Last time….I promise.
Chapter 1 of my new story, ‘Bomb Girl’, is now available to read on Wattpad. Just clink the link above to read.
Last time….I promise.
Chapter 1 of my new story, ‘Bomb Girl’, is now available to read on Wattpad. Just clink the link above to read.
I’ll be posting the first instalment of my new work in progress, ‘Bomb Girl’, on the Wattpad app later today. It’s an opportunity for me to showcase my fiction writing. You can download the app for free and follow me, if you are not already on it. Alternatively I will share links on the blog.
Thank you and stay tuned.
Since the start of the year I feel as if I haven’t stopped writing, yet haven’t actually written anything. My free time, outside of family and work commitments, has been taken up with penning query letters and synopses for the book. Fionnuala and I have been querying literary agents, hoping one will pick up on the manuscript. This has entailed a lot of hard work on our part, and my writing has been an unwitting casualty.
I’ve still kept blogging but, at times, sense that I sound like a broken record, dishing out the same tired information. Yes, I’ve written a book. Yes, I’m trying to secure literary representation and a publisher. No, I can’t let you read it yet. I’m like a boxer who talks a good fight but has yet to step into the ring or throw a punch in anger. It’s all swagger, bravado. There is no substance to his claims.
I’m always grateful for the support and encouragement I receive via the blog. It’s one of the reasons I keep reaching out to you all, day after day. Your kindness reassures me that I can write and my dream of publishing a novel is more than the sad musings of a middle aged wannabe author. Yet, it’s all take, take, take on my part. I want to give something back, to prove that this is more than a facade, a dreary delusion on my part.
Which leads me to the title of this post. I’ve recently opened a Wattpad account, where writers post works in progress for free, acquiring feedback from peers and book lovers. It’s free and even a Luddite like yours truly can navigate the app. I had been toying some time about taking the plunge and joining Wattpad and at last it has happened. It’s a resource whereby I can practice and share my fiction writing without all the subterfuge and mystery.
Yes, I’m finally climbing over the ropes and into the ring. In gaudy, ill fitting shorts and holding my paunch in, but I’m there nonetheless. To date, the only people who read my fiction have been family, friends and beta readers. So, this is a daunting prospect. I hope you will all be gentle with me. I’m seeking honest, constructive feedback which will allow me to improve as a writer. Who knows, you might even enjoy it.
The first work I will be putting up is ‘Bomb Girl,’ the story of Ariana Hennessy, born amidst the carnage of the worst terrorist attack in the troubled history of Northern Ireland. The Monksbridge Massacre. Portrayed by the media as a symbol of hope amidst the horror, Ariana has reluctantly born the mantle of ‘Bomb Girl’ into adult life. Now nineteen years old and free from the shackles of her infamous past, Ariana is settling into student life in a new town, where she can start afresh.
That is until the premonitions begin. Graphic images of blood and devastation. On the university campus she walks every day with her new friends. When Ariana can no longer ignore the horrific images and starts to probe their meaning, she discovers a chilling connection between them and her past. A past about to revisit the campus with devastating consequences. Only Ariana stands in its path. Can she avert a second atrocity which will make the Monksbridge Massacre pale into insignificance?
I hope to post the first chapters of ‘Bomb Girl’ in the next few weeks so watch this space.
You can find me on Wattpad at @stephenblack70
I will also be posting updates on Twitter at @stephenRB4
Are you looking forward to ‘Bomb Girl?’
Almost a year ago I took a week off work for the purpose of starting to write a book. The idea for it had been rattling around my head since the summer, but fear and self-doubt held me back from taking the plunge and putting pen to paper. Or rather, digits to keyboard. In the end, Fionnuala literally chained me to a desk and opened the laptop in from of me. Write, just write. And so, it began.
I had an idea, but no plan. No chapter by chapter breakdown, no detailed synopsis. I just wrote blindly, stumbling from page to page, usually with no idea where the story was taking me. At one surreal point, the characters took over and began to craft their own histories. I started to trust them and the path ahead formed, one step at a time. The Kirkwood Scott Chronicles were born.
Last night, I closed the lid of the laptop, having completed the fourth edit of ‘Skelly’s Square’ the first book in what I hope will be a series, charting the adventures of our eponymous hero and his friends, battling an ancient, malignant evil on the streets of modern day Belfast. The book is currently being critiqued by my trusty band of beta readers, who have provided invaluable feedback so far. You know who you are.
I know you never really finish a book. I need to digest the beta feedback and further tinker with the manuscript. But I’m now at the stage, where the cake is baked and I’m just applying the icing. It could be the worst book ever written, but it is written and they can never take that away from me, whoever ‘they’ are. I’ve already grasped the creative thread which is Part 2, and will be feeling my way into it when the dust settles from this one.
I’m increasingly tempted to research the self publishing route. The drain of completing a year’s work and then facing the gargantuan task of securing an agent and publisher might be a step too far. I don’t expect to sell millions or win awards. All I ever wanted to do was write and one day, hold a printed copy in my hand. It could take years, if ever, to achieve that via traditional publishing routes.
We will see but the horror stories coming from traditional publishing terrify me. I’m not sure I want to expose either Kirkwood or myself to that. I will mull it over in the weeks ahead as the beta feedback comes in. In the meantime I’m open to any suggestions anyone has to offer. As ever, I want to thank everyone who has supported and encouraged me on the journey. Kirkwood Scott has finally been born.
Would you read ‘The Kirkwood Scott Chronicles – Skelly’s Square’?
Publishing or Self-Publishing? Thoughts?
I’ve often taken refuge within the pages of a book. During some of the darkest phases of my life I have galloped through the night, before gratefully clattering across the torchlit drawbridge and dismounting within a courtyard of words and chapters. On all four sides, paper walls have towered comfortingly around me, as impenetrable as stone and steel. I am safe, untouchable, alive.
As I near the completion of my first novel, I also near the year mark in its genesis and evolution. Yes, a year ago the name Kirkwood Scott popped into my head, swiftly followed by that of his nemesis, Augustus Skelly. Well, I say popped into, but truth be told they were always there, just waiting for the opportunity to step forward and formally introduce themselves to myself and the (still) waiting world.
These characters and their adventures have possessed me since then. I have been the conduit through which their stories have evolved. The process has been excruciating at times, but now here I stand on the cusp of recrossing the castle drawbridge and revealing my labours to the big, bad world. It’s a terrifying process and one I have very mixed feelings about.
Part of me is excited to see what happens. But a growing part of me dreads it. My skin is too soft to endure the inevitable criticism and rejection that will follow. Part of me just wants to shove the manuscript in a drawer; something to dig out for the grandchildren in years to come. I’ve done what I set out to achieve – I’ve written a book. The path from here seems too treacherous, too hilly, and utterly beyond my means.
Improbable. Impassable. Impenetrable. These are the words that sit heaviest on my tired shoulders. I sit with pen poised, about to sign terms of surrender as my enemy leers over my shoulder, rubbing its clawed hands in gleeful anticipation of my capitulation. But then I think. I think back to the times I have hidden within the pages of a book, concealed from the storms of life, battering me on all sides.
And I think, what if that book had never been written? What if the author had given up and hurled the manuscript into the fire? What if Tolkien, King, Lewis et al had never allowed their fantastic creations to see the light of day?Where would I be? Where would so many of us be? It doesn’t bear thinking about. I need the written work almost as badly as I need water and oxygen. Reading and writing are akin to life itself.
In today’s fast food, abbreviated, hyper linked world we still need books. 140 character tweets are not enough for me. I need substance, depth and texture. I desire to spend time within the comforting confines of well crafted, structured prose. I need to amble along verdant banks as its waters meander lazily through the meadows of my mind. I need time away from the million mile an hour car crash that we call life.
I know, from connecting with other bloggers, that I am not the only writer consumed by this aching need. We have sought sanctuary all our lives between the covers of a book. Now, we seek to carry on that tradition. To build new strongholds, towering about the mundane, featureless landscape of modern living. We are the architects who have taken the baton from our literary forefathers. We must build. We must create. We must offer respite.
Have you ever hidden within the pages of a book?
I sporadically issue Flash Fiction writing challenges based around discarded till receipts I find during my travels around the shops of Belfast. Today’s is a true conundrum. Who would purchase a fruit peeler and then buy ‘prepared’ fruit? As in, already peeled, diced, sliced etc. Doesn’t that negate the need for a peeler? The plot thickens almost as readily as the mind boggles.
The rules are simple as there aren’t really any. There is no word limit and the only other limit is your imagination. Just base your story on the receipt and the person who bought it. If you’re taking part, I would ask that you namecheck our blog. Also feel free to reblog to your own community. There are no prizes, other than my undying gratitude for taking part. Let the Flash Fiction challenge begin!
I’ve now reached the two third mark of my fourth edit of ‘The Kirkwood Scott Chronicles – Skelly’s Square,’ my first, and possibly only, novel. Progress has been slow, but steady, this week. As ever, real life has got in the way, and I haven’t been able to devote the time I would like to the project. It has simply been a case of chipping away at it, where and when I can. I’m fighting the urge to rush ahead and lose the quality.
The beta feedback continues to be excellent; positive and constructive. I made a point of selecting as diverse a range of test readers as possible; from teenagers to pensioners, and every decade in between. They all seem to be enjoying the story and Meredith Starc is emerging as the most loved character. Do I need to rename this ‘The Meredith Starc Chronicles?’
I hope not, as Kirkwood is very loosely based on yours truly when he was a struggling office worker in his early twenties; without the world saving potential of course. Some of the lesser, but still vital characters are also being introduced – Cornelius Dobson, Martim Rodriguez, Gunther von Steinbeck to name but a few. It has been fun creating their back stories, where my love of historical research has come to the fore.
Then there’s Colonel Augustus Skelly, himself. The villain of the piece. I’ve put a lot of effort into detailing his physical appearance and mannerisms. He is truly alive when I write about him and I hope that comes across to readers. My wish is that he evolves into that most delicious of characters – the bad guy you love to hate. There may even be a crumb of sympathy as to how he turned out the way he did….but not much.
There are still a few characters to be unveiled, including one largely based on our daughter, Hannah. This has proved a major challenge. How do you do justice to such a huge personality? I’m hoping she likes Harley, her alter ego in the KS universe, otherwise my life won’t be worth living. Harley is a crucial character and crashes into the story soon, driving the plot on to its conclusion.
Much of the early sections of the book concerned character introduction, development and back stories. This has been essential as both Kirkwood and Meredith have dark and troubled pasts, which the reader must understand in order to appreciate their actions and decisions in the present. Otherwise, the story doesn’t make sense. I hope I’ve penned heroes that you can relate to and empathise with.
Then there’s the real hero of the book, the city of Belfast. I’ve enjoyed describing the streets I walk most days, capturing the grime and the beauty in equal measure. Some locations are real, others I have based on reality but allowed myself a degree of artistic license. This is the Belfast of the Kirkwood Scott universe; gritty, but scratch beneath the surface and you will reveal its supernatural underbelly.
I hope to have this edit finished by the end of the month. Then it’s a case of mulling over the beta feedback, et voila it’s finished. I’ll then turn my attention towards researching potential agents and drafting query letters. As ever, I want to thank everyone who has supported me both in the ‘real world’ and the wonderful world of WordPress. Without you, none of this would be happening.
What do you make of the Kirkwood Scott universe?
Are you writing a book? Have you written a book? Are you thinking of writing one? Where are you on your writing journey?
The sight of a well dressed man hunting through discarded till receipts is never an edifying sight. However, needs must, and I did unearth this beauty for today’s Flash Fiction Challenge. The rules are as ever. Well, there are no rules other than create a piece of fiction based upon the contents. You can write as little or as much as you want. All we ask is that you namecheck A Fractured Faith and link the post.
I will reblog my favourite stories. This is highly subjective on my part and there is no prize or winners and losers. It’s just an exercise to get the creative juices flowing and encourage fellow bloggers to flex their literary muscles. The response to the last challenge was great and I’m hoping for more of the same this time. Even if you aren’t participating feel free to share this blog with your readership in order to offer them the opportunity.
So without further ado I give you…..The Mirror.
I wrote yesterday that I’m taking a mini blogging hiatus over the next few days as I focus on completing the third draft of my novel. I’m happy to report that progress is being made as I now have the first 14 chapters, roughly 12000 words, in a coherent running order. Yesterday was the first time I saw a tiny chink of light at the end of this very long tunnel. My jumbled thoughts were coming together into a more structured, seamless story.
At the heart of this process remains the blog, There would be no book without it as the daily routine of writing has given me the self belief to bring the story which has been bouncing about in my head for the best part of a year to life. While I’m still an utter novice as an unpublished author at least I have the blog to fall back upon if the former dream never comes to fruition. My dream is to write for a living but, if not, my writing will always remain a passion.
I’ve been blogging consistently for 14 months now but it still baffles me as to what makes a good writer? What baffles me even more is when fellow bloggers ask my advice on the same subject. I never know what to say as I have no creative writing qualifications or any real grasp of the mechanics of writing. I just tend to sit at my keyboard and the posts and chapters tend to write themselves. In some ways it’s akin to an out of body experience. Sometimes when I read over a piece again I don’t even recall writing it.
Does that make sense? So I’m sorry if my answers to such questions come across as a bit half baked. Because I don’t intend them to be. Consequently I’m going to return the serve today and bounce the question back to you lot. What attracts you to a writer? What makes you want to desire more of their thoughts and words? What lures you into the imaginary worlds they create and tempts you to give up your valuable time to curl up with them in your favourite chair?
Over to you. What makes a good writer?
When I decided I wanted to write a novel last summer I naively believed that it would be a reasonably straightforward affair. Get idea – Write Idea down – Send idea off to publishers – Get six figure advance and three book deal – The end. Oh what a silly boy I was. Ever since then I have been well and truly put in my place by just about everything I have read and heard about the first time in novelist.
You will never get an agent. If you get an agent you will never get a publisher. If you get a publisher nobody will buy it. And forget about the self publishing route because a) it’s too expensive b) you don’t have the time or experience to go down the road and c) did I mention that nobody will buy it because your idea is rubbish, your writing style is rubbish and er…..you’re just generally rubbish.
Well all of the above may be true but, if nothing else, this journey has taught me a lot about myself; what I’m good at and what I’m not so good at. It has also taught me a lot about other people. The good, the bad and the ever so slightly ugly. But most of all it’s taught me about how much of a writer’s life is spent not writing. Don’t believe me? Well here are a few examples for you to mull over.
There’s the thinking to start with. When I’m out running or commuting to and from work I’m thinking about characters, plot, structure, yadda, yadda, yadda. Fionnuala told me this morning that she would hate to spend one minute in my brain. Which I kind of took as a compliment. You need to think, rethink and then think some more before you even think about setting pen to paper or opening your laptop.
Next up is the reading. Why didn’t anyone tell me that writing a book would require so much reading. There’s the research for a start. The novel contains a number of scenes set in the early nineteenth century so I’ve had to research that period in order to add authenticity to those sections. I’ve also had to research modern day Belfast – the history of buildings I walk past every day; certain communities from within which one of my main characters comes from. The list is endless.
I’ve also sought to read as much of the genre that I’m writing about – urban fantasy. This has been daunting as every author I read seems infinitely more creative and eloquent than I am. Their stories flow effortlessly, their ideas spark off the page. It got to the point where I avoided such fiction as it was only depressing me. But I realised that in order to improve I need to learn from the best, no matter how painful and humbling an experience that is.
Then there’s the scene visits. Much of the novel is set in modern day Belfast. So I’ve found myself wandering round the city on my lunch breaks. Looking at buildings, really looking at them; buildings that I have walked past a thousand times before. Noticing details that I have never noticed before. Taking photographs and getting funny looks from passers by. It’s as if I’m seeing the city for the first time, or at least for the first time through the eyes of my characters.
I could write a dozen blogs on this subject but I’m going to stop for now. I’m nearing the summit every day and I’m hoping the view from the top will be spectacular when I get there. But that’s only half the story. Standing atop Everest is not what changes a person, it’s the journey to get there that does. I’m well on my way. There’s still some way to go. But I’m learning. Every step of the way.
How much of your writing process involves not writing?
Where are you on your creative journey?
Urban fantasy fiction in modern day Belfast with a twist of historical flashback? Yay or nay?
I cut a sorry figure as I staggered out of the dental surgery three days ago. I had been booked in for a routine filling. Something about me consuming too many fizzy drinks. Who me? I had innocently enquired when asked. I may be partial to the occasional Diet Coke or ten but other than that I have no idea what you’re talking about. Now just give me a jab to numb my mouth, fill the tooth and I’ll be on my way. Fionnuala and I were meeting my sister immediately afterwards for breakfast and the prospect of a sausage and bacon filled soda was all my mouth was focused upon.
‘Are you numb?’ my ‘butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth’ dental surgeon asked after administering an injection to the offending area of my mouth. ‘Er yes I think so’ I replied. It did feel a bit numb, but anyway I had been through this before and it wasn’t that painful anyway. Just crack on and let’s get this over and done with. I’m a busy man don’t you know. After breakfast I had to go to work. Plus I still had to buy Fionnuala flowers for her birthday. That magnetic spice rack she had been after. And a million and one other things to do. This filling was a trifling inconvenience.
Twenty minutes later I was squirming in the dental chair, eyes rolling in my head as the Butcher Dentist of North Street (for that is her new name) wreaked havoc in my mouth. ‘I’m afraid the hole is too deep to fill’ she sweetly simpered. ‘I’m going to have to remove the root in order to save the tooth.’ And with that she threw back her head and emitted a blood curdling cackle before falling upon me with demonic relish, her instruments of mouth destruction reflecting maliciously off my terrified retinas.
Okay I might have slightly exaggerated that last part but, hey, I’m a writer and artistic license is my prerogative. What I’m not exaggerating was the pain. I very quickly realised that my mouth was nowhere near numb enough and I needed another injection. In fact I needed all the injections. The second her drill came into contact with the exposed nerve I entered a whole new universe of pain. Searing, white hot agony that made my toes curl and my innards turn to mush. On a level of 1 to 10 it was a 37. The next five minutes or so seemed like days. I’m convinced I aged several years in that chair. If not decades. Which I can ill afford.
At one point I let out a high pitched whimper which must have alerted her to the fact that her patient was a tad distressed. ‘I think I’ll stop there for today. I haven’t got near the root and you’re in too much pain.’ She almost seemed slightly disappointed as if I had ruined her morning. ‘We’ll have you back in a few weeks and, between now and then, you can decide if you want root canal treatment or the tooth removed.’ And with that I was being ushered out of the room by the dental nurse. Shell shocked but alive I shuffled to reception where I was given my new appointment card and charged £14 for the experience. Ain’t life grand?
‘What happened you?’ asked a shocked Fionnuala as her ashen faced husband emerged from Dr. Hell’s Emporium of Pain formerly known as North Street Dental Practice. As the delayed onset shock set in I just gestured for her to drive. Anywhere. Half an hour later as Fionnuala and my sister tucked in to French toast and bacon I made do with two Ibuprofen and tentative sips of tea which then dribbled down my chin much to the unease, no doubt, of adjacent cafe customers. My jaw felt the size of a house and arrows of agony were still shooting through the tooth in question.
Brave little soldier that I am I headed into work afterwards where the sympathy was predictably underwhelming. I resembled an extra from The Walking Dead for the remainder of the day and was in bed before eight. It was the best nights sleep I have had in months. Every cloud has a silver lining I suppose. I don’t know if I learnt anything from the day so prepare to be disappointed if you are expecting some deep, spiritual learning to be be revealed in the final paragraph. Because it’s time for the final paragraph.
Well here goes anyway. Always be prepared for the worst. Never trust a smiling dentist. All dentists lie. Dentists are liars. Have I made myself clear on that last point yet? Take the pain relief. As in all of it. Give me all the drugs. Now. Never attempt to drink hot tea after a mouth numbing injection. You’ll just end up looking like a drooling idiot and will frighten any young children in the immediate vicinity. Also never arrange a dental appointment if it is your wife’s birthday the next day and you are not yet completely organised. Pain and present buying are not a good mix. That is all.
What’s been your worst dental experience?
They killed him on the Witches Road. Men with black masks and blacker hearts. Two rapid starbursts of white death lighting up the night sky as the silent, wooden sentinels looked impassively on. The body dumped at the roadside where his blood mixed freely with last nights discarded pizza crusts and tonic wine, the communion of the damned.
The years roll by but the memories bite back harder, each passing anniversary another crushing blow to the fragile tendrils of hope in the hollow hearts of those left behind. A cross where he fell, meaningless words on a marble monument. Flowers that die where he died. Tears are shed and harsh words spoken but nothing changes.
Six years it cost them. One year for each orphaned child he left behind him on the roadside. Jesus wept. There was nothing good about that Friday. They raised their glasses as the Romans raised their cross. ‘Forgive them Father for they know not what they do.’ Oh they knew what they did that night alright. Every war has its casualties they shrugged. As casual as that.
I run the Witches Road. I run past the spot where they ended his life and my thoughts run on and I think of that night. The horror, the struggle, the realisation that it was over. And I pray for his family but can’t find it in my weary soul to pray for the hard men and their hard hearts. I run on and I never stop for I fear the Witch. She whispers seductively for me to stop and rest, to catch my breath. But I run on for I know her lies and to stop is to never start again.
So they live their lives and they drive their cars. Along the Witches Road. And they feel no remorse for they fought the good fight like their fathers and their fathers before. They returned the serve. They terrorised the terrorist and every death is regrettable. But sorry? They’ll never say sorry for that would be weak. And weak they are not for they are the people and the people are strong and just. They sleep the sleep of the righteous and God help the man who cries foul murder of them.
Yet she is no man. They had heard the old stories but there is no Witch just like there is no way any man will stop them from walking down the street with their heads held high. Where were you when our shops were being blown to pieces and they were shovelling the remains of our loved ones into bin bags? Damn you to hell and damn your Witch too; tired old tales from tired old folk with too much time on their hands and too little wit between their ears.
They were found in their beds. Twelve years to the day. Their faces twisted and gnarled like the trees under which the trigger was pulled. We scratched our heads and nobody spoke what they were thinking. Heart attacks they said. In their sleep. They would have known nothing about it. Both big men who liked their beer and fags. Natural causes they said. Nobody believed them. There was nothing natural about the look in their eyes. They saw.
I run the Witches Road. I run past the spot where he fell. Fresh flowers by the marble. Teddy bears too. Grandchildren now. I smile as I run but not for long. For this is her road and I dare not stop.