Takes two to tango

Garlic breath and vindaloo-derived stomach-gurgles undoubtedly a counter-indicator to a night of passion, even had I believed his claim of a magnificence of other attributes. (Such claims, from experience, I had learnt to divide by two or even three to come somewhere near the truth.)  

Yet his conversation was stimulating, his sense of humour (from whence derived his self-promotion) on a par with mine. So we had reached the door of my apartment before I finally decided ‘No’. Whereupon he proved himself much the faster at bundling fake civility out of sight. To reveal a knife more magnificent than mine.

Pause for thought

The apricot horizon – a peeping edge of silk beneath a sky the colour of a two-day bruise, evidence of a punch dealt by a man who swore he loved you – put me in mind of a petticoat, worn beneath a frayed and mud-thrawn skirt ferreted from a bin  by a long-unwashed bag lady.

Perhaps a souvenir from a past life of material luxury whose constraints – parental inquisitions – she found unbearable.

Wishful thinking? That the high can fall as far as I who, almost, had to climb to reach even here? Whatever, the edge  – The End – was where I headed now. 

Test match

Like many men who worship cricket he rhapsodised about the crack of leather on willow and spent much of that summer trying to convert me. It being necessary to attend daily, and stay until the stumps were drawn, he was sensitive enough to keep me sweet by providing hampers and champagne, by introducing me to his friends confident, in spite of their much better looks, their more sparkling conversation, I’d not stray.

And knowing, in the coolness of the evening, I knew no-one else so deliciously, efficiently capable of applying leather, raising puckered weals on this Willow as did he. 

Map reading

He was the second man to appreciate.

Most commented on the cost. Made some remark which incorporated, in intent if not actuality, words such as ‘spendthrift’ and ‘narcissist’; their revulsion stemming from being forced to contemplate – come face to face with – their ignorance, their inadequacy and the fear they had left it far too late.

He knew to translate the tiny script of circled rubrics. To trace, with tongue and fingertip, touch sparse as exhaled breath of sleeping babe, the fine-inked lines that  led inexorably to the places where pleasure was most intense.

And understood the tattooist had been first. 

‘Sweets for the journey’

Chocolate limes and sherbet lemons, as anticipatory as the travel. Chilly car, pre-dawn departure, squabbling northwards to the Scottish border.  Arrive in time to watch the midday ferry coming in.

So few years since.

Now, innocence become recklessness, I suck on hard to bring forth something less than sweet. And the white powder thus afforded something different altogether.

When ignorance is not exactly bliss

Fine-plucked eyebrows circumflexed above irises the smokey ochre of ancient beeswax, whose hardness matched the jargon they resembled.

‘Jason, it is considered vulgar to express a concern for the pecuniary, but since you ask, five-hundred for a blow-job, two grand for a fuck and no bareback.’

Be careful what you wish for

For a dwarf his sense of self was oversized, outrageous. As well he knew; worked hard at even. And, like a castrato I once had as lover – an outstanding Prince Orlofsky! – he was not lacking in the most important attributes. Nor did his skills present as ostentatious; there was no sense of shortcomings being compensated for.

Which, perhaps, explains why I so regretted my own failure of perfection when he took my hand and, not exactly sorrowfully, said, ‘Ah, Eve, time to say good-bye. I’ll not be seeing you again,’

My aim overcompensated; I shot him right between the eyes.  

Swaddled

He was a teller of tales, a fabricator of fables, a sewer of stories, ever needing to build ramparts to protect me from the outer world.

He was my teacher, of all I ever needed to know; my preacher when I questioned how to live, my chastiser when I contravened his rules. He tended me when I fell ill, argued against what he termed the unreason of my objections. Taught me to be loved and to love in return.
Brought me to bloom, to bloat, to bear his child. And made me promise to tell no-one he was my father.

From the Humber

I did not plan to spoil your homecoming but word came yesterday the Caroline had been early-sighted off Spurn Point. Within the hour I shall make my way to the high point of your land. From fields still corduroy-ploughed, sheltered by hawthorn  salt-scoured from winter black to jute, I shall watch for you, before returning home to await you.

For a man returned from a thirteen-month voyage should not be publicly greeted by an eight-months-gone wife. I know your flensing knife will peel me as the flux is peeled from wire,   releasing copper-stinking blood and exposing the bastard babe beneath. 

Realism

When we were together  her post-coital drawings were executed large, in charcoal; on whatever paper was already on the easel. Fast because she’d then return to bed, splaying grimy fingerprints across my chest.

Now she uses pastels, paper-wrapped to keep her fingers clean. Renders you in earth colours: burnt sienna, raw umber, sanguine. I doubt you’d let her lay so much as a lone finger on those expensive  linen sheets.

Worry no more.  Having dealt with you, having newly-patterned your  sheets, I’ll shred those tender drawings to better replicate the scene before me.

Then I’ll go in search of her.

'If music be the food of love -'

He claimed not to know his crochets from his quavers. When I commented on the elegant length of his fingers, said he never played; had no instrument on which to do so.

I believed him until the night I, having escaped from Peregrine’s roadster, camisole unbuttoned but virginity intact, passed by the Lodge and heard him playing.

On a whim I knocked at the stout door. Music ceased, bolts were drawn. He was not pleased to see me.  ‘Milady –‘

I thought appeasing  would be easy. But in praising length had failed to appreciate their strength. Or his sexual bent.

Horizontal thoughts

 Tip of tongue started at the hollow in my  throat, her warm, topaz-gold tiger’s eyes glinting a promise of more to come. In my head, while rational thought was still possible, I addressed the sanctimonious prick that was my brother, assured him yet again that paid-for variation way out beat the thrice-weekly ennui of the marital bed he, ever-adamant, tried to convince me was superior.

He didn’t know how much his wife liked money. And I doubt he let her do to him what she – tongue marinaded in honey with just a soupçon of paprika – so deliciously did to me.

A domestic scene of devastation

I remembered several such from childhood; me as fascinated by the magic litany of words: vanilla essence, cochineal, angelica and  silver dragées, as by the ingredients, the butter-creaming, egg-beating bun-making process itself. (That beetle derivation of the crimson a much later discovery.) My mother, gingham pinafored, embarked on a joint mission of entertainment and education for her daughters, relaxed about the temporary chaos. Wooden spoon, yellow mixing bowl, fluted paper cases and dark-burnt bun-tins.

Fast-forward forty years. Same kitchen. Similar colours. Just a different derivation: blood and shit and vomit. And normality not the only thing  suspended.

Unpredicted serials

The tabs above this post are links to pages where I store serials written in response to weekly prompts posted on the Prediction Fiction blog which I currently host .

The first - 'The Blacksmith's Wife' - ran to forty episodes and became an illustrated book.
I brought it to an end partly for fear of boring readers but also because I recognised that in several ways it is easier to generate the continuation of a tale than think up a new one each week, and thought I should try harder.

However, characters frequently refuse to die. 'From Rhodes' continued the 17th century 'The Blacksmith's Wife' while 'A change in focus' picked up and ran with characters who first appeared in a short story (John Pettinger so vividly that he also forced himself into a novel).

I did try to write a singleton. 'Threshold' was intended as a one-off. But, its narrator still nameless, it today lurched to its 139th episode. And I can't see an ending for it yet.

What I can see is the benefit of a weekly exercise wherein there is a necessity to incorporate three random words into an entertaining tale which extends to no more than 100 words. I've been practising on and off, under different hosts, since 2011 and kno
w how much my writing has benefited.

Writer's Workshop Festival of Writing

Returned last night from a full-on weekend of workshops, listening to agents and having a couple of professionals comment on my work. Plus, of course, an opportunity to meet with old and several-times-met friends as well as meet those known only through their avatars on the Word Cloud   - as good as a detective story in itself matching real life face to cartoon avatar and on-line name - and exchange thoughts, directions and enthusiasm, however  brief, with a handful of the several hundred other delegates, while queuing, walking between rooms or eating breakfast.

'Full on' often exhausting at the time, especially for those of us who relish solitude, but having returned home and had a little time to ponder, I found myself awake at half one this morning, planning anew how to give the two novels I'd received critique on a new and better direction, using some of the lessons I'd learnt in workshops  - on structure, sentences and pace - and the specific suggestions of Andrew Wille and Hal Duncan - and then maybe even think of approaching an agent.

Go to!

Found poetry - river 15

Inspired by Adam Byatt's 'blackout poetry' (and also Tom Phillips 'Humument' my daughter and I set up a challenge using identical books. This - page 15 - is my first attempt.


For clarity, text reads:

Night heat delivery
sipped cream harmony.

dressed, their eyes question night devices,
advances
evaluating source and making human new.

I suspect I need to incorporate existing punctuation, and certainly need to make sure not to obliterate words I intended to use.

And my far better-practised daughter's version is here

Yesterday's 'August awake'; my most-liked one yet.

The cicatrice lace of cantaloupe skin

has me wanting to roll it with ink,

to roll it and print patterned paper 
to cover a notebook.

Awake August

Absolutely delighted to find, on Monday, a just-begun series of daily observations. I've always found it a truly beneficial exercise, which in the past has given me a store of metaphors. The additional rule I've given myself this time is not to post anything about the weather. Mine are in my Small Stones blog. It's not to late to join, and there are some lovely, though-provoking observations to read also. Awake August - 2016 - post your small stones here

Off the rails

A measure, perhaps, of my dislocation that for an instance, an aberration of McEwan, I saw you upended. Buried, head first and up to your waist. But in my mind – and there was no saying as to the health and strength of that! – you’d not arrived there violently, but had ...

... no you could not have done, not achieved the age denoted by the sag and wrinkle of your buttocks, without suffering in one way or another.

But at least, I reassured myself, our love had endured, hadn’t it? No loss of trust –

– only to be immediately proved a liar for, beyond you, in this bizarre mental journey through my past, and just as unkindly displayed, was ... I can’t, even now, say his name, not with you so close.

So was I to end my journey here? Between the two of you? If so, which way should I face? Ah, but ... it wouldn’t be my face, would it? Which made it easy.
Because he always took me from behind.

[Canvas prompt: a photograph by Josh Box from House of Writers]

Morning has broken

When I was sure it was over  – I’d waited until a paler square of light drifted into shape on the wall opposite the bed, and the candle-flame had faded to ghost – I fetched a jug of water from the kitchen. Tepid for my sake. You no longer likely to flinch from cold, hard though it was to convince myself.

I’d known to place a folded towel beneath you to soak the ochre stains of shit and piss and leave the cotton sheet unmarked.  Unlike the frayed-edge strips wound herringbone around your ribs on which was mapped a rusting archipelago – a continent – afloat amidst the still-scarlet matted waves of your chest.

Cutting, peeling bandages away, I flinched on your behalf. Made amends by the tenderness with which I washed your skin to pale. Pale as the parchment on which you’d writ the words to summon me.  Words writ in ink black as the cloak I wrapped me in. Before I went to tell your wife.

[Originally posted to House of Writers, for Canvas prompt 150]

Some folk know how I like to spend my time

Books of 2015

Forty-eight  of the 192 books I read in 2015 merited five stars; a further fifty-five, four stars – evidence of a very good year’s reading. Of those five stars, thirteen were re-reads (including early Poldark and Denise Mina’s Alex Morrow) and only fourteen in the crime/thriller genre; three each by Tana French and John Lawton plus a further two by Mark O'Sullivan.

The year seemed dominated by new-to-me writers, and although 'never-heard of' does not apply to James Baldwin or L P Hartley, I'd not known Jennifer Johnson nor read J L Carr's  'A Month in the Country', or David Constantine, Glen Doig, Jenny Fagan, Elizabeth Harrower, Gene Kerrigan or David Malouf

Top six Crime/thriller books (roughly in order)

Scott, Manda  No Good Deed

Genuinely, ever-windingly tense, near-unputdownable and astonishingly vivid in the power of its characterisation. 'Remarkable thriller' indeed. 

.

Staincliffe, Cath Letters to my Daughter’s killer

Stunning', as Ann Cleeves is quoted as saying on the front cover, is the only word for this. It begins with an intensity that is exhausting then the depiction of the corrosive effects of hatred, alongside the daily drag of bed-wet sheets and a bitchy workmate is powerful and convincing.

French, Tana  The Likeness (Dublin Murder Squad, #2)

For the compulsion of its story, the voice of the narrator, this deserves thrice times five stars: I could not put it down. Five stars too for the writing, the characterisation, the dialogue and the scene-setting

. 

O'Sullivan, Mark Crocodile Tears

A rivetingly original character in DI Leo Woods, fully supported by his fellow detectives. A convoluted plot, solved by much discussion and many cul-de-sacs, many marvellous metaphors and lovely, individual writing.

Lawton, John Lily of the Field

Addictive as crack' it says on the cover, and though I've never tried crack, John Lawton's writing certainly has me addicted, and high as a kite with each reading.
                                               

Bingham, Harry The Strange Death of Fiona Griffiths (Fiona Griffiths, #3)

Fiona Griffiths has to be one of the most fascinating individuals in today's crime writing, her illness making more plausible her more irrational decisions and behaviour. The depth, breadth and application of research is lightly applied, the whole of it a thoroughly entertaining and absorbing tale.

Top seven non-crime books (in no especial order)

Duncan, Glen  Love Remains

This, as an exploration into the inner selves and relationship of two people - Nicholas and Chloe - is astonishing in its ability to entrap the reader into shocked, throat-aching suspense, and to force them to ask questions of their own understanding of what love is, exactly.

Fleming, Will Le Central Reservation

I cannot imagine this novel landing on any publisher's desk and being greeted with anything but delighted applause, so fresh, unique and appealing it seems, And I am far from someone who would go in search of a ghost story. Equally, I admit to ignorance of the dreadful effect of the slaughter of cattle on farmers, which brought as much of a lump to my throat as did the tribulations of Holly

Hartley, L.P. The Go-Between

Expectations were high, and this, in its gripping, insightful readability, surpassed them.No idea why I didn't read it decades ago.

Johnston, Jennifer How Many Miles to Babylon?

A vivid, poignant and very well-observed tale of a male friendship operating under differences of class and rank. For once, the authors' endorsements on the cover "fresh and moving", "brilliant masterpiece" and "truly heartbreaking" do not exaggerate. 

                                              

McIlvanney, William  Docherty

It's a very long time since a book brought me to tears, but this did twice over. As stark a portrait, beautifully told, of a working man's life and philosophy as you'll ever expect to find.

Ralph, Anna  Before I Knew Him

Skilfully evokes the misunderstandings of adolescent relationships, the fear and the desire to be understood. Easy to read, not because the writing is simplistic but because it says what is necessary.

Winton, Tim Eyrie

Possibly even better than 'Dirt Road' which is my most regularly re-read of Tim Winton's novels. Desperate, full of disparate incidents, not all of which are explained or explainable. The beginning chapters, heavy with sharply-described observations. Then the dialogue kicked in, like reading tangled barbed wire. And all characters achingly, painfully human in their indecision and inability as they attempt to make sense of their lives. A book I finished with my heart beating double time and my throat aching

65139 Main Street

Even from across the street, bending, leaning forward to peer beyond the passengers across the aisle, leaping up at the driver’s shout that this was where I needed to get off, grabbing my rucksack and the paper bag with the half-eaten sandwich – why do they always sneak mayo in these days? – I could see I was too late.

Those fairy lights – who had persuaded him to hang those? He hated Christmas and everything to do with it. That’s how – when – we’d met. Both escaping. Trying to escape.

Oh, not from here.  He said he was on his way here, and when I said I’d never been he invited me. In a way which said if I cared to I’d be made welcome. Said the whole place was a welcoming one.

That I could believe. Not five minutes after I’d tried knocking at the thin, flimsy glass of the front, and had confirmed the emptiness; after I’d walked all the way round, standing on tiptoe trying to see inside through windows blotchy with rain-swept and mottled dust from the bare earth, the woman from next door came out and, after checking her washing, said to me, ‘You want a drink while you wait for the next bus? ‘Cos him, he ain’t ever comin’ back here.’

‘Do ... do you know where he went?’

She gestured with a tilt of her head. ‘Jus' down the road.’

I turned, looked, unable to pick out which house she might mean.

‘He’s in the graveyard. Be just bones by now.’

Photograph by Mike Handley, Greenville, Mississippi, posted on http://houseofwriters.ning.com/

53,415 - a bit more than a shitty first draft

Tis done. And, I have to confess, at times the process was definitely a shitty one. I am more conscious this time of the work still to be done, not least the removal of one or two scenes of duplicated information.

Against this, the several times additional layers suggested themselves to me as I typed. Sometimes mistakenly, such as the one where I completely forgot making a bloke impotent in Chapter 3 and had him possibly impregnating someone at the end. But it is possible that the concentrated effort definitely added value to the exercise. But that he was doing anything was a bonus since I've been trying since July to flesh out his bones and only yesterday succeeded.

Adding NaNo count to what remains untouched from before, amounts to 62K. Plenty more to develop and flesh out. Twists and who was where, when to sort out. I don't expect to have the book ready to be called finished until this time next year. Especially as I still have NaNoWriMo 2011's to finalise.

Endpiece

Today, in the interval between waking and being word-driven out of bed, the final twist of Drink with a Dead Man appeared in my head. 

Some months ago I watch a video of Lee Child talking about writing and he said (I'm almost sure it was he) when writing a thriller you "need to ask a question at the beginning, and not answer it until the end" I wrote it down, stuck it on a shelf less than two feet from my head, and have kept it in mind ever since. And, although I sincerely hope Kit Talamantes does learn the answers to "Who has summoned me? And why?" (because I don't have them, yet) there was more to come.

I'm on track for NaNoWriMo2015, but can't say it suits me to write this way.

NaNoWriMo - revving up

A screenshot of a section of my Scrivener page; first time I've used the programme for a near fully-to-be-written novel. Current word count, because the initial idea came from a short story, to which I added a couple of other plot lines to see if it would run, is 16K, but much has to be removed as it will become irrelevant.

I've thought my way through this novel - Drink with a dead man - much further than I usually do; most of my novels begin with two or three random conversations, and I proceed, blindly, from there. Despite the fact that DI Luke Darbyshere's first conversation  continues only hours from the ending of the previous novel, I intend each to be capable of being read as a stand-alone.

Each of the lines in the left hand column is a scene, each colour represents a character, or pair of characters which the scene is about, and the tick icon tells me it is 'To Do'. For me, the ability to see at a glance how well mixed different PoVs are (and move them when necessary) is a prime advantage of this program. Central panel is the text, Right-hand one an outline, which can be viewed separately, synopsis fashion, plus notes.

Like many programs, there's far more potential to Scrivener than I use. I do the writing in Word and post in Scrivener at the end of a session as additional back-up. Now, with only days to go conversations are waking me early morning, for which I make a brief note as starting points for when Sunday arrives.

Also a first - I'll set myself a word target of 80K, but am well aware that will not be the final version.

NaNoWriMo 2015 - Drink with a Dead Man

After a two-year break I've signed up again.*
The high-pressure, brain-out-of-gear format does not always work for me but this barely-begun fourth in the DI Luke Darbyshere series has a couple of really large sticking points.
One is the reason behind the main impetus of the plot.
The other is the nature of one of the characters.
I suspect he is a baddy; that his actions precipitated the MC's decision to drop his original identity and that he was behind the summons which forced the MC back into the limelight. But I've not a clue why or how. Or what.
It might be that I hammer out two or three alternative scenarios and in so doing discover what works best. Sounds most plausible.
And I need to weave that around a slow-burn case that Luke Darbyshere is currently working on. One which requires him to liaise with an undercover guy who might - or might not - have an agenda of his own.

*For the record, my 2011 novel - then called Not Wanted on Voyage, now Step so Grave, is almost finished.  Is with what I hope is its final beta reader. Since 2011 it has been substantially re-written no less than seven times. And in-betweentimes has spawned two follow-up novels, Longest Shadows Reach and Commission & Ommission. Both of these are also near ready for publication.

Been playing with covers again ...

This time last week I was in the Book Barn just off the A37 in Somerset, having been dropped off, with my daughter, for some 4+ hours of browsing and buying.
We both had lists (J's had 56 titles) but soon found it was easier to just scan each shelf in the hope (expectation) that those of interest would somehow make themselves known to us. And with every book just £1, the temptation to take a punt on something that looked of potential interest was rife.
What did surprise me was the speed at which I rejected books. And, even more shaming, on what little evidence I did so.
Banal blurbs, too-general (and therefore non-gripping) opening paragraphs saw books immediately returned to shelves. (On my return home I immediately rechecked the first paragraphs of mine for oomph.)
But books that looked lovely were given a second chance; a further check and often went into the basked on wheels so thoughtfully provided.
Book covers do seem to be going through a bit of a renaissance at the moment. Lately I found Denzil Meyrick's series different and appealing, and Caffeine Nights has a signature which appeals. There are others which I can't bring to mind (and some, like the latest Rebus ones, which I actively dislike) but all in all enough of an impetus to send be to the drawing board to re-hash my as-yet-unpublished DI Luke Darbyshere series (the fourth of which has yet to be written).
This is the initial result. Images need re-sizing to match each other and maybe colours need more differentiation between titles, but the final two I AM pleased with.

Cultivation

‘Why me?’

‘And not the others? Can you seriously see those hirsute Neanderthals being admitted?’ Daemon’s well-bred eyebrows rose, indicating the clutch of hard-faced men, shuttered eyes fixed on the spinning wheel, diamond-décolletéed women at their shoulders.  

Chris knew what he meant.

But was not as convinced as Daemon of the superiority of this perfumed-murmuring, money-cultured crowd. He wondered how many others wore hired suits and false credentials – his at Daemon’s insistence.

A drawled ‘Lend me fifty, will you?’ told him why he’d been invited. He’d refrain from punching him. Lacking the Neanderthals' inheritance he still had much to learn. 

Frequent cul-de-sacs, and a shape-dictating Blurb

Two weeks or more trying out and researching plotlines, identities and motives for Drink with a Dead Man. A little help gained from from Dylan, Denzil Meyrick, divers and dirty lay-bys, and I've found it necessary to write a blurb in an attempt to keep me on the straight and narrow: 

Christopher Tillerman has been dead for eight years, but when the man he’s now become receives notification of a wedding which cannot be allowed to proceed – and he the only person who can stop it – he has no choice but to return to England to take responsibility for mistakes made in his previous life.

But who has summoned him?

And why?

Edinburgh crime reporter Baz Rose receives a cryptic email from an ex-uni friend, asking to meet.

But is it A, C or D?

Across town, DI Luke Darbyshere, in the first flush of a promising relationship, has a rendezvous with a man who is supposed to be anonymous.

So what is he doing, deep in conversation with a high-class prostitute with connections?

  

And then someone dies.

That final line added to remind me that it IS billed as a 'murder mystery' so someone had better die. At this moment I've not a clue who it will be, at whose hands, or why.