Introduction

It is germane for me to manage reader expectations at this juncture. This is a blog that describes the process I follow when I write a novel. It is not a textbook designed to teach those who want to write novels: there are already far too many of them available (which just rehash existing theory).

Why Did I Begin?

I suppose I started this blog because of two disparate but related events. I read a poorly written blog (yet another claiming canon over creative writing) and read a series of traditionally published works, which were unedited and poorly written.

The wheel is continually being shaved to a finer point by those who think everyone wants to write a book and they have the definitive answer, which will guarantee overnight success. All of them are blatant attempts to cash in on a shift in publication trends. It has become so easy to self-publish that the market has been swamped by those — without the requisite tools — who are in it to make a fast buck. The Fagins have all climbed on the trend in an attempt to sell their dodgy wares to those charlatans because they, too, see it as easy money.

I suppose an indication of the shift is evident in the following anecdote.

Some years ago (post search engines), I ran a search on story arc. The engine returned a handful of documents claiming to be canons on story arc theory, all of which were differently worded exponents of the three-act structure and seven-point arc. This morning I ran a search on story structure and received 104 000 documents, none of which mentioned the three-act structure and seven-point arc. I didn’t read them, of course, but attempts to refine my search with three-act and seven-point returned nothing. It wouldn’t take Sherlock Holmes to surmise that the words have changed but — on this, I would bet a year’s royalties — the message is the same.

I would be the last to claim knowledge on how to teach prospective writers, actually leaning toward the theory that the skill of novel writing cannot be taught. It does not mean being able to create sentences or having a meaningful vocabulary: those are the tools Stephen King describes. Writing a novel — at least one a reader would enjoy — is a creative process. Creativity is something that — to a degree — is either there or it isn’t. However, an ability to write does not guarantee success, in the same way, an inability to write does not preclude it. I read a book by a well-known TV personality recently, which was badly written, badly edited (if at all) and a multimillion-copy bestselling book. The number of five-star reviews (55 000 on the day of writing) proves Stephen King’s point that readers don’t care about the quality of the writing, only about the story. As it happens, in my opinion, the story wasn’t good either. It was written in the style of a prepubescent, as well as having a naïve plot, although on a much larger scale. I would have been a little ashamed to submit it as English homework.

A Technical Approach To Novel Writing documents what I do. Readers can use my methods as they see fit. I don’t claim it is the definitive process. Stephen King would poo poo my methods because they fly in the face of his own guidance. However, I wouldn’t read too much into that, because he also totally ignores his own guidance. Like Stephen King, I don’t agree with much of what he writes in On Writing either.

So What Is this Blog

Basically, I will publish a series of blogs that outline the process I follow when writing a new book. The blogs will cover topics from my first thoughts until the final edit before publication. The blogs will include the following topics:

  • Plotting: Whether it is better to write off the cuff or plot a novel is an open debate. I use something of a mix between the two but find plotting at least a story arc speeds up the process immeasurably and makes the end product much better.
  • Writing: There are many different practices for the actual writing of a novel and none can be called better than the others. Each writer will have their preferred method, whether it be sitting in an office at a computer or using a pen and writing pad on the beach. In this blog, I will describe what my process is and how it helps me.
  • Editing: Editing a novel — as for any document — is a complex process. Gone are the days when publishers could be left with the headache of editing a novel. Most of the traditionally published books I read this year were not edited at all. If an author wants to guarantee the quality of their work, then they must take on the onus of editing. This section describes how I go about editing my novels.
I spent thirty-five years as an editor in the IT industry. Although technical documentation and creative writing differ immensely, the principles of editing remain the same. Writers without experience in editing should hire professional help for all aspects of the editing process. Even as a professional editor, I do recognise the need for help during the editing phase of my work and employ Holmes Editorial.

The length of the blogs I will post over the coming month will vary. The Plotting and Editing blogs will be much longer than the writing blog.

The following are the contents:

After Gairech — Book Review ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

A Thousand Suns book blogger

When I was asked if I would like to read an ARC of After Gáirech by Micheál Cladáin I jumped at the chance. Irish mythology has always fascinated me, especially when it comes to The Ulster Cycle (a heroic Irish saga), but this is the first time I have come across a recent fictional retelling that delivers a plausible and enjoyable story based upon the ancient myths and the ‘historical” heroic characters from that era.

The Five Kingdoms (it does sound like a Tolkien novel, but unlike Tolkien, Cladáin depict’s the real Middle Earth) is a land of brave warriors, pagan worship, and unfortunately, political instability. It is a land at war, a land where wealth was measured in cattle. This time is so vastly different to our own, that it reads like fantasy, and in a way, I guess that is what it is, but underneath these legendary characters, one hopes for a gain of truth. I thought Cladáin breathed life back into these long-dead heroes and I really enjoyed reading about his interpretation of events.

I thought this book had a lot to offer and it was a thoroughly entertaining read from beginning to end. As one would expect from a violent time, violence is depicted, but there are also lighter, more amusing moments, much like in The Ulster Cycle, which made the story more rounded and believable.

I have no hesitation in recommending this novel. I was enthralled from the beginning to the very end, and it is certainly a novel that I can see myself reading again.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B093TF86Z4 🇬🇧

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B093TF86Z4 🇺🇸

Book Review: After Gairech

Reviewed by D. K. Marley — The Historical Fiction Company

“From the outset, I was completely enthralled by this story, with one caveat – it did take me a while to sort out the characters and the storyline and it wasn’t until about a third way into the book that I finally said, “oh, okay, I get what is happening” – and after that, I am so glad I stuck it out, but I must say that I think the first books need to be read before this one to get an overall understanding of what is going on.

The narrative is rich and full-bodied like a deep dark ale guzzled in a dark tavern somewhere in ancient Ireland. and this legend-come-to-life is one I was not familiar with but am now hooked in knowing more (the other books are now in my TBR list). You can definitely get the sense of the author’s passion for Ireland and the research, wow, the immense research he must have done to bring this to life is simply astounding. I truly felt as if I was reading actual history instead of a myth/history, and I highlighted an entire chapter as one of my favorites – that of the encounter between the Cailleach, Queen Medb and Conell – that glued me to each and every word in anticipation.

The second passage I adored was from the “Storyteller” chapter – “How could he tell them there was no glory in battle? All they saw was the shiny helmets, the mail coats, golden torcs and armbands; the riches and the banter, men and women who enjoyed their lives. How could he explain to those who toiled all day in a field, it came at a price? How could he tear apart their dreams, telling them battle held only blood, sh*t, and the screams of the dying, all calling for their mothers in the agony of their final moments?….” and more… just read it, you will be simply captivated. These brief excerpts give you an idea of the profound depth and storytelling ability of Micheal Cladain. Read this book… you won’t regret it!”

Semper Idem – Cicero

“Always the Same” – I can only assume Cicero was referring to life’s mundanity. Nothing ever changes. From IT to a writer soon to publish novel 16, how can that be, at least for work?

Let’s start by talking numbers. Sixteen books are approximately 1 280 000 words (excluding those dropped during the dev edit stage). Put another way, 5 600 pages, not that high, despite constantly being asked how my productivity rate is so high. When I worked in IT as a writer and editor, the recognised daily rate was 8 pages a day (at least by those companies who take documentation quality seriously). At that rate, I would have produced 8 800 pages during the same period. But of course, tech doc has a much lower density of words, tables and graphics, taking up a fair percentage of the available space. There is a maximum of 200 words per page in a tech doc, probably averaging around 150, making 1 320 000, which is almost the same. Or as Cicero would have said, fere semper idem.

So, let’s look at working practices (I will ignore the pandemic for this discussion). When I was employed in IT, I started working at 9:00; I took breaks during the day; I had a lunch break from 12:00 to 13:00 and finished work at 18:00. I rarely took my work home. The methodology was Agile processing, Epics and Stories, stand-ups and sprints, scrum managers, product managers and teams. Since I began writing novels for a living, I start work at 9:00; I take breaks during the day; I have a lunch break from 12:00 to 13:00 and finish working at 18:00. I rarely take work away from home. My work methodology is based on Agile: I still have Epics and Stories and work in sprints. I’m a team of one, so the stand-ups and the managers are missing, which is still not much of a change. Still fere semper idem.

So, it appears Cicero was nearly right, but should that be depressing? Should I look at my new career in those terms?

For me, there are two takeaways. Nearly is not the same as always, which is small comfort; what is a considerable comfort is I’m now doing what I always wanted to do. I wrote my first novel when I was still a teenager, which was pure nonsense for sure, but no less of an achievement for that. It’s hard being a novelist. Very few writers are successful. Of course, I would welcome success, but it is not essential when doing what I love, or as Cicero might have said, facis quod amo.

Am I depressed? I would be lying if I said there are no moments of self-doubt, which is normal throughout life. So, bring it on!

You can check out the latest book, After Gairech, a historical murder mystery, here:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B093TF86Z4 🇬🇧

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B093TF86Z4 🇺🇸

Short

Garbled Plea

When she spoke, it was not deafness preventing me from replying. I heard the words, but they were garbled. Her last ever sentence. And I did not understand. Was it a cry for help, a basic need, like hunger or thirst, or was it something more complex? Something she was showing in her oh so communicative eyes.

I sat there beside her hospital bed (HSE provided: won’t hear a word against them) in the living room of our apartment. A bed with all the bells and whistles. Self-adjusting mattress, up-down, in and out, remote control, a real beaut. None of which helped me to understand those words. Well, I say words, but they weren’t words. They were grunts and mumbles, the sounds one might expect from a colony of apes in the Congo. Garbled.

But listen to me, starting in what most would consider the middle. Not me. Never was much of a one for all the scientific theories. Everything must have a beginning, a middle, and an end. Bunkum, I say. The best of my life started in the middle, little beginnings, some life, then little endings; just a mix: no real beginning, no real ending; all mashed together like a kaleidoscope of images spinning at the press of a button, like I’m standing astride a time vortex, some weirdo Doctor Who.

Little Beginnings

It’s not hard to pinpoint when her progression to that bed, talking gobbledegook, started. That little beginning happened when she lost control of her bladder and couldn’t walk up the passage without holding on to the wall. I’d been away, working abroad, and thought at first, she was drinking, unable to cope without that vacuous crutch. Pee stains on the couch. All the food I bought before leaving for a three-day stint was still in the fridge when I got back. Slurred speech. All the signs of a closet dipso. But none of it rang true. There were no empty bottles hidden behind the couch, no inexplicable withdrawals from the bank account. No wine stains to keep the pee stains company. Nothing to say there’s a closet boozer in the house.

Something was wrong. I took her to the doc (she wouldn’t go unless I brought her, some strange fear of doctors), and he referred her to Vincent’s. We spent our last night together and went to A&E the following day. The diagnosis (initial) took all day but came back as possibly MS. We need to do some investigating, the head doctor said. On it went. This test, that test. The third degree for me. After weeks, the diagnosis was upgraded to primary, the type without a cure. Palliative care only, I’m afraid. Don’t blame yourself. There’s nothing you could have done.

Don’t blame yourself. How could I not?

I’m still plagued by guilt. Shrink reckons I have PTSD. Should have spotted it sooner, but the head specialist, the one who diagnosed her, said it wouldn’t have made a difference. The disease, the God awful Primary Progressive Multiple Sclerosis, is inexorable. Untreatable. A killer. If a slow one.

She’ll have a curtailed life, said specialist explained. You’ll need to pull together. It won’t be easy. Of course, we’ll muck in, they said, but they never did. Left muggins to foot the bill. To carry the can; to nurture a three-month-old baby in the body of a fifty-year-old woman. Left me to watch the woman I loved die one day at a time, slowly, the creeping tide washing away the cliffs of her sanity. But not just her sanity: her every function. Her life and being eaten by something nobody understands.

Some Life

Curtailed, for sure. She was wheelchair-bound. Reliant. Vulnerable. I was the hero, the man who provided for a stricken wife. Wheeled her about. Took her to the cinema. Bought her an ice cream. Fed her. Wiped her backside and put her to bed at the end of the day. She had no life outside of me, and I had no life outside of her. Not such a bad existence. We could cope. I felt sure. But I had no idea what was to come.

First to go, the gag reflex. What’s that? I asked. Her ability to prevent food from entering her lungs. We’ll stick a hole in her belly and feed her through a tube. But she loves food. She lives for eating. Sorry. Nothing can be done. No more food.

And then her hands turned into claws, like an early onset arthritic, hooks where fingers once were.

Next to go, her speech. It went slowly. At first, a few words were coming out a little wrong, mispronounced, or out of order. I could see it in her eyes: the frustration, which caused her to stop trying to speak. She was ever a proud woman, and rightly so. The image of a young Sofia Loren, like Peter Sarstedt, I used to know where that lovely went, but no longer, she was trapped inside a head with no release. And I was trapped outside watching. And only watching.

Life was in limbo. We were already dead together. She in that supersized hospital bed, all the whistles and flutes, and me in the dusty armchair beside her.

Little Endings

And if we were already dead, what use continuing with an existence, which was no existence? I sat in that armchair, one of those old rickety yokes that went back when you pulled the lever. Dusty. Smelly. Dog puke green in colour. Bad for a back already bad from lifting her in and out of bed. Helped by a mechanical sling, for sure, but back-breaking, nonetheless. 

My mind wandered, and my eyes wandered and came to rest on the plastic measuring jug.

I sat there looking at that jug, all nonchalant on the tv table, beside the boxes of drugs: drugs for pain, drugs for spasms, drugs for God only knows what. And in the cupboard under them, a bottle of vodka. A mixer. The ingredients of a cocktail, a one-way ticket to the oblivion from the wrong side of our own personal Styx. A substitute for Charon’s ferry. Who pays the Ferryman? I do.

I mixed that cocktail and sat on that dusty armchair all night. A fifty-mill syringe full of her one-way ticket, ready for pumping down her gastric tube, a pint glass beside the chair holding my ticket.

I sat there, watching her through the night, the tickets keeping me company. I felt a tear run down my cheek, and as dawn broke and the birds began to sing, I said, ‘I’m sorry, my love.’

Sorry for what? I’m not sure. Sorry for failing her, perhaps. Sorry for not being strong enough to go on. Sorry that this little piece of our lives was going to have an ending. Sorry I was not strong enough to bring that ending about. Or just sorry. Whatever the reason, she heard me and opened her eyes, and they were full of love and pain and worry, and she uttered her last ever sentence. I smiled at her. I thought I saw the flicker of a smile in return before she closed her eyes, never to open them again.

And what were those final words? I like to think they were a plea for me to forgive myself. A heartfelt plea, even though a somewhat garbled plea.