Stuart G. Yates's Blog, page 7

Adventures in writing part 20 – a personal view by Stuart G Yates

It’s been some weeks since I’ve written anything.

Lots of reasons for this, but I suppose the main one was an almost total rejection of social media as a means to promote. It had been brewing up inside me for quite some time. The endless stream of writers, editors, interviewers, all of them spouting off about how great they were, how much the world owed them, and I knew, right then, right there, that I would never, ever buy any of their books. So, equally, why on earth would anyone ever buy my work? They hit the ‘like’ button, but nothing ever comes of it, so what is the point? There is none, and that is the point!

I’m not gregarious, not at all out-going. I prefer to sit in the corner, smile politely, self-effacing, quiet, ‘humble as the dust’ as the Taoists say. I find it all so uncomfortable to pontificate over how sublime and life changing my words are. Because they’re not. I write to entertain. Novels. Thrillers. Escapism. That is my medium. I don’t shout from the roof-tops at how great I am, and I can’t stand people that do. So I’ve turned my back on Facebook. Twitter is better, because I don’t understand what people say, with all those weird hash-tags and Cyrillic looking web-site addresses. Better to live in ignorance. Someone told me that they were unhappy that I did not think FB worked, and that actually it took ‘a special type of person’ to achieve success. Thanks. And good to know you think of yourself as ‘special’.

Balls.

That’s the only word to describe it all really.

I remember in the early days, writers lived in a strange, self-contained world. Lonely, but happy.  I would sit in my room, my only friend the typewriter. I’d write all day, every day, and I’d create worlds that I slipped into, populated with characters that became my friends. They weren’t real, of course. Imagined, created by me. The only difference with Facebook ‘friends’ is that they are not created by me. They exist. But are they any more ‘real’ than those ones I penned all those years ago. Unless I’ve actually met them (and I actually know perhaps only one-third of my total number of friends on FB) how can I be sure? This is coming close to all those horror stories of stalkers, and ‘dirty old men’ who lure girls into meetings and ultimately attacks. The film ‘Hard Candy’ took this to its natural conclusion, and it makes for deeply uncomfortable viewing. So, it follows, that if these people are not ‘real’, why should we believe a single word they say?

There’s a lot of material here for a whole host of good, heart-stopping thrillers. Perhaps I’ll write one. Nobody will buy it, but at least I would have got it down on the page and out of my system.

I got a lovely message the other day, from someone who had read my thriller ‘Burnt Offerings’. They said if it had been a movie it would have been ‘one of the best gangster films’ he had ever seen. To say that lifted me was an understatement. There is more honesty and good grace in such words than anything spouted by the self-aggrandisement one sees constantly on FB. All it does is switch me off.

Of course, I probably will occasionally post something there, but nowhere near as much as I once did. I’m going to begin to hone down my ‘friends’ too, cull the ones I don’t know, or can’t stand. The ones I wouldn’t choose to know in real-life. There are better ways to get ones voice known. Writing novels is the best way, for me. And as more people pick up a book or two, and see what I do, then they’ll pick up another, tell a friend, and the word will get round. It may take a long, long time but I’m not here for instant fixes, or multi-million sales, I’m here to write.

Simple as.

 

Glenn Stuart’s latest paranormal thriller is available in paperback, and it’s the best thing I’ve done in that genre. Visit my website for details of where to buy it, and thanks for dropping by.

www.glennstuart.co.uk

 

 

Adventures in Writing – a personal journey by Stuart G Yates

Something happened to me the other day which has happened before, and will no doubt happen again.

The publisher of my novel ‘The Story of Don Luis’ folded.

This meant, of course, that the book came off the shelves at Amazon, B&N, Smashwords, etc,etc, and the rights reverted to me. The initial shock gave way to a kind of simmering optimism. I now had choices, real choices. Should I submit it again, to another publisher, or take the plunge and self-publish?

I’m still debating.

The thing is, I began to write a follow-up. I won’t use the word’ sequel’ because it isn’t. It is a stand-alone story about Don Luis getting himself involved with solving a murder. I’ve always wanted to write a ‘whodunit’ ever since my first outing when I was 12 and wrote one for my Nan (see an earlier blog of mine which details all of this). Well, I wouldn’t call this your typical Agatha Christie-type work, but it is something of a mystery. And I’m loving writing it. However, it hasn’t all been plain sailing.

There is a scene in the book in which the villain (there’s always got to be a villain, right?) shoots at Don Luis from a distance of over 200 paces. Now, this may not sound a lot, but actually it is. Try it and see. We’ve all seen Usain Bolt cover 100 metres in way under ten-seconds, but have you actually seen a 100 metre running track? Well, double it. That is long!

So, the problem I had was this: was there, in the Seventeenth Century , a musket capable of shooting someone over that distance. Naturally, I did the Internet surfing thing. I read about the Afghani Jezail, a beautifully carved musket of exquisite craftsmanship, with a range of over 250 paces! Success…or perhaps not. Because the Jezail was used in the 19th Century against the Brits during the Victorian Afghan Wars. Had it been around earlier than this? Well, I didn’t know. So I got in touch with the British Museum. They didn’t know. Then I contacted the Leeds Armouries, and they didn’t know, but they put me onto someone who might…but they didn’t. So, I was put onto someone else…and I’m still waiting.

This is what makes writing so exciting and interesting for me. It may start out as mere imagination, but fairly soon – if you have set your story in a historical period – the facts have to be checked out. I can’t wait to learn if this gun was around 350 years ago. If it was, then that is great…but what if it wasn’t? Well, I’ll have no choice but to do some serious re-writing!

 

You can visit my websites and discover more about my books and links to purchasing them.

For Stuart G Yates (thrillers and adult fiction) visit www.stuartgyates.com

For Glenn Stuart (for YA paranormal mysteries) visit: www.glennstuart.co.uk

Thanks for dropping by, and keep reading!

 

Adventures in writing – a personal journey by Stuart G Yates

The writer’s craft. This is something I’d like to touch upon. And one particular aspect. Descriptions.

I’m reading a book at the moment, by a very well known author. I shan’t say who it is, and I am not offering anything of what I say as a criticism, more of an observation as to how different writers work in different ways.

The book is interspersed between pages of sharp, stark dialogue, realistic and compelling, and lengthy descriptive passages of buildings, streets, highways. I found my attention, and my interest, waning as these pages became more and more laborious, and I wondered what they had to do with the story. Of course, we need some focus, some idea of setting, but to be informed of every minute detail, I found it tedious and I skipped whole pages, anxious to get back to the action. I confess I did wonder if all of it was simply to pad out the narrative, to fulfil the current credo that a thriller must be 80,000 words long. Perhaps, if all of those long, rambling passages were removed, we would be left with only sixty to sixty-five thousand words, and it wouldn’t look so thick on the shelf. When handing over our hard-earned cash, perhaps that is a consideration. Certainly it seems that way as far as publishers go.

I have read all of Cormac McCarthy’s work, and his descriptions are vivid, but not lengthy. You know exactly where you are, what the characters are seeing, and that enables you to become more immersed in their world. But none of this detracts from the story. I have never skimmed over McCarthy’s paragraphs.

The same can be said for Raymond Chandler, and Robert B Parker. Details are given, but they are brief, albeit well observed. For characters too, one is given outlines, maybe hair colour, physical shape, clothing (Parker always mentions clothing, describing exactly what each person wears. I’ve noticed John Harvey does this as well. I’ve never understood why we need to know how many buttons are on a person’s jacket, or whether their trousers have turn-ups or not. Some might be interested in that, but does it actually matter? I’m not convinced).

A hundred and fifty years ago, Dickens would describe a character’s physicality to the nth degree, leaving nothing to the imagination. But that man was a genius, crafting his words to paint pictures in a world without film or television. Now, I feel we do not require such over-statement. What is wrong with leaving a lot up to a reader’s imagination?

I rarely describe a character’s features. I may hint at it, putting in details of their age, size, possibly even hair colour. I might say a woman is ‘beautiful’ but do I really need to explain exactly why she is beautiful. Besides, my idea of what being beautiful is might actually be totally opposite to what my reader has in mind. So, by hinting, or giving clues, I am allowing the reader to fill in the blanks. That, for me, is far better and leads to a tighter, more well-paced story. I hate waffle of any kind; let’s get to the point, and make the journey an interesting and exciting one.

So, this book. It is a riveting read, but I’ve missed out thousands of words. Has this heinous act lessened my enjoyment, my understanding? Not at all. The act of skimming annoys me, and I’d much rather do without hundreds of words of detailed descriptions of the outside of buildings, their position on the street, how the paintwork has been lovingly and painstakingly applied to create a pseudo-Edwardian facade…yawn. I don’t care.

Each to his own. I offer these thoughts to simply underline what I think are the important aspects of writing. Pace, realism, mystery. By not giving too much away, we add to the reader’s enjoyment. Heroes and heroines are created in our imagination as we read. That’s how it should be. The reader then has ownership, and they can become rightly angered, or indeed pleased, when they see this character portrayed on the silver screen.

I am enjoying this book I’m reading. But I’ll not lie awake and worry myself over missing vivid descriptions of road surfaces. I’d much rather read over all of those to discover who actually ‘did it’.

 

Why not have a look at my own use of descriptive writing? You can go along to my websites and seek out where to buy my books. ‘Burnt Offerings’ has just been reduced in price for the Kindle, and is well worth a look.

www.stuartgyates.com

www.glennstuart.co.uk

Enjoy, and keep reading.

 

 

Adventures in Writing – a personal journey by Stuart G Yates.

The very first book I wrote happened to be a thriller, so it seemed only natural that eventually I would wander back into the genre. When I took up writing seriously, initially I lent my hand to writing paranormal mysteries, aimed at young adults. I have written ten such novels, but the last one, ‘Interlopers From Hell’, certainly seemed much more appropriate for an adult audience. I’d already begun to think of ‘cross-over’ books, and I would go so far as to say that all of my earlier novels are of this type. But writing a fully-fledged adult book, that was what I wanted to do.

‘Splintered Ice’ had many of the hallmarks of my previous work. Indeed, half way through I decided to write two different versions. One of them ended up as an out-and-out thriller, but the second version was twenty thousand words longer, and packed full of paranormal activity. I think, to be honest, that this one is the better version. Unfortunately, it is not the one in print. Nevertheless, I enjoyed writing it, and although nobody has bought it, I still feel the story packs a pretty hefty punch.

‘Burnt Offerings’ was my second venture into the thriller genre. Living in Spain, the story simply came to me one day, perhaps three years ago. I worked on it for quite some time, and when I submitted it, an agent got back to me almost straight away with some excellent advice. One of the few times when an agent has actually shown any interest in my work. Taking note of what he said, I went back to it, smoothed down the edges, and sent it to a publisher who accepted it immediately. It has received some excellent reviews. This is always the most nerve-wracking period for an author. A

fter the book has been sent out into the world, what will the buying public actually make of it?

Burnt Offerings is now available at a new, reduced price for the Kindle. Visit any Amazon site to take advantage.

 

Well, for ‘Burnt Offerings’ they seem to like it. My publisher did; they want a series, and I’ve already written the second and planned out the third. Paul Chaise is hard-boiled, living a quiet life in Spain, but when trouble raises its ugly head, he responds in the only way he knows how. Ex-SBS he knows how to kill, and his old employers get wind of what he has got himself involved with, and they don’t like it.

The second Paul Chaise adventure, ‘Whipped Up’ will be available later in the year. I wanted to put Chaise in a contemporary setting in the UK, pitching him against some pretty unsavoury Eastern Europeans who are based in Norwich. I knew someone who had employed some Eastern Europeans to do some house building for him. Pretty soon he became embroiled with the people who were running the builders. They wanted a cut of the proceeds. This was the basis of my story. My dear old friend extricated himself fortunately, sacked the lot of them, and did most of the work himself. In the book, it doesn’t go that smoothly. And Chaise’s employers don’t want him bringing too much publicity into the mix. So they hire an assassin. His job: to kill Chaise.

Now, the third story written, it’s fairly clear that Chaise does not die. He’s a man who is here to stay. Each successive story will reveal more about this man, what drives him on, why he can do what he does so dispassionately, and so well. I am hoping it is a series which will run for a long time.

In the meantime, I am also writing stand-alone thrillers. I’ve just completed one, and am now working on redrafting it. I don’t particularly relish this aspect of writing, but as I do it, I fall in love with my characters once again, think up additional scenarios, develop them, improve them.

‘Burnt Offering’s has just been reduced in price. I felt, as an e-book, it was too expensive, and now it is far more reasonably priced. E-book should be affordable in my opinion. That way people can store them on their e-readers, and read them at their leisure and not feel that they are emptying their bank accounts. I love traditional books, as I mentioned last time in this blog, but e-books are with us whether we like it or not, so why not take advantage if the price is right.

I am also writing a historical novel, but more of that next time.

The process of writing is, for me, and adventure. I never know in which direction I’m going to turn next. That is what keeps it interesting and fresh. If what you have read here spurs on your curiosity, please visit my website – www.stuartgyates.com – where you can find out all about my books and where to buy them. And don’t forget, please take advantage of the special, reduced price of ‘Burnt Offerings’.

Thanks for reading.

Fallen Past, Chapter Five

Here is the continuing free sample of my unpublished novel FALLEN PAST. We’re up to Chapter Five, and things take a new direction for Craig…

He sat on an old, worn out bench which sagged under his weight, and gazed at the ripples moving over the surface of the lake. The bike stood propped up against a nearby wall, forgotten for the moment. Time had become meaningless. Craig didn’t care. A slight disturbance at the back of his mind; concerns over Mum, what she might say if he rolled up late. Crossland and Samantha and their empty threats. Thoughts of the window-cleaner’s story about Dad. Sporadic, fleeting thoughts, he gave none of them any heed. Instead, the lake held his attention and he allowed himself to drift, not unlike the fallen leaves on the water. So consumed by this state of near thoughtless meditation he did not notice the figure looming up beside him until it spoke.

“Not playing tennis today?”

Craig gave a little jump and looked up. For a second or two he thought he might have slipped into a dream. He blinked rapidly to bring the present into focus, and saw her. He let out a gasp of surprise, heart juddering as if jolted by a surge of electricity. She smiled at him; the girl who had watched him play all those weeks ago. Real, three-dimensional, hair tumbling to her shoulders, eyes big and wide. Her loveliness was even more noticeable this close up. He gaped, struck dumb for a moment.

She giggled and sat down next to him. She wore skin-tight jeans and a white top. “I’ve been watching you for a while.” She stooped forward, picked up a pebble from the ground, and tossed it into the water. “Are you OK?”

Craig swallowed hard, barely able to breathe. Her thigh pressed against his, and her easy, open gaze held his eyes. She was so close he could smell her perfume. The fresh, clean aroma of cucumber mingling with something else. A flower, a spice; he didn’t know, didn’t care. Delicious, whatever it was. He shook his head, battling to find some words. Anything. “I’m Craig.”

She laughed, hand against her mouth. He gazed at the way her hair bounced around her shoulders, shining, reflecting the sunlight. And her face, smooth, skin like alabaster, perfect, no lines, so clear. How old could she be? Fourteen, maybe fifteen?

“I’m sorry,” she said through her laughter, “you must think I’m an awful cow.” Another guffaw. She rocked forwards, looked at him, spluttered, “You look so shocked.” She took a few breaths, brought herself under control. “It’s just that…well, you know. Craig? Is that all you have to say” She pulled out a tissue from her jeans pocket and wiped her eyes. “Sorry, but the way you said it, blurting it out like that.” She shook her head, gave her eyes one more wipe and put the tissue away. “Sorry.”

Mesmerised, Craig took no notice of her words. For all he cared, she might have been reciting the English dictionary. The way her mouth moved, her lips so soft, so full, they held his total attention. Nothing else mattered, his entire world centred on that delectable area of her lovely face. He closed his eyes and breathed her in, tiny explosions going off across his body. No pain. Exhilaration. Unlike anything he’d known. He wanted it to last forever, this feeling. Her. Time stretched out, a soft comforting blanket enfolding him, bringing him warmth, security.

“Look, I’m bothering you.” She slapped her hand down onto his knee and stood up. “Sorry.”

Craig’s eyes sprang open, drank her in. Those dark blue jeans, so tight. Probably Wranglers. She fitted them well, rounded hips straining against the material, legs long and slim. If there was a better-looking girl, he had yet to meet her.

“I’ll, er…” She shrugged, gave what looked like a forced smile and turned to go.

The world snapped into focus at that point, and the panic gripped him. She’d come upon him so quickly, unannounced, appearing out of nowhere, and he’d crumbled, not knowing what to say. He should have said something meaningful, friendly. A simple ‘hello, lovely to see you again.’ Instead, all he’d given was his name, unasked for. What the hell possessed him to be so idiotic? Girls. He’d always been uncomfortable around them. They were like another species, to be admired from afar, not approached and engaged in conversation. Scary.

Not her. No, she was different. Special. She’d watched him at the tennis court and she’d smiled. And what had he done? He’d blown it, not responding, unable to, mouth full of jelly, tongue too big. Now, at his second chance, he’d done the same, idiot that he was. He’d caused her to walk away, her cheeks a little red, embarrassed, probably angry too. Nothing good ever happened. Girls, friends, Dad. Always the same damned result.

Craig gritted his teeth, stood up, breathing hard, a decision wrought out of exasperation at his own pathetic self forcing him to run after her. Without thinking. A new, powerful determination emerging from somewhere inside telling him not to allow this opportunity to slip by.

Words scurried through his head in no order, a mad unplanned rehearsal of what he needed to say. He caught up to her, clutched her arm, turned her around, saw those big, baleful eyes and melted. She held his gaze, waited. The seconds crawled by, all of his courage, determination slipping away.

At last, she came to his rescue, tilted her head and said, “Craig? You want to say something?”

He nodded, gulped. “I’m the sorry one,” he said, voice tight, dry. “Not you. Me.” He grinned, breath coming fast. “I’m really sorry.”

A yawning chasm of silence followed. The evening sun played around with her hair, lending it a golden glow. He held back the urge to reach out and touch her. The birds sang, people walked by. Craig cared for none of it, only the desire to be with her.

They stood and they stared.

“I’m an idiot,” he managed at long last. “I meant to say ‘hello’, that was all.”

“I didn’t mean to laugh.”

“I know, but…well, you surprised me.”

“I guess, yes. Sorry.”

“You say that a lot.” He smiled. So did she. Lit up her entire face. Craig’s heart sang, then skipped a beat when he realised he still held her arm. He quickly let his hand fall away. She giggled. He liked the way she did that. “Can we, er, start again?”

She bit her lip. “You’re not angry?”

“Angry? Why should I be angry?” He nodded back to the old bench. “Let’s go and sit. Give it another try.”

“OK,” she said, and they did.

 

Over an hour later they still sat and talked. Her name was Melanie, and he was correct – she was fifteen. She seemed so grown-up, so wise and knowing, and yet so easy to talk to. Craig held nothing back, the flood gates opened. He told her about his life, his friends, what he liked doing, what he wanted to do after he left school. She listened, she commented. Not once did she seem bored, or irritated. When she too began to reveal something about herself, her words sounded so sweet, lyrical even, as if she recited poetry or sang a song. They laughed. Time disappeared, dusk giving way to night. Craig offered to walk her home, and she accepted.

He wheeled his bike and she walked next to him. They talked about the cinema, and her favourite pop groups. He listened, taking it all in, logging it away for future reference. Why had he never done this before? To be with a girl like this, was there anything better? He didn’t so much walk as float.

He left her at her front door and when she had gone inside, after giving him a wave and a tiny smile, he wanted to cartwheel all the way down the street. This might have been difficult, as he still had his bike. Instead, he rode home, twisting through the streets, veering left and right, his laughter ringing out across the night.

As he turned into his own road, grin as wide as the Mersey-tunnel, he pulled the bike up short as a sudden thought smacked into him, almost causing him to lose his balance and fall over. He shook his head, ran a hand over his face. Of all the stupid, pathetic things to have done. “I really am an idiot,” he groaned.

He’d forgotten to ask her when they could see one another again.

 

I hope you’re enjoying this story. To find out more about what I do, please visit my website: www.stuartgyates.com . There you will find all the links to my work, what they are about and where you can buy them.

Take some time to visit some other blogs which always have something interesting to say and which I recommend:

http://seancookeofficial.wordpress.com/about/

http://therivertime.blogspot.com/ (This blog will be ready very soon, with yours truly amongst the contributors).

Keep reading everyone!

 

 

Adventures in Writing – a personal journey by Stuart G Yates

I’m always thinking of things to write. Novels, I mean.

I’ve never really been a great one for short stories. The writing, or indeed the reading. Saying that, I have written some, and the very first thing I ever had published was a short story. That was because all the so-called ‘experts’ advised in order to get yourself known, get a short story published in a magazine. Well, I did. But I don’t write them anymore. I write novels, and get totally immersed in them. Character and plot development. I love that.

Often, what I do, I put personal interests in my books. That way I keep myself awake!

My latest Glenn Stuart novel ‘Interlopers from Hell’  involved the protagonist (I hate that word, don’t you? Why not use hero, heroine, victim, main character…how I hate rules!) entering an old house and coming across a huge table laden down with model soldiers.

I’m a great wargamer you see – well, I was, before writing took over my life. Every Friday, down to Bodmin with the best bunch of guys in Cornwall, staying up until two or three in the morning refighting battles. Anyway, the thing is, I put that into this book. A few scenes. Not an obsession. I’m not obsessive. I promise.

Okay, I am. Just a little.

The thing is, I met a guy in Suffolk. John. He had a collection of model soldiers and he invited me to go and see them. His house was large, but not a mansion. Nice, set back from the road. A cheerful guy, he invited me inside. We’d already corresponded a few times as, both being ardent wargamers, we were members of an online-community. Well, he asked me to his house, and I went.

I stepped into his games room and just froze. Speechless. I had stepped into a kind of heaven.

There they were, shelf upon shelf of the most exquisite models I have ever seen. Eight thousand of them. Yes, let me repeat that – just so I can believe it too. EIGHT THOUSAND!

All of them stood in serried ranks, immaculately painted, some on foot, lots on horseback. From the eighteenth century, Austrians, Saxons, British, Americans, and any number of other nationalities. John wargamed the American War of Independence. He’d set up the table to game The Battle of Cowpens, complete with hills, woods, buildings. And the soldiers, of course. Lots of them.

It was this scene that formed part of the finale to ‘Fallen Past’, my unpublished novel that I am serialising here (we’re up to Chapter Five, so you had better catch up). I won’t give too much away about that, but here is the point. Using what you know. That’s what I do in a lot in my books. You have to be faithful and true, especially when writing fiction. Honesty. Yes, you can use Wikipedia, but it never rings true unless you have had experience of it yourself. Naturally there are limitations. When writing ‘Burnt Offerings’ I wanted the car to be rigged with a bomb. So I researched it. I’m lots of things, but not a bomber! So research can help, of course it can. But, when you are writing about reactions, feelings, you have to know.

I haven’t been shot. But I’ve seen someone who has. That knowledge…it stays with you. I’ve seen people being hurt. Badly. I use that too. Pain. Sadness. Emotional torment.

Sometimes happiness too.

Don’t want you to think I am one hundred percent bleak.

However, if I have an interest, I love involving it in my books. That makes it personal, and I do love my stories to be personal.

So, the moral of this story…You must write from a sound basis in truth. Fiction is fantasy, but your readers need to believe in your story. And they will know if it’s false, believe you me; if you begin to wax lyrical about something you know nothing about, they turn off and put your book at the bottom of the pile. If you don’t know, talk to people who do. I’ve interviewed soldiers, guys who have fought, who have experienced battle. I listen, log it all away, and use it. That’s what you should do, if you write. Always. Memories, research, personal experiences, everything helps to create a believable world.

Thanks for reading. My books are all available on the various Amazon sites, as well as Barnes and Noble and Smashwords. Take a look. Visit my website www.stuartgyates.com or, to find out where to buy ‘Interlopers from Hell’, www.glennstuart.co.uk.  I’m sure you’ll find something there that you like.

Adventures in writing…a personal journey by Stuart G Yates

I came off my motorbike about 2 weeks ago, mangled my knees and smashed my shoulder. The shoulder is getting there, but my knee…I can hardly walk!

Still, as I am off work, it has given me the chance to catch up on all sorts of business that required my attention.

Like web sites.

We are always told, as authors, that we need to establish a presence on the Web, build a web site, have a blog, develop social networking. I am now of the mind that I don’t believe much of that works. The only thing that generates much interest is this blog. Very few people so much as look at my posts on FaceBook. And as for book promotions, the best place to buy a book, for me, is still in a bookshop. It would be interesting to see how many of you agree.

I love book shops. I remember when I was a boy, every Saturday morning I would wander up to my local town-centre and go to the bookshop. It was called, conveniently, ‘BOOKLAND’ and I would spend hours just browsing through the titles. More often than not I would buy something. I always longed for a library of my own and my dad, who was amazing at making anything out of virtually nothing, built me a splendid bookcase. Empty shelves stared back out at me, and I knew it would be a long process to fill it up. But fill it I did.

Do you remember those adverts that graced the back covers of Sunday supplements, for ‘World Books’, or ‘The Literary Guild’? You could buy six hard-back books for about two pounds, and then you had to become a member and choose a book a month. I bought some amazing books from them. I still have most of them. ‘The Washing of the Spears’, ‘Trafalgar, the Nelson Touch’, and, of course ‘The Complete Works of William Shakespeare’. Most of us must have that, I shouldn’t wonder, despite most of us never reading any of it!

Well, my library grew. I bought a wide range of books, mainly fiction but with plenty of history thrown in for good measure. I seem to recall I had a lot of John Creasy. No idea why. I doubt I ever read a single one, but I wanted to, so there they would stand and I would stand, and look, and feel my heart swell. My library. Wow.

Now, sadly, it is increasingly difficult to do all of that. Perhaps, in a generation, nobody will possess their own, private library. The age of the download is upon us, as well we all know. So where do we go to find our next book? Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Goodreads? There are a plethora of sites nowadays devoted to recommended reads. But none of them, sorry to say it, can replace the smell, the ambiance of a lovely bookshop. I still believe this is the best type of marketing. To see your title on a shelf in a bookshop…WOW! The joy of picking up books, flicking through the pages, reading the blurbs, being enticed by the covers…how can you beat that? And yet, when I asked my daughter, who lives on Merseyside, to find an independent bookshop that might be willing to stock my books, she couldn’t find ONE! NOT ONE! I couldn’t believe it.

So, imagine my joy when, last year when I went to Burgundy for a holiday, I visited a tiny little place and it had not one, but THREE bookshops! And what wonderful places they were. Small, cluttered, thousands of books piled up to the rafters together with greetings cards, wrapping paper, pens and pencils, etc. They even had a ‘foreign titles’ section. I was blown away. The French love their books, and they have a wonderful approach to their reading – they still buy REAL books! Those bookshops are flourishing whilst we, in the UK, allow our shops to die. It’s the same with everything, as we see from the news. Shops we have grown up with, disappearing one by one, unable to compete in the instant, sanitised world of internet shopping. Soon there will be none left. It’s all somewhat depressing.

I don’t know what will happen, and I am in no way decrying the rise of the digital book, but I rarely, if ever, go on sites to find a new read. I go to a bookshop. Here, where I live, in Spain, I would often go to the English Bookshop, and have a really good browse, more often than not picking up one of their ‘on offer’ titles (as new books are simply far too expensive now). Imagine my horror when, only last month, I went to choose a book and…The shop had gone. Disappeared. POOF! Yet another victim of the crisis…or, perhaps, the rise of the digital market?

Who knows?

Well, I mustn’t complain, because my own books are offered for sale on all the mobile devices. And for the moment THE STORY OF DON LUIS is FREE on Kindle. So, I mustn’t be too negative must I? No, I’ll leave that for something else.

In the final analyse, I don’t suppose any of it matters as long as people reads. That is the important thing. My school has recently purchased a stack of Kindles. Perhaps that is the way forward? If the by-product is that young people become excited about reading, then perhaps it really is a good thing. And they do seem excited when they pick up that slim machine. You can see them, their eyes glowing with expectation. It could even cause them to be more adventurous in their reading choices, to hunt out classics that they may otherwise have overlooked, for any number of reasons. Buying ‘War and Peace’ and feeling the weight of it in your hands is extremely daunting, but you don’t notice that on an E-reader. Big books, little books, it makes no difference to the machine itself. But if more people read because of that…then…Hallelujah!

You can visit my website which has details of my published books, where to get them (sadly, not in Bookshops) and of the FREE OFFER for Don Luis: www.stuartgyates.com.

And a friend of mine has dipped her toe into the publishing world, and written a very saucy book, loosely termed erotica! And that too is FREE. Seems to be a trend, and not a bad one at that. Give her book a try by visiting her website: www.gsstewart.moonfruit.com where you will find all the details. It is raunchy however, so be warned.

Thanks for reading!

 

Fallen Past – Chapter 4. A free read for you all.

CHAPTER FOUR

As things turned out, only a couple of days went by before Ray came around again. That same, happy grin made it seem as if the incident with the football had never happened. To be fair, in many ways what did it matter. A silly little thing, to be honest. No one had been hurt, so why should a friendship suffer simply because Craig hadn’t been able to throw a ball over a garden wall? Well, for Ray at least, none of it seemed open for discussion, being far more concerned with showing off his new Action Man.

Both of them had these toys and would spend most of their spare time brewing up different scenarios for their Action Men. These often entailed any number of barbarous acts, such as being hanged, submerged in water, buried alive or dropped from great heights. They balked at actually setting the models on fire; an irreversible process, ruining any plans for future carnage.

On this particular day, having driven a metal rod through one of the model’s foreheads, they tied a noose around his neck and suspended him from the ceiling light and left him to dangle, miserably, in front of the window, swinging slightly to and fro. The reason for this was simple – today was window-cleaning day.

They heard the arrival of the cleaners and hastily drew together the bedroom curtains, leaving enough gap for the hanging model to be seen when the window cleaner came up on his ladder. They waited with an expectant hush, and the two of them giggled madly as the man appeared and began to wipe the glass with his cloth. He stopped for a moment as the Action Man came into view, no doubt contemplating the terrible plight of the poor little figure, helplessly swinging from the noose. A laugh, followed by renewed cleaning, but no cries of anguish or alarm. The moment had gone, leaving the boys deflated.

“We’ll have to think of something much better for next week,” muttered Craig as he untied the doll from its gibbet.

“I’m going home,” said Ray as he packed away his things. “Mum’s organised a special lunch with grandma. She visits every week, you see, so we’re all expected to be there. I’ll call sometime tomorrow.”

Craig saw him out and stood in the doorway. He raised a hand as his friend got to the corner, but Ray didn’t return the farewell and Craig let his head hang down. A few brief moments of fun and laughter, nothing more. So, heavy feet dragging on the hallway carpet, he went to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of milk and decided he would go for a short bike ride down to the seafront. He’d watch the fisherman chancing their arm in the choppy Irish Sea.

He went out to the backyard shed. Whilst he busied himself extracting the bike from the various pieces of wood and debris that Dad had left behind, he looked up to see one of the window cleaners, face over a steaming bucket of water, wringing out his cloths. Craig hadn’t noticed him at first, and he wondered if the man would say anything about the Action Man. He appeared too preoccupied, so Craig gave a heave and pulled out the bike with a powerful yank, dislodging it from the last few pieces of broken timber. A plank fell down and glanced off his hand. He swore, rammed his knuckles in his mouth to stem the blood.

“You all right?”

Craig gave a nod and grunted as he pushed the shed door closed. He stared at the wound, which filled up nicely with more blood.

The man came up beside him. “You-er-lost your dad, didn’t you?”

Craig stopped and forced a smile, not wanting to appear in any way weak. He studied the cleaner closely, who had the air of aging rock-star about him. Long, lank hair, tattoos, ripped t-shirt and jeans. A face deeply etched with lines; not wrinkles, but creases of laughter…or, perhaps, pain? Gnarled, hard hands conveyed a dangerous quality, a nonchalant strength giving warning that here was someone not be messed around with.

“How did you know that?” Craig asked, unable to keep the slight tremble from his voice. The man made him nervous, and he wasn’t sure what reaction his question might bring.

“Common knowledge really. I’m Sorry. Sorry about your dad, I mean.”

“Thanks.” Craig watched as the man went back to the bucket to squeeze the very last drop of water from the cloth. A sudden thought came to him. “Did you know him? My Dad?”

The cleaner threw the cloth over his shoulder and straightened up. “Oh yeah, everyone knew him. Bit of a lad, your old pa.”

Craig had not heard this expression before. He frowned. “A bit of a lad? What does that mean?”

The man shrugged. “You know, handy like.”

“Handy?”

“Yeah. In a scrap.” The man frowned, shook his head. “In a fight is what I’m saying. Your Dad was hard, if you know what I mean.”

Stunned, Craig took time for the revelation to filter through. “Are you sure? I mean, my Dad?”

A broad grin. “Oh yeah, absolutely. Didn’t you know?” Craig shook his head. “Used to box a bit, your dad, same as me. He was good. Bloody good. Dumped me on my behind a few times, I can tell yeh.”

Craig couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard and mulled it over in his mind. Mum had never mentioned this aspect of Dad’s past. In fact, she hardly ever spoke about him at all. Too much pain probably. The accident, so unexpected, so dramatic, stunned everyone, especially Mum. She continued to grieve, still in shock despite it being well over a year since it happened.

He stopped. No, that wasn’t right. Eighteen months, to be more accurate. Where had the time gone? The window-cleaner’s words had brought back images of Dad, images which Craig had tried to subdue for so long. And now this, a new detail to add to the memories. It pained him to admit he knew so little about his father’s early life. Anything gleaned had been picked up through half-listened to conversations, or comments not unlike those of the window cleaner.

“Still,” the  man continued absently, lifting the steel bucket with care to prevent any water slopping over the rim, “just shows you, doesn’t it. You never know what’s round the next corner. Life. Who’d believe it, a thing like that?” He gave a thin smile. “Like I said, I’m sorry.”

Craig followed him into the alleyway, leaned his bike against the wall and closed the back door behind him. “Can I ask you something?”

The man stopped, raised an eyebrow, “Dodgy is it?”

“Dodgy? No, of course not. I just…” He didn’t know if he should continue. The man seemed friendly enough, but every now and then something passed across his eyes; anger, threat, Craig didn’t know which. He wanted to trust him, so he took a breath. “When you were my age, did you fit in? With your mates and stuff?”

The man frowned, chewed his lip. “Yeah, suppose so. The ones that mattered.”

“Mattered? I don’t understand – which ones mattered?”

“The real ones, the ones who were there when things went wrong. The ones you didn’t have to try too hard with.”

“Yes, yes I understand, so…Things went wrong with you, did they?”

A sudden flash of something in those eyes and, for a moment, Craig thought he had asked one question too many. The window cleaner studied him, then smiled. “Lots of times. Mainly in the early days.” He settled the bucket on the ground. “I didn’t do anything at school, except bunking off. Spent time in lots of different foster homes, got into loads of trouble. I didn’t have anyone, you see. No mum or dad. I felt cheated, cheated by life. So, I was always angry, and I couldn’t control it, and school…Well…” His eyes glazed over. “Wasted my life really. But,” he paused, as if not really sure how to pursue this heavily edited version of his life story. A long sigh. “I always had good mates, mates who stood by me. Who still stand by me. With no parents, it was they that got me through it, every time. The thing is, mates, real mates, that’s what really matters in life.”

“Not a wife, or a girlfriend?”

He grinned. “Well, a girl can be mate too, you know.”

Craig nodded. An uncalled picture of Samantha Lloyd came into his head. He coughed, pretended to scrape something off the saddle of his bike. “So, things worked out for you, in the end?”

“Well, all depends what you mean by ‘worked out’. I don’t own my own place, I don’t drive a car, I have to scrimp and save every penny I make out of this,” he kicked the bucket gently with the toe of his boot. Another brief moment of reflection. “Listen, if you’re looking for advice, then stay at school and do the best you can. It’s tough, but getting educated is the only way. Trust me,” he picked up the bucket, “it’s the only way.” He turned and began to saunter down the alleyway.

Craig grabbed his bike, and quickly caught up with the cleaner. “Wait.” The man raised an eyebrow. “You said yourself, friends are the most important thing of all. More important than school, is that right? Is that what you meant?”

“Friends are important, for sure. In a personal way. They help you get through the bad times, but they won’t put money in your pocket. Only a good job will do that. I came out of school with nothing and I’ve still got nothing. Never likely to, either. Probably the only thing I’ve got to look forward to is Saturday night when we all go down to the pub and get drunk. Still, I suppose that’s more than a lot of people have got.” He patted his pockets and found a crumpled pack of cigarettes. “You having trouble with your mates are you?”

Craig told him of the incident with the ball, how he’d let everyone down, ruined their game, made himself look like an idiot.

He lit his cigarette. “Well, that wasn’t that bad. They’ll get over it. No one ever lost their lives playing a game of football. Where did you say you were playing?”

“Down Station Road, far end. In one of my mate’s streets. The old guy in the house was really…mean. Some bloke called Baxter.”

The man’s face grew a hard. “Billy Baxter?” He blew out a stream of smoke. “Did he have a dog?”

“Yeah. Little brown thing, dead vicious.”

The man nodded. “Yeah, that’s him. Billy Baxter.”

“D’you know him?”

“I know of him. Grumpy old fart he is.”

Craig laughed. He liked the window cleaner. He wasn’t a bit like he’d imagined him to be. Not mean or nasty at all, quite open and friendly. “Well, I didn’t see him, just heard him. That was enough.”

“Well, he’s well known around here. Always in a nark. He’s lived here for years and years, ever since I can remember. You’re lucky to have got that ball back, he normally keeps ‘em. You be careful next time you’re round there.”

They stood at the end of the alleyway. Craig prepared to ride off. “Thanks for the advice.”

“Ah, you’re welcome. Just try and follow it, yeah?”

“Yeah, I will.”

He winked and walked away.

 

Craig had a sudden urge to call after him, remembering he hadn’t asked the man his name. Already by the sweet shop, the chance lost, the cleaner went out of sight. For a few moments, Craig chewed over what they’d spoken about. Baxter, old man Billy Baxter, with his nasty temper and little dog.

He wondered if Baxter might have been the same man he’d seen at the Pit the other day, the one Crossland and Samantha had tormented. He could have been, he was angry enough. As Craig pushed himself out into the street, he wondered what made the old man so angry. A right nark the window-cleaner had called him. What had happened to make him so bitter towards everyone? Could it be that he too had lost his parents, had become resentful towards everyone, blaming the whole world for his loss, just as the cleaner had? Or was there something else, something a lot more complicated? He shook his head. No point in wondering about any of it as they were all questions that he would never find the answers to.

How wrong that assumption soon proved to be.

 

If you’d like to find out more, please visit my website: http://www.stuartgyates.com

AND, if you like your stories more spicey and explicit, visit a friend of mine’s website: www.gsstewart.moonfruit.com. At the moment, her latest novella DEEP IN THE FOG is FREE!!!

 

 

Fallen Past – Chapter Three by Stuart G Yates

CHAPTER THREE

The two friends decided not to play at the Pit for the next few days, just in case the ‘bullies’ made another appearance. Instead they met up with some other boys they knew, one of whom lived in a small cul-de-sac where the houses provided them with a perfect target for playing SLAM.

Craig had never been to the street before, despite it only being down the road from his own home. At the far end of Station Road, well away from where Copeland lived, it was quiet and secluded. The road split in two halves, separated by another, broad street that led down from the town centre. This part of Station Road proved much different to Craig’s end. Here the houses loomed larger, with expansive gardens at the front. Not unlike Ray’s house, but far grander. Perhaps that was why Craig felt like something of an interloper. These people owned cars, had driveways and garages. When he thought of his own, squat little terrace, he realised the gulf between his world and this. Nevertheless, he had been invited, and the opportunity was not one to be missed. If things turned out well, it could become a regular thing. He’d like to be accepted, have the chance to return to normality. Push the memories way back.

Craig waited whilst Ray went to the front door of the house and rang the bell. Soon, a gaggle of boys came outside, all smiling at Craig who returned their greetings and his heart began to swell. The day promised to be a good one.

They gathered around, the five of them. A good bunch, all happy to be off school, enjoying the fine weather. One of the boys, Davey, had provided the football, and proceeded to place it on the ground to begin a game of SLAM. To win you simply had to kick a ball on the first bounce against a wall repeatedly, each successful strike spelling out the word S-L-A-M. If you managed to succeed, without missing the ball or letting it bounce twice, you next had to try to spell out your name. Craig thought this slightly unfair, as most of them had bigger names than Ray, but nobody seemed to mind, least of all Ray himself.

‘Slam’ was a good game, and they took turns to play. Craig went third, after Davey and another boy called John. Neither managed to make it to the last ‘M’. Craig noted the various techniques. He wasn’t the greatest of footballers, but he could kick. Believing he had the game worked out, Craig positioned the ball with great care, ran his palms down the sides of his trousers, and proceeded to make a sudden, wild kick, hoicking the ball straight over the wall of someone’s back garden. Everyone laughed.

“You’ll have to go fetch it,” said Davey between guffaws. “But watch out – that’s old man Baxter’s house, and we all know what he’s like.” The group exchanged looks, more giggling.

Craig had little idea what Davey meant by that, and nobody offered any explanation, only further bursts of laughter. He turned to Ray, in the hope of support, but Ray gave no words of comfort, merely a shrug and a smirk. All of them seemed to be possession of some dark secret about this man Baxter. Was he a sort of ogre, a violent weirdo?

Craig’s stomach lurched. There was little choice but to get the ball back. After all, he’d lost the ball, and everyone stood and glared, impatient for the game to continue. The pressure mounted. He took a breath, moved over to the garden wall, looked up to measure its height, and groaned. Hopelessly high and nothing like Eagle’s Rock; not a single foothold to be had.

After a moment’s thought, he decided to try the back door. He took his time and eased down the latch.

Locked, he should have known.

With no other options available, he would to use the handle as a scaling aid. He glanced over to the assembled group, “Can one of you give me a leg-up?”

The boys shuffled around, heads down, some of them giggling. Not one seemed eager to commit to helping out, enjoying Craig’s discomfort. Finally, with obvious reluctance, Ray sauntered over.

Ray bent down and cupped his hands together. Craig put his foot in the makeshift hold and managed to get his other on the latch. Ray lifted his arms and, with a grunt, Craig hoisted himself to the top of the brick wall, and sat for a moment. He gazed down into the back garden to see a large, with well-manicured lawn surrounded by bushes and masses of different flowers, the ball nowhere in sight. He turned to the others, who jeered and beckoned him to jump down. “Hurry up,” said Ray, who rubbed his hands together, “we want to carry on with the game.” Craig blew out his lips, knowing he had no choice. His heart pounded in his chest, setting off a terrible throbbing in his ears. With no sign of anyone, Craig still had the feeling that lurking inside the house, someone watched and waited. Another shout from his friends caused him to move. He twisted around and, keeping his grip on the top bricks, lowered himself gingerly into the garden below.

He took a moment, breathing through his mouth, and listened out for any signs of someone coming to investigate his arrival. Nothing, only the gentle chirping of birds amongst the trees.

Thinking it best not to hang around for too long, Craig moved forward along the little winding path which led from the backdoor into the centre of the lawn. An ornamental fountain stood there. Not switched on, it appeared strangely sad and lonely, almost abandoned. Black slimy trails ran down the arms and face of the statue in the middle. A naked woman, with an urn on her shoulder. A Greek thing, Craig decided. He studied it for a moment and realised that although well tendered, the statue and the garden had known better, happier times. He sighed slightly and moved forward.

He kept glancing over to his right to where, across the spread of lawn, Baxter’s home stood, grim and silent. Large French windows dominated the back of the house, opening out onto a patio area, with an iron table and two matching chairs the only clue that someone lived there. Everything appeared orderly and very quiet. Perhaps there wasn’t anyone inside. And yet, that awful sense of being observed remained. Craig forced himself to relax, ease his breathing, and continued, but keeping low just in case.

Craig got to the fountain and crouched down. Surveying the bushes and flowerbeds he realised the ball might be anywhere. So many trees and shrubs marred his view, he had no choice but to get down on his hands and knees and rummage about under them. The whole thing was hopeless. His stomach knotted as the panic mounted. How long was this going to take? As each successive search proved as pointless as the last, he grew frantic, and pulled and ripped away at the undergrowth, desperate to find the ball. He began to curse, all sense of being careful gone, and the sound of breaking branches and ruffled leaves filled the once quiet space. At any moment, Baxter might appear, voice raised in a scream of outrage and that would be the end of everything. Police, Mum, a nightmare.

He stopped, breathing hard, slumped down and put a hand through his hair. An awful sickening dread filled him, coming from deep inside, the hopelessness of the situation, the shame. How to explain his failure to the others, waiting on the other side of the wall? He ran the back of his hand under his nose, the soil and snot smearing across his face. He didn’t care. His ‘new’ friends had invited him into their little gang, and he’d let them down. They’d never invite him again, for sure.

Scanning the far side of the lawn, he noticed a wheelbarrow, heaped up with old grass cuttings. A shape, a rusted bucket or something, caught his eye. Craig craned forward, eyes half closed to get a better view. His heart gave a little leap. Wedged beneath the barrow sat the ball.

He stifled a cry of triumph. Not pausing for a second, he got to his feet and ran over to the barrow. He attempted to kick it free, but only succeeded in wedging the ball ever more tightly, jamming it hard. He rocked back, and took a deep breath. Taking the strain, he tried to drag the barrow forward. But the old thing proved too heavy and awkward, ancient timbers groaning as if they might break apart at any moment. The reason why the barrow had not been moved for such a long time becoming clear.

Craig had little choice. If it collapsed, then so be it. He had to get the ball. He gritted his teeth, put his shoulder against the end rather than using the handles this time, and pushed. He grunted with the effort, determined not about to give in, not now. A tiny movement, a fraction at first, gave him a new surge of strength. The wheels slid rather than ran over the damp grass, and it began to travel. One last grunt and the ball drew closer to the rear end of the barrow, still lodged underneath, but not as tight. A well-aimed kick and it shot out towards the far wall. He didn’t pause, scooted across the grass and picked up the ball. He lifted his new trophy and grinned, the relief flooding over him. He drew back both hands, ready to throw it over the wall to his eager friends waiting on the other side. With a loud, guttural yelp, he launched his projectile high and wide into the air.

Craig was not a great one for football. He could kick, but only in a wild, un-schooled fashion, as proven by his ludicrous attempts to play the game of SLAM. Throw-ins were an even worse failing. The ball went up all right, high up, far too high up. He had totally misjudged the trajectory and he watched in wide-eyed horror as the ball began its all too rapid descent, hit the near edge of the wall, and ricocheted back at an impossible angle towards the French windows.

His closed his eyes, waiting for the sound of breaking glass. A fearful thud, nothing more invaded his ears. He sighed, the weight lifting from his shoulders, and opened his eyes again. Relief at the glass not being smashed proved short-lived, as everything happened very quickly from that point on.

A dog appeared, and threw the world into confusion. It bounded up to the windows, and yapped like it had lost its mind, hurling itself against the glass, out of control, teeth bared, saliva drooling, eyes mad with rage. Craig didn’t wait to see what would happen next. He rushed over and retrieved the ball. No football antics this time, just a desire to get away as quickly as possible. He almost reached the backdoor when the French windows tore open and a voice cried, “Oi, you! What the hell are you doing?”

With no time to stop or think, Craig threw back the bolt, ripped open the door and bounded out, the terrier dog close behind, snarling and snapping at his heels. In his rush to escape, Craig didn’t pause to close the door firmly. The latch hadn’t engaged and the little dog ran out in the street.

For one awful moment, he didn’t know what to do. Should he continue running, or turn and face his attacker. The thought of those vicious looking teeth decided it for him. His friends must have believed the same and when John screamed the only practical word, “RUN!” and they all did just that.

Barking maniacally, the dog rushed after the boys, first one way, then another as each of them zigzagged and took different directions.

Craig was one of the fastest, head down, football under his arms, and he made good his escape all the way down Station Road towards the safety of his own, wonderful alleyway. He dared not look back. A simple, but dreadful thought, consumed him, ‘I’ve done it again – I’ve let everyone down!’

 

Later on, Ray came round. He didn’t appear pleased, saying he only wanted Davey’s football. Craig handed it over, the misery making his movements heavy, slow.

“I’m sorry, Ray,” he said in a small voice.

“Yeah…well…” Ray took the ball without another word and disappeared into the warm, summer night, bouncing the ball as he went.

Craig knew he had lost the only real friend he had left.

Adventures in Writing…a personal journey by Stuart G Yates.

Being prolific is an interesting handle to have been given. I’ve never really thought about it very much. I suppose the first time I considered it was when I visited my local bookstore, requesting that they stock two of my books. I had been there a month or so before, and noted that the shelf where my first book had been placed, was empty. “I have two new ones,” I said.

The shop owner arched an eyebrow. “Two new ones? My, you’re working hard.”

I smiled, thinking nothing of it. Then came the low punch. “You want to take it easy. You don’t want to swamp the market, do you?”

I had no idea what this meant. Swamp the market? With three books?

Since then, my tally of published novels has reached 14. My first book was published late 2009, so within three years that’s not a bad achievement I feel. Prolific, perhaps.

Now, I can understand what some people might think. That the quality of the written work has suffered. But each book has been accepted by publishers, who have worked with me in the editing process, and the words have been well polished. Naturally there is the occasional typo. I remember a friend of mine who showed me a silly typo towards the end of an edition of Anna Karenina by Tolstoy, a book some people believe is the finest ever written. Now, if they can get it wrong, so can anyone. But silly typos apart, I feel my writing is fairly good. It’s suspenseful, flows well, has satisfying resolutions. People seem to like what I do, those who have read my books. So, I don’t see it as quality making way for quantity. I just view it all as an absolute joy.

I’ll give you an example. I had an idea for a novella. A small book about a young veterinary nurse, set on the wonderful island of Alderney. As soon as I finished it, I had to write the next two in the series. There was no argument. These stories buzzed around in my head, and they wouldn’t leave me alone. I worked furiously at them, watching them all play out in my head like a film, and within a month I had them done. Overall, two months saw three novellas of 30,000 words each completed; edited, checked, ready for publication.

The second part of my trilogy of paranormal thrillers set on Alderney.

And that’s it. When I’m gripped with an idea, I can’t shake it off. The words tumble out, an unstoppable cascade. Perhaps not Niagara Falls, but certainly a force of nature!

Another example. I’ve only just completed a thriller, entitled ROAD KILL. Eighty thousand words. When I say ‘completed’ I mean just that. Re-drafted four times, proof read and submitted. At the same time that I was going through the final edits, I was writing another thriller, entitled MINUS LIFE, which at this moment has the final chapter left to do. I’ve got WHIPPED UP, the next Paul Chaise thriller, waiting its final edit, and I am planning out a historical novel based on the mysterious death of William II in the year 1100. Each book is substantial, averaging out at around 80-90,000 words. It is almost a full time job. As one project is completed, another comes along, a conveyer belt of stories. Inspiration is another thing entirely, this is to do with output. I am not young anymore. Time does not wait. I should have done all this twenty years ago, I know that. But life was different then.  Now I push myself, on and on, to get it done. My aim is to get out at least three books a year, if I can do more, so much the better. The biggest problem is, that publishers don’t work all that fast. Obviously, they have other authors to consider, but that doesn’t lessen my frustration.

So, I do the best I can. I write quickly, I work hard at it. I do not skimp on the quality. I look at every sentence, envisage every scene, every piece of dialogue. I write and I write and I write. Some people grow flowers, others tinker with classic motor cars. I write. There really is nothing more to it than that.

If this little piece has made you curious about my work, please visit my websites and take a look at what I have done so far. My books are available on all the Amazon sites, as well as Barnes and Noble and Smashwords. My websites give all the details.

For adult materials, please visit: www.stuartgyates.com

For Young adult paranormal mysteries (including those little, but very terrifying stories about Jenny the vet), please visit: www.glennstuart.co.uk.

Also, take a look at my accompanying blog, ‘Fallen Past’ which is an unpublished work of mine serialised in chapters. I hope you enjoy it, and thanks to everyone for taking the time to have a look at what I do.

Keep reading!