Pocket watch of doom.

As far as I am concerned, Bernard was on to a good thing. For those of you who have no idea who or what Bernard is, allow me to elaborate.
Bernard, his second name escapes me, was a character from a popular children's television show during the very late nineties. He was an average joe kid, with nothing really special about him, oh except that he had been given an amazing pocket watch by some time lords for the purposes of stopping, speeding up, and in later episodes, rewinding time. Bernard of course, being his responsible pre-watershed self, used his incredible gift for the purposes of exta homework time and general geekery. If, however on the rare occasions Bernard ever strayed from his moral path, he was swiftly ushered back into place by one of the amiable, and well-dressed, time lords.
This, of course, is utter TRIPE. Given the chance to stop time at the click of a pocket watch, what self-respecting teenage boy would ever use it to study!? No. He would be straight down the local swimming pool on a stop-motion crash course on female anatomy. END OF STORY. Screw the time lords and all their Hugo Boss finery.
Why, I hear you cry, am I ranting about so about such a gentle children's television show? Because, like every other child in the lands, I envied Bernard and his watch. He wasted his gift.
Alas this is but a fruitless rant. The time lords would have never chosen me. But still, some ten years on now, I'm still perturbed by Bernard's Watch. And who says children's television isn't damaging. Bucky O'Hare was way better.

Peace,

Ben

Sunshine

Word to your sunny Tuesdays. It seems that the weather has had a momentary mental lapse, and forgot to give England her usual dose of soggy weekend rain. And I think I speak for most of the country when I say that it's FUCKING BRILLIANT. I don't care if you are allegic to sunlight, what a beautiful weekend it has been.

Sadly I didn't manage to make it to a beach. I wandered as far as the beer fridge and the park and that was all, but I enjoyed myself immensely nonetheless. After all we have to make the most of it here; the bulbous clouds are already champing at their vaporous bits in precipatable anticipation. Don't blame them, they've got an average rainfall quota to fulfill.

Well apart from all the meteorological excitement this weekend, it's been a very productive one too. The website, thankfully, is on it's way at last, and in it's final stages once more. So hopefully, if the gods are with me, maybe, just maybe (hold breath) it may be up by the middle of July..... Maybe.

In other news, I finally stopped laughing after finding out what a falcon punch was (thank you Captain Falcon) and if there are any untimely pregnancies hereabouts you can rest assured I will end them in the appropriate manner. You can find all you want to know here:
http://encyclopediadramatica.com/Falcon_Punch
See also, 'How to falcon punch...'

And since you've all been so patient, I can now reveal (hold breath once more) that I am fully into the start of the next book in the chilly Emaneska trilogy, 'Pale Kings'. But alas I'm afraid I cannot reveal too much more, because you haven't read the first one. Just be happy in the knowledge that there's MORE.

Peace, suntans, and overpriced Magnums,

Ben

Gig Limbo = Gimbo

It feels a little disconnected in the bowels of Clapham. I am in my car, stationary, expectant, waiting. I'm scanning through the frequencies to try and find a station that doesn't play bangra. No offense intended, it's just not my cup of tea. I settle for a station playing drab electro instead and stare at the traffic jam at the end of the street. The smell of kebab wafts through my dashboard.

This is gig limbo: the vacuous period of nothing before going onstage. And oh my does it grind, passing by with the speed of a drugged-up slug. So far we've turned up, on time of course, parked appropriately, shook many hands with many bands, and stood around. Now the wait begins, and no matter what venue, soundcheck always moves at glacial pace. Piece by glimmering piece the drumkit slowly seeps into the room, followed by flight cases and assorted instruments and their owners. This is also the weighing-up period, when people sneak glimpses of equipment and guage eachother, trying to decide if the other bands are twats or if they're socially acceptable, though no one will admit it. We're all ever so polite about it. Then, while the soundman shuffles around the desk and blasts the PA with his snatches of his eclectic playlist, the bands explore the venue and disperse into the surrounding alleyways and highstreets.

Needless to say, fuss suitably dispensed with and customary wandering completed, I have ended up in my car, listening to my audibly beige electronica. Soon I will be summoned for the use of my bass amp. The smell of kebab still taunts me from across the road.

But, despite the waiting and the guaging, the damp and acoustics akin to that of a cave, I can feel it stirring, that little bit of excitement I get before every gig, no matter how important it is or wherever I am. It all boils down to one thing: I can't wait to get on stage and play. And after all that's why we're all here isn't it, like addicts chasing the next musical high.

Early risings

I am not a morning person. By any stretch of the imagination. I think of myself more as a nocturnal early-riser who dabbles in daylight. So, being forced to get up and work with the fine public at 5.30am this morning was, and is still, not my idea of fun.

Here I am then, back at the infernal kiosk, chairless and pretending to be cheerful. What a morning it has been. (There was, however, an amusing pigeon orgy/fight/wrestle which made me chuckle). I can't complain though, I don't have it as bad as some, and I'm learning to get up earlier in the process! (Which apparently is a good thing).

The other good thing about this morning is that for some reason I found time to scribble, and scribble I did, and seeing as I promised you lot some news then I might as well tell you that I've started a newish book idea that I might try and fit in somewhere amongst the other projects. It's always good to scribble, and it's always fun writing a fairytale. Which this is turning out to be. And as fairytales always write themselves you cab expect a preliminary excerpt soonish; it'd be good to have a bit of feedback.

And today is voting day at long last! Don't forget, or Clegg will haunt you and your children, and your children's children, and....

Peace and voting aplenty,

Ben as usual

Saturday Saturday

At the moment I am serving as a treadmill and climbing frame for a cat. A small cat mind you, but one with very sharp and very needle-like claws. I think it's because I had tuna earlier, or maybe I'm emitting a strange feline energy.

Today's been really good, and believe it or not, and ready yourselves for this bombshell of goodness, I have started the first chapter of the second book in the trilogy! Took me a little by surprise I must say, because I had said to myself, and many others had said to me, that I should have a short break before starting anything else. Unfortunately for me, taking a little break meant chilling at my laptop, and that meant perusing a few ideas, which meant I might have seen the plan for the second book nestled in between a few file folders, aaaaaand that might have led to sitting down for a day or so and maaaaaybe writing about 4000 words of the new chapter. Can't deny it though, I'm a little excited by the prospect of taking Farden and the story even further, and if I don't say so myself, it's going. Rather. Well.

In other knew I have a gig tonight, which brings me back to why I'm being trampled by a furry beast. Deadlight are playing Epsom tonight in a teency little bar/club affair called the Native Tongue (which, incidently, is firmly ensconced in an alcove between Halifax bank and a Turkish body art shoppe). So come on down if you're around! Stay tuned.

Laters,

Ben

Morning!

Good morning to all! Here's a little snippet for you, from the first chapter of 'The Written'. Please excuse any typos or mistakes! Just thought you might like a little teaser, and there's more to come soon. Keep your tweets peeled. Hope you like the Cover sketch too....

Hundreds of miles away, in the west, dawn was breaking over an empty countryside. The cold morning light shone through the skeletal trees and scattered across winter snow drifts and dead leaves. The still wilderness was undulating, with rolling hills and patches of woods springing up between boulders, frozen streams, and endless snow. Apart from the drip of melting ice and the rattle of wind in the finger-like branches, not a sound could be heard.

A broken castle rose from a tall mound, crowned by concentric rings of ruined walls and dilapidated stone ramparts. A round tower squatted in disrepair at the centre of the castle still sporting an empty flagpole. The massive stones of the walls were covered in brown moss and hanging icicles, the crenellations adorned with cuts and gashes made by the war engines of old.

Soon the pale morning was disturbed by the faint noise of a heavy-breathing newcomer. A hooded figure came from the south trudging through the deep snow towards the castle, his long brown cloak billowed behind him in the icy breeze. Hot breath escaped in smoky plumes from his mouth and the sound of his labouring was loud against the dripping silence. The man stopped and pulled his clothing around him. He took a minute to catch his breath. In the half light of the early morning his grey-green eyes could pick out a low arched door set deep into the thick outer wall.

‘Carn Breagh,’ muttered the stranger, lowering a plain red scarf from his face. Clearing his throat he checked the woods to the left and right with a wary glance, and then trudged on through the deep snow. Beneath his cloak the man wore light steel plate armour over his shoulders, chest, and thighs, which clanked together softly as he moved. A black and brown tunic lay underneath with a thick leather belt holding onto his supplies and an old sword encased in a dark red scabbard. Something gold and scarlet and metal peeked out from beneath the sleeves of his thick cloak. The man’s sturdy black boots wearily plunged into the pure white snow, making creaking packing noises with every step.

The stranger reached the old wall and the small stone archway and spread his hands over the thick oak door, feeling the splintered wood and the thick spikes that held the gate together. The man gave the door a light push but nothing budged. It was locked tight from the inside. He shoved a shoulder against it in a futile attempt to move the ancient wood. But still nothing. He looked at the door quizzically. The planks were weathered from hundreds of years of wind and snow, yet for some reason they had not rotted away like the other wooden features of the ancient castle.

The hooded man stretched his back and neck and rolled up the sleeves of his cloak. Adorning his wrists and lower forearms were thick vambraces made of interwoven red and gold metal scales that glittered faintly in the dawn light. They clinked as he held them together. He closed his eyes briefly and then placed his palms on the door. All of a sudden a pulse rippled across the wood and there was a dull clang from the other side. The man gave it a little push and the door swung open with a creak.

He allowed himself a faint smile and pulled his cloak around him as he peered into the gloom. The man wrinkled his nose. It smelled like a thousand years of damp and there was the faint sound of dripping on stonework coming from somewhere in the darkness. Mould hid between the cracks in the walls. Without a sound the man ducked under the thick stone archway and stood in the dim corridor, listening. He made a fist. White light shivered around his fingers and suddenly the corridor was bathed in a pale moon-like light.

The stranger carried on through the old castle, poking around in holes and long-lost underground chambers. Cavernous halls and old rooms spread out like a warren left and right as the explorer went deeper and deeper into the castle. Everything was rotting and damp. Old curtains decayed where they had been thrown, chests and furniture had been smashed against walls and lay in dark heaps and broken postures. In old abandoned barracks benches and tables were pushed up against splintered doors. Rusty swords hid under the rubble.

For hours he searched the dank castle and found nothing except darkness and ruin. In a tiny room deep underground, the cloaked man carefully took a seat on one of the less broken chairs. He was beginning to get a little tired from keeping up his light spell, but he was sure there had to be something inside the old castle. He picked up a small piece of rubble and toyed with it for a few moments before tossing it across the room in boredom. To his surprise the stone sailed straight through a frayed tapestry and disappeared, landing with a clang somewhere far behind it. The man clenched his fist again and a fresh wave of light penetrated the gloom. Eagerly he tore the tapestry from its rusted hangings and threw it on the dusty floor. Hidden behind it was a hidden staircase that spiralled down into the dark shadows His footsteps echoed against the narrow walls as he jogged down the stairs, curiosity sparked in his mind. All of a sudden the stairs came to a halt and a long hallway snaked around a long corner. Sconces holding long torches poked out from recesses in the walls. The man moved to the nearest one and felt the oil-soaked wick between his finger and thumb. It was dry enough so the man clicked his fingers over the torch. Sparks flew from his fingers and sent flame curling up the wall.

Dousing his light spell he continued down the corridor lighting each torch as he went, and it wasn’t long before he came across a huge door set deep into the stonework, held by thick hinges and a massive bolt that seemed to be fused to the metal bracing it. Eyes closed, the man ran his hand over the wood, searching for the right spell to use, but when he threw a wave of magick at it the door didn’t even move an inch. Irritated, he tried again and the air hummed as he hit the wood with another spell. Nothing happened. He rubbed his stubbled chin and thought for a moment, adjusting the red scarf around his neck. All of a sudden a deep boom rang out somewhere below his feet and made the torches shiver in their sconces. The man slowly, and gently, drew his sword from its scabbard as a few specks of dust fell from the ceiling. He squinted at the torches as something caught his eye. The flames were shifting and leaning far out from the wall as if blown by a stiff breeze. It was time to leave.

The stranger turned and sheathed his sword with a loud metallic ringing noise. He swiftly climbed the stairs, turning left, then right, then left again, running up more stairs, retracing his steps as something trembled the paving stones beneath him. Suddenly he was out in the sunlight once more and the bright morning sun was stinging his eyes. He slammed the small door behind him and stepped out into the snowy sunshine. He listened and watched, ready for anything. Nothing came, and all was silent again in the castle.

‘Hmm,’ mused the cloaked figure. He bent to pick up a handful of snow and rubbed it between his fingers to wipe off the dust from the castle. As he moved to pick up another handful a shadow passed over him without a sound, a flitting shape momentarily darkening the snow. The man sighed and stood up straight, throwing off his cloak and drawing his sword with a flourish. Spinning his sword in his right hand he surveyed the peaceful countryside calmly. Steel glinted in his hand and checked the sun.

‘It’s not even noon yet and a man has to deal with dragons,’ muttered the stranger to himself as let his eyes rove over the horizon.

A huge screeching roar came from the skies above him and the man darted sideways with a huge running leap, narrowly missing a massive shape that plummeted into the snow behind him with a huge crash and a shower of snow. The man got to his feet and disdainfully brushed the white powder from his armour. He looked up. Out of the white haze there was a snarl and a creature reared its ugly blue head, shaking its horns with a rattling shiver and spreading stunted turquoise wings. A ridge of sharp brown spikes ran from its head to the tip of its serpentine tail. The monster’s claws dragged at the snow, razor sharp and curved like a cat’s, and its eyes were like black pools of jet. The wyrm let out a deafening hornlike scream and took one step forward, hissing at the man in the snow and rattling its aquamarine scales.

It had been a while since the man had seen such a large wild dragon, and even though it was a juvenile, no more than a wild wyrm, it still towered above him. The creature stank of old meat and a musky reptilian scent. The stranger began to circle the creature, holding his sword out straight towards it.

‘Leave now, or this will end badly for you,’ said the man in a measured tone, still treading sideways through the deep snow. The dragon snarled, obviously not understanding him, and stamped its enormous feet menacingly like an impatient bull. It roared a huge roar and sent foul spit flying into the man’s face.

‘I will take that as a no then, shall I?’ he said, and before the words had left his mouth the beast charged at the man with frightening speed. But the man was more than ready, and swiftly dropping to one knee he dug his blade into the snow with a wet thud. A solid wall of magick ripped out through the snow like a rippling earthquake and knocked the terrifying reptile flat with a low and somewhat disappointed whine. The man jumped up and swung his sword at the surprised beast and the blade cut a long path across its scaly back. Blue blood splashed the snow. Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, the beast’s whip-like tail lashed out and struck him hard in the chest. He flew into a nearby drift with a crunch of armour and before he had time to take a breath the hungry dragon was already running at him again. It snarled and spat and it scratched and dug, furiously lashing out at the snow and at the man with its razor-like claws. He waved his sword wildly in front of him to keep the claws at bay, but a sharp stray talon scraped across his armour and found the soft pale skin underneath. With a pained wince he rolled sideways and escaped the long claws. Red blood stained the dirty snow beneath him. Getting swiftly to his feet the man smacked the braces covering his forearms together and a massive blast of flame pierced the air. The fireball hit the dragon in the chest and sent the creature reeling backwards. It roared with pain and frantically shook its front legs, but the man was quickly after it. His blue-stained sword burst into flame and it flew from his hand like a spear while he ran. Like a bolt of fiery lightning it buried itself in the dragon’s ribcage with a sharp thud and a huge blast of scorching fire. The beast uttered a last mournful whistle and toppled over against a nearby tree with a crash. The man slowed to a calm walk and strode forward to wrench his blade from the ribs of the smoking reptile. He put a hand to his side and winced, feeling the wet blood seeping from the long cut. Retrieving his cold cloak he sighed and began to slowly follow his footprints back in the direction he had come from.

Peace

Ben x

"Like a loaf in an oven"

It's a beautiful evening. As I sit here on my favourite bench Guildford traffic is slowly grinding to an inevitable halt, the wispy clouds are gently drifting across the blue sky, and the pigeons are gathering their crumbs. Near me a man is reading a newspaper. He seems contented, just like me. Why? Because I've finished the final draft of my book.

Voilà, eureka, it's done. Like a loaf in an oven. The final period has hit the page. (And it's only taken me a year or so to do it!)

So if your intersted in having a copy or if you just fancy a read of a tantalising snippet, then in month or so (once the cover is finished and it's been suitably PDFed) it'll be up on my brand new website! Meanwhile though, for all you impatient types, there might be a bit posted up here! (Feel free to grin). The other good news is that I'll be podcasting the audio chapters ASAP and you'll also be able to read it on the Harper Collins Authonomy site, so stay tuned to the tweets for more info! (Twitter.com/BenGalley)

Here's to a beautiful evening and I hope you're enjoying it as much as I am.

Peace,

Ben.

25 Pages Left!

25 Pages left, and then I can eat my own weight in happiness (and by that I mean those melty Lindt ball things). In other words, after a good 13 months I AM SO CLOSE to the final draft of 'The Written'. So! Time to give you a little breakdown:

The story of 'The Written' follows the mage Farden, who's a very special mage indeed. When murder and treachery strikes the Arka libraries in Arfell, Farden is sent to discover what the thieves have stolen and why. But despite his best efforts he quickly becomes entangled in web of ancient lies and vicious deceit, one that could have disastrous consequences for the lands of Emaneska. As his world unravels around him, and battling his own dark demons as well as the rest of the world's, Farden has to fight tooth, sword, nail, and spell against some of the darkest forces that he has ever faced.

When I first started it 13 months ago I was aiming to mixup a little bit of Lord of the Rings with a pinch of Sin City, perhaps a darker fantasy novel with gratuitous amounts of sex, violence, drugs, and betrayal. The things we all love. And I think it's gone quite well, even if what I cam out with wasn't what I expected. Farden is the classic sword-swinging protagonist, but he has an earthy side to him, with perhaps a hint of the paranoid, the insecure, and a raging temper to match it all. He may sound clichéd in first appearances but I think he's someone that the reader can identify will and will suddenly find that they like. Farden is a character that is, despite all his problems and his skills, only human after all. And everyone loves a guy who can wield a fire spell or two, don't deny it. There are some dragons as well, for those of you that are way inclined.

And there we have it, a quickfire breakdown of my first book, and there shall be two more of this trilogy to follow (more on that soon). So keep you updates up to date, because the release will hit your Twitter very very soon indeed.

In other news I will be posting a video of a cat drumming tonight. No lie. It's funny shit.

Its Bizzniss Time

Greetings people of the Internet! So this week I have been struggling with the utterly filthy concept of HTML code and all of its dastardly complicated innards. And now, after endless nights of shouting at it and throwing things, I've realised I'm completely useless at programming anything, never mind a website, which I need as badly as Gordon Brown needs a slap. (Sorry Gord, but we all know it). Anyhoo now I'm websiteless, so ignore any error messages on www.bengalley.com, and I'll tell you when it's fixed... or when it's even there at all, and then we can get going again. Maybe I need one of these swanky 'in construction signs'... Bad HTML. Bad.

In other news, I'm now working full speed towards the end of the May deadline for my 1st book 'The Written'. (I've decided to stick with the original name. Thanks for all the suggestions and comments anyway. If it isn't broke then leave it alone I say). So by the end of May, there should be a 1st draft ready for cover design and audiobooking and that oh so tantalising release! And as soon as a website is magically conceived out of digital thin air, then you lucky chaps can download it for free every month until I run out of words. Can't. Bloody. Wait.

I'm working on a few new ideas at the moment too, some of which are very interesting indeed, others are probably shockingly awful, but keep your eyes and iPads peeled and we'll see what happens. Oh and I have "bizzniss" cards now so it makes me all that more kosher. Keep your kids inside, 'case they get carded.

And That's pretty much all the news I have for now, life continues as normal in the world of me, I just keep writing and working.

Peace, hugs, kisses, whatevs.

Ben

Good ole book

With the introduction of the iPad looming oh so terrifyingly close on our horizons, (some lucky buggers have already pilfered a few I'm sure), what does it mean for the poor old book?! Is it the end of paper in the form of a convenient tablet? I bloody hope not. I know paper cuts are annoying and all, but we would miss them eventually. Here's a few reasons why I think books will stick around:

1) nothing beats the smell of a good book.
2) you don't need a scratch-proof cover for your novel.
3) ikea would have to build something other than bookshelves.
4) charity shops can't sell used iPads or ebooks.
5) where would all the libraries go? They won't melt in the rain like berroccas will they now?
6) you wouldn't want to throw an iPad at a spider.
7) there'd be nothing for the bookworm to eat.
8) you can't replace the feel of a nice page betwixt finger and thumb.
9) the Nazis would have nothing to burn.
And 10) no matter how powerful a wizard Steve Jobs may be, he can't reverse a thousands years of people reclining on a couch and opening a good old book.

For shizzle, the iPad is amazing, even if it does defeat the point of a pocket. And yes the ebook is useful and advantageous, otherwise what would the independent author rely on?! But let's not forget about our old friend the book. Just like the vinyl record, traditional books I'm sure will refuse to die away. So next time you see that little charity shop on the corner, go have a peek. Treat yourself. (And the go buy an iPad)

Have fun!