This week I spent a couple of hours researching the availability of cross-Channel ferries during the first weeks of the Second World War. Why? Because a character needs to get to France from England in September 1939. I found my answer after extensive googling and three emails to people who might possibly know. Continue reading
Today I have received an offer of contract from a publisher, Sapere Books, and am so excited. Sapere Books has offered to publish the new novel, A Rose by Any, alongside a relaunch of A Shadowed Livery and possibly a third in the Inspector James Given series which is currently at an early stage.
Those of you who read this blog regularly will be aware I’ve been looking for some time to place my second novel, following the decision of Holland House to stop commissioning new work for its Grey Cells Press imprint. It was a shame, because I have nothing but admiration for the dedication and editorial insight of Robert Peett and his team at Holland House, but independent publishing is a difficult game and I fully understand his decision.
One of the effects of these changes is that the digital version of A Shadowed Livery has ceased to be available for a while, although the print version may remain available via Amazon and other online outlets, or directly from Grey Cells Press. Hopefully, they will both become available again, alongside the new Inspector James Given novel, in a few months.
I’m very much looking forward to working with Amy Durant and her colleagues at Sapere Books on this new phase.
I was just running through the main plot of my new crime novel with my wife a few days ago and she pointed out some similarities to the plot of my last one. After arguing for a few moments and trying the ‘there are only so many stories and it’s how you tell them’ defence I acknowledged she was right.
Unfortunately, by this time, I’d outlined almost 60 scenes and three sub-plots. I couldn’t abandon it all and I couldn’t go on – not with this ‘you’ve written this before you dummy’ gremlin sitting on my shoulder. So I tried tinkering. Could I use a different murder method? Could I use a different victim? Different killer? But I was so wedded to all the work I’d done and the intriguing (in my eyes) characters I’d developed that I couldn’t see past it.
In the end I drew a deep breath, pulled out my mind-mapping tool (mine’s Freemind but any will do) and started a new page. I asked three questions:
- What are the methods of killing someone?
- Why are people murdered?
- Who might the killer be?
I didn’t bother with all the subsidiary variations, just enough to give me some choices and ideas, though I would have broken them down further if I was getting nowhere.
What I ended up with were half a dozen or more options in each category and within a few minutes I’d freed the head to completely rethink the story I was going to tell. I’m now writing a few alternative story-lines to see what works and what doesn’t.
The figure below shows my initial results. Try it for yourself. Let me know what you think.
In the mid-1990s an organisation called People for Action (PfA) was set up in the UK to support housing associations to develop their approach to something called ‘community investment‘, a form of corporate social responsibility. Put simply, community investment, in this context, is the work carried out by housing associations beyond basic housing provision. It might include such things as money advice and support to a whole range of community initiatives. I was PfA’s Chief Executive between 2002 and 2006, when, sadly, the organisation closed down due to lack of funding.
PfA ran a programme of seminars, workshops and conferences alongside a range of networking/information sharing activities including a newsletter, a knowledge and ideas database and written ‘briefings’.
The briefings, around 100, were compiled into a report called ‘Shaw’s Apples’ in early 2006. I recently discovered that none of the material seems to be available on the ‘net so have decided to include it on my site, even though it is not strictly relevant to my writing. I believe it is still important information and should be shared.
I acknowledge the work of all of the contributors to Shaw’s Apples, both in carrying out the initial work reported and those who wrote it up.
Finally. The writing of James Given number three has started. I’ve been plotting for a few weeks, and planning to start for much longer, but the actual words on the page have eluded me.
True, there have been a few changes in my life over the past few months (selling the house, moving country, etc, etc) and I’ve not quite settled in to a routine yet, but it’s not really a good excuse for not writing. I’ve still been sitting at the keyboard for a few hours every day reading those all-important Facebook posts, checking vital emails from holiday companies, and generally wasting time. I’ve told myself that if only I was still able to go into my favourite coffee shop (Mrs B’s in Killybegs, County Donegal if you’re passing) the prose would flow, though I know it isn’t the reason. The real reason is I’ve just been too lazy and easily distracted – not a good combination for a writer. I did have a traumatic experience in one new café though – I was accused by one of the locals of writing down everything that was being said. He might have been right but I wasn’t going to admit it!
So, to get a grip, I started to plot. I began with a vague notion of a body being found – there almost always is, you know – then asked ‘how did it get there?’. A chance encounter with a ‘what’s on’ guide gave me a murder weapon. Whilst thinking about who the villain might be, I wrote a ledger for the victim using some characteristics from someone in a newspaper article. The murderer came to me part way through the poor corpse’s scribblings so I wrote their journal next. Then, using a three act structure passed to me in a recent workshop, I sketched out the three main storylines.
Today, I wrote the end, then the beginning. At least it’s a start, and only 75,000 more words to join them together.
I’ll keep you posted.
My last post was a short piece I’d written some time ago entitled A New Life. Little did I know that within a few weeks I’d be ‘twisting and turning’ myself, embarking on an adventure which threw everything into turmoil. I sold my house and moved back to England.
Not that this was entirely unexpected, we’d been trying to sell for a few years, but boy was it a shock to the system when it happened. I’d moved house before, I’d even changed countries before, though the world has changed. There’s no trust any more. I’ve been totally unprepared for the weight of officialdom and bureaucracy involved these days. No service providing (hah!) organisation is willing to take, for example, a simple note telling them of a new address, oh no. My bank wanted a form completed which included my tax code in my new country of residence which, of course, I didn’t have because I didn’t live there yet. They also wanted the form signed by both signatories on the joint account, even though, as I pointed out, a cheque to empty the account could be signed by one person, and this was only a change of address. I could go on, but will spare you the details, and me the rise in blood pressure.
As a result of all this nonsense, there’s been little time for writing over the last few months. My current novel, thankfully, had reached the end of the first draft by the time this whirlwind hit and I’m hoping that the enforced absence will provide the distance to help in the redraft.
My sequel to A Shadowed Livery continues to receive regular rejections although I’m given hope by a well respected editor who found little to change when reading it at a recent workshop and suggested that 25 rejections is nothing. A major author he edited had 90 rejections before his book was accepted – and later turned into an acclaimed film.
So, as I settle into my new life, in a new house, in a new town, I’ve three tasks awaiting: keep submitting until someone gives in; get on with the redraft of A Mother’s Love; and post more often.
Wish me luck.
I’m falling. Twisting and turning through the air. One moment I can see the brightly lit bridge rapidly moving away from me. The next I’m hurtling towards the inky black river below. I can hardly breathe as the air is sucked from my lungs by the air rushing past and my heart is pounding in my ears. I never thought it would be like this. Not the graceful dive through the night air and the faultless entry into calm waters that I’d imagined as I stood on the edge contemplating my next move. No perfect 10s for artistic impression with this one.
I hear a crack. Pain momentarily sears up my spinal cord and lights up my brain like a cluster bomb. Then it stops. I realise, with no passion, that my neck has broken and I can no longer feel my arms or legs. If I could still sense the pain I’m sure there would be lots.
After an eternity my broken body smashes into the solid wall of water. Christ, I felt that one.
I explode out again through a veil of red, unable to open my eyes or mouth. My chest strains for air. I’m grabbed and lifted, and realise I’m naked. A slap stings my skin and I shout at the bastard to cut it out but all that emerges is a pitiful wail of pain. I’m laid gently on something soft against my back, and I open my eyes to see a giant smiling down on me.
I can fit none of this with what’s gone before. Months of anguish as first the job, then the savings, disappeared, soon followed by the house, my lovely wife and the boys. The final bout of drinking. The long walk out of town. The scramble over the railing to the very edge of the concrete parapet. The last, searching conversation with my long-dead father, seeking his forgiveness and his guidance in my latest hour of need.
Warm hands wrap a blanket around me. The hand above my face is small, pink and wrinkled so I close my eyes for a while and find I’m gurgling.
Not so long ago I could see the face of Anna and our children in high definition but now they’re smudged like there’s Vaseline on the lens. Father’s features have all but disappeared. Even his voice is a distant whisper.
I drop my lids again, striving to get it all back in focus but all that I have is a void growing out from the centre. The only memories that remain erupt like solar fires, before dying back, forever lost in the darkness.
I awaken and the void is complete.
I gurgle again and the eyes continue to smile down.
(With thanks to https://openclipart.org for the great image)