Fire in the Hole

 My current WIP is a bit noir, a bit mad, a rock and roller of a story that runs at breakneck speed. It's utterly different to anything I've done before, and it'll need a lot of editing once it's done. It's really fun to write though, I'm bursting with it, so I thought I'd share a sample with you.

 This is the opening of the story, in which we meet the MC Trist and his peculiar companion;


       The tall man stepped over a smouldering rug. Around him fires flickered and bodies lay on the carpet, in the chairs, one even half out of the window.

“Might have been a bit over the top,” he said.

“You do the sword, I do the fire.”

“Yes,” Trist said, looking around. “I just hadn’t expected quite that much fire.”

“They’re down, aren’t they?”

“The problem, Feng, is that not many of them are likely to get up again.”

He found a little blaze that was feeling its way towards the curtains, and stamped it out in a billow of sparks and ash. Next to it was the man in the window. Trist pulled him away. Glass crackled and fell to the floor. A shard six inches long was lodged in the man’s throat, and Trist grimaced.

Looking out, he saw the garden below was deserted. Well, not quite. A lone gardener fled for his life and vanished as Trist watched.

“Trouble?” Feng asked.

“There will be. The servants will go straight to the Watch. We’ll have company very soon.”

“We knew that would happen.”

He shrugged. “Maybe not so fast.”

“Lucky you’ve got me then,” Feng said.

Movement drew Trist’s eye. One of the slumped figures had begun to stir. A young man, hair singed and clothes sooty, his back turned. He pushed up on his hands and then froze as Trist’s blade kissed the skin under his throat.

“Had a nice rest?” Trist asked. “I’m so glad. Fresh minds find answers so quickly, don’t you think?”

The man was young, probably a few years short of twenty. A fold at the outside of his eyes, which swivelled around the room. When they fell on Feng he gave a little whimper.

“Let’s start with some easy questions,” Trist said. “What’s your name?”

“My – my name?”

“Don’t you have one?”

“Uh… Anterl.”

“Well, good evening, Anterl. I trust you’ve had a good day? Up until the last few minutes, anyway. No? Well, here’s another question. How do you like working for Margon Sleeth?”

“It’s all right,” the youth said.

“You like working for Sleeth,” Trist said. “The drug dealer. The man who brings waste and death to hundreds. You like it.”

No answer. The youth trembled.

 The scene goes on, but that's enough for now. The story seems to have more dialogue and less narrative than usual for me, which wasn't a conscious choice (well, not at first). It also has a proper anti-hero, and later a strange lot of characters, some human and some not so much. And it's really huge fun.

 Hope you liked the taster. If you see anything obviously wrong or clanky, please let me know. I reckon I can take it y'know. Come to that, let me know if you enjoyed it, the old ego could always use a stroke...

You'd Have to be Hemingway

 Hi all.

 Yesterday I got involved (unwisely) in a Facebook thread about how quickly indie writers produce books. The fastest publish one every five or six weeks, meaning some ten a year. It reminds me a bit of NaNoWriMo, when some people reach the 50,000 words target on the first day. In honesty, I don't think anyone can write that fast and keep the quality. I could do 50,000 words a day, but most of it would be bleh bleh bleh, complete rubbish.

 So what about 20,000 words per day (wpd)? Not really possible either, to my mind. And down we go, until we reach a point where we start to think it can be done. Now, I realise that the world is full of wonders, and everyone writes in their own way, but still... 20,000 wpd? No. No, I don't think so, not with any quality.

 I said this in the FB thread, and promptly got shot to bits by lots of irate authors. Told you I was unwise

 But the thing is, I've never heard of a traditionally published author who writes ten publication-ready novels in a year. Never. OK, publishers don't want more than two a year anyway, and the process takes time as well, but even so it's a hell of a leap from two to ten. Are we really saying that just by being indie, authors can suddenly write five times faster than anyone else, and still keep their quality?

 I don't think we are. I suspect what usually happens is that authors dash off a book as fast as their fingers can go, publish it, then move on. Very little editing or rewrites, not much concern for standards. Just bang the book out and follow it with a few adverts, then start the next novel. So lots of words, but poor quality. I've read some of this stuff. It's not great.

 Of course, the key word is "usually". I'm sure there are one or two authors who can pull this off - ten books a year and still quality. But you'd have to be Hemingway or Stephen King to do it. If these authors can, then kudos to them. For myself, I know I'm no Hemingway, and I'll stick to the old-fashioned way. Write, revise, revise, edit, edit, and then (for the first time) ask myself if the work is finished. Or does it need another edit?

 Boring, eh? Too true. But it needs to be done.

 Pip pip.

Grubby and Desperate

 My wife and I welcomed our second child, and second daughter, early last month. As a result, in our house every day is filled with rushing about (Bella) and screaming for food (Evie), and then with cleaning up the worst of the wreckage. It's all very tiring, so it's a problem that the nights are disturbed too. But there's hope.

 On Friday morning I'll be having a vasectomy. I turn 50 next year (How? How?) so I can't really keep producing kids, not if I want to be around for the next 20 years to take care of them. Past a certain point it feels irresponsible. Plus my wife spent both pregnancies being quite unwell, so I don't want to put her through that again (Caz isn't keen either). So, time for the snip. Which means... several days of enforced rest.

 Or to put it another way, an excuse to sit on comfy cushions in front of my PC for days. With any luck Caz will bring me bacon sandwiches and beer at regular intervals, but never mind that. It's time to write that counts. Finally. Finally, a chance to get some solid work done.

 Strange thing, y'know, but having two small daughters doesn't half eat into your life.

 So, I have some adjustments to make to The Death of Ghosts, just tinkering at the edges really. There are a couple of things that need to be played up because they become important later, sometimes in volume two, but in once case not until volume four. The plot's laid out, I know the story in detail now, so the changes will be simple enough. Then run over the text, do another edit check for errors - you can never do too many - and push into volume two, titled The Life of Shadows. Quite a lot of nasty things start to happen in that. The main bad guy from volume one turns out to be very small fry indeed.

 I like a degree of unpleasantness in Fantasy. It shouldn't be all polished breastplates and men talking about honour. Sometimes life is just grubby and a bit desperate, and when the world is changing and there's danger all around that goes ten times over.

 Speaking of grubby and desperate, I need to get back to clearing up after the kids. Like I said, life isn't all glamour... but it'll do me.