Stock-taking: how to look reality in the eye and still live to tell the tale.

Overnight, somewhere between 12th and 13th of January in the Year of Our Lord 2013, I experienced a new awakening. It was tough. It was cruel. Nothing like the sweet music and white feathers gliding from angels’ wings onto to my whiter than white pillow. Oh no! It was the middle of the night. It was cold. My fluffy toys were fast asleep, snoring softly by my side. And it was then that I realised my writing was good for nothing.

I have written 3 books for adults – no, not THAT WAY adults – just ordinary adults with an average appetite for sex and no known deviations of character. Out of those three books, one had returned a semblance of interest from an agent who thought however that the opening was so strong and explicit that it simply could not be sustained:

“The opening scenes are moving and it is clear that you have shared your personal experience of loss with your reader. Whilst this can heighten the sense of authenticity, I felt in your case that your personal exorcism of the past, as you put it, has precipitated such a dramatic opening portrayal of death that I fear it would be hard to sustain for the length of a novel.”

Another agent had commented about my third book that it had moments of brilliant writing interspersed with moments of equally astonishing crap writing. So that was the story of my output for adults.

I went on to write 4 books for young readers, all of which have dedicated pages on this website. One of those books, “Be Gone” from the “In the Web of Time” series attracted interest from an agent who requested the full manuscript. I am yet to hear from the agent and I fear, in all honesty I can muster, that if there is going to be any news it isn’t going to be good. Too much water has gone under the bridge since the first expression of interest. I tried another agent with the same book. She responded positively by stating that the book stands out from all other material she gets, but still – regretably she could not take it on.

As for the other books, I have sent them to agents and a couple of them were entered into competitions. Nothing came of it. The sinking feeling you get when a rejection note comes or when the deadline expires for a competition is indescribible so I won’t try. But it is soul destroying.

I analysed the possible reasons for this tragic state of affairs. Many came to mind – many that would somehow explain it away without me losing face and faith, for example: oversaturation of the book market – everyone can write these days and everyone does. Books are everywhere, good and bad, piled up together on the great pyre of self-publication and e-market. People read less or rather, there is less diversity in what people read, ie we have a global readers market where every now and again one book becomes a bestseller read by millions and nobody cares or has the time to look for niche authors. Mass market is the death of individual taste in books. I could think of million other reasons – or excuses, as I should put it if I could bring myself to do so – but all in one it all boils down to me and my writing. Is it really that mediocre?

I am compelled to write. It’s a need I feel obliged to satisfy in order keep my mind and soul healthy, but that doesn’t mean my writing is any good. Does it have any potential readers? Is what I write about of any interest to anybody out there? Is my style captivating to anybody? Is there any magic in my work? The answers to all of these soul searching questions is overwhelmingly NO.

So what do I do? Giving up is an option. Getting more serious about my day job? Maybe I should be more professionally ambitious. I have the background. I have the ability. The skill. It’s just that I never have the time to pursue it seriously – all due to my obsessive writing. If only I gave it up, I could get somewhere in my career. Except that my life is a story of wasted talents and opportunities. Because I am a damned stubborn writer and little else matters.

Still, at least now I am beginning to question my reasons for existence. I put aside my latest book – two books, in fact: one for children and another one a crime story. I sort of gave up. Did I give up on writing or on those two books? I feel I am only giving up on following the old path of getting nowhere with my traditional output. I need to undergo a mutation. I have to find a voice that will attract readers. I must stop writing about what I want to say and start writing about what others want to read. Cheap skate? Maybe, but I am sick and tired of making a cake that I am then forced to eat all by myself. There is simply no fun in it. And no sense of achievement. Plus, it makes you fat.  I mean, bloated inside like an unexploded bomb.

Ticking away.

Inkheart by Cornelia Funke

Inkheart is the first book in the Inkworld  trilogy written by Cornelia Funke and translated from German by Anthea Bell. I was recommended this book by one of my pupils in Year 6 and from the moment I opened it, I could not put it down.

The story takes the reader into the fantasy world of books where fictional characters come to life and change the course of reality. There is suspense, evil and goodness, fear and courage written into the storyline. The descriptions of settings are rich and so vivid that I felt myself transported into Elinor’s amazing library or Capricorn’s gloomy castle.  I was captivated right from the first page.

Inkheart follows the adventures of a 12-year-old girl called Meggie. Her life changes dramatically when she discovers that her father, a bookbinder named Mo (as Meggie always calls him), has an uncanny ability to bring characters from books into the real world by reading out loud. When Meggie was three years old, Mo read a book called Inkheart aloud to her mother. In an instant, Meggie’s mother, Resa, vanished into the Inkworld and three men from the novel (two of whom, Capricorn and Basta, are murderous villains) entered into the real world. Nine years later, these men have come back into their lives and Mo, Meggie, and Resa’s aunt Elinor need to return the villains back to the book’s pages.

The battle against evil has many twists and turns and the reader can never be sure of the final outcome. At first it seems that Meggie and friends stand no chance and will have to bend to the will of the powerful Capricorn in order to survive. I found myself fearing that there was no hope as treacherous events led to the final, spectacular resolution.

My favourite character is Dustfinger, one of the three characters brought out of a book. I like his internal conflict: on the one hand he wants to help Meggie despite the dangers, but on the other his only – selfish – purpose is to return to his story. You never know what he will do and he never ceases to surprise the reader with his choices.

I would recommend the story to any fluent reader over the age of 10. Inkheart is a feast of a great read that will take into a world you never knew existed, but once you’re there, you will instantly feel part of it – heart and soul.

“The Woman in Black” by Susan Hill

It is only appropriate that I should look at a ghost story on this stormy Halloween evening. I understand that both a West End play and a film with Daniel Radcliffe (also known as Harry Potter) have been made, based on this book. I have seen neither of them though I can imagine how the book may lend itself to adaptation for stage or, even more so, for a cinematographic recreation. Especially if special effects come into play.

The story is about a young solicitor, Arthur Kipps, travelling to a remote, derelict house on the outskirts of a God-forsaken little town surrounded by marshes, in order to sort out the affairs of his firm’s deceased client, Mrs Drablow. Something sinister hangs in the air even before he sees the apparition of a black-clad woman. The locals are afraid to talk about her. There is a conspiracy of silence. And fear. When Arthur gets cut off the rest of the world whilst working alone in Mrs Drablow’s house, the haunting intensifies. A chair rocks relentlessly in one of the rooms. The woman crosses his path at a cemetary. Then, in the thickest of the night, he hears the distressed sound of a drowning pony and screams of a child.

Susan Hill builds up the atmosphere with skill. She has a gothic touch. She knows the tools of horror writing: the air of secrecy, the hapless locals, an empty old house and some great tragedy lingering in the background. What I would like to see more of is the characters of the people inovlved in the ghostly affair to be more indepth, more developed. I want to know them better. I want to know them, not just the man who, randomly and irrelevantly, happens to be in the house and happens to be haunted. On the other hand, perhaps the mystery of those characters is what a good ghost story is all about?

Finally, to the ending. I won’t reveal it in case there are still people out there who have not read or seen “The Woman in Black”, but I will say that the ending, for me, was the weakest point. There was no vindication. No reason for what happened in the end. Again, it was random and unjustified and so, I felt no compassion for those affected by the original tragedy.

Overall, a decent 3 stars out of 5. A book you could read under the covers in just one single night, especially when it is raining and the tide is high.

Be Done on Earth, volume 2 of the “In the Web of Time” trilogy

After the night’s heavy storm, the morning air rose cool and clear over the Tannenberg plains. Edgar Kegel looked to his left.  With his visor up, Marshal Wallenrod was scanning the enemy lines on the horizon. There was no fear in his eyes as there was no fear in Edgar’s heart. God was on their side. The enemy was a mismatch of pagan barbarians led by the treacherous Poles. They called themselves a Christian nation but deep down in their rotten hearts, Edgar knew, they were nothing more than unholy heathens. God would not support those traitors; God would go with the righteous.

The Knights of the Teutonic Order of the Blessed Virgin Mary were righteous. They were righteous and pious; they were fearless and utterly devoted to carrying God’s banners to the shamefully pagan Baltic shores. They had brought God to Samland on the tips of their swords and, over the last hundred years, they had forced the Sambians to either their knees or their graves. And now the Sambians had crawled to the Polish king and begged for help. The Poles had gathered an army of heathens and dared to challenge The Order to a battle. They would be wiped out. It was God’s will.

It was July 15^th, the year of Our Lord 1410.”

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This is part 2 of the “In the Web of Time” trilogy. Just like the first volume (“Be Gone”) it has taken me only a few months to write. The entire story was ready-formed in my mind – it flew onto the paper. There was no sweat of the brow to speak of: the characters were alive in my imagination, the place was a familiar town I frequently travel to for work and the plot was a story I hear about only too often. People simmering with prejudice and contempt for anything out of the ordinary and for anyone who dares to be different are probably in majority today as much as they were in the Dark Ages.

And this is what this book is about: intolerance and bigotry. But it is also about survival through friendship; it is also about standing up to the overwhelming majority, and about about holding your ground.

I am glad I have written this book. Before I write part 3 however, the last in this series, I may venture into writing for adults. There is a story that is asking to be put on paper – for some reason it is very persistent. I may well give in to its demands. If I resist the temptation, then part 3 of “In the Web of Time” will begin to take shape. In some ways, it would be neat to finish the trilogy first, but I don’t seem to be the master of my Muse.

If anyone finds time to read the extract, please let me have your thoughts. Any feedback will be treasured.

A week from hell and Corvalpluck’s chances in the world in doubt

I have just waded through the most exhausting week: late night Parent-Teacher consultations, throat infection that made me squeal like a pair of rusty secateurs, daughter – suffering from severe child neglect – thrown at the mercy of a resentful child-minder, and absent neighbours leaving me in charge of walking their self-harming dogs determined to slice themselves to smithereens on barbwire fences.

Amidst all of that drama I crawled with my nose to the ground, ears down and my tail between my legs. Go on, I kept telling myself, you can do it. I wondered why. Why was I doing it? Why do we all do it? What’s the carrot at the end of the stick? Is there a carrot, or only just the stick? I doubted the purpose of my drudgery and I’ve lost the sight of my ultimate destination.

Still, I have survived all adversity and am looking forward to the next – no less dastardly - week. It was easy. Somewhere at the back of my battered mind, there still flickered the eternal flame of me-the writer. Stories passed through my head. There is one I am yet to write, which I will enter for The West Country Writers’ competition. It has an intriguing challenge – Agatha Christie has to be mentioned in it. Piece of cake! Agatha Christie never leaves me, not for long anyway. I spend long, mind-numbing hours watching Miss Marple or Hercule Poirot on ITV3 - the tougher the going gets, the more I watch. So I’ve got Agatha Christie bagged, to start with. The rest is still only a blur in my head.

I have edited, re-synopsisized, printed, wrapped and nearly delivered “The Quite Contrary Colin Pluck” for the Children’s Writing Competition run by Chicken Publishing House. I do hope poor Corvalpluck gets noticed even though, I know, he will be doing his best to sneak by unobserved and enjoy his retirement in peace. Haley read the book once and once only, but she remembers the whole storyline, plus little funny quips - in fact, she remembers more than I do. She has asked me if anything could be done about Clarissa’s mother dying in the end. She didn’t like that, which -being her mother (however incompetent) – I found reassuring. Alas, there was nothing I could do. Even if I tried, raising the dead is not my greatest talent.

I guess I will need loads of good luck with Corvalpluck’s entry into the competition. He is such an obstinate old fart!

Another matter is keeping me awake at night. A literary agent to whom I sent a sample of “Be Gone”, the first part of my trilogy ”In the Web of Time”, has asked for the entire manuscript. That was in August. I am now waiting, chewing on what’s left of my fingernails, and praying to God Almighty that she likes what she sees. Pray with me.

I am now off to Savernake Wood, followed by a cake at The Polly’s. The rain had its turn and the sun is now in control of the skies. A few heavy clouds to the West look in the bad mood though. They’re heading this way.

In the Web of Time – love, revenge and eternal life

                Sitting on a park bench and watching the lazy current of the river, Rosalia cut a lonely and awkward figure. She was willowy and sinuous, with thin, long limbs and a mass of straw-white curls which sneaked out from under her oversized knitted beanie. Her large, deep-set eyes were as pale as her hair as if all pigmentation had been drained away from her body. If you looked deep into those eyes, you would see the eons of time that had passed before them even though Rosalia was only a mere sixteen.

The river’s current had hypnotised her. She was staring intently into its black depth rippling with feeble touches of winter sunlight. There was menace in the river today reminding Rosalia of the countless lives the Avon had swallowed over the centuries and of the tributaries of blood that had seeped into it from the battlefields of Salisbury Plain. The Avon was a quiet river now, conquered and tamed by locks and bridges, but deep inside, it was brimming with anger, thirsty for more blood.

Her friends had long gone home. They were friends after a fashion; people would befriend Rosalia for all the wrong reasons – because she was odd, because she didn’t try to befriend them, because there was an air of mystery about her and they were curious to find out what it was she was hiding. As she would reveal nothing, they would tire of her silence and crumble away one by one. She did not care when they came and did not care when they left. They had no patience. No time. Rosalia had all the time in the world like the tirelessly flowing river bound to reach its destination sooner or later.

Suddenly a gust of wind hit her with a scent so powerful and so familiar that it made her reel. She jumped to her feet and scanned the park, searching for Him. She sniffed the air like a dog would: her nostrils flaring, her head erect, her eyes quick and sharp. A long subdued fury rose inside her gut like thirst. Thirst for John’s blood.

Another one of my offerings. The story had been rattling away in my head for months and it had to be put to rest.

Accusations of witchcraft fly around – all false, but death follows, and death brings on revenge. There is no peace in death for those who are immortal. Rosalia is one one of them.

To read an extract and find out more about this story, please click here 

“The Quite Contrary Colin Pluck”

Corvalpluck has come out at last! As Colin Pluck! He has been occupying the loft of our house for a few months now, and we were pretending not to see (or hear) him as he bumbled around in the night. Until there was no escape. Until I bumped into him on the staircase and we sat down on the last but one step, and he told me his story - the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

If you would like to read an extract from Corvalpluck’s story, please go to his personal page by clicking here.

If you would like to read the whole story (and you are at least 8 years old and have the stomach for blood curdling misadventures), please go to my Kindle or Lulu store. Thank you for your support and I hope your enjoy every page of Corvalpluck’s tale.