I am starting a new project and sharing one of my novellas. This will appear chapter by chapter over time. (When I can’t think of anything else to write as a blog post.)

I’ve set up a menu page you can click to and find new chapters as and when, and when I work out how to do the drop-down menu, I will add the chapter list to the main menu… Anyway… Honestly is a comedy coming of age novella I wrote after writing the gay/straight bodyswap comedy ‘Remotely’, which stars an enigmatic character called Miss P.

Here’s the blurb and first chapter, which you can also find on the Honestly menu page here.

Having cured Shakespeare of writer’s block, Miss P finds herself in the 20th century attending to a similar problem in a small fishing village. The timeless and slightly magical Miss P knows that the only way to solve the problem is to cause a friendship, and the only way to do that is to cause the whole village to speak honestly. As you can imagine, comedy ensues.

Chapter One

“There’s always been something missing from this village, and it ain’t the stink of fish.”
Mrs Marigold Lumpsucker, a resident of Carping Bay.

It is a little-known fact that Miss P was the first woman in history to find a cure for writer’s block. The event took place in London, backstage at The Globe Theatre in 1594.

While scouring the fields and lanes of Shoreditch in search of some delicious and potent tobacco leaves, she sensed that something nearby was not as it should be. It didn’t take her long to track down the problem, and she found young Will within minutes. He sat at a small table in the yard, staring at the barn, a quill in one hand and a blank page in the other. She could tell from the air that the man was struggling. If it sounds strange to say that she could sense someone’s difficulty in the air, that’s because she was strange. Unusual, at least.

As Miss P approached, she could see that Will had nothing on his page apart from a title and a few lines. As she read them and pondered, she spied a rolled tobacco leaf on Shakespeare’s table and politely asked if she might try it.

Shakespeare waved his hand as if he were seeing off a fly. He meant that she should help herself, which she did. The yard had the tang of dung about it, and there were flies about. A swarm of them fought over some recent droppings. The sight reminded Miss P of the Siege of Pyongyang, an event she had recently arranged. For the good of everyone, you understand.

She rolled the leaves into a cigar shape and lit it, enjoying the rich taste and the way the smoke tickled her nose. She turned her attention back to the title page of Will’s new work.

‘When is opening night?’ she asked, pointing a slender finger towards the paper.

‘Seven days hence this must be done by, Lady. Else no income shall my company have. ‘’Tween times I must take up arms against the slings and arrows of Richard III, two Shrews and a Titus Andronicus matinee for the elderly.’

‘I see.’ Miss P did see. She saw all kinds of things that no-one else could. That’s why she did what she did. ‘A tragedy?’

‘I do agree, my block is so. And such a sad tragedy it be that I fear this play be nought but a farce. No words hath my quill. No new syllables sprout from my imagination like buds to the dawn. No passion flows in this dead bird’s coat.’ He waggled the feather, slumped his head onto the table and banged it twice.

‘May I…?’ Miss P took the quill from him.

Shakespeare turned his head and opened one eye suspiciously on the elegant, hard-to-age and impossible-to-place lady. She brushed the feather down her cheek while studying his words. He snapped his eye shut when she caught him looking.

‘I don’t think the world is quite ready for this. That is your problem.’

He raised his head to her. ‘My problem, handsome stranger, is that I find scene one a mountain as impenetrable as Olympus. There is nothing here.’ He beat his fist against his head.

Miss P drew in another drag of the burning leaves. As she let the smoke out, she angled it towards the playwright. A thin wisp snaked away from the cloud and spiralled before Will’s face. He crossed his eyes to focus and gasped. It was a dark green colour with flecks of sparkling silver. As he opened his mouth to ask what this lady had done to his tobacco, he inhaled the smoke and coughed.

‘May I suggest we address the title?’ said Miss P. ‘Once that’s found, you will see that the story unlocks itself.’

Shakespeare looked at the title. ‘But this, smoke-angel, be the tale my heart aches to tell. There be riches in this story. Worth in all its mighty forms, honour as worthy as Prince Hal at Agincourt. This tale must be told.’ He was adamant on the subject.

‘Indeed, it will, Mr Shakespeare,’ Miss P assured him. ‘But in time. The story you ache to write now will be possible in years to come. And yes, your story will throw light through the world like dawn breaking through yonder window. But, alas, the good people of Shoreditch, to say nothing of Her Majesty, are not yet ready for a tragic love story about,’ she checked the page, ‘Romeo and Julius.’

Shakespeare groaned and sat back in his chair.

‘Sad but true,’ Miss P continued. ‘But this is not the time or place to break this kind of ground.’

‘It is meant a comedy.’ Will snatched the paper from her. ‘It be not what it seems. Two old friends, both alike in dignity, are at war with each other. Magic intervenes, and they wake up realising they are no longer in their own bodies but in those of each other…’

‘And to get back, they must learn how it is to be each other. One man is destined to be a father, and the other to love only men. Yes, a most engaging plot, and yes, there is a remote chance that story will be told. But not now.’ She was also quite adamant on the subject.

A few more strands of smoke drifted from her near-spent leaves and found their way into Will’s nostrils.

‘And you suggest?’

‘Romeo and Juliet, perhaps? A love story. No, the love story.’

‘Oh, Madam. You are thrusting greatness upon me.’ Shakespeare rubbed his beard. He glanced from Miss P to the page.

‘Some are born to it, Mr Shakespeare,’ she said. ‘While others…’

She offered the quill, he took it, and for a moment they held it together. His body trembled. His eyes flashed wide, and his lips moved. She released the quill, and it flew to the page where Shakespeare scratched inspired words.

‘Two households, both alike in dignity, in fair London, where we lay our scene…’ he spoke as he wrote, the story falling into his mind like gold from a cut purse.

Miss P smiled. The yard smelt so much cleaner now. The air was crisp and had a delicious tang of cigar about it. She was ready to leave, but there was still one thing unsettled. She reached into the bag that hung from her elbow and took out a small glass figurine. She put it on the page, right where Will was scribbling. He drew back.

‘What’s this?’

‘I picked it up on some recent travel. You should keep it. It’s just an elephant made from jade. It will make sure you never forget your words again.’

‘Well, gracious kind, and my heart accepts the warmthness of your gift, Madam.’

‘Maybe, in return, I could…?’ Miss P plucked a quill from Shakespeare’s tankard.

‘It is old and worn, but thine with thanks,’ he said, and dipped a superior nib into his ink.

‘By the way,’ Miss P added as she turned to leave. ‘I bought it in Verona.’ She paused for emphasis and stuck the feather in her hat. ‘Fair Verona?’

‘Of course!’ Will was back to his writing. ‘Nobody dies for love in London.’ He started the scene again.

That was the last time Miss P saw him. It was the last time she needed to.

She had been curing writer’s block ever since.

Look out for Chapter Two
Or download the novella here for $0.99

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