Icy Sedgwick's Blog, page 90

The Guns of Retribution turns one!

It's truly hard to believe that it's been a whole year since my first published book, The Guns of Retribution, appeared for the Kindle. Published by Pulp Press, my pulp adventure set in the Old West tells the story of bounty hunter Grey O'Donnell, caught up in a blast from his past as he tries to bring a murderer to justice. I've had good reviews, and I wanted to take this opportunity to really celebrate its first anniversary - after all, it's not every day that you can celebrate a whole year of your first book.



I've lined up a series of guest posts at various blogs, starting with my post about The Guns of Retribution as primarily a pulp story over at the exceptionally talented Heath Lowrance's blog, Psycho Noir. Heath has been very supportive of Guns over the past year, and I've really appreciated his support. I even reviewed his own Western, Miles to Little Ridge, which you can read about here. I'll also be looking at my favourite aspects of the Old West over the next fortnight.



But wait! There's more!





I also edited my Dead Man's Hand trilogy which appeared on my blog as three successive Friday flashes, and I've put them into one collection, along with the first chapter of The Guns of Retribution as a sample to whet your appetite. The events of Part I of Dead Man's Hand kick off the events of The Guns of Retribution so it's a nice snippet of back story! You can currently download it in MOBI, EPUB or PDF format from my website.



If you decide you want to read more of The Guns of Retribution, you can buy the Kindle version here. I have a limited number of paperbacks, so email me at icy [at] icysedgwick [dot] come if you want to buy a signed copy!

#FridayFlash - Skeletons

Cate watched a creased paperback jiggle in Daniel's back
pocket as she followed him up the stairs. The glare of a Saturday afternoon lay
at the top of the stairwell, and she blinked as they left the gloom of the tube
station. She hadn't lived in London long enough to know this part of the city,
and she trailed behind Daniel through the throng of tourists. She glanced at
the back of his neck and wondered yet again if online dating was the best way
to meet new people.




"Come on, it's just down here." Daniel turned
around, as if finally remembering she was there. He turned off the main street
and down a narrower road. Fewer people crowded the pavement, and Cate drew
level with Daniel.




"What is it you're taking me to see?"




"Just an exhibition I've wanted to see for a while.
Couldn't find anyone to go with me."




So you thought I'd do. Cate pasted a smile on her face but
Daniel didn't even look at her.




He stopped outside a narrow building, all pale stone and
Classical columns. A banner hung above the front door, obscuring the ornate
pediment. A faux-medieval font advertised their latest exhibition.




"You want to go and look at skeletons?" A shiver
ran across Cate's skin and she looked at Daniel. He looked back at her as though
she were stupid.




"Well, yes."




"I see." Cate looked back at the banner. Fourteen skeletons, each uncovered in various sites around London, all of them purporting to tell
"secret tales" of the capital's history. She didn’t really want to
spend her afternoon around bones.




“Oh you’re not one of those girls who freaks out about stuff
like this, are you?” Daniel fought to keep the sneer from his face, but it
still infected his tone.




“No, it’s just…seemed like an odd thing to do on a first
date.”




“It’ll be interesting.”




Daniel almost skipped up the three small steps to the door,
and disappeared into the cool darkness of the entrance hall beyond. Cate looked
back along the street.




Would it be really bad to just leave him here? After all, I don’t want him to know about me and what I can do. Not yet, anyway.




“Come on, Cathy!” Daniel’s voice echoed inside the hall.
Cate gritted her teeth.




“It’s Cate,” she replied as she climbed the stairs.




Daniel led her down a maze of narrow corridors towards a large hall. Cate couldn’t have guessed the museum would be so large. Only a handful of people milled around inside the exhibition space, scattered between the glass display cases holding the skeletons. Panels hung from the nearby walls, emblazoned with photographs and maps. Dense text ran alongside to tell the story of each skeleton.




Not that I need the text, thought Cate.




Why am I here? The voice came from behind Cate. She turned
and looked at Daniel.




“Excuse me?”




“I didn’t say anything. I was trying to read the board.” Daniel pointed to the text and looked away, mild irritation in his voice. Cate scowled and turned away.




Why are any of us here?




Cate stepped closer to the nearest case. In it lay the bones
of a young woman, discovered during an extension to an office building in
Clapham. The text said she was just over a century old.




Are you aware of each other then? Cate directed her thought
question to the Clapham skeleton.




Yes, we’ve been together a month now. You’re the first person to talk to us.




But I have met one of your kind before. Your grandmother, many many years ago. The skeleton to Cate’s right, a man from Wapping, chipped in to the conversation.




You met my grandmother?




I did. She was a wonderful woman. A talented Bone Talker.




Cate smiled despite herself. Daniel spoke to her but Cate ignored him, his words drowned out by the ponderous musings of the skeletons. The three nearest to her told her their stories, stories which completely contradicted the conclusions drawn by the scientists who tested their bones.




So all of this stuff about you being a child prostitute in
Bishopsgate is nonsense? thought Cate. A deep resounding chuckle boomed in her
head.




Not at all. I sold meat in Leadenhall Market, died of
overwork. We think the men in white coats make things up. They certainly don’t
listen to us.




Not like you, dearie, added the Clapham skeleton.




Something shook Cate’s arm. She snapped from her reverie and looked up into the face of a security guard.




“You alright, miss?”




“I’m fine.”




“You sure? Only it’s almost closing time. I hate to ask you
to leave, but…” The security guard turned the act of looking at the clock into
a pantomime gesture.




“That’s ok. I must have lost track of time. They’re
fascinating specimens,” said Cate.




“Really? I think the whole thing’s creepy.”




The security guard wandered off and began switching off the
lights in the display cases. Cate looked around to find Daniel.




The bastard’s gone and left me here, she thought.




If it’s any consolation, you’re better off without ‘im. He
was sayin’ some awful things while you was talkin’ to us, replied the Clapham
skeleton.




Really?



Yes. Real rotter, that one.




Oh…well I have to go now. It’s been wonderful to speak to you.




You too. Come back, won’t you?




Cate left the room and trudged down the darkened corridor
towards the entrance. Drizzle coated the pavement outside, and she walked back
towards the busy London street. People hurried to and fro, heads bent to avoid
the rain – or maybe just eye contact. Cate cast a longing look back at the
museum before plunging into the crowd. They carried her towards the warmth and
stale air of the tube station. A single thought occupied her mind as she reached
the stairs.




Are any of these people Bone Talkers? Will I ever meet anyone like me?




She heard a single 'yes'.

Lee Child's Writing Wisdom

Last night, Lee Child made an appearance at the Tyneside Cinema to discuss his newest Jack Reacher book, A Wanted Man , and to introduce a screening of Se7en , his favourite film. I first heard about the Reacher books when my dad started reading them, and I bought the first one, Killing Floor , to read in Venice (it was that, or Fifty Shades of Grey). Despite its sometimes simplistic writing style, it's a compelling read, and I thoroughly enjoyed it.



I always like to take the chance to listen to other writers talking about writing, as it's always good to get another person's perspective on the process. Writing can be a solitary task, and sharing your working practices with others helps make it seem less lonely. So here are Lee Child's top tips as I can remember them, summarised in one handy blog post.



1) Avoid unnecessary words.

Lee made a point of discussing his obsession with Chuck Berry, in particular the song, Johnny B Goode. It's a whole story told in just over two minutes, but Lee pointed out the opening lines, in which we are told that among the evergreens close to New Orleans "There stood a log cabin made of earth and wood / Where lived a country boy named Johnny B. Goode". We know what log cabins are made of, so making a point of its method of construction is essentially a waste of time, and a waste of words. I think this explains the stripped down, minimalist style favoured by Lee for the Reacher books, but it's equally applicable to other genres - and also helps to back up my hatred of adverbs. Don't tell me someone "shouted loudly" - how many other ways are there to shout? Find a word that communicates your point and use it - don't use several phrases where one will do.



2) Treat writing as a job.

Lee described his process as being like the artisans making various products in Birmingham as he grew up. You can't sit and wait for the muse to appear and provide a story - you have to turn up every day and get your fingers moving on the keyboard. There will be days when you don't want to, but once you get into the habit, the muscle memory takes over and you'll write. As Lee pointed out, truck drivers don't get truck driving block, so why should writers get writer's block? Be an artisan, not an artist, and concentrate on producing a product. You can refine the product through editing once you've gotten the words on the page.



3) Ignore all advice.

Most writers give this as a piece of advice, and it's Lee's belief that if a writer simply writes from the heart, and writes the story they want to tell, then they'll get an organic, vivid story. If you want to write a story and then read advice by, say, Stephen King, you may feel you may not be able to write the story the way you want to. If you then read advice by JK Rowling, you might feel even more stuck. By writing things your way, the story will be more 'natural'. On one hand, I can relate to that because I felt somewhat hamstrung when I started reading books about plotting and certain writers insisted you outline a story down to the last full stop, but on the other hand, you need to know the rules before you can start breaking them. There's nothing wrong with learning about writing, but be aware that you might need to bend or break rules for your story to really work.



4) Always leave reviews.

Finally, one of the questions he was asked regarded the so-called 'sock-puppeting' scandal, and the practice of leaving reviews for books. Lee believes the only way for readers to really know what to buy is to read reviews, but the only way to drown out phony reviews is for readers to always post reviews, even if they're not favourable. I know I struggle to get reviews, but Lee reckons he gets one review for around 2000 sales - that's a lot of people reading who aren't reviewing. So do a writer a favour today, and review one of their books!



In case you're wondering, I did get a book signed, and I thought he was thoroughly charming!

The countdown begins

It's hard to believe that Monday marks the one year anniversary since The Guns of Retribution came out for the Kindle - two weeks later, it's the paperback release anniversary. Where on earth does the time go? I'm sure that proper authors don't bother marking anniversaries in such a fashion but I'm still really proud of The Guns of Retribution, and it's not every day you have a book published for the first time.



My idea is this - starting on Monday, I'm going to hold a two week long celebration of the Old West here at the Blunt Pencil, while some very excellent bloggers have agreed to let me post my Western-themed waffle at their blogs at the same time. The Western is sometimes seen as being a bit unfashionable or out-of-date but I hope my fortnight of festivities might change a few minds.



If you want to read The Guns of Retribution in advance, then you can buy the Kindle copy here in the US or here in the UK. I've got eight 5* reviews and counting...

Bloody Parchment II submissions open

Anyone who reads this blog will know I have something of a fondness for horror. Therefore it won't come as a surprise to learn that I'm working on a short story for an anthology competition in the Victorian horror vein! Why am I doing this? Well, I want to submit to the second volume of Bloody Parchment, and I want to share the details so you can too. So if you have a horror or dark fantasy story of 3,500 words or less and you want to try your luck, click HERE to check out the guidelines. Submissions close on October 31. So get writing!



I should also note that the first volume, Bloody Parchment: Hidden Things, Lost Things and Other Stories, is available now, and features stories by the likes of Stacey Larner and Benjamin Knox. You can pick up your copy here.

#FridayFlash - 2:34am

She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. She'd counted the cracks in the plaster too many times to remember, and the next step would be to name them.




She rolled over and looked at the clock. The glowing green digits spelled out '2.34'. She growled, and hauled herself out of bed. I'm awake, so I might as well go to the bathroom. Again.




She opened the bedroom door and padded across the living room. She kept the lights off to preserve her night vision - she didn't want to go stumbling into the coffee table on her way back to bed.




The bathroom lay on the other side of the living room. A full moon shone through the window, casting a pale glow into the bathroom. The toiletries lined up on the sill threw irregular shadows across the wall.




She sat down and watched the reflection of the night sky. A gentle breeze stirred the tree outside, the ruffled shadow leaves on the wall dancing to the wind's tune. She sighed - the night used to be hers. She longed to escape to the rooftops, caught between the city and the sky, watched only by the stars.




She stood up and flushed. Movement in the corner of the room caught her eye. Something rippled across the sky, its shadow swimming across the bathroom wall. She turned and peered through the frosted glass of the window. That was no full moon - that was the Signal.




She narrowed her eyes and stomped out of the bathroom. She walked straight past her bedroom and headed to the closet. She ran her hands across the engineered latex that made up her catsuit, and lifted the wafer thin metal mask out of its box. She stared into its empty eyes, and her own animosity stared back.




If the City had its hero back...then it certainly needed its villain.

Landscape and Writing

I had a brief visit to London over the Bank Holiday weekend, and ended up at the British Library for their Writing Britain exhibition. Now, I lived in London for seven years, and it is to my eternal shame that I only visited the British Library twice. It's often easy to overlook the British Library as a destination, overshadowed as it is by the likes of the National Gallery and the British Museum, and when you live somewhere, it can also be easy to take for granted what's sat on your doorstep.



The British Library is a fantastic space, and they seem to put a lot of thought into their exhibitions - a previous one that I saw was about photography, while the last one was about Charles Dickens and the supernatural (so clearly of great interest to me). The Writing Britain exhibition had at its heart the aim of exploring the ways in which the British landscape has inspired British literature over the years. In many cases, they'd included original handwritten copies of the texts, as well as early first editions - and it was interesting to see the actual handwriting of these literary greats. It somehow makes them more human when you realise that even they write like a crack-addled panda with a box of crayons.



The exhibition itself had two major effects on me. The first was in truly appreciating the diversity of the British landscape. I'm not one of those people who has travelled all over the world, filled with stories of the Far East or south America, but I am a person who has seen a great deal of Great Britain (I've never been to Northern Ireland so I shan't call it the United Kingdom). Weirdly enough, I still sometimes forget the range of locations that comprise our little island. Rural pastoral scenes, wild moorland, coastal escapes and our industrial past couldn't NOT inspire writers, and the exhibition made me long to explore the untamed landscapes of my native Northumberland.



The second made me examine my own work, to see how much of the landscape around me had inspired my writing. Strangely enough, I don't think it has inspired my writing to the extent that I might like. Elements of Victorian London can be seen in my steampunk Vertigo City, and Edinburgh provided a lot of inspiration for the Underground City in my work in progress, The Necromancer's Apprentice. Beyond that, I struggle to find any 'themes' related to landscape - and there is essentially nothing of Newcastle, my hometown, in my work. If I'm honest, I'm actually ashamed of myself for that.



I'm not really sure how to categorise my writing - normally my idea is formed from a 'what if', or it's related to something happening. I often have ideas for settings that I want to use but I only like to actually use these settings when I have a story that I can tell within them. After all, a setting is all very well, but it's nothing more than an empty set unless something is going on in it. I suppose you'd consider me a 'plot driven' writer, in that my stories have to be about a 'thing' or 'event'. If I was a character driven writer, would my work be different? Would I find it easier to use landscape to reflect conditions surrounding a character, or their own internal landscape?



It's something I think that I will endeavour to explore, and I highly recommend the exhibition for writers and bibliophiles alike.



Writing Britain is on until September 25 and you can find out more details here. Image is Writing Britain: Wastelands to Wonderlands, Top Withens near Haworth, Yorkshire 1977, by Fay Godwin © British Library.

End of my photo prompts

Yesterday marked something of the end of an era for this blog, though I don't know if anyone realises. For the past one hundred weeks I've been posting photographic writing prompts every Monday, offering them up as a means of generating inspiration for other writers. All of the photographs have been my own work, too. I haven't asked for much in return - just a link so I can see what the photo led to. Only a handful of my photo prompts have borne fruit (that I know of) and as it takes up a fair bit of time both taking photos and trying to find ones that will make good prompts, it's time to lay it to rest.



The photo prompts will still be available, and if you click here you can scroll back through all of them if you find that you're stuck for ideas, but I won't be posting new ones unless I see something that I think will be absolutely stellar for kick starting a story.



So I hope you still have a flick through, and that something might spark an idea. If it does, let me know, yeah?

Photo Prompt 100

New prompt available!



If you want to use the prompt, all I ask is that you include a link to this entry and a credit to me for the photograph, and that you post a link to your story in the comments box below so I can see what you've come up with! If you don't comment on this entry, then I can't comment on your story.



The 100th, and final, prompt is Toys.







All photo prompts are my own photography - you can find more of it on Flickr. You can also buy my prints from Deviantart. 20% of all proceeds go to charity - the other 80% go towards my PhD fees!

#FridayFlash - Shadowburn

The red-haired woman opened her eyes and screamed. Thick rope looped around her body, binding her to a stake on the village green. Her scream grew louder as consciousness returned.



“Ah, it’s awake.”



The village elders sat on large chairs beneath the shade of a marquee. Villagers crammed behind them, jostling for the best position from which to watch the execution.



“Let me go!”



A ripple of laughter rolled around the villagers. Paxton Carmichael, the Chief Elder, pursued his lips to avoid a smirk.



“I’m afraid we cannot do that.”



The woman threw panicked looks in all directions, searching for assistance. She caught sight of the setting sun, just visible above the village rooftops, and howled again.



“You don’t need to do this! Let me go, and you’ll never see me again! I’ll head south.”



“Yet we can leave you where you are and still, we shall never see you again. I am sure you can see my dilemma.” Elder Carmichael mimed a set of scales with his hands.



“Please, not like this!”



The assembled crowd cheered, their baying provoking smiles from their elders. They booed every time Elspeth struggled, and guffawed when her struggles did nothing. Children at the feet of the Elders clapped and laughed to watch her fight the rope around her waist.



“If I were you, I would accept my fate and retain some dignity. This pleading…well, really, it is beneath you. Although it is what I might expect from one of your kind.”



The woman screamed, her cries for help falling on deaf ears.



“Elspeth Proctor, you have been condemned to death, on the grounds that you are an abomination of nature. And I will not allow such abominations within this village, or our wider lands.”



“No! I’m not an abomination – you are! You’ll be found out, you know, there are already rumours –”



“Please, you embarrass yourself.”



Elspeth looked back towards the setting sun. It slipped behind a rooftop, and the shadow of the Council Hall fell across the village green. Elspeth screamed again as the deep purple shade touched her. Her skin smoked and sizzled where it came into contact with the darkness.



“Excellent. Right on time. Perkins, remind me to commend Sissy on her dusk prediction,” said Elder Carmichael. The Elder to his right nodded.



Black wraiths of smoke and shadow danced around the stake, and the scent of burning flesh filled the cooling air. The darkness deepened as the sun slid further towards the horizon, and more wraiths snaked towards Elspeth from the inky pools nearest the Council Hall. The villagers roared and cheered their approval.



Dark blue flames burst into life on Elspeth’s exposed skin, racing to ignite her clothes. She continued to scream as she disintegrated, sparks and cinders flying in all directions. The villagers burst free from the marquee, spilling into the shadows of the village. Some of them ducked into a barn near the green, returning with tables and benches to be set up by the marquee. Women came running with vast platters of rancid meat and old carcasses, and a farmer arrived bearing kegs of home-brewed blood wine. The children set off firecrackers as the flames burned away what was left of Elspeth.



“Hm, that took less time than usual, did it not?” asked Elder Carmichael, consulting the clock outside the Council Hall.



“She was paler than the others,” replied Elder Perkins.



“Indeed. Joseph, dispose of that,” said Elder Carmichael.



He turned to a tall youth standing nearby, and pointed towards the stake. Bones wrapped in charred fabric hung from the rope. The wraiths dissipated under the weight of Elder Carmichael’s stare.



Joseph loped across the green, avoiding the revelry as the blood wine flowed and the meat disappeared. He liberated the bones, dropped them into his sack, and strode off in the direction of the bone pit. The Elders watched, unmoved by the events and disinclined to join the festivities.



“Well, my friends. That is another one down, but many more remain. It will take some time to purge the daywalkers.”



Image by wonderferret .