Showing posts with label Ian Fleming. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ian Fleming. Show all posts

Monday, March 15, 2021

The World of Forgotten Things

Hi - Douglas Skelton coming to you from Scotland.

I'm in the process of moving house at the moment. That means I'm surrounded by boxes, bubble wrap and packing tape. 

I have so far resisted the urge to build a fort.

Thank you 'Friends' for that thought.

I've been here for 15/16 years. A lot has happened in that time and packing things away can often be a saunter down that lane we call memory.

As most people do when moving I've been playing what we in Scotland know as Keep or Chuck. 

It's when you have to decide if an item is worth hanging onto or if you should send it to dump.

I've disposed of a fair amount of stuff and more will go. I've handed over old bits of furniture to be given a new lease of life before they go to charity. I've trashed some that were beyond repair. Most of my rugs will be picked up by the local council. Years of dogs, cats and, it has to be said, me have taken their toll.

But it's when you go through drawers and shelves and pockets that you find you have entered into a new world - the world of forgotten things. Little items that are not gone, merely left, stored, placed, sitting sometimes in plain sight and yet still unseen. 

Until you pick them up.

And you remember.

They are generally inconsequential, sometimes even everyday, but they carry with them memories like dust which, as you hold them, come back as if through osmosis. These forgotten things can represent a moment in time that you cherish, a place that you haven't seen for too long, a face no longer visible, a voice no longer heard.

A pen, given on a milestone birthday by someone who was special then and is special now, clipped in the inside pocket of an old suit and long since dry.

A small hip flask, a gift never used, still in its box, but it reminds you of the day it was handed to you by the giver with whom you have long since lost contact.

A book, sitting on a shelf among others, its spine cracked and frayed, its pages dog-eared and loose. It was well-loved, well-read, and well-worn by someone who will never read again.

A concert programme brings back the excitement of seeing composer Jerry Goldsmith in Glasgow. A big deal for me.

A paw print in ink of a dog that has long since crossed the bridge.

And books from my own childhood that have been unnoticed on shelves all this time and never taken down in all these years. My copy of Tom Sawyer. A Pictorial History of World Exploration. My Ed McBain collection, some editions dating back to the 60s. Alistair Maclean. Jack London. Ian Fleming. All monuments to a young boy reading in his room and wishing he could be like them.

And more. Ornaments. Old photographs. A poker chip that came from who knows where but which, for some reason, I keep on my desk.

They are all time machines transpporting me across the years to when life was simpler, or better, or happier. 

I have a friend who says that as a matter of course if she has not used, touched or worn something for six months it goes.

I can understand that ethos but there is something within me that cannot part with these and other items, so they are packed away and will find a new home with me. 

The world of these forgotten things is one that I will carry until I am part of it.

Monday, November 04, 2019

Writers who inspired me to be a writer

As I write this, I’m on the 11th floor of the Hyatt Regency in Dallas attending Bouchercon. Last night, I had cocktails with Michael Barson and Warren Easley (both with Poisoned Pen/Sourcebooks) and Molly Odintz (an editor with Crimereads). One of the interesting topics of conversation was books we read when we were young who made us want to be writers.

It made me reach back and think about which writers inspired me to want to be an author.

The first that came to mind was Ian Fleming. Many, many years ago, I devoured every single James Bond Signet paperback that I could get my hands on. I vaguely recall that in those days they were an expensive sixty cents if you bought them from your local drug store. In school, all the boys (and some girls, too) would read them and then we’d trade those dog-eared copies like baseball cards.

To digress a moment, during our cocktail discussion last night, we talked about who portrayed the best James Bond in the movies. We couldn’t come to a unanimous conclusion. The three we liked the best were Sean Connery, Daniel Craig, and Timothy Dalton, not necessarily in that order.

We also talked about how, with the exception of From Russia With Love, the movies were nothing like Ian Fleming’s books. A good example that came up last night was Diamonds Are Forever. The book was about horse racing in Saratoga. There’s nothing about that in the movie.

Back on topic. One of the other writers who inspired me was John D. McDonald with his iconic Travis Magee series. He’s a beach bum who lives on a houseboat called the “Busted Flush” that he won in a poker game. He’s a self-described “Salvage Consultant” and “Knight Errant”. He makes his living by finding items that have been lost or stolen and taking a cut (usually half of what the item is worth).

Travis was a hero that didn’t seem to age although at the beginning of the series, he intimated that he was a Korean War veteran and somewhere along the way that subtly changed to being a veteran of the War in Viet Nam.

I was impressed that, even in the ‘60’s, he was a prototypical environmentalist, waxing poetic on how damaging encroaching human development was on the Everglades.

It wasn’t until about 1979 in The Green Ripper that Travis starts to slow down. In the last book of the series, The Lonely Silver Rain, Travis learns he has a teenage daughter and takes all the cash he has on hand and puts it into a trust fund for her.

Who can’t love that?

The last writer I’ll talk about is Stephen King. I recall that the very first book I read by him was Salem’s Lot. It scared me so badly that I couldn’t go down into our basement for months. I’d never been that affected by a book in my life.

The next book that I was transfixed by was King’s The Stand. The villain, Randall Flagg, stands out in my mind and I use him as the benchmark for my own villains. And the tunnel scene, scared me right down to my socks.

But King’s finest book, in my opinion, is his non-fiction memoir called On Writing. If you’re trying to develop your craft, it’s well worth your time.

One more digression. If you google how many books Stephen King has written, the answer is a vague “At Least 95”. The man is prolific.

I’ve left out dozens of other writers who have inspired me to write, but hey, I’m at Bouchercon. I don’t want to spend any more time in my hotel room than I have to.