FFB - The Ghost Dance

The Ghost Dance, the third in the sequence of six paranormal 'Night Hunter' thrillers by Robert Faulcon (Robert Holdstock) begins in the American west, where Mary Jane Silverlock, an attractive Indian has reluctantly agreed to undergo an esoteric transformation.  Why becomes clear later – but we know it has something to do with Dan Brady in England…

Dan is struggling to communicate with dead American, Ellen Bancroft. Her message is worrisome: Danger. From the west. Over the sea.

Mary Jane travels to England by arcane means, carrying within her an evil force destined to join with Arachne, the entity responsible for abducting Brady’s family (#1, The Stalking).

Dan Brady is drawn to Cumbria, specifically Maron Tor, and the town of Casterigg. Here he encounters a young girl, Kelly, her father Simon and her Uncle William – all of whom seem trapped in the town. Only he is capable of effecting their release.

And all the while, the evil contained within Mary Jane gets closer… and pyrotechnics are inevitable!

Another fast-paced tale, delving into the mysteries of shamen, black magic and supernatural elementals.

'A modern-day Aesop, only more complex...'

I've just read a new review for Spanish Eye that has appeared on Amazon.com and Goodreads. I am truly moved by the reviewer, Charles Ameringer's comments:

 

Spanish Eye is a marvelous collection of short stories linked by a common protagonist, the private investigator Leon Cazador. Yet, each story is unique in setting and plot, drawing on the author's remarkable breadth of knowledge and extraordinarily full life, spiced by a genuine loathing for evil and wrong-doing. We learn a great deal about the history, culture, lore, and landscape of Spain and meet a diverse cast of characters, as Cazador sees to it that a variety of miscreants, petty and grand, are appropriately done in. Mr. Morton is a gifted writer, a modern-day Aesop, only more complex, providing entertaining stories, each with a moral. You have no idea of the treat that is in store for you.

 

 

Published by Crooked Cat

Spanish Eye (US e-book)

Spanish Eye (UK e-book)

 

***

Charles Ameringer was my blog guest in October last year and that can be read here. However, this review came as a complete surprise and was not solicited.

 

Charles is professor emeritus of Latin American history at Penn State University and a former captain in the USAF Reserve. Before beginning his teaching career, he served as an intelligence analyst in the U.S. Department of Defense. He is the author of a number or respected non-fiction works and his debut novel The Old Spook, which deserves a wide readership. It has seven good reviews on Goodreads and on Amazon.com.

 

 

Hearing voices

Writers do it, if they’re fortunate enough. Hear the voices of their characters. It doesn’t happen for every author and it doesn’t happen all the time for any author who hears those characters speaking.

When I get so far into a novel – or, sometimes, a short story – I start hearing the characters speaking to each other, resolving issues I haven’t sorted out in my plot-plan, creating conflict I hadn’t designed, and generally moving the story forward. These moments are marvellous, for if the characters are ‘real’ to me, then I just might be able to convey that ‘reality’ on the page. That’s what writers constantly strive to do, in effect: impose their reality on the reader for the duration of the story. So, from this perspective, hearing voices is a good thing.

Yes, there’s no need to send for the men in white coats. Having read some imaginative literary forays, however, it’s possible that a few critics or psychiatrists might lean towards that opinion. Gruesome murders and overtly sexual themes suggest they may be authors’ cries for help. Nonsense, of course. Whatever the imagination can conceive is never as strange as what occurs or has occurred in real life.

Sketch of the human brain - Wikipedia commons

Seriously, though, for a long time, there’s been a tendency to assume that anyone who hears voices in their head must be suffering from a hallucination. This is not a delusion, which is someone interpreting something differently from others. [A few politicians might be deluded, thinking they’re doing the right thing, perhaps.] Another example of delusion is paranoia. Whereas a hallucination is something that a person perceives that nobody else can.

Sufferers of hallucinations have been thought of as schizophrenic. Those hearing voices have been regarded with caution, concern and even suspicion. Ergo, someone who hears voices must be insane. [A few authors have thought they might be mad to continue writing when the muse, the publishers, the critics or the reading public abandon or ignore them…]

Statistics indicate that several million individuals have experienced hearing voices at some point. Opinion is divided but many consider that these voices are bad, encouraging violence, evil acts and are even sourced from the devil himself. [I’m sure authors may be responsible for perpetuating this, too, reflecting on commonplace if misguided opinion.] Yet, reality leans to the statistic that some 50% of people say that the voices they hear are positive, friendly and helpful.

Mind map - Wikipedia commons

 

According to the medical profession, notably many psychiatrists, there is a strong belief that hearing voices is a sign of psychosis. And psychosis = psychotic, insane, mad. To combat this view, a movement was set up.

In 1987 Marius Romme and Sandra Escher formed the Hearing Voices Movement. They seek to investigate and provide support for individuals with this condition. The movement is now called Intervoice and has branches worldwide.

The credo of Intervoice is: hearing voices is not in itself a sign of mental illness, and indeed is experienced by many people who have no symptoms of mental illness. The condition may be linked to problems in a person’s life history. They can develop coping mechanisms to confront the unresolved issues. Intervoice oppose the blanket use of anti-psychotic drugs.

Research shows that hearing voices is associated with severe trauma or other unfinished business in the past: perhaps an accident, divorce, bereavement, sexual or physical abuse, a love affair or even pregnancy. It seems that the voices become more insistent or stronger when the person is under stress. The voices are not the problem; it’s what they represent or bring to the surface that is of concern. Denial of the existence of the voices can actually help maintain them. [Authors write about the human condition and there is enough material here for a good number of novels, I suspect.]

Hearing voices can be distressing to the listener. A person who hears voices can become frightened, not by the voices but by the concern over control of one’s mind. Unlike fictional examples, this is not the case. There is no mind control by evil forces through voices. [There may be evil individuals who manipulate the sufferers of these voices, however; which is often the meat of fiction and screenplay writers.]

 
No demons, no evil spirit, just a troubled mind that needs the soothing balm of comprehension.

***

The above is based on the ‘Psychotherapy and the power of the mind’ column’s article ‘People who hear voices’ by Graham Milton-Jones, Costa Blanca News, February 7, 2014.

Living with Voices: 50 Stories of Recovery (2009) - This book claims to hold true for those who have been given a diagnosis of schizophrenia. At its heart are the stories of the 50 people who have recovered from the distress of hearing voices, and how they have changed their relationship with their voices in order to reclaim their lives. – Wikipedia article, Hearing Voices Movement, definitely worth reading.

 

 

Editing pointers - Encounters

When two main characters meet, there’s the opportunity to provide a contrast in temperament, and even verbal fencing, all to establish more character and create mood. If a modicum of mystery can be maintained, all the better.

I’ll use an excerpt from Death is Another Life by Robert Morton (Solstice Publishing) to illustrate a few pointers.

Here, the mystery might even pose a threat from the reader’s viewpoint since the narrative has already revealed the evil side of Zondadari. To echo my blog on dialogue – Let’s Talk – here there is plenty of speech and interaction, yet there are only four instances of ‘said’ in this excerpt, though only two of them are actually attributions.

 

See the surroundings from a single viewpoint, in this case, Maria’s.

 

As here, try to end the chapter on a note of menace or a note of concern.

 

Mellieha, Malta

 

Maria, the Maltese-American journalist meets the mysterious Count…(p80):

 

Maria parked the car a little way up the road, just beyond a pile of dumped building material on the roadside, under an overhanging tamarisk which might keep the interior of the car cool while she reconnoitred. The road was dusty and pot-holed, the tarmac edges crumbling away with neglect.        She’d had difficulty finding the place and had stopped several people to make enquiries. Finally, she found it, to the north-east of Mellieha, down a winding road of evergreen oaks near the Selmun tower. 

            The entrance to the Tabona residence was set back from the twisting road. A drive curved up a gentle slope, through the welcome shade of shrubs and almond trees.
            Its strap over one shoulder, her bag tapped her side as she walked.
            Ahead rose the imposing tall iron gates, each side adorned with a family crest incorporating the Virgin Mary. The wrought-iron decoration was too fancy for her taste, but she appreciated it as a work of art. To the left of the gate pillars was another driveway, presumably leading to a neighbouring villa.
            Assuring herself there was nobody about, she pulled out the small binoculars. They told her little.
            The Tabona villa was built on a rocky prominence, with the veranda facing the sea. The red-tiled roof was immaculate: obviously, no moss was allowed to take root there. Roses climbed the whitewashed walls. The three separate stories of the villa blended in with the limestone rock covered with shrubs.
            A rustling sound behind made her turn and lower the glasses and her heart suddenly started hammering.
            She took a sharp intake of breath.
            A man was silhouetted by the high Maltese sun, standing in the gap that the neighbouring drive presented. A large black Alsatian sat by his side. Its hackles were up and it growled, baring big sharp teeth.

Selmun tower

 

CHAPTER 7: The chill of the shadow

“Oh, you startled me,” Maria said, trying to make light of her reaction.
            “My apologies for creeping up on you.” The man possessed a gentle, calming voice. He stepped forward, though still concealed as if by preference by the shadows from the bougainvillea. Observing her discomposure, he whispered, “Stay, Prince,” and the dog obeyed, alert ears pricked. “I’m a neighbour of the Tabonas – Count Zondadari.” And he slipped his walking stick under his arm and offered a welcoming hand. The whites of his eyes shone out of the shade.
            “Good afternoon, sir.” His hand was large, powerful, yet his touch was gentle and cool. “I’m Maria Caruana, a reporter–”
            “Ah, yes, The Sting. Quite a newspaper! I’ve read you, often. I like your writing. You’re not afraid of the truth.”
            Nice of him to say so, even if he was merely being polite. She nodded and smiled an acknowledgment. “Thank you. But I try to remember what William Blake said–
            “A truth that’s told with bad intent beats all the lies you can invent. Isn’t that it?”
            She was impressed. “Yes. I won’t use truth to hit someone over the head with.”
            “Unlike some sanctimonious reporters I’ve met! Bravo, Maria!”
            She waved the binoculars about. “I don’t normally go snooping.”
            “Why not? You must get your story, no matter what.”
            “Are you making fun of me?”
            “On the contrary, I admire you.” His eyes glinted, humour in them.
            “I’m interested in the recent sad bereavement suffered by Mr. Tabona.”
            Count Zondadari pointedly eyed her binoculars.
            She flushed. “Normally, I’m not so blatant. But word has it he’s not at home. I just wanted to look the place over. Get a feel for it. A rich man’s retreat.” She shrugged. “I really want to find out why she would throw so much away.”
            Count Zondadari stepped forward, his black fedora casting his face in shadow. “Perhaps I could be of help. My villa is next door and overlooks a fair portion of his–”
            “Bad planning, wasn’t it?” He looked askance at her. “I mean, the lack of privacy–”
            “The Tabona land was sold by my family, so I suppose whoever built their place didn’t have much choice in the matter. Some of my relatives, I must admit, were somewhat nosy!”
            His apparent candour was refreshing. “Thank you. I would like to accept, but–” There was her planned restaurant meal with Manuel. He’d phoned to say he would be back from Sicily later today: the website weather forecasts said it was ideal for sailing. She could ring George on her cell-phone to explain where she was, but she had no hard news to give him, so he’d simply berate her for wasting his time.
            “And perhaps I can tell you more about my neighbours, no?”
            Maria was hooked. Neighbourly divulgences were often useful, if treated with circumspection, of course. “Yes, if I may.” She smiled and slipped her binoculars’ strap over her shoulder.
            The count stepped closer, a good twelve inches taller than her. Then, as they turned to proceed up the drive, he called, “Follow, Prince!”
            And the dog stood and strode purposefully behind them. Whenever Maria glanced back, the animal’s eyes were on her – neither menacing nor benign, simply watching.
            Light percolated through the tree-tops onto Count Zondadari’s face to reveal a vivid purple scar, the tissue still healing; it ran from temple to chin down the left side of his face. Involuntarily, Maria started.
            Even in these mottled shades he was quick to detect her reaction. “I’m sorry if I’ve startled you afresh, but I’m afraid I was a little careless with a stone-cutting saw whilst building my beach barbecue – I’ll show you my progress later, perhaps. It will be a short while before the wound heals properly.”
            “You must think me rude, to stare–”
            “No, not at all. It’s most natural.” A stray sunbeam glinted on the white of his teeth. “There’s nothing to it, I’m sure; once you’re used to seeing it–”
            “And will it scar?”
            “I fear it will.” She did not understand his aside to himself: “Just one of many over the years...” So she shrugged it off. Maybe he was a mite eccentric.
            As their feet scrunched up the sloping gravel drive, she viewed him anew in the shadow-less light.
            Count Zondadari was tall, with a patrician nose and high cheekbones. He had a high receding hairline that suggested intelligence and dark arched eyebrows. The laughter lines around his sensual mouth and flint-grey eyes softened his appearance. Those eyes shone, as if amused by life. Here was a man with supreme confidence, someone who lived life to the full. There was something other-worldly about him; oddly, she was reminded of Wilde’s Dorian Gray.
            The two-story villa was squat and long, the walls constructed from a variety of stonework. “This plot of land has been in my family since the 1560s.” He waved his walking stick in an arc. Prince watched obediently, alert. “We’ve tended to rebuild here and there, as the mood dictated, yet we have tried to preserve the features we like – hence the porch.” It was imposing, a pillared portico, with curving marble steps leading up to the heavy oak panelled door which sported large brass ornamentation and a fish-shaped door-knocker.

            “It’s beautiful,” Maria said and meant it. The stone walls, dun and drab, were haphazardly clothed in creepers, bougainvillea and begonia. The green of leaves was a striking contrast, and softened the privations of time. The Arabic designed stonework round the roof and windows seemed to blend with nature. The place appealed to her artistic eye. “The blossom will be absolutely gorgeous in a few weeks,” she added.
            “Yes.” He smiled down at her. “Some of the stonework is sixteenth century, so it seems to be rejuvenated every year when the flowers bloom. The place really comes alive then.”
            It could have been a trick of light, as they climbed the steps, but she thought his face had darkened momentarily, the shine inexplicably absent from his eyes at the mention of nature’s renewal. And the scar-tissue glowed red. But she could have imagined it – her imagination seemed to be on overtime these days.

(When I'm editing, I tend to ask for particulars, such as the name of a book the character is reading, or the type of car she is driving. Here, I settled for ‘car’ as its make was already established).

 

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Death-Another-Life-Robert-Morton/dp/1477654194/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1380527911&sr=8-1&keywords=death+is+another+life+Morton

 

http://www.amazon.com/Death-is-Another-Life-ebook/dp/B004U6EG6O/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1380528251&sr=1-1&keywords=death+is+another+life+Morton