Let the fruit throwing begin!

A great title... it bears so little resemblence to my post this week, but it is a colourful idea... (thanks C.J.) Watermellon is big here in Greece and it is such a bright colour!


Well, what would the alternative have been?

A more mundane "FIVE THINGS" I suspect! Anyway, I shall continue!


I can announce that Greece does have the internet... but, after 10 days of burning my fingers out on the keyboard of my laptop, working on the sequel to River of Judgement, I have not been checking my emails as diligently as I should (it is also supposed to be a family holiday!) Quelle suprise! When I came on line this evening, to post the blog I had written poolside this morning, after checking the schedule at the weekend, I had to do a double take! But it is too late now to find a new horse, let alone write a new post, so here goes...

FIVE THINGS (no, not five items of fruit, C.J.!)

Expresso, chilled water, ouzo, good wine and good food…

And...

Company of course, to share all the above!

[caption id="attachment_3284" align="alignright" width="224" caption="Such a hard life, writing!"][/caption]

But, as I sit here at the poolside bar in the Eagles Palace Hotel on the Athos peninsular in Greece, on what is the last full day of my summer holiday, I believe I may have that angle covered!

“Five things” the program said… (momentarily in Greece, anyway :) ), more specifically list five things I would wish to see more of, in the genre I write in. I do so love these challenges!

I think I might have mentioned, in a previous post, how I am not a good reader (I read very little, for a writer) and how I tend not to stick to a genre label. I am writing a story about a number of characters in a certain situation. It just so happens that the situation – and its consequences – gives rise to some fundamental characteristics. These characteristics may be shared by others stories and, low and behold, a collection of stories that share enough such characteristics becomes labelled a genre.

My own view is that we are conditioned too much by the process of publishing that, for marketing considerations, is driven by the requirement to segment audiences. Publishing is just like any other industry. It has to follow rules of supply and demand. Market research and segmentation is just another facet of commercialisation that removes the need for people to really think about things! OK… So, we live in the real world, I concede this fact… but where is the art in that?

(As an aside, I feel I may be digressing a little here. Perhaps it is the effect of all the ouzo I have drunk in the last ten days? But, no excuses, I shall return to the focus shortly!)

[caption id="attachment_3283" align="alignright" width="224" caption="Which one, Dad?"][/caption]

I asked my young son, Finlay, what he enjoys in the stories he reads… he likes mysteries, and action adventures. He is nine (going on 59) and his reading age is such that the books he has started to read contain profanity, which we have been telling him is wrong! But that is another issue… (Had this post been about five things I would like to see less of in the genre I write in, then I could happily expand this point!)

Finlay’s wish is to see more series. He likes to get to know his characters, and this makes him want to read his books faster so he can find out what the hero is up to in the next one! Maybe this is genetic. His mother (she declined to appear in a photo) gave a similar response when I asked her what she likes in stories – and she reads across multiple genres. Although the series angle was played down, the idea of getting to know the character was certainly important.

Where does that leave me? I used to read, and read a lot. I, too, loved series. (There you go! It is genetic!) Westerns, Sci-fi, James Bond. I loved complicated multi-faceted plot lines. Could I possibly cast my mind back and come up with areas that influence my own writing. Well, for the purposes of brevity, and avoiding further procrastination and digression, here goes, in no particular order of importance…

1) More life in some of the characters.  I am not quite talking of writing that brings characters to life here, though that is also important. (As I said, I would prefer the “less of” rather “more of” approach.) How about more life as in less death? OK, so I am crossing borders between crime, thrillers and such, but, really, do we need quite so many deaths to make a good story? High body counts to me smacks a little of sensationalisation.

2) More mundane events. Mundane? Yes, but I thought thrillers and suspense and crime are all supposed to be the antithesis of the mundane. True, but, again, the less is more approach. Why do the high body counts in many “in-genre” thrillers and crime novels also feature such horrific, mutilations of the victims? Do they all die such horrible deaths? Is every criminal also a sadist? I think not! People do die in crimes; sometimes passion leads to excess, but not all crimes are passionate. Many crimes occur as a consequence of circumstance.

3) More suspense. Most definitely! Especially if I have just reduced the excesses of criminal intent. I want the words on the paper to be put there with a purpose – I want the author to “play” with my mind, to “caress” my thoughts, to enlighten my senses. I want the words to act with subtlety, not shock. Like the chords and melody of music come together to build tension then release, I want the words of the story to do the same. I want each section and chapter and sub-plot to be put together with the same thought… to build tension then release. All the while contributing to a whole, in which the intensity of suspense builds through to the very end.

4) More story telling. OK, someone told me some days ago (and I apologise that I cannot remember who) but the Titanic was built by professionals and the Ark was built by amateurs (oops… wrong “arc” still, it gives me an excuse for a brief diversion). But, please, do give me a meaningful story arc to follow. As with suspense, I believe the concept of a story arc should apply at a levels of good fictional narrative construction. The beginning, the middle, and the end. Like a good rainbow, the story arc should climb (suspensefully, in my case) out of the beginning, and lead my eyes on a journey of wonder through clouds of inspiration, before dropping down to its root in that pot of promised gold! And I do so wish not to be disappointed when I get to the end of the rainbow!

[caption id="attachment_3286" align="alignright" width="150" caption="And one for C.J. (smiling, here!)"][/caption]

5) Finally, more plausibility. Unless I am blessed with a visit from the author’s very own muse, to sit on my shoulder and help me translate some of the implausibility gaps, the seemingly impossible transcendences, the missing or unbelievable contexts in which some writing seems to be set in, then the story must lead me, effortlessly from my current place of very real, plausible, existence, into one where I can see all the story elements working together to show my a new reality. Even gothic horror and spiritualism can be handled within a plausible reality. All it requires is a measure of sensitivity on the part of the writer. Good writing will always attract cross-over readers – broadening the audience for readership. And how good will that make you feel?

When someone tells you that they don’t read your genre, but that they couldn’t put your book down, how high will you be flying? And I am not refering to my flight back to London tomorrow morning!

Happy writing and reading :)

It gets deeper... (the river, that is!)

Well, this week, I'm following the lead of C.J. and Greg, and opting to give you a taste of my work in progress. A simple explanation... I have mentioned before that I am a very poor reader. I don't actually follow a great deal, so posting some of my work in progress seemed the easier option.

Of course, my problem was then that the only work in progress I had was a spreadsheet with around 68 scene titles forming the plot structure for the sequel to River of Judgement. And Microsoft Excel spreadsheets do not make riveting reads.

Well, the challenge was then to write the first scene or two! So that's what I did yesterday afternoon, in between business meetings. I sat at a cafe in London's Covent Garden market place, amongst heaving crowds of tourists, all wondering what this stange guy in a suit was doing, head bent over the table, scribbling madly into a note book!


So, in the words of C.J. "I know it needs some work..." but here you are (without pictures this time) the first 2000 words of the sequel, hot of my brand new notebook!  It's uncut, unedited... and at the time of posting, less than 24 hours old!  Remember folks: you read it here first!

CHAPTER ONE

It was not a good day to be hauled out of his hotel bed. The Corinthia Hotel in Tripoli had all the comforts he could wish for. But the day had not been good. In fact, there really had been no good days recently.

The Corinthia suffered from the fact that it had little real competition in terms of International-standard accommodation. He’d seen better service and, while his room was clearly modelled on five star luxury, the price he had been paying since his exit from London was proving outrageous. But, strangely, if it had not been for his circumstances, he might actually have enjoyed the sojourn.

Exile was a good descriptor for where he found himself. Oh! He could roam about if he wished. There were no bars on his windows. He was free to come and go… but to go where? For what reason? He was fed up of the restaurant food, but there was little alternative but to eat in. Of course he could get to the Green Square area of the city, but the walk through the old town rarely seemed worth the effort. At the height of a North African summer, movement was a game of jumping from air conditioned environment to air conditioned environment.

No! For Aaron Philips, fugitive from British justice, today was a bad day, and it was going rapidly down hill.

‘Mr Philips?’ said the man in front of him now. ‘I do have your full and undivided attention, do I not? …Mr Philips?’

His contemplation abruptly terminated, Aaron sat forward on a low, white leather stool. His concentration returned to the man opposite. Despite the air conditioning humming in the background, he felt the beads of sweat gather at the nape of his neck, an run, uncontrolled, onto his shirt collar. The man looked at ease as he sat wearing his traditional Berber cloak of thick white wool. Two other men stood, patiently, either side and to the rear of the large sprawling white leather sofa the man occupied. They stood motionless in clichéd black suits, with black open-necked shirts. The dark, Arabic features of the three men made a stark contrast with the clean white contemporary lines of the furniture.

‘Yes,’ Aaron said finally.

‘Good.’

A white cat would have been too much. But, surreally, the thought amused Aaron. A white cat would have been welcome; it would have brought with it an air of Hollywood ambivalence – the chance that this encounter was merely some staged joke over which he could conjure his own outcome, if he wished. Take it or leave it. But he could not leave it. This was no joke – just the menacing presentation of a single option for his continued presence on earth.

The day was not going at all well, thought Aaron. He was, for the first time in his life, scared. He had no idea where all this was going.

‘Mr Philips, you…’ began the man, speaking quietly and deliberately. ‘You have created a problem for me and for my clients.’

Aaron was all ears now, intent, listening.

‘We came to you,’ the man continued, ‘…because friends recommended you.’

Friends, Aaron thought. More people with a grudge against me now.

‘You “were”…’

The use of the past tense struck Aaron hard. Unseen, his body reeled from the metaphoric blow. His career was shot, but that seemed the least of his problems.

‘…highly recommended,’ continued the man, who clearly had no interest in what Aaron might be feeling at this moment. ‘We wanted a legal, financial vehicle to move a great deal of our cash through London. You “were”…’

Again the past tense, again the sudden blow to Aaron’s psyche.

‘We are very disappointed. You have cost us a lot of money. It is time, Mr Phillips.’

‘Time?’ echoed Aaron.

‘Yes, time. Time for you to take action.

‘Time? said Aaron, pathetically. He tried his best not to comprehend what was happening.

‘Time for you to clean up some loose ends.’

‘But…’ began Aaron.

‘No buts, Mr Philips. This is embarrassing for us all. We will, of course, provide you with some assistance. However,…’

‘Yes?’ said Aaron.

‘Make no mistake, it will be sorted.

Had there been a white cat then it would have been purring under the attention of its Master.

‘It will begin without you, Mr Philips.

Aaron felt a chill rake his spine. ‘What will begin?’ he asked. His question was ignored.

The man quickly brought his hands together with a clap, and held his left hand up and out, reaching behind. The aide to his left deftly produced a mobile phone and placed it in the outstretched hand. The man dialled a number. He spoke again, while waiting for his call to connect. ‘Friends, Mr Philips. We will put you in touch. They will make sure that you do no get, shall we say, arrested? Yes, arrested! They will make sure that you are not arrested.’ The man smiled at his own choice of words. ‘At least until the work is done.’

‘What work? asked Aaron.

‘Come now, Mr Philips. Such naivety in one so cunning as yourself…’ he raised his other hand, signalling a halt to the conversation. He turned his attention to the phone. The other party had replied. The man spoke briefly in Arabic. He returned his gaze to Aaron, and continued in his perfect Oxford English, as if he had not been interrupted by the call. ‘I would find the situation charming if it was not so potentially disastrous to us. But now the work has begun.’ He smiled at Aaron.

‘What work? Aaron found himself repeating the question.

‘The clean up, Mr Philips. Your clean up.

The man passed the phone back to his aide and reached his right hand out and behind. This time the aide on his right passed the man a ticket wallet. The man reached forward and held it out to Aaron.

‘Your flight to Paris leaves in one hour, Mr Philips. My aides will escort you. Your case has been packed; it is in the car. And…’ the man paused. ‘Do not fail us this time.

Aaron sat in stunned silence. The ticket wallet seemed to hover but a foot away from his face. He slowly reached up and took it. The aide on the man's left moved round to the front of the sofa and stood next to Aaron, placing a hand gently on his arm.

‘It’s time, Mr Philips,’ said the aide in a thick Arabic accent.

~

Finn Jackson sat at the small, unstable table; its surface, like the others at the Covent Garden café, was covered in a lime-green plastic-like cloth. He ordered a wrap from the plastic-like menu – chorizo and buffalo mozzarella with sun dried tomatoes. He needed something in his stomach.

He checked his watch. Four in the afternoon. It had been a long, hot day so far. Lunch had been liquid. A bottle of chilled rose wine shared with pleasant female company. Business, totally business, he reminded himself. The young lady was a city analyst in oil and gas. She’d been doing a research piece for a client and wanted an update on the ecological impact of the tar sands exploration.

Finn looked around. The crowds in Covent Garden market were heaving as always. The cacophony of sound that reached his ears was a welcome friend. It was a typical London summer’s day: overcast, oppressive, damp heat. Reassuringly unpleasant in a suit. His tie had been discarded the moment he left the comfort of his office with its air conditioning. He moved uncomfortably in his chair, the wooden slats in the seat were leaving impressions on his backside. He looked at the coffee and water that had been placed before him and smiled at no one. He did like his life.

His short repast dispensed with, Finn turned his mind to Alexa. She would meet him there, at five, she had said. Alexa, that vision of loveliness; he had still not worked out in his mind how easily all the pieces had come together for him recently. Things had been so different before.

There was a brief commotion a few tables away from him. He wasn’t sure what had happened. There was a flurry of activity. The waitress, who had just moments ago removed his plate and napkin, now seemed to be on the end of a very polite, but firm dressing down.

Finn looked on.

A women, blonde, her hair in an immaculate off-the-shoulder bob, sat two tables down to his left, midway between him and the piazza with its constant caravan of moving tourists. She looked, to him, to be in her early forties. But he’d never been good at the age game. She was attractive. Classically so. A little thinner than Rueben would have preferred, but all the right curves were there, and in all the right places. His attention had obviously been arrested one moment too long. The waitress and her transgression became history as the women glanced to her right and saw him looking at her. Her almost-stern expression dropped.

There was no one at the tables between Finn’s and her own. She smiled directly at him. Confidence was clearly a virtue the women held in spades. ‘Damned hairdresser,’ she exclaimed.

Finn caught himself smiling back. He reached for his glass of water, as if embarrassed for being caught out – a naughty school boy, caught peeking at his attractive teacher’s shapely legs.

‘I’ve just spent two hours there. Every six weeks – I ask you! You’d think they’d remember…’

Finn chanced his perception. ‘...how you like your hair?’

‘No, damn it! How I like my coffee!’ she smiled. They always do my hair perfectly. I say half an inch and they do half an inch. What more can a girl ask for…’

‘Perfect coffee?’ he ventured. ‘And I suppose the waitress here didn’t help then?’

‘Perceptive for a northerner, aren’t you.’

‘Is my accent that much of a give away?’

‘You could say that,’ she said.

‘Well your hair looks great to me.’

‘Don’t overdo it, you were doing fine just then.

‘Sorry…’

‘And don’t say sorry. I pay a fortune to keep it looking just like this. I like to come out looking just the same as I go in.’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘I wouldn’t have expected you to…’

Finn’s phone, resting on the table by his now cooling cup of coffee, burst into chime. He didn’t move to pick it up.

‘Wife?’ the blonde asked, smiling at him.

Finn reached out and slid the Blackberry from its case and looked at the caller ID. He was reassured to see Alexa’s name appear. He looked back to the woman. ‘Partner, I’m not married,’ he said. He had no idea why he felt he’d had to add that qualification.

The blonde woman continued to smile at him. ‘You’d better answer it,’ she said.

‘Yes.’

Finn put the handset to his ear.

‘Finn Jackson? Mr Finn Jackson? repeated the strange and male voice.

‘Yes,’ said Finn, unsure what was going on, but sensing something wrong. He saw the look of concern on the woman’s face as she reacted to his own expression.

‘This is Detective Inspector Clarke.’

Finn felt the colour drain from his face. ‘Pardon,’ he said.

‘DI Dan Clarke. I’m with the British Transport Police down at Holborn station. I’m afraid there’s been an incident.’



~

Well, I hope you like this. I would certainly appreciate any feed back. :)

VERBAL REASONING… Improvisation on-line, 101

Not the usual suspects…

[caption id="attachment_2811" align="alignright" width="104" caption="I said "Not"!"][/caption]

I said NOT the usual suspects… but, then again, have you ever been Keyser Sözed? Do you ever wish to do (or have you ever done) a Keyser Söze in your story line?

Take a look around you… you are a writer, or a reader, or both. What can you see that will add credence to the realities you write, or read into?

Well, after two great posts from Greg and George on our blog this week, about favourite on-line writing resources, what else is there to write about? Clearly I have to come at this from another angle.

It is, oh, sooooooooo difficult following others on a chosen subject!

Pass me my foundation, darling…

[caption id="attachment_2814" align="alignleft" width="118" caption="That's a cover up, then?"][/caption]

I, too, am a fan of on-line tools such as dictionaries and a good thesaurus. And, as for Wikipedia? Well, I find it a brilliant tool, despite the limitations of knowledge validation (which are, frankly, and in my humble opinion, in some cases not without foundation).

Foundationless knowledge… ouch!

I sense my doctoral supervisors cringe at the very idea of according Wikipedia articles the status of knowledge… But, and it is a big BUT! …we are talking fiction here, and who gives a darn about the status of knowledge in fiction?

All knowledge – I have commented before – starts in life as fiction. It takes a process of communication and understanding (often coupled with demonstration) for a group of people (call it a society, if you like) to come to know something as knowledge.

So, someone writes something (not quite true – shall we say) in Wikipedia; some budding novelist picks up on the idea and works it into a crime novel (perhaps); some Holywood/Bollywood producer turns the novel into a film and it is seen by millions, including a budding criminal who thinks the “idea” is perfect for his (or her) next crime caper! And he (or she!) enacts the idea to commit the crime of the century. What was fiction has become truth! And a factual article is written about the “real” crime! Fiction becomes fact!

Anyway, again I digress. Greg has covered Wikipedia. :)

Keyser, who?

[caption id="attachment_2815" align="alignright" width="137" caption="What's in a name?"][/caption]

It is not until the end of the film, The Usual Suspects that we realize the narrative that Kevin Spacey has been spinning to the detectives has been based on simple “real” things that he has observed around him: the “strung-together” details taken from an office notice board, and the KOBAYASHI logo on the bottom of a coffee cup!

Imagine yourself, Roger "Verbal" Kint, famous author! You are sat there – no interrogators this time – but the pressure is on! You have your computer on and a blank page to fill. At this point you have an idea, but no details. The idea? A crime!

The greatest on-line resource I have found is the world-wide-web itself! Why stop at dictionaries? Why limit yourself to a certain thesaurus? Why stop at Wikipedia or Google. The same phrase entered into Google and Ask and Yahoo and… well, whatever… the same phrase will often return different results! Go on, be brave, pick and chose! Start stringing things together! This is where the fun starts… be your own Verbal reasoner.

The internet (I would argue!) is the definitive resource. All the other tools are just windows on the mass of data. We chose a window to look out of, just as we might pick a favourite window to look out of a house onto the yard outside. But we sometimes forget there are other windows. Our views become restrained, we forget that when the light moves, the view changes.

As a writer, I am thankful for all those people in the world out there who have given me so much material to pick and mix from. In River of Judgement, I wanted a board of directors as characters in my plot… Do you realize how many companies, world-wide, post brief bios of their directors? No?

[caption id="attachment_2813" align="alignleft" width="143" caption="Clearly not "usual" anymore!"][/caption]

So many, in fact, that when you string things together, add new names, new locations, plot ideas etc, fact becomes embedded in new fiction and nobody is any the wiser.

Fact becomes fiction!

One might wonder where other characters in my writing come from? Well, keep wondering. That might be the subject of another post!

Happy reading and writing, y’all! :)

'A box?' said Alice...

I have a confession to make! I also write non-fiction – mainly academic stuff (under my other name)! But, funnily enough, I have the same problem with non-fiction as I do with fiction (and if you have a spare $99.95, you can see what I mean!)

[caption id="attachment_2292" align="alignright" width="116" caption="At peace, at last..."][/caption]

I don’t do boxes (sorry, Greg, no offence!) …It’s just that the only box I think I would be comfortable with is my own coffin! (At a more appropriate time in my life, of course.) In the meantime, I insist on writing either a story (for fiction) or fiction (for non-stories).

[caption id="attachment_2294" align="alignleft" width="140" caption="A box? Really?"][/caption]

What do I mean by this? Is this some wacky Brit’s idea of what passes for nonsense? A sort of contemporary trip down Alice’s rabbit hole, into a world of nonsensical irrelevance, just so I can post a certain number of words on a subject I find difficult to relate to?

No!

Most definitely not…

(…though I am a wacky Brit – at times).

Let me start by suggesting that all knowledge is fiction. And that all fiction is (potentially) knowledge. The "what ifs" of  Wendy’s speculative fiction are no different to the musings of science that grow, embryonically, within the research scientist’s mind. The ideas of those who practice science and the ideas of fictional authors are one and the same. They are ideas. Valuable, interesting ideas! Possibilities!

[caption id="attachment_2295" align="alignright" width="92" caption="That's it... of course!"][/caption]

Ideas – they are the seed of the future and the unrealized possibilities of the past. Ideas are not bound by titles, badges, genres, processes or outcomes. They evolve within the mind of the individual – they are not categorised until they come into contact with others who have expectations. Wendy’s competition judges, for example – for whom tagging a genre for her story could be tricky!

Expectations are the killers of any art form – even the art of science. Science cannot become knowledge unless academic “peers” decide that the “science” presented by a scientist “fits” with their expectations. And, unfortunately, fiction is frequently not fiction, unless it conforms to the genre expectations of those who “gate keep” the industry: the agents, the publishers and the competition judges.

But the gatekeepers are not to be blamed (entirely), because, in general, we all have our own expectations. We are conditioned by our schooling and experience to “expect” certain things that we have been subjected to in the past. We read something we like, with a certain label, and we look out for that label as a reference point when we look for something else to read. We all appreciate our comfort zone. We taste something we like, and we look for the same things on the next menu we see. We forget that we can have fun, as children have fun, and look at something we have never, ever, seen before – and have fun and enjoy it!

[caption id="attachment_2297" align="alignleft" width="116" caption="Or is it...?"][/caption]

So where does this leave me? I write stories. I like to think that I can borrow from anywhere to write a story. So, for $99.95 you can read about why I think the study of art is useful to understand how to manage organisations. And, for a substantially smaller amount, you can read a story that starts with a crime, moseys along with a deal of suspense, has a paranormal influence through a recurring dream, and ends in a love story… though I never set out with that mix of genres in mind!

Happy writing and reading. And remember, in my world there are no boxes, and we should all act like children! Wicked ones… :)

My First Time… (or, The Virgin Short Story Writer)

There I was, idly sitting at my desk, twiddling with my mouse, thinking about more marketing moves to help with the promotion of River of Judgement, when I stumbled upon a competition. A short story competition was to be held as part of the Theakstons Old Peculier Crime Writing Festival, in the lovely Yorkshire town of Harrogate.

‘Here,’ says I, ‘is my chance to mix it with the likes of Ian Rankin, Val McDermid, Stuart MacBride, Christopher Brookmyre, Jeffery Deaver and Joanne Harris.’

All that was asked of me was to write a short crime story between 2,000 and 5,000 words long, beginning with a first line provided by Stuart MacBride:

“In my experience, those who beg for mercy seldom deserve it”

‘That,’ says I, ‘might be the start of it… but how the hell do I get from there to the end in under 5000 words?’ I’d never written a short story in my life! I don’t count those stories you get to write at school; I was never very good at English as a subject – either language or literature, but that is another, long, story.

Over a pint of ale (not Theakstons) in the village ale-house, my good friend, neighbour, and ex-journalist turned PR consultant, Ian, offered me a gem of advice. ‘Like a mini-skirt, David. Long enough to cover the essentials and short enough to hold your interest.’ (A very male point of view, I admit – but this is a Wicked place.)

The essentials? The plot. A crime would be a good start, and taking a lead from Aristotle: a beginning, middle and an end; the classic three-acts. Yes, I knew all that, but under 5000 words? ‘Come on... get real! And forget flash fiction, I’m not ready for that! I need help’, I (nearly) cried.

As luck would have it, I listen to a lot of talk radio during the day. That week there had been a series of afternoon plays, all adapted from Chekov short stories. ‘Hey, he’s famous, isn’t he? I heard myself say. ‘He wrote loads of short stories! Now what was that one I heard on Tuesday?’ I tried to remember the one that I missed the middle of because I was distracted by something. ‘A short skirt, wasn’t it?’ I mused.

[caption id="attachment_2129" align="alignright" width="86" caption="More Plotting?"][/caption]

Why re-invent the wheel. If, according to Christopher Booker, there are only seven basic plots, then we must all borrow from someone, somewhere along the line. ‘Why can’t I borrow from the Master!’ And, isn’t the internet wonderful? Moments later, after recalling the title, I had downloaded a copy of Anton Chekov’s The Black Monk – a great story with a supernatural theme.

I read The Black Monk, re-read it, and leant back in my chair. ‘Cool, this guy can write short stories.’ So, being an engineer I deconstructed the plot. I worked out that it had nine plot points. Not listing these, but if you are not sure of how something should look, deconstruction is a technique I would recommend. Why do some people love taking things apart? I always took things apart as a kid, then put them pack together again. Lego is a great toy! But I digress. This post is about a virgin short story writer.

‘I love that essential theme. The Black Monk. Brilliant! An inevitable decay into madness, punctuated by a love story. I want to mirror that theme and structure in my crime story. Now what’s that line again?’

“In my experience, those who beg for mercy seldom deserve it”.

Pen and paper. I love the old ways. I sat and (cheating here, with a calculator) divided my 5000 word challenge into nine sections. And, realising that simple is always best, I rounded each section to a maximum of 500 words (4500 is under 5000, so I figured I was OK with that). I wrote on my paper nine section titles which basically mirrored the plot points I had identified in Chekov’s story, and started writing. In two afternoons I had completed the story. With my good lady wife doing one editing run through, a few minor changes including ‘… This name doesn’t sound right,’ says she who (sometimes) must be obeyed.

‘Why?’ says I. I had no idea, but a women’s intuition should be listened to (sometimes)!

Some superfluous verbiage was cut out, the titles disposed of and the sections re-grouped into eight, and I had my first proper, non-school short story.

But was it good enough for the competition? Would it win me an audience with some of the great and the good in crime fiction? Would it win me a free entry to the Festival and a chance of being spotted by an Agent or Publisher?

I will never know! I never sent the story into the competition.

‘Why?’ echoed a voice from nowhere.

I liked it; my wife liked it; my mother-in-law liked it. Even one of my four sons liked it.

‘Only one,’ echoed the voice.

‘He was the only one either old enough or not studying for exams at the time. Now, quit with the echoes.’

I thought, ‘Hang on a cotton-picking minute… Am I not a publisher as well as an author? Have I not the courage of my own convictions? Do I really want to wait months for the announcement that my story might, or might not have won? Only to have wasted that time, if it had not. And what was I doing on this planet anyway? (Again, that is another, long, story!)

‘Be serious, a moment,’ I told myself. ‘There you were, sitting idly at your desk, twiddling your mouse, thinking about more marketing moves to help with the promotion of River of Judgement. Don’t you think…?’

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‘Of course!’ Inspiration. I’ve heard that short stories are a great way of showcasing a new writer’s work. ‘Why don’t I publish the short story alongside my novel?’ says I. ‘Marvellous,’ I replied.

The End.

Violence Is Golden

When I started writing again, both teachers and theater rats asked me the same question:

“But why crime?”

Let me give you the long answer first.

People fascinate me.

We all want something really badly.  Maybe it’s money, maybe it’s love, maybe it’s that new iPod.  It doesn’t matter.  What does matter is what you’ll give up for it.  You have to give up something to get something.  That’s how it works.  If it means working for hours at a job you don’t really like, or cleaning up your language and remembering her birthday and learning to open doors so she can walk through first, that’s one thing.

When you fudge that simple rule and take a shortcut, like robbing a bank or killing her current boyfriend, that’s another.  The shortcut may get you there faster, but the consequences come up thick and fast, too, and how are you going to avoid them?  You have to take another, bigger shortcut, and then you’ve got…

That’s where I come in.

It doesn’t matter whether you read Thomas Hardy or the Hardy Boys. People want, and their desire will drive them over that seductive little line while we sit back and watch.  Crime writing has been with us from the very beginning when Cain killed Abel or Zeus overthrew Kronos.  But innocence isn’t lack of evil, it’s lack of knowledge of evil, so until we can make a choice (Hey, Adam, want a piece?), it doesn’t count.

Crime writing counts.

Crime writing examines people who want something too much and explores what happens when they pick Door Number Three.  We’ve all been an eyelash away from doing it ourselves, and maybe we even envy those people—the guy who gets away with ten million dollars or buries the body so he can be with Alotta Libido—don’t we?  Just a little?  Sure we do.

You’re never quite as alive as when you’ve got a problem and the clock is ticking.  That’s why we bet on the Super Bowl.  Then the clock runs out and so do the shortcuts.

Oops.

We need the Good Guy, too. After all, someone has to clean off the fan and put the furniture back.  We still want to believe someone else can fix it.  That’s where the cop, little old lady with cats, or curious neighbor comes in, to restore order and make sure everyone gets what he deserves.  We need the world to make sense, and crime writing invokes reason and logic.

Joyce Carol Oates has said that, in some form or another, everything she writes is crime fiction.  She’s not alone.  Lord Jim, Beloved, Oedipus The King, Huckleberry Finn, Wuthering Heights, The Scarlet Letter, Macbeth, The Brothers Karamazov, Pride And Prejudice, Native Son, Our Mutual Friend, Anna Karenina, The Great Gatsby, Sanctuary, Madame Bovary, and To Kill A Mockingbird all have a crime at their core.  And they barely chip enough off the literary iceberg to cool your cocktail.

My latest published story sees the world through the eyes of an eight-year-old boy meeting his divorced dad’s new girlfriend and her daughter for the first time.  He’s jealous.  Stuff happens.

But why crime?

Well, you’ve heard the long answer.

The short answer?

It’s fun.