The Next Big Thing

The Next Big Thing – Raw Material

The idea of this is that a writer puts up a post on his or her own blog answering ten questions about his/her work in progress, and then “tags” three writers to do the same. Then, the writer posts a link to his/her “tagger” and to the people he/she is “tagging” so that readers who are interested can visit those pages and perhaps discover some new authors whose work they’d like to read.

I was tagged by Frances di Plino, author of Bad Moon Rising

http://francesdiplinoreviews.blogspot.com.es/

Frances di Plino impresses me enormously with her take on crime, psychopathy and gender attitudes. Her view is balanced, mature and addresses violence as what it is. She’s also a damn good writer in control of her material.

The authors I have tagged in my turn appear at the bottom of this post.

Ebook only cover

What is the working title for your book?

Raw Material. The title was the hardest thing. Seriously, this book has undergone many redrafts, but the title remained elusive until I began thinking about the cover. The colours showed me the way.

Where did the idea come from for this book?

There’s a tiny kernel from a memory I can’t quite grasp. As a teenager, I read a book set in the Scilly Isles, in which a child is in the wrong place at the wrong time. That adventure triggered by accidental observation is at the root of one strand. The other – The Finsbury Park Flasher – just tumbled from my fingers as I sketched out the plot in my dentist’s waiting-room. Which is in no way a reflection on my dentist.

What genre does your book fall under?

Crime, but closer to Kate Atkinson than Karin Slaughter.

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

Undiscovered actors. I’d love to have the majority of the cast played by talented people who bring something fresh and unique to the part. As for Beatrice … I change my mind for every book.

What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

From deserted Pembrokeshire beaches to the shadowy underpasses of North London, Beatrice discovers protecting the vulnerable is far more difficult than it looks.

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

Both. I retain the English-speaking rights as an indie author, but I have an agent representing me for translation rights. I believe Beatrice has international appeal, despite, or possibly due to her classic Britishness.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

First draft, about four months. The edit, rewrite, redraft phase has taken another six. But as this is the second book in the series, many decisions had already been taken in book one, Behind Closed Doors.

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

No particular books, but I’d point to particular European crime writers. Michael Dibdin, Donna Leon, Camilla Lackberg, Henning Mankell and Manuel Vázquez Montalbán are all authors who make great use of setting, culture and especially in the latter two, politics and food.

Who or what inspired you to write this book?

Pembrokeshire and the West Wales coast as depicted by artist John Knapp-Fisher. London boroughs and their distinct identities. And an urge to explore how the human mind is capable of performing appalling acts with the conviction that you are ‘doing the right thing.’

What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

Raw Material turns unfamiliar stones and shines a light on parts of our world we rarely consider. But much more importantly, it’s got a car chase.

Raw Material comes out in ebook and paperback on 1st December, via Triskele Books.

 

The writers I’m very proudly tagging are:

Richard Wright, who has been writing strange, dark fictions for over a decade. Currently living with his wife and daughter in New Delhi, India, his stories have been widely published in the United Kingdom and USA. Most recently, his tales have been found in magazines and anthologies including World’s Collider, Dark Faith: Invocations, the Doctor Who collection Short Trips: Re:Collections, and the Iris Wildthyme anthology Wildthyme in Purple. He is the author of the novel Cuckoo, and the novella Hiram Grange and the Nymphs of Krakow. His apocalyptic new novel Thy Fearful Symmetry, bringing the end of the world to Glasgow, was released in August 2012.

http://www.richardwright.org/

 

Charlotte Otter, a South African writer living in Germany. An avid reader, she grew tired of crime fiction that centred on the mutilated bodies of beautiful young women and set out to write a novel that didn’t. Her first book, Balthasar’s Gift, will be published by Argument Verlag mit Ariadne in Spring 2013. She is presently working on a second novel in the series, called Karkloof Blue.

Charlotte has been a crime reporter, corporate journalist and freelance writer and presently works in IT communications. She lives in Heidelberg with her husband, three children and a lot of books. www.charlotteotter.wordpress.com

 

Dan Holloway, who writes literary novels and performance poetry and would dearly love to be to literature what Tracey Emin is to art. He is also the MC of the spoken word show The New Libertines, and has just started an imprint for conceptual literature, 79 rat press. http://79ratpress.blogspot.co.uk

http://danholloway.wordpress.com

 

Insider insights

 

 

 

 

 

 

Words with JAM October is all about BritLit.

David Mitchell talks übernovel and cinematic logic, Sophie Hannah discusses adaptation, we squeeze 60 Seconds out of Jojo Moyes and AD Miller, Dan gets social, Ola hits the bar and Kat writes the landscape.

So much literary loveliness in one free magazine, it is quite literally having your cake and eating it.

 

 

 

Book to the Future!

The August issue of Words with JAM is out now!

Featuring so much wonderfulness, I am bursting with pride to be a part of it.

Penguin CEO Tom Weldon meets me to share some insights into how the publishing house is meeting contemporary challenges.

The Library Cat takes us around the Shakespeare exhibition at the British Museum and shares a fascinating tale of Canadian community theatre.

Gillian Hamer discusses killing off characters with some major names in crime writing.

Nathan Bransford joins Andrew Lownie to offer the agenting perspective. An eye-opener indeed.

Chad Post, Naomi Alderman and Janet Skeslien Charles open up on everything from Amazon to the Bible to the Parisian literary scene.

Dan Holloway builds a community and Ola Zaltin mugs himself.

Saturday Superbus, by Lee Williams, ensures morning telly will never be the same again.

And talking of never being the same again, Derek attempts his very own fan fiction, in the style of … well, Derek.

This is more than a magazine. This is like spending a day with a bunch of opinionated, intelligent, lewd, helpful, irreverent, literary, experienced, potty-mouthed, eloquent, passionate writers.

And best of all … it’s FREE!!!!

Fill your books!

 

Fifteen Shades for Grey

I’m lucky. And so are my dogs.

(My husband even more so.)

But back to the point. Many dogs, cats, ponies, chickens, rabbits and ducks are less fortunate and need help. This happens even more frequently during times of economic hardship when people are struggling to find enough for themselves, leave alone animal food and vet bills.

My sister works as a volunteer at an animal sanctuary. Grey and his brothers were one of the earliest rescue dogs to arrive. While Grey’s brothers were rehomed quickly, Grey was left behind. He had an ear condition which required expensive surgery and dedicated aftercare. The volunteers tried to raise the money for Grey via yard sales, a Facebook page and raffles. I spotted an opportunity.

I’m lucky. I know lots of talented generous writers and one brilliant designer. So I rallied the troops and together we created Fifteen Shades for Grey.

A blatant attempt to scoop up the casual browser who might be looking for something hot and steamy but discovers something  warm and furry.Everyone involved donated their work and skills for free. Just as all the sanctuary workers devote their time for free.

Fifteen Shades for Grey is a collection of short stories about animals, kindness and charity. Every penny goes to Wooffles Animal Shelter. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry and most of all, you’ll be glad you spent your money on something that warms the cockles of your heart as opposed to … ahem … was that the doorbell?

 

 

 

Erotica, BDSM, lady-lustlit and grey ties …

EL James has kicked up a right ruckus with her Fifty Shades of Grey. Here’s the digested version.

(To be honest, my first concern was how close a ‘spreader bar’ resembled a ‘Tracker Bar’.)

Good for a snigger, but the topic raised a familiar prickly heat. Not in the undercarriage, I assure you.  No, as is my wont, I began to worry.

Is it OK to fantasise about a dominant male while battling for an equal wage?

Does it matter if female erotica is crap on style but high on juice?

Are there men’s groups who agonise over the politics of Nuts?

Erotica v. porn. Titillate? Subjugate?

I’m still battling with my own attitudes to pornography. I grew up reading both sides of the debate. Andrea Dworkin and Anaïs Nin. It took me several goes to appreciate O. I’m yet to face Salò. (Truthfully, I doubt I’ll ever have the courage.) I salute Kate Millett.

So the new wave of something labelled as submissive “Mommy Porn” makes me wary. As if facing a goose cooperative selling home-made foie gras.

Of course women should feel free to enjoy kinky sex. Enjoy porn. What the hell, enjoy Tracker Bars, if it’s consensual with a notarized pre-nup. My problem is that so much ‘female’ pornography is filtered through the male lens of power. That’s what makes me feel uncomfortable about Christian and Anastasia / Bella and Eyebrows.

I rarely read erotica for the reasons above. Apart from Barbie Scott. In Scottland, sex can be many things. Passionate, smart and fun. Check out ‘Collar and Cuffs’.

Much crap has been spouted as a result of the new discussion of female fantasies, but the most dangerous is that it’s not fantasy. “It’s what all women really want.”

You might want to check that one first.

 

 

My Name is Iris

Time for a story, for a change.

 

My Name Is Iris

 

“Sara! My name is Sara! For God’s sake, Mother. You know who I am!”

Shouting is a bad thing. We all know that. Grammy looks at Sara, but not with recognition. It’s fear. It seeps out, a kind of yellowy-grey like pollution over a city sky.

The little boy sits on the chair, kicking his legs into the air, enjoying the game of gravity, the thud of his heels as they hit the floor, the self-inflicted purple pain. It reminds him he’s still there. He watches the women and listens.

“So how is everything, down there?” Sara whispers, but you could hear her right along the corridor, if you wanted. Pink wafts of curiosity curl out of warm, bored wards. Sara, Stay-At-Home-Mom, as if I didn’t have enough to do Mom, who glows green at the school gates, has a stainless steel voice.

“Sssh!” The old lady glances at the lad, as if she cares about what a little boy thinks. She’s whitewashing, clinging to decency. “Everything’s fine. No problems. Nurse says I can go home tomorrow. Will you arrange for the carriage, my dear?”

“Carriage? Mother, please! You’ll either go home in the ambulance or Norman will bring the Volvo. Look, you have to sort yourself out. Keep talking like this, they’ll never let you go home.”

Anger in the air, blue-black smoke. It creates a shape like a scythe, a skull, overshadowing Grammy’s blush-puffs of disorientation.

Sara, SAHM, way too busy for this Mom, heaves herself up. “I’m going to talk to the Sister. You stay there.”

Grammy nods, her dutiful expression so pious it could almost be sarcastic. The boy watches her. She’s pewter, old and dented. She smiles to herself.

The boy’s legs stop the kick-drop rhythm, and he bounces on the balls of his feet.

“What’s funny?” His curiosity is saffron; illuminating, natural.

Her smile, mother-of-pearl, draws him. “Your Mom told me to stay here. But I’d rather not. I’d give anything to disappear. Even it was just under the bed.”

Reflections hover above her. The boy is confused.

“You want to disappear? You want to scare her?” His face is a charcoal sketch of suspicious.

The old lady smiles again, and colour spills into the air. Lilac shoots, golden motes, shafts of double cream.

“No. I want to scare myself. If I can’t surprise anyone, I may as well turn off the lights. Can you help me?”

He approaches, in primary colours.

 

Time and Place

Christmas, 1992. Prague.

An artist’s garret. So very, very cold. Minus 15 at midday and cryogenic at midnight.

Czechoslovakia – belief-beggaringly beautiful; shimmering and grand. Prague’s snow-dusted pine trees, its bridges, its squares and bells all performed a flirtatious overture. Fine artists with guns, metal sculptors with cakes, and fashion designers with false eyelashes smiled and said welcome to Bohemia.

I read Milan Kundera under the duvet, wore three pairs of trousers and smoked cigarettes just for the warmth.

One night, we all went to a forest lodge near Pardubice and got naked in the sauna. After ten minutes intense heat, we ran through the moonlit trees, across the snow and leapt into a hole cut in the ice.

I jumped first. The shock of freezing water on my steaming body only just registered before hands dragged me out, wrapped me in warm towels and marched me back into the sauna for a reprise. My skin felt electric for days.

On the 31st December, 1992, we went to a party. Not your average New Year’s Eve but the night Czechoslovakia divided into the Czech Republic and Slovakia. Our hosts were artists; Ivan was from Prague, Eva was from Bratislava. The music was loud but the stench overpowering. Beer cheese, the best-tasting Czech curd if you can get past the reek of vomit. I would have sworn I’d never smelt anything fouler, but when R. arrived, soaked in Calvin Klein and mouldy fake fur, I reassessed.

More beer arrived with strangers who staged a mock execution, for a laugh. Midnight struck. We shared vodka, kisses, pivo, hugs, schnapps and something dodgy in a small bottle which may have been Calvin Klein.

Ivan and Eva stood on the balcony in minus 20 temperatures, watching the fireworks explode and their country divide. No one interrupted.

I didn’t realise it at the time, overcome by excitement, cheese, beer and Eternity, but that time and place is stamped on my memory in full sensory detail.

I was there.

 

 

Cut-n-Shunt

The astonishing attempt by QR Markham to create a plagarised spy thriller by lifting whole chunks from other books was exposed in its first week on the US market, largely thanks to Bond fans. (Cheers to Welshcake for the tip-off.)

It got me thinking.

How difficult is it to make a coherent quilt from chopped-up patches stolen from other people? Has he applied an artistry of his own or is he just a cheeky git who got rumbled?

One way to find out …

I’ve had a go at condensing an epic love story by pilfering passages from some of my favourites.

So, would your rip-off detector kick off when reading the below?  Or would you get suckered in?

And if anyone can correctly identify the appropriated books (and authors) in the next 24 hours, I’ll send you a prize so astounding that I haven’t even decided what it is yet. But it’ll be amazing, guaranteed.

 

The Trick of Love, by Sophie Feuille de Thé

HER

I am excited.

I have a sort of Christmas-morning sense of the library as a big box full of beautiful books. I want to read about paper-making in Kelmscott. The catalogue is confusing, so I go back to the desk to ask for help. As I explain to the woman what I am trying to find, she glances over my shoulder at someone passing behind me.

“Perhaps Mr Wright can help you,” she says.

I turn and find myself face to face with him.

I am speechless. Here he is, calm, clothed and younger than I have ever seen him. He’s standing in front of me, in the present. Here and now. I am jubilant.

 

On Thursday, as I come out of class and walk down the stairs, I spot him, but he does not see me; there are so many students milling about. I stop for a second. Somehow, if I can just look at him, take him in clearly when he is not trying to amuse me or impress me, something will come to me, some knowledge, some ability to make a decision.

There is something helpless about him as he stands there; his willingness to be happy, his eagerness makes him oddly vulnerable. The word that comes to me as I look down is ‘delighted’. He is as he appears to me; there is no other side to him. Suddenly, I shiver in fear and turn, making my way down the stairs and towards him in the lobby as quickly as I can.

 

Everyone knows how to love, because we are all born with that gift. Some people have a natural talent for it, but the majority of us have to re-learn, to remember how to love, and everyone, without exception, needs to burn on the bonfire of past emotions, to relive certain joys and griefs, certain ups and downs, until they can see the connecting thread that exists behind each encounter; because there is a connecting thread.

And then, our bodies learn to speak the language of the soul, known as sex, and that is what I can give to the man who gave me back my soul, even though he has no idea how important he is to my life. That is what he asked me for and that is what he will have: I want him to be very happy.

 

HIM

In the past, he had felt sympathy for friends, even the odd rush of compassion. But what he felt for her was something more unsettling, a feeling which was complicated by his continuing desire for her, which one night had not dispelled.

As well as this aimless pity, he felt awe at her composure. Her life began to look like a rebuke of his, with its privilege and hedonism. It appeared that through no fault of his own he was now faced with the responsibility of her happiness; that by playing with her feelings he had invited her to place her trust in him, and now it was his duty to redeem the horror or her childhood.

 

He had never been able to explain certain of the things she did. He had never been able to understand them either, thus making it impossible for him to avoid them. So there he was, panting in the corner, hoping to get saved by the bell, when she looked over at him and made a fist. It startled him. They’d never really hit each other. Since he was at least five yards away from her, he didn’t panic. He felt like a native in the jungle, wondering what that thing is that the white hunter is aiming at him.

This fist of hers – first she raised it up toward her mouth as if she was going to kiss it, then an instant later she put it through the kitchen window. For a split second, he thought he heard the window scream. The blood came spurting out of her arm, as if she’d just crushed a bunch of strawberries.

 

He had miscalculated.

Whatever happened he must not collapse. He had done that enough over C., and to no effect, and to collapse in this greying wilderness might mean going mad. To be strong, to keep calm and to trust – they were still the one hope. But the sudden disappointment revealed to him how exhausted he was physically. He had been on the run since early morning, ravaged by every sort of emotion, and he was ready to drop. In a little while, he would decide what next should be done, but now his head was splitting every bit of him ached or was useless and he must rest.

The boathouse offered itself conveniently for that purpose. He went in and found his lover asleep. She lay upon piled up cushions, just visible in the last dying of the day.

When she woke she did not seem excited or disturbed.

“So you got the message?” she asked.

“What message?”

“The message I sent telling you …”

She yawned. “Excuse me, I’m a bit tired, one thing and another.  The message telling you to come here, without fail.”

Since he did not speak, indeed could not, she added, “And now we shan’t be parted no more, and that’s finished.”

 

 

The Source

I’ve always been drawn to artwork which takes liberties, which performs a snatch-and-grab, which uses an idea, or part of an idea, as a springboard to something new, unexpected and probably unimagined by its original creator.

So I’m starting something.

Once upon a time, I read a story.

Not my usual fare – it was about zombies. But I liked it. Liked it so much, I related it to Schmuckfenster, musician, composer and horror-lover. Immune wormed its way under his skin and he composed a piece inspired by its essence, sounds and atmosphere.

The results surprised everyone and lit a fuse.

The concept of a creative catapult across art forms bubbled away at the back of my mind for around two years, until I realised there was no need to wait. I already know writers, great writers, who will contribute powerful, evocative, visceral, delicate, beautiful and breathtaking short stories. I know musicians whose compositions can make me dance or weep and who will experiment with how words inspire sounds. I know artists who take risks, who tell visual stories, whose imagination goes beyond the overt, whose work is on my wall or in my head.

And they’re in!

Classic, rock-chick, political, funky, charcoal, Austen, post-apocalyptic, linear, acrylic, twisted, electronic, animated, steam-punk, ensemble and downright kinky.

A pool of artists from Switzerland, Australia, Britain, France, Austria, Italy, America, Luxembourg, Portugal, Ireland and Abergavenny have already signed up. Some professional, some curious, but all passionate.

And now I’d like to broaden the net.

This is how it might happen.

• Mid 2011: Writers register and submit stories.
• I establish a website on which they are displayed. (Copyright retained by the author and the work counts as unpublished, as this is a private site.)
• Late 2011:Artists and musicians register as potential collaborators. They receive a log-in password so they can read the stories.
• They select the one(s) that inspire them and get to work.
• 2012: the resulting work is displayed on the site and if all our stars are in alignment, via three public festivals. London, Zürich, Berlin.

This is about as un-cliquey as it gets. I just want people with imagination and skill. If you’re a writer with a story to release, a musician/composer looking for a potent pool of ideas, or an artist who can do more with a short story than make an origami frog, let me know. Post a comment and I’ll get back to you.

The Source starts here. And here.

(Watch John Maybury’s Love Is The Devil, based on Daniel Farson’s biography of Francis Bacon as an example of what an imagination can do.)

 

Short stories

Short stories

Not a form I’m used to reading as much as novels.

Yet somehow, these small, perfectly formed pieces have dominated of late.

Partly due to luck. I happen to know some talented short story writers. The Narrative Ninja never fails to teach me something about subtlety. Dancing Sue surprises me even when I expect it . Jo is darker and grimmer than I expect.

Partly due to recommendations; Lorrie Moore, Alice Munro and HP Lovecraft would never have arrived on my shelves but for better-read and broader minds.

Partly due to failure. I entered various short story competitions and at best, got short-listed. Naturally I read, with a certain amount of curled lip, the winners. And understood why they beat me.

A great short is condensed, intense and no matter how complex, dense or convoluted, keeps you on the end of a line. As a reader, you cannot let go. During and after.

Whether it is the character, the theme, the atmosphere, the world created, the language or the cunning subversion of expectation, a good short can hook you, and stick, like a burr in your fur.

Six of my current favourites from soon-to-be-acknowledged writers:

• God’s Instruments – Wayne Price (The Bridport Prize 2010 Collection)
• Billy the Spider – J Hudspith (http://www.johnhudspith.co.uk/9.html)
• The Peter Chair – Jasper Dorgan (Short Fuses)
• Servants – Lee Williams (Triclops)
• Shake Me, Shake Me – Honoria Beirne (The Bridport Prize 2010 Collection)
• Tied – JW Hicks (Short Fuses)