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Posts tagged ‘writing’

Two steps forwards, one step back

This has been another mixed few weeks for us. We do feel we are making progress finally in some directions. It is very much two steps forwards, one step back. Spring is its usual manic self and everything is bursting into life. The wood looks so much healthier now despite the many damaged ash trees. The backwards step? Well, the brambles, bindweed and ivy are also rearing their nasty little heads and need taming as soon as possible. We need to get the sit-on mower working but are waiting for the fence to be put up as we hope Fergus will give us a quick driving lesson.

Betsy’s Corner this April

The little garden at the end of the Majestic is going from strength to strength and now looks rather lovely. As well as the pansies and aubrieta there are bee bombs waiting to flower later in the year and it should be a source of almost year-round pleasure, for us and the people passing by. It gives us hope we can bring this land back to life as when we moved in it was an old stonewalled trough full of rubble and rats. Definitely two steps forwards.

Despite our best efforts we still have not got the solar system finalised. The panels are working and delivering electricity to the pump for much of the day, especially when it is sunny. On the other hand the old controller continues to roar away full blast using a stupid amount of power and wiping out much of the gains. We are still travelling hopefully but as this is another holiday weekend it is likely we will have to wait another week or so before it is finally fixed. Then we can have flow meters fitted and have some proper idea of usage and costs. A step back for the moment I think.

I have been writing a bit more recently and the next Alex Hastings book is well underway. This is book six by the way. Book five is awaiting publication and as it’s still not had a final edit I’m now writing blind. The great thing about a series is the freedom to build longer stories and develop characters over a long period. The downside is each book builds on the one before and until the manuscript is finally cleared there’s a danger something I use in book six may be lost or altered in the final edit. Two forwards, one back again.

There are a lot of small gains in the house however. I now have a usable table as Jacqui cut almost six inches off the legs and fitted levellers. I’m writing this in comfort at my “desk for a Hobbit” rather than wobbling around on the cushion. With a viable timer for the heating we have managed to cut our gas usage by over 50%, a good thing as the price is very high and delivery, supposedly five working days, is now at twenty and rising. And our lovely joiner moved the heater in the back porch so we could put the new freezer in there. This means I can get at the cupboards in the utility room, hopefully getting the last of the unpacking done. Definitely steps forward.

Saltburn Bank and the East Cleveland Klondike
Grey Easter sky

After some lovely sunny days it is grey and cold here for Easter. We’ve used 99.9% of the logs so if we need a fire we will have to scratch around for fuel. The wood from the trees needs another six months to dry properly. Now it’s back to gleaning the dead branches brought down by the storm. This is definitely a day for staying in and settling down to indoor pursuits so I’ll get out another jigsaw. I finished my latest challenge a couple of days ago. This was a picture of the Cleveland Klondike, a one day cycle race around East Cleveland. It included four trips up the bank as Saltburn, a climb with three hairpin bends and a gradient of 1:4. It was a great spectacle and this image brought back lovely memories of a place where we were very happy for many years.

Triffids attacked by slugs!

Last night we had a little celebration as we remembered we’d first met thirty-nine years ago. We made dinner and shared a bottle of Prosecco, recalling some of the steps on our journey together. We decided I should make the starter – salad and some smoked meat. Jacqui suggested I make little florets by winding the meat round a (suitably washed) finger and twisting the end. Well, I have two observations on this. Don’t expect a dyspraxic to get this right. And don’t try it with Mortadella. The result was not so much a bunch of flowers, more a herd of Triffids being chased by giant slugs. Still, it tasted just fine and a good evening was had by all. And who knew Lidl sold Quails eggs? Jacqui’s special treat!

So that’s us this cold and grey Easter Sunday. All good wishes to you all and thank you for reading.

Living in the Past

Whoever said “Don’t live in the past but look to the future” was only half right – and they probably were not a writer. For us the past is our own personal goldmine, the source of characters, events, adventures and the occasional quirky phrase we slip in to get a smile from the reader. The past is our foundation, whether we choose to recount it or do the opposite in an effort to banish it forever. Every writer’s journey begins in the past for it has made us what we are today.

Some writers use the past by recounting events from their life, an autobiographical approach that, if well done and featuring something original or touching, can be very effective. Many fiction writers (myself included) use it as source material for stories. In my case many of the stories from the “Alex Hastings” series use a little of the “real” past, though often mixed in with several other events. An equal number are made up but use all that experience from years ago to make them as realistic as possible – after all, as Bernard Cornwall of the “Sharpe” series of historical novels points out – there is always a helpful reader out there ready to set you straight if you get your facts wrong.

Sometimes however there is an episode in life that seems to come from fiction rather than real life. Take the last few years, for example. I have to confess, I have been afraid of dogs for much of my life. I still have the scars on my arm to show why this is and my family never had dogs, or allowed them in the house. Then I met my partner and my first dog entered my life. Jump forward to last year and I found myself at Crufts with my partner and several friends, showing a dog we had bred and raised as a puppy. He wasn’t supposed to stay with us but at the time no-one who could take him wanted him. He was not considered anything like good enough to be a “show dog” but he has the sweetest personality and extraordinary charm. He is also “hyper-vigilant” which is a posh way of saying he barks at everything. And I mean everything – people, cars, rain on the window, the post box, the postman and, of course, other dogs. Especially other dogs.

We took him a training class to socialize him and after a false start at one where we were asked to leave he gradually settled a little but even so, a show with 6,000 other dogs does not seem the best environment for a restful day. Yet despite this he did show, he did us proud and he sat on his bench and greeted visitors, had his picture taken with children and even refrained from peeing in the hotel. It was an extraordinary journey. Not one I’m eager to repeat but one I look back on with wonder and delight.

So when I decided to take a break from the “Alex Hastings” books I looked to the past and there was Charlie, the dog who got to Crufts, looking back at me. Writing that story means I have to relive some very hard moments but I have enjoyed it all and one day, in the not too distant future, I hope to share that journey with you.

First Steps in Writing – My earliest story

Every writer, published or not, takes their first steps into the unknown sometime.  Often that moment is lost in the past, a distant memory from school or left to moulder between the covers of an embarrassing teenage diary.  As we practise, our prose becomes more polished and those of us using a word processor have our spelling corrected but the journey begins with one tiny venture.

I have been sorting through a box of papers and photographs from my parents’ house and amongst the old birthday cards and monochrome snaps was – my very first story.  Written a few days after my eighth birthday, it has all the flaws of a juvenile (and handwritten) piece but reading it yesterday I could recognize my hand.  I don’t know why my mother chose to keep this fragment of my childhood ambitions.  Perhaps she always knew I would become a writer in the end.  I hope so.

So, for your amusement here is my very first oeuvre, spelling mistakes and all.


The Three dwafs

Once apon a time there were three dwafs.  The eldest one said

lets go into the wood to pick berries.  Now the yongest said

can I eat some?  Then they went out.  But the yongest aet to

many.  So the others left him wich was a very foolish thing to do

for very soon who should come along but grey wolf himself. Ho ho

ho laughed gray wolf.  I have found my dinner.

 

 

When I showed this to a couple of friends they read it and turned over, looking for the happy ending.  But there isn’t one.  Even at the tender age of eight I had already developed a callous streak, it seems.  I don’t think my mother would have been surprised to see I have become a crime writer.  The signs were there, from the very first baby steps.  Thankfully my spelling and punctuation have improved since then and there is always the spell-check on my word processor to spare my blushes but it was rather touching, finding this – and to see just how far I have come over the years.

A New Writing Project (after a long silence)

Apologies to everyone who tried to access this blog in the past week.  I ran into a technical problem and my Web Master was a little bit busy during the run up to the election!

Those of you who have followed this page will know this is the first time I have posted since last year – a long silence indeed. The reason for this is that I took on an extremely intense writing schedule – 1,000 a day. Not as many as NaNoRiMo you may be thinking but it went on for longer. Five months longer to be exact, following on from six weeks of intense and detailed planning. I have to say there was huge satisfaction in achieving it – but I wouldn’t recommend it to everyone and I certainly wouldn’t do it again! Now I’ve finished that stage of my new project I can take time to bring you up to date and share the bits of last winter that were not involved in the writing.

A birth in the family

Some of you may know I had puppies last year. Well, not me personally but one of my dogs. After some weeks we kept one of them, a happy and lively little boy called Charlie. Well, Charlie was one last month and here is his birthday picture with his grannie Chloe on the left and his mother Cynthia on the right. Hurrah for puppies – without them I would probably not have left my keyboard for days on end and a pale, flacid figure resembling Jabba the Hut would be typing this now.

 

My guilty pleasure

One thing that did stir me from my trance-like state was a cycle race. We were lucky enough to be on the route for the East Cleveland Klondike, a professional race with a peleton of over a hundred riders. Watching them fly down the hill in the distance, fight their way up the Bank, a 25% gradient, and then whip off though the town was a breathtaking experience and worth losing half a day’s writing for. Yes – that is how you end up thinking if you are serious about meeting a deadline!

 

Four book give away

And finally, although I’ve been absorbed in other stuff the fine folk at Impress have not. They helped me put together an interview with the wonderful Love Books Group who have a giveaway of all the Alex Hastings books on Twitter at https://twitter.com/LoveBooksGroup. So thank you to Love Books and Impress and good luck if you enter the draw.

 

I hope I have learnt my lesson and won’t set such a tight shedule next time and I promise my long silence will be much, much shorter in future.

What’s in a Name? – Names and Pseudonyms.

What's in a Name“What’s in a name?” Shakespeare asked in Romeo and Juliet and this is something writers must ask themselves before they push a button to publish their first story online or – should they be so lucky – sign off on the proofs for their publisher. The name on the front cover will become their writing persona and the fact that people fiddle around with it, changing the format or using something totally different from their private name illustrates just how important this is.
History is full of people who altered their name for publication. Some, like George Eliot, chose a male pen name in order to be considered a “serious” writer at a time when anything written by a woman was likely to be dismissed as “just” a romance. Others such as George Orwell chose a pen name in order to avoid embarrassing their families with the content or subject of their work. There are cases of writers who use two names to differentiate between works in different genres – Ian Banks for example – and several writers who achieved critical success went back to the beginning, submitting new books under another name. Stephen King published a number of books under the pen name Richard Bachmann (including “The Running Man”) and more recently J.K.Rowling chose to publish her adult crime novels as Robert Galbraith.
There are many reasons for writers to publish under a pseudonym and so it is not surprising I am often asked if I write under my own name. What does surprise me is how many people think it very strange that I do. And the reason I do is because I promised my father. Suffering from Alzheimer’s, he began to fade as I was completing my MA in Creative Writing. He could barely speak but would watch my face as I talked, occasionally giving my hand a squeeze or uttering a little laugh.
I spent some time looking into our family history and one day I took in a family tree and told him about some of his ancestors. He became very agitated at one point, repeatedly tapping on the names of his grandchildren and I suddenly realized that, through various circumstances, none of them had his family name. I had a small keyboard with me and I took it out and held up the work I was doing for my final project. I was going to be a writer, I told him. I would publish a book and my name – his family name – would be on the cover. It would go into the British Library and be there forever and every time someone took a copy down from a shelf in the library or a bookshop they would see our name.
He looked at me with very bright, dark eyes, then squeezed my hand and gave what my nephew calls his “serial killer laugh”. After he was gone I thought of that afternoon and I know he understood. So that’s why I use my own name. Because I promised.

Occupational Hazards of a Crime Writer

 

You may think that being a writer means I have few, if any, occupational hazards.  Certainly I can avoid many of the difficulties and occasional dangers that surround “ordinary” working life.  For example,  I have a strong measure of control over where I work, when I work and I provide all my own equipment so if I get electrocuted by my computer it’s my own damn fault.  There are however a number of potential hazards that are unique to a writer, especially a crime writer.  Take an everyday situation – standing in a queue at the shop or sitting in a cafe.  Whilst others might look around, enjoy their coffee or gaze out of the window I find myself unexpectedly hacked on the ankle whilst my partner hisses, “Stop staring like that!”  Looking around I realize several other customers are watching me warily whilst a family seated at the next table are packing up, leaving their tea and juice half-finished on the table.   Absorbed in observing and trying to capture the pattern of their conversation I have gone very still and rather too intense for comfort.

Gathering information is fraught with problems and potential hazards.   Whilst shopping in town recently I was watching the butcher sharpen a particularly impressive knife.  He knows me well and was quite happy to chat about the size and thickness of Kitchen knivesblade best suited to separate a human head from the torso (he recommended using a cleaver to sever the spine) but a couple of customers left the shop rather rapidly.  A hardened hunter went a strange colour and retreated to the back of our local sports shop whilst I talked to a very knowledgeable young man about the composition of shot-gun shells.  He showed me the types of pellets commercially available and we discussed their likely impact.  It was when we wandered into self-made shot territory, looking at the effects of, for example, small hexagonal nuts, that we found the place deserted.  Hexagonal nuts, by the way, are likely to produce a result best described as “horribly mangled”, which was just what I wanted to know at the time.

It is on my trusty computer however that lurks my greatest occupational hazard.  God forbid anything happen to my partner but should they suddenly fall down dead and the police decide to investigate me as a possible suspect I am in rather a sticky situation.  My recent searches include photographs of an autopsy suite, stages of human decomposition, adders – including locations, habitats and the strength of their venom, a table of temperatures for spontaneous combustion of various materials, head trauma and the thickness of the human skull and identification of poisonous mushrooms.  My browsing history alone would probably be enough to earn me a week or so locked up as the prime suspect.

So never mind the more mundane problems of repetitive strain injury from using the computer mouse, eye strain and headaches, jitters from too much coffee and sleepless nights as deadlines loom.  The true occupational hazards for a writer come before the writing actually begins.  And linger long afterwards.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I really must clean out my browsing history…

 

 

Smoke and Adders (but mainly adders…)

adder-1058196-1279x1808September sees the publication of “Smoke and Adders”, the fourth book in the Alex Hastings series. Like most of the titles, this is the result of some heavy thinking from the team at Impress and I would like to thank Davi for coming up with it.
Adders, I have to say, loomed large in my childhood which is strange considering I grew up on a new housing estate in Essex. Every day I would walk to school through the estate and along a path skirting a large field. The more interesting and shorter route was through a patch of woodland but I was forbidden to take this path as my mother, who was deadly afraid of snakes, was convinced it was swarming with adders just waiting to attack her first born. It is interesting to think no-one thought it odd a seven year old should walk to school and back alone then.
You know before I say it, don’t you? I loved the little wood and took that way home whenever I could. One warm June day I was scuffing through the twigs, hopping in and out of the shadows and I trod on an adder. Understandably it was upset by this and it promptly bit me on the ankle.
I was wearing Clark’s open-toed sandals, the sort with a strap around the heel, and the luckless reptile got one fang hooked in the leather. Terrified, I began to run dragging the adder with me. As I raced through the woods I could feel its body whipping from side to side, hitting the backs of my legs. Almost hysterical with fear I finally kicked out with my foot and the adder flew through the air and disappeared into a bush leaving me sobbing in the undergrowth.
On returning home my mother knew something had happened but I was more afraid of admitting I’d disobeyed her than I was of the snake bite. It was only when a neighbour, a wonderful nurse called Bronwyn Hellack, spotted the red marks running up my legs, I finally admitted to what had happened.
I was lucky – even though there were no cars on the estate at the time a party of dads got together and carried me into town where we caught a bus to the nearest hospital. The four hour wait for some anti-venom to arrive was extremely painful and I have always viewed snakes with extreme caution ever since.
So, adders – not mad marauding killers but still very dangerous and perfect for Alex’s last outing.
I hope you all enjoy it.

NaNoWriMo almost over? Keep going!

Writing is a lot about persistence – the ability to keep going even without external encouragement. “NaNoWriMo” (or National Novel Writing Month as it is properly called) is a call to arms for all you writing hopefuls out there. Write 50,000 words in November and finish a book! Have a set target, keep count, get encouragement along the way and the feeling when you do it is wonderful. NaNoWriMo can be the start of something great – it introduces novice writers to the process of writing, day after day, and can help those stuck at the half-way point in a book get going again. But what happens if you get to November 30th and you’re not finished? Keep going!
Let’s be honest, it is unlikely you will be finished even if you’ve done your 50,000 (and to be honest with you, I’ve never managed 50,000 words in a month. I just don’t write like that. So all power to you if you have. You have my respect.) The average length for a commercially published novel is 100,000 -110,000 words though a lot first novels are a bit shorter. My first book, “Death of the Elver Man”, was 91,000 words. Still, it helps if your debut is around the 100k mark.
Then there’s the rest of it. Even if you finish the story, in however many words, what you have is a first draft. Now the real work begins – edits! Some people hate them, some enjoy the process but even undiscovered geniuses need to review and re-write, check, polish, cut and change to make your story into a book. This can be when it is hard to keep going, especially if you are working in isolation. You need another pair of eyes, preferably someone outside the family, to look at your work and point out where it can be improved, and then you need to swallow your ego, listen to them and get going again, improving all the way.

If you are aiming for self-publication you have a lot more say in the format and length of your work but a few months editing and polishing will help make your book something of which you can be proud. So, when you hit November 30th if you’re still enthused by your story – keep going. Find a way to reward or motivate yourself and you never know where it can lead. For myself, I learned to make an origami crane and now when I hit a day’s target I make one and add it to a garland in my writing room. I only started doing this a few weeks ago but each day now I push just a bit more because I really want to end the day with another crane. Each morning I smile when I see this visible record of my NaNoWriMO. So – whatever works for you – just keep at it. And good luck.

Cranes3

 

Look, what I really mean is…(reading the subtext)

The biggest problem with writing is it depends on words.
“Well Duh,” I hear you say, but what I mean is everything I write is mashed up into an approximation of meaning and delivered to you, the reader. You then put your understanding on the words and it is a miracle we ever communicate at all. Not only are there as many meanings for each word as there are people, there’s context, experience, bloody awful computer dictionaries and – THE SUBTEXT.

We might say one thing – “Go and make a cup of tea”, for example, but we actually mean something very different. What we really mean is “Go and make enough tea for us both/(insert as many people as are in the room at the time here). Get milk in a jug or some suitable container, bring sugar for the unreconstructed over 40s, remember teaspoons, put all on a tray preferably with saucers if you are actually using cups and bring it back here as fast as you can. And don’t forget the biscuits”.

Now most of us understand this type of verbal shorthand or pick it up as we go along. Some poor souls never get the hang of it and spend their lives in a fog of misery, probably in fairly menial jobs because exam papers are stuffed full of this sort of subtext.

And then there are things you see that tell a whole, horribly and often hilarious story in a single word. I understand there are signs under the gel dispensers in many southern hospitals warning people not to drink it (I know – disgusting).  Well, up here in the North-East we have neat little notices saying :

DO NOT SMOKE OR USE NAKED FLAMES FOR TEN MINUTES AFTER APPLICATION.

Nothing more needs to be said. Twelve words telling a vivid and rather horrible story.

I was visiting a minor stately home in Essex recently and picked up a leaflet outlining their summer attractions. Falconry displays! Oh, my favourite! Then I read down the page to see the following note.

PLEASE DO NOT BRING SMALL PETS TO THE FLYING DISPLAYS EVEN IF THEY ARE ON LEADS.

A vision flashed through my head – “Fluffy!!! Noooo….”

Fishing sign

Overhead power lines

On a recent trip to the Levels I came across a sign beside a lovely, calm bit of the canal. I am so stealing this one for a cameo in the fourth Somerset book.

Just two short sentences can mean so much and we all have our own pictures, conjured up by our own experiences and lives. Maybe this is what “Death of the Author” entails. I can be as descriptive and eloquent as I want but in the end what you, the reader, experience is not what I really mean but what it means to you. A symbiotic partnership, when it works. So thank you for all the work you put into my books. They wouldn’t be at all successful without you.

Paranoia (or Trouble in Dystopia)

It is easy, even commonplace, to live with a twinge of paranoia nowadays. We live surrounded by cameras with computers in our cars, trackers in our phones and even smart chips in our passports. We are counted out of the country and counted back in again, our phones are besieged by people wanting us to share information with us and any electrical item could betray us in a second if we do not constantly change our passwords, protect our pins and produce two forms of identification if we want to use a bank account.
So the sense of being watched, checked and monitored is not really paranoid at all is it. After all, it’s happening to everyone so we’re not being picked on as individuals – are we?

Well, I find the whole thing both depressing and fascinating. That’s why I’m a writer – take really bad stuff and think about it for months. That’s what I call job satisfaction. A while ago I had a long muse on the current state of the world and ended up playing “What if..?” As in, “What if the jet stream gets stuck round about Oxford?” or “What if the housing crisis became so bad it became illegal to occupy more than one room per person?” or – well, you get the picture. One of the things I began to muse on was the immense amount of processing power every Western person has at their disposal. I remember when a Commodore 64 was a high-end fancy games machine. You need more memory than its pathetic 64k just to boot up your old beat-up phone.

This was an interesting line of thought and I found myself blocking out a new story, a dystopian mystery book set in a slightly futuristic but recognizable Britain. It was going really well. I began to mine my ridiculously diverse education, mixing technology and psychology with a big dollop of discourse analysis and was just at the end of the fifth chapter when – disaster. Although I saved the latest draft when I looked for it the next day it was gone. Nothing remained, even from the auto-recovery. I had emailed and printed the first four chapters but number five was where it all began to happen. It had a ghost virus, a virus that assembles itself from random bits of code to sneak through firewalls and steal data from anyone who might suspect the truth.

The odd thing is, every other file was intact, but when I tried to download a previously saved copy from my memory stick that vanished too. I’m sure it is just co-incidence and I am now being paranoid but still, it seems strange. So if you’re reading this please pass it on just in case it begins to fade away…..