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Apart from writing one of my great passions is lawn bowls. I suppose it was inevitable that eventually I would combine the two and write a fictional novel about the game I love. The result was 'Jack's High'.

'Jack's High' was first conceived as a six part comedy drama centred around the hapless exploits of a Welsh Valleys' fictional lawn bowls club called Penypont. The BBC liked what they read but were not convinced that lawn bowls was a compelling enough vehicle for comedy and asked me to write about something else. I declined.

Some of you reading this will probably think me mad. The truth is I have always believed in staying true to what you believe in and I believed in the characters I had created. They were real to me and I was not prepared to abandon them.

How real are your characters to you? 

Seth Solmes recently posted on a Google+ forum:

  "Is it possible to be afraid of your own characters?"  

Seth is writing a novel about a particularly dark serial killer. It seems to me Seth is on the right track because his character has come alive to such a degree he actually gives Seth the shivers! More about this later.

To some extent the BBC was right. Bowls is not viewed as a 'sexy' sport even though it is played globally by large numbers of people like myself. Humour on the other hand is universal but how could I convince the general public at large that a novel about bowls could be both sexy and funny? Step forward Vernon Algernon Lewis.

Vernon is one of the characters from 'Jack's High' . His uniquely insensitive and  uncompromising attitude to life can frequently be described as outrageous. He is one of those people the ' politically correct brigade' would love to clap in irons. The point is Vernon can speak and behave in a way that would get 'real' people ostracised or worse!

It seemed a 'no brainer' to appoint the unsuspecting Vernon to the position of marketing director. One of the most effective marketing ploys is to give something away for free although we authors possibly flog this tactic to death when we keep giving away books that we have slaved over for months if not years.

The presumed logic is that somehow this will result in more sales. Instead why not provide teaser material that increases interest and a desire to find out more by actually buying your book? 'Jack's High' is a 346 page novel set around a bowls club. It is highly unlikely anyone is going to rush out to buy it unless they can be persuaded it actually may be quite fun. Which brings me back to Seth's very dark serial killer.

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The call to action  on Vernon's blog has already begun to attract subscribers who are more likely to turn into fans prepared to purchase 'Jack's High' because they have begun to 'bond' with Vernon.

CLICK HERE to visit Vernon's Landing Page and see what you think?

Isn't it time  you got your characters working for you?

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"Good heavens, something's wriggling out of the shadow like a gray snake," he said, in an appropriately dramatic tone of voice. "Now it's another one, and another. They look like tentacles to me. There, I can see the thing's body. It's large as a bear and it glistens like wet leather. But that face. It...it's indescribable. I can hardly force myself to keep looking at it. The eyes are black and gleam like a serpent. The mouth is V-shaped with saliva dripping from its rimless lips that seem to quiver and pulsate....The thing is raising up. The crowd falls back. They've seen enough. This is the most extraordinary experience. I can't find words. I'm pulling this microphone with me as I talk. I'll have to stop the description until I've taken a new position. Hold on, will you please, I'll be back in a minute."

There was little traffic on the auto link. Occasionally they would speed past huge land transporters ferrying goods from zone to zone. Once, the monstrous bulk of an interstate freighter moved deferentially to one side in acknowledgement of the distinctive markings displayed on the sleek black limo. Only essential personnel owned petrol powered vehicles. Most drove solar powered transporters that were by law restricted to zonal sectors only. The advances in cellular construction which had made possible the development of the vast 'zonal domes' also concentrated the suns energy providing all necessary power. The domes also protected the inhabitants from harmful effects of solar radiation that so easily penetrated the impoverished atmosphere.


At least traffic jams were a thing of the past. Chief Inspector Dale had read of this late twenty first century phenomenon with amused fascination. He afforded himself a wry smile. The problem appeared insoluble to scientists and politicians alike as the multiplying mass of humanity threatened to exhaust rapidly decreasing global resources. Pollution, the suppurating wounds of industrialised society, festered openly. A disease many believed incurable. Overshadowing these horrors hung the threat of the nuclear holocaust.

Oblivion.

When the end came no one even recognised its coming. The collapse of the Western monetary system proved disastrous. Economies disintegrated. Inflation soared. Nations plunged into a world wide depression deeper than an ocean trench. Swept away by the tidal wave of events governments lay stranded and helpless like beached whales. Anarchy prevailed. Continents became one vast battle ground. Wars raged within and between nations. Nuclear weapons of unimaginable destructive power were unleashed and a second Dark Age enshrouded mankind. Famine, the camp follower of war, carried her children, disease and misery, at her breast. The human race teetered on the brink of destruction.

Out of chaos arose a saviour.
But salvation carried a price. Theirs had been Jonathon.

The car sped through the nightmare landscape. Beyond the elevated auto pass security patrols wailed as they passed along the restricted area that marked the boundary of the Outworld. The occasional staccato roar of a helipatrol thundered a primal challenge across the reddening sky as it swept over the wasteland in scything arcs. A vivid sunset seeped through the heavens bloodying the scarred earth. Against the skyline the wreckage of a lost world cast its grotesque silhouette like the exposed bones of an ancient beast time has long since devoured. Camp fires flickered amidst the sepulchres of dead cities. Still the car sped on.

Dale glanced at the window and saw his face reflected against the desolation.
Kay still believed he was out there.
In exile.
Punished.
She must never know the truth. No one must."

That's my contribution folks the rest is up to you. If you are interested please contact me at philiprowlands@ymail.com.

You may or may not know that I also write educational programs for children. If you have a young child I am currently giving away free copies of an app that simulates Cuisenaire Rods. My grandson, who's seven, loves using it. If you would like a free copy follow this link FREE APP

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Seeing new places and meeting new people has to be one of the most rewarding aspects of travel. The picture opposite combines both. The cool guy in the leather jacket and shades is author Chris Keil whom I had the pleasure of meeting while in Portland. If you are wondering, the magnificent river in the background is the Columbia which flows through the heart of Portland itself.

Chris is the author of 'Flirting at The Funeral.' The title refers to a hit song one of the main characters in the book once had. I enjoyed Chris' company so much I bought a copy even though it meant my wife would have to forgo a gift (only kidding). I really didn't know what to expect but I was determined to read it through to the end.

The thing I demand most of any work of fiction is a compelling story. Regardless of how the book is constructed that has to be the bottom line. Chris did not disappoint but 'Flirting At The Funeral' is much more than that. Characterization is also key for me. Chris has created a diverse and vibrant cast of characters. Such is their vibrancy that you feel you know or recognise them in a very personal sense. This is quite an achievement because at another level each can be seen as representative either of a section of society or of specific beliefs and philosophies. Set against the uncertainties of a world peering uncertainly into the abyss of financial collapse 'Flirting At The Funeral' becomes almost a parable of our times.

Matty James, who for me was the focal point of the novel, can appear at first glance to represent all that is superficial and facile in our society. Forever 'pursuing her star' in seeming disregard of the consequences to herself and others, she personifies the desperate desire to achieve celebrity status we witness on our television screens every week. Mammon rules and before we point a finger how many of us bought a lottery ticket this week? Yet Chris' characters refuse to be judged at a superficial level. Like all really good works of fiction uncomfortable questions are continually asked of the reader. There is one scene that epitomizes this.

Matty and her friend Howard are engaged in a conversation. They stand in the ruins of an ancient building that in a distant past had been as imposing as the modern citadel built by the super rich Dr Arno Bendt. Howard attempts to persuade Matty to leave Dr Bendt and to return to London to be with her lover Morgan. Her response is pragmatic and in one sense profound:

"I have to follow my star." She took a breath."At any rate I have to make the best of it. I have to keep flirting at the funeral, like the song says."

Flirting At the Funeral is beautifully crafted and infused with sumptuous imagery. It is a book I wish I had written.




To misquote another once famous song, "It's my blog and I'll do what I wanna, do what I wanna. . ." Which is a pretty tacky way of announcing some blatant self promotion. Well it is nearly Christmas and the book I'm attempting to promote is a reworking of Dickens classic. I promise to get back to featuring more Indie Authors in the New Year!

It's contemporary New York City and Clinton Ebenezer Scrooge III shares his thoughts on Christmas.

"Scrooge gazed out of the window. Somewhere below, the river flowed blacker than the Styx through the citys dark heart into the eternal depths of the poisoned oceans. But Scrooges eyes were fixed upon another river. The unceasing flow of humanity condemned as surely to follow the course of existence to its inevitable conclusion as the river was compelled to flow into the embrace of the blind and restless sea. Christmas held out hope that the journey was not in vain. That was one of the reasons he despised it. Christmas was for the weak, for sentimental fools who had never grasped that salvation in this world was something to be wrung forcefully from lifes unwilling grip. Once the presents had been opened and the parties were over what was left apart from hangovers and a bigger overdraft? He smiled. He was above that now, had been for years. Just as detached and aloof as the gigantic reflection of himself superimposed on the vista upon which he cast such a scornful eye."

'A Christmas Carol Revisited' is a great way to enter into the Festive Spirit and it's available NOW on Amazon in Print or Kindle format. Prefer PRINT? Prefer KINDLE? Just click on the thumbnail of choice. CLICKHERE to listentoa brief audio excerpt. CLICK HERE todownload an extract in pdf format.

Megan?

Megan. It was the name Valarie had chosen in deference to her Welsh
ancestry of which she was inordinately proud. For once he let her have her way.
What did it matter anyway, the child would never be born. It had proved a
serious error of judgement for the very act of naming the child bestowed on
Valarie a moral strength he never imagined she possessed. Thereafter she
resisted him at every turn but the effort drained her vitality and she took refuge
in drink. The miscarriage had been a fortuitous consequence.

Thats impossible. Valarie lost our child.

Even now he refused to speak her name. Even now he refused to accept his
portion of blame.

Nothing that has ever lived is truly lost Papa."

She looked at him and
the revelation of what he had lost swept over him, a chill wind announcing the
onset of a long and bitter winter. Images of what might have been flashed
through his mind and he tried to grasp hold of them but they evaded him like
autumn leaves scattered in a sudden storm."

The 'After Climeri' Series.
The Gareth and Gwen Medieval Mysteries

Every major city in the world is haunted by an unwanted underclass largely ignored by the rest of us like some secret shame.They are shadows in a dark room passing their days in a twilight world that exists somewhere between the living and the dead.

The great Victorian novelist Charles Dickens was one of the first authors to focus the light of his literary genius on their miserable existence. His social conscience would not allow him to pass by on the other side.

However it is one thing to wax lyrical about the homeless and destitute but quite another to be confronted with their plight first hand as I was to discover on my recent visit to Portland, Oregon. It was my first visit to America and during the drive from the airport I caught sight of an individual staggering from a store clutching a paper bag. Gaabriel, my host, explained that homelessness was a problem within most American cities and Portland was no exception. Where Portland stood in stark contrast to many others was the liberal stance it took towards this unfortunate section of society. Many States employ aggressive measures to clear their streets of the Great Unwanted and although there is no Government or State support for these individuals at least Portland has a Mission where fortunate individuals can get a bed and a roof for the night.

It is human nature to pass judgement on others. Most of us cannot help wonder how anyone gets to end up living on the streets. Hopefully very few of us hold the same views as those expressed by one of my characters, Ebenezer Clinton Scrooge III. Arriving at the steps of his Manhattan headquarters he is confronted by a less affluent member of New York City society.

" Scroogesmiled, this was no hired assassin sent on a mission to destroy only a common beggar chancing his arm, or what remained of it. A diseased symptom of the times. New York was infested with such hopelessindividuals seeking solace and oblivion in alcohol or drugs, authors of their own destruction, and as such deserving of no sympathy or special favours. Still they never usually surfaced in this district preferring insteadto haunt the more stagnant cess-pits of the city. Perhaps the fact it was Christmas Eve had emboldened this particular specimen into venturing further afield in the false hope that honest citizens would be moreinclined to lunatic displays of charity many being so imbued with festive spirits they would carelessly part with their hard earned dollars." ( A Christmas Carol Revisited ).

This is the dark side of the American Dream. Every good Doctor Jekyll has his own Mr Hyde to some degree or another. Perhaps it is how we react to the darkness that defines us as individuals and nations. Or is it if we are even prepared to confront that darkness in our society and in our selves? The 'hopeless individual' in the story is called Stephen, the 'hopeless individual' who confronted me on the streets of Portland was called Arnold.

We were down town waiting for a bus when Arnold approached. He was obviously distressed. Apparently he had been attempting to gain access to one of the toilets in the city precincts. It was locked and from what we could understand Arnold had been forcibly removed because he kept complaining that someone had hurt his arm. I learnt later that it was common practice to lock the toilets as they were in constant danger of being commandeered by the likes of Arnold on the lookout for somewhere dry and secure to sleep. It was also obvious Arnold had significant mental health issues. He insisted we call the cops otherwise he would kill someone.

I don't think anyone felt threatened but we all felt uncomfortable. I pretended to phone the cops but Arnold wasn't fooled for a second. Eventually the bus arrived and we got on board. Arnold followed. It soon became obvious Arnold was going nowhere until someone called the cops. As he became more distressed so his threats became more extravagant to the point he was now prepared to kill everyone on the bus. People began to get off not because they felt threatened but because they realised it would probably be quicker to walk home. Throughout the whole incident the lady bus driver spoke soothingly to Arnold and even provided him with a drink. Her compassionate attitude had a marked impact upon Arnold who became an increasingly less threatening yet more tragic figure by the minute. Eventually Arnold got his wish and the cops arrived.

'Street Roots' is a paper sold by the homeless on the streets and is Portland's version of the 'Big Issue'. The lead story the week I was there was regarding the way certain States were dealing with the problem of homeless people with mental health issues. Their solution was to provide these vulnerable individuals with enough food and money for a few days and a bus ticket to some place else. There they would duly arrive with no contacts or support and whatever provision they had left. Problem solved. It staggers me that large sections of American society still oppose ObamaCare.

It was with a sense of relief that we watched Arnold being escorted away. He was obviously known to the local police who dealt with him courteously and gently. Whether he got a nice dry, warm cell for the night is another matter. My thoughts often return to Arnold and I wonder how he possibly survives life on the streets. Could I have done more to help? There is a gulf between feeling compassion at some general esoteric level and acting upon that compassion at the subjective level of reality. If I am honest, Arnold was a burden I did not want to bear. He was not my responsibility after all. Like the Pharisee I shuffled by on the other side. It is not always a comfortable experience when our characters turn up on our doorstep.

To be honest, I didn't literally follow in their intrepid footsteps. I caught a plane instead. Fortunately the pilot knew the way. Just as well because map reading was never my forte. Never could quite get the hang of a compass and all that Magnetic North stuff. Flying over the breathtaking beauty of the Rockies into Vancouver almost made me wish I was more of an outdoor type.


From Vancouver I flew down to Portland to meet up with Gaabriel Beckett and Ceri Shaw. Gaabriel is president of the Lewis Meriwether Foundation while Ceri is founder of AmeriCymru.net a social network for expat Welsh folks living in America. Ceri created the website to help raise the profile of Wales as most Americans have never even heard of the place. The average U.S citizen probably knows far more about Hobbits than Taffs!

This was part of the reason I was flying out to Portland. Not that I expected my arrival to be the catalyst for a sudden upsurge in an awareness of Wales and all things Cymru. At one point I doubted whether I'd make first base past Homeland Security. Why is it we always feel guilty and look shifty when someone in authority scrutinizes our passport? I think my attempt at an ingratiating smile almost earned me a seat on the next plane back home. It was with a mingled sense of relief and excitement I stepped onto American soil for the first time, my mission to help promote Welsh writers in my capacity as author and co-editor of eto magazine .

It was not my first collaboration with an American organization. Last December the New York City Bar Association Entertainment Committee performed a staged reading of my contemporary adaptation of Charles Dickens wonderful novella 'A Christmas Carol', which with staggering originality I entitled 'A Christmas Carol Revisited'. It was particularly exciting because not only had I set the story in Manhattan, where Ebenezer Clinton Scrooge III presided over his vast global media empire, but it was also 150 years to the day that Dickens' 'Christmas Carol' was first published. I was invited to attend but unfortunately due to prior engagements (I'm one of Father Christmas' official helpers) was unable to make it.

The three of us with the Columbia River in the background.









The three of us bunked down at Ceri and Gaabriel's place. They were generous hosts and we all appreciated the way the whole family allowed us to disrupt the noiseless tenor of their way (I must remember that line). One of the most pleasant discoveries, apart from the stunning snow capped Mount Hood, was the fact that Portland is home to numerous micro-breweries. I made the discovery on the way from the airport when Gaabi stopped by the local supermarket to stock up with more bottles. Mike and Chris had arrived the day before and supplies were inevitably running low.

It was good to meet with my eto co-editors Ceri and Gaabi face to face as well as Chris and Mike. We celebrated with a few beers and then Ceri introduced us to something that was to become a staple diet of our visit, 'Breaking Bad', washed down with a few more bottles of beer. What a start! Wordstock, Portland State University and Mount Hood Community College lay on the horizon along with other experiences that will remain with me for as long as I live but for now I had really followed in the footsteps of Lewis and Clarke.

Next: Our Mission Begins.