GRANTCHESTER-1 - Book review

James Runcie’s first collection of Grantchester short stories feature in this tome: Sydney Chambers and the Shadow of Death, published in 2012. Besides this tale the others included comprise A Question of Trust, First Do No Harm, A Matter of Time, The Lost Holbein, and Honourable Men. These stories span the period 1953-1954.

The stories formed the basis of the popular ITV series Grantchester.

Sydney is in his early 30s and is partial to whisky – ‘favourite tipple... only kept for medicinal purposes’ (p4) – rather than sherry. He fought in the War with the Scots Guards and ruminates on the survivors of the conflict: ‘... rest of their lives lived in the shadow of death’ (p24),

After a funeral that Sydney officiated at mourner Pamela Morton informs him that the reported suicide of a solicitor, Stephen Staunton, was actually murder. The local detective, Inspector Geordie Keating is Sydney’s regular drinking pal and reluctantly goes along with Sydney investigating. Staunton’s widow is German, Hildegard, at a time when memories of the war were still bitter.

The characterisation of all involved in these stories is well done, and the descriptions evoke the place and the feel of the period. ‘As the leaves fell the landscape revealed itself, like a painting being cleaned or a building being renewed’ (p55). This allusion to a painting pre-echoes a later tale, The Lost Holbein.

Sydney is invited to Nigel and Juliette Thompson’s New Year dinner party; it ends in chaos and mystery when an engagement ring goes missing. By now Sydney is worrying about how his life is being affected: ‘... to be suspicious, to think less of less of everybody, suspect his or her motives and trust no one. It was not the Christian way’ (p113). Almost all those gathered at the dinner table are suspects.

In A Matter of Time Runcie cleverly begins with thoughts on four minutes – the time to boil an egg, run a mile, etc – and concludes reflecting on those four minutes.

‘Singing is the sound of the soul’ (p80). Sydney loves jazz and, in the hope that he can convert the inspector, he takes his pal Geordie to see an American jazz singer, Gloria Dee – ‘Ain’t got no husband. You don’t keep the carton once you’ve smoked the cigarettes’. Sadly, there is a murder. ‘He looked like a man who was stuck in a dream of falling from a high building; someone who knew that he would go on falling for the rest of his life...’ (p231).

Sydney has a girl-friend Amanda – it’s platonic though he’d like it to be more – and while helping him she manages to get into a dangerous situation while investigating a missing Holbein painting.

To go into detail about any story would spoil the enjoyment. Suffice it to say that the writing is very good and involving. Sydney and Geordie come alive, as do others. There’s poignancy and light humour and irony on display, too. ‘Let me take your cloak. I always think they make priests look like vampires’ (p113). The main characters in the TV series are all introduced by the end of these stories.

Editorial comment:

The first story begins: ‘Canon Sydney Chambers had never intended to become a detective. Indeed, it came about quite by chance, after a funeral, when a handsome woman of indeterminate age voiced her suspicion that a recent death of a Cambridge solicitor was not suicide, as had been widely reported, but murder.’

This paragraph effectively makes the first few pages superfluous as it tells us what is going to be revealed in those pages. The hook would still work if it merely began with: ‘Canon Sydney Chambers had never intended to become a detective. Indeed, it came about quite by chance.’

‘thought to myself’ (p8). Oh, dear: ‘to myself’ is not necessary.

‘... take a holiday in France, he wondered?’ The question mark should go after ‘France’.

Characters called Thompson, Templeton and Teversham – beginning with ‘T’! There are other letters in the alphabet...

Yet another character called Morton... We do get about.

BOWDRIE - book review

 

This collection of eight short western stories by Louis L’Amour was published in 1983. I read his collection Bowdrie’s Law in 2003. The stories here are from his early period, when he was ‘learning the art of storytelling’ and were featured in the Popular Western magazine 1940-1948. As he says in his foreword, those days of many magazines buying and printing short stories are long gone; a great proving ground for beginning writers to hone their trade.

Chick Bowdrie is a Texas Ranger and is as tough as they come. ‘Me, I never learned to live with folks. Most youngsters learn to live with people by playin’ with other youngsters. I never had any of that. I never really belonged anywhere. I was a stranger among the Comanches an’ a stranger among my own people when I got back. I never belonged anywhere. I’m like that no-account horse of mine…’ (p150) In short, he was a drifter – at least until the Texas Rangers took him in and gave him a purpose.

Here you will find L’Amour’s trademark western knowledge of the terrain and the people who populated it. The stories are traditional, but not merely shoot-em-up tales but mysteries and even romances, each one adding to the depth of the continuing character, Bowdrie. Interspersed between each story are historical notes, in effect brief overviews of real-life Texas Rangers, all of which make fascinating reading.

Bowdrie explains about his odd first name: ‘My name was Charles. Most times Chuck is a nickname for Charles, but there was another boy in school who was called Chuck. He was bigger than I was, so they called me Chick. I never minded.’ So the odd name stuck.

Christmas story 2 of 3

 

Over the years I’ve been asked to contribute a Christmas story to a variety of publications. In the next few days I’ll feature some of them. Here is ‘The Trilby Hat’ which was read on BBC Forces Radio Malta in 1975 and published in The Portsmouth Post magazine in 2003, after some judicious tinkering. It is one of 18 historical stories in Codename Gaby, my fourth collection of stories, here.

THE TRILBY HAT

Portsmouth, England, 1995

It was a snow-laden Christmas Eve. Police Constable Paul Knight was approaching the end of his shift and glad of it as he rounded the corner of Fenchurch Street.

Then he saw them. Two youths. Faces partly covered by woollen scarves, they were leaning threateningly over an old man in a snow-heaped gutter. Paul broke into an unsteady run, careful lest he slipped on ice. It looked like Alfred Munro, the loner.

Wisps of breath gushing out of his mouth, Paul lifted the cold whistle to his blue lips.

The two muggers froze at the shrill noise.

‘The filth!’ one of them yelled.

Paul was barely yards from them when his boots slipped. Although he retained his balance, the few seconds delay gave the two thugs time to scurry off.

He was tempted to follow, but Alfred seemed in a bad way. There was no blood or obvious injury, but the old man was sobbing.

‘It's all right, Alfred,’ he said. ‘They've run off.’ He helped the frail old man up.

Alfred wiped his blood-shot eyes. ‘I - I'm all right,’ he wheezed, ‘But - it's my hat - they stole my trilby.’

Thinking back, Paul did recall one of the youths had worn a hat. They must have been baiting Alfred. He flushed hotly. ‘I'll see what I can do,’ Paul promised, not holding out much hope.

But Alfred didn't seem to hear. ‘Must get it back - You see, I've had it nigh on fifty-two years. Christmas...’

***

The war was in its fifth Christmas.

Alfred gazed at the 1943 calendar with its popular painted scene of skating on the Thames in the days of Queen Bess.

He thought about Liz, his wife, who died six years ago.

Thank God she missed this terrible war.

He looked around the cosy room: utility furniture, an embroidered pouf, a wicker basket sewing box and a well-placed chintz-covered suite that concealed the thread-bare carpet's many patches, whilst the dining table stood cluttered with the remains of their frugal evening meal.

The tiny coal fire flickered warmly in the tiled fire-place, its firelight reflected from the far corner where stood the proud Christmas tree, a battered fairy perched precariously on top; sparkling tinsel was draped over the branches. The tub, tightly packed with fresh black soil was wrapped with brown paper, which had been painted by Connie, his grand-daughter.

The other decorations were sparse, but for all that the festive season shone from wherever Alfred looked.

There was a gaiety, a family warmth, an atmosphere here that no war could possibly destroy.

Beyond the shielding hills of their small Hampshire town, air-raid sirens wailed.

Alan, his son-in-law stopped playing with Connie on the hearth-rug. ‘They seem closer tonight, Pop,’ he said.

Denise, his daughter, paused from her knitting and her troubled eyes sought Alfred.

He forced a smile of reassurance. ‘We've nothing worth bombing.’ Accepting this, they returned to their own amusements, whilst Alfred smiled contentedly to himself and looked at his daughter.

She's grown into a fine woman, he thought. Liz would have been proud of her. A full- no, a comely - figure, married so young, with her mother's auburn hair and hazel eyes aglow in the firelight. But she possessed his stubbornness.

And the memories flooded back. With an effort he blinked them away.

Yes, and Alan made a good husband. Denise was lucky to have Alan home, in a reserved occupation in the dockyard. Alan stood by her side, his thick spectacles reflecting the fairy lights.

He just had to look at young Connie there, the best of both of them already noticeable in her. Precocious, certainly, with a will of her own at times, but a little darling with it. He spoiled her unashamedly. And Denise scolded him, but she didn't mind, not really. Surely all grand-fathers are the same.

In a few more hours they would be opening their gifts. But he couldn't face that yet; it still sorely reminded him of Liz and how they used to dote over Denise... Perhaps next year the wound would have healed sufficiently, though of course never completely; he didn't want to forget her, just to deaden the hurt at times like this.

Reluctantly he rose from his comfortable chair. ‘Denise.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Denise, I think I'll be off now. It's getting late for me - and for you, Connie - Father Christmas will want to climb down the chimney soon...’

Connie giggled excitedly at mention of Santa.

Denise bundled her knitting into an embroidered bag. ‘As you wish, Dad.’ She helped him on with his great-coat.

‘Granda!’ Connie shouted, crushing herself against his legs. ‘You can't go yet. You haven't had your present.’

Alfred patted his coat-pockets, each filled with a package from Denise and Alan to open first thing tomorrow morning before his return here for lunch. ‘But I have. I wouldn't forget these.’

Connie shook her head vigorously. ‘No, Granda! No, you haven't had mine!’

Alfred noticed a puzzled look between Denise and Alan. Apparently, then, their daughter had kept her secret well.

Perhaps their neighbour had bought the present. With great ceremony his grand-daughter walked to the under-stairs cupboard and tossed out two gas-masks in cardboard boxes then handed over a large brown-paper parcel. It seemed to be a gift-wrapped boot-box.

‘Thank you, darling,’ he said and he leaned forward to kiss her.

But she backed away, lips pouted. ‘Aren't you going to open it now, Granda?’

‘But it isn't Christmas yet.’ He pointed to the mantel clock. ‘A few hours to midnight, you see?’

‘Please, Granda,’ she pleaded, face slightly pulled.

‘Well... all right, but only if you promise to stop making faces.’

She stopped almost at once, changing her grimace into a mischievous smile.

Slowly and carefully he unwrapped the gift.

‘Hurry, Granda.’

It was an old boot-box. He lifted the lid and the sight took his breath away. Nestling amidst a bed of tissue paper was a brown trilby hat, its brim slightly bent so it would fit into the confines of the box.

‘Put it on, Granda!’

He swallowed hard but the lump in his throat persisted. Alan and Denise smiled.

Removing the hat reverently from the box, he knelt in front of her. ‘No, you put it on for me, Connie.’

She almost knocked him over as she dashed to do just that.

As it finally sat snuggly, a perfect fit, he held Connie at arm's-length and asked if she thought it suited him.

‘Oh, yes! You look just like a Granda. Really important.’

And they all laughed.

Then he suddenly lifted her high, almost touching her head to the ceiling. Connie shrieked happily.

Presently, he lowered her and kissed her flushed cheeks.

‘Well, merry Christmas, everybody,’ he wished them as he walked to the door with Connie's small hand in his. He carefully wrapped his long woolly scarf round his neck, criss-crossed his chest then buttoned up his great-coat. ‘I must go now, Connie.’

Denise opened the front door.

The cold air made them all gasp. The snow still fell silently, lending a bright peaceful glow to the otherwise drab street.

‘I'll keep this hat always. I promise,’ he said.

Connie's little chest swelled and her smile seemed to fill the doorway. Alan held his daughter back. ‘Merry Christmas, Granda!’ she said.

Shivering in the cold air, Denise whispered, ‘Is the hat all right, Dad?’ He nodded. She then whispered, ‘It was a gift to Alan from his poor Mum, but he doesn't like hats... We didn't know Connie'd planned this - ‘

‘It's all right, love. It's a smashing present. Now, go back in, it's cold out here. I'll see you tomorrow for Christmas dinner...’

Quickly he stepped onto the crisp snow. Flakes wisped onto his shoulders and the brim of his new hat. He waved. ‘Merry Christmas!’ His voice echoed through the snow-filled night.

Far-off could be heard the crump of bombs and ack-ack, but not here.

At that moment a whistle shrilled. An ARP warden came running up the street. ‘Put that light out!’ he called.

Turning, Alfred noticed the hall light on and his family silhouetted in the doorway. Hurriedly waving, they closed the door and the house darkened.

Further over to the east he spotted searchlights. The snow was like dust in a light-beam. Tracer and ack-ack blossomed, more reminiscent of Guy Fawkes than Christmas Eve.

He then took off his hat and wiped the snow-deposits away. It was a beautiful hat. Really good quality and hard-wearing. Yes, it would last for years.

The sudden whistling alerted him first. A terrible coldness clutched his heart. The bomb cluster was close and there wasn't an air-raid shelter near.

He froze fearfully to the spot, panic weakening his limbs.

Seconds later, the explosion's impact reached him, blinding yellow and red, the shock waves throwing him painfully to the sludge on the road.

All around stark blasts deafened him. Flashes of light and flames sprouted everywhere. Black smoke mush-roomed into the wintry night sky.

Still giddy, he regained his feet. A sickly knowing feeling in the pit of his stomach gave strength to his ageing legs. Ignoring the dull ache of a bruised hip and shoulder, he rushed back to the ruin.

An ARP warden and a couple of neighbours were already sifting through the rubble, even though the dust cloud hadn't settled yet.

Mercifully the houses on either side had been spared, only their windows shattered, a few roof slates dislodged.

Alfred stood, unable to move, and his mouth felt very dry. Somewhere a fire bell clanged, and another.

A fractured water-main gushed high, sparkling in the torch-light.

Hardly aware of what he was doing, Alfred knelt by the debris where the front of the house had been. ‘Here!’ he cried out to the frantic helpers. ‘They were here!’ And he started heaving bricks to one side, gashing his knees and hands in his haste, heedless of the cold.

The ARP warden who shouted the warning earlier was soon panting by his side. ‘They won't have known what happened, mate. It will've been over quick. A direct hit, you see?’

Two hours later Alfred collapsed, exhausted, after they unearthed the battered Christmas tree. Miraculously, the fairy survived intact. The ARP carried him to the doorstep next door. There, a kindly neighbour gave him a chipped metal mug of sweet tea.

Now, shakily, he got to his feet and shuffled over to identify them. His whole family, wiped out. He would never forget the joyous look on little Connie's face, he thought, gripping his trilby hat tight.

***

Paul Knight was on his way home when he heard scuffling in the dark. He flashed the beam of his torch across the nearby waste-land and relaxed. It was only a fox.

Then he picked out the shape of a battered hat and he recalled the incident earlier with old Alfred. Could this be his trilby? It looked the same colour. But it was so timeworn, and crumpled.

The hat felt dry though cold and it was reasonably clean. It hadn't been lying here long, then. The label was faded but he could just make out GRANDA and LOVE. Might as well call round on my way home, he decided, and tucked it inside his overcoat.

The dawn light was streaming down the deserted street as Paul walked up to the door. A few curtains twitched in the neighbouring terraced houses even at this hour. He rang once, his eyes drawn to the flaking paintwork.

The door opened. A musty smell greeted him, of untended dust, of age. Alfred stood shivering in his worsted trousers, shirt sleeves and braces. In the weak hall light Paul noticed a bruise under the old man's left eye. ‘You all right?’

Alfred nodded, eyes questioning.

‘I think I recognised those louts,’ Paul continued. ‘Would you come to an identity parade?’

Alfred's three remaining teeth shone as he smiled. ‘Yes, it'll be a bloody great pleasure.’ He hesitated on the doorstep. ‘It was good of you to call. Erm, come in.’

‘No, I can't stop. I'm expected home,’ Paul explained. He rummaged inside his coat. ‘Is this yours?’ he asked awkwardly, handing over the aged trilby hat.

The expression on Alfred's face had Paul worried for a moment. Then the old man seemed to collect himself. ‘You've made me very happy, constable.’ Tears gathered around his weak grey eyes.

Feeling uncomfortable all of a sudden, Paul backed away and bid Alfred good-morning.

‘Merry Christmas!’ Alfred called after him. ‘Merry Christmas.’

Paul waved.

He couldn't understand it. It was as though he had bestowed some wondrous gift on Alfred. Then he remembered the label in the hat. Granda and Love.

Indeed, it was sometimes easy to forget in this material world, Christmas was not only a time for giving but also a time for remembering.

‘Merry Christmas!’ Paul replied.

Christmas story-1 of 3

Over the years I’ve been asked to contribute a Christmas story to a variety of publications. In the next few days I’ll feature some of them. Here is  ‘Outcast’ which was published in Outpost magazine in 1989. It is one of 21 stories in Nourish a Blind Life, my second collection of stories., here

OUTCAST

She came out of the godforsaken planet’s seasonal mists, struggling under her immense weight. She wasn’t welcome.

Abraham Hertzog didn’t like company. That’s why he had settled in this inhospitable place, a last fuelling stop at the rim of the galaxy: a bleak station, where sand and dust vied with alien plants, neither succeeding for long to cling onto the barren rocky landscape. Planetary storms were too frequent. 

Which reminded him: he was due to telecast Headquarters. It was a full 3 months since he last ordered victuals.

His metal shack abutted onto the side of a towering ultramarine cliff. The rock was heavily pitted, from recent meteor showers and severe gales: he used the nearest caves for storage. But now stocks were running low.

He squinted out the porthole, past the thousand-meter landing pad, the fuelling depot and its attendant robot-mechanics.

As the green six-legged creature stumbled onto the tarmac, a robot wheeled solicitously toward her and helped her to large ungainly feet. Even from this distance, Abraham could detect the gratefulness in her protruding eyes. They were so damned trusting!

Perhaps that was why he didn’t want to see her?

Guilt?

Not a thousand kilometres to the west there had been a luxuriant mauve forest, sprouting from purple springy grass. Now there were just a few tree-stumps; the rest was overbuilt by settlers. When mankind seeded the stars, he also brought diseases, pollution, greed, prejudices and weapons... The aliens were decimated, the survivors now outcasts on their own planet.

The robot helped the creature to the door, which chimed.

‘Just a minute,’ Abraham called, ‘Oy veh!’

The airlock whispered and he stepped out of the air-conditioned atmosphere onto the metal veranda. The air was thick with dust, the ozone crackling. ‘What is it?’

But he needn’t ask. The pregnant creature was exhausted, and near term.

Against his better judgement, he directed the robot to bring her round the back and made room in the half-empty storage cave.

‘Stay here with her,’ he instructed the robot, ‘while I get some halvah.’

Later, as he dialled Headquarters about those victuals, he looked out the rear port.

The creature had managed a guttural approximation of English: her name was Yram; she had voraciously devoured his offered confection and now lay contented, watched by a number of mechanic and haulage robots. His attention was suddenly drawn to the green bundle of limbs swathed in sacking as the telecast speaker announced: ‘Merry Christmas, Abe!’

And he looked up at a star, twinkling overhead, brighter than any he’d seen on his journeys through the Milky Way.

‘Yes, of course. It would be, wouldn’t it?’ he mused and realised that perhaps this planet wasn’t God-forsaken after all.

UNDERCOVER: CRIME SHORTS - Book review

 

This slim volume collects together six of author Jane Risdon’s crime short stories plus a brief extract of her first novel concerning Ms Lavinia Birdsong, a former MI5 officer.

‘Sweet Sable – the Red Siren’ is an enjoyable caper set in 1930s Hollywood, and Jane has captured the period and the jargon. Sable is a chanteuse some of the time – when she’s not seducing and then fleecing rich marks. She’s a fascinating character, yet 25 pages do not do her justice. Really, she has the potential to fill a book-length novel or novella. Certainly worth getting to know her – but hold onto your billfold!

‘Apartment 206c’ is also set in the States. China shares an apartment with Louise. While Louise goes out to work, China is a writer, usually draped over her laptop. This begins with a tense situation with noisy neighbors that then turns unpleasant. Before I got to the end, I did wonder if it was a variant on Rosemary’s Baby – but it wasn’t. 

The best in the collection is ‘Murder by Christmas’. Deceased Tiffany Blunt has left an intriguing will. ‘Those who’d hoped to inherit didn’t, and those who had been invited to attend without knowing why were suddenly beneficiaries. It was all a bit odd, really.’ (p45) This certainly had the flavor of a Ruth Rendell suspense tale with a set of dysfunctional and amoral characters. Again, these 21 pages, while satisfying, promised the potential of a longer work. With the right director, the story could be a successful TV one-off.

‘The Watchers’ was a clever story, with several watchers involved. Candice, having recently broken off with her boyfriend Ollie suspects she is being watched. She’s of a nervous disposition which doesn’t help. Or is she being paranoid? There was more than one twist to this tale. Let us just say, it doesn’t end well…

‘The Honey Trap’ concerns an unnamed Second Secretary to the British Embassy. He appears to be propositioned at the Majestic Hotel and is only too willing to retire to the attractive woman’s room. Naturally, telegraphed by the title, he is suspicious about her motives. This is a dark piece, but not too graphic, and the conclusion is open to interpretation. Again, I felt that giving this tale added depth of character would have made it especially chilling; if someone is going to be murdered, perhaps the reader needs to know more about them, to empathize. Still, overall, unnerving.

‘The Look’ is playful and deadly. An unnamed woman responds to a dating website and meets the unnamed man for a drink and a chat and shared enthusiasm over photography. They both have ‘the look’. That’s the playful part. Then, slowly, irrevocably, it gets dark, very dark. Murder will out – and there is a reason for it. Oh, and it paid well – very well. It would be a shame to say more as that would spoil the story. Yes, this too could make a suspenseful longer tale, whether novella or novel. A neat amusing ending which echoes the story’s title. 

Ms Birdsong Investigates Murder in Ampney Parva is an all-too-brief extract from a novel; there are at least two sequels in the works. Lavinia has ‘buried her real self, taking on the mantle of a hardened Madam – trafficker of girls.’ (p91) She is in a particularly disagreeable place, mixing with hard-hearted Eastern Europeans. The sample ends when she finds herself in a compromising situation that does not bode well for her future… Yes, we want to read on!

On the whole, there’s a wide variety of crime and murder offered within 92 pages which the reader feels impelled to keep turning.

 

  

Writing talk - short stories

Writing talk

Today I gave a talk to a local writing circle; it was requested that I talk about writing short stories.

The following text is more or less the gist of it, though there were plenty of adlibs, snippets and (sorry!) puns generated by the talk’s content.

About me

I started writing in the 1960s, completing my first novel in 1964 (it’s still unpublished). I joined the RN in 1965 and got involved in producing a number of ship’s magazines – a weekly output for the crew.

Eventually, I took a correspondence course on commercial writing and started to sell my work almost immediately, and landed my first sale in 1971. I couldn’t live off the sales; I kept the day job!

I sold crime, adventure, science fiction, horror and ghost stories in the 1970s. In those days, the market for this kind of short stories was quite good but on the wane. Then I got side-tracked, writing novels, which didn’t find a publisher.

But I kept writing. Life and work – and an OU degree - naturally intruded, so there were fallow periods, but I always returned to writing.

Over the years I’ve had 120 stories (111 of them are collected in 6 volumes), plus hundreds of articles published… And since 2007 I’ve had 30 books published.

In other words, I never gave up on writing.

Writing – Short stories

A need to write

If you have a burning desire to write and to be read, then a good place to begin is with short stories.

A short story requires less time commitment and has the potential to be accepted much faster than a novel that’s been slaved over for months if not years.

A short story can be written in a day; a novel can take years (though I’ve written a few in a matter of two or three weeks)…

Short stories vary in length – from the flash fiction of 500 words up to about 20,000 words.

Going beyond 20,000 and you’re in the territory of the novella. Certainly, novellas have made a comeback recently, thanks to e-readers, so if you find it difficult to contain your word-count or have too complex a story to tell, then this length may be appropriate for you for that particular tale.

But for now, let’s stick to short stories – on average from 1,000 to 6,000 words, depending on the market.

In this talk I will offer some do’s and don’ts. They’re not rules, but guidelines. There are always exceptions. But if you follow the guidelines you’ll probably improve your chances of getting an acceptance.

The market

Yes, you need to aim your story at a market – a readership. There’s nothing wrong with writing stories that don’t fit into the parameters set by magazines; but they’re going to be tales that are difficult to place (to sell) and therefore they’re less likely to find readers.

And if you’re writing, you want to be read, right? Then, logically, magazines offer you the potential readership.

Magazines are the logical outlet for short stories. There are print magazines and webzines on the Internet. Some of the latter don’t pay.

There’s nothing wrong in writing a story and not getting paid for it. Put it down to a ‘learning curve’, perhaps. That’s a decision only you can make. Some writers began by getting published without payment to build up a backlog of work and to get ‘known’. If you have many stories in you, that’s not a bad way to go. If you only have a few original ideas, then don’t squander them for free.

Also, be chary of signing away all your rights. My story ‘I deceived my husband’ was specifically written for a confessional magazine and I knew that they wanted all the rights; but that was in 1971, when I was happy to learn; I haven’t handed over all rights of my short stories since.

To reiterate, once you’ve learned your craft, you should expect payment; a man (or woman) is worthy of hire, if their words are printed. However, you could consider the advice of Mark Twain: ‘Write without pay until somebody offers pay; if nobody offers within three years, sawing wood is what you were intended for.’

Writing can be therapy and help through catharsis. You can write for any number of reasons. You don’t have to write for commercial gain, for a market. But the only measure of quality and success is either winning competitions or getting paid.

But if you’re going to take your writing seriously and you want your words to be read and enjoyed, you need to persevere and learn, writing virtually every day. Generally, the more you write, the better you become.

And don’t think that you can say something original. It has all been said before. But there are original ways of saying it. Interestingly, Mark Twain had something to say on this subject too: ‘Adam was the only man who, when he said a good thing, knew that nobody had said it before him.’

Study the market. That may entail buying a magazine or two; or subscribing to a webzine. You need to see what they’re publishing. Try not to aim blindly.

Often the market will dictate the length of the story. For magazines, see their submission rules, check their story-lengths; for other markets, follow the stipulated rules.

If you’re going to send out your stories, you’re going to have to face rejection. Rejections are not personal. Rejections are subjective, and there are many reasons why your story might not fit.

If an editor offers any comment, savour it, work on it (it’s rare, these days!) Don’t throw away rejected pieces – send them out again, or let them gather dust and come back with fresh eyes and rewrite.

The story

The market might suggest a theme or storyline: what does the magazine advertise, what are their articles or letters inside about…?

Or you might be driven by an idea or a newsworthy item; simply change the names, and extrapolate.

If the story’s topical (such as a Christmas tale), bear in mind that usually there’s a lead time of several months from acceptance to appearance in the print marketplace, though online magazines can respond much faster.

Stories can arise from simple prompts. A series of western anthologies are based on particular phrases: the most recent published book had ‘It was a dark and stormy night’ and 52 authors then wrote their 500-word story beginning with that famous line. My stories appear in the first three anthologies.

Stories can arise from competitions. While some competitions are open, without a subject, others offer a subject or theme. I recommend that you do enter writing competitions – preferably those that require no fee or a very small fee. Even if you don’t win, you will have produced a story to a deadline that has the potential to be offered elsewhere. Some of my stories began as competition entries and were subsequently sold.

Stories can result from personal experience. The secret here is to make the story interesting! Don’t fall into the trap of slavishly sticking to real events, particularly if you can liven them up; you’re writing fiction, not real-life. Real-life can be anticlimactic. Fiction requires heightened drama.

Beginning

How do you start? How isn’t so important as just sitting there and doing it; as they say, apply bum to seat and write. Anthony Burgess said: ‘I start at the beginning, go on to the end, then stop.’ While Mickey Spillane commented: ‘I write the ending first. Nobody reads a book to get to the middle.’

A writer has to read to understand story structure – whether in a novel or a short story. Many stories begin half-way through then you get the beginning as a flashback or through memories or character disclosure.

Ideally, you should start at a dramatic high-point, though not the most acute dramatic high-point – you leave that for the end.

The beginning has to pull the reader into your story – because if you don’t, then you’re likely to lose the reader. There are plenty of distractions out there, all vying for attention. The writer has to grab the reader so that once involved in the story’s world and characters, the reader won’t let go until the end.

There are countless stories and articles in magazines seeking the reader’s attention. People only have a limited time to devote to reading. They will cherry-pick what interests them. If that beginning doesn’t grab the reader’s interest, the story is dismissed. The words you’ve sweated over for days or weeks or months may only merit sixty seconds of consideration from an editor or reader. Make those first words count, make them say, ‘You’re going to enjoy this and love the characters and marvel at the plot.’ Easier said than done, true.

What kind of hook can you employ? That depends on your story. The story’s theme, place and characters can all pull in the reader.

Raise a question in the reader’s mind – a question that demands an answer, which means having to read on to find out. That question can be literal, from the mouth of a character, or hinted at by the narrative, suggesting that everything is not what it seems.

Starting a story with characters speaking is a good idea, as the reader learns a great deal through speech – the character reveals herself by the way she talks, there’s interaction between people, and there’s even a hint of eavesdropping in the character’s world.

A classic beginning springs to mind, from a short story:

‘As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect.’ – The Metamorphosis, Franz Kafka.

Clearly, it must be a fantasy, but it demands the reader’s attention as we learn about Gregor’s nightmarish feelings of isolation and sacrifice.

Of course you’re not always going to manage to seduce the reader in the first sentence; if not, aim for the first paragraph, or the first page...

You should be trying to use every one of those early words and paragraphs to intrigue the reader, to elicit interest.

Don’t sit in front of a blank sheet of paper or screen, though, just because you can’t think of a good beginning.

Get the story written.

The beginning can always be changed and improved when you’ve reached the end! This is just as applicable to novel writing as well.

In my handout (see tomorrow’s blog) I’ve provided some examples of beginnings I’ve employed in short stories - and novels.

Write about what you know

You probably hear this advice frequently. Don’t take it too literally.

You probably know quite a lot about a broad spectrum of things. But what’s relevant to the character, to the story?

Don’t be afraid to do some research, even for a short story.

I shelved a couple of stories for many years until I could manage the research and do the story idea justice.

Never just rely on your own knowledge – double-check. You may be right, or memory may have played tricks.

There are very few of my stories that haven’t relied on research, whether that’s the details of sewers, Elizabethan England, survival techniques in the arctic or Soviet cosmonauts!

It’s the knowledge gleaned from your research that you’re writing about; that’s what you know at the time of writing.

But don’t info-dump swathes of ‘interesting facts’ in the story; only use it through the point of view of your characters.

Write the story

How do you do that?

It depends.

The initial impetus may have been the actual ending of the story; it may have been a character thrust into a situation, what we call an inciting incident (an event that affects the main character and snowballs); it may have been a phrase or a proverb…

Determine on the length of the story. As I’ve said, this may be forced upon you by competition rules, the periodical’s submission guidelines, or it may be left open to you, depending on the market you’re aiming at.

Choose a theme, but keep it simple.

Titles for stories can present problems for some writers. Don’t worry about yours until it’s finished; any title will do while you’re writing the story. The theme, the characters, a phrase in the text – anything might suggest a suitable title. Don’t use a title that will give away any twist ending… A title can be a play on words; a good number of my Leon Cazador stories adopt this word-play for their titles.

Limit the number of characters. Generally, six should be the maximum.

Plot the story. You need to know the idea has legs and will go the distance (the word-count you’ve decided upon or that is required).

Settle on the character point of view. Remember, first-person POV can be more intimate than third-person; but you can’t necessarily create surprises so easily with first-person…!

Write the story. Don’t stop to tinker, just get it down.

Don’t sermonise.

Respect the POV, so don’t hop between characters’ heads, which can add to reader-confusion.

Don’t linger at the end. Straight after the resolution, leave.

Don’t make it complicated, don’t spell it out; if an explanation is necessary at the end, you probably need to rewrite.

Once you’ve finished the first draft, then you can tinker, adding all the things you’ve left out in the first rush to complete the tale – depth, suspense, imagery, characterisation…

This is one aspect of the craft of writing; the polish.

If the story must meet a word-count, ensure you’re within the parameters.

Put the story aside for a day or so.

Then re-read it critically. You have to learn to step back, to read it as a fresh reader, not the writer/creator.

Do a final self-edit. Correct spelling/typing errors. Ensure you have not repeated certain words too often.

Keep a copy. Send it out. And keep a record of your submissions.

If you haven’t already, start the next story…