Big Scary Goals for 2008...

Right, I'm a bit nervous about this, but here goes:

The Official BIG SCARY GOAL List 2008

1. EDIT The Mystical Wombat's Guide to Life and submit to a publisher by July
2. CREATE and post Podcasts of the novel
3. LEARN to speak Italian to conversational level AND record a song in the language
4. COMPLETE my album About Time by the end of the year
5. LOSE 1 stone by the summer

Eek!

There. Tis done! I'm a great believer in making myself do things, so now I've said it, I have to do it!

2008... The year of... umm...

Happy New Year!!

OK, so it's a little late, but hey at least it's still January!

I haven't got resolutions as such this year, just some Big Scary Challenges that I've set myself - one of which is to find a publisher for The Mystical Wombat's Guide to Life. Instead of talking about it, I'm actually going to go ahead and do it (even though just typing that scares the heck out of me!) I'm working on getting the manuscript ready for the first Mystical Wombat Podcast - which is great fun and, I hope, will be a slightly different way to get my words out there into the big wide world. News on that as it happens...

I've put some more articles up at Helium.com - a novel excerpt and a drama script to boot! I'm also still working on the album, so I definitely want to see that put to bed before the end of the year.

Will it all happen? Who knows, but right now I'm feeling positive...

The Mystical Wombat's Guide to Life - excerpt 8

The final excerpt of Chapter One for Coffee and Roses... see below for exciting details about what's coming soon!

When McBee woke again, the room was filled with daylight. The heavy curtains that had been drawn over the windows the previous night had been pulled back, revealing large, circular portholes and confirming that this was, indeed, a boat. McBee felt a little woozy from his long sleep, but better – so much so, that he found he was able to swing his legs to the side of the bed and stand up, albeit very shakily. Suddenly remembering that his clothes had been soaked from his plunge into the river, he looked down - and was surprised to discover he was now wearing wide blue slacks and an old white collarless linen shirt. Moving carefully across the dark wooden floor, which was strewn with faded rainbow-coloured rag rugs, McBee slowly made his way towards the small open doors leading to the deck, heading in the direction of the sound of Old Sid’s voice, which was humming another sea shanty somewhere nearby.

‘Hey diddle-i, idle-i-o, three busty girls and away we go, hmm, hmm, hmm-hmm, hmm-hmm.. Ah! There you are, lad! I see you’re up and movin’ eh?’ Sid grinned, coiling up a length of thick rope.
McBee smiled, ‘It would seem so, Sid.’
‘So, what do you think of me barge then, eh?’ asked Sid.

McBee looked around at the old vessel. Though she was faded and had admittedly seen better days, she was still a fine specimen of an estuary barge. Her deck was dark wood, with tarpaulin-covered cargo boxes roped into the middle. From the centre of the deck a tall mast rose, with washed-out flapping red sails tied loosely to it. Towards the bow of the boat was a further covered cabin, its small windscreen looking out to the horizon with the river stretching away as far as the eye could see. McBee took a breath of air – it was so much fresher here out on the river than it ever was in the city. The air was cold and stung his lungs, but it felt good. ‘She’s wonderful,’ he breathed.
‘That she is, son, that she is. Cocoa?’ asked Sid, offering a steaming white enamel mug.
McBee grasped it and drank the sweet, gloopy liquid, enjoying its velvetiness as it slid luxuriously down his throat. ‘By the way, I never told you my name,’ he said, after he had swallowed. ‘I’m Heston McBee. But most people call me McBee.’
Sid extended his big, dark-tanned, bony hand and shook McBee’s hand firmly. ‘Pleased to meet you, matey,’ he grinned. ‘So, ‘ere’s a new day for you – where’ll you be headin’ now? Not home, I would’ve thought?’
McBee shook his head, ‘No,’ he said, purposefully, ‘Not home.’ Then – largely because he couldn’t think of anything else to say, but fortuitously, as it turned out – he asked, ‘Where are you going?’
Old Sid appeared a little taken aback by the question, lifting a white bushy eyebrow as his swarthy wrinkled features crinkled into a smile, ‘I? Well, I’s be ‘eadin’ that a’way,’ he answered, gesturing in the direction of the blue horizon, where the spraygulls were flying like miniscule white V’s across the sky. ‘The old girl’s a sea-goin’ vessel, see? I’s be plannin’ on takin’ ‘er to the ocean. She don’t get to see it often, see, so I’m takin’ her back to remind ‘er of where she came from, if you get my meaning?’

The ocean – just the mere sound of the word in McBee’s mind made his heart skip. It promised high adventure, wildly beautiful scenery and breathtaking power… ‘Can I come with you?’ he breathed, almost without realising he’d spoken the words out loud.
Old Sid looked at him for a moment, his expression a mixture of surprise and puzzlement. He lifted his blue peaked cap to scratch the wiry white clump of hair on his head. ‘Well, I… I don’t see why not, lad. I mean, there’s plenty of room aboard old Polly-Jo for a scrap like you, I’d say.’
McBee felt a rush of excitement coursing through his veins, making his head giddy. ‘Thank you so much, Sid!’ he exclaimed, ‘It’s just I… I can’t stay here and I’ve never seen the ocean.’
Old Sid looked shocked. ‘Never seen the ocean, lad? Well blow me over with a gust of wind! You city folks don’t know what you’re missin’! Right, that settles it, then, lad. You’re coming with me and old Polly-Jo to see the sea!’

© Miranda Dickinson 2007

Liked what you read? Like to read more? Watch this space for news on The Mystical Wombat's Guide to Life, including an exciting new Podcast coming next year!

I did it! I did it!

I did it! I am, officially, a Winner of NaNoWriMo 2007 and my novel is complete!



This has been the most amazing, frustrating, white-knuckle rollercoastering month of my life... I have learned so much about myself as a writer and I think I may have finally found my voice with my writing. It's confrimed to me that I can write and not only that, I can write something half-decent, too.

So, The Mystical Wombat's Guide to Life by Miranda Dickinson is complete - what happens now is anyone's guess!

Thank you for your lovely comments... do you want to read any more? Message me if you do.

I only bloomin' well did it! Woo-hoo!

The Mystical Wombat's Guide to Life - excerpt 7

McBee closed his aching eyes and heaved a huge sigh. He tried to get a hold of his mutinous feelings which, at present, were running round in circles inside him, like a crazed bunch of lab rats too delirious to know which direction to head in after someone had released them from their cage. He attempted rounding them up and getting them to account for their current status – with little success – finally resorting to let them dash around for a bit until they’d calmed down sufficiently to be able to hold a constructive conversation with him.

In many ways, he found himself glad to be alive after all. He had the potential for many more years to live – the prospect of which both intrigued and scared the hell out of him. He was still a young-ish man, he reasoned; he had never really known anything other than being a journalist; never married, never ‘settled down’ – whatever that meant. He couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed, been in love, or taken a holiday. All his days had consisted of, year after weary year, was The Oktaban Times – deadlines, leads, exclusives, reports… Indeed, he realised now that he had spent over twenty years of his life writing about other people’s lives, instead of experiencing a life of his own. The paper alone had been his family, his wife, his mistress, his Master – but had never allowed him to be himself.

When Old Sid brought the bowl of steaming broth over to him, McBee found he was just about able to lift his body into an upright seated position. Sid folded up an old bearskin coat and propped it behind McBee’s back as a makeshift pillow. The smouldering broth was lumpy and tasted faintly fishy, but it was something to eat and McBee was surprised to discover how ravenously hungry he was. As he ate, he could feel his body warming and his strength beginning to return.
After he had eaten, he slept - a deep, heavy slumber with few dreams, simply shadowy images moving indeterminably through his subconscious mind.

© Miranda Dickinson 2007

Coming soon... McBee's epic journey begins in earnest...

The Mystical Wombat's Guide to Life - excerpt 6

He found he was lying in a warm, dimly-lit room, on what felt like a bed of straw, covered with a rough grey wool blanket. He tried to lift his head but found it impossible; every part of him ached and what little strength he had seemed only sufficient to allow him to move his eyes. As his vision gradually sharpened, he could see an old man hunched over a small stove in the far right corner of the room, in what passed for a tiny kitchen area. The old man was busily stirring a black iron pot, which was perched precariously on a small gas ring and wobbled over with a bump with every stir. The old man was humming a raspy, cracked tune as he worked, occasionally singing the odd lyric here and there.
‘…young girl called Rosie Lee… hmmm, hmmm, hmm-hmm, hmm-hmm… longer legs than a hmm-hmm-heee, hmmm, hmmm, hmm-hmm, hmm-hmm… shot a hmmm with a hmm-hmm gun, hmmm, hmmm, hmm-hmm, hmm-hmm… and flashed her hmm for a hmm-hmm hmmm… with a hey and a ho and a big nonny… hmm, hmm, hmm-hmm hmm-hee..’ he took a big breath, ‘Grrreat big hmms and a bag of plums, hmm, hmm…’

McBee began to cough again and Old Sid stopped his humming and stirring to look over.
‘You’re awake then, eh boy?’ he observed, leaving the spoon in the pot and shuffling slowly over to where McBee lay.
McBee struggled to find his voice. ‘How did I…?’
‘Get ‘ere?’ offered Old Sid, ‘I dragged you out the river, that’s ‘ow you got ‘ere, matey.’
‘You? You got me out?’ asked McBee, observing the old man’s wiry frame.
‘Arr, so I did. I ‘auled you out by myself and brought you ‘ome to my barge. That’s where you is right now, by the by.’
McBee tried to smile at the old man. ‘Thank you,’ he said weakly.
‘No need to thank me, son,’ Old Sid smiled, ‘Twas nothing, really. Nearly gave this old sea dog a ‘eart attack, mind. Shocked the ‘ell out of me, you did.’
‘Ah, my jump…’ McBee felt a wave of nauseous embarrassment flood up within him.

As if sensing McBee’s feelings, Old Sid shook his head and patted McBee’s hand. ‘Twasn’t the jump, boy,’ he said, ‘I’s used to jumpers. Bit of a side-line of business for me, jumpers- if you gets what I mean?’
McBee didn’t, staring blankly at Old Sid.
‘Well,’ Sid explained, ‘I’s a ferryman, see? And I works yonder part of the river under the bridge. That’s my livin’, right? Not much of one, truth be told, but a livin’ nonetheless. I comes from a long line of ferrymen and my family’s always worked that stretch – even before the bridge went up. But since they built that bridge, there’s been a steady flow, if you’ll pardon my pun, of folks what want to end it, see? Jumpers, we call ‘em round ‘ere. Anyways, they tend to land in my patch, if you like, and I’s a great believer in the ‘finders, keepers’ theory of life, if you get my meaning? That City Authority pays ‘andsomely for bodies retrieved from the river. Saves ‘em doin’ it, I s’pose, don’t it? So if I gets a jumper, I gets a fair bit of cash on the quiet, see? I likes to think it’s a chance to give yon poor buggers a reason for jumpin’ – kind of like them ‘elping someone to live after they die, see?’
‘Umm...’ McBee’s head was swimming slightly.
‘So when I saw you comin’ out the sky, so to speak, I says to myself, ‘Sid,’ I says, ‘Yon poor bugger there’ll bring you that outboard motor you’ve been ‘ankering after’ So, there I was, waitin’ for your corpse to come up floatin’ – no offence, like – but, blow me, if you don’t come up alive! Couldn’t believe my eyes I couldn’t! I’s been draggin’ yon corpses out of that river for the best part of twenty years and I’s never seen one come up alive!’
‘Well, I must say it surprised me,’ said McBee, as the reality of his reality began to strike home.
‘I’ll bet it did,’ Sid nodded, ‘I’ll bet you was there, thinkin’ you was ‘eaded for some great glowin’ Nirvana, and bugger you if you didn’t find yourself back in the land of the livin’. Twas a bit of a bummer, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘I’m… I don’t know,’ replied McBee, and promptly burst into tears.

Old Sid took an awkward step back, wringing his hands together, slightly embarrassed at the sobbing wreck of humanity lying before him. ‘Now, now come on, lad, it can’t be that bad, can it? I mean, yes, you wanted to end it all, like, but someone somewhere ‘ad other ideas, see? I don’t know a vast deal about Gods and stuff, but what I see is this: you flew from yonder bridge into that river and you survived – that’s a miracle s’far as I’s concerned, son. So maybe you’s got yourself a Second Chance. You can do anythin’ you wants to. Go anywhere your ‘eart desires, see? There’s not many a soul gets that type of opportunity, lad, I can tell you. Now, I’s made you some broth. I’ll get you some, you can ‘ave somethin’ to eat and you’ll feel better.’
‘Thank you – um…’
‘Sid. Sid the Old Salt they calls me round ‘ere. But Sid will do just fine.’ Old Sid smiled, patted McBee on the shoulder and returned to the stove.

© Miranda Dickinson 2007

What's next for McBee? Find out soon...

The Mystical Wombat's Guide to Life - excerpt 5

When Heston McBee began his working life, he was a young man of nineteen, full of ambition and optimism. Fresh from finishing his Diploma of Letters at the Dianor Academy, McBee was invited to attend an interview at The Oktaban Times by a man who he had inadvertently met in Periphy Park one day. McBee was not one who naturally believed in good fortune, yet he would always say that the unlikely way in which he obtained his first job could only be attributed to ‘someone somewhere being pleased with me.’ During a late lunch-break from Gytha’s Diner – one of three jobs he had maintained to pay his way through college – McBee had decided to make the most of the brave April sunshine and head to the park at the city’s centre. After eating his sandwich, McBee pulled out the faded grey leather notebook in which he kept all his scraps of prose, poetry, sketches and scripts. Unbeknownst to him, a tall man in a sharp suit and dark trilby worn low over his eyes was closely observing McBee’s every move, from a park bench nearby. After a few minutes of studying the young man writing fervently, the tall man in the trilby folded up his newspaper, tucked it under his arm and strolled casually over.
‘Afternoon,’ he said, tipping his hat respectfully.

McBee jumped and looked up, squinting as he shielded his eyes from the sun. ‘Afternoon,’ he replied.
‘I hope you don’t mind the impertinence,’ said the trilby man in a velvet-smooth, well-spoken voice, ‘but I’ve been watching you for a while and I was wondering what you were writing about.’
McBee hesitated for a moment then decided to trust the stranger stood before him. ‘I was just writing about today,’ he said, ‘you know - being in Periphy Park on an April lunchtime and things like that.’
The trilby man smiled a wry smile, ‘And do you do this often, young man?’
McBee wasn’t altogether impressed with the man’s tone, but replied politely, ‘All the time. I try to write every day. It doesn’t matter what I write about – it can be observational, poetic, satirical, romantic – just as long as I write something, that’s all that counts.’
The trilby man smiled again, this time much warmer, ‘Ah, I see. So, you’re a writer?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said McBee, ‘Or, at least, I will be soon.’
‘Have you been secured by a publication?’ asked the trilby man.
‘No, not yet.’
The trilby man gestured towards McBee’s precious notebook. ‘May I?’

Young McBee hesitated – after all, as his writing tutor Mr Lubowicz often said, ‘one’s writing is like one’s firstborn child – to present it for critique is as to present a part of yourself for verdict’ – yet there was something uncommonly comforting about the trilby man’s manner, so, hands trembling, he handed over his notebook.

The trilby man was silent for what seemed like several forevers as he slowly perused the contents of the journal. McBee scanned his face for any sign of emotion, but found none; which only increased his anxiety. Eventually, the man closed the book, handed it back to McBee and then extended his hand to the young writer.
‘Charlton Cavendish,’ he announced, ‘I am Chief Scout for The Oktaban Times – do you know the publication?’
McBee caught his breath, ‘Do I know it?’ he stammered, ‘It’s only the finest newspaper in the whole of the country – let alone this city!’ Then, remembering his manners, he added, ‘Heston – Heston McBee.’
Charlton Cavendish shook his hand, ‘Well, well, Heston McBee, I think you are a good writer. And, with my help, you will become a great writer.’

True to his word, Charlton Cavendish became McBee’s mentor, securing him his first reporter’s post at the paper and working closely with him for the next twelve years. Until, that is, he mysteriously disappeared one morning and never returned.

Cavendish’s disappearance sparked a chain of events in McBee’s life that cast a brooding shadow over everything, ultimately leading to his jump from the motorway bridge. Robbed of his closest ally, greatest friend and most trusted confidant, McBee slowly lost the confidence, hope and ambition that had so characterised the bright-eyed young man writing prose in the sunlit park, many years ago...

McBee gasped and opened his eyes. Coughing violently, he struggled for a moment to wrench enough air into his lungs to breathe again. As the convulsions in his chest subsided, he blinked away the resulting tears from his eyes and slowly began to focus on his surroundings.

© Miranda Dickinson 2007

What happens next? Find out in the next exciting episode!