tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13439065355981120632024-02-19T09:06:35.966-08:00J F KirwanUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger24125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343906535598112063.post-46510604451363022562017-05-28T09:05:00.000-07:002017-05-28T09:05:28.127-07:00Transfer of blog site to jfkirwan websiteMy blog has been transferred to my new website on www.jfkirwan.com Hope to see you there!<br />
Click <a href="http://www.jfkirwan.com/blog">here</a> to re-direct<br />
JFKUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343906535598112063.post-45644814881041701172017-05-14T08:22:00.001-07:002017-05-14T08:22:15.134-07:00Find out what your readers like about your writingMost authors love getting reviews. Especially good ones. And if you're planning on writing more than one book, and especially if you're writing a series, you want to make sure you keep them happy. You can always dwell on the bad reviews, but hey, there will always be some who don't like what you write. And even if you change the way you write, those people probably aren't going to read you again, so, in the words of Tolkein's Lord of the Rings, why not 'turn towards the light'?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5F94GeCEZ5Vp79H-TrVVIzeDxlDC2u_u-B9rLNpe3taXvEBzytDYHfE0pZk7Mas4JIKH6WoYtx1UIKpVpTd1uEfATsCQ_CKzB7s37KvuAbkLnqoejSUv8mbPMjYZor3FFY3wi-_nOhQir/s1600/Picture1.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="314" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5F94GeCEZ5Vp79H-TrVVIzeDxlDC2u_u-B9rLNpe3taXvEBzytDYHfE0pZk7Mas4JIKH6WoYtx1UIKpVpTd1uEfATsCQ_CKzB7s37KvuAbkLnqoejSUv8mbPMjYZor3FFY3wi-_nOhQir/s320/Picture1.png" width="320" /></a></div>
See what your 4* and 5* reviews are saying. An easy way to do this is using a Word Cloud. I went through around 60 reviews for my two thrillers (<a href="http://bit.ly/66metres">66 metres</a> & <a href="http://bit.ly/37hours">37 hours</a>), based on Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com reviews. I ignored the one or two 3* reviews, and picked out the adjectives and sought to see what the reviewers most liked. I counted each time they appeared, and then entered them into a <a href="http://www.wordclouds.com/">word cloud</a>.<br />
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The results are as shown, and although I'd read every review more than once, there were some surprises. Scuba-diving was top of the list - a lot of non-divers appreciated this unusual context for a thriller. Characterisation was second though, which was nice to know as a writer, but I hadn't predicted it. Page-turner came a nice third place, closely followed by cinematic and fast-paced. The latter I would have thought first. 'Clever plot', which I put tons of effort into, came around 10th, and 'realism' - because I do a lot of research - barely featured, lol. Exotic settings was nice to see, as it's something I'm continuing into the third novel in the series.<br />
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Doing this isn't the be-all-and-end-all, and some things which don't feature much (like good plotting) might be deal-breakers if they're not good enough, but still, it's an interesting exercise, and has given me pause for thought about the book I'm writing now.<br />
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There are plenty of Word Cloud tools for free on the web, just google them, dissect your reviews, and enjoy :-)<br />
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JFK<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343906535598112063.post-1542144282834158402017-05-07T01:02:00.000-07:002017-05-07T01:02:40.107-07:00Why I wrote 37 Hours<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAbyvyoTl2mJ85RpNJttCP-P9CBsxo8eGyoCuV4WFczp9mk37DRCZsaF0WEEwZ3I_imPgGp_Hy8mQHHnFcCw4A1olztAbDwRDl39GIYpRlA0R1IZoog6i0d78OaWQcnTiT6S96neT0ihX8/s1600/Chernobyl_Disaster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAbyvyoTl2mJ85RpNJttCP-P9CBsxo8eGyoCuV4WFczp9mk37DRCZsaF0WEEwZ3I_imPgGp_Hy8mQHHnFcCw4A1olztAbDwRDl39GIYpRlA0R1IZoog6i0d78OaWQcnTiT6S96neT0ihX8/s200/Chernobyl_Disaster.jpg" width="154" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I remember
when the accident at Three Mile Island (TMI) happened. It was the first time anything
major transpired with a nuclear power plant. At the time I was pro-nuclear – it
was hailed as the way forward: clean, limitless energy. I’ve always had a
fascination with science, and nuclear energy and space exploration seemed to be
the pinnacle of our achievements: splitting the atom and putting men on the
moon. But the honeymoon with nuclear was over.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The real
storm hit with Chernobyl. By the time it happened in 1986, I was working in the
nuclear sector, trying to prevent what was called ‘human error’ from unleashing
nuclear disaster elsewhere. Whereas with TMI it was mainly the threat of a
large-scale reactor meltdown, and the fact that they lost control and some
radioactivity got out, Chernobyl was the real deal, the nightmare scenario. The
reactor core was split wide open. I recall watching on TV as the helicopters flew
over Reactor No.4, pouring cement onto an unquenchable fire. I already knew a
lot of those heroic men would die, sooner or later. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Many years
later, after I’d moved out of nuclear into aviation safety, I watched the
Fukushima accident unfold, after the mother of all tsunamis slammed into 400km
of Japan’s shore. I called people who still worked in the industry, tried to
offer help; but I was outside now, and so witnessed it as one of the hapless
public, wondering how many more such accidents we could take. As with
Chernobyl, there was heroism, as well as political hubris that did little to
help the situation. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">A while ago
I got called back to take part in a nuclear power plant emergency exercise in
the US. It was pretty realistic, simulating a hurricane that systematically
defeated the safety barriers one by one. By the end the crew were pretty shaken
up, even though it was an exercise. Such men and women are paid well. Most of
the time their job can be a bit boring, but when things go wrong, they earn
every penny.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I’ve always
had a soft spot for heroes. And I’d heard this story about three men, divers,
who had to open a valve underwater during the Chernobyl meltdown, to stop a
massive explosion that would have bathed much of Western Europe in a
radioactive cloud. I’d heard <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>they all
died shortly after of radiation poisoning. It was actually the inspiration for
my novel 37 Hours, originally titled ‘One Way Dive.’ In fact, the truth was
less glamourous, if that’s the word. Three men did close the valve, but it
wasn’t fully underwater, and although one died some years later after a heart
attack, the other two were still around. Nevertheless, they saved the day, and
many of their comrades died.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I’ve not
been to Chernobyl, though some of my colleagues have, and have told me about it.
It’s still pretty radioactive in parts, and will be for some time. There are
tours you can go on. But there is one place, deep inside, dubbed the elephant’s
foot, where a chunk of the remainder of the radioactive core sits in a
distorted mound of slag. It’s intensely radioactive. That’s where I wanted to
put my protagonist, Nadia, on the one hand fighting her nemesis, but on the
other being attacked by invisible radiation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Reviews say
the Chernobyl section of the book, which is a quarter of the novel, is
unputdownable, and that Chernobyl’s Reactor No.4 ‘crackles to life.’ Maybe so.
For me it is real. I wrote it because I don’t want people to forget, how badly
we can screw up, and how valiant we can be in trying to save the day. I don’t
want people to forget how much we owe those who paid with their lives.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">After 37
Hours, I thought I was done with nuclear. But in the next book, not yet titled,
Fukushima makes an appearance via one of the characters who was a doctor there
at the time. Maybe I’ll never be done with it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">A long time
ago I wrote a non-fiction book about human error and nuclear safety. At the
time, also 1986, the same year as Chernobyl, the Space Shuttle Challenger
tragedy had just occurred, and I dedicated the book ‘to the seven’, meaning the
seven astronauts who lost their lives. The dedication in 37 Hours is to my
elder brother, Kevin. But I guess the book is also a dedication to all the
unsung heroes in the nuclear industry as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">37 Hours is available for <a href="http://bit.ly/37hours">kindle</a>, iBook and <a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/37-hours-jf-kirwan/1125773478?ean=9780008226978">Nook</a></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="22" QFormat="true" Name="Strong"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="20" QFormat="true" Name="Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Document Map"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Plain Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="E-mail Signature"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Top of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Bottom of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal (Web)"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Acronym"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Address"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Cite"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Code"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Definition"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Keyboard"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Preformatted"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Sample"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Typewriter"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Variable"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal Table"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="annotation subject"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="No List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Contemporary"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Elegant"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Professional"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Balloon Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="Table Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Theme"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 9"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Placeholder Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" QFormat="true" Name="No Spacing"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Revision"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="34" QFormat="true"
Name="List Paragraph"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="29" QFormat="true" Name="Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="30" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="19" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="21" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="31" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="32" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="33" QFormat="true" Name="Book Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="37" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Bibliography"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="TOC Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="41" Name="Plain Table 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="42" Name="Plain Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="43" Name="Plain Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="44" Name="Plain Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="45" Name="Plain Table 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="40" Name="Grid Table Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="Grid Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="List Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="List Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="List Table 7 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 6"/>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343906535598112063.post-31704010320181524002017-04-10T03:29:00.002-07:002017-04-10T03:32:26.419-07:00Insomnia isn't always a bad thing...<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRy_EAaOmf1RzveCsvU4DbkkEsVvIapxn1VDRf1IS2WaCf8zIZrOiWN-TGWy8pJ9-LavrUT-twLVGMMs5jIYF89D20ZgpLpsUXqCohZ5TBQ8CW29OMVFhQUW8Z1BvzkMVvNxnpVYVKPGPb/s1600/insomnia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRy_EAaOmf1RzveCsvU4DbkkEsVvIapxn1VDRf1IS2WaCf8zIZrOiWN-TGWy8pJ9-LavrUT-twLVGMMs5jIYF89D20ZgpLpsUXqCohZ5TBQ8CW29OMVFhQUW8Z1BvzkMVvNxnpVYVKPGPb/s1600/insomnia.jpg" /></a></div>
This
morning I woke up at three am. I had a plane to catch to Rome, so maybe that
was it. But I wasn’t due to get up until 5:45. I tried to sleep for an hour or
so, and then it happened, as it sometimes does. My brain started typing. A line. Not just any line. A killer line.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">When trained killers enter a dark,
smoke-filled room hunting their quarry, they don’t usually look up to the
ceiling</span></i><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Damnit. The next
line typed itself without even asking permission.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Which was exactly where Blue Fan was, <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Screw it. I got
up, pulled on some clothes and headed to the kitchen, switched on the kettle,
made tea, and fired up the laptop. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">…<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hands and feet wedged hard against the edges
of a recess, as if crucified on an X-shaped cross. Like a sacrifice. Which is
exactly what she’d have been if they’d tilted their necks upwards. But they
didn’t.</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">I stared at the
words, sipped my tea. Okay, good tension. But what about her? This is the first
time the readers of <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><a href="http://bit.ly/66metres">66 Metres</a> </b>and <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><a href="http://bit.ly/37hours">37 Hours</a> </b>meet <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Blue Fan</i>, Nadia’s new nemesis. So, some character. Out-and-out
baddie? No. Something more subtle, ambiguous.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Muscles taut, not breathing, she counted
the rifle-sight laser beams criss-crossing the empty chamber. Three. Disappointing.
She was worth more. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I carried
on writing and editing. I’d already written the start of the third Nadia book two weeks
earlier. But unless something better comes along, I know this will replace it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">As I typed
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the alarm went off. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Time to go to work,
to catch the plane to Rome, even though part of my mind was still in Hong Kong
with Blue Fan. What would be her next move? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343906535598112063.post-1120252572309687062017-04-04T04:00:00.001-07:002017-04-04T05:27:38.665-07:00Writers and Russian Roulette<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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People always ask me if I know the end of my next book. I always reply yes, because I do, and that I know the beginning. However, the middle 250 or so pages is sometimes a different matter. It's like being able to see a house on a faraway mountain, but the valley before it is shrouded in mist. As a writer, having promised a book to a deadline, this kind of feels like Russian roulette, because there's a chance that the inspiration simply never comes...<br />
<br />
After 66 Metres and 37 hours, which have the same protagonist (Nadia) but are slightly different books in style, I wanted the third one also to be different. For about a month I was keen to start the next book, but after writing the Prologue I stopped, because I couldn't see the twists and turns I would need to make this one stand alone from the others and not simply be 'more of the same'. Mostly, I couldn't see the overall arc of the protagonist. If you've made it to the end of 37 hours, you pretty much know what Nadia needs to do. But what challenges would she have this time, possibly her last? It had to be something new. Luckily for me, my Sony laptop broke (the keyboard - I get carried away and sometimes I can't type fast enough) - and I had to wait 10 days for a replacement (a Mac - 10 days? I live in France - just don't ask).<br />
<br />
And then, following in the great footsteps of Archimedes, I was sitting in the bath one evening thinking about nothing in particular, and the plot came to me. Just like that. Like it was hiding in plain sight and I'd missed it all this time. I got out, vaguely dried myself and began scribbling notes. This went on for 10 minutes, then I sat back. It would work. Already the shape of the book started to form, the clouds lifting from the valleys, and I could see the road, the places Nadia would travel, the obstacles in her way, and how it would change her. <br />
<br />
Click.<br />
<br />
I don't know how other writers get their ideas and do this 'macro-plotting'. It's their business. But the mind is a strange and wonderful thing. Now I just have to write it all down...<br />
<br />
So I don't leave you empty-handed, below are the two 'by-lines' used by the publisher for the first two books, and a new one for the book I am now writing.<br />
<br />
<b>The only thing worth killing for is family</b> (<a href="http://bit.ly/66metres">66 Metres</a>)<br />
<br />
<b>Now Nadia has killed once, she knows she can kill again</b> (<a href="http://bit.ly/37hours">37 Hour</a>s)<br />
<br />
<b>Nadia saved a city. Now she is public enemy number one </b>(15 days)<br />
<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343906535598112063.post-47673994817146459752017-03-31T06:27:00.000-07:002017-03-31T06:27:40.127-07:00Five rules for a sympathetic killer protagonist<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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These days many thrillers have protagonists who, if you stand back for a moment, are only marginally better than the people they are hunting down or trying to escape from. This is particularly the case when they are cold-blooded killers. Most of us as readers would never dream of killing anyone, and wouldn't hang out with killers. As an example, if you were in a tight and dangerous spot, you'd be forgiven for wanting Jack Reacher on your side. But if things were going just fine, I'm not sure you'd want him to come babysit your kids every Thursday...<br />
<br />
As a writer the trick is to make such characters 'sympathetic'. This is writing jargon for 'likeable', or at the least, forgivable. It means you can relate to, or admire, or simply respect something about the character, which means you <i>care</i> what happens to them. Don't care = stop reading.<br />
<br />
Take Jack Reacher, for example. On the one hand, once he gets going, he's a lethal killing machine. But on the other hand he can be very respectful and non-judgmental with ordinary people, and absolutely a gentleman with women, never assuming anything, never taking advantage. He is also entirely self-reliant, and never blames others for his misfortunes.<br />
<br />
For my own protagonist, Nadia, I was inspired by Stieg Larsson's <i>The girl with the dragon tattoo</i>, and his world-famous female protagonist Lisbeth Salander. But I wanted to explore Nadia's transition from normal country Russian girl, to killer, while still keeping her sympathetic. In the first book, during the prologue, she is trapped into working for a gangster, Kadinsky, and from that point on, she finds herself in increasingly dangerous situations where the easiest way out is to kill, the one thing she does not want to do. At the very end of the book, she accepts her fate, and having crossed that line in order to save her sister, is promptly thrown into a secret prison.<br />
<br />
So, at the beginning of book 2, I needed to do two things: introduce her, and make her sympathetic, even though she is now a killer. I employed 5 rules, based on everything I'd ever read about hard-nosed heroes who had a dark side:<br />
<br />
1. Make her fiercely independent<br />
2. Make the odds stack up against her<br />
3. Don't let her blame others for what has happened<br />
4. In the event of a 'fight or flight' situation, she always chooses <i>fight</i><br />
5. Show the reader how she can nevertheless be fragile<br />
<br />
I then wrote the following short scene where we first meet Nadia, at the beginning of the novel 37 Hours:<br />
<br />
<br />
Nadia heard the familiar rattles and clanks down the corridor. Steel bar gates unlocked, opened, locked again. Distant footsteps. Coming her way. She stopped her third round of push-ups and sat back on the wooden bench in the cell she’d barely left in almost two years. No visitors, no phone calls, no internet, no television, no papers. Books occasionally, classics. Minimal human contact.<br />
They kept her in the dark, because they still weren’t convinced she’d given up all her secrets, and had classified her ‘need to know’ status as zero. They kept her hidden, afraid she’d talk about the Rose, and shame the British government over what it had created and almost let loose on its own kingdom. Afraid she’d let the public know they’d narrowly dodged a nuclear war with Russia. The government could invoke plausible deniability. Just another foiled conspiracy. But it wasn’t over. Cheng Yi was dead, but the unknown client was still out there. The threat was still real.<br />
<br />
He would try again.<br />
<br />
Maybe they’d keep her there for good. She’d killed two people. The world was better off without them, but British justice took a dim view of unlawful killing. British justice… She’d not seen a lawyer, nor been charged as far as she was aware. No visitors. She tried not to reopen that particular can of tarantulas; it never helped.<br />
<br />
In the first six months, the thought of someone visiting her, Jake, maybe, or Katya, kept her going. But after a year the pain became unbearable. Nobody came. Nobody cared. And so she worked out, she read, and the rest were just bodily functions. She often sang the Cossack lullaby before lights out, just to practise using her voice, and to reach out to her older sister who used to sing it to her when they were young, soothing her while their parents screamed at each other downstairs. Nadia prayed Katya was all right, and comforted herself that above all, Katya was a survivor.<br />
<br />
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The sounds drew nearer, the telltale rattle of iron keys on a large ring. She knew the routine. She wiped sweat from her forehead with a mouldy towel, and stood to attention at the end of her cot, next to the washbasin. No mirror, no glass anywhere, a metal sink and lavatory in the corner. Light filtered through the misted glass and steel bars. She faced the solid metal door. Maybe she’d get coffee today. It would be cold, but that didn’t matter.<br />
<br />
Footsteps grew closer. Two sets, not one. Another routine medical inspection? There hadn’t been an interrogation for months. Jake’s ice-bitch ex-lover and current boss, Lorne, had come regularly in the first nine months, until she could extract nothing new. Initially Nadia had played tough, until Lorne showed her photos of Ben’s funeral – the man who had helped her so much in the Scillies, yet asked for nothing in return – whereupon she’d cracked and told Jake’s MI6 handler everything she knew.<br />
<br />
Lorne informed Nadia she would receive no visitors, because no one knew where she was: some British military high-security facility. Probably not even on the books. Nadia doubted anyone would visit even if they did know, after what had happened back in the Isles of Scilly. Unless it was to spit in her face, something she’d welcome after two years of solitary. But Jake must have known, and yet he never came. That was a kick in the stomach. And inevitably, she’d become angry. Now, after two years, it had cemented into a deep resentment. She might just lash out at the first unfortunate soul who came to see her.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLtEWjM5hnlnf3G1FWLCLztBBM5a7lf0YhbX7tx6Kk7Lb9QW0ZypGlL_a5oRMf8hQ92MUtS1tNvGW9-Kb74-Z97u5ul_e5Z7LxiI7rEefjyc9RJUhchr1lGiRJ_DqOdcgFXoHSYwBDvXlw/s1600/Review+2.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLtEWjM5hnlnf3G1FWLCLztBBM5a7lf0YhbX7tx6Kk7Lb9QW0ZypGlL_a5oRMf8hQ92MUtS1tNvGW9-Kb74-Z97u5ul_e5Z7LxiI7rEefjyc9RJUhchr1lGiRJ_DqOdcgFXoHSYwBDvXlw/s320/Review+2.png" width="320" /></a>The footsteps stopped right outside the door. A double-clank as the deadbolts retracted. A small scratchy noise as someone slid the latch and peered through the glass eyehole. The door didn’t open. Nadia stayed absolutely still. Come on, you bastards, give me my bloody breakfast! The routines of each day were sacrosanct, propping up her sanity. Still the door didn’t open. Voices, muffled, she couldn’t make anything out. A high-pitched cry, female, stifled.<br />
<br />
Nadia was suddenly gripped by panic. What if they were going to kill her? Take her outside, shoot her and bury her? Nobody would know; no one would care. She clenched her teeth and fists, suppressed the fear. This was England, not Russia. But her arms and legs tensed like coiled springs, just in case.<br />
<br />
The heavy door swung open slowly. She smelled her sister Katya before she saw her, the perfume she knew so well. Katya walked around the door, into full view, tears sliding down her cheeks as she held out her arms.<br />
<br />
‘God, Nadia, I’m sorry it took so long.’<br />
<br />
But Nadia was already in her arms, squeezing her, gripping her, two years of pent-up emotions erupting. The anger fled, chased away by a deluge of relief. She shook so much she couldn’t speak. Katya whispered soothing noises while the guard waited patiently. Nadia’s face was wet, like the rain she hadn’t felt in two years. She gathered herself, knowing this visit would be kept short. She wiped her eyes and cheeks, and spoke to her sister urgently, taking in every line of her face, details she might have to remember and savour for another two years.<br />
<br />
‘How long can you stay?’ Nadia asked. ‘How long have we got?’<br />
<br />
Katya bit her lip then pulled Nadia’s face tight to her chest, struggling to get the words out. ‘Time to come home, my Cossack,’ she said.<br />
<br />
Nadia’s legs gave way.<br />
<br />
<br />
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66 metres <a href="http://bit.ly/66metres">here</a><br />
37 hours <a href="http://bit.ly/37hours">here</a><br />
Now working on the third instalment...<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343906535598112063.post-38321164300636008382017-03-19T07:01:00.000-07:002017-03-19T07:01:02.587-07:00There are three types of shark...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDe9Ttm8KPucp8X8mheAccF303yZ6-QFDEqtx11U1Zz9h4PNJyCXjUQVtqBJKCz2B6AY3zDC9-BQJCBspENFaNDKoClDajOKoiO2wh2x_kk8-j4cUw2Zhyvi4j9RLXeTIznmkaX8d0sjg8/s1600/The+reef+in+sight.+He+knew+he+wouldn%2527t+make+it.+Too+many+sharksSimple+math-5.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDe9Ttm8KPucp8X8mheAccF303yZ6-QFDEqtx11U1Zz9h4PNJyCXjUQVtqBJKCz2B6AY3zDC9-BQJCBspENFaNDKoClDajOKoiO2wh2x_kk8-j4cUw2Zhyvi4j9RLXeTIznmkaX8d0sjg8/s320/The+reef+in+sight.+He+knew+he+wouldn%2527t+make+it.+Too+many+sharksSimple+math-5.png" width="320" /></a>I've had a fascination - and slight fear - of sharks ever since I watched <b><i>Jaws</i></b>, and then began diving. I've been lucky enough to dive in some pretty exotic places over the years, and have had some close encounters with hammerheads, blue sharks, silvertips, bull sharks and a tiger. Never a great white. Not sure I want to see one of those...<br />
<br />
Sharks are finely-honed predators, and they can be pretty smart. I remember a bull shark in Sharm el Sheikh (Egypt) splitting off a female diver from the rest of our group, and herding her away from the reef out into the blue. She was fascinated by the shark, and didn't realise what was going on. It was a hell of a finning episode trying to get to her on the other side of side of the shark in order to rescue her. <br />
<br />
I also remember being caught between two groups of four-metre hammerheads in Sipadan, at some considerable depth, and deciding that these were beautiful but completely scary demon-fish (okay, there may have been some narcosis involved). In Palau there is one of the best dives on the planet called Blue Corner, where the visibility can easily be fifty metres, and you can watch a dozen sharks hunting in the morning, zipping in and out of massive shoals of fish. While watching this spectacle, and clinging on to a rock because of the intense current, a shark sidled up to me, and came within arms' length, watching me with its beady eye. I had to decide what to do, so I let go, wondering if it would whip around and have a bite, but it just ignored me as the current swept me away. My buddy asked later, 'what took you so long to let go?'<br />
<br />
In my latest diving thriller, <i><b>37 Hours</b></i> Jake is a British diving instructor abroad on a tropical island, and here he explains how I feel about sharks, as he puts them into three simple categories, depending on whether they will run away from you, mawl you if provoked, or kill you if you're bleeding...<br />
<br />
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB">‘There are three types of shark.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB">Jake was in dive instructor mode. Nadia wasn’t
averse to it. He’d asked if she’d dived with sharks before, and she’d replied
no. But she didn’t like being passive. She held up one finger, the second one,
and gave him her blandest smile.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB">It didn’t put him off his stroke. Several
other divers plonked themselves onto the bench. Dominic – the lanky,
foppish-looking chief instructor – hustled his diving group over to listen.
From his grin, clearly he knew Jake, and had heard this particular lecture before.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB">Jake caught Dominic’s eye, nodded, and
continued. ‘First, there are reef sharks, about four feet long. They’re more
afraid of you than the other way around, but they can nip you, if you harass
them, or box them into a corner.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB">‘How do you know if you’re harassing them? How
close can you get?’ One of the British divers. The way he’d said it, it was a
challenge.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB">Dominic tossed Jake a whiteboard marker. Jake
neatly snatched it out of the air, turned to the whiteboard, and drew a crude
side view of a shark with a thin body. He pointed to the pectoral fins. ‘These
will drop down, move closer together, and…’ he sketched the same shark as seen
from above ‘…the shark’s body will move from side to side.’ He added little
arrows, and Nadia imagined the shark dancing, its body gyrating. ‘If that
happens,’ he said, ‘back away fast.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB">‘What if you’re in a cave?’ The dude again,
pressing Jake.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Vib3ovjsQxoY-lF4Pjq87nPo2aNFvM5hGM6updKKgubHV5w_RJwGOd2ZoQdb141ywTErucAbsNSnnaRndckYC-tJwKE6ctKhTilcn7nu3UAl-1SxINz-ij96rLIWmrL2E_kOaOhbtaBu/s1600/leopard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="120" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Vib3ovjsQxoY-lF4Pjq87nPo2aNFvM5hGM6updKKgubHV5w_RJwGOd2ZoQdb141ywTErucAbsNSnnaRndckYC-tJwKE6ctKhTilcn7nu3UAl-1SxINz-ij96rLIWmrL2E_kOaOhbtaBu/s200/leopard.jpg" width="200" /></a><span lang="EN-GB">‘Stick to the sides or the ceiling,’ Jake
replied, zero antagonism in his voice. ‘Don’t block the entrance. Point is,
even if they bite you, it’s a defence mechanism. They want to get away, or get
you away from their nest. You can add to this class the slightly larger nurse
sharks and leopard sharks, because they’re really not interested in us.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB">Nadia held up two fingers, adding the
forefinger, in a victory ‘V’, because he was winning this.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB">‘Second type is longer, six to eight feet,
sometimes local, like grey reef sharks and black-tips, sometimes ocean-going – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pelagic</i> – like silver-tips. The first
two are often in groups.’ He drew a longer and broader shark. ‘If you get cut
around these sharks, they’ll attack, and the sheer numbers mean you won’t make
it. Other predator fish like trevally, known colloquially as Jack, will arrive
almost simultaneously, and all you’ll see is a whirlwind of silver, and every
half-second one will dart in and tear off a piece of your flesh.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB">‘Ever seen that?’ The Brit again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB">Jake nodded to Dominic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
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<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB">Dominic took a sip of his tea. ‘We
occasionally do shark-feeding here, with chain-mail arm protection, using chum
– that’s chopped-up fish intestines or heads – as bait.’ Several divers
immediately sat up, their eager faces swivelling towards Dominic. He held up a
hand. ‘Not very often, and only with advanced divers and instructors. It attracts
the bigger ones to the reef, and they begin to associate humans with food, and
then, as Jake already mentioned, there’s the trevally. They get pretty antsy.
They’re just too unpredictable, too fast.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB">Nadia added her ring finger.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB">Jake resumed. ‘Third are big, lone sharks.
Bulls, tigers, the blue shark, and the great white.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB">‘Ever seen a great white?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB">This guy was a pain. Harmless, but a pain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB">Jake didn’t take the bait. ‘There’s a saying
amongst divers. The first time you see a great white…’ He flourished an open
palm to Dominic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB">‘Is the second time it’s seen you.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_PXmVcbzXeKkUoqvmKqigC6KnKVvzVUv3sJmI5k7215v7ql3aO9NlF_z-KTgUtqiKIDl1twG1dWhXhfLMxFxLg_ICqo2OFgQ2_OwLKXfEhxOnbxeAuO4BhpA1w8-mZLM0EBs7MmZyaeQD/s1600/tiger.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_PXmVcbzXeKkUoqvmKqigC6KnKVvzVUv3sJmI5k7215v7ql3aO9NlF_z-KTgUtqiKIDl1twG1dWhXhfLMxFxLg_ICqo2OFgQ2_OwLKXfEhxOnbxeAuO4BhpA1w8-mZLM0EBs7MmZyaeQD/s1600/tiger.jpg" /></a><span lang="EN-GB">Jake drew three flattened circles. ‘This is
what you see when a shark is heading towards you. This one…’ he pointed to the
reef shark ‘…can bite you. This one…’ he pointed to his type two ‘…can kill
you, but it usually takes a few of them. And this one…’ He put down the
pointer. Stared at the divers one by one. ‘Is out there. Fifty metres from
where you’re sitting right now. If you swim away from the reef, just fifteen
metres away, you’ll see him materialise out of the blue. A face, the mouth, the
eyes. He’ll be coming straight towards you. It won’t be coincidence he’s
heading your way. If this happens,’ he said, leaning forward on his knuckles on
the bench, ‘DO NOT head for the surface. DO head straight back to the reef.
NEVER lose sight of the reef. The really big sharks won’t approach the reef
unless there’s already blood in the water.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB">It was deadly quiet. Dominic grinned. The Brit
piped up. ‘Bullshit. There’re no sharks that big just out there.’ Other divers
turned to him, then to Jake.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
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<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB">‘You’re welcome to find out. We call it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Anspida Roulette</i>. See how long you can
stay off the reef.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<br /></div>
<div class="indent">
In reality, we did play Sipadan Roulette (Anspida is an anagram of Sipadan), and that's where I saw my blue shark and a tiger, and swam like hell back to the reef. Needed a few beers later. In the book, though, since it's a thriller, there is a shark attack, as Jake is stabbed by another diver, so there is a lot of blood in the water. I'll save that for the book. It was quite a harrowing scene to write.</div>
<div class="indent">
<br /></div>
<div class="indent">
I'll still keep diving with sharks. Last time was two years ago in Mauritius, in the Passage St Jacques, with a dozen reef sharks in very murky waters. </div>
<div class="indent">
<br /></div>
<div class="indent">
I think sharks are amazing creatures, and I'm still fascinated by them. But I'll never turn my back on them.</div>
<div class="indent">
<br /></div>
<div class="indent">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqG3QAgAx_iGHlDIVDKMhfK-O2DVGMtnyTD7OSSLOy1vW-7h_llV9bOl-SbRy3Ca0UNK3JbEt0AfLhoCBqZGlrgZNxuyZaHjhU6OjSi3t7hx-DHgpoN7IR_Sop_-nIMUpDYBxvCKkPruyq/s1600/37+Hours_FINAL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqG3QAgAx_iGHlDIVDKMhfK-O2DVGMtnyTD7OSSLOy1vW-7h_llV9bOl-SbRy3Ca0UNK3JbEt0AfLhoCBqZGlrgZNxuyZaHjhU6OjSi3t7hx-DHgpoN7IR_Sop_-nIMUpDYBxvCKkPruyq/s320/37+Hours_FINAL.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="indent">
37 Hours is available <a href="http://bit.ly/37hours">here</a></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343906535598112063.post-32000025961543417072017-03-15T03:01:00.000-07:002017-03-15T03:01:18.250-07:00Why I wrote 37 Hours<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7ydhXVyrLHwqyZ6TqiuypF_1zV7Nns_QDtkB1JRLdXbzd7yxcKEkQySOXc808bZcFbcKefzz5-YUIwvuazX407Kh8_L8hPejziwfPHrGv1hgxLj9PBj3zZy9e_qHkd1BIzW6TV9dvDMFV/s1600/37+Hours_FINAL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7ydhXVyrLHwqyZ6TqiuypF_1zV7Nns_QDtkB1JRLdXbzd7yxcKEkQySOXc808bZcFbcKefzz5-YUIwvuazX407Kh8_L8hPejziwfPHrGv1hgxLj9PBj3zZy9e_qHkd1BIzW6TV9dvDMFV/s320/37+Hours_FINAL.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span lang="EN-GB">Why did I write 37 Hours? Well first, of course, it’s a sequel. At the end
of <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">66 Metres</b> Nadia has succeeded, but <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the Client</i> is still out
there. In fact the first scene in Chapter One of 37 Hours was originally the
epilogue to <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">66 Metres</b>, but the
editor and I decided to leave Nadia languishing in prison. And so the readers demanded a sequel... </span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-GB">But there were five other reasons.</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
</div>
<ul>
<li><span lang="EN-GB" style="text-indent: -18pt;">Jack Reacher</span></li>
<li><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "symbol"; text-indent: -18pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="text-indent: -18pt;">Diving a nuclear sub</span></li>
<li><span lang="EN-GB" style="text-indent: -18pt;">Shark-attacks</span></li>
<li><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "symbol"; text-indent: -18pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="text-indent: -18pt;">Chernobyl</span></li>
<li><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "symbol"; text-indent: -18pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="text-indent: -18pt;">London</span></li>
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<span style="text-indent: -18pt;"><b>1. Jack Reacher</b></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">The title <i>37
Hours</i> is a tribute to Lee Child’s book titled <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">61 Hours</b>. This was the very first Jack Reacher book I read, and got
me hooked and back into thrillers. I love the relentless pace and minimalist
style, and how Jack is uncompromising. Of course Nadia isn’t Jack, but another
character, Vladimir, is close, and the book starts with him in the Prologue.
I’ve already had a number of readers tell me the book starts just like a
Reacher novel. Couldn’t ask for more! Here’s the opening of 37 Hours:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Vladimir
was cuffed and hooded, but his guards had made a fatal mistake. His hands were
behind him, but not attached to the inner structure of the military van, a
standard Russian UAZ 452 – he’d know those rickety creaks and the pungent blend
of oil and diesel anywhere. The vehicle trundled towards some unknown
destination where he would be interrogated, beaten some more, then shot in the back
of the head. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Three of the four men chattered as they picked up speed down
a straighter road. Their second mistake. Clearly they weren’t Special Forces – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Spetsnaz</i> – like he’d been until recently.
They were regular army. He’d only seen the two heavies who’d snatched him from
breakfast with his daughter. Now he knew there were four – one other had
engaged in the banter, another had remained silent but was referred to as the
butt of several bawdy jokes. The hierarchy of the men was also clear. The
leader was in the front passenger seat, the silent one the driver, leaving the
two musclemen in the back with him. He waited. They’d been driving for an hour
or so, initially dirt tracks, now a highway, which meant they were on the E119
to Vostok. If they turned right, he had a chance, as they would have to cross
the Volga River. Then he would make his move. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">If they turned left, he was a dead man.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Vladimir wasn’t one for options, or for hedging his bets. Not
a question of making the right choice, but of making the choice right. In all
his missions he’d never cared much for a Plan B. Leave too many options open,
and events control you. You invite failure.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> The van <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">would</i>
turn right.</span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="text-indent: -18pt;">2<span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><span style="font-size: 9px;">. </span></span></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="text-indent: -18pt;">Diving a submarine</span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">66 Metres
covered a lot of diving aspects, but there were two I hadn’t touched. The first
is diving a submarine. The first time I did this was the M2, a submarine wreck
off the Dorset coast near Weymouth. There is something stunning about coming
across a submarine underwater, like a giant metallic whale. I tried to capture
the way I felt in chapter three, when Nadia comes across a hijacked Russian nuclear submarine: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">They hit thirty-five metres and levelled off. Still she saw
nothing, but the sleds both slowed, and then she saw why. The forward light
picked up the huge black tail-fin of the Borei Class nuclear sub, like the fin
of a shark, which happened to be the nickname for this class of sub. Sergei’s
sled circled behind, his forward beam illuminating the massive propeller. She tried
to gauge how long each blade was. Maybe three metres. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> Sergei took point again, and fired a flare that fizzed
forward like a lazy yellow firework. The sub was one hundred and seventy metres
long, only slightly shorter than its predecessor, the Typhoon. But seeing it, positioned
at one end while the flare swept forward over its dark beauty, was something
else. The flare continued its arc over the conning tower, all the way to the
prow, her destination. The light faded and plunged them back into darkness save
for the sled’s lights. But the after-image was etched onto her retinas. Russian
subs didn’t really go in for names, they were usually referred to as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Projects</i> and given a number, but Sergei
had told her this one was the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yuri
Gagarin</i>. He’d have been proud.</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="text-indent: -18pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="text-indent: -18pt;"><b>3. Shark attacks</b></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">There were no sharks in 66 Metres, so I wanted to include them in the sequel. In the second
part of the book, Nadia and Jake dive in the South China Sea off the coast of
Borneo, on a remote island called Anspida, which is an anagram of one of my top
3 diving destinations in the world, and a place where you can encounter large
man-eaters, as well as hammerheads. Some of the dive instructors there used to
play a game (the diving equivalent of Russian Roulette), where you
swim away from the reef, out into the blue, and wait for the sharks to find
you. Here’s where Nadia gives it a try…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She
glanced back several times, the reef just in sight, somewhere between fifteen
and twenty metres away. Jake kept them at the same distance, two divers in
perfect orbit around the island, two thousand feet of ocean beneath them. She
stared straight ahead, into the blue. The sun’s rays lasered through the water,
playing tricks on her brain. Several times she thought she saw something, and
her heart skipped a beat, but it was nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">And then it came for real. A shadow at first, morphing into
a blue nose, the curved line of its mouth, its eyes, and its pectoral fins,
outlining an ellipse just like in Jake’s drawing. If it opened its mouth she
would fit inside. Fifteen metres away, closing. Not on a swing-by. Coming
straight at her. Ten metres. It was massive, she could now see the dorsal fin
and her brain extrapolated the rest; it was easily five metres long. Its
pectoral fins dropped, its mouth opened a little, revealing racks of
backward-sloping teeth...</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">The actual shark
attack scene which comes a little later, was hard to write. Mostly sharks leave
people alone. But if you’re bleeding in waters like these, you’re in serious
trouble. As a diver, even now when I read the scene in 37 Hours where two lives are claimed in
a feeding frenzy, my blood still runs cold.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><b>4. Chernobyl</b></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">I used to work in the nuclear industry,
trying to make it safer. Chernobyl was such a shock to the world at the time,
but I was also impressed by the heroism of the soldiers and others who worked
manically to contain the radiation leak after the initial explosion, many of
whom died shortly after from radiation poisoning, or later from cancers. There
was also the lesser known story of heroism concerning shutting off an
underwater valve to prevent a secondary explosion which would have re-opened
the wound and irradiated half of Europe. This story was part-truth, part myth,
and I included it as a story-within-a-story. It was the motivation behind the
original title of the book, which was to be ‘One-Way Dive.’ And so the third
part of the book takes place in Chernobyl, in Reactor 4. I was really pleased
when the publisher decided to put Chernobyl on the cover.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><b>5. London</b></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">I live in Paris, which is a great city, but
I still miss London where I used to live. When writing a thriller, you have to
put what the hero/heroine values most on the line. Nadia is Russian. London
isn’t her city. But, to an extent, it’s mine, and I care about it. London is
where 66 Metres started, and it’s where 37 Hours ends. In the final chapter,
when the 37 Hours has almost run out, there’s a short scene where London is
almost a character, one that Nadia wants desperately to see one last time. I
think that scene, only a couple of paragraphs, is one of the most
powerful I’ve ever written, and as an ex-Londoner it chokes me up every time I
read it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">That’s it. I wrote 37 Hours in six months. For
me that’s very fast (I have a day job!). It poured out of me, demanding to be
written. If you do read it, I really hope you get some of the same satisfaction
I got out of writing it!</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">You can get 37 Hours from Amazon <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Hours-Nadia-Laksheva-Thriller-Book-ebook/dp/B01N3KP711/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1489380475&sr=8-1&keywords=37+hours">here</a>, and it's also available in other digital formats. You can get 66 Metres <a href="http://amzn.to/2aAItww">here</a></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWFSVBTWWxh6GL9s4bxcXCZAH-W9xaubrpgHVp2cksDCr-8CIhHB1ABL4Os0oyGEm-BsYAhIy1-WZZByNMy-sHlp7CoDVlOBY_TAIdFqtYLKKoIo6uGJs_hUEox1vjV6EDWzfSfAhsj2y9/s1600/37+Hours_FINAL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWFSVBTWWxh6GL9s4bxcXCZAH-W9xaubrpgHVp2cksDCr-8CIhHB1ABL4Os0oyGEm-BsYAhIy1-WZZByNMy-sHlp7CoDVlOBY_TAIdFqtYLKKoIo6uGJs_hUEox1vjV6EDWzfSfAhsj2y9/s320/37+Hours_FINAL.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLKW5VqB00wet74c-8tWqrALDa_urlNJJeD_SAFbqkO5L6mB-MyvQIobaqyahgsED5quIkD8-nOD5ty3-hw8iA0NUMmGU03qRx5WbG3i0ugr0c8FL8MO8NS0xp3E1owKOS3kM6p5W2XPQg/s1600/image001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLKW5VqB00wet74c-8tWqrALDa_urlNJJeD_SAFbqkO5L6mB-MyvQIobaqyahgsED5quIkD8-nOD5ty3-hw8iA0NUMmGU03qRx5WbG3i0ugr0c8FL8MO8NS0xp3E1owKOS3kM6p5W2XPQg/s320/image001.jpg" width="198" /></a><span lang="EN-GB"></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343906535598112063.post-21884343430976283172017-01-29T02:08:00.001-08:002017-01-29T02:16:22.677-08:00Write what you don't know...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz0QqLyrpi39nhsKm5ZAjq-ZLN1xb1_m8DKF36yKgVCav9zfeP4yfIRRgk3ZvYJjxN-EJe_fQ7wPeMykkj__xUZ3LyH-ayOv5ayuoyOkJB7QLrU_XX4j_bgAJPk-E_6uDZI31jLpgAWiAf/s1600/Writing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="154" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz0QqLyrpi39nhsKm5ZAjq-ZLN1xb1_m8DKF36yKgVCav9zfeP4yfIRRgk3ZvYJjxN-EJe_fQ7wPeMykkj__xUZ3LyH-ayOv5ayuoyOkJB7QLrU_XX4j_bgAJPk-E_6uDZI31jLpgAWiAf/s320/Writing.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
About 18 months ago I was at the York Writer's Festival pitching my book <a href="http://amzn.to/2aAItww">66 Metres</a> to three agents, who all roundly rejected it. One of them took me aside, and said, 'Look, this book is about a young Russian woman. You're not Russian, you're not a woman, and let's face it...' He told me to write about what I knew. I decided to stick to my course instead, and a year later 66 Metres was published by Harper Collins.<br />
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But ever since that conversation, it got me thinking about the adage 'write what you know.' What about all those crime writers? Are they all murderers and serial killers in their spare time? What about science fiction writers? Do they all have spaceships locked away in their garages?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhcSx4kJLvH7AlVXCWyib_xINVC3d1R-xnsfWg070MXv5pfixSxKLn-lS_n2lP3J6hvTjpCcwQgYRsZL1ECI-sBb0uARm0r52hIPQPEZwVYP-zu38W4glYZTz2AXYDOgYWh0Z2VDO4l7by/s1600/Gonetomorrow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhcSx4kJLvH7AlVXCWyib_xINVC3d1R-xnsfWg070MXv5pfixSxKLn-lS_n2lP3J6hvTjpCcwQgYRsZL1ECI-sBb0uARm0r52hIPQPEZwVYP-zu38W4glYZTz2AXYDOgYWh0Z2VDO4l7by/s200/Gonetomorrow.jpg" width="130" /></a></div>
I like Lee Child's Jack Reacher series. To say I'm not alone is a whopping understatement. How does he convince the reader that this fiction could be reality? The answer is detail. Pick up any Jack Reacher book and what you see on every page is details that ground the book, as if you're there. You have the feeling that he knows his stuff. There is an <i>authenticity </i>about his writing. Not only is there information, it feels as if this is 'insider' information, the kind of info you don't find by simply clicking on Wikipedia. Take a look at the opening of Gone Tomorrow, the one I'm reading right now, and you'll see what I mean.<br />
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But even doing deep research can only get you so far. Reading and doing aren't the same thing. Sometimes you need to know what something feels like, physically and emotionally, or else you'll never draw the reader in.<br />
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When I had to write a scene where Nadia fires a magnum .45 in order to save her sister, I realized I'd never fired a handgun. I wrote the scene anyway, but even to me it seemed flat, false even. So I went to a gun range and did some basic training for a few hours, firing various pistols until we finally got to the big one. It is quite spectacular - the recoil is extreme, the muzzle flash is scary, and the noise absolutely deafening. It feels like you're firing a cannon. I rewrote the scene, put it at the start of the book, and arguably I think that very scene was what won over Harper Collins.<br />
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Of course there is stuff I do know a lot about - same goes for any of us - we all have deep expertise. Mine happens to be scuba-diving. So I can put details in there that only instructors know - little tricks of the trade they don't normally teach you. And I know what it is like to black out underwater, because it happened to me, as well as narcosis and close encounters with large sharks. Most readers say the book really comes alive and is most intense in the underwater sections.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7ED3A2HTfaXVsu3q6TSlRI8oRH4I13as5wKoE2OkMeY7RfFfPvL61FCRI67KMrYzdKMZNtoz_mJ5wUIoU0Mgk_g6A3YYRLqSFth1iZ_xz26GhqKu8pQCJLzOxcjtF2HeTJHC_jhgD8hkl/s1600/DSCN0682.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7ED3A2HTfaXVsu3q6TSlRI8oRH4I13as5wKoE2OkMeY7RfFfPvL61FCRI67KMrYzdKMZNtoz_mJ5wUIoU0Mgk_g6A3YYRLqSFth1iZ_xz26GhqKu8pQCJLzOxcjtF2HeTJHC_jhgD8hkl/s200/DSCN0682.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
Diving is also a big part of my motivation for writing this series. Although there are exceptions, often when I read thrillers where there is any diving at all, I wonder if the author has ever put their head underwater. The technical details are all off, and the experience doesn't ring true. I guess they<br />
get away with it because most readers have never dived either. But I'd like to set the record straight.<br />
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But back to the agent's comment. First, I'm not a woman, and the protagonist (Nadia) is. I based her on a blend of a fictional character and a real - and somewhat exceptional - woman I know. Nadia is not very girly, and is to some extent the son her father never had but always wanted. I do admit I had to talk to some women to get the sex scenes right, as men and women really don't see things the same way when it comes to sex.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo05zBrY8GNmu07Q2Vu9sMwtqDdZmH4QX08jQFj4PSBJ8WVsr61tXaBJmXJFNlpeHENCjShFcnRRVm8zHWp1t4pN-KSXHDosW3NUbZ6oad1weNAM8JT99M5-NEjMOsIhpu6cUWdo2zQfn4/s1600/Cm2hLGNXYAAr1Fx.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo05zBrY8GNmu07Q2Vu9sMwtqDdZmH4QX08jQFj4PSBJ8WVsr61tXaBJmXJFNlpeHENCjShFcnRRVm8zHWp1t4pN-KSXHDosW3NUbZ6oad1weNAM8JT99M5-NEjMOsIhpu6cUWdo2zQfn4/s200/Cm2hLGNXYAAr1Fx.jpg" width="125" /></a>Second, I'm not Russian. I spent some time diving with Russians in Egypt a few years ago. I was the only non-Russian in the resort. They took me in and I got to understand them a little. I also met someone who was almost certainly Russian Mafia. I have a lot more work to do on this, I freely admit, but I now have a fascination with Russia and Russians.<br />
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Third, I'm not as young as I used to be. Okay. But I still think that way...<br />
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So, can you write what you don't know? Yes, but you need to blend it with something you do really know about. Then you're more likely to have the reader give you the benefit of the doubt about the part you don't truly know.<br />
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My next book, 37 hours, comes out 17th March, and is set in four locations: Murmansk, a remote island off the coast of Borneo, Chernobyl, and London. It involves diving a submarine, a stolen nuclear weapon, a vicious shark attack, advanced interrogation techniques, and radiation poisoning. Do I know about these things? Strangely, more than you might think. I wasn't always a writer...<br />
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[P.S.> a reader who recently read the prologue to 37 hours commented that it read like a Jack Reacher novel. I don't actually think mine is to the same standard, but I couldn't ask for more!]<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343906535598112063.post-32836428440213115012017-01-15T03:44:00.000-08:002017-01-15T03:44:49.996-08:00On being drunk underwater - nitrogen narcosisYou know that feeling when you're blissfuly happy, and you feel super-confident? Maybe you're in love, or high on something? Well, you can get that feeling easily when scuba-diving underwater. It's called nitrogen narcosis - the narcs - and it can get you killed...<div>
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First the basics. When you're diving with air in your tank, you don't normally get it above 30 metres (100 feet). Below that depth, the partial pressure of nitrogen starts to affect our brains, and it's very much like getting drunk. One of my most memorable dives was diving to 50 metres in Indonesia with a large school of tuna. I had the narcs for sure. and actually felt like I was a tuna. I swam with the school, turned when they turned, and was on the watch-out for sharks. My buddy stayed at 40 metres, watching me (in hindsight, not much of a buddy, no chance of rescuing me if i'd have gone deeper). </div>
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When you get the narcs you believe you can go deeper. Then the narcosis will increase. The happy-go-lucky feeling can then change into panic and disorientation. I used to train divers to show them what it was like. I'd get them to tie a knot called a bowline on land, next to a quarry filled with water. They'd do it easily, without really having to think about it. Then we'd descend to 30 metres - the bottom, as it happens - and after five minutes I'd ask them to tie it again. They couldn't. Then they'd start laughing, and it would be time to go up. </div>
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If you dive a lot, you get a kind of immunity, as your brain adapts. This is what divers call doing 'build-up' dives. If you do a couple of dives at twenty, then twenty-five, then probably 30m will be no problem. But you have to watch the signs. One of the golden rules in diving is 'Plan the dive, and dive the plan.' This is because on land you're stone cold sober, whereas underwater you might decide to change the plan, and maybe it's not such a good idea. </div>
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There's even a sign between divers to let someone know you have the narcs. You point your index finger to your temple, and then draw a circle. If your buddy gives you this signal, you should go up. Often you don't need to go to the surface, maybe ascend just 5 or 10 metres and suddenly your mind will be perfectly clear as again. But if you ignore it. well... It is like getting drunk. There's a period when you realise you are getting drunk, and have the choice to stop drinking. If you don't, you tend to think you are no longer drunk, and that you are actually making perfect sense... </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Here's an extract from 66 metres, where the heroine, Nadia, gets narcosis. She's an experienced diver, and should know better, but she's under stress: she has to retrieve an object called the Rose, at 66 metres, or the Russian Mafia will kill her sister... </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
<div class="indent">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbAhXMALyyjHquHa6jSNFD3SFJf8CZ-eSjKgnrkCqtMIGHng8UBXgv5yOyWpjplcKJbVTsWzoQd8yyO_AtyVt43FrHLGzhvQGsVSjbaID4JbQnhJuP3_n-TDkVyvjYlE71x_1FYblCPWFn/s1600/DSCN1795.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbAhXMALyyjHquHa6jSNFD3SFJf8CZ-eSjKgnrkCqtMIGHng8UBXgv5yOyWpjplcKJbVTsWzoQd8yyO_AtyVt43FrHLGzhvQGsVSjbaID4JbQnhJuP3_n-TDkVyvjYlE71x_1FYblCPWFn/s200/DSCN1795.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB">Ben shut off
the engine completely, the world suddenly silent barring the slip-slops of
wavelets against the hull. ‘The prow is directly beneath us, at twenty-five.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB">Jake nodded,
squirted a little liquid soap into his diving mask, smeared it round with his
finger, then leant over the rubber tube and rinsed the mask in seawater. Nadia
did the same, looking into the green-blue water below, knowing the Rose was
down there, waiting for her. Maybe she could retrieve it today. Why the hell
not? Ben opened both their tank valves fully, then she and Jake sat on opposite
tubes facing each other, masks on, regulators in their hands.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB">‘We stop at
the prow,’ Jake said. ‘To check we’re both okay. Do you want to go inside the
wreck?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB">She didn’t.
She wanted to plunge straight down to sixty-six, grab the Rose and come back up
again. But he’d already said fifty was the limit, and she wasn’t dived up yet,
and would get narcosis. Maybe if he went inside then she could go down alone…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB">‘Sure,’ she
said. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB">‘Then stay
close,’ Jake said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB">Ben counted
down. ‘One, Two… Three!’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB">She rolled
backwards off the boat. The water hit the back of her neck and flushed into her
wetsuit, warming up almost instantly. She sucked in a lungful of air and
righted herself, and brought her head above the surface. Jake was already next
to her. He gave her the OK signal then the thumb-down signal to descend. She
returned them both in sequence, then held up her inflate hose and dumped air
from her jacket. She sank beneath the water, the last airside view a rippled
one of Ben leaning over the side of the boat, watching them disappear.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB">Jake dove down
ahead of her, streamlined, occasionally twisting around effortlessly to check
she was following. The water was featureless, and she felt like a parachutist
dropping through green-blue sky. Keeping her breathing even, she cleared her
ears every five metres or so, and studied his technique: Jake had his arms
folded in front of him, the computer on his left wrist so he could read it, his
right hand holding the inflate hose, jetting air into his stab jacket every
seven or eight metres. Poetry in motion. She adopted the same position.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB">They fell
through sheets of green-blue water fading to grey, the visibility about ten
metres, the strong sunlight above gradually leached out by the depth. She
couldn’t see anything ahead except Jake. Then a shape emerged, dark, pointed,
big. Her heart rate kicked up a notch. Not everyone loved wreck diving. Some
preferred ‘scenic’ dives with lots of fish. She didn’t get it. Wrecks were
scenic <i>and </i>full of fish.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBTFupub4h_yRgqPtLKnQPEzUlldltTRoya7hmxOeS4PWQuIU_ra3SH9n1sp-EUECTCErBN8W1JHPg_f3QDZ6DBe0YbjoOnuJ2IA8TrQQ0Q6ZtOpl1dBKy1F_AVNC7JKdlmcTCLKFEAxKW/s1600/DSCN0190.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBTFupub4h_yRgqPtLKnQPEzUlldltTRoya7hmxOeS4PWQuIU_ra3SH9n1sp-EUECTCErBN8W1JHPg_f3QDZ6DBe0YbjoOnuJ2IA8TrQQ0Q6ZtOpl1dBKy1F_AVNC7JKdlmcTCLKFEAxKW/s200/DSCN0190.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB">The prow of
the Tsuba loomed out of the grey. A single spotted dogfish patrolled it while a
small school of black bream hugged the sloping foredeck. Ben was good, he’d
dropped them right on target. Jake slowed. She jetted air into her stab a
little late. While he stopped centimetres from the rust-laden prow, hovering as
if in space, she rammed it, and had to brace herself against it with
outstretched arms. To recover, she let her momentum spin her body and legs
around vertically, like a gymnast doing an underwater handspring, so she ended
upright, one hand on the prow’s edge, the rest of her body parallel to the
deck. As if she’d intended it that way all along. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB">Jake gave her
an appraising look, followed by the OK signal, which she returned. He then
pointed to his air gauge. She looked at hers – one eighty bar – then showed it
to him. He returned the favour. His was still at a pressure of two hundred
atmospheres. Rule was, you surfaced when it got down to fifty bar, though she’d
often left it much later than that. Jake aimed a flat vertical hand down the
deck, and she started to descend the ship, tracing its steep seventy degree
angle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp-fatFgLPyUI0ImICesC_D4FED1yDpH5I9oQvW93yue9VxShaTTYr9OcQRppyMVgRPmJU8-8kqB7LNebVEn1xxIAefz6KSYPsqYTqQYk4TId_qeqZmNqnaOu1km9282I7tfQXrIkV_oYf/s1600/DSCN0682.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp-fatFgLPyUI0ImICesC_D4FED1yDpH5I9oQvW93yue9VxShaTTYr9OcQRppyMVgRPmJU8-8kqB7LNebVEn1xxIAefz6KSYPsqYTqQYk4TId_qeqZmNqnaOu1km9282I7tfQXrIkV_oYf/s320/DSCN0682.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB">Good
visibility wasn’t always best for a wreck dive. It was awesome to see an entire
wreck underwater, but sometimes poor viz meant discovering a sunken ship bit by
bit. The foremast emerged out of the grey. She glided in slow motion over two
cargo holds, shining her torch down into them, illuminating a fog of tiny fish
in one, rusted spare engine parts in another. The bridge beckoned, four steps
and two metal railings inviting her inside. She turned to Jake and he nodded,
so she went straight through the open hatch, careful not to bump the ragged
metal sides, the rusty edges brilliant shades of orange in her torchlight.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB">The upper
floor had almost completely eroded, so they finned up a few metres, and she
found the helm, a classic antique ship’s wheel, most of the wood gone but
enough of the brass fittings left to discern its original shape. Like any wreck
diver she couldn’t resist grabbing it and staring out towards the mast, just
visible. She realised she was grinning, and wondered if it was narcosis setting
in. No, she was simply enjoying the dive. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB">Jake headed
aft and she followed, descending deeper into the bowels of the ship.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB">Her thoughts
became sluggish, as if she’d had a few vodkas. She watched his fins undulate in
front of her as they entered a narrow black corridor. She could fin faster,
show him how Russians dived. Without warning she kicked hard and thrust ahead
of him like a torpedo. She misjudged it and her tank grazed the ceiling. She
rebounded and ricocheted towards the floor. She let go of her torch to brace
herself, and her hands disappeared into a thick layer of sludge coated with
powdery sediment that plumed up in front of her mask. She could see nothing,
and was still descending. Dammit, the walls were narrowing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB">She tried to
turn around, banged her head against solid iron. <i>Shit!</i> She couldn’t think straight. Panic rose in her chest, her
breathing loud in her ears. Her torch hit the side of her head, its light lost
in the black sediment, as if she was in a coal mine. <i>Stop, dammit! Just stop moving. He’ll find you</i>. But where was he?
She tried to think. Had she turned left or right? Her breathing rasped ever
louder in her ears. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB">Without
warning she was tugged backwards sharply. Jake must have grabbed her fins. His
hands pulled her around in the semi-darkness, her torch beam flailing wildly
like a beacon in fog, still attached to her stab jacket by its thin cord. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB">Jake brought
her close, right in front of his face, mask to mask. She breathed
heavily. He put two straight fingers in front of her eyes, waggled them as if
they were walking, shook his head once, then put them tight together, unmoving.
She got it. <i>Don’t fin</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuR4m5JcNbBGU92awbB9UpLxfl4Ypn7TASoWCLwDNC4X1h85R06A15RPTrfoCUWAZbWbc_ZgyQpoOT-_o_QXG5EpfOfa8RDukxYzsqHScd5OT4lT5x8KsaI3ilOcgKuhn9vpJgU0irpBxc/s1600/5.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuR4m5JcNbBGU92awbB9UpLxfl4Ypn7TASoWCLwDNC4X1h85R06A15RPTrfoCUWAZbWbc_ZgyQpoOT-_o_QXG5EpfOfa8RDukxYzsqHScd5OT4lT5x8KsaI3ilOcgKuhn9vpJgU0irpBxc/s320/5.png" width="320" /></a><span lang="EN-GB">He put an arm
around her waist, just underneath her stab jacket, and kept eye contact with
her. She had to fight her normal instinct to struggle free and be independent,
which would only get them both into trouble. She stayed still. Jake edged them
back out of the soup, pulling them along with one arm, and suddenly the water
cleared, and they were back on the bridge. Her panic vanished. Narcosis was so
depth-dependent: one second exhilaration, the next all-out panic, but a few
seconds later and ten metres higher and her mind was clear as a bell. Jake
studied her, and she nodded as if to say she was fine, gave him a clear OK
signal to verify it, and he let her go. She followed him back outside the ship,
and checked her air. Ninety bar. She showed it to him. He looked at it but
didn’t show her his. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB">She’d blown
it. Not nearly enough air left to go down to the sea floor and start searching,
and in any case the narcosis would return straightaway. <i>Fucking hell!</i> The Rose was down there, waiting. She wanted to punch
the wreck. But you can’t punch anything seriously underwater. At least she was
alive. Next time she might not get narked at all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3FuWQHw13r7Z4ex4mFA4K8-R3NhMAchfy34EwXtTLS0fAFqbvf1c3OUtvLn-aaCMEIj6aNFBNTIiEf1IgOaTvTttUIS7ZNbeNatJpmFVCsWQh5G6cY950q17BLHGHHhi4jtzuWlKQnvro/s1600/Cm2hLGNXYAAr1Fx.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3FuWQHw13r7Z4ex4mFA4K8-R3NhMAchfy34EwXtTLS0fAFqbvf1c3OUtvLn-aaCMEIj6aNFBNTIiEf1IgOaTvTttUIS7ZNbeNatJpmFVCsWQh5G6cY950q17BLHGHHhi4jtzuWlKQnvro/s320/Cm2hLGNXYAAr1Fx.jpg" width="200" /></a><span lang="EN-GB">Jake moved
away from the Tsuba, and she followed him, close to an eel that slithered off
in the direction of the underwater pinnacle propping up the wreck. She and Jake
slowly ascended amongst lush green ferns, flora she normally spurned. Fish
skittered over mossy boulders, and she tried to take her mind off this catastrophic dive. As they rose above the promontory, the prow of the Tsuba
loomed into view again. A cuttlefish, changing colour mid-water, calmed her
down a little. Her computer said she’d touched forty-eight metres, and required
a decompression stop for five minutes, probably more by the time they arrived
at six metres. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB">She gazed down the
disappearing length of the ship. The Rose – her and Katya’s key to freedom –
was down there, and she’d been less than twenty metres above it. </span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB">It might as
well have been a kilometer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB"><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/66-Metres-chilling-thriller-Laksheva-ebook/dp/B01HLY0Z0W/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1484479743&sr=8-1&keywords=66+metres">66 Metres</a> available digitally everywhere. Please don't read your kindle or iPad underwater...</span></div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343906535598112063.post-15198963450034468532017-01-03T11:20:00.000-08:002017-01-03T11:20:08.869-08:00When is a novel finished?<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGhqdgyK7c3Soj3TYBA4l6LWeoya54OzWqiA4TuAQH2BLjxSTLiizVndtQ-nc7NyTPrJreNFvVF4xcpCnSKNfhPw0UTmbNPHaj1w1DO_-9HqV1H1tAW2LDGCz6-GHF25IUOjTcbNq3V8uK/s1600/typing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGhqdgyK7c3Soj3TYBA4l6LWeoya54OzWqiA4TuAQH2BLjxSTLiizVndtQ-nc7NyTPrJreNFvVF4xcpCnSKNfhPw0UTmbNPHaj1w1DO_-9HqV1H1tAW2LDGCz6-GHF25IUOjTcbNq3V8uK/s1600/typing.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
This is a kind of zen koan - a mind-bending unanswerable question - for many authors. But as I'm getting ready to send off my next manuscript, these are the ten questions I ask myself:<br />
<br />
<ol>
<li><b>Prose </b>- is it fresh, evocative, vivid, agile? Is it clean, with the occasional sparkle? Are the first five pages as good as they can possible be? Does it have a killer first line? Does the reader get a feel (or at least a hint) for the upcoming conflict in the first few pages?</li>
<li><b>Characters</b> - are they memorable? Do they each have their own voice? Does the protagonist undergo a change by the end of the book?</li>
<li><b>Dialogue</b> - is the dialogue sharp, never banal? Do characters interrupt each other? Do they occasionally say things that can't be taken back?</li>
<li><b>Setting</b> - are places described using all the senses, as perceived by (and reflecting) the characters' views of the world? Do settings imbue their own character on the novel (could it only happen there, or could it happen anywhere?) Do the settings signpost the mood(s) of the book?</li>
<li><b>Pace</b> - does <i>every</i> chapter advance plot <i>and</i> character? Is there a good pacing of action/drama, and dialogue/exposition/internal scenes allowing the reader to go deeper inside the characters, without ever becoming either too static (aka boring) or breathless? </li>
<li><b>Story</b> - is the story coherent, every apparent loose end tied up, no deus ex-machina? Once the reader gets to the end, could she/he tell a friend what happened and why, and what it all means? </li>
<li><b>Genre</b> - is it clear what genre it fits into, and what sub-genre? Does your novel follow the etiquette for that genre? [you have to read in your genre to know this]</li>
<li><b>Motive</b> - are you clear why you wrote it? Vanity and profit making are valid reasons. But if there is a part of you trying to come through in your writing, does the novel do <i>you</i> justice? Because it <i>is </i>personal.</li>
<li><b>Essence</b> - can you already boil it down to a handful of killer tweets? It's best to 'get' the essence of your novel before it's published.</li>
<li><b>Cover</b> - does the cover reflect the novel/s genre and essence? Because the cover matters.</li>
</ol>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Okay, back to my editing. I hope the above may interest or even help a few other writers.<br />
JFK</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343906535598112063.post-57896091673702203672016-12-25T04:02:00.002-08:002016-12-25T04:02:37.288-08:00Xmas Teaser: 37 Hours<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgl2gIkGhRrNQ4wmL50y9psk7CNEBKiEkNb2NGxXScKoybIPu921Zvp-7Jml0UtcFbIdV40DqSbzBIOOWpGeUZU2TU4GIASOdm6nClgHWn2JrWtAPTDjs-Li73ov9e_qXdxu-THLdu_XuH/s1600/th+%25284%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgl2gIkGhRrNQ4wmL50y9psk7CNEBKiEkNb2NGxXScKoybIPu921Zvp-7Jml0UtcFbIdV40DqSbzBIOOWpGeUZU2TU4GIASOdm6nClgHWn2JrWtAPTDjs-Li73ov9e_qXdxu-THLdu_XuH/s320/th+%25284%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a>Happy Xmas everyone, especially to readers of <strong><em><a href="http://amzn.to/2aAItww">66 metres</a></em></strong>. Here's a teaser, the opening of the next book - <strong><em><span style="color: blue;">37 hours</span> - </em></strong>due out in March. The book takes place in four locations: Moscow, a remote island off the coast of Borneo, Chernobyl, and London. Expect plenty of fast-paced action, gritty scenes, tough choices, a chilling villain, and some twists you won't see coming... <br />
<br />
This is how it starts. Some of you might guess who Vladimir is...<br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Prologue<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Vladimir Nikolayevhich was cuffed and hooded, but his
guards had made a fatal mistake. His hands were behind him, but not attached to
any part of the inner structure of the military van. A standard Russian UAZ 452
– he’d know those rickety creaks and the pungent blend of oil and diesel
anywhere. The vehicle trundled towards some unknown destination where he would
be interrogated, beaten some more, then shot in the back of the head. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Three of the four men chattered as
they picked up speed down a straighter road. Their second mistake. Clearly they
weren’t Special Forces – <em>Spetsnaz </em>– like he’d been until very recently. Regular
army. He’d only seen the two men who’d taken him from breakfast with his
daughter. But now he knew there were four – one other had engaged in the
banter, another had remained silent but was referred to as the butt of several
bawdy jokes. The hierarchy of the men was also clear. The leader was in the
front passenger seat, the silent one the driver, leaving the two musclemen in
the back with him. One beside, one opposite. He waited. They’d been driving for
an hour or so, initially dirt tracks, now a highway, which meant they were on
the E119 to Vostok. If they turned right, he had a chance, as they would have
to cross the Volga river. Then he would make his move. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">If they turned left, he was a dead
man.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Vladimir wasn’t a man for options, or
for hedging his bets. Not a question of making the right choice, but of making
the choice right. In all his missions in the past twenty years he’d never cared
much for <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a Plan B. Leave too many
options open, and events control you, inviting failure.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The van <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">would</i> turn right. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He needed to know if there was
anything, a metal strut, for example, between him and the driver, in front on
the opposite side. Nobody had talked to him since his arrest. Why talk to a hooded,
dead man? But they were military, at least they had been at one stage or
another, so it should work. He waited for a pause in their talk fuelled by
bravado – they were probably wondering which one of them would pop him in the
skull. He had a feeling they’d make the driver do it. A rite of passage. Probably
a rookie, not yet blooded. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The pause came. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Cigarette?” he asked, nodding through
his hood to the one opposite. “Probably my last, we all know that.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Silence, except for the van’s suspension
creaking. He imagined questioning looks from the musclemen to the leader, the
driver fixing his eyes on the road, maybe a glance in the rear view mirror. The
dead man had spoken.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">A sigh, the rustle of clothing, a
pocket unzipped, the tap-tap of a cigarette being flushed from the pack. He
could smell the nicotine despite the strong diesel fumes. A hand heavy on his
shoulder – the muscleman on the same side – while the hood was pulled up by the
other one just enough. He felt cooler air on his lips, the stale coffee-breath
of the one opposite.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The smack in the mouth wasn’t
entirely unexpected, but it stunned him all the same. He slid off the bench
onto the floor, and while three of the men burst out laughing, he stretched his
left leg backwards towards the rear edge of the driver’s seat – nothing in the
way, no vertical metal support. But there could still be a wire mesh separating
the rear compartment from the two in the front. He rocked back onto his knees,
and addressed the one who’d hit him. He lowered his head, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bychit</i>-style, a bull about to charge, and spat out the words amidst
spittle and blood.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mu
dak, suka, blyad!</i>” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">This time the punch was fully
expected. He railed backwards and upwards, travelling with the force of the uppercut,
so that his head ended up in the gap between the driver and the leader, which
cost him a whack from the latter on the top of his head. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">No wire mesh</i>. Rough hands slotted him back where he’d been twenty
seconds earlier. Profanities poured forth. Nothing he’d not heard or said himself.
His face stung. He ignored it. Things settled down, and the banter resumed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He began drawing long breaths,
oxygenating his body. He was chilled, because he had no coat. The other men
were wrapped in thick commando jackets. It was early spring, still cold. The
Volga would be near freezing, maybe four degrees. Not a problem, he bathed in
it every morning. For them, though, it would be a different story.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The van slowed. The tick, tick, tick of
the indicator. They slowed down further. Stopped. A truck passed fast ahead of
them, rocking the high suspension van in its wake. The leader bellowed a
command, though he wasn’t stupid enough to name the destination. “This way,
this way.” Another lorry – no, a tractor, given the smell of manure – the
leader cursing the young driver for not pulling out sooner. The engine revved,
the gear engaged, the van pulled forward.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">And turned right. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p><span style="color: blue;">37 Hours</span> is due out in March 2017</o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p><a href="http://amzn.to/2aAItww">66 Metres</a> is already out!</o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p>"Massive page-turner!" "This author knows his stuff!" "Intelligent, fast-paced thriller!"</o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343906535598112063.post-63989926351175512392016-11-27T06:42:00.000-08:002016-11-27T06:42:50.661-08:00Underwater, running out of air...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTel0eoOIG8zRPjvQz0QihA1j221ChVP_b00TVp1bpVdA3EfLVQYKJv3b_oXBhMcRa_eGU9tljoINkGvmorOHcut-0JK90hAZdUDBE22W42qmgckVZg0H4qinK10xZJf3EAhDaPZctEv19/s1600/DSCN1213.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTel0eoOIG8zRPjvQz0QihA1j221ChVP_b00TVp1bpVdA3EfLVQYKJv3b_oXBhMcRa_eGU9tljoINkGvmorOHcut-0JK90hAZdUDBE22W42qmgckVZg0H4qinK10xZJf3EAhDaPZctEv19/s200/DSCN1213.JPG" width="200" /></a>When I'm diving deep I always glance up to the surface. Sometimes, as deep as fifty metres, you can still see it, maybe even the boat awaiting you. But often or not, you can't. And the thought occurs to me, what if I were to run out of air, right now? Could I make it?<br />
<br />
You can increase the danger by going inside a wreck at depth. Now, if you run out of air, you are already inside a steel mausoleum, and have to find your way out before you can begin to ascend.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPDBlcRWQKsT8w7Uw9DlAch26aKYIsgEZdIga3CvExC4tJfb8ZCbvXIwi-iHr2Fter0DYRZIcx6lbFPKNtCnFWtag6a3kgLi6tACDZpPTmNCBkImw2aJsTw06PrvCGRqlI9Hn6aZ2pGade/s1600/DSCN0682.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPDBlcRWQKsT8w7Uw9DlAch26aKYIsgEZdIga3CvExC4tJfb8ZCbvXIwi-iHr2Fter0DYRZIcx6lbFPKNtCnFWtag6a3kgLi6tACDZpPTmNCBkImw2aJsTw06PrvCGRqlI9Hn6aZ2pGade/s320/DSCN0682.JPG" width="320" /></a>The one time this almost happened to me was in the Isles of Scilly, off the Cornish coast. My buddy and I were inside a wreck, and I'd tied a line to the entrance/exit, so we could find our way out. It was about 40 metres deep. At a certain point, we both checked our air and decided we should head out and then back to the surface. But as I began reeling the line back in, it came too easily, and we both realized the unthinkable. The line had either been untied or had been cut. We were well inside the wreck, and I hadn't counted the twists and turns to get into its bowels. Our air was burning nicely at that depth, now aided by an adrenaline kick as we realized our predicament.<br />
<br />
I stopped reeling the line in, and we simply followed it as far as we could. Luckily it got us close to the outside, and dim daylight guided us the rest of the way. I never found out who had untied the line or why. To this day, I prefer to think it was by accident.<br />
<br />
I used the memory of this dive when I wrote the following scene for 66 Metres. In this part of the book, Jake has finally found the device that a range of killers are racing to find, the <i>Rose</i>, but is running out of air, and is beginning to suffer narcosis. Two Navy SEALs armed with spear guns are hunting him, and in order to hide, he enters the wreck...<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Jake watched
the fourth tank zip past, sounding like a torpedo, a jet-stream of small
bubbles in its wake. It meant things weren’t good topside. The SEALs had
arrived with a sled – he should have seen that coming – and must have left someone
in charge on the surface. Ascending now would only serve to deliver the Rose to
whoever was up there. He had to descend. Nadia’s air had been so low her only
option was to reach the hang-tank under Pete’s boat at ten metres, so he’d sent
her up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The hut at
fifty-two, where he’d left the smaller, 'pony' cylinder of air – that was his destination. But he chased
after the larger tank, looking for the bubble-stream – his own tank would be
empty imminently, and the pony wouldn’t last long at depth. By descending again
he was going way off the deco-tables, but decompression sickness was preferable
to what the SEALs would do to him. Besides, it bought Nadia time, and she was
resourceful. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDSljZFM-QW0Jz38jTcJjzfKAAVd8sM8pCGfEF5CHDR5qY7vzUIWe-y8gI4PMMf_hSslEh8tpw20kmvBDrJR3xXcWbBTBJrTZc0_4RSqSSvgtZNDMoIazQsYciJSav9zyIKGIgbz2OmXbS/s1600/DSCN0198.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDSljZFM-QW0Jz38jTcJjzfKAAVd8sM8pCGfEF5CHDR5qY7vzUIWe-y8gI4PMMf_hSslEh8tpw20kmvBDrJR3xXcWbBTBJrTZc0_4RSqSSvgtZNDMoIazQsYciJSav9zyIKGIgbz2OmXbS/s200/DSCN0198.JPG" width="150" /></a><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Legs locked
together, he dolphin-kicked hard, holding his breath, the speed of his descent
pressing his facemask back against his forehead and cheekbones. For a moment he
lost the stream of bubbles from the tank and slowed, circling to find them,
then continued downwards. Whoever had dropped the tanks had tried to make it
land on the Tsuba, and as he passed the wreck’s funnel he saw a familiar grey aluminium cylinder lodged against one of the shed-like structures on the ship’s aft
section. As soon as he reached it he shut off the valve. There was no way of
knowing how much air was in it, but a diver never wastes air, and the valve had
only been cracked open a quarter of a turn, so he reckoned it was at least half
full. Anchoring himself by placing the ends of his fins on the sloping deck, he
picked it up, still barely breathing – determined to leave no trail for the
SEALs – and swam to the hut where he’d left the pony. He entered the wreck. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">He’d been
inside this part of the Tsuba twice before, but years ago, so he didn’t
remember it too well. Rather than switching on his torch, he reached into his
stab jacket pocket and took out a thin plastic tube the size of a cigar, and
bent it till the mid-section snapped open. The light-stick began to glow a dull
fluorescent green, casting a ghoulish light on his surroundings: a corridor
straight ahead and up, then a staircase leading deeper into the ship. He took a
short breath and headed in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">At the foot of
the rusted metal stairs was a square room, algae-encrusted pipes lining floor
and ceiling. The room had a single opening at the lower end – too small to get
through with all his gear on – and at the other end a sealed hatch. First
things first – air – since his main tank would be empty soon. But it was hard
to think. The inevitable narcosis made his brain feel like a sponge soaked in
rum. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Concentrate!</i> Three tanks: one
ten-litre half-full, one nearly empty, and the smaller three-litre pony
cylinder. Two SEALs. What to do?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">His brain
wasn’t co-operating. It was like staring at words, unable to decipher their
meaning. On the surface he could work it out in an instant. A light flickered
above, and he knew he’d run out of time. Clearly the SEALs had a detector and
the locator code for the Rose, even though it only worked over a limited
distance. He swam to the hatch, tried to heave it open. Rusted solid. Light
beams danced around the bottom of the stairs. He swam back to the smaller hole
at the lower end of the chamber, and dropped the pony bottle, with its
regulator attached, straight through. He heard a clunk two seconds later.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">As he turned
around the first SEAL appeared. Nice rebreather kit, he had to admit; serious,
professional. Jake pulled out his diver’s knife – Sean’s knife – and faced him.
But the SEAL aimed a spear-gun at him, and gestured for him to drop the knife,
just as the second SEAL arrived, squeezing in next to his comrade. Jake knew he
might be dead either way, so he turned his back and went to the opening, and
shoved the <i>Rose</i>, inside its bag, through the hole. He heard it hit bottom. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">He expected to
be speared at any moment, but the two SEALs stayed put, one of them nodding to
the knife still clasped in Jake’s hand. Their eyes looked clear, alert, whereas
he knew his own would appear groggy, half-closed and bloodshot. He let the
knife slide from his grasp. One of the SEALs handed his spear-gun to the other,
then approached Jake, his own knife drawn, and pushed past him to the opening.
He shone a torch into it, then grabbed Jake’s stab jacket, and began unbuckling
it. He then backed away, pointed to the hole, then to Jake.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">It took Jake a
few seconds to understand. Two spear-guns. Two options. Retrieve the Rose, or
be killed here and now, after which one of them would go and fetch it.
Reluctantly he slipped out of his stab jacket and let the whole ensemble, stab
and tank, drop to the floor, but he kept the regulator in his mouth. He felt
naked. He checked his air gauge – thirty bar. At this depth, it would last a
few minutes, tops. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Unbuckling the
tank from the stab’s harness, he turned, relishing each breath, and faced the
dark hole. It looked like a giant letter box. The only way in was to put the
tank through first, then follow it. Without his stab jacket he’d sink easily,
especially carrying the tank, and finning back up to the hole would be
difficult. He pointed to the other tank lying on the floor, the half-full one.
The SEALs both shook their heads. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">So, that's
how it was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Clambering
through the hole, tank first, Jake fell rather than swam down, the regulator
mouthpiece tugging against his teeth. After five metres, during which he felt
as if he’d just downed two pints, he hit the metal floor. The SEALs must be
shining their torches downwards, as he could see everything lit up in stark
twilight, small clouds of silt puffed up from the floor where he’d landed. A
completely sealed room, no other way out, but there was a tall metal cupboard,
mesh doors hanging off their hinges. He found the bag and could see the Rose
inside, blinking innocently next to his pony bottle. He stood over the pony as
he fished out the Rose, so they couldn’t see what he was doing, and moved the pony
and regulator into the cupboard, along with the bag, then turned to face the
two torch beams. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">He kicked
hard, causing a cloud of silt to mushroom up from the floor, kicked a few more
times, then launched upwards, finning furiously to climb back up to the letter
box, cradling the almost-empty tank in his left arm. He passed the Rose through
to one of the SEALs, then held onto the lip of the hole, and heaved his tank
through, sure it would give out at any moment. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Jake expected
the worst. He wasn’t disappointed. They yanked the tank from him, tore the
regulator from his mouth, and then he saw the tip of a spear-gun right in front
of his facemask. He pushed sideways with his left arm against the opening, just
as the SEAL fired. White-hot pain lanced through Jake’s shoulder. He spiralled
down into the cloud of silt, banging his other shoulder against the bulkhead.
Another spear phished past him, slashing his wetsuit, cutting his thigh, but
that was minor, a flesh wound. The torch beams were scattered by the silt, two
suns trying to break through cloud. Good, they couldn’t see. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Come and get me.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">He landed in
darkness, knew they would be reloading. He clawed his way to the cupboard,
groped desperately for the pony’s regulator, and found it. He gasped in air,
but breathed out carefully, into the top of the cupboard, so the bubbles were
trapped there. The torch lights continued to hunt him, but Jake knew the silt
would take ten minutes to settle. Two more spears shot down, one clanging into
the floor, the other striking the top of the cupboard. The beams waved some
more, then it darkened. He heard a loud hiss from up above. They were emptying
both his tanks. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="indent">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Bastards.</span></i><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Jake squeezed
his eyes shut, dared to touch the short metal shaft sticking out of his
shoulder, and immediately wished he hadn’t. It wasn’t in too deep – the spear’s
momentum had been slowed by his neoprene wetsuit – but he had no intention of
ripping his shoulder wide open trying to extract it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">It grew dark
again, and he heard clangs as the SEALs departed, leaving him to die. He
slumped down inside the cupboard, and breathed heavily from the pony. It
wouldn’t last long, but it didn’t matter. This was it. He’d been beaten. He’d
finally join Sean. Not the way he’d intended. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The pain
burned. He was losing blood. Where was nitrogen narcosis, or for that matter,
oxygen poisoning, when he really needed it. He sucked in a few more breaths,
knowing these were his last. He wondered what Sean would say. But he already
knew what his son would say. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Get the
fuck up!</i> That’s what he’d say. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nadia
and the others are on the surface depending on you. You weren’t there when I
most needed you, you’d better be there for them!</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">His eyes
blurry, Jake staggered out of the cupboard. He released his weight-belt and
lowered it to the floor. He found the bag he’d used to carry the Rose, and
breathed out into it, then swam a few strokes upwards, carrying the pony, his
teeth clamping down on the pain from his shoulder. When he got through the
entrance, he found Sean’s knife and sheathed it. Each time he breathed out, he
did so into the bag, creating a small balloon. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Drunk with
pain, he made his way outside the ship, and stood for a moment on the deck. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What are you waiting for?</i> Sean said. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="indent">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghSO-O_jRIF7VTWEiqbCn3UoOk_31nHJz_BVa5sq3Jg7i-y-X4hwZGFwDBgsju_pAkJo036BxzUFFdEAxAL-xJhHiQUuT-V-P6qLVCgKG270h00bZocqSYYgxZgaijdXSm8JdKiZRx3OrX/s1600/Cm2hLGNXYAAr1Fx.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghSO-O_jRIF7VTWEiqbCn3UoOk_31nHJz_BVa5sq3Jg7i-y-X4hwZGFwDBgsju_pAkJo036BxzUFFdEAxAL-xJhHiQUuT-V-P6qLVCgKG270h00bZocqSYYgxZgaijdXSm8JdKiZRx3OrX/s200/Cm2hLGNXYAAr1Fx.jpg" width="125" /></a><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Jake kicked
off, hanging from the homemade balloon that billowed as he ascended, and as the
water pressure reduced, the bag began to lift him. He could almost feel the
nitrogen flashing out of his bloodstream, forming small bubbles, searching for
his joints, his heart, his brain. Just another way to die underwater. At thirty
metres the pony resisted his in-breath. Sudden, though not unexpected. He was
out of air. Forget about it. Every diving instructor knew the physics. From
here on the air in his lungs would expand, and he wouldn’t need to breathe in,
just breathe out, as if whistling, and by ten metres, he’d need to exhale in
one long continuous scream. That would come easy. He let go of the pony bottle,
withdrew Sean’s knife, tilted his head back, and began the long exhale. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Praise for <a href="http://amzn.to/2aAItww">66 Metres</a>:</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">"</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">A great read that kept me turning the pages right from the start. Fellow divers will love the detail the author has put into this, as well as the story itself. Thoroughly recommended!"</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">'Deep diving meets suspenseful underwater action!"</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">"</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">It’s clear the author knows his stuff about diving."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">"Massive page-turner, read it in one long flight!"</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">"Couldn't put my kindle down!"</span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343906535598112063.post-30735334075561635642016-10-14T11:27:00.002-07:002016-10-14T11:27:14.867-07:00Why I dive...<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZn-lPR0vAUpkG7XtwL9xckVqUqZmBWi5eD_OODqTQbZ8Hc8Ds5dWw4ziAdXXeRKZKuyrLw2VroE-SHrkA3f1YhxSjubuV69B0IgplWB2IgWCaRJBg7Q5Oh86aAXNBd1_4iprb2eckdxZ5/s1600/DSCN0690.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZn-lPR0vAUpkG7XtwL9xckVqUqZmBWi5eD_OODqTQbZ8Hc8Ds5dWw4ziAdXXeRKZKuyrLw2VroE-SHrkA3f1YhxSjubuV69B0IgplWB2IgWCaRJBg7Q5Oh86aAXNBd1_4iprb2eckdxZ5/s200/DSCN0690.JPG" width="200" /></a><span lang="EN-GB">Imagine another world, one without mobile
phones, laptops, emails, conversation, work... Imagine you could fly in this
land, silently sail over exotic landscapes, parachute in slow motion, immerse
yourself in swarms of wild but perfectly choreographed creatures going about
their business – eating and trying not to be eaten – where the hierarchy is
clear, where you and the other fish are always on the lookout for sharks.
Imagine a place you can only observe, where you are the alien, where you need a
wetsuit and an air tank to survive, where you never quite take the next breath
for granted. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuwGVaOrE0i9dn0pZok7bd-WhiV2LoK5rR6zUbH9ZOqZ74RBxjBzKJUGS-as5KeDWq6hfdJMj36P23YCw-zhBI5fhGnx8aYIhaElhFjfcKPUu5PmSMIZZgPdj9P3HPK7QO491EEDBkE2Mg/s1600/DSCN0222.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuwGVaOrE0i9dn0pZok7bd-WhiV2LoK5rR6zUbH9ZOqZ74RBxjBzKJUGS-as5KeDWq6hfdJMj36P23YCw-zhBI5fhGnx8aYIhaElhFjfcKPUu5PmSMIZZgPdj9P3HPK7QO491EEDBkE2Mg/s200/DSCN0222.JPG" width="150" /></a><span lang="EN-GB">Imagine swimming, seeing nothing but
featureless blue atop rippled sand, and then a wreck looms out of the shadows
towards you like the ghost that it is, ominous, rusted, sharp, dangerous, its
entire body tattooed with vibrant coral, its dark, open holds hiding schools of
fish, enticing you inside if you dare…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Scuba diving allows you entry into this
world. Several million people now dive all over the planet, some only once or
twice in their lifetimes, perhaps during exotic holidays. Others become
passionate, addicted. It doesn’t take long to become a diver if you’re in
reasonable medical health – a few days course abroad or at home will teach you
the basics, enough for your ‘bapteme’, and then, if you go again, you can soon get
your diver certificate and start heading to far-off locations, taking on more
challenging dives – diving deeper, into caves, into wrecks, drift diving in
strong currents, encountering bigger and more awesome fish such as whalesharks
or hammerheads.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1ZzRSDtXM6UF6QvQmvLgbIf6enz1lqZVWxiD-Po1tfGaXEm1N-F7-8cp21jRIX8DZVneLnklPf9ZK9hPto84ZKqMdOGT2_ygD3oBW0NfNmkAEJyWRZugIt5AvvNffzlwLS1czg3VyF0G5/s1600/DSCN0708.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1ZzRSDtXM6UF6QvQmvLgbIf6enz1lqZVWxiD-Po1tfGaXEm1N-F7-8cp21jRIX8DZVneLnklPf9ZK9hPto84ZKqMdOGT2_ygD3oBW0NfNmkAEJyWRZugIt5AvvNffzlwLS1czg3VyF0G5/s200/DSCN0708.JPG" width="200" /></a><span lang="EN-GB">Diving is a serious hobby – there are
risks, from nitrogen narcosis to decompression sickness to running out of air –
but with good training, proper equipment, a sensible attitude and some basic
safety culture, it is safer than many sports. The rewards are endless – the
underwater world is serene, magnificent, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>with ever-changing coral vistas. And because
it is serious, because there is no language underwater besides a few hand
signals, divers bond with each other, often becoming good friends. Your life
may one day depend on your buddy, so you watch each other, and watch out for
each other. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsWPn4MWY-35M9l3p8FsAcy1IuESwSBRRseDOPJcuUUhsTY2KUXreSfssMUUYdjA7PAu3LIVxJArI2fv8eSaspzR62E9jmFIbpZVc-9N8wMj2NGSY-teWxy8iYBsFc8mqDdF4WAPanYsTd/s1600/DSCN0061.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsWPn4MWY-35M9l3p8FsAcy1IuESwSBRRseDOPJcuUUhsTY2KUXreSfssMUUYdjA7PAu3LIVxJArI2fv8eSaspzR62E9jmFIbpZVc-9N8wMj2NGSY-teWxy8iYBsFc8mqDdF4WAPanYsTd/s200/DSCN0061.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Some of the most intense moments in my
life, when I have felt most alive, have occurred underwater – from encountering
a whaleshark in the blackness and then riding it on the surface and then back
down into the depths (Watamu, Kenya), to exploring pristine WWII wrecks in the
Pacific (Truk Lagoon), to watching a dozen sharks hunting a school of over a
thousand jack (Palau), to being pinned between two schools of hammerheads at
depth (Sipidan, Borneo), to seeing a swordfish hunt fish less than a metre away
(Seychelles), to diving fjords at night in Norway, to coming face to face with
a penguin underwater (Galapagos), to chasing reef sharks in the Coral Sea
outside the Great Barrier Reef. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEo710X4w2z_-LHSf3n5viHaiJkxlkjuw3TbIRLIVXk0pkT4DXmoEKozhagMRIpgXzX9gzyHUjsc17xPp6fmECRgJY13_wsb2YjrrWLkLMj1MHoCOcOHI6l4UDrF58r5dgqeYJJrsQtheO/s1600/DSCN2752.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEo710X4w2z_-LHSf3n5viHaiJkxlkjuw3TbIRLIVXk0pkT4DXmoEKozhagMRIpgXzX9gzyHUjsc17xPp6fmECRgJY13_wsb2YjrrWLkLMj1MHoCOcOHI6l4UDrF58r5dgqeYJJrsQtheO/s200/DSCN2752.JPG" width="200" /></a><span lang="EN-GB">These are highlights out of 650 dives
worldwide. But almost any dive is a good dive. Just being underwater transports
me to another type of perception. After all, try to imagine a world where there
are no mobile phones, no laptops, no emails… a world where you can truly fly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">@kirwanjf</span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343906535598112063.post-7274532537922870472016-10-09T02:56:00.000-07:002016-10-09T02:56:39.508-07:00My writing process...Last week back in the UK I met up with a few fans who asked me about my writing process. I'm often questioned about this because people who know me also know I have a very demanding 'day job', one which involves around 50 hours a week and on average one international trip per week. Do I write when I travel? No. There's no time. I'm working all the time or socialising with work colleagues.<br />
<br />
So, when do I write?<br />
<br />
First, I get insomnia. Or I don't need as much sleep as other people. Or somewhere between the two. The net result is that every week or so I wake up really early (i.e. before 4am) and start writing, usually until 6 or 7am. For me this is an incredibly productive time. My mind is lucid and imaginative, and there are no distractions (no one is emailing me at that time in the morning!). I can get 4 or 5 pages done. It will of course need a lot of editing, but it's usually workable.<br />
<br />
At the weekends is when I write most, both Saturday and Sunday. Usually Saturday is a couple of hours early in the morning, before I do something physical like the gym or Pilates, and then maybe in the early evening. Sunday afternoon is a good time to write, and it's nice to lock myself away for 2-4 hours and blitz on a chapter.<br />
<br />
I never write at night. My mind isn't focused enough.<br />
<br />
The second question I get asked most is about how I develop the plot. Do I know the ending when I start? Do I work everything out as I go along, or is it more 'organic'? <br />
<br />
So, I do know the ending. Not the details, but who is left standing, and how they have changed. I'm talking about the protagonist, and/or the main three characters. I also know the hook to the next book, as I tend to write trilogies, where each book is stand alone, but there is a link and one overall arc. That's because I grew up reading and loving trilogies. Single books are great but leave me pining for more, and endless series end up cliché-ing themselves (IMHO).<br />
<br />
Knowing the end, I start the first few chapters just to get a sense of the characters, to push them, to find out who they really are and what makes them tick. I like prologues, but I make sure they are not info-dumps, they are mini-chapters that get the reader caring about the protagonist from the outset, and giving the stakes right up front, often on the first page. The prologues are also lean, fast and pacy, so the reader has a foretaste of what's to come. Here's an example from the book I'm working on now, from the very first page:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Vladimir
Nikolayevhich was cuffed and hooded, but his guards had made a fatal mistake.
His hands were behind him, but not attached to any part of the inner structure
of the military van. A standard Russian UAZ 452 – he’d know those rickety creaks
and the pungent blend of oil and diesel anywhere. The vehicle trundled towards
some unknown destination where he would be interrogated, beaten some more, and
then shot in the back of the head. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Three of the four men chattered as they picked up
speed down a straighter road. Their second mistake. Clearly they weren’t
Special Forces – Spetsnaz – like he’d been until very recently. Regular army. He’d
only seen the two men who’d taken him. But now
he knew there were four – one other had engaged in the banter, another had
remained silent but was referred to as the butt of several bawdy jokes. The
hierarchy of the men was also clear. The leader was in the front passenger
seat, the silent one the driver, leaving the two musclemen in the back with him.
One beside, one opposite. He waited. They’d been driving for an hour or so, initially
dirt tracks, now a highway, which meant they were on the E119 to Vostok. If
they turned right, he had a chance, as they would have to cross the Volga river.
Then he would make his move. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">If they turned left, he was a dead man.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUmYofywbA2qCp_PTm_7luPnbIgBsxVSIwedMuEs4OMWxHvgaKJ8LRhjQZchjYJQ8gdxoaoXSC1n3W9l0HmEDMX3j5Faam3HwT91vQnSmAJR2OIn-DYKnBJzPqT_IH-5iM55d8jcTlLnw2/s1600/IMG_0219.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUmYofywbA2qCp_PTm_7luPnbIgBsxVSIwedMuEs4OMWxHvgaKJ8LRhjQZchjYJQ8gdxoaoXSC1n3W9l0HmEDMX3j5Faam3HwT91vQnSmAJR2OIn-DYKnBJzPqT_IH-5iM55d8jcTlLnw2/s320/IMG_0219.JPG" width="240" /></a><br />
After a few chapters, I decide the overall structure. The book I'm working on now, One Way Dive, the sequel to 66 Metres, is a 4-part structure. I decide where each section is going to take place: Sebastopol, Borneo, Chernobyl, and London. This anchors the different parts in my mind, and I consider the emotional arc of the protagonist during and at the end of each section, and the major event at the juncture of each part that will draw the reader deeper into the book.<br />
<br />
I then work on each part. The first one usually goes quickly, but the second one has to be more grounded. I need to be able to plot the next five chapters. This is my working horizon, given that I know the endgame. So, for example, this weekend I've been plotting chapters 14-18, on paper, working out roughly what happens, where, to whom, who is left standing, who betrays who, what it means for the plot, what remains unresolved (hence maintaining suspense), and that all important heightening of tension for the protagonist. This section is also the first time the reader meets the arch enemy, who was hinted at right at the end of 66 Metres. This guy personifies evil and threat, and it has to make a big impact both on the protagonist and the reader. So, he must do something pretty terrible, but threaten to do something even worse (for the fourth section).<br />
<br />
All this is done on small, scrappy bits of paper in almost indecipherable (even to me) handwriting. It doesn't matter. The fact that I write it down leaves a trace in my head, so I remember even if I can't read my notes!<br />
<br />
When I write, I don't do it in a calm, relaxed fashion. I do it urgently, in a hurry, as if I can't type fast enough, as if someone has a stopwatch and a gun to my head. This is how I write 'page-turners' and action scenes. The cold-eyed editing stage comes later, but the first cut must be raw and bloody. The way I do this is by waiting, building up tension in myself before I write, thinking and re-thinking scenes without typing a single word. Then when I do sit down with my laptop, it floods out of me. Usually half a chapter at a time. Breathless. Later, I'll fill in, fill out if it is too fast, deepen, etc., but not this first draft. <br />
<br />
Fire first, ice later.<br />
<br />
Here's my favourite scene from the opening of 66 Metres (on sale <a href="http://amzn.to/2aAItww">here</a>), with one of Nadia's defining moments:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="indent" style="margin: 5pt 0cm 6pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrupAAgmrPIEWQUueCqh_MptS_vsC-OU4FtgWhn42t7YipWhvg-h1fv86F7LoKJMEydYBtdfVoxwhujF7LMYYlyxM2mNPsc8y90EWZ3NhruUCBiZXvRx7GW6koCG1uwTJyoGrmOHCx3W_c/s1600/Only+thing+worth+killing.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrupAAgmrPIEWQUueCqh_MptS_vsC-OU4FtgWhn42t7YipWhvg-h1fv86F7LoKJMEydYBtdfVoxwhujF7LMYYlyxM2mNPsc8y90EWZ3NhruUCBiZXvRx7GW6koCG1uwTJyoGrmOHCx3W_c/s320/Only+thing+worth+killing.png" width="320" /></a><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘You have grey
eyes,’ Kadinsky said, wagging a finger at Nadia. ‘Like a fucking tombstone. Who’d want
to make love staring into such eyes?’ He glanced at Katya. ‘Are you sure she’s
your sister?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Katya’s gaze
dropped to the carpet. She nodded, her own eyes a deep blue, like her mother’s.
Nadia had her father’s eyes. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Killer’s
eyes</i>, he’d once joked, when she’d been too young to realise it was a
confession.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Kadinsky
swirled the ice in his whiskey tumbler with a pudgy index finger. ‘What else
can you do, girl?’<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="indent" style="margin: 5pt 0cm 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Nadia never
knew where her answer came from, possibly revulsion against a life of
prostitution, but she thought of her father, and the words slid out of her
mouth. ‘I can shoot. I never miss.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="indent" style="margin: 5pt 0cm 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Kadinsky’s
thugs laughed. He didn’t. ‘I detest exaggeration,’ he said. ‘So American.’ His
mouth moved as if he was going to spit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="indent" style="margin: 5pt 0cm 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Let’s see if
you can really shoot. Give her your pistol,’ he said to one of the henchmen,
the one with a pockmarked face – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pox</i>,
she named him – who immediately lost his sense of humour.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="indent" style="margin: 5pt 0cm 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">She took the
weapon from his outstretched hand, weighed it in her palm. An old-style Smith
& Wesson. God knows why the guy had it. Most <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">blatnye</i> preferred semi-autos, Makarovs or the older but higher-velocity
Tokarevs. She checked that it was loaded, all six bullets nestling in their
chambers. She glanced at Kadinsky, thought about killing him. But the other
henchman, the fat one with slicked black hair – hence, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Slick</i> – had his Glock trained on her, his lopsided leer daring her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="indent" style="margin: 5pt 0cm 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Kadinsky waved
a hand towards Katya, five metres away. He tilted his head left and right, then
settled back against the soft leather, took a gulp of whiskey, and smacked his
lips. ‘The red rose in the bowl of flowers behind her left ear. Shoot it. From
where you stand.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="indent" style="margin: 5pt 0cm 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Slick’s eyes
flicked toward Katya, gauging the angles. His leer faded.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="indent" style="margin: 5pt 0cm 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Nadia stared
at her sister and the rose. Most of it was behind her head. Only one leaf of
the scarlet blossom was exposed. She swallowed, then lifted the revolver, and
took up a shooting stance like her father had taught her. Right arm firm, elbow
not fully locked, left hand under the fist, prepared for the recoil. She had to
do it before anger built and disrupted her concentration. She cocked the
hammer, lined up the shot, then spoke to Katya’s serene, trusting face: ‘Love
you,’ she said. Then she breathed out slowly, as if through a straw, and
squeezed the trigger.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="indent" style="margin: 5pt 0cm 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Masonry
exploded behind Katya. The crack was so loud that three other men burst into
the room, weapons drawn. Kadinsky waved them back as Pox peeled the revolver
from Nadia’s stiff fingers. Petals fluttered to the floor amidst a plume of
white powder from the impact crater in the wall. Katya sat immobile, pale, the
hair on the left side of her head ruffled as if by a gust of wind. A trickle of
blood oozed from her left temple, and ran down her cheek.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="indent" style="margin: 5pt 0cm 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Katya, lips
trembling, beamed at Nadia. ‘Still alive,’ she said, her voice hoarse. She
touched the graze with an unsteady forefinger.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="indent" style="margin: 5pt 0cm 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Nadia began to
shake. She folded her arms, refusing to give Kadinsky the satisfaction.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH0HpdZH6emxK7gJ89SlFgxqbPjABuUMCO28vkv_vol0Fi7ZOQOMyeQGrWWuD95a_b6bvwOWvfbAK9HbrqqX0G1WRLb4Fq45TvbVeM8Fb6bemDIbCtwNzHn0DjPP1aGiRGrrRLCuANou9s/s1600/Gripping+first+novel.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH0HpdZH6emxK7gJ89SlFgxqbPjABuUMCO28vkv_vol0Fi7ZOQOMyeQGrWWuD95a_b6bvwOWvfbAK9HbrqqX0G1WRLb4Fq45TvbVeM8Fb6bemDIbCtwNzHn0DjPP1aGiRGrrRLCuANou9s/s320/Gripping+first+novel.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="indent" style="margin: 5pt 0cm 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"></span> </div>
<div class="indent" style="margin: 5pt 0cm 6pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343906535598112063.post-40496131220191148532016-10-03T19:51:00.000-07:002016-10-03T19:51:12.386-07:00Heroines aren't born, they're forged - Nadia's story<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKHJRvJbbCyXbqGuELQbMYTttLBlU8hHcxAVUWNO7c7nCAKRKYkKdEQtQEW5CNo_R9bm2ZiGWIX9X1dNpj9CRW4hLuW3EbkW837v76BEb_JTWKDt46Q4yJE9yUvPzX-7gyhSRtunO8RnI2/s1600/Only+thing+worth+killing.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKHJRvJbbCyXbqGuELQbMYTttLBlU8hHcxAVUWNO7c7nCAKRKYkKdEQtQEW5CNo_R9bm2ZiGWIX9X1dNpj9CRW4hLuW3EbkW837v76BEb_JTWKDt46Q4yJE9yUvPzX-7gyhSRtunO8RnI2/s320/Only+thing+worth+killing.png" width="320" /></a>
Some prologues are worth reading. This is how Nadia begins...<br />
<br />
<div class="WordSection1">
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 1cm 0pt 0cm; text-align: center;">
<b><span lang="EN-GB">Prologue<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 1cm 0pt 0cm; text-align: center;">
<b><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">The
only thing worth killing for is family. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Her
father’s words to her, the day they’d come for him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She’d
been fourteen when two men in combat fatigues and balaclavas burst into the
kitchen where she and her father were enjoying breakfast. The armed commandos hadn’t
seen his pistol lying beneath a folded newspaper. While her father struggled
with the men, his eyes flicked between her and the weapon. She could have
darted for it, threatened them, helped him. But she hesitated. The moment
slipped past. They threw a black hood over his head, cuffed him, and dragged
him away . . . to be interrogated, tortured, executed and buried in the woods.
A single thought haunted her ever since.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Had
he known they would come?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Now, four years
later, Nadia picked up his Beretta, its dark metal cool in her hands. She checked
and re-loaded the magazine. She walked to the window, took one last look at the
wild garden where her father had taught her to shoot, and the gravel path
leading through the pine forest to the banks of the Volga.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There, she’d learned first to swim, then to
dive. Turning away, she stashed the pistol in her backpack and crept downstairs,
hoping to escape unseen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">But her mother
was waiting for her on the doorstep, arms folded. “You’ll end up a killer just
like him, Nadia. Or a whore, like your sister.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Nadia
pushed by without replying. She passed through the creaking gate that had so
often announced her father’s return, and breathed easier after the turn of the
road. She waited an hour for the bus, part hoping, mainly dreading that her
mother would come running around the corner begging her to return.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Fifty miles from
Moscow, where her sister Katya lived, everyone had to get off the bus at a
security checkpoint to show <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">papiren</i>. Nadia
left her backpack under the seat. When she reached the front of the line, a
young soldier flicked noisily through her passport, then glanced up, surprise lighting
his smile.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Happy
birthday,” he said. “Eighteen. A special day.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Nadia moved into a grotty studio flat in
Old Arbat, where each night she fell asleep exhausted from working in the local
bakery from 4 A.M. until 3 P.M., then at a supermarket until 9.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She liked boys well enough, but hated the
unsubtle flirting, the vodka-fuelled race to unconsciousness, the lies. She’d
loved her father, but he’d been one of the worst with women, and she’d seen the
damage it had done to her mother. So she kept her hair cropped, dressed for
comfort, and was often mistaken at first sight for a young man, which was fine
with her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">She didn’t get
enough time with Katya, but on Wednesdays they’d go to the Sevastopol Hotel,
the rock-bottom market. They’d start on the 16<sup>th</sup> floor and work
their way down, Katya usually buying her little sister Chinese or Afghan
trinkets to brighten her dingy flat, seeing who could negotiate the hardest,
laughing about it afterwards over ice cream. And every Sunday afternoon they’d
head to Gorky Park, taking turns to push each other on the swings just like
when they were younger, and ice skating as winter approached, always hand in
hand. Sometimes they talked about their parents, but only back in the past,
during those good, early years. But when they’d hug, Nadia remembered how they
used to hold each other in bed during their parents’ screaming matches
downstairs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Katya never invited
Nadia to her place, never spoke about what she did with the rest of her time.
Nadia didn’t want to probe, didn’t want to break the spell. Besides, she wasn’t
sure she wanted to know.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Then the ever-gorgeous
Katya invited her dark-haired kid sister to a party at a luxurious country
dacha owned by a wealthy businessman, Kadinsky. Nadia was never formally introduced,
though Katya clearly knew him very well. Nadia was mesmerised by the women with
perfect skin in glittering, low-cut dresses, the handsome and not-so-handsome
men, their jewellery and fancy cars and easy talk of big deals. Viktor, a man
twice her age, who turned out to be someone in government, seduced her. He
wasn’t bad-looking, took his time in bed, and left cash for her breakfast in
the mornings.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">She let things
coast for six months, no demands or promises on either side. She presumed he
was married. She never asked, and he never said. She gave up the early morning
bakery job, and thought about getting a cat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Then one day
Viktor was on the news, handcuffed, being forced into a police van. She leapt
off the sofa and began packing a bag, but within minutes a loud rapping sounded
on the door. The Beretta was on the table, fully loaded. She hid it under a
loose floorboard, then opened the door.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">Receiving misappropriated funds</span></i><span lang="EN-GB">. That’s what they told her at the station, though she was never
formally charged, never saw a lawyer. Once inside Lubyanka prison, Nadia was informed
she’d be their guest for twelve years, ten if she behaved. On the anniversary
of her father’s death, she gazed through the prison bars, studied the sad faces
staring back at her from the ugly block opposite. She turned away, took in the
inside of her cell. The double bunk with rancid sheets under which she shivered
each night, curled up in the foetal position. The iron toilet that stank of her
own piss and shit – they wouldn’t give her the bucket of water to flush it
until lunchtime. The cold grey bars, faded whitewashed brick walls, not even
graffiti to lighten her mood. And the lone hook in the ceiling that her former
cell-mate had used to end everything while Nadia had been out in the exercise
yard. The fourth suicide since her arrival.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Ten years? She wouldn’t
make it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Shouting erupted
down the corridor. Wolf-whistles, tin mugs clanging against cell bars,
lascivious remarks from several lesbian inmates, one of whom already had her
eye on Nadia. And then a gruff man’s voice, more like a growl. Silence. Nadia
stared at the bars. It couldn’t be anyone for her. No one had visited her since
her incarceration. But she listened. A man’s shoes, heavy, impatient, and high
heels clacking behind, almost running to keep up. Nadia smelled her sister’s
perfume, and took a step forward as the footsteps approached. But Katya wasn’t
alone. Nadia took a step back. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Kadinsky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Since being
locked away, she’d heard on the grapevine that he was a gangster, not a
businessman, and now she saw him close up for the first time, he fit the bill. He
had a gleaming bald head, like he actually polished it every morning, and was
fat without being flabby, as if his weight was there to throw around, to crush
you if necessary. He wore an expensive, baggy beige suit, and gold jewellery
dripped from his wrists and neck. Katya stood behind him in a skimpy red dress
and high heels, tousled hair falling behind her shoulders, her large eyes
hopeful and scared at the same time. There was no guard with them. Kadinsky
held a ring of keys in his hand. He selected one that looked indistinguishable
from the twenty others dangling from the ring, shoved it into the slot, turned
it with a resounding clank, and stepped inside. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Nadia wanted to
hug her sister, but Kadinsky stood between them. He turned his head to the
side, not enough to see Katya, but just enough so she’d know he was talking to
her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“One word, and I
walk. Turn around. Give the other inmates a treat.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Katya gave one
last look at her sister, then dutifully turned around, and faced the bars.
There was silence outside. Everyone was listening. Especially Nadia.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Kadinsky glanced
at his gold Rolex, as if bored, somewhere else he’d rather be. Anywhere. He
glanced at Nadia, then folded his chubby arms, stretching the fabric of his
suit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“I’ll ask you a
single question, girl. You have three chances to give the right answer. If you
do, you come with us. If not, you stay, and see your sister in twelve years.”
He glanced at the toilet bowl, grimaced, pulled out a silk handkerchief, blew
his nose noisily, then stuffed it back into his pocket. “And be quick.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Nadia tensed,
stood almost to attention, and waited for the question.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“What did you do
wrong?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Nadia’s reply was
too fast, a prison reflex, what everyone here said when they first met someone
new in the canteen or the yard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Nothing,” she
said. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Wrong answer,”
he said. “Second try.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Of course it was
the wrong bloody answer. He was a gangster, so in his mind everyone had done
something wrong. She stared at the keys in his hands. The door was open. Soon,
one way or another, it would be locked shut. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Think! </i>Maybe just the facts...<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“I met Viktor
Romanovich at your dacha. We had an affair. It lasted six months. One day I saw
him on TV, being taken away, arrested on corruption charges. While I was
packing, they came for me, threw me in here.” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">But what had she done wrong?</i> She’d just enjoyed the ride, a little
life, a little luxury, someone who’d looked after her. She pictured Viktor. A
man twice her age. Old enough to be… She shuddered. “I should have found out
what he was up to, asked where the money came from.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Kadinsky made
half-fists, turned them palm upwards, and studied the fingernails of one hand,
then the other. He stared at her like she was a waste of skin. “One last try.
What did you do wrong?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Nadia looked at
her sister’s outline; she was trembling. What had she done wrong? She didn’t
know. Been born, maybe? So, she’d stay here, die here. Could she do that to
Katya? If her father hadn’t got messed up in God-knew-what, if he’d still been
around, things would have been different. What had <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">he </i>done wrong? She never knew. But then she realised what it was
she’d done wrong, both times. She’d not picked up the gun for her father, that
fateful day. And when they’d came for her, his Beretta – the only keepsake she
had from him – had been right there, on the table. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">She looked
Kadinsky in the eye. She didn’t know if it was the answer he was looking for.
Whichever side of those bars she ended up on, she had a feeling it would be her
epitaph.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“I let them take
me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Kadinsky
grunted. Looked at his watch again. “We’re leaving,” he said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Katya spun
around and Nadia found herself wrapped in her sister’s arms, felt her sister’s hot
tears on her cheeks. Nadia’s head tilted upwards, and while she succumbed to
the embrace, she stared at the lone hook in the ceiling. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fuck you</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiocWFwVuXWtisNJVCLftlqYcM09ucaP9VF_HCHzLIEZQXD8F-XIbAoYeYKdP91py03OUEbaCELWqjkrdHlKRAx_a-cD3ttfctpZYIBs3aEPZin2QC5Zl398ZI2NI1KtG-SuoHDXaUerJmN/s1600/5.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiocWFwVuXWtisNJVCLftlqYcM09ucaP9VF_HCHzLIEZQXD8F-XIbAoYeYKdP91py03OUEbaCELWqjkrdHlKRAx_a-cD3ttfctpZYIBs3aEPZin2QC5Zl398ZI2NI1KtG-SuoHDXaUerJmN/s320/5.png" width="320" /></a><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Kadinsky got Nadia out with bribes and promised
favours. Of course, she’d have to work it off.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Once back at
Kadinsky’s country dacha, she stood in the large lounge with its single bay
window overlooking the dry fountain, a chipped statue of Pan in its centre.
Inside, oil paintings of battles, including one above the fireplace featuring a
victorious Napoleon, hung around the white, corniced walls. Kadinsky ordered
Katya not to speak, then walked around Nadia. He looked her up and down, then
shook his head. He dropped into a wide leather armchair. Katya was perched on
an antique wooden dining seat opposite. Nadia stood between them, and
Kadinsky’s two henchmen – one grossly fat, the other slim as a snake and with
pockmarked cheeks – leaned against the far wall.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“You have grey
eyes,” he said, wagging a finger at her. “Like a fucking tombstone. Who’d want
to make love staring into such eyes?” He glanced at Katya. “Are you sure she’s
your sister?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Katya’s gazed
dropped to the carpet. She nodded, her own eyes a deep blue, like her mother’s.
Nadia had her father’s eyes. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Killer’s
eyes</i>, he’d once joked, when she’d been too young to realize it was a
confession.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Kadinsky swirled
the ice in his whiskey tumbler with a pudgy index finger. “What else can you
do, girl?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Nadia never knew
where her answer came from, possibly revulsion against a life of prostitution,
but she thought of her father, and the words slid out of her mouth. “I can
shoot. I never miss.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Kadinsky’s
thugs laughed. He didn’t. “I detest exaggeration,” he said. “So American.” His
mouth moved as if he was going to spit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Let’s see if
you can really shoot. Give her your pistol,” he said to one of the henchmen,
the one with a pockmarked face – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pox</i>,
she named him – who immediately lost his sense of humour.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
took the weapon from his outstretched hand, weighed it in her palm. An
old-style Smith and Wesson. God knows why the guy had it. Most <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">blatnye</i> preferred semi-autos, Makarovs
or the older but higher-velocity Tokarevs. She checked that it was loaded, all
six bullets nestling in their chambers. She glanced at Kadinsky, thought about
killing him. But the other henchman, the fat one with slicked black hair –
hence, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Slick</i> – had his Glock trained
on her, his lopsided leer daring her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Kadinsky
waved a hand towards Katya, five metres away. He tilted his head left and
right, then settled back against the soft leather, took a gulp of whiskey, and
smacked his lips. “The red rose in the bowl of flowers behind her left ear.
Shoot it. From where you stand.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Slick’s
eyes flicked toward Katya, gauging the angles. His leer faded.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Nadia
stared at her sister and the rose. Most of it was behind her head. Only one
leaf of the scarlet blossom was exposed. She swallowed, then lifted the
revolver, and took up a shooting stance like her father had taught her. Right
arm firm, elbow not fully locked, left hand under the fist, prepared for the
recoil. She had to do it before anger built and disrupted her concentration.
She cocked the hammer, lined up the shot, then spoke to Katya’s serene,
trusting face: “Love you,” she said. Then she breathed out slowly, as if
through a straw, and squeezed the trigger.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Masonry
exploded behind Katya. The crack was so loud that three other men burst into
the room, weapons drawn. Kadinsky waved them back as Pox peeled the revolver
from Nadia’s stiff fingers. Petals fluttered to the floor amidst a plume of
white powder from the impact crater in the wall. Katya sat immobile, pale, the
hair on the left side of her head ruffled as if by a gust of wind. A trickle of
blood oozed from her left temple, and ran down her cheek.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Katya, lips
trembling, beamed at Nadia. “Still alive,” she said, her voice hoarse. She
touched the graze with an unsteady forefinger.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Nadia began to
shake. She folded her arms, refusing to give Kadinsky the satisfaction.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Later that night, while she slept in
Katya’s bed, holding close the sister she’d almost killed, Slick and Pox burst
into the room. Katya woke, leapt out of bed and told them to fuck off, for
which she received the butt of a revolver across her mouth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Nadia
half-planned to try to grab one of the guys’ guns at a crucial moment, but they
knew what they were doing. One held her down, while the other did whatever he
wanted. She retreated into a corner of her mind, a memory, the first time her
father had taught her to hold a gun, his arms around her, helping her aim,
shooting at empty beer bottles. He’d been so proud of her when she’d hit one.
But she couldn’t hang onto the memory. It hurt, what they were doing, it
fucking hurt, and she knew this was a wound that would never heal. She tried to
scream STOP! But Slick clamped his hand over her mouth. Katya leapt onto his
back, aiming to pull him off, but Pox punched her in the stomach, then in the
mouth. Katya went down, didn’t reappear. Nadia continued to struggle, thought
of her father, how he’d be raging in hell if he could see this, knew what he’d
do to these two bastards if he were there. She clung to his rage like a
lifeline…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Eventually
they left, and Katya, her chin smeared with blood, an ugly bruise rising on her
left cheek, came back to the bed and held Nadia tight. Nadia’s body was
strangely still, as if it belonged to someone else. She wished it did. While
her eyes stayed dry, her elder sister cried and whispered apologies, repeating
how it would all be all right, the worst was over, and the important thing was
that they were together. For the first time ever, that night, Nadia held her sister
until she fell asleep, rather than the other way around.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">At dawn Nadia
woke to find her sister gone, presumably to Kadinsky’s bed. She considered
their predicament. Katya was locked into Kadinsky’s world, and now she owed him
too, and he wasn’t about to simply let her off. She was trapped. Her mother’s
prediction came back to her: a killer or a whore. Maybe both.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">She dressed,
crept downstairs and stole outside, timing it to get past the guard by the main
door when he went to take a piss. Snow crunched under her boots. She got a
couple of miles from the dacha before she collapsed from the biting cold, and
lay down in the crisp silence. “It’s okay,” she heard her mother say inside her
head, with a kindness she’d not heard from her in years. “Better this way.” She
closed her eyes and went to sleep, hoping never to awaken, unless to join her
father.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">But she did
wake, and found herself back in the dacha on a sofa, buried in blankets and fur
coats. She shook violently.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People were
shouting in the room next door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Katya,
Slick, and Pox, then that low growl that cut off everyone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Katya
came in. She wiped away tear streaks on her bruised face, and closed the door
behind her. She braved a smile and walked toward Nadia. “They won’t touch you
again,” she said, her voice shaky. “Nobody will.” She sat down next to her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Kadinsky
entered, a gold-rimmed coffee cup in his hand, a sad-looking golden retriever
trailing him. “Here’s the deal, girl.” He spoke to the bay window rather than
her, and took a swig before continuing. “I could use a female operative who
doesn’t wet herself under pressure. Maybe that could be you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’ll work for me for five years. Your
training will take three, including eighteen months in Britain. I want your
English impeccable – not like a newsreader, like a local.” He stared at her, his
gaze hard. He stooped to pat the dog ineffectually, as if he didn’t really know
how, then stood tall, downing the last of the coffee. He spoke to the window
again. “Katya stays here. Do ten ops for me, then I’ll let you both go.” He
nodded to himself as if concluding the contract. “Ten ops, five years. Then, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">svoboda</i> . . . freedom.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">He left, not
waiting for an answer. The dog followed, its head bowed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Kadinsky’s words
echoed in her mind. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Five years</i>. Half
the life she would have lost in prison. If she’d have lasted. Thinking of her
cell helped. Katya had gotten Nadia out of her own personal hell. But would
Kadinsky really let them both go afterward?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Katya hugged her,
and she succumbed to the embrace, because the only person she cared for in this
brutal world was Katya. “It’s going to be all right,” Katya said. “You can
trust him. Pyotr Aleksandrovich is a hard man, but he keeps his bargains.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">She knew what
Katya was trying to do, using Kadinsky’s first name and patronymic, making him
seem like family. But something inside her hardened, as if the tears that
should have come earlier turned to glass. She promised herself she would go and
retrieve her father’s Beretta the very next day, strip it, clean it, begin
practicing again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Ten ops. Five
years. Then, one way or the other, she and her sister were through with
Kadinsky.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“It will be all
right, Katya,” she said. “Whatever it takes, I promise one day I’ll <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">make</i> it right.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Available from Amazon <a href="http://amzn.to/2aAItww">here</a></span></div>
</div>
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</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343906535598112063.post-53501693606461092662016-09-11T06:50:00.003-07:002016-09-11T06:50:54.512-07:00Writer's block and incubation theory<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnjrHLJSBH_RAPpKiFDjRTLm87NsmU-Ry6nCxu-xFzBxWUCQvGUv6jIJuMi_l4HCi3tdA96cqOwIkXjkrX6cn1LH58vDee-joXpBqY4_K_PXLdMKy7EAF7IEwRV1EMD-3fC_YEDkWF16KF/s1600/Writers+block.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnjrHLJSBH_RAPpKiFDjRTLm87NsmU-Ry6nCxu-xFzBxWUCQvGUv6jIJuMi_l4HCi3tdA96cqOwIkXjkrX6cn1LH58vDee-joXpBqY4_K_PXLdMKy7EAF7IEwRV1EMD-3fC_YEDkWF16KF/s1600/Writers+block.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you watch a kettle boil when making a
cup of tea, you’ll notice three things. First, it’s boring, and you feel like
you’re wasting time. Second, time itself seems to slow down, right before it
boils. It’s as if those pesky water molecules need an extra kicking to get them
to dance around more and actually boil. Third, it goes quiet before it actually
boils. The calm before the storm. There’s a fourth thing, too. If you think,
‘to hell with it, it’s hot enough’, and decide to make the tea anyway without
letting the water boil, it won’t taste as good.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">What’s this got to do with writing and
writer’s block? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Everything.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Sometimes writing flows from your
fingertips. I’m writing a new book, and the prologue and first ten chapters
just fell from the keys on my laptop. Bliss. Then I hit chapter eleven. I wrote
three pages and… stopped. I haven’t typed another word for two weeks. Writer’s
block. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Am I afraid? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Nope.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">As a psychologist, I studied how creativity
works at university. There’s something called incubation theory. Great
scientists didn’t sit down one day and say, ‘I’m going to write a
universe-shattering theory today.’ They’d learn everything they could, think
about it until they were going crazy, and then one day, out of the blue, they’d
suddenly see the answer. What was interesting is that most of these scientists
had the same ‘kettle’ experience of supposedly dead time, where they weren’t
learning anything knew. Like the water molecules, the neurons in their brains
just needed more time to re-group, to re-align to see things from a slightly
different perspective, and then, hey presto, time to write that Nobel
prize-winning paper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Back to writer’s block. What’s holding me
back on chapter eleven? Basically the original way forward I had in mind isn’t
singing to me anymore. I need to write something better. But I can’t / won’t write until I see that new way forward. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Some people say you should write every day,
e.g. 500 or 1000 words. Doesn’t work for me. I only write when I have something
to say. Otherwise I feel I’m teaching myself to write badly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">So, what do I do? Do I watch the kettle
boil? Yes, and no. I sit, sometimes for a couple of hours, trying to work out a
way forward, making illegible notes on small pieces of paper. Seriously, my
handwriting is that bad. It doesn’t matter, because this is process, not
product. I’m banging my head against this literary wall in my mind, trying to
break through, so it doesn’t matter if I can’t decipher the notes later. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">And I read. Same genre, someone I aspire
to, though that doesn’t mean I want to copy them. And I do other stuff, what
non-writers call ‘real life’. It’s not so bad. Really.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">And then one day, it goes quiet in my mind.
The calm before the storm. Then the rumbling. The molecules get off their
asses, the neurons re-align, and a shaft of light, maybe just a glimmer,
breaks through. It’s enough. I grab my laptop. I can’t type fast enough. Anyone
that tries to bother me will wish they hadn’t. The internet stays off. Phones
go unanswered. I write. The story pours through my fingertips.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Usually after several hours, the chapter is
done. It’s rough, it will need a lot of editing, but I’m happy with it. I go
make a cup of tea. And while the kettle is boiling, I think about the next
chapter, and the one after, already unfolding in my mind. I know in a few weeks,
or a few months, that writer’s block will be back to haunt me. Am I afraid?
Nope. It’s a natural part of the writing process. It makes our writing better. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Okay. The kettle has boiled. Tea time.
Chapter eleven, here we come!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">J.F. Kirwan's novel 66 Metres is now available from Amazon <a href="http://amzn.to/2aAItww">here</a>. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaRqJLqywZK-TlmQfvl_V-PdHw95rL9aXu48-15vO73R3FpH8lUSuYMwwt0d70vnkhNPYBfYuIOpMcZ_16Q5Ep5IiQ0kwg2iK3iwg33TLH1Ed5oUV17al4VfDVt26EFoCy0g3_C2-laYkG/s1600/Only+thing+worth+killing.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaRqJLqywZK-TlmQfvl_V-PdHw95rL9aXu48-15vO73R3FpH8lUSuYMwwt0d70vnkhNPYBfYuIOpMcZ_16Q5Ep5IiQ0kwg2iK3iwg33TLH1Ed5oUV17al4VfDVt26EFoCy0g3_C2-laYkG/s320/Only+thing+worth+killing.png" width="320" /></a></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343906535598112063.post-6898726578326512642016-09-04T10:00:00.000-07:002016-09-04T10:00:30.619-07:00Lost in wrecks - hardcore wreck-diving<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqhiJmJAROiU6D5BQmquzqjJ6GCgVgUAj3ezUgCYgBxYaUB5JSC5rjCB6R4Mj68UQD9R8hCl8eS2YCcqv6bj-n4wZbfGCeYMecH-mlUbGJMGhZwyCrquzZNPQfEW9LawSb6hu-aVEkpPKF/s1600/DSCN0221.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqhiJmJAROiU6D5BQmquzqjJ6GCgVgUAj3ezUgCYgBxYaUB5JSC5rjCB6R4Mj68UQD9R8hCl8eS2YCcqv6bj-n4wZbfGCeYMecH-mlUbGJMGhZwyCrquzZNPQfEW9LawSb6hu-aVEkpPKF/s200/DSCN0221.JPG" width="200" /></a>One of the motivations for writing 66 Metres was wreck diving. I've dived wrecks in many different parts of the world, and I am always fascinated by seeing these graveyard ships, imagining how they were before, and witnessing how nature colonizes them, turning even warships into havens for fish and coral.<br />
<br />
But they are often spooky, approaching out of the gloom. And there is always an amount of added danger, from becoming lost or getting trapped inside one, to catching a limb on a jagged edge and cutting yourself (never a good idea in shark-infested tropical seas), to finding poisonous fish (e.g. stonefish or scorpionfish) lurking just where you may need to put your hand...<br />
<br />
Often the visibility is actually better inside a wreck than outside it - that is until someone kicks up the thick layer of silt carpeting most wrecks. Within seconds almost perfect visibility can drop so you can barely see your outstretched arm.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXubUwuggYzcBIgSQvLQxW7PEzaa7S1WR3cUKZNuigNaKbtZ0PeAm9BMG_8Pzs-enVfmyrwCCeKsn0TRh6r4BdJbmA6oa1yco7VtBbmY7aIXAEzYReo3-KlaQfSn220NIO55h2W0cqk6Ld/s1600/DSCN0682.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXubUwuggYzcBIgSQvLQxW7PEzaa7S1WR3cUKZNuigNaKbtZ0PeAm9BMG_8Pzs-enVfmyrwCCeKsn0TRh6r4BdJbmA6oa1yco7VtBbmY7aIXAEzYReo3-KlaQfSn220NIO55h2W0cqk6Ld/s200/DSCN0682.JPG" width="200" /></a>Much of the diving in 66 Metres takes place in the Isles of Scilly, which has a huge number of wrecks. I dived there many years ago, and it wasn't without incident. On one dive, my buddy and I were inside a wreck at around 40 metres, and had attached a line to the external part of a wreck. On the return from the bowels of the ship (aka the engine room), I reeled the line back in only to find that somebody (we never found out who) had untied it, potentially stranding us inside. On another dive, one much like the Tsuba described in the book, we got separated, and there was much frantic searching at a depth of nearly fifty metres before we found each other again. Not much reserve air left on that dive!<br />
<br />
On a third dive there, my buddy and I found a small hatch to a separate chamber deep inside a wreck. I wanted to see what was in there. But the only way I could do it was to take off my stab (buoyancy) jacket and air tank, go through the hatch, and put it back on as soon as I was on the other side. My buddy could read my mind apparently, because she just looked me in the eye and shook her head slowly. So, I didn't do it. But I always wondered what was in there... And in the book one of the two protagonists, Jake, has to do exactly this maneuver. It doesn't go well...<br />
<br />
When wreck-diving, it's important to touch as little of the wreck as possible. One of the worst things you can do is to pull yourself along, using the ship's metal as handholds, because if the wreck is rusted away, it may need only one small tug to bring the ceiling crashing down on you. Again, this happens in the book to two inexperienced divers, and the book's heroes have to try and figure out a way to rescue them before their air runs out.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8d5PPGK6kl_PMElC6vCgOEQyW-qm2VFgLjyPlW8traxa2JBdWvZBNnuVlEIFB_jCoR0lTYuGBWCfuz6lQEulqTHKlyDHKdbi5hf5w6CdYlW7ItaGtb7R6F_KQ1LqEWe5bKiXvKsNBLAAf/s1600/image001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8d5PPGK6kl_PMElC6vCgOEQyW-qm2VFgLjyPlW8traxa2JBdWvZBNnuVlEIFB_jCoR0lTYuGBWCfuz6lQEulqTHKlyDHKdbi5hf5w6CdYlW7ItaGtb7R6F_KQ1LqEWe5bKiXvKsNBLAAf/s200/image001.jpg" width="124" /></a>I've also had a lot of fun on wrecks, for example watching three barracuda hunt inside the SS Yongala near Townsville in Australia, and just having fun diving some of my favourite wrecks on the west coast of Mauritius or in Scotland (the Hispania is one of my favorites), and of course the Thistlegorm in the Red Sea, where I always manage to sit on one of the motorbikes in its hold. You never know what you will see on a wreck. On my very last dive in Hawaii, a stone's throw from the buzz of Honolulu, I descended down a line to a pristine wreck at thirty metres, and there on the foredeck were four large turtles just sitting there, like they were playing cards. They looked up at me slowly as I descended. I just started laughing, and then nearly cried as I realized the battery had died in my underwater camera. Who was going to believe me?<br />
<br />
<b>66 Metres</b> is available from <a href="http://amzn.to/2aAItww">Amazon</a> and also currently from <a href="http://bit.ly/2bE0o7p">Sainsbury's</a> for a limited period.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343906535598112063.post-91994229941277954372016-08-22T11:07:00.000-07:002016-08-22T11:07:07.978-07:00Inside a killer's head<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirUN-DraWbdwALdKWi7sumSjQrjnNKUq3NOEYELsIdnrQi4BS0lpJ7JupF-mukZ1l7Fe15ZJsMZAc4HGNUimIE6T5svZLAgAY5SSDKiLVGN0nMV0FjOKDBROX3W4yViVskrvF55JDBlj09/s1600/in_the_killer__s_eye_by_jiceh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirUN-DraWbdwALdKWi7sumSjQrjnNKUq3NOEYELsIdnrQi4BS0lpJ7JupF-mukZ1l7Fe15ZJsMZAc4HGNUimIE6T5svZLAgAY5SSDKiLVGN0nMV0FjOKDBROX3W4yViVskrvF55JDBlj09/s320/in_the_killer__s_eye_by_jiceh.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
When writing a thriller, there needs to be a sense of jeopardy for the protagonist. Perhaps a killer is after her, maybe more than one. The killer can be left vague, abstract, distant, and this allows the reader to imagine how terrifying they can be. [<i>nice image by Jiceh, by the way</i>]<br />
<br />
Or...<br />
<br />
The author can go inside the killer's head, show the reader what is in there. This approach is less followed, for several reasons.<br />
<br />
(1) The writer is not a killer (well, usually, one hopes), and writers should 'write what they know'.<br />
<br />
(2) In explaining what is inside the killer's head, the reader may actually begin to understand the killer, and so there is less fear.<br />
<br />
(3) By showing what is in the killer's head there can be less suspense than when the protagonist is running from unknown motives and plans.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBCx1jXsIMA8457I4oUzEIs9zwCDm3Y5K_QysmmKFmgFnG_gR8fXGTtdQgd7YAtPUoLTjRR2q-uKXqfkQY3p9XEMxlUnNjsCqn_-oKedQJmMydGlG-Ro2QIbhiwKJ_VqAi590m08bo94d8/s1600/Memory+man.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBCx1jXsIMA8457I4oUzEIs9zwCDm3Y5K_QysmmKFmgFnG_gR8fXGTtdQgd7YAtPUoLTjRR2q-uKXqfkQY3p9XEMxlUnNjsCqn_-oKedQJmMydGlG-Ro2QIbhiwKJ_VqAi590m08bo94d8/s200/Memory+man.jpg" width="134" /></a></div>
Two recent examples I read of both approaches are David Baldacci's <i>Memory Man </i>and Lee Child's... well, pretty much most Lee Child's <i>Jack Reacher </i>series. Baldacci's <i>Memory Man</i> is a masterpiece of suspense because it is actually pretty difficult to work out who the murderers are, and how and why the killings are happening. However, once the motives were revealed at the end, I felt a little short-changed, because so much trauma had been caused for what didn't seem quite enough pain to twist two minds so badly. Having said that, I'm going to read another one, because he's such a great writer and the suspense, plotting and sense of jeopardy are masterful.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRyKtUPtQz1vHFFkqCdoCaQKgcBQwrwI3X4ivzes4meTGqyWlNQf3r2S82VWtnGXh7D99LrrOPbpVKE47FplKAcgEgXkCpRHvpbXDujDB6MQDuxN-SoR1R-wcAIfe-2rzj_w2uEAnxz2K_/s1600/61+hours.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRyKtUPtQz1vHFFkqCdoCaQKgcBQwrwI3X4ivzes4meTGqyWlNQf3r2S82VWtnGXh7D99LrrOPbpVKE47FplKAcgEgXkCpRHvpbXDujDB6MQDuxN-SoR1R-wcAIfe-2rzj_w2uEAnxz2K_/s200/61+hours.jpg" width="126" /></a><br />
With Child/Reacher, we get glimpses into the minds of the perpetrators, as in 61 Hours, and recognize how evil they are. Child keeps it brief. Short passages, usually a page here and there, to let us know that the baddies are after Jack and they are real bad. When payback finally arrives, it feels satisfying because the villains aren't abstract.<br />
<br />
So, when I wrote 66 Metres (and yes, the title is partly a tribute to Child and 61 Hours), I wanted to go further. I wanted to climb into the heads of three villains <i>and</i> maintain the fear and suspense. One of the villains in particular is warped and twisted, and you wouldn't want to spend any time with him or get stuck in a lift with him or be alone in an underground parking lot with him. His name is <i>Danton</i>.<br />
<br />
The first time we meet Danton, he's about to kill someone, so rather than give a spoiler, here's the second time we meet him when he's arrived in the Isles of Scilly to find Nadia and kill her. He's just a dude sitting in a beachside cafe watching some kids playing. Harmless. Unless you know what is going on in his head...<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="indent">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLjT0JM62oogxjwaktyRsydog0erk5TtjCo9x6s56PnTiq2luCiJ_TIOLIK8WBCEii6GV6gtVO0-uuaWZ9FG_Smn6Qs267HyhEcI7HESDq6Xv3XG__hn2v3KvorcGEh1eLdzHqROrbn5iO/s1600/Only+thing+worth+killing.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLjT0JM62oogxjwaktyRsydog0erk5TtjCo9x6s56PnTiq2luCiJ_TIOLIK8WBCEii6GV6gtVO0-uuaWZ9FG_Smn6Qs267HyhEcI7HESDq6Xv3XG__hn2v3KvorcGEh1eLdzHqROrbn5iO/s320/Only+thing+worth+killing.png" width="320" /></a><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">There was a
ruckus outside, a couple of young kids, both with toy machine guns. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘You’re dead!’
one of them yelled, the taller one, eyes full of fire.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I shot you
first!’ the younger one pleaded.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The older one
raised his gun as if to smash the other boy’s face with it. ‘I said you’re
dead.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The younger
boy looked as if he might cry, then lowered his gun and lay on the floor. The
older boy grinned and put his foot on the chest of the other boy, raising his
own gun in the air, and yelled something Danton didn’t understand, maybe a
reference to a video game or a movie. He saw the look in that boy’s eye, the
feeling not only of triumph, but power through domination. Being able to make
another person obey you, submit to your authority through fear. The kid
probably didn’t understand it fully, nor the fact that he should relish it
before life – society – would chisel it out of him or put him in prison, unless
the kid became either a soldier or a boxer or a killer, like Danton. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The waiter
shooed the kids away. The younger boy sprang up and both ran off, as if pals
again, but Danton knew harm had been done, the younger kid had been made to eat
shit. His spirit would remember it. If he was smart he’d have learned a lesson
today, that rules don’t mean anything where raw power was involved. And if he
was dumb, well, he’d just end up another sad loser like most people, and vent
his frustration on anyone who was vulnerable later in life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Danton remembered the second time he’d
killed, after some punk had cheated him in a high-stakes poker game. Danton had
lost a year’s wages, knew the fucker had cheated, but the entire game was
rigged, and there were too many heavies around. He waited outside the
backstreet gambling joint for two hours, hiding behind the rubbish bins, then
followed the guy from a distance until he neared the deserted docks at 3am. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Surprising the
guy and beating the crap out of him had been easy, but he’d only gotten a fifth
of his money back – obviously the others had shared the winnings. Anger brewed
in Danton like a firestorm. He tied the schmuck’s hands behind his back, using
the guy’s own belt, and shoved a handkerchief in his bloodied mouth to stop him
begging for mercy. That was when he spied a run of rusted chain nearby. At
first, he did it just to scare the crap out of the guy, which worked, as Danton
wrapped the heavy chain around the guy’s legs in a crude knot, and rolled him
closer to the water’s edge. The pure terror in the guy’s eyes drove Danton on.
It was like a kid’s game: see how much he could frighten the dolt. To top it
all, Danton heaved the guy up, doing a deadlift with him, chain and all, and
staggered over to the drop. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The guy and
chain weighed a lot, easily two hundred and fifty. Danton thought about the
weightlifting championships, how a shot at an Olympic title had been torn away
from him a year earlier, and in that moment all the pent-up rage from being
screwed over in life too many times surged through him, and he felt so good,
holding this man’s life, writhing and squirming and whimpering in his bare
hands, felt the absolute pure God-like power of life over death. He tossed the
guy into the cold water below. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Never even
knew his name.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Danton didn’t
sleep that night, dizzy with elation, and ended up in a brothel in the red
light district, taking one hooker after another till dawn, fucking like a lion.
In a way, looking back now, he’d been like the smaller boy, but he’d managed to
gain the upper hand and kill the older one. Would that younger boy have gone so
far? Course not. Unless he’d been shafted by life again and again. Danton
hadn’t had a great life, but after that first kill, word had got around once
the bloated body was found and the local mafia put two and two together. Nobody
messed with Danton any more. In fact they gave him work. Respect. That was what
mattered.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The second killer is less frightening, perhaps more atypical. His name is <i>Lazarus</i>, because he died and was brought back by medics before brain death set in. Here's the second time we meet Lazarus. He's a really big guy, and while he's not scary the way Danton is, you wouldn't mess with him...</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span>
<div class="indent">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiegvs3cvqnnerl-TvJK__U23KdxIcLTpZfTo_McUXFrygDgNpM6UvPLNMTdG1TVbZsRgqS5gFbFcgg9mpP0-Pk00abVYj1SogDYo9MUH64uv_fAxaNco1IS2TaWaIPQMFdEvWTpZ_Lj5dF/s1600/image001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiegvs3cvqnnerl-TvJK__U23KdxIcLTpZfTo_McUXFrygDgNpM6UvPLNMTdG1TVbZsRgqS5gFbFcgg9mpP0-Pk00abVYj1SogDYo9MUH64uv_fAxaNco1IS2TaWaIPQMFdEvWTpZ_Lj5dF/s320/image001.jpg" width="199" /></a><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Lazarus
crunched his way up the gravel pathway to Kadinsky’s dacha, aware there would
be a marksman upstairs training cross-hairs on his face. Americans aimed for
the heart, Russians for the head. The gravel was thick with pebbles, impossible
to run on, and Lazarus’ significant weight left dimples in the circular path
surrounding the empty clay-coloured fountain, a statue of Pan in its centre.
The Greek god of mischief’s flute was bone dry. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Lazarus had to
leave his car and the key with a guard down at the estate entrance, and trek
the remaining three hundred metres alone. He didn’t mind the walk, but he
detested the psychology. Everything about Kadinsky was a reminder of who was
boss. As if on cue, two men in identical dark suits came down the stone steps
from the front door, carrying a black body bag. Lazarus slowed. The bag was
moving. Something – somebody – writhed inside. The end of the bag slipped from
the front guy’s hands and fell with a sickening thud onto the gravel. The man
at the front gave whoever was in there a good kick, yelled a few expletives and
told him to lie still. Lazarus heard a man sobbing.</span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
Someone who had let Kadinsky
down, had almost certainly been beaten to a bloody pulp by Kadinsky himself,
and was going to be taken into the woods and buried alive. Lazarus would have
liked to put the victim out of his misery. But no doubt Kadinsky was watching.
So instead he walked on, not meeting the eyes of the men carrying the bag. The
body had stilled, at least.</div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">A gruff man
with designer stubble, wearing a suit stretched tight by muscles on top of
muscles, held open the wine-red door. The goon inspected Lazarus, taking in his
sheer size, probably wondering how much was lean, how much was fat, and where
best to pop him with his .38 if necessary. The face, or the back of the head,
as always. He patted Lazarus down while another watched from the upper landing,
a Kalashnikov hanging from his shoulder. Lazarus wasn’t carrying a weapon. He
didn’t need one. There were plenty around. And his hands could snap necks when
required. Not that he enjoyed killing, but he preferred it to being killed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Whenever he
was in hostile terrain he made rapid assessments of opponents, putting them
into one of three categories: commas, semicolons, and full stops. Commas could
be scared off, they’d turn and run, and didn’t need a bullet. Semis, when
wounded, would go crying to their mommas, no longer a threat. Full stops needed
to be put down quickly, a head or neck shot so their finger couldn’t pull the
trigger in that last second of shocked clarity. These two were semis. One shot,
one bone broken, they’d call it a day. They weren’t in it for love or loyalty,
just dreaming of an early pension. Lazarus never dreamed. He was saving that
for when he was dead. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The search
over, the goon jerked his thumb towards a set of double doors with frosted
glass to the left on the ground floor. A golden Labrador intercepted him, and
Lazarus squatted down, held his hand out, waiting while the dog hesitated then
came over and sniffed his hand. Lazarus stroked him. The dog lapped it up. If
only humanity were gone, just animals. The goon nudged Lazarus in the back with
his knee. Lazarus rose and spun around on the spot, towering over him, making
him step back in surprise. Lazarus heard the swish of the Kalashnikov being
unshouldered and clicked into readiness, trained on his face, but he didn’t
look up. Nor did he glare at the goon who had fumbled for his gun, he just
loomed over him, the dog at his side sensing who was master. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Lazarus,’ a
voice came from the room, ‘stop shitting around and get in here.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">He turned to
see Kadinsky – expensive baggy suit, chunky gold jewellery – in the doorway,
before he turned and went back inside. Kadinsky was fixing the back of his
collar over his tie. His shirt looked fresh. No doubt he’d just changed due to
spattered bloodstains. Lazarus followed, the dog too.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">In the scene above we also see another killer, Kadinsky, who's head we never go inside. There's no need, you already know it's pretty nasty in there. There's one other killer, but that would be a spoiler.</span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Of course the book is mainly inside the head of the protagonist, Nadia, the target of all these men. She has never killed, but will she have to in the end? And what will be in <i>her</i> head when she does so?</span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/66-Metres-chilling-thriller-that-ebook/dp/B01HLY0Z0W/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1471888704&sr=8-1&keywords=66+metres#nav-subnav"><b>66 Metres</b> </a>is available from 25 August</span></div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343906535598112063.post-85443173122250133742016-08-14T05:41:00.001-07:002016-08-14T05:41:29.423-07:00Writers on the edge...(Genius)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi94WgX6Mhqc_vtWnvVpClHzBt5RGHP0gF8IvwdbX7WAnPNCFoKbz-sYGCQ4deZL0pWQQsgAwqQHV_A8RTBDEeyFYFRzs8P4M3c2akKIHdtkaZh3Q_HdczjSj5RYqWJK7Tv3iFp-CIxybsg/s1600/Wolfe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi94WgX6Mhqc_vtWnvVpClHzBt5RGHP0gF8IvwdbX7WAnPNCFoKbz-sYGCQ4deZL0pWQQsgAwqQHV_A8RTBDEeyFYFRzs8P4M3c2akKIHdtkaZh3Q_HdczjSj5RYqWJK7Tv3iFp-CIxybsg/s320/Wolfe.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
Yesterday I watched the film <b><i>Genius</i></b>, in which Jude Law plays the utterly driven writer Tom Wolfe, and Colin Firth plays the (genius) editor Max Perkins, who also edited Fitzgerald and Hemingway, both portrayed admirably in the film.<br />
<br />
I think writers should go watch (or rent) the movie. Here's why.<br />
<br />
Wolfe has been rejected by every publishing house in town, until Max sees something in his work. Most writers, even successful ones, had a rough start, or have not yet even had that 'lucky break', which seems lucky when it happens to others, and hard-earned when it finally happens to them. There is a moment when Wolfe realizes he has been accepted for publication, and he practically screams. As a writer, I found this both satisfying and appropriate.<br />
<br />
The mechanics of the editing process is both fascinating and funny. Funny when Max is handed the manuscript for the first time, and he says 'at least tell me it's double-spaced' (the answer is that it is not). Funny when Wolfe turns up with book 2, and its 5000 pages long. Fascinating when Max edits a long paragraph, which sounds beautiful the first time you hear it, and then he forces Wolfe to cut it back to the bare bones, a simple two lines, and you think, he's right, it <i>is</i> better.<br />
<br />
One of the points of the film, however, is how destructive writing can be, often for those around the author, as excellently portrayed by Wolfe's muse Aline Bernstein (Nicole Kidman) as she slowly unravels, then turns stone cold against him. I've often wondered if all serious writers should indeed live alone in a garret in Paris or New York, occasionally venturing out for a coffee, but otherwise keeping away from the world and not harming those in it, or those they profess to care about. A bit harsh, but maybe not if you're like Tom Wolfe.<br />
<br />
The counterpoint is given by Fitzgerald, who is the stable and professional writer, still very much in love with his wife and putting her first, and Hemingway, who puts life first.<br />
<br />
But the film revolves around Wolfe and Perkins, and reminds us, as Bernstein states, that the people around us writers are <i>not </i>fictional, unlike the characters inside our heads and books.<br />
<br />
One thing the film didn't bring out was the pure joy of writing that most writers experience, rather than the manic obsessional got-to-get-ths-done periods many writers go through, and where Wolfe seemed to live non-stop. This is also because the film largely focuses on editing rather than writing, and one is fun, and the other is hard and sometimes cruel. <br />
<br />
Because the film is set circa 1929, it did not deal with that other modern stressor that writers currently have to deal with, namely the jungle that is social marketing, wrestling with Twitter, Facebook, Websites, etc., trying to get their voice heard above millions of others. From that perspective, I sometimes think I might have preferred to have been around back then...<br />
<br />
I had just finished a manuscript for publication, and going to see this film was my reward. But I came out in deep reflection. How many thousands of hours have I committed to writing when I could have been interacting with real people?<br />
<br />
Of course it didn't last long, because I'm a writerholic, and this morning I disappeared for a few hours into a Parisian brasserie to write a chapter of the next book. And I really enjoyed myself. But I'm going to go off-grid for a few days and pay attention to the non-fictional world, and the non-fictional characters who really matter.<br />
<br />
By the way, the title of the film refers to the editor, not the writer, which I found interesting. I now have an editor for the first time in my writing, and she has certainly helped me raise my game. All the words are mine, but without her insights it would be a lesser novel.<br />
<br />
So, here's to editors everywhere, you help to make our words better.<br />
<br />
<br />
https://www.facebook.com/sixtysixmetres/ <br />
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<a href="http://amzn.to/2aAItww">66 Metres</a> will be Released 25th August by CarinaUK, HarperCollinsUnknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343906535598112063.post-16134423719109300272016-08-13T11:13:00.001-07:002016-08-13T11:13:33.700-07:0066 Metres - Opening<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtjvVjgbb631PDUL_n9K1jrTi3J5HebBlDRTzrmALYO8GXp4bpCzy_vQo3VxXq4PuH_m2K54PgmrRa_GCaojSyRxjyv5mkrDx1H514VbCyyQYcAu3-LZNDqXXkDz8atnUdlS8P0zDNHGDP/s1600/Only+thing+worth+killing.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtjvVjgbb631PDUL_n9K1jrTi3J5HebBlDRTzrmALYO8GXp4bpCzy_vQo3VxXq4PuH_m2K54PgmrRa_GCaojSyRxjyv5mkrDx1H514VbCyyQYcAu3-LZNDqXXkDz8atnUdlS8P0zDNHGDP/s320/Only+thing+worth+killing.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<i><b><span style="color: #073763;">Sixty-Six Metres</span></b></i> is the depth at which normal air starts to become toxic to divers. Stay at that depth or below, and you will die.<br />
<br />
Nadia has never dived that deep, but to save her sister, she's going to have to.<br />
<br />
Here's how it all starts...<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Prologue</b><br />
<br />
<div class="indent">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The only thing worth killing for is family. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Her father’s
words to her, the day they’d come for him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">She’d been
fourteen when two men in combat fatigues and balaclavas burst into the kitchen
where she and her father were enjoying breakfast. The armed commandos hadn’t
seen his pistol lying beneath a folded newspaper. While her father struggled
with the men, his eyes flicked between her and the weapon. She could have
darted for it, threatened them, helped him. But she hesitated. The moment
slipped past. They threw a black hood over his head, cuffed him, and dragged
him away... to be interrogated, tortured, executed and buried in the woods. A
single thought haunted her ever since.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Had he known
they would come?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="asterisks">
<br /></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Four years
later, Nadia picked up his Beretta, its dark metal cool in her hands. She
checked and re-loaded the magazine. She walked to the window, took one last
look at the wild garden where her father had taught her to shoot, and the gravel
path leading through the pine forest to the banks of the Volga. There, she’d
learned first to swim, then to dive. Turning away, she stashed the pistol in
her backpack and crept downstairs, hoping to escape unseen. </span>But her mother
was waiting for her on the doorstep, arms folded. </div>
<div class="indent">
<br /></div>
<div class="indent">
‘You’ll end up a killer just
like him, Nadia. Or a whore, like your sister.’</div>
<div class="indent">
<br /></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Nadia pushed
by without replying. She passed through the creaking gate that had so often
announced her father’s return, and breathed easier after the turn of the road.
She waited an hour for the bus, partly hoping – but mainly dreading – that her
mother would come running around the corner begging her to return.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Fifty miles
from Moscow, where her sister Katya lived, everyone had to get off the bus at a
security checkpoint to show <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">papiren</i>.
Nadia left her backpack under the seat. When she reached the front of the line,
a young soldier flicked noisily through her passport, then glanced up, surprise
lighting his smile.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Happy
birthday,’ he said. ‘Eighteen. A special day.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<br /></div>
<div class="asterisks">
<br /></div>
<div class="indent">
<br /></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Nadia moved
into a grotty studio flat in Old Arbat, where each night she fell asleep
exhausted from working in the local bakery from four a.m. until three p.m.,
then at a supermarket until nine at night. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She kept her hair cropped, dressed for
comfort, and was often mistaken at first sight for a young man, which was fine
with her. She liked boys well enough, but hated the unsubtle flirting, the
vodka-fuelled race to unconsciousness, the lies. She’d loved her father, but
he’d been one of the worst with women, and she’d seen the damage it had done to
her mother.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">She didn’t get
enough time with Katya, but on Wednesdays they’d go to the Sevastopol Hotel,
the rock-bottom market. They’d start on the sixteenth floor and work their way
down, Katya usually buying her little sister Chinese or Afghan trinkets to
brighten her dingy flat, seeing who could negotiate the hardest, laughing about
it afterwards over ice cream. And every Sunday afternoon they’d head to Gorky
Park, taking turns to push each other on the swings just like when they were
younger, and ice skating as winter approached, always hand in hand. Sometimes
they talked about their parents, but only back in the past, during those good,
early years. But when they’d hug, Nadia remembered how they used to hold each
other in bed during their parents’ screaming matches downstairs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Katya never
invited Nadia to her place, never spoke about what she did with the rest of her
time. Nadia didn’t want to probe, didn’t want to break the spell. Besides, she
wasn’t sure she wanted to know.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Then the
ever-gorgeous Katya invited her dark-haired kid sister to a party at a
luxurious country dacha owned by a wealthy businessman, Kadinsky. Nadia was
never formally introduced, though Katya clearly knew him very well. Nadia was
mesmerised by the women with perfect skin in glittering, low-cut dresses, the
handsome and not-so-handsome men, their jewellery and fancy cars and easy talk
of big deals. Viktor, a man twice her age, who turned out to be someone in
government, seduced her. He wasn’t bad-looking, took his time in bed, and left
cash for her breakfast in the mornings.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">She let things
coast for six months, no demands or promises on either side. She presumed he
was married. She never asked, and he never said. She gave up the early morning
bakery job, and thought about getting a cat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Then one day
Viktor was on the news, handcuffed, being forced into a police van. She leapt
off the sofa and began packing a bag, but within minutes a loud rapping sounded
on the door. The Beretta was on the table, fully loaded. She hid it under a
loose floorboard, then opened the door.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Receiving misappropriated funds</span></i><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">. That’s what they told her at the
station, though she was never formally charged, never saw a lawyer. Once inside
Lubyanka prison, Nadia was informed she’d be their guest for twelve years, ten
if she behaved. On the anniversary of her father’s death, she gazed through the
prison bars, studied the sad faces staring back at her from the ugly block
opposite. She turned away, took in the inside of her cell. The double bunk with
rancid sheets under which she shivered each night, curled up in the foetal
position. The iron toilet that stank of her own piss and shit – they wouldn’t
give her the bucket of water to flush it until lunchtime. The cold grey bars,
faded whitewashed brick walls, not even graffiti to lighten her mood. And the
lone hook in the ceiling that her former cellmate had used to end everything
while Nadia had been out in the exercise yard. The fourth suicide since her arrival.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Ten years? She
wouldn’t make it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Shouting
erupted down the corridor. Wolf-whistles, tin mugs clanging against cell bars,
lascivious remarks from several lesbian inmates, one of whom already had her
eye on Nadia. And then a gruff man’s voice, more like a growl. Silence. Nadia
stared at the bars. It couldn’t be anyone for her. No one had visited her since
her incarceration. But she listened. A man’s shoes, heavy, impatient, and high
heels clacking behind, almost running to keep up. Nadia smelled her sister’s
perfume, and took a step forward as the footsteps approached. But Katya wasn’t
alone. Nadia took a step back. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><i>Kadinsky.</i> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWUaGpkHoWv5lFiiJ5AHMxnW4-V_njdVvewD61rUmSPPYpRVV1xoJ4VuWkZgorkomTZoOM3b5gfvcJTZMX7pQzsQORWs5npQS8QAgPCqoislX5MUrHwqkLzK6aFQe4CkFol0LiLEcaVMZ4/s1600/A+killer%2527s+eyes-3.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWUaGpkHoWv5lFiiJ5AHMxnW4-V_njdVvewD61rUmSPPYpRVV1xoJ4VuWkZgorkomTZoOM3b5gfvcJTZMX7pQzsQORWs5npQS8QAgPCqoislX5MUrHwqkLzK6aFQe4CkFol0LiLEcaVMZ4/s320/A+killer%2527s+eyes-3.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Since being
locked away, she’d heard on the grapevine that he was a gangster, not a
businessman, and now she saw him close up for the first time, he fit the bill.
He had a gleaming bald head, like he actually polished it every morning, and
was fat without being flabby, as if his weight was there to throw around, to
crush you if necessary. He wore an expensive, baggy beige suit, and gold
jewellery dripped from his wrists and neck. Katya stood behind him in a skimpy
red dress and high heels, tousled hair falling behind her shoulders, her large
eyes hopeful and scared at the same time. There was no guard with them.
Kadinsky held a ring of keys in his hand. He selected one that looked
indistinguishable from the twenty others dangling from the ring, shoved it into
the slot, turned it with a resounding clank, and stepped inside. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Nadia wanted
to hug her sister, but Kadinsky stood between them. He turned his head to the
side, not enough to see Katya, but just enough so she’d know he was talking to
her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘One word, and
I walk. Turn around. Give the other inmates a treat.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Katya gave one
last look at her sister, then dutifully turned around and faced the bars. There
was silence outside. Everyone was listening. Especially Nadia.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Kadinsky
glanced at his gold Rolex, as if bored, somewhere else he’d rather be.
Anywhere. He glanced at Nadia, then folded his chubby arms, stretching the
fabric of his suit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I’ll ask you
a single question, girl. You have three chances to give the right answer. If
you do, you come with us. If not, you stay, and see your sister in twelve
years.’ He glanced at the toilet bowl, grimaced, pulled out a silk
handkerchief, blew his nose noisily, then stuffed it back into his pocket. ‘And
be quick.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Nadia tensed,
stood almost to attention, and waited for the question.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘What did you
do wrong?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Nadia’s reply
was too fast, a prison reflex, what everyone here said when they first met
someone new in the canteen or the yard. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Nothing,’ she
said. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘Wrong answer,’
he said. ‘Second try.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Of course it
was the wrong bloody answer. He was a gangster, so in his mind everyone had
done something wrong. She stared at the keys in his hands. The door was open.
Soon, one way or another, it would be locked shut. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Think! </i>Maybe just the facts...<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I met Viktor
Romanovich at your dacha. We had an affair. It lasted six months. One day I saw
him on TV, being taken away, arrested on corruption charges. While I was
packing, they came for me, threw me in here.’ <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">But what had she done wrong?</i> She’d just enjoyed the ride, a little
life, a little luxury, someone who’d looked after her. She pictured Viktor. A
man twice her age. Old enough to be… She shuddered. ‘I should have found out
what he was up to, asked where the money came from.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Kadinsky made
half-fists, turned them palm upwards, and studied the fingernails of one hand,
then the other. He stared at her like she was a waste of skin. ‘One last try.
What did you do wrong?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPZat2IP_HudpxgEMPaOSJWtQcTIyy56RFC-OB0CK7hkn8bj723NyGnVPP4ELkE528gv4TnbfyVvQQgh8QIXRJ3Bzo5cmpkpWviWIlBCf_xOpr1mXAWY8Umx_d-KZAIKO19Qn3wpSFO1Zz/s1600/Gripping+first+novel-2.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPZat2IP_HudpxgEMPaOSJWtQcTIyy56RFC-OB0CK7hkn8bj723NyGnVPP4ELkE528gv4TnbfyVvQQgh8QIXRJ3Bzo5cmpkpWviWIlBCf_xOpr1mXAWY8Umx_d-KZAIKO19Qn3wpSFO1Zz/s320/Gripping+first+novel-2.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Nadia looked
at her sister’s outline; she was trembling. What had she done wrong? She didn’t
know. Been born, maybe? So, she’d stay here, die here. Could she do that to
Katya? If her father hadn’t got messed up in God-knew-what, if he’d still been
around, things would have been different. What had <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">he </i>done wrong? She never knew. But then she realised what it was
she’d done wrong, both times. She’d not picked up the gun for her father, that
fateful day. And when they’d come for her, his Beretta – the only keepsake she
had from him – had been right there, on the table. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">She looked
Kadinsky in the eye. She didn’t know if it was the answer he was looking for.
Whichever side of those bars she ended up on, she had a feeling it would be her
epitaph.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘I let them
take me.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Kadinsky
grunted. Looked at his watch again. ‘We’re leaving,’ he said.</span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br /></span></div>
<div class="indent">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Katya spun around and
Nadia found herself wrapped in her sister’s arms, felt her sister’s hot tears
on her cheeks. Nadia’s head tilted upwards, and while she succumbed to the
embrace, she stared at the lone hook in the ceiling. </span><i style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Fuck you</i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">. </span></div>
<div class="indent">
<br /></div>
<div class="indent">
<br /></div>
<div class="indent">
<a href="http://amzn.to/2aAItww" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">66 Metres</a><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> available for pre-order, will be released on 25th August</span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343906535598112063.post-85311956327786483442016-08-11T05:55:00.000-07:002016-08-11T05:55:31.870-07:00Is it worth paying for a copy-edit?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhgl_IojkF5mXJbqfP-jAt-XHdQOv30IIIz9E-rQO5ksvfkUxP6CJRoxpUAVBcBLpJgopZe_0MjirlRl7H6ZcZqUfq9uPXi-RZUnoKI-8dAnhTTr5CqG0SE0cFJg8qT8fGQq6wE1ZjG-gi/s1600/Editing+pointing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhgl_IojkF5mXJbqfP-jAt-XHdQOv30IIIz9E-rQO5ksvfkUxP6CJRoxpUAVBcBLpJgopZe_0MjirlRl7H6ZcZqUfq9uPXi-RZUnoKI-8dAnhTTr5CqG0SE0cFJg8qT8fGQq6wE1ZjG-gi/s200/Editing+pointing.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
First, I'm an author, not a copy-editor, and I'm not selling any services. For my first four books I didn't use a copy-edit as it would have cost me around a thousand pounds to do so per book, and I didn't think it was worth it. Now I have a large publisher behind me, and have just had a copy-edit done for me (for free), I've basically changed my mind. <div>
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<b>The last stage before your words are locked in forever</b></div>
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When your manuscript is heading for publication, after you've done all you can to polish it, there are always two remaining items to consider. Copy-editing and proofing. Proofing can be done mostly automatically via grammar and spell-checking, and having careful readers go through your manuscript. Copy-editing is different, though. <div>
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<b>So, what is copy-editing, and why is it a good idea?</b> </div>
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Here's a formal definition:</div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">The goal of copy editing is to ensure that content is accurate, easy to follow, fit for its purpose, and free of error, omission, inconsistency, and repetition.</span><sup class="reference" id="cite_ref-What_is_copy_editing_1-1" style="color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1; unicode-bidi: -webkit-isolate; white-space: nowrap;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Copy_editing#cite_note-What_is_copy_editing-1" style="background-image: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration: none;">[</a></sup></div>
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Here's another way of saying it: A good copy-edit will:</div>
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<ol><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfkEimjBy-Gi4z8sGvw3NMXP9NPVNxE8uUxOu01APU-u4BDLtScmdFWfHoypG7GD99tgyPMIDSOy7sD6kacl6QwLiARKLc0LB-vfbNqjeQ-cdeBmhksczVXkCvyzm4_iT88XQl-ysE0PPA/s1600/Editing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="131" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfkEimjBy-Gi4z8sGvw3NMXP9NPVNxE8uUxOu01APU-u4BDLtScmdFWfHoypG7GD99tgyPMIDSOy7sD6kacl6QwLiARKLc0LB-vfbNqjeQ-cdeBmhksczVXkCvyzm4_iT88XQl-ysE0PPA/s200/Editing.jpg" width="200" /></a>
<li>Smooth out your prose, making it flow better and read easier, and remain fresh (e.g. by avoiding repetitions)</li>
<li>Ensure consistency throughout the book - not just names and places and timings, but what people know or should know at various points in the book</li>
<li>Making sure your character stays true to their nature (e.g. asking whether a particular character would really say such things?)</li>
<li>Pointing out (usually minor) plot holes. The reader can often bridge these gaps, but will be aware of them. </li>
<li>Point out strange, antiquated or specialized usage of language that may jar with the reader. These things can stop a reader, making then think 'huh?', and either make them get out their smart-phones to try and work it out, or just stop them reading.</li>
<li>Identify where something should have been explained earlier in the text</li>
<li>Detect position or layout anomalies - e.g. someone stands up but we didn't know he was sitting down - or an action scene only the author can visualize</li>
<li>Cases where 'less is more', e.g. where the author had successfully made a point but then carried on, weakening it.</li>
<li>Noting where machinery or the environment seems to have been forgotten, e.g. I originally had the skipper of a boat try to seduce someone, and he (apparently, because I 'said' nothing) just left the controls with the engine in gear. No real skipper would do that.</li>
<li>Helping to isolate the best word, or as the French say, <i>le mot juste</i>. I'd said that someone had disappeared, when in fact they had been abducted. An important difference. </li>
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<b>Why can't authors do they down copy-editing? </b></div>
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Of course we all do, to an extent. But we are too close to things. In our heads the characters and their motivations are perfectly clear, as are things like locations and what is going on around the characters. But this 20:20 vision of what the novel is supposed to say sometimes makes us blind to what we have actually committed to paper.</div>
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I belong to a writers group in Paris, and we all review each others' work. But an author is not usually a copy-editor, nor vice versa. These are different skill sets. Of course, the more people who read your novel, the better, but even so, a skilled copy-editor is likely to come up with new issues that do need to be fixed. My book had been read by nine people (four readers, four authors and an editor) before it was copy-edited. </div>
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<b>Copy-edit as an acid test - is your manuscript really ready?</b></div>
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Another important reason for a copy-edit is to gain feedback. Not whether they liked it or not, but just how many comments or queries did you get? For mine, which had already been reviewed and edited, I had around a dozen queries, for a 97000 word manuscript (I'm discounting the simple grammatical corrections, of which there were a couple of dozen). If I had received fifty queries, I would have realized it simply wasn't as ready as I'd thought. </div>
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<b>Eliminating reader potholes</b></div>
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Each of those dozen queries contained something that made me think - okay, I need to change this. A couple of times I replied to the copy-editor "good catch" (or 'nice save'). I want my thriller to be a page-turner, and it can't be if there are potholes scattered along the reader's pathway. It only took me 2.5 hours to go through the copy-edits for the entire manuscript, make the changes, and then send it back to the publisher. Probably the best 2.5 hours I spent on the book since I started it.</div>
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<b>But it costs so much...</b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiH8xiZBiLBfMe5frkJcivsHD8uOx5vGvGifX5BmEQ1l2yiAVn4CktU3uks1aYBpCaVm2DvHKfJkkcO9MlS9lKzUEXjG0MLBNFeSKpHACMu7PQgaIA36ty8mxnyTcabg_i2OyswwqWPcVk/s1600/worry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="100" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiH8xiZBiLBfMe5frkJcivsHD8uOx5vGvGifX5BmEQ1l2yiAVn4CktU3uks1aYBpCaVm2DvHKfJkkcO9MlS9lKzUEXjG0MLBNFeSKpHACMu7PQgaIA36ty8mxnyTcabg_i2OyswwqWPcVk/s200/worry.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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But what about the cost? If you have a medium or large-sized publisher they should do copy-editing for you, so just sit back and wait for those track changes. But for many writers, particularly those self-publishing, an extra 600-1000 pounds/dollars/euros seems a lot, given that you have to also pay for formatting, front cover, etc. So, is it worth it?</div>
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If you want to be serious/professional about your writing, I'd say 'yes'. Either of two things will happen. One, you'll get comments and think, oh gosh, yes, I need to change that, or else you'll get very little, in which case you can be confident that your novel is in very good shape. </div>
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Another way to think about it is to reflect on how long it takes to do a copy-edit. This is no speed-read with a glass of wine in your hand, but is a very careful reading, making notes, continually referring back to earlier sections for consistency checking, etc. Think about how many hours it must take to do a copy-edit.</div>
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<b>Where do I find a good copy-editing service?</b></div>
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Okay, so this is where I have to say I don't know, as I've never paid for one. However, two literary services I trust in the UK are <a href="http://www.writersworkshop.co.uk/">Writers Workshop</a> and <a href="http://cornerstones.co.uk/uk/">Cornerstones</a>, but hey, shop around, find other authors who have had copy-editing done and ask them who they'd recommend. </div>
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<b>Final thought</b></div>
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Think what a sprinter would pay to shave off half a second. You've written the best novel you possibly can. Don't sell yourself or your novel short. Make it that little bit better.</div>
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Good luck!</div>
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<a href="http://amzn.to/2aAItww">Sixty-Six Metres</a> is released 25th August</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343906535598112063.post-83683485226562841072016-07-23T09:55:00.003-07:002016-07-23T09:55:40.806-07:00Why I wrote 66 Metres<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilM0IOP3ZEj53gkQ-RhK1DCtxdIcxzRXIHRmPBljKHl4xcCXs2-RKOFX2qQPU_4lCYpRna4Cb_shBs62cdrAFxbMzsgpc_74iTP4STzZ7FEc9dpqtSdvhzvoyXfjIWPZuOQuMWxa6MsG9G/s1600/DSCN1213.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilM0IOP3ZEj53gkQ-RhK1DCtxdIcxzRXIHRmPBljKHl4xcCXs2-RKOFX2qQPU_4lCYpRna4Cb_shBs62cdrAFxbMzsgpc_74iTP4STzZ7FEc9dpqtSdvhzvoyXfjIWPZuOQuMWxa6MsG9G/s320/DSCN1213.JPG" width="320" /></a>I wrote Sixty-Six Metres over the course of several years, initially stopping after 7 chapters and putting it down for eighteen months while I was working on something else. But it actually started back in 2011 when I had a short story called 'No Diving' published online. It takes place in a Welsh quarry called Dorothea, where the bottom is at just over a hundred metres. It's a dive site that has claimed a few lives, and the story was about a man who had lost his buddy there, and blames himself, so he goes there to commit suicide (to find out whether he does or does not, read the story). You can read it <a href="http://www.pikerpress.com/article.php?aID=4395">here</a>. <br />
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A colleague at work happened to read it and then called me into his office. 'Do you need to talk about it?' he asked, evidently believing it was autobiographical. I laughed, saying it was just a story. 'Sure,' he said. 'Anyway, if you need to talk about it, my door is always open.' I left, thinking, okay, I may have something here.<br />
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I began the novel a year later after a back operation which meant I couldn't dive for about a year. I was really missing it. So I got out my laptop and started the novel. Seven chapters contain underwater scenes. Several of them may appear realistic, because they are based on some of my diving experiences, e.g.<br />
<ul>
<li>I blacked out on a dive in Norway at a dive below 50 metres while carrying out a rescue</li>
<li>I dived the Scilly Isles, and almost got trapped inside a wreck when some kind soul untied the line my buddy and I had clamped to the outside.</li>
<li>I dived to 76 metres on air, in Sipidan, looking for (and finding) hammerheads (please do not try this)</li>
<li>I have over 600 dives under my weight belt, and used to be an instructor</li>
</ul>
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Of course there are some things I haven't done, like being chased by Navy SEALs armed with spear guns, or trying to enter a ditched helicopter in the Thames while its blades are slowing down. Well, not yet, anyway. Some things are better left to fiction.<br />
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The story grew, and evolved from an adventure into a thriller. I got pretty involved with the characters, especially the bad ones. Danton was based on someone scary I used to know, and Lazarus came out of nowhere, but I knew he had to stay. The protagonist is Nadia, closely followed by Jake, the BSAC instructor from the original short story. But it is Nadia's book, and about her unwillingness to kill, even when she is being hunted by stone cold assassins above and below water.<br />
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The other reason I wrote it is that there are so few diving thrillers, and yet the underwater world is so exotic and dangerous. So I tried to capture it. Here's an early scene from the book (which you can pre-order <a href="https://www.amazon.com/66-Metres-chilling-thriller-that-ebook/dp/B01HLY0Z0W/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1469291208&sr=8-1&keywords=66+metres">here</a>), in which a night dive to fifty metres in a Norwegian fjord begins to go seriously wrong...<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<u>Excerpt from 66 Metres</u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">The cold hit the
nape of Jake’s neck as he rolled backwards holding mask and regulator in place
with one hand, torch in the other. Chill water seeped into his hood and gloves.
A single droplet defeated his dry suit neck seal and ran down his spine as he
righted himself. Finning to the back of the boat, he shone his torch onto his
left hand to give Andreas the ‘OK’ signal. In that brief moment he caught the
concerned look on Andreas’ face while he lowered the green nightlight into the
water to help them find the boat later. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jake
turned to the others, giving them time to get adjusted. Their torches, dangling
from lanyards attached to their wrists, shone downwards, cones illuminating the
depths below, sharp halogen light diffusing into shadows. A few silver fish
scurried away from the searchlight beams, unwilling to be lit up as tonight’s main
course for larger fish. Beneath them the abyss of the fjord sucked downwards.
Jake knew the lure of the deep only too well. He lifted his mouth out of the
water. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Fin to the wall.
We need a frame of reference as we descend, it’ll help avoid narcosis setting
in.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Jan Erik and
Bjorn turned and finned towards the shore. Jake put his head underwater again
and shone the beam down until it caught the green, orange and red fauna of the
underwater cliff face. He lifted up his head. “This’ll do.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He angled his torch upwards, still
underwater, just enough so he could see their faces clearly, the water
refracting the light through the thin layer of glacier run-off hovering near
the surface, turning their faces a ghostly green. He searched their eyes. Anticipation
had taken over concern. Good. Jan Erik grinned behind his mouthpiece, and
Bjorn’s eyes adopted the look usually reserved for sharking blondes at discos. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">They were both
hungry for this, like he’d been ten years ago when he first dived this deep.
The adrenaline rush caught him, too. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This
is why I dive</i>. He replaced his regulator, gave them the ‘OK’, then the
thumb-down signal. They returned both signals, and the trio slipped below the
surface.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXCWa9T5ySUjMTipRo5_IO66BxhVLChKlr2WWn4Sxq71Pk1cLdSLzykGy4mBiBgL5FOIqKt24WMop0IlznChmR5IHJLT6IJzBgxqwa5RgpOe_kzkt8sTuS8weNTWWEPVqrBp9l9YrH806z/s1600/DSCN0631.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXCWa9T5ySUjMTipRo5_IO66BxhVLChKlr2WWn4Sxq71Pk1cLdSLzykGy4mBiBgL5FOIqKt24WMop0IlznChmR5IHJLT6IJzBgxqwa5RgpOe_kzkt8sTuS8weNTWWEPVqrBp9l9YrH806z/s320/DSCN0631.JPG" width="320" /></a><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jake
dumped air out of his stab jacket and sank backwards, breathing out a little
through his nose into his mask to prevent redeye, and watched them do the same.
He pinched his nose between forefinger and thumb and equalised the pressure his
ears. At six metres he gave them another OK signal, and they returned it. He
did his trademark reverse pirouette and dove down head first, arms folded in
front so he could see both dive computers, equalising his ears every five
metres. Like free-falling, like flying, like surfing, like – diving. All his
problems, petty concerns, worries, and unsatisfied desires, condensed into the
trail of bubbles behind him, cascading up to the real world where they
belonged. He didn’t fin, and every ten metres he jetted a little more air into
his stab jacket, compensating for the rising water pressure. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Bjorn shot down
in front of him, finning hard. In Jake’s headlight Bjorn looked like a
fireball. Clearly he wanted to be first. Jake turned to Jan Erik to stop him
from following suit, shaking a flat hand horizontally. Jan Erik rolled his eyes
inside his mask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Jake looked down
again but could only see the glow of his light below in a stream of rising
bubbles growing larger as they ascended. Bjorn had disappeared. Dammit! Fatality scenarios swirled into his
mind. Blocking them off, he followed the stream of Bjorn’s bubbles, and checked
his computer. He dolphin-kicked once to arrive faster, but not so fast as to
trigger nitrogen narcosis. Out of the grey the cliff-face appeared again, now a
seventy degree slope, and there was Bjorn, propped on it with his fins, steady
as a rock. Jake sighed through his mouthpiece, and relaxed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Jake realised he
hadn’t been breathing much, and took three slow breaths. As he neared Bjorn he
checked his own air gauge: two hundred bar, which was plenty. He and Jan Erik
touched the silt with their fins, a couple of metres from Bjorn. Jake checked
both his computers. Fifty metres. Exactly. He took a few more measured breaths.
He didn’t bother to look around – it seemed to be mainly silt anyway – he just
wanted to get them back up to safer depth. He signalled to Jan Erik ‘OK’, then
‘Up’. Jan Erik pretended to wipe a tear from his mask with a gloved finger – he
wanted to stay longer. Jake shook his head, and Jan Erik nodded, returning the
‘Up’ signal. Jake turned to Bjorn, who was still balanced on the tail edge of
his fins, staring down into the abyss. Jake gave him the ‘OK’ signal, then Jan
Erik’s torchlight lit up Bjorn’s eyes. They were bloodshot, glazed,
half-closed, as if he was drunk. Nitrogen narcosis. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Shit</i>. At the same time that Jake reached out for him, Bjorn gave
the ‘Down’ signal, and did a pretty good impression of Jake’s reverse
pirouette, and dove deeper into the fjord. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Jake’s fingers
just missed Bjorn’s trailing fin and he watched, unbelieving, as Bjorn spirited
downwards. In the two seconds that followed, he calculated the odds of catching
Bjorn before they went too deep, and whether he should focus on stopping a
single fatality turning into a three-diver fatality, then traded that risk
against trying to explain to Vibeke and the authorities how he’d stood by and
done nothing while watching Bjorn plunge to his death. He flicked his wrist to
Jan Erik, gave the ‘Down’ signal and dolphin-kicked hard after Bjorn. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Jake finned fast
down the escarpment, exhaling steadily. Depth and time were their enemies. The
faster he caught Bjorn, the better. One of his computers, the Aladdin, beeped
an alarm. Sixty metres. The rising partial pressure of oxygen would begin
killing them soon. Breathing hard, with Jan Erik close behind, Jake raced for
Bjorn’s red fins. The second computer, the Suunto, beeped. At last he grabbed
one fin and then a leg, and yanked Bjorn around to face him. Both of them were still
sinking. They bumped into the sludge-covered escarpment like two drunken men
falling down a hill in slow motion. Jake had to let go of his torch. It spun
around wildly, strobing like a disco light as he gripped Bjorn’s harness with
one hand and inflated his stab jacket full of air with the other. Bjorn’s eyes
were nearly closed. Nitrogen narcosis had taken him elsewhere. Jake checked his
second computer, the Suunto – the Aladdin had stopped working – sixty-eight metres.
His fins found purchase on the slope. He flexed his knees and with both hands
shoved Bjorn’s body upwards. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Jan Erik
arrived. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Jake could hear
his own heart pounding. But there was another, stranger, pulsing white noise,
getting louder. The beginnings of oxygen poisoning. He pointed to his inflate button,
and he and Jan Erik both pumped air into their jackets. Jake had just given the
‘Up’ signal when Jan Erik’s eyes went wide, seeing something behind Jake. He
turned just in time to see a snowstorm of descending silt they must have kicked
up whilst chasing Bjorn. The next second it enveloped them like thick soup, and
suddenly he couldn’t even see his outstretched hand. He reached out for Jan
Erik but he was already gone, hopefully upwards. The white noise was now a din
in Jake’s head. He knew what it meant. He was about to black-out. Then he would
sink, and then it would all be over.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">He finned hard, worked
his thighs almost into cramp. He had to get up above fifty. Once he was moving
upwards, the air in his jacket would carry on expanding and propel him to the
surface. If he blacked out and didn’t wake up till he reached the surface, it
would be a nasty decompression incident, but that was preferable to the
alternative. It grew more difficult to concentrate. The porridge-like silt
meant he could barely read the Suunto, even when he held it right in front of
his mask. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">He suddenly
didn’t know which way was up, or where his torch was. All around him, a sea of
clay and bubbling blackness. White noise roared in his ears. Then he remembered
– <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">follow the bubbles</i>. Watching their
direction in front of his face, he righted himself, kicking hard. Jake felt
himself lifting. He dared to hope, and read the Suunto, counting down the
metres. Fifty-nine, fifty-eight… He was going to make it. His eyes watered
inside his mask. The crushing noise pressed inside his skull. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Concentrate!</i> Fifty-three … fifty-two …
fifty-one … fifty-two … fifty-three… <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">No!</i>
That wasn’t possible! How the hell could he be going down? Numbness crept over
him. Unable to fin anymore. His legs not responding. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fuck. Not like this!</i> Seconds, seconds… Then he remembered. He
reached down to his right side and cracked open his emergency cylinder. It blasted
air into his jacket, squeezed it around his chest and shoulders like an airbag.
The white noise whirled like a tornado in his head. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--EndFragment--><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">He lost
consciousness.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/66-Metres-chilling-thriller-that-ebook/dp/B01HLY0Z0W/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1469292884&sr=8-1&keywords=66+metres">66 Metres</a> comes out 25th August</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1343906535598112063.post-42856801489693560092016-07-08T11:31:00.001-07:002016-07-08T11:31:50.215-07:00Landing a publishing contract with Harper Collins...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUnxKQF_epvcxZ6uAELBlQz8lR5YhKfKJPJIRd_zG1WgAvGVzQyAX9m1jJQFmHYF3AZ6k-lsuMbnwPjJbB6nZQJ2O3Y0YjzoGkNvZKtuTATQdlrQTHG269Xpt1kiAhNHmW18gR2N0JLD6X/s1600/image001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUnxKQF_epvcxZ6uAELBlQz8lR5YhKfKJPJIRd_zG1WgAvGVzQyAX9m1jJQFmHYF3AZ6k-lsuMbnwPjJbB6nZQJ2O3Y0YjzoGkNvZKtuTATQdlrQTHG269Xpt1kiAhNHmW18gR2N0JLD6X/s320/image001.jpg" width="199" /></a></div>
<div style="color: #3d3d3d; font-family: ralewayregular, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; margin-bottom: 1.2em;">
I remember staring at <em>The Call</em> letter when it came in, and at first thinking it was just another rejection. But something in my brain snagged… and then, an OMG moment, especially when I read the ‘three-book’ part. I had to re-read the letter several times, and call Charlotte, my brand new Carina UK editor, to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating!</div>
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I had to do some quick thinking. Two weeks earlier I’d received another offer from a US publisher. I had been strongly considering it and was about to sign… but this was Carina UK, aka Harlequin, aka HarperCollins Publishers. And for me that was a no-brainer!</div>
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My writing journey started back in 2003 when I moved to Paris. At first, it was just for fun and to meet people, but then I began to take it more seriously as I published a number of short stories, and then produced a novel. But then I wanted to write a thriller…with a twist! I’m an avid diver, and I noticed that so few thrillers use the awesome undersea world where so many things can go wrong…</div>
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So I began the writing journey for <em>66 Metres</em>, referring to the underwater depth at which air becomes toxic. After workshopping the book and having it professionally critiqued by three authors, I started hawking it around agents and writing conferences, but it wasn’t quite what agents were looking for. I met several editors who really liked the opening chapters, but their publishing houses only accepted ‘agented submissions’. <em>Catch 22</em>. And then I found Carina UK, one of the few publishers brave enough to consider and take on new talent.</div>
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So there was no question about it. I signed! And anyway, as one of my characters says, you don’t have to make the right choice, you just have to make the choice right. And I’ve had no qualms ever since, either. Fab editor, great staff, a professional organization. Together we hope to produce thrilling books you won’t want to put down!</div>
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<em>66 Metres </em>will be released August 2016</div>
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