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Latest novel: The Shining City

4/4/2014

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I loved researching the history behind my latest novel THE SHINING CITY.  Besides reading a lot about the period, I made many trips to the archaeological site of Madinat al Zahra, just outside Cordoba.  The ruins of this ancient city lie in the lee of the Sierra Morena mountains and face across the wide plain of the Guadalquivir valley.

They began the excavations in 1911 and up until now they have only excavated one tenth of the inner part of the city - and then there is still the part outside the city walls.  As few contemporary written records remain one can only wonder at the size of Abd al Rahman III's new city.

Below you can read the prologue to my new book, which is set in the city in the early years of its construction.  The year is 987 AD and Omar, one of the main protagonists is thinking back to when he first visited Madinat al Zahra, forty years earlier.

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PROLOGUE

Córdoba
987 AD

The old man sat in the shade of the mosque wall.  It was still early but already the heat was building with its usual summer ferocity.  He loosened his robe slightly and fanned himself with the napkin he had in his hand.  Omar was not a rich man but neither was he poor.  His djubba was made of the finest white cotton, with long narrow sleeves and over that he wore his djellaba, a hooded cloak of the same material.  It was light, cool and comfortable.  He was of the generation for whom appearances mattered.  Even his cap, crocheted in a green and white design, sat elegantly on his long, white hair.  His beard was trimmed and shaped; once it would have been touched with henna but now it was as white as his hair.

‘More tea, old man?’ the waiter called from the entrance to his tiny shop.

Omar waved him away, irritated that he did not automatically come over and refill his cup.  That was so typical.  Standards were slipping all the time.  He took off his cap and scratched his head.

‘There you are, uncle.  We’ve been looking for you everywhere.’

It was his nephew, Musa, the youngest son of his brother Ibrahim.  He was with his friend, Ahmad.  Omar looked at them and smiled.  Lanky youths, with their hair cut short in the latest fashion, they behaved as though life was theirs for the taking.  If only they knew what vicissitudes lay ahead of them.  Not that they would pay any heed.  He certainly hadn’t at their age.  The boys sat down beside him. The two were never apart; it was as if they were joined by some invisible rope.  Where one went, so did the other.  They reminded him of his own childhood; he had had a close friend named Yusuf.  Just like these boys they had done everything together and were so similar in looks and mannerisms that they were often mistaken for brothers.  

‘Drinking tea, uncle?’ Musa said.

‘Would you like some?’

The boys nodded and Omar waved across to the waiter, who still lounged in the doorway.

‘Another pot of tea and two more glasses, please,’ he said.

He turned to his nephew and asked, ‘So child, you have been looking for me.  What is it that you want?’

He already knew the answer: nothing, just the opportunity to drink mint tea and listen to Omar’s stories.

‘We wanted to see if you were all right.’

‘And why wouldn’t I be?’

The boys looked at each other and giggled.

‘Is it true that you are more than a hundred?’ Ahmad asked.

‘No, it’s not true, although I certainly feel like it some days.  Now what is it you want to know?’

‘Have you ever been inside the Khalifa’s harem?’ Musa blurted out.

‘The Khalifa’s harem?’

‘Yes, what’s it like?’ they both chorused.

‘Well ...’

The waiter arrived and set the freshly brewed mint tea on the table.

‘Maybe something sweet for the boys to eat,’ Omar said, looking at the waiter.

‘Churros?’

‘Excellent.’

Omar turned back to his eager audience.

‘So, what were you saying?’

‘The harem.’

‘Oh yes.’

The old man smiled; for a moment he let his thoughts drift back to when he was young.  He sighed and turned back to the boys.

‘Yes, well, let me see.  The harem you say?’

‘Yes uncle,’ his nephew said, barely keeping the impatience from his voice.

‘You do realise that no man is permitted to enter the Khalifa’s harem, other than the Khalifa himself.  It is an offence punishable by death.’

The boys nodded.

‘We know that, uncle.’

‘Very well, as long as you do not tell anyone that I was once there, I will tell you about the most beautiful harem in the world.’

He paused and looked at the boys; their eyes were as round as moons.

‘Now, in the year 947, when I was not much older than you, my father took me with him to work in the new city, Madinat al-Zahra.’

The boys looked at each other and smiled.  Omar’s stories always began in that way.

‘Our ruler, Abd al-Rahman III, wanted to build a city-palace worthy of the title of Khalifa so he sent his engineers and architects out to find the perfect location.  And they did.  They found a spot in the foothills of the Sierra Moreno, green, fertile, sheltered from the north winds, with as much water as you could wish for, yet set high enough above the plain so that you would be able to see anyone approaching.  From there you could see across the valley of the Guadalquivir to Córdoba and beyond.’

‘He called it after his favourite concubine, didn’t he?’ Ahmed said with a smirk, urging him to get to the more interesting details.

‘His favourite concubine was certainly called al-Zahra and he lavished every possible luxury on her so it is possible that that was why he called the city al-Zahra.  But do you know what else the name means?’

He looked at the boys, who shook their heads.

‘It means shining, glistening, brilliant.  Possibly his concubine glittered and shone with all the jewels and beautiful silks he showered upon her but then so did the city.  It was indeed the Shining City.  When visitors entered through the Grand Portico, passing beneath its enormous, red and white arches, when they climbed the ramped streets that were paved with blocks of dark mountain stone, passing the lines of uniformed guards in their scarlet jackets and the richly robed civil servants that flanked their way, when they reached the royal residence and saw the golden inlay on the ceilings, the marble pillars, the richly woven rugs scattered across the floors and the brilliant silk tapestries, when they saw the moving tank of mercury in the great reception pavilion that caught the sunlight and dazzled all who beheld it, then they indeed knew that they were in the Shining City.’

It was a shame that his nephew had never been to Madinat al-Zahra and probably would never go.  Soon the city would be as if it had never been, its stone buildings returned to the rock from which they came.

‘But they say that he loved his concubine more than anyone else,’ said Musa.

‘Maybe.  Who knows what goes on in the hearts of men, even less in the heart of a Khalifa.’

‘They say she was the most beautiful woman in his harem.’

‘She was certainly very beautiful, but the most beautiful, no.  There was another more beautiful than her, more beautiful than all his wives and concubines.’

‘Who was she?  What was her name?’ asked Ahmed.

‘Jahwara,’ he whispered.

He could still feel the pain as he said her name.  The boys waited, eyes wide in anticipation but Omar did not elaborate.

‘Did you ever see him?  Did you see the Khalifa?’

‘Yes, once.’

‘What was he like?  Was he big and strong?’

‘He was a bit on the stout side.’

He could see the disappointment in the boys’ eyes.

‘But he was a good-looking man, with white skin and blue eyes,’ he added.

‘White skin?  Wasn’t he an Arab?’

‘Of course he was.  Who else but an Arab could be Khalifa?  But his mother was from the north.  She was captured from one of the ruling families during the war and became his father’s slave and concubine.  Abd al-Rahman inherited his fair skin and hair from her.’

‘I heard that he used to dye his beard,’ Ahmed said.

‘Yes, I believe he did.  He wanted to look more like his subjects.’

The boys nodded wisely.  Omar stifled a smile.

‘Tell us more about the harem,’ Musa insisted.

‘What can I tell you?  There were hundreds of beautiful women, trained in all the arts of love and music; they knew a thousand and one ways to please their lord and master.’

‘The Khalifa?’

‘Of course, who else?  Every woman who entered the Khalifa’s harem belonged to him and no-one else.’

As he said the words, he could hear the bitterness creep into his voice.

‘They were slaves?’ 

‘Indeed they were.  Even if one of them wanted to leave she could not.  The Khalifa would never permit it.’

Before the boys could start another stream of questions, he said, ‘Here, eat your churros and then you should be off.  Is there no school today?’

He saw Musa blush.  His nephew was a good boy and not able to tell a ready lie.

‘We’re going now, uncle.  Come on Ahmed.’

The boys picked up the churros, doused it with honey and crammed it into their mouths. 

‘Ma'a salama uncle,’ Musa said, honey dripping down his chin.  ‘See you later.’

‘Goodbye, Hajj,’ Ahmed said, hurriedly eating the last piece of churros and following his friend.

Omar watched the boys skip down the road.  If they hurried they would be in time for the first lesson of the day.  He wished he had asked them what they were being taught these days.  When he had been at school the curriculum was very strict: reading, writing, geometry, arithmetic, the Quran and the sayings of the Hadith.  Everything in Arabic of course, although not many spoke it in the streets in those days; people retained the habit of speaking a variety of the local language among friends and family.  That was normal.  He signalled for the waiter to come over and paid him for the tea and churros.  It was time he took some exercise.  His doctor had said it was important to walk every day even if his knee was paining him.  He would walk across the old Roman bridge and see if there were any fish in the river this morning.  It was his favourite walk these days because he would stop half-way across and look back at the city of Córdoba and its beautiful mosque, towering against the skyline.  This ancient city was once again the centre of power, his beloved Madinat al-Zahra abandoned and neglected since the young Hisham II had inherited the throne.  Today the boy-Khalifa was isolated in Madinat al-Zahra, alone, living the life of a recluse, his city crumbling around him.

As he stood up a sharp pain shot through his knee and up his thigh.  He grasped the ebony stick that he always carried with him these days and used it to propel himself forward.  A wave of longing for his old home leapt to his breast.  It had been years since he had visited Madinat al-Zahra yet there was never a day when he didn’t dream of its beautiful palaces and its fragrant gardens; when he closed his eyes he could still hear the sound of the fountains that fed the tranquil lakes and smell the orange blossom that used to grow outside his house.  But he knew he could never return; the pain would be too great.  The city lay only a couple of Arab miles to the west of Córdoba and yet it might as well have been in distant Arabia.  Yes, there were many tales he could tell Musa about his days in Madinat al-Zahra.


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Madinat al-Zahra a splendid city now in ruins

6/1/2014

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View from the upper terrace
PictureEntrance to the Royal Residence
When I first heard about the ruins of Madinat al-Zahra, I was intrigued by the idea that a palace-city of such magnificence should have lasted for such a short time.  Civilisations come and go, as any reader of history knows but for it to last no more than 75 years seemed a tragedy.  It was the summer of 2001. I picked up a leaflet about an exhibition that was to be held in the museum at Madinat al-Zahra, just outside Córdoba.  It was entitled The Splendour of the Cordovan Umayyads.  I remembered my childhood love of Tales of the Arabian Nights and I was hooked.  So we drove across from Málaga, on a blistering hot day to see what it was all about.  

I have been back many times since and the place holds a fascination for me; so much so that it inspired me to write a novel.  I decided to tell the story of the city through a family that lived there; I had the bare bones of my novel before me, in the stone walls and paved paths, in the narrow passages ways, the ornate gardens, the artefacts in the museum.  All I needed to do was to make the city come alive through my characters.  I've called the novel The Shining City because 'Madinat' (or medina) is the word for town and 'Zahra' means shining or brilliant.  It's said that the caliph called the city al-Zahra because, at the time it was being built, he was in love with a slave girl called Zahra.  It could be true; there are certainly written references to a concubine of that name but I think 'Zahra' referred to the magnificence of the city itself.  As the principle character in my book, Omar, tells his nephew:

 
‘It means shining, glistening, brilliant.  Possibly his concubine glittered and shone with all the jewels and beautiful silks he showered upon her but then so did the city.  It was indeed the Shining City.  When visitors entered through the Grand Portico, passing beneath its enormous, red and white arches, when they climbed the ramped streets that were paved with blocks of dark mountain stone, passing the lines of uniformed guards in their scarlet jackets and the richly robed civil servants that flanked their way, when they reached the royal residence and saw the golden inlay on the ceilings, the marble pillars, the richly woven rugs scattered across the floors and the brilliant silk tapestries, when they saw the moving tank of mercury in the great reception pavilion that caught the sunlight and dazzled all who beheld it, then they indeed knew that they were in the Shining City.’

Of course today, looking at the ruined paths, the piles of broken tiles, the reconstructed arches and pillars, we need to use our imagination to see it as it once was.

PictureThe palace gardens
The construction of the city of Madinat al-Zahra was begun in the year 939 AD by  Abd al-Rahman III and took forty years to complete.  Having declared himself the caliph of al-Andalus in 929 AD and with the country more or less at peace he wanted to follow in the tradition of previous caliphs and build himself a palace-city, grander than anything that had been built before.  The site he chose was eight kilometres to the west of Córdoba, in present day Andalusia and measured one and a half kilometres by almost a kilometre.  It was sheltered from the north winds by the mountains behind it and had an excellent vantage point from which to see who was approaching the city.  It was well supplied with water from an old Roman aqueduct and surrounded by rich farming land.  It had good roads to communicate with Córdoba and there was even a stone quarry close by.
The caliph left much of the responsibility for the construction of the city to his son al-Hakam, who continued work on it after his father's death.  One of the most curious questions about Madinat al-Zahra is why, despite its importance as the capital of the Omeyyad dynasty in al-Andalus, this magnificent city endured no more than seventy-five years.  When al-Hakam died in 976 AD the city was thriving; all the most important people in the land lived there.  The army, the Mint, the law courts, the government and the caliph were there; the city boasted public baths, universities, libraries, workshops and ceremonial reception halls to receive the caliph's visitors.  But al-Hakam's heir was a boy of eleven-years old.  The new boy-caliph was too young to rule, so a regent was appointed, the Prime Minister, al-Mansor, an ambitious and ruthless man.  Gradually the Prime Minister moved the whole court, the mint, the army and all the administrative functions back to Córdoba, leaving the new caliph in Madinat al-Zahra, ruling over an empty shell.  Once the seat of power had been removed from Madinat al-Zahra, the city went into decline.  The wealthy citizens left, quickly followed by the artisans, builders, merchants and local businessmen.  Its beautiful buildings were looted and stripped of their treasures and the buildings were destroyed to provide materials for other uses.  Today you can find artefacts from the city in Málaga, Granada, and elsewhere.  Marble pillars that once graced the caliph's palace now support the roofs of houses in Córdoba.  Ashlars that were part of the city's walls have been used to build cow sheds

PictureThe museum at Madinat al-Zahra
Excavation of the site began in 1911 by Riocardo Velázquez Bosco, the curator of the mosque in Córdoba.  The work was slow and hampered by the fact that the ruins were on private property.  Landowners were not keen to co-operate and eventually the State had to purchase the land before the excavations could begin.  The work progressed slowly but gradually over the years a number of government acts were passed which resulted in the site being designated as an Asset of Cultural Interest and in 1998 a Special Protection Plan was drawn up to give full weight to the importance of the ruins.  Today the site is open to the public and has an excellent visitor centre and museum.

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The Royal Residence
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The Hall of Abd al-Rahman III
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The Grand Portico
PictureThe Mosque
The mosque was the first building to be completed, in 941 AD.  It was also the one which suffered the most pillaging. Until the 1960s, when the walls were rebuilt, only the foundations had survived.  The mosque was positioned so that all the inhabitants of the city had easy access to it.  Here is an extract from 'The Shining City' where, Qasim, the potter visits the mosque:

The sound of the muezzin rang out across the city.  Today he would go to the mosque to pray.  He grabbed his cap and throwing his djubba around his shoulders he hurried out.
He joined the queue of people heading for the mosque; there was a greater number than usual at this hour, probably because the news was spreading about the soldiers leaving.  The busiest time was normally at evening prayers which he sometimes attended although he usually only went on Fridays.  The mosque gardens were crowded with people cleansing themselves before entering the mosque.  He waited until there was a space at the fountains then washed himself down in the cold water, removed his shoes and went inside.  He found a space near the front, facing the mihrab and knelt down on one of the straw mats that covered the dirt floor.
The mosque had been the first building to be completed in the city; it lay outside the alcázar but adjacent to its walls so that everyone, the local people who lived in the medina and the residents of the alcázar, could use it.  It was a beautiful building, its craftmanship the equal of the mosque in Córdoba.
Qasim had barely closed his eyes and touched his forehead to the ground when there was a slight disturbance which caused him to look up from his meditation.  It was the Khalifa.  He had entered through a covered passageway which led from the gardens of the alcázar straight into the mosque and now he took up his usual place in the maqsura.  He was a devout man who took his role as Defender of God’s Faith seriously.  His son al-Hakim was also present today, praying for the success of his troops.  Qasim had read the notice plastered on the wall of the mosque informing all the citizens that their borders were under threat.  Today they would include in their prayers an exortation to Allah to bring them victory.  
No sooner had the Khalifa taken his position than the imam began to lead the congregation in prayer:
‘In the name of Allah, the Merciful, the Compassionate...’
The prayer room was dark, its oil lamps unlit, the only light creeping through the openings in the ceiling high above.  Yet from somewhere a light infused the horseshoe arch of the mihrab with a warm glow.  The holy words of the Quran had been inscribed on this beautiful facade.  Men had created a masterpiece of coloured mosiacs on a background of pure gold.  Looking at it Qasim was reminded that he too was a craftsman, that all that he made with his hands was for the glory of Allah not for man, not for wealth and riches, not for fame, not for power.  How could he have forgotten that?  He, who loved God so.  He had sent his son into temptation, telling him to sell their pottery to the Khalifa.  Why had he not been content with the life he had in Córdoba?  Why had he strived for more?  Why had he coveted a new house and fancy possessions?  What use were they to him now that he had lost his most treasured possession, his son?


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The novel, 'The Shining City' is to be published next month.

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FREE KINDLE copy of SANTIAGO TALES

20/1/2013

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From today for five days my latest novel SANTIAGO TALES is available FREE on kindle.  Why don't all you ebook lovers download a copy and enjoy following Beth as she walks the Camino de Santiago.  Beth has come to believe that her life is no longer worth living so she sets off to travel 800 kilometres in all weathers, looking for a solution to her problems.  On the way she meets many interesting characters and makes new friends, each one seeking their own solutions.  A modern-day take on Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, the novel explores the challenges that confront people today.

So, does Beth regain her will to live?  You will have to read the book to find out.

For your free kindle download go to  amazon.com



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Book clubs

7/1/2013

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English language book clubs are springing up all over Spain these days.  The English are still, on the whole, great readers.  They will drive miles, sometimes, as in the case of the Rosilla Book Club in Solano, along windy, narrow mountain roads with spectacular views of the Sierra of Tejeda  and precipitous drops into the valley of the Rio Benamargosa.  They will brave rain and heat waves to join their friends and discuss the merits and demerits of their latest read.  I am fortunate enough to be invited to join some of the local book clubs when they are reviewing one of my books.  It is a most rewarding experience to get feedback directly from your readers and to get the opportunity to discuss the characters and why you made them as they are.

Book clubs are often 'single-title', where the whole group reads the same book but the composition and structure of these book clubs can vary according to the tastes and preferences of the members.  Some, for example, are merely excuses to get together and have a pleasant afternoon with friends, chatting about their latest books.  There is usually tea and home made cakes provided by whoever is hosting the event and sometimes, depending on the hour, wine and tapas.  I have a friend who belongs to one book club where they always kick off with a glass of cava.  Some are informal and the conversation meanders from book to book as the participants express their opinions.  Others are more structured.  Sometimes each person is given a category and must elect a book for the group to read from that category: foreign authors, crime fiction, romance, historical novel.  In that way the group covers a wide range of literary genres.  Some are designed to broaden the members' reading experience and chick-lit and crime novels are banned.  There are groups where the members are not expected to all read the same books, 'multi-title book clubs'.  Each member can summarise the book they have chosen, giving their opinion and then let those that wish to, buy  or borrow it.  Sometimes the leader of the group will pose specific questions about what they have read, in order to structure the discussion:  Were the characters in the book believable?  What did they each experience from reading it?
Some book clubs even morph into mobile libraries, with the members donating copies of the books they recommend to a central source so that they are available for all to share.  
I know people who have belonged to the same book club for thirty plus years, mums who joined looking for company while their kids were at school and found life-long friends.  Joining a book club is a wonderful way of fitting into a community and meeting like-minded people.

What all these members of book clubs have in common is a love of reading, whether it is on their Kindle, a paperback or hardback book, whether they have bought it on the internet or borrowed it from a friend.  Books are their friends and not one of them would ever be without them.



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Santiago Tales

8/10/2012

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I'd been thinking about writing a story about the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela for some time, ever since we had made a visit to Galicia and fallen in love with the place.  All our Spanish friends had said that we had to visit the north of Spain, how cool it was in the summer and so green.   So one July we packed up the car and drove across Spain in temperatures that threatened to reach 50° C, until we arrived at Cambados on the Rias Baxas.  Everything our friends had told us about Galicia was right: the air was fresh and cool, the fields were lush and green and the coast line was spectacular.  After the heat of Andalusia we were ecstatic.  So we spent our first few days relaxing by the coast, eating the freshest and tastiest seafood we'd ever had and drinking copious glasses of the excellent wine from the area, Alberiño.  My Protestant genes will not let me laze about enjoying myself for too long and soon I was suggesting we should move and seek out a little culture.  
We drove a few miles up the coast to the famous city of Santiago de Compostela.  It was 2004, the Holy Year for pilgrims to the city.  People came from all over the world to pay homage at the shrine of St James, the patron saint of Spain, in the cathedral of Santiago de Compostela.  The remains of his body are in the crypt under the altar in the cathedral and draw thousands of pilgrims each year.  That year there were almost 180,000 pilgrims.  Luckily not all of them converged on the city in July, but nevertheless Santiago was packed with weary travellers.  It was impossible not to be intrigued by the spectacle and to admire the tenacity of these people, some old, some young, who had walked hundreds of kilometres  along the Way of St James or, as it is known in Spanish, El Camino de Santiago, just to be there.  It was also difficult not to speculate on the motives that drove people to walk across fairly difficult terrain and stay in pretty spartan accommodation for weeks on end, just so that they could have their pilgrims' passports stamped and receive their compostela, (completion certificate) at the end of the journey.  Some were obviously driven by religious reasons but not all of them.  It was this speculation that led me to write SANTIAGO TALES, my twenty-first century version of The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer.  However I did not begin to write the book until 2012, eight years later.  By chance my neighbour told me about a friend of hers who had just completed the pilgrimage from Roncevalles to Santiago de Compostela in five weeks, a distance of 780 kilometres.  An admirable feat by anyone's standards, but when she told me that the woman in question was seventy-six years old, my admiration soared.  She introduced me to this intrepid walker , who kindly told me about her adventures.  That was when I knew I had to write my book.  So thanks to her, SANTIAGO TALES was born.  In it the main character, a woman in her fifties, has a particular reason for walking the Camino, the details of which are revealed on the way.  On her journey she meets other pilgrims who, each in turn, in the manner of The Canterbury Tales, tell their own story.

SANTIAGO TALES is due to be published later this year.


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 Memory Keepers’ Workshop: a holiday dedicated to writing about the past

15/8/2012

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Do you have a story to tell?

Have you lived through events that ought to be recorded?

Is there something – fact or fiction – you would like to write for future generations or for your family?

Do you know someone else whose story should be told?

This October J.G. Harlond  and I will be running the second of our Memory Keepers’ Workshops at the beautiful LA FINCA DEL NIÑO in the Spanish countryside, just outside Málaga.  So why not come along and join us.  We can guarantee good food, lovely surroundings and the chance to write up all those stories that you have been planning to pass on to your kids.

The Memory Keepers’ Workshop is a writing holiday designed for beginners, and writers with work-in-progress. Our objective is to help participants develop their writing skills and show them, if required, how to plan and set out a manuscript for publication. It is specifically geared towards people wanting to write about the past, be it an account of real events, an autobiography, biography or historical fiction. Groups are kept to a maximum of twelve, so each participant has time to discuss their work with us and receive personal feedback.

If this is something you have always wanted to do, then get in touch with us on:

http://www.jgharlond.name/brochure1.htm or www.fincanino.com or send me a message through my contacts page. 


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An interview with the best-selling historical novelist ANN VICTORIA ROBERTS

14/7/2012

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Q:  Your latest novel, THE MASTER’S TALE, is a gripping account of the life of Captain Edward Smith, the Master of the TITANIC. What inspired you to write this particular story?
A:  In the summer of 2008, just as I was about to start work on a novel about the English Civil War, Captain Smith appeared in my life. As these things often are, it was a matter of chance. 
My husband Peter – a Master Mariner – came home after a routine visit to the Southampton Pilots’ Office with an extraordinary tale about Captain Smith and the Titanic. I was keen to see what he’d been looking at, so the office manager very kindly invited me down. Out of a metal filing cupboard, he brought out a great leather bound volume, the Dock Master’s Log Book for 1912. This official, handwritten document recorded the details of all ships entering and leaving the port of Southampton. 
He opened it to April, and there was Titanic’s name – with that of her Captain – Smith – departing at noon on April 10th.  Knowing what was to happen just five days later, I shivered. But then the pages were turned back to show two previous entries. And what they suggested changed my whole perception of the Titanic tragedy.
On March 30th, at 6 in the morning, just 11 days before Titanic set sail on her maiden voyage, the liner Olympic, with her Captain – Smith – was logged coming into Southampton from New York. 
I couldn’t have said exactly why at the time, but it seemed odd. I remember thinking he hadn’t had much time off before taking command of the new ship. But it was the next entry that set the hairs on my neck prickling.  Just after midnight on April 4th, less than 5 days after arriving from New York on Olympic, Captain Smith was again logged inwards by the Southampton Dock Master. This time the ship he brought in was Titanic – from Belfast.
We checked times and dates again. It didn’t seem feasible at first. But this was a legal document – and the facts were there before us. We worked it out. If Smith left the Olympic as soon as Customs and Immigration had cleared the ship, he could have taken the boat train up to London, the afternoon train to Liverpool and overnight ferry to Belfast, to arrive next morning, March 31st. 
I discovered later that the weather was bad, so the ship’s sea-trials did not take place until April 2nd. At 6 that evening Titanic was accepted on behalf of White Star. Captain Smith brought her back from Belfast, down the Irish Sea and up the Channel, to arrive in Southampton shortly after midnight on April 4th.  He would have been on the bridge for most of that time – some 36 hours, give or take the odd hour’s rest.  6 days later he was sailing again, for New York.
The pressure must have been phenomenal – and all this after a winter spent crossing the North Atlantic. 
 There are moments in every writer’s life when the urge to tell a story comes with a great flash of insight. In the early years of my marriage, I spent long months at sea with my husband, on voyages around the world. I know how bad the weather can be in the North Atlantic – and I know the kind of pressure that can be brought to bear on shipmasters by the companies they work for. So yes, I knew what those log book entries meant.
The evidence in that log book pointed to a man being pushed beyond the limits. And we must remember that at 62 years old, Captain Smith was not a young man. It was disturbing to say the least. Was he fit to take that ship to sea? Was the loss of Titanic his fault?
In any maritime disaster, the Captain must always carry the blame. His, after all, is the ultimate responsibility. But that’s not to say that Captain Smith was a fool.  This man was a professional, with some 45 years’ experience at sea – so there had to be more to it than that. What was going on beforehand? Where did this tragedy start?
I’ve never been a Titanic buff – married to a man who went to sea for a living I’ve preferred not to dwell on maritime disasters. What I knew was mostly based on films and hearsay. But the log book was direct evidence, evidence I could relate to in a very personal way.
I couldn’t get it out of my mind. I started checking – looking at accounts on the Internet to begin with, later borrowing books from friends. It struck me that the tragedy was constantly being viewed in isolation, while facts about Captain Smith were often vague or inaccurate.
After that first flash of understanding, I felt the need to take up the case for Captain Smith. To set his story – and that of the Titanic – in context. If I’d been a biographer, then I’d have written a biography – but as I’m a writer who can’t resist putting words in my characters’ mouths, it had to be a novel. 

Q:  You have obviously had to do a tremendous amount of research for this book. Was the information easy to come by?

A:  Information about the Titanic was easy to find. There have been books without number concerning the ship, the fanfare, the luxury aboard, the experiences of the survivors, and the poignant details of those who lost their lives. But reliable facts about Captain Smith were difficult to come by. He had but one daughter, and she survived her children – so there were no descendants to tell his side of the story. Eventually in Southampton library I discovered a slim biography first written in the late 1990s by an historian from Stoke-on-Trent, Captain Smith’s birthplace. The author had done the Smith family history, and researched Smith’s professional career – details of ships and dates which gave me a short-cut to the facts. 
The author, Gary Cooper, has said since that his motive in writing was similar to mine – to set the record straight. But his knowledge of professional seafaring – like so many of the Titanic historians – was lacking. With the approach of the centenary, the History Press commissioned him to re-write Smith’s biography, and it was published late last year. Mr Cooper and I were in touch with each other while working on our respective books, and in return for his excellent factual information, I was able to correct some nautical errors and give him an insight into Captain Smith’s profession. Both books have benefited, I believe, from this collaboration.
The most vital information I obtained, concerned the court case following the collision between White Star’s Olympic and HMS Hawke. Since time was short, I engaged a professional researcher specialising in maritime history, to obtain transcripts of the trial in which Captain Smith was a key witness. To my mind, that collision, and the subsequent court-case, is where the Titanic tragedy began.

Q:  Your husband is a Master Mariner, I believe. Did he help with some of the technical details?

A:  Yes, he did. Particularly with regard to navigation. But we both sweated blood trying to work out the visual reality of the collision between Olympic and HMS Hawke!

Q:  You have been writing now for quite a few years and successfully published a number of books: LOUISA ELLIOTT, LIAM’S STORY, DAGGER LANE, and MOON RISING, all historical novels. What is it that attracts you to the genre of the historical novel?

A:  I’ve always been fascinated by historical events as well as the history of places – and by the effects of the past upon the present. One of the reasons I felt so passionately about Captain Smith’s story, was because he was gaining his expertise at a time when maritime trade was everything. We imported raw materials from all over the world – and exported manufactured goods. Everything came and went by sea. Victoria’s empire was still building, and seafarers like Captain Smith were the men who put the great in Great Britain. 
On a different level, I was brought up with classic novels, and I guess my style of writing lends itself to the historical genre. Two of my novels, LIAM’S STORY and DAGGER LANE, are set in the present as well as the past, and to be honest I found the present-day sections very much harder to write. Somehow, having done my research, I can imagine myself in the past quite easily. I see the surroundings as they probably were at the time, and write from that perspective.
By the way, there’s an added plus to historical fiction: you don’t have to worry about being politically correct!

Q:  As a wife and mother you must lead a busy life. How do you find time to write? Do you work to a timetable or just write when you feel like it?

A:  When I started writing, my two children were at school and my husband was at sea on long voyages. Six months away with maybe two or three months at home between times. So writing was something which kept me occupied on a daily basis – it was another world, if you like, into which I could comfortably escape when reality got tough!  The children eventually grew up and left home, and in 2000 my husband came ashore to work, which entailed a move from York to Southampton. 
After that, writing fiction took a back seat for several years. I started painting again – enjoying the challenge and the quicker results. But once a writer, always a writer, and about 4 years ago I dug out some old research notes and started thinking about a new novel. I joined a local writers’ group, and have enjoyed the fun and the encouragement ever since.

How do I write? Well, nowadays, once I’ve begun writing, I like to work every day whenever possible, starting about 10 am and finishing about 6, with a short break for lunch. I try not to work at weekends, but if I’m on a roll I just want to keep going. A longish break of a couple of weeks or more can make it hard to pick up the thread, so I have to go back and revise just to get back into it.

Q:  As an experienced author, do you have any advice to give to new writers of historical fiction?

A:  My first completed novel was written in my early twenties – a slice of contemporary fiction that was rejected by at least a dozen publishers and literary agents. I was convinced I wasn’t meant to be a writer. The novel I longed to write (which eventually became LIAM’S STORY) was in my head for years, but all the advice I’d ever read treated history like some kind of quagmire. ‘Write what you know,’ the experts said. ‘Don’t be lured into historical fiction, which requires tons of research and has enormous pitfalls for the inexperienced novelist…’
Quite right. Except if history turns you on, and you’re willing to do the research because it fascinates you, then go for it. It’s what I did – felt the fear (to coin a phrase) and did it anyway. The research was a joy, and led me down paths I would never have trodden otherwise. Research made LOUISA ELLIOTT a big rich book in which 19th century York was almost one of the characters. But the reason for the novel’s success (or so I’ve been told) was that the themes were contemporary. In other words, I was writing about problems which are as relevant today as they were then.
So that is probably the key to grabbing your average reader. Historical fiction is rarely fashionable – but in the end it’s the characters that make a book, and your depiction of those characters must light a reader’s bonfire. 
Another bit of advice from a writer friend of mine, sadly no longer with us: ‘History must be part of the action, part of the characters’ lives. Not a backdrop against which the actors speak their lines…’
Another comment I’ve never forgotten came from a professional while I was still trying to gather courage after that first series of rejections. ‘Like all creative people,’ he said, ‘writers must be driven from within, by an idea that absolutely refuses to go away…’ 
So true. After all, nobody sensible would lock themselves away for months on end, scribbling away at a story that might never see the light of day. 
The satisfaction is in the creating of that other world – publication is just the icing on the cake. Reviews – if you are lucky – are the cherries. But the glowing candles are the letters from real readers, those wonderful people who have read your book, lived in your world for a while, and felt moved to write their words of appreciation. 
Even one such letter makes all the hard work worthwhile.
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Guest interview with the author JG Harlond

11/6/2012

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Guest interview with the novelist JG Harlond:

In your latest book, "The Chosen Man", you have an array of interesting and vivid characters.  How did you come up with them?  I particularly like the incidental characters, such as the mother-in-law and McNab.  What inspired them?

My new novel was something of an accident. I was working on the sequel to The Magpie, to cover the years 1940 – 1950, and went back to Cornwall to do some research. The house manager of Cotehele, which is the Tudor house in Cornwall that is the model for my fictional Crimphele, took me on a private tour, starting in the old Great Hall. As I walked in out of the watery English summer sun, I saw a tall, sinister figure step out of the shadows near the fireplace and disappear. His name was McNab. I knew that immediately.

Ludo, for instance, why did you choose such a squash-buckling rogue for your main character?  

After the Great Hall we wandered through the interconnecting bed chambers, examining Belgian tapestries and chatting about trade between Britain and the Low Countries then we onto the flat roof of the original 15th century fortress. I looked over the wall at a familiar scene, I used to live in the area and I know the River Tamar well. But this wasn’t now and it wasn’t 1940 - I looked down on the river and saw an inland barge bringing the charming rogue hero from The Magpie (set early C20th) upriver in the mid-17th century! After that we went over to look down at the interior Retainer's courtyard. And there was that nasty McNab again crossing to the stables, pretending he wasn’t watching me. But he was - I could feel it. Thinking back it's rather spooky, but to be honest, at the time it felt totally real. The man coming up river on the barge was Leo's ancestor Ludovico - Ludo because life’s all a game for him! Another charming rotter.  

And Alina?  She is an intriguing young woman, we are never sure, until the very end of the book, what she will do.  

Alina, who is the heroine, arrived that day as well, and virtually wrote the first half of the novel herself! The sequel to The Magpie was set aside and she started to dictate her life to me through colours - the colours of her tapestry wool. 

However, before I could let Alina take us much further I had to stop and do an awful lot of research. I hadn't planned to write about the tulip scandal in Holland in 1636, although I did know a little about it - fortunately. I had to read a good deal about the Hispano/Vatican conspiracy, starting with Eric Frattini's work 'The Entity'.

And the other characters, such as the mother-in-law?  She has a particularly strong personality.

 About the secondary and minor characters - well, that creep McNab in the shadows - all I can say is that he was there. Lady Marjorie, the mother-in-law? In the end I felt rather sorry for her. Very few people are wholly bad, like McNab: Lady Marjorie felt threatened and believed she had a lot to lose. 

I have to say I'm particularly fond of the witch/cook Crook-back Aggie. Years ago when I was a student, I had a menial job in a local hotel - there was a Crook-back Aggie there, but nowhere near as interesting.

Thank you Jane, I look forward to reading your next historical novel.

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Literary or not?

11/6/2012

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Why is it that some successful writers want to be considered as literary?  What is a book of literary fiction anyway?  Literary, according to the Concise Oxford Dictionary is: Of, constituting, occupied with, literature, polite learning, or books and written composition (especially the kind valued for form).  So, there you have it.  But where has the idea come from that some books can be categorized as literature and others not? Who do we consider to be the authors of literature?  Is there a list?  Why do we consider the books of Tolstoy and George Elliot  to be literature and not, say Ian McEwan or Graham Greene?  Or maybe I have it wrong.  Maybe the net of literary writing is much wider, maybe it includes the aforementioned and even Brenda Bainbridge and Margaret Attwood.  And, more to the point, why do we all want it so badly?

The publishers of one of my favourite authors, William Boyd, who has made a good living I imagine over the years with his excellent books, many of which have won prizes and been made into films, have taken to adding the word ‘literary’ to the blurb on their covers.   “A combination of suspense and literature” is attributed to one, while another sports the legend: “the art of the literary page-turner.”  Mr Boyd does not need this.  His work stands on its own merit.  His stories are readable, entertaining and well-written.  What more can we want?  Maybe, in a world where so many below-standard books are published, his publishers feel the need to point out that his work is written composition, especially the kind valued for form. 




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    Joan Fallon is a writer and novelist living in Spain.

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