RIP Harold Ramis

It feels so strange to think that one of the Ghostbusters has died. Harold Ramis, Egon, has gone.

Ramis wasn't just known for Ghostbusters of course - he was a talented, wonderful writer and director, but it is as Egon, the geeky genius, that I will remember him best. A ghostbuster. The ghostbuster. My ghostbuster - the one I always loved the most.

It's heartbreaking; a piece of my childhood has proved that my childhood is well and truly gone in the most final way possible. 

But as well as that, Ramis' Ghostbusters was a pivotal moment for me. It was the first time that I was completely, utterly, devastatingly terrified of a 'horror' film (comedy horror, but still...). There was one scene in particular, the library scene, that gave me thrills and chills for weeks afterwards.

She still scares me now.

It was after seeing Ghostbusters (probably aged around 7, probably thanks to a friend's older brother during a sleepover, although that might have been Nightmare on Elm Street), that I understood that fear could be fun. Even though I trembled at the thought of going anywhere on my own just in case a ghost leapt out at me, I liked it. 

I still do.

So thanks, Harold Ramis. I appreciate it. See you. 

 

Fairy Lights Excerpt...

Here is a little extract from my latest short story collection, Fairy Lights.

Try Before You Die

“Here, open it.”

The tattily wrapped present was thrust inelegantly into Jason’s face, narrowly missing his eye. He stepped backwards, instinct protecting him as it usually did. The boy looked up at his father who was swaying, not quite drunk but nearly, hoping to be soon, and half smiled. Unsure. Unwilling to do much more.

“What is it?” He did not reach for the gift as it wavered unsteadily in front of him. He did not want it. It reeked of something bad, something off and wrong. It appeared to be leaking. Something was seeping through the pink wrapping paper (Birthday Girl!) leaving an orange-brown stain over his father’s fat fingers. It was greasy and thick, the oil leaching out and spreading.

But Jason’s hesitancy was not noticed. Nothing was ever noticed when it came to Jason and his father, George, and again the thing was propelled towards him. “You’ll see when you open it.”

There wasn’t much else that Jason could do other than take the proffered offering. His fingers curled around the thing, uneasy. The slimy feel of the grease made his stomach roll over and the smell, now that it was closer, crawled up his nose and sat there, picking at his brain, poking at his senses, making sure that he was aware of it.

He was most definitely aware of it.

Jason’s nose crinkled and his forehead furrowed and he desperately wanted to wipe his hands on something, anything, the carpet, the walls, George’s face. Instead he looked to his father who was grinning, yellowing teeth like broken gravestones protruding from behind thin, cracked lips that had had too much alcohol poured over them down the years.

“Son, you’ve got to open it, I’m not telling you what it is.” The grin faltered, widened, stuck. “I got it right, didn’t I? It is your birthday, isn’t it?”

Jason nodded. Yes, it was his birthday. He was eighteen. Despite his father being a drunk and a waste of space, he had been expecting something more than this whatever it was that smelt strange and felt strange and was wrapped in pretty pink paper.

He could delay no longer. With one smooth riiiiiippp the paper was gone. It fell to the floor in a greasy heap, no doubt staining the carpet and creating another mess for Jason to clear up.

He looked down at what he had been left holding. Yes, it was his eighteenth birthday, and he had been expecting more than an ancient cook book caked in unidentifiable stains and smears and smudges. The pages, when he tried to leaf through them, when he tried to feign interest, stuck together with Christ knew what.

Jason clutched the book – Meals To Try Before You Die, the author’s name completely obscured now – so that he didn’t drop it. He felt his mouth open. He felt his mouth move. He had no idea what he had said.

But he had said something.

George clapped him on the back and laughed. “You’re welcome, son, I know how much you enjoy cooking, and when I saw it, I thought of you.”

Jason nodded and smiled and laughed and wished he could have a drink like his dad. He did not enjoy cooking. He hated it. Despised it. Begrudged having to do it. But, since his mother had died and his father had become a full time alcoholic five years earlier, he hadn’t had much choice.

It was either cook or starve.

Given the choice, Jason would have opted for a takeaway pizza or a bit of chicken chow mein. But money was tight since no one was working and now the only takeaways Jason saw were on TV.

“Wow, thanks, Dad.” The words felt flat in his mouth, and he couldn’t bear to look at his father in case the man’s face had registered that Jason wasn’t exactly pleased with the present. As much as he hated George, as much as he believed he was a useless slob who could have been so much more than he was, Jason also loved him, and didn’t want to hurt him. Not intentionally.

He couldn’t get excited about a dirty old book. Second hand wasn’t an issue – most of Jason’s clothing was pre-owned, most of everything in the house was – but the state of it. George hadn’t even tried to clean it up.

“Guess where I got it?” The man was almost bouncing on the balls of his feet where he stood, excitement and pleasure making his legs move of their own accord. Of course, he was still smiling, big and stupid.

Jason shook his head. A charity shop? A bin? A tramp’s trousers? “Where, Dad?” Play along, play along, and soon enough it will be over – George in a snoring heap, Jason watching TV, the volume up loud to dilute his father’s snuffles and grunts.

George stepped forward and wrapped his arm around his son’s shoulders. He pushed him gently towards the sofa, and Jason flinched at the sour beer breath that reeked out at him. He held his own breath, hating that he had to do it, hating that he was craving the same thing. So far he had resisted. But he had a feeling that it wouldn’t be long. Not if things kept going in the way they were going.

If you can’t beat them… What other choice was there? What else was there to do?

They sat together, father and son, closer than they had been in many a month now, even though neither noticed, the book lying on Jason’s knee, stale and stinking.

“I was given it.” There was pride in the voice that spoke the words. As though this was something of great significance, of huge importance. Something of meaning. It meant nothing to Jason. He almost shrugged but thought better of it, preferring instead to cock his head to one side and pretend to want to know more.

“You know that restaurant out by the beach? The famous one?”

Jason did know it. Because it was famous. Very famous. Ridiculously expensive and horribly exclusive, Jason hated it even though he had never stepped foot inside. Not that he would want to. Tiny portions of food, elegantly arranged on a massive white plate, all accompanied with a dot of jus that was so small you couldn’t taste it was not his idea of food.

“What about it?” Jason eyed the book again, started to touch the pages, to flick through. Unsticking them, pulling them apart and peeling them away from each other. There were no pictures, just lists of ingredients and step by step instructions on how to make whatever was intended to be made. His stomach growled. He hoped it wasn’t due to the dead food smell. 

Jason’s father sat up straight, and slapped his hands down onto his knees, leaving oily smears on his jeans. “That’s where I got it from. That restaurant. And, not only that, but it’s signed. By Louis Cutter himself.” The man slid the book from Jason’s grasp and opened it at the first page. There was a small dark scribble, a squiggle which may or may not have been Louis Cutter’s autograph.

Despite himself, despite his serious reservations, Jason was impressed. Louis Cutter was a celebrity. He was on television. Even though the mark in the front of the book could have been anything, he chose to believe his father’s story.

It was his eighteenth. He could believe whatever he wanted, just for today.

“Did you see him sign it?” Jason had to know more. He didn’t want to ask, just in case his father slipped up and the whole sad truth came out, a truth which wasn’t what Jason wanted to hear.

His father nodded, licking his lips, sucking at his tongue. Thirsty. Jason thought about getting him a drink, started to stand. It was so ingrained now, so much a part of things. They both knew what it was doing. And neither could stop it.

“I saw him do it. I saw him sign it. Outside his restaurant, right there, just as I was passing. He ran outside, jotted his name in the front, and handed it to me.” The man’s teeth were grinding now. He was getting to the end of his ability to put off the inevitable. “Didn’t say a word. But it was like he was waiting for me, you know?”

Jason smiled, patted his father’s hand, heaved himself off the sofa, struggling against the old, soft cushions that tried to keep him with them. “That’s a good story, Dad.”

It was a good story. It wasn’t entirely true, but it was good.

The chef had come out of the restaurant, and he had been clutching the book, but he hadn’t signed it. His wide, desperate eyes had scanned the street and come to rest upon Jason’s father. With a wave and a whistle he had called him over. “Do me a favour,” he had said, holding the book out to the other man. “You don’t look like a cooking kind of man. Take this, keep it safe, give it back when I ask. If I ask. And don’t use it. Never use it.”

If you want to know what happens next, the full collection is available from Amazon.com (Kindle and paperback) and Amazon.co.uk (Kindle and paperback). Enjoy! 

Poem: Her Eyes

Her Eyes

Her eyes are dull, but living

Fury shining, he thinks.

And all because of him,

Now she is pining, he thinks.

Her mouth is tight, lips bitten,

And he wants them, he thinks.

But moving one step closer

Will condemn him, he thinks.

He watches from a distance,

Hidden from her, he thinks.

He hopes she’s never see him,

She’s too pure, he thinks.

Her eyes are dull, but knowing,

And then know him; she sees

His shadow stalking

When the light dims… she sees. 

©Lisamarie Lamb 2014 

Piecing Together The Past

I used to collect everything. No matter where I went, what I did, who I was with, I would gather together the remnants of the trip and keep them. I called them my 'souvenirs'. These items were anything from napkins to train tickets to leaflets to feathers to stickers... Anything and everything that could hold some memory of the day.

I stuck these treasures into scrapbooks (and the larger items, those that wouldn't bend or fold, went into my 'souvenir box'). I had an image in my mind of myself in decades to come, looking through the brittle pages, being transported back into the past, to happy days and fun times. I imagined sharing these memories with my children, perhaps even grandchildren.

But time marches of and things change and life gets too busy to collect little treasures. Sometimes life gets too busy to even go anywhere or do anything that makes collecting things worthwhile. That's how I felt for a long time. Years. My scrapbooks grew thinner and thinner, and finally around six years ago, I stopped filling them at all.

Recently, however, things have changed. My daughter is now three, and she attends a wonderful nursery school (Combe Bank in Sundridge, Kent). They are looked after there, they are taught well. And they have each - every single student - been given a scrapbook to fill in. These scrapbooks are given out at the beginning of each year, and are used as focal points for classroom discussions - a kind of show and tell. Helping Alice to complete her scrapbook has been fun. It reminded me of my own, and I even dug some of them out, and teared up looking through the - yes, slightly brittle - old pages.

Memories resurfaced, and it was wonderful.

So now, Alice and I are working on scrapbooks together. I hope in years to come, we will both be able to look back through them and remember the wonderful days we spent together.

Why not try it for yourself?

Audio Books - Any Good?

I live in a place where the buses are infrequent, he nearest station is ten miles away, and if you don't have a car you're pretty much stuck. And everything - absolutely every place I need to get to - is about an hour away from my house by road.

The problem with having to drive everywhere is that it is really very dull. Very. Really. Especially when it's the same old routes all the time. 

So this year, in an effort to stem the boredom, I thought I would give audio books a try. My daughter received one for Christmas containing a number of Beatrix Potter stories, and I put it on in the car ostensibly for her... But I discovered that I really enjoyed it to! The CD is a great one, and the stories are read by Renee Zelwegger, Emily Watson, Ewan McGregor, and Lloyd Owen. It is available here: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Favourite-Beatrix-Potter-Tales-stars/dp/0723258856/

Alice enjoyed it so much that she wanted to hear it on every car journey. 

It was time to try something different. Which is when I decided that Harry Potter was the way to go. Stephen Fry's unabridged telling of all seven tales was just begging me to listen to it... So I did. We did. 

Halfway through the first book and neither Alice nor I mind the long car journeys anymore. In fact, we rather look forward to them!

What are your favourite audio books? 

Dealing With Bad Reviews

It was bound to happen at some point. Getting on for four years of publishing stories, novels, blogs, poetry, articles, newsletters... Pretty much anything and everything that can be published (and getting paid for it too, which is always a nice bonus), a bad review was sure to come along eventually. In all honesty, I think I'm lucky that it took this long, and that it's only happened on one published work (ironically, the one that is selling best in paperback form... Well, there you go!). I came across the review by accident when I was searching for an Amazon link, and, I'll admit, it did take me a few moments to realise what I was reading.

It's not that I'm a complete egotist, it's just that I wasn't prepared for it.

My initial reaction was to comment on the review, to point out exactly where the reviewer had gone wrong, to correct spelling and grammar, to basically, very passive-aggressively, get a little of my own back. In essence, I wanted to review their review.

I didn't do it. Oh, in my head I commented a thousand times, ripping the reviewer apart for tearing into a project that I - and a small group of friends - had put together as a little bit of fun between us, but in reality I ignored it completely. Was it hard? Yes, it bloody well was. My book, something the group and I had slaved over and enjoyed working on, had been mauled, and I wanted revenge.

I guess it's a natural human reaction.

When backed into a corner, when hurt (literally or figuratively), the first response is to fight back. It's evident all over nature. But, just as in the wilds of Africa or the Amazon rainforest or the Jeremy Kyle show, or any other place you care to name, it is far too easy for the whole situation to escalate until you find yourself in a snarling, brawling, biting, name calling never-ending loop of pain and misery.

So my advice to you, whether it's a one star review on Amazon, or a bad report, or petty squabbling between so-called friends, is to ignore it. Take a deep breath. Hold your head up high. Walk away. Because the review is one of three things:

1. It's an attempt at trolling. Basically, it's a deliberate and mean spirited way for the reviewer to have some 'fun' at the writer's (or worker's etc) expense. And that's just not worth getting into - as they say, don't feed the trolls. Check out the reviewer's other reviews; are they all one star? Is he or she mindlessly cruel in general, or was it just you? This will give you an idea as to whether the review is worth anything or not.

2. It's a review left by someone who had a grudge against you. It has been known for other authors to rubbish their 'competition' by leaving one star reviews. It's petty and close minded, but they wouldn't do it if their work was any good, and if they didn't feel threatened by yours. It's almost - almost, but not quite... - a compliment. These kinds of people just don't have it in them to understand that they would be better off joining in and helping their fellow writer. It makes for a much happier existence, and much better book sales!

3. The review is correct. Hard as it may be to swallow, sometimes people don't like what you create. Yes, it hurts. Yes, it leaves you with an empty feeling. Yes, it is a truly horrible thing. But no one is perfect, and everyone is different. Those seemingly trite phrases are absolutely accurate in this situation. You may not have got it right, in which case a reviewer is perfectly justified in saying so. Even if you have dozens of five star reviews, that doesn't mean that everyone is going to adore your work. Just let it go; have you loved everything you've ever read?

Whichever one of the three the poor review your work has been given falls under, the best course of action is to ignore it. Time will move on, you'll write more, you'll publish more, you'll receive more reviews and one day, hopefully sooner rather than later, that one star won't mean anything anymore.

The key, is to just keep swimming...

Thank St Anthony

Blame, blame, blame. Nag, nag, nag. That’s all Margaret heard, all she felt. It was, for the most part, all she knew. For years now she had craved a different kind of attention from her mother. Instead of recriminations and impatience, she wanted warmth, joy, love. Above all, she wanted to make her mother proud.

That was her ultimate goal, her main aim. It was an obsession, a compulsion, a need in her. Not because she particularly wanted her mother’s approval. It was too late for that now, too much water had spewed mercilessly under the rickety old bridge that she stood on to watch her life pass by. No, the reason was one of satisfaction for her; it would be a job completed that had been started decades ago.

And now, at almost forty, Margaret thought it was about time she got on with it. This year she would succeed.

Living with her mother made it both much easier and much harder to come up with schemed and plans and plots to get that small smile, that nod of the head, that hug. Easier because Margaret could pounce on the least little thing and make it into something that would help her get what she wanted. Harder because each time the idea failed, she had to live with the jibes and snide comments that went with it.

Nonetheless, she kept trying.

Cleaning the house. That, she had thought, would please her mother. Top to bottom every Saturday, and a run round with the Hoover on Tuesdays and Thursdays to keep it fresh. And all this before work. Or after it if she got up late. Or sometimes pushed to the next day if it had to be, if the car wouldn’t start or she got held up. But whatever and whenever, it was done. Eventually.

But apparently it was not done well enough.

“Look at this dust, Margaret. You’ve missed this whole shelf, Margaret. Did you use the blue cloth for the toilet, Margaret?”

“Sorry, Mum.”

It was always, “Sorry, Mum.”

Even when she wasn’t.

These days, most of the time, she wasn’t. She was usually already thinking of the next thing she could do to make her mother proud as the words came automatically from her mouth.

After the cleaning idea came the driving. She became a taxi service, when she wasn’t at work, anyway. Each evening it was bingo or the pub or the book club. Every evening there was something. Her mother was a busy woman, very sociable and very keen on late finishes, whether it be a friend’s birthday party or a trip to the theatre. It was all so tiring for Margaret, who enjoyed being at home early, tucked up and snuggled in, warm and comfy cosy. It was time consuming. It was not, she felt, appreciated.

“You’re driving too fast, Margaret. You’ve missed the turning, Margaret. You’re going to hit that car, Margaret.”

Margaret was within the speed limit, she knew a shortcut, and she was nowhere near the car in front of her.

But still; “Sorry, Mum.”

“I’ll drive myself from now on. I don’t know why you insisted on doing it for me anyway. I’m perfectly capable.”

“Sorry, Mum.”

Margaret did, sometimes, wonder why she was so bothered. She wondered why she stayed. After all, she could quite easily afford it.

Of course, Margaret’s pride was at stake. That was the reason. And she promised herself that once she had made her mother love her, or like her, or at least be mildly pleased with her, she would leave.

It was serve the old bag right anyway.

Why couldn’t she break through? Even as a child it had been the same. Marks in school had been too low (even when they had been the highest in the class). Her friends had been too common. Her uniform always looked a mess.

When she got a little older, her boyfriends had all been rude, ungrateful, potential thieves and mass murderers. Or they may as well have been, according to her mother.

So eventually, Margaret gave up on having one.

It was easier that way. Much, much easier.

And the easy route was always the best one, wasn’t it? Which was probably why she had never said anything to her mother about the problem. It was just easier not to. Margaret supposed the habit of criticising had just stuck, and now her mother didn’t know how to stop it.     

Margaret didn’t know either. Which was a problem.

And she was close to running out of ideas that would – or could – make her mother proud.

She had been awarded a first class honours degree in English. Her mother asked her why she hadn’t done any of the sciences.

“Sorry, Mum.”

She had already changed her job. Twice. To no avail. She had loved nursing, but her mother mentioned that she might be better off teaching. And when she had settled in at the new school, her mother had suggested that all the best jobs were to be found in banking.

Margaret sat at the dining table, sighing loudly, Open University brochures sprawled out in front of her, reams of job applications to this school or that hospital piled up to her side.

She was making a decision.

It was time.

Mother be damned.

Margaret could her hear mother complaining on the phone to a long-suffering and terminally patient friend. “I’ve lost my glasses again, Henrietta. Lost them completely. I only had them a moment ago and now I’ve no idea where I put them.”

Mother may not have known, but Margaret did.

And Margaret had an idea. She got up from the table and rushed away to the other end of the house, to the kitchen, where she had seen her mother’s glasses earlier that day. She would retrieve them, and all would be well. So off she went.

 She was soon busy searching for the glasses that she knew – just knew – had been left in the kitchen. And there they were, wedged up against the bread bin, squeezed in next to the toaster.

Margaret plucked them out and held them up, triumphant. She smiled to herself, forgetting all about the plans she had been making to live her own life. No, these glasses were the key to everything.

And then there would be no more excuses.

No more reasons to stay behind.

No more reasons to not do what she wanted, to have to stay where she was.

Where it was comfortable. Where it was easy.

Where it was safe.

Margaret slowly put the glasses down on the counter, where they could easily be seen. Where they could easily be found.

She shuffled back to the dining room and sat again, pretending to look through brochures that she would never really read.

Her mother’s voice drifted in through the open door and the words settled on Margaret, heavy and damning.

“And I’m worried about my glasses. I wonder if Margaret knows where they are?”

Sorry, Mum, Margaret thought. You’re just going to have to thank St Anthony when you find them. It’s nothing to do with me.

She gathered the shiny prospectuses and crisp forms together and wondered whether they would all fit in the bin.