On war



A girl plays with a doll in Rhiems, 1917

All the photos in this post are contemporary. None have been colourised. They were taken in colour between 1915 and 1917.

So it turns out that my NaNo effort is mainly focussed on the war that I created for William to grow up in. When I originally concieved of it I had intended that war to play a relatively minor role in the plot. It was there, as in Hitler: the Rise of Evil to provide a backdrop to some minor characterisation and to provide a defeat for the country that William hails from. More to the point, I'm not a fan of novels about war.

No, wait, scratch that.

German soldiers in the ruins of a village in the Somme, 1916

Novels about war inevitably do one of two things, in general, they either romanticise the war involved (The Last Ace by Henry Ziebel, I'm looking at you; anything by Harold Coyle or Tom Clancy, you are as much at fault) or they harp on too much about the human nature of the soldiers involved to actually get to grips with their stories (the latter books of the Sharpe series by Bernard Cornwell, for example; or anything by Larry Bond). All of them look at men at war. All of them are men.

That said, I have read some other books that do a better job. One Spring in Picardy was such a book, as was The Middle Parts of Fortune. Both of these are First World War novels, the latter was written by someone who served in the First World War and the former by a man whose father served and whose uncles all served too. Basically, they knew their stuff. I get the impression that the other authors don't.

What makes me rant so? Simply put - I am a student of the First World War. It occurs to me that what I know of Hitler's experience in the First World War does not gel well with representations that I have seen on screen. Equally, the experiences in All Quiet on the Western Front and the various adaptations do not always fit with what I know from other sources. I remember reading Tony Ashworth's book on trench culture and the letters in books like War of Words and Somme and being completely bowled over by what people said at the time. Lyn MacDonald's excellent series of interviews, though heavily tainted by her own views and the established ideas of AJP Taylor, were magnificent for me as they contextualised a war primarily from the view of those that fought in it.

German soldiers in a well-revetted trench, 1915

As a consequence I have rejected both the poets' views and those of the historians who seek to generalise it or to find in it some exposition of human frailty and the futility of the war. I view the First World War as an aberration, but it was not futile. It cannot be futile. To say so would be to dismiss all those who took part and ignore the effects of what they did. Indeed, when I read All Quiet on the Home Front I discovered yet another angle on the stories from the time.


Rations in a French communication trench, 1917

All of this has clearly been brewing for much longer than I thought. Which was why, when the time came, I ended up writing over 40k words on the First World War analogue in my story. Because the record needed to be set straight. Because such a conflict deserved more than to be a vehicle for the rise of one character. Because wars are what they are and they need their own space to be fully appreciated for what they are. I did not want my novel to become a war novel. I have no direct experience of any such thing, nor can I piggy-back on anyone I know who does have experience. But, oddly, I could draw on my own experiences to write it.

This is strange, and I suppose connected to 'writing what you know', because I know nothing of war, but I am an outsider. I know little of relationships (my own experiences are quite limited) but much of awkwardness. I know nothing of fearing for one's life but much of adapting fear to fit the circumstances one finds oneself in.  I hope, therefore, that I am less of a Clancy and more of a MacDonald or even a Faulks (though his Birdsong was more a piece of erotica disguised as a novel about tunnelling in the First World War).

Which is why, when the time comes, my novel must be published under a female name. I want the novel to bring the war to life in the same way as these colour images do and to do so in a way that surprises people. So, no, I shan't be publishing under a male name to get readers. My concept is served best by publishing as a female.

Novelling

I have a confession to make.

I have never actually finished any writing of any length. I have countless short stories that I have finished but they were written between the ages of about ten and twenty. They are not the most edifying of things. After I finished my degree, well, I haven't really been in a place where writing short stories would work.  In that, well, those stories were... bad.

So, in 2006, after much fruitless furtling about trying to write an actual first draft of anything, I tried my hand at NaNo.  I wrote 85,000 words plus about 21,000 words that I deemed unfit to be in the final project. But it was not a novel. It was unfinished and I had no real idea where I was going with it all. Anastasia may or may not have had imaginary friends and may or may not have had her memories altered by some shadowy government agency (or not) for some reason. My plotting remained as amorphous as that. 8,000 words were devoted, in one instance, to her waking up routine.

In 2007 I tried again, but got about 12,000 words in before the lack of plot killed me and the lack of characters became a major issue. 2008 was two projects, both very boring with no plot and no real attempts at characterisation. In 2009 I actually wrote something that had been fulminating since 2007 and got about 26,000 words done. However, despite having a much more vibrant setting than I was used to and some actual real characters I still had no plot for them to live. As a consequence it remains totally unfinished because I have no clue what's supposed to happen there (that is, what I fill that vibrant setting with). In 2010 I tried the same setting. Again the lack of plot killed it at around 18,000 words. In 2011 real life prevented any writing at all for most of the year as I struggled with my day-job and the day-job won.

Now, this year is different. No, I haven't finished the novel at all. However, I know where it is going. I have a character and a plot that live and a setting, though not as vibrant and real as the one from 2009, that will stand the story I want to tell there. And I do want to tell that story. I am maybe half way through that story, I don't know (the war that takes up so much of this year's project was planned to be a short three or four vignettes, so about 4,000 words, and is currently about 38,000 words), but I feel happier with this than any of the rest of my projects.

Why the wall of text? I told my mother that I "won NaNo" and, after explaining it to her (again), she replied "Well, you never finish anything, do you?" Thanks, Mum. My father was interested until I explained that there was no judging and then sort of let it drop.

I have a reputation, you see. :)

Reflections

I have won, I have written 52,300 words in thirty days. However, that war drags on and I can't stop the damn' thing. My boy was up all night last night, then there was the day-job and tonight I am still dead despite being desperate to finish the blasted war.

It wouldn't be so bad but I can't end it as quickly as I would likme. These men deserve better, I know, and they will be denied individual death scenes, as war is wont to do, and will instead die as men in war do. Alone, unmourned and without any real rhyme or reason to it. There is no heroism in death, no romance in it and certainly no celebration of the sacrifice that they make. Sure, they knew it could happen, it doesn't make it worthwhile.

It is a horrible scene to write. I love these guys. I know these guys. I want to save them. But I can't. War has come and now it has its own immutable logic and path. William will survive. He has to. He has to become a Sergeant and be regarded as a loner. Meet the cowards and traitors around him, those that survived when his family has not, and reach his own conclusions. He'd almost redeemed himself, you know, almost become sympathetic. It's almost too sad.

Almost.

I will try to keep going. No more word count updates, but I have enjoyed this experience so much and made some really wonderful new friends. I am addicted to this lovely feeling and I hope I keep contact.

I win?

Well, I just hit 50k. Just over it. I finally reached what was supposed to be the final scene in the war too, but now find that it is just not happening.  I thought I was going to use the Eyes Open schtick that I have on this blog to power through but find it doesn't really fit the characters I have drawn, nor the arc that brought them to this point. For one thing, Batemann, the original sergeant, ended up being badly beaten by William when he attacked a civilian (Batemann, not William). Though William did end up as the de facto leader of his little band by accident - something I was certain wasn't going to happen.

I think I 'get' why William likes the war now, as well, and why he will be sad when it finally does end. In this scene everyone around him will die or be horribly wounded and die later. Batemann will die in hospital. William will end up wounded, return as a Sergeant himself but distance himself from those around him. A loner and a bit peculiar as veterans go, with the charge of cowardise hanging over him due to how he shall be found surrounded by the dead and dying of his own platoon.  Those Bilankrish will have a lot to answer for!

So, the war may not actually end by Christmas after all. We'll see what tomorrow brings.

Love scene with a difference

You need to play the song as you read this.  I hope I've captured it.  Eventually I want all the stuff in <..> to be in proper French. I want the reader to feel as out of place as does William in this.  However, I don't know any French.  This took a few hours.  I wanted to get it right. I didn't want to rush it and I didn't want it to be anything other than realistic. I fear that it is not. I fear that it is very much a scene with cardboard cut-outs rather than real people.

       “So.” Batemann had been the first to leave the table, ably supported by Claudette, and it had been very obvious what they were going to do. There had been giggling and squeaking from the room since they left ever since. Then Pablo had simply nodded to the elder woman and they had left together in silence, descending the stairs. Whatever they were up to made little noise that could be heard in the upstairs kitchen but the embarrassed smile of Eponine told William that it would be little different to the activities ongoing in the nearby bedroom. “I don’t speak any Aixlenean.”

       “<Have you eaten enough too?>”

       William stared for a moment at the girl’s hopeful face. “I don’t know what Pablo was saying either. But I have eaten rather well.” He reached over to his jacket and dislodged the letter that Pablo had given him. Both of them watched it fall, it landed close to Eponine’s foot.

       “<Your letter, sir, I…>” Picking it up from the floor, with William’s steadfast gaze fixed on her, she paused and then, with a quick look at his face, she opened it. “<I can read Merkavian a little, sir. With your permission…?>”

       Failing to snatch it back, and catching her hopeful tone, William shrugged and sat back heavily. “It’s not like you can understand a word of it. I’d sooner you were doing something like that rather than… well, whatever else we’re supposed to get up to.” As she bent her head to look at it more closely, William shifted uncomfortably and looked anywhere but at her, as if by not seeing her do the deed he could ignore the breaking of Pablo’s trust.

       Something about delivering food for a night of sex seemed rather tawdry and not a little unfair. Unbidden, he remembered his mother and sisters, and shuddered at the thought of any of them being so hungry and alone that they would agree to such an exchange. Whatever romance there had been vanished from the room and he just felt cold and wet and tired, huddled in a towel with illicit food roiling in his stomach. Battles had been fought with less concern and worry. She was still studying the letter, who knew what she was scrying, and he watched her expression grow shocked, a hand over her mouth, and then enormously sad. Most likely she had read into the unfamiliar language whatever she wanted to find, whatever would make the situation most palatable.

       Presently she looked at him again with concern in her eyes and the look of something else that William couldn’t quite place. She put the folded letter carefully back on the table and, without meeting her eyes, William snatched it back. Too late, he knew, but simply leaving it there seemed worse than doing nothing.

       Throughout the night he had caught her looking at him, as a young girl would look at passing soldiers, with a mix of wonder and awe; so that, he felt, if he so much as bared his teeth she would either laugh at the gaiety or else take fright and fall dead on the spot. Now that look of awe had changed but he would be hard-pressed to offer any guesses as to what it had become.

       “<You have known loss on all sides.>” She spoke very slowly, enunciating clearly, trying desperately to make him understand something, “<I think that you are different from the others. I think that, if there was no war and we had met I would like to get to know you better. And now, sir, I do not know what to do next for you. For we shall not meet again, however much I wish it.>”

       Her hand grasped his and held it, softly and warmly, while she fixed him with her eyes. William did not know how to respond, nor could he understand what was being said, but it sounded important enough to keep listening.

       “<I… Should I undress? Would that make it easier for you, Willy?>”

       The way she said his name alerted him to something else going on, he still couldn’t place it, but he found himself responding physically. This was like nothing he had ever felt, even with Jerry, and his heart began to race with the prospect of the unknown and dangerous. It reminded him of the moments before being called to attack in the trenches but without the certainty of leaving things to fate and trusting in his own place in things; this was worse. “Call me William.”

       “<Will-yam,>” repeated Eponine with a giggle, “<It is better than Willy, Will-yam,>” standing, but not letting go of his hand, she pointed to a room at the opposite end of the room in which they had been eating, “<Shall we?>”

       Wordlessly, he stood and followed after her, something had occurred and he wasn’t sure what it was but the beating of his heart propelled him forward. As she stepped across the threshold she turned to face him and took both of his hands. Awkwardly he took them, letting the towel fall from his shoulders. His mouth was dry and he could feel the cold sweat beginning, everything in him was screaming to flee but, at the same time, he was simply transfixed. “How… How old are you?” he tried, “Age? Years?”

       A frown before realisation dawned on a face now lit only by the dim moon through the window. He had to admit that it was a lovely face. “<Twenty-nine,>” she answered, then, seeing that he had no idea what she had just said, held up both hands with fingers outstretched twice, then just one hand. She smiled. “Et tu?”

       Jerkily, and keenly aware that he was only wearing his underwear, William signalled that he was thirty. “Twenty-three,” he added, as if by adding it he could shrug off the obvious lie. It was not her face or body that had him drawing breath though, but whatever it was remained tantalisingly out of reach, like the one thing that one forgets to check before going into battle.

       Slowly, she backed away, her face flushing and her movements more spasmodic than seductive. She was trying too hard to impress him, part of him supplied, she was trying to move like he had seen far more practiced women doing in the dingier parts of Alnwix on the way to the show. Whereas they had been slinky and even quite adept she was uncomfortable and very much out of her depth. All at once she caught sight of his expression, “<This does not excite you?>” There was no mistaking the twin themes of disappointment and relief in her voice.

       “Just…” Breathe, you idiot, breathe, “Just stop. Eponine. I… Eponine.”

       Moonlight filled the space between them, there was a bed in the corner, everything seemed black and white now that the door was closed. In the distance there was the rumble of the war as far away from them as was the moon herself. If anything, space seemed nearer, blazing with starlight and pregnant with promise. And he found it difficult to breathe.

       “Will-yam?”

       Moving to the bed, but keeping his distance, he sat down heavily. “Eponine.”

       “<You seem… delicate,>” she chose her words carefully, but kept undressing: functionally rather than trying to make anything of it at all. “<A flower, no?>” She smiled sympathetically at him. Stood in her underwear by the window she did look beautiful. Forbidden. Out of reach. “<I think…>”

       She was delicate, but strong, like a rose growing on a garden wall turned to the sun. The white rose that grew in the father’s flowerbeds, tough and wiry, flowers delicate like spider web but with thorns that would cut and tear flesh. There would be no rough treatment of this woman and no arguing with her if she got an idea in her head. He needed to say something. “Thank you,” and he meant it, “I have known few who would do for me what you have done. But it is not needed,” he shook his head, “It is not needed.”

       “C’est la guerre?” As she sat down next to him he fought the urge to jump away, it would not have been polite, she caught his expression. “C’est la guerre.”

       A wan smile met her remark, William had heard similar sentiments in Aixlenean before, enough to know what they meant. A nod. “It is hard.” There was nothing else to be said.

       Her arm snaked round his shoulders and he did not mind, merely closed his eyes and let her do it as her free hand took is chin and rubbed along its smooth surface. For once he was glad that he shaved every day. “<You would look better in a dress, my friend, you were not born for war.>”

       Grunted assent. He would have agreed with anything at that moment.

       Looking at him, she seemed to grow in confidence, and he returned her look as best he could, lost in the feelings that ambushed him and beat him down with the flat of their spades. No shots were fired, no artillery barrage was required, he surrendered freely to a superior foe without ever knowing quite why he was doing so. Fate decreed that he do so and he had yet to argue with fate.

       Pecking him on the cheek tenderly, she placed a finger over his lips and drew back, a smile greeting his confusion. She stood, placing the same finger on her own lips to cover the playfulness there, and walked back to where she had undressed, looking at him all the while as an artist would at a subject to be painted. There was a confidence in her that she had previously lacked, it oozed from her, and he could feel his own response to that awareness, to that aura of assuredness.

       “Mon petite fleur,” her whisper was so low he had to strain his ears to hear her properly, “<My beautiful, delicate, little flower.>” She picked up her dress deliberately, let it fall from her hands whilst holding the shoulders and fussed with it until it fell straight and clean. “<Would you wear this for me?>”

       Unable to understand her words, but following that something had been asked of him, something pure and deep that could not be denied, William nodded dumbly. He was rewarded with a broad shining of the sun from her face, bringing colour back to her body that was robbed by the silvery light from the window in his mind’s eye if not in reality.

       She walked back to him deliberately, one foot in front of the other placed with precision and care on the wooden floorboards, not a sound seemed to be made. She bade him stand with her eyes, and he did so, then rolled the dress and indicated that he should raise his arms. Now William was simply unable to speak, unable to discern how it was he knew her instructions, unable to register anything beyond the room or Eponine. It didn’t exist.

       Material at his fingertips. Passing. A breeze across all of him and the skirts fell about the floor. It shouldn’t have fit, but Eponine was already working at ties and buttons so that it seemed to expand to take him in, falling easily to the floor. Unbidden, his arms returned to his side as she walked behind him and pulled at various laces and clasps. He felt the bodice tighten around his chest and waist, hugging him tightly in a way that made him feel more relaxed and safe than he could remember feeling before.

       He was home.

       This was right.

       Darkness was ending in light. Movement below.

       Stillness behind, Eponine had finished her work. He felt, rather than saw or heard, her move back to inspect her handiwork. She said something, he did not catch anything, but twirled to face her, causing the skirts and petticoats of the dress to flare up and brush against his legs. An electric feeling.

       Instinctively he looked down as he faced her, hands catching the flare of the dress and holding it from the floor. His mouth opened but no words came out.

       “<The flower is opened. You are beautiful.>” Her hands were clasped in front of her and her smile was as a mother to a child. “Mon petite fleur.” A short, but only semi-mirthful, laugh. “Fleur, oui, <it is better than Will-yam,> Fleur <it is>.”

       “William,” he corrected her instinctively.

       She shushed him with a finger again, “Non,” she said, playfully but firmly, “Tu,” she pointed at him, “Fleur, oui?”

       Pointing to himself, “Fleur?”

       Nodding, “Oui, Fleur.”

       He tried to shrug, but his body would not obey, instead he simply bent his knees and lifted the dress a little with his hands, that had re-clasped the dress. “Fleur.”

       “Tres bien,” she clapped softly, without making any noise, “<Now, repeat after me:> je suis Fleur.”

       “Zhe swee Fleur.”

       “Bon!” She took one of his hands and kissed the back of it, “Je suis Eponine. Enchante. Je suis, por tu, madame. Oui? Madame.”

       “Oui, madame.”

       And that was when the screaming started.

And the beat goes on

Still at it. Still in the war. Now writing in French for a scene. French!  I don't know any French. I also, when I have seen this scene in my head before now, have only really looked at it in flashback. That is, it only really takes place in amongst another scene.

Why am I writing it as it happens? Why?

I blame William.

Favourite line so far of the novel, though, which is:

“Madmorsels!” Batemann’s command of Aixlenean was shocking, “Noose ‘ave ey mongy!”

It'll be over by Christmas

That's what they said at the time, but they were wrong. I'm beginning to feel the same at this project too. I've read too much about experiences of men during that time, too much raw emotion and carefully hidden experience. I can't just write a few anecdotes and finish. I find I have to draw the characters realistically, have each man in the tale take his own full role and situation. I now know that they all have to die, or at least never see the MC again, and I even know how that has to happen. But I must also make sure that the reader knows these men, trusts these men, so that they can share and understand the grief and shock and sorrow of the MC when it happens.

So the war drags on. Two battles to go before the last one and another scene in reserve before we have the dalliance with Aixlenean girls. Tonight brought an unofficial truce and the handing out of helmets and a rat killing session. I just hope I've not made it so long and boring that people stop reading when the character of the novel changes.

Also, I'm not sure whether I sympathise more with William or Badger in the argument I just transcribed them having. Given where William is heading and Badger's role as mentor I'm hoping that means I have more realistic characters.

Extract follows:

In amongst shared meals and baths the two groups of soldiers became firm friends, parting with the agreement that they would continue the unofficial truce wherever they were stationed next. The Aixlenean unit, from the centre of Aixlene with its guttural accent and rolling farmland, were the first to leave, giving way to a unit from the more mountainous north of the country. They took a while to convince of the intentions of the invaders but, by the fifth and final day, they too had been won over.

“Looks like its Shiremen from the Home Counties coming in here next,” said Badger gruffly to one of the Aixleneans as they shared some salted beef in a shell crater left over from the beginning of the war. “I don’t care about you making a truce with them. Give ‘em Hell, the pompous bastards.”

The tallest Aixlenean, they’d nicknamed him ‘The Bear’, laughed with genuine mirth. “If you meet any of us from the coast, return the favour. I think our men of artillery need some practice here. Give us starlight to signal and we wait an hour.”

“Oh, you are terrific gents.” For the first time William looked on Badger differently, “I shall see to it!”

Despite his confusion, William said nothing. Salted beef was eaten; Aixlenean wine was quaffed and songs were sung before both groups retired, warm and tipsy, to their respective trenches and the evening roll-call. “Enjoy your jaunt, chaps?” asked Sergeant Batemann by way of greeting, “Hope you brought back some of that-”

Redbar cut him off by handing over two full bottles of red wine. “Like we’d forget you, Sarge,” he grinned and then tottered off in the direction of the rest of his section who had pulled sentry duty for the evening. They had all agreed that it simply wouldn’t do to have a surprise inspection find out just how peaceful this sector was.

“Aren’t we all brothers?” asked William of Badger when he was sure he wouldn’t be overheard.

“Us and the Aixleneans?” a hiccough, “Only so far as this bastard war I think. And not everywhere. Anything else would be Socialism.”

“No, I mean Merkavians.” Frowning was beginning to hurt his forehead. “You told them to give our brothers Hell.”

Badger looked at him for a long moment. “Think of it as a way of keeping this sector from getting too much attention. Burst of activity from the Aixlenean side’ll do it all the world of good.” Lighting a cigarette he took a quick drag.

And, in that moment, William hated smoking.

Mutiny!

Yes, I have a full-blown character mutiny here tonight.

I got no writing done last night due to pressures from the day job taking my first world issues by the horns and wandering off on their own to do work like things. My plan to hit 35k was dead in the water, as was a plan to drink some beer for company, which was sad. Instead I watched the daily target hit 31,667 whilst I was still at 30,400. Tonight, the plan was to get William through an attack viewed at a distance to more boredom behind lines where we could find out what each of the characters wants to do when the war is over - here we'd learn that William has no idea and quite likes the war itself for being, well, something to do - and then an actual harrowing experience after which he will have an awkward moment or two with a local girl.

No. Instead the whole of the 15th battalion mutinied on me and joined battle with the enemy in the village. William has killed a man, his first directly, and has now taken part in a genuine hand-to-hand struggle with bayonets. Damn him. Damn the 15th. Just stay put out of range you damnable contemptible buggers!  This is a character novel, not a war novel!

I can't complain. I've hit 35,200.

We're at war

Yep, they've had a battle.  William Caston has annoyed his peers and won a medal for bravery by getting them all in danger and putting his men in the firing line. However, it was early days in the war and so he managed to do it without firing a shot and without taking a casualty.

Of course, the battle itself had to end another way and so we have the 'Slaughter of Innocents' which is not a rip off of the Kindermord von Ypren at all, nooo, as if I would steal the basic narrative of the war from the First World War.  Ahem.  I'm about to rip off the battle of Neuve Chapel, well hidden as the battle of Neeuwekerque (see what I did there?) as well.

I think the novel is changing - we have a war novel now. I hope I can get through the whole thing before the month is up, I don't really want to write a war novel because I don't know enough to make it authentic. Still, I do hope to have my MC have a dalliance with a nice young Aixlenean lady and face tanks, did I mention tanks? I think I did. Then he can go home and start his politicisation.

On the plus side, despite writing war, I have yet to be surprised by any horrible stuff that William has done or had to write any scenes involving harrowing death and destruction. I suppose the latter will come later.

My novel is, like, really despressing.

We're in the army now

I've got to the war. And my novel has changed already. Just written the longest contiguous bit of prose in it so far, at just shy of 2k words, and the character of it is definitely different. I'm at that horrible point where I know I need to do some things but I want to get to the next bit of action instead. However, in order to make the action make sense I first need to lay the groundwork for it, or the action will make little sense and I know that I won't go and do that any time soon if I skip it.

In other news, William has survived the first, long range, contact with the enemy and now has a small section. I am in danger of using the bit from "Eyes Open" that resides on this blog at some point, but that will have to be changed quite a lot in order to make any sense in the context of William's life. Am I now sounding like an autistic man?  I think that perhaps I am.  I blame William.

It always gets to me that the war as depicted in Hitler: the Rise of Evil and the war I know from other sources, like Lyn MacDonald, John Keegan et al are two different things. Furthermore, the way that the First World War works in Hitler flies in the face of the way it works in the adaptations of All Quiet on the Western Front too, suggesting that the German experience of it was very different to what we see in the former. I get the impression that the people that made Hitler were not really focused on the war. Being a student of it myself, and borrowing from it rather liberally for the setting for William's rise to dictator, I think I may end up over-doing it.

Still, after I have the 50,000 I can edit it later, right?

On the other hand, I am now back on track at 26,900 words at the time of writing. I may do some more tonight, but I'm having a beer and feeling tired, so I'm not banking on it.

Back on the sauce

Better night writing tonight, achieved by cheating and being too dog-tired to do anything connected to the day job. After the day I've had there I would usually just have a night vegetating in front of the telly, so it was nice to have Nano force me to do something more productive.

So, tonight I cheated by skipping past the part where my MC changes to become a little more, well, minimal and went straight to the Aixlenean war, allowing me to put in some tired training camp tropes and some scenes I remember from the 1930s adaptation of All Quiet on the Western Front and Hitler: the Rise of Evil where the company gets shelled arriving at the front - though I didn't quite get that far. I also added a character name that I've had before but found him to be a lot different than the other times I've deployed him.

Anyway, headlines: just shy of 24,000 words and no music tonight.  Much experimentation, if it can be called that, with dialogue driven scenes that have minimal descriptive elements. Not sure of if they work but so going to keep trying.

Ouch

1,466 words, and they were hard.

Day job has drained me.  And I took a night off it.  So there's more to do in the week on the evenings, when I would write.  I needed 5k tonight.  Or more.

Jeremy and William are split up.  Aixlene has had a revolution.  War is coming.  I write in short sentences.

Total is just over 20k.

Evil?

So, tonight, I have found myself writing a kissing scene and a rescue from a burning building with a playlist that rattled between Angel by Massive Attack and Fire by the Crazy World of Arthur Brown.  I have also found myself deciding that my main character is not a person I would particularly like to meet in real life.  I fear he holds up a mirror to humanity that I do not find terribly flattering but, at the same time, I worry that his mirror is more accurate than I would like.

Basically, well, after that conversation I wrote last I began to wonder about him.  I already knew that he was going to rescue his love interest from a burning building and that his own ineptitude in romantic affairs coupled with the near death experience of his paramour would lead them to cheat on him.  I knew that.  I also knew that, in order to make the relationship believeable, there would need to be something physical beyond hands around shoulders and hints in dialogue.  What I was most certainly not prepared for was what happened.

The kissing scene held a predatory passion that I did not know the character possessed and the fire rescue carried the discovery, and the deliberate leaving for dead, of a young girl trapped in a room.  The latter one leaves me with the most qualms.  I don't like it very much, though William was perfectly happy to ignore it afterwards, and even though I wrote it... well, it doesn't feel very much like me.  I think I'm channelling Billy-boy, and it's not an experience I relish!

On a happier note, the plague has passed the household, the children are sleeping better and so I have time to write again.  Hurrah.  3,468 words today and a pizza.  That's worth celebrating.

Playlists, plague and racism

Well, I had to take a day off to see bonfires and then another to keep pace with the day job deluge of drudgery and devilment.  With sickness in the house and multiple vomitings upon my person by other people I was slowly losing the belief that I could carry on.

And tonight has been rather difficult.  There was a long section that relied almost entirely on third person summary, which is not a good way to advance plot, I was so much more into the whole vignette idea to show time passing and also to impart relevant information without 'telling' - one of my worst habits back when I used to write more.

Having an autistic main character has, however, worked wonders.  Now my soulless and technical style is for a reason and helps to characterise William as he slowly develops into the person he becomes by the end of the novel.  This is, unfortunately, going to mean some conversations like the one I wrote this evening - hugely racist with the characters having the discussion not even having the awareness to register the horrors which they bandy about.  Partly I'm glad, the Dandies are supposed to be dangerous and, well, just a little bit seedy but mostly I'm appalled that I could even write it.

William Caston, you are not a terribly nice person you know!

He knows, he's fine with it, being nice is a sign of weakness if it is not used for personal gain.  Everyone is doing it, apparently.

Well, quite.  Thank you William.  And now shut up, the adults are talking.  Oh, I'm back in the swing, but much reduced on daily wordcount: 15,696.

Disappointing

So, here I am four days in and I'm at 13k words, give or take.  I've stolen from a published novel, trope only, but still.  Now my main character, William, is sulking about the scene where I stole the trope because it is stealing and stealing is wrong.

Despite my best efforts, it looks like there will be a war after all.  Which is a shame, I was hoping to establish certain societal systems and William's outlook without having to resort to that.  But if the dictators of Aixlene's Republic want to be stupid and let a revolution happen then I suppose I can't be blamed for that.

Is it wrong I know the national anthem?

And I'm stalling.  I was hoping for a lovely 15k, but I'm stymied.

Here's the scene in question.

       “Oh, little Willy, just a moment, I hear your sister crying,” with some regret Matilda picked herself up from the floor by William’s side and moved to the small crib near the window.  Picking up the bundle she held the child close to her and began rocking gently, shushing and singing beneath her breath with eyes that were firmly fixed on the face of the small baby.

       William, the painting laid forlornly at his feet, watched with a small frown on his serious face.  Father would be home soon and then the whole thing would start again.  His chance to paint had been lost and now the attention would be firmly on the baby.  Father loved the baby more than life itself and he and mother always looked so happy and smiling when they sat together with her.  Perhaps it was because she was a baby or because she was a she, whatever the reason; she made his parents happier than they were with him.

       Pointing back at the paints William grunted to get his mother’s attention.

       “Oh, not now, little Willy, I’m trying to calm your sister.  Can’t you find something to do on your own?”  Eyes only for the baby.

       Another grunt, repeated, and louder with more insistence in the syllable was made, accompanied by a stamp to emphasise the entreaty and the urgency of it.

       This time no response, but Matilda did turn slightly away from him.

       From nowhere he felt the tears come and let them loose, letting out a long undulating wail that changed pitch but remained annoyingly high.  As soon as the first tear had reached his chin, eyes clouded with them and mouth wide open, drool running from the side of his mouth, he flew at his mother with his little fists flailing; a ball of anger and frustration.  It was as if she was purposely misunderstanding him, all he wanted to do was paint and the small baby could be left on her own to cry, he’d heard his father say the same of him.

       “Willy, I ca-  Ow!  William!  No!”  Using her arms ineffectually to try to ward off the blows of her son, Matilda backed away, holding her child closer and protectively.  “Will- Ow!  Stop hitting me!  No!  Stop- Ow!”  Without conscious thought one of her arms snaked out and her hand grabbed the arm of her son tightly, so her fingers turned white.  The other arm went on hitting her, joined now by feet stabbing out, and still the wail continued and the tears fell.  In her arms, the baby was stirring again, having been soothed to sleep by the singing a moment ago.  “William!”  In her own anger she kicked out, once, and instantly regretted her decision.

       The foot caught him squarely in the stomach, winded him, and then the force of it sent him across the room and off his feet.  But his arm was still held fast by Matilda and so as his body moved away the arm was pulled closer.  There was a sickening popping noise and then the grip was lost, the forearm hung limply for a moment and then the boy was slumping down near one of the walls in silence.  Tears still ran down his cheeks, the mouth was still open but the anger had been replaced by shock, betrayal and the eyes were filled with fear.  There was no blood.  His right forearm hung unnaturally at his side as the boy stood and looked at his mother.

       For her part, Matilda simply held a hand to her mouth in shock, her own eyes wide and uncomprehending.  She had kicked her son.  The words were repeating over and over in her head, taking on a mocking and accusatory tone: you kicked your son; you kicked your son; you kicked your son.

       There was no time for anything else as William simply fled from the room and thundered up the stairs, slamming the door to the small room at the end of the hallway with finality.  Matilda tried to listen but could hear nothing, and her baby was awake and making sucking motions, this would soon escalate to crying and she knew that Walter was due home very soon.  Reverting to simple learned response and unable to think straight she sat down and began feeding her child.  She was an awful mother, she knew, and she was going to be punished for this, she just knew it, not even Jesus and all his angels would be able to forgive her the sin she had committed.

       In his room, William was still unable to make a noise.  Making a noise would reveal his location and doing that would open him up to danger.  Mother had kicked him.  There was no telling what she might do to him now, there was nothing that could be done to protect himself as the door locked from the outside and so he would be unable to bar her entry should she choose to make it.  The arm she had pulled hurt, so he looked at it and worked out that the bones of the forearm were not linking to the elbow like they should have done.  He pushed it back and nothing happened but a lot of pain and shooting stars in his vision, so he pushed it harder and felt something giving or clicking.  At any rate there was a lot of stabbing pain, but his arm was working properly again.  It was better to be fully ready for whatever happened next.  His mother provided food and warmth and shelter and comfort and all he wanted to do was paint but she had deliberately caused him pain and suffering: he had seen it in her face and the frown.  Nowhere was safe.

       Looking out of the small window he watched the sky bruise like his stomach and arm, he had stripped off his clothes to look and sat naked, then slowly go dark as the stars came out.  Below he heard father and mother talking in low tones for quite some time, some noises from the baby, then laughter and the smell of cooking.  Laughter.  They would be coming for him.  He pulled his legs up to his chest, ignoring the pain from his arm and stomach, shivered in the cold of the evening and waited.

       So it was that at some time after midnight he was still awake, the trails of tears salty and dry on his cheeks, when the screaming started and did not stop.  At first he was too afraid to move, his mother may hurt him again, but the screaming continued and he heard his father bashing and crashing around downstairs.  The telephone was off the hook and there was a conversation, the screaming continued.  There was the smell of cold and of desperation, and the screaming continued.  His mother was screaming.  William got up from the corner and padded softly to the door, no one had been up to lock it this time and so it was still open, listening.  The screaming continued.  Opening the door, he peered down the hallway to where mother and father slept with the new baby.  The lights were lit here, oil flame guttering as the wick took hold and the smell of burning onions faint on the dusty air, and the screaming continued.  Without really knowing how he got there, William found himself in the room with his mother again and she was holding the baby and screaming.

       “Mama?”  William had learned that she responded more positively to ‘mama’ than ‘muvvah’, as close as he could enunciate ‘mother’, and something in him told him that something needed to be done.  “Mama?”

       The screaming stopped.  “Willy.  Dear little Willy.  She’s dead.  She’s dead.”  The sobbing that followed was quieter, but more wretched than the screaming.  His mother was upset.  His mother was punished.

       William stood quietly for a moment, eyes wide, and then blinked.  Very deliberately he fixed his mother in his gaze and frowned that intense frown.  “Good.”  Justice had been served.  With that, William walked calmly from the room and returned to the corner.

       It was two days before a relative brought food and another day before he was dressed and taken downstairs.  He was only four, they said, he didn’t understand.  But they were wrong.  His mother had threatened him and had meant to take his life – before she did, her baby was taken from her.  She hurt him, she ignored him, she attacked him and she had been punished because that was wrong.  He understood perfectly.

The Love Interest

Third day blues, alas, have hit.  It's taken me two hours to bash out a couple of thousand words, which was a blow as yesterday I was hitting over 4k by the end of a couple of hours.  I've also had to ditch about 840 words in total over the course of three days.  Of course they're still counted and at the end of the novel in very small type so that I don't have to read them.

My favourite ditched line, NSFW due to language, appears after the line-break:

Setting: a resolution

So, after sleeping on it, I think I now have the problem of setting solved.  Once I'd done that, my main character gave me his name.  Turns out he'd been rather petulant about it because I should have known that the story would not be set in Central Europe at all.

I think it best if I explain it roughly how he explained it to me.  It couldn't be a novel set in Europe, historical or otherwise, because I was essentially writing about the rise of a dictator.  If I wrote about one rising now then the novel would swiftly become out of date and hackneyed; if I wrote in the past I would automatically be creating an alternative history with all of the attendant problems that this would create and potential glaring inaccuracies.  If I set it in the future I would run the similar risk of becoming dated by messing up predictions.  It had, therefore, to be set in an analogous setting, like Europe but not Europe.  Attendant to that I had to avoid Germanifying the whole setting - if I created a Germany and a dictator in it then I would be reinforcing everything that I do not believe about the rise of the NSDAP being peculiarly German.

As it is a mainly character-driven piece I could not really make it too moral a tale either - there would have to be an acceptance that some of what my main character was doing not only made sense but may actually be good ideas, and I can't tell the audience which are good ideas and which are downright evil - that means not focussing on the Jews, you see, and that would require an analogous Europe to play properly.

So, there you go.

His name is William.  He lives in Merkavia.  It turns out the analogous setting was one that I have been inadvertantly creating for some years and didn't notice was a full-blown and working place!

I should also point out that I have been messing with technology level.  We have steam trains and stevedores and top-hatted industrialists but also motor cars, telephones and tannoy.  By the end of the story we'll be dealing with computers, internet, mobile phones and social mobility.  It's all a bit mixed up.  No velcro though because of no rocketry to the moon, which means no ICBMs, but we'll have jets.  Yeah, I know, anaologous settings: the lazy way to plot novels!

Now, on to tonight's writing!

Cities, ethnicities and names

So, despite hitting a pretty respectable 8,149 words I still don't have my MC's name, which makes naming other thing svery difficult.  I mean, what if he's German or Greek or Irish?  Can't have an Irish person going to Munchen nor a Greek man attending a hospital in Dublin.

In the meantime I fleshed out my MC's life, and it is a horrible thing in general, poor dear.  Still, being autistic and a future evil dictator I suppose he deserves it on some level, for the evil, not the autism.  I'd post some of it, but now I must retire to see to the Boy, who is a little unsettled of late, bless him.

First paragraph...

Well, having pushed out 3,504 words so far I thought I would post my first scene as it stands.  I have no names though, no names, and only codes to go with.  FF = Father Figure; MC = Main Character; MF = Mother Figure.  My main character refuses point blank to give me his name and so I have no clue what nationality to make the other names.  Bit worried about what this says about me as a person, this scene, but it's NaNo, so I guess that sort of happens.

Scene 1

It was unnatural, the silence that followed the screaming of seconds before, and FF was certain that it was not a good sign.  Pacing, such a good idea before, now seemed out of place and over anxious, like he was trespassing in his own domain.  His hands clasped behind his back strained for some other action, which is why he kept them clamped there with a tremendous force of will.  Unusually he could feel his moustache tickling his top lip and his nostrils.  He wanted to sneeze.  He wanted it all to be over.

       The balding man before him coughed again, slightly and with some tremor. “We… ah…”

       Snapping his eyes to meet those of the small man, FF frowned.  “Yes?”

       “A decision, sir, we need a decision.”

       The silence lingered.  It wasn’t natural.  It wasn’t right.  “A decision.”

       “Well, more- that is- we need your decision.”

       “Quite right,” FF puffed his chest out to emphasise his point, “Quite right.  Very well.  Yes.”

       “Sir?”

       “I consent.  Pull the bastard out.”

       “Yes sir.”  The little balding man scurried away, almost ratlike FF reflected, and then closed the door.  There was a little commotion from beyond that door, sounds like people talking quietly.  A groan escaped FF’s wife.

       When the screaming resumed it was loud, lusty and long.  But, reflected FF, at least it was right.  Pacing resumed for a short while, and then his hands stopped straining, the screaming continued as he turned on his heel, took a seat and pulled out his hip flask.  A swift slug of whiskey warmed his insides, the fire of Dutch courage as his father would have said, God rest his soul, and FF felt more like himself.  He inspected the artwork on the walls, some of it the traditional style and some of it the more modern stuff coming out of Spain and Italy.  He didn’t really know what to make of it all – lines and splotches and colours intermingling.  All a lot of rot, of course, the true masters of the art were all gone now.  No one seemed to have time to study the classics properly and no one seemed to have learned anything from the history books.  He harrumphed and sat back more heavily in the chair to wait.

       Presently the screaming stopped.  FF stood, dusted himself down from any dirt, imaginary or otherwise, and walked briskly to the door.  There was a new sound, mewling and pathetic, and that announced the entry into the world of the little bastard who must now meet his father.  He hoped that everyone would be decent.  Door thrust open with a little more force than was strictly necessary, FF entered the room.  Ignoring the woman on the bed whom fate had made his wife, her legs strapped down to the iron frame to allow better access and covered with the aftermath of delivery by forceps, and nodding to the surgeon with his paper mask FF turned to face the two nurses hastily wrapping the mewling bundle.

       “Is that it?”

       One of the nurses made to curtsey, but stopped when she realised no one else was doing so.  Out in the provinces old habits died hard and FF felt a flash of recognition at the gesture.  The old ways were dying out.  “Yes, sir, it’s a boy.”

       “Hmm.”  It came out as an admonishment.  “I know.  Is it healthy?”

       “Yes, sir.”

       “Good.”  Squinting he could almost see a face in amongst the bundle and blood.  “Shouldn’t it be louder than that?”  He waved irritably at the first nurse to open her mouth.  “Never mind, the bastard will do, I suppose.”  As if noticing the woman on the bed for the first time he started a little.  “Clean her up and get her decent, she’ll be home by the evening,” then to the woman herself, “I think we’ll have steak tonight.  I shall be back in the evening.”  His hands went back to their old position above his rear.  “Doctor, thank you, it must have been a difficult one.  I hope the bastard didn’t give you too much trouble, sir.”

       “No more than one would expect,” the Doctor answered with a tired smile.

       FF clapped him on the shoulder, once, then walked to the door.  “I think this calls for a little celebration.”  And then he was gone.

       “Can- Can I hold him?” whimpered the woman on the bed, her legs were still immobile, her face still drawn from the pain and a sheen of sweat still glistened from the travails.  “I want- I want to hold him.”

       “No, dearie, you just rest yourself,” replied a nurse in a businesslike fashion, “Doctor here’s got to stitch up that nasty tear before you’ll be up to moving much.  We’ll see the boy is well looked after, don’t you worry yourself.  Get you home and rested in no time.”  She fluffed a pillow and thrust it under the woman’s head brusquely, but not unkindly.  “Steak’ll help you feel right soon enough.”  A thin smile of comfort.

 

            “His name…” gasped the woman, almost sleeping from the strain now, “His name is MC.”

Nano is go!

And we're off as of the end of this post.  My challenge is to hit 2k words this evening.  I'm not entirely certain that will be achieved.  So many of you lovelies are already on higher totals than that.

Well, you give me something to live up to.  Onward and upward!

Decision made

Okay, I am go with the evil dictator who is autistic plot.

Potential start point I stole from Placebo's A Song to say Goodbye video.  It may help ground the whole thing.  It may end up being the whole thing.  I may be insane.

Wish me luck you lovelies and I'll see you on the morning when we are so up for typing 'til our fingertips are raw and bleeding.  Only, y'know, in a less icky way than that.

NaNo Planning

So many avenues!

In the Aftermath plotline I have an idea to use a main character who has a form of amnesia, meaning that every day he wakes up with the last memories being of a time long before any of the events of the book happen.  This would allow me to write a perfectly linear account of his life post-apocalypse and the events that lead to him being a single parent but then edit it so that each day I choose to relate comes as a shock.  That would be both artistic and a way for me to indulge a little.  It would also allow for a deliberate confusion over what caused the apocalypse, how long ago it was and what society is actually like in the aftermath, all of which would make writing it easier.  However, there is still the hang up of having to write it all in order rather than the more interesting method of how it would be read.

In the Prehistoric plotline I have an idea about following a group of male hunters from the homo sapiens tribe as they encounter a family group of Neanderthal.  It is widely believed now that the Neanderthal worked in small family clan groups that would have had to have met up with other clans for breeding purposes.  Evidence from my own reading mounts that homo sapiens would have had female dominated, if male led, tribes moving around as well as singular or small groups of males between them - thereby creating a less family-centric tribal system.  The clash of that system alone would be interesting to write and explore were it not for the fact that I have no plot.

And then there's the one I intend to write.  Currently inert and lifeless as stone.  There's something in it, I know, but I can't seem to get any ideas out.

Conspiracy?

Idea sleet ahoy!

Ages ago I had the idea for a detective-esque story set in Prehistory.  Oetzi, the ice mummy discovered in the Alps, seems to have been killed by a blow to the back of his head with a blunt object.  Otherwise he was alone.  It would appear that we are dealing with a murder.  Some form of murder mystery in such a time is therefore not totally improbable given the enormous level of societal sophistication we can find evidence for.  However, I have steered away from indulging it because of the immense amounts of research such a thing would require.

I mean, I would first have to read the Clan of the Cave Bear series by Jean Auel before even knowing where to look to find the sort of things I would need to actually write anything of merit.  Then there's the issues of language, of pan-European movement and climate to consider.  It gets complicated fast.

I have been doing quite a good job of avoiding thinking about it as a viable idea in the run up to this year's madness.  Then Radio 4, yes I am officially that old now, decided to do a number on me.  There was this show on whilst I was waiting in the supermarket carpark and there was someone on talking about the possibility that homo-sapiens and Neanderthal Man may well have interbred and inter-mingled as separate species.  They came from a common ancestor and were cut off by an elongated glacial period when some got trapped in Europe and some got trapped in Africa.  This meant that the original homo sapiens would almost certainly have been black whilst the Neanderthals would have been stockier, stronger, whiter and likely red-haired and green-eyed according to the studies done on their genome.  It would appear as though red-hair in homo sapiens was brought, perhaps, by interbreeding with Neanderthals, though studies have been entirely inconclusive - not even correllation!

It would therefore be fascinating to write about that period and to postulate on the interaction between two such different species as they met.  The lady on the show did a fine job of setting up a scene whereby they would spy members of the opposite species for the first time, separated by a couple of thousand years of development and having similar size brains and capacity for speech the difference would not have been insurmountable.  Furthermore, given the relatively short separation in evolutionary terms, they would have been able to interbreed and may even have shared linguistic roots!

Exciting.  But not possible for NaNo?