Wednesday, 25 September 2013
Crime and Thriller Reviews: Ten facts about ... Jimmy Bain
Crime and Thriller Reviews: Ten facts about ... Jimmy Bain: When did you first realise you wanted to be a writer? I always enjoyed English literature at school. After university I worked in a p...
Thursday, 13 June 2013
Finished!
Finally started sending DELIRIUM out to agents in the last week.
The novel is complete (apart from the inevitable tweaks that I keep making and will keep on making until someone forcibly removes it from my hands).
Now maybe I can get back to some promoting and blogging and suchlike. Before I start work on the next one...
The novel is complete (apart from the inevitable tweaks that I keep making and will keep on making until someone forcibly removes it from my hands).
Now maybe I can get back to some promoting and blogging and suchlike. Before I start work on the next one...
Friday, 22 February 2013
It's Been a While...
It's been a while since I posted on my blog. My excuse is that I've been busy trying to finish my Rimbaud novel. I keep saying it's nearly done but I still haven't finished yet.
Now called DELIRIUM, it's up to around 105,000 words - which makes it the longest book I've ever written.
It really is getting close to completion now - just a bit more tweaking and rearranging and a couple more bits to write, then a complete read-through and overhaul and that's it. Doesn't sound like much, eh?
I had hoped to have it finished by the end of 2012 but my new deadline is Easter. When is Easter again? Not too far away, so I'd better get on with it.
Here's a mock-up of a draft of an idea for a potential cover in the meantime - though it's unlikely to be used for the final product.
Now called DELIRIUM, it's up to around 105,000 words - which makes it the longest book I've ever written.
It really is getting close to completion now - just a bit more tweaking and rearranging and a couple more bits to write, then a complete read-through and overhaul and that's it. Doesn't sound like much, eh?
I had hoped to have it finished by the end of 2012 but my new deadline is Easter. When is Easter again? Not too far away, so I'd better get on with it.
Here's a mock-up of a draft of an idea for a potential cover in the meantime - though it's unlikely to be used for the final product.
Monday, 10 December 2012
New Cover for DON'T LOOK DOWN
DON'T LOOK DOWN
has a brand new cover!
...and is only 99c, 77p or equivalent
throughout December.
Christmastime in Germany
but don't expect Santa Claus.
etc...
&
Wednesday, 24 October 2012
The Next Big Thing…
The idea of The Next Big Thing is that a writer puts up a post on his or her own blog answering ten questions about his/her work in progress, and then “tags” three other writers to do the same. The writer then posts a link to his/her “tagger” and to the people he/she is “tagging” so that readers who are interested can visit those pages and perhaps discover some new authors whose work they’d like to read.
John Hudspith, a writer in possession of a wild and unique imagination, tagged me in his Next Big Thing. John is currently working on Kimi's Fear, the follow up to his outstanding debut, Kimi's Secret, a fantastic and fantastical book for readers aged 9 to 90. Thanks, Johnny.
Here are my answers re my Next Big Thing:
What is the working title of your book?
I first called it Poetic Justice but now it's called The Spiritual Hunt. This will no doubt change to something snappier when it's finished.
Where did the idea for the bookcome from?
 |
| Mock up of cover when working title was Poetic Justice |
I was also struck by a brief meeting many years ago, with a young man in Berlin. He claimed to be under the spell of an older man who kept him in control by tapping him on the forehead and singing jingles. I never discovered any more about this young man but have always remembered his wild eyes and air of terrified vulnerability. His image and situation seeped into my consciousness and he partly inspired one of the characters in this book.
What is the genre of your book?
This is always a difficult one for me. It is, I think, general fiction with a good handful of literary fiction thrown in - I hope.
Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?
Another hard one! I tend not to imagine my characters in such precise detail. I like to leave the reader room to develop their own ideas as to what the character looks like. Of course, I do give descriptions - Andrea is blonde, Albert is dark with a little tuft of beard, and the boy has messy chestnut curls. But as to who would play them, I just have no idea.
What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?
A missing Rimbaud manuscript has been rediscovered - or has it?
Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
I'm not sure about this yet. Some of my other novels are self-published but I might send this one out to agents to see what reaction I get. If there's no interest from the traditional publishing world then I would self publish digitally certainly, and possibly also in print form.
How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?
Ha! I'm still writing it and it's been several years so far. I do take a long time to write a book - I wish I could speed up but I seem to have to let the work mature before I know exactly where it's going. I revise as I go along so really I'm on the umpteenth draft but it just isn't finished yet. I'm hoping the whole thing will be all done by Christmas (preferably this Christmas!).
What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
People who've read what I've written so far have mentioned The People of the Book by Geraldine Brooks, The End of Mr Y by Scarlett Thomas and The Conjurer's Bird by Martin Davies, as being in the same general category. I'm not sure that it's exactly like any of those books but perhaps has elements of all of them.
As it's written using various different voices and devices such as letters, diaries and blogs, in addition to the main narrative, it's not a straightforward book in terms of format and chronology.
Who or what inspired you to write this book?
As I said above, Arthur Rimbaud - French poet extraordinaire - is the progenitor of this book. I've been mildly obsessed by him for three decades, if mild obsession is possible, and I've always been fascinated by the idea that there may be a lost work by him still out there somewhere. I also wanted to stretch myself by writing in different styles using different voices, so this novel has been (and still is) a challenge to write.
What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?
The main narrative is about the protagonist Andrea's obsession with Rimbaud and the lost manuscript. The novel charts her involvement with a man who claims to be a Magician - with a capital M! - and the teenage boy who is his acolyte. As she falls deeper under their spell, Andrea begins to lose her grasp on what is real and what is not.
In addition to this strand, there are also strands woven through which tell the story of Rimbaud and Verlaine and also chart the whereabouts of the manuscript from 1872, when it was last seen, to the 150th anniversary of Rimbaud's birth (2004), when the book is set.
~~~
The writers I am tagging are:
Jimmy Bain, who writes The Bumble Books
and (as I've been unable to find anyone else to tag because all the writers I know have either already taken part or are too busy (very sensibly) engaged in writing their next book)
Barbie Scott, who writes erotica.
If anyone reading this would like to take part, do get in touch and I will add you to this very select list of taggees!
~~~
Saturday, 20 October 2012
RIMBAUD'S BIRTHDAY
Today, 20th October, is the birthday of Jean-Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud. He was born in Charleville, France in 1854 and wrote astonishing poetry between the ages of around 16 and 21. He died aged 37 after living for many years in Africa as a trader.
I first became interested in Rimbaud in 1973 when I was a student at University College London. One day I wandered across the grand foyer where Jeremy Bentham sits and stopped to look at a display of letters and photographs. There I learned for the first time about the relationship of Rimbaud and Verlaine and, in particular, their time in London living in Great College Street, Camden in 1873.
Even though I'd never read a word of his poetry, something about Rimbaud hooked me and I've been fascinated by him ever since.
My current work in progress DELIRIUM: THE RIMBAUD DELUSION (now complete) is about a woman obsessed with Rimbaud (well, they say write what you know!). Andrea becomes embroiled with a Magician and his young acolyte while visiting Charleville for the 150th anniversary of the poet's birth. This odd pair claim to have rediscovered Rimbaud's lost manuscript, La Chasse Spirituelle.
The novel uses a variety of voices and devices to explore Andrea's gradual breakdown and tell the story of the whereabouts of the missing manuscript from 1872, when it was last seen, to 2004 when the novel is set.
Here is an extract from the early part of the novel:
Even though I'd never read a word of his poetry, something about Rimbaud hooked me and I've been fascinated by him ever since.
My current work in progress DELIRIUM: THE RIMBAUD DELUSION (now complete) is about a woman obsessed with Rimbaud (well, they say write what you know!). Andrea becomes embroiled with a Magician and his young acolyte while visiting Charleville for the 150th anniversary of the poet's birth. This odd pair claim to have rediscovered Rimbaud's lost manuscript, La Chasse Spirituelle.
The novel uses a variety of voices and devices to explore Andrea's gradual breakdown and tell the story of the whereabouts of the missing manuscript from 1872, when it was last seen, to 2004 when the novel is set.
Here is an extract from the early part of the novel:
~ ~ ~
Diary
of Mathilde Verlaine
Rue
Nicolet, Paris
September
1871
An
extraordinary evening! Today there arrived from the north the most
astonishing young poet called Arthur Rimbaud. Maman and I had awaited
his arrival with some anticipation-the
verses he sent to Paul were most unusual and we all had high hopes of
him.
How
those hopes were dashed! M. Rimbaud is not at all the elegant young
man of our imagination. He is an unkempt youth, more child than man,
though he is not much younger than I-seventeen or thereabouts. Maman
and I were greatly surprised by his untidy appearance, his clothes
being crumpled and somewhat outgrown-and he has brought with him no
luggage whatsoever!
Despite all our
efforts to engage our guest in conversation, M. Rimbaud would not be
drawn, either on his future plans or his theories of poetry. Maman
and I are quite worn out with the strain of fulfilling our social
obligations.
In
contrast, my husband is perfectly taken with him. Paul is of the
opinion that this vagabond poet is a genius. ‘He will shake up the
salons of Paris, Mathilde!’ he cried, when I remarked upon M.
Rimbaud’s lack of manners at the dinner table. ‘He will make
those stuffed shirts sit up and take notice. Yes, and your stuffed
shirt of a father too, when he gets back.’
I dread to think
what dear Papa will make of our strange house guest. I fear he will
not allow him to remain here, once he returns from his hunting trip.
In the meantime, I
become more indisposed each day as I await my happy event.
~ ~ ~
rue de Campagne
Paris-shit
1871
My cock nestles
against Paul’s arse, languid after love. His breathing-rhythmic,
slight snore-hasn’t begun to annoy me yet. I am lost in the deserts
of love, still wandering amiably in those dreamlike states: fondness,
tenderness, tristesse.
He
stirs, groans, rolls on his back. Speaks broken words, half-formed
thoughts. Perhaps I catch my name. I listen for it, ready to arm
myself, the better to taunt him later. You
dream of me. You need me more than I need you.
Putting my ear to
his lips, I listen, but he is silent apart from the rasp of his boozy
breath.
Sniggering, I pinch
his nose and count: one, two, three-
He
gasps, snorts, wakes. Wha-?
What the-?
I’m astride him
now, pummelling him, beating a rat-a-tattoo on his chest.
Ow-
Ow- Stoppit!
He grabs my wrists, throws me off. He is still the stronger of us-but
only just. And now he’s on top of me, holding me down, snarling in
my face. Cunt!
Arsehole! Prick!
And I’m laughing back at him, laughing at the way the rage boils up
in him, rouging his cheeks; the way the spit drools from his mouth,
the snot slicks his moustache.
I reach up, suck up
his dribble, let my lips climb up the string of mucus to his mouth.
Till we’re biting, teeth against teeth; clashing, snuffling,
snarling, hearts pounding, cocks hard.
And off we go again.
Carnival ride.
~ ~ ~
ANDREA
Charleville,
France
August 2004
‘Deux
pressions, s’il
vous plait.’
The Café de
l’Univers was cool and shady. It was also empty. The bored waitress
stirred from her lethargy when I ordered beers from the tap.
Rimboy swung himself
into one of the booths ranked along the right side of the room. I
slid onto the red leatherette bench opposite him, keeping the table
between us. Our knees brushed as we settled into our seats.
Glancing around, I
tried to imagine the café as it was in Rimbaud’s day. Though it
was now a different building, I fancied I could hear echoes of the
poet’s pals—Delahaye, Labarrière, Charles Bretagne—all
discussing Arthur’s latest exploits, and laughing. It wouldn’t
have been like this then, with these fifties style benches. Then,
there would have been round tables and bentwood chairs. Pipesmoke and
carafes. Perhaps I sat in the exact space Rimbaud once sat in, the
molecules of my body mingling with the memory of his.
‘When
I read his poetry,’ I said, my voice smoky with emotion, ‘I curl
up inside.’
Rimboy nodded,
casing the room with his indolent blue gaze.
‘When
I read about his life, I feel that clutch in the pit of my stomach.
In my groin. It’s almost sexual, what I feel.’ I sat back as the
waitress put a glass in front of me. ‘Not for the man himself, I
don’t mean that. I mean for the idea of him. The myth of him. The-’
I spread my hands
and appealed to him for understanding. He wrinkled his nose and the
strabismus made a fleeting reappearance. Even squinting, he was cute.
I shook my head.
‘Oh, I don’t know what I’m trying to say. I only know how I
respond to him.’ I ran my finger through the condensation on my
glass. ‘You feel something similar, I imagine?’
‘I
am
Rimbaud,’ he said.
He swilled most of
his beer down in one gulp. I savoured a long draught of my own. He
was much deeper into the fantasy than I was.
‘So
you believe in the transmigration of souls then?’ I said.
‘Hnh?’
‘The
survival of the soul. Reincarnation.’
He contemplated me
for a moment. ‘Naturally I believe in it. I’m here aren’t I?’
‘Do
you think the soul reincarnates immediately after death?’ I went
on. ‘Or within forty-nine days like the Buddhists say?’
He shrugged. ‘Maybe
it varies. I don’t know.’
‘Well,
it’s over a hundred years since Rimbaud died. Where’s his soul
been until now? Where have you
been? Or rather, who
have you been until now?
He tapped the rim of
his glass with his nail. ‘I’ve been a lot of people. Before I was
Rimbaud, I was Mozart. Did you know that?’
That took me by
surprise. ‘No, I didn’t know that,’ I said, ‘but I suppose I
can see a connection. Precocious genius, scatological humour.’ I
eyed him up and down. There was more to this young man than I’d
thought. ‘I always wondered,’ I said. ‘When you were
Rimbaud—did you return to the Catholic Church on your deathbed as
some people say?’
He
snorted. ‘I’m a pagan now and I was a pagan then. Always and
forever.’
All
the time we sat there I was twitching in my seat. I wanted to have a
look at the wad of poetry. I needed
to
see it, to find out if it was genuine. Truth be told, I wanted it to
be the real thing. I’d probably be disappointed when it turned out
to be another aspect of his fantasy. But I had to make sure.
‘Let’s
have a look at the poem then.’ I stuck out my hand.
Best forget the
dalliance. Concentrate on the manuscript.
He hesitated. Then,
disentangling the sheaf of creased paper from his pocket, he passed
it to me. I smoothed the top sheet and started to read.
‘La
Chasse Spirituelle.
The Spiritual Hunt.’
Now, I wouldn’t
call myself a Rimbaud scholar in the academic sense, but I’ve read
enough of the man to get a flavour of his work. I’ve pored over his
poetry both in my cups and sober, with lovers and without. I’ve
read him in sorrow and I’ve read him with joy. I have internalised
him. So when the opening lines of the poem didn’t immediately
shriek forgery, I succumbed to the frisson of excitement that tingled
through me. This could be the real thing. A wet dream coming true.
Maybe.
Tuesday, 16 October 2012
FREE copy to mark 25 years since the storm of '87 which starts Jess's journey.
Use Code PB37A to get review copy of
THE LAND BEYOND GOODBYE ebook.
Please leave honest review on Smashwords or Amazon.
Thanks!
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