Thursday 29 October 2015

"rEVENGER: the Shadow Constabulary" by Warwick Fraser-Coombe. A review.



I am sure you know we've been lied to, by authority, politicians, the media, celebrities, big brands and the companies behind them, by the newsreaders who reach out to us with the knowing glints in their eyes, the dolly-faced bimbos and painted lady-boys who mollify our brains and slowly turn us senile on Saturday night TV. All the time lied to, whilst all the while the world implodes around our ears.

We've been lied to for years, assured that life is great and everything will be fine and as long as you don't complain too much, turn a blind eye to the fact the wealthy are getting richer and the poor becoming more downtrodden, don't rattle the fence, or take things into your own hands, or question the establishment or the way things are done, home or abroad, everything will be okay.

The problem is that the lies are getting harder to swallow and the facts more stretched than the celebrities' faces used to subdue us and addle our brains. We're starting to see through the veneer of the ever slicker politicians, corporate whores and world advocates telling us that everything will be alright.

Because we know it won't be, not unless there is change. Big change. And with this wish for change, we're starting to demand answers. We're starting to demand justice and fair play. We're starting to demand a new type of hero stands up for the minor majority and fights back against this tide of corruption and suppression. The old heroes aren't coming to save us. They never were. They were only ever serving themselves. We no longer want the hero who props up the third leg of the corporate governmental partnership. We want someone who is going to do what needs to be done achieve results for the common man, the ignored, the neglected, the downtrodden - whatever that might involve, whatever the horror that might unleash.

Which brings me to Warwick Fraser-Coombe and his graphic novel "rEVENGER: The Shadow Constabulary."

"rEVENGER" is a costumed vigilante comic book, but it's so much more. If anything, it's a rant against a dumbed down society that looks the other way to the injustices which happen in front of our very eyes.

Roger Blandy, the focus of the book, the 'rEVENGER', is no super hero. He has no innate powers, no heritage of greatness. What he does have is army training, a tour of Basra, a belly full of wrath and a cupboard full of world war two Nazi weaponry amassed by his father at his disposal. Spurred on by personal trauma and time on his hands to consider the injustices of society, he starts a one man war against the drug lords, the rapists, the hardened criminals in the estates around him.

But as his fame and prowess grows, he begins to attract the eye of even more powerful organisations looking to utilise his considerable, if questionable, skills.

What could have become a linear story of someone taking on the bad guys Death Wish style is given credence and depth by the introduction of The Shadow Constabulary, a secret organisation responsible for the termination and control of the shadier parts of the establishment and history. These guys were responsible for assassination of past notorious criminals and killers, the firm handling of unwanted demonstrations amongst the populace in the past, and not so past. Impressed with the rEVENGER's skills, they recruit him into their ranks, in doing so turning him from a modern day Robin Hood into just another blue collar worker, or perhaps that should be red stained collar worker?

However, as this new twist enfolds, you're asked the intriguing question as to whether Blandy, the rEVENGER, is razor sharp in his appreciation of the wickedness of the world, or utterly off his trolly and merely living in a world of make-believe. He keeps saying he is going mad throughout the story, and yet the black envelopes with his 'missions' keep arriving and he seems the sanest and clearest thinking of many of the characters within the book - all this despite the fact he is nothing more than a violent ignorant thug.



Despite his bravo, angry disposition and violent actions, many times we are starkly reminded of the family man that he is, crippled by his losses and the injustices which have affected him. All of which drive him on to do ever more terrible things.

What "rEVENGER" does brilliantly is take the world-known and worn out vigilante story, born from the American Dream its hand firmly pressed to its heart, and kicks it firmly in the nuts. It breaks all the rules, setting a hero impossible to love but impossible to hate at the centre of this grubby tabloid-soiled world and letting him loose.

There are many superb black humour bits within the book. The moment this sadistic hero becomes a 'national treasure', complete with paper copycat masks supplied courtesy of the tabloid press and a fake twitter account attracting 50,000 followers are just two. Blandy, the rEVENGER, can see the madness in the world, and yet his madness drives him yet further into its very heart, and he celebrates by spending his blood money on the finest of cigars that those he takes down themselves smoke. In doing so, is the monster slayer becoming a monster himself?

"rEVENGER: the Shadow Constabulary" is a book that you read with your blood pumping in your ears and your teeth clenched in your skull. It's brutal, it's unrelenting, but it has an immense amount of empathy and heart. Lavishly drawn and coloured, it deserves to be uttered in the same reverend sentences as ground breaking works such as Frank Miller's "Dark Knight Returns" and Alan Moore's "Watchmen".

You can order directly from the creator on his Facebook page https://www.facebook.com/warwick.frasercoombe

And discover more about this talented writer and artist here http://www.warwickfrasercoombe.com/ and at http://warwickfrasercoombe.blogspot.co.uk/

Monday 26 October 2015

Meeting the comic book writers and artists at MCM Comic Con London 2015

I have a secret fantasy of my own. To one day write graphic novels alongside my novels. So this was an opportunity to meet with people who were really doing it, talk to them about just how they got into the industry, how they work, and just what the industry is like.

Set out in long lines, it was a case of starting from one end and working my way down the aisles to the end, whilst all the time trying not to spend too much money! Again, there was a lot of Manga, which I have to admit isn't my thing. Hey, I loved Battle of the Planets, liked the first half of Akira (before it got weird and really crazy), and I've watched a fair bit of the demonic, over-sexualised output of films from the 90s, but it's never rung my bell. I suppose I'm a traditionalist - and always felt a bit awkward watching school girls in short skirts kill slavering demons.

Less hard to pass by without stopping to chat were the, as I would call them, 'traditional' British artists and writers, those with the rich darkly painted comic books and unerringly chilling and downtrodden themes. No men in tights and capes here. These are the books which question your opinion of corrupt society, history and the world around us.

The first I chatted to was Simon Birks, the writer of two comics he'd brought along with him - Sinners and Gone. As I discovered chatting to the different artists and writers, the comic book industry, just like the novel industry, is tough and not an easy place to carve out a career - or a decent living. People don't buy comics in the numbers they used to and a lot of the projects are part funded by Kickstarter out of necessity.

What also comes across chatting to these people is they all care hugely for what they do, and make sacrifices in aspects of their lives to keep producing work. This isn't a job - this is a calling. These people do it because they were born to.

Not read Simon's work yet, but his enthusiasm and inspiration was clear - looking forward to diving in very soon.



Next up was Eli Mamane, the creator of Squatters. With a big backdrop behind him, covered in endorsements and critical praise of his latest work, and a larger than life manner, Eli was a hurricane of passion and belief in the comics industry, having given up a career in the city to pursue his one and only love. He'd met and interviewed many of the comic-world's biggest stars, learned his trade under their guidance and advice, and you just know is going to be big.

I couldn't help but be drawn to Bruno Stahl's stall, courtesy of his amazing looking 'Inhuman Nature' comic and endorsement from one of the true comic book master's Pat Mills. However, I think I rather disappointed him and embarrassed by having no idea who Richard Corben, one of his biggest fans, was and shuffled off quickly, shame not intact, after buying his book!

A few chairs along I fell into conversation with the creators of the comic book series 'Moon'. Beautifully illustrated and inventively written, their enthusiasm was enough to make me buy the first two in the series, with a third waiting for me to order if it's to my taste.

Next along on my comic book adventure was Overdark Comics and Deathgift. This lusciously illustrated comic had been produced by two guys called Headkutter and Scott Duckett. The criminality in the industry is that all the months and months of hard graft, pressure, worry and creativity gets condensed down into sumptuously printed and presented comic that retails for just £3. No wonder a lot of these comic books are about finding justice. There's very little justice in the comic book world it seems.

Take for example Vincenzo Ferriero and his Magnum Opus 'Skies of Fire'. This utterly beguiling book took eight years to plan and world build, even before he began to actually start writing and illustrating the thing!

Born out of his childhood love of airships, zeppelins and fantastic flying machines, Vincenzo created an entire world which was then professionally and beautifully reproduced by a cartographer to hang on any fan's wall.

I cannot wait to start reading this. It looks absolutely incredible, and suspect I might be having one of those maps on my office wall very soon!



John Paul Bove and Conor Boyle, and their breath-taking 'Unearth' struck me as real professionals, both in what they had produced with this magnificent comic book and their long list of comic work experience, but also in their approach, their confidence and easy manner. It was fascinating to talk to them about script-writing and comic book creation, and look at the script which then become the visuals to Unearth, as well as the early drawings which ended up in this incredible looking comic.

Like many of the comic book creators, Robin Hoelzemann has a 'boring' full time job, so works evenings and weekends on her true passion - tell me about it! I asked her if she has told any of her work colleagues of the incredible stuff she produces (in the guise of 'Curia Regis'). She raised an eyebrow and said, 'I doubt they'd believe me if I did.'

And that's the thing about this independent comic industry, utterly brilliant spellbinding individuals producing work which mirrors them and surpasses belief. These people exist, live, breath and produce these magical worlds completely under the radar. They need to be drawn above it. It'll make a richer world for everyone.

Which brings me to the final comic book writer and illustrator I spoke to - Warwick Fraser-Coombe. Three years in the making, rEVENGER is a no-holds barred, visual and literary assault on the senses and everything wrong with society today.

 
Warwick is a illustrator who has won countless awards for his perfectly balanced and realised urban illustrative style, and who has produced something to rival the very best within the graphic novel arena ever. He's produced rEVENGER, which is a brutal new 'realising' of the vigilante super hero fighting against corporate and political greed within a red top reading dumbed down world. It's an eye-ball popping, mouth drying read! I read the entire thing in a single sitting, with sweating palms and a twist in my guts.

And that's exactly what comics should do - they should transport us to a world where we're thrilled and inspired and terrified and moved. And in fact that could be the tag line for MCM Comic Con as a whole. Because it does that to you, in Manga-coloured spades.

Party time! MCM Comic Con London - a weird and truly wonderful day out

The world of the eccentric fantasist is fit and well - and thank goodness for that.

On Saturday 24th October I visited my first ever Comic Con at the Excel in London. Over three days, 100,000 fans of comics, science fiction, TV and film, computer games and everything else geek-related converge on this huge warehouse on the Isle of Dogs, and quite simply fill their boots with everything they love in this world of make believe.

Clearly they love this world - and what's not to love? MCM Comic Con is about FUN. It's about escapism. It's about stepping out of the boring modern life and embracing the colour of the one within our heads. And boy is it colourful! Everywhere there were blood reds, garish yellows, bold blues. And that was just what people were wearing.

I'll admit to feeling really rather under dressed in my normal clothes when I first turned up, looking about myself at the superheroes and fantastical beasts next to me and masking a private laugh at their expense - these young (and not so young) people dressed in more latex and lyrca than a Soho cycling club. But then, after about twenty minutes into the event, I realised it was in fact ME who was in the minority and the awkward one. The one to be laughed at. I looked like grandpa whilst they looked amazing. And really they did look amazing.


The effort, ambition and skill of the costumes (Cosplay, as it is called), it quite honestly breathtaking. You find yourself looking at zombies, Tuskan Raiders, the dragon from 'How to train your dragon' and wondering if you're looking at the real actors and outfits from the film. The official 'Back to the Future' car and McFly's jacket looked fake in comparison.


One quickly remembers that this is an expo and expo's primary intention is to SELL THINGS. So two thirds of the exhibition hall consisted of stalls selling everything and anything from the world of the strange. I've been to plenty of boring old IT expo's in my time and the difference between them and this was stark. This was a party, one great big party with 40,000 people invited all at the same time.



I'll admit to being hugely jealous of the younger generations. There was never anything like this twenty years ago.

"Ten years," a helpful young woman, dressed as a well endowed scantily Japanese superhero with a thick Yorkshire accent told me as we stood at a T-shirt stal. "It's been going about ten years."

Ten years, but still Star Wars is massive (why did I sell all my original figures for beer money when I was 18?), Manga is even bigger (probably about half of the expo was Japanese-related), and I still struggle with Star Trek.

After exhausting myself measuring the miles of walkways and aisles around the stalls, and squinting over the radioactive green of the carpet of the signing area to see which celebrities from TV and film were working their way through the long snaking queues of autograph hunters, ducking under the grasping hands of zombies advertising the next new thing in zombie films and games, whilst staring open mouthed at the outrageous and mesmerising outfits people were wearing, I reached the right hand side of the hanger and the area set aside for the comic book writers and readers.

Read about meeting the comic book creators here >

Friday 23 October 2015

Why you need to write rubbish books in order to get published.

It took me over twenty years to write The Damned.

I'm not saying it took twenty years to actually pen it, but twenty years to find my voice, discover what I wanted to write about and work out how to write. The late great Iain Banks once said you need to write a million words before you can think about getting published, and I think he was spot on.

You're either born to be someone who will write, or you're not. Writing takes time, commitment and passion. If the idea of sitting for weeks, months, even years, at a desk getting the ideas in your head onto paper fills you with dread, then you're probably best doing something else.

I've always loved writing, even though it's taken me years to get good enough at it to get published - and you still need a big slice of luck there, too. Just like anything creative, every new thing you do gets a little better - but not always easier. Sometimes you do get lucky, you're hit with insight and imagination, the planets align, and you get a corker of an idea that just pours itself onto the page. But usually you have to work hard on your craft to get anywhere, grinding out the ideas like valuable ore from a stone.

I first started writing properly when I was eighteen, banging away on my typewriter for hours on end. I believed I was going to be the next Tolkien. (Well, I always did have a fanciful imagination.) For a bit of fun, here are some ideas I've had, and tried to turn into novels, over the years since I started writing. They're rubbish, but if you want to take them and try and do something with them, be my guest!

1. An huge fantasy adventure based on a Dungeons and Dragons game I was running for mates at the time. It involved two towers and an evil wizard in the East. Sound familiar? The first chapter was 40,000 words alone. It was epic. It was endless. I was channelling Tolkien and ended up with a complicated aimless mess. Everything I had within me went into that book. I learnt my craft through it. I spent years and years on it. It was my literary paintbox. It was utter rubbish.

2. A children's fantasy book, 50,000 words long, where a child is sent away to stay with an evil lonely uncle in a giant mansion (as you do), who turns out in fact to be a good hero in an alterative fantasy world, accessed through a secret door in the manor house. The child finds it, goes through and rescues the evil uncle from various trouble he's got himself into, courtesy of fantastical friends the young boy finds, and everyone goes home happy. Dire.

3. Harry Potter meets Star Wars via computer games. In this novel, life, it turned out, was in fact one great big computer game and brilliant computer game players from across the galaxies were recruited to help to keep order, as well as playing out their fantasies, by playing games on a great big spaceship in deep space, the outcomes of which affected real outcomes on planets. A computer games playing genius of a young boy from Earth is recruited into the ranks and discovers an evil plot to insert viruses into the system and so destroy the universe. Got half way through, tied myself in knots and gave up.

4. A keen jogger inadvertently discovers top secret notes left in a bin in a park and takes them home, after which he is pursued by the government and evil terrorists for the next 300 pages. Exhausting.

5. A billionaire Russian buys a failing village football team and they win the Champions League. Jeez....

There were others, false starts and doodles on pads, but for the life of me I can't remember them at the moment - probably good thing too! But within these terrible terrible novels the ground was laid and the skills were learned for more accomplished work to come afterwards.

So, the message of this blog is don't for a minute discount or regret anything you are writing now. Because what you write today might be the springboard for worldwide success for you tomorrow.

Wednesday 21 October 2015

Royalty statements and cheques - the lifeblood of the writer

So yesterday I received my first ever royalty statement as an author for my debut novel The Damned. When it arrived, it rather took me by surprise. It might sound odd, but I had forgotten that all this writing and pressure and pain and guilt and imagination (or lack of it) is for a reason, besides simply entertaining people, and that's to try and make a living - or not, as the case might be.

I write this blog from a position of ignorance, which is often where I like to begin my blogs and arguments. This is, after all, only my first statement and there are millions of writers out there who've received these lovely little letters through the post year in year out. But as I have your attention this far, let me tell you what to expect from these packages of lifeblood for the writer, from my limited experience anyway.

You'll probably get a royalty statement, and hopefully payment, twice a year, and they will be calculated from a preset date on the publisher's publication and/or tax calendar. This means that your first royalty statement might only cover a very small period of time, but from your second statement on, you'll be awarded for the full six months. My first statements covers only the first six weeks, which makes me even more chuffed to have sold as many copies of The Damned as I have done, according to my statement.

There is a period, usually three months, between the end of your sales period and payment, where sales figures and monies are gathered and then paid. This means that whilst your sales period might finish at the end of June, for example, you don't get paid until the end of September / beginning of October.

Your statement will be broken down into titles and formats of those titles. So I have two on my statement, (because The Hunted is a free giveaway); The Damned Trade Paperback and The Damned Ebook. Next year, I'll have a lot more because The Fallen is coming out, plus lots of other formats of The Damned.

Finally, each book format will be will be broken down into different royalty percentages lines, depending on target numbers reached, as well as additional lines for export sales, language sales, etc.

Each line will be presented as the number of sales for that unit, the price of each unit, the percentage you get per unit per sale and the total price for that total line. If you've not made enough to pay off your advance, your statement will show a negative value. If you've paid off your advance, you're in the money - no matter how small.

So, I have arrived, albeit in a very small way. We're off, and whilst we're not exactly running, we're finding our legs, toddling down the path towards the horizon filled with long summer holidays, free drinks at the bar and early retirement - or more likely a nice week in Tenerife every spring.

But whatever does come to be, these sixth monthly letters will now tease my gut with anticipation for the rest of my life, as every October and April and hear the letter box slam and reach down to I pick them off the doormat.

Tuesday 20 October 2015

Getting published is only half the battle - now the really hard work begins

So, you've written a book. It's good. Very good, so good that your agent has got you a publishing deal with a major publisher.

The very best editors have tuned your words so they don't just hum, they roar. Proof readers have scoured the text. There's not a single typo or grammatical mark out of place in all 120,000 words in your tome.

The tome itself is wrapped in the most beautiful cover known to the world of book design. It's startling to look at and beautiful to hold in your hands.

Waterstones, WHSmiths, Foyles, Barnes and Nobles have all asked to stock it. You're there. You've made it.

Haven't you?

The problem is the world of books is saturated. There are more books published every day, particularly since the rise in self-publishing, than there has ever been. And whilst books are on the rise, the number of people reading is on the decline. You're in a tough tough market. Simply having the goods doesn't mean that the goods are going to sell. YOU need to do that yourself.

If you're lucky enough to have a publisher, they will do an initial burst of publicity for you at the beginning. This might involve sending your book to critics, getting you interviews with magazines. But then, it's pretty much over to you. And at the start of your career, you're a small fish in a big pond that is teeming with other fish. And some of those fish are very adept and clever.

To survive, and for your book to be seen, you need to market it. And to market it, you need to work social media until your knuckles ache and your eyeballs bleed.

Here are my top ten pieces of advice for an author starting out marketing of themselves and their work;

1) Set yourself up with your own web site, with a domain to match your writing name. This will be the central hub to hold everything to do with your book; you, your feeds, information about you, where you are appearing next.

2) Set yourself up with a blog. Write, if you can, daily - musings, thoughts, ideas, advice. Build a following. Share the love. Show people you're enthusiastic and care about books and your work. Make people realise why they should check you out.

3) Set yourself up on Twitter. Twitter is increasingly the main conduit to your audience. Critics, readers, fellow authors, publishers, they're all on Twitter and they're all looking for information on you and your books and your thoughts. Share it with them.

4) Set yourself up on Facebook with an author profile. Use Facebook as a platform to share broader pieces of information about yourself, events, your books.

5) Make sure you have an author account with Amazon and keep it up to date with your work and your social media feeds.

6) Make sure you have an author profile account with GoodReads and keep it up to date with your work and your social media feeds.

7) Integrate with the writing and reading community. Meet and make friends with book lovers, bloggers, sellers and opinion formers. Send them your book to review. Accept every opportunity to do interviews. Every opportunity to be seen is an opportunity to become a new favourite author.

8) Don't bother marketing your books to friends and family. They will either buy the book without hesitation or be so rankled with jealousy at your success, supporting you by buying your book is the last thing they'd ever do. Regardless if they are delighted or horrified at your success, they will not effectively promote your book. Opinion formers will do this.

9) Don't just sit in front of the computer. Go out and meet people. Attend writing workshops and events as a speaker, give readings, put yourself forward for in-store signings, be busy in the high street marketplace. Start local and then grow out from there. Make sure people know you, your face and that you're a person of the people - someone they'd like to meet and read about. Someone they believe.

10) Stay positive. Remain patient. Enjoy the ride. You've achieved something millions of people would love to do. They envy you. They admire your success. Keep going. Keep writing. Things will begin to happen over time - eventually. One day.

Monday 19 October 2015

Monday giveaway - Opening chapter to The Hunted

Here's another giveaway for readers of my blog, having given away Chapter One of The Damned on the weekend.

This is the opening chapter to The Hunted, the bestselling prequel to The Damned and The Darkest Hand trilogy. Having recently been number one in the Kindle charts in Holland, The Hunted hits North America along with The Damned in March 2016. So it's a little early treat for people on the other side of the pond and something for everyone else who've not already dared enter Inquisitor Poldek Tacit's terrifying world!

Enjoy.



SUNDAY, JUNE 28th, 1914 .

SARAJEVO. BOSNIA AND HERZEGOVINA


ONE

The pavement around the Priest was slick with blood, thick rivulets of darkening crimson snaking from the body drying fast beneath the hot Sarajevo sun. The side of his face had hit the ground with such force that it appeared to be submerged in rock. Th e spray of blood formed a halo, the Priest’s final panicked thought realised in savage patterns across the paving stones. Crows had settled nearby almost immediately, their greedy black eyes on the warm corpse. But there was to be no feast for them here. A large crowd had quickly formed, those first running to see what the strange sound had been and those who came after, why there were such shrieks of horror and alarm on this much-heralded day of celebration at the Archduke’s arrival.

The swelling crowd drew back, no one daring to approach the body, as if they too might be cursed and suffer a similar fate should they touch it, faces turned away, hands clasped to mouths. From out of the crush police officers appeared, pushing and yammering angrily at the gathered throng, ordering people to let them through, all three of the officers harassed and sweating beneath their thick formal uniforms. Bright silver buttons gleamed and crushed velvet shimmered under the summer sun ahead of the Archduke Ferdinand’s arrival in the city. On seeing the body, the officers also drew back, not touching it in case their snow white gloves became stained with the dead Priest’s blood. Paralysed by indecision, they opted to form a cordon about the body, their arms splayed wide in a vain attempt to obscure it from the increasingly inquisitive crowd and give the Priest a little dignity.

With the passing minutes the mood in the street changed. Once the initial shock of seeing the shattered body was over, it no longer seemed a thing of revulsion. Lying lifeless and still on the pavement stones, it had turned into an object of fascination and intrigue. People jostled to see, to glance at the butchered Priest whose blood now stained the bleached stones of the Turkish Quarter of Sarajevo. Th e police fought to keep the crowd back, their hands threatening on the hilts of their sabres, whilst someone ran off to find a catholic Father who would know what to do.

Two were found, pale faced and perspiring. Bound in black cassocks, their shoulder length pellegrina capes rippling as they scuttled through the Sarajevo streets; they had wasted little time on being told the news. Their only delay had been to clasp bibles and set birettas on their heads before they hurried from their church. The crowd parted like a sea and, on seeing the body, the Priests grasped at their starched white collars and drew handkerchiefs to their noses – prayers muttered by stuttering tongues.

“I recognise him,” hissed the taller of the pair, the rim of his hat slipping down over his glistening narrow forehead, slick with sweat. “My God, I think I saw him only this morning!”

“Who was he?”

“I don’t know. He’d only been in the city a few days. He came to Mass last Friday. He seemed grave. Kept his own counsel. I wished him good morning when I saw him out walking, a few hours ago.”

“Well, it didn’t turn out to be good for him. Who could have done such a thing?” the other Father asked, swallowing hard, his eyes wide in his skull. Th ere was timidity about him, as if every movement was an effort.

“Perhaps he fell, Father Martinuzzi?” the tall Father suggested, pushing his hat up out of his eyes and creeping back.

“Yes, from a window above?” Father Martinuzzi replied, craning his neck skywards to see from where the Priest could have toppled. It confused him to see that there were no tall buildings above, certainly none with windows high enough from which to have fallen and received such injuries. Father Martinuzzi peered down at the body and shivered, feeling a sickness tighten in his stomach.

“We should cover him,” the other Father suggested, his hand still clutched to his hat.

“With a cloth,” Father Martinuzzi agreed. “I’ll go back to the church and get something.”

Martinuzzi turned to leave but immediately found his way blocked by another Priest, tall and as broad as a door, like them clad all in black but with a heavy coat drawn tight over his wide muscular shoulders. Father Martinuzzi looked up into his hard stony face and shuddered, the brim of the large Priest’s round capello romano hat like a black rimmed crown around his head.

“Mercy me,” Martinuzzi squealed in both awe and fright, his hand to his chest. “I’m sorry, Father, I didn’t see you there.” He stared up into the newcomer’s cold eyes, black beads set deep in a face ravaged by years of toil and struggle. There was a control about him, a grim demeanour that hinted at authority within the Church although of what kind, Martinuzzi didn’t dare think. Despite the stench of alcohol and sweat exuding from the man, he knew he must do whatever he was bid by him, and without delay.

Martinuzzi dragged his eyes from the man, turning briefly to look over his shoulder. “We think it’s Father Rhodian. He’s just been found. He’s … we think he’s-”

“Fallen?” the giant of a Priest growled, his accent as weathered as his appearance, suggesting an eastern European heritage. He pushed himself forward so that he stood over the body and peered at it, like a detective surveying his crime scene. He dropped to his knees, setting a battered brown travelling case down next to him, staring close at the bloodied remains of the Father without hesitation or revulsion. He examined the length of the corpse, checking for anything which might suggest how the Father had come to be lying partially crushed on the pavement, eventually looking back to the shattered remains of his face. After a moment, he glanced up into the heavens, peering about the buildings around them. Father Martinuzzi noticed how dark his eyes seemed, set against the glare of the sun. He caught the stench of stale alcohol again and turned his face away, as if ashamed. “Do you think he’d fallen?” the newcomer asked, the right side of his lip turning up in disquiet or displeasure.

“Yes, fallen,” Martinuzzi replied, unavoidably transfixed by the scowling giant.

“He didn’t,” the Priest spat, now standing, his eyes turned upwards in the direction of the tall building across the street from where they stood. “He was thrown.”

The two Fathers followed the Priest’s eyes to where they had settled on an open window high up in a building some thirty feet away.

“Thrown?” Father Martinuzzi muttered incredulously.

The giant in Priest’s robes looked back down at the dead Father. The telltale signs were all there. He knew they had been lost on everyone else but not him. He’d recognised them at once, the moment he had clapped eyes on the body, the fact the Priest lay with his back to the pavement and yet his head was turned towards the stone slabs of the street. That the Priest’s head had been snapped around his neck before he had hit the ground. Th ere was only one thing which could have done such a thing, only one entity that possessed the power and the hatred.

“Cover the body,” he ordered, pointing to it with a large commanding finger, “and get it moved to the local church.” He picked up his case and began to push his way roughly through the crowd in the direction of the opposite building.

“But Father, who shall we say you are?” one of the Priests called after him, but he gave them no reply.


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For more information, visit http://www.tarnrichardson.co.uk

Sunday 18 October 2015

"Oh f*ck it!" Don't let your reservations or sensibilities get in the way of telling a good story

As a writer you have a moral responsibility to be true to your art. Anything less is undeserving of your time and worse, undeserving of your readers. I am a firm believer in giving everything to your writing, even if this means that sometimes your themes, scenes and the language that you use might upset, offend and shock friends, families and loved ones.

If you are going to be genuine about what you're trying to produce and say, you need to be genuine in how you go about writing and what you write. And sometimes that means writing words, deeds and actions which might not usually come from your mouth in everyday life and company.

Books are about escapism, both for the reader and for you, the writer. It's an opportunity to let your imagination and your vocabulary go on holiday, cast off the shackles of boring life and run free.

Let it.

Whilst dredging the dark recesses of your mind might produce things which surprise and horrify you, not forgetting the person reading your material, the results will always be far more honest, real and affecting when they appear on the paper, than if you try to write with one foot in the Mary Whitehouse camp of censorship.

I've written some dark stuff in my time; sexual assaults, hideous murders, graphic descriptions of war, torture. And do you know that in all the years I've been writing and showing people my work, not once has someone I know come back and said, "Oh Tarn you naughty boy!" However, I am sure they would have come back and criticized me if the work had not been fulfilling and written with honesty and belief.

Nothing I write is written simply to be gratuitous. Everything is carefully considered and penned for a reason. The reason might be to shock, horrify, anger or sadden, but it's always put down on paper with my hand on my heart, even if, occasionally, my other hand is in the gutter.

Just like in the best comedy, sometimes a beautifully placed expletive can work wonders with your prose.

Saturday 17 October 2015

Write what you know - or what you'd like to know

Before getting published with The Damned this year, I'd written aimless, meandering, directionless drivel for 20 odd years. Not that I didn't enjoy one minute of it. I wrote for pleasure, the simple joy of constructing sentences to tell stories in a dynamic and mesmerising manner.

Sadly my ideas weren't very good, my stories not very dynamic or mesmerising, and my output from this period has remained in a locked cabinet in my home ever since, the words slowly fading into the paper. I should probably burn them too, to hurry the process of eradication along.

However, I never saw these years as wasted time for a moment. I learned many things about myself and writing over those decades, namely that I had the stamina to sit at a desk for hours on end and write, that I really rather loved sitting in a room all on my own for days on end writing, and, perhaps most importantly, discovered my true writing voice.

All that said, what I produced was terrible. The problem was twofold.

Up until near the end, I was trying to sound like my writer heroes rather than trying to be true to myself, and secondly I didn't have anything to write about to give my imagination and words flight and an edge. They say to write about what you know. Well I loved a lot of things, and knew a little about a lot, but I wasn't a master of anything - and nothing which grabbed me enough to fire my inner Tolkien.

The change came when I went to the French and Belgium trenches on the trail of two great uncles who fought in the Great War. (If you've not done the trenches tour, do it. It's an incredible experience, inspiring, deeply moving and startling.) I spent five days there, and from the start I knew I had found the one thing I knew I could write about with conviction.

Whilst I knew, or thought I knew, a fair bit about the war to write an honest and real account of the conflict I still had to do a lot more research when I got back to Blighty. But because I loved the topic I wanted to do the research. Therefore, it wasn't a chore, simply a joy.

And there's the rub. They say write about what you know, but also you must write about what you love because if you possess a genuine appreciation or interest in a particular topic, firstly you'll want to learn more (making for a deeper, truer reading experience), and secondly that joy and passion will come across in your writing. The words will light up as you get them out of your head and onto the page.

Write about what you know but also write about what you'd like to know - what genuinely moves and interests you.

The final thing which came out of my experience in France was that clearly it's important to keep traveling, engaging and visiting. As writers it's so important for us to go out and discover these incredible stories, places, people and events. Keep your eyes open, your pad handy and your mind ready to absorb what you see and feel at all times. You never know when that eureka moment will hit.

Saturday Morning giveaway. "The Damned" - Chapter One.

A little Saturday morning giveaway for readers of this blog! Please find below the opening chapter to the critically acclaimed The Damned, the first book of The Darkest Hand Trilogy, published by Duckworth Overlook.

The Damned was released May 2015 everywhere except the States and Canada. It arrives, with the number one bestselling mini prequel The Hunted, over the pond in March 2016 - so in particular this is a sneaky peek for my North American friends!

I hope you enjoy! If you do, you can find how to buy at my site - tarnrichardson.co.uk


The Damned


One


23:32. Monday, October 12th, 1914.
The front line. Arras. France.


As the first mortar hit the British trench, Lieutenant Henry Frost drew a line through the unit’s diary entry predicting a quiet night. He’d written the forecast more in hope than expectation, as if writing the words within the journal would somehow sway the actions of the Germans and ensure a quiet night. A private prayer for peace for just one night, for some rest from the infernal shrieks of falling shells, the bursts of distant gunfire, the intolerable cries of the wounded and the dying.

Already it felt as if the war had stalled, trapped under its own ferocity of hate. After the Germans rolled, seemingly unstoppable, through France, they had eventually found themselves snagged by the most fragile of lines east of Arras, checked by the British and French armies and stymied by their own over-stretched supply lines. Now the Germans had taken to unleashing an almost relentless nightly barrage of artillery upon the front and support lines. ‘The Evening Hate’ the Tommies called it. You could almost always set your watch by it. Eleven twenty eight. Every night. On the dot.

In expectation, when the minutes ticked over the half hour mark, Henry had checked his wrist watch and updated the diary entry. So when the first shell burst, he cursed himself for his impetuousness, his reckless optimism forever now recorded in the diary under the firm black line through his naive prediction. Whilst only weeks old, this was a dreadful war. Already there was no time for optimism in this conflict.

Above his corrugated iron bunker, a rancid welt of grey black earth burst amongst his soldiers, spraying metal, mud and blood into the night.

Someone yelled to take cover as a second shell screamed overhead. Moments before it fell, mortars hissed and clunked from emplacements along the German front line two hundred yards away, fierce red tongues licking the night sky.

The thunderous clap snatched the breath from all within its blast, as the second shell exploded in a ball of fire and gristle. Within the officers’ bunker below, lanterns swung and dirt fell from the ceiling onto Henry’s paperwork. He tilted his eyes upwards towards the incessant screams of the injured in the trench above, the hopeless cries for a doctor, the splattering patter of debris blasted high from the last shell.

Seconds later, three more shells fell on the trenches, all in quick succession, blasting bodies from their holes, obliterating corpses away from where they’d laid just moments before. Killing soldiers twice.

A fourth mortar landed, battering the entrance to the dugout and sending a pall of smoke and dust down into the yawning mouth of the front line bunker. Henry crouched over the unit’s diary, as if the hard-backed tome was the most precious thing in the world.

“A doctor!” a voice wept through the barrage above, choking on soot and dust. “A doctor! For God’s sake, get me a doctor!” came the desperate plea, before a fifth mortar landed.

The Germans had found their range.

“Get your bloody heads down!” Henry cried down the front line, appearing from the bunker and leaping through the clods of showering earth to reach his men. He stuck his head between his legs and prayed like the rest of them.

Another shell landed ten feet away, depositing scrambling soldiers into No Man’s Land, leaving behind a sodden bloodied clump of mincemeat, splintered bone and boots where they had once stood.

And then, as quickly as it came, the barrage stopped.

Silence flooded into the trench, like the creeping cordite clouds blown on the midnight breeze. As the roar of the shells fell away, once more the screams of the injured, the moans of the bewildered, the pleading for mother, from those moments from death, renewed their dreadful chorus.

Cautiously, Henry looked up out of the hole he had found to shelter in, and peered both ways down the trench. He suspected a trick. In his memory, no onslaught had ever been so short. Out of the smoke and dust, figures stumbled over bodies and blasted earth. He was aware of weeping, the whinnying of horses, a vague ringing in his ears. Everything sounded very far away. He looked down at his hands. They were shaking, trembling like a newborn infant’s. He drew them into balls and crushed the shuddering out of them. After a month on the front line, nothing made Henry shake like artillery barrages. He’d amputated a man’s leg, half hanging by its sinews of flesh, with his knife, shot a German through the eye and stuck a bayonet into the ribs of a young German soldier no older than the boys who used to play football in the green opposite his house back home, watching him writhe and whimper for twenty minutes before dying, gagging on his tears and blood. He’d even ordered the shooting of a sentry for deserting his post without a second thought for the soldier or his family’s honour. But artillery barrages? They tore through every fibre of his body. It was the uncertainty of where the next shell would land, the indiscriminate roaming of their destruction which so terrified him.

When no further shells fell, he coughed the dust out of his lungs and found his feet uneasily, levering himself up and into the pitch of the trench. Without question the barrage had ended. Strange for it to have stopped quite so suddenly – for it to have been so short. A creeping cold fear drew over him.

“Get to the bloody walls!” he roared, trundling into a run. “Check your sentries!”

The enemy! They would be coming, storming across No Man’s Land, the thump of their boots, the glint of their bayonets in the moonlight.

“Check your posts! Check for approaching enemy!” Henry cried again, charging to an observation point and knocking the quivering sentry aside. He heard someone call, “There’s nothing there, sir!” as he peered wildly across No Man’s Land, wishing for a periscope to aid him. Smoke drifted across his view, smoke and moon-cast shadows. He stared wildly across the scarred ground between them and the German front line.

Nothing.

Nothing was coming.

But there was something. The noise from the German trench, gunfire, savage shrieks of alarm.

Henry strained to look closer at the enemy line. He could see its front parapet in the moonlight, recognise the tangle of barbed wire and the sacking of sandbags in front of it.

He narrowed his eyes and stared.

After the initial barrage the air was thick with smoke and sulphur. Battered and bloodied soldiers sat puffing on cigarettes in silent rows or moaned beneath crimson stained bandages. Dropping from his post, Henry patted shoulders and shook hands with his men as he trudged past, planting his boots into the prints made by the Sergeant he was following.

“Barrage a bit bloody short tonight?” suggested Henry, peering down the length of the trench and regretting his words immediately upon seeing the butchered lying still within it or the injured struggling their way out of it, leaning heavy on the shoulders of mates.

“Yes, sir,” replied Sergeant Holmes, peering into his periscope, “and that’s the very thing, sir.”

“How’d you mean?”

The barrel-chested Sergeant stared down the lens, reacquainting himself with the scene captured within it, before standing to one side and offering the chance for the young Lieutenant to look.

“I mean, sir, have a gander down that.”

“What the devil …?” Henry exclaimed in the instant his eyes fixed to the horizon. “Is that us … attacking?” he asked. If it was, it was no form of trench raid the Lieutenant was familiar with. “Do we have any activity targeting the enemy’s forward trench this evening, Sergeant?” Henry asked intently, his eyes still locked to the periscope’s sights.

“No, not to my knowledge, sir. This whole line is on a defensive footing.”

“Not according to that,” Henry retorted, turning to Holmes and raising an eyebrow. He looked back into the lens and allowed his eyes to focus once again. At the very range of the periscope’s view, frantic figures were leaping and charging along the enemy trench line, fearsome silhouettes against the silvery light, sporadic gunfire lighting the darkness.

“We’ve got units in Fritz’s trench,” Henry mumbled with dumbfounded amazement. “No wonder the barrage came to an abrupt halt!” Henry blinked the dust out of his eyes and peered hard. “What on earth’s going on?” he muttered. “Who the hell is that?”

“Whoever they are, they’re winning!” cheered Holmes, allowing himself the beginning of a fiendish grin. “Shall I … rally the men, sir?” he asked expectantly.

“Over the top, Bill?” Henry stuttered. “But the men … aren’t they … are they up for a fight?”

“Oh yes, Lieutenant!” roared Holmes, his face now beaming. “My boys are always up for a fight, sir! Just need the order and we’ll go over the top in a flash.”

Henry hesitated and cursed himself for his indecision, a trait for which his schoolmasters had long admonished him. Exhaustion, from days without sleep, tugged at every facet of his body, weariness almost overwhelming him. But there was a fire now beginning to catch within him, ignited by the scenes revealed through the periscope and fanned by the enthusiasm of his Sergeant.

“Too good an opportunity to turn down, sir!” Holmes suggested urgently. “And a near full moon to light our way!” he added, indicating the night sky. “Whoever’s doing our job has put Jerry on the ropes. I don’t mean to put words into your mouth, sir, but it would be my view that we get over to their trench and give Fritz the knockout blow!”

“Very good then,” cheered Henry, casting any more doubt aside. He allowed himself a nervous smile. “Well done, Sergeant. Let’s get ourselves organised and head on over!”

Holmes saluted the officer and turned on his heel. Storming back up the trench, he called for the men to fix bayonets. “We’re going over the top, lads!”

Exhausted and bruised groans returned the order.

“Come on! Step to it!” the Sergeant cried, marching past the slowly assembling pockets of soldiers. “Let’s go and teach Jerry a lesson about throwing shells at us, shall we?!” he cried, accompanying the command with repeated peeps on his whistle. “Come on, you bastards! Over the top then! Over the top!”

---

Discover more at http://www.tarnrichardson.co.uk

Friday 16 October 2015

Writer's block - how to defeat it.

Writer's block. The scourge of writers everywhere.

I have met writers who've been been struck down with the curse for years, unable to write a single word, not even place a single character onto the page, simply sitting in front of the laptop or sheet of crisp white paper and just doing exactly that. Just sitting. Looking. Hoping. Pleading.

I've also met writers who claim never to have been affected by writer's block. And I believe them too. I look at their back catalogue and know, simply by counting the number of books they've produced, that they can't have been affected by it. There's a writer in the States who writes a book a month. Now, I'm not saying they're any good. They're formulaic, and you recognise the hooks are coming, long before they get their barbs into you, but the writer's output is incredible, their following immense and their income eye-watering.

How is it you can have these extremes of output? Are some people born unlucky, suffering paralysis of the creative parts of the mind whenever they sit down to write, or is there more to writer's block? In my opinion, writer's block is tied up with the mind, but only in that it's a state of mind.

We are animals. We get terrified whenever we face seemingly incalculable odds. Incalculable odds such as writing a better book than the one we've just done. Impressing friends, family and critics with our daring, inspiring prose.

Simply writing a book.

Writing a book is a huge task. Ninety thousand words, at least, all perfectly captured, rendered, ordered and put down on paper, to tell a story which grabs hold of the reader and drags them besotted and amazed to the very final page. It's a daunting prospect, one that creates fear in the writer.

Fear manifests in many ways. Usually it makes us turn tail and run the other way, which is why the fear of writing, or more precisely the fear of failure, causes us to clam up and not be able to write. Which in turn causes us to suffer from writer's block.

Therefore, in essence, the only way to beat writer's block is to write without fear. And to write without fear, you simply have to write, regardless of the quality, regardless of the message or where the words are taking you, you have to conquer your demons by doing the one thing they don't want you to do - get the words out.

In order to conquer your fear and write, you have to keep reminding yourself that firstly no one is going to read what you've written other than you unless you let them. So it doesn't matter how good the manuscript is, no one will judge you on it until you let them.

Secondly, no book in history has been written straight out in one go and then sent to print. Every book goes through an editorial process where it is written and rewritten many times over. Booker prize winning author Richard Flanagan wrote "The Narrow Road to the Deep North" seven times till he was happy with it. I wrote my current novel "The Fallen" nine times, and am expecting at least another rewrite yet. Therefore, you must keep reminding yourself that your manuscript is an evolving beast, with good bits, bad bits and terrible bits. But those bad and terrible bits you can deal with at your leisure at another time. For now, let them pass and keep writing. Don't let them hold you back.

To beat writer's block simply don't allow the blockage to happen. Write. Write freely, urgently, without hesitation to correct grammar or punctuation. Write and let the words flow out. Because once they start to flow, they will turn into a river, and then a pond and then a lake, and before you know it, you'll have a flood - which may well be the next bestseller.

Wednesday 7 October 2015

October Newsletter - The Fallen is written ... for now.

It is done - for now. The Fallen was submitted to my publisher, Duckworth Overlook, on Monday 5th October. It had gone through nine rewrites and taken me 15 months to complete. It has driven me to distraction, tears, drink, exhaustion, and quite possibly the edge of sanity. And it's still not done!

What happens now is Duckworth read it, suggest edits and rewrites, and the process starts all over again. The big difference between now and then, is that I finally have a story that I believe in. Whereas everything before hung together like a poorly made tracksuit, the new manuscript has the feel of a Savile Row three-piece suit. There's room for improvement (of course), but it is beginning to read like a worthy sequel to The Damned, the reaction to which has been fantastic - and more than daunting!

I sincerely hope the manuscript is well received. I've worked harder on it than I've worked on anything in my entire life. In the first three weeks of September alone, I worked 147 hours on the manuscript (I know, I tracked my time - this on top of the 'boring day job'). Thank goodness I have an understanding wife, and kids who get into scrapes but know how to get out of them without me as well.

I won't give too much away, as it's liable to change anyway, but rest assured (for those who've read The Damned) the current manuscript has all the old favourites, plus a few others to haunt your nightmares. It's been written with care and love, but also a big fat lump of adrenaline, hate and violence. You have been warned!

After all this hard work, it's wonderful to see the world beginning to take Inquisitor Poldek Tacit to their hearts - who knew such a thing could be possible?! At the end of September, Tacit broke into the Top 25 Fantasy charts down under (and was chosen by Amazon Australia as one of their 'Picks of the Month' for October on Kindle), the top 40 fantasy charts in Japan (!!) and was a Top Ten bestseller in the Netherlands! Its success, to date, has stunned me, especially as I wrote it only to unleash a few demons of my own, never to produce a bestseller. I only hope that I can build on The Damned and do everyone who read and loved that book proud with an even better sequel. Believe me, between my agent, Duckworth and I, we intend to!
Tarn