First Writings

I’ve just found something I had completely forgotten. It’s a little green notebook, tattered and stained and it contains the first poems I ever wrote.

I browsed through it and was intrigued, though not too much surprised, at how the things I wrote about then are similar to those I am writing about now. I’m fairly sure that the writers we loved when we were younger influenced what and how we write now (my series of talks with historical novelists shows how many were influenced by Rosemary Sutcliff, for example.) But it’s still something of a shock to find that the themes and issues which excited me when I was ten or eleven still fascinate me today.

Here’s the first poem I ever wrote. I was ten years old and I wrote it balancing a sheet of paper on my knee as I watched the Remembrance Day programme on the television.

Scarred with Red

Alas, the cream of Britain’s men are dead

And the fields around are scarred with red,

There’s Pete and Tom and Mick and Ned

There’s all my mates so very dead;

What can I do to help them now

Apart from make a solemn vow,

In days to come none shall forget

Those men their deaths so bravely met.

I am still fascinated by the First World War. I have written a collection of three short stories, ‘For King and Country’ which focuses on the pressures, sacrifice and courage of the participants in that terrible conflict. I am also planning a new novel set in those years.

The rest of my notebook shows the themes and concerns that still excite me: Warfare, injustice, blind obedience and the difficult fight against it, the seasons and the natural world.

Thankfully, I will share you any more of my Juvenilia.

It was later in life, when I was a young man, when I first began to write about clever young people fighting to make their way in the world against the hindrances and opposition of people determined to put them in their place. But that was, I’m sure, pretty much a working out of my own frustrations and aspirations.

Maybe my titles even hint at my favourite themes:

The Lost King: Resistance

The Lost King: Wasteland

The Lost King: Mercenary (to be published later this year)

Artful

Outcasts

My work in progress, about a very Machiavellian young woman at the court of Henry VIII will probably be called ‘Beguiled’. I don’t think I aspire to be Henry Tudor but I would like to know my protagonist Alice Petherton. In fact, I’m quite beguiled by her. She was originally only going to be a short story.

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My Writing Space

I have lived in many homes and had a variety of writing places. I have found that those which seemed least pleasant often led to me being more creative and productive. I wrote my first collection of short stories crammed into a tiny dark place beneath stairs, my first novel hunched over a table in a dark corner of a room. When I set up my study to perfection I found myself perversely seeking out other places to write. Perhaps I know sub-consciously that that my work sometimes suffered in too perfect a setting.

I studied Neuro-Linguistic Processing, NLP, under Robert Dilts in California and he has a theory which perhaps explains this. He suggests that the best way to be creative is to use what he has termed The Disney Strategy.

There are three stages to the Disney Strategy. 1. Dreaming up ideas. 2. Turning the dream into reality. 3. Sternly evaluating and criticising what you have produced. You then go through the cycle again until you are happy with what you’ve produced.

Sounds familiar? Writers might call it Planning, Writing and Editing.

Dilts further suggests that different settings are best for each stage in the process.

1. Dreaming up ideas. An open, playful space is best. Look up and allow yourself time and space to dream with a child-like sense of the possible.
2. Turning the dream into reality. A well equipped space where you can really focus on the work with the best of equipment and without distraction. Lean forward to the task and get on with it.
3. Evaluating and criticising. As uncomfortable space as you can find. Make yourself miserable and you’ll be more likely to discover your mistakes.

So here’s my current writing space. Or rather spaces.

I get my best ideas when I’m outside, on the terrace which overlooks the town and sea or, better still, in a café with the buzz of the world swirling past but leaving me undisturbed. My favourite place currently is the Cocoon Café where the owner and his waitress are welcoming and friendly.

As people walk past I scan their faces, conjuring up minor characters from their appearance and the things which appear to be concerning them. I also dream my best dreams when I’m lying down, in bed or in a reclining chair on the terrace. I look up at the skies and nothing can stop the ideas from flowing across me.

I turn my ideas into reality by working in the apartment. I use a good PC and have started to use some excellent writing software called Scrivener. I also have access to the finest research tool any writer could need, the world wide web. More than that, I have a circle of friends and colleagues from across the world, courtesy of this blog, Twitter and other social media.

The view looks over the town of Menton and Mediterranean Sea but I rarely find I am distracted by this. But to make sure I’m not I turn myself to the blank wall. The only thing I can see is a poster of a horseman from Siena on a mission from one town to another.

Sometimes, when the weather’s good like today I sneak out onto the terrace and write.

I evaluate and criticise by reading my work late at night. I would do it somewhere uncomfortable if I could but we live in a two room apartment and space is limited. Late at night when I’m tired and grumpy is about as good, or should I say bad, as I can find.

So there we have it. My work space. Or rather my working spaces.

I’m starting a series of author’s Work Spaces on this blog in a couple of weeks. I hope you enjoy reading about other author’s workspaces. I’m looking forward to it.

In memory of Clement Attlee RIP – the greatest British Prime Minister of all time

In memory of Clement Attlee RIP – the greatest British Prime Minister of all time.

EDITING: THE LONG DAY’S JOURNEY TO IMPROVEMENT

I never used to like editing my writing.  In point of fact, I didn’t really know how to edit properly.   I was always aware of Hemingway’s scatological description of his first draft although he seems to be working away quite happily in this picture.

My approach to editing changed when I bought two books by Sol Stein, ‘Solutions for Writers’ and ‘Solutions for Novelists.’  In these he outlined his approach to editing, including a very smart and powerful model using what he calls ‘Triage.’  In this you fix the biggest things first.  These include your characters and their motivation, scenes and overall flow of the story.  Then you should look at more general points including the language used, the rhythm of the piece, tightening up the story and inconsistencies.  Finally you should look at the nuts and bolts of the writing including imprecision of language, confusion in dialogue and things which interrupt the suspension of disbelief.

This is just a quick overview, I’ll say more about Stein’s approach in a later post.

But what is clear is that editing is a long process, that it takes several stages and it can be every bit as creative as the initial writing.

This is the process I use.

1. My editing takes place even when I’m writing my first draft.  I re-read what I wrote the day before and fix anything which needs fixing.
2. Once I’ve finished my first draft I leave it for a month or so.  This leaves me enough space for me to re-read it with fresh eyes.
3. I read the draft quickly and note down anything which works well and doesn’t work so well.  Is the story strong enough?  Are the characters’ motivations realistic and clear?  Are there any parts where the story is sagging?  Are there themes which need to be heightened?  Are there any characters who shouldn’t be there or who are missing?  Are the chapters and scenes in the right order?
4. Then I read it through more slowly, looking for weak style, repetitive words, confusion of narrative or dialogue.  I often find it useful to read out loud when I come across a troubling part.
5. I then read the story in a different format.  First of all I use the Read function in Word.  This puts the manuscript into two pages which is more like a book.  It is surprising how different a view this gives.  I use this for copy-editing, particularly typos and punctuation errors.
6. Then I transfer it to my Kindle and read it on this, making any changes as I go along.  I may also print it out on paper and look at the manuscript in this format as well.
7. When I have made all my corrections I give the draft to my wife to read.  She is a skilled and tenacious reader.  We argue about plot, character and motivation which gives me good ideas on improving the overall shape of the novel.  And she has an eagle eye for typos and punctuation mistakes!
8. I rewrite the manuscript again.  I read it on Kindle once more.  Then I publish.

PUTTING ALL YOUR EGGS IN ONE BASTARD

Reblogged from LOOKING FOR MR GOODSTORY:

• 
• 
• 

 “The first thing I do in the morning is brush my teeth and sharpen my tongue.”

Last week a few of us gave critic Rex Reed a very negative review. But there was one critic you’d feel almost proud to be savaged by. Her name was Dorothy Parker.

“She runs the gamut of emotions from A to B.” (a review of Katherine Hepburn’s acting style.)

Read more… 957 more words

A life of comedy and tragedy.

Guest post for Harvey Black

Harvey Black has asked me to do a guest post on his blog.  I was delighted at this invitation.

I have written about my approach to writing about war.  As always, I learned a little more about my own writing by taking a look at my work through a different prism.

Harvey’s own field is more recent than mine, by a thousand years.  He writes about World War 2 and the Cold War.

Please take a look at my contribution and the rest of Harvey’s blog at:

http://harveyblackauthor.org/

 

Outcasts: The Knighting of the Commoners #SampleSunday #HistNov

At Agnes’s insistence, John and Simon accompanied Bernard to the citadel.  They walked in silence, Simon still angry, Bernard fearful, John trying to quell the voices which rained down insults inside his head.

The citadel was crammed with men: Franks, Armenians, Syrians and Jews.  To one side was a pile of swords, spears and cudgels.  A line of men received weapons from one of Balian’s sergeants before shuffling to where a churchman stood, his hand held high in blessing.

Bernard turned his head away.  He had glimpsed Balian of Ibelin in a corner of the citadel talking with a veiled woman and half a dozen children.

At that moment the gate of the citadel was flung open.  To the astonishment of the crowd a dozen Saracen horsemen rode in followed by four men carrying a litter.  Balian kissed the woman goodbye and helped her into the litter.  The bearers made swiftly for the gate, followed by the children and last, the Saracen escort.

‘What’s happening?’ Simon asked.  ‘Where are they taking that woman?’

‘She is no ordinary woman,’ said Bernard.  ‘She is the wife of Balian.  More to the point she is grand-niece of the Emperor of Byzantium, as Saladin well knows.  Saladin has no wish to antagonise the Empire.  Maria Comnena could dance naked through the Saracen army and none would dare to look upon her.’

‘Somebody is looking at you though,’ John said.

Balian’s comrade, Jerome Sospel, was beckoning to them.

Bernard turned a worried gaze upon his friends and gestured them to come with him.

As they approached they saw Balian force his gaze from the gate where his wife and family had just departed and turn instead to examine the walls of the city.

Jerome placed his hand upon Balian’s shoulder for a moment, the briefest of moments.  Then he turned to the three friends as they approached.  ‘Bernard Montjoy,’ he said.  His voice pretended surprise.

Balian turned at his friend’s words and stared at the three men.

Bernard flung himself upon the ground, arms prostrate. ‘My lord, Balian’ he pleaded.  ‘You summoned me.’

Balian kicked him in the side. ‘Get up, Montjoy’ he said.  ‘Stop making a fool of yourself and of me.’

Bernard rose, dusting himself down, and stood abjectly, his head to one side.  ‘Mercy, Lord, upon your former servant,’ he pleaded.

Balian considered Bernard.  ‘I seem to remember that I once ordered a whipping for your insolence.  I have no need to repeat it now. I do, however, have need of you.  In your youth you were a good soldier; a sergeant, I recall.’

Bernard nodded.

‘I have need of every man who can bear a weapon.’  Balian put his hand upon Bernard’s shoulder.  ‘Most of the citizens will be good only to stop a Saracen arrow.  It is men like you who must make a fight.’

Bernard swallowed.  ‘I have a family, my lord.  A wife and two children.’

‘Then even more reason to fight.  If we hold on long enough then succour may come from the west.  And if it doesn’t arrive, yet we fight bravely, Saladin may agree to honourable terms.’

He gave a shrewd look at the Ferriers.  ‘Are these family?’

‘Friends, my lord.’

‘Can you fight, friends of Bernard?’

‘Just give me a weapon,’ said Simon.

John did not speak.  Balian stared into his eyes.  ‘Will you fight for the City?’

‘I am a pilgrim,’ answered John.  ‘I am a wrathful man.  My penance for an act of violence was to come to Jerusalem and never harm another.’

Balian turned to his comrade.  ‘What a delicious irony, Jerome,’ he said.  ‘The peaceable are lining up for weapons and this wrathful, violent man has sworn never to fight again.’

‘Perhaps he can be persuaded,’ Jerome said.

‘I can absolve him of his oath,’ said the Archbishop.  ‘Much good it will do though.’

Balian turned to him sharply.  ‘What do you mean?’

‘These are just common men,’ said Eraclius.  ‘We need knights to win battles.’

Jerome nodded.

‘You think this too?’ Balian asked.

‘Yes, my lord,’ Jerome said.  ‘The people may be brave but they need knights to command them.  Only knights will be able to inspire them.’

Balian’s shoulders slumped.  Jerome’s words confirmed the enormity of the task he had taken on.  Then he straightened.  His lips closed as tight as a scar.

‘You three, on your knees,’ he cried.

Terrified, Bernard, John and Simon scrambled to obey.

Balian drew his sword, making them flinch.  He touched them on their shoulders.  ‘Arise, Sir Knights,’ he said.

Astonished, the three men climbed to their feet.  Simon looked ecstatic, Bernard full of doubt.  John looked mortified.

‘There,’ Balian said.  ‘Now we have three more knights, which makes seven in the whole city.  It’s a start.’

******

Outcasts is available on all e-book readers including Kindle, Kobo, Nook and Tablets.  It is available from Amazon, Smashwords, Kobo, Barnes and Noble, WH Smith and other retailers.

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Outcasts: Crusades 1 #SampleSunday #HistNov

My new novel ‘Outcasts’ is published as an e-book on Amazon and Smashwords. It will be available from other outlets later this month.  It is priced at $3.00, £1.93 and €2.20 or thereabouts.

PROLOGUE

JERUSALEM 1185

The young man sprawled in the dirt, snatching at the spears which jabbed at him.

‘Get out, you filth,’ cried an old man from the edges of the baying crowd.

The spears prodded once more, driving the man to scurry away like a crab in the sand.  He turned, crouching low, and his powerful arms knocked away the points in vain attempt to prevent them stabbing him.

Beyond the spearmen a crowd of citizens watched in fascinated dread.

‘This is shameful,’ said one man, his eyes wide in horror.  ‘He should be honoured for what he did, not reviled in this way.’

‘You are right,’ said his companion, an aged Greek merchant.  ‘But tell me Bernard, would you allow such as him to enter your inn?’

‘Get out you filth,’ cried the old man once again and this time his cry was taken up by others in the crowd, their tight throats yelping like street-dogs.

The young man staggered to his feet, shielded his aching eyes from the burning sun.  He saw a young woman in the crowd bend to the ground.  She straightened, weighed a heavy stone in her hand and threw it at him.  Her aim was good and the stone smashed into his cheek, tearing at his lacerated skin.

This seemed to act as a signal.  Dozens of stones flew from the hands of the onlookers, pelting him with vindictive fury.  He did his best to shield his head from the missiles and staggered out of their reach.

‘He should be allowed to join the Order of Saint Lazarus,’ said the inn-keeper.  ‘He was a soldier of the King.’

The old Greek shook his hand.  ’True.  But he was not a knight.  Even lepers, it appears, are ranked by birth and blood.’

The young man halted a short distance from the crowd and stared back towards them.  One of the spearmen stepped from the ranks and approached him, flinging down a bundle of white linen clothing and a bell before hurrying back to his fellows.

‘Get away from us,’ cried the voices from the crowd.  ‘Get away, you filth.’

‘I shall do so,’ the young man called.  ‘I have no desire to live my life with you.’

He stooped to the bundle of clothes, and turning, limped off towards the desert.

The crowd hooted in derision.

 

 

 

Part 10 of ‘Outcasts’. #SampleSunday #HistNov

CHAPTER 5

BALIAN OF IBELIN

Jerusalem

Fear flooded the city like a plague.  It swept down from the Church and through the streets to the citadel.  The people of the city hurried towards the high battlements, desperate to glimpse what they were terrified to see.  Bernard, John and Simon shouldered their way into the crowd and were carried along to the walls.

There were no soldiers left in the city anymore so there was no challenge to them as they climbed the steps to the battlements.

The sun was drawing close to the horizon, painting gold the plain beyond the city.  A vast army, swollen to fifty thousand warriors, was marching into place.  Even as they looked, the last formations hurried to close the gap remaining between them.

The city was surrounded.

‘Perhaps our leaders will attempt another parlay?’ John said.

‘It did no good last time and it will do no good now,’ Bernard answered.  ‘The moment those fools refused to surrender, Saladin swore he would kill every Christian.’  He sighed.  ‘Just as the first Crusaders killed every Muslim when they took the city.’

‘So we must put our faith in Lord Christ.’

Bernard shook his head, wearily.  ‘Christ’s representative Archbishop Eraclius leads us now,’ he said.  ‘So if preaching and whoring are needed to defend a city we have just the man to lead us to victory.’

They gazed out at the army arrayed below them.  Most were infantry but to the rear trotted legions of horsemen, their spears glittering in the light of the failing sun.

But what caught their eyes lay directly ahead.  Scores of catapults and mangonels were already in place, loaded with huge stones.

‘Surely they cannot conquer these walls?’ said John.  ‘Not even with those machines.’

‘The walls might be strong,’ said Bernard, ‘but there are no soldiers left to man them.’

Simon pointed.  A small group of horsemen trotted forward from the foremost Saracen lines.

‘Horsemen,’ he said.  ‘Five of them.’

Intrigued, the three men hurried down the staircase to the gate.  They waited with the crowd until a postern door slid open and the horsemen entered the city.

The leader of the group took off his helmet to reveal the lined and haggard face of an elderly warrior.

‘Balian of Ibelin,’ Bernard said.  He turned a worried face towards the Ferriers.

‘What’s wrong?’ John asked.

‘In my youth I was one of Balian’s sergeants.  When he married Queen Maria Comnena I made some jest about him marrying for a crown.  I received a flogging and my dismissal.’

‘What has he come here for?’ said Simon.

‘His wife,’ said Bernard.  ‘She’s here in the city.  I was wrong you see.  Balian married for love.’

The man who stood by Balian was a tall man of about the same age.  Where Balian looked worried he seemed calm and relaxed.  He gazed around at the city as if remembering good times he had experienced here.  He raked his fingers through his hair and then stopped.  He had noticed them watching him and a broad grin of recognition spread over his face at the sight of Bernard.

‘You know him?’ John asked.

Bernard nodded.  ‘Jerome Sospel.  Balian’s best friend and lieutenant.’

News of the horsemen had spread and a committee of churchmen pushed their way through the crowd.  They were led by Archbishop Eraclius who rushed to embrace Balian.

‘Praise God,’ he said.  ‘You have been sent to save the city.’

Balian shook his head.  ‘No.  I have come for my wife and children.  Saladin gave me free passage to collect them.  I swore an oath to stay in the city for one day only and not to take arms against him.’

A fierce cry of anguish rose from the populace at these words.  Balian glanced around at the sound but clamped his jaw tight, determined to ignore it.

‘But that was an oath to an infidel,’ said Eraclius.  He stepped closer as though about to whisper but he made his voice loud enough to carry across the crowd.  ‘It is in my power to absolve you of your oath to the Saracen.’

Balian gave him an angry glare.  ‘I have come for my wife.  Where is she?’

Eraclius peered at Balian, his mind working swiftly.  ‘She is in the palace.  Go to her.  Be joyous in your reunion.  I shall come to you there later.’

 ***

The next morning the people of the city were overjoyed to hear that Eraclius had absolved Balian of Ibelin from his oath to Saladin.  Balian was now free to take charge of the city’s defence.

‘What do you think of this news?’ John asked Bernard.

‘I don’t know.’  Bernard fell silent and shook his head.  ‘Jerusalem is my home.  Our delegates were mad when they refused Saladin’s terms; it condemned the city to destruction.’

He glanced across at Agnes who was singing quietly to their daughter.  ‘I feared for my family,’ he continued.  ‘But with Balian here…’

‘You think there may be a chance?’

Bernard shrugged.

Simon strode into the inn, his face shining with excitement.

‘Balian has asked for every man to join him in defence of the city,’ he said.  He gave a playful punch to John’s shoulder.  ‘It will be a glorious battle.’

John’s heart sank.  This was what he had dreaded to hear.

‘I came to Jerusalem to be a pilgrim,’ he said.  ‘I did not come to be a soldier.’

Simon stared at him in astonishment.  ‘To be a pilgrim is a luxury at a time like this.  The infidel is beating upon the gate.’

‘I will not kill my fellow man.’

Simon stared at him.  ‘A Saracen is not a fellow man.  He is an infidel, damned for all eternity.  That is what the church teaches us.’

‘I do not believe it.’

Simon opened his mouth to reply but Bernard raised his hand to silence him.  ‘Hush, both of you.  We should not war amongst ourselves.’

‘I do not want a war,’ John said.  ‘With Simon or with the Saracens.’

‘You may not want a war,’ Simon said.  ‘But what if the other man wants one?  What if the Saracen is determined to have one?’

Bernard turned towards John.  ‘No one wants to fight, no one wants to kill.  And no one here wants to make you take up arms against your will.’

‘He may have sworn to be a pilgrim,’ said Simon angrily, ‘but he never swore to lie supine before God’s enemies.’

John looked up, his blood swirling with rage at the insult.  He checked himself.  It was this rage that had made him come on a pilgrimage, this rage which he had to do penance for, this rage which he had sworn to master, for Christ’s sake and for his own.

‘Shall I fight the infidel alone, cousin?’ Simon asked in a cold voice.  ‘Or shall I fight with you by my side?’

John said nothing.

Simon’s face quivered with anger.  He strode off but before he could reach it the door was flung open.

A soldier looked around.  ‘Is Bernard Montjoy here?’

Bernard looked at the floor for a long moment.  Then he raised his hand.

‘Lord Balian wants you,’ said the soldier.

‘No,’ cried Agnes.

‘He commands it,’ the soldier said.  ‘He demands it.’

***************

‘Outcasts’ Book 1 of my Crusades series, will be published this month.

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Part 9 of my new Crusades novel. #SampleSunday #HistNov

CHAPTER 4  THE FIELD OF HATTIN

THE END OF THE ARMY

The Frankish nobles stared at the carnage.

The plain was covered with the corpses of men-at-arms.  The loss of foot-soldiers was to be expected, if not on this scale.  What horrified the nobles was that a thousand knights had also been slain.

King Guy glanced at the scatter of men close by.  They were overcome by thirst, wounds and despair.  They could fight no longer.

The sun tormented those left alive, especially the wounded.  Their groans carried far across the plain.  Only the carrion birds were not dismayed by the sound.  They circled patiently, waiting until the dying gave up the struggle and the battle-field grew still.

There was one strength still remaining to the Christians.  Raymond of Tripoli had maintained command of a few of his troops, a hundred in all, knights and foot-soldiers.

The King called across the heaps of dead, commanding him to attack the Saracen army.

Raymond looked across the field of dead; disbelieving, despairing.  His dislike of Guy was deep-seated.  He had long argued against his determination to force war upon Saladin.  But he never thought the man’s folly would lead to this.

He stared for a moment at Guy.  He turned and looked at Saladin’s army and then at his own pitiful remnant of men.  Then he laughed; a laugh of desperation and bitter scorn.

Raymond sheathed his sword and forced his men to harvest their courage and whatever weapons they could find.

‘Mount up,’ Raymond cried.  ‘Find a horse and mount up.  Even foot-soldiers, even if you’ve never ridden before, mount up.’

The Saracen host, thirty thousand warriors, was drawn up in a crescent in front of them.  Raymond took a deep breath and led his hundred men towards them.

The ground was strewn with Christian corpses.  His men turned their heads when they saw they were about to ride over stricken friends or comrades.  But Raymond increased the pace and the horsemen moved into a canter.  The two armies were close now and he cried out, summoning his men to their final hopeless charge.

He drew his sword and aimed it at the nearest emir.  But as he did so, with unbelievable skill, the Saracens veered away.  A gap opened up allowing the tiny force to ride through the army unmolested to safety.

On the other side of the battle-field Balian of Ibelin realised that all eyes were on the charge of his friend Count Raymond.  He seized this brief opportunity to lead his last four followers to safety.

The Saracen army reformed and came to a halt a furlong away from King Guy and the rest of the Frankish lords.

Two men, the leaders of the victorious army, walked their horses a dozen paces in front of their warriors and gazed upon their stricken foe.

 *******

Saladin walked alone across the battle field.    Most of the nobility of the Kingdom had been captured, including King Guy.  Only Raymond’s force and four men led by Balian of Ibelin had escaped.

All around him lay the corpses of the army of Jerusalem, twenty thousand soldiers and knights, the entire defensive force of the Kingdom.

Saladin turned to the south, his eyes peering across the bleak hills.  Now, finally, he could unleash the storm upon Jerusalem.

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