Foreword: A Technical Approach to Novel Writing

Writing is hard. Writing, is hard. Writing: it’s hard. From early on in one’s writing journey, speed bumps, pitfalls, and diversions can stifle creativity and cast a shadow over the work.

Writing is hard. It’s easy to include purple prose, adjectives, POV issues, plot holes, passive writing, and using a go-to word or phrase 437 times over the course of a novel. The list of potential writing slip-ups is long indeed. Writing stories means long hours dedicated to one’s craft, with little chance of success. It’s difficult, at times, to remember why anyone does it at all.

Writers are hard work. They are hard to fathom, hard to direct and most certainly, their work can be hard to edit. Writers, with the best will in the world, will lose track of their story and not notice it’s happened. We can leave cringe-inducing spelling errors in a passage of work that we have declared polished. Though most committed writers work hard, writers are hard work.

Editors are not always the same. For each whimsical writer devoted to an arc or a vision, there is an editor. This editor may or may not be as devoted to the work. There are disgruntled ex-writers, non-gruntled non-writers, and gruntled writers looking for a side project. The term editor covers as broad a range of skills as the term writer does. As a result of such a variance, writers need to be choosy. In the editing process, it seems evident that too many chefs crowding around the work surface will ruin the souffle. There needs to be an established trust that allows an exchange of ideas. A creative safe space where two heads are better than one. Editors are sometimes different.

Consider expertise. The nature of expertise in a creative writer is an ethereal question. Many debut writers, breaking many “rules”, have garnered great success. Other experienced writers have struggled to achieve any success.

Expertise as an editor is a different business entirely. A critical gaze is vital in the latter stages of any creative writing project. Yet, not all editors possess the skills to work on many project types. The writer must seek out the expert for their expertise, yet, one writer’s expert is another writer’s speed bump. Expertise in the art of writing is what’s called for.

In buying A Technical Approach to Novel Writing, you have unlocked a resource that provides just that. Over long years, Phil has built up expertise and experience in various genres and styles. He is a writer himself, a publisher, a ravenous reader and, as you will discover, a storyteller. This book gives a refreshingly enjoyable guide to writing. It will make as much sense for writers as it will for editors. Phil guides with the steady hand of an expert, using step-by-step instruction, anecdotes, excerpts and more. The art of writing is on display, and Phil explains the mechanics in a way that will assist the most basic beginner through to the most wizened, world-weary wordsmith.

That writing is hard will never change. It’s why few of us out there manage to achieve our writing goals. There are ways for us to make the process easier. Expanding our expertise is one surefire way to accomplish that. A Technical Approach to Novel Writing will develop and extend your writing expertise. Read it, use it, and reread it.

In doing so, you can lower those speed bumps, fill in those pitfalls, and lessen the diversions on the road to success.

John De Búrca

Preorder: A Technical Approach to Novel Writing

A Technical Approach to Novel Writing

As professional writers, we are currently under attack from both cowboys looking for a route to easy money and AI.

It has got to the point where the cowboys — without the requisite skills — are using AI to disguise their charlatanism.

One way to counter the attack is through quality. The output from charlatans and AI will lack quality.

The way to guarantee quality in novels is through processes.

Buy the book from the UK.

Buy the book from the US.

Iron

To be in Rome during the year of the four emperors must have been difficult. To be in Rome and a Christian during the year of the four emperors must have been murder!

The Music of Swords

Eimear is born into a world of suffering, growing up alone after the violent death of her parents, a Gruagach from the Fae realm and a human witch. With the help of the Duillechans who watch over her, her Gruagach stepfather, and an unlikely group of allies, she must travel the treacherous paths of the Fae realm to discover why the Draoícht (magic) of both worlds is gathering around her in a manner never witnessed before.

Charon

Charon in the arena

One of the main characters in the gladiatorial games was Charon. It was his task to shepherd the dead over the Styx. In Iron, coming in the summer, Charon carries a sickle so he can help those who are not quite dead to reach the river.

Cliodhna in the Suburra — Ancient Rome

Cliodhna witnesses Charon killing the wounded in the arena and it sickens her. It does more than just sicken her when she is in the dungeons of the Castra Praetoria waiting to go into the arena.

The Iron Between, Book Two: Iron.

Coming in the summer of 2023.

Hammer — Review

This type of review always makes the heart skip.

Hello,

Here’s another fabulous novel to add to your reading lists: Hammer by Micheál Cladáin.

Set in the days when the Roman armies sweep across the British Isles, it’s a gripping tale of political intrigues and personal vendettas. Highly recommended!

https://ruinsandreading.blogspot.com/2023/02/review-hammer-by-micheal-cladain.html

AncientBritain #HistoricalFiction #bookstagram #bookrecommendations #booklover #bookreview #boudica #boudicca

Hammer – Excerpt

Prologue

The air was cool in the pre-dawn grey. If not for the fog, it would have been a welcome release from the previous day’s clamminess. Despite the noise in the taberna, Agricola could hear the boatmen calling to each other as they landed supplies on the docks. He supposed the fog from the river Tamesis was making the sound carry, echoes of a wooden city coming to life.

Is it already dawn? Agricola asked himself, rubbing his hands over tired cheeks before studying his drinking companions.

The soldiers were as rowdy as only off-duty legionaries at their leisure could be. As the first cohort, they were not only hardened fighters but also hardened drinkers. Wine was still flowing, despite the late hour.

Early hour would be more accurate.

Now regretting it, Agricola had been defenceless against their calls as he rode through the palisade’s South Gate the previous night. A respected officer, the soldiers of the Fourteenth Legion did not begrudge him because he came from a different command – the Second.

Agricola did not put much stock in it. As a thinker, he knew it was only because he listened to them. Heard them. Stood behind them when the governor was ranting. Drank with them when they were off duty and called for him as he passed their taberna.

I need to be more aloof.

‘I must go,’ he said, downing his cup and standing. He was expected by the governor in Londinium to oversee the delivery of supplies for his command, the Legio XIV Gemina. There were whispers of an insurrection, and the governor was preparing in case the rumours held any truth.

Whispers of an insurrection. Why are soldiers of the first cohort even in Londinium?

‘Why are you here, um…’ Agricola asked.

‘Drinking, tribune, why else.’

‘No, I mean, why are you in Londinium.’

The aquilifer tapped his nose and laughed. ‘More than my position if I let that snake out of the sack, tribune.’

Agricola considered ordering the man to tell him the reason members of the first were in the city before realising the futility of such a course. The aquilifer — whatever his name might be — would laugh at him, and rightly so. As a banded tribune, Agricola had no authority over the legionaries. He was little more than the governor’s personal servant.

‘Come, Aurelio,’ he said to the praefectus of his turmae. ‘Duty is demanding my presence… our presence.’

‘The night is young,’ the aquilifer admonished, lifting the wine jug to pour more. Agricola put his hand over the cup and shook his head.

He could not remember the standard bearer’s name. It did not matter. He would never see him again unless it was in battle. Carrying the legion’s eagle, the man would be targeted. The Britons would strive to take the prize. Agricola knew the soldier would fight well. No one who gained the position of aquilifer ever fought badly. However, his life would probably be short, his end filled with agony and the shame of failure as some warrior of the tribes tore the eagle from his dying grasp.

‘The night is over, dolt. The governor is expecting us.’ Despite the insult, Agricola grinned and slapped the man on the back.

The aquilifer said something into his wine cup. Agricola heard the insult aimed at Gaius Suetonius Paulinus, governor of Britannia. Turning to Aurelio, he could see the praefectus was concentrating on a fight brewing at a nearby table and had not heard. He sighed in relief. It would not be necessary to order the standard bearer punished. He could not, however, let the legionary think it was acceptable to criticise his commander.

‘What did you say, soldier?’

‘Nothing, sir. I was thinking aloud,’ the aquilifer said, staring into his cup. Agricola frowned. It was not the first time he had heard the men of the Fourteenth voicing criticisms of their commander.

Is it the usual grumbling of soldiers, or is there more to it?

‘In my experience, it is best not to think when in your cups and in the company of senior officers. Crucifixion is often the fate of soldiers who think too much.’

The man held his peace and gulped at his wine, suddenly morose, as if he regretted spending time with a tribune. Agricola turned towards the exit nearest the stables under the palisade and gave the aquilifer no further thought. A sudden urge compelled him to use the latrine, so he turned to the rear door of the hostelry, ignoring the calls of the drunks who wanted him to join their table.

‘I will meet you by the stables,’ he said to Aurelio before heading out of the rear door.

Leaving the taberna, Agricola stopped in the swirling fog. He could not see the latrine trench from the doorway, only twenty paces or so from where he stood. Shivering, he tightened his cloak around his shoulders and made for the trench. He did not need to see where to go. He could smell the latrine, even when dampened by the density of the Tamesis’s morning offering.

He had just hung his spatha on the handrail when a voice asked, ‘Tribune Agricola?’

Reaching for the sword, Agricola glanced over his shoulder. A man in a black cloak with the hood up stood a short distance away, only just visible in the grey. Agricola could perceive no threat. If anything, the newcomer appeared bored rather than menacing.

‘Who are you?’ he asked, not releasing the spatha’s hilt.

‘You won’t need your weapon, sir. I come from Viroconium,’ the man said, throwing off his hood and revealing a gallea shining dully in the fog. ‘I am Lucius, bodyguard to Cerialis, sent as a messenger…’

The soldier hesitated.

‘Speak, man. What is your message?’

‘Mine is grave news, tribune…’

‘Spit it out. I will not bite you.’

The legionary thumped his chest, took off his helmet and ran a hand through damp hair. ‘A turmae patrolling on the western borders came under attack.’

‘Under attack?’ Agricola shook his head, unsure why the commander of the Ninth legion would send a messenger to Londinium with such news. Patrols were constantly under attack.

‘They were annihilated, sir. To a man. The attackers took everything. Horses. Weapons. Armour. Heads.’