I've mentioned before about Don Findy being an outsider. I started reading Colin Wilson's 1956 study of The Outsider in fiction; looking at the work of Camus, Hemingway, Dostoevsky and Sartre amongst others.
I like the idea of a character living in a 'world without values' and seeing no point to life. This concept that nothing matters; all is absurd. Of course, Findy does have values, but like the detectives of Chandler and Hammett, they are his own.
Wilson writes,
'The Outsider's case against society is very clear. All men and women have these dangerous, unnamable impulses, yet they keep up the pretence, to themselves, to others; their respectability, their philosophy, their religion, are all attempts to gloss over, to make look civialized and rational something that is savage, unorganized, irrational. He is an Outsider because he stands for Truth.' (Source: Page 13)
This is true in the case of Findy and is why it’s included with his character sheet. It’s something I look at and think about when working on him and his movements.
As a result of reading Wilson’s text, I had a compulsion to write about a different Outsider. Just a piece of text, to see what happened. I suppose I was inspired. It was good writing practice.
Here’s what I wrote;
'My face felt different somehow. Shapes fell from it, ran down it. My mind reached out for things that were no longer there. Inner silence, inner calm, inner loss. I saw a man, it took me a while to recognise him but I knew him, at least I used to. Now I just know of him. He was crying and looking into a glass reflection. His eyes were far away. I was torn; wanting to hug him, clutch him close, warming his body with mine and telling him everything was going to be okay. But wanting to destroy him. Take him apart and leave him there; his limp lifeless body in the dark of the night. Cold. Cold and dead. Cold and dead and complete.'
It’s short and might never lead to anything, it certainly isn’t part of Findy’s story, but I feel it’s essentially part of him. It’s the type of character he is. He often wonders what the point is, he sees life as absurd and as a struggle – in the same way that the character in the text above has lost the ability to care about the association of names (of tears, for example) of things.
And yet, Findy is torn because he knows there’s a contradiction in living when he believes there’s no point.
I began fleshing out ideas of Findy walking around a church near Kim’s house. I recently visited the road, so I could check out what number house the next road looked on and where Findy could park his car and so on. (There’s actually a hotel opposite Kim’s supposed house, which I might feed into the story later – it’s a possibility anyway.) I intend to visit the church next week, to really get a feel of the place and to perhaps heighten my description. The idea I wrote is based around Findy thinking about morality and religion. Trying to come to terms with what is and isn’t right, according to him. It may never be used, if it doesn’t fit in. Even if it was used, it would need a massive rewrite, but it’s useful for getting closer to Findy and his trains of thoughts and beliefs.
'I’ve always thought that there’s something selfish about the belief in a God. The thought that we are special and that heaven is next. The reward. Death is the only gift we earn by living. I could appreciate the work gone into the church I now stood in but it’s made of selfishness. The sucking up to a God in the hope that they will be rewarded, them personally. How can that not be selfish?
I remember when I was younger, I’d always pray. I thanked Him for the trees and the flowers and the clothes I wore, the food I ate and the water I drank. Yet I only ever played my parents up. The true givers of my life, my circumstance.
My hardest conversations have been with the religious. I’m not the type of person to say that they are wrong. All I know is what I’ve seen and what I’ve experienced. And at no point in my life have I felt the actions or presence of a God.
I mean, doing ‘good’ things and living by a book in the hope of a reward. Why can’t these people do this without having that other goal? The thought of doing good now, for the good of itself. Listen to me rambling on, when I do what I do for money. I don’t care about the supposed morals at the back of it, I do it all for money. Although, I can see money. Money is something I believe in.'
And money, is one of the central themes of the book. The main reason he accepts any case, is because of the money. It’s the whole point that he started the business and why he would have probably charged Kim a lot more than he should have. Money is an evil force, which Kim's father (currently only known as The Old man) has and his entire family is keen to get hold of. Toni wants a divorce so she can get a good settlement, Kim wants a divorce so that Toni wont get a share etc.
This reminds me of a quote in the Coen Brother's film Fargo. Towards the end of the film, the policewoman Marge Gunderson is trying to make sense of a number of crimes. She says, 'So that was Mrs. Lundegaard on the floor in there. And I guess that was your accomplice in the wood chipper. And those three people in Brainerd. And for what? For a little bit of money. There's more to life than a little money, you know. Don'tcha know that? And here ya are, and it's a beautiful day. Well. I just don't understand it'
Friday, 19 December 2008
Monday, 15 December 2008
Narrative
I remember lessons in the first year when Ashley spoke about stories asking questions. He said that novels often hold the reader’s attention by asking questions that aren’t answered straight away.
‘Novels,’ says David Lodge, ‘are narratives, and narrative, whatever it’s medium – words, film, strip-cartoon – holds the interest of an audience by raising questions in their minds, and delaying the answers.’ (Source: The Art of Fiction, Page 14)
In Nigel Watt’s book Writing a Novel, he says [of how to get a reader to turn the page];
‘This is very simple, and like many simple things, very difficult to do. The reader’s attention will be held mostly by the author raising intriguing questions and delaying their answers. If you raise a good enough question at the beginning of a 400-page novel, the reader will wade through almost anything to find the answer. […] Although a single important question may be enough motivation for a single novel, significant questions should be raised in every chapter. However, it is no good raising questions if they are immediately answered: part of the reader’s pleasure, of course, is in the delay.’
Although, like all advice, it’s good to be careful what you listen to, there is perhaps a good point here. I personally don’t think it’s the best idea to force questions into a piece but when structured properly certain themes and ideas can work as bricks to create an eventual answer or reason for a characters acting a certain way and so on.
For example, after reading Streetwise Spycraft by Barry Davies, I decided to work an element of ‘The basics of self-defence’ into Don Findy’s character. The section, on page 148, reads;
‘Filling your hand with loose pocket change and forming a fist will greatly increase the force of any blow. Additionally, several coins tied into the corner of a handkerchief will form a very effective cosh. You can swing it at the attacker’s temple or general skull area.’
Throughout what I have of the novel so far (the first four chapters and the start of a fifth), I have made references to Findy’s carrying loose change in his right trouser pocket (he’s right handed, so they’re easier to get to in a fight situation).
These references include;
‘I always have spare change.’ (Chapter One)
‘I ran my hands through the loose change in my right trouser pocket.’ (Chapter Three)
‘I handed her twenty and asked for pound coins instead of notes.’ (Chapter Four)
When Findy finally clutches a handful of coins to punch somebody in the face, this should satisfy the reader in someway, making the references click into place.
Other ways in which I try to raise questions include; the funeral at the very start (as it’s not mentioned who is dead. This is also brought up in the fourth chapter when the atmosphere of the pub makes him miss atmosphere of the funeral – this mention of the funeral also acts as a reminder that there’s been a funeral, just in case anybody has forgotten already, and we still don’t know whose it was.), Findy’s covering Whiskey bottles in jam and honey (his drink problem is to slowly be unravelled) and the line ‘I was calming myself and telling myself that I shouldn’t allow my personal feelings to get involved as it only ends up going badly.’
These not only allow the reader to question, but give me a purpose to keep working on this story. I enjoy exploring the ideas, being able to play things down and be low key; avoiding in-your-face-ness.
I wrote this entry last night but am editing now to include this feedback that I received from a friend, I studied English Literature and Language with;
‘I just read the latest version. I really like it. I like how the poppy story is coming along. I am really interested to find out how she dies. Also the premise for the Alexandra's is good. The alcohol thing is brilliant too. Hurry up and finish so I can find out what actually happens.’
So it appears that the various questions or mysteries I have in place are working, and for this I am pleased I have been able to achieve what I set out to accomplish.
Sunday, 14 December 2008
Pacing
After writing chapter four of Don Findy, I was slightly concerned that it might not do enough to hold reader's attention (more on this later). I sent over an early draft to my writing friend Jason Kerry (see also my support work on drafts) along with my comments of concern.
He replied;
'Ok, this has some of the best moments of the story, and it has a nice pace. But I would be careful not to get too into explaining character and not enough getting into plot. It seems more that its about following the character rather than a plot. Unless the story is about don findy, period. Don Findy: Detective - but as it is, it seems you need more plot, to get it going somehow. Some moments in this are great though - the words as images, curves of letters - if you rework that a little, it will sound beautiful. Good stuff.'
I have wanted it to be heavily character based because it has always been more about Don Findy than the plot. That's what's interesting to me. In Chandler's novels it's always Marlowe that keeps me coming back - the plots, however familiar I am with them already, are something for Marlowe to live inside. That's how I see it anyway. Plus, as noted elsewhere in my support work, the whole piece grew from the name and the character. The character is the novel.
However, as I said, it was me that initally voiced this concern of no plot and so when I started work on chapter five a few days ago, I decided to start moving the plot forward. I hope by starting with the line, 'It was around half past eight when I heard the gunshot,' I will keep any unsure, or waning, reader's interest going.
He replied;
'Ok, this has some of the best moments of the story, and it has a nice pace. But I would be careful not to get too into explaining character and not enough getting into plot. It seems more that its about following the character rather than a plot. Unless the story is about don findy, period. Don Findy: Detective - but as it is, it seems you need more plot, to get it going somehow. Some moments in this are great though - the words as images, curves of letters - if you rework that a little, it will sound beautiful. Good stuff.'
I have wanted it to be heavily character based because it has always been more about Don Findy than the plot. That's what's interesting to me. In Chandler's novels it's always Marlowe that keeps me coming back - the plots, however familiar I am with them already, are something for Marlowe to live inside. That's how I see it anyway. Plus, as noted elsewhere in my support work, the whole piece grew from the name and the character. The character is the novel.
However, as I said, it was me that initally voiced this concern of no plot and so when I started work on chapter five a few days ago, I decided to start moving the plot forward. I hope by starting with the line, 'It was around half past eight when I heard the gunshot,' I will keep any unsure, or waning, reader's interest going.
Monday, 8 December 2008
Streets
I've just been going through some of the notebooks I've been using recently, mainly for Don Findy, and I came across a line I wrote a few weeks ago walking home from work. The idea started with The Singing Detective and the references to chewing that I mentioned earlier in the blog;
'Another piece that has been sitting in my mind is the way Philip Marlow (Potter's protagonist, notice the missing 'e') describes people outside as 'chewing' each other. There's something in that, the consumption of the outside world, the way in which people treat each other. I will come back to this later. '
(Source: http://crimeandgunishment.blogspot.com/2008/10/singing-detective.html)
Which lead on to my line;
'I walked along the chewing gum roads. The roads that people have spat out. / I walked along the chewing gum road; the streets that have been spat out of people.'
(Source: http://crimeandgunishment.blogspot.com/2008/10/notebooks.html)
This has remained with me and, when thinking about the roads of Ipswich, and how to describe them, I came up with this;
'I followed my shadow down Norwich Road where the takeaway signs reflected in the wet cracks creating neon puddles.'
I'm happy with this and hope to use this later in the piece, possibly in connection to the 'chewing gum' roads line.
'Another piece that has been sitting in my mind is the way Philip Marlow (Potter's protagonist, notice the missing 'e') describes people outside as 'chewing' each other. There's something in that, the consumption of the outside world, the way in which people treat each other. I will come back to this later. '
(Source: http://crimeandgunishment.blogspot.com/2008/10/singing-detective.html)
Which lead on to my line;
'I walked along the chewing gum roads. The roads that people have spat out. / I walked along the chewing gum road; the streets that have been spat out of people.'
(Source: http://crimeandgunishment.blogspot.com/2008/10/notebooks.html)
This has remained with me and, when thinking about the roads of Ipswich, and how to describe them, I came up with this;
'I followed my shadow down Norwich Road where the takeaway signs reflected in the wet cracks creating neon puddles.'
I'm happy with this and hope to use this later in the piece, possibly in connection to the 'chewing gum' roads line.
Sunday, 7 December 2008
More money
More on the line, ‘I got some more of my moneys worth of the carpet…’
Writer Danny King (author of many crime fiction novels and the BBC sitcom Thieves Like Us) emailed the following;
'I guess, without knowing the overall context of the piece it was lifted from, it could be construed several ways. Sexually, it could be a tenuous rug munching reference, or literally, it could mean the guy indulged in a spot of pacing backwards and forwards. If that's the case, I don't think it's too much of a stretch of the imagination. When me and my mates are parking our cars badly and rolling backwards and forwards repeatedly, we refer to it as wearing out the tarmac, and it's the same sort of thing.
Personally, I'm not a great believer in everyone having to understand everything. Why get held back by the lowest common denominator. Let them play catch up and figure it out. If you're not learning something new when you read a book, what's the point?
Also, not everything has to make sense. Some times languages and phrases just sound nice for the sake of sounding nice, without actually meaning anything.
I wrote that one of my characters was as "drunk as a Spanish elephant" once and it doesn't actually [strictly] mean anything, but it gives the reader a sense of what was up with the guy and hopefully felt as satisfying to read as it felt to write, so I left it in.
And lastly, even if you spelt everything out, even if you stuck to Janet & John and ABC and played it safe the rest of your writing life, it wouldn't matter because people (and often educated people like your tutor) will read a load of crap into your writing that's not even there, often in an attempt to sound more intelligent than they are. I saw a review for School for Scumbags once that called it an: "entertaining first person satire that rips the skin off those whose solution to everything is out of sight out of mind storage that has made the private prison industry a wealthy service entity." continuing if was for fans who: "appreciate an amusing lampooning of society."
This is very complementary but a complete load of tosh. It's not a satire at all and was never intended to be in any way, shape or form. And the reviewer (who is Amazon.com's number 1 reviewer) is in no position to disagree with my assessment because I wrote the fucking thing so I should know, shouldn't I?'
So there we have it.
‘It's your writing. If you like and understand it, be confident enough to use it. But, by that same token, don't go forgetting your reader either.’
The line stays in, albeit with David Crystal’s grammatical suggestion.
As planned I wrote 500 words today – these were for the fourth chapter.
Saturday, 6 December 2008
Money's-worth
Following on from what Elspeth said about my line, 'I got some more of my moneys worth of the carpet…' I contacted linguist David Crystal, OBE (author of The English Language and many more) about which usage would be appropriate. This issue was raised as I asked a few writing friends what they thought about the sentence.
Johnathan Norton responded with;
'Isn't "moneysworth" a single expression? Akin to "jobsworth"?
I understand the whole statement to mean "I got more value for money on the carpet transaction".'
So he understood the sentence, which was a relief. The idea of moneysworth being a single expression was the subject I raised with David Crystal. He said the following;
'The only usage recognized in the OED is money's-worth from an earlier money-worth. But as there's no possible ambiguity, I'd expect to see moneysworth increase in frequency - and it's often used these days. As money is usually uncountable, I wouldn't expect to see monies'-worth.'
So that clarifies the wording of money's-worth somewhat, and will be the version I continue to use, if the remaining people I contacted find the sentence understandable.
Johnathan Norton responded with;
'Isn't "moneysworth" a single expression? Akin to "jobsworth"?
I understand the whole statement to mean "I got more value for money on the carpet transaction".'
So he understood the sentence, which was a relief. The idea of moneysworth being a single expression was the subject I raised with David Crystal. He said the following;
'The only usage recognized in the OED is money's-worth from an earlier money-worth. But as there's no possible ambiguity, I'd expect to see moneysworth increase in frequency - and it's often used these days. As money is usually uncountable, I wouldn't expect to see monies'-worth.'
So that clarifies the wording of money's-worth somewhat, and will be the version I continue to use, if the remaining people I contacted find the sentence understandable.
Tutorial
My tutorial with Elspeth on Thursday (4th December) was a much needed boost of confidence. Due to certain circumstances, I have struggled to attend a number of lessons this term – something that Elspeth noted herself. She did however, express her relief at the fact I had actually been spending my weeks writing – rather than not bothering.
After reading the first three chapters of the draft I’d provided (which consisted of the first three chapters which was ten pages and just shy of 5,000 words), Elspeth praised the ‘tight’ prose and plot, saying that she wanted to read more. This pleased me for a number of reasons, firstly because I was beginning to have serious doubts about my abilities (a doubt that keeps returning and has often made me reassess my position on the course; and contemplation whether my talent could justify the cost or time spent). This reassurance from Elspeth has lifted my spirits and encouraged me to carry on and really push forward with this.
Secondly, I was pleased with the way Elspeth had praised the prose for being ‘tight’ and ‘easy to read’ as it was something that I have strived for and continuously edited so that the piece wouldn’t become cluttered with unnecessary words or long sentences. Admittedly, Elspeth didn’t have many changes to suggest because she felt that I was heading in the right direction. This is what I needed reassurance on, because I didn’t want to carry on in the same direction if it wasn’t a positive or enjoyable read for anybody.
The comments that Elspeth did make were;
On the line, ‘Her face grew stony and puzzled before she suddenly looked embarrassed.’ As Elspeth noted, this is a rather clunky line, it does slow down the speed of the piece and we discussed possible changes – shortening it to two lines perhaps. Something like, ‘Her face was stony, puzzled. She suddenly looked embarrassed.’
The other line that Elspeth commented on was, ‘I got some more of my moneys worth of the carpet…’ To which she asked what it meant. I explained that it was a way of saying that Don paced the office, a different more interesting way. I like the line, but Elspeth thought that people might not understand what it is saying and that I should perhaps try it out on a few people, which I now intend to do.
These comments will be considered for the next draft, but for now I must move on with the story. Because I haven’t had the chance to sit down and write a great deal recently, I have decided that I will write at least 500 words a day. If, for any reason, I fail one day, I must make this up in bits on another day. Either way, I must reach 3500 words a week. Minimum. The short story exercises before kept me productive and motivated and I want to recapture that; and get back into the habit of writing regularly.
After reading the first three chapters of the draft I’d provided (which consisted of the first three chapters which was ten pages and just shy of 5,000 words), Elspeth praised the ‘tight’ prose and plot, saying that she wanted to read more. This pleased me for a number of reasons, firstly because I was beginning to have serious doubts about my abilities (a doubt that keeps returning and has often made me reassess my position on the course; and contemplation whether my talent could justify the cost or time spent). This reassurance from Elspeth has lifted my spirits and encouraged me to carry on and really push forward with this.
Secondly, I was pleased with the way Elspeth had praised the prose for being ‘tight’ and ‘easy to read’ as it was something that I have strived for and continuously edited so that the piece wouldn’t become cluttered with unnecessary words or long sentences. Admittedly, Elspeth didn’t have many changes to suggest because she felt that I was heading in the right direction. This is what I needed reassurance on, because I didn’t want to carry on in the same direction if it wasn’t a positive or enjoyable read for anybody.
The comments that Elspeth did make were;
On the line, ‘Her face grew stony and puzzled before she suddenly looked embarrassed.’ As Elspeth noted, this is a rather clunky line, it does slow down the speed of the piece and we discussed possible changes – shortening it to two lines perhaps. Something like, ‘Her face was stony, puzzled. She suddenly looked embarrassed.’
The other line that Elspeth commented on was, ‘I got some more of my moneys worth of the carpet…’ To which she asked what it meant. I explained that it was a way of saying that Don paced the office, a different more interesting way. I like the line, but Elspeth thought that people might not understand what it is saying and that I should perhaps try it out on a few people, which I now intend to do.
These comments will be considered for the next draft, but for now I must move on with the story. Because I haven’t had the chance to sit down and write a great deal recently, I have decided that I will write at least 500 words a day. If, for any reason, I fail one day, I must make this up in bits on another day. Either way, I must reach 3500 words a week. Minimum. The short story exercises before kept me productive and motivated and I want to recapture that; and get back into the habit of writing regularly.
Saturday, 22 November 2008
We did plenty
I have purposely not worked on Don Findy recently as every once in a while, with anything that I work on in length, I like to distance myself from the material. With a few of the recent drafts I have been looking at every word and sentence in too much detail and it became too familiar, so that I was likely to miss things and not edit properly. That’s not to say that Don Findy hasn’t been running through my mind, because it always does. The Wall is growing – as I’ve been adding to the plot all the time. I’m thinking that, a male character that I intend to introduce later – who was to become friends with Findy – will betray him to Toni which would both allow me to move the story along in a convincing way, as well as heightening Findy’s sense of isolation, which I might further echo with the death of the secretary which is only slightly referenced to.
I have now returned to my first three chapters of Findy and have, as I thought, found it easier to edit. Added to this, I have received feedback from my fellow writing friend Jason Kerry (see support work). His comments, added to my newly objective view, have allowed me to take the draft a step further.
It has also made me create a philosophy for the writing of my piece. I have previously mentioned James M. Cain’s The Postman Always Rings Twice (see support work) but it was only during this annotation of Jason’s comments that I realised how much his three words, ‘We did plenty’ actually mean to me. The words come at such a time in the novel that we don’t need any more than that. We know what Frank and Cora are up to because Cain’s prose leading to that point has already given us enough. The fact that this sentence is so short, and sharp, also allows the reader an element of freedom, as to the precise details, which creates an added excitement. Which is why I decided to print ‘We did plenty’ on a sheet of paper and add to The Wall. Less is often more, that is now my philosophy and I want to do it justice in the next rewrite of Don Findy.
What really motivated this decision was Jason’s comment on this piece from chapter three;
‘Sorry, I can’t,’ she said. ‘He’s here and he’s on the warpath. He might hear me and… Oh I don’t know what-'
‘I’ll take the case,’ I said before she became hysterical.
‘Thanks Don,’ she said quickly, ‘Goodbye.’
She put the phone down.
‘Goodbye,’ I said.
Jason suggested that I should change the last line to;
‘Goodbye,’ I said to nobody.
Which angered me. I feel that the ‘She put the phone down,’ line already suggested that he was talking to nobody and to add ‘to nobody’ just adds more words, making it clumsy. It adds nothing to the plot, story or situation.
I have now returned to my first three chapters of Findy and have, as I thought, found it easier to edit. Added to this, I have received feedback from my fellow writing friend Jason Kerry (see support work). His comments, added to my newly objective view, have allowed me to take the draft a step further.
It has also made me create a philosophy for the writing of my piece. I have previously mentioned James M. Cain’s The Postman Always Rings Twice (see support work) but it was only during this annotation of Jason’s comments that I realised how much his three words, ‘We did plenty’ actually mean to me. The words come at such a time in the novel that we don’t need any more than that. We know what Frank and Cora are up to because Cain’s prose leading to that point has already given us enough. The fact that this sentence is so short, and sharp, also allows the reader an element of freedom, as to the precise details, which creates an added excitement. Which is why I decided to print ‘We did plenty’ on a sheet of paper and add to The Wall. Less is often more, that is now my philosophy and I want to do it justice in the next rewrite of Don Findy.
What really motivated this decision was Jason’s comment on this piece from chapter three;
‘Sorry, I can’t,’ she said. ‘He’s here and he’s on the warpath. He might hear me and… Oh I don’t know what-'
‘I’ll take the case,’ I said before she became hysterical.
‘Thanks Don,’ she said quickly, ‘Goodbye.’
She put the phone down.
‘Goodbye,’ I said.
Jason suggested that I should change the last line to;
‘Goodbye,’ I said to nobody.
Which angered me. I feel that the ‘She put the phone down,’ line already suggested that he was talking to nobody and to add ‘to nobody’ just adds more words, making it clumsy. It adds nothing to the plot, story or situation.
Friday, 7 November 2008
Writing and time and so on
I’ve been thinking about writing in general recently. Your life experience and age definitely changes how you write – at least it does for me. That’s why I think that even though I’m writing to a fairly competent standard – I might not write something I am completely happy with until I’m much older. Hammett was 36 when The Maltese Falcon was published and Chandler’s The Big Sleep was released when he was 51.
I must admit to previously rushing pieces in the past. This hasn’t happened on the degree course but did happen elsewhere in an increasing effort to meet deadlines and so on. And whilst I have a deadline for the degree work I see this as a chance to get down some prose and ideas for the finished novel – which doesn’t have to have a deadline (though it would be handy if I completed it before my death). I have time to shape and hone and craft and mould and so on. Time time time.
One of the best examples I can give of my own progression as a writer came when I was in high school and my English class was asked to write a ghost story. I chose a different subject to everybody else – who on the whole chose to write about haunted mansions and the like. I did this because I hoped the teacher would appreciate reading something different – which I actually got marked higher for. But the point is that I used this for a chapter title, ‘[Character name] is expelled – for a second time.’ This was in a section that revolved around the main characters brother being killed by an internet stalker – shortly after the brother had been expelled from school. I thought the title was being clever but now I cringe at the terrible choice – not only does it give the plot away but it’s lazy and doesn’t even come close to subtle. You live and learn.
Wall update: you can see how it is expanding. I have added a new colour label. The dark pink ones are for characters; where I have included a number of characteristics and so on.
I must admit to previously rushing pieces in the past. This hasn’t happened on the degree course but did happen elsewhere in an increasing effort to meet deadlines and so on. And whilst I have a deadline for the degree work I see this as a chance to get down some prose and ideas for the finished novel – which doesn’t have to have a deadline (though it would be handy if I completed it before my death). I have time to shape and hone and craft and mould and so on. Time time time.
One of the best examples I can give of my own progression as a writer came when I was in high school and my English class was asked to write a ghost story. I chose a different subject to everybody else – who on the whole chose to write about haunted mansions and the like. I did this because I hoped the teacher would appreciate reading something different – which I actually got marked higher for. But the point is that I used this for a chapter title, ‘[Character name] is expelled – for a second time.’ This was in a section that revolved around the main characters brother being killed by an internet stalker – shortly after the brother had been expelled from school. I thought the title was being clever but now I cringe at the terrible choice – not only does it give the plot away but it’s lazy and doesn’t even come close to subtle. You live and learn.
Wall update: you can see how it is expanding. I have added a new colour label. The dark pink ones are for characters; where I have included a number of characteristics and so on.
Monday, 3 November 2008
Six words
It is believed that Ernest Hemingway once wrote a story in six words for a bet. It is also believed that he considered it his best work. Whether any of this is true, I don’t know. What I do know is that he wrote a story in six words;
‘For sale: baby shoes, never worn.’
And, after a little research, I came across the article ‘Very Short Stories’ (http://www.wired.com/wired/archive/14.11/sixwords.html) on Wired magazine’s website. In it they asked a number of writers to come up with short stories in six words.
Here are a few;
Failed SAT. Lost scholarship. Invented rocket.
- William Shatner
Vacuum collision. Orbits diverge. Farewell, love.
- David Brin
Automobile warranty expires. So does engine.
- Stan Lee
Machine. Unexpectedly, I’d invented a time
- Alan Moore
Longed for him. Got him. Shit.
- Margaret Atwood
With bloody hands, I say good-bye.
- Frank Miller
This made me think further about each sentence and how much can be achieved by being as specific as possible with each word. This again echoes what I’ve said about James M. Cain, Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett’s work. The style Camus perfected in The Outsider.
With this in mind, I have made several attempts myself;
‘Quiet inside. Fewer clothes. No dinner.’
‘Lies; all lived happily ever after.’
‘Girl meets boy. Girl leaves boy.’
‘Passed obstacles and lessons. The end.’
‘Learned lessons and matured. The end.’
‘I experienced an arc. The end.’
‘Some words lead to the end.’
‘For sale: baby shoes, never worn.’
And, after a little research, I came across the article ‘Very Short Stories’ (http://www.wired.com/wired/archive/14.11/sixwords.html) on Wired magazine’s website. In it they asked a number of writers to come up with short stories in six words.
Here are a few;
Failed SAT. Lost scholarship. Invented rocket.
- William Shatner
Vacuum collision. Orbits diverge. Farewell, love.
- David Brin
Automobile warranty expires. So does engine.
- Stan Lee
Machine. Unexpectedly, I’d invented a time
- Alan Moore
Longed for him. Got him. Shit.
- Margaret Atwood
With bloody hands, I say good-bye.
- Frank Miller
This made me think further about each sentence and how much can be achieved by being as specific as possible with each word. This again echoes what I’ve said about James M. Cain, Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett’s work. The style Camus perfected in The Outsider.
With this in mind, I have made several attempts myself;
‘Quiet inside. Fewer clothes. No dinner.’
‘Lies; all lived happily ever after.’
‘Girl meets boy. Girl leaves boy.’
‘Passed obstacles and lessons. The end.’
‘Learned lessons and matured. The end.’
‘I experienced an arc. The end.’
‘Some words lead to the end.’
Sunday, 2 November 2008
Notes and that
The longest piece I’ve written to date is a novella which ran at over 37,000 words, in the second draft. It’s still not finished but during the process of writing the first two drafts I covered my walls in notes I’d collected in the building up of the overall idea, the plot and characters. I also put alongside this a painting that had inspired some of the creation of the main female character and how see lived in the world I’d created.
It’s from this that last night I decided to start putting notes and ideas onto my wall to help me keep everything in order – and so that I can see them every time I sit down to write. For now, it’s only small but the idea is that it should grow and help me to piece the plot together. Seeing as private eye novels are known for their complications, keeping organised is sure to help.
Here are a couple of images of the current wall;
I have set up my own code so each colour is for a separate type of note.
Green is for basic scene names that I know I want to fit in at some point of the story.
Yellow is for lines, pretty much fully fleshed out as I’d like them in the final piece.
Pink is dialogue that I have ready to slip in.
Orange is the plot points that I have sorted – and the current order each will take place.
This is a method that a number of writers use (though I’m not sure about their colour coding – if they have any). Here are two examples. The first is a picture of Graham Linehan’s ideas for his television sitcom the IT Crowd. The second is a shot of Will Self’s writing room.
(Source: http://whythatsdelightful.wordpress.com/)
(Source: http://www.will-self.com/writing-room/)
It’s from this that last night I decided to start putting notes and ideas onto my wall to help me keep everything in order – and so that I can see them every time I sit down to write. For now, it’s only small but the idea is that it should grow and help me to piece the plot together. Seeing as private eye novels are known for their complications, keeping organised is sure to help.
Here are a couple of images of the current wall;
I have set up my own code so each colour is for a separate type of note.
Green is for basic scene names that I know I want to fit in at some point of the story.
Yellow is for lines, pretty much fully fleshed out as I’d like them in the final piece.
Pink is dialogue that I have ready to slip in.
Orange is the plot points that I have sorted – and the current order each will take place.
This is a method that a number of writers use (though I’m not sure about their colour coding – if they have any). Here are two examples. The first is a picture of Graham Linehan’s ideas for his television sitcom the IT Crowd. The second is a shot of Will Self’s writing room.
(Source: http://whythatsdelightful.wordpress.com/)
(Source: http://www.will-self.com/writing-room/)
Thursday, 30 October 2008
Fleshing it out
I have recently written the first two parts of the new Don Findy story. I've spent a whole day on each chapter making sure I am happy with the direction it his headed, the sentence structure, words etc etc. So, as Mark Billingham suggested, I have been rewriting as I go along. I have found this has helped me feel reassured when entering the next section.
Also, I have recently drawn a map of Don Findy's office, which has helped me with writing the actions taking place within it, and have written a short profile of his background - as discussed with Ashley Stokes in previous lessons (and as mentioned in the Nigel Watts book Writing A Novel).
I'm am finding the hardboiled style easy to work around because I have always admired the sparse prose of writers like Samuel Beckett, James M. Cain, James Ellroy, Dashiell Hammett and so on. Not using unnecessary words is also something that Elspeth helped to reinforce in lessons. Reading also helps with this, and seeing how Raymond Chandler injects comedy into his punchy lines is a benefit.
I've always liked writing comedy too, so seeing lines like '... when everybody was as comfortable as you can get in hard chairs,' (from The Long Good-bye) really inspire. Chandler was very good at advancing plot or description through humour.
My next task is to work closer on the rough plot I have now planned out, and to work on some more character biographies so I can feel as comfortable with the other characters as I do Don Findy.
Also, I have recently drawn a map of Don Findy's office, which has helped me with writing the actions taking place within it, and have written a short profile of his background - as discussed with Ashley Stokes in previous lessons (and as mentioned in the Nigel Watts book Writing A Novel).
I'm am finding the hardboiled style easy to work around because I have always admired the sparse prose of writers like Samuel Beckett, James M. Cain, James Ellroy, Dashiell Hammett and so on. Not using unnecessary words is also something that Elspeth helped to reinforce in lessons. Reading also helps with this, and seeing how Raymond Chandler injects comedy into his punchy lines is a benefit.
I've always liked writing comedy too, so seeing lines like '... when everybody was as comfortable as you can get in hard chairs,' (from The Long Good-bye) really inspire. Chandler was very good at advancing plot or description through humour.
My next task is to work closer on the rough plot I have now planned out, and to work on some more character biographies so I can feel as comfortable with the other characters as I do Don Findy.
Saturday, 25 October 2008
Switch
It's telling that I'm more into the first person narrative now because when I wrote the last two parts of the Danny King exercise it was in the first person and not third (and I've only just noticed). I've updated them now but it's created an awkward stiffness which I also noticed when adapting the original Don Findy piece.
I have now officially decided to stick with the first person narrative style for the rewrite of Don Findy as I think it suits the genre a lot better. Reading Chandler's The Long Good-bye has certainly helped sway my decision. It's hard to not be in awe of a writer that uses a description like this, 'He had short red hair and a face like a collapsed lung.'
I've also decided to stop the Danny King exercise as it has served it's purpose, making me write, and I'm no longer interested in it - and that clearly shows. If I hit anymore blocks I can always return to it. Plus there are a few ideas and bits of sentences I might reuse later.
I have now officially decided to stick with the first person narrative style for the rewrite of Don Findy as I think it suits the genre a lot better. Reading Chandler's The Long Good-bye has certainly helped sway my decision. It's hard to not be in awe of a writer that uses a description like this, 'He had short red hair and a face like a collapsed lung.'
I've also decided to stop the Danny King exercise as it has served it's purpose, making me write, and I'm no longer interested in it - and that clearly shows. If I hit anymore blocks I can always return to it. Plus there are a few ideas and bits of sentences I might reuse later.
Friday, 24 October 2008
Danny King's exercise - part five
As I've said, this exercise hasn't got my full attention like the final piece but it's making me write. And I'm finding that it forces me to come up with the next part and work around with that, and only that. Therefore it's extremely useful and fun.
Here is the latest part;
Findy walked out having struck an agreement. The suit would let Findy follow him about and tell his clients that Findy was an assistant. Findy could start tomorrow he said. This suit was unreal; he even made him a little badge with his name on. Well, Findy said he better use a false name, what with being a successful author and all. He asked Findy what he’d like and he said Mr. Carr would be fine. Tim Carr.
The following morning Findy moulded his reflection into a typical suit. He wore his funeral suit and slicked back his hair. He felt like he was made of cardboard and didn’t know how he’d get to the bank. He hoped it wouldn’t rain.
The walk was certainly interesting. They were his funeral shoes too and he’d only worn them twice; the last time being over a year ago. They cut at his heels and made walking require double the usual effort. He was early so he popped into Debenhams and asked about the latest manly fragrances. Apparently Hugo Boss was quite popular. He smelled a couple and picked one that smelled like the suit from the bank. He tested it all over his neck and rubbed a little behind his ears before heading over to the bank.
The suit was there, all bright eyed and looking different. He’d shaved and he was now wearing a red tie. The previous times Findy had seen him it had been dark blue. His shirt was clearly new too, it still had the square-ness from the cardboard that had kept in neat it the pack.
Here is the latest part;
Findy walked out having struck an agreement. The suit would let Findy follow him about and tell his clients that Findy was an assistant. Findy could start tomorrow he said. This suit was unreal; he even made him a little badge with his name on. Well, Findy said he better use a false name, what with being a successful author and all. He asked Findy what he’d like and he said Mr. Carr would be fine. Tim Carr.
The following morning Findy moulded his reflection into a typical suit. He wore his funeral suit and slicked back his hair. He felt like he was made of cardboard and didn’t know how he’d get to the bank. He hoped it wouldn’t rain.
The walk was certainly interesting. They were his funeral shoes too and he’d only worn them twice; the last time being over a year ago. They cut at his heels and made walking require double the usual effort. He was early so he popped into Debenhams and asked about the latest manly fragrances. Apparently Hugo Boss was quite popular. He smelled a couple and picked one that smelled like the suit from the bank. He tested it all over his neck and rubbed a little behind his ears before heading over to the bank.
The suit was there, all bright eyed and looking different. He’d shaved and he was now wearing a red tie. The previous times Findy had seen him it had been dark blue. His shirt was clearly new too, it still had the square-ness from the cardboard that had kept in neat it the pack.
Thursday, 23 October 2008
Rounding Findy
Experimenting with the first person narrative style again this morning, I think I'm getting to know him a bit more. He wants to be polite, he wants to be the gentleman like Philip Marlowe and Sam Spade and he wants to be honest. However, he's got a short temper (as I found out in the extract below) and he has financial worries which both mean that he struggles to act the perfect gent and he will happily lie or double cross to get some extra money. This first person style is certainly helping me round Findy a lot more, and is naturally making me add more detail. Here's a violent side of Findy that exploded by accident today;
Elizabeth looked worried when I got back to the office.
‘Where have you been? Why haven’t you been answering your phone?’
She got up from the desk. I ignored her and headed towards my office. She stood in my way and pushed a green folder into my chest.
‘What’s this?’
I opened it up and began thumbing through the pictures. Mrs. Burris and, and- and me. The dead Mrs. Burris. There I was leaning over her body. There were close ups of her battered and bruised body, and a clock on the kitchen wall. The pictures must have been taken from the side window, how hadn’t I noticed anything?
‘Where’d you get these?’
‘They were laying on the mat when I went to lunch.’
‘And you didn’t see anybody?’
‘No.’
‘What time did you go to lunch?’
‘One, as usual,’ she said twisting a lock of her hair and looking at the floor.
‘What time did you go to lunch?’
‘Okay, half past twelve. I was hungry, I still only had an hour. I didn’t look at the folder until I got back.’
I threw the file at the wall and thought about kicking my office door. I kicked my office door. That didn’t help so I tried again. It swung loose at the top. I kept kicking until the door fell into my office.
I turned back to Elizabeth who was watching me carefully.
I rubbed my hands through my hair and wished the door was still standing so I could kick it some more. I walked into my office and stamped on it a few times. I returned to Elizabeth.
‘Had any phone calls or anything?’ I asked straightening my tie.
‘Yeah, hang on she said picking up a note from her desk. Kim phoned earlier. He asked if you wanted your bin bag back. What’s that, a code?’
‘Yes, it’s a code,’ I said dryly. ‘Nothing else?’
Elizabeth looked worried when I got back to the office.
‘Where have you been? Why haven’t you been answering your phone?’
She got up from the desk. I ignored her and headed towards my office. She stood in my way and pushed a green folder into my chest.
‘What’s this?’
I opened it up and began thumbing through the pictures. Mrs. Burris and, and- and me. The dead Mrs. Burris. There I was leaning over her body. There were close ups of her battered and bruised body, and a clock on the kitchen wall. The pictures must have been taken from the side window, how hadn’t I noticed anything?
‘Where’d you get these?’
‘They were laying on the mat when I went to lunch.’
‘And you didn’t see anybody?’
‘No.’
‘What time did you go to lunch?’
‘One, as usual,’ she said twisting a lock of her hair and looking at the floor.
‘What time did you go to lunch?’
‘Okay, half past twelve. I was hungry, I still only had an hour. I didn’t look at the folder until I got back.’
I threw the file at the wall and thought about kicking my office door. I kicked my office door. That didn’t help so I tried again. It swung loose at the top. I kept kicking until the door fell into my office.
I turned back to Elizabeth who was watching me carefully.
I rubbed my hands through my hair and wished the door was still standing so I could kick it some more. I walked into my office and stamped on it a few times. I returned to Elizabeth.
‘Had any phone calls or anything?’ I asked straightening my tie.
‘Yeah, hang on she said picking up a note from her desk. Kim phoned earlier. He asked if you wanted your bin bag back. What’s that, a code?’
‘Yes, it’s a code,’ I said dryly. ‘Nothing else?’
Wednesday, 22 October 2008
Danny King's exercise - part four
Here is the fourth part of the writing exercise. I'm finding it useful, as it gets me thinking quickly and solely on one piece of the jigsaw each time. Which means I can constantly run the next bit over and over until I find one that works, having no idea what I'll do with it the following day.
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The following day the same suit with the slicked back hair went to collect Findy. He didn’t smile and walked some distance ahead as Findy followed him into a back room.
On the wall was a picture of a perfectly green hill and a perfectly blue sky. The frame was black and shiny, the glass perfectly clean.
‘So Mr. Bus, what can I do for you?’
It was such a childish name he’d made up, he couldn’t believe the suit hadn’t smirked at least.
‘A bit or research really,’ Findy started, ‘I’m an author you see. And I’m thinking about a story in a bank and want a sort of model for the main character.’
The suit grinned and flushed with pride.
‘Right.’
‘And, I was just wondering if I could shadow you or something, you know, really get to know you and your job.’
The suit fiddled about with a pen on the desk and thought for a moment.
‘Why me? Why this bank?
‘Well, it’s the nearest bank to me and I thought I’d try here first. Of course, I could always try another.’
Findy started to get out of the chair.
‘Wait. Maybe we could work something out.’
Findy was ready with the big guns.
‘The thing is, there’s a film company interested in the idea and I got to get moving on this thing.’
‘A film huh?’
‘Yeah, that’s right. It will be my first film.’
‘Definitely,’ the suit said. ‘Definitely.’
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The following day the same suit with the slicked back hair went to collect Findy. He didn’t smile and walked some distance ahead as Findy followed him into a back room.
On the wall was a picture of a perfectly green hill and a perfectly blue sky. The frame was black and shiny, the glass perfectly clean.
‘So Mr. Bus, what can I do for you?’
It was such a childish name he’d made up, he couldn’t believe the suit hadn’t smirked at least.
‘A bit or research really,’ Findy started, ‘I’m an author you see. And I’m thinking about a story in a bank and want a sort of model for the main character.’
The suit grinned and flushed with pride.
‘Right.’
‘And, I was just wondering if I could shadow you or something, you know, really get to know you and your job.’
The suit fiddled about with a pen on the desk and thought for a moment.
‘Why me? Why this bank?
‘Well, it’s the nearest bank to me and I thought I’d try here first. Of course, I could always try another.’
Findy started to get out of the chair.
‘Wait. Maybe we could work something out.’
Findy was ready with the big guns.
‘The thing is, there’s a film company interested in the idea and I got to get moving on this thing.’
‘A film huh?’
‘Yeah, that’s right. It will be my first film.’
‘Definitely,’ the suit said. ‘Definitely.’
First person narrative style
This morning I started writing the beginning of Don Findy as a first person narrative. I intend to adapt the first twenty pages in order, as that’s what I have in the third person. I won’t make a final decision of which narrative style I will choose for the final piece until I have finished these twenty pages and examined which style I think gives the reader more. I wont post the entire version of both styles here but will compare extracts that highlight some of the major differences.
So far I've rewritten the first thirteen pages (the entire first chapter). At the moment I feel that simply rewriting what I already have isn't the best idea. So I might just use the basic outline and start from scratch. I will wait until I've done all twenty pages, and had a break of a day or so, before deciding though; just to check if that's still how I feel.
Below are a couple of extracts to show how similar the pieces are appearing at the moment.
First person style;
I could smell pathetic as I opened my office door. As I entered I could see the back of a small head covered in scruffy, just out of bed hair, watching my ant farm. The shoulders connected to the neck that supported this head were scrawny and a wet grey patch covered most of back of the t-shirt this person was wearing.
Third person style;
Don Findy could smell pathetic as he pushed the door of his office open. He could see the back of a small head covered in scruffy, just out of bed hair watching his ant farm. The shoulders connected to the neck that supported this head were scrawny. A wet grey patch covered most of the t-shirt this person had on their back.
So far I've rewritten the first thirteen pages (the entire first chapter). At the moment I feel that simply rewriting what I already have isn't the best idea. So I might just use the basic outline and start from scratch. I will wait until I've done all twenty pages, and had a break of a day or so, before deciding though; just to check if that's still how I feel.
Below are a couple of extracts to show how similar the pieces are appearing at the moment.
First person style;
I could smell pathetic as I opened my office door. As I entered I could see the back of a small head covered in scruffy, just out of bed hair, watching my ant farm. The shoulders connected to the neck that supported this head were scrawny and a wet grey patch covered most of back of the t-shirt this person was wearing.
Third person style;
Don Findy could smell pathetic as he pushed the door of his office open. He could see the back of a small head covered in scruffy, just out of bed hair watching his ant farm. The shoulders connected to the neck that supported this head were scrawny. A wet grey patch covered most of the t-shirt this person had on their back.
Tuesday, 21 October 2008
Danny King's exercise - part three
Here is the next part of the story. And whilst I still don't know where it's going I can now tell that the real Don Findy stuff (as in my previous post when he's in the pub) is the stuff I want to write and continue with as my interest in this short exercise has been lost somewhat; but for me, that's a good thing as I care about the novel more.
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The following day, Findy followed Katrina from her house to the supermarket to the corner shop and back home, from home back to the bank on the Cornhill. He went in shortly after her and queued up behind her. When she got to the front of the queue she said to the woman behind the counter, ‘I’m here to see the bank manager.’ After giving her name and saying what time the appointment was for, the woman behind a counter picked up a phone, pressed a button and began speaking something Findy couldn’t hear.
Shortly after a tall suit came through one of the back doors. The light shone off his slicked back hair. He smiled at Katrina shook her hand and took her out to the back.
‘I said can I help?’ asked the woman behind the counter.
‘Oh, sorry no,’ said Findy walking outside.
He sat on the opposite side of the road, on a wall near a garage with only the wind and scattered rubbish for company.
Several suits went in and out of the bank; it was their lunch hour of course. She didn’t appear again for forty minutes and when she did she headed in the direction of home. Findy didn’t bother following her but instead went back into the bank. When he got to the front he told the woman that he’d like to see the bank manager. She said he’d have to make an appointment, which he did – for the next day.
---------------------
The following day, Findy followed Katrina from her house to the supermarket to the corner shop and back home, from home back to the bank on the Cornhill. He went in shortly after her and queued up behind her. When she got to the front of the queue she said to the woman behind the counter, ‘I’m here to see the bank manager.’ After giving her name and saying what time the appointment was for, the woman behind a counter picked up a phone, pressed a button and began speaking something Findy couldn’t hear.
Shortly after a tall suit came through one of the back doors. The light shone off his slicked back hair. He smiled at Katrina shook her hand and took her out to the back.
‘I said can I help?’ asked the woman behind the counter.
‘Oh, sorry no,’ said Findy walking outside.
He sat on the opposite side of the road, on a wall near a garage with only the wind and scattered rubbish for company.
Several suits went in and out of the bank; it was their lunch hour of course. She didn’t appear again for forty minutes and when she did she headed in the direction of home. Findy didn’t bother following her but instead went back into the bank. When he got to the front he told the woman that he’d like to see the bank manager. She said he’d have to make an appointment, which he did – for the next day.
Writing again...
Finally, I feel back in the mood for writing. Yesterday, after being on several trains and buses I got the chance to really sink in to Raymond Chandler's The Long Good-bye. And it really motivated me to work on Don Findy. Chandler's eye and attention to detail is one of the highest I've ever experienced. It's also made me reconsider writing Don Findy as a third person narrative. I have been experimenting with the first person and below are my results. I aim to write for at least an hour every day from midday (or thereabouts).
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As soon as I walked through the battered door I could feel their eyes like floodlights being turned on for an evening performance. Knowing at least twelve people were watching me created another layer for me to walk through, making it harder to reach the bar. I slung my coat over a stool, and propped against the bar, putting my hat in front of me.
A grubby bar man in a thick woollen red and grey striped sweater waddled towards me. He had thinning grey hair and a thick grey beard. He looked through me without speaking.
‘Double Jameson please,’ I said.
He picked up a brandy glass from a shelf behind the bar and poured himself a drink. He stopped and sipped as if I hadn’t spoken. He placed the glass to one side and picked up a whisky glass. He scooped some ice into it.
‘No ice thanks,’ I called over.
‘Excuse me?’ he grunted.
‘Just a double Jameson please. No ice, no nothing.’
He gave me a stare that a high school kid might give another kid he’s jealous of, on sports day. He tipped the ice back and poured me my drink.
‘That wasn’t so hard, was it?’ I said when I was clutching the drink, at least now he couldn’t do anything to it.
He grunted before saying it would cost me a fiver.
I pulled out a purple note with the Queen’s head on it which made him flinch slightly. He returned with my fifteen change and slammed it in front of me even though I had my hand held out.
I took a sip from the water speckled glass and appreciated the warmth. I looked around.
Tucked away in the corner, to my left, was a fat man playing darts with another fat man. They were coughing for twenty people by the sounds of it. Behind me, and slightly to the left, was a youngster in a baseball cap and tracksuit playing a fruit machine or rather, from the words coming out of his mouth, the fruit machine was playing him. Between button bashing he would sip from the glass of cider he had beside him. To my right were three men sitting around a table, all at the same side, so they could see a small screen that was showing some football match or other. The three men had the same beer in the same type of glass. Their jokes were mainly themed around sex and how much they could drink.
There were more men scattered around but I couldn’t see a single female in the place. There was a pillar that partly obscured my view of the right side of the bar so I couldn’t see who was sitting along there.
The time was now coming up to ten and I was waiting around any later than five past. I’d finish my drink and go to the toilet opposite, just in case she was sitting along the right side of the bar. If not, home.
There was a thump behind me and I shifted to see the youngster swearing at the machine.
‘Fucking cunt,’ he observed.
Obviously, a late learner.
I turned back to the bar as he turned to move away from the machine. He struggled into the seat beside me and drank the rest of his drink. I watched him from the corner of my eye as he looked me up and down. He paused before tapping me on the shoulder. I looked at him and could smell the booze before he even began talking.
‘Ex…Ex-cuse mesir, could you possibly lend me some money for another drink?’
He was talking in the way that a lot of young people do when they’ve had a few – loudly. Not on purpose or because he was getting aggressive, it just happened.
‘I can’t lend it to you, as I’m not likely to see you again,’ I said, which caused him to frown.
He spread his hands onto the bar and buried his head into them.
‘But I’ll happily buy you a drink,’ I said.
He cranked his head up and smiled at me.
‘You sir,’ he began, ‘are a true gent and I’d just like to say-’
‘All right, shut up. Just get the barman over here will you?’
He whistled, ripping a hole through my head. Nobody looked at him except the barman who came waddling over wearing an annoyed expression.
‘Hello, Tony,’ said the youngster, ‘Tony, Tony, how are you me old mate?’
‘What do you want Cory?’ mumbled the unimpressed barman.
‘I want,’ he shouted before slumping back into his hands.
‘The same again,’ I said.
The barman turned slowly to show me his angry face.
‘I’m serving this gentleman.’
‘And, I’m ordering for him.’
Cory stuck his hand up limply as if to signal it were true.
The barman walked to a chiller behind him, pulled out a bottle of Magner’s and opened it with a bottle opener he had attached to his patchy brown trousers. He walked back to Cory and was about to start pouring the drink into the glass beside him.
‘A fresh glass please,’ I said.
He made an ooh noise in that sort of la-di-dah kind of way before shuffling off to do what he was told. He slammed the fresh drink onto the bar causing some to flow over and down the sides of the glass. Cory shot up and smiled at the drink. I took the bottle from the bar and smiled at the barman as I emptied the last few drops into the glass.
The barman tried not to look me in the eyes as he looked up from the till and told me I owed him £2.95. I waited until he walked back to me to collect my money before telling him I’d like the same again. He mumbled something before saying, ‘You’ve still got yours there.’
I shot the whiskey and placed the empty glass on the bar. He picked it up and, as he did, I said, ‘A fresh glass please.’ He stopped on his way to the whiskey, as if he wanted to say something. He didn’t. He poured the whiskey and placed it just out of my reach on the bar.
‘Seven ninety five.’
I took a five pound note from my pocket and dug at the bottom for a handful of change. I counted out two pound coins, a fifty pence piece, a twenty, a ten, two fives, two two’s and a one. I then placed them into his hand, making sure most of the coins missed, spilling to the floor.
‘You wanker,’ he screamed.
I could feel people’s eyes chipping away at my back. I smirked at the barman. Cory laughed before sipping his drink.
The barman walked around to the front of the bar and grabbed Cory off his stool forcing him to the floor.
‘You’ve had a fucking nuff,’ he spat and tried to pull Cory to his feet - he moved like an unset jelly.
I spun off the stool and stood up sizing the barman. His size was short and round, mainly built of fat.
‘You just served him that drink and he’s going to drink it. Let go of his hood.’
‘Or what?’ said the barman tugging at the hood.
‘Didn’t your mother ever tell you to look after your teeth,’ I said.
‘Is that a threat?’ he said tugging at the hood as Cory tried to get back into his chair.
I grabbed the barman’s hand and pulled it from the hood.
‘You don’t come into my pub ordering me about.’
‘That’s your job, to be ordered.’
He grew angrier but didn’t want to react. He couldn’t move his wrist. One of the football three had clocked what was going on and had signalled to the other two. They stood up and made their way over. That short walk seemed to take them ages and I couldn’t decide whether to let go of the barman’s wrist or keep hold of it. I kept hold of it.
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I'm not sure how, or if, it will fit into the final piece I just had the idea to write about Don Findy waiting for someone (in this case it's Toni - Kim's wife). I see it as a positive exercise to keep me writing and probing ideas of my character and his surroundings.
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As soon as I walked through the battered door I could feel their eyes like floodlights being turned on for an evening performance. Knowing at least twelve people were watching me created another layer for me to walk through, making it harder to reach the bar. I slung my coat over a stool, and propped against the bar, putting my hat in front of me.
A grubby bar man in a thick woollen red and grey striped sweater waddled towards me. He had thinning grey hair and a thick grey beard. He looked through me without speaking.
‘Double Jameson please,’ I said.
He picked up a brandy glass from a shelf behind the bar and poured himself a drink. He stopped and sipped as if I hadn’t spoken. He placed the glass to one side and picked up a whisky glass. He scooped some ice into it.
‘No ice thanks,’ I called over.
‘Excuse me?’ he grunted.
‘Just a double Jameson please. No ice, no nothing.’
He gave me a stare that a high school kid might give another kid he’s jealous of, on sports day. He tipped the ice back and poured me my drink.
‘That wasn’t so hard, was it?’ I said when I was clutching the drink, at least now he couldn’t do anything to it.
He grunted before saying it would cost me a fiver.
I pulled out a purple note with the Queen’s head on it which made him flinch slightly. He returned with my fifteen change and slammed it in front of me even though I had my hand held out.
I took a sip from the water speckled glass and appreciated the warmth. I looked around.
Tucked away in the corner, to my left, was a fat man playing darts with another fat man. They were coughing for twenty people by the sounds of it. Behind me, and slightly to the left, was a youngster in a baseball cap and tracksuit playing a fruit machine or rather, from the words coming out of his mouth, the fruit machine was playing him. Between button bashing he would sip from the glass of cider he had beside him. To my right were three men sitting around a table, all at the same side, so they could see a small screen that was showing some football match or other. The three men had the same beer in the same type of glass. Their jokes were mainly themed around sex and how much they could drink.
There were more men scattered around but I couldn’t see a single female in the place. There was a pillar that partly obscured my view of the right side of the bar so I couldn’t see who was sitting along there.
The time was now coming up to ten and I was waiting around any later than five past. I’d finish my drink and go to the toilet opposite, just in case she was sitting along the right side of the bar. If not, home.
There was a thump behind me and I shifted to see the youngster swearing at the machine.
‘Fucking cunt,’ he observed.
Obviously, a late learner.
I turned back to the bar as he turned to move away from the machine. He struggled into the seat beside me and drank the rest of his drink. I watched him from the corner of my eye as he looked me up and down. He paused before tapping me on the shoulder. I looked at him and could smell the booze before he even began talking.
‘Ex…Ex-cuse mesir, could you possibly lend me some money for another drink?’
He was talking in the way that a lot of young people do when they’ve had a few – loudly. Not on purpose or because he was getting aggressive, it just happened.
‘I can’t lend it to you, as I’m not likely to see you again,’ I said, which caused him to frown.
He spread his hands onto the bar and buried his head into them.
‘But I’ll happily buy you a drink,’ I said.
He cranked his head up and smiled at me.
‘You sir,’ he began, ‘are a true gent and I’d just like to say-’
‘All right, shut up. Just get the barman over here will you?’
He whistled, ripping a hole through my head. Nobody looked at him except the barman who came waddling over wearing an annoyed expression.
‘Hello, Tony,’ said the youngster, ‘Tony, Tony, how are you me old mate?’
‘What do you want Cory?’ mumbled the unimpressed barman.
‘I want,’ he shouted before slumping back into his hands.
‘The same again,’ I said.
The barman turned slowly to show me his angry face.
‘I’m serving this gentleman.’
‘And, I’m ordering for him.’
Cory stuck his hand up limply as if to signal it were true.
The barman walked to a chiller behind him, pulled out a bottle of Magner’s and opened it with a bottle opener he had attached to his patchy brown trousers. He walked back to Cory and was about to start pouring the drink into the glass beside him.
‘A fresh glass please,’ I said.
He made an ooh noise in that sort of la-di-dah kind of way before shuffling off to do what he was told. He slammed the fresh drink onto the bar causing some to flow over and down the sides of the glass. Cory shot up and smiled at the drink. I took the bottle from the bar and smiled at the barman as I emptied the last few drops into the glass.
The barman tried not to look me in the eyes as he looked up from the till and told me I owed him £2.95. I waited until he walked back to me to collect my money before telling him I’d like the same again. He mumbled something before saying, ‘You’ve still got yours there.’
I shot the whiskey and placed the empty glass on the bar. He picked it up and, as he did, I said, ‘A fresh glass please.’ He stopped on his way to the whiskey, as if he wanted to say something. He didn’t. He poured the whiskey and placed it just out of my reach on the bar.
‘Seven ninety five.’
I took a five pound note from my pocket and dug at the bottom for a handful of change. I counted out two pound coins, a fifty pence piece, a twenty, a ten, two fives, two two’s and a one. I then placed them into his hand, making sure most of the coins missed, spilling to the floor.
‘You wanker,’ he screamed.
I could feel people’s eyes chipping away at my back. I smirked at the barman. Cory laughed before sipping his drink.
The barman walked around to the front of the bar and grabbed Cory off his stool forcing him to the floor.
‘You’ve had a fucking nuff,’ he spat and tried to pull Cory to his feet - he moved like an unset jelly.
I spun off the stool and stood up sizing the barman. His size was short and round, mainly built of fat.
‘You just served him that drink and he’s going to drink it. Let go of his hood.’
‘Or what?’ said the barman tugging at the hood.
‘Didn’t your mother ever tell you to look after your teeth,’ I said.
‘Is that a threat?’ he said tugging at the hood as Cory tried to get back into his chair.
I grabbed the barman’s hand and pulled it from the hood.
‘You don’t come into my pub ordering me about.’
‘That’s your job, to be ordered.’
He grew angrier but didn’t want to react. He couldn’t move his wrist. One of the football three had clocked what was going on and had signalled to the other two. They stood up and made their way over. That short walk seemed to take them ages and I couldn’t decide whether to let go of the barman’s wrist or keep hold of it. I kept hold of it.
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I'm not sure how, or if, it will fit into the final piece I just had the idea to write about Don Findy waiting for someone (in this case it's Toni - Kim's wife). I see it as a positive exercise to keep me writing and probing ideas of my character and his surroundings.
Monday, 20 October 2008
Danny King's exercise - part two
Here are today's words. Slightly over 250 but I'm writing and that's what counts;
Somebody’s trying to be clever, he thought, flipping through black and white picture after picture. They appeared to be meaningless, so why send them to him? One contained a grainy picture of Brownes Menswear store, another was of a cracked paving slab - these types of image made up the set of 18. He sipped some more whisky before deciding to drop the photographs to the floor.
He turned his thoughts to Jack Limme. Why had he left in such a hurry, and why were the police hanging around his flat? He had already paid a huge amount, so Findy would carry on the case regardless, but if expenses ran over he’d either have to curb his involvement in the case or work from his own pocket until Jack turned up, if Jack turned up. Following Katrina was too much fun; the type of fun that was worth getting into debt for. It was how she dressed.
Jack came in on the 16th and he started following Katrina on the 18th. He catches her with old big nose on the 20th and fist face later that afternoon. Other than that, she made almost daily visits to the bank, the same bank – on the Cornhill. Now nothing happened with old big nose, as they were in Christchurch Park throwing crumbs to the ducks. Fist face pulled the curtains on his window so who knows what was going on there? Presumably sex or he’s a vampire. But no real evidence of foul play. The next step is to get inside the bank and listen.
Somebody’s trying to be clever, he thought, flipping through black and white picture after picture. They appeared to be meaningless, so why send them to him? One contained a grainy picture of Brownes Menswear store, another was of a cracked paving slab - these types of image made up the set of 18. He sipped some more whisky before deciding to drop the photographs to the floor.
He turned his thoughts to Jack Limme. Why had he left in such a hurry, and why were the police hanging around his flat? He had already paid a huge amount, so Findy would carry on the case regardless, but if expenses ran over he’d either have to curb his involvement in the case or work from his own pocket until Jack turned up, if Jack turned up. Following Katrina was too much fun; the type of fun that was worth getting into debt for. It was how she dressed.
Jack came in on the 16th and he started following Katrina on the 18th. He catches her with old big nose on the 20th and fist face later that afternoon. Other than that, she made almost daily visits to the bank, the same bank – on the Cornhill. Now nothing happened with old big nose, as they were in Christchurch Park throwing crumbs to the ducks. Fist face pulled the curtains on his window so who knows what was going on there? Presumably sex or he’s a vampire. But no real evidence of foul play. The next step is to get inside the bank and listen.
Sunday, 19 October 2008
Danny King's exercise - part one
Okay, I started before 3 O'Clock but that's a good thing because I wanted to start writing something. I was annoyed at some local building work going on so that inspired the start and also allowed me to comment on the amount of housing development happening in the town. It will probably go through a fair amount of tweaking - but all that will come once the story is completed. For now, it's just getting words down.
The first 250 words are;
The sounds of workers working is what caused Don Findy to stop working. He placed a collection of photographs onto the table, picked up his glass of whisky, and moved over to the window. A group of men were scattered around the development site, all wearing the same; a white shirt and blue jeans. How could they tell who was who? A decent little pub that used to be. It was now set for transformation into ‘luxury’ apartments with a river view. Whether getting the chance to look at crisp packets swimming or sunken shopping trolleys was a positive selling point was open to debate.
The noise that had been piercing his thoughts had stopped and Findy struggled to see where it may have come from; there was no mechanical saw or drill or anything of the kind. He moved away from the window and back into his chair. He started thinking about the photographs in front of him when the noise from outside started up again. He grabbed the photographs and slouched downstairs.
Not having the energy to go upstairs again, to get the whisky he had left on the table, he opened a bottle from the side cabinet before sinking into his dilapidated chair. Findy deliberately had uncomfortable chairs so that he wouldn’t fall asleep or relax too much when trying to work at home. It didn’t always work, which partly explains the various lumps and impressed contours of his back. He took a sip from the glass.
The first 250 words are;
The sounds of workers working is what caused Don Findy to stop working. He placed a collection of photographs onto the table, picked up his glass of whisky, and moved over to the window. A group of men were scattered around the development site, all wearing the same; a white shirt and blue jeans. How could they tell who was who? A decent little pub that used to be. It was now set for transformation into ‘luxury’ apartments with a river view. Whether getting the chance to look at crisp packets swimming or sunken shopping trolleys was a positive selling point was open to debate.
The noise that had been piercing his thoughts had stopped and Findy struggled to see where it may have come from; there was no mechanical saw or drill or anything of the kind. He moved away from the window and back into his chair. He started thinking about the photographs in front of him when the noise from outside started up again. He grabbed the photographs and slouched downstairs.
Not having the energy to go upstairs again, to get the whisky he had left on the table, he opened a bottle from the side cabinet before sinking into his dilapidated chair. Findy deliberately had uncomfortable chairs so that he wouldn’t fall asleep or relax too much when trying to work at home. It didn’t always work, which partly explains the various lumps and impressed contours of his back. He took a sip from the glass.
Regularity
On the subject of writing patterns and motivation the crime/comedy author Malcolm Pryce had this to add, yesterday evening;
'I think you will find it a lot easier if you disabuse yourself of the notion that there is one single answer to the question. Some authors spend the whole day at the keyboard, keeping basically office hours. Others are more like Chandler writing for three or four hours, some in the morning, some at night, some in the middle of the night. Trollope I believe wrote from 6am to noon every day, even when terribly ill. Others do a set amount of words, some a thousand, some more. Grahame Greene, I think, did a thousand words and would stop in mid-sentence when he reached the magic number. As for me, I always write first thing in the morning - work first, wash later - and, at the beginning of a novel, will do about two to three hours. Later in the process this might rise to four or five. The only correct routine is the one which works, but regularity is the key, I think.'
I had recently come to the conclusion that working in a regular pattern would help, and this is of course something I have proposed to start. The problem of real life getting in the way is something I'll have to overcome or work around. For now though, I will keep those times as allocated in the previous post so I can work on a short piece.
'I think you will find it a lot easier if you disabuse yourself of the notion that there is one single answer to the question. Some authors spend the whole day at the keyboard, keeping basically office hours. Others are more like Chandler writing for three or four hours, some in the morning, some at night, some in the middle of the night. Trollope I believe wrote from 6am to noon every day, even when terribly ill. Others do a set amount of words, some a thousand, some more. Grahame Greene, I think, did a thousand words and would stop in mid-sentence when he reached the magic number. As for me, I always write first thing in the morning - work first, wash later - and, at the beginning of a novel, will do about two to three hours. Later in the process this might rise to four or five. The only correct routine is the one which works, but regularity is the key, I think.'
I had recently come to the conclusion that working in a regular pattern would help, and this is of course something I have proposed to start. The problem of real life getting in the way is something I'll have to overcome or work around. For now though, I will keep those times as allocated in the previous post so I can work on a short piece.
Saturday, 18 October 2008
More motivation
Having spent a few days banging my head against walls and things I’ve been thinking a bit more about motivation and producing some work. I’ve recently been in touch with a couple of published authors who offered me some advice on keeping productive and finding ways to write or overcome a dry period.
Best selling crime writer Mark Billingham had this to say;
‘I'm committed to publishing a book every year and to be honest I'm happy with that. All the writers I respect do the same - you pretty much have to. I don't have a daily word target I stick to (although I'm always happy if I hit 1000) but I get it done. I have a good inbuilt calendar which tells me when I'm able to take a day away from writing, and to be honest, those days are often when the best work is done, albeit in my head. So, I don't write every day, but the book is always with me. Yes, of course it's easy to be distracted, but once a deadline starts to loom you tend to get focused again. I can't honestly say I always love sitting down to write, but on good days it's fantastic. I don't write at set times, though I find it easier at night, once kids are in bed and the house is quiet - and it's easier to come up with this stuff when there's nothing on the other side of the window to distract me.
'Hope some of that helps a little. Yes, a daily target can't hurt, but don't beat yourself up. Better 500 good words than 2000 duff ones. And re-write as you go along, it works for me.’
The idea of producing a book a year is obviously automatically setting yourself a deadline and another crime writer to offer advice was Danny King who said;
‘It's fine to give up. Don't feel bad about it. It's good to go down the pub. It's nice to hang out with mates and you shouldn't feel bad about spending your free time doing things you enjoy rather than trying to write. Because at the end of the day, no one's waiting for you to write this stuff. You're not keeping any publishers waiting and no one's chewing on their fingernails hoping you'll fulfil your own potential. You don't have to be a writer. You can do anything you want with your life. There are a thousand and one careers out there for you to pursue and if you never write another word as long as you live if you don't want to. The only person who's feeling bad about it is you. The world's not mourning over what it's missing, so do whatever you like. Because the only person who wants you to be a writer is currently you. So if you don't want to do it, don't do it. It's really okay.
'If however, you do want to do it, then stop talking about it and start doing it. Because I'm sorry to say that it's all down to you. Nobody else can help you.’
Which also raises some good points and does serve well, although of course, I do have deadlines to meet and tutors waiting to mark my work. Maybe this is one of the reasons I am becoming stuck; because I feel like I have to write. I’ve always thought that I’ve written because I had something to say or I had a need within me.
Danny goes on, ‘When most writers are interviewed and asked why they write, the answer they give is the same as you just gave below [in an email response]; because they feel they have to. They are compelled to. That it’s not something specific they need to get off their chest, just a need to write in itself… It's not about the money or the notoriety or the kudos, but because it's serving a need inside you. If you already feel this way then I suspect you'll be writing until the day you drop no matter what I or anyone else says.’
Obviously I knew professional writers would have experienced the same problems but it’s good to hear it from them and how they deal with it.
But I also have a feeling that I might not have anything left to say, that I’ve said everything I’ve wanted to, and now I simply have nothing to say because I’ve said it all, maybe some more life experience will help.
Luckily Danny thinks, ‘…slumps come and go. Like I said, I've been through them myself, particularly in my twenties, so don't beat yourself up over it. Just work through it and you'll shift the blockage.’
Echoing what Mark said, ‘Better 500 good words than 2000 duff ones,’ is an exercise that Danny suggested;
‘*Write a short story of at least 2,000 words. But don't write it all in one go.
*Write just 200 (for example) words a day. No more, no less. (or whatever wordage you feel comfortable with, but you must do the same each day)
*Write them in one hour sittings (or less – no more). But write every day, at a regular time.
*You don't have to know the whole story when you come to write it, just concentrate on the 200 hundred words you have in front of you, then worry about tomorrow's 200 words tomorrow.
* Give yourself a treat when you finish your sessions, either a beer or an hour of Raymond Chandler. Whatever.’
So that is what I propose to do. Starting from tomorrow I will write 250 words of a short story at 3PM, for an hour, and will continue to write another 250 words each day at 3PM until I reach 2000 words. This will allow me to concentrate solely on those few words within that hour as well as keeping me active.
Aside from that, I did manage to write the opening of a short story on Wednesday (15th). And whilst I had no idea how it would develop when I started, I was enjoying working with a few basic characters and ideas because they soon expanded and had me thinking. Whenever I’m working on a piece of writing, it plays at the back of my head when I’m not writing, it’s like what Mark said, ‘when I'm able to take a day away from writing, and to be honest, those days are often when the best work is done, albeit in my head. So, I don't write every day, but the book is always with me.’ It’s certainly true of me; Don Findy is always there. Likewise, this short story has been running through my mind too, even though I had no major plans for it. It’s quite possible I will go back to it and maybe try to finish it.
I must admit I did have trouble starting this short story so, as an exercise to force me into starting something, I opened the nearest detective book I had to hand, which was Chandler’s The Long Good-bye, and started my short piece in a similar way to which that starts; just by looking at the first sentence. The opening line of The Long Good-bye’ is, ‘The first time I laid eyes on Terry Lennox he was drunk in a Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith outside the terrace of The Dancers.’ You’ll notice how my story uses this as inspiration to get started.
Before I post the start of the story, I would like to say that I found it good to be writing again. I was enjoying playing with a few throwaway characters and I wrote a few lines that I think I’ll go on to use, or expand, in the Don Findy piece.
Untitled Story
The first time I laid eyes on Chloe Waters I could tell she was the obsessive type. There was something about her, she was shaking slightly and her backside looked as if it wanted to leap from the chair as soon as I’d sat in mine. She had big marks around her eyes, the kind coffee cups leave on wood. She opened her mouth to speak but I held my hand up to stop her. She looked like she might start balling and that’s when my eyes finally soaked up her looks.
Her long blonde hair was messy but the I-made-it-messy sort of messy. It probably suited her most of the time but with the tear soaked eyes she looked as if she’d been fighting. The clothes however, said otherwise. She was wearing a black dress, with a twist front that tied up at the back, and a pair of new looking black heels that showed the tops or her toes. She was wearing newly applied red nail varnish that also matched that on her slim fingers that were clutching a ball of tissue. Only one finger housed a ring and you know which finger that was. A big black coat was resting on the back of the chair she sat in. My eyes caressed the smoothness of her legs for a while before I really focused on her face.
Some girls can have any man they want. This was some girl.
‘Who is he?’
‘How do you know there’s a he?’ She was quiet, probably putting it on.
‘There’s always a him and there’s always a her, that’s how it works.’
Her blue eyes tried to break me, or at least soften me.
‘It’s my husband. I want you to follow him.’
‘On what grounds?’
‘Well anywhere really, wherever he goes…’
Cute. It had to be an act.
‘I mean why? Why have this man followed?’
‘Does that matter?’
‘Well usually in these situations it does. Look, what do you think this is?’
She flinched as my voice got louder. It was instinct when I got frustrated at somebody dumb or somebody playing dumb.
I watched her feet kick slightly under the table, swinging like a child. I warmed to her then.
‘I think he’s cheating and I just want to be sure,’ she sniffed.
It’s her husband who’s playing dumb.
I let her words hover for a while knowing she’d speak soon enough. I looked at her body some more.
‘Think you can do it?’
‘Think I can follow somebody? I think that’s a pretty safe assumption.’
‘What are your fees?’
‘Well, that would depend on several things. Firstly, risks I mean, this husband of yours – heavy is he?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Got a lot of muscle? Carry?’
‘No, neither of those.’
‘What’s he do?’
‘He owns Triple Techs.’
Now it was starting to fit together like a puzzle of an Ikea bed.
‘So you must have a fair whack then?’ I said looking straight into her eyes.
Her laugh was soft but real.
‘He has no idea what the insides of his trouser pockets even feel like.’
I liked her. It was as if she was standing at the bottom of a cliff and I was mid jump; falling, falling, falling.
‘Do you get on?’
‘He says he’d like a child some day.’
‘Let’s not be vulgar.’
My heart thumped on my insides for a release. I started to sweat and my natural instinct was to reach for the bottle of scotch in my desk drawer.
‘Drink?’
‘It’s 10AM’
‘Yeah, sorry, I would have offered sooner but my mind was elsewhere.’
She smiled, revealing a matching set of dimples either side of her face.
I reached back in the drawer for a glass.
‘So,’ I started after I’d poured myself a double double, ‘Where’s this suspicion come from?’
She started to get teary eyed and I didn’t know what to do. The only women I’d ever seen cry before were ones I’d made cry.
I sipped at the whisky and placed it back on the table. I picked it up again and shot the rest.
‘I’d rather… I don’t really want to talk about it,’ she forced out.
I wanted to wrap her in my arms and keep her safe.
‘So, when do you propose I…’
‘Tomorrow, he’s going away. On business he says.’ She played with the ball of tissue and looked like she might crack again.
‘There’s nothing to worry about. With the majority of these cases I have, the suspect is usually completely innocent.’
‘Really?’
Of course not you poor thing.
‘Yes.’
There was that traffic stopping smile of hers again. She started to slip into her coat. As she delicately started buttoning the holes she said, ‘I’ve written down some times and other information. The train he should be getting and so on. They’re here somewhere.’
She explored her pockets before pulling out a brown envelope. I reached out to take it from her and, as she leant forward, I could smell her perfume. It was subtle and that’s what excited me. I hadn’t smelled it right away like with most women I dealt with. I thought about knocking the file onto the floor just before she did up the top few buttons of her coat but thought better of it.
I placed the envelope onto the table and said, ‘What time is he leaving your house tomorrow?’
‘Why’s that?’ she said having now finished buttoning her coat.
‘Well I’ll need to follow him from the outset,’ I said sharply, ‘because if he is lying, and I’m not saying he is, he could be lying about everything.’
‘So he might not even be getting that train?’
‘Exactly, he might not even get a train.’
She seemed to think about this for a moment.
‘I really must be going,’ she said standing. ‘Your fees, what are they?’
‘We’ll discuss that later,’ I said.
‘Thank you,’ she smiled and headed towards the door.
I watched the curves fighting through the bulk of her coat. She gave me a little smile and wave before closing the door leaving me with thoughts of reincarnation as a coat. I sat there with a silly grin on my face, my face on my hands and my hands on my desk.
The door opened again and her head squeezed through and she whispered, ‘I’d like constant updates, if that’s all right. My phone number is in the envelope.’ The door closed and I fumbled for the envelope.
***
I stored her phone number in my mobile phone, my address book, my computer and my brain. I’m a reasonable man, and I reasoned that I didn’t want to go losing that number any time soon.
I now began looking through the other contents of the envelope. The first item I came to was a picture of, I assume, her husband. He had a face like mashed potato. The big nosed brute. He didn’t want to dance with me that was for sure. Treating a perfectly good woman like that. A beautiful woman.
I was halfway through my bottle of scotch, and looking at brute’s timetable, when the phone rang.
‘Hello,’ I said.
‘Is that Lester Raymond?’ a voice whispered.
‘Who is this?’
‘It’s Chloe. Chloe Waters. I was just in your office.’
I would have straightened my tie had I not taken it off a few minutes after she left.
‘Ah, Chloe. How can I help?’
‘Tomorrow, well, I’ve told James I’ll see him off at the station so he’ll definitely be there at the time circled on that schedule. I thought… You know, if you were caught outside the house or whatever, I didn’t want there to be any connections to you.’
‘That sounds like a good idea,’ I said.
I could hear her smiling, I’m sure of it.
‘Thanks Lester. Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye.’
She put the phone down first.
---------------------
I’ve already thought about what will happen and how. I’m thinking that Chloe wants somebody killed and knows that Lester will be willing if he gets involved further. The picture, and the man Lester goes to follow, is not her husband – she just wants him killed for some reason (which I haven’t decided). I’m thinking of rewriting the beginning a bit so when Chloe shifts and moves in the chair she reveals a number of marks and bruises that further angers Lester.
I’ve already thought that I might adapt the mashed potato line for Don Findy to something like, ‘His face was like mashed potato and I wanted to cover it in ketchup.’
Best selling crime writer Mark Billingham had this to say;
‘I'm committed to publishing a book every year and to be honest I'm happy with that. All the writers I respect do the same - you pretty much have to. I don't have a daily word target I stick to (although I'm always happy if I hit 1000) but I get it done. I have a good inbuilt calendar which tells me when I'm able to take a day away from writing, and to be honest, those days are often when the best work is done, albeit in my head. So, I don't write every day, but the book is always with me. Yes, of course it's easy to be distracted, but once a deadline starts to loom you tend to get focused again. I can't honestly say I always love sitting down to write, but on good days it's fantastic. I don't write at set times, though I find it easier at night, once kids are in bed and the house is quiet - and it's easier to come up with this stuff when there's nothing on the other side of the window to distract me.
'Hope some of that helps a little. Yes, a daily target can't hurt, but don't beat yourself up. Better 500 good words than 2000 duff ones. And re-write as you go along, it works for me.’
The idea of producing a book a year is obviously automatically setting yourself a deadline and another crime writer to offer advice was Danny King who said;
‘It's fine to give up. Don't feel bad about it. It's good to go down the pub. It's nice to hang out with mates and you shouldn't feel bad about spending your free time doing things you enjoy rather than trying to write. Because at the end of the day, no one's waiting for you to write this stuff. You're not keeping any publishers waiting and no one's chewing on their fingernails hoping you'll fulfil your own potential. You don't have to be a writer. You can do anything you want with your life. There are a thousand and one careers out there for you to pursue and if you never write another word as long as you live if you don't want to. The only person who's feeling bad about it is you. The world's not mourning over what it's missing, so do whatever you like. Because the only person who wants you to be a writer is currently you. So if you don't want to do it, don't do it. It's really okay.
'If however, you do want to do it, then stop talking about it and start doing it. Because I'm sorry to say that it's all down to you. Nobody else can help you.’
Which also raises some good points and does serve well, although of course, I do have deadlines to meet and tutors waiting to mark my work. Maybe this is one of the reasons I am becoming stuck; because I feel like I have to write. I’ve always thought that I’ve written because I had something to say or I had a need within me.
Danny goes on, ‘When most writers are interviewed and asked why they write, the answer they give is the same as you just gave below [in an email response]; because they feel they have to. They are compelled to. That it’s not something specific they need to get off their chest, just a need to write in itself… It's not about the money or the notoriety or the kudos, but because it's serving a need inside you. If you already feel this way then I suspect you'll be writing until the day you drop no matter what I or anyone else says.’
Obviously I knew professional writers would have experienced the same problems but it’s good to hear it from them and how they deal with it.
But I also have a feeling that I might not have anything left to say, that I’ve said everything I’ve wanted to, and now I simply have nothing to say because I’ve said it all, maybe some more life experience will help.
Luckily Danny thinks, ‘…slumps come and go. Like I said, I've been through them myself, particularly in my twenties, so don't beat yourself up over it. Just work through it and you'll shift the blockage.’
Echoing what Mark said, ‘Better 500 good words than 2000 duff ones,’ is an exercise that Danny suggested;
‘*Write a short story of at least 2,000 words. But don't write it all in one go.
*Write just 200 (for example) words a day. No more, no less. (or whatever wordage you feel comfortable with, but you must do the same each day)
*Write them in one hour sittings (or less – no more). But write every day, at a regular time.
*You don't have to know the whole story when you come to write it, just concentrate on the 200 hundred words you have in front of you, then worry about tomorrow's 200 words tomorrow.
* Give yourself a treat when you finish your sessions, either a beer or an hour of Raymond Chandler. Whatever.’
So that is what I propose to do. Starting from tomorrow I will write 250 words of a short story at 3PM, for an hour, and will continue to write another 250 words each day at 3PM until I reach 2000 words. This will allow me to concentrate solely on those few words within that hour as well as keeping me active.
Aside from that, I did manage to write the opening of a short story on Wednesday (15th). And whilst I had no idea how it would develop when I started, I was enjoying working with a few basic characters and ideas because they soon expanded and had me thinking. Whenever I’m working on a piece of writing, it plays at the back of my head when I’m not writing, it’s like what Mark said, ‘when I'm able to take a day away from writing, and to be honest, those days are often when the best work is done, albeit in my head. So, I don't write every day, but the book is always with me.’ It’s certainly true of me; Don Findy is always there. Likewise, this short story has been running through my mind too, even though I had no major plans for it. It’s quite possible I will go back to it and maybe try to finish it.
I must admit I did have trouble starting this short story so, as an exercise to force me into starting something, I opened the nearest detective book I had to hand, which was Chandler’s The Long Good-bye, and started my short piece in a similar way to which that starts; just by looking at the first sentence. The opening line of The Long Good-bye’ is, ‘The first time I laid eyes on Terry Lennox he was drunk in a Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith outside the terrace of The Dancers.’ You’ll notice how my story uses this as inspiration to get started.
Before I post the start of the story, I would like to say that I found it good to be writing again. I was enjoying playing with a few throwaway characters and I wrote a few lines that I think I’ll go on to use, or expand, in the Don Findy piece.
Untitled Story
The first time I laid eyes on Chloe Waters I could tell she was the obsessive type. There was something about her, she was shaking slightly and her backside looked as if it wanted to leap from the chair as soon as I’d sat in mine. She had big marks around her eyes, the kind coffee cups leave on wood. She opened her mouth to speak but I held my hand up to stop her. She looked like she might start balling and that’s when my eyes finally soaked up her looks.
Her long blonde hair was messy but the I-made-it-messy sort of messy. It probably suited her most of the time but with the tear soaked eyes she looked as if she’d been fighting. The clothes however, said otherwise. She was wearing a black dress, with a twist front that tied up at the back, and a pair of new looking black heels that showed the tops or her toes. She was wearing newly applied red nail varnish that also matched that on her slim fingers that were clutching a ball of tissue. Only one finger housed a ring and you know which finger that was. A big black coat was resting on the back of the chair she sat in. My eyes caressed the smoothness of her legs for a while before I really focused on her face.
Some girls can have any man they want. This was some girl.
‘Who is he?’
‘How do you know there’s a he?’ She was quiet, probably putting it on.
‘There’s always a him and there’s always a her, that’s how it works.’
Her blue eyes tried to break me, or at least soften me.
‘It’s my husband. I want you to follow him.’
‘On what grounds?’
‘Well anywhere really, wherever he goes…’
Cute. It had to be an act.
‘I mean why? Why have this man followed?’
‘Does that matter?’
‘Well usually in these situations it does. Look, what do you think this is?’
She flinched as my voice got louder. It was instinct when I got frustrated at somebody dumb or somebody playing dumb.
I watched her feet kick slightly under the table, swinging like a child. I warmed to her then.
‘I think he’s cheating and I just want to be sure,’ she sniffed.
It’s her husband who’s playing dumb.
I let her words hover for a while knowing she’d speak soon enough. I looked at her body some more.
‘Think you can do it?’
‘Think I can follow somebody? I think that’s a pretty safe assumption.’
‘What are your fees?’
‘Well, that would depend on several things. Firstly, risks I mean, this husband of yours – heavy is he?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Got a lot of muscle? Carry?’
‘No, neither of those.’
‘What’s he do?’
‘He owns Triple Techs.’
Now it was starting to fit together like a puzzle of an Ikea bed.
‘So you must have a fair whack then?’ I said looking straight into her eyes.
Her laugh was soft but real.
‘He has no idea what the insides of his trouser pockets even feel like.’
I liked her. It was as if she was standing at the bottom of a cliff and I was mid jump; falling, falling, falling.
‘Do you get on?’
‘He says he’d like a child some day.’
‘Let’s not be vulgar.’
My heart thumped on my insides for a release. I started to sweat and my natural instinct was to reach for the bottle of scotch in my desk drawer.
‘Drink?’
‘It’s 10AM’
‘Yeah, sorry, I would have offered sooner but my mind was elsewhere.’
She smiled, revealing a matching set of dimples either side of her face.
I reached back in the drawer for a glass.
‘So,’ I started after I’d poured myself a double double, ‘Where’s this suspicion come from?’
She started to get teary eyed and I didn’t know what to do. The only women I’d ever seen cry before were ones I’d made cry.
I sipped at the whisky and placed it back on the table. I picked it up again and shot the rest.
‘I’d rather… I don’t really want to talk about it,’ she forced out.
I wanted to wrap her in my arms and keep her safe.
‘So, when do you propose I…’
‘Tomorrow, he’s going away. On business he says.’ She played with the ball of tissue and looked like she might crack again.
‘There’s nothing to worry about. With the majority of these cases I have, the suspect is usually completely innocent.’
‘Really?’
Of course not you poor thing.
‘Yes.’
There was that traffic stopping smile of hers again. She started to slip into her coat. As she delicately started buttoning the holes she said, ‘I’ve written down some times and other information. The train he should be getting and so on. They’re here somewhere.’
She explored her pockets before pulling out a brown envelope. I reached out to take it from her and, as she leant forward, I could smell her perfume. It was subtle and that’s what excited me. I hadn’t smelled it right away like with most women I dealt with. I thought about knocking the file onto the floor just before she did up the top few buttons of her coat but thought better of it.
I placed the envelope onto the table and said, ‘What time is he leaving your house tomorrow?’
‘Why’s that?’ she said having now finished buttoning her coat.
‘Well I’ll need to follow him from the outset,’ I said sharply, ‘because if he is lying, and I’m not saying he is, he could be lying about everything.’
‘So he might not even be getting that train?’
‘Exactly, he might not even get a train.’
She seemed to think about this for a moment.
‘I really must be going,’ she said standing. ‘Your fees, what are they?’
‘We’ll discuss that later,’ I said.
‘Thank you,’ she smiled and headed towards the door.
I watched the curves fighting through the bulk of her coat. She gave me a little smile and wave before closing the door leaving me with thoughts of reincarnation as a coat. I sat there with a silly grin on my face, my face on my hands and my hands on my desk.
The door opened again and her head squeezed through and she whispered, ‘I’d like constant updates, if that’s all right. My phone number is in the envelope.’ The door closed and I fumbled for the envelope.
***
I stored her phone number in my mobile phone, my address book, my computer and my brain. I’m a reasonable man, and I reasoned that I didn’t want to go losing that number any time soon.
I now began looking through the other contents of the envelope. The first item I came to was a picture of, I assume, her husband. He had a face like mashed potato. The big nosed brute. He didn’t want to dance with me that was for sure. Treating a perfectly good woman like that. A beautiful woman.
I was halfway through my bottle of scotch, and looking at brute’s timetable, when the phone rang.
‘Hello,’ I said.
‘Is that Lester Raymond?’ a voice whispered.
‘Who is this?’
‘It’s Chloe. Chloe Waters. I was just in your office.’
I would have straightened my tie had I not taken it off a few minutes after she left.
‘Ah, Chloe. How can I help?’
‘Tomorrow, well, I’ve told James I’ll see him off at the station so he’ll definitely be there at the time circled on that schedule. I thought… You know, if you were caught outside the house or whatever, I didn’t want there to be any connections to you.’
‘That sounds like a good idea,’ I said.
I could hear her smiling, I’m sure of it.
‘Thanks Lester. Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye.’
She put the phone down first.
---------------------
I’ve already thought about what will happen and how. I’m thinking that Chloe wants somebody killed and knows that Lester will be willing if he gets involved further. The picture, and the man Lester goes to follow, is not her husband – she just wants him killed for some reason (which I haven’t decided). I’m thinking of rewriting the beginning a bit so when Chloe shifts and moves in the chair she reveals a number of marks and bruises that further angers Lester.
I’ve already thought that I might adapt the mashed potato line for Don Findy to something like, ‘His face was like mashed potato and I wanted to cover it in ketchup.’
Tuesday, 14 October 2008
Motivation
I’m sitting here having written only one line today and two yesterday. I’m starting to get worried as I now lack the motivation to really get stuck into my novel. I have been running situations, ideas and plots through my head for a long time but have produced nothing.
In Hiney’s biography he says of his subject, Raymond Chandler, ‘Wherever he and Cissy [his by then sick wife] were living, he would wake early, work till lunchtime at his typewriter, and then finish for the day.’ He goes on to quote Chandler as saying, ‘The important thing is that there should be a space of time, say four hours a day at least, when a professional writer doesn’t do anything but write. He doesn’t have to write, and if he doesn’t feel like it, he shouldn’t try. He can look out the window or stand on his head or writhe on the floor, but he is not allowed to do any other positive thing.’ (Raymond Chandler; A Biography - Page 122)
So this morning I set my alarm for Seven O’clock hoping to get some work done. I eventually rose around Ten and was disappointed in myself. I must make more of an effort to catch up on sleep (I work into the early hours of the morning on Thursday, Friday and Saturday) and to motivate myself. I will set my alarm for Seven again tomorrow and I will get myself up and writing.
‘Write as often as possible, not with the idea at once of getting into print, but as if you were learning an instrument.’ – J.B. Priestley (Writing a novel by Nigel Watts - Page 139)
On that note, here are a few lines from the last couple of days that will no doubt go through some tuning;
Her Bacardi breath hugged me. / Her Brandy breath hugged me. / The smell of Cognac caressed my nostrils.
---------------------
He must have had no idea what the insides of his trouser pockets felt like.
(Note: I quite like the above line, though I’m trying to think of something a bit more subtle for describing a cheapskate or tightwad. One of Chandler’s lines I particularly like is from The Little Sister when he describes an actress as looking ‘almost as hard to get as a haircut.’ It could have been a lot more explicit but isn’t and because of that it is funnier.)
---------------------
Looking through the bottom of the glass after my first drink made the place look distorted but by my last drink it looked normal. I preferred it distorted.
---------------------
Her bank balance clearly went up as her knickers went down. / Her bank balance clearly rose as her morality sank.
In Hiney’s biography he says of his subject, Raymond Chandler, ‘Wherever he and Cissy [his by then sick wife] were living, he would wake early, work till lunchtime at his typewriter, and then finish for the day.’ He goes on to quote Chandler as saying, ‘The important thing is that there should be a space of time, say four hours a day at least, when a professional writer doesn’t do anything but write. He doesn’t have to write, and if he doesn’t feel like it, he shouldn’t try. He can look out the window or stand on his head or writhe on the floor, but he is not allowed to do any other positive thing.’ (Raymond Chandler; A Biography - Page 122)
So this morning I set my alarm for Seven O’clock hoping to get some work done. I eventually rose around Ten and was disappointed in myself. I must make more of an effort to catch up on sleep (I work into the early hours of the morning on Thursday, Friday and Saturday) and to motivate myself. I will set my alarm for Seven again tomorrow and I will get myself up and writing.
‘Write as often as possible, not with the idea at once of getting into print, but as if you were learning an instrument.’ – J.B. Priestley (Writing a novel by Nigel Watts - Page 139)
On that note, here are a few lines from the last couple of days that will no doubt go through some tuning;
Her Bacardi breath hugged me. / Her Brandy breath hugged me. / The smell of Cognac caressed my nostrils.
---------------------
He must have had no idea what the insides of his trouser pockets felt like.
(Note: I quite like the above line, though I’m trying to think of something a bit more subtle for describing a cheapskate or tightwad. One of Chandler’s lines I particularly like is from The Little Sister when he describes an actress as looking ‘almost as hard to get as a haircut.’ It could have been a lot more explicit but isn’t and because of that it is funnier.)
---------------------
Looking through the bottom of the glass after my first drink made the place look distorted but by my last drink it looked normal. I preferred it distorted.
---------------------
Her bank balance clearly went up as her knickers went down. / Her bank balance clearly rose as her morality sank.
Thursday, 9 October 2008
Notebooks
In Tom Hiney’s biography of Raymond Chandler he writes that Chandler would write lines in a notebook because they could often come in useful at some point in the future; Elspeth is also keen to stress this point. And so I have decided to make a real effort of writing down any half decent sentence I play with in my head; as sometimes I’ll return home only to realise I’ve forgotten it or that I am no longer able to get the wording quite right. I will stop immediately, or at the first suitable moment, now to record any half decent ideas.
Chandler was very devoted to this note taking;
‘He bought a small pocket address book in which he started to collect (alphabetically) character names that occurred to him… In the same methodical vein, Chandler began to make detailed notes of clothes that he had either seen people wearing or had read about. He also started collecting slang expressions he had heard…’ (Raymond Chandler; A Biography - Page 73)
And he went on to shape a genre of his own using some wonderful descriptions, lines and characters. That is why every writer should carry a notebook; I have carried one for as long as I can remember. Sometimes I can go days without using it but yesterday I wrote a series of lines that I liked and that were relevant to the surroundings of the Don Findy story (I was walking around Ipswich).
Here are some of my sentences from yesterday and their variations;
She had all the charm of an Anne Summers mannequin. / She looked pretty in those clothes, but so would an Anne Summers mannequin.
---------------------
I walked along the chewing gum roads. The roads that people have spat out. / I walked along the chewing gum road; the streets that have been spat out of people.
---------------------
The dirt on the windows made it look as though it was going to rain. If it did, at least the windows might get a clean.
---------------------
The sky was a bloody colour. I don’t mean it was a shade of red, I was drunk and couldn’t remember the name of the colour.
---------------------
There was a stream of young mothers using their prams to push along tomorrows dole queue.
---------------------
‘Is that clear?’
‘As a foggy night.’
---------------------
Below is an example of the above, really stretched and killed. Of course, the above line is better as it fits with the traditional 'wisecrack' style that is suited to the private detective novels.
‘Is that clear?’
‘As clear as a foggy and cloudy night.’
‘Is that clear?’
‘As clear as a foggy and cloudy night after having my glasses stolen.’
‘Is that clear?’
‘As clear as a foggy and cloudy night after having my glasses stolen and my eyes poked out.’
The art of observation was something that Chandler mastered and is something I’m continually trying to improve on. Such descriptions as the one of young mothers and chewing gum streets allow me to create the atmosphere of the town as I see it.
As George mentioned, this year the focus will be on the quality of the prose I produce rather than the plot or story and, as Hinney states,‘The only exception to his [Chandler's] careful planning was plot; the best way to stop the reader guessing the end of a story, he decided, was not to know how it ended yourself.’(73) and ‘Chandler wanted to create strong, melodramatic characters at the expense of ingenious plots.’ (Raymond Chandler; A Biography - Page 81)
‘...he considered them [plots] superfluous to the new writing, because ‘to get the surprise murderer you fake character…’
And whilst I don’t completely agree, (a strong plot can surely only enhance a novel that is pumped full of atmosphere etc) Chandler’s words are certainly worth listening to. Characters and dialogue are so important and often understated or clichéd. Chandler managed to avoid this whilst being interesting, funny and original.
Chandler was very devoted to this note taking;
‘He bought a small pocket address book in which he started to collect (alphabetically) character names that occurred to him… In the same methodical vein, Chandler began to make detailed notes of clothes that he had either seen people wearing or had read about. He also started collecting slang expressions he had heard…’ (Raymond Chandler; A Biography - Page 73)
And he went on to shape a genre of his own using some wonderful descriptions, lines and characters. That is why every writer should carry a notebook; I have carried one for as long as I can remember. Sometimes I can go days without using it but yesterday I wrote a series of lines that I liked and that were relevant to the surroundings of the Don Findy story (I was walking around Ipswich).
Here are some of my sentences from yesterday and their variations;
She had all the charm of an Anne Summers mannequin. / She looked pretty in those clothes, but so would an Anne Summers mannequin.
---------------------
I walked along the chewing gum roads. The roads that people have spat out. / I walked along the chewing gum road; the streets that have been spat out of people.
---------------------
The dirt on the windows made it look as though it was going to rain. If it did, at least the windows might get a clean.
---------------------
The sky was a bloody colour. I don’t mean it was a shade of red, I was drunk and couldn’t remember the name of the colour.
---------------------
There was a stream of young mothers using their prams to push along tomorrows dole queue.
---------------------
‘Is that clear?’
‘As a foggy night.’
---------------------
Below is an example of the above, really stretched and killed. Of course, the above line is better as it fits with the traditional 'wisecrack' style that is suited to the private detective novels.
‘Is that clear?’
‘As clear as a foggy and cloudy night.’
‘Is that clear?’
‘As clear as a foggy and cloudy night after having my glasses stolen.’
‘Is that clear?’
‘As clear as a foggy and cloudy night after having my glasses stolen and my eyes poked out.’
The art of observation was something that Chandler mastered and is something I’m continually trying to improve on. Such descriptions as the one of young mothers and chewing gum streets allow me to create the atmosphere of the town as I see it.
As George mentioned, this year the focus will be on the quality of the prose I produce rather than the plot or story and, as Hinney states,‘The only exception to his [Chandler's] careful planning was plot; the best way to stop the reader guessing the end of a story, he decided, was not to know how it ended yourself.’(73) and ‘Chandler wanted to create strong, melodramatic characters at the expense of ingenious plots.’ (Raymond Chandler; A Biography - Page 81)
‘...he considered them [plots] superfluous to the new writing, because ‘to get the surprise murderer you fake character…’
And whilst I don’t completely agree, (a strong plot can surely only enhance a novel that is pumped full of atmosphere etc) Chandler’s words are certainly worth listening to. Characters and dialogue are so important and often understated or clichéd. Chandler managed to avoid this whilst being interesting, funny and original.
Saturday, 4 October 2008
The Singing Detective
I've just started watching Dennis Potter's series The Singing Detective. The scripts are so well structured and the attention to detail is fabulous. The imagery, as previously discussed with George, is so important to this and it makes me realise how important it is to crime fiction. A perfect example;
'It was cold waiting for Amanda to come out. The air was like an Eskimo's mother-in-law; bitter and icy. But not as icy as the heart which beat under his cashmere coat. He intended to warm himself on her overpriced flesh.'
It's lines like this that reminded me, slightly, of a bit I wrote in a short story a few years ago;
'Mad, mad is good. As long as it's only one bun short of a bakery and not bricks, cement, manpower, business plans and buns short of a bakery, it should be fine. I've just noticed how hungry I am - very.'
That's a few lines I'm happy with and would like to recreate somehow. Potter's line clearly plays on a cliché and yet it takes it a step further. And that's what I was doing with the bakery line.
Another piece that has been sitting in my mind is the way Philip Marlow (Potter's protagonist, notice the missing 'e') describes people outside as 'chewing' each other. There's something in that, the consumption of the outside world, the way in which people treat each other. I will come back to this later.
'It was cold waiting for Amanda to come out. The air was like an Eskimo's mother-in-law; bitter and icy. But not as icy as the heart which beat under his cashmere coat. He intended to warm himself on her overpriced flesh.'
It's lines like this that reminded me, slightly, of a bit I wrote in a short story a few years ago;
'Mad, mad is good. As long as it's only one bun short of a bakery and not bricks, cement, manpower, business plans and buns short of a bakery, it should be fine. I've just noticed how hungry I am - very.'
That's a few lines I'm happy with and would like to recreate somehow. Potter's line clearly plays on a cliché and yet it takes it a step further. And that's what I was doing with the bakery line.
Another piece that has been sitting in my mind is the way Philip Marlow (Potter's protagonist, notice the missing 'e') describes people outside as 'chewing' each other. There's something in that, the consumption of the outside world, the way in which people treat each other. I will come back to this later.
Thursday, 2 October 2008
More words
Listening to the Japanese composer Susumu Yokota, I decided to take some words from his song titles and try some word association. There was nothing that I particularly liked apart from the spool idea below, which I might possibly use or go on to adapt in some way.
Cage = ‘she walked as if the cage door had just been opened.’ ‘She walked like somebody had just turned the key in the lock of her cage.’
Spool = ‘the bullet made him spool to the ground.’ ‘And with a spooling motion he dropped to the ground.’
With the last one I think there’s a nice contrast, the spooling slows the action and makes him linger and the dropped finishes him off, picks up the pace.
This activity has certainly made me think about the language I use in a lot more detail and will be something I continue to experiment with - though only the most useful or interesting results will be posted.
Cage = ‘she walked as if the cage door had just been opened.’ ‘She walked like somebody had just turned the key in the lock of her cage.’
Spool = ‘the bullet made him spool to the ground.’ ‘And with a spooling motion he dropped to the ground.’
With the last one I think there’s a nice contrast, the spooling slows the action and makes him linger and the dropped finishes him off, picks up the pace.
This activity has certainly made me think about the language I use in a lot more detail and will be something I continue to experiment with - though only the most useful or interesting results will be posted.
Wednesday, 1 October 2008
Word association
Following on a discussion with George MacLennan about the use of language and in particular the use of imagery, metaphor and simile (George referred to Ross MacDonald), I got thinking about this and was reminded of one of Raymond Chandler’s most famous similes, from The High Window, ‘On the wide cool front porches, reaching their cracked shoes into the sun, and staring at nothing, sit the old men with faces like lost battles.’
This led me to a word association game and, sitting on the train, I picked a few passing objects and decided to work around them to create an image.
Some rusty beams led me to create the description ‘rusty looking beard’, which I quite like but is, I suspect, quite common.
And, clouds. 'Cloudy laugh' or 'her laugh was as light as a cloud'; because clearly they create two completely different images. 'His words carried the weight of a cloud.' 'Cloudy speech'?
And whilst these won’t be used by me, they certainly got me thinking and I have decided to pick a few objects each day and create a line or two (like how Woody Allen used to set himself the task of writing ten jokes a day.), just in case I can use one somewhere sometime.
Ant fact: The Formicinae, whose sting has been replaced by a circular pore, are the most advanced. The acid pore is particularly well developed in wood ants and is capable of firing a jet of formic acid at enemies. (Source: Ants by Ray North, page 11)
This led me to a word association game and, sitting on the train, I picked a few passing objects and decided to work around them to create an image.
Some rusty beams led me to create the description ‘rusty looking beard’, which I quite like but is, I suspect, quite common.
And, clouds. 'Cloudy laugh' or 'her laugh was as light as a cloud'; because clearly they create two completely different images. 'His words carried the weight of a cloud.' 'Cloudy speech'?
And whilst these won’t be used by me, they certainly got me thinking and I have decided to pick a few objects each day and create a line or two (like how Woody Allen used to set himself the task of writing ten jokes a day.), just in case I can use one somewhere sometime.
Ant fact: The Formicinae, whose sting has been replaced by a circular pore, are the most advanced. The acid pore is particularly well developed in wood ants and is capable of firing a jet of formic acid at enemies. (Source: Ants by Ray North, page 11)
Monday, 8 September 2008
Emotions and the femme fatale
Watching series four of David Simon’s crime series The Wire (which boasts George Pelecanos amongst its writing staff) recently, a thought occurred to me – how emotionally involved should Don Findy become in his detective works? In the last episode of series four of The Wire, ‘Final Grades’, it really hits home how some of the detectives have become emotionally involved in not just the crimes they are investigating, but the criminals themselves. We see how Carver breaks down when Randy is put into a foster home, McNulty’s rage when he finds out Bodie has been shot, Kima’s constant assistance of Bubs, and how Colvin asks Namond’s father to take him off the streets.
How involved are Findy’s fellow detectives? Knight argues that Hammett’s Sam Spade’s ‘friendship with Archer and affair with his wife appear to have no personal emotive meaning, and that brutal isolation, and a sense of automaton-like rectitude, is the point of the famous ending; Sam Spade asserts a form of communal duty that is also a threat to his own personal happiness when he finally decides to turn in for murder the woman he probably loves.’ (Crime Fiction, 1800-2000; Detection, Death, Diversity - Page 116)
So even if his personal feelings become involved, the case would still hold more importance. Maybe these are areas that can be blurred and played with within the genre, especially when referring to a femme fatale such as Miss Wonderly. Like Knight says, ‘in the private eye novels [of Hammett and Chandler]… the deepest threats faced by private eyes, come from personal betrayals, mostly by women.’ (Page 112) Hence, I should probably start building up my female character a lot more and start fleshing out her first scene and how she should appear to Findy and the reader. I had already planned for the Toni character to be a major part of the story and deceitful, I just need to think more carefully on how. Also, Findy's emotions towards her and how they may and may not effect the case.
Also, Knight gives us a source for Camus’ The Outsider having been inspired by Cain’s The Postman Always Rings Twice, he refers us to David Madden’s 1970 book James M. Cain.
Ant fact: Termites, unlike ants, have a king and queen which stay together after mating, whereas in ants the male dies. (Source: Ants by Ray North, page 8)
How involved are Findy’s fellow detectives? Knight argues that Hammett’s Sam Spade’s ‘friendship with Archer and affair with his wife appear to have no personal emotive meaning, and that brutal isolation, and a sense of automaton-like rectitude, is the point of the famous ending; Sam Spade asserts a form of communal duty that is also a threat to his own personal happiness when he finally decides to turn in for murder the woman he probably loves.’ (Crime Fiction, 1800-2000; Detection, Death, Diversity - Page 116)
So even if his personal feelings become involved, the case would still hold more importance. Maybe these are areas that can be blurred and played with within the genre, especially when referring to a femme fatale such as Miss Wonderly. Like Knight says, ‘in the private eye novels [of Hammett and Chandler]… the deepest threats faced by private eyes, come from personal betrayals, mostly by women.’ (Page 112) Hence, I should probably start building up my female character a lot more and start fleshing out her first scene and how she should appear to Findy and the reader. I had already planned for the Toni character to be a major part of the story and deceitful, I just need to think more carefully on how. Also, Findy's emotions towards her and how they may and may not effect the case.
Also, Knight gives us a source for Camus’ The Outsider having been inspired by Cain’s The Postman Always Rings Twice, he refers us to David Madden’s 1970 book James M. Cain.
Ant fact: Termites, unlike ants, have a king and queen which stay together after mating, whereas in ants the male dies. (Source: Ants by Ray North, page 8)
Friday, 29 August 2008
City as character
Reading Stephen Knight’s book, ‘Crime Fiction, 1800-2000; Detection, Death, Diversity.’
Talking about the origins, it’s interesting what he says about Poe’s stories, ‘They also have an important location.
This idea of a city as a character is something I touched upon in my submission of Don Findy last year. And how Rankin wrote, ‘…it was always my mission to show people an
I hope to be able to shape
I also think reading some local history books will help, so over the coming weeks I’ll be diving into a few.
A side note; recently I read two highly respected crime fiction texts. The first was Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment. Being completely honest I found the book, or at least my translation by David McDuff, fairly long winded and repetitive. Whole scenes, explanations and so on were often dragged or would appear in some form a few pages later. At its best though, it was gripping and interesting – that being inside the mind of a killer and experiencing his psychological process. But I also found it too soap-opera-esque, with people storming out of rooms or making sweeping statements and shouting and so on; very dramatic and over the top. I guess it’s just a product of its time.
The second was Camus’ The Outsider. I had waited a while for this to reach the top of my to-read pile and was blown away. It captures everything I appreciate about the minimalist style that I love so much about James M. Cain. I’ve read in several places that it was inspired by Cain’s The Postman Always Rings Twice but I’m yet to find a concrete source on this. There are some parallels with The Outsider and Crime and Punishment – namely we read a story from the killers point of view and are more or less trying to work out what we make of them and whether we despise them, can forgive and so on. Camus’ novel certainly appeals to me a lot more though as it’s swift, clean and to the point. It gets in without making a mess or lingering and, what I find more important, gives a lot more room for thought and interpretation. Having spent a few years reading and appreciating this, some might call it hardboiled, style it’s hard not to worship something like The Outsider. A great achievement in my eyes.
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