It's Psychological

Back in the saddle again, and not even side-saddle, but a new edit of those first paragraphs of the nano attempt from last year. I'm hoping this will help me get started again. There aren't many huge changes but I hope it's easier to read, has less run on sentences and fewer repeated words.

Analysis is intriguing and is from 750words.com as ever.


Rating: PG-13 (swearing, sexual content[?] and violence[?])

Feeling mostly Affectionate[?], and concerned mostly about Home - intriguing.

Mindset: Extrovert - Negative - Certain - Feeling

Time: The Past; Primary Sense: Hearing; Us and Them: Them

40 minutes at 24 words per minute

Opening words and centenaries

I've been reading a lot about how to start novels lately, it's a habit of mine, and how to introduce characters quickly and in such a way as to draw in the reader. And, I'm sorry to say, much of what I read is uninspiring. I don't mean to say that this should not be the aim of authors or that anyone who writes should not emulate those that are successful, but I worry that there has been a dumbing down of what we mean by this.

Swiftly put: I'm not at all convinced that some of the examples I've been reading do any of the jobs that people who quote them say they do. None of the 'great' openings by mainstream authors that I have read seem to do it terribly well, in fact, they instead seem to plumb for the long opening that leaves it until, say, the third or fourth page to draw the reader in. What do I mean? I mean authors that are famous enough to trade on their name tend to skimp on this art, because it's bloody hard to do, and these authors are the ones that get used by newbie writers and wannabe authors to explain what they mean. It does both sides something of a disservice.

My other thought, for my time is tight, is that the First World War nears a centenary and this will mean a sudden influx of books, films and plays about that area of history. My own novel may well be badly timed in this regard as there will be bigger names making plays at publishing for the next five years and many many unpublished authors also trying to get noticed with 'novel' takes on the First World War novel. Given that's what my own novel has become I'm not certain that it would get noticed at all.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”