New Year Greetings and January Meetings

Just a couple of things to put in your diary for the New Year:

Meet Sheffield author
M.F.W. Curran

who will be signing, reading and giving a talk on his new novel

THE HOARD OF MHORRER

on Thursday 8th January 6:45-8:30pm at Waterstones, Orchard Square, Sheffield

Tickets £3, redeemable against purchase of the book on the night.

To purchase tickets please call 0114 272 8971 or buy in store.

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And on the 16th January, the book launch of The Hoard of Mhorrer will take place at Goldsboro Books, Cecil Court (off Charing Cross Road). For more information please click here. (By the way, if you love signed first editions, bring some extra cash with you – Goldsboro Books is an Aladdin’s cave!)

In both cases author and books will be in attendance. Hope to see you there…

Happy New Year

MFWC

More news from the Secretariat

I’m delighted to announce that Goldmann, an imprint of Random House, have secured the German Language rights to The Hoard of Mhorrer.

Needless to say I’m very pleased with this - after the significant deal for the first book, Goldmann’s faith in this series continues with a great advance for the second.

There’s no definite date for the German edition of The Hoard of Mhorrer, though it will probably hit the shelves some time in 2010.

The Hoard of Mhorrer: the Secret War book 2 (preview)

An extract from The Hoard of Mhorrer is now available to read courtesy of Bookspot Central. Just click here to read the entire opening chapter from the second book in the Secret War series...

Merry christmas!

MFWC

What a giveaway!!!

Christmas is no longer coming, it’s pretty much here! Pan Macmillan has nicely donated five sets of the Secret War books 1 and 2 to Fantasy Book Critic. The first five names pulled out of the hat will get both the paperback of The Secret War and the hardback of The Hoard of Mhorrer.

Just click on here to whiz yourself over to the Fantasy Book critic site…

Series-ous writing

From the start - the moment I put fingers to keyboard - I was aware that writing a series of books is both a curse and a blessing. The blessing is pretty obvious – a series allows the writer to keep churning out book after book with the same characters, allowing enormous story arcs and if done right, a series can recruit legions of fans. And, at the moment, publishers do love a crime or fantasy series.

But there is also the curse. You see, once you start writing a series, you have to see it through to the end, usually without any interruption, which can be slightly annoying if there are other projects you want to pursue alongside the series. And not just annoying for the writer, but for the reader too.
Any Clive Barker fan or Stephen King fan will tell you that they’ve been chewing their fingers to the wrists in anticipation of the Third Book of the Art, or in King’s case the completion of his Dark Tower series (which he has now done, but after countless interludes from other books). You can’t just keep palming off your readers while they wait at the edge of the cliff. As often happens, the readers tend to walk away, losing interest (more so these days – we are a generation, it appears, blessed with a wickedly short attention span).

As a relatively young writer – a new writer – I am in the lucky position of being allowed to make fundamental mistakes with my writing career (I’m not being ironic here either, I do feel lucky that I am in that position of being able to choose a writing path, living and dying by it). I made a decision early this year to take a break from writing the third book in the Secret War series. It wasn’t an easy decision, but I thought a break in the series would refresh my imagination. Too often, I’ve found third acts feel jaded – a tired writing and plotting of a writer that has done too much too soon on one storyline. I didn’t want that. The Traitor of Light will be an ambitious novel, perhaps not in length (we’ll leave that to book 4: The Fortress of Black Glass) but definitely in scope. I wanted to come to it invigorated, to make book 3 the best book so far (that’s my ambition – for each book to be better than the previous).
However, part of me wonders whether or not it was a good idea. I mean, lets say Pan Macmillan do take book 3, it will probably mean a publishing date of 2011 at the earliest, more realistically 2012. That’s over three years away. Can readers wait three years for another book in a series?
This lag would reduce somewhat if I was writing full-time, true, but being realistic unless, The Secret War and The Hoard of Mhorrer hit the bestseller lists in the next six months or so, I won’t be giving up the day job.

So, I guess the question is this: should a writer devote his time singularly to a series, as Robert Jordan (The Wheel of Time) did? Or can a writer get away with diverting his energies once in a while, promising to return sharpish to the series at hand?

There is also another question alongside this: is it a wise idea to start a large writing project knowing too well that a baby is around the corner and disruption is inevitable?

The Last Reef: a short review

I don’t often review books on this blog. I guess music and films are different because it’s not my paddling pool and I don’t feel bad peeing in it once in a while. But I don’t like to criticise fellow writers nor do I feel that comfortable hailing them from the mountain-top (though I will do a little pimping now and again). But there are some books that I feel driven to promote, especially if it’s a book not many will have heard of.

As I suspect will be the case for Gareth L. Powell’s anthology, The Last Reef (published by Elastic Press). This was a speculative buy when I was down for the BFS Con in September, and from experience some indie press publications have been a little hit and miss, confirming why they weren’t picked up by more mainstream publishers. But in the case of Powell’s collection of stories, this is really a missed opportunity from the big guns, and thank god Elastic Press had the foresight to gather these stories together. It’s a slim book, only 200 pages, but there’s more imagination crammed into these pages than you’ll find in an average sci-fi novel from a mainstream publisher.

And it’s not just his imagination either. Powell is a bloody good writer. His prose is lyrical and drips with vivid description, slipped into the text so it never feels like the rhythm of the writing is bogged down. It does mean that prose is economical but evokes enough in one sentence of description than I’ve seen in a paragraph from more seasoned writers. At times his stories remind me of Asimov, other times they remind me of Jonathan Carroll. The characters are strong for short fiction, and while at times they are little faceless (no bad thing though, it means the reader’s imagination works harder) they’re built outside of the stereotypes that usually blight short fiction.

There’s a refreshing diversity to the storylines too. From multi-national terrorism, to cyberspace anarchy, to redemption at the end of the universe, the collection is a journey into reluctant heroes and damaged relationships, flawed characters one and all. In particular, I loved the story “Arches” which could arguably be turned into a wonderful full-length novel.

All in all, this is recommended reading (by me, anyway), and in the past six months, one of just a handful of books that I’ve been inspired by.

Seeking shiny things and inspiration

I’m a seasonal writer, I’ve decided. For me, winter is not a good time to write. It’s cold, it gives colds and it’s a stressful time with Christmas lurking in the middle of it. It’s also a time when inspiration is not forthcoming what with everything being drowned in festive shopping, bunged-up noses, over-heated offices and freezing westerly winds that have been battering our lofty house now for the past two weeks.

But it ain’t all bad.

For one, I’ve recently finished the second draft of The Black Hours. For another, I have two books out next month, and for a third, it gives me time to do things that are on the periphery of writing books.

Last Friday I attended the “almost”- annual gathering of the Macmillan New Writers. Tim Stretton has written a lovely post here, so I won’t rehash what he’s already said. What I would say, is that it makes me feel damn lucky to be part of a writers’ circle that is devoid of ego, full of encouragement, and brilliant with advice. I’ve said it before, but I feel privileged to be part of it.

Also last week, I had my first interview for The Hoard of Mhorrer (out January 2nd, for those not in the know). Slipping for a moment into metaphor, giving interviews is like going on a first date. In the lead up to one, they don’t appeal (in fact I’d say they make me nervous) but once I get into the swing of talking (realising that actually, given the chance, I can talk about writing for England) I really enjoy the experience and the time flies by. As it did with this one. I’ll post more about it at some later date, but it went well and reminded me why I liked giving interviews in the first place (though I reckon that had more to do with the interviewer than interviews per se).

So what else is going on?

Well, over the next two weeks the official website will see a few changes. There’ll be more stuff on The Hoard of Mhorrer and The Secret War books, as well as The Black Hours and a blurb for The Traitor of Light. There’ll also be bits on public events, more photos and news on long-term stuff.
This blog too will see a bit of makeover. Other than the title (renamed to cover the sub-genre that got me here in the first place – it made sense, you know?) there’ll be more links on the right hand-side to reviews and other more immediate news that I can’t get quickly onto the website. I’ll also endeavour to post more pictures and shining things here too. It’s good to have pictures and shining things, I’ve been told. And I’ve got a brand-new shiny camera to take those pictures and shiny things, so I’d better make use of it!

Oh, and blog entries will be a bit shorter too. Little snippets really, but more regular ones hopefully than the once-a-week-if-you-are-lucky entries that seem to amble by here. So prepare yourself for musings…

…And perhaps a few shiny things.

Black Hours diary no. 14 Ending the ending

For a second draft, this ending is feeling more like a third or fourth draft. Last night I finished the second draft of The Black Hours. I have spent more time on the final chapter (about three weeks) than I have on any other chapter, which makes little sense. I mean, why take so much time polishing a hub-cab when the rest of the car is on bricks?

But there is a reason, my friends…

David, over on Tomorrowville – spurred by Alis Hawkins over on her blog – has asked what is the hardest part of the novel to write. For me it’s always the ending. Endings are so underrated in fiction - I reckon - and for every great ending I can give you dozens of examples where the ending was just plain wrong. And it’s even worse for a book that screams greatness, because a great book with a bad ending doesn’t become a mediocre book, it becomes a crap book, “a cheat-book”, “a lazy-book where the author couldn’t be bothered to see out a proper conclusion”. I know that sounds harsh, but believe me, readers see it that way. After all, a reader is investing not just money, nor just the time, but emotional involvement. To be emotionally attached to a book and then be cheated is unforgivable – or rather, unforgiving for the author, as it’s likely the reader will not pick up another of the author’s books in a hurry.
Sure, the journey should be as interesting if not more so than the destination, but if the journey has taken you to the stars and the destination has ended in Stevenage, you’re going to be just a little disappointed.

For a series of books, the ending is more forgiving. Don’t get me wrong, there are still conventions – still certain rules to follow when ending the first or second books in a series - but you don’t have to tie everything up with a nice bow. You don’t have to fully satisfy the reader there and then. But later on the pitfall is you have to deliver on your promises; the ending to a series of books will need to be so much better than the ending to a stand-alone novel. Stephen King knows this better than anyone, re: The Dark Tower series. If there is ever a series of books where the ending has divided readership, King’s final book is the one.

But I’ve rudely interrupted myself. I was talking about The Black Hours, wasn’t I?

As I’ve already blogged, the ending to The Black Hours was always going to be tricky. By making a decision on the fate of a major character in the final chapters, I was forced to make the ending particularly positive to counter it (I’m trying not to give the ending away for obvious reasons, but it’s damned hard to explain the choices I’ve made without it!). Anyway, I decided to re-write the final chapter completely. It’s been transplanted from Holland to New York and it’s moved from being spectacular to poignant - a big leap in tone from the ending of the first draft, but one I think is more satisfying.
As a stand-alone book it doesn’t shout “sequel!”, which is also a big plus for me. What I don’t want to do is embark on another series while I still have one to complete (and there are at least two more Secret War books on the cards). What the final chapter does do is tie up most of the plot strands with a grubby piece of string that looks like it’s been hiding down the side of a garden shed for several years. It’s a grim ending. A grim yet rewarding one, a sentiment I hope other readers will share.

Next week I’ll be sending one of those readers a complete copy of the second draft to see if I’m hitting the right notes. I think I am. But I know it’s a way off being completed. Perhaps not three or four drafts away (I’m usually a six-draft kinda guy – a bit of a tinkerer), but I reckon the fourth will be the final re-write. Just in time for me to down-tools for fatherhood.

So what’s next?

My reward for finishing the second draft earlier than planned is a cessation in novel writing. I’m taking two and a bit months off before I commence with the 3rd draft, for festive and book launch reasons. But I’ll still be writing, let me make that clear now. I’ll still be writing, turning to the shorter form for entertainment. I’ve several short stories that require polishing and some that require writing from scratch.
And I tell ya, it while be a blessed relief to write something where the ending isn’t so damned difficult…

Have we lost something?

My handwriting is shit. Let’s just get that fact out of the way first. It’s shit, and it’s my own fault. I use the computer far too much these days for my handwriting to be anything other than a looping scrawl of incoherence.

This week a colleague and friend asked me to sign the first draft of A World of Night (a yet unpublished and unfinished children’s novel that I’ve been tinkering with since 2004). The draft was read by his daughter way back in 2005, and should the book find a publisher in the future, A World of Night will have a shared dedication to both his daughter, Charlie, and my god-daughter, Isabella. So it was nice to be asked to write a short note on the first page of the first draft that Chris has kept since 2005.
Nice, except that my handwriting is shit.
It took me all day to think of a good enough note and then to write it, careful not to make a mess and to ensure the note was legible.

On Chris and Charlie’s advice I’ve changed my signature. Not the signature I use to pay cheques etc (having an incoherent scrawl in this case is a blessing when it comes to fraudsters), but to autograph and sign books. It’s similar to my last signature so hopefully that won’t annoy collectors who have bought 1st editions of The Secret War; the new signature looks more like “MFW Curran” now rather than the “Mcflurry” signature of old.

But this doesn’t change the fact that my handwriting is still shit. It will take something more drastic to change that fact. That my handwriting is as bad as a doctor’s or a teacher’s is something I take for granted, after all I use a computer an awful lot. I even have a very portable computer that I take with me almost everywhere because my handwriting is that poor and because I can type a helluva lot quicker than I can write (and I don’t do short hand – it comes out less coherent than long-hand).
But I have wondered whether writing by keyboard is less effective than writing by pen or pencil. Clive Barker is one of those authors who still writes several drafts by hand, and while it takes him an age to get anything out, he says it ensures he picks every word deliberately and carefully.
I admit, when it comes to first drafts, my imagination spews words onto the page to be re-ordered later on. It means I cut and paste sentences sometimes, which is a lazy approach rather than sitting down and writing everything from scratch again during the second and third drafts.
In my defence, it works for me, and it does save time – and time is to a part-time writer, what oxygen is to a deep-sea diver. But it has made me wonder whether I’m missing a trick. We are an impatient society and sometimes writing is about being patient - not rushing it, but being precise, deliberate and careful. So I’ve wondered recently what would happen if I had good handwriting skills and wrote on a collection of trusty note-pads rather than a legion of laptops.
Does it really make a lot of difference writing a book by hand rather than by keyboard?

The Season of Fire and Masks

October/November – my favourite time of the year. It’s a time of monsters and explosions, fire and masks, and so what if it’s got a little commercialised over the years, it still beats the stress of Christmas and the damp squib of Easter. Maybe that isn’t very Christian of me, especially in view of the pagan associations with Halloween and that Guy Fawkes’ night is celebrating an attempted terrorist atrocity, but hell, if these two events aren’t just a little more fun than the religious ones.

This weekend I’ll be wrapping up both in 48 hours of shocks and loud bangs. Tomorrow I’m attending Chatsworth Hall’s fireworks spectacular – a night of many loud explosions above one of, if not the, finest stately homes in England. And tonight while Sarah embarks on a night-shift, I’ll be embarking on a long tradition that goes back to when I was 14: watching a double-helping of horror movies.

I was too young when the double-feature breathed it’s last at the cinema. Indeed, the only time I watched a double-movie at the flicks was as an eight year old when some bright spark decided to show Star Wars and Empire Strikes Back, back to back over one hot summer (a couple of years before Return of the Jedi). Rodriguez and Tarantino recently attempted a revival with Grindhouse, but unfortunately both films were released separately over here in the UK so the effect was diminished. I’ve kept this tradition alive in the privacy of my own home and since 1989, with a few exceptions, I’ve been watching double-feature horror films every Halloween night.

Tonight it’s the turn of Poltergeist and Society. I’ll leave Poltergeist for a later blog entry (it had a profound effect on me all those years ago and deserves a blog entry on its own) but I’ll say a little about Society. I have seen it just the twice, the first time when I was fifteen years old when I reached up on tip-toes to pluck it from the top shelf of the video-tape library in Holmes Chapel. My reasons for choosing it then - and nagging my dad to rent it out for me - came from a gushing review of the film in FEAR magazine. FEAR was a constant revelation, guiding me to many films I was ignorant of (and on occasion films that I wish I was still ignorant of, but then horror-tastes are as subjective as humour – some films just do it, others don’t). I’m not sure what I expected, but perhaps I was a little disappointed, after all Society is a political film as well as a body horror. For a fifteen year old, Society was just a little too sophisticated. To prove the point, I watched it again several years later on TV and found it more rewarding. Sure it has its camp moments, and the denouement is bonkers, but compared to the torture-porn-rubbish the modern film fan is fed these days, Society is a work of genius.

You’ll find more about the plot and reviews of Society by clicking here (it’s not my job to rehash what has already been written, and IMDB is the bible when it comes to movies), needless to say it’s a perfect double-feature movie, and a perfect Halloween offering, simply because it is so utterly daft and enjoyable. But there’s also the menace and the paranoia that good horror films wear on their shirt-sleeves. The Thing is another film that does this well, though compared to Society, The Thing is unrelentingly bleak. While Carpenter’s paranoia is “trust no one”, Society is more a case of “are these really my parents?” It wakes a few primordial fears of isolation and alienation that everyone feels once in a while when you look in the mirror and see that mask of flesh and bone staring back, giving it a prod, not because you’re unhappy with what you’re seeing, but because you can’t quite shake that feeling the face looking back at you isn’t completely real.

A week ago I discovered Society for seven quid in Zaavi, right around the corner from where I work, and I’m looking forward to rediscovering it tonight. As double-features go, Society is the perfect company for Poltergeist, a Spielberg-horror where magic and nastiness go hand in hand. One’s a social ghost story, the other a horror of mutated society. And you know, I might even squeeze in an episode of Masters of Horror between each sitting, along with a decent curry and maybe a nice cold bottle of beer…

Here’s to kicking off the Season of Fire and Masks!


(For more on the subject of great horror films, David Isaak has also posted an entry on having a good scare... I guess there must be something in the air!)

Black Hours diary entry no.13: Knocked out

After the euphoria of baby announcements (and a pretty incredible scan where the baby appeared to be performing for mine and Sarah’s benefit), The Black Hours progress has continued unmolested. At the time of writing, I am but five chapters (less than a quarter) of the way from the end. It’s a conclusion that I’m quite nervous about. I always had an ending in mind, but as the book grows evermore darker, the original ending just seems too optimistic.

I’ve faced this demon before, feeling overprotective of my characters, like Zeus not wishing to sacrifice his Perseus, before finally bowing to godly pressure. In the new book, The Hoard of Mhorrer, several characters are put in perilous situations where I’ve had to bow to instinct and play the final card, not wanting to deal them out but having no alternative without cheating the reader. I suppose it’s my own bloody fault for putting the characters in impossible positions, and maybe the characters’ faults too (sometimes they can be so wilful).

And so to The Black Hours, where it’s now become “two weeks until disaster”; the chapter where everything comes to a head. I’ve become quickly attached to the characters in the book, perhaps sooner than I did to those in The Secret War and The Hoard of Mhorrer. These are characters that wouldn’t look out of place in 21st century London, let alone Queen Victoria’s London. Characters that you can cheer for. Characters that are fighting for you and me, and here I am, spoiling the party.

And there’s another reason too. It might sound a bit pretentious, but perhaps by writing this I’m excising certain fears – or fuelling them. Let’s face it, in many respects things aren’t that great right now. Apart from a world recession, there’s the spectre of climate change (somewhat more insidious than the collapse of global markets, but potentially more disastrous); there’s still the threat that some fundamental nutcase will decide to blow up a football stadium or jumbo-jet in the name of Allah, and there’s that niggling fear that we haven’t had the long overdue pandemic, overdue since the beginning of the 20th century.
The Black Hours is a culmination of all of that. Biological, fanatical, financial and political. And drawing to the end of the book has made me realise that there is no happy ending, just one with a little bit of hope because several people decide to sacrifice themselves to at least give ‘the many’ a fighting chance.

Now I don’t want to bottle the ending because I’m worried about the future; and I am concerned, perhaps not to the degree that I have sleepless nights, but I have caught myself staring into space thinking “will things ever be this good again?”
So far The Black Hours has been uplifting, because in the tradition of the action thriller, the good guys get knocked down, but they soon get up again. But I’m not sure how long this can continue without me lying to the reader.

Sometimes, the good guys just stay down.

Some personal news about swelling

To quote Professor Farnsworth yet again, "Good news everyone... next year, Family Curran is swelling by one member (or maybe more, you know it could just happen)." Yep, Sarah’s pregnant, and before anyone asks, it was planned. Planned months ago as it happens, so it isn’t a surprise to us. But I’m under no illusions, and everything, and I mean everything, will be disrupted. Including the writing.

But here’s the thing, and it’s perhaps why I should be changing my middle name to “lucky bastard” (though I do believe in making your own luck): I’m in a great position writing-wise. With one book published, a second out in January, and a third that’s practically writing itself and will (notice the emphasis on “will”) be in a final draft by the time the big event i.e. fatherhood, occurs in April, I have no real concerns about the next six to twelve months.

Now it might appear pretty damned fortunate to be embarking on a book that’s writing very naturally during a time of upheaval, but it was by design. Sarah and I had planned to start a family around this time last year, and I didn’t want to be knee deep in the same slog that I experienced with Mhorrer. If we’d had a baby 12 months ago, then Hoard of Mhorrer would still be gathering dust somewhere, and not scheduled for a January 2nd publication day - I can say that with some certainty. My follow-up book was, as it is with many writer’s second books, not so straightforward.

That’s not to say The Black Hours isn’t a challenge. It is. It’s a completely different novel to what I’ve written before (there are no supernatural nasties in this one) and it follows several character viewpoints with a more omnipotent narration than the traditionally singular adventures of The Secret War and The Hoard of Mhorrer. Also, the plot to The Black Hours isn’t Machiavellian. Sure there are surprises and a couple of major plot twists, but The Black Hours is a straightforward thriller, and the momentum of the story isn’t “who, what, where” it’s more “why.”
And the research has been easier too. Unlike the first two books where I was scrapping about for research, Victorian London in the late 1890s has been extensively written about. You could play “pin the tale on the donkey” in Sheffield’s main library, and 9 times out of 10, you’d skewer the spine of a book on Victorian England.

Finally, I’m writing in a comfortable sub-genre: the fin-de-siecle, as enjoyed by the likes of HG Wells, and more recently Simon Clark, Stephen Baxter and a slew of Hollywood writers who revel in destroying world landmarks for the sake of entertainment. I’ve always wanted to write a book about the end of the world, or the end of a microcosm like the British Empire - The Black Hours allows me to do it with gusto, with adventure, but tempered with the fear that this could happen right now, you know?

So day-job aside (so far aside that I’m nudging it out of the window) I’m in a fairly good place. The idea of fatherhood is exciting in a brilliantly nervous way, and I’m looking forward to it perhaps more than being published next year (hey, it’s my first time being a father, okay?). And besides, fatherhood doesn’t mean the end of writing, it just means a cessation of major projects (The Traitor of Light will be shunted to the back end of 2009 – baby permitting).

We’ll see what happens in 2009, but already - for me - it’s looking like a momentous and exciting year…

Hysteria: an explanation

Apologies for my earlier outburst. It had to happen. I couldn’t contain it any longer. Truly things aren’t that relaxed right now (the antithesis of Paul Whitehouse’s “Brilliant” character in The Fast Show). The day-job is going arse-end upwards to the point that it’s been the most stressful time here in the ten years I’ve worked for this employer - the finance world isn’t exactly making things a bed of roses, and it all looks a bit bleak. Family wise is also a bit fraught, so there’s no escape there either. But mostly, Friday was just a shit day.

In fact, the only reprieve at the moment is in the writing, where it continues to calm me down, encourage me and give me the chance to escape what is in effect hysteria-city. It’s been suggested to me that I’m taking on too much, writing included, well the writing is the only thing keeping me sane so that will be staying for the time being. It’s just a shame that I don’t have the same control over everything else that I have over my writing. Confidence included.

So. Like everyone else I’m riding it out. The good thing is that I have my writing to withdraw into. But the bad thing is that I have my writing to withdraw into. Because it isn’t wholly a good thing to rely on something so solitary as writing to be the focal point of happiness. Writing is addictive. It won’t damage your health like smoking, drinking or drugs, but it will cripple your social skills. It will turn you into a hermit, ostracised by friends and family if you spend too much time at the desk rather than the real world. So. So. So… I’ll drag myself away from this comfortable environment and just deal with it.
Everyone else is.

So, Aliya asked whether everything was going well. The writing is, and I guess that’ll do for now, as I work on getting the rest of my life into line too.

A brief interlude

o

o

AAAARRGHHHH!!!!


Right. Now I’ve got that out of the way, back to the writing…

Black Hours Diary entry no 12: Superstitions and Risks

Over two years ago now, I blogged about how well The Hoard of Mhorrer was writing. It was the 1st draft, and I was scooting through it with all the ease of an Olympic ice-skater on, er, ice. Little did I know, the surface would go all-cobbly twelve months later, and I would lose my footing quite spectacularly during the 2nd draft.
Now, I’m a foolish, superstitious writer at best (I’ve wished upon falling stars, I even wear a lucky Celtic cross when I write, and don’t get me started on those silly rituals I undergo when I submit something for publication) so I feel like I’m tempting fate by saying The Black Hours is writing well (I’ll just whisper it, that’ll be okay, won’t it?). But it is going well.
Very well.
And it is the 2nd draft, and the 2nd draft is where those fucking enormous plot holes appear, the size of the ozone layer - yet plot holes in The Black Hours are so far pretty tiny. Pin-pricks, actually.
And the writing reads a whole lot better than previous books, which is personally gratifying (I stand by my writing-mantra of bettering myself with each project).
It all adds up to a big serving of ‘confidence-pie’ complete with a big-dollop of ‘self-belief-custard’ on the side.

So, and with another whisper, when I finish the 2nd draft earlier than anticipated (I’m on chapter 12 at the moment, so I should get it done before December) I’ll be taking the unprecedented move of letting someone read it at the 2nd draft stage. Or perhaps more than one person.
You see, I do feel confident, but I’m not feeling too objective because it’s such an easy write. I feel I’m too close to the project. I might be missing something on Tone. Or Plot. Or Character. A second or third pair of peepers would be valuable even now. (I have in mind who; it would be just a question of whether they have enough time on their hands). Yep, there is a danger that I’m letting external opinions influence the book at an early stage, perhaps too early, but that’s the risk, and I’m a big boy. I can take their opinions like an adult, or throw my laptop out of the pram. But the benefits… well, if it reveals a flaw that I’m not aware of, it could save a few months of work. It could even save the project.

Or, alternatively, if the response is wholly positive then I might be ahead of myself by several months and Pan Macmillan will get a copy of The Black Hours around Spring 2009 instead of late Summer. And the closer that happens, the closer I get to seeing a third book on the ol’ publishing schedule.

Now that is worth the risk.

Matt Curran earns 0.03 pence every second

Or thereabouts.*

I guess, it’s not as good as £5 every second, but I’m still proud of how much I’ve earned through my writing last year. And hey, it’s only £4 and 99.07 pence less than JK Rowling from my writing, so I’m not doing too badly, especially for a debut author!

Roll on January 2009.

Twice.


*Note: not exact figures. I’m not that daft you know.

The Progress of Necks and Subtle Edens: Black Hours Diary-ish No.11

A couple of things happened over the last two weeks, perhaps of small note, but enough to warrant a hotch-potch of a blog entry. A pre-Christmas stocking filler if you like.

Firstly, the British Fantasy Convention in Nottingham on the 22nd went really well. Apart from the extortionate day rate (and apparent light-fingered antics of an interloper or interlopers) attending the Saturday was a good decision. There was an insightful panel on publishing in the genre headed by Gollanz, Virgin and Abbadon books and my only quibble was it was too damned short (I had a hundred and one questions for them but they only fielded two from the audience). It was also great to listen to the Dave McKean interview, and Chaz Brenchley’s anecdotes on the British Arts Council (food for thought, most definitely). Yep, the day-rate was a little pricey but after working out what I got from it, it was worth it. Even with the amount spent on books (about fifty quid) - which I can justify-ish but I won’t be buying anymore books now until the New Year. Not that I’m too bothered, as I have a stack of books to keep me going until 2010.

Still, I might be persuaded to purchase a short story collection coming out from Elastic Press called Subtle Edens which has tales from none other than those short-story machines from Veggie Box: Neil Ayres and Aliya Whiteley. Better still, my university chum, Dave Budd, has expressed an interest in attending the launch in London and will pick up a copy for me (hopefully signed by both Neil and Aliya, as well as any other authors who are attending – I’m a sucker for autographed books, just ask Chris Teague and Gary McMahon – I got the writers to sign We Fade to Grey twice!!).

Sticking to the more ‘ephemeral’ side of writing i.e. publishing matters, it appears that anyone wishing to buy a hardback copy of The Secret War might find it more than a little difficult. Amazon UK is now showing it out of stock, and it’s unlikely to come into stock as the paperback of The Secret War comes out this January. I also have it on good authority that the remaining stock has been bought up by collectors, so the hardback is as rare as, well, hen’s teeth. Collectors editions if you will, which I guess was the intention of the imprint - so that it will appeal to collectors and readers alike. I’ve also heard rumours that the book might be selling at silly prices next year, so the advice is “hold on to your hardbacks!” As I’ll be holding on to mine!

On a more or less obscure point, this is the first day this week that I’ve been able to put fingers to keyboard after a pulling a muscle in my neck last week. I always believed that I could write regardless of physical condition unless someone chopped off my hands or blinded me. I didn’t think a simple and innocuous injury like that could throw off my whole writing regime. But it has.
Never mind, while it’s still a little stiff, it’s pretty cleared up and I’m now on chapter 6 of The Black Hours, and running through it with a big cheesy grin. I can’t believe how easy this 2nd draft is. What did I do right? I certainly don’t remember selling my soul to the Devil of Novel Writing. The pessimist in me expects a big fucking wall to come hurtling my way at some point, but you know, the speed I’m going, I’ll either splat myself across it, or run straight through.
(I can’t say which at the moment, but my advice would be to bring a hard-hat and a water-proof jacket just in case…)

I had a dream…

Actually I had a dream last Tuesday night, and it was an odd one.

Many months ago, Roger Morris asked writers if they ever had “writing” dreams. Prior to Tuesday, I had just the one - a pre book-launch dream that was no different to any other dream of “failure from the start”, like an actor taking to the stage on the opening night only to discover they’ve forgotten to put some clothes on, or the athlete attending their first race to discover the race was run yesterday and the stadium is empty.
In my case, I dreamt my book-launch had arrived without any books – there was nothing to read, nothing to sign, and people were suspecting I hadn’t been published at all. Yeah, that was a little odd.

But the one on Tuesday night was more so.

And worse still, the dream started at Work. (I always feel cheated when I dream about the day-job. It’s like I’ve already done six hours of work in my sleep, so why do I have to do another seven and a half when I’m awake?)

Anyway, the dream went like this:

I arrive at work. I’m late. This is odd, because usually I’m quite early. Everyone is already in the office when the lift comes to a halt on the third floor and I walk into the open-plan space of desks scrunched up together, the heavy hum of the air-conditioning overhead. So apart from being late, everything else seems normal. For a moment.
And then I notice my colleagues. They are all happy. I mean all of them. And they’re drifting around, dazed and happy, clutching books to their chests. It crosses my mind that a book-club has been around that morning, off-loading novels for a couple of quid each. One of the staff (for the sake of anonymity I’ll call him “Bill Jones”) accosts me with an inane grin and shoves the book hard into my ribs with glee. I look down expecting a Bernard Cornwell novel, but discover it’s not. The author’s name is Bill Jones. And the cover looks like some Andy McNab-style thriller.
“I’m published!” he says with laughter.
“Bloody hell, you are,” I reply with genuine pleasure. “You never told me you wrote books, Bill.”
“I don’t,” Bill says dreamily, taking the book from me. He runs his hands over the cover like it’s the most precious thing in the world. “This is my first one.”
I watch Bill wander away, feeling a little bewildered which turns to bemusement as I remember everyone else is clutching a book. I immediately think I’ve missed Bill’s book-launch or something, so I accost Janet (again, a made up name…).
“Hey, Janet, I see you’ve got one of Bill’s books too,” I say.
Janet looks at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Bill’s? No. This is mine.” She places her book in my hands, and bugger me if it doesn’t have Janet’s full name on it and some strange ‘Love and Horses’ title plastered in a racy-red across the front.
“You’re published too?” I ask, my voice faltering.
“Isn’t it wild?” she replies, walking away.
I notice Derek and Ian chatting in the corner. They too are clutching books. Books they’ve written. Books that are published. One’s a historical novel, the other a Sci-Fi. One is published by HarperCollins, one by Orbit.
Jeremy bumps into me. “Sorry, Matt…” He pauses and then brings out his book, some non-fiction tome about growing potatoes the “organic way”.
I back away from him. “For fucksake, Jeremy, is there anyone in this office who isn’t published?” I ask, and my voice rises loudly at just the moment everyone else’s falls to a whisper. And they’re all staring at me. Staring at me while holding their books. Books they’ve written. Books that are published. And I might as well be standing on stage without any clothes on…

The dream then moved on as dreams do, to something equally obscure and irrelevant, but for a time there was something genuinely unnerving about coming to work to discover everyone else was published.
Now I’ve since asked a few people what this could all mean, and the interpretation that gets me thinking the most is the one where “just being published is not enough for me; I want more.”

I admit, I’m ambitious, but I’m pragmatic too and have never believed I would be a bestseller writer. I’d like to be, I can’t think of a writer who wouldn’t, but never arrogantly assumed I would. I was content to be just published, and that being published is fun. But the dream tugs at something deeper. Maybe on some level I believe being a published writer makes me stand out from the crowd – I admit there is a little welcomed attention - but to quote The Incredibles, “when everyone is Super, then no one is.”
Perhaps it’s not enough just to be published anymore, and maybe my ambition is driving me forward. My writing has certainly become more significant in my life – after sacrificing hours in the day-job, a decent foreign rights sale and schedule of planned novels I would be pretty imprudent if I didn’t treat it as more of a hobby and make the most of it. I've come quite far now, and I would feel utterly ungrateful if I didn't give this whole venture my best shot. There are others behind me who would kill for this opportunity, or chop off an arm, or sell their Grandma.

I read somewhere that writing is very much about momentum. Take too long and you falter, losing the ground you’ve made up. It could be this dream is telling me to get on with it. And I have. On Monday I started the 2nd draft of The Black Hours which should take me till Christmas to complete.
How’s that for ‘getting on with it’, eh, my annoying subconscious-self? Now please, leave my dreams alone. I get the message.

A little Mischief

I have a short problem. A short fiction problem, that is. This week I finished writing a 4,000 word story called The Mischief. And I reckon it’s quite good (but then I haven’t read it a gazillion times yet), but here’s the rub (and yes, it seems there is always a rub as though a writer’s life is full of chafing), if I do decide to submit it somewhere and if it is accepted for publication, what if the story is not representative of what I usually write?

I read quite a lot of short fiction. I even subscribe to the Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction so each month I have half a dozen short stories and novellas on tap. And that’s without the web and Writing Magazine and the publications from the British Fantasy Society and… I’m getting side-tracked here. My point is, that for most of the writers featured in all the above publications, short fiction is where they’re introduced to readers. I discovered Stephen King through a collection of short stories, and then I moved on to his novels - which, let’s face it, are pretty much longer versions of his short stories. Brian Lumley was the same. As was Jonathan Carroll and Clive Barker to a lesser degree. The strength and style of their short fiction drew me to their longer works, and I wasn’t disappointed.

If I’m going to go down that same path and use short fiction to advertise my longer prose, then would I muddy the waters too much by seeking to publish fiction that doesn’t reflect my novels?
The Mischief is a story set in the near future, ten minutes into the future if you like, and it’s a dark piece with no uplifting coda to speak of. It’s quite stark. It’s emotive. It’s not really nice, but then sometimes I tend to find entertainment in the darkest of corners.
While The Secret War and The Hoard of Mhorrer are not comedies, nor are they overly dark, grim books. They’re historical fantasy adventures. They’re pure escapism, heroics, swashbuckling; one reviewer called The Secret War “real lads stuff,” and who am I to argue? It is a lad’s book, and The Hoard of Mhorrer - while being a little more cerebral than the former - again is a boy’s own adventure story.

But that’s not all I write. And The Mischief is one of those stories that does not reflect what is published by Macmillan New Writing. So what do I do? Do I go ahead and seek publication of a short story I’m quite proud of; do I confuse any readers who like The Mischief enough to seek out The Secret War which is nothing like this short story?
I could go under a pseudonym, sure, but if I do, I won’t exactly be selling the writer “MFW Curran”, would I?

Rub-a-rub-rub. Nothing’s ever simple, is it? I can see this being the first story to go out under the nom de plume, Frank Wallace.

“What to do if you suspect your child wants to be a writer” – Advice for Parents*

*Inspired by the Government leaflet “Gangs and your Child: Advice for Parents”

Know the facts:
What is a writer?
A writer is an outsider who retreats into a world of their own making, often playing out fantasies of global domination or more sordid scenarios. It’s important to remember that being a writer isn’t illegal and only offences committed by the writer are socially unacceptable.

Why do young people write?
Young people write:
· to be creative and to flex their imagination
· to withdraw into a world of their own creation rather than someone else’s (writing is a sign of social alienation)
· for the delusion of recognition

Most addicts live in seclusion, only interacting socially with other writers (while this is acceptable behaviour in adults, this should be discouraged in children). Writing addiction can lead to obsessive behaviour especially later on in life. Some published writers go on to other obsessive behaviours such as Googling their own names, and checking Amazon rankings.

Being a writer – the fantasy and reality
Because of icons such as JK Rowling and Philip Pullman, young people see writers as role-models. They see that being a writer is an acceptable alternative to getting a real job i.e. having to work in an office or a factory. This view is quite distorted due to the influence of the Media.
The reality is that writing addiction can ruin lives and families. Writers are not often successful and very few become respectable such as JK Rowling. Others can become embittered by their experiences and some writers might sink low enough later on in life to become ghost writers for celebrities. An addiction can force someone to spend most of their waking life writing something that no one else wants to read, which can influence mood-swings, obsessive behaviour with mailed correspondence, and in worse cases sporadic vandalism at book stores.

Know the signs:
Behaviour:
Here are some examples of changes in behaviour to watch out for:
· Excessive use of paper and pens
· Requesting a copy of Microsoft Word for Christmas
· Bookishness – (though not always; sometimes children just want to read. Parents shouldn’t assume that reading is the first step to an addiction with writing. Parents should treat this sign sensitively and not cause the child any undue embarrassment by forcing the child to watch TV instead, play video-games, or send them outside to play).
· Early onset of eccentricity
· Buying the Writers and Artists Handbook
· A gradual disinterest in anything lowbrow
· Quoting prose or poetry at inappropriate times and the use of good English in the home
· A sudden disinterest in Sports at school

Visual Signs:
· Pale skin from lack of sunlight
· Calluses on fingers due to constant typing
· Bohemian fashion sense
· Atrophy of legs due to sitting for prolonged periods

Other things you should know:
One in five people addicted to writing will at some point attempt to contact a literary agent for advice. Please note that literary agents will not always discourage your child from writing, and some will actively encourage them, making them believe they can make a living from their addiction. This will only exasperate the problem. Should you suspect your child is trying to contact an agent or a publisher, you should speak to them calmly and warn them that it might end in disappointment or further obsessiveness. The last course of action will be to confiscate all postage stamps and speak to your local post office should your child attempt to post their manuscript again to another agent.

What you can do:
There are many options open to a parent if they suspect their child wants to be a writer. The right teacher can discourage a child from writing anything interesting, and might even crush their egos enough by advising them that they will never get anything published. Another ploy is to use reverse psychology. Tell the child that you are thinking of writing a book also and this may discourage them into thinking that writing ‘really isn’t cool’.
Other options you may wish to consider is banning the use of computers for anything other than surfing the internet or playing games. Enforcing a strict policy of “if it’s sunny you’re playing outside” might have a positive effect during the few days of sunshine in the summer. Forcing your child into a sporting activity may also divert energies and attention from writing into something more productive and more sociable.
As a final option, try taking your child to a local bookshop or library and show them what happens to addicted writers who reform. The sight of so many jaded faces looking morosely at the aisles of books from authors who have made it, might discourage them from that wayward path.

Disclaimer: The content above does in no way reflect the beliefs of the blog owner, the blogger's publisher, the blogger's mum, not all the blogger's friends, and certainly not me.

*(Note: don’t you just love Government Leaflets? Looks like we’re back to the glory days of the 50’s)

Writing my way through traffic

It struck me last night, while I was stewing in the mother of all traffic jams on the M25 that I treat my plotting/writing the same way I navigate through traffic. On Sunday I attended the christening in Surrey of my Best Man’s son, William – a catchy and heroic name, I say (ironically I am William’s godfather, so I’ll be putting aside first editions of the Secret War books for him on his fifteenth birthday).
The return journey to Sheffield was the worse car journey in living memory due to intense flooding on the M25 and the slip-road to the M1. After three hours of going nowhere, I navigated Sarah off the M25 and headed quite blindly towards the M40, trusting my instincts rather than the cack-handed and insular traffic reports coming out of the London local radio stations (it seems odd to me that no one puts out competent traffic news on BBC Radio on Sunday when you can get it every hour during the week – don’t people drive on Sundays?).

As darkness fell prematurely from the rain-laden storm clouds that were hammering everything into submission outside, I guided us through a couple of small towns and villages on a winding route that any Sat-Nav would be proud of. Our journey into the unknown took us through local flooding (we were lucky – a half hour later two villages we passed through were closed to the public) and further into darkness, until we emerged after 30 minutes - to some measure of relief - onto the M40 which was pretty bloody empty.

I couldn’t fucking believe it. If only that message had been conveyed to every driver heading north up the M1 – to divert onto the M40 – then Europe’s largest ‘car-park’ would have been only half as bad. I was relieved and enraged in equal measure. Sometimes I marvel at how Britain became an empire. Was it pure bloody luck? It certainly wasn’t common sense.

Anyway, quibbles aside (and back to the writing)… I’m an impatient sod, I really am. I can’t stand waiting around, especially in queues. In that respect I’m definitely not British, because Brits do queues very well. It’s not just about being polite, it’s about having the common sense to seek an alternative. And that’s what I do with my writing, I’m pragmatic when it comes to problems with plots. Take the current book for example. I’ve been looking through the plot of The Black Hours and while it runs rather well, the last acts need addressing because they sit uneasily on the cross-roads of fantastical adventure and hard-boiled thriller. The rest of the book is indeed a straightforward “what if” thriller, but the last three chapters are quite OTT in terms of what went before. I’m reminded of those James Bond films such as Moonraker or Die Another Day, when it all becomes too excessive, and while The Black Hours doesn’t go to that extreme, it does sit uneasily with what happened before, as though the last scenes of pyrotechnics makes light of what is in fact a very dark story.

So, without staying in the traffic jam i.e. being clogged up with an unwieldy ending, I’ve decided to go on a mystery tour, guided only by instinct, my sense of direction and an idea of where I want to end up. It means radically changing two chapters, but then I’m only starting the 2nd draft here, right? So I’ve plenty of slack to make those big amendments. I’m sure I’ll encounter some flooding here and there, and get bogged down in the odd dead-end, but it feels right. It felt right to head for the M40. It feels right to change this ending and not dupe the reader into a potential Hollywood-mishap of excessiveness.

It does change the book from being a historical adventure into something sterner, but a writer should always work for the story, rather than work the story for the writer, don’t you think? Otherwise you can become quite, quite lost - or worse: stuck in a jam that goes nowhere.

From a Little Whinging to…

…A Little Apology for the last post. Everyone likes a moan. I think it’s cathartic, and it’s helped bring a brighter perspective. So I apologise for seeming a bit antsy. Firstly the reason for the whinge…

At the moment I’m involved in my least favourite part of the publishing process: checking the typeset proofs. Some authors might see this as their favourite part – the final step before seeing the book in print, and hell if the sight of those ISBN numbers aren’t just a little giddying, especially on a debut book. But get past this and things get a little frustrating.

It’s all psychological really. I’ve re-read The Hoard of Mhorrer about 12 times, and I’ve spent a lot of time ensuring there were few typos or spelling errors in the text. So when you go through the typeset proofs discovering errors that you think you’ve removed the last time around, you question your own sanity until you discover they’re not your mistakes at all but have occurred during the typesetting - and then you start chewing on your own fist through sheer despair.
For example, when you’ve spent six or seven drafts checking that “dismounted” is spelt properly to find that someone has spelt it “dimouled”, you can be forgiven for moaning.

So I’m carrying on with the proof-reading, occasionally chewing on my knuckles, taking a few breaks where I can and coming back to it with renewed objectivity. Frustration is part of the game, and I shouldn’t be so surprised as I felt the same with The Secret War. I guess I wouldn’t make a good editor – I don’t have the patience.
Errors apart though, the typesetter's done a good job and the text on the whole looks wonderful.

So that’s the reason behind the moan. And now for the cure…

Part of the current problem has been the lack of time to do anything creative, and that still stands, regardless of proof-reading. So Sarah and I have sat down to look at finances, the time we get to spend together and what time I need for writing. Sarah has been more than accommodating (it was actually Sarah who said I should start writing part-time). She’s been incredibly supportive – as ever – of my writing, and between us we’ve worked out I can drop a day a week to concentrate on the writing. The second party to be considerate and completely supportive, is my employer who has just agreed my change in working pattern.

So from January next year (I want to get Christmas out of the way before my pay-cheque takes a hit) I’ll be a part-time writer. It won’t mean an increase in productivity – I’ll still be writing the same amount each week as I am now – but it just safeguards that output for the future. It means that whatever happens from January onwards, I’ll be able to put aside half a dozen hours a week (at least) to spend on my writing. It means I can spend some time with family and friends without thinking I should really be at the laptop writing. It means I can spend more time with Sarah – who I’ve neglected of late.

It means my writing will be guilt-free. And I think that’s all any writer can ask for, and even then, seldom gets.

So whinging over – I know, I’m bloody lucky, really…

Just when I thought…

Well, it’s been a while since I last blogged, but I have my reasons. I’m knee-deep in proofs for The Hoard of Mhorrer, with about a two week turnaround, so things are hectic. Hectic enough to feel like this “break” from writing is rapidly diminishing. And it’s also become stressful at work for the first time in about 10 years. Not great. So I haven’t been blogging for a while. And probably won’t be for the next two weeks.

Not unusual, I guess. But there are reasons, like I said.

David Isaak’s post over on the Macmillan New Writer’s blog has caught me at a bad time, because I’ve been honest about my feelings and perhaps these are only temporary feelings, perhaps not. We’ll see after the next two weeks. The fact of the matter is, is that I’m drowning in responsibilities. I have too many: to my wife, to my friends, to my employers, and now Macmillan, and I suppose to this blog as well. The juggling act is getting a bit much, as more balls are thrown in, and not just squishy red ones, but barbed balls with razor wire covering their edges. I’ll get through it all, because it’s the sort of methodical person I am, but these last weeks have taught me enough to know that next year, unless I can find more time, things must change.

Firstly, this blog will almost definitely be wound up and will be used as archived material only. Secondly I’ll be looking to hand over the admin reigns of the Macmillan New Writers blog at some point next year. David is the co-admin but I’m not going to dump it all on him.
And then we’ll have to look at the writing. The writing is okay at the moment, I still enjoy it. The other side, i.e. editing, proofing, publicising etc will need to be looked at more closely. For the Hoard of Mhorrer I won’t be going forth and doing appearances in January and February as I did for The Secret War unless both books suddenly become bestsellers. I simply won’t have time for it. And the financial returns for that invested time are negligible – as someone told me recently, I’m not being “cost effective.”

And there it is. Time. The enemy of everything, it appears at the moment. It’s not, as one Jean Luc Picard said that it’s a companion through life, more that Time seems to rule everyone around you and you are therefore ruled by them. Deadlines. Deadlines. Deadlines. Next year I can hit those deadlines if I can free up more time. That means seriously looking at going part-time in the day-job which now relies on how the books sell, as a recession means any cut in wages has to be supplanted by royalties. I have too many responsibilities to do it any other way – and I’m not unique either; many published writers are under the same pressures and have been for many, many years.

So what about the future?
As I said in the MNW blog comment, I’ll still be writing for sure. Writing is like a class A drug to me. I can’t contemplate a time when I won’t be writing. But being published? Well, we’ll just have to see, but I think that make or break period is coming around the corner…

Black Hours Diary 10 - Milestone 1

Today – actually one hour ago to be precise - I completed the first draft of The Black Hours, and I can honestly say it’s the finest first draft I’ve written. Period.

Usually my first drafts require a shitload of re-working (see The Horde of Mhorrer, but then I’m sure I'm in good company there), yet this time I can’t see the same thing happening with The Black Hours. It just seems to work. The characters are dynamic and colourful, the situations are largely believable for alternate history, and the action unrelenting. At times I’ve broken my own rules of writing (and a few others’ rules I might add) but still it works. It’s like I’ve stumbled on a great recipe by throwing things in by instinct rather than looking through any book on writing thrillers.

The proof will be in the tasting, obviously; I’m not overly fussy when it comes to food, so I’ll be seeking a second opinion when I get the “readers” together to view the third draft some time in Spring 2009.
Yep, it’s going to take that long, because I’m taking a break before the 2nd draft (and another break in Jan 2009 before the 3rd draft to deal with publication matters). The pause until September will be a relatively tiny one, but enough to recharge the ol’ brain-cells. I might finish a couple of the half-done short stories that I’ve tinkered with this year already, or perhaps revisit the children’s book that Macmillan have had sight of.

Or I might even just take a break from writing completely for a few weeks. After 130,000 words in roughly three months (give or take a vacation to Greece and those hectic Mhorrer proofs), I think I’ve earned it.

Part Black Hours diary entry No.9, part fish

It’s been a week so far of getting back into the old writing routine and other writing relating gumph. It’s surprising how much disruption two weeks away can cause (I’m sure Tim Stretton will attest to this once he’s gotten through the month or so of publication-publicising and euphoria to return to the work in progress). And talking of Tim, I picked up the monthly edition of Deathray to find Tim waxing lyrical on Jack Vance. He’s posted some of the article on his blog, but like a tease he’s left the rest to the magazine buying public.
As well as Tim’s piece, this month’s Deathray puts out the usual high-quality commentary (including interviews and articles on Alan Moore, Alan Garner and Asimov's Foundation series) that I expect of a genre magazine that, in my view, is way ahead of the rest. And long may it continue (or rather force its rivals to up their game – something that’s long overdue; in my opinion Sci-Fi/Fantasy/Horror in this country demands at least two quality monthlies).

The second news of note is that on my return from Greece I was delighted to find a package from the British Fantasy Society, lying stamp-side up and bearing gifts – i.e. the quarterly mailing that includes New Horizons (a recent addition to the BFS publication schedule and titled so because, and I quote “the intended emphasis is on the new"). For a Macmillan New Writer this attracts me like a moth to a roman candle.

More importantly, mailed out with New Horizons was The Dick and Jane Primer for Adults, an anthology based around the old Dick and Jane children’s books but deliciously twisted. One of the stories is Envy by Neil Ayres of Veggie Box blog and one half of Whiteley and Ayres (sounds more like a solicitors firm).
I met Neil earlier this year at Aliya Whiteley’s book launch in London and he’s a really nice guy, so this feels especially good. Neil’s story (that's just a little disturbing) is up alongside such luminaries as Adam Roberts and James Lovegrove (whose book The Hope was one of the best I’ve read in the last two years), so he should be pleased with the company. It’s also another example of the high quality output from the British Fantasy Society; these publications alone are worth the yearly membership.

So apart from reading through this growing stack of publications (which has been added to by the King/Straub collaboration, The Black House – a bloody good book but almost as thick as Middlemarch and lovely example of the patterns and perils of a constantly changing POV), I’ve embarked again on The Black Hours, and the final push to complete the first draft. And I’ve done it in style, writing 6,000 words over the weekend. This time I won’t be stopping until the first draft is done and dusted (20,000 words to go, and yes The Black Hours has gone from being a slim thriller to another mini-epic) which means no more pauses and no more distractions, if only because Jane of How Publishing Really Works might try to pinch my ASUS Eee PC when I’m not looking, or its AI chip that’s been giving off a strange scent of lemons recently, might suddenly pack in or decide that it’s bigger than this author’s wishes…

Wachter der how much?!

As a little side-entry, on returning back to ole England, I checked up on Amazon UK (as you do) to find that someone there is selling Wachter der Schatten (the German translation of The Secret War) for £1,945. And it isn’t even signed (I know, because I’ve only signed two copies of the German paperback).

If this price is right, that must mean I have £5,835 worth of paperbacks sitting on the shelf over the telly.

Better tell the insurers quick…

What if…

…Two words that can mean different things to different people, almost disproportionately so. For the scientist or engineer “what if” can be a moment of genius. For the emerging kleptomaniac it will be followed by the thrill of running down a shopping mall away from a security guard with a bright pink bra flapping from their fingertips. From the lips of a pestering or ‘naughty’ child, "what if" can be the warning before the storm - histrionics or severe chiding will inevitably follow “Mummy/Daddy what if I..?”.

For the fiction writer, however, “what if” is the perfect catalyst for Story.

Sarah and I have just returned from a well-earned break to the Greek island of Kefalonia (or Cephallonia if you’re a local). It was a week of sun, sand, sea and… not writing. And you know I almost, almost achieved the latter. Almost, apart from those two little words that have been going around my head since I was twelve years old (though probably since I was about 3).
“What if” has been behind everything I’ve written from my very first story, The Vent (“what if” I was stuck in a ventilation vent? “What if” I wasn’t alone in there?) to The Secret War (“what if” angels and demons were walking the streets in Napoleonic Europe? “What if” my lover was murdered by a slavering, unholy creature of fire and flesh?). It’s never far away, to the point that my workspace (see below) reminds me of the very reason I write: to answer that “what if” question in the best way I can, even if I have to make it up, because let’s face, that’s what fiction writers do – we bullshit our answers but try to make them as plausible as possible. Hell, if we can make you - the reader - believe them, then they must be right, right?

But I’ve rudely interrupted myself, we were talking about “what if” weren’t we? And that whole thing about not writing while taking a holiday in Greece?
Best intentions and all that, well I failed, but not spectacularly. I did write, but only a handful of handwritten notes with a handwriting pen that seemed to dry out at every crucial point in the writing (if you were in Lassi, Kefalonia last week and saw a bearded tourist, slightly sunburnt and flapping his hand around like someone with an absurd version of OCD, then that would be me trying to shake his pen into working again).

In my defence - like I need one (yeah, phoney bravado I know, but I promised Sarah I wouldn’t write while I was away) - it was Sarah who prompted the “what if”. It was Sarah who brought up The Isles of Sheffield, how she enjoyed the sound of the story/anthology and wondered what I’d do with the project now. And so I got talking about it, and while I was muttering about how little time I have to devote to it, and how the next three books seem pretty set in stone, I got that tingle at the base of my neck, the goose-bumps over my arms and those two words came into my thoughts: “what if”. In this case, it was “what if” Sheffield now resembled the Ionian Islands, such as Keffalonia? Could that be stretching the imagination a little? Not so, if you take global warming, rising seas (the core setting for The Isles of Sheffield) into consideration, and it seemed at that moment the place where we were holidaying could be the setting for the anthology: cicadas, sun and sand and sludge.

And then the following day “what if” went that little bit further. What if there were no more sunbathers? What if it was too dangerous to sunbathe, or because the world has moved on, no one has time to sunbathe? There are no more bikinis, the brown frothy slop of the sea is no longer fit to swim in, and the sandy beaches are under many feet of stagnant water. Yet, in this fiercely hot world, on a bank of wasteland and shit-coloured swill that stinks like swamp, a lone sunbather appears. Why is she there in a world that has moved on, horribly and catastrophically so? Where did she get that washed out bikini that’s frayed around the edges? Who is she doing this for? “What if…”

So there it goes, how it starts, and the rest is history written on the page in quickly congealing ink. Honestly, I didn’t write much of the story while I was away. I spent very little time on it, and Sarah wasn’t really mad with me. I think. But when those two little words take hold, it’s hard to shake them loose.

Paperback Writer

January 2009 sees the paperback publication of The Secret War and those talented folks at Pan Macmillan have dusted up one helluva cover for it, too:


(There’s also a cover for The Secret War book 2: The Hoard of Mhorrer that I’ll publish here when I get a sharper jpeg of it from Macmillan.)

Oh, by the way, you can pre-order the paperback of The Secret War from all good booksellers now…

The Black Hours diary entry No. 8: Aftermath, Flotsam and Jetsam

This week, Sarah’s left me home alone. The house is quiet, and in the evenings I forget the sound of my own voice. So like any other bloke left “home alone” I’ve been indulging in those frowned-upon things such as watching b-movie pastiches (Planet Terror) watching a little Euro 2008 (never a full match, and usually while I’m reading – which is currently Simon Clark’s Night of the Triffids) and of course writing (which isn’t frowned upon exactly, but takes up two hours of an evening that I should be spending with Sarah).

With Sarah away, it means that this week my writing feels guilty-free. I have no other responsibilities, no self-imposed time limits – I can write for as long or as short as I wish. And with it being so quiet, there are no distractions.

In the aftermath of what I might call “The Hectic Train Chapter” The Black Hours has fallen back to a steady pace – for a short time. I’m now 81,000 words into the first draft, about 40,000 words away from the final chapter – so, much nearer to the end than I am the beginning. Yet despite all this, I still get distracted - this time by a shelved project: The Isles of Sheffield.

Regular readers of this blog will remember I mooted this project this time last year, but was shelved in favour of a more fully-formed project: The Black Hours (The Isles of Sheffield was turning into something of an epic – The Black Hours is but 120,000 words long).
Now the worm has turned, or rather I’ve decided to approach The Isles of Sheffield with a long term view. Instead of throwing myself into the project, I’ll be chipping away at it, writing stand-alone or connected short stories over the next five to six years, which I’ll send out for publication in various magazines and the internet.

The first of these stories is “Flotsam, Jetsam” - a bitter-sweet tale of a child who has grown up in the flooded city, eking out a living as a gondola boy and scavenger, ferrying various colourful characters across a city that’s half submerged.
I’ll have plenty of time to write it too. Already I’m 7,000 words towards my 10,000 quota for this week on The Black Hours. Tonight and tomorrow should finish that off which leaves Thursday evening and Friday to write Flotsam, Jetsam.

Disclaimer:
The first time I thought about writing The Isles of Sheffield, something bad then happened to Sheffield i.e. it flooded. So I accept no responsibility for it happening again now that my interest has returned...

Black Hours Diary No 7: Because sometimes it just won’t work

Well, I’ve hit another brick wall. And it ain’t due to mid-drafting blues or writer’s block.

It’s all down to trains. Or rather steam locomotives. In The Black Hours there’s an action sequence where the villains battle the main character across a train that’s trying to break out of the quarantine zone in London. The train is out of control, the villains have the main character in a tight spot, and there’s no obvious way of stopping the train. Like a true cliff-hanger serial, what does the main character do?

As the writer, I say, the main character bumps off most of the villains and then finds out a way of decoupling the train. In reality, there is no way of decoupling rolling stock from a steam engine when it’s moving at top speed.

So what do I do? Do I use artistic license to achieve the impossible and decouple that darn train? Or do I cut the sequence completely because without decoupling, the main character will be killed (and then The Black Hours would be just a tragic novella – not a novel).

Fuck a doodle do.

Black Hours Diary No 6: Writing enema

Right. Okay. That was a bit of surprise. From one of the most creatively constipated days in the last couple of years, I’ve gone to the most productive. Yesterday I managed to write almost 6,000 words. And I’d probably say they were 6,000 good words, “perky” words to quote Alis Hawkins.

It was even more surprising after not sleeping very well the previous night, getting that fuzzy-headed, blurry feeling the following morning without much inspiration floating about at all. So I got up, swayed about a bit, squinted at the bright blue sky over Sheffield and sat at my desk with a cup of detox-tea and a bowl of crunchy nut cornflakes, dreading switching on the laptop.

When I did find the courage to boot up the PC, I didn’t go straight to The Black Hours folder, but opened a brand new Word document and began writing a short story called “The Inheritance of Henry Judas”. It’s a story that’s been floating about my study on various bits of paper for the last few months, and I thought ‘what the hell, if I’m going to write shit today, I might as well write shit about something completely unrelated to The Black Hours.’

An hour later, I’d written 1,800 words.

‘Fuck me,’ I thought, ‘where did that come from?’ I really didn’t expect to write much beyond a few hundred words, followed by a blue funk that would be better spent in the garden catching some sun, and finishing Seventh Son by Orson Scott Card.
No, 1,800 words was certainly a surprise.
The Inheritance of Henry Judas is a character piece, about a man who profits on his dead parents’ possessions, only for those possessions to haunt him later on, and it’s a subtle story (or will be if I ever finish it). What those 1,800 words did for me that Sunday morning, was give me a creative enema that could have been a flash in the pan (excuse the pun) but in the end it proved to be very, very productive.

After a break to make another drink, I transfered my writing space outside to take advantage of the glorious weather; I set up the garden furniture, brought out my trusty ASUS pocket laptop, and settled down to work on The Black Hours, with still a little trepidation. Last week’s writing was saggy in places and I expected more of the same stilted prose…

After an hour, I’d written another 2,000 words.

I’m on fire. Bloody hell. Is that what being possessed is like? I don’t actually remember writing those 2,000 words; it was all a bit of a daze. I remember looking at the laptop and my hands dancing over the keyboard, but not the actual effort of creating. It was odd. When I re-read what was typed, it was even odder. The words just leapt from the page – some of the best writing I’ve done in years.

By three in the afternoon, I’d written 4,000 words, and under the merciless heat of the sun (how hot was it yesterday?) I called it a day, utterly spent and very pleased with myself.

I’m not sure how it happened. I’m not sure if it was divine intervention (I doubt it), but there was definitely a blockage last week, and writing that short story cleared it. I didn’t need to take anything, was completely sober and didn’t even have to resort to taking a long walk. I’m not even sure where the inspiration came from – it was just there, hiding in the shadows.

So I’m back now, the mid-draft blues have lifted and I’m very pleased, if not slightly bewildered as to why. I promised that if I did find a cure I’d tell you all, but I’m not honestly sure what the cure was.

Maybe it was just timing.
Maybe it was the lovely weather.
Or maybe it was down to the inheritance of Henry Judas…

Black Hours Diary Entry No. 5 Mid-Draft Blues

Today was the most creatively constipated day I've had in a while. The kind of day when even a fart of words is better than nothing at all. And that's all I managed, one lousy fart of a couple of hundred words.
And I'll tell you why: the Mid-Draft Blues

It had to happen at some point. It certainly happened during the writing of The Hoard of Mhorrer, and I reckon it happens to other authors too. It’s not writer’s block, nothing so disastrous, but it’s still a mighty pain in the arse. It’s that moment during the first draft where the momentum suddenly collapses and the writing grinds to a halt like an old banger attempting to climb a hill. There can be a number of reasons for it, from the distraction of pre-publication, to publicity of post-publication, to not being in love with the project from the beginning, through to being more in love with another project of the future. (This list is not exhaustive). The main reason for my current mid-draft blues, is the distraction of another project – sparked in part by the recent proofing of The Hoard of Mhorrer.

Ever since I excised out an entire sub-plot from Book 2, I’ve been thinking about a short novel that fits nicely between The Hoard of Mhorrer (Book 2) and The Fortress of Black Glass (which was Book 3, but is now Book 4 – is this too confusing?).
The “new” Book 3 will be called The Traitor of Light, and will tell a story that runs parallel with The Hoard of Mhorrer. It’s a Dar’uka story (it might even be subtitled that way) and by concentrating on the Dar’uka and their unearthly adventures over the course of 250-300 pages I’ll be able to explore the characters in a way I couldn’t in The Hoard of Mhorrer.

Admittedly, I fell into a trap in the original edit of The Hoard of Mhorrer that turned the Dar’uka into bores – sanctimonious immortals that seemed a little too ignorant and arrogant, similarly to how the Jedi knights are portrayed in Lucas’ let down, Star Wars: The Phantom Menace.
As the creator of The Secret War books and the mythology, I know the Dar’uka are more than this, but that means nothing if the author doesn’t write this down. And in the original edit of The Hoard of Mhorrer, I didn’t – so it was cut.

With The Traitor of Light I get the opportunity to write what I wanted to about the Dar’uka. And it won’t be easy, because I’ll be treading the tight-rope of making the Dar’uka interesting while at the same time trying not to dispel the mystery surrounding them. Familiarity breeds contempt, they say, so to keep the majesty of these “beautiful horrors” the blade needs to reveal marvels, but not cut too deep.

So how do I do that, you might ask?
Well, I’m picking on one of the Dar’uka and telling his story, that’s how: from mortal to immortal, a story of sacrifice/betrayal and tragedy/revelation. It won’t explain away Dar’uka lore, but it will certainly infuse them with more humanity and, inevitably, flaws. Sure they’ll still be arrogant, but the reader will know why this is, and perhaps even forgive them. There’ll also be opportunity for the big set-pieces that have been absent from the first two books, i.e. epic battles between armies of angels and demons at the Gates of Hell that some readers have been asking for. The anticipation of writing about hordes of demons clashing with the Dar’uka on a broken and ruined world far from ours has brought out the fan-boy in me. And I can’t wait to start writing it.

And so you see why I’ve hit the mid-draft blues. I’ve spent this Black Hours diary entry talking about a completely different book. So imagine what my mind is doing. It’s a tough thing to concentrate on what’s on the page before you when there’s so much excitement going on in the background, especially when a future project feels electric and new.

But The Traitor of Light is but a distraction – a project for 2009 and something to be boxed away until the right time. It’s exciting thinking about it, but then so was The Black Hours while I was putting the finishing touches to The Hoard of Mhorrer, as will The Fortress of Black Glass when I finish The Traitor of Light, and so on and so on.
(“The grass is greener” seems quite an apt proverb for my writing but only because I have an insatiable hunger and impatience to tell stories – and I have plenty of stories still to tell.)

I’m sure there is a cure to the mid-draft blues, and like Silas Eldritch (the main character in The Black Hours) I’m working on finding it.

And when I do, I’ll post it right here…

Absent Landlords and other priorities

Okay, so I haven’t blogged for a while. (Well, actually I have if you include the regular “this month’s publication” slot I do for the Macmillan New Writers Blog – but some would say that’s cheating). Indeed I haven’t done much on the internet at all over the last couple of weeks, including reading other writers’ blogs, leaving comments and generally keeping up-to-date on my regular haunts. The Blogspot of Blood has been neglected, and like an absent landlord I’ve rarely looked in on it.

For shame…

Last week I completed the proofs for The Hoard of Mhorrer to end two hectic weeks where everything was pretty much put on hold. It gave me a chance to tighten the prose, tweak continuity and iron out those unwelcome creases in the plot. The Hoard of Mhorrer now sparkles, like someone’s given it a mighty fine polish, and I’m very, very happy with it indeed (all that hard work has been worth it). But it did involve a period of intense work which wiped out my Bank Holiday weekend not to mention several afternoons of sunshine (for a Brit, not making the most of a sunny day is close to blasphemy), and of course The Black Hours has suffered as well. I’m now 15,000 words behind schedule, but I’m catching up – a few hundred words here, and a thousand there; I’m not worried by the hard work ahead of me because I’m enjoying it.

It does mean, however, than in terms of priorities, this blog is falling further down the pack, behind Sarah, writing The Black Hours and making time for friends and family (and a semblance of a social life). And it’s likely to be that way for a few months to come – certainly until my day-job becomes part-time and I can eek a semi-professional living from the writing (which might not be that far away). But I’m not the only one thinking of priorities (it must be the warmer weather…).

This week another stalwart of the blogging sphere hung up their blog account. Shameless, aka Seamus Kearney has announced he is ending his blog odyssey to concentrate on more pressing matters, and that’s good for him (though he will be sorely missed). He joins the ranks of the classic bloggers that have called it a day, which includes the likes of Grumpy Old Bookman and Miss Snark.

Blogs are like relationships, I’ve come to believe, and when you’ve been that involved with a blog over the course of years rather than months, watching it flicker out and die gradually due to other pressing commitments can be more painful than suddenly announcing its end. Personally, I’ve come to terms with the fact that I won’t be a regular blogger any more, and that I don’t religiously check my Site-meter to see how many hits I get a day. But the lack of visits doesn’t bother me. New visitors don’t necessarily find blogs because they’re popular, but stumble upon them by accident, Googling some obscure reference or finding them via a link from another’s blog or website. In my case, they might visit because they’ve read, or read about, The Secret War and curiosity has got the better of them.

Blogging isn’t a bad publicity tool, but neither is it the primary one and not the sort of tool a writer can rely on to sell books. It's bloody time consuming if you consider the work involved in creating a single blog entry that's engaging and then edited to a reasonable standard. And as I often stated before, you don't get paid to write blog entries.
When it comes down to priorities, blogging is a bit of fun, a place to blow off steam about something, or to bash out some news that someone might find interesting. And it’s that fun, communal thing that keeps me going, that makes it just a little addictive.
So no, I’m not calling it a day. A week. Or a month. One day this blog might fall silent permanently, but not yet. Not yet.

Besides, there’s still a second book on the way and a paperback and hopefully other newsworthy stuff that deserves a para or two. This blog is but an extension of the MFWCurran website, which in turn is an extension of my writing. And like all priorities, something has to come first. After all, which would people rather read? An entertaining but disposable blog or a half decent book every two years or so?

Next time: a blog entry that isn't about blogging. Probably about writing, and almost certainly about hitting the brick wall that is "The Mid-draft Blues..."

Semantics and the art of taking criticism constructively

This week has been busy. Apart from picking up “The Cost of Letters”, and of course scribbling away on the new book, The Black Hours (which has hit the 50,000 word mark this week), yesterday I received the proofs for The Horde (sic) of Mhorrer (which has now been changed to “The Hoard of Mhorrer”… both ways work, but semantically “hoard” seems more appropriate - you’ll see why in January 2009).

Over the two years or so I spent writing it, around half a dozen people have given advice or suggestions on The Hoard of Mhorrer. Most of it’s been textual, but there’s been continuity suggestions too, and historical advice. Throughout that time I’ve taken critical advice on the chin with a nod of the head and a workman-like approach. But it’s a struggle. Any revision that isn’t prompted by you is a psychological battle of sorts, because anyone who possesses just a hint of ego initially finds critical advice as… er… a criticism of what they have done.
I’m not immune to that. Not at all.
And the proofs caught me off guard a bit. I think after reading the notes from my copy-editor a few writers would have bit down on their knuckles in frustration, and had I been in a worse mood I might have too. My first response was, “you can’t be serious” and “bloody hell, more work” – a tennis-pro reaction if ever there was one. I’d spent about two years on the book already, and believed I had put it to bed before next January, so looking at the pages of notes I grimaced, winced and shook my head in disappointment.

And then I calmed down and thought about it rationally.

You see, I might have worked for two years on the text, shaping it into a story that was worth telling, but that doesn’t mean I’m immune to mistakes. Likewise, my editorial duo at Macmillan have also being involved in the process for a while, and there are certain things even they might miss – things like historical and strategic context.
The copyeditor has written some bloody frustrating notes. But they are bloody helpful too. Amazingly so. In fact some of the mistakes I would call “school-boy errors” that I surprised myself at making (especially around military strategy). The copy-editor knows his stuff – I know because I checked up on a few facts afterwards, and damn me if they weren’t spot on. My first reaction – that of cursing and muttering like some wino in a bus-shelter – was in the end quite unwarranted, but it did clear my head to see how constructive his comments were.

Finally I decided, “fair-play, I must change this.” Because if I don’t change it, and if I let my ego put up walls against critical advice, someone else will only mention those same flaws once it’s published in a magazine or newspaper, or on the great Who-Hah-machine we call the Internet (and people love a good moan about inaccuracies in books, don’t they?). But by then the cat would have bolted from the barn, and the horse would have been let out of the bag. By then the book would be published and I’ll be damned…

So, yes. More work. A distraction. But why the hell not? It’s taken two years to write this book. What’s two more weeks to get it right? To quote Airplane, “I picked the wrong time to quit drinking…” (And besides, two weeks of distraction with a monkey on your back is nothing when you have to write with cat on your shoulder…)