Andrew Barrett's Blog, page 7

The Lift

Well I let the cat out of the bag.

I’ve been working on a new Eddie Collins story called The Lift. I was, if I’m being honest, going to keep it quiet until I’d finished the story, that way there’d be no pressure on me to finish it or even make it good. 

But now y’all know about it, I’ll have to do both! 

What’s it about, Andy?

It’s about Eddie misbehaving.

Sorry, need more details.

Nope.

Okay, who’s in it apart from Eddie?

Two guys. Both of them not very nice.

How long is it?

Don’t know, haven’t finished it yet.

When’s it due out?

I’ve stuck my neck on the line and said middle to end of December.

I know how bloody crafty you are, which December?

Ha, you suspicious minded person! This December, 2014.

Thank you. How did it come about?

I wanted to interview Eddie in preparation for the Sword of Damocles release, but after I while I thought better of it because he’d never give me a straight answer…

I know what that’s like!

…so I thought I’d get someone else to interview him, using coercion if necessary.

Okay, go do some writing.

Righto.

Oh, just a minute, why’s it called The Lift?

Andy? Andy?

Andy!

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Dreaming Stories

Do you remember the book by Stephen King entitled The Tommyknockers where one of the protagonists, Bobbi Anderson finds a spaceship in the woods near her house? After the discovery, her failing writing career suddenly takes off, as I recall. Indeed, it takes off in such a fashion that she can type a story remotely; she’s out and about doing the things a country girl does, while inside her house, the typewriter is doing its stuff, all at the behest of her new found telekinetic powers.

Well, guess what!


Nope that didn’t happen to me. But I did dream a dream a couple of nights ago. I’d been struggling with a scene in a new short story I’m writing where I couldn’t understand the interaction between two of the three people who’d found themselves trapped in a confined space. The story had stalled because of it.

And further, the story itself had no middle or end – it’s a trait of mine, I’m afraid. I try and wing it. Sometimes it works wonderfully, and other times I end up shuffling around the house drooling and talking to the walls.

But this dream was my own personal Tommyknocker. It sorted things out, gave me help in understanding a complex relationship – which turned out not to be so complex after all – and this in turn helped wrap up the remainder of the tale. All I have to do now is write it. Now, where did I leave that spaceship?

One of the startling things about this dream is that I remembered it. Well, I remembered the concise edition, I remembered the instruction booklet it left behind on the floor of my mind before daylight could turn it into a wisp of fog and carry it away on the breeze. Now that really is startling. I usually sit bolt upright after having a Eureka moment, and because it was so vivid, convince myself there was no way I could forget it later when it was time to get up. Of course, I’d eventually get up and wonder what the gaping hole in my mind was all about, and I’d watch a wisp of fog disappear through an open window.

I know a lot of people keep a notebook and pencil beside their bed, and it’s a wonderful idea – so good in fact, that it’s something I’ve never done (don’t ask, I’m useless at things like that; I think it’s a fear of being organised!), but I did once use the voice-to-text feature on my phone to capture an extremely long and complicated dream that was, as I recall, a whole story filled with sparkle and charisma. I discovered, when I opened the document later that day, that text-to-speech doesn’t work too well when you’re babbling at half four in the morning.

So come on, smarty-pants, what do you do when a story strikes in your dreams?

Dreaming Stories

Do you remember the book by Stephen King entitled The Tommyknockers where one of the protagonists, Bobbi Anderson finds a spaceship in the woods near her house? After the discovery, her failing writing career suddenly takes off, as I recall. Indeed, it takes off in such a fashion that she can type a story remotely; she’s out and about doing the things a country girl does, while inside her house, the typewriter is doing its stuff, all at the behest of her new found telekinetic powers.

Well, guess what!

Nope that didn’t happen to me. But I did dream a dream a couple of nights ago. I’d been struggling with a scene in a new short story I’m writing where I couldn’t understand the interaction between two of the three people who’d found themselves trapped in a confined space. The story had stalled because of it.

And further, the story itself had no middle or end – it’s a trait of mine, I’m afraid. I try and wing it. Sometimes it works wonderfully, and other times I end up shuffling around the house drooling and talking to the walls.

But this dream was my own personal Tommyknocker. It sorted things out, gave me help in understanding a complex relationship – which turned out not to be so complex after all – and this in turn helped wrap up the remainder of the tale. All I have to do now is write it. Now, where did I leave that spaceship?

One of the startling things about this dream is that I remembered it. Well, I remembered the concise edition, I remembered the instruction booklet it left behind on the floor of my mind before daylight could turn it into a wisp of fog and carry it away on the breeze. Now that really is startling. I usually sit bolt upright after having a Eureka moment, and because it was so vivid, convince myself there was no way I could forget it later when it was time to get up. Of course, I’d eventually get up and wonder what the gaping hole in my mind was all about, and I’d watch a wisp of fog disappear through an open window.

I know a lot of people keep a notebook and pencil beside their bed, and it’s a wonderful idea – so good in fact, that it’s something I’ve never done (don’t ask, I’m useless at things like that; I think it’s a fear of being organised!), but I did once use the voice-to-text feature on my phone to capture an extremely long and complicated dream that was, as I recall, a whole story filled with sparkle and charisma. I discovered, when I opened the document later that day, that text-to-speech doesn’t work too well when you’re babbling at half four in the morning.

So come on, smarty-pants, what do you do when a story strikes in your dreams?

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The Thin Blue Line

I don’t usually blog about work directly. I like to keep this website and this blog more focused on writing and on the books themselves, but occasionally I drift towards something that makes my hackles rise. And here’s one: anti-police.

I saw a blog post by a police officer today (here it is: a-big-bad-policeman), and it brought home to me how many anti-police people there are out there in cloud cuckoo land. Most of those who are anti-police are so because it’s fashionable to be, not because they’ve had any direct contact with them. These people are ignorant sheep who think it’s cool to run with crowd. It isn’t.

And then there are those who are anti-police because they have had contact with them, and it’s probably not worked in their favour.

Over my nineteen years working for West Yorkshire Police, I’ve been in contact and worked closely with hundreds if not thousands of police officers from many divisions and departments. Hand on heart, I do not know of a single bad one among them. Sure, there are those who’ve annoyed me, but that would be true of people in general, and I’ve heard of two who’ve been corrupt (no longer serving). But almost without exception, all those officers have been extremely professional, tirelessly dedicated to their job, and very supportive towards victims and offenders.

Some of you reading this might call that ‘bollocks’, and you’re entitled to, but as I’ve said before, this is my blog, and I’m telling the truth. I am extremely proud to do the work I do, proud to work alongside some wonderful people, and proud to work for West Yorkshire Police. It is a superb organisation providing stunning service, which sadly most people will never really appreciate.

It’s a great pity that those in power and those who are just naturally anti-police can’t see the amazing work they carry out over extremely long shifts often without meal breaks, being forced to abandon home life plans and work overtime with no notice, perhaps helping the very people who hate them so much. There is to my knowledge no other group of people so unfairly treated by everyone else around them, but without whom society would convulse into anarchy within 24 hours. We are blessed.

I dedicated The Third Rule to them, and here it is:

For all police officers and staff throughout the country who do a sterling job under very great pressure; who are rarely thanked and often chastened, but who constantly watch our backs and can be counted on to protect us all with professionalism, integrity and compassion.

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Too late, I forgot.

I’m not a good interviewee, I admit.

But I do enjoy the exchange, the sharing of knowledge; and I really do enjoy discovering things about myself as I search for a reasonable answer to an extraordinary question.

I never lie – not on purpose anyway. If I can’t answer a question then I bodyswerve it, simple as that. I do try to answer the question from an oblique angle sometimes, but that’s because I’ve unearthed it that way – breech I think they call it.

I have to say that I’m very grateful to those who would like to interview me and constantly wonder why they would want to. I’m just an Average Arsehole. Always have been and always will be. I often wonder if an interview of mine appearing on someone’s blog might not damage their reputation; certainly it couldn’t enhance it?

Anyway, where was I?

Too late, I forgot.

Oh yes, I remember now. I was interviewed recently by the lovely Katy of Katherine’s Corner fame. Here’s a link to the interview…

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Selecting your dot.

When you begin to learn something, you start out with no internal point of reference for judging the quality of your work. The only reference you have is the work of others, and as a new writer, you may be comparing yourself to the work of well-established authors whose work you have admired for years. Indeed, it might be their work that inspired you to pick up the pen in the first place. Good for you!

My very first book was Lord and Master and I was proud when I’d finished. I look back on it now with embarrassment, but I’ll never forget it; it was the beginnings of my writing career where I had no internal point of reference for judging the quality of my work. My second book, Knavesmire, and my third, Charlotte’s Lodge, were better in every conceivable way: dialogue was sharper, plotting much improved. But they still lacked something fundamental to a story’s success. In fact, they lacked two somethings.

1997 Daily Mail special of Charlotte’s Lodge

They lacked technical refinement. Their points of view were all over the place; I’d packed them with cliché and passive sentences and repetitiveness. It often takes an outsider to spot these annoying traits of the beginner and point them out. Up to you of course whether you agree with them, accept them, and choose to change them. It’s your story, and it’s your pen.

My early stories also lacked a cohesive voice. You know the kind of thing when you’re reading a book and discover that it flows well, that the sentences are kind on the eye and smooth to the ear; that’s the voice, and it’s unique to every writer, it’s their fingerprint, their DNA. And it’s elusive. Actually, let me get a little closer to that subject if I may.

Your unique voice isn’t exactly your own. It’s made up of the voices of those you’ve encountered along the way; it’s the influences you’ve absorbed, but it’s still your own because you have subconsciously selected and blended the best parts of them. Elusive though? Well, yes it is. How many others’ voices must you experience in order to have a voice of your own? I don’t know. Maybe a hundred, maybe none! Perhaps you’ll develop your own voice just by caressing your own sentences until they feel smooth and sound like violins played next to a gentle waterfall. But one thing’s for sure, your voice will come and then it will mature, and then you won’t be able to write any other way without feeling some kind of discomfort.

Anyway, I digress slightly. The purpose of this blog is to share with you how frustrating it can be to have an early book, like A Long Time Dead as your lead book, your ‘dot’ of reference. Let me get this straight: Dead is a good book. But the books that follow it are better – much much better. There, I’ve said it, so shoot me.

2011 eBook version of Charlotte’s Lodge

I found my voice about half way through the next book, Stealing Elgar (my fifth book), and that’s when I knew I could write (forgive me if I sound big-headed, I don’t mean to). Now, you can go back and look over your early works with your new found voice and your newly acquired box of technical proficiency, and you can try to rework them. I’ve tried and I have found some improvement, but the old works are very stubborn, and you soon become weary of battling against resistance; it was like trying to sculpt a block of rubber. Better to just move on to the next project. I pulled Charlotte’s Lodge from sale because of that very reason. I tried to rework my dinosaur and got nowhere with it. It was riddled with point of view changes that made me sigh as I read it through. I tried to make changes but it was resisting all the way, was making rude finger gestures and calling me names. So I binned it. It was tough.

Dead has sold well over the last two years. On Amazon alone it’s sold about 28000 copies. Part of me rejoices over that news, but part of me wishes I’d either found my silly little voice a book earlier, or I’d begun The Dead Trilogy a book later. It is flawed, is A Long Time Dead, quite heavily in places, but it’s still a reasonable story. My own feelings are that it’s not a good introduction to me as an author. A reader might be disinclined to go onto Stealing Elgar after reading Dead because Dead is not the strongest story out there. And that’s a real shame because they get better – honest!

But you can’t put that in a blurb can you?

First Draft of Charlotte’s Lodge 1991

I suppose the essence of this blog is that you must be careful at which point you select your dot. Your work will be out there for all to see for a very long time. Make sure you’re well into your stride so far voice and technical ability is concerned. Make sure that its quality is something you can look back on with pride because, especially if you’re beginning a series or a trilogy, it’s your one shot at impressing readers and showing them what they can expect from you in the subsequent books.

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Selecting Your Dot

Selecting your dot.

When you begin to learn something, you start out with no internal point of reference for judging the quality of your work. The only reference you have is the work of others, and as a new writer, you may be comparing yourself to the work of well-established authors whose work you have admired for years. Indeed, it might be their work that inspired you to pick up the pen in the first place. Good for you!

Dangling by a Thread

It’s quite strange how the pull of something can keep you interested even when life changes.

I’ve been away from writing for a few months (nope, I haven’t been inside!), but I always felt the persistent pull of the thread that has eventually brought me back here to my keyboard. How wonderful is that?

The last time I was here I was 15k words into the new story, Sword of Damocles. And you’d think I’d be able to walk right back in the door and sit and down and continue where I left off; I envisioned each of my characters sitting in this room (I call it The Writing Pad by the way) playing poker, sipping Guinness, just patiently waiting for me. But that hasn’t been the case at all. The only one here is Eddie. In the corner is a pile of empty Guinness cans, and more cigarette ends than you could shake a stick at. I can see him now (he’s been playing Solitaire, but don’t tell anyone or it’ll ruin his street cred), tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair. And he looks pretty pissed off at me. The other characters left as soon as my back was turned.

So I sit here, feeling a little guilty, and wonder how to begin again half way through a story that a previous me began to write. Well, I’m spending a good chunk of time just staring at the screen, trying to refresh myself with the characters (come back!) and the emotional point they’d reached within the story, and of course getting to grips with the story itself. I’m clinging to it all by a single thread – the one that sat me here in the first place. In order to re-acquaint myself, I’m going through my Chapter Profile, updating it, enhancing it, and slowly the story is coming back to me.

I’m at 20k words now and I’ve barely made a dent in the story I have in mind. The thread is growing thicker.

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Dangling by a Thread

Dangling by a Thread

It’s quite strange how the pull of something can keep you interested even when life changes.

I’ve been away from writing for a few months (nope, I haven’t been inside!), but I always felt the persistent pull of the thread that has eventually brought me back here to my keyboard. How wonderful is that?

I May be a While

At the end of July there were sparks flying from my fingertips every time they went near the keyboard. The new Eddie Collins book, working title: Imperfectly Balanced, was coming along a treat.

That all stopped quite suddenly when we hit August. I had a massive promotion running for my other books and I spent a ridiculous amount of time overseeing it all. When I say ‘overseeing’, I actually mean sitting here, looking at things and fretting a lot.

When it was over and fireworks had gone, I was left rather drained by it all, and filled with the desire never to do it again. Only time will tell, I suppose.

Over the next week or two, I was chatting about writing with one of my best friends – he was co-writer on several scripts we collaborated on around 2006. If I take my modesty cap off for a moment or two, I can tell you that the scripts were pretty damned good and we came oh so close to having them made. If it wasn’t for the credit crunch shrinking broadcaster and production company budgets almost overnight, I like to think I’d have the DVD box set by now. We wrote four scripts, eleven hours of crime drama from a CSI’s point of view – not dissimilar to the Eddie Collins books of late, and using a similar type of character for the lead – his name was Roger Conniston. Ring any bells?

The fact is, they were all good stories, and I remarked how it was an absurd waste to leave them gathering dust on a producer’s shelf somewhere.

And that conversation led me to scrap Imperfectly Balanced, and attempt to bring to life the story inside one of the scripts. I chose one of my favourites; Sword of Damocles because it deals with a very dark subject, and a very emotive one – even now. Of course, there are murders and evil deeds throughout, as you’d probably expect. But among all the darkness, there are some wonderfully illuminating and even humourous parts that I hope will show Eddie in a new light. I wish I could tell you more about it.

Taking an already written story and transposing it from a script format to a book format couldn’t be easier, right? Wrong. Scripts are different animals entirely. There is no prose, no interior monologue. The action is immediate, nothing gets in the way of dialogue.

I began by stripping away everything that wasn’t directly related to the essence of the story and constructed a list of scenes that I would use in the new book. All the subplots went too, and I was left with the problem of blending the story into Eddie’s life as he is now, creating new subplots and shifting unusable characters out of the way to make room for the new, more important ones.

That work is done now, and I’ve built the first scenes that will allow the script to sit nicely without looking skew-whiff to a reader (hopefully).

And of course, it’s very easy to write. Isn’t it? No, it certainly isn’t. I’d say it’s far harder to write from a script than it is just making the story up as a regular first draft idea. The script is a good guide, but it’s very constricting, and at 1am it’s all too easy to slip into script-writing again, using the present tense. And only when you’ve read it through do you realise you’ve omitted all description, all interior monologue, and all feeling is lost. It has become a bullet point story.

But I shall finish it because the story is magnificent, and there are scenes in it that can move me to tears and others that have me belly laughing.

Anyway, here’s a snippet of the script and below it the corresponding first draft scene from the manuscript.

2. INT. HOTEL, WEDDING SUITE – NIGHT. 

TERRY and LIZ SHAW, fifties, survey the large room.

 Guests surround a bride and groom, congratulating them as they hand over presents. 

SOUND of a DJ’s muffled speech competing with music.

TERRY

An hour, we go.

LIZ

Don’t be stupid-

TERRY

I’m not standing, Liz, okay. I hate standing.

With fixed smiles, the bride and groom approach.

TERRY (CONT’D)

They’re coming over.

(beat)

Do the ‘happy for you’ bit, I’ll get the drinks.

TERRY heads for the bar.

LIZ

(angry)

Terry.

(beat, louder)

Terry.

The noise was appalling. Up on the stage, his equipment illuminated by red and green spotlights, a DJ spoke unintelligibly into a face mic positioned so close to his mouth that he might as well have been shouting through a pillow. And Terry would’ve volunteered to be the one holding it there.

Why couldn’t they be more dignified; why couldn’t they play some Vivaldi, or if they insisted on a band, something melodic perhaps like Credence Clearwater Revival?

He grimaced at the music – correction, he thought – at the noise filling the room from a pair of huge loud speakers, one each mounted on a pole either side of the stage. When the light was right, you could actually see the speaker booming behind its wire mesh. Around him, the crowd had taken their first steps towards merry. Of course, there were always the ones who had been merry two hours ago, and were now blitzed; either sitting rigidly still on chairs while holding tightly onto the table as the room spun around them, or those who had suddenly been reincarnated as John Travolta, but living in Bernard Manning’s body, bopping and rocking to a tune wholly different to the one inflicted on everyone else.

And then there were the other members of the crowd; those not unlike Terry himself who it was plain to see, were here enduring this assault on humanity out of a sense of decency to the newly married couple. Or, more specifically, those who were frog-marched to this charade because of an RSVP handed over in person and a rash promise made eight months ago at a civilised dinner party.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Liz stood next to him, smiling, and all Terry could hear were vowels and all he could see was the reflection of red and green lights twinkling in her earrings as he brought his face closer to her mouth.

“What?”

“I said are you enjoying yourself?”

His face said, ‘Don’t ask silly questions.’

Liz laughed at him, and then she pointed towards the entrance, and shouted, “Oh, they’re here.”

Terry’s shoulders slumped as the bride and groom, obligatory smiles stapled in place, and no doubt already making their cheeks ache, shuffled into the room to a warm ripple of applause, accepting claps on the back, handshakes galore.

“Shit,” Terry muttered. “Go do the ‘congratulations’ bit,” he shouted to Liz. “I’m off to the bar.” And then he walked, miming to her, ‘one hour’.

“Terry? Terry!”

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