Acme Time Travel Incorporated - Volume 1
About the author

David Griffiths was born in 1954 in a small mining town in South Yorkshire, England. He moved to Colchester in 1976, to attend the University of Essex. He first had the idea to write the Acme Time Travel books way back in 1993, scribbling notes on his train journeys to London. At about that same time he was fortunate enough to read a piece of advice in a literary journal; advice which rang so true to him that he typed it out and pinned it to his bedroom wall. He would wake up each morning and read the words out aloud. They said:-

When you get an idea ... an idea for a book, don’t rush it. Let it mature. Give yourself time ... time to get some context. Get married. Have kids. Watch them grow up. Join a blues band. Work with charities. Above all ... don’t rush it.

In 2017 David’s wife one day said, “You know that joke you’ve got pinned to the bedroom wall?”

“Eh?” David replied unsurely.

“You know ... the one about joining a blues band,” she explained, then continuing, “Well, how’s about we take it down and put up a nice picture instead?”

His wife’s comments gave David pause for thought. With some trepidation he Googled Milt, the author of his typed quote, and, on finding an email address, he wrote a brief letter. Some days later, David came home and noticed that a voice-mail was waiting for him. He played it. The message said:-

“Hey Dave, it’s Milt here. I got your email. I gather that you took my advice ... way back in 1993, and I gather that you ...”

David could hear a woman’s voice in the background. David turned up the volume on the phone and scrolled the message back a second or two. The woman was saying “... for God’s sake, Milt. What sort of fuck-wit buys into some tongue-in-cheek drivel you poured out into a college mag? You were only trying to pay for your fucking tuition, and then this guy bases his entire life strategy around ...” sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ FɪndNøvel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

“Can it, Muriel,” the male voice cut back in, then, “sorry about that, Dave. It’s nice that you ... well ... that you took it so seriously.”

“Too fucking seriously,” the woman cut in again.

The message went quiet. David thought he could hear some sort of conversation going on, but it was too low for him to make out any words clearly, then,

“Anyway, Dave,” the male voice continued. “I reckon you’ve probably mulled over your idea for long enough now. Maybe now’s the time to get on with it.”

The message went silent again, and David thought that was it, but then, perhaps as an afterthought: -

“Oh ... and Dave. Since you seem to like pinning things on your bedroom wall, why not give these ideas a try:-

Remember, you are responsible for your own life.

You only get the one shot, so just get on with it ... as best as you can.

Don’t accept any wooden nickels.

Just get the flock on with it.”

David thought then that the message had finally ended for real, but for no reason he could explain, he turned up the volume again and there ... just before the message settled down into a low-level hiss, right there, very low, very hesitant, three words, “I’m sorry Dave.”

David played it back again, this time taking care to write down Milt’s parting words (but not the apology). Then he typed them up and printed them out onto a nice clean sheet of A4 paper, which he then carefully laminated. Later, as he took down the yellowing sheet containing Milt’s original words (he hoped his wife would be pleased with him), and tacked up its replacement, he noticed that MS Word’s spell-check feature had changed the word ‘flock’. He smiled. He thought it added emphasis to Milt’s words of wisdom.

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