New Month And Freezing Cold

First day of February, and the temperature has dipped.   You can feel the chill against your bones, and apparently things will get worse at the weekend.   

Recently, I read through viewpoint sections of Dark Whispers, the first ever novel I wrote (the one I felt just didn’t come alive for me in the way I’d hope), and I can see certain parallels with some of my earlier photo shoots.   When I was editing the shots in Google’s Picasa, I tended to bring out the colors and emphasise contrast – but I can see now that the photographs would probably have benefited from less color/saturation.  I think the idea extends to the writing too, especially in Dark Whispers, that first problematic novel that never seemed to work, no matter what changes I made.   The tone of the writing, I suspect, contained too much “color”, when it needed less. 

I think the choice of subject matter didn’t necessarily help.  The other novel tended to have an otherworldly feel and contained classic whodunnit clichés: the village, the vulnerable (possibly paranoid) wife, rhymes, etc.  When a writer paints a picture like this, s/he often has nowhere else to take the story because the story has a tight but limited focus preventing further plot and character development.  However, when I worked on my debut novel (Secrets by Lawrence Estrey), I ditched about two-thirds of original material and began almost entirely from scratch, resetting it in a different part of the country (no more villages) and concentrating on varying degrees of crime.  Suddenly, I had plenty of places to take the story and ways of broadening the central characters, plus better ideas of how to make sections truly chilling. 

I’m currently working on a new crime thriller set in Manchester and the central characters have already begun to make an impact on me.

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A New Novel

I’ve started a new novel, another psychological thriller set in flat English countryside.   In the story, central character Gavin has to make sense of events that occurred when he was a student living in remote student digs.

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More Paranoia: The Novel

I’m close to the end of my novel, a psychological thriller set in the north of England.  Central character Alan reaches the point where he begins to lose control:

I make a start on supper. Electronic beeps and squeals come from Robert’s bedroom. Ollie’s computer game. Dead wicked, he described it when we went up in the lift. His laughter rings through the flat. He gets overexcited, shouts too much. My nerves are on edge, my neck rigid with tension.  Each time I glance out of the window, I pick up on the watcher’s presence out there in the post-industrial landscape. Twice, the landline phone rings by the sofa bed. Silence both times, number withheld. I hardly use the landline. Less than a dozen people have the number. My hands shake as I slice the vegetables. I look out of the window again.  The invisible gaze.  I pull the kitchen blinds down, but just before I do I catch a glimpse of a car reversing out of a lane behind The Factory – then nothing, apart from fading daylight slipping into evening, darkness falling over Kiddlestone valley.

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From My Novel…

I’m near the conclusion of a psychological thriller after a struggle with writer’s block earlier in the year.

At this point of the story, central character Alan has discovered information about an event he doesn’t fully recall and he is being closely monitored:

At lunchtime, I sprint to the deli to fetch sandwiches for Kerry, Barry and Gordon. The unseen person watches me leave the gym; but he or she is also there when I turn the corner by the main square, scanning me amongst the tourists and the walkers with their binoculars and maps. More than one person must be monitoring me, since no one can be in two places at once. I think again of Gordon’s theory about corrupt officers desperate and mean enough to silence me, but the theory no longer makes sense.

In the deli, I feel the gaze fixed on the back of my head. The person watches me take cash from my wallet and place the cash on the counter, stuff my wallet in my inside jacket pocket, exit with a tray of sandwiches and drinks, and make my way towards Burrington Bridge to the cobbled street where the gym in situated. I wonder how much more of this I can take. It feels like a psychological form of Chinese torture by water drops, designed to make the recipient go mad slowly. I force myself not to glance round and hurry inside, the only place where the gaze isn’t.

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The Novel: More Than Two-Thirds Of The Way Through

The struggle with writer’s block has paid off and I’ve now reached sixty thousand words of my novel, a psychological thriller set in the north of England. Central character Alan is  investigating something that happened nine years ago, an event he doesn’t fully remember…

 I continue on at the railway bridge, across the t-junction and down a hilly tree-lined road, scanning the buildings and the side avenues in the hope of answers. Brief flashes come to mind, but none exact, only that I drove down this hilly road in the rain in search of a hoover store for an important meeting that I’d arranged back in London. I felt flat as I drove that other time, the aftertaste of tea from Kaz Bradshaw’s cafe fresh in my mouth. The days when I still added milk to hot drinks. I drove past an RC church with a crucifix. The church is still there, about two-thirds of the way down the leafy road. Nothing against church buildings, but this is freaky.

I reach the bottom of the hill and another set of lights and a familiar tower-like building that reminds me of bells and the rhyme about the oranges and lemons. Row of shops, gastronomical pub, garage, an island with pylon wires overhead. Then, I see it on the other side of the island.

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The Novel: Making Progress

A brief excerpt from my second novel, a psychological thriller.  Central character Alan has recently received information leading him to investigate an incident he doesn’t fully remember:

I didn’t come to this part of the neighbourhood last week, but straightaway I recognise the railway bridge opposite a snooker hall that has since shut. It’s the same bridge with railings on both side and a steep incline up to the ticket office; and also, the railway bridge I dreamt about at the weekend Nine years ago, I stopped the car on the other side of the bridge and checked my A-Z. I got out of the overheated car, stepping into wind and rain, but I don’t know where I went afterwards.

I drive under the bridge, past a concrete walkway with murals painted on the wall, and slow the car. This is it, the walkway flanked by the bridge wall and hedges. No benches, just strips of light that come on at night. This is where I stopped the car to look at the map the other time. The tall hedges conceal the remainder of the pathway from sight. In the distance, high rise flats dominate the landscape, spectral in the cloudy weather. The high rise flats I remember from the other time, although they seemed much dirtier then. The pathway didn’t lead to the flats. An industrial complex on the other side prevented direct access, forcing me to go round via a maze of turnings.The maze is still there, along with an old brewery on a corner.

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Spring’s On The Way

Spring’s on the way, and I already can feel the writer’s block shifting.   For me, the winter months were grey and depressing. I struggled to throw off the lingering effects of the flu, caught two days before Christmas. 

On Friday, I went to see the doctor.  He prescribed a strong but simple gargle that got rid of my two-month sore throat in less than twelve hours.

Recently, I’ve enjoyed working on the novel, a psychological thriller.  I’m concentrating on building up atmosphere and developing the various character relationships in the context of the home setting, a former factory in the north of England.  There’s quite a few chilling moments too.

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Novel Writing: Gritty Crime

I’m at that part of the novel again, a psychological thriller, where I have to make a decision.  Concentrate on “mad” character building (old-fashioned/plot-based stuff) or wade through uncomfortable criminal material that’s more true to life.  After a lot of thought, I’ve decided to concentrate on the crime element.

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Novel Writing: Calming The Tension

I’m reworking a psychological thriller and trying to include as many calm moments as possible in the story.  Too much tension, and the reader might lose interest. Too little, and the reader might get bored.  The general reader wants to identify with a character, and the writer needs to invite the readers into that character’s life.  Difficult, but a rewarding process.

The following is a short sample based around the central character’s sister and son.

In the morning, I go off to a country park with Mel and Robert The acorn trail with yellow fields on either side. We take photographs of deer and stop for a picnic lunch near a wooden hut. Purchase mugs and mint cake from a gift shop. Pencils and stencils and art paper for Mel. I buy a pair of cheap sunglasses for the fun of it and get Robert to take a photograph of me prancing about in the shades. It’s another crisp October day, sunny but nippy with the smells of pines and honey and cider apples.

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Normalcy In Novel Writing

I’m at a significant point in my writing generally: the need for the central character to have normal life  and enjoy every day activities.  In a psychological thriller, this can be difficult to bring off.

In the following scene, central character Alan has just returned home after spending the night on a mate’s couch following an evening in the pub. The evening itself was intense.  Robert = Alan’s son, Mel = Alan’s sister, Samantha = Mel’s friend

I head to mine, gulp down a glass of tepid water from the sink and start the shower. Get in. Change into a fresh set of clothes and splash on some aftershave before going down to join Mel and Robert on the second floor. The interior of Samantha’s flat is different to mine or Mel’s: bean bags rather than chairs, knickknacks and ornaments on the shelves, glass coffee table with thick magenta candle stubs, paperbacks scattered on the floor, along with assorted shoes and trainers. Robert, I note, seems particularly sulky today, and hardly responds to anything I have to say, although he relates easily to Samantha. The four of us spend the morning making organic bread in the tiny kitchen area, Samantha chatting away barely, pausing for breath.

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