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The author’s view - I’ve never been asked about that one before. So here goes.
Authors have a different take on people, life and events. For example, I’ll sit on a bus, and listen discreetly to people’s conversations, and note anything that catches me about them, a phrase, a gesture, a sudden movement of the hand. I’ll watch people’s faces, and like a painter, study the tensions in the muscles, the puffiness of the cheeks, the redness of the lips, and a film of moisture in the eyes. Then if they fit, I’ll use these to give that extra bit of authentic detail to my characters.
I’ll read and re-read the drafts of my novel, and try to see the links between seemingly unrelated events, join the dots of chains that don’t at first seem to have a natural connection, with a view to creating an unusual plot line or merging two support characters into one.
If I suffer writer’s block, the author’s view changes. I’ll call on the ‘boys in the basement’ as Stephen King calls the anarchic forces of the unconscious. The boys in the basement are those huge forces of the imagination which can imbue the author’s writing with vision, imagination and creativity.
Before sleeping, I’ll call over to myself where I’ve got to in the novel, up to the point where I’m stuck, and repeat the plot line to myself, until I drift fitfully off to sleep. Then, with a bit of luck, the boys in the basement get the message, and they’ll get to work when I’m out of the way, asleep, and not interfering. Then I may wake in the middle of the night, or in the morning, with the solution, which is often obvious, but sometimes downright bizarre, but definitely and always worth pursuing. That’s why I’ll keep a notebook with me at all times. Or, I may not get anything from them that day, and the next day I may be watching TV or listening to a podcast, and there, out of the blue, something will be said, and that’ll be the ‘Eureka!’ moment. This method is reliable and works most of the time. Why? Because the boys in the basement know a lot more than you or I do. To trust them implicitly is another one of my author’s views.
I’m always searching for ideas and ways in which to make my characters more alive, more organically whole. The other day, I was watching a quirky item on the news, which showed a man playing what’s called a hand whistle. To produce sound, the player cups their hands to create a chamber of air, into which they blow air via an opening at the thumbs. I can use this wonderful versatility to add more authentic detail to the story I’m working on.
And on it goes. An author’s view of life and living is a strange one, it never ends, because it’s as if you are always on the edge of yourself, listening to yourself, watching yourself, so you don’t miss the clues the boys in the basement are trying to tell you about. It’s as if you are always seeking the next part of your story, or forming the next bit of your character’s journey.
An author’s view is engrossing in the extreme.
The town of Unity sits perched on the edge of a yawning ravine where, long ago, a charisma of angels provided spiritual succour to a fledgeling human race. Then mankind was granted the gift of free will and had to find its own way, albeit with the guidance of the angels. The people’s first conscious act was to make an exodus from Unity – they built a rope bridge across the ravine and founded the town of Topeth. For a time, the union between the people of Topeth and the angels of Unity was one of mutual benefit. After that early spring advance, there had been a torrid decline in which mankind’s development resembled a crumpled, fading autumnal leaf.
Following the promptings of an inner voice, Tula, a young woman from the city, trudges into Topeth. Her quest is to abide with the angels and thereby discover the right and proper exercise of free will. To do that, she has to cross the bridge – and overcome her vertigo.
Topeth is in upheaval; the townsfolk blame the death of a child on dust from the nearby copper mines. The priests have convinced them that a horde of devils have thrown the angels out of Unity and now occupy the bridge, possessing anyone who trespasses on it. Then there’s the heinous Temple of Moloch!
The Abdication is the story of Tula’s endeavour to step upon the path of a destiny far greater than she could ever have imagined.
Enjoy an Excerpt
A narrow path snaking down the steep slope linked the town to the bridge. Fearing the guards’ return, she hurried along the winding, uneven path. It was fine for mountain goats, but with her bad ankle and her walking stick, she was nowhere near as fleet of foot as they.
The bridge had a quietening effect, like a warm homecoming after a long absence. Ever since she had heard about the abandoned town of Unity, she had wanted to visit the place for herself. Within touching distance, she felt a keen sense of belonging, even though she had never been near it – until now.
A solitary wicker lantern sat in a cradle, shedding a pale light over a crescent-shaped area covered in flagstones that had been carved out of the side of the mountain. In the middle of it were the bridge pillars and a small wooden shack.
The bridge itself was a slender rope structure slung across the open chasm. Narrow matting formed the bridge deck wide enough for one person to cross. At least there were hand ropes. At the Topeth end, it was attached to two thick, green-coloured pillars. Fingers of mist rose out of the ravine, obscuring the Unity end of the bridge. The structure reminded her of a long, thin hammock tied between two pairs of massive tree trunks.
By the bridge entrance was a large sign:
‘THE DEVILS’ BRIDGE.
DO NOT CROSS.
IGNORE THIS WARNING AT YOUR PERIL.’
It was true. She had heard rumours about the bridge, about how predatory devils prowled the dip in the centre of the rope bridge. It was forbidden to cross it.
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ReplyDeleteThis sounds like a great book.
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