Stuart G. Yates's Blog, page 6

Adventures in Writing – a personal journey by Stuart G Yates…how I plan.

In this blog, I thought people might like to see the different ways I plan a story. I say ‘different ways’ as I never follow a set plan as such, and I often experiment.

First thing, when an idea comes to me – and that could be any number of things – if I get that ‘buzz’ then I’m pretty well certain the story will begin to evolve.

I invariably have the end in my mind, and write towards that. However, any number of twists and turns might occur so at some stage I set down a plan. Sometimes, I do this on a piece of paper, and I make a list of around 10 essential scenes or incidents. Here is the plan I scribbled down for an unfinished story featuring Paul Chaise, my hero in ‘Burnt Offerings’. It will be the third in the series (as the 2nd is in the redrafting stage as we speak!). It may not make much sense, as this is only the initial mind-mapping.

1.       Packs off Richard Porterhouse on the plane, after making a ‘deal’ over trouble being over-looked. They tell him where Linny is and he goes to find her.

2.       Linny is not there, she’s been bought out by some nutter who is buying up property left, right and centre. PC asks around and finds out some interesting stuff.

3.       This nutter wrote a software programme, sold it to Microsoft for millions and now wants to become a latter day feudal baron.

 

And so it goes on. As you can see, it is not highly detailed, and there is an awful lot of story-writing to do to fill in the gaps, etc. It is only an outline, and can grow and grow. This one got to 16 such mini-outlines.

I usually look to get down at least 60,000 words before I look at the serious work of editing. Often ideas continue to come to me during these re-writes and although I cut and change a great deal, that 60,000 becomes 80,000 without any real trouble.

 

Another way I have of working is to use a spider-diagram or ‘mind-map’ as the new parlance calls it. Here is one I used for the second book to feature ‘Don Luis’, who is the mayor of a small Spanish village in the 17th century. I’ve neatened it up here, as I usually scribble it down using any old piece of paper I can find.

I usually put the main event in the centre, and everything spreads outwards from that. I find this effective when plotting a murder mystery, which this particular story is.

 

Now this can grow and grow and grow, and I’ve merely included here an idea of what I sometimes use. I find it a good way of linking all the disparate threads.

I sometimes use Scrivener, which is a great way of organising ideas, chapters, characters, etc. But I’m still learning and always make lots of mistakes.

So, what about those ideas? I’ll use a recent book of mine in an attempt to illustrate how my fuddled imagination works…

When I wrote ‘Splintered Ice,’ which is set in New Brighton on the Wirral my starting point was me. My time in school, in my last year at Mosslands. But Jed, the hero, had to be older than I was, so I set it in 1972, and Jed was 18. At the same point in history, I was 15.

Set in New Brighton in 1972, Splintered Ice is a fast-paced, tightly woven thriller with a new twist on every page.

The plan was to write a series of thrillers, set 5 years apart, that would trace his life right up to the present day. He’d get himself in all sorts of scrapes, just as I did, and the books would be populated with all the people and places I knew in and around Wallasey. So far so good. I had the story all set, with the opening in the school dining room, and the ubiquitous bully stealing the other kids’ food. This often happened to me. The difference with Jed, as opposed to me, is that he won’t stand for it. That’s the great thing about being a writer; your characters do what you tell them to do. Well, from there he goes down to Central Park and sees a man fall into the lake, which is covered with a thin sheet of ice. He dives in after him, and from that point falls under this man’s control. So far so good. But then, half way through, I decide to alter the genre, from thriller, to super-natural. But after about 100 pages, I went back to it being a thriller. In the end, I wrote two parallel books, one contemporary, one supernatural. The published version is the contemporary one. Who knows, one day I might try and place that second version.

Well, there we are, a few pointers into how I go about my writing. I hope you’ve found it interesting, and if you’d care to pop along to my websites, you’ll see my work with details of where to buy them.

Thanks for dropping by, and keep reading.

www.stuartgyates.com

Adventures in writing – a personal journey by Stuart G Yates: getting started by writing a short story.

The view from the learned is that when one embarks on this perilous journey of being ‘a writer’, the first port of call should always be to get a short story published.

Now, I have to be honest here. I’m not a lover of short-stories. Not the writing of them, nor the reading. I prefer longer narratives, one in which you can get your teeth into. I know some of you will go ballistic over this, but we all have our different tastes. But, it was something I had to do, so I did.

I wrote a short-story, based on something which had happened to me personally and which was pretty damned terrifying.

I won’t repeat it all here, but suffice to say it has a lot to do with things that go bump in the night. I wove a story around it, and it ran to around 7,000 words, which was fine. I then had to search for a suitable magazine that dealt with ghoulies and ghosties.

I found one, and promptly submitted.

Guess what – it was accepted. Elation followed! My first published piece. Of course, I didn´t get paid, but who cared about that? Certainly not me. Nothing could stop me now.

Next thing was, to get a magazine to take enough notice of me to want to hear my voice on a regular basis. I managed to secure such a little job writing for a local magazine, producing a 2000 word piece every month. And for this, I did get paid.

So, that was the first foray. Before that, of course, I had written a lot, but hadn´t really had the courage to send anything off. That first attempt with Jonathan Cape, and the rejection that followed, was sort of expected, but rejections always hurt, no matter how expected. And the time you spend waiting, waiting, forever waiting. Whoa. A current submission with Harper/Voyager reminds me of that. Over six months now I’ve been chewing my nails, and I’m almost down to the knuckles. I suppose that could be a good thing – not the nail chewing, the waiting; at least I haven’t been dismissed out of hand. It is still frustrating however.

I became a teacher late, having left school and not done very much. Going back to school was a revelation. One of the subjects I did was English Literature. The tutor said I had ‘an original style’, so that perked me up a bit. When I went to University, I was again complemented for ‘a particular flair for WRITING’ (their emphasis, not mine). Later, as I studied for an MA, the Professor said my style was ‘original, lively and engaging’. Perhaps I wasn’t going to miss my vocation this time.

I still had to find a good enough story to attempt to get published. It had to be something I believed in. And ‘Cold Hell in Darley Dene’ was. It was personal. Many of my books have been like that. Many of my books stem from ideas I had when I was younger. ‘The Well of Constant Despair’ for example came to me way back in the Seventies, but when I sat down to finally write it, I changed the location and placed it on Alderney, a tiny island in the Channel.

When my publisher suggested I might want to do a follow-up, my creative juices really came into their own. A follow-up became a trilogy. A ‘trilogy of terror’ ( a graphic for this on the ‘About Me’ page here)that I am actually quite proud of.

As I sit here and write this, my latest book has been published. ‘Roadkill’ is an adult tale of terror, but not of the supernatural kind. It is all too real. It is available on all the Amazon sites, and in paperback as well as Kindle. I think it is my best yet, and to answer some critics, no IT IS NOT SELF-PUBLISHED. I have never self-published, and have always sought out publishers who will produce good, worthy books. I believe ‘Roadkill’ is such a book. The story simply flowed out of me, and as I always follow a rough plan, I knew where it was heading. But as I wrote, more and more things came to me and the narrative simply blossomed. Even the ending changed. The editing process was long, and meticulous. The result is a great read, which anyone who enjoys contemporary thrillers will enjoy.

More thoughts next time, and if in the meantime you want to learn a little more about me, hit the ‘ABOUT ME’ tab where you´ll find links to my web-sites.

Thanks for dropping by, and carry on reading.

Adventures in writing – a personal journey by Stuart G Yates: submitting my work, part 2.

Thinking back to those years, long, long ago when I would bash away on my old Olivetti (actually, to be absolutely accurate, my brother’s Olivetti!) it brings a smile to my face as I compare the process I go through now. In those days, the idea of ‘editors’, proof-readers, etc just simply didn’t exist. Or, if they did, I had no knowledge of them. My only ‘proof-reader’ was a friend of mine. Sitting hour after hour and dreaming up scenes, I would then pass them over to her, and she would make useful comments, always encouraging me, and eventually I would arrive at a piece of work that was half-descent. The rewrites were a nightmare. Remember, personal computers of any kind were another decade away, so it was simply a case of using the typewriter once again, to restructure, alter, delete and add.

It took forever.

So, as I began work on my next book, I enlisted the services of a typist.

However, this wasn’t until much later. When I began university, naturally part of my studies required me to submit theses. They had to be professionally produced. The amazing Amstrad word-processors had just come out but, being a poor student, I could not afford one. A typist was cheaper, and she did a great job. She had one of those electronic golf-ball thingies, and I would stand in her study, waiting to pick up my long-essay, and drool over that most beautiful of machines.

Talking to her one day, I drummed up the courage to ask her if she’d be willing to prepare parts of my novel. She seemed happy enough, so I delivered the first three chapters. Even in those days, submissions to publishers and agents required the first three chapters, packed away in a padded envelope and sent by recorded delivery.

So, armed with said words, I dropped them off and waited.

I’m still waiting.

I think that perhaps she found the language a little too coarse. Who knows? Perhaps it was too violent, gritty, real. I never saw those chapters and they could well be sitting on her desk right now.

Contrast with today. I finished a novel, Roadkill recently and after I’d gone through it a number of times, used ‘Autocrit’ to good effect, I submitted it and it was accepted. Then I began work on the editing process with the publishers. This was a long process, going through every line, checking, rewriting, sometimes arguing over some things. In the end, even going through the cover, I am left with a book that I am justly proud.

A contemporary thriller, Roadkill is about a somewhat warped individual who lives a dull, pointless life on Bodmin Moor in Cornwall. One evening, whilst driving home from work, Ralph hits a deer by accident. When he gets out of his car, he sees it is dead. He takes it home and cooks it, serves it to his wife, and she loves it. Naturally, he doesn’t tell her how he came by it, but something changes inside. So begins his gradual spiral into madness. He has always been a little ‘unhinged’ but this random event totally rips the last vestiges of sanity apart. He begins to take ‘road kill’ from the highway, brings that home too, and prepares it all for the pot. When his wife begins to suspect, she is sickened, refuses to partake anymore of this ‘free bounty’. When there is a road accident on the same highway, and a woman manages to drag herself free, Ralph kills her and takes her back to…Yes, you’ve guessed it.

What happens to Ralph as he plunges into insanity, you’ll have to find out by buying the book. It will very shortly be available on all devices, and in paperback. If you like thrillers, murders, modern-day horrors, then you’ll love this.

I wonder how it would have fared back then, created on my Olivetti. Who knows, it may have made it. Or, it may simply have remained on that woman’s desk, gathering dust along with my earlier effort. My hope is that many, many people pick it up and read it. Perhaps, even that typist!

Please visit my blog to find out more about what I do, with details of where to find my books:

www.stuartgyates.com

Thanks for dropping by, and keep reading.

The Stories of Don Luis, chapter 2…by Stuart G Yates

Here is the second chapter of the newly revised ‘Stories of Don Luis, Part one, Ogre’s Lament’. I am hoping to submit this book when it is finally re-done, and all the tiny inconsistencies have been removed. It is, as they say, a ‘work in progress’. I hope you’ll enjoy it and please feel free to comment.

 

A soldier

Luis first spotted the man as he rode into the village square. A soldier, sword at his hip, pistols in their holsters, breastplate protecting chest. He wore no helmet, instead a large, floppy hat, which cast his face in deep shadow. A bright red feather took all of Luis’ attention, as the man’s features, masked by the wide brim, and a thick tangle of black beard, were difficult to work out. Except for the eyes, burning with an intensity Luis had seldom seen before. Dust covered the soldier like an extra coat, his poor steed stumbling forward to the drinking trough. They had obviously ridden for many miles, in the searing, unrelenting heat. The horse dipped its head and drank. Luis, with only two more bundles left to deliver, sat down on the fountain steps next to the animal whilst studying the man keenly.

The soldier dismounted, stretched and sighed loudly. He pulled a bandana from around his neck, dipped it into the water beside his still drinking horse, and washed himself, running the soaked bandana over his face before pressing the material into his mouth. He dabbed his lips, stopped and noticed Luis as if for the first time, his eyes narrowing. Luis stiffened, a tiny thrill of fear running through him. The man’s look seemed dark and terrible, as did the rest of him. A soldier, quick to judge, violence never far from the blade of his sword. Luis quickly averted his face and went to move away.

“Boy, wait there.”

Luis froze, the gruff voice sharp, used to giving orders and no doubt expecting compliance. The man stepped closer, his air of supreme confidence unsettling.

“Where is everyone?”

Luis blinked. “Er…it is only early, sir. Most people will still be in their beds.”

“Bah…peasants.” He looked around, as if he were trying to find something that would prove the lie of Luis’s words. Nothing else moved in the square. They were quite alone. The soldier exhaled and slumped down on the stone bench next to the fountain, coat and trousers creaking as he bent limbs. He motioned Luis to join him. For a moment he hesitated. “I don’t bite, boy.”

Luis forced a smile, and sat down. The tangy mix of stale sweat and aged, cracked leather invaded his nostrils, and something else. Something he knew, had smelled many times before; the acrid stench of decay.

“What’s your name, boy?”

“Luis, sir. Luis Sanchez.”

The man cocked an eyebrow as he scanned Luis, from head to foot. Luis felt his stare and grew uncomfortable, edging away from him slightly. “You wear your hair long, like a girl,” said the man, turning away to rifle inside a little pouch at his hip. “You must be a page, or a scholar perhaps.”

Luis studied the man filling a white bone pipe with tobacco taken from the pouch. Once before had he seen this. The mayor often smoked a pipe, the only man in the village to do so. Tobacco was rare and expensive, brought in from the Americas. Luis knew where that was. He had pored over maps at his school and would often spend hours daydreaming of adventures in far off lands, of voyages across vast, open seas, of mountains and valleys and—

“Are you listening to me?”

Luis snapped his head around, blinking rapidly. The man’s eyes burned with anger and the atmosphere became charged with danger. Luis held up his hand, alarmed. “I’m sorry, sir. I was thinking, and I meant no disrespect.” He tried a smile, but the man’s expression did not change.

“Thinking about what?”

Swallowing hard, Luis pointed towards the pipe. “Tobacco. Our mayor, he has a pipe. Rare things. Expensive.”

“Expensive…” The man’s voice drifted away and he sat back, closed his eyes and sucked on his pipe. His mouth made tiny popping sounds and smoke trailed white into the air.

The relief was palpable, the moment of danger past. Nevertheless, Luis remained upright, anxious not to allow his imaginings to return and so receive another sharp rebuke. So he sat and he waited, whilst the soldier quietly puffed away.

They remained like that for some time, neither speaking nor moving. Luis concentrated on his heartbeat, struggling to keep it steady. He had an urge to run, but he overcame it, grinding his teeth, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the soldier as the man’s lips popped around the stem of the pipe.

The horse shook its head and abruptly, the soldier stood up. He knocked out the old tobacco against the fountain step, then stuffed the pipe back inside the pouch. “A tavern.”

“Excuse me?”

“Is a tavern close by, where I can find refreshment? Stable my horse?”

Looking up at him, Luis marvelled at the man’s size. The buff leather coat strained across wide shoulders, arms thick and strong, legs, like coiled springs of steel, stuffed inside long riding boots. Sheer strength oozed from every pore. Even Fernando, the village blacksmith, couldn’t compare with this man. A soldier. What stories he must have, what tales to tell. The things he’d seen, the places he had visited.

“Have you never seen a soldier before boy?”

Luis shook his head, and for a moment allowed his imagination to wander, pictures of distant castles, endless forests, rivers of silver, invading his mind, sending him far away.

A crack of laughter shattered his imaginings. He gasped and held his breath, waiting for the reprimand. But this time the man did not seem vexed, merely curious. Luis let out a slow sigh of relief. “No, sir, I’ve never seen a soldier. Never.”

“So none have ever passed this way?”

“None.”

“Are you certain?”

Luis nodded. The man seemed satisfied, pulled in a breath and adjusted his belt. “So…tavern?”

“Filipe runs an inn, sir. Up the main road,” Luis stood and pointed towards the hill that ran from the square. “Just after the bridge. You can’t miss it. Or the mayor, he sometimes lets out rooms I believe.”

A moment of tension returned, the man’s shoulders tightening. “Filipe’s will suffice.” He took up the reins and lifted himself into the saddle. The horse stamped at the ground, annoyed to be moving so soon.

Luis patted the horse’s neck. It nuzzled into him and he stroked its soft nose. “You have come a long way.”

The soldier studied Luis intensely. “You’re not just a country bumpkin, boy. I can see that. You are a scholar, then?”

“Yes, sir. I like to think of myself as such.”

“Peasants are ignorant, stupid. Dangerous. But you…you are different. And that, my friend,” he struck the horse’s flanks and began to move away, “makes you even more dangerous. We shall meet again, Luis Sanchez. Farewell…and thank you.”

Luis stood still, contemplating the man’s words. Different…Yes, he was different; he knew that much, the other children of the village reminded him of it every day. But the soldier meant something more, a difference which ‘…makes you even more dangerous.’ Those words, curious, making no kind of sense to Luis at all. How could he, little Luis, be dangerous? If anyone was dangerous, it was he – the soldier. He had an air about him of barely contained fury, as if he struggled constantly to keep it at bay. Violence was his companion, his friend, his constant. And now he was here, in Riodelgado. But why? That was the biggest question of them all.

 

If this has sparked a tiny interest in what I do, please visit my website at www.stuartgyates.com where you can find out how to buy my books. Thanks for stopping by, and keep reading!

Adventures in Writing – a personal journey by Stuart G Yates. My first submitted work part 1.

I always knew I had more than one book in me. Even in those very early days, when I had no real plan in my mind, nothing to direct me towards submitting, all I did was write. Every spare moment I had.

In the early Seventies, I left school with hardly any qualifications to speak of. English, because I was good with words, but I hated school and hadn’t done well. I wanted it all to become nothing more than a very distant memory.

My first job proved to be almost as dreadful as school. The one difference being that at least in school I had weekends off. Well, not anymore. I worked Saturdays, which I loathed. When it finally became too much, and my health began to suffer, I left and tried to rethink my goals. Naturally, I wrote. I developed a story, a science fantasy. When I managed to find another job, with Wirral Borough Council, a good friend of mine helped me by reading my work. This was really the first time anyone had taken any notice, and their encouragement was such a boost for me.

Needless to say, after around 60,000 words, I put it away and forgot all about it. By now I was in that wonderful place where most us go to, a life full of optimism, listening to Leonard Cohen, seeing wonder in everything, and travelling around Europe and the Middle East.

My experiences in Israel led me to writing my first submitted book. I slaved over it, night and day, trying my level best to create something which people might actually want to read. Entitled, ‘So Where’s the Milk and Honey?’ I posted it off to Jonathan Cape (you did that sort of thing in those days) and waited, and waited, and waited.

Inevitably, the rejection slip arrived, but one of the most considerate and inspiring rejections I’ve received. Yes, that’s right – inspiring. I still have it somewhere, telling me not to give up, to continue to write, to submit again.

Of course, the problem was, what to write next?

We all have influences, writers we admire, attempt to emulate. I had a whole range of such authors, ranging from Ian Fleming through to Thomas Hardy. As many different styles as you could imagine. Nevertheless, my own style was emerging. I knew what I could write well about, and also what I couldn’t. The greatest lessons I learned were the pacing of stories, and the building up of tension. I achieved this by observing, listening to people’s conversations, watching how people reacted to situations and, perhaps most importantly, living a life. I don’t see how you can write about things if you haven’t experienced them. In Israel I’d witnessed a few things that made my toes curl, met some seriously scary people. Fortunately, I became friendly with them, and I learned a lot about myself back then. Returning to Merseyside, experiences continued. When you’re facing a six foot six karate expert telling you he is going to ‘fold you up like a piece of paper’ it does things to you. I studied karate, met some very interesting characters. They tend to appear in my books nowadays, perhaps more than once!

I was still bashing away with my Olivetti. Copious carbon copies, constant rewrites. The ‘Writers and Artists Yearbook’ now became my bible, and I read voraciously. Soon I was scribbling down scenes on any piece of paper I found lying around. But I was still unpublished, and the learning curve continued to be a sharp one.

It was around 1980 when, out of work again, I decided to bite the bullet and get one of my books seriously ready for submission. That meant writing and re-writing, studying every sentence, and then, with all those crossings out and scribbled notes in the margin, I employed a professional typist to prepare the manuscript.

And the outcome…well…let’s wait and see!

 

You can find out more about me, and my published work, by visiting my websites. Almost all of my books are available on Kindle now, and the prices are looking good.

For Young Adult paranormal mysteries, go to www.glennstuart.co.uk

And for more adult orientated work, please visit www.stuartgyates.com.

I hope you find something there to take your fancy.

Thanks for dropping by, and keep reading!

 

Adventures in writing – a personal view by Stuart G Yates. My first novel.

I wrote my first novel at the age of thirteen. Before that, when I attended Gorsedale Middle School, I remember Mr Davis being impressed with a poem I had written. He included it in a school anthology, and I drew a picture to go with it. I felt so honoured and thrilled to have my name in print for the first time in my life. It is a feeling that has never waned, but it isn’t the driving force. Creating is.

Mr Davis was a great teacher. He taught English, with such a love of words, drama, that you could not help but become infected by his enthusiasm. He was a good man too, with always time to listen and help. On more than one occasion he would bring me to school when it rained, as I stood huddled up like a drowned rat waiting for the bus. My favourite teacher. I don’t where he is, or if he is still alive, but I’d like to thank him. He made Gorsedale bearable, which was difficult because it was one hell of a place!

The publication of that poem, I suppose you could say was the first recognition of myself as a writer. Not something I thought of seriously, you understand. A lot of us do such things, especially at school. For me, however, it lit a tiny flame that has burned away ever since.

I’m not sure why I wrote the novel I did. I had been a fan of ‘Callan’ for many years, and I still am. I remember last year buying the boxed-set of DVDs from the late 60s, the very first series, grainy black and white. Such a wonderful programme, Edward Woodward and Russell Hunter, such consummate actors. Well, that was a sort of catalyst, watching that show every Wednesday. I sat down and began to write a spy thriller. I wanted to capture that spirit of down-trodedness (is there such a word? Well, there should be!) which was so prevalent in ‘Callan’; that alternative spy, somewhat in the way ‘The Spy Who Came in from the Cold’ imbued. As unlike James Bond as you can imagine.

In those days – we’re talking 1970 – novels were generally much shorter than they are now. Again, look at those James Bond books. Casino Royale is what, 50,000 words? Something like that. Agatha Christie’s are around the same. I was reading a lot of John Creasy and Leslie Charteris back then, and all of them pitched in at around the 40,000 mark. So, with that in mind, I plotted my thriller, with a guy called Smellows as the hero. What a name! My God, why did I choose that? Bond, Callan, Leamas…Smellows?

OK, enough of that. I laboured long and hard over that book. I remember going to ‘Bookland’ in my hometown of Wallasey, buying the paper. I typed it out on my brother’s Olivetti. Looking back, I was a total idiot, not having a clue how to format the page, not evening putting in a carbon paper to make a copy. I used masking fluid, then later those little papers you could get that you put under the typing keys to erase a mistake. It took weeks. And at the end of every day I would recalculate how many words I had got down. I would check and recheck novels from my bookcase, calculate the word length, saying to myself, ‘OK, maybe I could get down 35,000 instead of 40?’ I became obsessed I suppose.

Today, isn’t it so much easier? We all have microprocessors, we can edit as we go, use the spelling checker, etc. Then, it really was hard graft. But I did it. I wrote 45,000 words in the end, neatly packed single-spaced on 120 pages. That caused me some concern, as all of my novels on my shelf were around 180 pages long. But I kept reassuring myself that I had more words per line. It was going to be all right. I had actually completed a novel.

So, what did I do with it?

I put it away in a drawer, neatly inside a card folder. And there it stayed. Forever. I never submitted it, I don’t think I even re-read it. And not many people know it even exists. In fact, come to think about it, I don’t think anyone knows it exists.

Do I care? Not really. I read and read and read all about people putting out their books on Kindle, or wherever, spouting off about getting the book out there, getting it sold, making money…I’m sorry, but I simply don’t care. I write for the sheer love of creating. Once you start down the road of thinking you’re going to make money, I think you’ve lost it. Lost the reason. Genesis said it in ‘Duke’. ‘Too much thinking about the people, and what they might want’. Write what YOU want, not what others demand. Write not for profit, but to create. I’ve written 32 books. Are they all in print? No. And some of them never will be. Not because I don’t think they’re worthy, but because I’m always looking to my next book. Once one is written, re-drafted, polished, it is forgotten. I move on. Does that make me a fool? I don’t know, and I don’t care. I write and I love it.

 

Despite the above, I have published a fair few, and continue to write with publishing in mind. Why not visit my websites and have a look at what I do. www.glennstuart.co.uk for Young Adult paranormal mysteries, and www.stuartgyates.com for more adult orientated stories. I am working on a historical novel right now, with a publisher, and I think it is going to be pretty good, so please keep calling back to catch up with all the latest.

Thanks for dropping by, and keep reading.

 

 

 

 

 

The Stories of Don Luis – Part One, by Stuart G Yates

The Stories of Don Luis

By

Stuart G Yates

Introduction

Not so very far from the coast of southern Spain, in a little inland village, I first heard the stories of Don Luis.

Riodelgado is a typical Andalucían village, like hundreds of others dotted amongst the soaring mountains. Whitewashed houses huddle together amongst the steep, silent streets, sweltering in the summer, freezing in the brief winter. The people are cheery and live uncomplicated lives. Here the tradition of storytelling still thrives; vivid, colourful tales full of daring-do, enchanted castles and maids to be rescued. Simple, old-fashioned and charming.

Except for the stories of Don Luis.

Here are tales with fire in their belly, grim and cautionary. How a young boy is transformed…but into what, you will have to wait and see.

I’ve met Don Luis, you see. So I know. In fact, we’ve all met him, at some stage in our lives. And what did we do when we laid eyes on him, even from afar? Did we ignore him, or give him just a moment’s thought? How many of us stopped to ask ourselves what we would do if we were like him? How many of us even cared?

Let us find out; and in the telling, perhaps we might just discover a little bit more about ourselves. We will certainly discover a lot more about Don Luis…

PART ONE

OGRE’S LAMENT

A village

The morning began much as any other, but many remembered this day as the last one of normality before death came to visit the silent streets. From afar, the old clock chimed out the hour as it always did, the peel of its bell cutting through the still air, shattering the quiet, but only briefly. Locals said the mechanism had come from Germany, or Italy. Nobody knew for certain and nobody really cared so long as it worked.

Luis Sanchez stepped out into the bright sunshine and took in a breath. Another beautiful day. For a moment, the sun shone within him and he hoped today might be a good day. His mood, however, soon changed. Thoughts turned to his mother lying in bed dying, his tiny sister Constanza sitting on the damp earthen floor, playing with the little wooden doll Luis had fashioned for her out of an old twig. The images brought a sad, resigned smile to his lips. If only he could do more for them. If only he were older, bigger, stronger, able to find a descent, full-time job and bring in more money. He sighed, shoulders dropping, and resigned himself to the fact that right now, the only thing he could ever do was go to Señor Garcia’s bakery to pick up the bread for the early-morning deliveries, and get through. What followed soon afterwards would be worse, and he knew that. The trek to school to face the baying of the children from the village. Home by two, sweeping out the house, making the meals, reading Constanza a story before bed. Always the constant round of monotony and despair.

The sunshine inside faded, despite the heat still burning his face. The day would be neither good nor indifferent, merely the same as every other.

Señor Garcia welcomed Luis with his usual growl. Already the bread lay on the table, bundled up for the various customers whose orders never changed. Luis knew them all by now, so no need for the list. Señor Garcia marvelled at this revelation when Luis first appeared at his doorstep not so many mornings ago, his eager face peering around the door entrance.

“I can help you with your deliveries, Señor Garcia,” Luis had said, flashing his best smile.

Garcia paused from kneading the bread and frowned. “Why would I want you to do that?”

Luis stepped inside, waved his hand over the flour, water, waiting masses of soft, sticky dough. “Because you’re a busy man and I’ve been watching you working hard, making your bread. After it’s baked, you have to rush out and get the deliveries done before your next batch of bread burns. I could help.”

“With the deliveries?” Garcia shook his head. “I’d have to pay you.”

Luis had shrugged. “Yes, but maybe the money you give me would not be as much as the money lost from all that wasted bread, burnt whilst you rush around. ”

Garcia thought about the reasonableness of this. He turned down the corners of his mouth, and appeared unconvinced. “You’d have to remember all the customers, where they lived. It would take months. I’ve been doing this for half a lifetime and I still manage to get some of them mixed up. I’d lose too much money. I’m sorry.” He picked up a large handful of dough and slapped it down on the worktop, kneading it with those thick, strong fingers of his.

“I’ll write them down,” said Luis, stepping closer, wafting his hand through the great cloud of flour pluming up around the baker’s hands. The baker had stopped, mouth open, stunned. Luis smiled when he saw the look of total incredulity on Garcia’s face. “Yes, I can read and write, Señor Garcia.”

Garcia put his hands on his hips and shook his head slowly. For the first and only time that Luis remembered, the man smiled. “Well, if the good Lord has seen fit to bless you with such a gift, then I don’t see how I can deny you! You can start tomorrow, at six.”

And so, every morning for the past three months, Luis had done just that. This morning was no different.

Without a word, he gathered up the bundles of bread as Garcia worked away at more dough. Luis stepped out into the street to begin his rounds.

Despite the early hour, the Sun beat down with relentless intensity. Summertime in the village was often unbearable. Riodelgado sat in a little valley, surrounded by the steep sides of the mountains, the heat funnelling downwards, hugging the streets, never managing to escape. The residents cooked in this natural oven and they grumbled and groaned constantly. No one liked the heat. They retreated into their dark, cramped homes, like so many tiny, nervous animals escaping from the danger of predators. They waited for the cool of the night to arrive before venturing outside again, to sit and talk. And talk. Constant talking.

Luis sauntered through the streets, placing a bundle of bread inside each customer’s open door. Not everyone ordered bread; some did not have the money, others made their own. Times, however, were hard, the lack of rain turning the ground iron-hard, crops unable to flourish. Coupled with this, news of the War filtered through every now and then, causing fear and concern amongst the villagers, numbing appetites. Recently things were not going well for the Spanish. Once, many years before Luis had been born, stories weretold of Spain defeating the heretics in the far north. But then the Swedes came, followed by the French who joined with these Protestant upstarts to oppose the Imperialist cause. The forces of Spain soon became hard-pressed. Luis, when he heard the news from a one-eyed itinerant tradesman called Pablo, didn’t believe the man’s words at first. “But France is of the true religion,” he’d blurted out.

Pablo had frowned, a gesture which made his single eye look quite terrifying. “How do you know anything about France?”

“I read it. “

“You read it…?” Pablo had shaken his head. “What is the world coming to when a mere child can read…”

“It’s true though, Señor Pablo. How can the Catholic French fight alongside the Swedes, who are Protestants?”

Pablo shook his head again, much more sadly this time. They sat by the dried riverbed, under the shade of the orange trees, not far from the tiny bridge. When he spoke again, Pablo’s voice sounded resigned, almost sad. “Like everything else in this mad world, it’s a mystery. Protestants fighting alongside Catholics, against other Catholics! Death is everywhere. I see so many horrors in my travels, and I hear tales of so many dreadful, inhuman things done to others. Things done in the name of religion, in the name of God.” He shook his head. “We are in the end-of-days young Master Luis, the end-of-days.”

Nevertheless, despite the War spreading, the tiny village of Riodelgado remained untouched by the scourges in the north. No soldiers ever came and the village carried on the way it always had, boiling in the summer, freezing in the brief winter.

A village like a hundred others in the mountains of Andalucía.

Until, one day, a soldier did come.

 

I hope you enjoyed this first instalment of ‘The Stories of Don Luis’ and will call again soon for the next part.

Visit my website for news and information about my work: http://www.stuartgyates.com

Thanks for reading.

Adventures in Writing – a personal view by Stuart G Yates…the thrill of the blank page.

I still wake up at the weekends with that buzz rushing through me. I’m going to fill a blank piece of paper with something which has never existed before. I’ll never get used to the feeling.

During my second bout of unemployment, before I became a rent-collector for the local council, I’d lock myself away in my room, turn on the turntable and listen to Tangerine Dream – or even a spot of Beethoven – pull out the Olivetti and create new worlds. In those distant days, deeply immersed in Lord of the Rings as I was, fantasy took a hold of me, something I could not shake loose. I sketched out a story, worked out the characters (I even painted some of them!), scenes, etc. Writing it became a joy, a thrill. I disappeared into that world for the entire day, every day.

The ‘Trilogy of Terror’ pitting Robbie and Max against Sumarian demons and their human acolytes.
I loved writing these.

I’ve always been this way. When I was first published, as Glenn Stuart, those fantasy tales were finally out there. Today, that thrill continues to hold me tight.

Now, I write at weekends and holidays. If I ever find myself in the fortunate position of having been accepted by a publisher, I’ll work on the re-writes in the evening as well. I’m doing that at the moment. I’m working on the re-writes of my next novel, ‘Varangian’ which pits the Viking Harald Hardrada against all and sundry. The editor is astute, sharp and totally supportive. I couldn’t ask for anything more. Given that, however, it is my free time that I look forward to most.

The problem with writing is, of course, time. It simply disappears, to the detriment of everything else. Living in Spain, the shops close at 2pm, and do not open again until around 6pm. I often forget, writing through until 2.30 sometimes. Then I remember I’ve got no milk, or something equally necessary. One of the reasons why I hanker after returning to the UK. A little touch of normality. I don’t care about the rain; I don’t notice it. I’m inside my book. The ‘real world’ can wait.

What I’m coming to is the idea of writing being simply JOY. I love it. I’m not sure what I would do if I didn’t write. Become very miserable, that’s for sure. But the creating of new worlds, that is what thrills me. All those made-up conversations, the ranting, the raving, the soft, sweet caresses, then other aspects – the  bark of gunfire, the slash of the blade, my world is whatever I want it to be. I’m very lucky to have a fertile imagination. I’m even luckier in having the ability to string words together in something akin to comprehensibility (try typing that on an Olivetti!). I only wish I could do it for longer; or that the time would go more slowly.

I’ve got so much to do, you see. That’s the problem. Four novels to rewrite, and two more to write. But, do you know what…I wouldn’t have it any other way.

My work can be found on my two websites – for young adult paranormal mysteries (3 of which are set on the Wirral) visit www.glennstuart.co.uk

For adult thrillers visit: www.stuartgyates.com

Thanks for dropping by and see you soon.

Adventures in writing – a personal view by Stuart G Yates: setting the scene.

I’ve opened up a can of worms with my reflections on marketing, and comments that have followed via Facebook and Linked-in have certainly polarised opinion. At the end of the day, I’m not interested in busting my guts to promote my work. If people like what I do, then that is fantastic. Slowly, more people are reading my work, but it is VERY slowly. I write in two genres – Young Adult paranormal mysteries, and adult thrillers (some of which are historical) – so I have a broad ‘fan base’. However, it is no guarantee for success. Then again, what is?

OK, enough with all that. I’m not here to wax lyrical about the pros and cons of how to become a best-selling author.

What I am here for is to give some insight into the author’s life.

Or, at least mine.

I grew up on Merseyside , and I bring a lot of that into my books. Some of them are set on Merseyside, and this must be true of most writers surely? They have their memories, experiences, and they can draw on them to bring their stories to life. To infuse them with authenticity.

The weekends began on Thursday. Down we’d go, the whole lot of us, to a seedy little pub at the bottom of Victoria Street. We’d set up Pool in the upstairs bar, and spend the evening there, drinking, laughing, and generally letting the world pass us by for a few short, yet wonderful hours. When I wrote ‘Splintered Ice’, I set a scene in that bar, right next to the Pool tables. Indeed, the hero, Jed, went to my old school, Goresdale. It has long since disappeared. I’ll never forget the feeling that hit me when I learned the news. Total disbelief. I reeled, as if part of my inner being had been ripped out of me. So, Jed went there too, gets expelled after a fiery meeting with the Head teacher, Mr Phillips. Just the mention of his name sends the shivers running through me. That man was hard. I mean, granite. He had to be. Goresdale was one of the hardest schools on Merseyside, and I have vivid memories of the science teacher putting one of the older boys in a head-lock as he wrestled him down the corridor, of the woodwork teacher canning a boy so hard across the hand that the cane broke. Vicious, uncompromising. Happy days.

So, what I’m trying to get to is, the writer is honed by his past. By the experiences that made him. I’m a historian, studied the subject at university, and now teach it.  I research the background for my novels, and I’m especially interested in military engagements, which is why my books always have plenty of battles, skirmishes and the like. I wargamed for many, many years. Model soldiers arrayed on tables festooned with scenery, buildings, roads and rivers. I loved everything about it – collecting the figures, researching the uniforms, painting them, applying the tactics, the whole lot. When I write of battles, I bring all that to bear, because, of course, I’ve done a mountain of reading. I’ve never been in a battle, thank God, and no one alive has ever experienced the hell of medieval combat. But we can delve into our knowledge, read the many first-person accounts and, sometimes, our memories and rustle up something like reality.

Friday would see us at the Chelsea Reach, and afterwards a visit to ‘Rani’s’, the nearby Indian restaurant. A vivid memory of a barroom brawl, of some idiot causing trouble, spouting off the usual racist rubbish. Well, my best friend told them what he thought of these fascist prigs, and we ended up jabbing and hooking. Great days. I’ve used that, and a whole host of other altercations, to good effect in my books.

 
My thriller, ‘Splintered Ice’, a tense and dramatic story of deception, love and murder.

‘Splintered Ice’ finds the hero pulling out a stranger from the fishing lake at Central Park, Wallasey. Then, they both convalesce at Victoria Central Hospital. All of these local places bring alive the scenes, and when I wrote it, everything came back to me. All those years, those experiences. I loved it so much I decided right there to write other stories involving the same characters. That’s what I love about writing. The escape. There really is nothing else like it.

You can read more about my work, and where to buy my books, on my websites:

www.stuartgyates.com which is where you can find ‘Splintered Ice’, set on Merseyside.

www.glennstuart.co.uk where you can find ‘Cold Hell in Darley Dene’ and ‘The Pawnbroker’, both set on the Wirral.

I hope you find something of interest there. Thanks for dropping by, and keep reading!

Adventures in writing – a personal view by Stuart G Yates: how do I get known?

There are so many authors out there now, it’s like a world gone mad. I feel sorry for the poor reader, avid or not. How are they supposed to choose who and what to read? It’s something I’ve been trying to think about a lot.

How do I make my choices?

It’s difficult for me right now. Living in Spain, I have little opportunity to visit a bookshop. An English one, I mean. We used to have one where I live, but it has closed. They even stocked my books for a while, but now the whole venture has disappeared – along with my books! I’ll never get them back, nor will I get anything from the company. I’m not even sure if they exist. But I wander from the point (which isn’t uncommon for me!).

So…how do I choose a book?

Sometimes, it’s by the only really credible way – recommendation. A friend reads something, they pass on a copy to you. You like it, you then go out and buy another by the author. We all do this, and it’s a great way of discovering new books. Then there are recommendations in magazines, newspapers and, of course, Amazon. I like the way they link similar themes together, so if you put in a search for a well-known author you could end up buying a book by someone totally different. I read the reviews and take the plunge. This is how I came to Simon Scarrow, and his wonderful Roman Empire novels.

We might come to them via films – this was how I ‘discovered’ James Bond, or TV, which is how I came to Ian Rankin and ‘Rebus’. There are so many different ways, more than I’ve listed, but isn’t the best one simply going into a bookshop and sifting through all those lovely, freshly printed volumes? At a visit to ‘Waterstones’ I saw a staff-recommendation for a book, priced at only £1 as an introduction to an author. This was about ten years ago, and the author was Henning Mankell, and what a find he turned out to be.

Of course, as an author, I have another problem. How do I get people to pick up my books? Being with indie publishers, I have to do the marketing myself, which is a total pain I can tell you. I’d much rather be writing. Somehow, you do feel the pressure, even sitting alone with just your word-processor for a companion, to try and promote. Panic, frustration, they all gnaw away at you. How many times have I taken a break, popped over to Facebook and become dragged into to replying and commenting on posts? And as I do this, I become increasingly agitated by the armies of authors I see on there, shouting out about how brilliant their latest book is. So many now are wound up by the need to be published and to find success. Success, which means, sales. I look at their posts and I’ve now got to the stage where I simply scroll by, not even giving them so much as a glance. Unless it is by an established author. Then I might stop, and read. I did this actually. I tried to find some top authors on Facebook. John Harvey, for example. If you like thrillers, you’ll know who he is. He hasn’t got a Facebook page. The aforesaid Ian Rankin, he has, but I’m not at all sure if he writes it. The same goes for Lee Childs…is it him?

Some authors, like Simon Kernick, Harlan Coben and Michael Jecks often post something. Michael even tells us about his walks over the moors, which is fantastic. I love this approach, which is so unassuming, so personal and nothing to do with his books (which are great by the way). Natural. There are others, however, who simply use Facebook to declare their brilliance, or their particular bigotries. These latter ones happen to be also so-called sock-puppeteers and I no longer have them as ‘friends’ or, more importantly, buy their books.

As for me, I’ve had enough. I’m so disillusioned by all this social-networking rubbish that I’ve decided I’m pretty much going to turn my back on it. I’ve just read a blog by Bernard Cornwell. It’s like a breath of fresh air and reaffirms what I’ve always known – write a good story. The rest of it is nonsense. All these marketing tips may well be very good, but if your story sucks, what is the point?

There is a whole world out there full of hard-nosed profiteers who will take your money and promise you the earth, with interviews, author pages, guest blogs. There’s one right now, on Facebook, advertising ‘How to become a best-selling author’, or words to that effect. Another ‘Make your book sell…find out how to become the next Stephen King’. These books cost 4.99. Great, pay the money, and discover what? The magic formula? I think not.

There are thousands of ‘friends’ who LIKE your book but never ever buy it. They take your free-promos, but they never have the time to write a review. I’m sick of it, there has to be another way to get yourself known, and I wish I knew what it was.

So, what do you do as somebody who wants to write? I’ll tell you my own experience, after doing this since the mid-70s, with 14 books published and 2 more due out this year. You get a job. You earn money. And you write in the evenings, or the weekends, or during your holidays. You write because you love it, because you have the urge to create. And when you’ve written a good story, you write another one. And you don’t stop, because it is what you do. You may never make any money, you may be rejected a thousand times by every agent on the planet, but you don’t care, because for you the writing is all.

That’s it. No big secret. I write, I re-draft (about 3 times), I get it proof-read, I then submit. I’ll no longer go to small independents, and I’ll not self-publish. If an agent one day likes something of mine, I will crack open the champagne and rejoice. But until that day, I no longer have any desire to shout my wares from the rooftop on Facebook. If people buy my books, that is because they like the sound of the story. And that’s good enough for me.

Here’s some timely advice about finding an agent: http://writingteennovels.com/2013/03/21/finding-a-good-literary-agent-for-your-novels-by-paul-volponi/

Visit my websites to find out a little more about me, with links to my books: www.stuartgyates.com  and

www.glennstuart.co.uk

Thanks for dropping buy, and keep on reading. Here’s a selection of some of my books, with links.