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...

Book Review: Tell It To The Bees by Fiona Shaw

Tell It To The Bees is one of those novels you have to rush through because if you don't you'll have to put it down and that would be terrible. I picked it up for a little enjoyable reading before bed and had polished it off after five hours, barely moving for the duration and not even contemplating sleep.

On a basic level it is the story of Charlie Weekes who struggles through the break-up of his parents marriage and then the consequences of his mother's subsequent relationship with another woman. When you consider the novel's set in the 1950s that dimension of it suddenly becomes much more important and intriguing.

All too often a child's point of view (even with the distance of third-person) feels either too advanced for their age or much too childish. It's a great skill to speak as a ten year-old boy and have very few, if any, sticky moments. Charlie doesn't understand everything that goes on around him but nor is he a dim child waiting for instruction. His strange relationship with the bees of the title demonstrate his individuality but also that he craves that fundamental thing in life: a happy family.

Relationships are integral to this novel. Apart from Charlie's relationship with his devoted mother, Lydia, and uninterested and adulterous father, Robert, there is Lydia's growing attraction to the doctor, Jean Markham, and Lydia's difficult relationships with both her own family and her husband's. Each one is delicately painted but Shaw never shies away from enhancing detail. The love between Lydia and Jean is shown physically, as it should be considering the level of heterosexual description in there.

This book manages to show adult events through the eyes of a child quite vividly, though the novel is not completely from Charlie's point of view. Indeed, it is very much a shared novel and if Charlie's considered the main character then Lydia must run a very close second. All in all, this is a story about love and understanding. It may be a universal theme but Shaw brings fresh eyes to it.

This is definitely a book I'll be rereading as soon as possible.

Popemobile Turn Around

I was fairly ambivalent about Pope Benedict XVI's visit to the UK. Yes, it was costing the taxpayer money but so are many other things I don't believe or agree with. Individual opinion shouldn't count for anything in this context. Our country was built on the foundation of Christianity and, as such, the Pope is still a part of our joined heritage. Whether we as individuals want to accept him as a religious figure is a personal choice.

I don't. I'm an atheist, though I hope not the kind who draws attention to it at every turn. I believe, like many atheists, that other people are entitled to their beliefs and should be left alone to practice them. That's why the scenes in Scotland today of people lining the street to see the pontiff were fine with me. At the culmination of Eid last week our predominantly Asian street began celebrating with fireworks. Their prerogative and they were fairly considerate to their neighbours during the process.

What ignited my anger about the Pope's visit were these inflammatory comments about secularism in British society and Cardinal Kaspar's inference that Britain is like a third-world country because of it. I've just read about the Pope's address in Edinburgh that apparently compared atheist extremism with Nazi extremism. I'm offended and appalled frankly.

There are extremists in every religion. If you consider atheism to be a religion in the sense that it's a belief system then it stands to reason that there will be atheist extremists around. And there are. Some people won't feel comfortable with the world until 'proper' religion is stamped out (however unrealistic this viewpoint is). Equally, though, Pope Benedict is indulging in a little extremism of his own. He is encouraging Britain to remember how Christianity and Christian values were punished by the Nazi regime, simply because they showed love and compassion. The phrase that particularly interests me is, "let us never forget how the exclusion of God, religion and virtue from public life leads ultimately to a truncated vision of man and of society". Is he suggesting that atheism cannot be virtuous because it isn't connection with 'proper' religious belief?

I was willing to ignore the Pope's visit to Britain and let those who wanted him here enjoy his visit in peace. However, I'm not so sure anymore. In the heart of this atheist at least the pontiff has irritated a displeasure that wasn't really there before.

If his intention was to stir up more unrest in an already-troubled society then he's done it well.

Book Review: Lost by Gregory Maguire

Lost is a book I came across accidentally because some fool had erroneously placed it in the Classics section. Given that I loved Wicked and have been staring at my unopened copy of Son of a Witch with longing for two years now I decided it was a sign and I needed this book. I don't wholly regret the choice.

First of all, it's a book that subverts expectation. Maguire is an expert at combining the very real natures of people with the supernatural and mysterious aspects of plot. Thus Winifred Rudge, the writer who travels to London in search of her character (amongst other things), feels painfully real. She goes through the everyday dilemmas all writers suffer as they try and see the world through the eyes of their creations. At times it can feel like a selection of tedious asides but the bearing they have on the unravelling of the plot shouldn't be ignored.

So you've got Winnie and Wendy (her protagonist of sorts). Besides them you have the spectres of two other famous figures hovering over the narrative: Ebeneezer Scrooge and Jack the Ripper. Winnie suspects she was related to the inspiration for the former and her protagonist is obsessed with the latter. The presence of these two figures cleverly brings Victorian London to the present and manages to cover modern-day London with a blanket of darkness and mystery. This works in that it certainly invokes what Maguire intended but perhaps the reason the novel didn't quite resonate for me is more personal.

Winnie is visiting her cousin, John, in London but when she arrives at his flat he isn't there. Instead she finds two bewildered builders who claim to have been disturbed by supernatural occurrences. All well and good so far. Winnie befriends some quite colourful neighbours in her attempts to discover what's actually going on. The most interesting of these is the downstairs tenant, Mrs Maddingly, who certainly lives up to her name.

Not to spoil the story at all, but at some point the narratives shifts quite dramatically from implied to actual supernatural. Maybe it was just me but I quite enjoyed the uncertainty around it in the first half of the novel. When the atmosphere of mystery was confirmed by a supernatural presence I lost what had intrigued me in the first place.

Other small irritations of Lost included the first scene set during a motorway accident. I do see the relevance of it in relation to the wider plot but I would've much preferred to get stuck in there straight away. A little later we were in London and I was frustrated at the detour. Also, Maguire's propensity to chop off sentences when, ideally, they should flow like the rest of the paragraph grated on me at times.

I hasten to add, though, that none of these fairly minor personal points stopped me from enjoying a cracking novel. It is, after all, an escapist's paradise and a reader can't help but be immersed in the darkly modern portrayal of London - and of human nature too for that matter.

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!

Creepy Characters the Collins Way

As I've been wading through my mountain of Victorian Sensation Fiction, in particular Wilkie Collins, I've found myself to be more than a little disturbed and distracted. It's not like reading a conventional modern horror book whereby shocks and disturbance are part and parcel of the experience. It all works on a more discreet level and after years of soundish sleep after reading novels I suddenly find myself scanning the room for unfamiliar shadows and listening out for noises.

So how does Collins, a writer who died 120 years ago, manage to disturb a modern reader? I think it lies in his characterisation.

The events of his novels can be considered quite predictable I suppose. A reader today, well-versed with narrative techniques and willing to pay attention to Collins' exceptional grasp of foreshadowing, would have little trouble deciphering most of his plots. It is the startling personalities he brings to life on the page that really demonstrate his genius.

The most obvious, of course, is Anne Catherick, the woman in white herself. From the first depiction of her in the dead of night she is a mysterious and alarming figure. The Woman in White is full of them. The devious Count Fosco is a brilliant villain who plots and schemes whilst also acknowledging admiration for the manly Marian Halcombe. In fact, it feels to me that the least-rounded and interesting of all the characters in the novel are Walter Hartright and Laura Fairlie, the couple whose happiness the novel is essentially centred around. It's no secret that antagonists are more interesting characters to write but Collins seemed to take in delight in writing not only his antagonists but his helpers and secondary characters alike.

The Law and the Lady is one of his lesser-known novels. It revolves around a newlywed, Valeria, discovering her husband stood trial for poisoning his first wife and wasn't entirely exonerated. Her resolve to prove his innocence leads her on quest which brings her into contact with two extraordinary characters - Miserrimus Dexter and his cousin/slave, Ariel.

Dexter is an attractive but severely deformed man. From birth he has had no lower limbs, a condition that has resulted in an eccentricity which becomes gradually more pronounced throughout the novel. At Valeria's first meeting with him she finds him gliding along in his chair, taking on the parts of Napoleon and Shakespeare in succession. He becomes, by degrees, the most disturbing of creatures and one of the most memorable characters Collins ever created. The image of him hopping down a corridor on his hands to make up for his lack of legs is one which will stay with me for a while. His servant, Ariel, is categorised mainly by her devotion to this strange man. She becomes jealous of Valeria, wanting to be the only one to brush his beard, and she insists on smelling her hands before she leaves to check for the smell of him. All in all, this pair are both fascinating and concerning.

Finally, I'd like to return to The Haunted Hotel, a short novel by Collins I reviewed a few weeks ago. Agnes Lockwood, the heroine, isn't as transparent a character as, say, Laura Fairlie, but, again, she seems pale in comparison to the anatagonist, Countess Narona. Although the reader cares about Agnes they are certainly more interested in the unfolding mysteries and the characters which surround them.

I'd say that Collins' strength lies in a perfect melding of character and plot. The character of Miserrimus Dexter would not be half as fascinating if he wasn't so closely entwined with the mystery of the novel, for instance. He could be brought in as a humorous character elsewhere but his power lies in his ability to disturb the reader. Equally, Count Fosco had to play an integral part in the mystery of the woman in white whom Walter Hartright encountered - less would've felt like a waste of the extraordinary character.

So what can we learn from Collins? Take your character from your plot and your plot from your character. Unless you're writing a very formulaic story where your plot is by far the most important aspect why not try and meld the two together? If Wilkie Collins managed to create characters which still distract a twenty-first century girl from her sleep then it has to be worth a try.

Book Review: The Secret Scripture by Sebastian Barry

This book was once I bought ages ago as part of a buy-one-get-one-free offer. It was Costa Book of the Year 2008 and was shortlisted for the Man Booker. All in all, it seemed to have a good pedigree.

To start with, the prose is exceptionally well-written: it flows, it captures the two narrators, Roseanne and Dr Grene in their distinctive voices, and the differentiation between the two is subtle but sharp. It reads like an early twentieth-century novel - which is fortunate as half of the book is set back there.

It follows the story of Roseanne Clear as she records her memories onto paper in the confines of the asylum that has been her home for many years. Meanwhile, Dr Grene frets about the closure of the hospital and moving patients that were detained for social rather than psychological reasons back into the community. He is also struggling with his own personal problems. The narrative flits between Roseanne's testimony of herself and Dr Grene's commonplace book, intertwining themes and plot as it goes. Structurally, it's an excellent novel.

Furthermore, there are some truly memorable scenes in there. One horrific scene recounts Roseanne's troublesome childbirth, but in a subtle manner which has none of the sensationalism one might expect from a lesser writer. Another scene, where Dr Grene hears a voice where there couldn't possibly be one, is equally chilling and touching. The novel is full of little moments like this which conspire to make a coherent whole.

So what was my problem?

Well, it rests with the 'secret' at the heart of the novel. I won't ruin it but I honestly guessed what it was all about fairly early on. In itself that isn't necessarily a bad thing. The book is well-written enough for a reader to simply enjoy the elegant prose. Had I begun to read it with that in mind I wouldn't have felt as disappointed as I had when I finally put the book down.

Worth a read, definitely, but don't expect too much towards the end.