Brilliant news! The Boy and the Mountain, first book of the Tam Goatland adventures, is now a beautiful 250-page paperback and available on Amazon right now, here.
All those who have politely pointed out that not everyone in the world likes reading electronic books (and I know how they feel) can now own a paperback copy. And I can truthfully say that it's a really lovely book - thanks to Patrick's design work, and CreateSpace's production.
Nothing quite like the feel of a good book in the hand! Try it and see!
blog
Monday 28 July 2014
Sunday 9 February 2014
Blog Tour
Well, thanks
Iain! After more than half a century trying, I’ve evidently managed to convince
someone that I really am a writer – else why would the excellent Iain Maloney
have nominated me for one of the next links in the blog chain?
And – oh look! Before
I’ve even started here is a tempting digression lying by the wayside just
waiting for me to pick it up! For doesn’t one forge links? And isn’t the ambiguity lurking in that one small word
just crying out for someone to exploit the pun?
But, no – I will
resist! Puns are all, without exception, snares and delusions. So I shall stick
to just one kind of forgery forging.
So – to the
questions. Let’s be properly focused and task-oriented about this thing.
What am I working on?
Oh dear. Perhaps
I should have stuck to the forging of links. You see, I’m not sure I can
truthfully claim to be working at
anything just at the moment. Just thinking
about working. (Wasn’t it that excellent and neglected Victorian humorist,
Jerome K. Jerome, who professed an enormous fondness for work? “It always does seem to me that I am doing
more work than I should do. It is not that I object to the work, mind you; I like work: it fascinates me. I can sit and
look at it for hours.”)
Well, I’m with J K J on that subject: I’m much, much better at thinking about
work than actually doing it.
Enough facetiousness – for the moment, anyway. The work that I’m busy thinking about at the moment is book
three of a trilogy that I always think of as the Tam books. Tam Goatland (to
give him his full name) is, or probably was – his historicity is most uncertain
– a boy who dwelt under the shade of an enormous and impassable mountain,
minding his father’s goats. And the very impassability of that mountain draws
him to it. What lies on the other side? The question all adolescents must ask
themselves. So Tam Book One is “The Boy and the Mountain”, started in the late
1970’s, laid aside, and completed in 2013. How’s that for a breathless pace of
work.
Having finished Book One (it’s on Kindle now) I set about Book Two, the
start of which had been waiting for my further attention for more than 30 years
– and finished it while on holiday last year. (Writing on Holiday? Of course!
See my answer to the last question on the list!)
And since Tam Book Two (titled “The Boy among the Islands”) doesn’t end,
so much as pause for breath, there must be a third book, mustn’t there?
So, if I can be said to be working, that’s what I’m working on – what
happens next to Tam Goatland. Lots of ideas, but somehow no single thread that
I can quite get hold of and reel in.
Perhaps I’ll have to wait another 30 years? I do hope not!
How does my work differ from others in its genre?
The problem, of
course, is that wretched word, “genre”. I mean, I know what it means when
applied to SF, or Historical Fiction, or Romance – any of those straitened
railway tracks that much commercial fiction seems to need to run on. But most
writing simply is not “genre” writing. I note the tendency for the blanket term
“literary fiction” to step into the breach here – but I’m not really happy with
that, either. It seems to me redolent with the kind of hubris a writer would do
well to avoid. After all, would, say Dickens, ever have described his yarns as
“literary”? I think not.
Ask me what kind of writing I engage with, and
what’s distinctive about it, and I’ll have a crack at an answer.
So. As may
already have been inferred, some of what I write is addressed primarily to
young readers – adolescents/ young adults. The trilogy is set in a fictional
world, set somewhere in the past, and wound around with the cords of an ancient
mythology. Within those constraints, it is – I suppose – a kind of adventure
fiction. It’s also a proxy for life’s big (awfully big) adventure, aka “growing
up”. Whether that makes it different from any other adventure story, I don’t
think I’m qualified to say. It’s just an adventure that grew from a single
question (What’s on the other side of the Mountain?) and never set out to be
other than sui generis.
It is, however,
totally different from my other two published novels, “The Edge of Things” and
“Slow Furies”, neither of which is in any way an adventure. The first is an
exploration of the life of a young man whose life is lived on the margins of a
society that has largely rejected him: the second is what happens when a lonely
young widow delves a little too deeply into the affairs of her secretive
neighbor.
Ah – genre,
wasn’t it? That I was supposed to be exploring? Well, if you liked to, you
could call the Tam books, “Adventure”, The Edge of Things “A Love Story”, and
Slow Furies “A Ghost Story”. But none of those train lines would lead you to
the kind of destination you might have expected.
Why do I write what I do?
Because I want
to. Is that a sufficient answer? No? Ah well, I thought not.
Well, I cannot
remember a time when I did not want to write, and I have a suitcase somewhere
stuffed full of typescripts (ah, the dear, dead days of the old Olympia
portable, before word processing allowed you to re-write even before you’d
finished writing!) that will never see the light of day. At university I
thought I was a poet – and then poetry began to seem too easy (so I guess it
couldn’t have been very good) and I wondered whether I could actually write a
whole novel.
And it turned
out, I could!
So where does
subject matter come from? Well, the Tam books I guess I owe to my trade as an
English teacher, searching for congenial literature for often bored young
adolescents. The late 60’s and early 70’s were a golden era for writers of
fiction for such an audience, and I guess I just felt I also needed to give it
a try. Edward Blishen – long dead and sorely missed – must take some blame too.
In the 70’s he was commissioned by Piccolo (Pan books’ juvenile arm) to produce
a series of re-writes of adventure classics – the Piccolo Adventure Library.
They were none of them to be longer than 20,000 words, and all to be
illustrated by the excellent cartoon graphics of Tom Barling. He’d already
illustrated a version of King Solomon’s Mines, when Edward decided the text
wasn’t as good as the illustrations and (to my astonishment) asked me to have a
crack at it. In the end I re-wrote three titles (King Solomon’s Mines, Last of
the Mohicans, and A Tale of Two Cities) and in doing so I learned an enormous
amount about the art of writing.
The Edge of
Things had a different Genesis. As Head of a large Comprehensive, I would often
find that seriously troubled youngsters would end up in my study – if for no
other reason than that it avoided having to exclude them and allowed other kids
to get on with lessons. So was born Eldon, the central figure of the book – and
Elly. Neither was based on an actual person, but each was informed by the
corrosive troubles that were daily presented to me, and fictionalizing them
helped me work with them. I hope.
And Slow Furies? Well,
I just fell to wondering what mysterious lives were lived behind the huge and
private gates that line the village road where I lived – and then Alice arrived
spontaneously in my head and acted like a crystal around which the story grew.
So, no one
answer.
How does my writing process work?
Well, several
months/years contemplating a story and rolling it around in my head – followed
by intense bursts of writing. I write very quickly when I start: it’s starting
that’s the problem. Take Tam Book Two (The Boy among the Islands) for example.
Started it in the 70’s, couldn’t see where it was going, became a busy
professional teacher, father, husband, and forgot about it. Rediscovered it in
2013 and completed it while sitting on an astonishing balcony overlooking a
tropical paradise on La Palma, with the whole of the wide Atlantic spreading
out to the west. Astonishing sunsets. I think it took some ten evenings of
intensive writing.
And that’s always
been my pattern. Long periods of indolence creative contemplation
followed by short and incandescent bursts of activity.
You see, at heart
I am a very lazy person.
So – there you
have it. The next name on the Blog tour is Steve Ely. Steve worked with me in Barnsley just
before I retired, some 14 years ago, and I’m sure you will agree that he’s a
much more serious and impressive contributor than I. His poetry is deeply
rooted in the geography and history of his area, and his novel, Ratmen, taught
me more than I needed to know about rodent life!
Here is his own
introduction to himself:
Steve Ely is a writer from Yorkshire. His
novel, Ratmen, is published by Blackheath Books. His book of
poetry, Oswald's Book of Hours is published by Smokestack Books and was
nominated for the Forward Prize for best first collection in
2013. Smokestack will publish his second book of poetry, Englaland,
in 2015. He's just completed a biographical work about Ted Hughes's
neglected South Yorkshire period - Made in Mexborough.'
Wednesday 5 February 2014
A Vendre
We’ve been over in France for a couple of
weeks now, enjoying a gallic interlude, catching up with our good French
neighbours, and trying to work out which of our local restaurants has survived
the fairly bitter economic downturn here. We’re a bit worried about La Maison
des Amis de la Foret, next door to us, because their doors haven’t opened since
Sunday. Do hope they’ve not fallen victim to the wretched economy.
In fact there are only two topics of
conversation over here at the moment – the weather and the economy. And neither
is cheerful. As the UK economy shudders into first gear and begins the steep
climb out of recession, it’s hard to see the evidence all around us of a French
economy that has a steeper hill to climb, and has yet to start moving. You
can’t live half your life, as we do, in rural France without caring deeply
about the depressed state of things.
One tell-tale sign of woe has been the rash
of A Vendre signs that has sprouted alongside every road. It’s nothing new, of
course, to see houses for sale here – unlike in the UK, they have many more
houses than people to occupy them and it’s not unusual for property to sit
dolefully on the market for years. But the new rash of A Vendre signs are
planted in practically every little plot of unoccupied land in every village.
It looks as though anyone in rural France who owns “un petit coin” of land is
trying to flog it – presumably to raise a little capital in order to ride them
over the bad times. Who’s going to buy all these plots, or build on them, Lord
knows. There are already more houses that are needed, and just at a time when
rural France is plunging into what feels like a terminal decline.
We note, for example, that the small dairy
farm down the road no longer has cattle on it, and the outbuildings have lost
most of their roof tiles. The amiable farmer still lives there, but evidently
with no one to take over what must always, with a herd of a dozen cows, have
been a marginal business. And so, quietly, a way of life is coming to an end.
Small farms are the lifeblood of rural France, and when they go, with them will
go centuries of self-sufficient, modest, frugal livelihood.
We have grown used, over the years we’ve
lived in our rural South Yorkshire village, to seeing its character eroded.
There is still a farm working in the village – but only just. The ancient farm
buildings are long gone – all turned into barn-conversions – and the handful of
agricultural labourers have given way to middle class commuters. “That’s
progress” is the mantra to which one impotently resorts. And it is, of course.
But the character of English villages has
not for centuries been as profoundly simple and agricultural as that of France.
Sad, if perhaps indulgently sentimental of me, to see all that coming to an
end. But it rather looks as though that is what has begun to happen.
A way of life a vendre.
Tuesday 23 July 2013
Kindling
.. which means, of course, the small and highly combustible material you need to light a fire. Or, in this day and age, self-publishing an eBook on Kindle.
Actually, both meanings suit quite well at the moment - for the author/publisher does indeed want to light a fire that will burn bright, and warm many lives. And that's the kind of fire I've been busy lighting (I hope!) over the last week.
So what have I been doing? Well, first of all I tried to persuade Xlibris (the print-on-demand outfit in the USA who published my first book, The Edge of Things) that the book was hopelessly over-priced. So they suggested I gave them $200 dollars and bought the right to set my own price. Except that this was still subject to their minimum. So that didn't work. And the arrangement didn't apply to the eBook (priced at over £8!!!). So I prised the eBook rights out of their sticky paws, and set about publishing it myself.
I'd already piloted the Kindle process, with the wonderful (no, really!) The Boy and the Mountain, which is available for the princely sum of £1. Patrick produced yet another lovely cover design for it, and it went live on Amazon at the end of last month. So now, The Edge of Things has followed it into author-publication, and is available right now, for £1.01 (why the penny? Ask Amazon, not me!). And so is Slow Furies. Three books just waiting to delight anyone with £3 to spare!
For those who don't know, Slow Furies is a kind of mystery story, about a lonely woman who gets herself involved too closely in her neighbours' past. With - well, lets say, unforseen consequences. The Edge of Things is the powerful, sad story of two unloved young people who find joy in each other. Until the night of the fire ...
And The Boy and the Mountain - well, I wrote it first more than thirty years ago, thinking of it as a book for young people - but it seems to have an engaging adventure at its heart that draws the interest of readers of all ages. It's set in a fictional, historical location, and tells the tale of Tam, a young goat-herd who lives, like all his people, in the shadow of the impassable Mountain. Until one bitter winter the wolves come - and Tam finds himself on an incredible journey.
All very different. Oh, and The Boy and the Mountain has a sequel, almost ready to see the light of day. So get reading!
Actually, both meanings suit quite well at the moment - for the author/publisher does indeed want to light a fire that will burn bright, and warm many lives. And that's the kind of fire I've been busy lighting (I hope!) over the last week.
So what have I been doing? Well, first of all I tried to persuade Xlibris (the print-on-demand outfit in the USA who published my first book, The Edge of Things) that the book was hopelessly over-priced. So they suggested I gave them $200 dollars and bought the right to set my own price. Except that this was still subject to their minimum. So that didn't work. And the arrangement didn't apply to the eBook (priced at over £8!!!). So I prised the eBook rights out of their sticky paws, and set about publishing it myself.
I'd already piloted the Kindle process, with the wonderful (no, really!) The Boy and the Mountain, which is available for the princely sum of £1. Patrick produced yet another lovely cover design for it, and it went live on Amazon at the end of last month. So now, The Edge of Things has followed it into author-publication, and is available right now, for £1.01 (why the penny? Ask Amazon, not me!). And so is Slow Furies. Three books just waiting to delight anyone with £3 to spare!
For those who don't know, Slow Furies is a kind of mystery story, about a lonely woman who gets herself involved too closely in her neighbours' past. With - well, lets say, unforseen consequences. The Edge of Things is the powerful, sad story of two unloved young people who find joy in each other. Until the night of the fire ...
And The Boy and the Mountain - well, I wrote it first more than thirty years ago, thinking of it as a book for young people - but it seems to have an engaging adventure at its heart that draws the interest of readers of all ages. It's set in a fictional, historical location, and tells the tale of Tam, a young goat-herd who lives, like all his people, in the shadow of the impassable Mountain. Until one bitter winter the wolves come - and Tam finds himself on an incredible journey.
All very different. Oh, and The Boy and the Mountain has a sequel, almost ready to see the light of day. So get reading!
Saturday 29 June 2013
50 NOT OUT
“What,” asked the young lady filling my
champagne glass, “is it like to come back after so many years?”
So many years! So many, many years!
Last weekend was the 50th
anniversary celebration of the opening of our alma mater, York University, and
we spent a long weekend resident on campus and participating in various bashes.
To be honest, neither Margaret nor I had any great expectations of the event.
Its predecessor, 5 years back, had never quite taken alight, and we knew that
very few of our own immediate circle would be there. Some are dead, of course:
some did not relish the idea at all: some booked, then lost their nerve and
pulled out.
But we went, with, as I say, no
expectations. We just felt that – well, the 50th would only come
round once, and it was rather special all those decades ago to be among the
first of the few. There were only 216 of us, and the tudor Heslington Hall to
put us in – and of course we all lived in digs. Having no tradition of student
accommodation, York’s good burghers kindly opened their spare bedrooms and
front parlours to us, for the huge sum of 63/- (that’s £3.15) a week, B&B
and full board on Sundays.
So going back seemed – well, obligatory.
And what a weekend it was! The sun shone on the lovely yew-tree lawns of the
old Hall, for the Pioneers’ (intake of ’63, ’64 and ’65) event last Friday. The
champagne flowed, and so did the conversation. And, of course, we sought out
and caught up with many of our generation; but also, unexpected delight, we met
many we’d never met before, including current students (see above) and we were
enriched by the contagious affection and disparate memories of all those
generations. 50 years is a long time.
We
all wore huge ID tags with our names and year writ large, and everyone coming
near read these first, and faces second. Rapidly we who bore 66-plates (we were
identified by the year of graduation) became kind of minor celebrities. “What
was it like?” was the inevitable question; and we, liberated by champagne and
our own celebrity, told them!
It was, of course, a marvelous time and
place to have been alive, and no blog could possibly do justice to thrill of
revisiting those unique, favoured, special memories. But take my word for it,
York in ’63 was an astonishing, magical place to have been – life defining.
Tuesday 11 June 2013
FOOD!
Among the very many excellent reasons for
spending half our year in France, is the food. The French are very demanding
about the quality of what they eat, so if you shop – as we do – in the huge
Leclerc hypermarket in Fontenay, you just have to put up with the excellent
range and quality of food the French demand.
Anything from bargains like fresh sardines, to luxury meats like veal or
pintade, can be had pretty well year-round. And things are sold by their exact
variety. In the UK we buy (and enjoy) venison – but in France you must specify
the species and sex of the forest meat you’re buying: cerf, or biche, chevreuil
… all are precisely named. And of course, different.
Similarly, the humble potato is never just
‘white’ or ‘red’ (as if it mattered what colour the skin was!) but Amandine or
Noirmoutier.
Which brings me to strawberries. The
hypermarket at the moment will sell you Charlottes or Gariguettes, of which the
latter are the more richly nectared. And right now Margaret’s garden, over the
road, is providing us with enormous quantities of the latter. They are crimson
and luscious berries, that cry out for marinading in a little Pineau des
Charentes (a sweet liqueur very popular hereabouts). We’ve eaten vast
quantities for a week now, and yesterday, having picked 4kg, made outr first
batch of jam of the season. Pleasure to come.
(And again, note, that the hypermarkets
have put vast displays of jamming equipment on display at their entrances –
beautiful jamming pans in copper or steel, assorted jars, labels, and an
amazing range of devices for stirring, measuring, pulping etc. The French
really do take food seriously!)
And no blog from here would be complete
without a homage to our newly reopened restaurant next door but two. For the
last dozen years it has limped on with a variety of proprietors (including,
implausibly, a French-American family who couldn’t cook at all!). But this
year, after a long period of closure, La Maison des Amis de la Foret is open
again. The building is wooden, and built around an amazing, huge open hearth
where logs blaze all winter. Its walls are festooned with ancient agricultural
and forestry artefacts, and its bar is, amazingly, one rough-hewn horizontal
oak-tree from the forest.
Today we fancied a meal there, and were
treated to three courses. We started with a plate of charcuterie – six types of
cold meats with a salad. Next was an enormous sweet-cured slice of Vendéen ham,
served with a honeyed sauce and haricots verts. Then a slice of beautiful tarte
au citron for dessert. Oh and the wine, of course- ½ litre of good red. The
cost? Well, would you believe 11€? No – I mean for both of us? That’s £9.40!
I ought to confess that this was
half-price, because they run a clever little loyalty card which gets you every
fifth meal at half price, and every tenth , free. But that in itself is
amazing.
Oh, and last Friday, when (as a concession
to the English) they serve fish and chips (good stuff, too, I’m told) they
recalled a chance comment of mine to the effect that I don’t eat fish ‘n chips –
and insisted on serving me a whole duck breast, cooked ‘saignant’ as I like it,
with haricots verts. Not on the menu – just offered for the same price!
You may imagine that we deeply hope these
lovely people make a go of La Maison. They can certainly count on our custom!
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