A Macabre Abundance of Missing Limbs

Some novelists don’t like to talk about the stories they are writing. Speaking it out loud dispels the magic, they say. Once it has been voiced, the urgency of writing loses its potency. Others - I’m one of this group - like to talk our stories through. Speaking them out loud forces my vague ideas into a more concrete form. In telling them, I discover aspects of stupidity in the plot. My hesitation is tell-tale, a sign that my subconscious doesn’t want the words to come out of my mouth.

“And then she... uh... well... that is to say...”

So, given my love of talking it through, why has this page been so quiet for the last few weeks?

Regular readers will know that the next novel, The Queen of all Crows, will be out in January. I’ve finished writing it and have sent it off to my lovely publishers, Angry Robot. There will be more editing to do on it later. But for now, it is out of my head and I’ve turned my attention to the book that will follow it.

I’ve started writing and thinking. I’ve even shared one possible opening with my writing circle here in Leicester. It received excellent feedback. But I don’t yet understand the story and it may be that the opening will end up completely different. If you asked me to give some clues, I really wouldn’t know how to make my words coherent. The best I can do is share a few images.

There is an inn on Newfoundland near Port Aux Basques, beyond the borders of the Gas-Lit Empire. It’s turf roof doesn’t keep out all the rain. Water is dripping into a wooden bucket. And now it beginning to snow outside. A warlord strides in, and with him half a dozen bodyguards. Bone dice rattle on the uneven surface of a table.
There are gamblers here. But more particularly...

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