Martin Lake's Blog, page 27

Our Old Home

Wow, the wonders of the internet.

My friend phoned from England and we talked about our house.  Just for fun I checked out our house on the internet and was surprised to see the pictures of it from when we advertised it for rent.

I’ve just been for a virtual tour of the house which kind of choked me.  It was a lovely place an we’d made it very pleasant.

But my friend told me that the weather is dire in England so I’m glad that we’re here.  And we love our apartment, though it’s not quite as pretty as our old home.

Goodreads

I’ve finally had time to get properly acquainted with Goodreads.  I’m enjoying discovering the potential of the site already and have lots of ideas for new books to read.  I’m also enjoying the discussions that are available.

G is for Good Reads (Photo credit: TheRLPL)

Today I’ve joined the Author’s Program so all of my books are listed on Goodreads for people to have a look at and review if they are so minded.

This blog also links in with the site.  How nifty is all of this?  I zip seamlessly from this blog to Twitter to Goodreads and don’t even know I’m doing it.

If I only liked Harold Pinter more I’d pin something on Pinterest.  (No kidding, I thought it was about the esteemed dramatist when I first saw it.)

I suppose I’d better remember that when I write on one forum it is instantly zapped to another.  Hope it doesn’t make me cautious about what I write.

I’ve got to add some widgets and sundry whistles, flutes and bells and then I will be a fully-functioning merry-go-round of an author.  Or maybe a Maypole.  Yes, that’s appropriate for today.  A Maypole of an author.

Now I’ve no idea why the blog decided that this picture is appropriate to this blog.  Possibly something to do with Mayday.  But what the heck, I like it and they are reading.

Sitting in the morning sun Holiday makers enjoying the sun and sea air on Seaton's seafront. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

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Extract from Book 3 of The Lost King. #SampleSunday #Kindle

Here’s the first part of my new novel, the third in The Lost King series about the resistance to the Norman Conquest of England.

I heaved the body of the fisherman out of the boat.  The corpse lay upon the water, the blood seeping from the stab wound in the neck.  The fishes he had hunted for so many years swam closer, scenting blood.

‘You had to do it,’ Anna said.

I stared at her.  All I could think of was William.

 

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Near Perfect Writing Space

If you’ve followed any of this blog you will realise that I am fascinated with my writing space.

Not that I’m obsessive or pernickety (hum, don’t think I’ve ever written that word before).  It’s just that I always hanker after a garret in Paris, although having gone their a week ago and been frozen to my bones it would have to be a Parisian garret where I now live, on the French Riviera.

A garret like Gene Kelly had in ‘An American in Paris,’ with a bed he could suspend from the ceiling, table, chairs and even a jug of flowers hidden away in a cupboard, all to give him enough space to fulfil his passion of painting.

An American in Paris (1951) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I have less need of space, just my trusty old laptop and the resources of the world upon the internet.

Now, at last, I have arrived at almost my perfect space (I won’t call it perfect, nothing is while I can still dream.)

Courtesy of two very simple technologies, an extension lead for my laptop and a blind to shade the screen from the sun I can now sit on my terrace overlooking the roofs of Menton and theMediterranean Sea and pound away to my heart’s content.

Incroyable as my French friends would say.

Getting the Facts Straight (Not to Mention the Dates.)

I’m busy writing the third novel in my The Lost King series.  I have written the first few chapters.

At the same time I am busy sorting out the plot.  I am doing this by listing all the known events which took place in the years 1070 to 1076 when the novel is set.  I then put next to this what I imagine my hero Edgar Atheling would be doing in relation to these events.  Some, of course, are noted in the Anglo-Saxon chronicle and other sources.  Others I have to surmise from allusion.

The interesting and challenging part of this is trying to sort out dates to firmly tie the historical and fictional events together.  I have learnt this afternoon when the following events occurred: the Nones of June , Easter Day, Lent and the mass-day of Saint Grimbald.  (If you don’t know it, and I didn’t, Saint Grimbald was a big friend of King Alfred the Great.)  For the purposes of the novel and because I could not find out otherwise I have assumed that his mass-day was the same as his feast day.  (If anyone knows different please get in touch.)

I then like to look at conflict points and link these with the merged historical and fictional events. Finally, just to keep an eye on the overall flow, I see if the story accords in any way to Joseph Campbell’s The Hero’s Journey.  Interestingly, it does, although with several repetitions and loops which is fine by me.

Now I’d better get back to writing it.

A Storm Hits Valparaiso by David Gaughran

This is a stirring and gripping read. David Gaughran has chosen to write about an epic time in history, the long and tragic wars for independence in South America. His book is huge in scope and ambition. It takes place over a number of years and with a vast geographical area. It has a large cast of characters who seem at first to have nothing in common.  

What they do have in common, however, is that they will become part of General San Martin’s herculean effort to free the continent from the Spanish yoke.

San Martin is a brave choice for a protagonist. He was aloof and taciturn and lacked the charisma of his fellow liberator, Simon Bolivar. Such a hero is a challenge for any novelist and Gaughran rightly chooses to people his novel with other, more vivid characters to help enliven scenes with the General.

These characters stay in the imagination. We travel with them through the terror and trauma of war. The heroism of these times of courage and sacrifice is bought vividly to life.

This is Gaughran’s debut novel and, goodness, it is an impressive debut. I eagerly await to read more from him.

Bob Dylan, Indie Writing and the Flight to Freedom

I love dreams and I had a fascinating one last night.

I dreamt that I was working in a school and was setting out seating prior to the arrival of a visiting speaker.  He was going to give some form of presentation to one of the classes; Steve Milward’s group.

After a while I found out that the visitor was Bob Dylan and went along with some other people to meet him. He was very affable and I told him that I had once met him when he performed with Rolf Harris.  He recalled the incident and said that he remembered meeting me then.

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Bob Dylan (album) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Dylan asked me what I was doing and I said that I was an indie writer and also trying to escape from this place which now began to seem rather less like a school and rather more like a Gulag.

‘I have the escape all planned,’ I told him.

The scene switched to where I was inspecting my fellow-escapees, all wearing fake uniforms, with Dylan looking on.  One skinny, forlorn-looking man with a beard was wearing carpet-slippers, or rather he was standing on the carpet-slippers with his feet attached to them by string.

We’ll never get away with him looking like that, I thought.  ‘I’m going to have to leave you behind,’ I told him.  ‘Otherwise the rest of us will never escaped.’

The man nodded, he understood, but there was tragedy in his eyes.

Dylan came across to me and told me I had done the right thing.  ‘It is the sign of real leadership to make tough decisions for the greater good,’ he said.  ‘In fact you can all come out with my party because it will be safer for you that way.’

And then I woke up.

So what does this dream mean to me?  In what ways was my unconscious trying to make sense of the world?

I used to teach in a school and taught Steve Milward’s tutor group.  It was to this class that I read my ‘The Guy Fawkes Contest’, my first short story, telling them it had been written by a friend.  They were silent as I read, something which rarely happened with them.  I saw that they were as enthralled as they had been by only two other stories, ‘To Light a Fire’ by Jack London and a story, I think it was called ‘Power’ about a child who frees a bird caught on an electricity wire.

I can write I thought, and this cemented my ambition to become a writer.

I was also a fan of Bob Dylan, having been told about him by my oldest friend, Brian who was then at Art College and is a very gifted artist.

As a child I loved Rolf Harris and ‘I’ve Lost My Mummy,’ was the first record I ever bought for myself.

I have never, to the best of my knowledge, been in a Gulag.

So what does it all mean?

My best guess is that it is my unconscious dealing with our leaving England and moving to France and with coming to terms with my new life as a writer.

Battlefield. The Lost King: Resistance. #SampleSunday #amwriting #Kindle #authors

A cold fear suddenly caught at me.  Who was in charge of our army?  Archbishop Stigand had seemed to be the leader and now he was gone.  Would the men expect me to lead the battle after all?  Or would Edwin and Morcar be our captains?

I was still lost in these thoughts when we came out of the forest.  There below us stood the ordered ranks of the Norman army.  I gasped.  The Norman army was far larger than ours and ready for battle.  And somehow I sensed that it was far more deadly.

In the centre of the field fluttered two flags.  One I guessed belonged to the Duke of Normandy.  The other was the White Dragon of England, stripped from our fallen warriors atHastings.  Our men gazed upon this flag in silence.

Our army was drawn up as I had decreed; Edwin on the left flank, Morcar in the centre and my Housecarls and the men of London to the right.  All around me I could hear the snorts of the horses and the jangle and creak of their harnesses.  It was the only sound in that whole vast army.  I looked down the line to see if Edwin or Morcar would lead the army forward.  But before any of our men made a move, a cry went up from some of the Housecarls.  My gaze followed where they were pointing.

From the Norman army three men came riding slowly across the meadows towards us.  The two men at the front were dressed like holy men, although underneath the garments of one I thought I could detect a glimpse of mail.  The third, a herald holding a flag of truce, was dressed in full chain mail, a great black cloak billowing behind him.

‘Envoys from Duke William,’ said Oswald quietly.  ‘But I do not think they are coming to sue for peace.’

Suddenly, with a tumult of hooves, the three men approached our foremost ranks.  They halted a few yards away and one rode forward and called in a clear loud voice.  ‘I come to parlay with the leaders of the English.’

I stared in utter astonishment.  The envoy was Archbishop Stigand.

‘He must have been captured,’ I mumbled.

Oswald shook his head.  ‘He must be a traitor,’ he said.

For a long breath no one in the English army moved.  Then one horse stepped out from our centre and stood facing the Norman envoys.  It was Morcar.  A second horse broke ranks further to the left and trotted along the front of our army.  I could see even from this distance that it was Edwin.  When he reached his brother they bent their heads together for a while.  Then, together they trotted out until they were half way between our men and the Normans.  The five men spoke together for what seemed an age.

I heard a warning voice speak urgently in my head.  ‘I should be there,’ I said to Oswald.

Oswald shook his head once.  He did not speak but his hand reached out and grasped firm hold of my horse’s bridle.

Still the five men spoke together, their words a mystery to all the host of men watching.  Then Morcar looked down the ranks.  He kicked savagely at the flanks of his horse and came racing towards me.  I felt Oswald’s grip tighten.  Behind me I heard a long, low scraping noise.  My Housecarls were sliding their swords from their scabbards.

I gazed intently at Morcar when he got close.  His face looked drained of all blood and there was a strange, fey look in his eyes.  ‘Edgar,’ he said quietly, ‘these men are envoys from the Normans.  One is Odo of Bayeux, half-brother of Duke William.  The other is Archbishop Stigand.  They say that Duke William desires no more bloodshed and that he will embrace peace if we submit to him and acknowledge him to be our king.’

‘But I am the king,’ I said.  My lips felt like ice.

Morcar did not answer.  I looked up at Oswald.  He stared impassively ahead, avoiding my gaze.

I turned back to the earl.  ‘Morcar, tell me what I should do.  I am the King of the English.  The Witan proclaimed me so and I am of the blood of Alfred.  Surely we should fight?  What do you think?  What should we do?’

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Shattered

Last night I woke up with my arm incredibly painful and my mind reeling.  I realised that I was revisiting the trauma of an event which happened three years ago, possibly to the day.

On that April day my wife and I went out on my first trip after suffering a bout of chicken-box.  We went to a lovely spot, had a picnic and admired the view.  I said how lucky we were and we counted our blessings.

Within minutes, I had fallen over on a crumbling path.  It was a small fall but I must have landed awkwardly.  I broke my right ankle, dislocated my left elbow and shattered the bones in my arm.  At the hospital the doctors tried three times to put the joint back and only succeeded when the morphine I was given knocked me out.

Unfortunately, I had a phobia about broken bones and dislocated elbows, stemming from when I was a small child and my mother dislocated both her elbows and I had to help her to eat.

Fortunately the surgeons were able to operate and pinned my arm back together.  ‘We learned a lot from doing it,’ the surgeon told me.  Three consultants had operated on me and I calculated that the cost of the operation must have used up a lot of the taxes I had paid over the years.

The injury was the worst thing that had ever happened to me.  I plumbed the depths, raging at the injury, horrified to think about it.  One night I even howled like a wolf.  I felt as shattered as my arm.

My arm was cased in plaster and my foot in a surgical boot.  When my wife was out at work my elderly neighbour came in to make my lunch.  My business began to suffer because I lost focus on it and could not drive.  For a while I was nervous to walk on any surface that was in any way rough.

I could only read a book with difficulty, juggling it to turn the page, cursing when, as frequently happened, I dropped it.  So I bought a Sony e-reader which I could use with one hand and discovered books that I had never before read.

Gradually, with the support of my wife, I regained my composure and good spirits.  I decided to concentrate on my long-held ambition to be a writer, bought Dragon Dictate and wrote the follow-on chapters to my story Mr Toad’s Wedding.  I completed my first novel about the Lost King Edgar Atheling and launched into the second one of the series

A little afterwards I discovered

Giving just enough background knowledge

I’ve just started the third novel in my series The Lost King which tells the story of the boy who was proclaimed king in 1066 and lost his throne to William the Conqueror.

I am currently grappling with the problem of starting the story with sufficient background for any new reader who happens to find this book before the earlier ones.  At the same time, I need to remind readers of the series about what has happened so far.  The challenge is to do this without boring them or writing things which they well remember and don’t need to be emphasised.

I’ve hit on one notion which seems to be working.  However, I need to take a long hard look at this and make sure that it works exactly how I want for all the purposes I need.

The life of a writer is never dull.