Dead Flesh (Dominions II) out now

Dead Flesh (Dominions II

The second novel in the Dominions series, Dead Flesh, is now available from all major e-book stores.

I’m really pleased with the way this book turned out, although it started as something totally different. When I first planned what was then simply called ‘Dominions 2’, I wanted Rodin (the main character) to pull off a daring rescue, but I had to work out why a mercenary would care enough to do this without being paid. Before he could charge in and be a hero, I needed to explain how he came to question his purpose in life.

That book didn’t work out. I liked big parts of it, but there was simply too much story. I think the first draft came in at over 150,000 words, and I was aiming for 100,000. And at that, it still felt rushed. I needed to cut it back, but I also needed to expand it. There was the big rescue, and all the build-up to that. There was another whole section about the person who needed rescuing, and how they got caught. And then there was Rodin’s journey before this, the part that needed to be there for his actions to make any sense.

As I worked on this, I realised that the initial section, where Rodin had his crisis of conscience, was pretty strong on its own. I looked at this part in more detail, and it started to grow into its own thing. Soon, it was clear that Rodin’s journey alone would be the second Dominions novel. The rest of the story could wait for the next book (although that didn’t work out, either. Sometimes I don’t know why I bother trying to plan these stories!)

As I said before, I’m pleased with how this book turned out. It’s dark, but it also has heart. There’s lots of action, but there is also lots of introspection. It answers some of the questions posed in the first Dominions novel, but also opens more loops.

If that all sound intriguing, check it out – click here to find out where you can get Dead Flesh. And if you’re interested in the start of the Dominions series, check out Dark Glass.

And next month I’ll release the third novel, Deep Water.

If A Book Makes Me Feel Sick, I Know It’s Good Writing

When you think about it, reading fiction is a strange activity. It involves staring at symbols on a page or screen, ignoring all distractions, and yet it can take us to other worlds. We take this static information in through our eyes, and allow it to run through out minds, and yet it can open up whole realms of sensations. It involves nothing but words, but it can have such a deep effect on us. And sometimes that effect is physical.

I’ve heard it said that there are two genres that specifically go for this physical effect — horror and erotica (maybe that’s why James Herbert always managed to include a sex scene in his horror books). I can’t comment on the latter, but I have read quite a bit of horror, especially as a teenager. Stephen King, James Herbert, Peter Straub, Clive Barker — I’d get through loads of this stuff, and sometimes, when I put the book down, I wouldn’t want to walk around the house without the lights on. I’d get that tingle, that nagging ‘something’s waiting in the dark’ feeling.

So I got goose-bumps, and a shiver running down my spine. But
one book took me further. One book stands out — Iain Banks’ debut novel, The Wasp Factory.waspfactory_iainbanks

At the time it affected me so memorably, I was re-reading it. I’d enjoyed it first time round (strange how the word ‘enjoy’ can be used for something dark and disturbing), but couldn’t recall much of it. I was working shifts at the time, and needed something to keep me occupied on my breaks — and so, obviously, I took a book in to work, alongside my sandwiches.

So there I was, eating while I read another chapter, sitting on cheap plastic chairs in an empty factory canteen. And I reached a particular part of the book, where it describes the main character’s brother working in a hospital, looking after young children.

The scene (which I won’t even attempt to describe) was shocking, and as I read I felt my stomach churning. My cheeks puffed out with the sensation that I was about to vomit.

I had to stop reading for a while. I put the book down and let my stomach settle.

I wondered if there was something up with my sandwich, but it was fine. It wasn’t food that had made me feel nauseous, but words.

I returned to the book. I re-read that scene. It still made me feel uneasy.

Yet Banks didn’t describe any of the horrors I pictured in my head. There was a build-up, when the character realizes something is wrong. And then there is a jump, to a nurse entering the room and seeing the aftermath.

How could words make me feel ill, especially when so little had been described? How did Banks do it? He built up the scene, but he didn’t tell us exactly what was wrong. Only in the aftermath do we get a glimpse of it, and the whole thing is described in a few sentences (maybe even one — it’s a while since I’ve read it again).

Everything else is left to the imagination.

I believe that’s the key. If Banks had described the scene in detail, the words would have got in the way. I’m sure he would have written it well, but I doubt it would have had the same impact. Describing something is never as intimate as imagining it.

This idea works well in films. Compare the claustrophobic dread of Alien, where any dark spot in the shadows could be the creature, to the reduced impact in later films when the aliens are seen in their entirety. Think of the way the shark in Jaws is never seen for the first hour of the film, yet we know this unseen terror is there, waiting for its moment to strike. Think of the ending of Seven, where we never see what is in the box (despite what some people still believe), but our imagination fills in the blanks.

It’s arguably far harder to do in books, but writers like Iain Banks shows that is is possible. By describing around a scene, our imaginations are let loose, and the horrors we can summon up are far more personal. By choosing just the right words, an author like Banks can guide our thoughts to darker places. By using suggestion and hints, a great author can give a scene such startling realism that we become physically part of the world they have created.

factory-387868_640Sitting in that factory canteen in the middle of the night, I realized for the first time how words could trigger not only our minds but also our bodies.

And that book still impresses me. It has to. Other books have made me question things, or set my pulse racing. Other books have scared the hell out of me, or made me feel good about myself. But no other book has brought me so close to throwing up.

I should write a review for it, and limit myself to a couple of sentences. ‘This book almost made me lose my lunch. Five stars.’

Writing A Book – It’s More Than Just Writing

I’ve finally managed it! I’ve got a book out. I can go to Amazon (or Kobo, or a few other places) and see it, and it feels fantastic!

It’s taken over a year and a half, and it’s been a lot more work than I initially thought.

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Back in January 2015, when I decided to get serious about writing, I didn’t think I was being naive. I knew I couldn’t type out a first draft and expect it to be good enough to publish. I knew there would be rewrites and edits.

But there was so much more. I learnt about it gradually, and started to see just how much was involved in creating a book.

The first draft of this novel (Dark Glass) came pretty quickly. I’d had the ideas fermenting in my mind for some time, so the story itself wasn’t a problem, and I was working on it enthusiastically. Things were progressing well, and I thought I’d get the first draft finished in a month, take another couple of months to polish it up, and have it for sale by early spring.

Yeah, right!

 

I started editing. There were big chunks that needed changing, and the edits were more in-depth than I initially thought. I started reading more and more books on the craft of writing, and spotted more areas where I could improve my story. By the summer, I still wasn’t happy with it.

I also learnt about the business side of publishing. I wanted to go the self-published route rather than looking for an agent and a traditional deal. I knew it would be hard, and I started to listen to various podcasts and read books and blog posts about self-publishing. They talked about external editors, and covers, and all kinds of stuff I hadn’t even considered (like funnels, lists and CTAs).

I found an editor and nervously sent off my manuscript (by this time it was as good as I felt I could get it). I wondered how it would come back, almost dreading the amount of errors that were sure to be uncovered. It felt like being at school, waiting for the paper to be returned with streams of red ink.

There was not as much as I feared, though. There were mistakes — some I hadn’t even considered, and others that I was mentally kicking myself for not spotting. And I learnt through this. I found I enjoyed the process, and I felt my writing improve with what I learnt. Maybe it was my attitude, or maybe I simply lucked out and found a good editor to work with.

But good text does not make a good book. If there was one clear thing from all I was learning about marketing, it was the importance of a good cover. You know that stuff about never judging a book by its cover? Turns out this is exactly what everyone does. If I wanted this book to be good, I needed a well-designed cover.

This was something I knew I couldn’t do myself. I did some research on-line, and came to understand that a cover was not about the story itself, but acted as an advert for the book. I found a design company, told them what I wanted, and they gave me some professional-looking covers — exactly what I was wanting.

I got more than one cover, though. I’d already started working on other books, all part of the same series, and I knew that the covers needed to work together, branding the series. It made sense to get all the covers done at the same time.

See, I was already starting to think beyond writing. I was already treating this as a business.

 

So, where was I now? I had the text of the book ready, I had a cover. Now for the e-book.

I’ve read a lot of e-books, and I know what I like to see in them. I like chapter headings to stand out. I like justified text, like I see in physical books. I like an e-book to look like some care and attention has gone into its creation.

I knew there were people out there who could format the book for me, but I started reading up on the whole area and realised I might be able to do this myself. E-books can be formatted using HTML, and I’ve got some prior experience of this (one of the ‘useless’ parts of my degree course that has come in handy a few times since).

So I learnt. And I managed to format the book myself. I created an epub and a mobi, and both looked fine.

 

man-114437_1280But there was still more to do.

I needed to write a product description, something that would entice potential readers.

No problem, I thought. Just say what the book’s about, maybe hint at a few of the interesting bits, and that’s it. Half an hour, an hour tops.

There are people who get paid for writing things like product descriptions, and I soon understood why. In many ways, it’s harder writing a few short paragraphs of product description than writing the novel itself. Every word has to count. It has to be trimmed back to the bare minimum. It needs to excite and interest a reader, telling them what to expect without giving everything away.

I went over my product description I don’t know how many times. It’s still not great, but it’s the best I can do. I’m proud in a kind of ‘it’s the first time I’ve tried this, and I think it stands up with loads of others out there’ way.

 

internet-1028794_1280The book’s formatted. Now all I had to do was put it out there.

Only I still wasn’t ready. I needed to let people know about it. I needed to get my name out there — or at least the name I’d chosen, TW Iain. I knew this would be hard. I’m not good at talking to people. Put me in a group of even a few, and I’ll slide into the background, listening but rarely making a noise. I’m happier on my own. So telling others about this book would be outside my comfort zone.

Even worse, I’d need to convince people to buy it. I’m fairly introverted, and I’m British (so I have the whole ‘ keeping quiet and not blowing my own trumpet’ thing). I can always spot flaws in what I’m doing, and see where others are better than me.

It’s something I’m still struggling with, but I realised I needed to do something. I needed a space where I could be myself, but where people who might like my books and my writing (and me?) could come.

I sorted out a website. I know it’s not great, but it’s fine for the moment (see what I mean about not blowing my own trumpet?). I’m blogging, and also putting up short stories. The stories are fun — not only are they something I can offer visitors to the site, but by limiting myself to 1000 words I’m also forcing myself to concentrate on my writing.

There is so much more I need to do here, though. I’m not great on social media. I’ll get into this, but not yet. I can’t do everything at once. There will be time later.

 

So, I’m ready to publish.

I already have an Amazon account, but I don’t want to limit myself. I’ve read all the Kindle Select pros and cons, and I’ve gone back and forth in my mind. But I’m looking long-term. I don’t want to be tied to one vendor. I want as many people to have the chance to discover this book as possible. So I need to go wide.

I sign up with Kobo and Draft2Digital (I’m in the UK, so using an aggregator like D2D is the only way to get into Barnes & Noble, and I don’t have a Mac so I can’t go direct with iBooks). And, over a couple of evenings, I get this book out into the world. Kobo’s a breeze (it almost feels too easy), D2D’s pretty simple, and Amazon’s more involved, but I get it done.

Then I wait for the e-mails telling me the book’s live. I click on the links.

There it is — my book, for sale in the biggest bookstores in the world. I’ve done it.

I started writing this book in January 2015 and now, at the start of September 2016, it’s a real thing.

And it feels great.

Of course, I’m not going to get complacent. I know this is only the beginning. Now the real work starts. Now I have to market and promote, and all those other scary words that make me realise this is a business, and I’m not even good at talking to people, so how the hell can I do this?

I know how I can do it. I can do it the same way I got the book out there — by learning from others, and by working at it. I’ll make mistakes, but that’s part of learning. I’ll only fail if I give up.

And I don’t want to do give up, because I’ve had so much fun bringing this book from idea to finished product. I want to keep on doing this.

When I think of that, I feel like a writer.

Dark Glass (Dominions I)

And now for a shameless plug: click here for more information on Dark Glass (Dominions I)

The Power Of A Story – The Tale Of Beddgelert

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The tombstones at Gelert’s Grave

I’m on holiday in Wales at the moment. It’s a place that I find myself returning to every now and then. It holds a lot of memories for me, and I still find it a fascinating place.

I’m writing this while I watch waves surging up a beach, with a mountain in the background, just visible through the low cloud. Even in ‘bad’ weather, the place is impressive and dramatic. And if I turn, I can see the remains of a castle, stones still standing strong against the elements, hundreds of years after its construction.

There are different layers to Wales. There’s the physical landscape, and then there are the signs of human intervention. Obviously there are the old castles, but there are also earthworks, and cairns, and other stone structures. Some have a written history, but others have none, their creation and purpose shrouded in mystery.

These are the stories that sit just beneath the surface. Where something appears out of the ordinary, it is natural to attempt to understand, and stories grow. They might be based on truth, or on myth, or maybe they are interpretations by vivid imaginations, like certain mountains being the resting places of giant warriors who will one day rise again to protect the land.

There are so many tales, and variations on these tales. One of them, maybe one of the best known in Wales, is that of Gelert the hound.

If you go to the village of Beddgelert, deep in Snowdonia, under a tree in a field, you can find a large stone. It is now surrounded by a metal fence, to protect it from the many visitors it receives every year, but you can easily read what is written on the two tombstones also within the fence, one in English, the other in Welsh:

“In the 13th century Llewelyn, prince of North Wales, had a palace at Beddgelert. One day he went hunting without Gelert, ‘The Faithful Hound’, who was unaccountably absent.

On Llewelyn’s return the truant, stained and smeared with blood, joyfully sprang to meet his master. The prince alarmed hastened to find his son, and saw the infant’s cot empty, the bedclothes and floor covered with blood.

The frantic father plunged his sword into the hound’s side, thinking it had killed his heir. The dog’s dying yell was answered by a child’s cry.

Llewelyn searched and discovered his boy unharmed, but nearby lay the body of a mighty wolf which Gelert had slain. The prince filled with remorse is said never to have smiled again. He buried Gelert here”.

Such a tragic tale, and one that many read in silence, the words — and what they mean — sinking deep. It is easy to understand why the grave, and all that it represents, draws so many people. It is impressive that a grave for a dog, buried centuries ago, still has the power to move people.

Yet it’s all a lie.

Maybe that’s too strong. Maybe I should call it a fabrication, or a fiction. Or simply a story.

This is the story behind the story:

In 1793, a man named David Pritchard took over as landlord of the Royal Goat Inn in Beddgelert. He built up a small cairn and started talking of Llewelyn and his hound. The story spread, and it became understood that the pile of rocks marked the final resting place of Gelert.

Maybe Pritchard had heard a similar story elsewhere, or maybe he created it all. There was a Prince Llewelyn connected with a nearby abbey, and he would have most likely kept hounds for hunting. The name of the village can translate as ‘Gelert’s grave’, so it is likely that it was the burial place of someone important going by that name at one point in history.

But not necessarily a hound. And there are no indications that the hound saved a baby from an attack by a wolf, only to be cut down by his distressed master.

Pritchard invented the details to build a legend around Beddgelert, and to draw customers to his inn. He created a story because it was good for his business.

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Gelert’s Grave in Beddgelert

This fact‌—‌that the story is a fabrication‌—‌is well known, and yet the story has survived. Even today visitors stand round the stones and read the sad tale of Gelert. Even today, the story brings in the tourists.

Like so many myths and legends, truth and fiction combine, and we know we are in the presence of tales that have little or no basis in reality. Yet we are still drawn to them, because the stories themselves have power. They strike something deep inside, and affect us in ways that simple facts cannot. They talk to us on an emotional level, and because of this they endure long after the plain facts have been forgotten.

And this is why, in a way, it doesn’t matter if stories like that of Gelert are fact or fiction, because they are still true on a different level. They teach us lessons history cannot relate‌—‌in this case, the dangers of jumping to conclusions and acting in the heat of the moment. They teach us not of the land and its history, but of ourselves and how we should live our lives.

Of course, there is the other story here, the one where a savvy businessman draws people to his establishment through a finely-crafted tale, understanding how rocks and trees can be brought to life with a few simple words. It is also the story of a village that obtained a new meaning through his actions. Maybe his motives were selfish, but there can be no doubt that his story has become an important part of Beddgelert. Even though it is a lie, Beddgelert is the final resting place of the faithful hound Gelert.

Pritchard’s story has endured for over two hundred years, and will endure for many more. As his own name fades, his tale of Gelert lives on.

That’s some legacy for a storyteller.

A Book So Good, I Didn’t Want To Read It

See if this sounds familiar.

You start reading a book. It promises to be good, and you settle into a serious hour or so of reading. And the book is good. No, better than that‌—‌it’s great! You’re rattling through it, and you don’t want to stop. Something tells you it’s getting late, or it’s time to do something else, but you can’t pull yourself away. Just one more chapter. You can’t leave it yet, not when you don’t know what’s going to happen on the next page.

I’ve read loads of books like that. I can recall the first time I read Lord Of The Rings, as a teenager, coming home from school and spending a few evenings doing nothing but lying on my bed, reading. When I bought a new Terry Pratchett, I would make sure I had nothing important to do for the day, and finish the book before I went to bed.

But one book stands out as different. There was one book that was so good I didn’t want to pick it up.

I know‌—‌that doesn’t make much sense. Surely if a book is good you want to read it?

Well, not this one.

The book was The Hitch-Hiker’s Guide To The Galaxy. It’s a small book, small enough to fit in my trouser pockets. That meant I could have it with me all the time, and I could read it pretty much whenever I had a spare moment.

I read the first half quickly. Not only is the book short, but the chapters don’t last long, and the writing zips along. It jumps from one thing to another, so there’s no risk of getting bogged down in tedious description or anything like that. It’s one of those books where ‘one more chapter’ quickly leads to the end of the book.

And that was the problem. I didn’t want to reach the end. Not because I didn’t want to find out how it ended. I think I knew this anyway (this was when the TV series was on, and although the book stuck closer to the radio show, I still knew what was going to happen). And not because I was getting bored. Far from it. Part of me wanted to read the book.

But a more forceful part stopped me.

I didn’t want to risk opening it up, because if I did that I’d start reading, and then I’d want to carry on for another chapter, and another, and maybe one more. If I looked at an open page, I knew I’d reach the end before long, and then the book would be over.

And that was why I didn’t want to read it. I was enjoying the book so much I didn’t want it to end.

Of course I did finish the book, and I’ve read it many times since. It’s a book I often re-read. I don’t need to read the individual words now — a glance at the first sentence, and each chapter practically unrolls in my memory. And now, I don’t take my time, but allow myself to read at whatever speed feels comfortable. There are more books, after all. And if a book is that good, I can always re-read it later.

But that first time still sticks in my head. The only book that was so good I didn’t want to read it.