Martin Lake's Blog, page 25
June 1, 2012
Editing my latest novel
I used to hate editing. Since becoming a self-published author I have learned to embrace it with enthusiasm.
I have to wear a different head to the one when I wear I am writing. I work more slowly, with greater attention to detail, less attention to the overall flow. When I write I sometimes act out scenes. When I edit I often read aloud to myself in a mumble much like chewing the cud. I use my ears more than my eyes.
I am lucky that I have a very skilled editor who not only copy-edits but also interrogates me about plot and motivation. Then it’s back to the laptop once again.
I also make a great deal of use of the features on Word. I tend to change the view to Read which gives me two smaller pages on the screen. The difference is remarkable and I can spot things I might otherwise never have seen.
I also make great use of Word’s Search and Replace. I have a thing about characters having names so similar that might confuse the reader. Many of them have to sport any number of name changes as the story is written. Here Search and Replace is invaluable.
One of my friends said that I used the word ‘seemed’ too much in the sample I put up last Sunday. I hadn’t realised, Andy. Thanks for pointing it out. I search and replaced every ‘seemed’ in the novel and changed a majority of them. But not all.
Because this is the thing about editing. I take all the advice I can. I crave it. Yet in the end I listen to my inner ear and and feel the story in my bones. The final cut is mine. It has to be.
Related articles
Getting Down to Editing (richardreilly.wordpress.com)
Do I Need An Editor? (writermirandastork.wordpress.com)
May 30, 2012
Chasing Cars by Snow Patrol and Chasing Language
I’m a great fan of the series ‘Gavin and Stacey’ by James Corden and Ruth Jones. It’s brilliantly conceived, written and acted.
One of my favourite pieces of music on it, and there are many, is Chasing Cars by Snow Patrol.
I heard it on the radio this morning and was struck by its effective yet simple language.
Most of the words used could be described as Anglo-Saxon rather than Norman. They are short, down to earth and to the point.
It has become something of a truism in Britain that the old Anglo-Saxon words are somehow more powerful than the more elaborate and refined Norman-French additions to the language. Young writers used to be advised to use the short, sharp, powerful English words rather than employ the more effete arriviste additions brought over after 1066.
Yet now I live in France and I begin to wonder about this notion. Don’t the French use powerful language? Doesn’t this language have qualities which English does not? Perhaps the words the French use have the same degree of down-to-earth power to French ears as Anglo-Saxon ones do with me.
Living on the borders raises questions I have never thought of before.
May 27, 2012
Opening part of Vainglory. #SampleSunday #amwriting #Kindle Hope you like it.
Alan and Simon Ferrier plodded up the steep track towards the city. Alan felt he might die at any moment. The sun poured out of a clear blue sky, an intense, implacable heat which seemed intent on beating him to his knees. He uncorked his flask and sipped at the water. It tasted of iron and gave no relief to the desert of his mouth.
‘Nearly there,’ he gasped to his cousin.
Simon gave him a blank stare.
The last mile was the worst. Alan forced his eyes to peer through the glare but no matter how often he looked he appeared no closer. It seemed the city would stay forever beyond his reach.
Could that be, he wondered? Was Jerusalem so holy a place that those who were unworthy would never attain its bliss?
The two men lurched together. The contact seemed to give them renewed strength and purpose and their pace quickened. Finally, they reached the city and stumbled into the deep shade beneath its walls.
‘At last,’ said Simon.
‘Ten months,’ Alan said. ‘Ten months. But we’ve got here.’
Just outside the gate to the city a cistern had been placed for the relief of pilgrims and their horses. The water was brackish and oily, strewn with wisps of straw and dead insects. They plunged their heads into it and swallowed down great draughts. In England it would have been too warm to drink; now it seemed like water from an icy stream.
Eventually they drunk their fill and slumped down before the gate. Alan’s eyes filled with tears. ‘We’ve done it, Simon,’ he said.
‘I knew we would,’ said Simon, ‘but I began to doubt.’ He sighed and rubbed his eyes.
They looked at each other and gave a weary smile. They climbed to their feet, hoisted their packs upon their backs and took up their staffs. Hearts hammering with excitement they walked into the city.
No sooner had they stepped through the gates when they saw crowds of people lining the road, jostling for position closest to it. The sheer numbers pressed them back until their legs were slammed up against a shrine.
Two small boys had clambered onto the shrine and were shouting to each other in excitement
‘What’s happening?’ Alan asked them.
‘King Guy,’ cried the youngest boy, ‘King Guy is going to war.’
Almost immediately a trumpet sounded from deep within the city. A heavy and regular beat sounded in the distance. It got louder and louder and soon the reverberation of it jarred the ground beneath their feet.
A huge cheer rose from the crowd and the children shrieked with delight. Alan and Simon followed their gaze. Riding through the gate came two lines of armoured knights, pennants high, bright armour glistening in the sun. The knights closest to them wore red surcoats with white cross emblazoned upon it. The knights in the far column wore white coats emblazoned with stark red cross. Behind each line strode lines of men or arms bearing the same designs.
‘Who are they?’ Alan asked.
‘Knights of the Hospital and of theTemple,’ cried the youngest boy. ‘I am for the Templars but Claude-Yusuf is for the Hospitallers.’
‘Gerard is too young to know better,’ explained the older boy with what he thought was a condescending look.
**************
Vainglory is the working title for a book about the Commoner Knights who helped defend Jerusalem against Saladin.
Related articles
(martinlakewriting.wordpress.com)
Templar expert Dr Evelyn Lord talks to The Templar Knight blog! (thetemplarknight.com)
May 26, 2012
A Slow Subconscious
I am a frequent and vivid dreamer. I am fortunate that I can remember many of my dreams. While I have rarely used any of them whole in my writing I find that some of the ideas and images sometimes float into my work and even inspire it.
We moved to the South of France almost six months ago, on December 1st. Now, at last, my laggard unconscious has caught up with events and I have had my first dream about living here.
Nothing exciting. I went to the market which is directly opposite, bought some potatoes and ruined the mash I was making by putting too much milk in it. ’Never mind’, my dream self told my wife, ‘I’ll get a baguette.’
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Sleep Writing (cudabrown.wordpress.com)
May 25, 2012
Finding the right name
I’m giving my novel The Last Knights of Jerusalem the final, final brush up. (It’s like painting the Forth Road Bridge, always something to tinker with.)
To my consternation I found that I had broken one of my cardinal rules. Two main characters had names starting with the same letter: Stephen and Simon. One, at least, would have to be changed.
I decided to change Stephen. I first thought of Robert but many of the historical figures had names beginning with R (there are several called Raymond for example.) So I’ve been sifting through Medieval web-sites to find an alternative to Stephen.
No luck so far.
May 20, 2012
Artful #Free on Kindle Select #SampleSunday #amwriting
Artful is free on Kindle Select this weekend. Here’s the first chapter.
Detail of an original George Cruikshank engraving showing the Artful Dodger introducing Oliver to Fagin. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
CHAPTER 1 TRANSPORTED
The sun crawled up the London sky like an invalid part way through convalescence. If it could have wheezed it would have wheezed. If it could have coughed it would have coughed. It would have been a thick, phlegm-heavy cough which would struggle to clear the stinking, oily air lying like a sodden blanket upon the city.
In the streets below, a line of soldiers escorted a column of men towards the river. The men’s legs shuffled due to the heavy chains which linked them together. The convicts were of all sizes: short and wiry, short and fat, tall and thin, tall and scrawny and almost every other conceivable combination. They were of all ages: men in their twenties and men in their sixties, and every age between.
All except one.
Bringing up the rear was a boy of perhaps twelve years old, dressed in men’s clothing which hung upon him as loosely as a bloodhound’s flesh.
Whereas the others in the line looked beaten and despairing to a man, the young boy gave a huge grin. He swaggered along, jaunty as possible, whistling tunelessly.
‘Good luck, Dodger,’ came a call from the gathering crowd.
‘You show ‘em, Dodger,’ cried another.
‘I’m off to be Her Majesty’s High Ambassador to the New South Welsh,’ he said, flourishing his hat. ‘When I’ve sorted everyfink out I’ll be back. Fourteen years in the diplomatic service is nothing to a young gentleman like me.’
‘Shut it back there,’ called one of the soldiers.
The boy turned towards the crowd. ‘You’d have thought that Queen Vicky would have given me a less common guard of honour.’
He started to whistle once more and acknowledged the applause and cheers of the crowd.
Most of the spectators were members of the East End community, poor, shabbily dressed and grimy with dirt. A small group, however, looked very out of place and they caught Dodger’s eye.
They were a family which had got caught up in the throng and looked very nervous to have done so. The father was a man in his late thirties, tall and upright with fine mutton-chop whiskers. His wife was small and slight and the man held her close to him as if to protect her from the crowd. The steely look upon her face, however, suggested that any protection he might offer would be quite redundant.
The parents kept a tight watch on three girls. The eldest was aged about fifteen and had a sharp face with eyes which darted everywhere with great suspicion. A toddler of perhaps two or three was cradled in her mother’s arms, looking with great anxiety not at the crowd but at her eldest sister.
It was the middle daughter who held Dodger’s gaze. She was a couple of years younger than he but, unlike him, upright in posture and well nourished. She was very pale and her face held a scatter of freckles as close to each other as stars in the night sky. A straw hat perched precariously upon a mass of wayward curls which seemed to frolic about her head. She stared open-mouthed at the column, her head turning from side to side, watching each of the convicts as they passed. She looked as though she was about to burst into tears.
Dodger came close towards her and she stopped and stared directly at him. Her eyes opened wide, so wide that her hat jiggled slightly upon her head.
He gave her a grin and swept of his hat with a flourish. She waved back and was roundly told to stay still by her sister.
As he turned the corner, Dodger glanced back. The girl was still staring at him. She raised her hand but he could not for the life of him tell whether it was to say farewell or hello.
As they marched along, Jack became aware that one of the convicts kept sneaking glances towards him. He was a little man, as skinny as a gutter-cat, with one sharp, nervous eye. The other was covered by a ragged black patch. His right hand was hidden in a filthy glove, held at an odd angle. His left hand continually stroked his mouth, a mouth which was puckered up into a permanent snarl, the skin around it creased and rutted. He had the figure of a man in his twenties but his malformed face was that of someone twice that age.
The line of convicts had to take a turn in the road and as they did so they slowed to a halt. The skinny man took the opportunity to sidle up towards Jack and jabbed him in the ribs.
‘Recognise me?’ he asked. His voice was a low sneer.
Jack shook his head.
‘Well you should do. You’re one of Fagin’s boys ain’t you? In fact, you’re his prime boy, the pick of the bunch, so they say.’
‘You may know me, but I don’t know you,’ Jack replied. The man made him shiver, as if an icy blast had sneaked in through a crack in the door.
‘You’ll come to know me,’ said the man. Flecks of spittle bubbled on his lips and he wiped them ineffectively. ‘My name’s Crimp and Fagin’s the reason I’m convicted and being sent off to the ends of the earth.’
He fell silent and peered into Jack’s face as if seeking for some answer to an irritating puzzle. ‘And I reckon you had a hand in it as well,’ he said finally.
Jack shook his head. ‘I’ve never seen you before, guvnor, honest.’ Jack was a good judge of people. Crimp did not look much of a man but Jack guessed that he meant a lot of trouble.
Crimp spat on Jack’s foot. ‘If it weren’t for the big boss I’ve had swung no doubt. And all because Fagin did the dirty on us.’
‘So where’s your boss?’ Jack asked. ‘Is he being transported?’
Crimp gave a high-pitched laugh. ‘Don’t be stupid. He’s safe from the law, being as how he is the law.’
Jack eyed him narrowly, hoping that the line would start up again so that he could get away.
The man leaned closer. ‘Do you know how long this voyage lasts?’
Jack shook his head.
‘Seven months, eight months, sometimes more.’ Crimp grabbed hold of Jack’s chin and jerked his head around.
‘So there’s plenty of time for us to get better acquainted, Jack Dawkins. And plenty of time for me to remind you of how the old Jew did for me.’
Jack swallowed, uneasy that the man knew his name.
A convict close by, a big man with curly hair, watched the incident. He scratched his head thoughtfully, shrugged his shoulders and turned away.
The skinny man slid away from Jack but remained watching him with narrowed eyes.
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What Nancy thought about the Artful Dodger (martinlakewriting.wordpress.com)
May 17, 2012
Catch a Falling Star
Yesterday I went into a café which I had not visited before. The waitress was a friendly, chirpy soul who immediately made me feel welcome and quickly took my order for coffee.
I have always found that I am very creative when I am in a café on my own. Some of my best ideas have floated into my head without any effort or conscious thought. This did not happen yesterday but I did begin to think about my writing career.
I have three novels already published, two in my ‘The Lost King’ series and ‘Artful’, about the continuing adventures of the Artful Dodger. I have written a novel about the Kingdom of Jerusalem in the years when it fell to Saladin which is ready for editing. The provisional title for this is ‘The Last Knights of Jerusalem.’
I am also writing the third instalment of The Lost King. In the pipeline is a novel about the Vikings in America, the second in my Artful series and one set in the time of Ethelred and Canute. On top of this there are my published and planned short stories and my sequel to The Wind in the Willows.
As I sipped at my coffee I decided that this is the way that I like to work. Doing research for one novel, writing it, putting it on one side and then editing the novel which I have finished some time before. Then researching and writing the next one, putting it aside and doing an edit of an earlier novel.
This gives me plenty of time to get distance between the writing of the novel and the editing, a distance which gives me perspective and greater objectivity.
As I decided that this was the pattern I should pursue from now on I felt something touch me on my hand. At first I thought it was a drop of rain. But when I looked I saw that it was a seed from the tree above my head. I examined the seed and smiled. It was in the shape of a star. 
More stars sprinkled themselves upon me and I took it as a good sign and put one in my pocket. Then, of course, I thought of the Perry Como song:
Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket
Never let it fade away,
Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket
Save it for a rainy day.
For love may come and tap you on the shoulder
Some starless night
Just in case you feel you wanna hold her
You’ve got a pocket full of starlight.
Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket
Never let it fade away,
Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket
Save it for a rainy day.
For when your troubles starting multiplying
As well they might,
It’s easy to forget them without trying
With just a pocketful of starlight.
Words and Music by Lee Pockriss and Paul Vance
I like stars, I like falling stars, I like to think that I’m storing up my writing for the future.
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Try to catch one… (djkyle87.wordpress.com)
Catch A Falling Star… (butterflyjulz.wordpress.com)
May 16, 2012
Visitors
My cousins Vivian and Glenn are here. We’re all on the internet. How sad is this?
