Michael Jecks's Blog, page 29

Conferences – and other ways to waste time!

A nicer part of Bristol!

Yesterday I went all the way up to Bristol to attend a conference with the Society of Authors, all about the weird and wonderful brave new world we inhabit. The main thing was, the Society wanted to brief we authors on how to sell our books more efficiently and achieve better sales. A praiseworthy ambition!

The Society is a great institution, dedicated to the well-being of authors and writers, and the whole day was run very efficiently (until someone elsewhere in Bristol’s M-Shed decided to hold a very loud rock concert).

I learned lots about marketing plans (never seen one), about getting good PR (at £10k per book, I don’t think I’ll see that either), and about personal marketing and using the internet. Some great speakers, especially the brilliant Michael Bhaskar talking about metadata. Not a subject I was expecting to enjoy, but Michael made it fascinating. I would say that he and Michael Bland were the two guys who gave the most during the day – for me, at any rate, and if either is speaking again soon, I’ll be going to listen again.

Another guy who was fascinating was not a “Michael”, oddly enough, which just goes to show that my name isn’t the only guarantee of perfection – which will come as a surprise, naturally. Ian Skillicorn was very interesting while talking about the reasons for blogging, how to identify an audience, and managing the blog from there. Lots of food for thought there, too.

And the nice thing was, it looks like I’m doing the right sort of thing with my blog (hence this), my newsletter, my (anti)social media, and, of course, my YouTube videos. Although I was not happy to have my name pulled out of the hat to be interviewed with Michael Bland and to be up first of three in front of the audience. That was a little daunting. However, I had three people afterwards say that they’d buy a copy of  “FIELDS OF GLORY” as a result of the interview. That was good!

Lovely old cranes and derricks around the quay. You knew what their objectives were!

The main thing that most of the speakers were discussing was, keep to certain objectives. It doesn’t matter what they are, the important thing is to be clear in your own mind about the objectives of your blog, your newsletter, your media involvement, your speaking engagements and other work. So long as you stay focused and adhere to your objectives, with luck people will find you before long.

So: decide what it is you wish to achieve; keep to those objectives; tag and use metadata to allow other people to find you and your objectives. Easy.

My objectives with this blog are threefold: to post interesting anecdotes and stories of an author’s life, from travelling to the problems of writing generally; to give occasional hints and tips about writing so that others can improve their own writing; finally, occasionally to highlight really good books I’ve read and to review them.

That looks easy enough.

On YouTube I’ll be trying to provide more humorous stories from my publishing career, but also talking about all of my books so that there is a full commentary on all my novels (a long-term project) while also adding regular hints and tips on writing.

Which reminds me. There’s another one up today.  If you go and look at this you’ll find a squeaky-clean, shiny new video, all about planning and correcting problems with books, essays or any other kind of writing. If you like it, please go to the youtube page and give it a thumb’s up and subscribe to future videos.

That’s all for now. Happy reading!

Tagged: author, Bristol, conferences, crime writer, crime writing, history, knights templar, medieval, metadata, novelist, Society of Authors, Templar, time wasting, writer, writing hints and tips, writing Q&A

A Very Belated Apology to America!

This is a terrible confession: after writing a nice piece about America in my newsletter, I completely forgot to put this version up on the web. So, with profuse apologies to all my American friends – here it is at last!

 

America

There are times when certain friends of mine make me wince and want to walk away. Ideally to locate a suitable baseball bat and clobber the damn fool about the head.

One friend springs to mind. His mind was uncluttered with doubts and uncertainties. I can remember clearly an occasion when I discussed firearms with him. His decided conviction? All people who wanted guns were basically mad, and all such guns should be confiscated immediately. No discussion about the relative merits of small-calibre target shooting versus large calibre guns for defence struck any chord with him. They were bad.

In fact, I think he had swallowed so much nonsense about the inherent danger of guns (you know, like a Viking’s sword, they would call to their feeble human slave, and turn even relatively sensible chaps like me into lunatic, blood-crazed homicidal maniacs). He wouldn’t even touch any of my firearms – one assumes because he feared pollution.

Another of his pet hates was America.

What is it about the British public that causes this reaction? I know that there is a belief amongst some that all those who live in North America are insane in one way or another, which often comes down to the belief in American ignorance. Which is a bit rich, coming from people like my friend, who once told me with earnest certainty that all American states had the same laws.

No point discussing with people like that. His mind was so ring-fenced with inaccurate confusion that there was truly no point trying to put a more realistic alternative.

Why do I start this blog with such meanderings?

Well, last week I was forced, utterly against my will, you understand, to visit America.

 

I have been to the States before. My first visit was, I think, in 1987. In those days I was a salesman at Wang Laboratories, and was sent on an Achiever’s Trip to Hawaii. And was it ever fun! I had a marvellous time, swimming, eating and drinking. Not necessarily in that order. And afterwards I had the chance to see how Canada worked.

It was fun. In those far-off days, the passport office in Britain was on strike. But the USA allowed British to travel on visitor’s passports, so long as there was a stamp in there from the US Embassy. My chitty was so marked, so all was well.

Until I landed in Toronto.

‘This passport is not valid,’ the grim-faced immigration Hitler informed me.

‘It must be OK.’

‘No.’

I was anxious. No one likes to argue with immigration.

‘It must be OK. Our passport office is on strike.’

‘This doesn’t work. We need a proper passport.’

‘Look, it worked in America,’ I said. Foolishly.

‘We are not the 51st state,’ he informed me and that cost me two hours of my life.

I am now unfailingly polite to all immigration staff. Especially when my (ex-)agent has enjoyed rather more than her fair share of the free drinks and the immigration fellow concerned starts to have a sense of humour failure…

But this time, I had no such problems. I was allowed in with almost indecent disinterest.

I left home at 5.00 am on a cold, wet Wednesday, and arrived at Heathrow to learn that America, and Atlanta in particular, was suffering the ‘Storm of the Century’!

Nothing we ever have now is plain bad or a bit rough. It’s always apocalyptic.

It was a rough flight. Nine hours on a plane that bucked and jerked was – well, uncomfortable. We had some food, but the snack to keep us going didn’t materialise because the turbulence was too severe. And it wasn’t really helpful to hear the captain inform us that we’d land a little late because he was discussing with ground control which was the safest runway, what braking was needed etc. In the end we were over forty minutes late, but we did land safely.

And then I was in America. A blast through the gates and into the terminal with a rumbling stomach, desperate for a coffee and perhaps a bagel.

No. Nothing. The ice was so severe, that no staff for the concessions could get to the airport. And there wasn’t even a coffee bar open, let alone a food shop. Well, I tell a lie: there was an asian noodle bar. But when I tried to take a bottle of water from their display, I was fooled by the handle on the perspex cover. I lifted it and – the whole damn thing fell apart. Apparently it’s not the job of customers to take drinks. The staff will fetch it and present it at the till. Or would do, were it not so ruddy late by that time that they’d closed their till. So I had to wave goodbye to the bottle (and try to hurriedly repair the damage to their display before I got arrested for being drunk and disorderly. Not that I was – no booze on the plane either).

Has Atlanta Airport ever been this empty? My bed: the chair on the left over there …

Next morning, after a thoroughly refreshing sleep on two benches pulled together (I was actually very comfortable there), I waited at the Bagel bar for a first bite of real American bagel. No. They hadn’t had a delivery because of the weather.

Instead I wandered to the departure gate and sat back to wait and hope I could get on a flight. All the planes to New Orleans were cancelled bar one, and I was sitting in the hope that the flight might have a spare seat. I got chatting to a guy who was on his way home, and told me that he hadn’t given up the day before, but had pestered the staff until he was guaranteed a seat. He chuckled about the likelihood of getting a seat on the plane at this late stage.

I laughed along with him. And returned to the desk to remind them with intense earnestness that I’d been travelling since 5 am the previous day.

Luckily, my hopefulness was justified. I got to New Orleans.

 

I was picked up by a tall, good-looking guy with an SUV. The weather was – how do I put this? It wasn’t English. Sun. Warmth. Clear, bright blue sky. I was in New Orleans and it felt like summer.

Well, I was there to be the Grand Marshal of the Krewe of Little Rascals – I must surely be the very first British author ever to be Grand Marshal of a Krew during Mardi Gras. And our Krewe was the first of the parade, too!

Now, never having been to see the carnival before, this was all new to me, but I could not have been in better hands. The Spittlers and the rest of the Krewe’s organisers and committee were the most delightful, kind and generous people I’ve met in a long time.

Jetlagged and weary, I went along on Thursday night to the grand ball, held a little out of town near the lake, and there I was entertained by a few score children. It was enormous fun, and hugely impressive. The costumes and effects had been designed with medieval England in mind, and my friend, Jack Spittler I gave a speech to introduce each of the children (a very good one, I have to say, since I edited and checked it!), and then the evening ran on with drinks at an exclusive daiquiri bar (only in New Orleans would there be a drive-in daiquiri bar) which we consumed eating supper at the hotel.

On Friday I was taken to see the sights. Jack I & II driving me to see the levees and then the old Destrehen plantation house. Very interesting.

Destrehan Manor

Still, apart from testing the quality of bourbons in Bourbon Street and looking with longing at the military stores and their cutlasses, swords, bayonets and firearms (I could go on), the main thing remaining was the show itself. Sunday morning I got to see what the Carnival was all about.

The Krewe of Little Rascals was set up in the far distant past, and now, for thirty odd years under Jack Spittler I’s careful management, with his wife Maureen’s administrative skills, it is the longest running children’s Krewe ever – and the last surviving one. The dedication of all the committee was astonishing, and truly heart-warming.

Conducted to my float, I stood and stared about me.

I have never before seen so many boxes of beads, of dubloons, of cups and assorted trinkets before in my life. I went along in the parade and, basically, for four miles, I lobbed, threw, hurled and chucked everything I could in every direction. Strings of beads hurtled through the air. Metal dubloons flew like frisbies while handfulls of wooden coins with my name on them soared and spun.

Here I should apologise to the three people who were struck by carelessly aimed cups, but the joy of slinging a necklace of beads and seeing it faultlessly encircle a head to fall to the breast of three people was joyous. And apparently that was a record. Jack II  managed to hit the mouth of a shark en route, which he had been trying (unsuccessfully) to snare for the last 30 years.

Lots of floats

And then – it was done. By four in the afternoon, we were sitting in a restaurant and drinking some thoroughly needed ales or pops. It had been hard work – boy, had it ever – but now people could rest and relax. I had my first taste of alligator poppers – rather like chicken, very tasty – and my first burger. And then it was up to the hotel again, and we sat up until far too late chatting and telling jokes. Enormous fun.

 

Monday I had to leave, with regrets.

It’s a very odd thing to go to a different country and put yourself entirely at the mercy of some people you’ve never met. To do so twice in a week was – well, alarming. I left the three Jacks (did I mention that Jack II has Jack III already?) with real sadness at the airport. I had such fun with them both, and their families, and leaving them was terribly hard. As I said to them, I felt like I’d found a new brother – and with three already, discovering another wasn’t entirely necessary. Still, planes don’t wait, I’ve learned, so I clambered on board the Atlanta flight and thence to Greenville Airport.

There was no one there to meet me. I stood by the entrance and peered about me into the dusk. No signs, no taxis waiting, no car with waving organiser. I walked to the other end of the pavement. Still no one. I looked at my watch. It was set to New Orleans time – I wasn’t sure whether that was right for South Carolina or not. I returned to the arrivals suite and checked the time. No, it wasn’t. But I was on time. I think.

And then a cheerful call made me aware of my ride. Jim, grinning, called Connie on her mobile to tell her, ‘Look, I’m not standing here any longer. He missed the flight. I’m going home.’

She came at a run to persuade him out of it, saw me, gaped, and took a swing at her husband.

It was as if I’d known Jim and Connie all my life. I immediately liked Jim – tall, laconic, very shrewd, and caustic with some of his humour – and Connie, well, Connie I have known for a long time.

Connie the Powerhouse!

I first wrote to her when she contacted me about a book. She had been reading my first, and wanted to check some details. I was happy to help, and from that we began to communicate via email on a fairly regular basis, until at last she persuaded me to join her at the Magna Cum Murder event at Ball State University, Indiana.

Indiana was a place I hadn’t visited, but I am always a mug for a new location. I believe travelling is one of the great adventures that anyone can enjoy, and for a writer it’s crucial. We need to see new people, new places, new buildings, new landscapes. How can our brains imagine without experience?

So I turned up and waited to see Connie. I didn’t. Her car had broken down many miles away, and we never did meet. Until last week.

And what a joy that was. Connie is a lovely, lively lady. Although she used to live (and was an English teacher – Jim a Maths teacher) in Indiana, she has migrated for the colder months to South Carolina with her husband. And I can see why.

The place was – well, just wonderful, really. I loved the people, who, without exception, could not possibly have been more hospitable and friendly. I was put up in a marvellous museum, Suzy’s Puppets, a house dedicated to puppets and theatrical models. I could, admittedly, have done without Jim’s reminders to keep an eye out for Chucky – especially since the most visible puppet in my bedroom was one with alarming deep black eyes without any white …

Next day was a day of work. I had to give a radio interview (thanks, Anne Eller). Anne was winner of radio show of the year for her ‘Meet Me At The Diner’ last year, and she was wonderful. It was the first interview I’ve given with a Weimaraner sitting at my side. After that, off to a quick lunch at the Goodness and Mercy, where I met the lovely Pat (an expert in the old mills that were so important to the town) and in no time it was time for my talk at Lander University.

I was impressed, to say the least. I had perhaps a hundred students and some academics and after my talk, I was surprised to have twenty or more come to chat to me. I had queries about money, about time, about writer’s block – pretty much the full range of questions, but they were asked by fresh students who were keenly interested. To my absolute delight, I learned next day that five students had called Connie to say that they were so enthused, they were all sitting and writing. They all wanted to try to see if they could finish their own novels.

I was taken afterwards to the President’s house. Dan Ball and his lovely wife Marjorie entertained me and a number of other guests. I can still taste Dan’s Old Bushmills.

Next day I met with some folks at Wesley Commons, where we talked books over my first bagel of the trip (perfection). And then, after lunch, I was delivered into the safe hands of Butch. The one stipulation I had made for this trip was, I had to get my hands on a pistol again. Butch was my minder. We went to a pistol range in the woods, with rifle and pistol and only one thing missing – ear defenders. Since Butch had been in the Air Force, he knew a simple trick. Hunting around on the ground for a while, he discovered some cigarette butts. These inserted into ears worked perfectly. I blasted through 100 rounds of .38 ammo and a brick or two of .22, before another guy turned up. He had a 9mm and a .45 calibre XD. And those two little toys made my day.

This was a sweetie!

Later, back in Greenwood, there was an international reception and we finished up at Aromas for coffee.

So, all in all, when I climbed onto the plane to return to home via Atlanta I was tired, but very happy indeed. I had made a bunch of new friends, I had been entertained, looked after like royalty, and came away with so many gifts that I had to remove items from my suitcase before it would fit within the weight restrictions. I actually had to give away my copy of The Girl Who Played With Fire (good, but it wasn’t very well edited. I found quite a lot of repetition that irritated). In comparison, I read Anthony Riches’ latest book, ‘The Emperor’s Knives’, which was utterly gripping and compelling. A very different story, but I felt better edited. You can read about it at http://www.writerlywitterings.com, along with an interview with Tony.

And so, here I am. Sitting at my desk once more. I’ve seen 15 students this week, and there are another 16 booked to see me next week. I’ve a talk to give on Thursday at Exeter University, I’ve got to plan for another trip, this time to Canada. To my surprise, I was asked whether I would agree to be the International Guest of Honour at the Bloody Words Festival in Toronto in June. Would I? Try to keep me away – Toronto is one of my favourite cities.

But in truth, my thoughts tend to be with Jack (cubed) and Maureen and Tonya and their family, and with Connie and Jim, Eric and Jamie, with Pat and Suzy, Dan and Marjorie, Ada, Frederick Bassett (look out for his book ‘Honey From a Lion’) and all the other people in America who made this last week so much fun and so joyful for me.

All of which is a long way to say, to short-sighted and foolish people who are rude about Americans – go there. You have no idea what hospitality is until you’ve been to the southern states.

And now: back to work. I have a book to write. I just wish it was about South Carolina and New Orleans …

PS – not many photos worked, and it took me ages to realise. On the day of Mardi Gras, I dropped my camera and – yup, broke the main lens, dammit! Now I’ve a new one. Oh, and on the return flight, there was a little damage to my bag. Thank you Delta. Now I’ve a nice new one.

Where’s my wheel?

 

Tagged: America, Connie, crime writing, New Orleans, shooting, signing tours, South Carolina, writing

The End of the First AsparaWriting Festival!

And so, after a year of planning and working on the basic ideas, the AsparaWriting Festival is finally over.

Evesham during the AsparaWriting Festival

It’s been a really rewarding experience. The whole concept was, and is, to create a festival for unpublished but enthusiastic writers. We wanted to set it up, first: so that aspiring writers could come and learn from professionals; and, second: to create a series of events at which authors of all types – crime writers, humorists, short story writers, poets – could come to meet eager aspiring authors to exchange ideas and receive masterclasses on writing.

There were two main drivers behind this. One was, the huge number of festivals that cater to straight marketing. Yes, they promote themselves as being there to interview authors and to introduce new writers – but generally they are there purely to push already famous authors so that the festival makes money. The second was, as a member of an audience, I wanted more participation with writers I liked and admired. I wanted to be able to get some meaningful time with the authors, not a sketchy interview or chat about one book only.

Aspara Gus and John the Aspara Fairy at the awards presentation!

When I last did a Dartington “Ways With Words” festival, every man jack of the more than 100 people in the audience was paying over £6. Now, it’s more common to see their tickets at £10. All for a one hour session with lots of other people. For me, that was fun because I love having an audience, but for those attending it was not ideal. No one can interact with an interested audience properly in only one hour: it means a 45 minute talk, 10 minutes of Q&A, and then 5 minutes to clear the space and prepare for the next author. It isn’t enough, to my mind.

It’s also expensive for the audience. If we think it’s about £6 per hour to see a number of authors talking, that means a day’s tickets will be about £30. Then there are the costs of meals and so on.

And, of course, it’s no use for people who actually want to learn about writing. These are publicity events, during which an author may talk about his or her latest title, but that’s all. And the author will not be paid. When I did Dartington, the only reward was a bottle of plonk. Nice, but not nice enough – I do rather grudge the idea of making a lot of money for someone else when I’m giving up my time. I am self-employed, so when I perform, I want a fee that reflects the effort I’m putting in.

So when we started planning AsparaWriting, the idea behind it was, that the audience would get meaningful time with the authors, and the authors would be fairly rewarded for their time. Two fairly simple criteria! For a full list of the aspirations of the Festival, look here.

Did it work? Did it ever!

A whole lot of winners, all with the book in which their stories appear!

The festival ran for six weeks, concurrently with the Asparagus Festival, and brought many authors in front of keen writers. The short story competition was enthusiastically supported, and the two winning stories from the two children’s age groups, as well as the ten shortlisted adult short stories, are available as a hardback book here. In fact, now it’s over, and now the organisers have had time to take a break and get a good night’s sleep, we’re all rather sad that it’s over for the year. Not that it means we’ll be resting. We’re already planning the short story competition and thinking of the authors for next year’s @AsparaWriting festival. Next year will, after all, be the 750th anniversary of the Battle of Evesham, so there may be a rather more medieval aspect to the festival. I certainly hope so.

But for now, my main effort has to be to bring the news of the AsparaWriting Festival to writing and reading groups up and down the country. The writers are there to enjoy themselves as well as giving masterclasses, and the participants all commented on how relaxed and enjoyable their days were. So next year, I hope to see even more people.

 

I have to thank all the authors who gave up their time to help make the festival such a success. However, I need to thank John and Sue Jenkinson of the fabulous Evesham Hotel for their huge effort over the year, as well as making this last weekend such a wonderful event. Without Sue, who really was the primary instigator, planner, driving force and slave-driver, the festival wouldn’t have got off the ground. And without John, we’d all have lost our sanity … but later! The other members of the team were Morag Adlington, who used to run a small chain of bookshops in the Evesham area before retiring, and my own wife, Jane, who has worked ridiculous hours getting things moving. But all the people involved have achieved a huge amount.

I don’t think Simon Brett has ever had three such alarming characters in the same photo as him!

We must give special mention to Simon Brett, a delightful speaker and author (currently working with Cherie Lunghi, Sian Phillips, Martin Jarvis and Nigel Havers on a new adaptation of The Importance of Being Earnest), who not only gave a brilliant talk, but also ran a day of workshops before acting as the festival’s presenter of awards to the winning writers. He was, as always, a joy to listen to. Also I should add that Stella Duffy, who had to cancel her workshops, sadly, because of a bereavement, will be returning later in the year, as will Quintin Jardine, when they can plan events around their very busy diaries.

Finally, I must say a huge thank you to Cult Pens who donated a wonderful, limited edition Pilot capless fountain pen in “Ice Green” . It’s a truly gorgeous pen, and I’m sure the winner, Matt Dicks, will get a lot of pleasure from using it to plan his next books!

I will be putting up more photos from the event on Flickr shortly. In the meantime, if you know of a writing group, please let them know about the AsparaWriting Festival ready for next year. There will be fun, frolics, and most of all, lots of opportunities to enjoy writing with professional authors!

The organising committee (sadly Morag couldn’t attend due to an injury)

And now, to other items. I’ve started to record some videos about writing, as most of you know, on Youtube. The playlist is here and if you are interested in writing for yourself and want to see how authors play around with their work, do please drop in. The videos are being updated once a week, on every Thursday, but if you are really keen, the best thing to do is to subscribe to the channel so that you are told as soon as a new video is uploaded. I have to admit, the latest was enormous fun to make (as you’ll see if you watch “Writing Tips Q&A”). I’m hoping to get more questions from viewers to supplement the basic videos about me and my books, so do please comment or email me.

And that is it for now. I hope you’re enjoying this gorgeous weather too. I’m off now to make a start on my next little project: making a watercolour paintbox. Down at the bottom are the first pics of my imitation Roberson paintbox.

Take care and thanks for reading!

The box with the dimpled lid aside

Top and base of my Roberson style paintbox

 

Tagged: AsparaWriting, author, books, crime writing, Evesham, Evesham Hotel, finale, literary festival, novels, Simon Brett, speaking, workshops, writing

Krupp Can Wait

Cover Picture

FIRE ON THE RUNWAY by Mel Bradshaw, Dundurn Toronto

ISBN 978 1459703353 priced at £11.99 for paperback

I was fortunate enough to be invited as the International Guest of Honour at the Bloody Words festival in Toronto this month. It was a huge honour, but more to the point, it was a great joy to cross the pond again and meet up with Canadian authors.

One character I met with while over there was Mel Bradshaw. A very delightful speaker at a panel with me, at which we were ably moderated by Donna Carrick, he fascinated me with his concept of a hard-boiled character after the First World War who, on leaving the army, joins the police in Toronto.

It was a fascinating period. The jazz age, a huge proportion of men who were traumatised after the war, others who were profiting from the prohibition in Toronto, the influx of immigrants that led to fights, turf wars and other disputes. At the same time, there was the terror of the new communist threat. Bolshevism was seen on every side. And Mel had invented a man with all the excitement of a young man in a hard city, but who disliked firearms (not because of any namby-pamby principles, but because a Webley .455 was a damn heavy beast and made a mess of your suit).

I was highly embarrassed after the end of the panel, when Mel presented me with a copy of my latest book for me to sign, so later on, I found a copy of his book … but couldn’t find him to sign it!

Leaving Canada a couple of days later, I had it in my carry-on bag. I didn’t expect to read much of it, because I had a doorstop, which was the history of the Krupp weapons manufacturer. However, because, in my slightly hungover stat (thank you, Ryan!) I managed to leave Krupp in a car, so when I got on the plane, I had less reading material than I would have liked. And first on my list was FIRE ON THE RUNWAY.

It works. There is a common problem with English and Canadian publishing and media, which is that they assume only American writers can hack it. It’s garbage, of course. There are many extremely good writers in Canada, the UK and, dare I say it, in South Africa, Ireland, Australia and all over the world. Yes, some American writers have a superb talent. So do other nationals.

For my money, Mel has a style that is almost Chandleresque. It’s tight writing, with a firm sense of humour underlying a taut storyline. The plot buckets along, even though it’s a tough one, bringing in an eastern European woman, bomb attacks, gun attacks, knife attacks, and all for a series of photos. Mel keeps the story well in line, and managed that brilliant feat of stopping me dead in my tracks with some little details of life in those far-off days in Toronto.

It was a book that kept me transfixed on a long flight and journey home.

Not only do I recommend it, I’m going back to buy the earlier books in the series.

Krupp can wait.

Tagged: books, Canada, crime writing, novelist, publishing, review, writing

Train, planes and … Well, just trains, really.

I am not good with trains.

A few months ago I went visit some excellent friends near Windsor, and then on to stay at the house of some other friends. I had a great evening. Too great, really. Spike drove me into the station the next morning, and the rush hour was not good. When he deposited me at the station, the train should have been departing. Sure enough, as I ran in, people were streaming off a recently arrived train. Without thinking (because thinking slows down your reactions when you’re moving in the jungle, doncha know), I dashed up the staircase and was in time to see the doors close.

Blast. This train was essential to get me to Reading, where I had a connection to take me to Devon. Without the connection, I’d never make it.

And then, by a miracle, the doors opened. Without thinking (as I explained), I dashed inside and stood in the packed train panting happily. The train began to move.

That was when the doubts set it. You see, I walk a lot. I camp a lot. I’m used to the stars and moon, and the sun, and I was pretty sure that if I was heading to Reading, the sun should be at the left side of the train. But it was here, on the right. Perhaps the rails took a loop around a village, I thought. Perhaps … the doubts became racing certainties as the train continued.

When we reached the first stop, which was, funnily enough, not Reading, but London’s Paddington, I was not happy. However, the very kind ticket collector who saw my panicked expression and informed me that “this ticket does not cover travel to London” took pity on me. He deposited me on the next Exeter train and all was well.

Yesterday I was going to London and had to catch the 8.51 train to Paddington from Platform 5. Now this was going to be a busy day and I had a lot on my mind. So when a train arrived, stating it was to go to Paddington, and it had the numeral “1″ in the time on the board, I climbed on. It was peculiar that my seat didn’t have a reservation ticket, but what the hell. I sat down. The train pulled out.

Soon an inspector came. He studied my ticket and declared, “this ticket’s good and valid. On its train. It isn’t on this one. You’ll have to get off at Taunton and change trains.”

That was OK. I stood at Taunton and waited. Apparently the train’s driver had arrived late for work, so it was 6 minutes late. No, 8 minutes. Tell a lie, it was 10, no 12 minutes late. I could hardly keep up with the tannoy announcements. However, the train finally appeared and I got to the destination. 25 minutes late. And then there was a bomb alarm and lots of police officers and … well, I was late for the first meeting. It was a bit bad.

 

There are other times when I excel myself.

Every once in a while I have to go to London for meetings. Last year I had one such day. It’s a bit of a pain because I have to decide whether to go up to town and back the same day, whether to not go to any evening events, or whether to stay overnight and return the following day. Decisions, decisions.

That day last year, I decided I’d stay with a brother who lives a few miles outside London. Luckily he has a very large house, an amiable nature, and a patient, tolerant wife. Besides, it’s always good to see them.

Off I toddled. I had a good day filled with meetings, a couple of signings, and an excellent meal at a club in London. Not my club – I can’t afford such frivolities, much though I’d love to be able to join one. However, it was a thoroughly enjoyable evening, and quite late, I ambled over to London Bridge to catch a train to his house.

I was in an affable frame of mind. I had no car, no dependents, I was footloose and cheerful. While waiting for my train, my brother phoned. He had been called away on business and wouldn’t be able, as planned, to pick me up. Instead, because he would be rising very early, he would need to go to bed early. No matter, I could get in.

Now, pardon me, but I’m more than a little deaf in one ear, and talking on a mobile in the middle of a busyish station was difficult. So I missed a section of what he was saying. But no matter – something about a taxi, I could get in, and see you later. Or something. Fine.

Off I went without a hitch. Train, check. Taxi, check. And by this stage I was feeling dozy. An early night would be a good idea.

But then there was a shock. The doors were all locked.

Now my brother doesn’t live in an estate of identical houses. His was once a farm building. It is unique and quite identifiable. But the doors were all locked.

I could have pounded on the door, but his bedroom is a long way away from the front door – the house is long and thin. There was clearly only one thing for it. I tested other doors. One was open. I opened it, made myself comfortable, and settled down.

Next morning he was bemused to find his younger brother asleep in his Jeep, but I did have a quite comfortable evening there.

Signing with the ever wonderful Goldsboro Books

Roll forward to last night.

Another busy day. Lots of meetings, signings, beers (thanks to Mike Stotter of SHOTS ezine, boy were those pints welcome in that heat!), and then on to a meal at a delightful club.

We had one of those meals that stick in the mind. A gorgeous terrine of meats and dates, lamb chops, followed by pudding or Welsh Rarebit. Quite delicious, and washed down with delicious wines (only two glasses for me – there was a car waiting for me).

At 9.00 precisely, I rose from the table, made my apologies, and left to catch my train. This time I had no brother to stay with, because he was away for a week, so I was going to return home to Devon. A long journey, but the train stopped at my station, so I couldn’t doze off and continue all the way to Cornwall!

All went well. I arrived at Paddington Station in plenty of time and kicked my heels for half an hour.

They have large display boards in Paddington. These great devices give details of each train. However, the operators want to have their trains cleaned thoroughly before a trip, so they work with speed and while they do so, they don’t say which platform the unwary traveller must go to. It merely reads “Preparing Train”.

Last night – sober, I hasten to add – I got so bored with waiting that I picked up an Evening Standard and flicked through the pages. I looked up, saw the train was still being “Prepared” and looked down again. Looked up, looked down, looked up, looked down and … suddenly people were moving off. I glanced at the boards and where it had read “preparing” it now read “Platform 10″. Along with many other passengers, I turned and made my way there, climbing aboard the correct carriage (I had a seat booked) and sitting down. I had time to send a text message, settle myself and wait, reading a book.

But although other people were there too, the train didn’t move. I grew suspicious. It should have pulled out two minutes ago. I rose, and then I saw it. A paper poster declaring where this train was heading. It wasn’t going to Devon. It was going somewhere else!

Like a shot, I grabbed my stuff, hurtled down the carriage, and opened the door. At least then the train couldn’t move. A passing member of staff looked bemused as I asked him whether this was the Exeter train. No, it wasn’t. My train had left two minutes before.

Lovely. So, last night was the first time I’ve had to experience the Night Riviera train. Lovely seating, very comfortable, and I had time to finish one book (FIRE ON THE RUNWAY by the very talented Mel Bradshaw – review soon) and start another. I had lots of time, because although the usual Paddington train takes about two to two-and-a-half hours, the night train takes nearer three and a half. But doesn’t leave until eleven thirty. It was 10.30 when I boarded, and I arrived at Exeter at 3.10. As I wearily climbed into bed, the birds were starting their dawn chorus.

Exeter St David’s at 3.20 in the morning!

So I’m glad to say that last night will be the last for several months before I need to worry about catching a train again. I can’t face the trauma!

Tagged: authors, crime writing, danger, medieval, Michael Jecks, novelist, trains, travel, writers

Toronto – Bloody Words 2014

I really have been inordinately lucky this year.

One thing I always wanted to do, when I was young, was to take every opportunity to travel. I was hugely fortunate because my father took us to Austria, Italy and even Kenya. I saw a lot of the world when I was a teenager. Later I travelled a bit on business, but the insecurity of my career as a twenty-something meant I had to curtail my holidays. In my first five years in one company, I realised I’d only taken up fourteen days’ leave in total. I’d forgotten the cardinal rule explained to me by my friend Mike Ramsey: “You work to live, you don’t live to work.”

When I was a new author, I scrimped and saved and travelled to all the Bouchercon events, then to Dead on Deansgate, to Harrogate and elsewhere. It was very hard on my income, so after some time I persuaded my publisher to weigh in as well – but with the advent of tighter budgets forced by ebooks and the 2008 financial collapse, publishers would not help support signing tours for mere mid-listers like me, so my travel days were ended.

However, this year things have changed. In February I was enormously fortunate to be invited to speak at Lander University. Then, in the same month, I was asked to be Grand Marshal of the first parade of this year’s Mardi Gras in New Orleans – now, those two are serious matters for this scribbler.

But then it got better: a few months ago I was asked to go to the Bloody Words Conference in Toronto as their International Guest of Honour, and also to present the Arthur Ellis Award for the best novel of the year.

These are not events that come along too often, but I was immensely honoured and felt really privileged to be invited. Especially since it involved Toronto, one of my favourite cities in the world.

A view of the CN Tower

 

The Ellis Awards were presented on the Thursday evening, so I was flown over to stay at the Hyatt Regency on the Wednesday. All I can remember about that morning is, the feeling of how horrible 5.00 am really is. I wasn’t too sure it really existed beforehand. I fell from the bed and half an hour later I was in a car on the way to the bus station. Four and a half hours later, the bus deposited me at Heathrow. And that’s all I remember of the bus ride – apart from tipping my fedora over my eyes as I sat in the bus’s seat, and closing my eyes. I like my fedora!

The Hyatt Regency Toronto

That evening my friends Cheryl Freedman and Elizabeth Duncan took me out to a really good curry. It was great to see Cheryl again – the last time we met was ten years ago at the Toronto Bouchercon. Shocking to think that so many friends have died since then: particularly the wonderful Al Navis, who was always such a driving force behind crime writing in Canada.

On Thursday I spent the day reminding myself how unpleasant jet lag can be, while also rewriting the speech I’d brought. It wasn’t quite right. I’d got lots of ideas down on paper, but – ach, they didn’t feel right.

In the evening, I was taken over to the Arts and Letters Club in Toronto. There, in those fabulous surroundings, the prizes were presented. I was personally delighted to meet Howard Engel at last. I bought a copy of Lord High Executioner in 1998 when it came out, and I was hugely pleased to actually make his acquaintance. However, I was also fortunate enough to meet Kevin Thornton and a prize winner than night, Jamie Kent Messum. Kevin at least was largely responsible for my headache the next morning!

Toronto at night

Friday was a quiet day, so I looked at the speech again. Not good. No, I had to rewrite it. Again.

In the evening was the beginning of the conference. And I have to say, Donna Carrick makes a fabulous moderator on a panel. I was really, and I do mean this, fascinated by my partner on the discussion about historical investigators: Mel Bradshaw. A really delightful guy who writes great crime novels set in early 20th century Toronto. I know they’re great because I had to buy one and I almost finished it at one sitting. Review later. That was fun, and then I was asked to join a fashion parade of books. Yes, me. Already this year I’ve been asked to model for a photograph, and now I’ve walked the catwalk too!

Mel, Donna and me after our panel

Saturday I had an interview with Cheryl. You know what? Interviews are best when they are unplanned, and when you have a loose cannon to interview, it makes life much more exciting, for the interviewer and audience. That’s what I kept telling myself as I wandered around the subjects she brought up, digressing at will and waiting until she brought me back to the point! Later I had a panel, too, with the lovely Lisa de Nikolits and Maureen Jennings. And then it was on to the Gala Dinner.

Luckily, after my interview I’d had time to review my speech. It wasn’t right. I rewrote it before lunch. Then, after the afternoon panel, I rehearsed it and realised – well, it wasn’t right. So I rewrote it. I rehearsed the new version, scratched that, and finally made notes on two pages of A4. These were what I took with me.

The evening was amazing. Most attendees turned up in the costume of their protagonists, if they were writers. Vicki Delaney looked stunning, Cheryl looked intimidating, Melodie Campbell, the mistress of ceremonies, was lovely – and utterly hilarious. The moment came for my talk, and I tried (and failed) to be brief, but it was great to see an audience rolling around laughing. I thought I had them in the palm of my hand, until Vicki Delaney stood and gave a brilliant summary of writing habits that had the tears rolling down my cheeks!

The CN Tower in red

So, all in all, the whole weekend was wonderful. Again, I have been privileged to be treated like royalty by north American hospitality, and in large part that is why I felt so vague and weary on Sunday morning. Nothing whatever to do with all the whisky I enjoyed with Jamie, Stephen Steinbock and Ryan Aldred.

I packed in a – shall we say, a slightly bemused state? – and was taken to the airport, all the way convinced I must have left something in my hotel room. The charger to my laptop? No. Phone charger? Didn’t think so. What about my aftershave? No, surely I had brought that with me.

I was still thinking about this as I left the car, took my two bags and wandered into the airport. And as I passed through security, I realised what I’d forgotten. I’d been thinking about what I hadn’t packed so much, that when I picked up my bags, I left behind the blasted book I was reading, the excellent William Manchester’s Arms of Krupp. It enthralled me all the way to Toronto, and I’d left it out of my bag for the return journey because it was so damn big, I couldn’t fit it into my carry-on bag! Alas, it remained in Toronto and now I have to figure out whether to buy another or get it posted!

I had a brilliant time. It was good to meet old friends, but I feel I have made a whole lot more – and not all in bars!

And so I have to thank all those in Toronto for making my bloody debut at Bloody Words such a bloody marvellous weekend!

Dangerous man: an author with a sword!

Tagged: after dinner speaking, authors, Bloody Words 2014, books, Canada, crime writing, panels, publishing, speaking, Toronto, travelling, writing

The Traitor of St Giles by Michael Jecks

writerlywitterer:

Just so grateful for these reviews from a guy who is admirable as an independent reviewer. I do hope he continues to enjoy the series into the later books. And yes, I feel guilty about Chopsie too!

Originally posted on In Search of the Classic Mystery Novel:

1321, Tiverton. Philip Dyne has confessed to the murder of a young woman and has sought sanctuary in the church of St Peter’s. As per the law, he has to walk to the coast along the King’s highway and leave the country. If he were to leave the highway, then he can be lawfully executed.

Sir Gilbert of Carlisle has come to Tiverton on a mission to find support for the Despenser family in the civil war that people believe is coming. And in an effort to persuade the Lords to support them, he carries with him a lot of gold…

Soon they both lie dead in the woods – Philip has been decapitated and Gilbert has been stabbed in the back. The assumption is that Philip killed Gilbert for his money and was then executed as a murderer. But how could a simple peasant kill an armed knight? And…

View original 345 more words

Immigration and Customs – Help!

OK, a brief diversion. I mentioned to a friend on Twitter yesterday that I had a chequered history entering Canada. There was the time I was picked up by the RCMP (Royal Canadian Mounted Police to you) and driven off in the back of their cruiser, or the time when I was refused entry … What? she demanded. No, it wasn’t that serious. Which is why this year I had broadcast a public “Thank you” to the RCMP for their kindness. It was like this …

Who could think me a dangerous visitor?

The RCMP were delightful. It was like this. I was going to Canada a day or two after my brother was visiting. Rather than muck about with rentals, he suggested that he would rent a car for the period of his stay and mine. Made sense – the rental was cheaper that way. So he hired the thing, and I was to have it after. When he flew out, he parked the car and caught the plane, leaving the keys carefully concealed in the wheel. What could possibly go wrong? What could go wrong was, when I arrived on a delayed flight at half past midnight, the airport was closed. What could go wrong was, I arrived, oddly enough, at “Arrivals”. He left, strangely enough, via “Departures”. And the tunnel connecting the two was, at midnight, locked. So, imagine a tired Jecks standing in a deserted Arrivals with solid Delsey suitcase at the ready, staring at locked gates. I wandered around a bit, thinking somehow there must be a way to get to the other side of the airport – but there wasn’t even a cab to be hired. So, while standing outside the airport staring at the Arrivals section, I was over the moon to see that I was being studied with equal interest by two RCMPs in their cruiser. Soon they were at my side and eyeing me with suspicion. “What are you doing?” “I’m trying to get over there,” I began to gabble (we all feel guilty even when we know we’re innocent, right?) and showed them the photo of the rental. “OK, we’ll give you a lift,” they said, and I was helped into the back of the cruiser. It was very clean and tidy. So, thank you, RCMP! The second was during my first visit to Canada.

I mean, it’s not as if I’m scary

I had been to Hawaii on an achievers’ trip with Wang Laboratories (Hawaii, to me, seemed to be rather like the Costa del Sol but with bigger hotels – wasn’t very impressed, but then I should have seen more of the island, so it was my own silly fault), and coming back I threatened to visit my friend Mike Ramsey for a week or so. I had such a horrible time with him that I had to extend my holiday by another week. Anyway, back to the problem. The UK Passport office was on strike. As a result, I had to get a special visa on a temporary visitor’s passport. This was duly approved by the US Embassy, and I flew off full of the joys of spring. Then, I clambered aboard the cattle truck run by Delta at the end of the Hawaiian break, and landed in Toronto. Which is where things started to go downhill. “Would you step this way, please?” They are very polite. In a small, airless chamber. You can imagine the sort of thing. “This passport is no good.” “What?” I was surprised rather than irritated. “It’s no good.” “It’s a UK passport, though.” “We don’t accept Visitor’s passports.” “But I’m a British subject,” I pointed out, as if that mattered a damn. “We’ve had too many guys from India and Pakistan trying to get in on these passports, so they’re no good.” “But the passport office was on strike.” “We may have to send you back.” “No!” And this was where I made the unforgivable error. The faux pas to end all faux pases: “It must be OK – even the Americans accepted it!” I cringe to remember it. And the look of distaste that passed over the immigration officer’s face. Until then, he had displayed some sympathy, some humanity. However, that flashed past and a look that would have suited a Roman emperor witnessing the ritual slaughter of Christians in his arena – blank, cruel indifference – took its place. “This is not the 51st state.” And that led me to a three hour wait while they decided to see whether I was allowed in or not. Luckily I was!

It’s not as if I dress oddly …

Neither of which was as bad as the return from Canada another time. I flew out with a Pentax ME Super camera, but while there it broke, and I replaced it with a new Canon EOS, the first of its kind. A wonderful camera. Landing at Heathrow, I walked through the “Nothing to Declare” alley. As you do. After all, this wasn’t a new purchase, it was a trade-in. As I told the nice female officer at the desk when she stopped me and asked me. “So you bought it in Toronto? Do you have the paperwork?” “Of course, it’s here,” I said, helpfully. That cost me £800. I had apparently been smuggling by walking through that channel, and she was down on her quota for robbing travellers blind that month, so I had to pay tax, VAT and a fine before I could leave the airport. Or leave my camera behind for her or another officer to enjoy, no doubt. So, when it comes to immigration or customs staff, I much, much prefer the invariably polite American and Canadian versions compared with the British. But I never mention the States to Canadian officers. Just in case …

 

Do please check out my new YouTube channel where you can look at interviews and commentaries on writing, researching and my books. If you like it, please like videos, comment and subscribe. The videos come out every Thursday, so you can always keep up with the latest mindless wittering of  this author!

Oh. Now I see why … Carlos the Jecks.

Tagged: author, Canada, computers, crime writing, customs, immigration, Michael Jecks, novelist, police, RCMP, Toronto, travelling, What, writing

Tripping again!

Here in Britain, we have a new education leader who has been excoriated in the media and by teachers since he took his job. His name? Michael Gove.

Mr Gove is a man who invariably causes fury. He has stopped increasing funding for schools and colleges, he has cut budgets all over, he has presided over a decline in teacher pensions, salaries, and prospects, and he has crippled the education system with his meddling in the curriculum.

In fact, I think he eats babies too.

The left-wing of British politics adores to despise him. Actually, after a half century, I reckon the left wing loves to hate. It doesn’t matter who it is, necessarily, but they do like to loathe and insult. Gove ticks their boxes: he speaks with the most fruity accent. He is obviously a terrible man. And this week he has banned, yes, banned, “Of Mice and Men”. There is nothing more to be said, obviously.

Except, sadly, he hasn’t. He has suggested that rather than a very limited list of books to be taught at schools, a broader spectrum should be used. He has, shockingly, suggested that books written by British authors should be considered. No ban on “Of Mice and Men” or any other books, but a broader set of books from which teachers can pick.

But teachers hate him. More than that, they loathe and detest him. He is the devil incarnate to them. The unions tell us that.

I admit it. I rather like the man. Under his authority, I believe our education system is being improved. And any teacher can still recommend (and teach about) “Of Mice and Men”. What is deplorable is the way that local authorities are trashing the fabulous institutions up and down the country – our libraries are all at threat now. Without access to free books (in a manner that rewards the author still), we will lose a fundamental arm of education.

My last trip to Canada - There’s the CN Tower. Long way down…

Enough of politics. I’ve been rather lax in recent weeks and I’ve failed to update the blog very often (I’m making up slightly by putting two up today: this and a review of SAVAGE MAGIC, which I found a very absorbing read). Apologies for my tardiness, but I have been very busy with my new video posts. I’ve embarked on a project of regular interviews about my books, and videos that look at the process of writing, the tools I use, the methods of preparing myself – everything.

This week I must go to Toronto for my long-anticipated visit to Bloody Words 2014 as the International Guest of Honour. I’m deeply touched by being asked to go in that capacity, and I’m looking forward to meeting old friends and making new ones in a city that has always been a favourite of mine. In the 1980s I used to take my summer holidays in Canada with friends who lived in Uxbridge, Ontario, and the city always felt friendly and cosmopolitan.

I fondly remember the trips I made to the city centre, to my trek to the CN Tower, where I queued for almost an hour before looking up and seeing that the lifts were all a) on the outside of the building and b) made of glass so that the prisoners inside could see the view in all directions. Including down.

I left that queue and hurried to a bar to refresh myself. I have no head for heights (or depths, as Terry Pratchett would say).

View of downtown during my last trip

There is one outcome of my journey to Canada that will be difficult.

I am a thoroughly professional author, or I try to be. Partly that means I am forced to write at set times and create many stories every year. To do that, I have real problems in terms of alternative technology. For example, YouTube. I cannot work it, as my daughter/director reminds me at regular intervals. Which is why I am not allowed to upload new films on my own. She must do it for me.

Which means that I cannot upload a new video to YouTube on Thursday for the simple reason that I won’t be here. And no, daughter dear, I will not leave my laptop for you to play with!

So, for one week only, the upload will be put up on YouTube on the coming Tuesday, rather than Thursday. Hopefully it won’t discombobulate or distress the folks who’re enjoying the videos!

The video project is interesting. I’m having to remind myself about all my books (which is not as easy as it ought to be for this author). It is a real pleasure to work with my daughter (She Who Must Be Obeyed, or “She”), and we are both having great fun writing ideas, planning and recording the videos. Hopefully, if enough people subscribe, it’s a project that will take on a life of its own, but even if not, I think it’s worthwhile recording the videos about my work just so that people who are interested can look them up and see what I look like.

Although perhaps that’s not a good idea, thinking about it …

I’ve had a busy weekend. I’ve had to empty my workshop so that a new staircase can be fitted.

My not-very-good impression of the workshop!

It was an easy job. Our friendly local chippy put in a second storey in my old shed, mainly so we have storage for various items, and when a friend’s house was modernised and tidied up recently, I saw that the old staircase was being removed and put in a bid for it immediately. So I had a hole in the ceiling, and a staircase. What could possibly go wrong?

About a half inch. That’s all.

The gap for the stairs was a rectangle with the long side at the wall itself. Fine. I had to walk the staircase in, shove it up into the hole, and then rotate it ninety degrees in order to let it drop into place.

Half an inch. The staircase at the top was about a half inch too wide. So I cut a slot out of the edge of the staircase. But the staircase, when I shoved it up into the hole in the ceiling, couldn’t turn. The fit was so tight that the stairs couldn’t rotate by ninety degrees. So I took a chunk out of the beam to the side. Then some more out of the staircase. That was when I realised that part of the problem was, the wall itself had a massive pair of bulges. They were preventing the stairs from turning up at the top. So my wife helpfully suggested that I should hit the wall with a hammer…

I am an author, you know. My muscles have fallen into a happy state of disuse from long inactivity. My legs work fine with walks, but the arms — well, clutching a lump hammer and slamming it against a cold chisel to knock away ancient fossilised concrete is not my mêtier. I  clambered upstairs and started knocking, and had as much effect as tapping the wall with a rubber mallet. I hit it harder. Result? A forearm that developed simian proportions and ceased to function.

That was when my wife helpfully (she is enormously helpful) that I should use my hammer drill.

I had forgotten I owned a hammer drill.

With that, it was much easier. I managed (just) to hold the damn thing steady enough and it sent thick slabs of concrete tumbling to the ground. My wife didn’t want to be covered in dust, so she left me. And once I’d finished, sitting with my legs dangling over the void, I realised I needed a step ladder.

I called for my wife. No answer. But I could hear her voice. I called again. No response. Later, I learned she had been chatting with a friend. That was why I had been left up there for twenty minutes.

Anyway, with that modification to the wall, the stairs did fit at last. Judicious use of a club-hammer brought them to a correct fit in the gap.

The new stairs! They fit!

Which is a relief. Then I could replace all the tools (my junk) into the workshop, and soon I’ll be able to get upstairs and begin to tidy up there too.

So, that was my weekend. Now it’s back to the real world and work. I hope you had a great weekend, and that the week isn’t too onerous. In the words of my favourite Canadian, you work to live, you don’t live to work!

Have a good one!

 

Tagged: authors, blogs, Canada, crime writing, medieval, novelist, publishing, writing

Review of SAVAGE MAGIC

Savage Magic

A stunning evocation of a period. Madness, maleficium, murder, beautifully written with superlative skill.

It’s very rare that a new style of writing comes floating over my desk. Usually nowadays I take the easy line with reviews – if I don’t like the book, I prefer not to comment on it. In the last three months, I’ve review three books, but fifteen have not received a comment from me.

In the past I have made efforts to uncover any positive aspect of a book and then push that, because the mere fact that I may dislike a novel means nothing. My opinion of a book must be entirely subjective, just as everyone else’s will be too. No one can be truly objective: the style, the plot, the characterisation will all gel or not, depending on the reader’s mood, relationships and comfort at that moment.

And the one kind of book I seriously do not like to receive is anything from the crime genre.

I love crime, but it’s grown into certain fixed, static forms. The cosy, the slasher gore-fest that has grown to replace the gothic horror novels of the 70s, the (to me) somewhat inane police procedural, and so on. Generally they involve not particularly bright investigators looking at an event and walking around chatting to suspects with gentle politeness (unbelievable) or repressed fury (equally unbelievable). In recent years I haven’t found any new writers that involve or interest me particularly.

Lloyd Shepherd is different, I am very glad to say.

In part this story reminds me of the direction of “Night of the Generals” by HH Kirst. The point of view moves between four main protagonists: Mr Graham, the magistrate at Bow Street; one of the river police officers, Horton; Dr Bryson, a Doctor of the mentally ill; Abigail Horton, the officer’s wife, who is suffering from a mental infirmity. Like Kirst’s book, the scenes are interrupted: Kirst had police reports and telegrams, commentaries that explained the story. In Savage Music, the interruptions are sections taken from Bryson’s treatise on “Moral Projection”, a superbly judged and written piece in the style of an early Victorian doctor.

The story begins with a man waiting for a ship. It brings a sense of malevolence to the story that lingers throughout. From there we see Abigail Horton willingly taking herself to the home for the mentally deranged, closely followed by the magistrate calling upon Horton to ask for his help. His wife has left him, taking their child to her cousin’s house in Surrey. There she and her cousin live in a scandalous relationship. But more shocking, perhaps, are the rumours of witchcraft in the house that are being bruited about.

But all this is merely a taster. Then we are presented with the murder of a wealthy, dissolute young man. His mutilated body is discovered with a satyr’s mask in a locked room – and thus begins the investigation.

In essence this is a locked room mystery, but one transported back into the early 1800s, when superstition and jealousy could divert any investigator. The book does not feel or read like a reimagining of other books. It is a thrilling, superbly written story, in which the characters remain consistent and true to their situations, and the plot draws the reader in at every fresh development.

I loved this book. After reading it, I’ll be looking up the earlier titles in the series.

Tagged: book review, Lloyd Shepherd, review