When Too Much Is (Still) Not Enough

Today I'm guest-blogging over at Steve Lockley's website. He has a different guest every day at the moment, and I think this month it's all women too. So if you want to know what us girls think about stuff, go check it out ...

To Plot or Not

I often get involved in online discussions (Facebook, Authonomy, UK Kindle Users Forum, wherever) about the merits of plotting a novel. Or not, as the case may be. I read posts where people detail the level at which they plan their writing – in notes, in synopses, on index cards, post-it notes, wallpaper above the desk. They outline their characters: What would Joe eat for breakfast? What sandwich does Sally prefer? If Wizard Beerbelly went to the Auld Tavern, what would he order to drink?

I am so jealous. I would love to be that organised – so in control of what I am doing. Or would I? I once wrote that one of my characters was scared. I had absolutely no idea why he was scared, but I knew it was important. So I wrote it in. Ten chapters or so later, I realised what it was he was scared of, and everything fell into place. I became aware of it when the character did. Lazy plotting or inspired genius? Maybe I won’t answer that one! But the point I am making is that I can’t actually write if I know too far in advance what is going to happen. I might have an idea of a scene coming up, or that somebody will discover something important, but generally the plot is unfolding as the characters live it. If I know what is going to happen, then the magic is gone and it all becomes a chore.

This doesn’t make life easy. I have written myself into more corners than I can remember and so I have lots of pieces of work on the go:

• Young adult contemporary fantasy – Edge of Dreams – book 1 of a trilogy. No elves, wizards, demons or vampires. It’s finished but requires a light edit. This nearly got accepted by a one of the big guys once upon a time, but got bounced at an acquisitions meeting. It was then e-published by a small press a few years ago, but I now have the rights back and want to put it up on kindle.
• Another YA fantasy – Flashpoint – book 2 of the trilogy which is nearly completed.
• An as-yet-untitled follow-on novel to my kindled thriller Hamelin’s Child. About 18,000 words in.
• Blue Flamingo – another dark thriller with a touch more of the supernatural and a touch less of the sex (so far, anyway). I’ve only written 3 chapters of this, despite some nagging by people who’ve read it, and have no idea of where it is going.
• An adult fantasy Blood Ties, which I started writing about 20 years ago, under the mentoring of an editor from Orion. Of course, she left the company, I moved up North, real life happened etc etc. It’s 70,000 words done and is pretty damn good, but I just can’t summon up any enthusiasm to finish it!

So what should I do? I have ideas for other projects, snippets of scenes and characters, but I feel compelled to tidy up some of my loose ends before I unravel some more. And yet in the rest of my life I am structured and planned to the point of OCD. I make lists of my lists, I tick things off, I finish everything I start and on deadline. Why can’t I apply this mentality to my writing? I need to be orderly, organised, finish all these outstanding bits and pieces and not leave my poor characters in a limbo lasting decades! But I don't want to lose the sheer excitement of writing-by-the-seat-of-my-pants, of discovering the story with my characters, having them whisper in my ear and tell me things they've just found out. So do I go with my thriller branding or go back to my fantasy roots? Both ways I can gain – either way I will lose something.

All suggestions welcome!

Sample Sunday: Beyond Rescue

Headlights were speeding towards them, looming out of the fog like the eyes of a huge monster. Yellow and unblinking, mesmerising, fixing their prey with a paralysing stare as the beast roared in anger, coming from nowhere out of the night. 

The car swerved, wheels locked on February ice as Mark leaned across from the passenger seat and instinctively tried to grab the steering wheel from Jenny’s rigid grip. But it was too late. Much too late. The hedges were towering giants on either side of the country lane and there was nowhere else to go.

        And in the fraction of a second before impact, Mark looked up and saw the lorry driver’s face with crystal clarity, frozen in a mask of absolute terror as the night exploded in a chaos of glass and fire.

               

Awake or asleep? Alive or dead?

        Which?

        Images changing, blurring, reforming. Flick to the next one. No – too far. Back. Back!

        Wake up!

        Can’t. Gone too far. Can’t wake up! Help me!

       

The pain was gone in seconds, sliding away from him like a blanket discarded in sleep. Only he wasn’t in bed – was he? Was this all just an elaborate dream? A nightmare of fire and twisted metal? 

        No, it was too real. He could feel nothing, yet there was an overwhelming  stench of petrol and the angry crackle of flames.

No direction. Only a sense of urgency. Something important he has to do.

        What is it? Where am I?

        No time to think. Got to go. Find Jenny.

        Jenny?

Mark sat up slowly. There was wet grass underneath him – he’d obviously been thrown some distance from the crash. Across the field the car was entwined with the lorry in an obscene embrace; a lover’s kiss of death.

        He got to his feet as the lorry’s engine exploded a rocket of glass and metal up into the night sky. The noise was deafening.

        The whole of the nearside of the car was mangled beyond recognition, embedded in the wheel arch of the lorry. Mark went round to the driver’s side and wrenched the door open, not feeling the flames licking at his hands. Jenny was slumped over the steering wheel, blood on her face and her blonde hair already singed. Mark unclasped the seatbelt.

        Hands underneath her shoulders, he dragged the girl out, barely pausing to glance at the body next to her in the passenger seat. Or rather what was left of the body. Then he lifted his wife gently in his arms – not stopping to wonder that he couldn’t feel the weight of her – and carried her away from the wreckage. She was still breathing.

        Mark put her down on the grass by the gate.

It’s done. Time to go. No place here any more.

        I love you, Jenny.

In the distance, there was the wail of a siren.

How to Win Customers ...

I was catching up on some guest blogs today and started another one. The title was going to be along the lines of How to Win Friends and Influence People, so I opened up Word and typed How to Win Customers.

The phone rang, or someone came to the door - I forget which. Distraction set in, quickly followed by procrastination and a dose of apathy. 

I came back to the pc much later after teenage daughter had got home and found my one line had expanded to:

How to win customers

• Win them in a raffle
• Bid for them in an auction
• Win them in a tombola
• guess the name of the customer and you win them
• Pay £1 and go on Hook a Duck, you might win one of the customers hanging up on the side.

Need I go on?

So that pretty much sums it up then, really. Blog done!

Sample Sunday: The Secret

Music from the taverna below floats through the open window. It’s Greek, I think. Or Turkish. There are voices too, celebrating; the clink of glasses and laughter. 

Does anybody remember laughter?

That’s from a song. I can’t remember what it is. I can’t remember much anymore, though I can recall—

—the secret—

—bringing the glass upstairs from the taverna the other night and finishing the entire bottle of cheap ouzo.

The glass is broken now; shards litter the table in front of me. I cut my foot earlier, and stained the bright poppy-patterned duvet on the bed. There are flowers everywhere in this village. Wisteria strangles the tiny villas, bougainvillea guard the entrance to every garden like aggressive soldiers, baskets and tubs adorn every balcony. The smell of the mimosa is overwhelming.

I hate flowers. They remind me of—

—the secret—

—saying goodbye to Sarah. But I couldn’t say goodbye, could only say au revoir, see you again, wait for me and I’ll be there soon. And I will. I promise.

The sun is almost on the horizon. It’s a wedding downstairs. Alexio the waiter asked me earlier if I’d like to stay. He looked kind and I nearly told him about—

—the secret—

—Sarah, and how I was going to meet her at sunset. In the place she was conceived. Five years ago tonight.

I pick up the glass shard in my right hand.

And I know the secret.

Commercial Activities in Libraries?

So there I am in our local town library. On a Saturday it's often a busy place with art exhibitions in the foyer and the occasional local authors signing (and presumably selling) copies of their books. There's a small annex with computers and internet access, racks of leaflets and plenty of noticeboards advertising local events and activities.

Now I recently had some vistaprint postcards printed up with the new and rather impressive cover of my thriller. I'm not a graphic designer, but these were nice - all glossy and smart with quotes from reviews on the back. I was pleased with the result, which surprised me as vistaprint's last efforts with a business card were disappointing and I threw most of them away.

What better place to leave book postcards than the local library?  But no - it's "too commercial". Eh? A PR postcard for an ebook is too commercial, but it's OK for local authors to sell books and local artists to sell art?  I thought libraries were trying to survive all the cuts - surely embracing and including the community would be a good place to start? I realise that ebooks may be a politically sensitive topic with libraries, given that the big publishers want to sell them "self-destructing" ebooks, to mimic the wear-and-tear (and subsequent need to re-purchase) of a real book, but casually dismissing us indie authors is not going to win us over to their side of the argument, is it?

I'm not naming and shaming here (yet - unless you're one of my facebook friends and you can see it there). I have emailed the council and asked for their opinion and I will let you know their answer.

Sample Sunday: Blood Ties

And now something different - a fantasy novel extract:

Andry wondered how long it would take to die. It was difficult to think straight, difficult to concentrate on any thought for more than a few seconds, but his eyes kept being drawn back to the rope on the dais at the far end of City Square and the crowd that was even now beginning to gather around it.

It was raining, a fine drizzle that soaked through the thin cotton shirt and made him shiver. He was finding it increasingly hard to stay awake – never mind keep warm – and since the last dose of whatever drugs he’d been given, he’d finally realised that there was no way out. This time he wouldn’t leave Ariathen alive and he wasn’t sure he cared anyway.

Why did you do it, Elene? When you had so much to live for? The only one of this violent and bloodthirsty race who had cared about him and she was dead, had been dead these seven years past and he hadn’t known. Not until now. She’d ended their affair, determined to make her marriage work and then she’d killed herself. He’d have cried if he’d had the strength, but all he could do was stumble across the cobbles and hope to meet her in whatever world she’d gone to.

A diversion up ahead and one of his guards stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. He turned his head to one side and saw a familiar face pushing his way to the front of the crowd. Jereth? But the cocktail of drugs was too potent and he couldn’t reach his friend’s mind. Words would have to be enough.

“Andry.” Not much more than a whisper, but the guards were looking towards the source of the disturbance across the square.

“Jereth.” What could he say? There was nothing his friend could do without jeopardising his own safety. “She’s dead.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

He knew? Was that why they’d kept him away from the city for so long? “There was a child. A girl.” The words kept getting stuck in his throat, but he was alert enough to see Jereth’s wide-eyed expression – he obviously hadn’t known this much.

“Yours?”

       

He nodded, but even the slight movement made him lose his balance and he fell against the guard. By the time he’d got his feet underneath him, he was pushed forwards again and Jereth had melted back into the sea of people, all jostling for the best vantage point to see him die. Someone spat at him, but his hands were tied and he couldn’t even wipe his face.

Up on the dais stood a familiar figure. Dressed in the uniform of the City Militia, the man’s complete lack of any badges of rank marked him out from the other soldiers positioned around the square – both Watch Guard and Militia had turned out for the event. Andry wondered if they knew what he’d done. Why he was really here. Not just because he’d broken the treaty.

“Andry. Are you prepared?” The man’s voice was low but the tone deadly.

“To meet Elene again? Oh, yes.” If he’d been capable of it, he’d have laughed at the effect her name had on Ariathen’s Guard Captain. He wished he could shout it out loud.

His last thought as he felt the rope was that he’d never even known his daughter’s name.