I had called to see my old pal, Mr Sherlock Holmes and to update my website, http://mymatessmarterthanme.com when I found him obviously contemplating a spot of decorating.
“Good Heavens, Holmes!” I cried as I saw the book in his hand. “Are you going for Holmes improvements?” I chortled merrily at my witticism, but Holmes remained unmoved, without a flicker of hilarity crossing his well-chiselled features.
I really do think Holmes should see an audiologist. Despite my frequent forays into humour, Holmes rarely smiles. It was when I saw him with custard in one ear and a sponge finger in the other I thought he was a trifle deaf.
“Good Heavens, Holmes!” I cried. “We’ll have to get brushes and paints and ladders and so on before we embark upon such a course,” I continued. “We need an honest artisan, a tradesfellow, a cheery Cockney working-class comic relief, to say, “Cor blimey, guv’nor,” and other typical phrases. Tell me, Holmes, is there a B and Q in London?”
“By no means, Watson, my ill-lettered friend,” he replied. “There’s a L and an O and a N and a...”
The trouble is with Holmes is that he makes jokes as lame as Igor and expects me to laugh.
“I don’t think much of your choice of colours,” I said, cutting him off in his prime. “Good Heavens, Holmes!” I cried. “Fifty shades of grey? How depressing!”
“What would you prefer, Watson?”
“Oh, I don’t know. How about doing the Study in Scarlet?”
At this point we were interrupted by our honest and worthy landlady, Mrs Hudson.
She was in a great to-do, wailing and wringing her hands in her apron. No matter how many times I’ve told her to use the mangle for hand-wringing, she refuses to follow my advice.
“Mr Holmes! Mr Holmes!” she reiterated.
If I’ve told that woman once, I’ve told her a dozen times, I can give her a good tonic for that, but she insists on reiterating all over the hearth rug.
“It’s the peas, sir,” she said reiterating madly. “I had some nice green peas in the colander, all ready to wash for dinner, and they all jumped out of the dish and are now all over the kitchen yard, covered in mud. What shall I do, sir?”
“I’m afraid, my good woman, there is nothing to be done,” said Holmes, drawing his brows together. Holmes frequently enlivens these little chats of ours with artwork. “It’s the time of year, I’m afraid.”
Mrs Hudson and I looked at each other with Wild Surmise. (Wild Surmise and here sister, Tame, are the new parlour maids.) “The season, sir?” she wavered? “I don’t understand.”
“Christmas, Mrs Hudson,” he replied brusquely, putting down his pencils and picking up a ball of wool. I knew what that meant. He was going to knit his brows together now. “Where would you expect to find peas at Christmas, eh?”
“In Tesco’s?” I suggested.
“Nonsense, man! The answer is on the ground, yes? Don’t you see? Christmas means Peas on Earth.”
Saturday, December 15, 2012
Friday, December 7, 2012
Booklist and the Lottery
Turn the telly on Saturday night for the lottery programme, everyone – my incredibly sporty daughter Jessica and me are on it, playing netball with Sir Chris Hoy. Gosh.
On another note, Booklist has given the thumbs–up to Frankie’s Letter. This is what they said:
Frankie's Letter, Gordon-Smith, Dolores (Author), Jan 2013. 224 p. Severn, hardcover, $28.95. (9780727882172).
It’s the height of WWI, and Dr. Anthony Brooke has abandoned his medical career to become a spy for England. His latest mission in Germany is compromised when wounded fellow spy Terence Cavanaugh staggers into Anthony’s hotel room and dies at Anthony’s feet. His last mumbled words are, “English gentleman spy,” “star anger,” and “Frankie’s letter.” Completely mystified but with the German army hot on his trail, Anthony flees to England, where he is charged with figuring out what is behind Cavanaugh’s final, puzzling message. The trail leads to the country estate of publishing magnate Patrick Sherston, where Anthony finds himself embroiled in a terrifying game of subterfuge. Packed with adventure, action, and unforeseen twists, Gordon-Smith’s latest will appeal to Ken Follett fans.
Ken Follett, eh? That’s not bad.
Aa a matter of fact, though, the main message poor old Terence Cavanaugh mumbles is “Frankie’s letter. Read Frankie’s letter...” And, with Christmas round the corner, if you’re looking for a pressie, you could take it as a hint...!
On another note, Booklist has given the thumbs–up to Frankie’s Letter. This is what they said:
Frankie's Letter, Gordon-Smith, Dolores (Author), Jan 2013. 224 p. Severn, hardcover, $28.95. (9780727882172).
It’s the height of WWI, and Dr. Anthony Brooke has abandoned his medical career to become a spy for England. His latest mission in Germany is compromised when wounded fellow spy Terence Cavanaugh staggers into Anthony’s hotel room and dies at Anthony’s feet. His last mumbled words are, “English gentleman spy,” “star anger,” and “Frankie’s letter.” Completely mystified but with the German army hot on his trail, Anthony flees to England, where he is charged with figuring out what is behind Cavanaugh’s final, puzzling message. The trail leads to the country estate of publishing magnate Patrick Sherston, where Anthony finds himself embroiled in a terrifying game of subterfuge. Packed with adventure, action, and unforeseen twists, Gordon-Smith’s latest will appeal to Ken Follett fans.
Ken Follett, eh? That’s not bad.
Aa a matter of fact, though, the main message poor old Terence Cavanaugh mumbles is “Frankie’s letter. Read Frankie’s letter...” And, with Christmas round the corner, if you’re looking for a pressie, you could take it as a hint...!
Saturday, November 24, 2012
Mystery Makers
Do you belong to a Writers’ Group or a bookclub in the north of England? If so, I’d like to direct you to
http://www.mysterymakers.co.uk/
As you can see, Jane Finnis, Rebecca Jenkins and me have set up a sort of Authors’ R Us. We all write historical mysteries and all love talking about history, research and writing. If you’d like us to come and talk to your group, get in touch.
Mystery Makers was officially launched in York on the 22nd. Waterstones had very generously opened the shop after hours for Jane to celebrate the re-release of her first book, Shadows in the Night, (previously entitled Get Out or Die!) with a new cover from Head of Zeus, the UK partners of the American Poisoned Pen. Not only was Jane there on good form, she’d also brought with her two Roman soldiers. Like, doesn’t everyone travel with a couple of Roman soldiers? This wasn’t an audience that was going to heckle!
So, if you fancy having the three of us pop up at a group near you, I can’t promise Roman soldiers, but I can promise a really interesting session!
http://www.mysterymakers.co.uk/
As you can see, Jane Finnis, Rebecca Jenkins and me have set up a sort of Authors’ R Us. We all write historical mysteries and all love talking about history, research and writing. If you’d like us to come and talk to your group, get in touch.
Mystery Makers was officially launched in York on the 22nd. Waterstones had very generously opened the shop after hours for Jane to celebrate the re-release of her first book, Shadows in the Night, (previously entitled Get Out or Die!) with a new cover from Head of Zeus, the UK partners of the American Poisoned Pen. Not only was Jane there on good form, she’d also brought with her two Roman soldiers. Like, doesn’t everyone travel with a couple of Roman soldiers? This wasn’t an audience that was going to heckle!
So, if you fancy having the three of us pop up at a group near you, I can’t promise Roman soldiers, but I can promise a really interesting session!
Monday, November 19, 2012
Chris Hoy, netball... and me
This is about the most bizarre opening sentence I’ll ever type.
Last Wednesday I played netball with Sir Chris Hoy. Yes, that Chris Hoy, the track cyclist, the eleven-time world champion, six-time Olympic champion and a winner of a total of seven Olympic Games medals, six gold and one silver. That’s three gold medals in Bejing and two gold medals in London 2012.
Wow.
Now I am not a sporting legend. I know, I know, but you can’t do everything. So what on earth was I doing playing netball with Chris Hoy? And what, for the uninitiated, is netball anyway?
Netball, for those who don’t know, is rather like basketball, but perhaps even more fun. It’s mainly, but not exclusively, played by girls and, although it’s hugely popular in schools, suffers a bit from not being an Olympic sport. And, about four years ago, Back To Netball was set up to offer netball sessions to everyone, sporty and non-sporty alike.
Jessica, my incredibly sporty daughter, bullied me into going on the grounds that a) It was in the sports centre up the road b) I didn’t have to sign up to X number of sessions and b)I’d enjoy it when I got there. And, of course, she was right. If you put Back To Netball into Google you’ll probably find a session near you.
Anyway, the Back To Netball bods applied for Lottery funding. Sheonah, the coach, asked us all a favour last Monday night. Could we possibly come along on Wednesday morning as the BBC were filming the session and she wanted enough bodies to make it look good. OK. Jessica took the day off work and I forsook Literature for a while.
And we went and we played and the producer asked us to smile and talk and keep on talking – and then Sir Chris Hoy walked into the room with two gold medals from London 2012 round his neck. Shine a light. He’s gorjus!!! We’d won the lottery funding and it’ll be broadcast on the BBC lottery programme on the 8th of December. He stayed for two hours (gasp) and played netball (double gasp). Jessica got to partner him and I was his opposite number. Sir Chris posted this picture on his Twitter feed, asking for captions. As you see, he was getting to grips with the game and I.... Well, I was just getting to grips!
Last Wednesday I played netball with Sir Chris Hoy. Yes, that Chris Hoy, the track cyclist, the eleven-time world champion, six-time Olympic champion and a winner of a total of seven Olympic Games medals, six gold and one silver. That’s three gold medals in Bejing and two gold medals in London 2012.
Wow.
Now I am not a sporting legend. I know, I know, but you can’t do everything. So what on earth was I doing playing netball with Chris Hoy? And what, for the uninitiated, is netball anyway?
Netball, for those who don’t know, is rather like basketball, but perhaps even more fun. It’s mainly, but not exclusively, played by girls and, although it’s hugely popular in schools, suffers a bit from not being an Olympic sport. And, about four years ago, Back To Netball was set up to offer netball sessions to everyone, sporty and non-sporty alike.
Jessica, my incredibly sporty daughter, bullied me into going on the grounds that a) It was in the sports centre up the road b) I didn’t have to sign up to X number of sessions and b)I’d enjoy it when I got there. And, of course, she was right. If you put Back To Netball into Google you’ll probably find a session near you.
Anyway, the Back To Netball bods applied for Lottery funding. Sheonah, the coach, asked us all a favour last Monday night. Could we possibly come along on Wednesday morning as the BBC were filming the session and she wanted enough bodies to make it look good. OK. Jessica took the day off work and I forsook Literature for a while.
And we went and we played and the producer asked us to smile and talk and keep on talking – and then Sir Chris Hoy walked into the room with two gold medals from London 2012 round his neck. Shine a light. He’s gorjus!!! We’d won the lottery funding and it’ll be broadcast on the BBC lottery programme on the 8th of December. He stayed for two hours (gasp) and played netball (double gasp). Jessica got to partner him and I was his opposite number. Sir Chris posted this picture on his Twitter feed, asking for captions. As you see, he was getting to grips with the game and I.... Well, I was just getting to grips!
Sunday, October 21, 2012
George Formby and an audience with the Pope
I was having a George Formby session on my ipod this morning while getting the Sunday lunch ready, which meant I was peeling potatoes and wiping tears of laughter from my eyes at the same time. NB; don’t confuse which hand is holding the tissue and which the potato peeler. That is painful.
I love George. I remember reading an article by Clive James he wrote years ago on the strength of a TV documentary about Wigan’s favourite son. Clive James noted (with more than a hint of wistfulness) that after years living in Britain, he never felt more Australian and un-British than when he listened to George Formby. Clive, who isn’t exactly short of a sense of humour, just couldn’t get it. When George was at the height of his fame, everyone, from the King to the cleaners with coal miners, clerks, clerics and cashiers in between (I could go on listing jobs that start with K or C but you get the point) loved him, but not Clive. Not a titter. Perhaps the ability to riff off a few bars of When I’m Cleaning Windows could become part of the Britishness test (a profoundly unBritish sort of idea) that Ye Gov talk about.
My favourite George Formby songs are, as you might have guessed, the funny ones. Here’s some of the lyrics from Hi-tiddly-hi-ti Island.
In Hi-tiddly-hi-ti Island, everybody wears a smile; Hi-tiddly-hi-ti Island, everybody lives in style The girls out there are full of sport, and wear their frocks a trifle short, Some are simply wrapped in thought In Hi-Tiddly-Hi-Ti Isle.
I love George. I remember reading an article by Clive James he wrote years ago on the strength of a TV documentary about Wigan’s favourite son. Clive James noted (with more than a hint of wistfulness) that after years living in Britain, he never felt more Australian and un-British than when he listened to George Formby. Clive, who isn’t exactly short of a sense of humour, just couldn’t get it. When George was at the height of his fame, everyone, from the King to the cleaners with coal miners, clerks, clerics and cashiers in between (I could go on listing jobs that start with K or C but you get the point) loved him, but not Clive. Not a titter. Perhaps the ability to riff off a few bars of When I’m Cleaning Windows could become part of the Britishness test (a profoundly unBritish sort of idea) that Ye Gov talk about.
My favourite George Formby songs are, as you might have guessed, the funny ones. Here’s some of the lyrics from Hi-tiddly-hi-ti Island.
In Hi-tiddly-hi-ti Island, everybody wears a smile; Hi-tiddly-hi-ti Island, everybody lives in style The girls out there are full of sport, and wear their frocks a trifle short, Some are simply wrapped in thought In Hi-Tiddly-Hi-Ti Isle.
Yeah, OK. Maybe you have to have the music and the voice to go with it, but it makes me laugh.
It was one of George’s sincere songs though, that made me have A Thought. It’s I’m Leaning On A Lamp-post. Here’s the link to the You Tube video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3e53eJBwiKw
Because, you see, Lucy, home from Uni for the weekend, wandered into the kitchen to see what I was laughing about. Lucy (bless her) is deeply tolerant of my ipod habits and well versed in G. Formby’s output, but she does listen to more up to date music, too. Lucy loves Elbow, for instance. She listens to my songs and I listen to her’s. Fair enough. One of Elbow’s songs which I love is An Audience With The Pope as in
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S4d7oMxsBMI
And – wait for it – here comes The Thought.
The theme of An Audience With The Pope and I’m Leaning On A Lamp-post are exactly the same. Wow. And that bears out the truism, so well known to anyone who’s ever taken a stab at a creative writing class, that there aren’t any new ideas, just new ways of telling the story.
Thursday, October 4, 2012
Frankie's Letter
I Spy....
The big news of the week is that Frankie’s Letter is published! It’s available from Amazon, from me (have a look at the Books page on the website) and, as they say, all good bookshops. If the bookshop you’re in hasn’t got it, then you have my absolute approval to query if the aforesaid bookshop is as good as purports to be. Unless, of course, it’s one of those specialist bookshops selling books only about Neuroscience, Horses, How To Grow Grass That Your Neighbours Will Envy, Tiddlywinks or whatever.
Frankie’s Letter isn’t a Jack story but a spy thriller set in the First World War. I originally self-published it on Kindle, but was delighted when Severn House decided to buy it. The cover, I think, look great, and there’s something about holding a “real” book that the Kindle, despite its many virtues, just can’t match.
One of the challenges of writing a spy story set in the First World War is conveying to the reader just how new (and amateur) the Secret Service was. We’re used to James Bond and his gadgets and Smiley’s smoke-filled rooms, but this is a different era, an era where an individual not only made a huge difference to the Service but actually was the Service.
I thought the best way to explain the time and the atmosphere of the story was to write an introduction. Here it is. I hope you enjoy it and I really hope you enjoy Frankie’s Letter
Frankie’s Letter is, of course, fiction, but one of its chief characters, Sir Charles Talbot, is based upon a real person.
William Melville, the man who would become the Secret Service’s “M”, was an Irishman, born in poverty in County Kerry in 1850. He ran away from home and in 1872 joined the London police. He made a name for himself as a quick-witted and capable officer, who, among other things, arrested Fenians and anarchists, was involved in the search for Jack The Ripper and was appointed as the Royal bodyguard. He retired, at the peak of his career, in 1903, with the rank of superintendent.
The retirement was fictional; what Melville actually did was to set up a small office near Scotland Yard under the name and title of W. Morgan, General Agent. As W. Morgan, he looked after both espionage and counter-espionage. His job was entirely hands-on. That not only suited Melville’s character, it was necessary. As he had agents but no staff, he had little choice.
In 1909, the service expanded, taking on Captain Vernon Kell, of the South Staffordshire Regiment and the flamboyant, sword-stick wielding ex-Naval officer, Mansfield Smith-Cunningham (“C”) to run various sections of the infant service. All three men, in their separate offices strung out along the Thames, were unofficially supported and officially unacknowledged by the government – a state of affairs which suited the modest William Melville very well indeed.
If anyone is interested in finding out more about this fascinating man, I can recommend Andrew Cook’s M: M15’s First Spymaster as a reliable and thoroughly absorbing account.
The big news of the week is that Frankie’s Letter is published! It’s available from Amazon, from me (have a look at the Books page on the website) and, as they say, all good bookshops. If the bookshop you’re in hasn’t got it, then you have my absolute approval to query if the aforesaid bookshop is as good as purports to be. Unless, of course, it’s one of those specialist bookshops selling books only about Neuroscience, Horses, How To Grow Grass That Your Neighbours Will Envy, Tiddlywinks or whatever.
Frankie’s Letter isn’t a Jack story but a spy thriller set in the First World War. I originally self-published it on Kindle, but was delighted when Severn House decided to buy it. The cover, I think, look great, and there’s something about holding a “real” book that the Kindle, despite its many virtues, just can’t match.
One of the challenges of writing a spy story set in the First World War is conveying to the reader just how new (and amateur) the Secret Service was. We’re used to James Bond and his gadgets and Smiley’s smoke-filled rooms, but this is a different era, an era where an individual not only made a huge difference to the Service but actually was the Service.
I thought the best way to explain the time and the atmosphere of the story was to write an introduction. Here it is. I hope you enjoy it and I really hope you enjoy Frankie’s Letter
Historical Note
Frankie’s Letter is, of course, fiction, but one of its chief characters, Sir Charles Talbot, is based upon a real person.
William Melville, the man who would become the Secret Service’s “M”, was an Irishman, born in poverty in County Kerry in 1850. He ran away from home and in 1872 joined the London police. He made a name for himself as a quick-witted and capable officer, who, among other things, arrested Fenians and anarchists, was involved in the search for Jack The Ripper and was appointed as the Royal bodyguard. He retired, at the peak of his career, in 1903, with the rank of superintendent.
The retirement was fictional; what Melville actually did was to set up a small office near Scotland Yard under the name and title of W. Morgan, General Agent. As W. Morgan, he looked after both espionage and counter-espionage. His job was entirely hands-on. That not only suited Melville’s character, it was necessary. As he had agents but no staff, he had little choice.
In 1909, the service expanded, taking on Captain Vernon Kell, of the South Staffordshire Regiment and the flamboyant, sword-stick wielding ex-Naval officer, Mansfield Smith-Cunningham (“C”) to run various sections of the infant service. All three men, in their separate offices strung out along the Thames, were unofficially supported and officially unacknowledged by the government – a state of affairs which suited the modest William Melville very well indeed.
If anyone is interested in finding out more about this fascinating man, I can recommend Andrew Cook’s M: M15’s First Spymaster as a reliable and thoroughly absorbing account.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
Jack's First Three Adventures on Kindle!
The big news of my week has been the publication of the first three Jack Haldean novels on Kindle!
Here's the link for Amazon.co.uk
http://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_i_1_8?url=search-alias%3Ddigital-text&field-keywords=dolores+gordon+smith&sprefix=Dolores+%2Cdigital-text%2C296
And here's the link for amazon.com (USA)
http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=node%3D1286228011&field-keywords=Dolores+Gordon+smith&rh=n%3A133140011%2Cn%3A%21133143011%2Cn%3A%21251259011%2Cn%3A1286228011%2Ck%3ADolores+Gordon+smith
They've been published as part of Severn House's Severn Select programme and the prices are very reasonable, at £3.60 in the UK and five dollars-ish in the USA. So, if you missed Jack's first adventures, here's a chance to catch up.
I was very iffy about the idea of Kindles when they first came out. I know some people don't like them, missing the touch and feel of a "real" book. However, I took the plunge and was surprised how easy it was to use. It's certainly easier to travel with! I used to take a stack of books on holiday with me (goodness knows why, as our holidays never have that chilled out, relaxing quality I always feel they should!) but now I've got one slim kindle and that's that. As to which kindle to buy... Now that's another story!
On a completely different subject, i'm still in mourning for the Olympics, particularly now the Paralympics have been and gone. Even the dog, Lucky (aka Tripod) decided to join in the games.
Still, Andy Murray did win the US Open. Watch him on the Head advert on Youtube – Wow!
Here's the link for Amazon.co.uk
http://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_i_1_8?url=search-alias%3Ddigital-text&field-keywords=dolores+gordon+smith&sprefix=Dolores+%2Cdigital-text%2C296
And here's the link for amazon.com (USA)
http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=node%3D1286228011&field-keywords=Dolores+Gordon+smith&rh=n%3A133140011%2Cn%3A%21133143011%2Cn%3A%21251259011%2Cn%3A1286228011%2Ck%3ADolores+Gordon+smith
They've been published as part of Severn House's Severn Select programme and the prices are very reasonable, at £3.60 in the UK and five dollars-ish in the USA. So, if you missed Jack's first adventures, here's a chance to catch up.
I was very iffy about the idea of Kindles when they first came out. I know some people don't like them, missing the touch and feel of a "real" book. However, I took the plunge and was surprised how easy it was to use. It's certainly easier to travel with! I used to take a stack of books on holiday with me (goodness knows why, as our holidays never have that chilled out, relaxing quality I always feel they should!) but now I've got one slim kindle and that's that. As to which kindle to buy... Now that's another story!
On a completely different subject, i'm still in mourning for the Olympics, particularly now the Paralympics have been and gone. Even the dog, Lucky (aka Tripod) decided to join in the games.
Still, Andy Murray did win the US Open. Watch him on the Head advert on Youtube – Wow!
Sunday, September 2, 2012
It was Dad's 90th birthday last weekend and, as you can imagine, the party was ace! The weekend started off well, with an entire church-full of people all singing "Happy Birthday To You!" followed by a small party, then a bigger one and then a very big one up at the local tennis club where Dad's been a member since 1946!
As part of the party, we had a sort of "This is your life" presentation, with speeches and pictures, charting the last 90 years, lots to drink, lots to eat and lots of catching up with old friends and members of the family we hadn't seen for
90 years ago takes us back to 1922, of course. Here's some of the things which have changed since then.
In 1922 petrol (not that many people had cars) was 2 shillings a gallon, a bottle of Scotch was 12 shillings and sixpence and a pint of bitter was 5 old pennies. That's 10 pence, 63 pence and 2 pence respectively.
The average wage - here's the rub - was £2.95 for men and £1.42 for women. Talking of working women, the first woman solicitor was admitted to practice in 1922. Footballers were well paid, even if they didn't have the superstar salaries of today, with a maximum wage of £8 a week agreed.
In the news was Howard Carter, who discovered the tomb of King Tut, and diabetes sufferers were relieved by the introduction of insulin. Cheese sandwiches became tastier with Branston pickle available for the first time
For entertainment, the evenings were enlightened by broadcasts from 2LO, as the BBC was first known and in the cinema the top films were Nanook of the North and the Last of the Mohicans. Just William topped the books of the year (quite rightly - William is brilliant) and, on the newly invented radio, the top songs were Jeannie with the light brown hair and Toot Toot Tootsie.
It's been an interesting 90 years!
As part of the party, we had a sort of "This is your life" presentation, with speeches and pictures, charting the last 90 years, lots to drink, lots to eat and lots of catching up with old friends and members of the family we hadn't seen for
90 years ago takes us back to 1922, of course. Here's some of the things which have changed since then.
In 1922 petrol (not that many people had cars) was 2 shillings a gallon, a bottle of Scotch was 12 shillings and sixpence and a pint of bitter was 5 old pennies. That's 10 pence, 63 pence and 2 pence respectively.
The average wage - here's the rub - was £2.95 for men and £1.42 for women. Talking of working women, the first woman solicitor was admitted to practice in 1922. Footballers were well paid, even if they didn't have the superstar salaries of today, with a maximum wage of £8 a week agreed.
In the news was Howard Carter, who discovered the tomb of King Tut, and diabetes sufferers were relieved by the introduction of insulin. Cheese sandwiches became tastier with Branston pickle available for the first time
For entertainment, the evenings were enlightened by broadcasts from 2LO, as the BBC was first known and in the cinema the top films were Nanook of the North and the Last of the Mohicans. Just William topped the books of the year (quite rightly - William is brilliant) and, on the newly invented radio, the top songs were Jeannie with the light brown hair and Toot Toot Tootsie.
It's been an interesting 90 years!
90 years ago takes us back to 1922, of course. Here's some of the things which have changed since then.
In 1922 petrol (not that many people had cars) was 2 shillings a gallon, a bottle of Scotch was 12 shillings and sixpence and a pint of bitter was 5 old pennies. That's 10 pence, 63 pence and 2 pence respectively.
The average wage - here's the rub - was £2.95 for men and £1.42 for women. Talking of working women, the first woman solicitor was admitted to practice in 1922. Footballers were well paid, even if they didn't have the superstar salaries of today, with a maximum wage of £8 a week agreed.
In the news was Howard Carter, who discovered the tomb of King Tut, and diabetes sufferers were relieved by the introduction of insulin. Cheese sandwiches became tastier with Branston pickle available for the first time
For entertainment, the evenings were enlightened by broadcasts from 2LO, as the BBC was first known and in the cinema the top films were Nanook of the North and the Last of the Mohicans. Just William topped the books of the year (quite rightly - William is brilliant) and, on the newly invented radio, the top songs were Jeannie with the light brown hair and Toot Toot Tootsie.
It's been an interesting 90 years!htffgfhhhhhhhhjgjgjjyjyjyjyjyjjjjjnnnnn
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Missing the Olympics
I don't know about you, but I'm suffering from POST, or Post Olympic Stress Trauma. I'll be absolutely honest and admit that, although I was quite looking forward to the sport-fest, I wasn't counting the minutes or anything. Then, when than blow-you-away opening ceremony was followed by all sorts of sturdy souls rowing, biking, swimming, shooting and fencing and so on, I couldn't move from in front of the telly.
When I did move, it was with the radio glued to my ear to catch the latest from Eton Dorney or the Equestrian events at Greenwich. The true weirdness of sports such as handball (a walkover for the Argentines, you'd think - they can always be relied on to put a ball in the back of the net using their hands) and the unconfined hilarity of the Olympic Walk where everyone looks like Donald Duck were revealed.
Now it's all over, I feel like putting up hula-hoops in the form of olympic rings, in the hope they'll be tempted back, like some Greater Manchester version of a cargo cult, but reason tells me that the only thing to do is to sit it out until the para-Olympics.
Apart from anything else, it was brilliant to see everyone looking so cheerful all the time. Even - get this - Andy Murray. Come to think about it, we were all ,ore than a bit cheerful about that one. In his 28 Days Later thriller, Murray bit back. Wow.
There's been an awful lot said about the Olympics "inspiring a generation". All I was really inspired to do was to Velcro myself to the sofa for a fortnight, but I get the point. It was like a shop window for all sorts of sports that look soooo much fun. Anyone for Beach Volleyball?
When I did move, it was with the radio glued to my ear to catch the latest from Eton Dorney or the Equestrian events at Greenwich. The true weirdness of sports such as handball (a walkover for the Argentines, you'd think - they can always be relied on to put a ball in the back of the net using their hands) and the unconfined hilarity of the Olympic Walk where everyone looks like Donald Duck were revealed.
Now it's all over, I feel like putting up hula-hoops in the form of olympic rings, in the hope they'll be tempted back, like some Greater Manchester version of a cargo cult, but reason tells me that the only thing to do is to sit it out until the para-Olympics.
Apart from anything else, it was brilliant to see everyone looking so cheerful all the time. Even - get this - Andy Murray. Come to think about it, we were all ,ore than a bit cheerful about that one. In his 28 Days Later thriller, Murray bit back. Wow.
There's been an awful lot said about the Olympics "inspiring a generation". All I was really inspired to do was to Velcro myself to the sofa for a fortnight, but I get the point. It was like a shop window for all sorts of sports that look soooo much fun. Anyone for Beach Volleyball?
When I did move, it was with the radio glued to my ear to catch the latest from Eton Dorney or the Equestrian events at Greenwich. The true weirdness of sports such as handball (a walkover for the Argentines, you'd think - they can always be relied on to put a ball in the back of the net using their hands) and the unconfined hilarity of the Olympic Walk where everyone looks like Donald Duck were revealed.
Now it's all over, I feel like putting up hula-hoops in the form of olympic rings, in the hope they'll be tempted back, like some Greater Manchester version of a cargo cult, but reason tells me that the only thing to do is to sit it out until the para-Olympics.
Apart from anything else, it was brilliant to see everyone looking so cheerful all the time. Even - get this - Andy Murray. Come to think about it, we were all ,ore than a bit cheerful about that one. In his 28 Days Later thriller, Murray bit back. Wow.
There's been an awful lot said about the Olympics "inspiring a generation". All I was really inspired to do was to Velcro myself to the sofa for a fortnight, but I get the point. It was like a shop window for all sorts of sports that look soooo much fun. Anyone for Beach Volleyball?
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Olympic nuttiness
The fact that Gilderoy Lockhart was there looked forward neatly to Joanna Rowling herself, reading about Neverland from Peter Pan and to have fifty Mary Poppins and a gigantic Voldemort seamlessly woven in was star stuff.
I’ve never seen an Olympic opening with so much humour – with any humour, in fact – and to have so many human voices and little stories integrated in to the big story gave us all a way in to the story Danny Boyle was telling. Goodness knows what they thought in Beijing of Michael Fish, famously telling us that “A woman rang the BBC and said she’d heard there was a hurricane on the way...” but we all cracked up and as for Rowan Atkinson going off onto a dream of winning chariots of fire...
The star of the show had to be the Queen, though. The shock when she turned round at her desk and was revealed to be the absolute honest to goodness, hundred percent gold Queen and not (as we expected) Helen Mirren, was just one of those unforgettable moments. And, as the sequence progressed, wasn’t it great how it was obviously so much easier for the Queen to keep a straight face than Mr Bond himself? Winston Churchill clearly approved and you can’t say fairer than that.
Sunday, July 22, 2012
Frankie's Letter is on Amazon!
Here's the cover of the new book! It was up on Amazon on Friday and I think it looks really good. When I first thought about the title, a friend wondered if "Frankie's Letter" made it sound a bit too much like a saga. Hmm. It isn't a saga, of course, it's a First World War spy thriller, and I'd hate to give anyone the impression we're in Catherine Cookson land. The thing is, that the whole story is about Frankie's letter - what it is, where it is and, most importantly, who is Frankie. So the title stayed, because I liked it and it's directly related to the story. There's a line in the first chapter said by a bloke who's just about to pop his clogs. "Frankie's letter... Read Frankie's letter." I hope you do!
Saturday, July 14, 2012
Frankie's Letter
I got the proofs through for the new book, Frankie’s Letter, in the week. These are the printed proofs, which means I’ve got a really good idea of what the finished book will look like, which is, I have to admit, really exciting!
Frankie’s Letter is a bit of a new venture. It’s not a Jack story – don’t worry, he’ll be back! – but a First World Wat spy thriller, with a new hero, the rather fanciable Dr Anthony Brooke. Anthony studied in Berlin before the war and, in consequence, is an expert German speaker, a fact that makes him very useful indeed to the infant Secret Service.
I originally self-published Frankie’s Letter on Kindle, so I was absolutely delighted when Severn House bought it. I mean, I love my Kindle and read and buy lots of books on it, but there’s something about a real book with proper pages that can’t be replicated.
Although Frankie’s Letter is set only a few years before Jack’s finest hours, it’s interesting how those few years bring a whole different tone to the writing. It definitely has a pre-modern feel, in a way that the 1920’s books just don’t. It’s a very sort of Edwardian feel that has somehow come out on the page without me being very conscious of exactly where the differences are. Anyway, roll on September and you’ll be able to judge for yourself. I haven’t seen the cover yet. That’s the next good bit!
Frankie’s Letter is a bit of a new venture. It’s not a Jack story – don’t worry, he’ll be back! – but a First World Wat spy thriller, with a new hero, the rather fanciable Dr Anthony Brooke. Anthony studied in Berlin before the war and, in consequence, is an expert German speaker, a fact that makes him very useful indeed to the infant Secret Service.
I originally self-published Frankie’s Letter on Kindle, so I was absolutely delighted when Severn House bought it. I mean, I love my Kindle and read and buy lots of books on it, but there’s something about a real book with proper pages that can’t be replicated.
Although Frankie’s Letter is set only a few years before Jack’s finest hours, it’s interesting how those few years bring a whole different tone to the writing. It definitely has a pre-modern feel, in a way that the 1920’s books just don’t. It’s a very sort of Edwardian feel that has somehow come out on the page without me being very conscious of exactly where the differences are. Anyway, roll on September and you’ll be able to judge for yourself. I haven’t seen the cover yet. That’s the next good bit!
Friday, June 29, 2012
E Books
Breaking news, everyone! I'm delighted to say that the first three Jack books will shortly be available as e-books from Severn House. They're part of the Severn Select list and will be listed on Amazon soon.
By the way, have a look at http://www.hogwartsprofessor.com/
as a follow up to the Harry Potter and Mystery Fiction podcast - I just like being mentioned in the same sentence as JK Rowling!
By the way, have a look at http://www.hogwartsprofessor.com/
as a follow up to the Harry Potter and Mystery Fiction podcast - I just like being mentioned in the same sentence as JK Rowling!
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Harry Potter, Agatha Christie...and me
Sometimes you just find yourself doing something completely different! I was absolutely delighted when I was asked to be the expert speaker (!) on a podcast broadcast by the massive Harry Potter fansite, Mugglenet, about the links between Harry and classic detective fiction, as exemplified by the works of Agatha Christie, Dorothy L Sayers and the like. It was co-hosted by two very big names in the Potter fan world, Keith Hawks, who runs Mugglenet and John Granger, who’s written a great series of books about the literary and philosophical influences in the Potter books. John (bless him!) is also that rare and discerning creature, a lover of Jack and his adventures. So, get your literary magnifying glasses out, pick up your deerstalker and magic wand and join us all for what turned out to be a fascinating literary discussion!I had a great time and the podcast comes over really well. Here it is
http://www.mugglenet.com/app/news/show/5795
and you can also listen on itunes. Go on to the “Podcast” section of itunes and put Harry Potter or Mugglenet Academia into the search bar.
Saturday, June 16, 2012
Supersize Viands
I watched a fascinating programme in the week about why we’ve all become fat. At his point, I’m tempted to say, along with Winnie The Poo, “How long does getting thin take?”
Apparently it’s all the fault of sugar and corn syrup not, as was once thought, fat. I mean, I don’t suppose fat makes you thin, but you know what I mean. According to The Prog, an American dietician visited Britain in the 1950’s, watched us all whaling into the fish and chips (there were black and white grainy pictures of happy Brits doing just that) drew back in fastidious horror and promptly went home and started a crusade against fat. Not that, as far as I could see, the fish and chip lovers were fat, but hey, why let the facts get in the way of a good theory? That prompted a whole range of low-fat foods which, of course, tasted naff. They tasted better, everyone worked out, if they were sweeter...
Mind you, reading the menus of days gone by, it’s astonishing that we’re not all built like greyhounds in comparison. Here’s the Victorians at breakfast in an excerpt from “The Servants’ Guide and Family Manual”.
“A fine damask tablecloth is laid over a baize or cloth cover; a plate. two small knives and two small forks are placed for each person, the serviette is folded mitre shape and stands on the plate, small glass cream-jugs and sugar basins for the use of two persons are placed the length of the table.”
In case you should get carried away and start whipping out the teapot, The Servants’ Guide and Family Manual carries a stern warning.
“Urn or teapot stands worked in beads or Berlin wool (I wonder what that was?) are bad style on a breakfast table.”
So no beading at breakfast. “The stands should be of silver, electro-plate or china”
Yes, but where’s the grub? We still haven’t got to the nub or crux of the matter, as The Servants’ Guide continues, “The sideboard is covered with a cloth, rows of knives, forks and tablespoons, one or two dozen(!) plates are placed upon it, also the cold viands...”
Thank heavens for that! Grub’s up, everyone.
The “Cold viands” are “tongue, ham, game-pies, potted meat and the like; the hot viands” (I’m going to try and bring the word “viands” into ordinary conversation and see if anyone has a clue what I’m on about) “should be placed on a side table.” The H.V.’s are: “eggs and bacon, dressed fish, kidneys, cutlets, boiled chicken, savoury omelettes and roast partridges. These things are served in silver dishes with hot water or a spirit lamp underneath.”
After a blow-out of that size, it’s quite a relief to see that lunch is described as, “an inconsequential meal” and as “a slight repast”. Still, there’s always dinner to look forward to...
Supersize viands, anyone?
Apparently it’s all the fault of sugar and corn syrup not, as was once thought, fat. I mean, I don’t suppose fat makes you thin, but you know what I mean. According to The Prog, an American dietician visited Britain in the 1950’s, watched us all whaling into the fish and chips (there were black and white grainy pictures of happy Brits doing just that) drew back in fastidious horror and promptly went home and started a crusade against fat. Not that, as far as I could see, the fish and chip lovers were fat, but hey, why let the facts get in the way of a good theory? That prompted a whole range of low-fat foods which, of course, tasted naff. They tasted better, everyone worked out, if they were sweeter...
Mind you, reading the menus of days gone by, it’s astonishing that we’re not all built like greyhounds in comparison. Here’s the Victorians at breakfast in an excerpt from “The Servants’ Guide and Family Manual”.
“A fine damask tablecloth is laid over a baize or cloth cover; a plate. two small knives and two small forks are placed for each person, the serviette is folded mitre shape and stands on the plate, small glass cream-jugs and sugar basins for the use of two persons are placed the length of the table.”
In case you should get carried away and start whipping out the teapot, The Servants’ Guide and Family Manual carries a stern warning.
“Urn or teapot stands worked in beads or Berlin wool (I wonder what that was?) are bad style on a breakfast table.”
So no beading at breakfast. “The stands should be of silver, electro-plate or china”
Yes, but where’s the grub? We still haven’t got to the nub or crux of the matter, as The Servants’ Guide continues, “The sideboard is covered with a cloth, rows of knives, forks and tablespoons, one or two dozen(!) plates are placed upon it, also the cold viands...”
Thank heavens for that! Grub’s up, everyone.
The “Cold viands” are “tongue, ham, game-pies, potted meat and the like; the hot viands” (I’m going to try and bring the word “viands” into ordinary conversation and see if anyone has a clue what I’m on about) “should be placed on a side table.” The H.V.’s are: “eggs and bacon, dressed fish, kidneys, cutlets, boiled chicken, savoury omelettes and roast partridges. These things are served in silver dishes with hot water or a spirit lamp underneath.”
After a blow-out of that size, it’s quite a relief to see that lunch is described as, “an inconsequential meal” and as “a slight repast”. Still, there’s always dinner to look forward to...
Supersize viands, anyone?
Saturday, June 9, 2012
Jolly Jubilee
So where were you for the Jubilee, then? If you made it to London, congratulations. The cameras lingered so lovingly over so many wet people at the water pageant, it was difficult at times to see who was on the river and who was in it. I think my favourite moment of all was when the choir passed by on the final boat, all singing their hearts out lustily. I’ve never seen any group look so drenched.
All in all, I was quite glad to be home and watching it on the telly, but it did mean enduring the BBC’s mind-numbing commentary where the biggest collection of Z list celebrities in the world fell over themselves to tell us a) it was raining b) it was the Jubilee. Errr... we’d sort of gathered that.
The concert was, as all these things are, odd, none odder perhaps than Grace Jones hula-hooping through her song (don’t ask me what she sang: I was waiting for the hoop to drop.) All came good though, with Rolf Harris leading the crowd in most of Two Little Boys and whoever thought of having Madness on the roof was inspired.
I don’t know how the commentary on this Jubilee matched up with the previous one, because we were there ten years ago, and it still ranks as one of my happiest memories. London became a big party town. Cars and buses were banned from the centre and pedestrians rambled happily everywhere. Perhaps the abiding memory is of being part of the gigantic crowd in the Mall. We made it up to Queen Victoria’s statue where big screens helpfully had the words of songs such as Rule Britannia and Land of Hope and Glory displayed. The crowd were amazing. No pushing or shoving, just thousands and thousands of happy people all there to cheer and wave. Wonderful.
All in all, I was quite glad to be home and watching it on the telly, but it did mean enduring the BBC’s mind-numbing commentary where the biggest collection of Z list celebrities in the world fell over themselves to tell us a) it was raining b) it was the Jubilee. Errr... we’d sort of gathered that.
The concert was, as all these things are, odd, none odder perhaps than Grace Jones hula-hooping through her song (don’t ask me what she sang: I was waiting for the hoop to drop.) All came good though, with Rolf Harris leading the crowd in most of Two Little Boys and whoever thought of having Madness on the roof was inspired.
I don’t know how the commentary on this Jubilee matched up with the previous one, because we were there ten years ago, and it still ranks as one of my happiest memories. London became a big party town. Cars and buses were banned from the centre and pedestrians rambled happily everywhere. Perhaps the abiding memory is of being part of the gigantic crowd in the Mall. We made it up to Queen Victoria’s statue where big screens helpfully had the words of songs such as Rule Britannia and Land of Hope and Glory displayed. The crowd were amazing. No pushing or shoving, just thousands and thousands of happy people all there to cheer and wave. Wonderful.
Sunday, June 3, 2012
Crimefest
Here’s a merry crew at Crimefest. Reading from left to right, there’s Kate Ellis, John Curran, Yours Truly and Jane Finnis, brilliant writers one and all. We, in keeping with the occasion were shouting out names of poisons instead of the customary “Cheese”. I think this is the cyanide photo, so to speak.
I was on a panel with both John and Kate. I thought it had gone well but, I must admit, I had no idea of how well until I was nabbed in the hallway by a small Korean lady. When I say small, I mean really small. At four foot something, she came up to about chest height, grabbed my elbow, which was about as far as she could reach, and fastened me with the sort of glare the Ancient Mariner was wont to bestow on his interlocutors.
“You amazing!” she barked, fixing me with a steely glare. “You extraordinary!”
Well, you know, it’s always nice when someone gets to the heart of the matter like that: it showed, I thought, remarkable perception, but people don’t usually get it straight off the bat. I was amazed at her perspicacity.
Fortunately, Rebecca Jenkins was with me. It’s useful to have a witness in cases like this to attest to the unsullied truth of the tale. Becca’s face showed nothing but smiling agreement, although I could’ve sworn I heard a cracking sound as one of her ribs went with suppressed laughter. Becca, who is of average height, bowed slightly, smiling as I say. The Korean lady stepped back and bowed in return. It was so obviously expected good manners, I bowed as well, the Korean lady bowed, Becca bowed back, etc, etc, so the rest of the conversation, if you can call it that, had the three of us beaming and bobbing at each other like mechanical toys.
The Korean lady broke off and hurled herself at me again. “You write magnificent!” she declaimed. “You have great gift! You write extraordinary!”
Well, this was even better. “Have you read any of my books?” I asked hopefully.
The Korean lady looked mildly affronted. “No! I not read.”
Ah well, you can’t have everything.
“You write! You have extraordinary eyes! I see soul in your eyes! You write with soul.”
There was quite a lot more about my soul, with which she seemed to have more than a passing acquaintance (it was “great” and “extraordinary” – there’s that word again) and, summing up, a totally bonza soul and just like mother makes. Oh, and it’s in my eyes. That point was more than adequately covered.
“Do you,” I asked, hoping to steer the talk away from my soul, “write?”
“I write masterpiece!”
There’s nothing like self belief, is there? We heard quite a bit more about the masterpiece before, with a final compliment about my extraordinary eyes and soul, she hurtled off as if she was worried about being caught discussing souls in public.
“Well,” said Becca, which seemed to sum the whole thing up.
She then, as we wended our way to the dinner, said the whole thing reminded her of when, as the Archbishop’s secretary, she opened the door to a rigid-looking man on the doorstep.
“Hello!” he said. “I am from Liverpool. I am God.”
“Oh dear,” said Rebecca, a little lost for words. “How very complicated for you.”
That sort of incident seemed to sum up Crimefest. Weird, wacky, lots of good friends, some brilliant conversations (not all about my soul, thank goodness) and a host of new memories to bring back.
It was terrific to listen to the great Frederick Forsyth, prince of thriller writers, recount his early life and a genuine privilege to hear PD James who, at 92, is still as sharp and articulate as ever. Great to finally put some faces to names, such as Carol Giles and so pleasant catching up with John Curran, Lesley Horton, Len (L.C.) Tyler, Sally Spedding, Jennifer Palmer, Kate Ellis (who betrayed her Manchester origins by wondering if she needed a cardi to go outside in eighty-degree heat) and old mates such as Jane Finnis. Add to that Edwin Buckhalter, Severn House publisher and all-round nice bloke, a cracking hotel and an excellent programme, Crimefest was a blast.
Here’s a merry crew at Crimefest. Reading from left to right, there’s Kate Ellis, John Curran, Yours Truly and Jane Finnis, brilliant writers one and all. We, in keeping with the occasion were shouting out names of poisons instead of the customary “Cheese”. I think this is the cyanide photo, so to speak.
I was on a panel with both John and Kate. I thought it had gone well but, I must admit, I had no idea of how well until I was nabbed in the hallway by a small Korean lady. When I say small, I mean really small. At four foot something, she came up to about chest height, grabbed my elbow, which was about as far as she could reach, and fastened me with the sort of glare the Ancient Mariner was wont to bestow on his interlocutors.
“You amazing!” she barked, fixing me with a steely glare. “You extraordinary!”
Well, you know, it’s always nice when someone gets to the heart of the matter like that: it showed, I thought, remarkable perception, but people don’t usually get it straight off the bat. I was amazed at her perspicacity.
Fortunately, Rebecca Jenkins was with me. It’s useful to have a witness in cases like this to attest to the unsullied truth of the tale. Becca’s face showed nothing but smiling agreement, although I could’ve sworn I heard a cracking sound as one of her ribs went with suppressed laughter. Becca, who is of average height, bowed slightly, smiling as I say. The Korean lady stepped back and bowed in return. It was so obviously expected good manners, I bowed as well, the Korean lady bowed, Becca bowed back, etc, etc, so the rest of the conversation, if you can call it that, had the three of us beaming and bobbing at each other like mechanical toys.
The Korean lady broke off and hurled herself at me again. “You write magnificent!” she declaimed. “You have great gift! You write extraordinary!”
Well, this was even better. “Have you read any of my books?” I asked hopefully.
The Korean lady looked mildly affronted. “No! I not read.”
Ah well, you can’t have everything.
“You write! You have extraordinary eyes! I see soul in your eyes! You write with soul.”
There was quite a lot more about my soul, with which she seemed to have more than a passing acquaintance (it was “great” and “extraordinary” – there’s that word again) and, summing up, a totally bonza soul and just like mother makes. Oh, and it’s in my eyes. That point was more than adequately covered.
“Do you,” I asked, hoping to steer the talk away from my soul, “write?”
“I write masterpiece!”
There’s nothing like self belief, is there? We heard quite a bit more about the masterpiece before, with a final compliment about my extraordinary eyes and soul, she hurtled off as if she was worried about being caught discussing souls in public.
“Well,” said Becca, which seemed to sum the whole thing up.
She then, as we wended our way to the dinner, said the whole thing reminded her of when, as the Archbishop’s secretary, she opened the door to a rigid-looking man on the doorstep.
“Hello!” he said. “I am from Liverpool. I am God.”
“Oh dear,” said Rebecca, a little lost for words. “How very complicated for you.”
That sort of incident seemed to sum up Crimefest. Weird, wacky, lots of good friends, some brilliant conversations (not all about my soul, thank goodness) and a host of new memories to bring back.
It was terrific to listen to the great Frederick Forsyth, prince of thriller writers, recount his early life and a genuine privilege to hear PD James who, at 92, is still as sharp and articulate as ever. Great to finally put some faces to names, such as Carol Giles and so pleasant catching up with John Curran, Lesley Horton, Len (L.C.) Tyler, Sally Spedding, Jennifer Palmer, Kate Ellis (who betrayed her Manchester origins by wondering if she needed a cardi to go outside in eighty-degree heat) and old mates such as Jane Finnis. Add to that Edwin Buckhalter, Severn House publisher and all-round nice bloke, a cracking hotel and an excellent programme, Crimefest was a blast.
Sunday, May 20, 2012
Crimefest
It’s nearly time for Crimefest, three and a half days of brilliant wit, pithy comment, intelligent chat and fairly exhausting fun in Bristol with a veritable galaxy of mystery writers, including Frederick Forsyth, PD James and – bringing up the rear by some considerable distance – Yours Truly.
If you’re going to Crimefest, please come over and say hello. The more the merrier and all that. See you there!
Saturday, May 12, 2012
Paris, SATS and Sweeny Todd
Guess where I’ve been!
While I’ve been away, soaking up the delights of La Belle France, Jane Finnis did sterling stuff, hosting a blog post I wrote about some of the research involved in Trouble Brewing. You can find it on
http://www.janefinnis.com/
Make yourself a cup of coffee, pop on over, read, relax, enjoy and leave a comment.
The other thing I’ve been up to volunteering in a primary school where, naturally enough, I was particularly interested in an exercise the kids (aged 10 to 11) did for literacy. The idea was that they all made magic potions and then – it was an invisibility potion – wrote a letter to their Professor who was trapped inside the Chamber of Horrors being threatened by a troll, urging him to make up the potion. The kids had to provide the recipe and encourage the stranded prof. to swig it back and effect an escape.
If you think this exercise draws on the work of a well known author, you’re probably right. I know JK Rowling has a hat full of money already, but I did think it was a bit off that a whole teaching scheme should be based around the Hogwarts Saga without mentioning her by name or slipping her a couple of quid. I kept this reflection to myself, however.
The trouble is with this sort of scheme though, is that it’s designed to fit in with the Key Stage 2 Standard Attainment Tests (SATS) which stand, like a fiery sword, at the end of primary school. The SATS require kids to use long words (referred to as “Wow” words) rather than short ones, use persuasive language with, for choice, rhetorical questions, throw adjectives around like birdseed and generally dress the whole thing up. Therefore the ideal first sentence to the putative and hapless prof. should run something like:
Do you require assistance (wow word) in evading (wow word) the massive (wow word) more adjectives troll? I urge you to consider this potion.
Then follow directions for making up the potion, with Eyes of Newt etc and, oddly enough, Unicorn’s blood.. But the kids were encouraged not to simply list them, but to (again) lard it with adjectives:
Drop the unicorn’s blood carefully into the glazed earthenware jug containing the Eyes of Newt etc
Okay, it’s a school exercise, but it assumes the kids are familiar with Mr Potter’s trials, and Unicorn’s blood is the substance Voldermort drinks to bring himself back to a horrific half life. Who is this professor…? Wouldn’t we be better off letting the troll have his snack?
The other thing is, that the insistence on writing at length is simply inappropriate if you buy into the scenario. This is meant to be urgent, yes? I’m all for kids extending and using their vocabulary but there’s a time and a place and trapped in a Chamber of Horrors with a troll is no time to be mithering about finding the mot juste. It occurred to me at the time and it would’ve occurred to me when I was eleven.
However, as before, I kept this reflection to myself.
There’s a wonderful passage in ES Turner’s wonderful book on comics and penny dreadfuls, Boys Will Be Boys where he quotes from Thomas Peckett Prest’s 1840 serial. Prest’s serial had the restrained title of The String of Pearls but it’s actually the incredibly full blooded tale of Sweeny Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street.
Sweeny Todd has imprisoned a humble pie-maker in the underground bakery. The pieman has to turn the mounds of meat that mysteriously arrive into pies.
I’ll let ES Turner take up the tale.
“The pieman began to search the far end of the vault. Lightly pencilled on the wall was this disturbing message.
Whatever unhappy wretch reads these lines may bid adieu to the world and all hope, for he is a doomed man! He will never emerge from these vaults with life, for there is a secret connected with them so awful and so hideous that to write it makes one’s blood curdle and the flesh to creep upon your bones. The secret is this – and you may be assured, whoever is reading these lines, that I write the truth, and that it is impossible to make the awful truth worse by exaggeration, as it would be by a candle at midday to attempt to add any lustre to the sunbeams.
Here, most unfortunately, the writing broke off.
If the unknown author had thought less of his literary style and more of his duty to society he might have been able to get his message across.”
The setters of SATS tests for primary schools should take notice!
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Writing Lessons From CS Lewis
Peter, the other half, was at a business dinner this week and – bless him! – took the opportunity to tell the people he was chatting to that I had a new book out. (Trouble Brewing – brilliant stuff!) Here's Minou, the cat, "helping" me sign some copies.
Now, what should have happened (this is the dream scenario, you understand) that everyone there should have whipped out their smart phones and ordered a copy. Yeah, right. What actually happened was that they all stood round and said how they couldn’t imagine how anyone actually made this stuff up and where did you start and how hard it must be and then moved on.
It’s interesting, isn’t it? I mean, how do you – and me, for that matter - make the stuff up? Almost anyone can come up with a few ideas, but putting it all together is another matter. Books on writing, funnily enough, don’t seem to be much help. I’ve read loads and they all stress the importance of character (tick) of setting (tick) getting a theme (half a tick) and then wander off into chapters entitled something like: Make it Come Alive! How to write believable dialogue!
Hang on a minute. This sort of stuff might help you wrote isolated scenes, but I can’t believe for a minute that anyone you’re not related to would ever want to actually read them. So where does the story come from?
If you’ve got an idea, what you want to know is how to translate that story into a coherent narrative. And the best way to learn how to do that is to put all the How-To books to one side (you can refer to them later) and pick up a book that you love and know well. Any book will do, but it has to be one you know. Then, with pen in hand, write down what actually happens.
Let’s take The Lion, The Witch And The Wardrobe for instance. CS Lewis recorded how he’d had the picture in his mind for ages of a Faun carrying an umbrella and parcels by a lamppost in a snowy wood. So how does that turn into a story?
Well, it’s clearly not the world as we know it, so it’s another world, but allied to ours. The lamppost tells us that. The faun isn’t the quite scary faun of Greek legend but, with his umbrella and parcels, rather an attractive, cosy figure. Or is he? Question one.
Fauns should be in Greece, among hot sun and shady woodland. Something – the snow – has obviously gone wrong with the faun’s world. What? Question two.
Who’s seeing the faun? He has to interact with someone, and that someone is – it’s a children’s story - is Lucy, the child from our world. How did she get there? Question Three.
So from that one image, there’s some backstory. There’s questions to be answered, about the Faun’s motives, the world he lives in and where Lucy comes from.
As it’s a magical world. there’s clearly something magical wrong with it, which gives us the villian, the White (snow) Witch. A villian has to have a hero to defeat them. Who’s that? The kids, yes, but they could do with some magical help and that’s where Aslan comes bounding in.
Lewis was writing in 1949 and, with the war fresh in everyone’s mind, it’s only natural that the war should inform his imagination. Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy are evacuees from the London Blitz but the war is happening in Narnia, too.
Narnia is occupied territory under an oppressive regime, complete with a Secret Police, random killings and disappearances, and Peter, Susan and Lucy have to be wary who they can trust. When Edmund becomes a traitor, he’s seduced by sweets, a nod to how rationing sharpened everyone’s appetite for luxuries.
All these ingredients and many more, such as Lewis’s vivid Christian imagination, go into the story but, if you’re struggling with the idea of how to covert ideas into narrative, just – pen in hand – read the book, seeing how one idea leads to another. It’s a cracking lesson in how to write a story.
Now, what should have happened (this is the dream scenario, you understand) that everyone there should have whipped out their smart phones and ordered a copy. Yeah, right. What actually happened was that they all stood round and said how they couldn’t imagine how anyone actually made this stuff up and where did you start and how hard it must be and then moved on.
It’s interesting, isn’t it? I mean, how do you – and me, for that matter - make the stuff up? Almost anyone can come up with a few ideas, but putting it all together is another matter. Books on writing, funnily enough, don’t seem to be much help. I’ve read loads and they all stress the importance of character (tick) of setting (tick) getting a theme (half a tick) and then wander off into chapters entitled something like: Make it Come Alive! How to write believable dialogue!
Hang on a minute. This sort of stuff might help you wrote isolated scenes, but I can’t believe for a minute that anyone you’re not related to would ever want to actually read them. So where does the story come from?
If you’ve got an idea, what you want to know is how to translate that story into a coherent narrative. And the best way to learn how to do that is to put all the How-To books to one side (you can refer to them later) and pick up a book that you love and know well. Any book will do, but it has to be one you know. Then, with pen in hand, write down what actually happens.
Let’s take The Lion, The Witch And The Wardrobe for instance. CS Lewis recorded how he’d had the picture in his mind for ages of a Faun carrying an umbrella and parcels by a lamppost in a snowy wood. So how does that turn into a story?
Well, it’s clearly not the world as we know it, so it’s another world, but allied to ours. The lamppost tells us that. The faun isn’t the quite scary faun of Greek legend but, with his umbrella and parcels, rather an attractive, cosy figure. Or is he? Question one.
Fauns should be in Greece, among hot sun and shady woodland. Something – the snow – has obviously gone wrong with the faun’s world. What? Question two.
Who’s seeing the faun? He has to interact with someone, and that someone is – it’s a children’s story - is Lucy, the child from our world. How did she get there? Question Three.
So from that one image, there’s some backstory. There’s questions to be answered, about the Faun’s motives, the world he lives in and where Lucy comes from.
As it’s a magical world. there’s clearly something magical wrong with it, which gives us the villian, the White (snow) Witch. A villian has to have a hero to defeat them. Who’s that? The kids, yes, but they could do with some magical help and that’s where Aslan comes bounding in.
Lewis was writing in 1949 and, with the war fresh in everyone’s mind, it’s only natural that the war should inform his imagination. Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy are evacuees from the London Blitz but the war is happening in Narnia, too.
Narnia is occupied territory under an oppressive regime, complete with a Secret Police, random killings and disappearances, and Peter, Susan and Lucy have to be wary who they can trust. When Edmund becomes a traitor, he’s seduced by sweets, a nod to how rationing sharpened everyone’s appetite for luxuries.
All these ingredients and many more, such as Lewis’s vivid Christian imagination, go into the story but, if you’re struggling with the idea of how to covert ideas into narrative, just – pen in hand – read the book, seeing how one idea leads to another. It’s a cracking lesson in how to write a story.
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Trouble Brewing
There’s nothing here, he told himself. Not here. Not with the roar of the Tottenham Court Road traffic at his back. Not in the very heart of London. It couldn’t be here.With shrinking reluctance, he walked to the window and looked into the room. There was nothing in the room but the oddest moving black shadow in the middle of the floor. And then he realised there was no light to cast a shadow; and the pool of darkness was composed of innumerable, languid flies.
Sorry about the slightly gruesome beginning, but that’s one of the big moments from the new book, Trouble Brewing. I wanted to start the blurb with that passage but the publishers preferred the more matter of fact approach of saying what the set up was.
Mark Helston, the rising star of Hunt Coffee Limited, was successful and popular, with plenty of money and everything to live for. Yet at half past seven on the evening of the ninth of January 1925, he walked out of Albemarle Street flat and disappeared.
Desperate to know what happened to Mark, his uncle, old Mr Hunt, appeals to Jack Haldean. Inspector Bill Rackham of Scotland Yard thinks it’s a thankless task. Perhaps, says Jack, but why should Mark Helston vanish? And the Jack finds a body…
And the rest of the book is so much more mayhem and confusion, as you’d expect. As you’d also expect, Jack sorts it all out in the end, but only after being brilliant and incredibly brave, bless him.
The idea(s) for Trouble Brewing came from a few places. One, there’s my love of coffee. I love tea, too, as any Mancuinian worthy of the name does, but I do like my coffee and it grows in South America, which (to quote Noel Coward in Nina From Argentina) is exotic. I’d just read Peter Fleming’s Brazilian Adventure which is a terrific book and hugely recommended. Anther spur was a half-remembered throwaway line in a Sherlock Holmes story which says that some bloke or other walked out of his house and vanished. (My private theory about that one was that he got caught in a tractor beam from the Starship Enterprise on one of its frequent trips back in time, but that’s another story.) Another inspiration was the student hall I lived in years ago, on Gower Street in London. I absolutely loved the place and I had a definite twinge of guilt about putting a body there. Ho hum.
Anyway, if you heard a popping sound during the week, that was me taking the cork from a bottle of champagne. Trouble Brewing has arrived and, although I suppose I should have celebrated with coffee… well, there’s other drinks, aren’t there? It’s out in bookshops and on Amazon now and, if you fancy a signed copy, just pop onto the Book page of the website, click the Buy A Signed Copy button (this applies to US readers too) and I’ll leg it down to the Post Office for you.
Cheers!
Sunday, April 15, 2012
The Woman In Black
I celebrated Easter Monday by going to see The Woman In Black. Good grief, that’s as scared as I ever want to be in a cinema! The interesting thing is that’s there’s no gore, no revolting sights, just good old fashioned creaky chairs and the sense of Something behind every door.
Lucy, Elspeth and myself spent the entire film wrapped round each other trying not to go Eek! The director says it’s his attempt to revive the old Hammer Horror genre (of which I have very fond memories) but I can’t honestly remember Hammer Horrors ever as being as scary as this. The great thing is that there’s a lot of hoary old clichés in the film, such as the Old Deserted House in the marshes, a hero who will insist on investigating noises (instead of prudently ducking underneath the bed-covers) an unfinished story that needs completion – all of which could die the death because we’ve seen them so many times before. Believe you me, all the elements spring into vivid life and it all adds up to a really nerve-wracking film.
I do wonder, though, if it’s a bit too nerve-wracking. The wonderful old Dracula films with Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee touch a very soft spot with a lot of people my age and the conventions they set up (such as no matter how many times Van Helsing sees off Dracula, he’ll find a way of popping back) are oddly endearing. Terry Pratchett’s vampire, Otto, owes a lot to the daft conventions of the Dracula films. Otto is a photographer for the Ankh-Morpork Times and every time his flashgun goes off, he disintegrates into a pile of dust, to be revived as the little vial of blood he carries round his neck hits the ground and smashes.
I can’t think of laughing lightly at The Woman In Black. But it’s really good.
Lucy, Elspeth and myself spent the entire film wrapped round each other trying not to go Eek! The director says it’s his attempt to revive the old Hammer Horror genre (of which I have very fond memories) but I can’t honestly remember Hammer Horrors ever as being as scary as this. The great thing is that there’s a lot of hoary old clichés in the film, such as the Old Deserted House in the marshes, a hero who will insist on investigating noises (instead of prudently ducking underneath the bed-covers) an unfinished story that needs completion – all of which could die the death because we’ve seen them so many times before. Believe you me, all the elements spring into vivid life and it all adds up to a really nerve-wracking film.
I do wonder, though, if it’s a bit too nerve-wracking. The wonderful old Dracula films with Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee touch a very soft spot with a lot of people my age and the conventions they set up (such as no matter how many times Van Helsing sees off Dracula, he’ll find a way of popping back) are oddly endearing. Terry Pratchett’s vampire, Otto, owes a lot to the daft conventions of the Dracula films. Otto is a photographer for the Ankh-Morpork Times and every time his flashgun goes off, he disintegrates into a pile of dust, to be revived as the little vial of blood he carries round his neck hits the ground and smashes.
I can’t think of laughing lightly at The Woman In Black. But it’s really good.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Trouble Brewing
Happy Easter everyone! I hope, despite the pretty dodgy weather we’re having here in glamorous Manchester, that the Easter bunny called.
I had a nice surprise just before Easter, in the form of an email from the publisher, Severn House. The US Library Journal has picked seven Severn House books (if you see what I mean) out of the nine historical mysteries they’re recommending as hot summer reads. And (der, der) Trouble Brewing, Jack’s latest, is amongst them.
Wow.
Trouble Brewing is out at the end of this month in the UK and in August in the US, but if any American reader fancies a copy before then, you can order a copy from the “Books” section of the website.
What I really want to tell you is that it’s a brilliant book, dead clever with a knock-out plot and ace characters, one of whom is a real Bentley Boy, all fast cars and life-on-the-edge, madly glamorous and incredibly good looking, but that sounds a bit like blowing my own trumpet. Ah well.
Here’s the link to the Library Journal list for the nine books: Historical Mysteries.
And this is what they said about Trouble Brewing.
Gordon-Smith, Dolores. Trouble Brewing. Severn House. Aug. 2012. 256p. ISBN 9780727881694. $28.95.
Appropriate title: Mark Helston has made a success of himself at Hunt Coffee Limited. Then, in January 1925, he vanishes after leaving his Albemarle Street flat, and, Scotland Yard’s shoulder shrug be damned, his uncle asks series regular Jack Haldean to find him. Instead, Jack finds trouble—and we’re not talking competition from Starbucks.
I had a nice surprise just before Easter, in the form of an email from the publisher, Severn House. The US Library Journal has picked seven Severn House books (if you see what I mean) out of the nine historical mysteries they’re recommending as hot summer reads. And (der, der) Trouble Brewing, Jack’s latest, is amongst them.
Wow.
Trouble Brewing is out at the end of this month in the UK and in August in the US, but if any American reader fancies a copy before then, you can order a copy from the “Books” section of the website.
What I really want to tell you is that it’s a brilliant book, dead clever with a knock-out plot and ace characters, one of whom is a real Bentley Boy, all fast cars and life-on-the-edge, madly glamorous and incredibly good looking, but that sounds a bit like blowing my own trumpet. Ah well.
Here’s the link to the Library Journal list for the nine books: Historical Mysteries.
And this is what they said about Trouble Brewing.
Gordon-Smith, Dolores. Trouble Brewing. Severn House. Aug. 2012. 256p. ISBN 9780727881694. $28.95.
Appropriate title: Mark Helston has made a success of himself at Hunt Coffee Limited. Then, in January 1925, he vanishes after leaving his Albemarle Street flat, and, Scotland Yard’s shoulder shrug be damned, his uncle asks series regular Jack Haldean to find him. Instead, Jack finds trouble—and we’re not talking competition from Starbucks.
Sunday, April 1, 2012
Fairly Odd Measurements
Lucy has arrived home for the Easter holidays from Leeds Uni, bringing with her, amongst other things, such as a suitcase full of laundry, Rang and Dale’s Pharmacology (Sixth edition) a weighty tome full of must-have information for the earnest enquirer into vancomycin, endocannanonoids, presynaptic modulation and other words I have to have prior warning of before I attempt to pronounce them. (When I say it’s a weighty tome, I’m not joking; it turns the scales at just shy of five and a half pounds) It’s the last place you’d think of looking for comic relief.
However, the section on General Principles of Bioassay occurs a note on standard measurements. Quoting J.H. Burn writing in 1950, Rang and Dale say:
Pharmacologists today strain at the king’s arm but swallow the frog, rat and mouse, not to mention the guinea pig and pigeon. Burn was referring to the fact that the king’s arm had been abandoned as a standard measurement of length, whereas drug activity continues to be defined in the dose needed to cause vomiting in a pigeon or cardiac arrest in a mouse.
Leaving to one side the picture of a laboratory stocked by hurling pigeons and expiring mice, Rang and Dale then weigh in with a footnote worthy of Terry Pratchett.
More picturesque examples of absolute units that Burn would have frowned on are the PHI and the mHelen. PHI stands for “Purity In Heart” index and measures the ability of a virgin pure-in-heart to transform, under appropriate conditions, a he-goat into a youth of surpassing beauty. The mHelen is a unit of beauty, one mHelen being sufficient to launch one ship.
However, it was the Elizabethan playwright, Christopher Marlowe, who said Helen had a “face that launched a thousand ships,” whereas, according to Homer, the Trojan fleet consisted of 1,186 ships. That means Helen herself measures 1.186 mHelens of Beauty. Shakespeare had a crack at a beauty index but, in a defeatist sort of way, immediately gave up the task as hopeless. (“Shall I compare thee to a Summer’s Day? Thou art more lovely…” etc.) Which means what could be called the S.D. index never took hold.
Clive James, when considering the work of the futurologist, Herman Khan (ie, Kahn told us what was going to happen in the future) proposed that Herman Khan’s favourite measurement of time, an auto-extruding temporal unit (As in, “This is gonna happen fivetenfifteentweenytwennyfive years from now”) should be called a Hermie, a measure that ensured by the time it was fivetenfifteentweenytwennyfive years from now we’d have all forgotten what Hermie had said so Hermie could carry on predicting without anyone harshly pointing out that Hermie Got It Wrong.
This is a game anyone can play. I’ve got two standards of measurements of my own. One’s the W.I. (not the Women’s Institute) but the Wodehouse Index where, granted that PG Wodehouse’s books are infinitely re-readable, a book can be assessed on the W.I. scale.
Harry Potter is 10 on the W.I., as is Agatha Christie. I was chuffed to bits when a critic for The Historical Novel Review gave Off The Record 1 on the W.I. by stating, in cold blood in print, that she’d enjoyed the book so much she’d re-read it. The Hunger Games, which I’ve just finished, is a roller-coaster read but scores zero on the W.I. Now I’ve got to the point where Katniss is living in a sort of peace, I don’t want to do the journey with her again. Much too exhausting.
The other Standard Measurement I’ve got was evolved with the kids on the school run, as A Diversion, as Legolas memorably says in Lord Of The Rings. (That’s about 6 W.I.’s, incidentally). It’s the K.O.C., or Kittens Of Cuteness Index, one kitten = one measure of cuteness. For instance, a wriggly King Charles’ Spaniel puppy winding its lead round its owner’s leg is 3 K.O.C.’s, whereas a little girl in a sticky-out raincoat, carrying an umbrella and sloshing through puddles is 10 K.O.C.’s. Aw.
However, the section on General Principles of Bioassay occurs a note on standard measurements. Quoting J.H. Burn writing in 1950, Rang and Dale say:
Pharmacologists today strain at the king’s arm but swallow the frog, rat and mouse, not to mention the guinea pig and pigeon. Burn was referring to the fact that the king’s arm had been abandoned as a standard measurement of length, whereas drug activity continues to be defined in the dose needed to cause vomiting in a pigeon or cardiac arrest in a mouse.
Leaving to one side the picture of a laboratory stocked by hurling pigeons and expiring mice, Rang and Dale then weigh in with a footnote worthy of Terry Pratchett.
More picturesque examples of absolute units that Burn would have frowned on are the PHI and the mHelen. PHI stands for “Purity In Heart” index and measures the ability of a virgin pure-in-heart to transform, under appropriate conditions, a he-goat into a youth of surpassing beauty. The mHelen is a unit of beauty, one mHelen being sufficient to launch one ship.
However, it was the Elizabethan playwright, Christopher Marlowe, who said Helen had a “face that launched a thousand ships,” whereas, according to Homer, the Trojan fleet consisted of 1,186 ships. That means Helen herself measures 1.186 mHelens of Beauty. Shakespeare had a crack at a beauty index but, in a defeatist sort of way, immediately gave up the task as hopeless. (“Shall I compare thee to a Summer’s Day? Thou art more lovely…” etc.) Which means what could be called the S.D. index never took hold.
Clive James, when considering the work of the futurologist, Herman Khan (ie, Kahn told us what was going to happen in the future) proposed that Herman Khan’s favourite measurement of time, an auto-extruding temporal unit (As in, “This is gonna happen fivetenfifteentweenytwennyfive years from now”) should be called a Hermie, a measure that ensured by the time it was fivetenfifteentweenytwennyfive years from now we’d have all forgotten what Hermie had said so Hermie could carry on predicting without anyone harshly pointing out that Hermie Got It Wrong.
This is a game anyone can play. I’ve got two standards of measurements of my own. One’s the W.I. (not the Women’s Institute) but the Wodehouse Index where, granted that PG Wodehouse’s books are infinitely re-readable, a book can be assessed on the W.I. scale.
Harry Potter is 10 on the W.I., as is Agatha Christie. I was chuffed to bits when a critic for The Historical Novel Review gave Off The Record 1 on the W.I. by stating, in cold blood in print, that she’d enjoyed the book so much she’d re-read it. The Hunger Games, which I’ve just finished, is a roller-coaster read but scores zero on the W.I. Now I’ve got to the point where Katniss is living in a sort of peace, I don’t want to do the journey with her again. Much too exhausting.
The other Standard Measurement I’ve got was evolved with the kids on the school run, as A Diversion, as Legolas memorably says in Lord Of The Rings. (That’s about 6 W.I.’s, incidentally). It’s the K.O.C., or Kittens Of Cuteness Index, one kitten = one measure of cuteness. For instance, a wriggly King Charles’ Spaniel puppy winding its lead round its owner’s leg is 3 K.O.C.’s, whereas a little girl in a sticky-out raincoat, carrying an umbrella and sloshing through puddles is 10 K.O.C.’s. Aw.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Where do you get your ideas from?
Where a writer gets their ideas from is the question that’s always asked at literary gatherings. It’s interesting, isn’t it? Most people – including me – can, if asked, write a description of a place or person or recount an event but making something up from a standing start – well, that’s a bit more daunting.
The main tool in the creative box is the question, Why? with the sub questions of How? and Who? For instance, my sister, a primary school teacher wanted three short stories (very short – about 500 words) to use in class as examples of creative writing. She had the first sentence of the story, which stated there was a statue in a park. And that was it.
Okay… So Who is the statue of and Why was it there? As you can see, it gives a lot of scope. It could be a statue of a famous footballer, a local hero, a knight on horseback, Peter Pan, or even a dog or a cat. Once you’ve figured out Who the statue’s of, that gives you somewhere to go next. For instance, if it’s a dog, what did the dog do? It is a magic dog, that starred in a local folktale or did the dog rescue someone from drowning or give the alarm of fire by barking? If it’s a footballer, what did he do to merit a statue? Win the world cup? Start a football team? Lead a party of soldiers into the attack by kicking a football in front of him? (This happened in the First World War, you know!) And what if the statue comes to life…?
I’m thinking along these lines because I’ve been throwing ideas around for a new book this week. It’s very, very early stages and what always bugs me is how artificial it all seems. I mean, X bumps off Y and Z notices something and then… But then a little bit of magic happens. Get a proper sequence of events and suddenly X, Y, Z and all their alphabetical pals start to live in an actual place and have actual characters. Mind you, it’s a fairly energetic process. I’ve cleaned the fish tank, cleaned the windows, strummed for hours on the guitar, mopped the floor etcetera, etcetera. Agatha Christie used to wash up. And if it worked for her… You might not get a Miss Marple but at least you’ll have clean plates!
The main tool in the creative box is the question, Why? with the sub questions of How? and Who? For instance, my sister, a primary school teacher wanted three short stories (very short – about 500 words) to use in class as examples of creative writing. She had the first sentence of the story, which stated there was a statue in a park. And that was it.
Okay… So Who is the statue of and Why was it there? As you can see, it gives a lot of scope. It could be a statue of a famous footballer, a local hero, a knight on horseback, Peter Pan, or even a dog or a cat. Once you’ve figured out Who the statue’s of, that gives you somewhere to go next. For instance, if it’s a dog, what did the dog do? It is a magic dog, that starred in a local folktale or did the dog rescue someone from drowning or give the alarm of fire by barking? If it’s a footballer, what did he do to merit a statue? Win the world cup? Start a football team? Lead a party of soldiers into the attack by kicking a football in front of him? (This happened in the First World War, you know!) And what if the statue comes to life…?
I’m thinking along these lines because I’ve been throwing ideas around for a new book this week. It’s very, very early stages and what always bugs me is how artificial it all seems. I mean, X bumps off Y and Z notices something and then… But then a little bit of magic happens. Get a proper sequence of events and suddenly X, Y, Z and all their alphabetical pals start to live in an actual place and have actual characters. Mind you, it’s a fairly energetic process. I’ve cleaned the fish tank, cleaned the windows, strummed for hours on the guitar, mopped the floor etcetera, etcetera. Agatha Christie used to wash up. And if it worked for her… You might not get a Miss Marple but at least you’ll have clean plates!
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Signed Books For Sale!
One of the nice things about having a book published is having a party to go with it. Here's a picture of the last party.
....And they were just the people who couldn't get in.
Those who could get in were a little more select:
And, of course, it's nice to be able to sign books for friends
This is me and my sister raring to go.
Now if you'd like a signed book but couldn't get to the party, don't despair!If you tootle over to the Books part of the website and click on the Books tab, this will – no surprises here- bring you too the page which tells you how to buy a book. What is new is that I’m now selling signed copies. I’ve set it up so that postage and packing is included (I don't like faffing about, adding up postage when I order something) both for America and for Britain, and if you’d like a special message written inside – perhaps “Happy Birthday!” or “This is the best book I’ve ever read!” there’s a space for that too.
....And they were just the people who couldn't get in.
Those who could get in were a little more select:
And, of course, it's nice to be able to sign books for friends
This is me and my sister raring to go.
Now if you'd like a signed book but couldn't get to the party, don't despair!If you tootle over to the Books part of the website and click on the Books tab, this will – no surprises here- bring you too the page which tells you how to buy a book. What is new is that I’m now selling signed copies. I’ve set it up so that postage and packing is included (I don't like faffing about, adding up postage when I order something) both for America and for Britain, and if you’d like a special message written inside – perhaps “Happy Birthday!” or “This is the best book I’ve ever read!” there’s a space for that too.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Souper Saturday or Soup for Fifty-Odd
And yes, the title is a groan-worthy pun. As the more liturgically inclined may have noticed, it’s Lent. That’s God’s way of making you give up chocolate so you can really enjoy your Easter eggs come the 8th of April. Anyway, in a foolish – not to say feckless way – I ignored the standard advice to Never Volunteer – and rang our local church after an item in the weekly newsletter.
“Have you,” asked the newsletter hopefully, “any idea of how we can celebrate Lent as a parish together?”
“Why don’t we,” I said brightly, “have a shared lunch? Everyone can bring something and we can all get together in the parish hall. We can have a presentation about whatever charity it is we’re supporting, take donations and have a raffle.” (It’s a Catholic do; there’s always a raffle and the prizes, Lent or no Lent, are usually whisky, wine and chocolate. As, indeed, they were.)
“Leave it with me,” said the prelate. “I’ll get back to you.”
Now quite how a bring-your-own lunch metamorphosed into me making soup for fifty-odd people occurred, I’m not sure, but it did.
The actual soup I made the day before, but come Saturday, there were, thank the powers that be, a highly competent group of willing helpers to dish it out and clear away. We raised a healthy sum for charity and everyone enjoyed themselves.
Anyway, if you do fancy making soup in these industrial quantities (and you never know when the mood will strike you) here’s the recipe for (der, der!)
Lentil and vegetable soup.
This makes six pints or fourteen portions. Therefore 12 pints equals twenty eight portions and so on and so forth, but six pints is a reasonable amount to make in one go.
Ten ounces of lentils.
Six carrots
Two parsnips
Some swede or turnip
Two onions
Four small potatoes
Two cans of tomatoes
Two stock cubes
A clove of garlic or a dollop of minced garlic
Three pints of boiling water.
Soak the lentils for twenty minutes or longer.
While they’re soaking, peel and chop the veg.
Fry up the onions (I used a wok for this part) then add the rest of the veg.
Then put the veg into a large saucepan together with the tomatoes, the garlic, the stock cubes and the boiling water.
Cook for twenty minutes.
If you put a lid on the pan, it will cook away happily on a low heat.
Add the soaked lentils and cook for another twenty minutes.
Test for seasoning and add salt and pepper to taste.
Then whiz it up with a hand-held blender.
To serve it up, you can add a drizzle of cream.
Incidentally, the pan and the soup will be slightly hotter than the surface of Mercury by the time you’ve finished, so it’s worth while transferring the soup to another pan before you whiz it with the blender. Otherwise, your blender will probably become warped by contact with the very hot bottom of the pan. I know; I’ve now got an excellent but very oddly shaped blender!
“Have you,” asked the newsletter hopefully, “any idea of how we can celebrate Lent as a parish together?”
“Why don’t we,” I said brightly, “have a shared lunch? Everyone can bring something and we can all get together in the parish hall. We can have a presentation about whatever charity it is we’re supporting, take donations and have a raffle.” (It’s a Catholic do; there’s always a raffle and the prizes, Lent or no Lent, are usually whisky, wine and chocolate. As, indeed, they were.)
“Leave it with me,” said the prelate. “I’ll get back to you.”
Now quite how a bring-your-own lunch metamorphosed into me making soup for fifty-odd people occurred, I’m not sure, but it did.
The actual soup I made the day before, but come Saturday, there were, thank the powers that be, a highly competent group of willing helpers to dish it out and clear away. We raised a healthy sum for charity and everyone enjoyed themselves.
Anyway, if you do fancy making soup in these industrial quantities (and you never know when the mood will strike you) here’s the recipe for (der, der!)
Lentil and vegetable soup.
This makes six pints or fourteen portions. Therefore 12 pints equals twenty eight portions and so on and so forth, but six pints is a reasonable amount to make in one go.
Ten ounces of lentils.
Six carrots
Two parsnips
Some swede or turnip
Two onions
Four small potatoes
Two cans of tomatoes
Two stock cubes
A clove of garlic or a dollop of minced garlic
Three pints of boiling water.
Soak the lentils for twenty minutes or longer.
While they’re soaking, peel and chop the veg.
Fry up the onions (I used a wok for this part) then add the rest of the veg.
Then put the veg into a large saucepan together with the tomatoes, the garlic, the stock cubes and the boiling water.
Cook for twenty minutes.
If you put a lid on the pan, it will cook away happily on a low heat.
Add the soaked lentils and cook for another twenty minutes.
Test for seasoning and add salt and pepper to taste.
Then whiz it up with a hand-held blender.
To serve it up, you can add a drizzle of cream.
Incidentally, the pan and the soup will be slightly hotter than the surface of Mercury by the time you’ve finished, so it’s worth while transferring the soup to another pan before you whiz it with the blender. Otherwise, your blender will probably become warped by contact with the very hot bottom of the pan. I know; I’ve now got an excellent but very oddly shaped blender!
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Finding Your Inner Welshman
The lst of March: Spring is (fingers crossed) just around the corner, I no longer wake up in the pitch dark and, as the day progresses, peer into the gloomy murk which is the North of England in Winter.
It’s amazing what a bit more daylight can do. If I was an ancient Druid or something, I think I’d be moved to nip down to Stonehenge and start chanting at the sun or sacrifice something. It probably wouldn’t cause too much comment in Wiltshire but I’d be looked on as distinctly odd if I started erecting stone tables, wearing long white robes and greeting the dawn with public prayer in Greater Manchester. (I mean, people would look; and comment.)
What I don’t do in the garden: not recently, anyway.
But, in this censorious age, I have to fall back on the more industrial and domestic Signs of Spring.
I’ve been told at least three times by people who come under the category of I-know-them-to speak-to-but-I-don’t-know-their-name-if-you-know-what-I-mean (in the bank, by the bloke behind the ticket desk in the railway station and the pet-shop owner) that it’s getting lighter in the evenings. It is, we tell each other in awe-struck tones, still daylight at five o’clock. I’m thinking about painting the fence. I’m told to Chill and Stop Stressing when I adjure the offspring in a voice of motherly concern to Wrap Up, It’s Bit Parky Outside. (Mind you, I did think it was a bit early for shorts, even when teamed with the tights and the Ugg boots thought suitable for college wear) and, in the more traditional signs of Spring, the birds in the garden are kicking up a dickens of a fuss about random bits of twigs and the snowdrops are venturing forth.
Do you know that terrific medieval song, Summer is y-comen in? Although it says Summer, the songster is obviously talking about Spring. It obviously is a song and not a poem and I can imagine it being bellowed out cheerfully by peasants and Aged Crones in Ye Saracen’s Eyeball, or DunCrusadin, quaffing ale or mead or whatever the equivalent was of half of Carlsberg or a gin and tonic with ice and lemon and a little umbrella. (Quaffing, as I’ve heard it said, is like drinking, only you spill more.) There aren’t many songs about flatulence, not that are printed in anthologies of poetry, anyway, so it’s worth noting for that alone.
Excuse the medieval accent: Summer is y-comen in, Loude sing, cuckoo! Bullock starteth, bucke fartheth, Merry sing, cuckoo!
Anyway, the 1st of March. I hope everyone dined exclusively on leeks to celebrate St David, the patron saint of Wales, and his Day. Despite beating us at Rugby (which caused some major distress and heart-searchings in the Gordon-Smith household) the Welsh are OK.
An Irish friend of mine refers to the Welsh as The Irish Who Can’t Swim but there are some pretty good reasons for staying in Wales, such as mouth-watering scenery and some of the daftest road-signs in Britain, which adds humour to your journey. St Davids itself, the smallest city in the UK (a city needn’t be glittering sky-scrapers or urban deprivation but merely a town with a cathedral) is a lovely place. So, altogether now; plunge deep within to find your Inner Welshman and let’s let rip with a rousing chorus of Cwm Rhondda.
Friday, February 24, 2012
A Heroic Failure
I was poking around in the attic yesterday and came across a copy of a book I used to love so much it was like finding an old pal. Less startling, perhaps, than actually finding an old pal sitting dustily in the attic, waiting patiently for me to arrive, but fun all the same.
It’s The Book Of Heroic Failures, which was published at the end of the 1970s, championing the utterly incompetent in all their rich variety. For instance, the most unsuccessful version of the Bible has to be the edition which was printed in 1631 by Robert Barker and Martin Lucas. It was peppered with mistakes but the most glaring was the omission of the word “Not” from the seventh commandment (the adultery one) which would add a whole new slant to the dos and don’ts of family life.
My favourite is though, is the section Law and Order. If we were having a real cup of tea/ glass of wine/hot Bovril/insert your favourite beverage here instead of a virtual cup of tea/ glass of wine/hot Bovril/insert your favourite beverage here together, I certainly tell you this tale, so consider yourself button-holed and sit back, sup up, and enjoy it.
In 1975, three bank robbers tackled the Royal Bank of Scotland in Rothsay. It went wrong from the beginning, when the got stuck in the revolving doors and had to be helped free by the bank staff. They sheepishly thanked everyone and left, to return a few minutes later and announced they were robbing the bank. The trouble is, none of the staff believed them. They demanded £5000, then, in the face of the head cashier’s increasing mirth, reduced the demand to £500, then to £50 and eventually to 50 pence. By this time the head cashier could hardly control herself for laughter.
Then one of the men jumped over the counter, fell awkwardly, and writhed around on the floor, clutching his ankle. The other two robbers made their getaway, but got trapped in the revolving doors again, frantically pushing the wrong way.
Isn’t that wonderful?
It’s The Book Of Heroic Failures, which was published at the end of the 1970s, championing the utterly incompetent in all their rich variety. For instance, the most unsuccessful version of the Bible has to be the edition which was printed in 1631 by Robert Barker and Martin Lucas. It was peppered with mistakes but the most glaring was the omission of the word “Not” from the seventh commandment (the adultery one) which would add a whole new slant to the dos and don’ts of family life.
My favourite is though, is the section Law and Order. If we were having a real cup of tea/ glass of wine/hot Bovril/insert your favourite beverage here instead of a virtual cup of tea/ glass of wine/hot Bovril/insert your favourite beverage here together, I certainly tell you this tale, so consider yourself button-holed and sit back, sup up, and enjoy it.
In 1975, three bank robbers tackled the Royal Bank of Scotland in Rothsay. It went wrong from the beginning, when the got stuck in the revolving doors and had to be helped free by the bank staff. They sheepishly thanked everyone and left, to return a few minutes later and announced they were robbing the bank. The trouble is, none of the staff believed them. They demanded £5000, then, in the face of the head cashier’s increasing mirth, reduced the demand to £500, then to £50 and eventually to 50 pence. By this time the head cashier could hardly control herself for laughter.
Then one of the men jumped over the counter, fell awkwardly, and writhed around on the floor, clutching his ankle. The other two robbers made their getaway, but got trapped in the revolving doors again, frantically pushing the wrong way.
Isn’t that wonderful?
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Trouble Brewing and Aristotle
I was poring over the proofs for the new book this week. I use the word ‘poring’ advisedly, because that’s one of the words I had to change. ‘Poring’ means to examine something closely (in this case, a dead body) whereas ‘Pouring’ refers to the cup of tea (or stiff whisky) the porer needs after having so pored.
You need to be on your toes when proof-reading. There’s all the usual stuff, such as random commas, missing scene breaks – they could really trip the reader up – and dialogue without speech marks. Spelling mistakes, as such, are rare, because of Microsoft Word’s handy little spelling tool which flags up a misspelling with a red line. However, you have to keep your eye on Word. A word can be spelt correctly, but still be the wrong word.
For instance, in ‘Trouble Brewing’
(Brilliant book! Order it now!) there’s a scene when a character is describing what happened to him in the war. (First World War, as the book’s set in the 1920’s) Anyway, he says that after being caught in a shell burst, he woke up in a casualty-clearing station. A casualty-clearing station, as you might know or can guess, was the first port of call for injured troops, a sort of MASH-type unit to deal with the immediate effects of injuries, from patching-up to referral to a permanent hospital.
Only my chap didn’t end up in a casualty-clearing station, he ended up (in the proofs) in a causality-clearing station. Whoops.
Now causality is associated with Aristotle, and brings a whole different slant to the scene. Naturally, I have Aristotle at my fingertips, as you would expect. (Okay, I checked on the internet!) but I had the idea that the poor bloke would encounter something like this:
“Hello, Doctor. I believe this is the causality-clearing station”
“Indeed it is, young man. Let me see, you have the Material cause, or the elements out of which an object is created, do you? Good, good.”
“Yes, Doctor. That would be this nasty hole with the bullet in it. It’s creating quite a pain in the… well, nevermind, but I’ll have to watch how I sit down for a bit.”
“I see. As a matter of fact, by referring to the aforesaid bullet hole, you are confusing the Material cause with the Efficient cause, or the means by which it is created. Guard against this!”
“So what do I do now?”
“Hmm. Have you formulated the Formal cause, or the expression of what it is?”
“Yes. I’ve got a pain in my Final cause, or the end for which it is.”
“In that case, take two aspirin and lie down. Next case! Hmm. I see you need your axioms testing…”
By the way, I came across a blog I really liked about Agatha Christie and how she’s not so cosy as some people think. Here it is:
http://at-scene-of-crime.blogspot.com/2011/11/rant-against-word-cozy.html
You need to be on your toes when proof-reading. There’s all the usual stuff, such as random commas, missing scene breaks – they could really trip the reader up – and dialogue without speech marks. Spelling mistakes, as such, are rare, because of Microsoft Word’s handy little spelling tool which flags up a misspelling with a red line. However, you have to keep your eye on Word. A word can be spelt correctly, but still be the wrong word.
For instance, in ‘Trouble Brewing’
(Brilliant book! Order it now!) there’s a scene when a character is describing what happened to him in the war. (First World War, as the book’s set in the 1920’s) Anyway, he says that after being caught in a shell burst, he woke up in a casualty-clearing station. A casualty-clearing station, as you might know or can guess, was the first port of call for injured troops, a sort of MASH-type unit to deal with the immediate effects of injuries, from patching-up to referral to a permanent hospital.Only my chap didn’t end up in a casualty-clearing station, he ended up (in the proofs) in a causality-clearing station. Whoops.
Now causality is associated with Aristotle, and brings a whole different slant to the scene. Naturally, I have Aristotle at my fingertips, as you would expect. (Okay, I checked on the internet!) but I had the idea that the poor bloke would encounter something like this:
“Hello, Doctor. I believe this is the causality-clearing station”
“Indeed it is, young man. Let me see, you have the Material cause, or the elements out of which an object is created, do you? Good, good.”
“Yes, Doctor. That would be this nasty hole with the bullet in it. It’s creating quite a pain in the… well, nevermind, but I’ll have to watch how I sit down for a bit.”
“I see. As a matter of fact, by referring to the aforesaid bullet hole, you are confusing the Material cause with the Efficient cause, or the means by which it is created. Guard against this!”
“So what do I do now?”
“Hmm. Have you formulated the Formal cause, or the expression of what it is?”
“Yes. I’ve got a pain in my Final cause, or the end for which it is.”
“In that case, take two aspirin and lie down. Next case! Hmm. I see you need your axioms testing…”
By the way, I came across a blog I really liked about Agatha Christie and how she’s not so cosy as some people think. Here it is:
http://at-scene-of-crime.blogspot.com/2011/11/rant-against-word-cozy.html
Friday, February 10, 2012
Microwave Jam
I've been busy in the kitchen this week making jam. You might think it’s a rum time of year to be making jam, but this isn’t fruit I’ve grown, it’s from the bargain section of Tesco’s. Maybe it’s something innately primitive, but I just love a bargain. Anyway, faced with three baskets of plums, I decided to turn them into jam. The advantage of making jam in the microwave is that you haven’t got a lot of burnt pans to clean and it’s very quick.
Here’s a recipe that I think is fairly bomb-proof.
First of all, you need a biggish microwave to take a biggish bowl. The bowl has to be sturdy, as the jam will get very hot. Pyrex is fine, but I use an old-fashioned mixing bowl, a pottery one with a glazed inside. I’d be iffy about using plastic.
Check if your fruit has enough pectin in it. Pectin is the natural “glue” that makes jam set. Here’s a link that should tell you the pectin content of your fruit.
http://susan-morris.suite101.com/natural-pectin-content-of-berry-and-tree-fruits-a106156
If it’s low in pectin, you can add a lemon. Cut it into quarters and add it to the mix – but not yet!
You need:
A microwave – mine’s 850
Oven gloves – the bowl is very hot so be careful!
Two saucers or small plates
A bowl
1 1lb of fruit
1 1lb (or maybe just a bit less) of granulated sugar
A lemon
About two or three clean jars with lids.
Okay, here goes:
Put two saucers in the freezer. You’ll need them for testing the jam.
Chop the fruit, remove stones and stalks etc, and weigh it.
With a tidgy bit of water give it about 6 minutes at full power.
Take the bowl out of the microwave and add the same weight (or perhaps just a bit less) of sugar.
If necessary, add the quartered lemon.
Microwave at full power for 20-22 minutes, giving it a stir every now and then.
Now you have to test it. Take the cold saucer and spoon a bit of jam onto it. Leave it a minute or so, then see if it’s set. If it is set, the surface should wrinkle when it’s touched. If it’s not set, give the jam another 3 or 4 minutes. That’s where the second saucer comes in!
Then warm and sterilize the jars. The easiest way to do this is to put about a tablespoon of water in each jar and microwave the jars for a minute.
Then empty out the now hot water and spoon the jam into the warm jars. Put the lids on and bingo! Home made jam.
Here’s a recipe that I think is fairly bomb-proof.
First of all, you need a biggish microwave to take a biggish bowl. The bowl has to be sturdy, as the jam will get very hot. Pyrex is fine, but I use an old-fashioned mixing bowl, a pottery one with a glazed inside. I’d be iffy about using plastic.
Check if your fruit has enough pectin in it. Pectin is the natural “glue” that makes jam set. Here’s a link that should tell you the pectin content of your fruit.
http://susan-morris.suite101.com/natural-pectin-content-of-berry-and-tree-fruits-a106156
If it’s low in pectin, you can add a lemon. Cut it into quarters and add it to the mix – but not yet!
You need:
A microwave – mine’s 850
Oven gloves – the bowl is very hot so be careful!
Two saucers or small plates
A bowl
1 1lb of fruit
1 1lb (or maybe just a bit less) of granulated sugar
A lemon
About two or three clean jars with lids.
Okay, here goes:
Put two saucers in the freezer. You’ll need them for testing the jam.
Chop the fruit, remove stones and stalks etc, and weigh it.
With a tidgy bit of water give it about 6 minutes at full power.
Take the bowl out of the microwave and add the same weight (or perhaps just a bit less) of sugar.
If necessary, add the quartered lemon.
Microwave at full power for 20-22 minutes, giving it a stir every now and then.
Now you have to test it. Take the cold saucer and spoon a bit of jam onto it. Leave it a minute or so, then see if it’s set. If it is set, the surface should wrinkle when it’s touched. If it’s not set, give the jam another 3 or 4 minutes. That’s where the second saucer comes in!
Then warm and sterilize the jars. The easiest way to do this is to put about a tablespoon of water in each jar and microwave the jars for a minute.
Then empty out the now hot water and spoon the jam into the warm jars. Put the lids on and bingo! Home made jam.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Danger In The Wind
As I said last week, I invited my old pal, Jane Finnis, to let us know something about her new book, DANGER IN THE WIND set in Isurium, Yorkshire, in the early years of Roman Britain.
Here's Jane
And here's the book:
And here's how Isurium looks today.
Image© Copyright Paul Buckingham and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence
Over to you, Jane!
Have you ever wondered what fellow-mystery-writers talk about on the phone? Anything and everything, of course. Dolores and I occasionally discuss our works-in-progress, which results in some pretty bizarre conversations. Anyone hacking into our phones will have heard us chatting about pagan deities, Roman curses, and last year, while I was writing DANGER IN THE WIND, the subject was Roman forts...or lack of.
“I’ve got a problem, Dolores. I’m looking for a fort for a birthday party, and I can’t find just the right one.”
“A birthday party?”
“Oh yes, they did celebrate birthdays, and Aurelia has been invited to a cousin’s party. The cousin is married to an army officer who’s stationed at a military base. It must be small and unexciting, well away from serious fighting, apparently very safe (ha ha!) And not too far from York, otherwise the whole story will slow down because everyone will need too much time travelling there and back.”
“You can always make one up. The Romans built so many forts, and you must have a good feel for the kind of places they’d choose. Pick a likely spot and let your imagination rip.”
And that’s more or less what I did. About 20 miles north of York are the remains of a Roman town called Isurium, alongside and underneath the village of Aldborough. Today Aldborough is a peaceful, pleasant spot, with the river Ure running close by, and a museum displaying some of its Roman heritage. In 100 AD, I realised, it would be perfect for Aurelia to visit – except for one problem. Nobody so far has found a fort there. Civilian dwellings, yes…but not military.
Yet geography and common sense dictate it must have begun life as a military base. It’s one of a chain of Roman settlements running north from York, first established by the army to guard key points on the main military road to the frontier. Village quickly grew up around them, housing the soldiers’ families and the civilian workers who flocked in to try to part the men from their wages by selling everything from a good warm cloak to a good night out. When the forts were no longer needed they were abandoned, but the villages lived on.
Some haven’t left much trace now, but others, like Isurium, grew larger and grander, and the early buildings were simply pulled down and redeveloped. That’s what must have happened to the fort, and the first civilian houses. The interesting Roman remains there now – mosaics, coins, kitchenware, and more – date from much later than 100 AD. Isurium in its heyday was a prosperous town with civic buildings, rich houses, and its own defensive walls. It became an administrative capital for the Brigantian tribe who populated most of Yorkshire, so it acquired the name Isurium Brigantum. But in Aurelia’s day it was plain Isurium, and nothing to write home about, unless you got entrapped in a mystery when you thought you were only visiting for a birthday party.
I hope archaeologists will do more digging at Isurium one day to look for evidence of life there before it became powerful and posh. Will what they find prove that I guessed correctly when I imagined it had a fort? I don’t claim (as Aurelia does sometimes) that “I’m always right, it’s a well-known fact.” But I’d love to be right about this!
The US publishing date for DANGER IN THE WIND was December 2011 for hardback and paperback; in the UK the paperbacks are available from "any good bookshop and, of course, Jane's website, http://www.janefinnis.com
Here's Jane
And here's the book:
And here's how Isurium looks today.
Image© Copyright Paul Buckingham and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence
Over to you, Jane!
Have you ever wondered what fellow-mystery-writers talk about on the phone? Anything and everything, of course. Dolores and I occasionally discuss our works-in-progress, which results in some pretty bizarre conversations. Anyone hacking into our phones will have heard us chatting about pagan deities, Roman curses, and last year, while I was writing DANGER IN THE WIND, the subject was Roman forts...or lack of.
“I’ve got a problem, Dolores. I’m looking for a fort for a birthday party, and I can’t find just the right one.”
“A birthday party?”
“Oh yes, they did celebrate birthdays, and Aurelia has been invited to a cousin’s party. The cousin is married to an army officer who’s stationed at a military base. It must be small and unexciting, well away from serious fighting, apparently very safe (ha ha!) And not too far from York, otherwise the whole story will slow down because everyone will need too much time travelling there and back.”
“You can always make one up. The Romans built so many forts, and you must have a good feel for the kind of places they’d choose. Pick a likely spot and let your imagination rip.”
And that’s more or less what I did. About 20 miles north of York are the remains of a Roman town called Isurium, alongside and underneath the village of Aldborough. Today Aldborough is a peaceful, pleasant spot, with the river Ure running close by, and a museum displaying some of its Roman heritage. In 100 AD, I realised, it would be perfect for Aurelia to visit – except for one problem. Nobody so far has found a fort there. Civilian dwellings, yes…but not military.
Yet geography and common sense dictate it must have begun life as a military base. It’s one of a chain of Roman settlements running north from York, first established by the army to guard key points on the main military road to the frontier. Village quickly grew up around them, housing the soldiers’ families and the civilian workers who flocked in to try to part the men from their wages by selling everything from a good warm cloak to a good night out. When the forts were no longer needed they were abandoned, but the villages lived on.
Some haven’t left much trace now, but others, like Isurium, grew larger and grander, and the early buildings were simply pulled down and redeveloped. That’s what must have happened to the fort, and the first civilian houses. The interesting Roman remains there now – mosaics, coins, kitchenware, and more – date from much later than 100 AD. Isurium in its heyday was a prosperous town with civic buildings, rich houses, and its own defensive walls. It became an administrative capital for the Brigantian tribe who populated most of Yorkshire, so it acquired the name Isurium Brigantum. But in Aurelia’s day it was plain Isurium, and nothing to write home about, unless you got entrapped in a mystery when you thought you were only visiting for a birthday party.
I hope archaeologists will do more digging at Isurium one day to look for evidence of life there before it became powerful and posh. Will what they find prove that I guessed correctly when I imagined it had a fort? I don’t claim (as Aurelia does sometimes) that “I’m always right, it’s a well-known fact.” But I’d love to be right about this!
The US publishing date for DANGER IN THE WIND was December 2011 for hardback and paperback; in the UK the paperbacks are available from "any good bookshop and, of course, Jane's website, http://www.janefinnis.com
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Paced Out
I’ve just got off the phone from my old pal, Jane Finnis, and I’m very pleased to say that she’s going to do a guest blog here next week about her new Roman mystery, Danger In The Wind.
I really enjoyed Danger In The Wind. The story cracks along, the characters are excellent and Jane’s got an ability to set the scene so you’re really pulled into the story. If you want to get a copy, go onto Jane’s website, http://www.janefinnis.com It’s also available from Amazon and on Kindle, too. For my money. it’s that sense of pace, of really wanting to know what happens next, that makes a book truly readable.
I’m not at all sure that it can be taught, but it probably can be caught, if you see what I mean, from reading enough yourself. Even the books that you think don’t move very fast are worth thinking about, if only to ask yourself why it’s not working. This doesn’t mean, by the way, that only all-action thrillers and baffling mysteries have pace.
Pride and Prejudice isn’t a mystery or a thriller, yet it reads like greased lightning. To Kill A Mockingbird, another old favourite, is another book that, once picked up, is very hard to put down. When Scout sets out on her Halloween walk, we just know something’s going to happen. I think it’s got more to do with having one event follow another event naturally, so that even the surprises (such as Lydia’s elopement with Wickham) don’t seem bolted on, but occur naturally from the events so far and, granted what we’ve got to know about the characters, is a perfectly believable way for them to behave.
I think, by the way, that’s why “real” people and “real” events sometimes seem so utterly out of place in fiction. Agatha Christie discusses this in the introduction to The Body In The Library. She was inspired by the sight of a well-off, healthy looking middle-aged man in a wheelchair she saw, surrounded by his family in a hotel. She left the hotel before she could find out what the man and his family where like in real life, as the real people wouldn’t – couldn’t – fit into the story she had bubbling away. They would have their own characters and concerns and they wouldn’t be at all the ones that Agatha Christie’s creations needed to make the story work.
Pace doesn’t mean, as Bertie Wooster says somewhere that it should be like life, which is just one damn thing after another. As all comedians and actors know, pace is a sense of timing, so a properly paced book has inbuilt pauses that allow you the chance to stop and savour what’s what. For instance – I don’t want to give too much away until you’ve read Danger In The Wind – there’s a great “pause” moment when Aurielia wakes up from a dream and realises that the gravely voice of the scary lion she heard in her dream is actually the voice of the murderer…
When an author really pulls it off, then, as Jeremy Clarkson, that lover of all things fast and unexpectedly good literary critic said, the book becomes slightly more important than life itself. Ok, so perhaps nothing’s that important, but you must have experienced that desire to simply read and keep on reading and to hell with the ironing. Or washing. Or feeding the cat. Or any of the other daily inconveniences that are currently getting between you and finding out what happens to Dumbledore on top of the Astronomy Tower even when you know what happens to Dumbledore on top of the Astronomy Tower. It’s not that this time it might be different (after all, you’re reading a book, not lost in a coma!) but this time you can see how beautifully it all fits into place. And, wow, does it work!
I really enjoyed Danger In The Wind. The story cracks along, the characters are excellent and Jane’s got an ability to set the scene so you’re really pulled into the story. If you want to get a copy, go onto Jane’s website, http://www.janefinnis.com It’s also available from Amazon and on Kindle, too. For my money. it’s that sense of pace, of really wanting to know what happens next, that makes a book truly readable.
I’m not at all sure that it can be taught, but it probably can be caught, if you see what I mean, from reading enough yourself. Even the books that you think don’t move very fast are worth thinking about, if only to ask yourself why it’s not working. This doesn’t mean, by the way, that only all-action thrillers and baffling mysteries have pace.
Pride and Prejudice isn’t a mystery or a thriller, yet it reads like greased lightning. To Kill A Mockingbird, another old favourite, is another book that, once picked up, is very hard to put down. When Scout sets out on her Halloween walk, we just know something’s going to happen. I think it’s got more to do with having one event follow another event naturally, so that even the surprises (such as Lydia’s elopement with Wickham) don’t seem bolted on, but occur naturally from the events so far and, granted what we’ve got to know about the characters, is a perfectly believable way for them to behave.
I think, by the way, that’s why “real” people and “real” events sometimes seem so utterly out of place in fiction. Agatha Christie discusses this in the introduction to The Body In The Library. She was inspired by the sight of a well-off, healthy looking middle-aged man in a wheelchair she saw, surrounded by his family in a hotel. She left the hotel before she could find out what the man and his family where like in real life, as the real people wouldn’t – couldn’t – fit into the story she had bubbling away. They would have their own characters and concerns and they wouldn’t be at all the ones that Agatha Christie’s creations needed to make the story work.
Pace doesn’t mean, as Bertie Wooster says somewhere that it should be like life, which is just one damn thing after another. As all comedians and actors know, pace is a sense of timing, so a properly paced book has inbuilt pauses that allow you the chance to stop and savour what’s what. For instance – I don’t want to give too much away until you’ve read Danger In The Wind – there’s a great “pause” moment when Aurielia wakes up from a dream and realises that the gravely voice of the scary lion she heard in her dream is actually the voice of the murderer…
When an author really pulls it off, then, as Jeremy Clarkson, that lover of all things fast and unexpectedly good literary critic said, the book becomes slightly more important than life itself. Ok, so perhaps nothing’s that important, but you must have experienced that desire to simply read and keep on reading and to hell with the ironing. Or washing. Or feeding the cat. Or any of the other daily inconveniences that are currently getting between you and finding out what happens to Dumbledore on top of the Astronomy Tower even when you know what happens to Dumbledore on top of the Astronomy Tower. It’s not that this time it might be different (after all, you’re reading a book, not lost in a coma!) but this time you can see how beautifully it all fits into place. And, wow, does it work!
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Mind Reading
One of the nice things about Christmas is getting lots of new books. What might be even nicer is getting the time to curl up and read them, but that’s another story! One Crimble pressie from me to me was Jane Finnis’s new one, Danger In The Wind. Jane’s promised me a guest blog, so I won’t say too much more about it at the moment, other than it’s an absolute cracker, with a really good story and well worth adding to your reading list.
One of my other Christmas presents was Clive James’ new book Point of View, taken from the radio series. D’you know the series? It’s replaced the old Letter From America slot on Sunday mornings on BBC Radio 4 at quarter to nine. If quarter to nine is too early, you can get in on iplayer and (usually) as a podcast. I’ve been a fan of Clive James since the days he wrote hilarious TV criticisms for The Observer years ago. I mean, part of the fun of watching Dallas was watching Dallas, if you see what I mean, but reading Clive James on watching Dallas was sublime.
You knew you had seen something funny; something that an intellectual French poet would instantly place in the Theatre of the Absurd. But quite how funny and quite how absurd it was never really hit home until Clive James got to work on it. What’s more, he had the gift of making you want to go back and watch more. Whether this is a good thing or not, I’m not entirely sure, but I attribute my ownership of a mug which says, “I shot J.R.” that still lurks at the back of a drawer somewhere entirely to him.
He does a piece about the attacks on private life by the press (you know, all the phone hacking and so on). Here’s a quote: “Most of us are capable of grasping that if everyone could suddenly read everyone else’s thoughts then very few people would survive the subsequent massacre…. To live in society at all, we have to keep a reservoir of private thoughts, which, whether wisely or unwisely, we only share with intimates. This sharing of private thoughts is called private life.”
I had that thought somewhere through one of the first showings of Star Trek, when Mr Spock had Captain Kirk or someone or other gripped in a mind-meld and I wouldn’t be surprised if Clive James had it too. Basically, any normal person’s thought would be, “Get your hand off my face,” seasoned with a few expletives and some mordant personal criticism. However, it did occur to me that one of the place where you can actually move around in someone else’s mind, without incurring an unlooked for degree of violence, is in fiction.
Agatha Christie does this all the time when she’s scene-setting, so we get the same event described by different people with their different takes on it. It’s a very effective, very quick way of establishing what’s going on and who it’s going on to. Another neat little trick that involves mind-reading, is when an action is contemplated but not carried out. I’ve done this a few times, as in, “Jack stopped just short of slamming the door.” So you get all the emotion of him actually slamming the door without any of the consequences, plus he gets Brownie points for being so restrained. Then again, having what he’s thinking flesh out what he’s actually saying takes the reader immediately into that privileged space that makes us true insiders. And it’s fun to write.
One of my other Christmas presents was Clive James’ new book Point of View, taken from the radio series. D’you know the series? It’s replaced the old Letter From America slot on Sunday mornings on BBC Radio 4 at quarter to nine. If quarter to nine is too early, you can get in on iplayer and (usually) as a podcast. I’ve been a fan of Clive James since the days he wrote hilarious TV criticisms for The Observer years ago. I mean, part of the fun of watching Dallas was watching Dallas, if you see what I mean, but reading Clive James on watching Dallas was sublime.
You knew you had seen something funny; something that an intellectual French poet would instantly place in the Theatre of the Absurd. But quite how funny and quite how absurd it was never really hit home until Clive James got to work on it. What’s more, he had the gift of making you want to go back and watch more. Whether this is a good thing or not, I’m not entirely sure, but I attribute my ownership of a mug which says, “I shot J.R.” that still lurks at the back of a drawer somewhere entirely to him.
He does a piece about the attacks on private life by the press (you know, all the phone hacking and so on). Here’s a quote: “Most of us are capable of grasping that if everyone could suddenly read everyone else’s thoughts then very few people would survive the subsequent massacre…. To live in society at all, we have to keep a reservoir of private thoughts, which, whether wisely or unwisely, we only share with intimates. This sharing of private thoughts is called private life.”
I had that thought somewhere through one of the first showings of Star Trek, when Mr Spock had Captain Kirk or someone or other gripped in a mind-meld and I wouldn’t be surprised if Clive James had it too. Basically, any normal person’s thought would be, “Get your hand off my face,” seasoned with a few expletives and some mordant personal criticism. However, it did occur to me that one of the place where you can actually move around in someone else’s mind, without incurring an unlooked for degree of violence, is in fiction.
Agatha Christie does this all the time when she’s scene-setting, so we get the same event described by different people with their different takes on it. It’s a very effective, very quick way of establishing what’s going on and who it’s going on to. Another neat little trick that involves mind-reading, is when an action is contemplated but not carried out. I’ve done this a few times, as in, “Jack stopped just short of slamming the door.” So you get all the emotion of him actually slamming the door without any of the consequences, plus he gets Brownie points for being so restrained. Then again, having what he’s thinking flesh out what he’s actually saying takes the reader immediately into that privileged space that makes us true insiders. And it’s fun to write.
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