WRITING AND DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY: A REPORT FROM A FUGITIVE.

Using digital photography to aid your writing isn't about taking perfect pictures. It's about capturing atmosphere.
   I knew, climbing this Italian hillside in the rain, that I'd turn the journey into a story. So I took loads of pictures.
   It didn't matter to me whether or not I took great shots. Only that I took shots. They are all time-stamped.
   If I tell you how long it takes our so-called hero to reach the summit, it takes that long. Based on my digital photo record.

I kept my footing, firing off snaps every few seconds. You'll excuse me for not caring if I took the perfect shot.
   The perfect shot snapped on the edge of a 900-foot drop...
   ...may just be inherited by your nearest and dearest when your estate is wound up.
   The hell with the perfect shot. Sometimes, the blurriness is what makes the picture work.
   Or light bleaches the detail from a landscape and you are left with an idea, which you run away with.

My intention, in firing off 300+ shots of trees, was to create a map my hero could travel.
   Readers can follow that trail by studying a real map. But would a real map point out a bench half-hidden in the gloom?
   Climbing alone, I was in story-mode with my paranoid character. Wondering where he'd face his foe. For foe there had to be.
   A few images were taken in pairs, looking forward and then back - as befitted the actions of a dangerous man.

The smell of nothing much. Greenery. Rain.
   Relative quiet. Breezy leafery. Rustling of fabric as I marched on. I added the sense of paranoia.
   At that point, I had my assassin climbing to a rendezvous and a double-cross.
   We make stories up as we go, when we go walking in new places.
   Where do you get your ideas?
   Strangers leave them lying around for me. I pick them up later. The ideas, not the strangers.

Footing. That became more important, the higher I climbed. I didn't add a sense of paranoia when dealing with the slicker rain-swept rocks nearer the summit.
   No need.
   I went looking for a story. Every junction was an opporchancity. I walked alone. That became part of it.
   The idea of the lone assassin was reinforced on this people-free climb. Eventually, people showed up.

Before people showed up, I discovered a trace of people. This glove, propped on a branch, became part of the story.
   Yes, I plan stories. I also leave room for the unexpected. The point is, you pick and choose your moments. I chose this glove. It begged to be included.




Heeding the cry, I made sure that glove went into my tale. Who left it there, when, and why?
   Our anti-hero suspects enemy action. An omen.
   Or he's unjustifiably paranoid. The item was placed by someone who found a single glove on the path. A joke.

  




I took uniformly blurry shots, mainly as I tried to avoid falling over, and falling off, the rocky terrain.
   The camera's half-pressed button generates a focus function, and often it wasn't possible to walk and chew gum at the same time without plunging off the hillside.

Periodically, I made the effort to come away from the experience with a few shots that weren't taken through a veil of Vaseline.
   Here, I stopped dead to capture the rain-slicked rocks. To the right, a drop. That's a technical term.

Often you spy an image that must go straight into your story.
   Here, I saw the rock at the base of the sign, and decided this detail would come in handy.
   Our assassin ends up in trouble here. But only a good twenty minutes after I was off the rock, did I rumble into further plotting.

Photos are good for noting the words, the whole words, and nothing but the words.
   You should carry a notebook for the purpose, in case your camera fails ye.
   Perhaps unwisely, I drew near to read the sign warning me not to draw near.

About twenty minutes after I left the hill, there was an earthquake.
   My story was fixed on a specific date. At least, as far as the climbing sequence went.
   Didn't need to change the description of the season. You might photographically revisit scenes in winter, to give long-range description more realism.

Just a few feet beyond this clump of grass, there's a 900-foot drop.
   This was the best photo I could take, given the buttock-clenching circumstances.
   Had the earthquake struck then, I'd have been blogging from the lower reaches of hell.

  

 Was the view worth the climb? Yes. As exercise, the climb itself was worth the climb. And as an exercise in using digital photography to aid storytelling, the whole thing was worth snapping away.
   Take plenty of pictures. Don't worry if they are blurry. Paradoxically, it's harder to capture motion - you want to see the speed of the horse, not the saddle-maker's logo. Settle for crisp detail if that's all you manage to film.
   You are staring at Lake Garda in Italy. Pleasant people, wonderful climate, great food. Someone should outlaw the place for being so nice.
   It's not so nice for Harvey, anti-hero, paranoiac, assassin, and target in The Madonna Gambit. That's the story I gained, clambering up a hillside in the rain.

MY BLOG WAS HACKED BY MARTIANS: A REPORT FROM A FUGITIVE.

This blog is delivered to me by e-mail. It's another way of backing up data. Blogger is a Google service. I send a copy of the blog to a non-Google e-mail provider, in case (gasp) Google dies or goes bust.
   Yeah. A meteor powerful enough to wipe out Google is probably strong enough to do more than just blister the paint on my fence.
   And if Google goes bust, Google deserves to. That's what comes of pinning a huge chunk of the economy on the secret artificial intelligence project Google regularly Tweets about.
   They'll never get that to work with cheese for circuits. Just sayin'.

*

Imagine my surprise when a giant meteor hit Google's cheese factory head-on.

*

No. Imagine my surprise when I checked my e-mail and saw a message from my blog. What?
   For reasons of the plot, I receive e-mail notifications when the blog takes comments - but that type of warning goes to another e-mail address.
   I post blogs right in front of me if I have the need to deal with some spontaneous matter of great import. Generally I schedule the blog posts to go out over the weekend, Saturday night into Sunday morning.
   What's this? An e-mail from my blog? Not a blog comment. The last one to come in was the recent one by E.B. Black, and that news arrived through the other channel.
   So this e-mail is from my blog, telling me my blog automatically published. Except. I don't publish on a Wednesday night. And I don't receive e-mail on Thursday morning saying this has happened.
   Therefore? My blog was hacked by Martians.

*

I didn't open the e-mail, of course. The message was suspect. I hovered over the message to pick up the data that said this came from a noreply service.
   Was that normal? From blogs sent via e-mail, yes.

*

What to do? Open the e-mail?
   Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!
   Alternative? Check my blog. Maybe I'd accidentally blogged something and not realised. I had rooted around in the blog last night, tidying things and updating entries.
   But an updated entry isn't republished outright.
   There are ways to work on the blog that allow you to exit to the blog itself, and there are ways to leave that work without finding yourself staring at the blog after.
   I'd rummaged around in the blog and left without looking at the front page. There is no back page.
   Well, I checked the blog. Damn. Yes. I had somehow published an old post outright, instead of updating it. I sat staring at a wanted poster from the READ TUESDAY stuff I'd done last year.

*

READ TUESDAY is a book sale event. Imagine the seething rush of sales in December. HERE'S A BLOG POST ABOUT THAT.

*

I must have hit the wrong button last night, after checking half a dozen blog posts. Well, I returned to my e-mail and opened it. Oh, I've blogged. What a surprise.

*

And now I've blogged again. At least this time I suspect I think I guess I imagine I suppose I know what I am doing. Now to await the e-mail, telling me so.

READ TUESDAY. THE TUESDAY GANG. SUZANNA WILLIAMS - SECOND SIGHTING: A REPORT FROM A FUGITIVE.

 

ZELDA WASSER AND THE DUKE: A REPORT FROM A FUGITIVE.

Sprays coffee everywhere.
   I was...
   MENTIONED in a video?!
   Don’t these people know I’m on the run?!
   Hell, if I weren’t on the run before...I am racing for my life now. I’ve mentioned Zelda before. HERE’S A BLOG POST ABOUT THAT. I’ll wait for you.

*

Empress Zelda Wasser, Queen of ZeldaLand, is to her nation what Jadis is to Narnia. Hmm. That makes her sound evil. But is Jadis really that bad? Free Turkish Delight comes at a cost, it’s true...
   I don’t routinely beam my book links on the Twitter. People tune that sort of publicity right out of their systems. Instead, I speak to the masses about #coffee - which I hashtag - and mints, on which I sometimes overdose.
   This is all part of my evil plan to engage in wordplay on a social media site. Because BUY MY BOOK BUY MY BOOK BUY MY BOOK just won’t cut it.
   And so.
   Tuning in for a spot of Twitter and discovering Zelda Wasser, I was astonished to be made privy to a terrible tale of internet interaction. By her own admission, Zelda has no concept of privacy.
   She shares information any serial killer would love to know.
   Here is a list of the firearms stored at my house. Come visit. We’ll be waiting for you.
   Zelda’s latest misadventure drew me in, yes, in real-time. I used the word privy with a sense of mischief. However, this is a family-based blog and...
   The Manson Family.
   Who the fuck am I kidding? Even I’m not sturdy enough to be reading some of the sick twisted shit I come up with, let alone the material I encounter online.
   Right before our very Tweets, Queen Zelda suddenly engaged in simultaneous correspondence with a gentleman from the Indian subcontinent.
   Was he made privy to Zelda? This tale was more incontinent than subcontinent. Suffice to say the gentleman’s predilection for showers of a golden hue knew no bounds.
   Would Zelda oblige?
   No. Though Zelda would blog about her experience.
   Zelda drew up plans. I’d already been dragged into those. She bestowed a Dukedom upon me. And there was talk of filling in on the shark patrol.
   New plans ripened. She decided to pull that old madwoman in the attic routine. (Fans of literary greatness, look away now.) Being the 21st Century, the shock twist involved use of a third-rate phone and some rambling.

*

While Zelda texted to the dick on the other end of two telephone lines, she shared her exploits live on the interwebs.
   On occasion, I perform blog maintenance. I ran through my blog posts, checking for consistency. Alas…
   The main update is to note that Zelda’s video is no longer on the interwebs, rendering this blog post obsolete. One man impersonated two men and chatted to Zelda and other Zelda. This was hilarious for all the wrong reasons.
   I guess you had to be there. And now, it’s all gone. Only notes left in the aftermath of glitches let you know what went down.

BLOGGING FOR AUTHORS: A REPORT FROM A FUGITIVE.

Yes, it's a nice idea: having the audience eating out of your hand.
   Note that there must be something to eat.
   If it's strictly for the birds, that means everything.
   To the birds.
   So your writing may not be for all tastes. What a shocker.

*

There wasn't meant to be a blog post this week. I'd decided the blog had to go. Either I'd turn over these pages to other authors in guest-spots...or I'd announce a blog holiday.
   You know. One of those holidays in which the participant simply never comes back.
   But I always felt that way, blogging. That my back-up plan was to kill the blog before it could rampage across the known and unknown Cosmos, destroying most in its path and some in its wake.

*

Kill the blog? Jury is out.
   And yet.
   Here I am, talking about blogging. For authors. What should you do? And what shouldn't you do? I don't care. There. I said it. Oh, it's your blog. Or blog-in-the-making. And I'm not here to sculpt that snowflake for you.
   Advice on blogging for authors is limited. And limitless. I'll go with limited - Blogger is a creature that has a limit when it comes to the amount of text you can throw on here.

*

You needn't blog at all.

*

If you blog, you should blog frequently. At least twice in a lifetime. Probably more often. Not hourly. Take breaks.

*

Resist the temptation to blog in the worst colour-combination possible. Lemon yellow on a lime green background springs to mind. Go for black text on an off-white background.
   White text on a black background looks cool. It's okay for short blog posts, but don't make a habit of writing at great length across that landscape. Try going for black text on an off-white background. I may have mentioned that.
   Avoid animation. I have a couple of widgets with movement built in. The carousel stays static unless you activate it. There's a Twitter map with a zoom function.
   My one concession to animation is a snowing effect, come winter. As the blog runs on an off-white background, this isn't too distracting.
   I am aware that I may die one winter, leaving the blog snowing for as long as the internet remains. Well. Damn.

*

Write your blog posts as long or as short as you care to. When I started this blog, the regular posts were a minimum of 1,500 words...
   Why? I planned to collect the blog posts in a Kindle book and publish them alongside fiction. So I threw in themes, across blog posts, knowing those snowflakes were destined to be preserved in e-books.
   Back then I didn't have the internet at home. So I wrote blog posts in batches, then loaded them into Blogger at a public library. I scheduled the posts to run weeks in advance. All because internet time at the library was severely limited.
   Now that I have the internet, I am more spontaneous with blog posts.

*

If you write fiction, post fiction on your blog. You'll see dedicated pages on this blog, with free fiction samples available. A writing blog about writing is just a blog about writing about writing unless you post stories there too.
   Some blogs are all about writing about writing, and I don't mean to casually dismiss those.
   And some blogs deal with writing non-fiction. It's not all storytelling, remember.
   Sure, talk the talk about the writing game. But where are your stories, I'm asking...

*

Cast a wary eye over your potentially libellous and/or defamatory statements. Beware accidental copyright infringement. Avoid deliberate copyright infringement. Don't run with scissors in the dark. Put a light on.

*

Announce stuff. As you are prepared to change plans, change plans. Admit mistakes. Update things. If you must blog while eating soup, keep the soup back from the electrics.
   No soup was thrown at the keyboard during the writing of this blog.

*

If you must blog in anger, blog angrily every fucking time. Make that your persona, but never make it personal.

*

Decide now if you are going to fucking swear, make coy references to the eff-bomb, employ f***ing asterisks, or frikking chicken out of that shirt altogether, gosh-darn it.

*

Should you get into a fight with an author, make sure that author is in the same fucking room with you. None of those Twitter Tantrums, no Facebook Fighting, and zero Tumblr Tussles.
   Get within the bastard's reach and physically rip a pair of balls off. Serve on a plate. Question nothing if the writer you did this to was female. Balls on a plate are symbolic. Wait for the cops or go on the run.
   Not advocating violence, merely the imagery of violence. I may have advocated violence somewhere in this blog. That is shameful and wrong, if you happen to think it shameful and wrong. I couldn't possibly comment.
   Authors are all colleagues. Never rivals. So. No Blogging Belligerence. If a writer annoys you, kill the writer IN PERSON or just let it the fuck go.
   Holy Fuck. My blogging on violence is interrupted by an actual fight outside. Bitching from two, er, ladies. (Not really.) Every second word is FUCK. This is hilarious for all the wrong reasons.
   It's funnier with Scottish accents.
   Bitching, by bitches, about bitches. It's an argument over dogs. Someone may get hurt. Feelings are bruised. Stay tuned.

*

Well that was effing surreal. I don't think I've ever blogged so topically. There's a line of thought indicating that women should never swear. Or fight.
   Doesn't really apply in Scotlandia.

*

I haven't lost the thread, it was cut by bitching. Hmm. Blog in a peaceful environment if you can.
   Doesn't really apply in Scotlandia.

*

Other snippets of writing advice apply to blogging. Read your work aloud. Empty your bladder, but not at the keyboard. Never start a piece of writing with never start a piece of writing. Having your keyboard divided into black keys and white keys is unhelpful.

*

Seek permission. Provide attribution. Hyperlink to relevant items. Drink coffee.

*

Stay hydrated and take breaks. Useless information. Drink coffee. Empty your bladder. Useful information.

*

Have, develop, or rent a sense of humour.

*

Never seek to break up a dogfight.

*

You can (almost always) delete blog posts. If the blog isn't working out for you, take up croquet. Croquet may not work out for you. I may have meant crochet. Or possibly croquettes.

*

This blog has at least two contact points. The e-mail contact is in the dedicated page, but it appears at the top of this blog for those who lack patience.
   Better to say, it's at the top of the page for those who are looking for no-fuss contact info.
   If you seek to set up a blog tour or other participatory author event, you'll come to appreciate the e-mail address that is at the top of the page.
   When you have a list of dozens of blogs to go through, you want dozens of e-mail addresses RIGHT THERE IN FRONT OF YOU. The last time I went in search of that information, I was prepared to spend up to five minutes, per blog, hunting for contact data.
   That is above and beyond the call of above and beyond, in my book. Should every dozen addresses take you an hour to find? No. Hell, that's time I could spend drinking coffee or overdosing on mints.
   I overdosed on mints this week. Twice. Let us draw a veil over the incident. And the second incident.

*

Never apologise for being away from your blog. Some grumpy fuckers shorten that to never apologise.

*

As for the content of your blog...
   Never apologise for the content of your blog. If you change your mind on a topic, say so and show you working. Include diagrams, and detail from the secret files.
   Have the courage to stick to your guns while your guns serve you well. Should your position change, announce that you've relocated. But stick with the writing. Believe in the writing.

*

Hard to fathom that I was writing about fighting and a fight broke out just beyond my window. Today's new task? Writing about suddenly inheriting a fortune from a long-lost relative. Let's see how that works out for me.
   But it is clear how the audience views the unlikelihood, and I must away to see to a flock of words which I'll feed from the palm of my hand.

MELISSA C. WATER AND LADY INJURY: A REPORT FROM A FUGITIVE.



Images courtesy Melissa C. Water, © 2014. Used by kind persimmons.

I vote for this snowy scene as Melissa's author photo on her Amazon page. Anyway, to business...
   Kacey Vanderkarr repeatedly tells people that I am some kind of good guy. How dare she?! I'm suing.
   Did I adopt the black cloak and Darth Sinister title for nothing? Dare I say...is evil just...not working out for me?
   Has Young Vanderkarr's meddling granted me redemptive end-of-trilogy powers of sweetness and light?
   Well. Bugger.

*

I wrote a blog post tied to a story, and went in search of a mental health activist for background info. HERE'S A BLOG POST ABOUT THAT.
   Melissa C. Water assisted in the development of the post. Then I did a follow-up piece, featuring Melissa. HERE'S A BLOG POST ABOUT THAT.
   I'll wait for you.

*

If you missed it, here's a link about THE VENUS FLYTRAP.
   Melissa signed a deal with a vanity/subsidy publisher, not knowing what she was getting into. She was getting into the publishing equivalent of the Venus Flytrap.
   Yes, she should have taken advice. But she didn't seek assistance.
   When she helped me out with my blog post, I knew I'd help her in return. How? I knew not. As usual, I found myself staring at a book on the mighty Amazon.
   Here's Melissa's story of her battle with assorted mental health issues, and the problem of undiagnosed Tourette's. And this book costs...
   HOW FUCKING MUCH?!
   And there's a disclaimer at the start, stating...
   What?!
   THE BOOK...HASN'T REALLY BEEN EDITED?
   (For legal reasons, I must amplify on that comment. I am forced to point out that the book hadn't really been edited. Glad to clear that up for you.)

*

Obviously, I've removed fifteen pages of swearing from this blog post. Sometimes, you must tone things down for the youngsters. And, by youngsters, I mean anyone under the age of 99.

*

I talked Melissa through her options. She simply had to escape her contract and publish her own book on Amazon. Hell, I'd edit the book for nothing.
   My good deed for the...
   (Shut it, Vanderkarr.)
   So how far along are we?
   Melissa is out of her contract, and free to pursue a second edition of Lady Injury. We're working on it. There are many choices to be made. We had a few laughs, and there were countless questions.

*

 



A few laughs? Vital. For Melissa's story is tough to take. Countless questions? The assistance on offer is free. She is free to ask anything and everything. It's her book, and she chooses how she wants things to be.
   Can we do it this way?
   Yes. There are other options. And here they are.
   Okay, well, I'd still like some of those features for the story.
   Well how about this, Melissa?
   No, I don't think so.
   That's fine.
   Wait. I've had some feedback, and maybe we could incorporate a few ideas along those lines.
   It's all good. Any questions, just ask. I'll tell you if anything is fixed. Immovable.
   What can't we do?
   Amazon Kindle books don't take well to tabs. No tabs. (Kacey Vanderkarr was AGHAST when I revealed that nugget. You'd think I'd killed Bambi's mother when I said it to her.)

*

I help authors. Authors, in turn, help me. We are on the same path. If I am ahead of you, I'll point the way so that you find the going easier. And if you are further back, thinking he's going the wrong way, you'll shout and I'll listen.
   Action? I'll stop and have a think. As authors, we are always learning, experimenting, failing, trying, pausing for coffee.
   Yes. Coffee.
   Help is not measured on scales. I was aided over a mere blog post and I offered assistance with an entire book. The act of helping is important, not the amount. Sometimes the amount is important, but we aren't here to maintain the balance.
   We are here to muck around.
   Besides, editing a memoir, non-fiction, would be a new experience for me - and, as authors, we crave experience. Except the experience of stagnation.
   Melissa needed help in escaping her contract. I set out the steps, and gave my opinion on what had to happen to reach the upper atmosphere on the way out.
   And I was more or less right. Ultimately, Melissa escaped her contract with a shade less difficulty than I expected. I thought she'd be hit with a non-disclosure no-badmouthing clause.
   That never materialised. We aren't in the business of giving the company any publicity. So why mention the name? The hell with that.
   (I think the company abandoned the gag as it proved unenforceable - Eclectic Ed. Unenforceable and silly.)

*

Well. There you go. A writer helps me, and I steer her into preparing a second edition of her book. Lady Injury. Never thought I'd be doing something like that.
   How do I edit the work? With carefree abandon, fizzing dynamite, a wild look in the eyes, and toffee-smeared fingers.
   (Hi, Melissa. That was a joke. You knew that. And you knew I had to say that you knew.)
   Preserve the author's voice. But not the formatting. It must change, for the Kindle. What should Melissa's readers expect of a second edition?
   The original Kindle book is still available to those who bought it. They retain access to that version. I'm writing this blog post more than a week ahead, as usual...
   Today I saw the unedited Kindle version was withdrawn from Amazon. Melissa's readers can expect a new edition to be edited.

*

The plan is to release the second edition as a Kindle book with month-long sections and daily sub-chapters - it is a diary, after all. There was some discussion over interactivity, with in-book hyperlinks to Melissa's YouTube videos.
   YouTube is where she spends her time as an internet presence. At this stage, Melissa is wary of taking readers out of the book to watch a pertinent YouTube movie.
   Just because a feature is available doesn't mean it has to be used. There are also several legal issues thrown up by some of the videos, so YouTube interactivity is likely to be low-key or non-existent.
   I guess I'll throw that one out to her audience. Thoughts?
   That's all I can say at the moment. Getting stuck in, I'll see what sort of editing job is called for.

*

By the time this blog post goes to press...
   Visions of grapes, for some reason.
   The basic framework should be set up, and arranged for Melissa's inspection. There'll be worldwide chat, ranging out of the depths of Quebec to Ancient Scotlandia. We'll work out a plan.

*

Is this a departure for me? Yes, no, maybe. Over the past few months, editing loomed larger and broader on the horizon. I wanted to change things around, and see where this adventure would steer me.
   If that meant onto the rocks, I'd gain the opporchancity to survive on seaweed and the cheese of goats.
   After blogging 200 entries, I almost shut the blog down. But I always feel I am about to shut the blog down. That seems to be a requirement of blogging. At least, in my case.
   Next week's blog? Too far ahead, for me. There'll be a mention of giraffes, I'm thinking. (Giraffes may be conspicuous by their absence - Eclectic Ed.)

*

I'm not suing Kacey Vanderkarr. Sometimes, evil just doesn't take. Well. Damn.

ZELDA WASSER AND ADVENTURES IN CENTRAL BROOKLYN: A REPORT FROM A FUGITIVE.

   

First two images on this blog post © Zelda Wasser, 2014. Used by kind persimmons. Here, Zelda is pictured confronting her stalker on the Central Brooklyn Monorail.

This blog post was fantastic. I think, on Monday. Yes. Monday. The idea came to me. That theme was set in stone. A brilliant treatise on the burning topic of the hour.
   By Tuesday, I'd forgotten it. Blog while the iron is hot. On the other hand, if you can't remember the damned thing...
   Maybe it wasn't worth blogging about.

*

Enter Zelda Wasser.
   Steady, audience. You are making up your own punchlines, now.
   So I probably first encountered the legend that is Zelda...a few months ago, when she posted a picture of snow on the Twitter. I typed in response...
   Serial killer territory.

*

Yes, there are bodies buried in the snow. I'm thinking blunt instrument. Shovel. Too much blood in snow, with knives. Definitely shovel. Or baseball bat.

*

Twitter. Is it any use to authors? I think so. Though I don't use it to constantly Tweet links to my books. What's the point? I've yet to buy a book based on a Twitter link.
   My Twitter profile lists me as an author, and there's a link to my blog from there. People really want to check out my work, they can do that from this blog.
   There's the carousel. (I scrapped that. It's now a slideshow - Eclectic Ed.) And look at all that free stuff in the dedicated pages. From here, it's easy to head on over to Amazon and find me in the Kindle Store.
   I don't constantly Tweet my book links. But I will, on occasion, Tweet about other authors. Do I need to say this again? #YESIDO.
   Ah #hashtaggery, the bane and saviour of the Twitter. Written as one word, the phrase yes I do resembles some sort of ancient Israeli fort.
  (That's Masada you are thinking of, or possibly Megiddo - Eclectic Ed.)
   I'll say it again. Authors are writers, not rivals. Colleagues all. I find it easier to drop a plug in, here, there, for other scribblers.

*

Which brings me to author Zelda Wasser. Over the past few days, she's been blogging about cyberstalking. It's a serious subject. Somehow, Zelda managed to deflate the pomposity of your usual cyberstalker, the default troll, and...
   Damn it, she made me laugh out loud.
   I'll place links at the end, so you can judge for yourself. The bare bones of the story?
   Zelda, Jewish lesbian, was approached by a creep, stalker, slasher, cannibalistic murderer, serial cheat, serial killer, cereal box intellect, credit card fraudster, lounge-lizard, masher, wolf, hustler, pick-up artist, sexist pig, fun-loving guy just out for a good time.
   That's for legal reasons. The word pig will feature shortly.
   Despite explaining that she was gay, AND a lesbian, and had a wife, and was Jewish...
   The alleged Christian guy kept hitting on her. Zelda was just his type - woman with a pulse. He was such a good listener. (I'm lying.) When he heard that Jewish people tended to marry Jewish people, basically, his chat-up line was...
   Be Gentile with me.
   Zelda wasn't swinging that way. She was swinging - a baseball bat. They are known to play baseball, down there in her native Central Brooklyn.
   I am no serial killer. Though I could be, for all you know.

*

Research. For writers, this is an excuse to watch TV or stare out of the window. When you put dead teabags out to the teabag graveyard on a cold, wet, windy night, that is research.
   You went looking for atmosphere. Tell yourself that.
   I had a frothing desire to research pipelines. This seemed relevant at the time. Pipe maintenance. How is that handled? The science of fixology has a solution: the pig.
   In the interests of research, I stared at a mechanical pig.

*

Central Brooklyn? In Olden Times, you could scoot around on the monorail or take the Zeppelin Ferry to Roosevelt Island.
   Pictured, the former BrookZepFerry™ terminal. Now, you must make do with hover-taxis.

*

You can just make out the Flatbush Avenue Extension in this photo. That is not lesbian code...
   Though, now I've drawn your attention to this, I suspect that it may be in the future.
   What the non-hell am I talking about? Adherents of Judaism don't believe in hell.
   They do believe in deflating stalkers. That's not lesbian code, either.
   Ah, Central Brooklyn in the rain. I remember it well. Sadly, I missed out on the last dirigible ride.

*

Zelda met a stalker on the interweb. He lied about his location. Zelda threw in a few fake locations to see if he'd take the bait. He ate those worms with glee.
   Places that aren't places, or places that are places - just not in those places. It was all good. Hell's Kitchen, Brooklyn. Check. Central Brooklyn, Brooklyn. Check. My personal favourite?
   Roosevelt Island, Brooklyn.
   You needn't be as familiar with the geography as I am. Clue's in the title. It's an ISLAND.
   I've been to Hell's Kitchen, Manhattan. And I've been to Roosevelt Island, just off Manhattan. How did I feel? Groovy. Whoops, Paul Simon reference.
   Anyway, if you read Zelda's saga...I don't want to spoil the fun. The guy was living right there, in Central Brooklyn. He was a pipe engineer. Zelda dropped a non-kosher reference to pigs. Nothing.
   I knew what she meant, as I'd done the research earlier. The pipe engineer wasn't playing that game.
   Brooklyn doesn't really have a monorail, or a dirigible ferry, or, gasp, hover-taxis. Hell, it doesn't even have Zelda half the time - she's in Upstate New York.
   I've been a long stone's throw from her house.
   No, I am not Zelda's stalker. Anyone could be. She Tweets her shopping locations. No, really. I could stalk Zelda to within an inch of her rabbi. But I choose not to.
   This guy, this prince, chose to. Badly. Very badly. Zelda passed him on, to a friend - that's not what Passover means. Soon, he was copying and pasting the same spiel to her.
   Hilarious, for all the wrong reasons.

*

Zelda asked me if I wanted to chat to the stalker/s. There are two of them, or one guy pretending to be two guys. With characters like these, it's hard to tell/care.
   I just couldn't go there. For one thing, my Twitter pic is of a dishevelled cartoon lady from one of my stories. (INSANITY.) So I wouldn't want anyone thinking I am a chick. Not given the stalkerish desire to know people.
   (Changed the pic since this post - Eclectic Ed. I'm still not a chick, and don't have that many legs.)
   And for another thing, I am neck-deep in editing. Haven't the time. I made the time for blogging. But I draw the line at...there must be a term for it, whatever it is.
   Did Zelda really just try to pimp out her stalker/s to me? Oh yeah. And it was funny. Yes, I was tempted.
   But, best and worst of all, I have a black belt in a rare form of sarcasm so powerful it will strip battleship paint at five miles. Yes, I know the secret of the sarc-o-tone bomb.
   And I couldn't unleash it on that/those poor bastard/s. No sympathy for the devil. Or dicks. But there is such a thing as cruel and unusual punishment under the American Constitution.

*

Here's an image from Google Maps, © Google 2014, courtesy the Fair Dealing and Fair Use doctrines of copyright law.
   Zelda was here. I know that, because she told me. And the world.
   This didn't cause her stalker problem. Stalkers cause the stalker problem. Not that she has a problem. Her stalker/s is/are inept.

*

This was the funny side of it. Inept stalker/s. But there's a fatally serious side. And I am not saying all stalkers are men. But guys. Come on. Really? Lowest common denominator? Path of least resistance? Shit, rolling downhill into the drain?
   Really.
   I wrote MURDER BOX because of all this sort of crap I saw on the internet, and I fucking hated writing that story. The good thing that came out of it was helping Melissa C. Water prise her book free of a nasty publishing deal.
   That's a topic for another blog post. The next blog post. Stay tuned.

*

Zelda and I reminisced about our misadventures in fictional Central Brooklyn.
   I invented an invisibility ray there. She robbed a bank with it.
   At least, I think she did. Maybe she just went shopping for food porn when my back was turned.
   Food porn. The Twitter never grows tired of that.

*

A tree really grows in Brooklyn. The tour bus guide, quick with New York wit, and slow with advice, took this moment to warn upstairs passengers that we might want to take evasive action.
   In the words of the immortal bard, no shit, Sherlock.
   The giant marshmallow man, from that movie? You know the one. Happened in Central Brooklyn. They switched the story to Manhattan for bagel legal reasons.
   Okay. Brooklyn is a place. It must have a centre. Technically, there is a central Brooklyn. Not if you are a stalker. A stalker will actually come from the real fictional Central Brooklyn. Keep up at the back, there'll be questions at the end.

*

How much of a stalker did I feel, compiling this blog post about stalking? I see the name Zelda, and I sense a court order coming on. No, that's not true.

   I was amazed at the amount of data. Zelda's incompetent stalker/s could have gone to town on the raw info pumped out there.

   You can track Zelda based on her food porn alone.

   No stalker was felt during the creation of this blog.



*

For Zelda's tale of incompetent stalkery, which must be seen to be disbelieved, DIAL THIS HELPLINE.

Zelda is available for weddings, the occasional Vampire Bat Mitzvah, and SCRIBBLES ON AMAZON.

You could also try here, on Zelda's SECRET SITE. That isn't secret. I lied. Get over it.

*

Hmm. Seems that last link there now goes to a very blank, almost secret, site. Ah well.

   Now you've read this piece on stalking, here's a link to the next blog post. THE CREEPY SEXIST DICK AUTHOR TEST.