Luke Walker's Blog: https://lukewalkerwriter.wordpress.com, page 39
May 1, 2012
And the title is...
I'm very happy to say Book 4 now has a title.
Hospital Road.
I'll let you bask in that for a while. While you do, here's a scary picture to get you in the mood.
Hospital Road.
I'll let you bask in that for a while. While you do, here's a scary picture to get you in the mood.
April 29, 2012
Gary McMahon
This guy is good. He's very good.
I've just finished his latest book Silent Voices which is part two of a trilogy (part one is The Concrete Grove) after recently reading two of his other books - Pretty Little Dead Things and Hungry Hearts. All four titles are some of the best British horror novels I've read in a long time and it should go without saying that I'll be checking out McMahon's other works.
This post isn't just a recommendation for horror fans, though. As I've repeatedly mentioned, work on my current book has been difficult and I've put that down to not knowing the characters as well as I've known characters in previous books. Reading Silent Voices made me realise something else. I've been overthinking this book to the point of producing a stitled, dry first draft. McMahon's style comes across as quite effortless and while I don't think for a minute the work and time he put in to seeming effortless was anything less than huge, the result is what interests me. I can and do work my arse off on a book but to make the story and plot appear as smooth as McMahon does, now that's impressive.
Now that I'm in the final 15,000-20,000 words of the first draft, I'll stop overthinking it and see if I can produce something as effortless, as readable and as impressive as McMahon's books by focusing on the two most important issues of a novel: character and story.
And while I do that, have a read of McMahon's books. I can't recommend them highly enough.
Gary McMahon
I've just finished his latest book Silent Voices which is part two of a trilogy (part one is The Concrete Grove) after recently reading two of his other books - Pretty Little Dead Things and Hungry Hearts. All four titles are some of the best British horror novels I've read in a long time and it should go without saying that I'll be checking out McMahon's other works.
This post isn't just a recommendation for horror fans, though. As I've repeatedly mentioned, work on my current book has been difficult and I've put that down to not knowing the characters as well as I've known characters in previous books. Reading Silent Voices made me realise something else. I've been overthinking this book to the point of producing a stitled, dry first draft. McMahon's style comes across as quite effortless and while I don't think for a minute the work and time he put in to seeming effortless was anything less than huge, the result is what interests me. I can and do work my arse off on a book but to make the story and plot appear as smooth as McMahon does, now that's impressive.
Now that I'm in the final 15,000-20,000 words of the first draft, I'll stop overthinking it and see if I can produce something as effortless, as readable and as impressive as McMahon's books by focusing on the two most important issues of a novel: character and story.
And while I do that, have a read of McMahon's books. I can't recommend them highly enough.
Gary McMahon
April 22, 2012
Yes, it's a name change
As you may have noticed, getthegirlkillthebaddies is no more. Well, it is. Sort of. It's got a new name.
Which is nice.
Which is nice.
April 19, 2012
Free story - The Good Books
I wrote this a couple of years ago and have never known what to do with it, so I thought I'd post it here. Hope you like it.
THE GOOD BOOKSLUKE WALKER
The box sat at the back of the van. The books inside knew they were the last of the deliveries; the books in the other boxes had shouted their goodbyes as the delivery men stomped into the van, then carted them out to the shops. Most of the books in the last box knew it was simply a matter of time before they were taken to the library. After that, they’d part company. That was what they did and some of the titles understood this better than the others. The bigger books knew it. Most of the paperbacks thought they’d all be together forever; the Romances thought so, especially. The Westerns didn’t. They knew life was hard and friends came and went. Usually in a hail of gunfire in a hot canyon. The Horrors also knew the end was coming. The difference was most of the Horrors didn’t care. They were a grumpy bunch and it was bad luck for the single Romance who had been placed in the box right in the middle of a stack of Horrors. They talked to her even though she told them to be quiet and scolded them for their coarse language. They laughed at her and ignored the shouts from the Wars to behave.At the top of the pile, Gunfight At Black Creek was pressed tight against the lid. Below him, The Good Book tried to get comfortable but there wasn’t much room. A Romance was below him, sleeping. The van stopped. Most of the books cheered. The Good Book stayed quiet. As the cheering subsided, Gunfight At Black Creek spoke to The Good Book. “You okay there, friend?”“I’m fine, thanks,” The Good Book said, unsure how to reply. Gunfight At Black Creek laughed and gave off the smell of hot sand and rock. “What’s your name?”“The Good Book.”“Is that right? They call me Gunfight At Black Creek though plain Gunfight is fine with me. Don’t hold much for last names.”“Okay,” The Good Book said and wondered if he should offer to shorten his name.“I’m Forever His,” a shy voice muttered below The Good Book.“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” Gunfight said while The Good Book tried to come up with something as nice to say to the Romance he thought had been sleeping.Voices came from outside the box, then daylight. The books fell silent and The Good Book held his breath in his pages, waiting for the next step of the journey. # Fifteen minutes later, the books were out of their box and lined on a shelf beside a member of the processing staff. The Good Book watched the man drink his coffee and tap on his keyboard. It’s happening. This is where we get sent to the shelves to be read.The Good Book wanted to voice his thought but didn’t have the courage. It didn’t seem right to speak. “So, what’s your story?” Gunfight said and The Good Book tried to ignore his sudden embarrassment. “Me? Nothing much. I’m just General Fiction.”“Oh, yeah? What about you, girly?”Forever His cleared her throat. The sound fluttered through her thin pages. “I’m a Romance. I am love and adventure.”“Yeah, I can see that,” Gunfight said, amused by the sounds of it. “I mean, what’s your story? What happens?”Forever His cleared her throat again. The Good Book thought the sound was pretty and wanted to say so.“Emma Pembroke is in love with her employer, the lonely Mr Alfonso Conti,” Forever His said quickly as if wanting to get their attention away from her and on to another issue. “Mr Conti only has eyes for his job until one night, the two work late in his office in Milan. After that night, Mr Conti leaves Milan, unable to accept his new feelings for Emma because he swore he would never love another after his wife died. However, what Mr Conti doesn’t know is their one glorious night has changed everything. For, Emma is carrying his child.”Forever His stopped talking and held her breath. Again, The Good Book wanted to say something nice, to tell her she was pretty. “Sounds like a nice story. Nicer than mine, anyhow,” Gunfight said.“What’s yours?” The Good Book said.Gunfight laughed. Further down the shelf, the Horrors were singing a rude song and the Family Sagas were trying to drown them out by telling stories of the nineteenth century and servants and poverty in the North.“My story ain’t so pretty.” Gunfight laughed again and didn’t sound happy. “In fact, my story is downright ugly.” Forever His and The Good Book didn’t reply. Gunfight sighed. “Alright, friends. You asked.” Gunfight spoke in a slow, careful voice and with his words, the rich smells of the desert and horses slipped out of his pages. “Clyde O’Toole has been in jail for the last eight years and that’s eight years too long for an innocent man. Now he’s out and he’s looking for the men who set him up, the men who stole his guns, his life and his woman. It doesn’t matter where those men run to or where they hide. Clyde is coming back to them. He’ll find them in Black Creek and the town will remember Clyde’s name. They’ll remember it in the Gunfight At Black Creek.”“That sounds violent,” Forever His said. If she was trying to sound strong, it didn’t work. The tremble in her voice gave it away. “It sure is. So, your turn. What’s your story?” Gunfight said to The Good Book.“Nothing much. I’m –”“Yeah. You told us. You’re just General Fiction. Well, let me tell you something. Ain’t no such thing as just any kind of fiction. Look at us here. We got Romances talking to Westerns; we got Horrors slap bang next to Family Sagas; we got Sci-Fi with Fantasy and we got some Wars down at the end there. So don’t tell me you’re just anything, friend. You’re a book. Be proud.”The books further along the shelf had stopped their singing and stories. All were listening to Gunfight. When he finished, a Horror shouted: “He’s right. Now tell us your story before I tear out your last page, General Fiction.”He laughed; the other Horrors echoed it. Even some of the Family Sagas laughed, their stories of life down the mines momentarily forgotten. Beyond the Horrors, the Sci-Fi, usually too busy and involved with each other to listen to anyone else, were leaning forward as they strained to hear. Below the books, the staff member had finished tapping on his keyboard. There wasn’t much time.“David Yates is writing his second book,” The Good Book said, not looking from the man at the keyboard. “He’s been writing it for four years and he’s going nowhere. A family tragedy will make the words come, but for a cost. Because while David is producing a novel of staggering literary significance, his family is falling apart. David’s choice becomes clear the closer he comes to the end of his novel: the fictional world that has been his salvation, or the remains of his family desperately reaching out for him. Before the end, David must choose one or the other.”The Good Book finally took his eyes from the man at the computer. Gunfight was smiling. Forever His brushed her jacketing against The Good Book. “That sounds like a lovely story,” she said.“Any vampires?” one of the Horrors shouted and cackled. “You think my story is nice?” The Good Book said. “Really?”Forever His gazed at him and The Good Bookwondered if he had ever seen anything as beautiful.“I really do,” she said.The staff member stood and reached for the books. The Good Book glanced at the man, then at Gunfight as Gunfight spoke. “Here we go, friends. Get ready.”The Good Book turned back to Forever His. He readied himself to kiss her and could do nothing but stare at her.“Thank you,” he said.The staff member took hold of Gunfight and began receipting the books.#The books went to different libraries and were taken to the shelves. There, they met other books, ones who had been in the libraries for months and years. They made new friends and missed the ones they had made in the box. They were issued and read and read again before going back to the shelves. Three of the Horrors who had sang the rude song were stolen and spent years together on a shelf in a teenage boy’s bedroom; many of the Romances went to an old peoples’ home. There, they were read and discussed by the old ladies. A few months later, the old ladies read and discussed them again. Two of the Fantasies had poor binding and were returned to the suppliers. None of the other books saw them again although it was rumoured that they had their binding replaced and were sent to libraries in a faraway city. Gunfight, Forever His and The Good Book went to three separate libraries many miles apart. They thought of each other often and attempted to get word to each other, word of their condition, the number of times they had been issued and what they thought of their readers. It was difficult, though. Several of the titles from the box had been placed on rotation lists and were sent to new libraries every six months. Sending news with those books was a gamble of it getting to the others but they took it, eager to speak to their friends even through another title. The books were read and loved and read again. They lived on their shelves and they slept when nobody came to read them. They dozed in the August sunlight when it drifted through the windows; they let the motes of dust swim in the heat and coat their covers. They moved closer together when the draughts slipped in between the cracks in the walls in the bitter Decembers.They slept and they talked and they were read and they were loved.And the day came when the books were old and tatty. And the day came for their end.#The man took the boxes from the back of the van and strode through the rain to the rear of the library. Raindrops coated the top of the box and the books inside felt the cold. Some grumbled, others stayed quiet and reserved their energy. At the bottom of the box, The Good Book dozed. He did so a lot these days. As he was left on the shelf more than he had been in his younger days, he had time to sleep and that was fine for him. Being issued was a young book’s game. In the cataloguing department, a knife cut through the box’s lid and opened it. Light fell on the old books and they voiced their displeasure, fully waking The Good Book. He strained to hear and caught a few voices and the sound of the rain coming through the open door. “I remember this one,” a man said and held a Horror up for the other staff to see. The Horror cursed the man but the man didn’t put him down.“You’ve been here too long,” another man said and laughed.The man holding the Horror opened it and checked the date label. “Almost five years. I’ve definitely been here too long.”He dropped the Horror to the side of his computer and pulled out handfuls of books. The Good Book found himself dumped beside a smelly stack of Westerns. He coughed and sniffed and wished he was back on his shelf.“What’s going on? Where are the elves and knights? The wizard? The dragons?” a Fantasy shouted.“Do be quiet,” a Family Saga replied. “We are not amused.”The man dropped another pile of books on to the others and the first pile collapsed. Books spilled across the desk and each title shouted and complained. The Good Book was jammed against a Western and tried not to smell the dust and decaying pages. “Hey, friend,” the Western said. “Want to take a step back?”“I would if I could,” The Good Book said and a tickle of memory touched him. He stared at the Western. The Western stared back.“I never forget a book,” the Western said. “They call me The Good Book.”The Western continued to stare. Then he said: “Well, friend. It’s been a damned long time.”So the two books cheered and talked and continued to talk even when they were placed in a high pile of other books.“Remember Forever His?” Gunfight said.“Of course I do. Pretty thing. I wished we’d had more time together.” The Good Bookstared at the other books. “Is she here?”Neither of them could see her although they could see several Romances in a messy heap close to them.“Hey ladies,” Gunfight called. “Any of you know Forever His? We’re friends.”“They left her on the shelf,” The Italian’s Virgin Mistress replied. “Lucky thing.”Gunfight laughed. “So the lady’s still going. How about that?”The pile of books had shrunk, The Good Book realised. The staff member was picking up the books and holding them in front of a small piece of machinery with a red light glaring out of it. The Good Book didn’t like the look of the red light. It was like an eye, gazing in a straight line down to whatever the man held in front of it. He was holding the books’ barcodes in front of it.And with each barcode, the machine let out a soft beep. To The Good Book, the beep said something worrying.“What’s going on?” he said.“Looks like this is the end,” Gunfight replied. “You ready?”The Good Book was about to ask what Gunfightmeant but knew there was no point. He knew. He’d always known just as he’d known David Yates didn’t reach out to the family reaching out to him. The pile of books shrank further.“I think so,” The Good Book said. “You?”Gunfight laughed. “I was born to die. That’s the way of this world. And it don’t matter. We’ve done what we were meant to and ain’t nothing better.” He considered. “Except maybe Forever His. She was a pretty thing.”“She was,” The Good Book agreed. “I really do wish they’d been more time. I wish. . .”“What?” Gunfight said. His voice had faded a little. The smells of horses, sand and baking sunlight were still strong. They fell out of Gunfight’s pages. The Good Book wanted to walk where those horses and sand and sunlight met.To walk there with Forever His beside him.“I wish Forever His was here. I’d kiss her.”Gunfight laughed. “That’s good to hear. You’re alright, you know?”The Good Book didn’t answer. He was looking at the pile of books and the red light.The pile of books was almost done. “Will it hurt?” The Good Book said.“I shouldn’t think so. What hurts is not being read.”The Good Book thought of the time on the shelves, of the winter cold and dust in the sun. “I know,” he said.The staff member placed his hand on The Good Book.“Good journey, friend,” Gunfight said, voice fading.“And to you,” The Good Book replied.Gunfight laughed a final time. “It’s always a good journey.”Gunfight’s words followed him into the red light, followed him down until the light swallowed him, his pages, his story.#And in the light of a hot sun, she kissed him.
THE GOOD BOOKSLUKE WALKER
The box sat at the back of the van. The books inside knew they were the last of the deliveries; the books in the other boxes had shouted their goodbyes as the delivery men stomped into the van, then carted them out to the shops. Most of the books in the last box knew it was simply a matter of time before they were taken to the library. After that, they’d part company. That was what they did and some of the titles understood this better than the others. The bigger books knew it. Most of the paperbacks thought they’d all be together forever; the Romances thought so, especially. The Westerns didn’t. They knew life was hard and friends came and went. Usually in a hail of gunfire in a hot canyon. The Horrors also knew the end was coming. The difference was most of the Horrors didn’t care. They were a grumpy bunch and it was bad luck for the single Romance who had been placed in the box right in the middle of a stack of Horrors. They talked to her even though she told them to be quiet and scolded them for their coarse language. They laughed at her and ignored the shouts from the Wars to behave.At the top of the pile, Gunfight At Black Creek was pressed tight against the lid. Below him, The Good Book tried to get comfortable but there wasn’t much room. A Romance was below him, sleeping. The van stopped. Most of the books cheered. The Good Book stayed quiet. As the cheering subsided, Gunfight At Black Creek spoke to The Good Book. “You okay there, friend?”“I’m fine, thanks,” The Good Book said, unsure how to reply. Gunfight At Black Creek laughed and gave off the smell of hot sand and rock. “What’s your name?”“The Good Book.”“Is that right? They call me Gunfight At Black Creek though plain Gunfight is fine with me. Don’t hold much for last names.”“Okay,” The Good Book said and wondered if he should offer to shorten his name.“I’m Forever His,” a shy voice muttered below The Good Book.“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” Gunfight said while The Good Book tried to come up with something as nice to say to the Romance he thought had been sleeping.Voices came from outside the box, then daylight. The books fell silent and The Good Book held his breath in his pages, waiting for the next step of the journey. # Fifteen minutes later, the books were out of their box and lined on a shelf beside a member of the processing staff. The Good Book watched the man drink his coffee and tap on his keyboard. It’s happening. This is where we get sent to the shelves to be read.The Good Book wanted to voice his thought but didn’t have the courage. It didn’t seem right to speak. “So, what’s your story?” Gunfight said and The Good Book tried to ignore his sudden embarrassment. “Me? Nothing much. I’m just General Fiction.”“Oh, yeah? What about you, girly?”Forever His cleared her throat. The sound fluttered through her thin pages. “I’m a Romance. I am love and adventure.”“Yeah, I can see that,” Gunfight said, amused by the sounds of it. “I mean, what’s your story? What happens?”Forever His cleared her throat again. The Good Book thought the sound was pretty and wanted to say so.“Emma Pembroke is in love with her employer, the lonely Mr Alfonso Conti,” Forever His said quickly as if wanting to get their attention away from her and on to another issue. “Mr Conti only has eyes for his job until one night, the two work late in his office in Milan. After that night, Mr Conti leaves Milan, unable to accept his new feelings for Emma because he swore he would never love another after his wife died. However, what Mr Conti doesn’t know is their one glorious night has changed everything. For, Emma is carrying his child.”Forever His stopped talking and held her breath. Again, The Good Book wanted to say something nice, to tell her she was pretty. “Sounds like a nice story. Nicer than mine, anyhow,” Gunfight said.“What’s yours?” The Good Book said.Gunfight laughed. Further down the shelf, the Horrors were singing a rude song and the Family Sagas were trying to drown them out by telling stories of the nineteenth century and servants and poverty in the North.“My story ain’t so pretty.” Gunfight laughed again and didn’t sound happy. “In fact, my story is downright ugly.” Forever His and The Good Book didn’t reply. Gunfight sighed. “Alright, friends. You asked.” Gunfight spoke in a slow, careful voice and with his words, the rich smells of the desert and horses slipped out of his pages. “Clyde O’Toole has been in jail for the last eight years and that’s eight years too long for an innocent man. Now he’s out and he’s looking for the men who set him up, the men who stole his guns, his life and his woman. It doesn’t matter where those men run to or where they hide. Clyde is coming back to them. He’ll find them in Black Creek and the town will remember Clyde’s name. They’ll remember it in the Gunfight At Black Creek.”“That sounds violent,” Forever His said. If she was trying to sound strong, it didn’t work. The tremble in her voice gave it away. “It sure is. So, your turn. What’s your story?” Gunfight said to The Good Book.“Nothing much. I’m –”“Yeah. You told us. You’re just General Fiction. Well, let me tell you something. Ain’t no such thing as just any kind of fiction. Look at us here. We got Romances talking to Westerns; we got Horrors slap bang next to Family Sagas; we got Sci-Fi with Fantasy and we got some Wars down at the end there. So don’t tell me you’re just anything, friend. You’re a book. Be proud.”The books further along the shelf had stopped their singing and stories. All were listening to Gunfight. When he finished, a Horror shouted: “He’s right. Now tell us your story before I tear out your last page, General Fiction.”He laughed; the other Horrors echoed it. Even some of the Family Sagas laughed, their stories of life down the mines momentarily forgotten. Beyond the Horrors, the Sci-Fi, usually too busy and involved with each other to listen to anyone else, were leaning forward as they strained to hear. Below the books, the staff member had finished tapping on his keyboard. There wasn’t much time.“David Yates is writing his second book,” The Good Book said, not looking from the man at the keyboard. “He’s been writing it for four years and he’s going nowhere. A family tragedy will make the words come, but for a cost. Because while David is producing a novel of staggering literary significance, his family is falling apart. David’s choice becomes clear the closer he comes to the end of his novel: the fictional world that has been his salvation, or the remains of his family desperately reaching out for him. Before the end, David must choose one or the other.”The Good Book finally took his eyes from the man at the computer. Gunfight was smiling. Forever His brushed her jacketing against The Good Book. “That sounds like a lovely story,” she said.“Any vampires?” one of the Horrors shouted and cackled. “You think my story is nice?” The Good Book said. “Really?”Forever His gazed at him and The Good Bookwondered if he had ever seen anything as beautiful.“I really do,” she said.The staff member stood and reached for the books. The Good Book glanced at the man, then at Gunfight as Gunfight spoke. “Here we go, friends. Get ready.”The Good Book turned back to Forever His. He readied himself to kiss her and could do nothing but stare at her.“Thank you,” he said.The staff member took hold of Gunfight and began receipting the books.#The books went to different libraries and were taken to the shelves. There, they met other books, ones who had been in the libraries for months and years. They made new friends and missed the ones they had made in the box. They were issued and read and read again before going back to the shelves. Three of the Horrors who had sang the rude song were stolen and spent years together on a shelf in a teenage boy’s bedroom; many of the Romances went to an old peoples’ home. There, they were read and discussed by the old ladies. A few months later, the old ladies read and discussed them again. Two of the Fantasies had poor binding and were returned to the suppliers. None of the other books saw them again although it was rumoured that they had their binding replaced and were sent to libraries in a faraway city. Gunfight, Forever His and The Good Book went to three separate libraries many miles apart. They thought of each other often and attempted to get word to each other, word of their condition, the number of times they had been issued and what they thought of their readers. It was difficult, though. Several of the titles from the box had been placed on rotation lists and were sent to new libraries every six months. Sending news with those books was a gamble of it getting to the others but they took it, eager to speak to their friends even through another title. The books were read and loved and read again. They lived on their shelves and they slept when nobody came to read them. They dozed in the August sunlight when it drifted through the windows; they let the motes of dust swim in the heat and coat their covers. They moved closer together when the draughts slipped in between the cracks in the walls in the bitter Decembers.They slept and they talked and they were read and they were loved.And the day came when the books were old and tatty. And the day came for their end.#The man took the boxes from the back of the van and strode through the rain to the rear of the library. Raindrops coated the top of the box and the books inside felt the cold. Some grumbled, others stayed quiet and reserved their energy. At the bottom of the box, The Good Book dozed. He did so a lot these days. As he was left on the shelf more than he had been in his younger days, he had time to sleep and that was fine for him. Being issued was a young book’s game. In the cataloguing department, a knife cut through the box’s lid and opened it. Light fell on the old books and they voiced their displeasure, fully waking The Good Book. He strained to hear and caught a few voices and the sound of the rain coming through the open door. “I remember this one,” a man said and held a Horror up for the other staff to see. The Horror cursed the man but the man didn’t put him down.“You’ve been here too long,” another man said and laughed.The man holding the Horror opened it and checked the date label. “Almost five years. I’ve definitely been here too long.”He dropped the Horror to the side of his computer and pulled out handfuls of books. The Good Book found himself dumped beside a smelly stack of Westerns. He coughed and sniffed and wished he was back on his shelf.“What’s going on? Where are the elves and knights? The wizard? The dragons?” a Fantasy shouted.“Do be quiet,” a Family Saga replied. “We are not amused.”The man dropped another pile of books on to the others and the first pile collapsed. Books spilled across the desk and each title shouted and complained. The Good Book was jammed against a Western and tried not to smell the dust and decaying pages. “Hey, friend,” the Western said. “Want to take a step back?”“I would if I could,” The Good Book said and a tickle of memory touched him. He stared at the Western. The Western stared back.“I never forget a book,” the Western said. “They call me The Good Book.”The Western continued to stare. Then he said: “Well, friend. It’s been a damned long time.”So the two books cheered and talked and continued to talk even when they were placed in a high pile of other books.“Remember Forever His?” Gunfight said.“Of course I do. Pretty thing. I wished we’d had more time together.” The Good Bookstared at the other books. “Is she here?”Neither of them could see her although they could see several Romances in a messy heap close to them.“Hey ladies,” Gunfight called. “Any of you know Forever His? We’re friends.”“They left her on the shelf,” The Italian’s Virgin Mistress replied. “Lucky thing.”Gunfight laughed. “So the lady’s still going. How about that?”The pile of books had shrunk, The Good Book realised. The staff member was picking up the books and holding them in front of a small piece of machinery with a red light glaring out of it. The Good Book didn’t like the look of the red light. It was like an eye, gazing in a straight line down to whatever the man held in front of it. He was holding the books’ barcodes in front of it.And with each barcode, the machine let out a soft beep. To The Good Book, the beep said something worrying.“What’s going on?” he said.“Looks like this is the end,” Gunfight replied. “You ready?”The Good Book was about to ask what Gunfightmeant but knew there was no point. He knew. He’d always known just as he’d known David Yates didn’t reach out to the family reaching out to him. The pile of books shrank further.“I think so,” The Good Book said. “You?”Gunfight laughed. “I was born to die. That’s the way of this world. And it don’t matter. We’ve done what we were meant to and ain’t nothing better.” He considered. “Except maybe Forever His. She was a pretty thing.”“She was,” The Good Book agreed. “I really do wish they’d been more time. I wish. . .”“What?” Gunfight said. His voice had faded a little. The smells of horses, sand and baking sunlight were still strong. They fell out of Gunfight’s pages. The Good Book wanted to walk where those horses and sand and sunlight met.To walk there with Forever His beside him.“I wish Forever His was here. I’d kiss her.”Gunfight laughed. “That’s good to hear. You’re alright, you know?”The Good Book didn’t answer. He was looking at the pile of books and the red light.The pile of books was almost done. “Will it hurt?” The Good Book said.“I shouldn’t think so. What hurts is not being read.”The Good Book thought of the time on the shelves, of the winter cold and dust in the sun. “I know,” he said.The staff member placed his hand on The Good Book.“Good journey, friend,” Gunfight said, voice fading.“And to you,” The Good Book replied.Gunfight laughed a final time. “It’s always a good journey.”Gunfight’s words followed him into the red light, followed him down until the light swallowed him, his pages, his story.#And in the light of a hot sun, she kissed him.
April 14, 2012
Book 4
As you may have noticed, I haven't said much about the new book on here. You also may have noticed I've mentioned a few times on Twitter that it's proving difficult to write. I think my last comment was that it had turned out to be a fucking nightmare. Ahem.
The strange thing is, I think the basic story is a strong one. There's potential here for a great horror/mystery novel. It's going well in terms of speed and word count. At the moment, I'm at about 37,000-38,000 words and am averaging around 2000 words per session which is a nice, comfortable speed for me. I expect the first draft to be in the region of 70,000 words, so if anyone wants to do the maths, that means I should finish it in...I don't know. Never liked maths. Anyway, it's going smoothly in terms of getting the words down. So what's the problem?
The problem is I don't know this story or the characters in the way I've known other stories and characters. I think it was Hemingway who said the first draft of everything is shit. He's definitely right in this case. Because I'm telling myself the story as much as I'm potentially telling a reader, this book is a mess at the moment. I mean, a proper mess. If your daughter brought my WIP home and introduced it as her new boyfriend, you'd throw it out of your house and tell her she wasn't going out with such an arsehole. It's that bad.
But.
But.
A writer can't improve a book to the point of it being publishable until they do one simple thing: finish that first draft. I know of other writers whose first drafts are more or less finished as they go. Their second drafts are a basic polish and then their book is ready. Not so in my case. So I'll muddle through Book 4 (which, by the way, has a couple of working titles) and I'll finish the first draft and it will be terrible. After that, though, is when the real work starts.
Smartening my book up. Giving it a haircut. Sorting out some decent clothes. Making it get a job. Then your daughter will be allowed to go out with it.
The strange thing is, I think the basic story is a strong one. There's potential here for a great horror/mystery novel. It's going well in terms of speed and word count. At the moment, I'm at about 37,000-38,000 words and am averaging around 2000 words per session which is a nice, comfortable speed for me. I expect the first draft to be in the region of 70,000 words, so if anyone wants to do the maths, that means I should finish it in...I don't know. Never liked maths. Anyway, it's going smoothly in terms of getting the words down. So what's the problem?
The problem is I don't know this story or the characters in the way I've known other stories and characters. I think it was Hemingway who said the first draft of everything is shit. He's definitely right in this case. Because I'm telling myself the story as much as I'm potentially telling a reader, this book is a mess at the moment. I mean, a proper mess. If your daughter brought my WIP home and introduced it as her new boyfriend, you'd throw it out of your house and tell her she wasn't going out with such an arsehole. It's that bad.
But.
But.
A writer can't improve a book to the point of it being publishable until they do one simple thing: finish that first draft. I know of other writers whose first drafts are more or less finished as they go. Their second drafts are a basic polish and then their book is ready. Not so in my case. So I'll muddle through Book 4 (which, by the way, has a couple of working titles) and I'll finish the first draft and it will be terrible. After that, though, is when the real work starts.
Smartening my book up. Giving it a haircut. Sorting out some decent clothes. Making it get a job. Then your daughter will be allowed to go out with it.
April 10, 2012
Mr Shivers - book review
Mr Shivers is a dreamy horror. And I don't mean dreamy as in Edward from Twilight is oh so dreamy. I mean the slightly surreal tone you get from half remembered dreams in that moment before you're fully awake. It's a difficult mood to pull off but the author manages it with ease for his debut novel.
During the Great Depression, a disparate group are headed (loosely) by Connelly. This is a man with nothing to lose after the murder of his daughter by the legendary Mr Shivers - a scarred man who haunts the rails and roads of a despairing country.
There's something of The Outlaw Josey Wales in Mr Shivers. It's in Connelly's silent but potentially violent nature (I spent most of the book thinking of Clint Eastwood) and it's in the group of rejects who become Connelly's friends even though his mission is a solely personal one. However, this isn't the redemptive story of Eastwood's Western. This is a vengeance of the darkest kind. Connelly is a man who says he'll return to his wife once their daughter's murder is revenged, but he gives a strong impression of not caring what comes after his revenge.
The locations and feel of a country broken by the Depression are perfectly done; the dreamlike horror is spot on as is the subtlety of Mr Shivers' identity. Nobody needs to state outright who or what he is. He just is and you'd best pray he doesn't notice you.
Mr Shivers is a fine debut and I'm keen to see what this author comes up with next.
April 4, 2012
Another day, another easy target
First Blood.
Child's Play 3.
Saw.
What links these three films? Well, if you believe the UK media over the last twenty-five years, they can all be linked to murder. In 1987, the Hungerford Massacre took place. A man named Michael Ryan killed sixteen people over the course of several hours and injured fifteen others before shooting himself in the town of Hungerford. The media reported links between Ryan and the first Rambo film including the fact he was obsessed with it and various events during the day were mirrored in the film.
Then there was the case of Child's Play 3 being linked to the murder of James Bulger in 1993. Bulger was led from a shopping centre in Liverpool by two ten year old boys. He was tortured and murdered. Bulger was two. There were various reports in the UK press that the two boys had seen Child's Play 3 and copied scenes from it during the torture and murder.
Now we have the case of a fifteen year old boy named Daniel Bartlam who has been convicted of battering his mother to death when he was fourteen. During his trial, the court heard he was obsessed with the first Saw film and a plot in a UK soap which involved a hammer murder.
There's one big problem with all three of these cases. It's not the issue of the media playing up suggestions and ideas given by people involved in the cases in order to generate a moral panic (for example, there was no proof Michael Ryan had seen the first Rambo film. He didn't own a VCR and something tells me he wasn't watching it online or on a dvd in 1987. There was also no proof either of the two boys who murdered James Bulger had seen Child's Play 3. The link came from one of their father's having recently rented it). It's not the willingness certain people have to believe anything the media tells them. It's the matter of finding an easy and obvious target.
I'm not a apologist for all horror films. Nor do I think all kids should see films rated 18. I'm not about to suggest fictional entertainment has no effect on people. What I am going to say is I don't for a minute believe the examples above are to blame for people's actions. If Daniel Bartlam had locked his mother in a bathroom and given her the choice of cutting her foot off or being trapped there, I still wouldn't put the blame on Saw. I'd put it on him. The case could be made he had the idea of how to kill or injure her given that example, but can anyone seriously tell me he wasn't already thinking it before watching the film? And can anyone say the two kids who killed James Bulger weren't planning on at least attacking a small boy before they did so? What, it just came to them after they apparently saw Child's Play 3?
Horror and violent films have always been an easy target for Daily Mail readers and those who think their values and morals are somehow the fallback values for the country if not the world. It's so much easier to say people do horrible, shitty things because of something they've seen in a film than to admit factual evil is so much more frightening and dangerous than fictional evil. It's also so much easier to say horror films are all bad and wrong than it is to admit one simple truth.
Some people are just born bad and wrong. And all we can do is hope they don't hurt us too often. Blame the films all you want. Me? I'll be looking for the quiet neighbour. The one who keeps himself to himself. The man who loves his old mum.
The person who wants the world to hurt.
Child's Play 3.
Saw.
What links these three films? Well, if you believe the UK media over the last twenty-five years, they can all be linked to murder. In 1987, the Hungerford Massacre took place. A man named Michael Ryan killed sixteen people over the course of several hours and injured fifteen others before shooting himself in the town of Hungerford. The media reported links between Ryan and the first Rambo film including the fact he was obsessed with it and various events during the day were mirrored in the film.
Then there was the case of Child's Play 3 being linked to the murder of James Bulger in 1993. Bulger was led from a shopping centre in Liverpool by two ten year old boys. He was tortured and murdered. Bulger was two. There were various reports in the UK press that the two boys had seen Child's Play 3 and copied scenes from it during the torture and murder.
Now we have the case of a fifteen year old boy named Daniel Bartlam who has been convicted of battering his mother to death when he was fourteen. During his trial, the court heard he was obsessed with the first Saw film and a plot in a UK soap which involved a hammer murder.
There's one big problem with all three of these cases. It's not the issue of the media playing up suggestions and ideas given by people involved in the cases in order to generate a moral panic (for example, there was no proof Michael Ryan had seen the first Rambo film. He didn't own a VCR and something tells me he wasn't watching it online or on a dvd in 1987. There was also no proof either of the two boys who murdered James Bulger had seen Child's Play 3. The link came from one of their father's having recently rented it). It's not the willingness certain people have to believe anything the media tells them. It's the matter of finding an easy and obvious target.
I'm not a apologist for all horror films. Nor do I think all kids should see films rated 18. I'm not about to suggest fictional entertainment has no effect on people. What I am going to say is I don't for a minute believe the examples above are to blame for people's actions. If Daniel Bartlam had locked his mother in a bathroom and given her the choice of cutting her foot off or being trapped there, I still wouldn't put the blame on Saw. I'd put it on him. The case could be made he had the idea of how to kill or injure her given that example, but can anyone seriously tell me he wasn't already thinking it before watching the film? And can anyone say the two kids who killed James Bulger weren't planning on at least attacking a small boy before they did so? What, it just came to them after they apparently saw Child's Play 3?
Horror and violent films have always been an easy target for Daily Mail readers and those who think their values and morals are somehow the fallback values for the country if not the world. It's so much easier to say people do horrible, shitty things because of something they've seen in a film than to admit factual evil is so much more frightening and dangerous than fictional evil. It's also so much easier to say horror films are all bad and wrong than it is to admit one simple truth.
Some people are just born bad and wrong. And all we can do is hope they don't hurt us too often. Blame the films all you want. Me? I'll be looking for the quiet neighbour. The one who keeps himself to himself. The man who loves his old mum.
The person who wants the world to hurt.
March 30, 2012
March 28, 2012
Apropos of nothing at all...
...here are two photos I like. Firstly, I present to you my amazing stretchy cat.
Secondly, my wife and me. She's the good looking one.
Secondly, my wife and me. She's the good looking one.
