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Songs and Stories and a Million Other Things

Memories are important.

Like stories and music and just about everything else, they’re important because of the emotional attachment we apply to them. Hey, what’s your favourite song? Have you and your husband or your girlfriend ever heard a tune on the radio and said: “Hey! That’s our song!” before being swept up in a torrent of fond memories and musings and best-forgotten dance moves? Does knowing it’s someone else favourite song or that it ‘belongs’ to a million other couples make it any less unique or special to you?

Nope.

Because the memories conjured by the melodies and the lyrics are yours and yours alone, and that’s what separates it from every other song out there.

Terry Pratchett knew that Death was coming for him. He knew that he was in the grip of Alzheimer’s and he tackled it with the strength, nobility and humour that he lived the rest of his life by. It was just another thing. He didn’t let it define him.

I wanted to contribute to this anthology because Sir Terry is my favourite writer. I mean, this is the man who created all my favourite characters this side of Batman!

I never knew Terry but — like songs — I knew his characters in a way that no-one else could because I saw parts of myself in them (and not always the good bits). Commander Vimes, Rincewind, Granny Weatherwax, William de Worde… They may all exist in a fantasy land in some distant corner of the multiverse, but anyone who’s ever read the stories in which these characters (and hundreds more) appear will have glimpsed some facet of themselves within them, even though they were born from a single imagination.

Terry Pratchett showed us the real world through a fantastical prism that made the good parts beautiful and the ugly parts seem easy to fix, more often than not making us laugh while doing so. These are just a couple of his greatest strengths as a writer, and as a human.

My gran suffers from dementia. For more than a decade I’ve watched her mind decline and slip and slide. It’s not an easy thing to witness, because in this case, it has come to define her. And yet, I’ll always remember the woman she was before this cruel disease gripped her. I’ll remember her sweeping onto a bus every Sunday morning on her way to church and chatting to people that would ignore her any other day of the week (smiling afterwards with an astute observation that “There’s a big difference between Christianity and Churchianity”, a caveat which I think Sir Terry would raise a wry smile to). I’ll remember her stories about growing up in a post-war Glasgow that I’ll never get to know. I’ll remember how she taught me not to cry whenever I’d fall and scrape my knees simply by forcing myself to think about something else. But most of all I’ll remember her baking, and how she’d accidentally-on-purpose slice too many apples for her apple tart and slip the surplus to me, dusted with sugar, so it wouldn’t go to waste. (To this day I’ve kept my promise not to tell my mum about that. I hope I can trust you with this information.)

These days I blush when she has one of her less lucid moments, looks at me and says: “You’re a fine young man. If I was your age I’d fancy you”. Cheers Gran. Even now, your words and wisdom never fail to provide an ego boost.

The strength of memories also, tragically, hit my family even closer to home earlier this year.

In February, my dad passed away a few weeks after suffering a stroke. He didn’t wake up after it, but he wasn’t in any pain during his last days, and I think he knew he was surrounded by family. I take comfort knowing this, and in the wealth of memories I have of him. I take comfort in knowing that I can listen to his karaoke recordings of Elvis and Billy Fury songs whenever I want (and he sang their songs better than they did). I take comfort in seeing him within the photo frames where he sits grinning at us, and in the many memories of his unflinching enthusiasm every time he bought a Lotto ticket (“We’ll win it next week, wait and see”) and a million other things.

When a friend and mutual Discworld enthusiast told me about this anthology and its theme, I knew I had to write something, for myself if nothing else. I wanted to analyse why we place so much significance in memories and what that importance means in the social media age, where we constantly fret over how mega corporations use our private data yet think nothing of publicly sharing our thoughts and photos — our memories — for the world to see. Are they still important if they’re disposable? Do they carry the same weight when we scroll through a conveyor of similar thoughts and feelings from other people every day?

Well, that depends on you.

And that brings me to a close, to offer humble thanks for being included in a body of work born from the love and respect for a great writer and amazing human being — to The Vividarium, which is for my dad, my gran, and the memory of Sir Terry Pratchett, if I can be so bold to hope that they would’ve liked it.

Thanks for the memories, and the stories that go with them.

And now, for a story

My uncle had Alzheimers.

(Get back here, I'll be quick!)

Waaaay back then it wasn't called Alzheimers or dementia. We brushed it off as him just being silly. He would call up his brother-in-law and talk about past events as if it happened yesterday. I remember once he took a night bus to another state, but due to a comedy of errors he ended up back home. At the bus station, he called my aunt and said, "Wow, this town is totally like home! You should see it! Look, it even has the same coffee shop!" It took him a run-in with a friend to realise where he was, and it became a story we'd laugh over during family reunions.

Then in 2009-2010, my aunt suddenly passed away in her sleep.

My dad headed to Terengganu for the funeral (aunt was my dad's sister). In the church, my dad saw my uncle sitting near the coffin, looking so sad and forlorn. Dad sat next to him, thinking the old chap (he was 70+ then) needed a shoulder and an ear.

Uncle: It's so sad, she's gone, and I didn't have the chance to say goodbye!
Dad: *nodnod*
Uncle: She was always so kind, and gentle, and she treated us all fairly!
Dad: ... (I don't know if we're talking about my sister anymore, but okay)
Uncle: And even though I wasn't her real son, she raised me like her own!
Dad: .........what.

It dawned on my dad that my uncle thought he was attending his adopted mother's funeral (she'd died years ago).

My uncle didn't realise his wife was dead and he was at her funeral.

I don't think he ever did.

His dementia snowballed very quickly into Alzheimers. His kids brought him back to Selangor so they could take care of him, but he was slipping. Once he vanished from the nursing home and ended up 10 kilometers away in town, standing in front of a shop. The shopkeeper called my cousin, and it broke my dad's heart to see his brother-in-law not recognise his own daughter. Over the years his kids still brought him out for Sunday breakfast and family dinners, but he'd sit quietly, probably wondering why these nice people kept taking him out.

The last words he spoke to me were, "You've grown so much since I last saw you!"

I wonder which era was he stuck in; I never found out.

My uncle passed on last year.

The difference between my uncle and Terry Pratchett was that Mr Pratchett knew what was coming. Knowing that his memories will disappear, rushing against time to write one last book because his body will say 'ok that's it' and poof that's all folks, it probably hurt a lot. My uncle didn't know what hit him, and perhaps that was a blessing.

Alzheimers always sounds heart-wrenching - the stories are always about old people forgetting things, and the children are left to watch helplessly as their parents slip backwards into a mental time portal until the tunnel hits the beginning. But ultimately it's always someone else's story, and we are merely sympathetic bystanders. If we didn't experience it we write about a simulated pain, close to the real thing, but not quite the same.

I wasn't very close to my uncle, but my dad lost a brother-figure, and my cousins lost their dad.

I don't think I'll understand their loss.

I hope I never will.

Yesterday's gone (and so are all the other days)

The phrase “I remember it like it was yesterday” becomes somewhat meaningless when you realise that yesterday, like every other day since the beginning of time, is gone forever – and therefore can't be easily referred to for a quick fact-check.

One of the first things they teach you when you become a copper (or so I am told) is to take eyewitness accounts with a generous helping of salt. This goes double for witnesses to an event that was both entirely unexpected and began and ended within an extremely short space of time. This can be largely explained through the concept of schematic thinking – an idea that fascinated me in sixth form psychology, and which I shall now explain to you in what is probably a mangled and misinterpreted manner so heaving with irony, it just might melt my laptop.

A schema is sort of like one of those crossword solvers used by people who miss the point of a crossword. For those of you who don't know about crossword solvers, they're programs and/or websites you can use to solve crossword puzzles for you and, oh dear, I've probably encouraged a few of you to use them. Anyway, the point is this. A crossword solver works by taking what limited information you have – three letters from a six letter word, say – and then using this to almost instantly present you with one or more solutions to save you thinking. A schema will similarly take limited information – perhaps scrappy memories, or an unfamiliar sight or sound – and instantly fill in the gaps to proffer some kind of understanding/solution. It does this, essentially, by making it fit in with existing beliefs or experience. This isn't a conscious process, which is where the trouble comes in.

To go back to the idea of eyewitness reports, let's take the hypothetical crime of a purse snatching in a busy shop. A dastardly fiend snatches a bag from a woman's shoulder and makes good his escape, grabbing his ill-gotten gains and leaving the shop all within the space of less than five seconds. There are ten witnesses. Thanks to schematic thinking, no two eyewitness accounts match exactly. Eight witnesses say the bag was over the woman's right shoulder, because they are right-handed; two witnesses say it was the left shoulder, because they are left-handed. The bag itself was red, but will be reported by some as blue, because the theft took place in a section of the shop selling mostly blue bags. The criminal was clean shaven, but is reported by four witnesses as having noticeable stubble or the beginnings of a beard, because that's how dirty purse-snatchers look, isn't it? The criminal was wearing smart shoes, but six witnesses swear he was wearing black (or dark blue) trainers, because he was running. And so on. I'm obviously just pulling these numbers out of the air, but the principle rings true.

Tempting as it is to explore how and why schemas are at the rotten core of various prejudices (it's currently fashionable amongst racists, for example, to consider certain terrorists representative of all Muslims, while ignoring acts of heroism carried out by Muslims such as those in the recent horrors of France and Tunisia), I don't want to go off on too much of a tangent here. The point is that at a fundamental level, we all have some of our memories and perceptions subtly altered without our permission by a sort of internal editor. An overzealous editor who wants to ensure that everything is understood with no loose ends, in a way that doesn't challenge the audience's expectations. On top of this, our memories can be altered by other people – both intentionally and unintentionally.

If life events act like cookie cutters, leaving clearly defined shapes in our minds, then those shapes are cut from an extremely malleable clay that never hardens. I'll leave the explanation of this to an expert. There's a brilliant Ted Talk by psychologist Elizabeth Loftus that I strongly recommend you watch. It will take less than eighteen minutes of your time, and will open your eyes to just how fragile the accuracy of human memory is.

Wandering back to the idea of memory and the legal system; results from polygraph (so called 'lie detector') tests are not- despite what you may have heard – admissible as evidence in a UK court of law. There are several reasons for this, one of the chief ones being the fact that their margin of error remains fiercely contested to this day. Even ignoring that, and the techniques that can be employed to fool such a test (yes, it can be done), all a polygraph test can be said to prove – at best – is what a person believes to be true. And those pesky schemas can then come into play to interfere.

Let's say that, on a day of remarkable coincidence, three people in three different cities have a virtually identical experience in the middle of the night; one a devout and enthusiastic Christian, one a strong believer in UFOs and alien life, and one an atheist. Each person wakes up in the early hours of the morning, and sees mysterious figures surrounding their bed making strange noises for a minute or more. The mysterious figures then suddenly disappear. The devout Christian will swear they were visited by angels, as this slots in perfectly with the world view that their religious schemas provide. The UFO fanatic will swear that they were visited by aliens, as this slots in perfectly with the world view that their very different, but equally strong, belief provides. The atheist, with no existing schemas that smoothly wrap around the experience, won't immediately know what to make of it; but after research, may well conclude that it was a hypnopompic hallucination.

To put it in a way that even somebody like me can understand, 'hypnopompic' basically refers to a state where asleep and awake melt into one another. You're seeing the real world, but your dream brain is allowing your imagination to drop things into your vision, sometimes with accompanying sound. In essence, a waking dream. I had a hypnopompic hallucination once, and it was bloody terrifying.

I didn't know it was a hypnopompic hallucination at the time. I certainly wouldn't have used those words, as I was probably about seven or eight years old. Poor little me; I woke up (more or less) in the morning, and immediately saw a small creature sitting on the end of my bed staring at me. It was as big as a fair sized TV. It was a cardboard box with eyes and a downturned mouth cut out, with arms ending in gloves and legs ending in shoes. The arms and legs suggested that whatever was inside the box (if anything was indeed in it) was wearing a tight-fitting stripy onesie.

Look, I was seven or eight.

It looked straight at me and said, in an unnaturally slow and deep voice that chilled me to my young bones:

“Wide awake club”.

It was scary at the time, okay? I leapt out of bed, straight past the demon, and hurtled into my parents' room. When I returned to my bedroom the thing was gone of course, and I tell you what, I really bloody hope it was a hallucination. I think that may have scarred me for life. I'm never going to forget that, and I remember it in horrifying detail even today.

I remember it like it was yesterday.

Luke

How and Where I Write

How and where I write

Jane Austen wrote by hand on small sheets of paper hiding them if anyone came into the room. Anthony Trollope paid his manservant to call him at 5.30am so he could get in three hours writing before he left home for his day job. Proust wrote in a cork lined room and J G Ballard in a nondescript suburban house. I have a friend who composes her best work in coffee shops, because she doesn’t like the silence at home.

I am lucky in having a study. I type at an old table with a Formica top. On it sits my principal tool, an iMac with a 27” screen. Why so big? Because I can have three A4 equivalent pages displayed at a time, making moving between documents, or parts of the same document easy. I can have my browser open on one side of the screen and the document I am working on on the other. A simple touch of my mouse enables me to swipe sideways to other open documents – one always is Google Earth.

I use Word. It has had its ups and downs but for most writing is better than anything else. I have tailored the screen and the commands to my own preferences. If I am writing dialogue or a radio script I use Celtx, which lays everything out as performers, directors and producers need to see it. I tried but abandoned Scrivener, sold as a productivity package but worse than useless in my view.

My table also has an assortment of pens and pencils in a plastic desk tidy my daughter gave me when she was six, Post-It notes, a note block, a desk lamp, a bowl full of dongles, wireless mikes and general detritus, and a small brass clock that no longer works and I don’t know what to do with. There is a large magnifying glass and a Swiss army knife. The surface of the table is slightly slippery and my mouse pad is kept in place by a 1lb brass weight given to me by a friend’s widow. There are two remote controls, for amplifier and CD player, a phone and a calculator. My printer sits nearby, a high speed Epson that is good at double sided work.

Next to my table is an old Welsh dresser stuffed with an assortment of books, most not used for immediate writing needs except for a copy of the Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook. Part of one shelf houses books with material I have published. Some of the dresser houses research files for various projects, some completed.

On the wall above my computer is a picture of my old college and a pen and ink drawing of a desert landscape with two saguaro cacti. They remind me of the desert Southwest USA, my favourite part of the world.

The window overlooks parked cars with trees and houses in the middle distance. If I am busy I don’t look out. Sometimes I draw the curtains because bright light makes my screen hard to see. On the two foot deep windowsill is a collection of little objects acquired over the years and family photos.

Next to the window is a tall set of shelves housing essential materials (paper, envelopes, ink cartridges and so on), and reference books. The most important are the Shorter Oxford (3^rd ed.), the Chicago Manual of Style and the Oxford American Dictionary. I also have several dictionaries of slang and the Economist Style Guide, along with Ben Bova’s brilliant book the Craft of Writing Science Fiction that Sells. A manual of old seafaring terms is there as well, seldom used. There are atlases, and a lot of maps. My favourite of these is an airline pilot’s map of Western Yemen.

Behind where I sit is a wall lined with books, much science fiction, books about WW2, London, H G Wells and California, together with assorted books I cannot even begin to catalogue. I no longer throw books away, because seven years ago my wife and I moved house 5,000 miles, and abandoned over 1,000 books in the process, saying we would not need them again. We were wrong.

Most of the reference books are downstairs in a place that would be a library if it weren’t our living room. They are downstairs so that if I want to look something up it forces me to get up and walk downstairs, taking minimal exercise, but taking it. Here are Butler’s Lives of the Saints (12 volumes), a complete Oxford English Dictionary, numerous dictionaries of other languages, Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, the 6^th ed. Shorter Oxford (the dictionary to which I usually turn if the 3^rd ed. upstairs doesn’t serve for any reason), Collins English Dictionary (it sometimes has better word definitions than Oxford), a magisterial encyclopaedia of the grape, the Oxford Companion to English literature and Oxford Book of Quotations. There is also a Concise Dictionary of National Biography, Oxford Dictionary of Nursery Rhymes, Oxford Companion to Music, Kobbe’s Complete Opera Book, Fowler, Gowers and others.

Why do I need all these books? Surely one can look anything up on the internet? The simple answer is, no you cannot. If you want the correct etymology of a word (the plural of “dwarf” springs to mind) you will try in vain. If you need details of the life of an obscure saint, or an obscure English engineer, you may have difficulty on the Internet. Similarly if you want an authoritative discussion of the origins of “Jack and Jill went up the hill” (I did a few days ago) you need the Opies’ marvellous reference work. There is a second answer: I like reference books.

All of this paraphernalia, together with the Internet (accessed via Safari, Opera, Firefox and Chrome depending on my needs) forms an extended memory. I no longer need to remember details, nor to make many notes. The only difficulty is knowing where I looked something up, in case I need to document it. Scrivener can do this but my way is simpler. When I look things up on the internet I bookmark relevant references until I have finished with whatever I am writing. Easy, fast and reliable.

When I have finished a piece I read it out loud to myself. That often sends me back for a further round of changes.

My writing habits are erratic. I revise in the morning, before breakfast, or in the middle of the night if I can’t sleep. If I have a creative spurt I spend all day at my computer, but sometimes days or weeks pass when I achieve little. Sometimes I listen to music or watch old movies, and but mostly I read. I don’t recommend my compositional methods to anyone, but they seem to be tolerably effective for a person whose prose style in first drafts is as dull as ditchwater (or ditch-water).

Simon Evans

On memories and doors

Last Friday, I printed my almost finished story and put it on the table for my parents to read. It caused my dad to stay up later than he'd planned to, which I'm taking as a good sign. The next morning at breakfast he told me that the story reminded him of something I used to say as a kid. Whenever I was unsuccessfully trying to remember something, I'd say that it was somewhere behind a little door in my head, but I couldn't find the right door.

Now I'm not going to tell you what exactly the similarity to my story is; for that you'll have to buy the book when it comes out. But it's definitely there, which is funny because I'd forgotten about that particular anecdote. Who knows? Maybe I did unconsciously base the story on that idea.

Memories are strange things. For example: the only thing I remember about the house I lived in for the first two and a half years of my life is one door. I believe it was the door to the kitchen, but I'm not sure. It was green, with a small, frosted glass window with some sort of pattern in it. However, when I think about it, I don't actually remember that door anymore. I remember remembering it, and describing the image to my parents to check if there was indeed a door like that, which seems to have replaced my memory of the actual door itself.

I'm not sure why the first two memory-related anecdotes I thought of are both related to doors. It must mean something.

Anyway, hi! I'm Anna, I've been making up stories all my life, and writing them down ever since I figured out how letters worked. I've always wanted to write a novel, and I'm actually working on the first one that, even after a few chapters, still seems like it's going to be great. It's going to take a while to finish, though, so I decided to get back into short stories and see if I could get one published. And here I am, really excited to be working on this anthology!

School to desired temperature: Mr Lanaway

Welcome ye to my third and final post about the three teachers who have most influenced/damaged me. I've sort of made it a series of episodic posts so that a) after the first one you know that they're related, and kind of what to expect; and b) after the first one, you can just look at the title and know to avoid the other two without the hassle of clicking through to read the whole thing.

I've just realised that I have, unintentionally, written about these three in ascending order of age. Mr Moody was in his mid to late twenties; Mrs Bradley was in her late thirties; and Mr Lanaway was in his sixties. I know this for certain because he retired months before we were finished with him, and we all missed him dearly.

Dear Mr Lanaway. He wasn't young by anybody's standards, and so to a bunch of teenagers obsessed with sex, drugs and alcohol (or, in my case, manga and Stephen King) he should have seemed positively ancient. He should have; but he never did. I remember Mr Lanaway as having a permanent smile lighting up his face, and I would like to believe that my former classmates remember him in the same way. We were so, so lucky to have him. He was clearly a lovely human being, but he also had a genuine and powerful passion for what he was teaching that we all subconsciously absorbed by osmosis. He was born to teach, and the subject he was born to teach was English.

I'm not sure if this was built into the curriculum or something, but Mr Lanaway – the oldest English teacher – tended to teach the oldest books. This included Chaucer. Have you ever read Chaucer? Or, more accurately for most normal human beings, have you ever tried to read Chaucer? For those unfamiliar with the works of Geoffrey Chaucer, I shall quote from The Wife of Bath's Tale (from The Canterbury Tales):

And happed that, allone as he was born,

He saugh a mayde walkynge hym biforn,

Of which mayde anon, maugree hir heed,

By verray force, he rafte hire maydenhed;

The first two lines I can sort of understand; it just looks like somebody got hit round the head with something heavy immediately before writing them. The following two lines, though, seem to have been transcribed phonetically from somebody in the throes of demonic possession. Mr Lanaway could read Chaucer aloud fluidly, with full understanding of every syllable. I essentially spent these lessons living in mortal fear of being asked to demonstrate that I had some vague sense of what was going on.

Actually, that's just a weak attempt at a cheap laugh that's greatly unfair to Mr Lanaway's teaching. I never did get my head all the way around Chaucer, but Mr Lanaway made every effort possible to gently but firmly guide us around the unfamiliar writing. He asked questions, answered questions, and made slow but clear progress with us through the stories. I suppose it helped that Chaucer was a filthy old man. It's amazing the effort some teenagers will put in if they think there's something vaguely resembling pornography to be had at the end of it.

The smile most certainly characterised Mr Lanaway (and as I said, it was always there, not just while he was watching a class full of kids discover dirty jokes from the 14^th century). His occasional stammer came in third. What came in at a close second was the way in which he seemed physically unable to stand still. If he wasn't walking slowly around the class as he was sharing his wealth of knowledge with us, he was doing it standing in several places at once. That is to say, he would gently rock back and forth or side to side in a subtle – but entirely impossible to miss – manner. It gave him the appearance of a hugely intelligent metronome.

Here's my dirty little secret: I've never been a huge fan of Shakespeare. I have a collection of his complete works of course, as this is required by law in the United Kingdom. I find his sonnets to be true works of art, beautiful and valuable pieces of history. His plays, I can take 'em or leave 'em. Okay, so The Tempest and Macbeth are kind of cool, the latter carrying what is easily my favourite Shakespeare quote (“I am in blood steeped in so far that, should I wade no more, returning were as tedious as go o'er”). A Midsummer Night's Dream wins points for having a character named Bottom. Richard III gave me some context for the relevant cockney rhyming slang, if nothing else. Even though I didn't really enjoy it, it's actually Hamlet – or more specifically, Mr Lanaway's teaching of it – that provided my most important Shakespearian experience.

Hamlet is Shakespeare's longest play and I tell you what, it bloody felt like it at the time, too. It has a ghost but, sadly, no proton streams. There are 32,241 words in Hamlet (I Googled it), but it only took six of them to really leave an impression on me. They only left an impression on me because they left an impression on Mr Lanaway; but not in the way I imagine Billy Shakespeare was hoping.

It's one of the most famous quotes to be repeatedly regurgitated from any of the plays. It is spoken by Polonius, an old man flawed in a deeply human way. When giving advice to his son, Polonius at one point says “To thine own self be true”. I remember, vividly, the day we came across this line in class. We regularly played the parts ourselves but on this occasion Mr Lanaway was reading to us, walking or wobbling about the room as he did so. I was sat at my desk, one of the small but solid wooden ones barely four feet square our school still had a handful of that you probably don't get anymore. He was walking past me, to my left, with me on his left hand side, when he reached that line and stopped.

“To thine own self be true. 'To thine own self be true'. What a load of rubbish.”

He turned so that he was facing me, but still looking down into the book in his hands as though willing the offending words away. He repeated the line a few more times in disgust, then continued reading and walking.

Mr Lanaway had immeasurable respect for language, and books, and education, and – yes – for Shakespeare. Never before or since that moment had he shown us anything but an interest in and passion for the works of Shakespeare. But that moment is the one I remember above all others. It was a revelation to me. A teacher hinting that a Shakespeare play was less than perfect? Did I dream it? Surely that didn't actually happen? No, it did – because I was in Mr Lanaway's class.

I already had a little seedling of rebellion against authority then but, looking back, I think that simple moment of humanity gave it a healthy dose of gro-fast. I respect Mr Lanaway for many things, but what I can clearly and immediately name as one of those things is the way in which he very consciously let us know his opinion. He didn't make much of a fuss over it – he never mentioned it again, didn't ask us to critique the line or anything – but it wasn't a momentary slip of the Teacher mask, either. It was just Mr Lanaway being Mr Lanaway. Whether he meant to or not, he helped teach me that it's okay to have an unpopular opinion.

I shan't be writing about my school memories anymore (is that a sigh of relief I hear?), and it may seem like I've been writing more about memories around my teachers rather than my memories of them. It is however what they taught me and how they taught it that helped shape what I remember from that time, how, and why. Writing these three posts, I have discovered that these memories were even more significant in shaping me than I first thought. I am loathe to pry still further into their meanings, in fact, lest their influence wanes and a little piece of me slips away.

Luke

The Who and Why

Hi! My name is Michael, nice to meet you. You have found this blog, so you must love stories - I know we’ll get along just fine.

As this is my first post in the blog, I think it makes sense to write about why I’m contributing to this anthology. Writing this post is a bit daunting considering the brilliant ones that have already been posted, but I’ll do my best. Feel free to stop reading it if you get bored. Do something fun instead. I heard that there are lots of interesting things out there on the internet, maybe you could go exploring. Or you could pick up your favourite book and reread (rereread, rerereread, …) it. I promise I don’t mind.

You are still reading? Are you sure? Ok, so here goes nothing.

I found out about the anthology in the May edition of Discworld Monthly, which is a great newsletter about Terry Pratchett and his books. And the moment I read about it, I knew that I had to participate. Not just to see a story of mine in a book, but mainly because it provided me with the opportunity to pay my respects to Terry Pratchett and help (in a small way) to fight Alzheimers. And as I started to write the first draft of my story, I thought a lot about the impact Terry Pratchett and his books had on my life.

In 2011, I had the privilege to attend a lecture by Alberto Manguel. He is a brilliant writer who has written books like 'A History of Reading' and 'The Library at Night'. If you have not yet read them, you absolutely should - they are beautiful love-letters to the written word.

At the lecture, he said (and I am quoting from memory here, so it probably won't be his exact words): 

     "My library is my autobiography."

I love this concept. And it is true: I look at the books in my bookshelf and I see the stages of my life. The places. The people. The good times and the bad. I see how tastes and interests shifted and changed. And I see how important Terry Pratchett's books were to all of this.

They are at the centre of my bookshelves - literally. In the very middle of my bookshelves stands a Rincewind bookend, The Science of Discworld books to the left, the Tiffany Aching books to the right. Above, left, and right are the rest of his books.

The first time I heard of the Discworld was half a lifetime ago when I had just started the 12th grade. It was a great time because I had just met all those people who are still my closest friends today.

We were sitting in the school's cafeteria one day when one of them quoted a scene from a book:

     'Have - have you got an appointment?' he said.

     'I don't know,' said Carrot. 'Have we got an appointment?’

     'I've got an iron ball with spikes on,' Nobby volunteered.

     'That's a morningstar, Nobby.'

     'Is it?'

     'Yes,' said Carrot. 'An appointment is an engagement to see someone, while a morningstar is a large lump of metal used for viciously crushing skulls.’

     Men At Arms, Terry Pratchett

We all laughed a lot. I admit that I hadn’t heard of either Terry Pratchett or that strange place called Discworld before. But I went and bought the book and (of course) absolutely loved it. And that was it. I was hooked.

There are many authors who write funny or exciting or captivating stories, so why was Terry Pratchett something special? What differentiates a brilliant writer from all the other good writers? Well, there are a couple of things, and I expect that everybody will have their own take on this. 

For me, the best authors do two things for you: 

1. They create a world in your head you can enter and spend time in, and


2. they then make you wander beyond that world and show you other ideas and viewpoints, introduce you to new people and concepts, and point out possibilities as well as dangers.

Terry Pratchett was a master at both. 

The Discworld is a wonderful place full of imagination, interesting characters, magic, crazy (but surprisingly consistent) logic, and adventure. Whenever I read a Discworld book, I have that distinct feeling of returning home. I’m visiting old friends, and I’m walking through places I have known for many years.

Before I started to read the Discworld books, I hadn’t encountered something like that. Having this world to escape to (although this word always sounds negative - so let’s say ’travel to’ instead) was a new experience for me. The maps and the wonderful art by Josh Kirby and Paul Kidby intensified that feeling of a real world that existed between the covers of those books.

At the same time, there is always ‘more’ to each of the books (it has been said before, but I need to reiterate it). There are so many topics hidden under the layers of the storyline, and they are there for the finding if you dare to look for them. And this quality is what makes them so perfect for reading them again and again in different phases of your life. That, and the fact that they are always funny and witty and entertaining of course.

Over time, I read all the books Terry Pratchett has ever written. At first, I read the books in German (the translations are actually really good), but at some point I switched to the original ones because I could not wait for the books to be translated. So I started to read books in English on a regular basis.

I’m absolutely sure that I would not be able to write stories in English nowadays without that constant input of great writing (and I’m certain I would not know such unusual words as ‘ineffability’).

And ultimately, Terry Pratchett made me want to be able to write. To be able to write stories that transport readers into a different place and that make them turn the pages.

Now, I have only mentioned the Discworld series so far, but the other books Terry Pratchett has written are equally great. 'Nation' for example, which Luke has already mentioned in his post, is an astounding book that surprises and moves you.

I once wrote a letter to Terry, but I never posted it for some reason or other. And I never had the chance to meet him at a signing or at a convention. So I could never thank him for his books. In a way this anthology enables me to do exactly that. It allows me to say ’Thank You’ by doing what he dedicated his life to: Telling a story.

Michael

My first post

My name is Charlotte. 

It’s probably too early in my life to ask me who and what I expect to be in 10 years time because I honestly don’t know. But for now I’m going to tell you about what I love. Writing. It’s that simple. I love writing and how it makes me feel like I understand the world a little bit better if I can describe something as simple as a flower. What I also love about writing is that so many people have done it before me. For as long as people have had the words to articulate it we have had stories and I think they show something fundamentally beautiful in the human race. We all want our lives known, our stories told.

Who can talk about storytelling in the modern day without mentioning films? I think they are a fantastic new medium in which we can see a story. But for me the best thing will always be reading because whilst you can see the story in a film, you can feel the story in a book. It is so much more personal and the connections between the characters and the reader last far longer than any film will. That’s also what I love about books. They will last. In 100 years, who is going to say “I really fancy watching Mamma Mia” or Malificent or Harry Potter… ok, I take that back, Harry Potter is great! But seriously, 100 years on we are still reading and loving the Sherlock Holmes books. And, for me, that is true genius - having the power to captivate a generation and then generations after that.

Everyone writing for this anthology is here for three reasons: Sir Terry Pratchett, Alzheimer's and our joint commitment to the written word and I thank you all for proving that there are people like me out there.

So that’s me - a teenager with no real plans. But that’s ok, I think, because how can you have an epic adventure if you know exactly where you’re going?

School to desired temperature: Mrs Bradley

Last time, after the obligatory waffle, I told you about the most significant memories I have of my English teacher Mr Moody. Now, let me do the same for the memories I have of Mrs Bradley. Nothing about buttocks this time, sorry.

Mrs Bradley was what any good teacher – in fact, what any good person – should be; identifiably human. Mr Moody's One Of The Lads approach worked perfectly for him, never to the detriment of his job, and is largely why I shall remember him forever. Mrs Bradley on the other hand struck a miraculously perfect tone between friend and mentor. She must have been more than twice the age of the oldest of us, but could talk and listen like your best friend. Nonetheless, if anybody tried to take advantage of this, it was always immediately clear that she put our education above her desire for us to like her. That was one of the things that made her such a wonderful teacher.

Even though we discovered she could shout very loudly.

People shout. Sometimes in pleasure, sometimes in pain, sometimes because everybody else is doing it and they're a bit thick, but they shout. It's what people do. Teachers don't shout though, they aren't even able to... are they? I don't mean 'raising their voice', which is I presume the first thing teachers learn at university. I mean shout, as in yell, as in roar, as in throw your voice at somebody as hard as you can. That's what Mrs Bradley did.

Not on a regular basis; she wasn't a maniac. But woe betide the boy or girl who had pushed her too far. It didn't happen often, but when it happened it HAPPENED. With Bradders (as some affectionately called her) it wasn't so much a case of the straw that broke the camel's back, as the straw bale used to murder the camel by cracking its head open which then brought the wrath of the camel mafia upon you. Make no mistake; whenever this happened, whoever was on the receiving end fully deserved it. She was a real person, like us. So we listened to her.

It's funny, but my strongest memories of literature we studied at school are of books I didn't like. Some, like Brave New World (Mr Lanaway's class – memories of him in my next post) and Animal Farm (Mr Moody's class), I've read for pleasure at least twice since leaving school. I must make the terrible confession that I've never read Great Expectations all the way through. I just couldn't get on with it. I bodged my way through studying it, somehow, by reading the first third and the final third while skipping the middle entirely. I'm no literature hipster – Dickens is famous for a reason, and I absolutely love David Copperfield – but I always felt confused, and a little guilty, for not enjoying that one.

I think Great Expectations was in Mrs Bradley's class, but I know The Handmaiden's Tale was (hated it, sorry; maybe I'll try reading it again now I'm all grown up) and so was Women In Love by D.H. Lawrence. Crikey, I found that book a chore to go through.

The reason I remember Women In Love – better than any other book I studied – is because not only did I not enjoy reading it, I was forced to regularly write or talk in class about how terribly clever it was. That's one of the fundamental flaws in how literature tends to be taught, in my haughty opinion. The class is not asked if a book is worthy, or important, or intelligent. They are told (sternly) that a book most certainly is worthy and/or important and/or intelligent, and then instructed to explain (in great detail) how and why they agree.

The thing is though, I really liked Mrs Bradley, and greatly admired her. I didn't want to disappoint her by revealing my secret identity as a pleb. So I forced myself to read the whole thing, and spoke in front of the class about how a nutshell was a terribly clever metaphor, and listened to how people calling “Di! Di! Di!” when looking for somebody called Diana in trouble was also terribly clever. I still learned a lot and enjoyed myself. It was Mrs Bradley's class, after all.

What I remember from my time learning under Mrs Bradley, though – what I really, really remember – is A Streetcar Named Desire. The play itself I certainly remember in great detail. What I remember equally well is us acting it out at our desks in class – because I got the main role, of Stanley. I don't remember if it was an uncharacteristic urge to take centre stage, or if Bradders thought it would be a good way to get me to crawl further out of my shell (not a nutshell, I assure you, I haven't the brains). The point is, I didn't just take on the role – I embraced it. I felt comfortable in, and enjoyed immensely, the role of a violent alcoholic womaniser. Take from that what you will.

The day before we started, I decided that I might as well go the whole hog and try an American accent. I did this by sitting at a desk with my friend (I usually only had one at a time) in the common room, pulling a prayer from my Philosophy notes out of my bag, and trying to read it as an American preacher. Much to my amazement it worked, it really worked; a thick Southern drawl that really didn't sound like me at all. Heads quite literally turned in class when I started reading in my new voice for the first time. Of all the people in the classroom though, the only reaction I remember is Mrs Bradley's. She was hugely impressed (everybody was, even the ones who were loathe to admit it) and I suppose that now, over a decade and a half later, I finally realise she was probably the one in the room I wanted to impress most of all.

My favourite line at the time (possibly even now) was, because it gave me a perfectly valid excuse to say a vaguely naughty word out loud in class, “Let go of me, you sons of bitches!”. The day that particular line came up, I expelled the words with such volume, passion and glee that I got some unintended laughs; which increased when Mrs Bradley commented “You were really looking forward to that, weren't you Luke?”. Good old Bradders.

The universal praise for my performance meant that my ego inflated to the point where I was floating home from school every day. It didn't really help when, on the train back from a class trip to watch Streetcar being performed by professionals, one of my classmates turned to me and said “We still prefer your Stanley”. I was egotistical enough to almost immediately ignore any doubts I had about the sincerity of this statement, so I suppose it was inevitable I would grow up to be a writer of one kind or another.

I wasn't in the habit of trying accents or impressions then, but I certainly am now (much to my kids' delight). I seem to spend an awful lot of my time nowadays pretending to be somebody I'm not; but in a good way. To a large extent, I have my teachers to thank for that.

The third and final post where I shall bore you with school memories shall concern Mr Lanaway, and is to include:

• The nonsense of Polonius!
• The Teacher Who Never Stood Still!
• Trying to work out what the hell Chaucer was on about!
• And more!

Luke

School to desired temperature: Mr Moody

Generally speaking, it is the memories you don't remember that define you.

I'm not talking about traumatic experiences that are suppressed in the mind and then go on to shunt a personality one of several ways, although that can sometimes happen (and I'm not just saying that because I've been watching a lot of Dexter lately). Besides, you may well ask, is it even a memory if you don't remember it? Well – yes. In a healthy brain, a memory never truly goes away. There are things that you can forget for days, weeks, years, even decades at a time, and then one day – sometimes for no apparent reason – remember quite vividly. It was always there.

Memories are funny things though, aren't they? Little nuggets of your life that have somehow settled into your brain forever over other events of that hour, or day, or week, or month, or year. Sometimes, a memory can be so spectacularly prosaic that you find yourself disappointed in your own brain, which is a terribly confusing situation to be in. Other times, the memory is buoyed up with such joy – or weighed down with such sorrow – that it would be impossible for you not to have made a mental record. My point however (I seem to remember having one) is this: it's the memories that you don't bring up on a regular basis that work hardest to sculpt your personality. The ones that are left to quietly go about their business in the back of your head, undisturbed, gently blowing your reactions and decisions this way and that.

It might be something of a cliché to say that you never forget a good teacher, but it's bloody true. Months will pass where I completely forget they ever existed but, now and again, I will remember three English teachers from my final years of formal education. I was very lucky with my school and (mostly) with my teachers. The three I am thinking of here are Mr Moody, Mrs Bradley, and – I can only hope I spell the name correctly – Mr Lanaway. Today, I shall attack you with talk of Mr Moody.

Mr Moody was the kind of teacher I used to think only existed in sitcoms. Young, talking to the class mostly as 'one of the guys', goatee beard, extremely informal (which is why I remember his name was Steve); he thought he was cool. And he was. He had us all engaged in every single lesson, and knew the secret to good teaching that so many teachers fail to grasp; people will learn so much faster and so much better if you talk with them rather than at them. His lessons left me with two main memories.

A little background before I go into the first; I was a weird kid. When I say 'weird', I don't mean 'pull small birds apart and throw the remains at passing cars' weird. I mean 'very introverted, pushed further away from my peers by the fact that I was always visibly poorer than everybody else in my achingly middle class school' weird. I had a circle of friends that, had it been any smaller, would have imploded. Things started getting a lot better very quickly when I hit the age of 16 and the sixth form. I was never really bullied at any age (apart from the time somebody purposefully hurled a basketball at me from close range, and when I showed him how this had unwelcomely reconstructed one of my fingers he laughed). I've never done drugs or smoked anything at all, and didn't start drinking alcohol until I was nearly old enough to buy my own anyway. I also had a habit of questioning the dogma thrust upon us by the Roman Catholic school; when Mrs Rebbit (the RE teacher who, playground legend had it, believed that God had pushed her child on a swing) asked me in utter exasperation why I attended the school if I didn't believe it all, she didn't seem to be happy with my answer that I came to school to learn things. In fact, I have one memory I attach to Mrs Rebbit; in one lesson, she stopped in the middle of whatever drivel she was spouting to ask if I was draped over my desk face-down, arms spread, in an imitation of the crucifixion (I wasn't, I was just tired).

I was 17, and that was my Philosophy of Religion class. Unbeknownst to me at the time she marked my coursework which counted for 40% of the grade, and I got an E.

Short version: Even when I was cautiously accepted into the teenage fold, I was never One Of Them. We lived in different worlds. I was that kid; the weird one nobody really understood. Anyway, let's get back to it, shall we?

Work Experience. The words still send a shiver down my spine. It was sewn into the school curriculum and, once you'd done your week of pretending to have A Job, you'd write up your week and read it out in front of the class. I shan't go into details in order to protect the innocent, but I did not enjoy my week of work experience. I did not enjoy it so much, my writeup (which I dearly wish I still had to hand) was venomous. Humorous, but so acidic the paper probably burned my hands a little.

The result surprised everyone, including me. I don't remember what I said or how I said it, but I certainly remember getting a lot of laughs. When I was done I had a little round of applause; and Mr Moody, turning to me with a look halfway between admiration and fear, said “Well, if I ever want anything ripped apart, I'll certainly come to you”.

Later that day, one of my classmates even said to me (with genuine shock) “Yeah, you can be pretty funny actually”. I'd been interested in writing long before that point, but I think that was one of the first times in my life where I realised that if you make people laugh, you can fool them into thinking that they like you. That, I think, went a long way to establishing the importance I attach to humour not just in (some of) my writing, but to my life in general.

My second lasting memory of Mr Moody is somewhat less profound, but can not pass without mention. I'm reasonably sure this didn't have anything to do with the lesson at the time. Mr Moody, in front of the entire class with the blackboard behind him, hands in pockets, asked us why it was that one's buttocks automatically clench when one holds one's breath. He was, I assure you, being completely serious. None of us knew what the hell he was talking about and so, when he discovered with genuine surprise that he was the only one suffering this terrible affliction, he changed the subject. Probably to something on the curriculum. I don't remember – that wasn't what made an impression on me that day.

I hope I can encourage you to join me next time for talk of Mrs Bradley, which will include:

• Disdain for D.H. Lawrence!
• Me acting in a foreign accent!
• Shouting!
• And more!  

Luke

Terry Pratchett: Neither gone nor forgotten

Hello. My name's Luke Kemp, or at least that's what my parents tell me. Through what I can only presume is a series of mistakes similar to those leading to Mr Bean vandalising Whistler's Mother, I have been allowed to contribute a story to this upcoming anthology. Remember, 100% of profits go to Alzheimer's Research UK – so if you buy less than three copies, you are a bad person.

I'm extremely fortunate, in that I have thus far not had somebody I love suffer Alzheimer's Disease (at least, not officially diagnosed). Statistically however I almost certainly will in the future. Perhaps that somebody will even be me. It already feels wonderful to know that I will, in however large or small a way, be a part of something that contributes funding towards understanding this condition which steals so much of what makes us visibly human. I immediately confess that I do not know enough about Alzheimer's to talk at length about it without feeling like a fraud. Sir Terry Pratchett and his work, though? Like any fan, I am arrogant enough to have opinions. More accurately, Opinions, with a capital 'pretend I know what I'm talking about'. And here they are.

I remember, a year or two ago, idly looking through a list of Terry Pratchett books and being shocked to discover that I had read virtually all of them. More specifically I was surprised to find that I had read every single Discworld novel released up to that point. I haven't read every single one in sequence (like a great many other people – right?), but I have read them all at least once at some point. Discworld books just sort of drifted into my life; but once they were there, they weren't so much a part of the furniture as the steel beams that stopped the walls from falling down in my imaginary library. Finding a Discworld book I didn't own and not buying it was unthinkable.

It's not fair (or accurate) to reduce Pratchett's work to one series of books, even if they are his best known and most numerous. For example, Good Omens – co-written with Neil Gaiman – is one of the greatest books ever, and everybody should be forced to read it at least once. The Long Earth books, another collaboration (this time with Stephen Baxter), are also absolutely brilliant and very, very different from his most popular solo outings. Sir Terry himself went on record, more than once, as saying that he believed Nation to be the best book he'd ever written or would ever write. It is indeed an amazing book. Nation has imagination tinged with pain; rage flavoured with fear; despair sprinkled with love. On another level it can be considered an atheistic anthem, and – intentionally or otherwise – can be used to put all of his other work into context to some extent. Nonetheless, it is the Discworld which is Pratchett's greatest achievement.

Note that I say it is the Discworld which is his greatest achievement. Not a particular Discworld book, or the Discworld series; the Discworld itself. In every single book, on every single page, it is a real world in a real universe populated by real people. Okay, so sometimes the people are made of stone or turn into animals or are older than the human mind can conceive, but the reader never doubts that they exist. This is because – by every definition but the one they teach in schools – they do exist.

I miss Rincewind. I admire Harry King, but I'd want to stay on the right side of him (not too close, though). I'd love to have a tour of Unseen University, so long as I was never more than three paces away from something sturdy to hide behind. I've walked countless miles along the surface of the Discworld, sitting somewhere comfy for every step. It's a real place that's better than reality; it can give you untold pleasure, but is incapable of giving you pain.

Sir Terry Pratchett the frail human being has passed away. Terry Pratchett the author is immortal. He talks to thousands – perhaps millions – of people every day, in more countries than you or I could name in twenty minutes without an Atlas. He tells people that, hey, it's not so bad. He makes people laugh. He makes people cry. He teaches people things they never knew they wanted to know. He takes people on mesmerising journeys through fantastical lands, lands that he created. He tells people that maybe – just maybe – they, too, can send heartwarming ripples across the world with nothing more than a human mind and a keyboard.

Terry Pratchett isn't dead. He's just reached the point where people have finally stopped asking him to sign things. 

Introducing your authors - round A!

The other day Sorin asked me why on earth we have author announcements 'round one' and 'round a'.  I explained it's because both groups are equally awesome!

With no further ado, here are the other authors participating in the 'In Memory' anthology:

• Anna Mattaar, Netherlands, www.annamattaar.nl.  Writer for computer games and soon-to-be novelist.
• Charlotte Slocombe, UK, student and future writing superhero
• Steven McKinnon, UK, independent author
• R McK, UK, freelance writer
• P E, UK, pioneer of the dramatic arts

Plus three more who are remaining a mystery for the time being.

Recipe no. 231

OK, let me bite the bullet here.

What kind of story can you write for an anthology dedicated to the memory of Terry Pratchett? How do you honour a person that meant so much to you, a person that educated you, soothed you, made you laugh out loud and made you hide a little inner smile when there was nothing else to smile about in your life?

Should you write a sad story, given the fact that he’s barely gone for several weeks now? Something about death and mourning, maybe? Should you, instead, given his positive take on life and death and, literally, everything, write some humorous, lighthearted piece?  

I was torn for a bit. Then I thought it doesn’t have to be one or the other – it just has to point to something meaningful in Sir Terry’s life and career. So I thought of his role as an influencer and I decided to go for that. My character – who is in very little ways Terry Pratchett – shares with him the depth of the universe he once created and the impact his books had on the most unexpected people. Then I recalled the moment when I found out about Sir Terry’s death, and I thought something like “Nah, this is just a trick. I bet he simply found a way to escape our reality and now he’s enjoying life in some nice neighbourhood of Ankh-Morpork!”

Without any more spoilers… I put the two together, added a teaspoon of salt and stirred thoroughly, and I came up with “The Prime Factor”. Which, I hope, lives up to its purpose.

This being said, I’m hugely excited to be part of this project of Laura and Sorin, and I know I’m in good company. I wish the best of luck to everyone that’s still working on their stories, and I can’t wait to read every single one of them.

Cris

Meet your authors (round one!)

Now that acceptances have been sent out, we're happy to let you know who our authors are.  Round one is below (round 'A' will be following shortly!).  We judged submissions based on their quality, not on whether the writer had been published before.  As such, we have a fantastic mix of published and unpublished authors, who are all coming together for this fantastic cause.

• Michael Schaefer, Germany (new author)
• Mike Reeves-McMillan, New Zealand (prolific novelist, website: http://csidemedia.com/gryphonclerks/)
• J E Nice, UK (fantasy and paranormal writer)
• Caroline Friedel, Germany (scientifically prolific)
• Chris Drew, UK (new author)
• Peter Knighton, UK (new author)
• Jay Vee Choong, Malaysia (published in Esquire Malaysia and KL Noir Yellow)
• DK Mok, Australia (novels include The Other Tree and Hunt for Valamon, website: http://www.dkmok.com/)
• Luke Kemp, UK (writer for criticalgamer.co.uk)
• Faiz Kermani, France (award-winning children's author, website: http://www.faizkermani.com/)
• Cristian Englert, Netherlands (novelist, previously published in Romanian)

Many of our writers will be doing guest blog posts over the upcoming months, so keep an eye out!

All authors have been notified!

All authors who responded to the call for submissions have now been emailed, and all rejections and acceptances sent out.  In the end we had hundreds of submissions, 43 short-listed authors, and 19 selected.  We saw an amazing variety of texts, from people in all kinds of positions and all over the world.  We had to make some very difficult choices due to the high quality of submissions received, and we look forward to producing a truly excellent anthology.

Submission are closed!

Thanks to everybody who submitted their ideas and writing samples.  Further correspondence will be going out in the next few days, so don't panic if you haven't heard from us yet.

In the interim, this is where our several hundred submissions came from:

Final day for submissions!

It's the final day for submissions for the anthology, so if you want to take part, get in quick!  We must receive your submission by midnight on May 31st (check the current time here).

We've received a huge number of fantastic submissions so far, and look forward to producing a truly excellent collection.  We have been using a short-listing process for likely candidates (barring those who have submitted in the last few days), and final selections will be made by June 7.  We are also trying to give feedback to all unsuccessful submissions, so bear with us—it may take us a little time to get to you.

- Laura

Call for Submissions

In memory of Sir Terry Pratchett, we are putting together an anthology of short stories to raise money for one of his favourite charities. If you are an author (or suspect you have the makings of one!) and are one of the millions of readers out there who has been touched in some way by the writings of Sir Terry, then read on.

We have reached out to Alzheimer’s Research UK, offering to put together a fan tribute anthology on the theme of Memory. The book will be dedicated to Sir Terry Pratchett, with all proceedings going to the charity. They were thrilled and have offered their support.

If you’re up to the challenge, here are the details:

Short Story Guidelines

• The story should follow the theme of Memory
• The story should be between 3,000 and 8,000 words
• Humorous writing is preferred, given the nature of Sir Terry’s work
• The genre can be any flavour of fiction that tickles your fancy.

Submission Rules

Send your initial submission to WeLikeThemShort (at) gmail (dot) com between April 25 and May 31. One submission is permitted per author. If your submission is accepted, we will contact you and ask for your complete story text, with a deadline of June 30. Your initial submission should include:

• A brief author biography
• A short synopsis (no more than two lines) of what you will write about
• A writing sample: up to 500 words of your original published or unpublished work.

Legal Terms and Payment

• All profits will go towards Alzheimer’s Research UK
• Authors are not expected to contribute to the publishing costs
• Authors will receive an eBook of the full anthology, and may purchase up to four printed copies of the book at cost price (plus shipping)
• The costs of final editing and artwork will be covered by the organisers. Note that final short stories are expected to be in a suitably publish-ready state, and the organisers reserve the right to dismiss or return works if they do not meet this requirement
• Authors retain the right to be recognised as creators of their work.

Who We Are

Your humble anthology orchestrators are Sorin Suciu, author of The Scriptlings, and Laura May, author of Pickles and Ponies.