my story would be rejected.
Our friends inside who are aspiring writers – Jack, Shane, Warrior – have asked I keep them posted on what I learn from my mentor. So I’m providing the first two pages of my autobiography, with my mentor’s constructive feedback in bold, in the hope it will be of benefit to them, and anyone else studying writing. Other than the specific points in bold, she asked me to insert more of my thoughts and feelings, and to try and write some bigger paragraphs.
Chapter 1
“Tempe Police Department! We have a warrant for your arrest! Open the door immediately!”
The stock quotes flickering on the computer screen lost all importance as I rushed to the peephole.
Bang, bang, bang, bang!
Wearing only boxer shorts, I dashed to the bedroom. “Claudia Wake up! It’s the cops!”
“Tempe Police Department! If you refuse to open the door, we will use force to enter!”
Claudia scrambled from the California king, her long blond hair tousled. “What should we do?” she asked, anxiously straightening her pink pyjamas.
Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!
“Open the door! This is your last warning!”
We searched each other’s faces.
“Let’s open it,” I said.
Claudia clung to my arm. We hastened to let them in and – boom! – the door leaped off its hinges.
Pointing submachine guns, a small army of SWAT blitzed through the doorframe, and fanned out with military precision. – feels like a cliché, also, how did having guns pointed at you make you feel?
“Get on the fucking ground now!”
“On your bellies now!”
“Hands above your heads!”
“Don’t fucking move!”
Crushed by hands and feet, I could barely breathe. Cold steel snapped around my wrists. I was hoisted like a puppet onto my feet.
As they yanked Claudia up by the cuffs, she pinched her eyes shut; when she opened them, tears spilled out. – make into a longer paragraph, save the short ones for when you need them
“I’m Detective Reid. You’re a big name from the rave scene, English Shaun. – why did he tell you this? How did it make you feel? I’m sure this raid will vindicate the charges.” Detective Reid was a tall burly man with long scraggy hair and an intimidating presence. His gaze probed my inner self.
Dazed by shock, my mind struggled for an appropriate response. “There’s nothing illegal in here.”
He smirked knowingly, then read my Miranda and consular rights.
I wanted to put my arms around Claudia to stop her trembling. “Don’t worry, love. Everything’s going to be alright.” I said, concealing my fear.
“Don’t fucking talk to her! You’re going outside!” Detective Reid took a dirty T-shirt from the hamper and threw it at me. “Take this with you!”
“I’m exercising my right to remain silent, love!” I yelled as they pushed me out of the apartment.
“I told you not to fucking talk to her!”
Yelling over each other, they shoved me down the stairs.
“Stand by the stairs and keep fucking quiet!” Detective Reid left me guarded by a policeman.
The punishing heat of the sun rising over the Sonoran Desert soon engulfed me.
They locked Claudia into the back of a Crown Victoria. It sped off with my girlfriend of one-and-a-half years. – exposition, best either done explicitly or left out altogether
Police in state uniforms, federal uniforms, and plain clothes swarmed our Scottsdale apartment, their eyes burning with a mechanical zeal for – cliché the administration of justice.
Every so often, Detective Reid and a short bespectacled lady conferred.
Neighbours gathered:
“What’s all this about?”
“Some kind of drug bust.”
“Drug bust up there!”
“I know. They seemed so quiet.”
“You never can tell these days.” – did you really hear them say this? It needs to be explained somehow?
Sweat streamed from my armpits, trickled from my crotch. I thought about Claudia. What will they do to her? Will she be charged? – don’t italicise thoughts, unless you want to emphasise an important thought
Detective Reid approached me. “What’s in the safe, Attwood?”
“A coin collection and documents like my birth certificate.”
“You’re full of shit! Where’s the key?” Detective Reid asked, the hostility in his voice increasing. “You might as well just give the drugs up at this point.”
“The key’s on my key chain, but it needs a combination as well as a key.”
“What drugs are in it?”
“None.”
“Don’t play games with us, Attwood. Don’t force me to call a locksmith.”
“I’m not playing games.”
“We’ll soon see about that.”
I was about to volunteer the combination, but he whipped out a cell phone, and dialled a locksmith.
“Get in the back of that car over there,” said a policeman in his late forties with a rugged face. He looked the type not averse to taking a detour on the way to the police station to teach certain criminals a lesson.
New to manoeuvring in handcuffs, I fell sideways on to the back seat.
He threw a pair of jeans at me – how can you put jeans on in handcuffs? Need to explain more what happened and secured the door. In the driver’s seat, he donned Electra Glide in Blue motorcycle-cop sunglasses, mouthed a stick of gum, and blasted a hard-rock radio station. Tapping the wheel, he bobbed his head slightly as he drove.
The sense of being on the road to losing my liberty increased my dread and helplessness.
“Looks like we’re gonna be waiting outside,” he said, parking near Tempe police station.
Sealed in the Crown Victoria for what seemed like an eternity, I mulled over my predicament. Cuffed. Cramped. Sweaty. – good
“Bring him in,” someone radioed.
He parked by a mobile police unit, and escorted me to a man sat at a desk.
“Fill this out.”
NAME, DATE OF BIRTH, SOCIAL SECURITY NUMBER, HOME ADDRESS, OCCUPATION, WORK ADDRESS…
“I’m exercising my right to remain silent,” I said.
“You must fill this out, or else we’ll book you in as a John Doe, and you don’t want that.”
Here’s my revised version of the first two pages, incorporating her feedback.
Chapter 1
“Tempe Police Department! Open the door, we have a warrant for your arrest!”
The stock quotes flickering on the computer screen lost all importance as I rushed to the peephole – it was blacked out. Boots thudded up the outdoor stairs to our Scottsdale apartment.
Bang, bang, bang, bang!
Wearing only boxer shorts, I dashed to the bedroom. “Claudia Wake up! It’s the cops!”
“Tempe Police Department! Open the door! We have a warrant!”
Claudia scrambled from the California king, her long blond hair tousled. “What should we do?” she asked, anxiously fixing her pink pyjamas.
Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!
“Open the door! This is your last warning!”
We searched each other’s faces.
“Let’s open it,” I said, figuring not letting them in would make matters worse.
With Claudia clinging to my arm, I was hastening to let them in when – boom! – the door leaped off its hinges.
Toting submachine guns, a small army of SWAT blitzed through the doorframe. I froze in place. Terror-struck. In an instant, they surrounded us like a mechanical hand. Accompanying every gun aimed at my body was an avid squint behind tactical goggles. I braced myself to be shot at any moment.
“Get on the fucking ground now!”
“On your bellies now!”
“Hands above your heads!”
“Don’t fucking move!”
As I dropped to the floor, they fell upon me. Crushed by hands and feet, I could barely breathe. Cold steel snapped around my wrists. I was hoisted like a puppet onto my feet. As they yanked Claudia up by the cuffs, she pinched her eyes shut; when she opened them, tears spilled out.
“I’m Detective Reid,” said a tall burly man with long scraggy hair, and an intimidating presence. “English Shaun, you’re a big name from the rave scene. I’m sure this raid will vindicate the charges.” He had a condescending look in his eyes, and a self-satisfied edge in his tone of voice, as if he were savouring a moment of great triumph. He seemed dangerously childish.
Dazed by shock, I fumbled around for an appropriate response. “There’s nothing illegal in here.”
He smirked knowingly, then read my Miranda and consular rights.
I wanted to put my arms around Claudia to stop her trembling. “Don’t worry, love. Everything’s going to be alright,” I said, concealing my fear.
“Don’t fucking talk to her! You’re going outside!” Detective Reid took a dirty T-shirt from the hamper and threw it at me. “Take this with you!”
“I’m exercising my right to remain silent, love!” I yelled repeatedly as they pushed me out of the apartment.
“I told you not to fucking talk to her!”
Yelling over each other, they shoved me down the stairs. They briefly removed my cuffs, so I could slip the T-shirt on.
“Stand by the stairs and keep fucking quiet!” Detective Reid left me guarded by a policeman.
The heat of the sun rising over the Sonoran Desert soon punished me.
They locked Claudia into the back of a Crown Victoria, which sped off.
Police in state uniforms, federal uniforms, and plain clothes swarmed our place.
Every so often, Detective Reid and a short bespectacled lady conferred.
Neighbours assembled, fascinated, saying things like:
“What’s all this about?”
“Some kind of drug bust.”
“Drug bust up there!”
“I know. They seemed so quiet.”
“You never can tell these days.”
Sweat streamed from my armpits, trickled from my crotch. I thought about Claudia. What will they do to her? Will she be charged? Tired of being outdoors, I worried about where they might take me.
Detective Reid bounded down the stairs, his air of triumph gone. “What’s in the safe, Attwood?”
“A coin collection and documents like my birth certificate.”
“You’re full of shit! Where’s the key?” he asked, raising the hostility in his voice. “You might as well just give the drugs up at this point.”
“The key’s on my key chain, but it needs a combination as well as a key.”
“What drugs are in it?”
“None.”
“Don’t play games with us, Attwood. Don’t force me to call a locksmith.”
“I’m not playing games.”
“We’ll soon see about that.” He sounded desperate.
I was about to volunteer the combination, but he whipped out a cell phone, and dialled a locksmith.
“Get in the back of that car over there,” said a policeman in his late forties with a rugged face. He looked the type not averse to taking a detour on the way to the police station to teach certain criminals a lesson.
New to manoeuvring in handcuffs, I fell sideways on to the back seat. I straightened myself up, and he threw a pair of jeans on my lap.
In the driver’s seat, he donned Electra Glide in Blue motorcycle-cop sunglasses, mouthed a stick of gum, and blasted a hard-rock radio station. Tapping the wheel, he bobbed his head slightly as he drove.
The sense of being on the road to losing my liberty increased my dread.
“Looks like we’re gonna be waiting outside,” he said, parking near Tempe police station.
Sealed in the Crown Victoria for what seemed like an eternity, I mulled over my predicament. Cuffed. Cramped. Sweaty.
“Bring him in,” someone radioed.
He parked by a mobile police unit. He uncuffed me, told me to put my jeans on, and escorted me to a man sat at a desk.
“Fill this out.”
NAME, DATE OF BIRTH, SOCIAL SECURITY NUMBER, HOME ADDRESS, OCCUPATION, WORK ADDRESS…
“I’m exercising my right to remain silent,” I said.
“You must fill this out, or else we’ll book you in as a John Doe, and you don’t want that.”
Click here for Mentored Part 2.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below. To post a comment if you do not have a Google/Blogger account, just select anonymous for your identity.
Shaun P. Attwood
Two Tonys Book
To the left of Two Tonys in the pic is Charlie Batts Battaglia, a Mafia hit man for the Bonanno Crime Family, who mentored Two Tonys in the old-school tradition.
Some vintage Two Tonys blogs:
Bad Weather
Stoicism
Solving the Murder of Joe Hootner
Goiter
On Jesus Christ
Exorcism
On Friedrich Nietzsche
TV Mourners
Little Chickadees
On Solzhenitsyn
Literature and Schlongs
Versus Ogre
First Blog
Click here for my YouTube prison videos
Click here for descriptions of all of the prisoners I write about at Jon’s Jail Journal ranging from Mafia hit men to giant transsexuals
Shaun Attwood
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