Luke Walker's Blog: https://lukewalkerwriter.wordpress.com, page 34
December 20, 2012
Free story - Burial
Here's a little story of mine. Think of it as a Christmas present.
Burial
Luke Walker
He stopped the car where the road met the trees. The rapid thud of his heart frightened him and he rubbed his chest through his heavy coat as if to quieten the rhythm. The movement also helped to block the thoughts of the thing waiting for him in the boot.
Night peered at him from outside the car. He leaned into the windscreen, pressed his nose on the freezing glass and looked into the dark. The cold was becoming stronger and he was tempted to start the engine again, get the heater blowing hot air. His fingers made it as far as the key before he stopped and drew his hand back. Even through his long coat, thick jeans, boots and gloves, December had no problem touching him from outside. Below his clothing, the small piece of metal hanging on the chain around his neck was as cold as the woods.
He illuminated the display on his watch. 3:28.
With the door open, the freezing air struck him and he slid out of the car. The shapes of the trees all around were nothing but differing shades of black and the frozen earth beneath his boots was one huge shadow. He rested a hand on the side of the car and walked its length to the rear, trailing his fingers on the metal. A sound rose from somewhere to his left: a soft rustle of long grass and bush. He faced the dark and tried to ignore the wave of terror covering his body.
In the woods. In the middle of the night. Far from all the others. All the others who could keep him safe. Stuck here with. . .something he still could not bring himself to name wrapped in bags. Something still not dead.
Trembling spread throughout his body, threatening to spill him to the ground. Inwardly groaning, he fought it. Bitter air touched his tongue, teeth and lips. Winter cold fell down his throat. He waited, counting in his head, and stopped when he reached two hundred. The sound from the woods had not come again and he was able to believe the sound had been down to an animal. Maybe a badger or a hedgehog. Maybe even a fox on the prowl. Licking the remnants of vodka from his gums, he opened the boot and made out the shovel resting on the shape in the binbags. There had been no movement in the boot and that was all the comfort he could take.
He placed the shovel gently at his feet before gripping the shape in the binbags. Even through his gloves, the bags were ice cold. He held the shape at both ends, offered a quick prayer and pulled.
It came out of the boot easily; he staggered back, surprised, and the shape rested on his chest for a moment. He hissed, his upper lip rising to expose his teeth. The exposed flesh around his neck caught the bitter air and his arms throbbed. Knowing he had no choice, he gripped the shape tightly and bent to take hold of the shovel. In the darkness, a memory spoke up.
‘You’re too young to do this. We need someone older. You’ll fuck it up.’
The voice in his head came again and he could do nothing but let it echo. Just below it, the memory of his reply shouted just as he’d shouted it a few hours ago. And what a joke that had turned out to be. Here he was in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night and now he knew he was too young for this; they did need someone older; he was going to fuck it up.
The voices faded and he opened his eyes. The dark remained the same. The weight against his chest and stomach had not lessened and there were still no sounds coming from the trees and bushes. And he still had a job to do.
He walked slowly, heading in a straight line from the car. The trail took him into the woods; the trees grew closer to the path; a branch prodded his side as if to get his attention and he kept walking, not looking around. He walked for ten minutes and stopped when the area spread out in a clearing just as they had said.
He eased the shape in the bags to the freezing ground. His arms and shoulders ached; he ignored the feeling and gripped the shovel’s handle. Movement ran through the trees behind him. A soft crack followed the movement. He peered into the black, desperately looking for the source. The wind, still since that afternoon, lifted his hair. It felt like fingers. The air coated his fingers as he slid off his gloves; they ached in seconds.
The bushes around the trees rustled in the wind. Satisfied that the thing in the bags had stayed still, he fished inside his coat pocket, pulled a small bottle free and undid the lid. Although the liquid inside was cold, he held the bottle as if taking warmth from it. Upending the bottle, he poured a few drops of water on to the shovel. Moving fast once the bottle was sealed and back in his pocket, he struck the ground with the shovel.
At once, frozen earth split, the cracks hissing. The split widened when it hit it again. Heat rose from the shovel into his gloved hands. Swallowing his fear and ignoring the sweat soaking through his fleece, he hit the ground a third time. A small hole had opened in the earth. The heat from the shovel eased but he was still sweating. He dug for a few minutes, shifting hard earth to the side, and created a deeper hole. Time passed. He dug. His shoulders ached. His hands were sore; his gloves rubbed on the wood of the shovel and blisters wanted to form between his thumbs and fingers. The pain in his shoulders grew. The heat from the shovel had gone; there was nothing warm around him. He dug. Time passed and he did not look at anything but the growing hole. He did not let himself think of anything other than the hole and he did not look when a shadow skittered past his side and sounds that did not quite manage to be voices whispered and hissed on all sides.
He stopped when he was knee deep in the hole. He could not see his feet and that frightened him. He stepped out of the hole, dropped the shovel and stretched. His back screamed and his shoulders joined the howl. His gloved hands throbbed and he had no urge to take the gloves off. He did not want to see the red patches or the blisters. The sweat on his back had dried and he was horribly cold, the heat from his exertion leaving him quickly. He checked the time and estimated he had a couple of hours before dawn, no more than that.
He nudged the shovel to the side, heard some of the earth shift in the pile by the hole and squatted. The shape in the binbags lay on the earth. He reached for it, aiming for the middle and bottom. An end turned towards him. The very top rose, the head attempting to rise from the hole.
He fell back, mouth open, no sound emerging.
The top end of the shape continued to face him. A noise rolled out of the trees behind him.
It was a laugh.
He did not turn. The soft laugh dropped into a mocking giggle before fading away. The silence meant little, he knew. The woods were full of eyes staring at him, of things unable to come any closer to him thanks to his little protection of water and necklace.
As hard as he could, he shoved the thing in the bags. It rolled and dropped into the hole. He picked up the shovel, dug into the pile of cold earth and held it over the hole. The shape moved for the second time, turning over. Although the starlight could not illuminate the hole, he still saw it facing him. For a few seconds, the whispered rustle of the bags rubbing on earth would not leave him.
The earth pattered on the bags and ran off the sides as he dropped it. A second load followed the first, then a third. Time passed again. Eventually, he stopped, knowing he had used almost all of the earth. The hole was as filled as it could be. The woods were now utterly silent.
With a shaking hand, he poured half of his remaining water on to the earth making a small circle in the centre of the mound, praying the liquid would seal the grave. Unable to stop himself, he squatted and listened.
In regular intervals, a tiny sound rose from below.
Scratching. Long nails pushing into bin bags and earth.
He turned, peered to where he thought the path lay and walked, making sure he did not break into a panicked run. He dragged the shovel with him, scraping it into the ground for a few feet. The sound unnerved him and he lifted the shovel next to his knee.
Once the shovel was back in the boot, he rested for a moment at the door. It would be dawn in a short time. Then he told himself that made a difference.
He slid inside the car and left the engine dead. The car was horribly cold. There was nothing on the trail ahead. He grabbed the bottle of vodka from the glovebox, swallowed a mouthful, counted to three and swallowed another. He looked to the trail, then to either side. A suggestion of the trees was visible, the bare branches reaching like fingers. He did not shake although the interior temperature was only a little over freezing.
He drank more vodka and looked to the trail into the woods. Nothing moved.
Wondering if dawn would come before the thing he had buried broke out of its grave, he waited for whichever happened first.
Burial
Luke Walker
He stopped the car where the road met the trees. The rapid thud of his heart frightened him and he rubbed his chest through his heavy coat as if to quieten the rhythm. The movement also helped to block the thoughts of the thing waiting for him in the boot.
Night peered at him from outside the car. He leaned into the windscreen, pressed his nose on the freezing glass and looked into the dark. The cold was becoming stronger and he was tempted to start the engine again, get the heater blowing hot air. His fingers made it as far as the key before he stopped and drew his hand back. Even through his long coat, thick jeans, boots and gloves, December had no problem touching him from outside. Below his clothing, the small piece of metal hanging on the chain around his neck was as cold as the woods.
He illuminated the display on his watch. 3:28.
With the door open, the freezing air struck him and he slid out of the car. The shapes of the trees all around were nothing but differing shades of black and the frozen earth beneath his boots was one huge shadow. He rested a hand on the side of the car and walked its length to the rear, trailing his fingers on the metal. A sound rose from somewhere to his left: a soft rustle of long grass and bush. He faced the dark and tried to ignore the wave of terror covering his body.
In the woods. In the middle of the night. Far from all the others. All the others who could keep him safe. Stuck here with. . .something he still could not bring himself to name wrapped in bags. Something still not dead.
Trembling spread throughout his body, threatening to spill him to the ground. Inwardly groaning, he fought it. Bitter air touched his tongue, teeth and lips. Winter cold fell down his throat. He waited, counting in his head, and stopped when he reached two hundred. The sound from the woods had not come again and he was able to believe the sound had been down to an animal. Maybe a badger or a hedgehog. Maybe even a fox on the prowl. Licking the remnants of vodka from his gums, he opened the boot and made out the shovel resting on the shape in the binbags. There had been no movement in the boot and that was all the comfort he could take.
He placed the shovel gently at his feet before gripping the shape in the binbags. Even through his gloves, the bags were ice cold. He held the shape at both ends, offered a quick prayer and pulled.
It came out of the boot easily; he staggered back, surprised, and the shape rested on his chest for a moment. He hissed, his upper lip rising to expose his teeth. The exposed flesh around his neck caught the bitter air and his arms throbbed. Knowing he had no choice, he gripped the shape tightly and bent to take hold of the shovel. In the darkness, a memory spoke up.
‘You’re too young to do this. We need someone older. You’ll fuck it up.’
The voice in his head came again and he could do nothing but let it echo. Just below it, the memory of his reply shouted just as he’d shouted it a few hours ago. And what a joke that had turned out to be. Here he was in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night and now he knew he was too young for this; they did need someone older; he was going to fuck it up.
The voices faded and he opened his eyes. The dark remained the same. The weight against his chest and stomach had not lessened and there were still no sounds coming from the trees and bushes. And he still had a job to do.
He walked slowly, heading in a straight line from the car. The trail took him into the woods; the trees grew closer to the path; a branch prodded his side as if to get his attention and he kept walking, not looking around. He walked for ten minutes and stopped when the area spread out in a clearing just as they had said.
He eased the shape in the bags to the freezing ground. His arms and shoulders ached; he ignored the feeling and gripped the shovel’s handle. Movement ran through the trees behind him. A soft crack followed the movement. He peered into the black, desperately looking for the source. The wind, still since that afternoon, lifted his hair. It felt like fingers. The air coated his fingers as he slid off his gloves; they ached in seconds.
The bushes around the trees rustled in the wind. Satisfied that the thing in the bags had stayed still, he fished inside his coat pocket, pulled a small bottle free and undid the lid. Although the liquid inside was cold, he held the bottle as if taking warmth from it. Upending the bottle, he poured a few drops of water on to the shovel. Moving fast once the bottle was sealed and back in his pocket, he struck the ground with the shovel.
At once, frozen earth split, the cracks hissing. The split widened when it hit it again. Heat rose from the shovel into his gloved hands. Swallowing his fear and ignoring the sweat soaking through his fleece, he hit the ground a third time. A small hole had opened in the earth. The heat from the shovel eased but he was still sweating. He dug for a few minutes, shifting hard earth to the side, and created a deeper hole. Time passed. He dug. His shoulders ached. His hands were sore; his gloves rubbed on the wood of the shovel and blisters wanted to form between his thumbs and fingers. The pain in his shoulders grew. The heat from the shovel had gone; there was nothing warm around him. He dug. Time passed and he did not look at anything but the growing hole. He did not let himself think of anything other than the hole and he did not look when a shadow skittered past his side and sounds that did not quite manage to be voices whispered and hissed on all sides.
He stopped when he was knee deep in the hole. He could not see his feet and that frightened him. He stepped out of the hole, dropped the shovel and stretched. His back screamed and his shoulders joined the howl. His gloved hands throbbed and he had no urge to take the gloves off. He did not want to see the red patches or the blisters. The sweat on his back had dried and he was horribly cold, the heat from his exertion leaving him quickly. He checked the time and estimated he had a couple of hours before dawn, no more than that.
He nudged the shovel to the side, heard some of the earth shift in the pile by the hole and squatted. The shape in the binbags lay on the earth. He reached for it, aiming for the middle and bottom. An end turned towards him. The very top rose, the head attempting to rise from the hole.
He fell back, mouth open, no sound emerging.
The top end of the shape continued to face him. A noise rolled out of the trees behind him.
It was a laugh.
He did not turn. The soft laugh dropped into a mocking giggle before fading away. The silence meant little, he knew. The woods were full of eyes staring at him, of things unable to come any closer to him thanks to his little protection of water and necklace.
As hard as he could, he shoved the thing in the bags. It rolled and dropped into the hole. He picked up the shovel, dug into the pile of cold earth and held it over the hole. The shape moved for the second time, turning over. Although the starlight could not illuminate the hole, he still saw it facing him. For a few seconds, the whispered rustle of the bags rubbing on earth would not leave him.
The earth pattered on the bags and ran off the sides as he dropped it. A second load followed the first, then a third. Time passed again. Eventually, he stopped, knowing he had used almost all of the earth. The hole was as filled as it could be. The woods were now utterly silent.
With a shaking hand, he poured half of his remaining water on to the earth making a small circle in the centre of the mound, praying the liquid would seal the grave. Unable to stop himself, he squatted and listened.
In regular intervals, a tiny sound rose from below.
Scratching. Long nails pushing into bin bags and earth.
He turned, peered to where he thought the path lay and walked, making sure he did not break into a panicked run. He dragged the shovel with him, scraping it into the ground for a few feet. The sound unnerved him and he lifted the shovel next to his knee.
Once the shovel was back in the boot, he rested for a moment at the door. It would be dawn in a short time. Then he told himself that made a difference.
He slid inside the car and left the engine dead. The car was horribly cold. There was nothing on the trail ahead. He grabbed the bottle of vodka from the glovebox, swallowed a mouthful, counted to three and swallowed another. He looked to the trail, then to either side. A suggestion of the trees was visible, the bare branches reaching like fingers. He did not shake although the interior temperature was only a little over freezing.
He drank more vodka and looked to the trail into the woods. Nothing moved.
Wondering if dawn would come before the thing he had buried broke out of its grave, he waited for whichever happened first.
December 16, 2012
Latest book finished
I've just finished the first draft of a novella I started three weeks ago. It's currently 31,000 words (which isn't bad seeing as I had 30,000 in mind as the maximum) and the working title is The Mirror of the Nameless. As I said in an earlier post, I was thinking of a Shaun Hutson meets HP Lovecraft sort of thing. It's ended up like neither which is probably a good thing seeing as I can't write like Hutson or Lovecraft. Saying that, there's always room to develop and expand a few areas - as well as cutting them - in the rewrites, so we'll just have to see how the finished book ends up.
This draft has been one of the easiest pieces I've written which was a pleasant surprise. Planning out the main scenes was a big help as was the short word count. That's not to suggest the first draft is anywhere near readable by anyone else (that'd be like offering to cook someone a nice meal and serving a still bleeding steak) and I already know of a few issues that need work but overall, it wasn't a hard write. Basically, I started with a bang and kept going. Which means I'm now knackered.
Plans for the rest of the year - do a bit of research this week on a particular issue, read a mate's book so I can give her some feedback on it, prepare myself for the upcoming edits on 'Set, get Chrimbo out of the way by drinking too much and watching Doctor Who, then get stuck into the edits for Mirror. No leaving it a month as usual. I'm getting this bad boy finalised as soon as possible.
And in honour of Lovecraft, here's a picture. Form an orderly queue, ladies.
This draft has been one of the easiest pieces I've written which was a pleasant surprise. Planning out the main scenes was a big help as was the short word count. That's not to suggest the first draft is anywhere near readable by anyone else (that'd be like offering to cook someone a nice meal and serving a still bleeding steak) and I already know of a few issues that need work but overall, it wasn't a hard write. Basically, I started with a bang and kept going. Which means I'm now knackered.
Plans for the rest of the year - do a bit of research this week on a particular issue, read a mate's book so I can give her some feedback on it, prepare myself for the upcoming edits on 'Set, get Chrimbo out of the way by drinking too much and watching Doctor Who, then get stuck into the edits for Mirror. No leaving it a month as usual. I'm getting this bad boy finalised as soon as possible.
And in honour of Lovecraft, here's a picture. Form an orderly queue, ladies.
December 10, 2012
Echidna - short story sale
I'm thrilled to reveal my short story Echidna will be published in volume four of Postscripts To Darkness (website here). It won't be until late next year so you've got a while to wait, I'm afraid. In the meantime, you can thank thriller author (the very nice) Jennifer Hillier as she read the original version of Echidna a few years ago and liked it more than I did. When I dug it out for a rewrite earlier this year, her support of the first draft encouraged me to come up with a new and improved version.
So I did. And you can read it next year.
So I did. And you can read it next year.
December 8, 2012
Excalibur - dvd review
Badly paced, bombastic, humourless, a rushed ending, acting that goes from completely over the top to simply terrible: Excalibur is this and more. And yet, it's bizarrely enjoyable.
We all know the story of King Arthur, the Knights of the Round Table, Merlin, Lancelot and Guinevere. It's the stuff of British legend. John Boorman's film attempts to tell much of this story in just over two hours and in some respects, it succeeds. In others - such as acting and pace - it fails hugely. Nearly all of the cast camp it up as if they're in a Christmas panto, scenes jump forward in time with little explanation of where we are in the narrative (although you can get a rough idea by the length of all the beards) and Lancelot is far too much of a pretty boy for me to take seriously. But on the other hand, the basic story is a classic, the scenery and settings are gorgeous, and the whole mood of the film is of a cast and crew attempting their best to do a difficult job.
Despite its huge flaws, Excalibur is worth watching if you can cope with awful acting and a poor pace. And Liam Neeson's glued on beard.
November 29, 2012
The next big thing
The very nice Francis Knight has tagged me in The Next Big Thing blog post chain. This is basically a chance for writers to talk a bit about their upcoming work and answer some interesting questions. So here it is.
1) What is the working title of your next book?
'Set. Whether that stays as the final title, I couldn't say at the moment. Watch this space.
2) Where did the idea come from for the book?
Hard to say, really. Part of the idea was definitely down to my wondering about a bad guy who wasn't classically bad, a guy who was doing bad things for good reasons. I was also watching a lot of 24 while writing the first draft and I wanted to play with the structure of the threat in the first section developing into something else by a later section. Plus, having fun with my version of zombies was a big draw for me.
3) What genre does your book fall under?
Dark fantasy for the most part.
4) What actors would you choose to play the part of your characters in a movie version?
Tough one. I'd like to think if it ever became a film, then the cast would be mostly unknowns. Saying that, I could see Samuel L. Jackson as either Leraje or Xaphan, Martin Freeman (under a bit of make up to age him ten years) for Afriel. And without question, Emma Cleasby as Emma.
5) What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?
A grieving mother joins a demon and angel in the world between Heaven and Hell in a desperate search for her daughter's soul while a ghost leads a war against death.
6) Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
Neither. It'll be published by Musa Publishing who published my first book, The Red Girl.
7) How long did it take you to write the first draft of the manuscript?
I've lost track as it was a little while ago now. Roughly about six months, I think. Since then, it's gone through various drafts and edits and will obviously go through more before publication next March.
8 ) What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
I've had it compared to His Dark Materials which is funny seeing as I haven't read that. Maybe American Gods by Neil Gaiman and some of Tim Lebbon's early stuff.
9) Who or what inspired you to write this book?
The TV series 24 for structure; Neil Gaiman for the informal style of the group relationships, and my wife who liked the first draft enough for me to keep working on it.
10) What else about the book might pique the reader’s interest?
I'm hoping people will have a 'what's going to happen next?' reaction and that they'll enjoy the characters' relationships. I defnitely did.
I'm tagging a couple of other authors to take part. So over to Ershin Says, Jonathan Dalar, and Fiona Dodwell
1) What is the working title of your next book?
'Set. Whether that stays as the final title, I couldn't say at the moment. Watch this space.
2) Where did the idea come from for the book?
Hard to say, really. Part of the idea was definitely down to my wondering about a bad guy who wasn't classically bad, a guy who was doing bad things for good reasons. I was also watching a lot of 24 while writing the first draft and I wanted to play with the structure of the threat in the first section developing into something else by a later section. Plus, having fun with my version of zombies was a big draw for me.
3) What genre does your book fall under?
Dark fantasy for the most part.
4) What actors would you choose to play the part of your characters in a movie version?
Tough one. I'd like to think if it ever became a film, then the cast would be mostly unknowns. Saying that, I could see Samuel L. Jackson as either Leraje or Xaphan, Martin Freeman (under a bit of make up to age him ten years) for Afriel. And without question, Emma Cleasby as Emma.
5) What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?
A grieving mother joins a demon and angel in the world between Heaven and Hell in a desperate search for her daughter's soul while a ghost leads a war against death.
6) Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
Neither. It'll be published by Musa Publishing who published my first book, The Red Girl.
7) How long did it take you to write the first draft of the manuscript?
I've lost track as it was a little while ago now. Roughly about six months, I think. Since then, it's gone through various drafts and edits and will obviously go through more before publication next March.
8 ) What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
I've had it compared to His Dark Materials which is funny seeing as I haven't read that. Maybe American Gods by Neil Gaiman and some of Tim Lebbon's early stuff.
9) Who or what inspired you to write this book?
The TV series 24 for structure; Neil Gaiman for the informal style of the group relationships, and my wife who liked the first draft enough for me to keep working on it.
10) What else about the book might pique the reader’s interest?
I'm hoping people will have a 'what's going to happen next?' reaction and that they'll enjoy the characters' relationships. I defnitely did.
I'm tagging a couple of other authors to take part. So over to Ershin Says, Jonathan Dalar, and Fiona Dodwell
November 25, 2012
A busy week
A busy week, this one. I've been doing a bit of research for my next book as well as outlining it. Again, I had the wing it vs outline idea and as much as I like the idea of simply winging a book, this isn't the right one for that. I'm trying something a little new for me so the last thing I want is to end up stuck with no idea what I'm doing after the first few thousand words. In any case, it's taking shape and I start writing the first draft - as soon as I finish this post, as a matter of fact.
In other news, I've been thinking about book covers quite a bit lately. As I said several months ago, I'm a big fan of the cover Musa produced for The Red Girl so I'm looking forward to what they come up with for 'Set. I've got a few ideas and they encourage back and forth between author and art department so between my rambling thoughts and their talent, the cover should be something special. As soon as it's finalised and what not, I'll upload it here and you can tell me how cool it is.
Anyway, part of the reason I've been thinking about covers is because they can be the first thing a potential reader sees or knows of an unknown writer's work. The old cliche is, of course, don't judge a book by its cover, but let's be honest. If you see a book by someone you've never heard of and you think the cover's interesting, you pick it up just as you'd leave it on the shelf if the cover is hideous. If the cover catches your eye, you'll read the blurb on the back and if you like the sound of it, you give it a go, but the cover has to catch your eye. It has to appeal and pique your interest for whatever reason. If it fails, well, that unknown writer stays on the shelf. Which is the last thing we want, right?
Okay. That''s enough. I've got a book to start. Think HP Lovecraft meets Shaun Hutson. And I'm starting it right -
Now.
In other news, I've been thinking about book covers quite a bit lately. As I said several months ago, I'm a big fan of the cover Musa produced for The Red Girl so I'm looking forward to what they come up with for 'Set. I've got a few ideas and they encourage back and forth between author and art department so between my rambling thoughts and their talent, the cover should be something special. As soon as it's finalised and what not, I'll upload it here and you can tell me how cool it is.
Anyway, part of the reason I've been thinking about covers is because they can be the first thing a potential reader sees or knows of an unknown writer's work. The old cliche is, of course, don't judge a book by its cover, but let's be honest. If you see a book by someone you've never heard of and you think the cover's interesting, you pick it up just as you'd leave it on the shelf if the cover is hideous. If the cover catches your eye, you'll read the blurb on the back and if you like the sound of it, you give it a go, but the cover has to catch your eye. It has to appeal and pique your interest for whatever reason. If it fails, well, that unknown writer stays on the shelf. Which is the last thing we want, right?
Okay. That''s enough. I've got a book to start. Think HP Lovecraft meets Shaun Hutson. And I'm starting it right -
Now.
November 16, 2012
On turning 35
I am 35 today.
Fifteen years ago, I was twenty.
Fifteen years from now, I will be fifty.
Bah.
Fifteen years ago, I was twenty.
Fifteen years from now, I will be fifty.
Bah.
November 12, 2012
And now for something completely different
Well, maybe not completely different.
The Dead Room is more or less done so once that's out of the way, I need to start thinking about the next book. In the gap between books over the last few years, I've come up with some short stories, but I'm going to give that a miss this time. Instead, I'm thinking of a novella in the 30,000 word area. There are a couple of reasons for this. The main one is pretty simple.
I like to keep things fresh. I also like to challenge myself. It's been years since I've written anything close to a novella and while the resulting book is now trunked, I do like that book and enjoyed the experience of writing it. For at least the last five or six years, I've written a book a year (Belham and The Dead Room this year) and the average length has been in the region of 90,000 words. Coming up with a tight tale in much less space appeals to me. And there's another reason for it. I'm going for a pulp horror tale rather than my usual contemporary horror. It's very early days on this one. To be honest, all I've got in mind is a vague as hell idea, let alone anything close to an outline. Even so, I think it could be a lot of fun to write.
So, it's looking like a different wordcount and a different area for me. Don't worry, though. I'm sure I'll still kill some people and throw in gratutious swearing.
The Dead Room is more or less done so once that's out of the way, I need to start thinking about the next book. In the gap between books over the last few years, I've come up with some short stories, but I'm going to give that a miss this time. Instead, I'm thinking of a novella in the 30,000 word area. There are a couple of reasons for this. The main one is pretty simple.
I like to keep things fresh. I also like to challenge myself. It's been years since I've written anything close to a novella and while the resulting book is now trunked, I do like that book and enjoyed the experience of writing it. For at least the last five or six years, I've written a book a year (Belham and The Dead Room this year) and the average length has been in the region of 90,000 words. Coming up with a tight tale in much less space appeals to me. And there's another reason for it. I'm going for a pulp horror tale rather than my usual contemporary horror. It's very early days on this one. To be honest, all I've got in mind is a vague as hell idea, let alone anything close to an outline. Even so, I think it could be a lot of fun to write.
So, it's looking like a different wordcount and a different area for me. Don't worry, though. I'm sure I'll still kill some people and throw in gratutious swearing.
November 3, 2012
Hospital Road has become...
...The Dead Room. Yep, it's a title change. I've been thinking for a little while that the original title no longer fit and wasn't strong enough. The Dead Room came from a particular scene which I expanded in the second draft and from a happy accident plotwise - bascially, a recurring theme hit me in that second draft which was funny as I hadn't noticed it at all during the first version.
In any case, I've got another 200 or so pages to read through, tidy up and add a couple of small plotlines. Then it's the fun of the synopsis. Shudder. I've got a rough blurb which I've had some feedback on. While the general opinion is the book sounds good, the blurb is crap. So, onwards.
Enjoy the weekend, all.
In any case, I've got another 200 or so pages to read through, tidy up and add a couple of small plotlines. Then it's the fun of the synopsis. Shudder. I've got a rough blurb which I've had some feedback on. While the general opinion is the book sounds good, the blurb is crap. So, onwards.
Enjoy the weekend, all.
November 1, 2012
The World House - book review
A nineteenth century explorer; a 70s drunk; a 1930's socialite from Harlem; a fisherman living through the Spanish Civil War; a teenage girl suffering from Asperger's, and a modern day guy who owes a lot of money to London gangsters...what do they have in common?
They're all taken from their worlds and times to come to the World House - a building that isn't a building, a place that doesn't so much refuse to obey the laws of physics and reality as stick two fingers up at them and bugger off to feature living paintings, a library bigger than the world, a room containing mountains and another room which holds an extremely dangerous prisoner. Once the characters arrive, the question is how the hell do they get out?
The World House is a brilliant debut novel from Guy Adams, and is easily one of the best I've ever read. Think Clive Barker without the pretensions or occasional purple prose.
I can't recommend this book enough.
