The difficult second album

Echo had a couple of themes ; the conflict between duty and desire, and the need of an outsider to belong. Although the characters kept going off and doing their own thing, I always had a framework that I could come back to, just by asking "What is this book about?"

You often hear bands talking about the difficult second album. They've got shed loads of songs left over from the first album, but they want the next to be recognisable, but to have progressed. Echo was intended to be a stand alone novel but, somewhere along the way it turned into a trilogy. I had a story line, focussing on the search for the lost Visionary Ship, the Clarke, but no real idea what the book was actually about.

That's not the only problem with a second book. Starting out involves introducing the characters and getting to know them. The third book will bring everything together with some big battle scene and a final resolution (and we -I include myself in that - will find out what happened and who survived). But the second book risks being just the journey from the start to the end. 

I suspect this is not unique. Look at Tolkein's Lord of the Rings trilogy. I think LOTR is a fantastic story, well written, which is one of the few books that I have read which induced a real sense of dread and uncertainty over the outcome. But the middle bit? Oh, get on with it!

I've just completed chapter 14 of Clarke and it's been a bit of a slog. Partly it's that Echo has been so well received that expectations are high and there's a lot of pressure to make it as good, which I'm not sure I'm doing. But also, I've not been sure what the book is about, other than the bit between the start and the end. There have been fun bits. Woz won a competition and got a cameo which I've just done and she's quite pleased with. And I'm in the middle of a big fight and Echo has just rammed her knife into somebody's thigh, severing their femoral artery and getting covered in blood for her trouble.

But today I figured out my theme. It's going to involve a rewrite of several early chapters but, perhaps the difficult second novel isn't going to be so difficult now I know what the book is actually about.

All she wanted was the sax

The bar was dark and unadorned with any sort of decoration. The Vrgrr weren't an ostentatious race and the whole orbital station was stark and functional. It was cleaner and in better condition than many orbitals that I'd set foot on. Imperial stations on the edge of the Empire were old, grimy and lucky if they could maintain an airtight seal. The air in here was thick with smoke, particles twinkling through the beams of the handful of lights. I supposed that, when you fought other people's wars for a living, lung cancer wasn't high on your list of worries.

Although we had docked the day before, I was yet to see a Vrgrr. There were several companies worth of private military forces on reserve rotation and most of them were crowded into the handful of bars. The uniforms were similar shades of green-grey fatigues, differentiated only by the outlandish and mythical creatures on their unit badges.

Acre pushed her way through the crowd, holding a tray high and trying not to spill the drinks. With her free hand she pushed drunken mercenaries out of the way, sneering at a half hearted attempt to put an arm round her waist. I knew that the Bad Girls looked down on mercenaries but, although many of York's missions were on behalf of the Empire, they had effectively operated as a private military unit themselves.

Acre put the tray on the middle of the table and passed a glass to me.
"Vodka and something that passes for orange for the Domina." She actually smiled at me. Most of the crew were subdued, particularly York. Acre was more cheerful than I'd seen her for a long time and Cavendish appeared quietly satisfied. She was sitting next to York, occasionally speaking to him, although he wasn't saying much in reply.

The others took their drinks. Acre raised hers in my direction and nodded. I returned the toast. It shouldn't have taken a murder to raise my spirits but Acre's respect and acceptance took away a huge cloud. I had longed to be accepted by York's crew but she had been the one marine that had never overcome her initial reservations.  The death of the Empress had removed a major impediment to York's mission and anything that supported him was good for her. Not York's mission. Our mission. I was as committed to finding the Clarke as any of the crew.

I thought about something Professor Helms had said.
"Doctor?"
He glanced my way. I hadn't spoken to him much during our voyage, tiring of his hypocrisy, of the way he judged me for what I had done. I couldn't be bothered to point out that he was the medical officer on a warship, patching up troops who had, between them, killed many more people than I had. Cavendish had carried a thermonuclear device onto the Imperial barge. Over a thousand people died alongside the Emperor.
"Mistress?"
"Am I human?" Most of the crew had undergone medical scans at some point over the last few months. The ship had a state of the art diagnostic suite attached to the sickbay. I'd been in the scanner several times and Chakrabarty had drawn enough blood to refill my veins if I was ever sucked dry by a giant space leech. Perhaps I needed to slow down on the vodka.
He thought about his answer for a few seconds.
"Mostly."
"Mostly?" What sort of answer was that?
"Yes."
I waited. In a few seconds he would go into teaching mode.
"A gene is a code. A collection of four different chemicals in a certain order. By manipulating the order we can create a new code. We can create DNA with any code we choose to create an infinite number of genes, most of which will do absolutely nothing. Therefore I say you are mostly human. Somebody knew what genes were necessary to create your abilities. Your myelin sheathes are much longer than normal, which means nervous impulses travel faster. Your bone structure is completely different to mine making it stronger. You can produce endogenous chemicals at will. The scientists who constructed you did not start from scratch. They took these genes from somewhere. Cosmetically you are human but I would say that up to a quarter of your genome is alien."
"Is that why I was told I could never have children?"
"Almost certainly. Your DNA was selected so that it would not effect the viability of the embryo. Reproduction is an act of chance and there is no telling what would result."
Although the experiments must have gone on for years, I knew that there were only a handful of successful outcomes; Helms had said ten. I dare not think what monsters had been created to get those ten.

York said something to Cavendish and she wrapped her knuckles on the table. I wondered if she was able to smash straight through the composite surface. I could probably punch through it if I pumped suitable volumes of combat chemicals although, even with my modified skeletal structure, I risked fracturing bones.
"If I may have your attention." He paused for a moment. "I am aware that divisions have been created between us and not everybody is convinced of the value of the mission that we are undertaking. I will be continuing the course we set and, to that end, the ship will be leaving during the next optimum launch window, which is in nine standard hours. Those of you that do not wish to accompany me, please use that time to collect your belongings. Your share of the profits will be available in the currency of your choice.
"That's a lot of chocolate, Marianne." said Acre. Nansen was well known as the primary raider of the chocolate stores. We carried more than a tonne in the hold. Real chocolate. In some systems it was worth more than its weight in gold as it was far rarer. A small bar, judiciously gifted to the right official, had smoothed our way across several difficult systems. I wondered if they had eaten it or sold it.
York stood, but put a hand on Cavendish's shoulder to stop her following him. So this was why we were here.   Not to hand me over to whatever authorities existed, but to offload any of the crew that didn't want to go any further. He wasn't making a case, he was just giving us a simple choice. A risky strategy and I wondered what was in his mind. As far as I knew, leadership was more than saying 'Follow me.' and 'Follow me, if you want to.' was just bizarre.
In reality, the only one of his crew he actually needed was Dr Chakrabarty. I'd looked at the files on the passengers and there were engineers and a full command crew, but he needed a medic to bring them out of cold sleep safely.
Nobody spoke until York had gone. Everybody stared at their drinks or watched the chaos unfolding around us as the mercenaries loaded more alcohol. There would be a fight soon.
Ash broke the silence.
"How much is a share?"
"Fifteen million credits." replied Pearce.
Hemingray's head snapped up. "Bloody hell, I never realised I was a rich woman. Does that make me more attractive, Marc?"
"Oh yes. So much more." said Dryden, getting a sharp elbows in his ribs in retaliation. "How much is my share?"
It appeared that nobody had worked that out.
"Five." said Cavendish.
"Based on what?" demanded Ash.
"Based on the fact I said five." Cavendish glared at Ash, daring him to object again. He wanted to ask who put her in charge, but didn't dare.
"So I'm wealthy in my own right. Don't need you any more, Grace." He got another elbowing.
I glanced across at Cromwell. She was looking worried. I wondered if she wanted to continue, but was expecting me to jump ship and, having risked her life to get me off the Stobo, didn't want to abandon me here.
In the lull that followed, I weighed up the likely outcomes. Cavendish, Acre and Cartier would go with York and Gregory would go with them. Now that the Empress was dead I couldn't see a reason for a split in the Bad Girls. Although Hemingray and Dryden were worth twenty million credits between them, they were actually no wealthier than yesterday and I knew that she was desperate to find the Clarke and figure out where it had come from. She had been building an algorithm to calculate the Clarke's course between systems based on the trajectory of an intact hull. She had purchased every database she could find that detailed the position of every documented star and their relative shift in position. If Pearce went, Keyes would go with her, bringing us back to two engineers, but we could thaw out another. Ash wanted to take the moment and jump ship, but I suspected that he wouldn't go if he was the only one. I had no idea what the doctor would decide.
I was about to announce my decision when I was distracted by something across the bar. A group had gathered on a slightly raised platform. It was clear from their dress that they weren't troops. As they opened what appeared to be weapons cases I realised that they were actually a band. Their efforts would be wasted tonight on this crowd that was steadily getting more drunk.
Cavendish opened her mouth to speak then stopped. She was focussed on the door to the bar. Her eyes followed somebody who had just arrived.
"Trouble?" asked Nansen, who was sitting near me. We both had our backs to the door and couldn't see what had attracted Cavendish's attention.
"Possibly."
We were all carrying weapons. Firearms law varied between systems in the Empire but, on all but the most lawless and newly colonised planets, a bar like this would have required patrons to secure their weapons at the door. Here there was a half hearted request to leave long weapons outside. I had a short bodied submachine-gun strapped to one leg, my combat knife taped to my forearm and my stiletto hidden in the folds of my kilt. We knew a bar full of mercenaries would be dangerous and we were ready.
I turned slightly and immediately could see what was troubling Cavendish. There were ten of them and, although they were dressed in an assortment of ragged clothes, none of which were standard military, they were clearly a unit. Two formed a rearguard as the eight others formed a wedge to force their way through the crowd. The leader was near the rear of the main group where he could see what was happening and command the squad. Cavendish did something similar; they were professionals, like the Bad Girls. I glanced around my group. The crew were wearing tunics and rank stripes on their sleeves but the troops were not in uniform. Cavendish and Livingston were both in grey fatigues, the others in a variety of casual clothes. Gregory was even wearing a dress, although it clashed with the combat boots and the weapons belt.
"They look like you." I commented.
"Yes they do." replied Cavendish. "They look like us, but they are not us. And that's a good thing and a bad thing."
I knew what she meant. The Bad Girls were disciplined. They'd come in to the bar in twos and threes, quietly and without fuss. The new group had entered in force and arrogantly pushed their way across the the serving area despite the fact it was crowded with battle hardened soldiers. As well as sidearms they carried automatic weapons slung across their backs. They were expecting trouble or they were here to cause it.
"Echo, if it kicks off, you lead the crew out. Cromwell, Hall, rearguard. Acre."
"Red head."
"Gregory."
"Squad leader."
The Bad Girls were selecting their targets. If fighting broke out they would each deal with one, rather than having a free for all and potentially missing somebody, leaving them free to fight back. I blinked each of them into my implant so that, if I was looking at them over the sights of my weapon, the targeting programme would confirm I had selected the right face.
"Who do you think they are?" I asked. "Imperial Guards?"
Cavendish thought about it for a moment and looked at Acre, who shrugged.
"No. Not Guards." said Dryden
"Do tell."
"They don't walk like you. Your movements are smooth. You're..."
"Machines?" offered Acre.
"I was going to say controlled but, yes, your chassis..."
"Internal architecture, please."
"Gods in a row, Acre, let me finish. You're machines. You move like machines. They move like men."
Cavendish looked at me.
"Could they be constructs?"
"I was told there were ten viable constructs. I have no idea if that was the truth. The woman that created us was on the Stobo. I never had a chance to ask her for more details. Why are we looking at such unlikely answers? I can see that this lot are in a different class to the pissheads crowding the bar, but they could be some sort of Imperial special forces."
"We were the Imperial special forces. Have you heard of another unit?"
Actually I hadn't. If it existed, it was likely that I would have been aware of it. The Commission was the embodiment of the Emperor's will and could call on any and all available resources. Special forces would be included in that. The Empire had a large and powerful navy, but its ground forces were minimal. Very rarely did the Emperor need to intervene in the routine business of the constituent worlds. A destroyer in high orbit sent a very clear indication of the Emperor's displeasure and most planetary governments got the hint very quickly. Occasionally the Imperial Guard was involved in small scale, offensive, operations; surgical strikes aimed at removing troublesome individuals but, far more often, that unpleasant task was left to members of the Silent Order. If the Empire required large scale ground forces, it contracted with private military companies to do its dirty work.
"No." I admitted.
"I want those shoes." said Gregory, apropos nothing.
"What?" demanded Cavendish.
Gregory gestured across the bar. "Shoes."
The band were back on the low stage, warming up their instruments. One was stood at the front, a black dress and bright red shoes with bows and the highest heels that I had ever seen. I'd had a pair of dancing shoes and their heels were only three centimetres high. I wouldn't be able to walk in her shoes, let alone run or fight.
I looked at the combat boots she was wearing. "Really?"
She rolled her eyes. "No. Of course not." Everybody laughed.
At a signal from one of the others, the girl on the stage picked up a microphone.
"Good evening everybody, my name is Woz and we are Saxophobia." I wondered what sort of life it was, jumping from system to system to play in complete dives like this one, full of drunk soldiers who didn't really give a damn.
"I don't understand her accent. What are they called?" asked Gregory.
"Saxophobia." answered Cavendish.
"What's that?"
"Fear of sax."
"How can anybody be frightened of sax? I love sax." Everybody groaned.
The woman on stage continued her introduction.
"We're going to play a few tunes for you tonight. I hope you enjoy it."
I knew what Gregory meant. Her accent was quite strong and I guessed she was born out towards the forward edge of the Sleeper Empire, one of the industrial systems where the massive orbital shipyards had built the previous generation of naval destroyers. There was a good chance that York's old destroyer, the Nemesis, had been constructed there. Nowadays the Imperial battle fleets were built closer to the core worlds where they were less vulnerable to cross border incursions.

The band were good. Although only six of them, they made a sound like a much bigger band. I ran the music through a database on the implant and it told me I was listening to a style of jazz known as swing. I wasn't really bothered about its name and I found myself tapping my foot.
By the third or fourth tune, the space in front of the stage had attracted some dancers. There weren't many women amongst the mercenary companies but several of them had found partners. I could see a blond, probably in her mid forties and wearing sergeant's stripes. I caught Cavendish's eye and nodded in the direction of the dancer. She smiled and mouthed a reply. "If things had turned out slightly differently..." One day I would try and get her story from her although, so far, I'd failed to learn even her given name.

"I know this one." said Acre. I knew it too. It was from a vid I'd seen years ago, when I was still a novice. A scene set in a bar, which was clearly intended by the band. It was probably going to be the last piece before they took a break.
"I like the part where the old man chops the guy's arm off with that laser sword." said Nansen. We'd pored scorn on the weapon for both the scientific impossibility and the complete impracticality.
"The smuggler's more my thing. I love the way he takes the alien out by firing under the table." said Acre.
We were on the verge of the entire crew picking their favourite scene from the film when Cavendish clicked her fingers and, immediately, the Bad Girls were poised for action. She touched her ear with three fingers. My comm set was taped to my forearm next to my knife, under the sleeve of my shirt and I activated it with a tap of my ring finger. It linked through the ring to my implant and I selected channel three.
A scan of the faces in the crowd showed that most of the target team had drifted across to the far end of the room, but two were heading for the exit.
"It's going to kick off as soon as those two are out of the door." said Cavendish, over the comms. "Find your target and prepare to engage." She didn't have to explain. When an armed group lined up, it meant they were taking a position where they couldn't accidentally fire on each other. The other two were either going to stop anybody entering, or stop everybody from fleeing.
I released the retaining strap that secured my gun. In a crowded area an automatic weapon could reap havoc, but my bolt thrower would have been just as dangerous. There was another issue.
"Cavendish."
"Go ahead." She was on her feet, drifting to where she could see her chosen target. The other Bad Girls were also taking positions. I dripped adrenalin and a small volume of Quicktime into my bloodstream.
"If we open fire, everybody in the bar is going to start shooting at us."
"What do you suggest?"
My cartouche was in my pocket. "If..."
"Too late!"
The new arrivals were bringing their weapons to bear. The Quicktime made it appear a relaxed and casual act, but then the one that I was watching was punched backwards, head snapping back and arms flailing as Cavendish fired twice and then twice again.
"Armour." reported Livingston. I'd also noticed that the first three rounds hadn't penetrated but, with the fourth, a spray of blood had coloured the wall.
After a brief pause, made longer by the Quicktime that was circulating round my cerebral arteries, the rest of the Bad Girls opened fire. I turned away; my task was to get the crew out of here, rather than getting involved in the firefight. The crew had all taken cover in the booth. Ash had a pistol up, looking for a target, Hemingray and Pearce were crawling towards the exit, pushed on by Caro Hall. The engineers were with Cromwell, waiting for a clear run for the door. "Chakrabarty, with me!" Where the hell was Dryden? "Ash, don't be an idiot, let's go! Where's Dryden?" Hemingray wouldn't be happy with me if I didn't get her man out.
"The Bad Girls are standing up."
"The Bad Girls are wearing bloody body armour." I took the pistol from his hand and propelled him towards the exit. Just in time as a couple of rounds came our way. By now almost everybody was on the floor and quite a few were bringing weapons up.
The crew were on their way now. Cromwell had taken a covering position, walking backwards. Hall was over to my left, firing a couple of rounds to keep heads down. I could see Dryden now, taking the lead and head butting a mercenary who didn't get out of the way in time.
I trod on a few people in my hurry to get to the door before the others. There were two more gunmen outside, probably waiting in the corridor for the first mercenaries, those with the strongest sense of self preservation, to flee. I pushed a medium dose of QT, along with skeletal stim and some adrenaline, then slid the submachinegun gun out of the harness, pulling the door open with my other hand and rolling through the gap.
I came up, leading foot planted firmly and my weight resting on one knee, weapon up and safety off. They were fast. Already they were adjusting their aim to compensate for me being half a metre lower than expected. The first one took a dozen rounds in the chest, his weapon discharging into the roof panels as he fell backwards. The second one hesitated, glancing at the doorway.
"Drop it!" commanded Dryden, taking a couple of steps to clear the way for Hemingray who was just behind him. Before the second gunman could decide which target to focus on I fired again, pulling a bullet into his lower leg. He howled as he went down, letting go of his assault rifle, although it was held close to him by the sling.
I could hear automatic weapons fire as I jumped up and, carefully keeping out of Dryden's field of fire ran to the fallen men. The first got a single round to the head, in case my bullets had only impacted on armour. The second I slammed into unconsciousness with the sole of my boot.

All the crew were in the corridor now. Hall was at the back of the group, her weapon pointing down the corridor, covering our backs. Cromwell was stood in the doorway to the bar, presumably covering the retreat of the other troops. I could hear a lot of shouting but, for the moment, no gunshots. I changed the magazine on my gun for one of my two spares.
"Where were you keeping that?" demanded Dryden.
"You don't need to know." said Hemingray, who'd seen me slide it out of a garter round my left thigh. My kilt only had a small pocket and, to carry a lot of weaponry, I had to be inventive. I presumed Cavendish had done something similar when she produced a pistol from nowhere when we were trying to flee the Stobo.
"Cavendish, the crew is safely out."
"Understood. I need you back in here."
"On my way. Pearce, run a frequency scan. Find out if security is on its way."
I touched Cromwell on the arm and she shifted position to let me through. I did a count. Eight Bad Girls standing. That was good. Everybody else that I could see the was on the floor. There was blood spattered on the wall in several places and several of the bodies covering the floor were dead. The Bad Girls were circulating slowly, weapons raised and shifting left and right, their fingers on triggers.
"Keep calm, keep your hands away from your weapons." The mantra was being repeated by several on the Girls. They were heavily outnumbered, but had the advantage and were trying to diffuse the situation.
"Have you got your badge?"
"Cartouche, yes." I held it up and let it radiate. I could see that many of the mercenaries wore iron citizen's rings and they would be firing off signals in the presence of the Emperor's symbol. The Bad Girls didn't have rings; Cromwell had told me that, on joining the Imperial Guard, they renounced their citizenship and entered servitude to the Imperial Court. I'd asked what happened when they retired and she'd said that they weren't expected to retire. That tallied with what Professor Helms had said. Once we were back on the ship I would raise the issue with them. Clearly I had made a subconscious decision that I was going back to the ship.
"I am Mistress Echo, Imperial Commissioner." I almost demanded that they recognise my authority but, although most of the people in the room would be Sleepers, we were a long way over the border. I had run a number of searches on the ship's information systems but was still unclear on the status of the occupied systems and whether I actually had any authority here. "Listen to my troops and we will not have any more trouble."
"Who put you in charge?" came a voice. "We're not in the Empire now."
"No, we're not. But if we hadn't have been here, many more of you would have been dead. And if you don't listen to me now, more of you might be very soon."
I stepped over a couple of bodies, my boots crunching on broken glass.
"Cavendish, what's the score?"
"Eight targets down and six collateral deaths. Handful of wounded." She gestured to where a couple of groups were gathered, performing some sort of first aid. I'd heard her tell the squad medics to show themselves as I came in.
"It could have been worse. What do you need me for?"
She led me over to the far wall where a body was sprawled awkwardly, assault rifle hanging loosely from his fingers. The implant flashed the target symbol as I looked at his face. Red head, Acre's target. From the number of ragged holes in his jacket, she had used most of her magazine on him. I put my finger to one of the holes and could feel the sharp edge of a corresponding hole in the ceramic plate underneath. In the darkness it was impossible to make out any detail on the wall behind him but I would bet it had bullet holes in it. Armour piercing rounds inside an orbital. Luckily we weren't near the hull. looked up at Cavendish.
"I know." she said. "I'll deal with her. Look at this." She leant down and took hold of the shirt pocket. Something was pinned through the material of the flap. She flicked it over. On the underside was a small enamel badge. I thought I knew what it meant, but ran the symbol through the implant anyway for confirmation.
"Interesting. Have you checked for ID?"
"A couple, but they've nothing. No ring, no cards, no tags. This one broke a rule."
The gunmen had tried to cover their identity. On an Imperial station I could have found their entry and started to back track their passages, but not here. This wasn't our business.
"Take the tag and let's get out of here." I raised my voice. "Your attackers are dead. Form up on your squad leaders and report to your companies."
The Bad Girls were carefully pulling back towards the door, still covering the crowd in case some drunken fool decided to have a go at us. I wondered how many of the collateral were due to somebody threatening the Girls rather than from the gunmen.
The soldiers on the floor started to stir. The Bad Girls slowly pulled back, still keeping their weapons up in case of trouble. There was a commotion from the stage.
"I think one of the band was hit." commented Acre. "Shame. They were good."
"I can.." started Livingston, our medic.
"No. We're leaving." commanded Cavendish.
The band were gathered round the girl who had done the introductions, pulling her up to a sitting position. Her eyes were open and she was still alive.
"I'm alright, I'm alright." she said. But she but looked pale and shocked, probably massive blood loss. Her saxophone was clutched tightly and I could see where a bullet had ripped through the rods and levers. The band pulled her to her feet and she started laughing. Strange behaviour so I stopped. She tipped the instrument and something rolled out of the bell into her hand. Clearly the attackers had been using soft nosed ammunition; a much more sensible choice in the circumstances.
"Lucky bugger!" said Acre

Facebook friends are not real

Everybody I can persuade to buy Echo has done so. Some people I don't know have also bought it. I'm now trying to squeeze out a last few sales as I've almost broken even, which I think was goal number five or six twenty blogs or so ago.

To try and drum up the last few downloads I've started a Facebook page. I could have just pushed the book through my personal FB but I'm fairly sure people would get fed up of me shamelessly promoting it at them. Again.

The strategy is about like the one I use on twitter. Post a couple of paragraphs taken from an interesting part of the book. The difference, this time is that I've also set up FB accounts for the major characters and they're going to be commenting, making snide remarks and generally refusing to do what I want them to do. No change there then

It's a real pain in the bum. I have to keep switching accounts. To make it a bit easier I've given them all the same password, but FB software has cottoned on to that and decided I had to prove they were real people rather than sock puppets by asking for a different mobile number for each. Between us we have four mobiles so, if I ask to borrow yours, and then you find a strange text in your inbox, I've just added another member of the crew.

At the moment I'm working through the story set out in Echo. When I've done that I think I'm going to work on a back story for some of them. If you read Echo (and were paying attention), you'll know a little bit about Grace Hemingray, but almost nothing about Eleanor Pearce or Edmond Ash. I'd like to colour them in a little, give them a life before York.

I'd like to think the readers know a little bit about who some of the characters are and what they're like. I have notes on them in a paragraph that I cut from the finished chapter and paste into the new one. it tells me a bit about them. It also helps me remember their first names. Apart from Cavendish, who doesn't appear to have one.

Navigator                 Grace Hemingray loyal but lacks confidence to command
Weapons and tactical Edmond Ash         Cynical whinger
Comms and scans         Eleanor Pearce Geek
Pilot.                       Marcus Dryden.              Daredevil

C/S Cavendish         Pragmatist
LC (Suz)Anna Gregory          Likes sex. With pretty much anybody
P Caitlin Acre         Angry (but funny)
P Helene Cartier            

C Nat(asha)Livingston             (Left handed) medic
P Marianne Nansen
P Jude Cromwell

On a completely different note, I took the hard copy and showed my Dad. Science fiction isn't really his thing so I'm not sure if he'll read it, show it to everybody, or pretend he wrote it.



P Caro(line) Hall Easygoing. Doesn’t say much

Psychos in a lift

She handed me a weapon. One in the chamber, safety on. The others had weapons that they’d obviously taken from Stobo personnel but I’d seen the small automatic pistol that before. It belonged to Cavendish and I was surprised that she’s managed to smuggle it in to the ball. The line of her dress didn’t allow many hiding places.

We caught up with Acre who was securing our position further down the corridor. She glanced at the gun. “Where did that come from?”

“I have no idea.” I said.

“Bet it chafed when you danced, Cavendish.”

“I didn’t see you dancing.” Said Livingston, who had appeared out of a side passage to deal with my escorting marines. “I’d have paid money, especially as she’s wearing heels.”

“Gods in a row, we’re trying to get off a doomed ship. Get a grip.” ordered Cavendish.

“Sorry, Sergeant.” Muttered Acre, grinning unrepentantly. As she reached the next corner she stopped and stepped back behind the bulkhead. As there was no cover, the rest of the Bad Girls dropped to one knee, looking to Acre for instruction. I glanced round to see Cartier facing the way we had come, weapon up, in case we’d entered a trap.

Acre made hand gestures. I knew that, when working with Echo, they sometimes deliberately got them wrong or made up new ones, just to wind her up. This was bona fide. Eight targets, heavy weapons and armour. Fourteen metres. At that range the handguns we were all carrying would be useless.

“What are they guarding?” I whispered to Livingston.

“Main lift shaft.”

“Is there another way?”

“The ship is fifteen decks down and less than thirty metres from the lifts. It’s this or a series of fire fights with heavily armoured Imperial Guards whilst trying to go down the secondary ladders.”

Cavendish was three metres in front of me. She turned and gestured me forward.

“I need you to distract them.”

“If they report in that they’ve found me, won’t that give our position away.”

“We’ll hopefully deal with them before that happens.” She slipped off her shoes and silently led me up to Acre’s position. Acre, like Echo, had been barefoot all night.

“If they’re going to shoot, duck to your right. Don’t use your weapon unless you have to.”

“Understood.” I pushed the pistol into my sash at the small of my back and walked confidently round the corner. I was only a couple of steps down the corridor before muzzles started to rise in my direction.

“As you were, marines.” We were in luck. All the Imperial Guards would have taken up position around the Empress and the security of the Stobo was in the control of the ship’s marines. They would be competent troops but the Bad Girls had the advantage.

As they started to return to parade rest an officer appeared.

“Halt!”

I took two more steps.

“I said, halt! Marines, weapons up!”

They were confused. Clearly the message that they were to capture me had not been passed on to all the marines. The officer knew what he was doing, but most of the others were uncomfortable about pointing weapons at a very senior officer.

“Lieutenant, what do you think you are doing? Don’t you know who I am?”

It didn’t matter what I said, just that their eyes were on me and they weren’t listening for the quiet footsteps behind me. I took as many steps as I dare. Two marines had their weapons trained on me now. I fixed on their eyes and, as they almost closed their eyes in involuntary preparation for firing, I threw myself down to the right. Cavendish and Acre were past me and amongst the marines. The Bad Girls weren’t as fast as Echo but they were much faster and stronger than normal marines. The officer went down first, an elbow smashed into his face. Most of the marines were wearing full body armour and helmets, but some had been dispatched from their barracks with their weapons and varying pieces of equipment. This created opportunities for the Bad Girls. They were in the middle of the marine squad who were afraid to use their weapons for fear of hitting one of their own. In hand to hand combat the armour slowed them down. By the time Livingston joined the melee, three of the opposition marines were down.

In a fight like this I was a liability. Cartier was still rear guard.

“Cartier?”

She looked in my direction and I jerked a thumb at the fight, then raised my pistol to cover the corridor we had just used. “Go!”

She didn’t need telling twice. I focussed on my target area and ignored the noise from behind me, confident that Cavendish would prevent anybody firing a burst at my unprotected back. It felt like an age but, in reality, was only a few seconds until it was over.

“York! Fall back.” I obeyed Cavendish’s command, keeping my weapon up as I backed towards the lift cluster, leapfrogging Cartier and Acre.

Nobody spoke as the lift compartment dropped towards the deck where my ship was docked. If there were marines waiting for us, we would be an easy target. I raised an eyebrow at Cavendish who just shrugged, then returned her eyes to the deck indicator. It took discipline not to watch the numbers changing. The other three marines were focussed on the door, waiting for it to open, weapons up and index finger touching the triggers. Acre and Cartier were on one knee, Livingston pressed against the wall of the compartment. I took up position on the other side. Cavendish stood in the middle, hands behind her back. In her dress, looking unarmed, she looked like a civilian. With luck it would delay the opposition long enough for us to start firing first.

The silence continued until Acre started humming an off key version of a well-known tune. Cartier sniggered.

“Focus.” Muttered Cavendish. “Three, two, one.”

“Ting.” Added Acre.

What killed all the vampires?

The most difficult part of both Echo and Clarke to write is not the characterisation, the plot, the dialogue, the background description. It's the sex.

Sex is big in novels at the moment. I'm sure you've noticed. Every time I go into WHSmith there's somebody brazenly standing in front of the huge 50 Shades section. And it's going to get worse as the massive band wagon rolls into town and bookshops have to clear away all the vampire books to make room.

If you've not read Echo (and why not?), you'll know there's sex. Twice. E winces and skips over those parts, the crowd at work read it aloud in the office, fortunately whilst I'm not there although they tell me about it.

There's an unspoken presumption that sex scenes in books are autobiographical. Hand on heart there are no polka dot pants in the house. I've no idea whether EL James did theoretical or practical research. Thnk what you like but remember it's a novel of fiction :-)

As I've said before, Echo was written with the intention that nobody would ever read it, but it was still very hard to write. And it will be even harder with Clarke because I know that it will have an audience, and a fairly merciless one at that. 

Because everybody is too busy taking the piss, it's almost impossible to get any constructive feedback  about those scenes. I read the first too chapters of 50 Shades and they're terrible, so I can only presume that the sex (page 115 onwards, apparently) is truly badly written as well. Is it possible to write a "good" sex scene, or do writers leave their critical facilities at the door as well?

I've never actually questioned why I left those parts in or what they add to the book, I just wrote them. I suppose that I could leave the scene with the closing of the door.

But where would be the fun in that?

I've been expecting you, Mr Bond

What makes a good villain?

I've been beta reading something recently and one of my constructive criticisms was that the characters I perceived to be the bad guys just didn't cut it for me. Their motivation was around climbing the corporate ladder and getting their own back on people who had spited them previously.

Should a villain be evil? Evil isn't that interesting. True evil is sad little men finding themselves in positions of power and murdering millions of people through the application of bureaucracy. Who was the most evil character in Star Wars. It wasn't Darth Vader, it was Grand Moff Tarkin who blew up an entire world. Nor is evil attractive (to those of us that consider ourselves to be sane).  The moors murderers have been in the news a lot this week and nobody can consider them anything other than abhorrent. 

Do we need a villain? Writing courses talk about the antagonist. The person whose sole purpose in the story is to place barriers in the hero's path and potentially be the source of threat. Does the antagonist need to be a villain. In Echo the main antagonist is trying to kill York and those around him, but their motivation is as much about preservation of the Empire rather than personal gain, spite, underlying character flaw or psychopathic tendencies. If you want to judge, then remember that York is responsible for something in the reason of 50,000 deaths on the nineteen ships destroyed by the Nemesis during the war and Echo cheerfully murders her way through the entire book. In Echo 2 I'm starting to work up a couple of antagonist characters but both are honourable, honest, professional people with great integrity. If the book was written from the point of view of the Realm, they would be the heroes and Echo and York would come across as monsters.

In most books an antagonist of some kind is necessary. Until they're dead/ imprisoned / exiled/ rehabilitated then there's no closure. But I've concluded that they don't need to be evil. They do, however, need to have a clear reason for being the bad guy and, if possible, they need to be interesting.

Cats are optional

Doing the Tango with Brucie

I'm getting ahead of myself. Although I've just finished chapter 8, I'm starting to think about the end of the process. Book 1 only became "Echo" quite some time after it was finished. Echo herself only become Echo a day or two before hand. Prior to that she'd been called Chorus, after the narrator in some of Shakespeare's plays. At some point over tea one night,  I was persuaded that it wasn't a great name and I changed the names of the three constructs around. Surprisingly I've thought of her as Echo rather than sticking with the name she'd had for the previous twelve months in my head. A day or two later I decided to name the book after my main protagonist.

Throughout the writing the working title of book 1 was Scenario Five.

'Five basic scenarios.’ She ticked them off on her fingers and I noticed that the tip of one was missing. ‘Guard, Hot insertion, Cold insertion, Pursuit and, number Five, everybody’s favourite, Lost contact. Whenever we find whatever it is we’re looking for there are inevitably dark corridors full of traps, xenomorphs, madmen. Danger and destruction.’

At that point the story was basically about the investigation into the loss of contact with a research station. However, as is their want, York's crew get themselves mixed up into a conspiracy that coulddisrobe stability of the Empire itself.

So, whilst book 2 is meant to be about the search for the lost Visionary Ship, the Arthur C Clarke, one of the five ships that carried humans from Old Erth to their new homes, who knows where the story is actually going to go, and I'd be a fool to try and predict it.

It's a bit too soon to start thinking about a title then, isn't it? The working title is "Clarke", but I've taken a fancy to "Outcast". I'm definitely going for a one word title as a theme through the series and currently Outcast is the word for book 2.

I have some concerns. First, that I'll end up tailoring the story around the title rather than the other way round. The other is that I came up with the title after hearing Hey Ya on the radio several times over the course of a couple of days. Not a good reason.

I'm also itching to start work on the cover. I love the work Cathy Helms did for Echo and I've no idea whether she's got any more pictures of Trout Pout and Slap Head or whether we'll have to go with something else as the part that we take through the series. I like themes and it would be good to have something that appears in all, in one form or another.

Of course, I could just write faster so that I can do the title and cover sooner rather than later. But, as a writer, it's as much about the journey as it is the end product. Oh no, I sound like I'm on Strictly (Dancing with the stars for you Yanks). I better stop there before I commit to giving 110%.

You're only supposed to blow the bloody doors off

Chapter eight is in the bag. 5016 words and, unlike some of the early chapters, I really enjoyed writing this one. Actually the last three or four chapters were good fun, with lots of death and blood and destruction. One of the casualties of chapter 6 was the plan. I'd written five or six bullet points describing what happens for each of the chapters 6 to 15. I don't know why I'm surprised but, just like in Echo, the story went its own way when I started wondering what the characters would do in this situation and the answer was not actually what I intended. Again This isn't always a bad thing. Having got themselves in a difficult situation I spent ages trying to figure out how to get them out of it. I needn't have bothered. By the end of chapter 6 York's crew are different starships and in mortal danger. Ok smartarses, what now. Fortunately they're a resourceful lot and they worked out a plan. York's crew like to have a plan. By the end of chapter 8 they're well on the way to sorting themselves out. Those of you that are writers will be nodding along to my comments. The rest of you will probably think I'm nuts To continue. That was too easy I thought. Actually it wasn't easy and lots of people died (don't worry, they're not real people) but I decided to intervene (interfere) so I've just created a cliffhanger for the end of chapter 8 that sees Echo trapped outside a spaceship with her oxygen supply leaking from her damaged suit and they're under attack. Will she survive? Of course she will, I've got another sixteen chapters to write. I'm making no promises that she'll survive to the end of the book though.

How do you comfort the grammar police?

Give them a big hug and say "Their, there, they're."

I've been reading the hard copy of Echo and the typos are just flying off the page. I went through the e version, then printed it out and went through it again, although to save trees it was two pages per side, so it wasn't that big.

Everybody says you should get a professional editor to avoid these things but something like that would have been a massive outlay when i didn't expect it to get read by more than a handful of people.

A few people have expressed an interest in buying the actual book. It's slightly embarrasing when people are shelling out a couple of quid, but the paperback is £7.99 on Feedareed.com. If people want the book i'm going to have to go through it, make all the changes and upload it again. I can also re-upload to Kindle and list it for free for a week so that people who bought it can download a copy without all the mistakes (including one use of the wrong sort of their (there, they're). Not that i mind, but it's not as much fun as writing Echo2.

Having said that, Echo2 isn't much fun at the moment. I've just finished chapter 3 but there's a pressure for it to be as good as the original. Self imposed pressure, but still real. Echo was never meant to be read which allowed me to write whatever i wanted. I'd like to write E2 with the same freedom, but i don't think that's going to happen. I now understand the difficult-second-album syndrome that effects bands.

Does it matter if E2 is rubbish? Not in the grand scheme of things, no, but a remarkable number of people have said very kind things about Echo and i don't want to disappoint them with a disappointing follow up.

Anybody else have this problem?

Writer's Block

I've been working on book two for a while but it's been a bit of a struggle. I know the broad outline of the story and i'd managed to complete chapter one but then it all ground to a halt. Partly that wasn't a problem as i was editing book one and getting it on to Kindle, but there was a real pressure there.

i read this in The Musings of DS Taylor today               http://www.dstaylor.me/?p=111


If you don’t spend your days either writing, or thinking about writing, don’t tell me you want to be an author.

 He also said a lot of other useful stuff in this post. If you're a writer yourself, have a read.

For the last few weeks i've spent a lot of time thinking about publishing and marketting and selling book one, but hardly at all about the important stuff. Writing. Last night i spent a long time thinking about how to get the team out of the conundrum i'd put them in. By morning i had an outline for chapters 2, 3 and probably 4.


I suspect that i didn't actually have writers block, i just needed a rest. Now I'm back in the grove. Hurrah!

After the fuss dies down

It's been two weeks since i published. After a couple of days of good sales it's settled down to one every couple of days. I've just hit twenty copies sold, which i'm really pleased about.There are a few more expected from facebook contacts who are reading other stuff but the initial burst is over.

When i started down the publishing route, i set some goals -
1) Sell one copy - tick
2) Sell a copy to somebody who's not a friend - tick. The comms department asked me to write a guest blog on the PCT site and people whose name i've seen in emails got in touch and said they'd bought a copy
3) Sell a copy to somebody i don't know - tick
4) Sell a dozen copies - tick
5) Break even - there's still some way to go on that one. I need to sell around 60 copies in the UK to do that. (I've sold a copy on Amazon.com but, unless huge numbers of US readers start buying, i'm unlikely to see that money as Amazon will only pay up once they owe me $100)
6) Get a good, independent, review. I was really pleased to see Jim Graham get a fab review on Republicbot.com. Somebody wrote that writers only feel jealousy when other writers do well, but i really don't think that's true. There's room for all of us. Ross and a couple of other people retweeted about Jim's review so i'm not alone in thinking that. So, as soon as one of my readers puts a good review on Amazon, i'll try and use that as a tool to get a review site to have a look at Echo.

So future sales will be a long haul and i'll need to work at if i'm going to cover my costs and be able to pay Cathy for the cover to book 2

Happily it's not about sales. I wanted to be both a writer and an author. I've ticked the author box now, which makes me happy, but the real pleasure is in being a writer. Book 2, which has the working title Clarke (as in Arthur C Clarke) hasn't progressed too far as i wasn't sure what themes i wanted to explore. But i've had the space to give that some thought and i've got some ideas about that now.

7) Get an actual copy printed - loads of people are raving about Kindle and one person bought a kindle just so they could read it (i'm really flattered - happily they think it's a great thing for their holiday reading as i didn't want Echo to cost them £91). ebooks are great, but i think there's still something about having a book in your hands. Particularly if it's mine.

An author, i am

i know it's been quiet recently. There are two reasons. firstly i was away last week. I have a real job, this stuff is just for fun, although it has brought in a tenner in the last few hours.

Secondly, i've been finishing the formatting and final read through ready for publishing.

And today, i published :-)

Sometimes, at work, you write a difficult / slightly controversial email and your finger hovers over the send button. Eventually you just have to say 'bugger it' and press the button. Publishing the book on Kindle has been a bit like that. There's been a bit of a psychological block.

What if i can't figure out how to upload it? - actually that was dead easy
What if i can't find it on Amazon? i couldn't, but Bill found it and kindly sent me a link - cheers mate
What if nobody buys it? as i said, so far i've made a tenner. I'm hoping if the people who said they would buy it do so, i'll just about break even but that doesn't matter. I am an author

Oh, and then there's the big one. What if it's rubbish?
So far six people have read it and the feedback has been good. There were issues around trying to stuff too much into the first couple of chapters, but i'm not the only one guilt of that. I'm reading something that wants to move apace, but sometimes pace just leads to overload. I'm hoping the readers will find out a bit more about my characters in each chapter. There might be action and adventure and blood and spaceships but it's really a story about two people (and their friends).

I'm still buzzing

So, if you've bought it, thank you. I really appreciate it. I'm blessed with good friends, most of whom will tell me if it's rubbish and demand their £1.95 back (come and get it!).

If you haven't, just click here 
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Echo-ebook/dp/B007HA6CQW/ref=sr_1_3?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1331051979&sr=1-3

Snow White's Revenge

Snow White had no need of the knife, hidden in the folds of her dress. As soon as the Huntsman had stepped out of the tree line an arrow had whispered across the clearing, piercing his neck and severing the carotid artery.

“You let him get too close!” shouted Grumpy, from the doorway

“We had to be sure” answered Happy, slinging his bow across his shoulder. “He could have been hunting.”

“Unlikely! Are you sure he’s alone?”

“Sneezy and Doc are guarding the paths. There’s nobody else out there.”

“You know what this means” said Grumpy to Snow White, who was turning the body over with her foot. “The Queen has found you.”

“Perhaps he came across us by chance.”

Dopey was searching the body. He held up his findings. “I’m sorry, Snow White. He was carrying poison apples. This man worked for the Magic Mirror, and when he doesn’t report in, more will come. It’s time.”

“Well, I for one am glad.” Said Happy. “We’ve been hiding out here long enough.”

The Castle was a wonderful place for a girl to grow up. Staff scattered as the fourteen year old heir apparent, ran through the chambers. Always there was one of her personal guards, fearsome warriors from under the mountains of the North, close by. Every chamber, except those in the Queen’s Tower. No-one entered the Queen’s Tower except the King. The Queen herself had not ventured out for several months. Snow White was not unhappy with this, as her relationship with her stepmother, difficult at the best of times, had become increasingly volatile, and her father often seemed troubled and distracted.

“Dozey, have you ever been in the Queen’s Tower?” asked Snow White.

“No, my Princess.”

“Do you think we could get in, could get to the top?”

“Nobody goes in the Queen’s Tower, snapped Grumpy. “The Queen has forbidden it.”

Disappointed, Snow White didn’t notice Happy approach but, suddenly, he was by her side, speaking quietly.

“I can get you in. Midnight.” Casually, he drifted away.

Snow White was ready, and followed Happy through long forgotten passageways filled with debris and thick with cobwebs. They rested at the top of a long staircase that spiralled between the inner and outer walls of the massive tower. When Snow White pressed her ear against the timbers of the door, she could hear raised voices. Producing a large key,

Happy unlocked the door without a sound and led the way through a series of narrow passageways, built into the tower walls. Small holes looked onto the Queen’s rooms. Most were empty but, looking into a dimly lit chamber on the far side of the tower, Snow White’s life was changed. The King lay on the floor, a pool of blood spreading slowly across the stones. The Queen was turned towards a large mirror on the wall, the simple wooden frame out of character with the ornate furnishings. Snow White could see no reflection in the mirror, only a shadow in the shape of a man. When she looked at the mirror, a sense of bitterness and hate almost overwhelmed her.

“It is done. Now, will I rule?”

“Not yet, my Queen.” The voice came from nowhere. “Send for the Princess. She stands between you and the crown.”

Snow White didn’t wait to hear more. Numb with fear and grief she fled the Tower. Happy had served many regimes and knew what had to be done. Before the Queen’s word had gone out, the Princess and her bodyguards were gone.

In the four years since the flight from the castle, the land had gone from a rich, fertile, welcoming place to one filled with suspicion and treachery. A wise monarchy had been replaced by despotism, the Queen falling further under the influence of the malevolent spirit that was trapped in the mirror. The seven warriors had taught Snow White many skills. She was proficient with the bow and could fight with every weapon they brought to her. She had also mastered the art of moving through a crowd unnoticed, of passing, almost invisibly through shadows. Of all the skills they had passed on, this would be the most important if they were to get back into the castle.

In the morning, before setting out for the castle, they burnt the cottage, resolute that there would be no turning back. The Mirror would be smashed and the Queen would die.

This is not a drill 2/4

    I nodded. “Very well. You're right.”

    Cavendish activated the Marines comm net. “We're on the move. Get the Engineers out of there” She turned and led the way, Acre fell into step behind me and Ross brought up the rear. Hall was already waiting in the circulation space outside the open hatch.

    They all knew where to go. Every member of the crew was required to take part in evacuation drills although I, personally, had never done it on the Nemesis as I never expected to abandon her.

    We didn't run. I'd been taught that, if you run, it triggers hormones that interfere with your thought processes. There was no emergency that wasn't better dealt with a few seconds later but with a clear head. That advice had served me well through the years. I could walk pretty quickly though.

    The deck was still vibrating under my feet. I glanced at Cavendish.

    “We're still being fired upon.” She said

    I nodded. “The Vrgarr are probably pissed off that we trashed two of their battleships. If they're firing at us then they're not in pursuit of the decoy ships.” The two cruisers of the Church Militant would be a different matter. They were much more disciplined and would be manouvering to pursue our ships although, by now, it would be too late for them to catch them. “I hope they're not firing on the escape ships.”

We dropped down a deck, sliding down the ladders like midshipmen. This level was only lit by emergency lighting although the artificial gravity was still working. As I hit the floor I could see the stragglers from the bridge crew at the far end of the passageway. Passing through narrow hatches slowed down progress massively.

    “This way.” called Cavendish. We took a cross corridor and used the parallel route to a second hatch. At the bulkhead, Cavendish opened the hatch and I followed Acre into the next section where we joined the rest of the bridge crew. I did a quick head count. Six marines and twenty crew. Hiraku Nonaka was quietly marshalling the survivors into groups around the bulkheads, but nobody was actually going anywhere.

    Before I could ask what was causing the delay, Cavendish held up her hand for quiet. “Hall, check on the engineers. We can't continue till they get here.” Hall ducked back through the hatch, the bulky Ultima armour only just fitting through the opening. “There's vacuum and no power on the other side of this bulkhead. If we open the hatch the engineers won't be able to get through.” Vacuum in this section would trigger the hatches to shut and lock. Overriding the security systems would take too long. I wanted to know how we were going to get through the hatch on the other side of the compartment, but, although I commanded the ship, the Marines were in control of this situation and my getting involved wouldn't be helpful. Cavendish would keep me informed, where possible, as a matter of courtesy, but I was effectively a spectator.

    Hall came back through the hatch, carrying an injured crewman over her shoulder. She was followed by another dozen engineers and three more marines. Several of the engineers were injured and I was concerned how they were going to fare through the next section. Hall slammed the hatch shut and secured it.

    Livingston was by the next hatch. “Vacuum hoods on, stand clear!” she shouted. Everybody obeyed. I checked the collar section was secure then pulled my hood out and sealed it over my head. It inflated automatically as the oxygen supply activated. I breathed normally and tried to ignore the itch at the back of my head that always started as soon as I was wearing a helmet and couldn't get to it. I could see that a couple of hoods didn't seem to be properly inflated, possibly damaged by shrapnel or debris. I banged my fist against Acre's shoulder and pointed. She looked, then turned back to me. With her helmet sealed I couldn't see her expression though the dark visor. Before I had a chance to activate the hood's comms system Cavendish grabbed me round the waist. There was a sudden crack and a tremendous force pulling at me as the air was sucked from the compartment. Cavendish held on to me so I wouldn't fly across the room.        
   In a few moments it stopped and we were in vacuum. The crew that had damaged vacuum hoods were struggling desperately. A pair of marines headed towards them, picking them up and carrying them to the back of the compartment. I looked towards the next hatch. Nonaka was on his feet and shepherding people through. I waited where I was until Cavendish signalled and we took our turn. As I put my hand on the hatch surround I looked back. There were four bodies against the back wall and I could see blood on the floor. Vacuum asphyxiation was slow and painful. I knew that the marines had intervened and made it quick and I was grateful. Acre pushed me through the hatch.

    I never heard the explosion.

My name is, my name is, my name is

Names are difficult. i had to come up with a whole load to populate the book. Mostly for people but also for some places. If you're interested, this is where some of mine came from.

Gabriel York. York came first. I was starting to write and there was an article on the news about something that had happened in York. For his first name i wanted something that was completely unexpected and sort of out of character. i remembered a scene from the film Assassin where Gabriel Byrne stares down Bridget Fonda who's armed and angry as i remember. How cool was he.

The Admirals and the Marines. They're all named after streets near where i used to live.

I'm half way through writing this and i've just realised that, as hardly anybody has read the book, most of you won't know what the names were in the first place.

Places - the Sleeper Empire started on five planets where ships from earth arrived with tens of thousands of people in suspended animation. The planets took the names of the ships. There were six "Visionary" ships.

The Asimov, the Bradbury, the Heinlein, the Wells, (one i've forgotten, it's late) all founded worlds.Nobody wanted to get on the ship named after Philip K, and The Clarke was lost (although found again, but that's book two). For planets in book one, i thought of the characteristic then ran the phrase through Google translator and wrote down whatever sounded right.

There's no real science to it. i think i'll tweet and see how other people do it.

And so, i've talked about two main characters. One, who's been called York throughout the blog and one, who's picture was subject of the vote (which is now closed) but whose name i haven't yet used.

Here's a question. What was the name of the spy in the Len Deighton novels The Ipcress File and Billion Dollar Brain? In the films he was played by Michael Caine.



If you said Harry Palmer, go stand in the corner

In the books his name is never mentioned. Never. We know where he comes from, but not who he is. Originally i wanted to do something similar. In my head her name was Chorus - named after the narrator of several of Shakespeare's works  -but i was trying not to use it. A touch of mystery but, in the end it was just too clumsy and i gave up.

However, at the last minute, we changed it. In the first draft her sisters Echo and Legion (there are reasons for this) appear briefly. With a flick of the find and replace button, i swapped Echo and Chorus over. I think it suits her better.

I'm doing the final cut now (somebody else will do the final edit - worry not, professional writers) and the only thing that i worry about is the names. Particularly the one named after a Beatle.

I was 19 before i realised that the Beatles was spelt with an A

The best laid plans

'Bet it's a Scenario Five.' Muttered one of the troops
I wondered if York would explain the comment, but he just held my gaze, waiting for instructions. Although i'd had marines on my shoulder a couple of times, this wasn't a term i'd come across and i had to ask. I turned to the woman. Her hair was short and i could see gaps where the scars ran across the skin. There were similar fine lines visible between the tight cornrows braided into the hair of the woman that had given up her seat for me. Some sort of surgery, but different from that we all underwent as children to insert our implants. She was older than me; ten years, possibly more from the lines around her eyes. I looked into her eyes. This woman killed, often. Not that unusual for a soldier but there was  something in her eyes that said she did it without a hint of remorse and she was completely untouched by it. It was like looking into a mirror. Marine units were trained killers motivated by Hoo!Yah! and shared indoctrination. Born killers and psychopaths were difficult to control and were usually weeded out early on in basic training. Whatever she was, it wasn't a marine.
'Scenario Five?'
'Five basic scenarios.' She ticked them off on her fingers and i noticed that the tip of one was missing. 'Guard, Hot insertion, Cold insertion, Pursuit and, number Five, everybody's favourite, Lost contact. Whenever we find whatever it is we're looking for there are inevitably dark corridors full of traps, xenomorphs, madmen, danger and destruction.'

Before i started out, i wrote a plan for the book, with each chapter set out in some detail. It was a story about an investigator who was sent to find out what happened to a remote research station that had broken off contact. The working title was Scenario Five.

The problem was that the plan ran to fifteen chapters and around fifty thousand words. Half a book. I didn't have a clue what was going to happen in the second half, but NaNoWriMo was about to start and the keyboard was calling.

This is where i discovered that books actually write themselves and that the characters are in control. I'd worked up my two main characters through a number of short pieces and had a side of A4 for each with a biography, description and details on their characters. I knew them inside out. So, all i had to do was ask; in this situation, what would they do? And then write it down.

At times i was surprised. What was intended to be a brief stop at a shipyard to repair damage to the ship ended up being four chapters of violence and mayhem and the occasional pithy comment from one of the marines. It wasn't planned, but i enjoyed it tremendously and it added fifteen thousand words to the count :-)

Around this time i learned not to be frightened of the blank page in the planning book. NaNoWriMo (google it before November) teaches writers that the best way to overcome the difficulties we face is just to write. It's all about quantity rather than quality and everything else can be sorted out in draft two.

The whole back end of the book was written on the hoof. Mostly envisaged in the shower in the morning and then typed up and embellished in the evening. I read that Douglas Adams was typing new versions of the script for Hitchhiker right up to the moment that it was recorded (and possibly further changes to the ending after recording had started), so you don't have to have it all planned out months in advance. Many of the bits i had planned out are completely different now to what they were on the notepad as, when i tested them against the criteria of what would... they just didn't work.

I'd like to think that the final chapters of the book don't look under-rehearsed. I think there are some good scenes and one of my favourite lines.

'Shoot the bitch.' Shouted Cavendish, happily. None of the pain killers i used had that effect.


It's probably better in context.

From Thornaby on Tees to Whitby

Where to start? So you've got all these ideas whizzing about in your head and perhaps you've had a few abortive attempts to write the perfect novel. How do you actually turn your ideas into the real thing.

For me it was an Open University online creative writing course. Over three months a group of twenty people worked through a set of creative challenges, each one a little bit more complex than the last. We started with 100 word scenes and worked out way up to a 1500 word short story.

I had a great time and i learned loads. One of the biggest things was understanding what i liked about the books i read. i like novels with a small number of well drawn characters (i can't cope with too many major characters; i just get confused). I love the early Jack Reacher novels by Lee Child but, as the series progressed, i was less enamoured and i realised that, with each new book, i wasn't really learning much about the character. i kept going, and was rewarded for that when i read 61 hours, which told me a little bit about Reacher's back story and introduced a new, enigmatic, character - Reacher's replacement -  who may play a large part in future stories.

As part of the course, i wrote a piece that created a character. I didn't know much about her - not even her name, but thought it would be interesting to follow the character through the rest of the course and see what i could do with her. In the next few exercises another character developed. He had a name - Gabriel York - and a job; a Captain in the Imperial Navy

By the end of the course i'd developed a slight obsession with these two and really wanted to know what was going to happen to them. Suddenly i was a writer and 100,000 words later i had an answer to my question.

The next entry will be the first story i wrote about my main character.

If nobody reads a book, did it actually get written?

It's often said that we all have a novel inside us. It's also said that, for many of us, it would be better if the novel stayed there. Well, for better or for worse, my novel escaped from captivity and is now roaming the hard drive of my laptop and is on the verge of being released into the wild. Or Amazon Kindle.

Almost everybody has a story to tell. For some of us it's a quick anecdote, suitably embellished. For others there is a complex tale of heroes and villains that takes 100,000 words to tell. I've wanted to write a novel for a long time. I've fallen into the trap of writing and re-writing the first chapter endlessly, and never progressing to chapter two. I did once get a couple chapters in to a police procedural / thriller, but some sort of IT disaster wiped it forever. Probably not a bad thing.

I'm writing the perfect book.

I've read some great books. In the really good ones i've connected with one of the characters and followed them through their adventures. But for the majority, there's been something missing. Not something i could really put my finger on. Perhaps the hero wasn't quite brave enough, or vulnerable enough. Perhaps there wasn't enough description for me to see the landscape they were moving through, or so much description that they were lost in it. Or they won too easily, or they were saved by a deus ex machina device.

What i'm trying to say is that so many books are, just slightly, disappointing. So i decided that the only way to get round the problem was to write my own. The Goldilocks of books - just right.

Having finished my first book, i've realised that, actually, it's not just right. Rather than writing just for me, as i intended, i've writen knowing that, eventually, somebody else would read it. The book i wrote is not the book i started out to write. I suspect most writers find that.

Having said that, i still like the book and i'm really happy with it. Perhaps one day i'll go back and write a director's cut that never sees the light of day. Perhaps not. Writers write so that readers can read.

Or something