Writing a good novel is... challenging.

 

In writing my latest, I confess how much in awe I am at my contemporaries; e.v.e.r,y s.i.n.g.l.e one of them.

Recently, on my website, I explained the benefits of a seaside retreat for promoting a writing mindset, but what I didn’t mention - watching the countless runners on the promenade – (while very much “seated” on a sea-facing bench), is how inspiring I find any runner - of any size – because it takes some gruelling, overcome-the-mind-barriers, next-level dedication.

Were all fighting to overcome the mental/physical barriers in our own, creative ways.

 

It’s not like I’ve never written anything before for pity’s sake... but something about my latest is stretching me in ways I couldn’t possibly imagine before I started out. Honestly, writing The Children at the River’s End was like writing the Hungry Caterpillar in comparison. (No offence, Eric Carle. RIP.) I’ll rise to the challenge, and won’t go down without a fight of course. No retreat, no surrender, and all that jazz. I’ve come too far now, surely… right?

I recently shared with a pal about the obstacles I’ve been facing with this project (cue, non-writing friend’s look of utter confusion), namely: cultivation, chronology, and cross pollination. (Yes, I go deep enough to perform a form of alliteration, and share it all in a beer garden.)

Here goes. I’ll deal with the first (or try to).

Cultivation: It’s the first in a series (that I have big plans for) so how much do you reveal in the first that keeps the reader satisfied, yet hungry for more - and, by the same token - leaves them ‘hanging’… without raising genuine concerns about the overall substance and legitimacy of the story? In other words, how much of the story needs truly tying up by the final scene to maintain congruity?

Aarrrggghhhhh!

Cultivation (2): which seeds need to blossom faster within the story (and be royally displayed in their colourful aplomb) while others are temporarily mentioned, but cast to one side (… effectively, laid dormant) subject to an incidental reference for now, but could become major players in the future?

Aarrrggghhhhh!

Honestly, juggling all this is like been asked to do the limbo, while holding a steel 100kilo barbell in both hands.  Pivot, pivot… pivot.

Right, I’m done for this evening. I’ll get onto Chronology and Cross-Pollination in the near future. The weather here in London is bearable, so I’m going to chill, and not over-think things. Needless to say, as always – when all’s said and done – I love doing all this. 😊

Somehow, this post descends into metaphors about fish, and fishing... even though I was never taught how to fish.

 

I love where writing ideas come from (although I can’t explain how they surface).

Disclaimer* This is a glass-of-red-wine-blog, late on an evening. Be aware of this. Typos guaranteed. Inane ramblings, a certainty.

Sitting, chilling… half-heartedly researching… happy with a consistent approach to writing in the last couple of weeks, while at the same time, being massively challenged by the ‘entire’ concept of this latest novel. Seriously, some days, it’s like combining University Challenge with an Iron Man run, while secretly putting your wild-card bid in as a Strictly contestant. But I do like a challenge.

Straight to this blog: story ideas are mysteries.

When new ideas present from out of nowhere – me, being me - I spend as much time deciphering their origin, as much as the idea itself, especially if it’s a bonafide golden nugget of a conduit idea. By this, I mean… a golden fleece that seems to weave together many different components. When this happens, it leaves me with huge questions; two in particular:

(1)     How do they surface?

(2)     Where do they surface from?

 

Surfacing from our subconscious, our past experiences, plain old inspiration, or somewhere more divine – the collective conscience - etc? Even though I purport to a more psychological approach in understanding, it still leaves me with a profound sense of wonder.

Seriously (Thank you, Shiraz), their origin can sometimes be beautiful, or at least – in my merry state – I believe they are; and we’re reeling them in from the ocean of “where”, exactly? Absolutely fascinating.

Countless times you cast the rod, and wait… and wait… (walk the bank, stand-on-your head, play bass, play chess etc)… and you’re still in the position where you end up tugging up minnows. But then occasionally you feel the line pull on the unexpected. Instinct tells you: this could be big. You thought it might be a trout, but in actual fact, you just reeled… the most beautiful, deadliest catch. 

Time for the most arduous, gruelling and gorgeous war. Time to drag that prize on to land.

I guess, in conclusion, I’m still enamoured (and confounded) by how all this writing stuff works, while being a willing participant to the ride. Keep writing folks; it does you the world of good!

(Forgive me for all the allegory in this post; that’s what wine does 😊It’s all ‘Trope central’, and I am aware of this. Ha Ha,)

Cross-Pollinating your novels.

 

Here I am, listening to a random shuffle of new rock bands on Spotify, while creating an exclusive post for Blogger. The Sherlocks, Radio Free Alice, Overpass, Wunderhorse, etc. Definitely, decent stuff out there; quite encouraging actually. Especially in a commercialised, contrived – and to be quite frank – bland, directionless musical environment.

And thank you to all you who have made for an influx of readers here in recent weeks. It’s really heartening.

I’m finishing off a blog for my website which I’ll hopefully upload later. In the meantime, I had a separate idea for blogger.

So, Cross-Pollination?

One of the reasons my fingertips haven’t touched my latest script in a week (rare event), is entirely and resolutely this concept. Sure, I’ve been walking, solving and – and altogether - writing/gesturing/scheming in my head as I plant one boot firmly in front of the other. (Can’t beat a walk for this – why? – still, not sure.) But I’m currently experiencing an altogether new conundrum. One, for reasons of personal conviction and integrity I need to solve. I have ideas galore for novels, and some STICK. In some cases, some STICK a bit too well.

Here's the dilemma:

In my latest, I’m trying to ensure there’s no cross-pollination between the ‘core’ ideas I have for my WWII based Sci-Fi, the mysterious Arizona-set Tour-de-Force (that’s forever expanding in my mind), and this… my latest offering. I can do it. I can demarcate, but I have to be smart, and as wily as a fox, in this nuanced, form of fine-tuning (I really do). Truthfully, it’s still fun, but it is an absolute challenge.

Wasn’t expecting it. But, there you go. I guess it’s similar to when I create a riff on the Bass, when even a subtle dampening of the strings, imbues a surprising, and often, richly different textured feel to the sound.

It becomes a separate entity. 😉

Nearly there, folks…

Writing Action Scenes - 2025

 

Action Sequences – Part 1

 

So, the motive behind this post involves those out there still logging on and reading one of my ye olde posts (uploaded to Blogger.com many, many moons ago). Thank you for reading; it concerns Action Sequences. That post is in need of sprucing-up and an update, because I’m a little more experienced now. I’ve delivered 45 writing workshops to a wonderful company in Bromley, so, I’ll humbly impart some (hopefully) useful tips for creating believable action scenes. I’m no expert, but like a lot of writers, I continue to work on it.

Here goes. These things have helped me craft the action over the years. This is part 1. I’ll upload part 2 in a couple of weeks.

No.1: Lay a sound foundation.

Summat’s brewing.

It’s in the air… inevitable… and it’s so near, you can taste it. Seriously, it’s all about to go down, and those concentric lines of fate are narrowing towards the target. For both the reader & writer, carefully building the context and the tension before the action (and especially any form of ‘emotional investment’ as to why this needs to happen) is as important as writing the scene itself. Jeopardy can frequently appear out of nowhere, but if you’ve laid a compelling platform beforehand (with that ‘no way out’ kind of disquiet/dread), it’s far more enticing. With good, relatable characters, the action sequence matters far more to the reader because they’re wholly invested in both the process and the outcome. Really soak yourself in developing a foundation that propels the action in a way that feeds the reader’s eyes and throttles fireworks through their mind when it happens.

No. 2: Think: real time.

I try to write the initial action sequence very, very quickly, giving it a ‘real time’ feel. And when I say quickly… I mean Q.u.i.c.k.l.y! Sure, there’s absolutely tonnes of punctuation and grammar errors, and you do feel like a chef speedily dicing an onion as you thunder-tap your keyboard, but I find it increases authenticity, and believability. It reads at the speed the action should play out in real life. With action sequences in particular, take time away, and look back at what you've written a few days later. This way, you can see if it marinaded in the way intended, and/or shave off anything that clogs, snags, slows the action… or just sounds plain weird.

No. 3: Use smart language.

If there’s banter, it’s not going to be, ‘Tally-ho! Toodle-pip! Time I gave this uncouth rotter a darn good thwick-thwacking!’

I mean… (shrugs)??

If it’s a tense scene, use smart, pointed language that’s targeted and dripping with intent, so you can actually feel the palpable atmosphere that your characters are experiencing. Don’t over-elaborate. If it’s an adrenalin-surged, hell-for-leather scene, your characters won’t have time for much discourse because they’re trying to breathe! Any language here will be short, sweet and smart. It’s life, death, and the fine line between, so the language will reflect the immediacy of the danger and the underlying jeopardy.

No. 4: Use oblique language (and trust that the reader will infer).

We’re all guilty of spelling out too much when we’re writing, but oblique conversations in an action scene are a must. By oblique, I mean if one character is urgently trying to convey something, the other wouldn’t access verbatim mode - responding in a “dot the i’s, cross the t’s” manner - because it’s unnatural. Oblique means a slight angle in the call-and-response that doesn’t quite match with the previous character’s statement, but imparts so much more through inference. If the dialogue is urgent - and we are dealing with commands, aggression and apprehension – then reduce the amount of chatter, and trust the reader to infer. This isn’t about spelling thing’s out; it’s about your reader being able to bridge-the-gap and instantly accessing “between the lines” for the subtle, yet powerful meanings. I believe, particularly for us dry-humoured Brits, we enjoy using the whole nine yards of inference (metaphors, euphemisms, similes, etc) and we trust we’ve left enough hanging for the reader to first access, and then infer the gaps in the dialogue. Takes some practise, but well worth it!

Hope that helps. Like I say, I'm always learning, too. If it does... and you fancy leaving a comment (even if it's literally: "Cheers, man. That's helpful."), then please do.

JSC

Nearly ‘live’ on BBC Radio 4 – Any Q’s. Friday 18th April 2025.

So close…

Pre-show. Sitting in the Community Links centre in Canning Town, when one of the BBC producers moves over to the microphone. (A Welsh guy called Gareth.). He asks: is Jim Clark here? 

(Yes, author’s have non-fancy titles, too.)

I stick my hand up. ‘Here.’

He moves across and informs me, if we use your question later, can we please cut out the part about privatisation? (Dammit. Key component in my eyes.) My Q is about the effects of unfettered privatisation on the workload/well-being of teachers. I'm concerned about empathetic people being governed by algorithms and acturial analysis (ie targets), while trying to impact the lives of children.

I reluctantly agree. He's a good bloke. Savvy. To be fair, he explains that it will make it more pithy for the panel of politicians and peers.

Shortly before the show commences, Gareth re-appears and calls out names from the perky audience who have submitted salient questions, asking those he's called to move closer to the panel chairs at the front. Sandy (my great pal who I’m attending with), is the second name called! I begin to sweat in truth at this point, but before I know it, I’m the seventh and final call. I scrabble around for my glasses, not knowing the protocols of what on earth is about to transpire. I hastily move forward, synapses firing in my brain. And suddenly, there we all are  (the select) – directly in front of the mics – about to go live in front of the nation. It's such an eye-opener into a well-oiled, seamless machine. Then you realise, the first Q - delivered out loud by a nurse - is a kind of trial run for the panel (during the 'actual' news segment). In no time, her question is dealt with... and it's over. Almost incidentally, the news at eight comes and goes - as we all sit there, silently listening (trying not to shuffle, and rehearsing the Q you submitted in your head) - and then it's GO! Straight in. No messing. You’re ‘live’ to 1.5 million listeners and you don’t even really sense the transition... honestly. There are countless, impalpable listeners out there, and you're strangely detached, residing in a mid-sized room with a (largely) well-behaved audience. The nice woman next to me eventually asks her question (No.6), and then, it's yours truly… but they’ve ran out of time. 

What?

Absolutely flew by!

Felt a bit deflated. Nearly there. Guess I was on the subs bench all along. Felt I had such an important Q to ask on behalf of teachers, and many others in the compassion industries…

I was there, folks. Ready to, at least, advocate. Here's the proof. Despite this, a very enjoyable experience.

Here's the link to Friday's show if you fancy a listen (Sandy's is the first Q asked (Bravo to her): https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b006qgvj

The Pipe Dream Diaries (3) Ophidiophobia...

 

Snakes, folks.

Yes, those big ol’ fat, rat’s tails with teeth.

Not for me, serpent lovers… my apologies.

 

A shade over ten years’ ago, when I originally wrote this blog, me... and a couple of friends (one now sadly passed) visited ‘Phobophobia’ on Tooley Street (great name) in the heart of London Bridge. We all had a raucous time in a terror-walkthrough that distilled our deepest fears in a touchy-feely, real-time setting. Because I’d previously attended (and my pals hadn’t), the ‘zombie’ staff locked me away in a dungeon. I had no choice, but to listen to my friend’s screaming to a chainsaw serenade from afar (while standing next to a very life-like corpse). Ah, joyous times.

But it wasn’t quite over. As soon as you left the horror installation, and entered the shop, THEY were there waiting… with their snakes… coiled around their shoulders.

I guess this is very similar to a psychological therapy technique known as Flooding. By being exposed to a sudden tsunami of overwhelming fears, in an instant, and then – in a protracted, form of bombardment – your fears are reset. This is the intended outcome.

Controversial. The juries out. Does it even work? (I have my opinions.)

I don’t suffer with ophidiophobia, I just don’t like snakes that much. In truth, I’d happily hold a metre long yellow Boa, and any slinky version of a non-venomous kind, but that’s my limit. (Even the corn snake, that was “planted” on me, took an unhealthy, and decidedly intimidating interest in my beard.)

 

This occasion happened about three months after I released the first Shelly Clover novel. It was one of the warmest Halloween’s on record in the UK. 23+ degrees. (Hence, inspiration for the climate in Shelly Clover in the Theatre Mind Macabre.) It was a lovely evening – a true treasure of a memory - set close to the River Thames. After the walk-through, we stopped over at the16thC pub opposite. It was a great evening with good ol’ south-east London friends.

Glad I did it. Certainly, an absolute fab memory, looking back. Snakes though… never my thing.

 

The Pipe Dream Diaries (2) The Ninety-Ninth Birthday.

 

 

My post on the 23^rd Feb. 2015, with image included, is of Gran on her 99^th birthday…

Seriously, who even lives that long (and looks that great, right)? And she was truly great; I mean it. Words cannot begin to describe the impact this wonderful woman had on my life.

And of course it is “had” in the past tense (otherwise she would have been 109 this past February).

My Gran’s life and demeanour were characterized by her default settings towards compassion, kindness, and acceptance. She was non-judgemental, peaceful, and her serenity was clear to all, and an ever present. It never deviated, nor did it faulter. She granted me emotional asylum to allay all my fears, in a quaint home, replete with spirally patterned carpets and delicately flowered wallpaper. Here, I experienced an uninterrupted flow of joy; bubbles of hope were a constant. I quickly learned that as our car hit the end of our driveway – a right turn meant boredom – but a left turn was a Ninety percent chance of heading to hers! I’d always ask if I could stay over, and she always said, ‘Yes’! It was a done deal, and I was always so excited. It was better than most other forms of anticipation, because it felt richer and realer.

Staying with my her, was like a haven. I can’t quite describe it, but it was – in the fullest sense.

On occasions, someone might ask you what your childhood was like, and there will be an endless range of replies. Mine: quite good. To elaborate, the combination of my imaginary life, and Gran, are key to this self-verdict. If we forget the dark clouds, and recall happy events/faces to make that retrospective judgement, then my happiness is filled with the face of the woman you see in the thumbnail. I think I only ever saw her flustered once. I caused this. I didn’t like it one bit, and I never did again (because there was no way) I’d ever want to do anything that disrupted the equilibrium of a beautiful soul.

 

Gran reached 100. She passed away peacefully a year-and-a-half after this photo was taken.

 

I have dedicated The Children at the River’s End to her, because I felt so much inspiration writing this novel, and – who better to dedicate a novel to – than an inspirational human who impacted me greatly. One plus one, really does equal two, here.

I hope you too had a lovely Gran. I’m so glad I got to experience one the absolute best in my life.

Ebook offer for World Book Day (6th)... and the entire week - 2nd - 8th March

To celebrate World Book day this Thursday (6th), I'm knocking up to 50% off my ebooks on UK/US platforms at SMASHWORDS & AMAZON for the ENTIRE week.

2nd - 8th March only. Enjoy!

The Pipe Dream Diaries. (I) Weird, looking back.

 

(I’ll try making my blogger posts a little different to my website blog.)

26 posts in 2014, and then sporadic entries all the way through to 2020 (five that year), and then… nothing at all. The proverbial tumbleweed bouncing across a dusty, deserted town. If I’m honest, I have no recollection of even posting during the pandemic at all. I guess it’s a time we all want to forget.

 

But reading that final entry in August 2020, is hands down, weird. Musings of another, written in their hand, trapped inside their consciousness; all so strange and detached. I remember that sofa, the sun blazing through the window, and it crumpling as I turned. Sticky, uncomfortable… desperately dreaming my way out of international disease, and internal dismay.

And I recall writing the opening 20,000 words of a novel tentatively entitled: The children at the end of the river. Would it ever happen? Truthfully. There were so many direct/indirect obstacles to contend with.

4.5 years on. A slight title change, a late 2023 release (along with images on this accompanying blog), and, I guess, I possessed enough guile and resilience to smoke the pipe dream into reality.

Still, profoundly weird, though.

 

I initially started this blog, back in 2014, to promote Mis-fit, Misplaced, Miss Shelly Clover, and also because I like blogging/getting thoughts down on a page. But in the meantime (and particularly post 2020), I’ve since re-written, and re-released that novel with a different cover… and also released a whopping sequel. (Also, in the provisional stages of planning the third instalment, and the cover is already designed, and visible online.)

On top of this, I have two other books in the bag: a Christmas novella: Mr Buechner’s Christmas on Shrieker Pass; and the horror novel, which I was starting at the time (and that this page is now dedicated to).

Effectively, four novels, since that scorcher in the pandemic… where I had an anthurium for company – and Kevin and Mabel – the two pigeons who would faithfully perch on my windowsill.

Glad to get past all that. 100%. And that the words actually became ‘physical things’ on a page, that people can now read.

 

A Strange Flash of Revelation

 

On the day I reached 124,055 words of the first draft, at the point of crafting the finale (and a whisker away from completion), I experienced a truly strange flash of revelation.

I was standing in the kitchen, holding a tea-towel.

It was subtle, intense.

The towel I held was green and white and I was drying a pan. What happened next was unexpected: I didn’t go looking for it; it just came to me from nowhere. And it was real, and it was right. I knew its inherent truthfulness. I understood in completeness something so very, very important as I approached the final chapter – as to why this book was so dear to me.

(Disclaimer: I originally wrote this blog on 9^th November 2021. I started writing the novel at the end of March 2020.)

The ‘pandemic’ months/years, for a vast amount of us, were like been fast-track along a street called desperate, in a town named despair, with back-drop of constant apocalypse. Each and every day, part of the world was outside our reach. The sun grimly shone, and every evening the moon was our silent companion.

Our minds, and our bodies were fighting against the unspeakable, invisible assailant. Life opened up to us our own personal paths of anguish that we often frequented alone… sometimes, fearfully alone. Well-meaning people tried to help, but were coping with their own emotional, social and physical traumas. Their occasional words were like a postcard from a distant relative, from a far-away land, arriving battered and bent – and for all the best intentions - with writing smudged beyond all comprehension. It was a good message that our heads could neither embrace, nor perceive; far gone to accept the healing words of hope - day after gruelling day, isolated in the lockdown.

Writing this book is my own way of dealing with the pandemic.

This was my tea-towel revelation: I had to do something to get through. The book was ‘that’ essential, something.

To be honest, I don’t think I had a choice. It had to happen. I had to write it. Another example in my life of: do, or die.

I can’t tell you how much this book saved me in the last year and a half. It was a vision of hope, but I’m absolutely fascinated about how and why it happened, or how it even came into being. This is the truth. I felt so ill on the day I conceived the idea in my mind; awful in fact. Looking back; it was a case of beauty from ashes – my self-help manual written and acted by myself.

To quote Arthur Kingsley McFadden from Mis-fit, Misplaced, Miss Shelly Clover:

‘The beauty is in the process, not the prize. It’s about the passion, not the patent!’

This novel was conceived in pain, delivered with joy… and when I look back, and it was my hiking boots, compass, water bottle, crooked stick and fleece through a dark, treacherous mountain pass; this and so much more.

When I hold a copy now and flick from front to back, and really look at the words dancing by, it 100% brought me through so much: Christmas alone; my neighbour dying (I can see her walking to the ambulance even now); my key-worker letter spread out on the passenger seat of my car, should I get pulled over by the police; the truly horrific abuse from a hacker in an online ‘live’ lesson (“I know where you live.”); the confusing physical pain; the one-way blue arrows in the corridor, and despite government denials, the unequivocal anger that the next lockdown was incoming.

Do you know what? I’m super grateful I got to write this. I really am. I thank God for it, I really do. It’s made the last three years mean something. And to have meaning in life – in whatever capacity – is what it should be all about. To think, if I hadn’t used Google Earth, and scrolled down on the beck on that fateful morning…

Take care, folks. All the very best for your creative lives; please don’t neglect it.

 

James Steven Clark