Stuart G. Yates's Blog, page 8

Fallen Past, Chapter 2…an adventure in writing just for you!

Here is Chapter 2 of ‘Fallen Past,’ a little story which I hope you enjoy.

CHAPTER TWO

The Sun beat down as Craig stopped at the top of the steps, breathing hard. He’d run all the way, but Ray had still managed to beat him. He dragged the back of his hand across his brow, and scanned the old quarry. Nature had reclaimed it, gorse growing thick, a profusion of thistle and cow-slips, overgrown tracks created by the tramping of numerous feet. ‘The Pit’ was one of those wonderful, almost mystical places that held new discoveries every time you went there. A little untouched copse, a hidden tangle of bushes, an abandoned cave. All perfect for adventure games and den building.

At the centre stood a large, imposing rock of granite. Known locally as ‘Eagle’s Rock’, every boy dreamed of climbing it. Craig had already done so, Ray too, now the competition was who could scale it the quickest.

Ray had always been a good climber. Bags of self-confidence meant he tackled problems head on, hardly ever worrying about the outcome, always assured of his own abilities. Craig was a touch more circumspect. This meant he was often more reluctant to ‘have a go’, but he always seemed to get there in the end. Taking a deep breath, he slumped forward towards the rock and peered up.

Ray grinned down at him from his perch. “Come on,” he urged, and then he waited, eyes glued on Craig.

Inside, Craig groaned. Another test, with the inevitable result. Ray was a good friend, but Craig always heard the silent criticisms, saw the mocking half-smile. He closed his mind to it, looked down at the rock face and searched out the first foothold. He moved forward.

It took time, and he moved with caution, keeping his grip firm as he pressed himself flat against the hard, unforgiving rock. He knew not to look down, or indeed up. That way led to certain disaster. Just concentrate on the next step. That was all you had to do. Grit your teeth. Press on.

He sensed his heartbeat increasing, fought to control it; the higher he got, the more the stress increased. Failure was not an option, not now, not here. Better to slip and fall than not succeed. Jeers, loud, painful. He’d had enough of those. A belly-full. He closed his eyes, settled himself, ignored his screaming muscles, hoisted himself on.

Before he knew it, Craig had made it to the top. A final lunge and he rolled over onto his back to stare up at the clear, blue sky. Safe. Success. Victory. He gulped in air, allowed the happiness and relief to overwhelm him. He’d made it, for about the third time. None of it made him more confidant in his abilities. Climbing was so difficult, and was never going to get any easier. He knew that, accepted it.

He sat up with a sigh, took a moment to settle himself, and pulled open the small shoulder bag he had brought with him. He glanced across to Ray, who sat there, like Buddha, cross-legged, checking his watch. His mouth moved soundlessly, calculating their individual times before he grinned and declared that he had won – by the staggering amount of twelve seconds.

“Twelve seconds!” Craig took a bite of the ham sandwich his mum had made him as part of a picnic lunch. “Cor…I could easily do it quicker next time.”

“Yeah. I’m sure.” Ray studied his own sandwich and smiled in expectation of the taste of the delicacy he was about to put into his mouth, “Golden Toms,” he said musingly.

“Golden what?”

“Toms. Me Da’ grows ‘em in his greenhouse down his allotment. Lovely,” and he sank his teeth into the soft, white bread and munched away ravenously.

Craig eyed his own, rather pathetic looking sandwich again and sighed. He wished his family had an allotment. Even a garden would do. He lived in a small terrace house with nothing more than a postage stamp for a backyard. Ray, on the other had, had a large, well-stocked garden at the back of his house and a beautiful front garden, piled up with roses. An allotment up in the Park, growing everything from tomatoes to potatoes. It didn’t seem fair really, to have a dad who was so good at everything.

“What does your dad do again?” asked Craig, now not at all interested in his ham.

“Electrician. Think I’ll be one when I grow up.”

“Really? Don’t you have to be clever for that?”

Ray peered at his friend, and for a moment his icy blue eyes sparkled with something like menace. Then he caught the joke and laughed. “Yeah, well I am clever, aren’t I?”

It was Craig’s turn to smile. It was true, Ray was clever. Much cleverer at maths than Craig was anyway. Perhaps that’s what it took to be an electrician, who knows. He shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve no idea what I want to do when I grow up. Tank driver maybe.”

“Tank driver? What’s that?”

Craig looked at his friend for a long time. “Er – someone who drives a tank.”

“What, like in the army?”

“No, in the air-force, you divvy!”

Ray laughed again. “OK, yeah, I get it.” He contemplated another sandwich before putting it back in the little Tupperware box his mum had provided. Then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and lay back on the rock. It was a lovely, warm day, the kind of day everyone wished would never end. Ray put his hands behind his head and gazed up at the clear, blue sky. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen. “I used to think I’d like to join the army. But me Da’ says it’ll be stupid, if a war was to come. We’d all be killed, he said.”

“A war?” Craig, worried by this remark, peered intensely at his friend. He needed some explanation. “What sort of war?”

“Dunno. Any sort of war, I suppose.”

“Against the Germans?”

“Nah, shouldn’t think so. Me Da’ says we’re friends with them now. On the same team, he said. Nah, he said it would be against the Ruskies. Said they had thousands and thousands of tanks, all lined up and ready to go.”

“Go where?”

“Over here, daft. Me Da’ says we couldn’t stop ‘em and that the only way we could ever manage that would be to drop atomic bombs on ‘em.”

“Atomic bombs!” Craig’s stomach turned inside out as Ray’s words bit deep inside him. He wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow. This was not something he knew much about, and it scared him. Again, he wished he had a dad, like Ray, who would tell him such things, explain it all, lessen the fear. He swallowed hard. “They can kill thousands, those bombs can.”

“Millions, more like. And they blow up houses and stuff. No one could survive.”

“We might be able to. We could go up to Scotland or somewhere like that.”

“Scotland? How would that help?”

“I dunno. Lots of mountains and caves and… We could hide in a cave, or something.”

“A cave? What would you do in a cave?”

“Dunno. Survive.”

“On what?”

“I…I dunno. I’d find something. Make myself a bow and arrow, hunt rabbits.”

Ray gaped at him. “And how would you get all the way up there? You haven’t got a car.”

“Yeah…well…” Craig looked out across the old quarry. On a day such as this, with the air thick with Sun, insects playing around the wild flowers, birds singing so beautifully, it was difficult to believe it could all be wiped out. He wished he’d never mentioned anything about the army now.

“Still,” said Ray, closed his eyes and breathed out a contented sigh, “they’ll be needing lots of tank drivers when the war comes.”

Craig shot him a glance, then dug his friend in the ribs playfully, “Shut up, you!”

They both laughed and when Craig finished his sandwich, he threw away the crust and then settled down next to his friend to enjoy a few golden moments of peace.

Raised voices stirred them from their slumber and they both looked across the expanse of quarry to see two figures waving madly at them. Ray groaned and Craig felt a little tremor of fear ripple through him.

Adam Crossland was the meanest boy in school. Small, tough and a complete torment, he always made Craig’s life a misery in the playground as he pushed him, called him names, and basically caused every school day to be like hell. Craig had wanted to tell his mum, but thought better of it. He didn’t want to appear weak, not to anyone. Besides, no one liked a tell-tale. Ray was slightly more pragmatic and had stood up to Crossland on more than one occasion. He’d received a punch in the jaw for his troubles. Strangely, however, this had resulted in Ray receiving no further problems. Craig often wondered if he could do the same, but knew deep down that he couldn’t. Ray was quite tough and Craig wasn’t. Anyway, on this day, Crossland was with another school bully, Samantha Lloyd. Taller, older and infinitely more cruel.

The two unsavoury characters swaggered forward, until they were at the foot of the rock. Crossland peered upward, hand shielding his eyes from the Sun’s glare. “Is that you there, Craig? What yer doin’?”

“With his boyfriend,” snarled the girl. “That’s right, isn’t it Raymond?” Samantha enjoyed emphasising the last syllable of Ray’s full name. She always thought it was hilarious.

Craig could feel Ray bristling next to him. “Go away,” said Ray, and his voice sounded surprisingly confident.

“Don’t be like that, Raymond,” laughed Samantha. She tested the rock face with her foot, but thought better of it. “Why don’t you come down?”

“Why don’t you come up?” Ray shouted back, knowing full well that neither of them could. It was a small victory, but a sweet one nevertheless.

Crossland chewed his lip, and grew slightly red in the face. “We said, come down!”

Craig looked at Ray, who shook his head slightly. “No.”

The two below exchanged their own, infuriated look. “There’ll be another time,” spat Crossland and reached down to pick up a stone. He hurled it upwards and it sailed harmlessly past the two boys’ heads.

Ray giggled, “Not much good, are you Crossland?”

“I’ll fix you,” said Crossland.

“And me,” chimed in Samantha. She waggled her finger towards the boys. “I’m going to hurt you, Craig. Get you down in the dirt, and make you beg for mercy.”

Without thinking, Craig scrambled backwards, putting more distance between him and the tormentors. If anything, he feared Samantha more than Crossland. Perhaps it was because she was a girl, and the humiliation of being knocked down by her.

He stopped then, and thought about that. Humiliation, being on the receiving end of a good beating from Samantha. He didn’t understand why, but the thought of that wasn’t so terrible. Craig looked at her, as for the first time. Her face. Lovely eyes she had. The purest blue, and a mouth…

“What you looking at little Craig? See something you like?”

Craig felt his face begin to burn and looked away from those penetrating blue eyes of hers, forced a cough.

Samantha said something to her friend, then they turned to go. At that moment, an elderly man appeared, breathing hard as he came over the top of the steps that rose up from Pit Road. He used a stick to help him walk and around his feet scurried a small, wiry looking Border Terrier. This was much better sport for the two young bullies, and they began to dance around the dog, called it names and waved their arms about. The old man brandished his stick, but this only caused more uproarious laughter and they ran off, rude words fired off as they went.

Craig breathed a sigh of relief. “I’d forgotten about them two, how horrible they are. Especially her.”

“I think she’s quite nice.”

Craig gaped at his friend. He’d actually voiced exactly what was in his own mind. Could it really be true? He knew, however, he couldn’t give too much away, so he said, “Nice? Are you serious?”

“She’s the prettiest girl in school, Craig. There’s no argument about that.”

Craig had to admit that much was true, certainly as far as their school was concerned. Slowly, thoughts turned to the girl at the tennis court, and Craig knew that Samantha wasn’t the prettiest of them all. There were other schools in town. He wished he knew which one she went to. “Do you think all girls are like Samantha?”

“Eh?”

“You know, the way she is. Like she has to prove she’s tougher than us boys? I thought girls were supposed to be softer.” He caught Ray’s look and again he felt the heat rise to his cheeks. He rushed on, “I think it’s all a big act, that she’s not really that tough. I think she puts it on, for Crossland. She must fancy him like crazy.”

“Yeah…well…” Ray looked troubled. “Big act or not, we’ll have to take care going home. We’ll have to wait here for a bit longer, just in case. They may not have gone.”

Craig nodded. He noticed the old man stooping down to rub his dog’s flanks. Had the others hurt the little dog, he wondered? Craig took a breath, “Is he all right, mister?”

The old man looked up, face a mask of fury. “You mind your own damned business! I’ve a good mind to call the police, you snivelling little runt.”

Taken aback, Craig gawped at the man, “It wasn’t us, mister. We didn’t do anything.”

“You’re all the same you young people, causing trouble. You’ve got nothing better to do with your time, that’s what it is. Why aren’t you at school?”

“Holidays.”

“Bah!” The old man brandished his stick, walked off and muttered something under his breath. The little dog ran off to explore the nearby undergrowth with great enthusiasm. He seemed fine, with no apparent injuries.

“Caw,” said Craig and shook his head, “he’s a bit of a nark, isn’t he?”

“Old and bitter,” said Ray. “That’s what my Da’ says. Old people get like that, he says. It’s not their fault, just the way it is.”

“He looked old,” said Craig softly, “but I don’t think he really was.”

“Eh? What d’you mean?”

“Dunno. Something about him. Maybe he’s ill or something. He didn’t have grey hair.”

“My Da’ says that people can be old before their time – smoking and drinking he says, they’re the worst.”

“Your dad knows a lot, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Ray smiled.

Craig felt worse than ever at that simple remark, but didn’t say anything, not wanting Ray to feel bad about mentioning his dad all the time. It made Craig miss his own even more. He hoped Ray hadn’t noticed his change of mood. But even if he had, Craig knew that being such a good friend he would never say anything. The pain, however, bit deep and he had to struggle to keep the tears at bay. Just like he always did, every single day since it had happened. If only he could make amends, undone it all, turn back the clock, make life good again. If only Dad were still here…

If you’d like to investigate some my writing still further, you can visit my websites. Young adult novels can be found at www.glennstuart.co.uk. Adult materials is at www.stuartgyates.com.

I hope you enjoy what you find there.

I’ve been interviewed, and you can pop along to http://nickwale.wordpress.com/2013/01/18/stuart-yates-is-back-nick-wale-heralds-the-return-of-stuart-yates/ and read what I think about writing, and get some insights into my own, personal journey.

Keep reading!

Adventures in Writing – a personal journey by Stuart G Yates

 

Writing is difficult.

Even when you are good at it.

Robert B Parker famously said he loved nothing better than to write but the redrafting and the editing, he hated.

I can understand that. I don´t find the creating part all that difficult. I have stories in my head, in my notebook, on my computer. Some of them have been planned, some have been partially written. Many others are waiting for that momentous day when I put fingers to the keyboard and dive straight in.

BUT…

Afterwards, with the story done, and that moment of relaxation and elation at knowing that it has all ended up as I dreamed it would…I then have to re-draft. Not just once, or twice. Three times usually. Constant editing, reviewing, it never seems to end. I´m better than I was, but I still hate it.

The problem is, it is actually necessary.

I often find that reading out dialogue aloud helps me with that. I’ve done some acting back on Merseyside, visiting schools to put on original productions for the kids, as well as appearing in a wide range of other theatre productions, so I know a little about what I speak of. Pacing, pausing, intonation, dramatic effect. All of that can be fine-tuned by reading your own words aloud. The rest, however, that is painful. That first flush of creativity has gone, and all I am left with now is the polishing.

Does it help?

I was given ‘Redemption’ for a Christmas present. I read it in two days. ‘Appaloosa’ in one. I have often stopped and wondered why. I read ‘Wilt’ in one day too, clutching my stomach in hysterics, Sometimes I can’t get into a book. They all say, don’t they, those who know; you have to hook your reader, that the first paragraph, sentence, even word has to be so good that the reader simply can’t put it down. It´s such a personal thing though, isn´t it. I picked up a book the other day. All the critics were raging about it, saying how wonderful it was. After the first sentence I wanted to give it back. Another book was given to me. ‘You must read it, it’s wonderful’. Same outcome. I was so bored that by the end of the first paragraph I fell asleep. I haven´t touched it since.

Why is that? I don´t know, I can’t analyse the reasons. Perhaps it really has got a lot to do with making it perfect. Graham Greene wrote 300 words a day, then went over and over them until they were absolutely right.

It’s not a genre thing. I remember listening to Melvyn Bragg, and he said that everyone should read ‘Jude the Obscure’. So, I dug out a copy, started it, and was absolutely riveted by every word. Then again, that is Thomas Hardy, one of the great literary geniuses of the world. Not many of his calibre knocking about today, but surely we can try. I glance through a lot of self-published books and I shudder at what I read. If you are forced to stop every few words because of incorrect spelling, the flow has gone, enjoyment lost.

I know what I like, and that is that. It´s the same with what I write. I enjoy what I write, get caught up in it, and if I don’t then I cross it out and start again. I’ve done that with entire books. They are still on my shelf (or on my computer hard-drive) and will stay there until such time as I have the courage to begin them again. The great re-draft.

All I know is, that we have to try our best. Our best. You should only write for yourself, if you are a fiction author. It might be different for non-fiction, but as a novelist I believe you should write what you’d like to read. That way your enthusiasm comes across through every page. I tried to write a romance once. Hah! Two sentences and I knew I never could. But plenty of action, murder, mystery, that’s what rocks my boat. Of course, a little bit of sensuality adds so much to a story, but…full blown romance? Not for me, I´m afraid, even though there is a ton of money to be made out of it.

Well, until the ‘Mills and Boon’ bug gets hold of me, I will continue to write what I like, draft and redraft, trying to do my very best and improve my craft. Because that is what it is. Nobody buys my books. I’ll never make any money. However, in the end that doesn’t matter. I create, and it is that which makes me happy, and if I can create something good, solid and worthwhile then I am even happier..

But boy, this writing, it’s hard work!

If you would like to learn a little more about what I write and where to purchase copies in all formats, visit www.stuartgyates.com.

I hope you like what you find there. Thanks for reading.

Adventures in Writing…a personal journey by Stuart G Yates…how I start

I had an idea for a book. This is how it begins, my writing process. An idea, just a grain. I didn’t think about it too much. Ursula K. Le Guin is good on that. Let it go, she advises, don’t analyse, simply let it develop in its own space and time. I’m paraphrasing, but that’s the gist.

This is how I normally start.

I sit back and let it fly.

Next, I try to rough out ten basic, progressive steps. I’ve never had a course on creative writing, nor did I major in English Literature. I don’t know how to critically dissect a novel, play or poem, but I can tell a good story. Always have been able to. Don’t ask me why, perhaps it’s a gift. If it is, I’m grateful. Very.

I can usually envisage a story to the end. It may change in the middle, of course, as characters and scenarios develop, but the ending is always very clear in my head. Not so with the beginning. Beginnings are hard. I simply write, get anything down, and later – sometimes much later – I go back and add a new beginning. I did this with Road Kill and I did it with Burnt Offerings. Not preludes or prologues or whatever they are called, just a simple re-working in order to hook the reader.

Long ago, I remember reading an article about Dick Francis. He used a simple diagram of a book to show how he paced his stories. A book, standing on its own, with bookmarks sticking out from between the pages. They indicated those all important peaks and troughs of action. Some were huge, others small, but it kept the reader on their toes, left them breathless and desperate for more.

I’ve always remembered that diagram and I think it has taught me more than any tutorial  ever could. Besides, I’ve had enough of those. I spent six years trying to become a teacher, firstly at night school, then at university. Sometimes I felt like eating my own head.

So, the ten point plan is sketched out, the end is known, and then comes the actual writing. I tend to pitch straight in and write like a demon. Soon, I am totally immersed in this new world, a world of my own making, and it is one which is rich in character, dialogue and lots and lots of wrong turnings.

But it changes. It grows, sometimes on its own. Characters do things I never envisaged, scenes arrive from out of thin-air. It can sometimes be exciting, often it is nerve-wracking. And I’m always looking at ways to improve the story.

I woke up with a new ending for Road Kill one night. I don’t know where it came from, but it made perfect sense. So, even though the book is on its final draft before sending it off to the publisher, I have to rewrite the end. It’s better. More sudden, unexpected.

And that’s the thrill of writing. The unexpected. I’ve done it again with a new book I’m writing. I couldn’t figure out how to develop the central theme of a power-thirsty politician conning his entire country. No, not country. The world! And then, it came to me. I was in a shopping mall of all places, wondering what to buy people for Christmas and BANG! There it was. Why hadn’t I thought about it before? So damned simple, but so out of the blue.

You see? That’s what being a writer does to you. It takes you by the scruff of the neck and shakes you very hard. It never ceases to amaze me, and always makes me smile.

 

You can learn a lot more about my work by visiting my websites.

For Young Adult novels of the paranormal, visit: www.glennstuart.co.uk.

For adult orientated fiction, see www.stuartgyates.com.

I hope you like what you see.

Oh, by the way, I’ve been interviewed, by Nick Wale. Visit his excellent blog series, and this one in particular, which is all about me!

http://nickwale.wordpress.com/2013/01/03/stuart-yates-yammers-about-the-wonders-and-pitfalls-of-publishing/

 

Adventures in writing – a personal journey by Stuart G Yates. Looking ahead.

As the New Year draws ever closer, it is time to take stock, to look back and consider achievements, projects, thoughts. But also, far more importantly, to look ahead.

Projects. I hate that word. What I do has nothing to do with any ‘project’. I have ideas, and some of them expand into stories. Some even become novels.

I wrote a number of books last year. Some were the reworkings of old ideas and sketches, but others were totally new. I felt, in my heart, that I had to explore new avenues of my imagination. I began to play around with scenarios, the germ of an idea developing into something much more substantial. By the end of 2011, I had published ‘The Sandman Cometh’. This is what is termed a ‘cross-over’ book, suitable for both Young Adults as well as adults. I enjoyed writing it. When I was young, the Sandman would come into my dreams – or nightmares, putting it more accurately – and hurtle me into a terrifying world. So, I wrote it down and the novel was born. Nevertheless, I wanted to push myself still further.

 

Always being fond of history – and teaching it for my job – I penned VARANGIAN, the story of Harald Hardrada, king of Norway and the last great Viking. A remarkable man, he met his doom on the field of Stamford Bridge in Yorkshire in 1066, just a few days before the crucial Battle of Hastings. His earlier life, however, had been the stuff of legend, even when he still lived. Leader of the Varangian Guard for the Byzantine Emperors, his story was crying out to be written.

I planned a trilogy. The first book would tell of Hardrada’s escape from Constantinople, where enemies had imprisoned him, and his journey to Norway. The second would detail how he became King, expanded his empire, and met with Harold Godwinson’s brother to plan an invasion of England. The third, inevitably, brings the three main characters together – Hardrada, Godwinson and William Duke of Normandy – and the life or death struggle they all became embroiled in. I suppose, contradicting myself as I often do, this is indeed my great project for the next year or two.

Having completed Varangian (the first part) I then did something with it I had never done before. I got it professionally edited. I knew it was a great story, that it had plenty in it to suit everyone. The plot was complex, with many sub-plots, and the characters were strong and well rounded. Hardrada himself, although central to the story, was not the main character. This was a young captain of the imperial guard who finds himself thrown into this hot-pot of vice, corruption and murder – the echoes of Imperial Rome sounding loud in the corridors of Constantinople. Through him I was able to develop all sorts of diverse themes and plots, and include a romantic thread that will run through the whole series. I won’t give too much away, but the story is well documented. As it is historical, the basic plot is already done, only the characterisation and the dialogue requires work. It’s great fun, but of course it will all end in tragedy!

Well, after the editing (and I had parted with the money) it was time once again to pack it up and set it out into the world of agents. I kept an open mind, as I always try to do, but there is no escaping the fact that with each rejection, my self-belief began to suffer. I am of the opinion that the majority of agents do not even look at an author’s work, unless they have been personally introduced, or the writer is a celebrity. It’s quite obvious, no matter what they say, that almost 99.9 percent of everything they receive they simply ignore. Yes, I’ve had some great comments from one or two agents, but the majority couldn’t care less. I sometimes wonder how they make their money.

Anyway, the point is, with my heart in my boots, I sent it to a couple of independent publishers.

Within two weeks, those two publishers wanted my book.

Can you imagine! My God.

I settled on one, who seems totally professional and has a good catalogue of noteworthy books, and the contracts have been signed and I am to start work on it, with their chief editor, in the spring of 2013.

It’s an exciting time. I’m about a quarter of the way through the second volume, and have even drafted the first chapter of the third. So, it is all up and running. Except, I have other things in the pipeline too.

Thrillers, filled with murder, deceit, blackmail, sex and violence. That’s what I want to write about. Not just historical ones, but gritty modern sagas. So, that’s what I’m doing – or, should I say, that is what I have done. 2013 is certainly going to prove one of the busiest and productive years I have had so far. I only hope it is the most successful too.

If you’d like to learn more about my ‘adult’ thrillers, please visit my website: www.stuartgyates.com where you can find all the information about what I have written so far.

Thanks for reading, and a very Happy New Year to you all.

 

Adventures in writing…a personal journey by Stuart G Yates: back on track!

The main difference between writing a work of historical fiction, as opposed to what could be termed ‘ordinary’ fiction is, of course, the research. The facts have to be correct. There’s no getting away from this if the story is to be authentic, and not a fantasy piece. I have always longed to write historical fiction and some of my Young Adult works have been well grounded in research. My first published work, ‘Cold Hell in Darley Dene’ dealt with the immediate post-war years, and the aftermath of what happened during a bombing raid on Birkenhead in 1941. I knew the story, but I still had to check up on the facts. However, it was during the writing of ‘Death’s Dark Design’ that I seriously took up the mantel of research. This involved labouring through masses of literature, weaving all the numerous threads that would bind the story together. It was set during the civil wars in England between Henry VI and Edward IV (which became known as The Wars of the Roses), and I had to link this into what was happening in Eastern Europe at the same time. Because, of course, my villain was a vampire, and had to meet up with Vlad Tepes (whom some of you may know as Dracula). It was fascinating, and my own work of fiction grew as a consequence and became, for me, one of the best things I have done.

When I began to turn my mind away from paranormal fiction, I wrote a historical pierce set in Spain in the Seventeenth Century. ‘The Story of Don Luis’ grew out of what was happening to a boy in my school. He was being relentlessly bullied and was becoming ill because of it. I couldn’t do very much, being a lowly teacher, but I told him I would show everyone what a great person he was, that he was better than any of those who were making his life a misery. I would write a book, and it would be about him.

That summer, I did just that. ‘Don Luis’ deals with a young boy who is hounded by the local toughs. They make every day hell for him, because he is ‘different’. He can read. I poured my heart into it, and produced a story that showed that strength of character and love can conquer all.

When he saw the book, Luis burst into tears, but they were tears of joy. It is one of my fondest memories about writing. How books can change lives. Wow, that saying has never been more true than when it came to Luis’s reaction. It helped him, I believe, in realising that he has so much to offer, and is a far better person than those who attempted to hurt him.

I researched that story, got everything right. One day, I will write the sequel. I have ideas for a series of books about ‘Don Luis’, but they will have to wait, because now I have the bug gripping me about William ‘Rufus’. More about that, next time.

Until then, I’d like to wish everyone a very Happy Christmas. I love this time of year and I sincerely hope that love and peace visits you all at some point over the festive season. As Dickens says, ‘God bless us, everyone!’

You can visit my websites to read about my books and where to buy them

For Young Adult paranormal books (including Death’s Dark Design) go to www.glennstuart.co.uk

For adult and ‘cross-over’ works, including ‘The Story of Don Luis’, go to www.stuartgyates.com

Thanks for reading.

 

Adventures in writing…another slight detour, and why not…

Inspiration. The essential ingredient when it comes to writing. I’ve talked a little about it before, but I think I need to expand, because for me it is not the lack of inspiration which prevents me from writing, but the lack of time. Holding down a full-time job, one that takes all of my energy, makes for difficult juggling of the hours. By the time I get home I am simply too exhausted to do anything other than make some dinner, watch a little TV, then go to bed. All I’m left with is the weekend, and something invariably comes along to get in the way.  The guilt then sets in, and I begin to feel deflated, depressed even. Because when I am not writing I am rudderless, drifting aimlessly. I fight it, but life always wins through.

Life. My god, there’s a topic for at least a hundred thousand blogs.

So, back to inspiration.

Personally speaking, the love of writing is inspiration enough. I remember Stephen King talking about simply sitting down and writing. The process itself is sufficient to remove the dreaded ‘writers; block’. And I think that’s true. His book ‘On Writing’ is a true classic, a wonderful insight into one writer’s mind, how he works, what he considers ‘good practice’, or indeed ‘good practise’. Both fit perfectly with his way of thinking. Elmore Leonard’s ‘Ten Rules of Writing’ is the only other book of this type I would consider keeping on my bookshelf. A brief but insightful guide from a master storyteller. He’s not everybody’s cup of tea, but he has an enviable way of painting pictures with words that make his books simply buzz along. You don’t have to think too hard with Leonard. And if want to be entertained, then that’s surely how it should be.

I want to entertain with my words. I’m not so pretentious that I think that what I have to say is in any way important. My books are to be read to be enjoyed, nothing more. I don’t make social statements, or philosophise about this and that. I simply tell stories.  I love Henning Mankell’s Wallender books, but some of his others, where he goes on about the changes of society, they leave me cold. Sorry. Each to his own, I know. The thing is, if I want to know about all that, I’ll read non-fiction. We should know about such things, of course we should, but…

The problem is, I’m going to contradict myself now.

Not everyone likes non-fiction. Some are put off by the very nature of those two words. Many like to read fiction, for example, which is historical, and they can learn a good deal about the past, how personalities changed worlds, etc, without actually realising it.  However, we must always be aware that what we are reading is fiction, not fact. Just as when we watch Braveheart we don’t believe it actually did happen like that. Because it didn’t. It’s when fiction begins to dress itself up as fact that we have to take care.  We, as writers, should never purposely mislead our readers.

So, what has any of this to do with inspiration? Well, there I was, teaching my class of twelve year olds about one of the great mysteries of the early Middle-Ages. The curious death of William II, in the New Forest in August, 1100. Shot by Walter Tyrel. Dead. A terrible, tragic accident. Or was it? Could he have been…murdered…? And it struck me, right there, just like that fateful arrow….why don’t I write the story? So I sat down after my class and, armed with paper and pen, I sketched out the story, from beginning to end. Twelve basic scenes that will intertwine and bamboozle and leave the reader suitably satisfied and entertained. Not twisting the  history, rather embroidering it. Using the facts as a vehicle.

Only then did it even cross my mind to consider if anyone else has actually written such a story.

So I checked that mine of information on all things literary – Amazon. The well-thought of Edward Rutherfurd, Marilyn Durham, Jo Beverley (a very personable author) and…Well, that’s about it really. Some others mention poor old Rufus, but only in passing. Really, it’s only Durham’s book which goes into detail. So, even though the story’s the same, the telling will be different, and the characters, the scenes, the plot…

You see, the juices have begun to flow, and this is the reason I write. To enter into a new world, of my creation. I love it.

To discover something of what I do, why not visit my website, www.stuartgyates.com where you will find links to my books and how to buy them. Thanks for visiting, and keep reading.

 

Adventures in writing…a slight detour

I’m writing early this week, as this weekend I am off for a pre-Christmas visit to that most beautiful of cities – Paris! So, a few thoughts before I wing away to the City of Love…

I received an interesting email the other day, informing me of new innovations and opportunities for writers ‘in the digital age’. As technology continues to advance at frightening speed, many traditional platforms for publishing and ‘getting yourself out there’ are being forced out of the market by the online revolution. Self-publishing is a boom industry, and more people than ever before are able to get themselves into print. The number of free offers, events, newsletters, online magazines, etc, etc, are everywhere. I constantly receive all sorts of notices concerning free promotion this, opportunity that…I may be like a lot of people. Whenever I see that my inbox contains messages, I feel a little thrill of anticipation. Could it be Harper Collins signing me up? My fingers fumble for the mouse, body shaking, perspiration springing from every pore, anticipation mounting…and then the anti-climax when I discover it is yet another vague and distant marketing company desperate to sign me up and make me into the world’s number one. A far cry indeed from when I began, pounding away on my Olivetti, alone in my room, with only myself and a library full of great literature to guide me through the writing process. And life, of course. The greatest teacher of all. Self publishing in those days was too expensive to even consider. Now, with Smashwords, Kindle, Nook and a whole host of others offering free opportunities to get yourself ‘in print’ it is so much easier. And so alluring.

However, let’s just take a step back from all of this.

There is one fundamental truth that has not changed, not since the days of the Ancient Greek dramatists who put their words down on velum scrolls and had actors perform them to spellbound audiences. Not since Defoe penned Robinson Crusoe, or Dickens laboured over Hard Times, published his stories weekly, and left audiences gasping for more as each extract ended on a tight-rope – the precursor to our ‘modern’ diet of televised soaps. All of them, from Aesop to Zola and every great writer in between have one crucial thing in common.

The writing is good. Often, it is great.

That was then. Nowadays anyone can get themselves published.

The romance of seeing your name on the cover of a book, the sheer thrill of achievement that gives, is a strong lure.

But I would ask everyone to pause for a moment and read some of the reviews for many of these self-published books. Note how many times readers mention typos, bad spelling, grammatical errors, how all of this interrupts the flow of the reading experience. I’ve talked about how editors can tear you apart, try to dominate, change your direction, but a good editor is essential if the work you have produced is going to be raised above the slush. No editing at all, that has to lead to the sort of comments you see on Amazon. ‘Best-sellers’ receiving five-star reviews, is all very well, but then, every so often, a one-star from a discerning reader who knows what makes a book good, or, be it one from Thomas Hardy, even great. The story is important, but it has to be well written. Sometimes I doubt if these self-published authors have even done a second draft, let alone a third, or a fourth.

I write fast. I can get a seventy thousand word first draft down in three weeks. I am on fire when the inspiration grabs me. But it is the editing which takes the time. The rewrites. Going through every sentence, sometimes every word, working, grafting to make it the best I can. That is what takes up all of my time, and it can be mind-numbingly difficult. Three weeks becomes three or even four months. This process, however, is essential. I haven’t always been like this. Impatience to see myself in print drove me on. Now, I can take my time, determination overcoming impatience. I want to do the best I can. I am not longer satisfied.

None of us should ever be ‘satisfied’ with what we write. Never.

Given all of the above, I have considered self-publishing a book I have written. The problem is, it doesn’t fit in with any of the usual genres I write in. Therefore, I might give it a go. I’ve rewritten it four times and I believe that now, finally, it is ready. So…we shall see.

You can read about what I do by visiting my websites.

For Young Adult material, pop along to www.glennstuart.co.uk and for adult thrillers, visit www.stuartgyates.com. On both sites you will find where you can buy my books. I hope you enjoy them.

 

 

Adventures in writing – a personal journey by Stuart G Yates, part 14.

Firstly, an apology for being late, but I came off my bike in the morning and it shook me a little. Nothing broken, except my pride. I was feeling a little down before that, and the spill only served to make it worse.

I got to thinking and posed the question to myself, is it all worth it? It takes a lot of effort to write a book. From the initial idea, the rough scribbles of scenes, the planning, the writing of endless redrafts…Then, finally, when it is published and the cover looks good enough to eat…nobody buys it. I don’t do this for the money, I have to stress. If I did I would have long ago dropped by the wayside. No, I do it for the sheer love of it, but it would be nice to get some recognition. I have 14 books published now – 10 Young Adult novels, and four cross-over/adult ones – and I would say I’ve probably sold less than 50 books to people I don’t know. So, really, in all seriousness, I have to ask, what is the point?

Just the other night, I was watching a music-video and there was a tiny scene in it which really made me think. I began to formulate a story in my head, the first tiny seeds of something, something I could develop. And it struck me, right there – the reason. The reason I write. I write because I am a creative person; I love conjuring up stories, living them, immersing myself in a new world of my imagination. It doesn’t matter that I don’t sell any copies. In fact, I am seriously considering giving up all of the social network business. It’s never going to improve anything. But to write, well, I simply have to. There is no argument about that.

 

The Pawnbroker, set in Victorian Birkenhead, is a real tale of terror.

 

I set my next couple of books in my home town. The last of my trilogy of Island Animal Rescue novellas was set in Birkenhead, as was The Pawnbroker. This book had begun life way back as a twenty thousand word novella when I lived on Alderney. I had an idea to churn out dozens of such books, all tiny ones, fast-paced, easy to read. But the story wouldn’t let me. After I had re-written it, developed the theme, made it so much bigger, such a feeling of achievement swept over me, but even so something was changing inside. The need to write much more gritty and ‘grown-up’ books gnawed away at me. I planned a cross-over book that would appeal to adults as well as teenagers. It was time to reach out.

Adventures in Writing…a personal journey by Stuart G Yates. Part 13.

 I’ve had many jobs since leaving school. I didn’t become a teacher until I was 35. A wonderful job, I’ve always loved the challenge, the interaction, the opportunity to guide young minds…

But writing. Writing transports me into another world, a world of my own creation. At times of stress or uncertainty, I can ‘run away’ and find solace in my words. Up to a point.

The cover of my PUBLISHED edition of ‘Tales from Animal Rescue’

I write better when I am happy. Happiness brings security. Maybe not financial, but certainly emotional. I recall Stephen King saying something similar. For me, certainly, a stress-free environment enables me to focus in on the make-believe. Unhappiness, uncertainty, sadness…none of those help me. The image of the struggling artiste, poring over words in a Garrick, ripping apart his heart-strings to show the world just how awful it all really is…No, none of that is for me.

I write extremely intuitively. Inspiration often leaps out at me, and the most unlooked for moments. Some days I can write without a break, the words flowing as if every sluice gate were open. Other days, I may only put down half a dozen sentences. When I am in that sort of mood, I often go back to previous works that need some re-working and concentrate on those. Indeed, I usually do work on more than one project at a time. For example, as I write this – in late November, 2012 – I have two works either completed, or nearing completion. Two thrillers, Road Kill and Whipped Up. I love them both and can switch from one to the other with ease. I liken it to watching a range of programmes on television – the human brain has a huge capacity to retain stories. It is no big thing. Really.

The experience I out-lined last time, with my word being shredded by an editor, left me very disillusioned. At one point I even considered giving it all up. Especially when I submitted another story to them. Yes, I know what I said last time – that I would never submit to them again. But this was immediately after that book was finished. At that particular moment, I was fairly buoyed up. The cover of my book was awesome. I loved it. So when I submitted a second novel and they wrote back to tell me that they were not going to consider it, I was totally wrecked.  They ‘admired’ my work, but didn’t feel that they were in a position to pursue another Young Adult novel.

As it was, the rejection gave me time to reflect. Perhaps I really was as bad as they seemed to think. The logical thought, that they must have liked me enough to have accepted my first book, didn’t help. I didn’t even consider it. Depression does that; it blinds you to the obvious, the rational.  I told myself that they were a ‘new’ publishing house and were desperate for authors; that was why they accepted me in the first place. Now that they were established, the must have realised their mistake.

I was in a bad way. I lost all confidence in myself, in what I wanted to do, in what I wanted to write. This really was the darkest hour in my writing career.

Naturally, I continued to write. For a long period, I wrote stories but didn’t submit anything. What would be the point in more rejections? They’d only depress me still further. I completed a novella which I thought had some value. I’d enjoyed writing it and after my third re-working I gave it a try and sent it out into that unforgiving world of agents and publishers. The third publisher accepted it. I was elated! How was this possible? But it was, and the letter they sent me was full of praise and encouragement. In fact, they said there was potential for a series of stories. Would I be interested?

Would I be interested?

 

The editor was very good. She obviously knew what she was doing, but had none of the pretentions of the previous one. She guided rather than demanded, and she valued my opinions, didn’t dismiss them. We worked as partners, and I never once felt lectured to. It was a thoroughly enjoyable process and I learned a great deal from her.

They asked me for ideas about the cover, and I duly wrote back. A mock-up arrived perhaps a fortnight later, and it looked good. I was becoming more and more excited. There is nothing like your work being considered worthy to make you feel good about yourself.

The second part of the series of ‘Tales from Animal Rescue’. Paranormal thrillers for Young Adults.

By the end of the process, my little book was looking good. A publication date was set, and I waited with bated breath to see the preliminary book block. This is the final stage, an opportunity to give the manuscript one last look-over before it goes to publication. There were some minor typos, because after such a thorough editing process, there was now very little wrong with how it was looking.

So I sent it back.

Soon, another book would be added to my growing stable. I’d rediscovered my enthusiasm, the fires relit. Even before I heard anything more from the publishers, I had planned out two more adventures in this series. At last, I had focus.

Then the email came.

From the publisher.

They had gone bust. My editor wrote to me, full of apologies and regrets. It was all beyond her control. The banks had pulled the plug and the consequence was that my book would not be published.

From being taken to heady heights, I had once again, with the end in sight, been shot down in flames. I couldn’t believe it. When was anything ever to go right for me? Perhaps it really was time for me to quit…

 

You can discover my work by visiting my two websites – for Young Adult stories (including the one I describe above) visit: www.glennstuart.co.uk

For my adult work, visit www.stuartgyates.com

I hope you enjoy what you find.

 

 

Adventures in writing…a personal journey by Stuart G Yates. Part 12.

We can’t write in isolation.

What do I mean by that, as I sit here, on my own, talking to nobody but myself…and tomorrow, I will do the same. I will sit at my desk, with the keyboard in front of me, and I shall create new scenes, new dilemmas for my characters. And I shall do it in solitude, not sharing any of it with anyone. Transported into a world of ‘pure imagination’ as Roald Dahl put it.

However, when it is all done, the pages formatted, the words polished, I will send it out into the world. And the first port of call could be the editor.

If you are fortunate enough to been taken on board by a publisher, it is usual for the editing process to begin fairly soon. The contract is signed, the heart pounds, the throat is dry. Any moment now your name will be at the top of the Sunday Times best-sellers…Well, a big breath is needed. The publishing house, be it a major, multi-billion dollar company, or a small independent, will work with you closely as your work will need to be edited. You may ask Auntie Gwen to look at it, got the milkman to run his eye over a few chapters, and they may even have spotted some typos, but it is the editor’s job to transform your work into a masterpiece. Or something close to it.

I think it was Ian Fleming who said he never worried about grammar or spelling, that was all down to editor. For most of us, I would hazard a guess that we try and get our work as close to perfect as we can before we send it away. Nevertheless, the editor may well come up with some points other than purely grammatical. They may have some advice, some suggestions…or they may even demand some changes.

Now, it is this last point that I am going to focus on.

I had a novel which I thought was fairly good. I’d put it on Authonomy and I received some interesting comments, which I acted upon and did my very best to re-work various scenes, etc. When it was looking fairly good (in my estimation), I submitted it to some publishers and it was picked up by one.

After that initial euphoria, the editing process began.

I was naïve then, desperate to have my book out, to share it with all those eager readers who were queuing up to devour my words. (Who am I kidding? Hardly anybody read it, except the publisher.)

It began. The editing process. It was intense, uncompromising, and became something I dreaded. Huge swathes of my work were being analysed, questioned, criticised, removed; other pieces included. Suggestions were not given, these were instructions. Orders. I had to do it their way, because they knew best. Not that they had created the story, not that they had even the slightest idea about what I wanted to say…No, their college creative writing courses had schooled them in what was good, and what was not.

Henning Mankell has sold over 25 million books around the world. Imagine that. When you read his pages, you never once stop to say…‘Mmm, I’m a little bit concerned about the use of ‘was’, or the way he includes adverbs, and as for his POV, well…I’m totally confused.’ But I’m not confused. I’m an intelligent reader. I understand what he is telling me. The pictures he has woven with his words come alive in my mind. I love his books, and so do countless others. I see nothing wrong in what he does. I’ve never been to a creative writer’s course. I read, a lot. And I write. All the time. I’m a writer. I’m instinctive. I’ve lived a life. I use my own experiences to inform my characters’ actions. But here I was, being told what to do by someone who has never seen the things I have seen, met the people I have met, but who has dissected Faulkner and Steinbeck until their eyes bled. And all of it in a nice, cosy classroom.

I became resentful.

They changed my book. I should have stood up. I should have said, ‘NO!’ But I didn’t. I was weak, I was blind. Once the contract has expired, I will take that book and I will put it back to how it should be. Mine. And when it is published again, it won’t have those words I have come to hate, written on the front piece ’Edited by…’.How conceited is that, I ask you.

Am I angry? Yes I am. It should be a collaborative process, not a dictatorial one. Nobody knows your work better than you. Yes, it could be improved, it could even be changed, but not to the extent that you no longer even recognise it. Be strong. It is your creation, and it didn’t exist before you put fingers to the keyboard. We are the creators, and we should allow ourselves to be steam-rollered. I did, and I regret it. I’m not saying all editors are like this – far from it. The majority are supportive, informed and insightful people. But some are not. I open up that book of mine, read the opening lines and I shudder. That is not my writing. But one day, I assure you, it will be.

 

I have two websites.

If you prefer stories full of super-natural horror, then visit my Young Adult site:

www.glennstuart.co.uk

If your taste is more for thrillers, action, suspense, murder and mystery, then please go along to www.stuartgyates.com

Either way, I hope you enjoy what you find.

The links to all my work and how to purchase titles are on my sites. Keep reading!