Book Review: Dead To Me by Cath Staincliffe

A prequel novel to the television series Scott & Bailey, Dead To Me follows DC Rachel Bailey as she joins MIT and gets to grips with the case of a young woman found dead in her flat. Rachel clashes with her new team, especially DC Janet Scott who sees her as immature and impulsive but DCI Gill Murray believes she'll be a useful addition to the team. As the investigation wears on, spectres from both Rachel and Janet's pasts unsettle them but they gradually learn to work together.

With a book like this, there was the chance it would turn into a second-rate spin-off novel. However, written by someone with the talent and expertise of Staincliffe and deliberately filling in a gap in the series rather than recounting a tale we already know from the screen, I found it brilliant. Anyone familiar with the series will know that an integral aspect are the relationships between Rachel, Janet and Gill. Dead To Me sets all this up perfectly, showing the rocky start of what would become Rachel and Janet's friendship whilst staying completely true to the characters. It felt like I was watching it in my head and nothing really stuck out as 'wrong'. Even so, I believe even people unfamiliar with the television series would enjoy it - all the main characters are introduced and explored properly but generally - and this is important - in relations to the investigation.

I don't want to give too much of the crime plot away. All I'll say it that I had an inkling but I wasn't sure until the detectives were sure, just as it should be. Also, Staincliffe's immersion into the more prosaic elements of crime detection mimics the series, coming across as completely authentic without being too boring.

All in all, this was an excellent book. I felt like I'd spent time with three of my favourite television characters whilst still enjoying a twisting murder plot. Thoroughly recommended.

This book was read as part of the 'New Author' reading challenge, details here.

Let's Start at the Very Beginning...

I hope that title put 'Do Re Mi' in your head. It was rather intended to. Though this post isn't about musicals, it's about writing (for a change!). 

I've gone back to working on 'Lily', the first novel I completed. While the document is labelled 'Fifth Draft' there was an aborted attempt way back in the day so it's more like the sixth. Instead of going through it with a luminous pen, though, I'm typing the whole thing out from scratch. I generally do that with second drafts because there's so much to change but at this point it might seem a little silly, like giving myself far more work to do than I need to. 

However, it has the benefit of making me think things over. My sentence structure's evolved a lot since I last toyed with the novel and I'm more confident generally. There are some additional plot aspects I'm trying to weave in as I go but I wanted to make sure as much as possible had been looked over critically. I want this novel to be the best it can be, after all. 

So it's a lot of work and it doesn't end here. I plan on another pass through once I've finished this to check and improve syntax and grammar then I want to read the whole thing aloud. I'm not sure how long all this will take but I have other projects to intersperse with this one - many other projects. Not to mention that PhD which is taking up a good proportion of my time at the moment. I'm only really allowing myself to work on the novel after nine o'clock at night which means, of course, that some nights I just can't bring myself to. Which is fine. I've got my priorities and my PhD is top of that list, no question. But I've always been a multi-tasker. 

My inclination is to get this draft finished so that I can focus my attention on NaNoWriMo in November. Perhaps that isn't realistic but I'm going to give it a go. Because, really, I've got the words on the page, it's just a case of mixing them all up to make a novel. Right, Maria?

Book Review: Lasting Damage by Sophie Hannah

There are only two authors whose books I would rush out to buy on the day of release. Generally, I can starve myself until the paperback comes out but not with Sarah Waters or Sophie Hannah. I got very excited when I saw Hannah's latest was coming out, so much so that I pre-ordered a book for the first time in my life. I wasn't disappointed.

Lasting Damage springboards from this premise: a woman looking at a virtual tour on a property website sees a dead woman on the screen. When her husband comes to look he doesn't see what she saw. There begins a tale that races towards the finishing point described in the short prologue.

The sensation I always get when reading Hannah's books is that I'm running along behind a bus trying desperately to jump on. Like John Truitt in Meet Me In St. Louis, if you don't mind the analogy. Except that each time I get reasonably close to leaping on the bus swerves away. That's what following Hannah's plots feels like. After reading five previous books I feel I should have a good idea of where things are going, or at least be able to decipher probables, but I find it impossible. Hannah is a master at leading you in one direction, only for you to realise later on that she led you that way for a reason, though not the one you thought at the time. Her first-person narration from Connie's perspective certainly helps this effect. Connie Bowskill is another of those characters who you want to trust and like but she's a bit on the unstable side. Hannah takes the unreliable narrator, as she does in all her books, and utilises it to its full potential.

For fans of the series there are plenty of serial elements in the police chapters to interest, which doesn't alienate new readers. Charlie Zailer and Simon Waterhouse are as dysfunctional a couple as ever and, although they begin the novel on their honeymoon, it's almost inevitable that they don't stay there. Further complications are thrown into the mix with the brief return of a face from an earlier book and a subplot involving Charlie's sister, Olivia, which causes all sorts of problems. If I've one complaint it's that this subplot dominates the early portion of the book then peters off. I understand why - at that point the main storyline is so complex that nothing should distract from it - but it was still something I noticed. However, I don't doubt that it'll definitely come up in the next book.

Are there parts of Lasting Damage I didn't like? To be honest, no. Hannah's got such a grip on her police characters (and an amazing knack for portraying unbalanced people) that characterisation wasn't a problem. The resolution to the main storyline leaves you thinking back over the entire book. Now, that's not a bad thing, but it does mean at some point I'm going to have to satisfy my urge to read all six books again! I'm always torn between reading slowly and absorbing everything or galloping ahead in order to reach the conclusion. Re-reading is a good option to add to those.

Again, I would recommend that anyone unfamiliar with Hannah starts at the beginning of her fantastic series, but the book is accessible to those who don't. I started at book four and worked my way backwards and I'm okay!

A previous review of Hurting Distance, the second book in series, can be found here.

I've blogged about reading the series backwards here.

Lasting Damage is available to buy here.

Book Review: Summer Will Show by Sylvia Townsend Warner

I have to admit, before I bought this book I'd never heard of Sylvia Townsend Warner. Retrospective research tells me she was a regular writer of novels, short stories and poems in the early-to-mid twentieth century. She was also a confirmed lesbian, living with poet, Valentine Ackland, until death parted them. That's the brief biographical sketch out of the way.

Summer Will Show is a sumptuous novel. The best way I can find to describe Warner's writing style in this particular book is that she has the eye of Charles Dickens and the flow of Edith Wharton. The two marry up quite well. While a small but diverse cast of characters appear through the novel, Warner manages to individualise them in a way that reminds me unavoidably of Dickens. The worst thing is, I can't pinpoint why! It's probably her eye for important detail, her method of filling the cracks with what should be known as opposed to what needs to be known. When I say that Warner flows in a manner similar to Edith Wharton, I mean it as a wholehearted compliment: I've found Wharton to be one of the most deceptively simple authors to read in literature.

The basic plot is this: Sophia Willoughby lives alone with her children in England as her husband, Frederick, and his mistress, Minna, enjoy life together in France. Sophia is content with her existence until her children die from smallpox. Then she follows Frederick back to France with the vague idea of having another child with him before leaving him to his own devices. However, she stumbles upon Paris as revolution takes hold and finds herself in an unlikely partnership with Minna as Frederick retreats to safety. The novel trundles along to its climax which, although almost inevitable, still leaves a powerful sensation behind it.

One review I read suggested that the anti-Semitism and racism within the novel was greatly off-putting. I won't lie, it can be a tricky read if you're not used to it. However, you have to remember that the novel is set in 1848. As a connoisseur of Victorian fiction, the discrimination didn't bother me so much. It's a representation of the times and to ignore it would remove realism from the book. Another criticism seemed to be Sophia's attitude towards Minna, which is derogatory even as their relationship progresses. I would argue that it's a good representation of character and shows the difficulty of shedding prior opinions after getting to know someone. But it's also actually refreshing - Sophia recognises the negative qualities of Minna as much as she recognises that their lives are now inexorably entwined.

A warning here: anybody looking for explicit lesbianism within this novel will be disappointed. Remember, it was written in 1936, not exactly a flowering period in the acceptance of homosexuality. However, the signs are definitely there. The odd kiss is mentioned, the fact that Sophia and Minna share a bed is made clear. Perhaps one of the greatest qualities of this book is that it demonstrates a connection between the two women without saying anything overly inflammatory which would've hurt the publication of the book. You're forced to read between the lines and, with Warner's luscious prose, it's not a chore to need to do that.

There is one practical point for readers which I feel I should mention. The novel is just over three hundred pages long and split into five parts. However, within the parts there are no breaks, just continuous prose. As someone who pauses a lot when reading I found this difficult to engage with, especially because I desperately wanted to carry on reading. I understand the logic in relation to this particular novel: everything is interconnected and the flowing prose gives the impression of life drifting by. It's overall a very absorbing text, but that may not be a great thing if you've got something else to do!

A couple of my favourite scenes, just to finish. The novel opens with Sophia taking her children to be hung by their ankles over a kiln in the belief that it will heal their ills. However ridiculous that concept may seem now, the scene is bizarre, intimidating and beautifully crafted. Later, during her first meeting with Minna, Sophia hears a story about her hostess's childhood in Lithuania. The vividness of that tale would've made the book worth reading had nothing else stood out. As it is, though, I can barely find fault with it.

I do believe some people would struggle with the style and the fact that so much happens so quickly. Admittedly, this book isn't for everyone. Even so, I can't wait to read it again. I get the feeling that I'll enjoy it even more the second time around.

This book was read for the LGBT Book Challenge 2011 (see sidebar for details).

Summer Will Show is available here.

Learn more about Sylvia Townsend Warner here.

Just A Perfect Friendship

If you're in a jam, here I am,

If you're ever in a mess, SOS,

If you ever feel so happy you land in jail... I'm your bail.

So the immortal Cole Porter wrote.

I've been thinking recently about the social state of my protagonists. It's rather like siblings, isn't it? One of the first pieces of writing advice my brain retained warned me that only children were the best kind to write about, unless it was integral to the plot, of course. Siblings were irritating, a blight on already-hefty plots. For extra brownie points, kill off your protagonist's parents. Well, that might be a bit extreme, but the point still stands.

Your reader encounters your protagonist at a specific point within their life. Although it's a given that life has been proceeding nicely up until this point, you don't want to overload your reader with too many details at once. But what if cutting out those pesky family and friends detrimentally impacts your plot?

In the two novels I'm rewriting at the moment, I've offered family instead of friends. Now, in the first instance, my protagonist, Lily, has family problems which have led her to shut herself off for years. She's steadfastly avoided making true friends, although she does gain a couple in the course of the story. But in the second novel, I don't feel like I have a leg to stand on. Before everything goes wrong, Danni, is a perfectly sensible and healthy human being. She's well-liked at work and seems to have a social life. But I haven't elaborated on the social life. No, I've just incorporated her parents into the mix, along with a few people she's with out of necessity rather than desire.

It's a tricky balance. Where do you draw the line between showing a healthy social circle and just providing lots of characters who do nothing for the plot and help to confuse your reader? I found that Landing by Emma Donoghue (reviewed here) was a good example of how to incorporate social lives into a novel. However, the theme of the book was home and what constituted a home. The analysis of people around the protagonists had to be a factor in that.

Perhaps it is best to cut out friends, siblings and parents. It certainly makes for easier writing, and probably easier reading. However, then you get into the minefield of character amnesia, which can be as dangerous.

It takes a light authorial touch for a book to cover all these points and not feel lacking in some way. I know I keep talking on and on about this novel (and I'll be talking about it for LGBT History Month on Friday at university hopefully) but Fiona Shaw's Tell It To The Bees is a good example of managing to mix friendships with a fantastic central story. In fact, the whole book is an exercise in characterisation I'd love to emulate. For anyone who missed the review, it's here.

How better to finish such a post than with the anthem of friendship?

Yes, I just wanted the excuse to include that... but I'm not apologising!

Seeing Things Differently

I braved the bad weather at the weekend to go to 'Novelties', a one-day postgraduate symposium on all things nineteenth-century. Some of the interesting subjects covered included the stained glass renaissance of the period, the use of American slang in the popular press, and how the Victorians viewed their recent past. The topic that stuck with me, however, is pertinent to both my academic interests and my writing: it was discussed how Charlotte Bronte used eyes to great effect in Villette.

The speaker highlighted several portions of the novel when her eyesight fails Lucy Snowe and when what she sees cannot be relied upon. But what caught my attention as a writer was the way in which Bronte portrays those moments when Lucy's vision is not one hundred percent. She often distinguishes the blurs and lines first, the things we're all just about aware of when we first wake. What Bronte does to great effect is examine what constitutes both opening your eyes and what you're opening your eyes upon. Very rarely does a setting come to the eye whole as soon as you see it, particularly when the sight is an unusual one.

Mainly, what I took from this particular talk was more writerly than academic. As writers, we're constantly told to think in detail but then to use detail sparingly. And, of course, it would be detrimental to your story if you minutely described every movement by a character and how they perceive the world first thing on a morning. However, tailoring details to your character and plot is absolutely plausible.

To use an example from one of my drafts, my protagonist, Danni, has a debilitating leg injury. Often, then, her awareness of a situation is defined by the position of her leg in that situation. It's not something I bring into every scene - because that would swiftly bore the reader - but it's something I pepper over the top of the piece. Details like this aren't supposed to stand out as such; just help the overall flavour of the novel.

Classic Openings: The Bell Jar

Sylvia Plath is probably known more for her suicide and marriage to Ted Hughes than for her poetry and prose, which seems a terrible shame. The Bell Jar was her only novel, written in 1963 under a pseudonym a few weeks before her death. It's notable for the treatment of madness and, more significantly, the world that perceives it.

The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath

It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs, and I didn't know what I was doing in New York. I'm stupid about executions. The idea of being electrocuted makes me sick, and that's all there was to read about in the paper - goggle-eyed headlines staring up at me on every street corner and at the fusty, peanut-smelling mouth of every subway. It had nothing to do with me, but I couldn't help wondering what it would be like, being burned alive all along your nerves.

I thought it must be the worst thing in the world.

New York was bad enough. By nine in the morning the fake, country-wet freshness that somehow seeped in overnight evaporated like the tail end of a sweet dream. Mirage-grey at the bottom of their granite canyons, the hot streets wavered in the sun, the car tops sizzled and glittered, and the dry, cindery dust blew into my eyes and down my throat.

For me, this opening works extremely well for several reasons.

1. It reads like poetry. Anyone who's read any of Plath's poetry will appreciate the way in which she hooks the reader into the story here. The 'granite canyons', the glittering car roofs and the imagery of dust all conspire to create a vivid portrait of the New York that protagonist Esther Greenwood is inhabiting.

2. It employs foreshadowing. The middle line that separates the two paragraphs is distinctly loaded. 'I thought it must be the worst thing in the world'. Illuminated on the page like that it is obviously supposed to be noticed by the reader and interpreted as they wish. One of the significant side effects of space on a page is that the reader often attaches some importance to it.

3. The voice of the novel is vivid. Aside from describing New York, the opening few paragraphs also introduce you to the as-yet unnamed narrator. This is Esther, as we will learn later. But the opening paragraph gives a close analysis of character, managing to tune into a few vital points instead of trying to paint a broad picture that could be anyone. By honing in on the execution issue, Plath also cements her theme right at the beginning of the novel.

4. The execution idea is a memorable and gripping one. I remember the first time I read this book that mentions of execution and burned nerves right at the start were a bit of a shock to the system (no pun intended). But they did one thing - they kept me reading. A book that starts with such imagery cannot possibly shy away from portraying anything else in vivid detail. And you know what? It didn't.

The Bell Jar is available to buy here.

Fear Itself

One of the most clichéd emotions in fiction that I've come across is fear. We're all familiar with the sweating palms, the darting eyes and the stomach sensations which compromise a fearful moment in a story. Those are all tangible effects of fear but they've become so predictable that I feel jolted out of the book whenever I read one - or, more frequently several - of the above.

As a writer I'm well aware that I resort to these clichés in early drafts. All too easy to get something on the paper and worry about it later. Then, as I reread and scrutinise, I invariably want to bypass over these moments. After all, it's too difficult to describe personal fear in a fresh manner... isn't it?

Possibly. But that doesn't mean we writers should stop trying.

The physical effects of fear probably are run of the mill in all of us. I start to shiver insanely, no matter the weather, the moment that something frightens me. I get the same reaction whether it's a spider crossing the room or something much more terrible. However, it's the mental accompaniment that differs.

How long that first sleep lasted, she never knew. She could only remember, in the after-time, that she woke instantly.

Every faculty and perception in her passed the boundary line between insensibility and consciousness, so to speak, at a leap. Without knowing why, she sat up suddenly in the bed, listening for she knew not what. Her head was in a whirl; her heart beat furiously, without any assignable cause. But one trivial event had happened during the interval while she had been asleep. The night-light had gone out; and the room, as a matter of course was in total darkness.

The above is an extract from one of my favourite novellas, The Haunted Hotel by Wilkie Collins. Now, although Collins goes on to describe the terror as being akin to 'the clasp of an icy hand' the prelude to the fear is the most interesting bit. Collins builds the tension by withholding the revelation of fear itself. There is the vague suspicion that something is about to happen but until our protagonist, Agnes, discovers she is not alone a few paragraphs later we don't know what the non-assignable cause is.

If a character is truly afraid of something there must be a reason for it. The best way to demonstrate this sometimes can be to link briefly to a past event. Virginia Woolf, that master of stream-of-consciousness, was so entwined with the minds of her characters that an actual physical reaction, such as Collins' icy hand idea, would feel out of place in one her novels. Instead, Clarissa Dalloway spins her past into a web and manages to create a sense of fear around it.

Somehow it was her disaster - her disgrace. It was her punishment to see sink and disappear here a man, there a woman, in this profound darkness, and she forced to stand here in her evening dress. She had schemed; she had pilfered. She was never wholly admirable. She had wanted success, Lady Bexborough and the rest of it. And once she had walked on the terrace at Bourton.

Clarissa's fears echo vividly here, even if there is no physical description of them. Fear is mainly a mental component. It has physical side-effects, yes, but it's no lie to suggest that fear is all in the mind.

To that end, then, something we as writers need to accomplish is a way of portraying fear without seeming to portray fear and still get our point across.

Easy...

Caution: Wet Paint

I wonder how many people in a hundred feel the urge to touch anything labelled ‘wet paint’, just to make sure it's wet. I do – every time. So far common sense has mostly won out and I haven’t actually stroked a window sill with a warning sign above it, but I have dragged my fingers lightly across the edge.

Human beings are naturally inquisitive creatures. However, something we have to remember as writers is that we’re a little more inclined to be nosy. Our characters might share some of our impulses to touch the things we’re told or advised not to but it’s possible they would draw the line before you. An old woman cautiously weaving through the crowds on the pavement might just be concerned she’ll be pressed against the paint and that it might stain her nice beige coat. Equally, a bouncy six year-old with a more adventurous spirit might run up and plop his hand straight into the squidgy mess. It’s all a matter of character – again!

Offering small snippets of everyday occurrences like the wet paint scenario in the course of a novel, particularly towards the beginning, give the reader actual experience of how that character behaves. It’s the old adage of showing not telling. At the same time, though, be careful that you’re not inserting this information in a contrived manner. Everything in your novel should contribute in some way to the plot so don’t have a completely irrelevant scene where your protagonist juggles knives to demonstrate his fearlessness.

If I was to insert the wet paint example into my current WIP, for example, I’d have my protagonist, Lily, running the back of her hand across the window sill. But this derives from a number of factors. Lily’s a painter. As such, she has an idea when paint may be dry enough to touch safely. In addition to that, she spends most of the novel focusing on the world around her because she doesn’t want to face up to her own life. To someone intent on looking out instead of in the thought of touching something unpredictable can be extremely enticing.

There are certainly a few questions you need to ask yourself before you insert a demonstrative scene into your WIP.

1. Does this scene add to your plot? If I was to have Lily indulging in the wet paint scenario it would be on her way to a pivotal scene at the local bar and maybe it would show her anxiety or attempts not to think about the things really worrying her.

2. If your character is going to do something a little strange is it in character? Lily's an artist so in the paint scenario it would be plausible.

3. Is this for your benefit of the benefit of the plot, character and reader? Never ever let it be for you!

Book Review: The Haunted Hotel by Wilkie Collins

I'd almost made it a rule not to review any book I read related to my Ph.D because I know Victorian fiction can be... stale, shall we say, to most people. However, when I finished The Haunted Hotel last night, a relatively short work by Wilkie Collins, I was terrified. I was so disturbed that I was extremely reluctant to turn the light off, and I can honestly say that's something I haven't experienced through a book before.

The beauty of The Haunted Hotel is that it doesn't rush to explain everything. It's essentially an old-fashioned ghost story, set partially in Venice, which relies on both psychological manipulation and the depiction of truly gruesome images.

I have to say, I was unsure about the first couple of chapters which focus chiefly on one of the antagonists of the novel, Countess Narona. I honestly felt a little cheated when I discovered she was embroiled in the mystery but Collins had a reason for everything. The beginning, therefore, is a trip through the family history of Lord Montbarry, Countess Narona's fiancée, which can seem to detract from the main event but is merely delaying the deliciousness of the plot proper.

Agnes Lockwood is the heroine of the story, a woman in love with Lord Montbarry before he marries the Countess. After his death at a hotel in Venice she finds herself unable to let go of his memory and marry his brother, Henry, despite being jilted by the Lord. She takes up work as a governess and when the family go to Venice they find themselves in the very hotel in which the Lord died.

I refuse to ruin the plot but I will say this: it may not be the gory shock-shock-shock of a modern horror novel but the quiet, steady build of Collins' narrative is positively more disturbing. The ghostly images which wouldn't be so frightening on their own are coupled with grotesque discoveries that root them firmly in reality.

It's a short novel - my compact copy is 190 pages - but I'd call it a book to read if you don't like reading Victorian fiction. It feels extremely modern in parts, like CSI in the 19th century.

Unintended Imagery

It's one of the most surprising things in my writing experience - reading through a manuscript and discovering a set of images you never intended to be there.

Actually, though, I'm of the opinion that it's been the norm for writers for quite some time. I extol the classics - Fielding, Dickens, Mary Elizabeth Braddon - but I don't honestly believe they had much more of a clue than we did. I can't deny they wrote fabulous novels but some of those things we pore over? Not completely deliberate.

I've just completed the final read-through of my manuscript. I was amazed as I read aloud how many references to graveyards and death I'd littered around the text without even noticing. Yes, my main location was a converted church but, beyond that, I had corpse imagery in a bar, spectral imagery in the street - it all seemed to mix together delightfully.

The key is to spot it early. You might've peppered a couple of recurring images throughout your WIP but if you recognise and grasp it you can easily enhance it, make it into a prolonged image that has a bearing on your main plot.

My preoccupation with death was more than just my brain being creepy. My protagonist was a bit of a recluse, living in this converted church and painting constantly. Although it wasn't a deliberate decision to coat the text with graveyard imagery it certainly fits with her personality and the dilemma her love interest has in trying to prise her out of there.

Once I spotted it I had to run with it. I can't be sure - I accept I'm too close to this novel at the moment - but I think it enhances the overall effect. I do love my subconscious sometimes.

Classic Openings: The Little Stranger by Sarah Waters

The Little Stranger is the latest offering from Sarah Waters, the reigning queen of period fiction as far as I'm concerned. Although I've noticed that fans of Waters either love or loathe it I found it an entrancing read. As it was shortlisted for the 2009 Man Booker Prize I think the critics are in agreement!

The Little Stranger by Sarah Waters

I first saw Hundreds Hall when I was ten years old. It was the summer after the war, and the Ayreses still had most of their money then, were still big people in the district. The event was in Empire Day fete: I stood with a line of other village children making a Boy Scout salute while Mrs Ayres and the Colonel went past us, handing out commemorative medals; afterwards we sat to tea with our parents at long tables on what I suppose was the south lawn. Mrs Ayres would have been twenty-four or -five, her husband a few years older; their little girl, Susan, would have been about six. They must have made a very handsome family, but my memory of them is vague. I recall most vividly the house itself, which struck me as an absolute mansion. I remember its lovely ageing details: the worn red brick, the cockled window glass, the weathered sandstone edgings. They made it look blurred and slightly uncertain - like an ice, I thought, just beginning to melt in the sun.

1. First point, Waters introduces the main character here - though it may not look like it. Hundreds Hall is so central to the novel I don't hesitate in calling it a primary character. It is described, analysed and utilised more than any person really. And, to that end, Waters must focus on it in her first paragraph. By describing it through the eyes of a child she can portray it simplistically - but also with the value of hindsight. It's always important for an author to get retrospective viewpoints at just the right level between childish inference and adult interpretation but Waters has always been an expert at that.

2. Offering snippets of background. In this opening paragraph Waters overtly gives backstory to the reader about the Ayreses but it reads so smoothly that the reader doesn't notice. The voice is so easy to slip into that exposition doesn't feel so taxing. This is partly down to Waters' style but it's also due to good characterisation - Dr Faraday's narrative voice is there from the start.

3. Waters brings out the details. As Dr Faraday remembers the details of the house so he impresses them on the reader. It's an effective way of fixing something on the audience - they'll remember through a memory. At this stage, also, the reader is lapping up details. By picking up certain details on the very first page Waters can be confident they may be remembered. And, in this novel, everything seems to have an emotion attached.

Buy it here.

Settings of Your Scenes

I think the knowledge that your setting for any piece of fiction needs to be more than incidental is drummed into our heads enough.

Setting equals a realistic experience for the audience, drawing on the setting can lead to a richer experience... Yes, yes, yes, we know all that. The trouble for me at least is remembering that setting doesn't have to be an overarching thing. It can - and should - be utilised on a scene by scene basis. Make sure you have a reason for setting your scene in a given location. Does the location add to it, complicate it, or is it merely decoration?

My current project takes place in a small Lancashire town. That's the main setting. Within it there are a couple of core places where the bulk of events take place: a storage facility on an industrial estate, a bar and a cottage. These are - I hope!- sufficiently well-described and utilised and I know precisely why I set certain scenes in those locations.

But on several occasions I take my characters out of their element. Two such instances are a park scene and an unfamiliar pub scene. I picked the park because, dare I say it, I thought it sounded pretty for the kind of deep and meaningful my characters were due to have. That's all well and good but I used it only as a backdrop. In my first draft I expected the reader to fix on their idea of a park and that'd be it. Fair enough, most people have an image of a park in their heads. Yet there was more to do with the scene. By picking an aspect of the park and underlining it I tied the location to the thought-processes of the characters. Suddenly the setting was a participant in the scene.

As for the pub scene... well, that needs more work. It's an unfamiliar environment, something we writers should relish exploring. My protagonist has more of an opinion than she's expressing, I know that much. I just have to coax it out of her.

A couple of questions to ask if you think your setting is nothing but a backdrop:

1. Can you easily pick up the majority of the action and dialogue and shift it to another location? If you can then the setting probably doesn't influence the scene at all.

2. Does your chosen setting impact the characters at all? For maximum effect, does it take them out of their comfort zone and, if so, have you exploited that?

3. Are you relying too much on certain locations: could you mix it up a little?

'I've Seen This Somewhere Before...'

Foreshadowing is one of those things that rarely occurs in first drafts. Unless you've got the multi-tasking mind of a genius, that is. I barely manage to keep track of my characters, keep a vague idea of my plot, and grasp the realisation that I have to draw it to a conclusion at some point without worrying about the intricacies.

Then came the rewriting stage and I started panicking - yes, I was telling a story, but did my novel work on any other level. I was whining constantly to myself: I want to create something that'll last. Well, to be fair, isn't that what we all want?

Something that adds another dimension to a novel is foreshadowing. I'm a huge fan of Jessica Page Morrell's book Between the Lines, a masterclass in writing the subtle elements of fiction. Although many writing books can feel like repetitive wastes of time and money, this one gives practical advice and uses many examples to back up the theories.

According to Morrell, foreshadowing can be used to lay the groundwork for three specific things: set pieces, character transformations and secrets. The one that I've been focusing on in my latest rewrite is the notion of set pieces.

One dramatic scene towards the climax of my novel involves my heroine being thrown violently against a table, garnering herself a nasty head wound in the process. This action in itself is unsurprising given the situation but I wanted more so I dropped in clues along the way that everything was about to spiral out of control. More than this, I concocted a mirror scene to take place in an earlier chapter.

Lily, my heroine, has a perfectly plausible fall down some steps after suffering a night of panic and exhaustion. She is cleaned up by her friend, Marie, in a scene that foreshadows the aftermath of the table incident detailed above. By inserting this scene I aim to increase the tension a little as the reader realises that Lily isn't immune to injury. Also, I wanted the echoes in the second clean-up scene to confuse the reader. Marie's intentions are ambiguous throughout and I feel this unseats logic even more.

Added to this, screenwriters are often told to repeat important images. This fixes something of importance in the viewer's mind and highlights the significance of it. Marie's helping Lily says a lot about her as a character at both junctures.

See? Not something I could've accomplished in my first draft!

Something to try if you're struggling with foreshadowing is to imagine the individual beats along the way to a particular incident. If A has to happen for B to happen so that C can occur what about the bit between A and B? If it's exposition of some variety then perhaps it can be utilised to foreshadow forthcoming events as well as filling in backstory or plot detail.

Book Review: Hurting Distance by Sophie Hannah

By now I think anybody glancing at this blog will have gleaned that I'm a Sophie Hannah fan - an unapologetic one, I must add. I love her writing in all forms and the fact that I'm able to enjoy her novels for the first time is one of life's little pleasures.

Hurting Distance is the second in her on-going series about police officers Charlie Zailer and Simon Waterhouse. It was first published in 2007 meaning I'm a little late with my review but you can't be penalised for discovering a fantastic author late surely? It follows the same pattern as the other books in the series - alternating between the police POV and the victim's.

Generally, the plot of this one isn't for the faint-hearted. It's gritty, painful to read at times, and exposes an aspect of humanity I didn't really want to know about. If rape is an issue that makes you squirm this book isn't for you. However, Hannah doesn't shy away from probing deep into the mentalities of the characters involved and she has a delicious habit of setting up events in so subtle a way that even an astute reader would have difficulty keeping up.

The serial elements of the novel are explained well enough for new readers to settle right in. I must admit though that I've disliked Simon a little in the other books I've read. This one helped me understand him more; the same with his colleague, Charlie.

Overall, I'd recommend reading the series in order (!). But, if you can't and just want a book to pick up, this is far from a bad choice.

Holding Back

It's a symptom of being human that we don't reveal everything to everyone. Some of us don't reveal anything to anyone! But even if you're not a paranoid wreck who believes that someone could use the knowledge you need bread and milk against you there's got to some things you keep to yourself.

Characters are the same.

It happens more in television, I suppose. Soap operas are renowned for people spilling their darkest secrets over a drink to the person who just moved in next door. Of course, that person was always angling for the information anyway because they're a long-lost relative out for revenge for an incident with petrol and a box of matches years ago... for instance. They need to tell the secret because the plot needs to progress and on screen it's much easier to go down the route of a confession. Yes, you can certainly show rather than tell on television but inner turmoil is something much harder to portray. I'm not denying there are some exceptional actors out there but there are indubitably some flops too.

What you have to bear in mind whenever your character reveals anything - be it in a script, short story, novel, whatever - is they must have a reason for disclosing that information right at that moment.

Is he the type of person to open his mouth before he thinks about it? Fine, but make sure that isn't a conveniently placed character trait that won't appear again.

Is she the type to hold back her surname for fear people may know her family? Okay, so don't have her introducing herself as Stella Cricks at a gala then gushing about her relatives to all and sundry.

It comes back to the old adage about knowing your characters. However, you must trust your reader as well. If a character is lying for whatever reason you don't have to highlight it at the time - if it's a mystery you're writing that'll kill off all suspense faster than you can draw a big glaring line. Trust that an untruth will stalk your characters and don't contrive ways for them to tell the audience things they should be able to work out on their own.

Fancy Seeing You Here...

Now here’s a tricky one to get right – the coincidence of chance encounters.

A few weeks ago I blogged about the kindness of strangers and how implausible that can appear in novels, short stories, screenplays or whatever. Over the last week I managed to bump into one individual and one small group of people who reminded me that chance encounters are another one of those sticky fiction problems. Too contrived and your audience will immediately lose faith in your story, but it’s also true they can be interesting plot thrusters.

I’ve heard of people going on holiday to Spain and bumping into the neighbour who lives down the road back In Huddersfield. It does happen in real life but if that scenario was to occur in fiction wouldn’t you get a few raised eyebrows? My two chance encounters this week at least had a fair amount of logic to them.

The first one was a friend from school. We both live in the same town we grew up in but we actually met in the canteen at my new temporary job that I started a month ago. Out of all the places we could’ve ended up working we’re both in the same prefab box just off the M1 motorway? That’s a pretty big coincidence, particularly because neither of us had any plans to work in the sector we’re in. But it has some logic to it: we’re both still living near the prefab box, administration is a fairly common field and our employer is one of the biggest in the area. What actually surprises me about this situation is that I’d been working here a month before I bumped into her.

As for the three distant relatives… well, this one feels a little more dubious as far as believability goes because it necessitates a change in habits for both parties.

I went into town on a Sunday morning, for starters. Sunday morning as a concept is alien to me – my aim in life is to be semi-alert in time for Elaine Paige at 1pm – so for me to be up and around required somebody else asking me to meet them. Already a stretch. Then there was the fact that my relatives were in Costa Coffee, a little different from the places they used to frequent, though it’s a regular haunt of mine. At this point, I’m ashamed to say, I pretended I hadn’t seen them. In my defence, they did the same! However, as I was walking through the nearby shopping centre half an hour later I met them coming out of New Look and couldn’t exactly carry on walking. Now, I don’t know what they were doing in the shop but as they informed me that another distant relative of mine had just died I think it’s a logical presumption to suggest it had something to do with the funeral.

So… I was out at a time I shouldn’t have been, they were in an unexpected place, and their visit possibly revolved around the death of a family member. That has to be the kind of coincidence a reader would scoff at, surely? Personally, I’d find it a bit contrived.

What we have to bear in mind is that any ‘chance’ encounters must have some basis in truth. For example, if your characters bump into each other in a specific shop in Dubai there had better be a very good reason for it. Coincidence can often be used as a tool to impart some information that needs to be learned for the plot to progress. Don’t succumb to it. Rather than lose your reader find another way to inform the reader. If the information is as vital to the plot as you think it is there must be a way for it to fit in elsewhere.

Let's Begin

Beginnings matter.

We’ve been told this so often as writers that it’s ingrained in our minds. Some of us probably mutter it in our sleep. We all know that a beginning has to hook, to intrigue without confusing, and to introduce character whilst hinting at theme, premise and plot. It’s a mammoth task.

Working on the opening of a novel for my MA last year I sat down with my tutor to discuss it. She’d drummed into us that we should start in the middle of the action, let the reader play catch-up. I’d done exactly that: my opening scene portrayed two brothers, Joe and Dougie, breaking into a flat without any real explanation. We learn that it’s not a burglary and that Joe is looking for something unspecific there, but we also learn Dougie is a police officer and therefore should know better than to break and enter. In this opening scene I tried to hint at character and the brotherly relationship whilst interesting the reader in why the men are breaking in, and also describe a location that plays a pivotal role later in the novel.

My tutor was very appreciative of it. But her one cautionary question was, ‘how confused do you want the reader to be?’. There’s a fine line between hooking your reader and just baffling them so much they give up on the entire novel.

I rewrote accordingly. Instead of the scene starting as Joe and Dougie broke into the flat I joined them onto the approach to the tower block. This gave the reader a few seconds to adjust to the scenario and to get a little of the characters fixed in their heads before they break into the flat. I needed to show that Joe and Dougie were essentially good men and this alteration gave me the chance to hint at that whilst also rooting the reader in the story a little more.

That novel is on the backburner for a while. I’m currently working on the 3rd draft of another novel, the first one I actually managed to complete a draft of (two drafts actually!). This one begins with a lull in proceedings: my protagonist, Lily, is painting in her office at a self-storage facility. The first paragraphs are slow; allowing the reader to feel their way in gently before a man arrives wanting to deposit some goods at the facility.

At the moment, I’m torn. I feel it starts too slowly, that my reader will have closed the book long before I reach the ‘interesting’ part, the inciting incident of the man arriving which shapes the entire novel. On the other hand, I feel like Lily needs to be explained prior to the man’s arrival. But I still haven’t decided whether I’m pandering to what I want or what’s best for the reader.

As writers we have a duty to entertain. Yes, we can include entertainment for ourselves in that category, but no scene/paragraph/sentence should value our desires above the story’s needs. I’ve no doubt my beginning will be tweaked many times before I consider this novel ‘good enough’.

Classic Openings: To Kill A Mockingbird

This is one of the novels of the 20th Century, for both Americans and readers elsewhere. To Kill A Mockingbird celebrates fifty years of being in print this year and the Pulitzer Prize Winner remains Harper Lee's only novel. It's a legendary piece of fiction and the magic starts right from the off.

To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee

When he was nearly thirteen my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow. When it healed, and Jem's fears of never being able to play football were assuaged, he was seldom self-conscious about his injury. His left arm was somewhat shorter than his right; when he stood walked, the back of his hand was at right-angles to this body, this thumb parallel to his thigh. He couldn't have cared less so long as he could pass and punt.

When enough years had gone by to enable us to look back on them, we sometimes discussed the events leading up to his accident. I maintain that the Ewells started it all, but Jem, who was four years my senior, said it started long before that. He said it began the summer Dill came to us, when Dill first gave us the idea of making Boo Radley come out.

The beginning of a fantastic story! But what makes these first paragraphs so good?

1. The best authors set the scene without seeming to do so. Lee feeds the reader information about what's to come but not patronisingly. We discover that the as-yet unnamed narrator has a brother named Jem and that he's mad about football. Other names are thrown in - the Ewells, Dill, Boo Radley - created a lush universe full of characters right from the off.

2. The narrator settles quickly. What I mean by that is there's no need for either the author or the reader to pause to get a feel for the voice. It's a simple voice that is easy to slip into. It's not unnecessarily flamboyant and it doesn't jar. A narration that flows well is gift to a reader.

3. It prophesies. Almost everything in this short extract points to the future. Intrigue is immediately garnered by the mentions of Boo Radley and Jem's arm. The reader may not care about the characters yet but there is at least a glimmer of intrigue to keep them reading.

4. It utilises description without overdoing it. Lee is a skilled writer and she uses that in the opening section to great effect in describing Jem's arm injury. It's enough to make the reader shudder at the thought of the injury then smile at Jem's reaction to it. It builds character, as I said before, and that has to be a primary goal of any opening. If you don't build up character swiftly the reader will want to know why they should care about whatever's happening to your characters.

To Kill A Mockingbird was first published in 1960. It is available to buy here.

Classic Openings: Murphy

Welcome to a new occasional segment on Secluded Charm!

It's drummed into every writer that if you haven't got a good beginning you've got no chance. Perhaps that's taking it to the extreme but modern life is all about instant gratification.

As a result I thought it might be useful to analyse some of my favourite openings and have a look at why they worked. Now, of course, these are my favourites and they're probably detested by some other people. It's not really about personal taste, it's more to do with looking at specific tools published authors use. First up: Beckett! (No, don't run away!)

Murphy by Samuel Beckett

The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new. Murphy sat out of it, as though he were free, in a mew in West Brompton. Here for what might have been six months he had eaten, drunk, slept, and put his clothes on and off, in a medium-sized cage of north-western aspect commanding an unbroken view of medium-sized cages of south-eastern aspect. Soon he would have to make other arrangements, for the mew had been condemned. Soon he would have to buckle to and start eating, drinking, sleeping, and putting his clothes on and off, in quite alien surroundings.

This paragraph hooks me every time, even when I know how the rest of the novel turns out. That's definitely the sign of an intriguing opening. But let's break it down.

1. The first line displays monotony. Not, for me, the kind of monotony that gets boring in a novel but the kind that reflects real life in a succinct paragraph. All too often you hear of hopeful writers feeling as though they have to depict each moment of a day, perhaps to show character or perhaps for some other reason. Beckett manages to convey Murphy's monotonous existence in this one paragraph - and that's not the sole purpose of the opening either.

2. It conveys setting with a few eye-grabbing points. The idea of 'cages' is prominent, not only providing a template of place that many readers will be familiar with, but also revealing character through the precision of it. Who cares which way the building faces and which way the buildings across thus face? Murphy does.

3. The concept that Murphy sat 'as if he were free' is an intriguing one. All human beings know they're not free in any real sense of the word, but this line gives the impression that something else ties Murphy. It's foreshadowing, which both reflects something literal in the near future and something metaphorical later on.

4. Most importantly, something happens! No story can exist without some form of change occurring, be it internal or external change. In many novels the notion of change is revealed later on... after the character, setting, cat's favourite food etc have been established. In the very first paragraph of Murphy we discover he has to move out as the mew he lives in is going to be condemned. There you go: conflict straight away; change straight away!

*Murphy was first published in 1938 and was Beckett's first novel. It is available here.