Category: Novels

Thank you Ernest Hemingway

27/9/2014

I have often been asked who was the author who most influenced my writing and invariably I have fudged the answer; I've read everything from Tolstoy to William Boyd, I'd say. And that is true; I have been a voracious reader all my life, something that comes from being an only child in the pre-digital age. It is only recently that I have come to realise that the writer to whom I owe the most gratitude is Ernest Hemingway, Now I am not a heavy drinking (not really), smoking, womanising, macho man but I have always loved his sparse, carefully worded and sensitive prose and unwittingly I have tried to emulate it.
A short while ago I met an exceptional woman; she was an American living in Spain with her husband. She had contacted me through my web page because she had enjoyed one of my books and as she was living close by, wondered if I'd like to meet for coffee. We spent an enjoyable morning, sitting in a cafe, overlooking a very blue Mediterranean Sea and talking about books and more importantly about Ernest Hemingway. She had her own website; it was called the Hemingway Project and was dedicated to all and everything about Ernest Hemingway, her hero. She had attracted all kinds of followers, many of whom had new tales to tell of Hemingway and photos and letters to share with her and her readers.
As we were talking I realised to my shame that I had not read any Hemingway since my teens; I couldn't even go home and take down a copy to refresh my memory. As a teenager all my reading was from books taken from my favourite place, the local library; that was where I learnt of the great writers: Steinbeck, Hemingway, Tolstoy, Maupassant, Balzac, Hardy, Scott Fitzgerald and many, many others. So when I got home that evening I went straight to Amazon and ordered the Hemingway books that I had loved in my youth: 'For Whom the Bell Tolls' was top of the list.
Just recently I have been reading a wonderful book by Donna Tart; her writing is vivacious, colourful, all-encompassing and riveting. I couldn't put the book down, even though it was eight hundred pages long and made my arms ache holding it. But as I read it I knew that I could never hope to emulate her; it was like admiring a beautiful dress on another woman but knowing that it would not suit you. It wasn't until I started re-reading 'For Whom the Bell Tolls' that I suddenly realised where my fascination with Spain and its history had come from and who had been the greatest influence, albeit without my knowing it, on my writing.
So thank you Ernest Hemingway and thank you Allie Baker. Get well soon.

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Britain's lost children

29/8/2014

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This summer we have had a house full of children and watching them play and jump endlessly in and out of the swimming pool made me reflect on a book I published last year about three children who lose their home, their family, even their country. Their lives could not have been more different from the excited little grandchildren charging around our house.

A couple of years ago I came across an article about the children who had been sent to the colonies as migrants, many of them wrongly labelled as orphans and under the delusion that their families were dead. I was amazed, not only that such a thing could happen in Britain but also that it had been kept secret for so many years. If it hadn't been for a chance circumstance, many of those children, now adults, would never have been reunited with their families. A social worker, Margaret Humphreys, was assigned the case of a woman who claimed that she had been deported from Britain when she was only four years old. That was in 1986; since then Mrs Humphreys has discovered that as many as 150,000 children were sent abroad by the British government to start new lives. The last case being as recently as 1967. Director and founder of the Child Migrants' Trust Mrs Humphreys has worked tirelessly to help these children find surviving members of their families. Her book EMPTY CRADLES tells of the first seven years of her struggle to bring this knowledge out into the open and to help those involved.

The article that I had chanced upon inspired me to read extensively around this subject and in the end to write a book of my own. THE ONLY BLUE DOOR is fiction, a novel based on true occurrences and drawn from the real experiences of those immigrant children. It is the story of the three Smith children from Bethnal Green who, through a series of unfortunate incidents, find themselves on a boat to Australia in 1941. This is not a story of tears and recriminations but rather the story of how each child, in their own way, struggles to make the best of their lives and never gives up the hope of being reunited.

THE ONLY BLUE DOOR is available as an ebook and in paperback.

HISTORICAL NOVEL SOCIETY INDIE REVIEW January 2014

Most of us are familiar with child evacuation during World War 2, but I wonder how many know about child migrants who were sent to South Africa, Australia and Canada to avoid danger? The Only Blue Door follows the story of Maggie, Billy and Grace, siblings who become victims of the good intentions of people believing them to have been orphaned during the Blitz. Shipped to Australia to start a new life, the children are separated and so begins Maggie’s struggle to prove her mother still lives and to bring the family back together.Based on actual events, this beautifully written story had me gripped and emotionally attached to the characters and their struggles. Apparently well researched, it provides some insight into the long term impact of the events unfolding between 1939 and 1945, without being clichéd. The tireless work and battles with ‘red tape’ of the organisations involved in evacuation and subsequent repatriation of thousands of children over this period, is aptly represented in the story.

The writing style is engaging and accurate, with fully rounded and believable characters. I will not only be recommending this book but also looking to read more of this authors work. Not every story has a happy ending, but maybe this one does?

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Researching the novel THE SHINING CITY

6/8/2014

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I knew from the start that writing a novel set in Moorish Spain would take a lot of work. I only had a general idea about what life was like in al-Andalus and most of that was really only relevant to Granada. The Moors had been in Spain for over seven hundred years, from the time of the Moorish invasion in 711 AD until the capture of Granada in 1492 by the Catholic Monarchs. There had been many rulers and many forms of government.
I was intrigued by the ruined palace of Madinat al-Zahra, just outside Córdoba, which was built between 936 and 947 AD and I decided to set my novel in the forty years from 947 to 987. A short period of time, in the scale of things and therefore much easier to research, or so I thought. Not so. Writing a historical novel requires great attention to detail and when you are completely unfamiliar with that period, it requires a great deal of research and discipline to get even the smallest details correct.
How could I make my characters come to life if I didn't know how they behaved, what their homes were like, what they wore, what they ate and even how they ate. I had to learn about the royal court as well as the common people, what it was like to be a soldier, a slave, an artisan. Most of my research was done by visiting Moorish sites and museums, reading books on the subject and, of course, trawling the internet. One of the first things I learned was that life in Moorish Spain changed dramatically over seven hundred years - what was true in Granada in the year 1400 was not the same in Córdoba seven hundred years earlier. I had to focus my research.
Then of course came the hard part - what to leave out. I had to include enough research to bring the period to life without boring my reader. After all this was a novel about love and adventure, not a history book.

THE SHINING CITY is available in paperback and as an ebook

SHORTLISTED FOR THE EDITOR'S PICK (HISTORICAL NOVELS SOCIETY REVIEW)
The Shining City by Joan Fallon is a beautifully told story set in tenth-century Spain which focuses on a city in southern Spain that flourished for a brief time only: Madinat al Zahra.

Built by the caliph, it becomes a rival to the capital, Cordoba. The book covers many aspects of the times: history, culture, religion and day-to-day life. Giving great attention to detail, Fallon depicts court etiquette with the same confidence as minor details, such as bakery and food preparation. I knew comparatively little about Spain under Muslim rule and found myself easily and entertainingly educated.

The characters are well chosen and developed, likeable and driven by their dreams and ambitions. This is a story of the little man seeking his fortune with insights into the rules of Muslim life, life at court, slavery, loyalty, betrayal, forbidden love and human tragedy.

The book is very well written, perfectly paced and atmospheric. It feels authentic, has a good story and a fascinating topic.

The only thing I can criticise are the colours chosen for the cover which makes the writing difficult to read, and maybe the chosen font size and type inside the book could be improved? A very enjoyable read.

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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.

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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2 new book reviews from HNS INDIE REVIEW

2/2/2014

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THE ONLY BLUE DOOR

HISTORICAL NOVEL SOCIETY INDIE REVIEW January 2014

Most of us are familiar with child evacuation during World War 2, but I wonder how many know about child migrants who were sent to South Africa, Australia and Canada to avoid danger? The Only Blue Door follows the story of Maggie, Billy and Grace, siblings who become victims of the good intentions of people believing them to have been orphaned during the Blitz. Shipped to Australia to start a new life, the children are separated and so begins Maggie’s struggle to prove her mother still lives and to bring the family back together.Based on actual events, this beautifully written story had me gripped and emotionally attached to the characters and their struggles. Apparently well researched, it provides some insight into the long term impact of the events unfolding between 1939 and 1945, without being clichéd. The tireless work and battles with ‘red tape’ of the organisations involved in evacuation and subsequent repatriation of thousands of children over this period, is aptly represented in the story.

The writing style is engaging and accurate, with fully rounded and believable characters. I will not only be recommending this book but also looking to read more of this authors work. Not every story has a happy ending, but maybe this one does?

SPANISH LAVENDER

Reviewed by the Historical Novel Society Indie Review January 2014

In January 1937, Elizabeth makes the decision to stay in Civil War-torn Spain while her family returns to England. Her decision was, initially, made so that she could photographically record the impact of the war on Spain and her people. Finding herself alone in Malaga, she makes friends with two men, one who would be the love of her life, the other she would later marry. Seventy years later, a secret is unravelled by her granddaughter and a world of lies unearthed.

Spanish Lavender is, first and foremost, a love story. A naïve Elizabeth alone in a devastated city finds friendship and love with a young Spaniard by the name of Juan. When he becomes injured on the road to Almeria, he is taken to hospital but with no room for either Elizabeth or their mutual friend, Alex, they are separated and Elizabeth believes Juan dead.

Tragic, uplifting and beautiful, Spanish Lavender doesn’t shy away from the horrors of war, but neither does it concentrate on them. It is vital to remember that Spanish Lavender is a story of love.

The final third of the book suddenly leaps forward by seventy years, and here we meet Kate, the grandchild of Elizabeth. Initially a little confusing, this section helps answer some of the questions raised in the earlier section. A riveting read and one for reading while wishing for warmer weather!

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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

Entrance 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.

The 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

The 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.

The Royal Residence

The Hall of Abd al-Rahman III

The Grand Portico

The 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?

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

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The advantages of self-publishing

23/9/2013

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Two years ago I gave my novel Between the Sierra and the Sea to a vanity publishing house to publish. They did not style themselves as vanity-publishers, rather they talked about co-operative publishing where the author and the publisher shared the costs - my share was exhorbitant. Nevertheless, as I was having difficulties finding a regular publisher I decided to go for it. At first it seemed to go well but then the royalties dropped and eventually dried up altogether. However by then I had discovered the world of self-publishing. It was no longer as difficult as I had originally believed and I realised what potential was out there - the tools for self-publishing are cheap and easy to use. I had also found that many of the things that I could do with my self-published books were not available to me to use on Between the Sierra and the Sea. For example I could not reduce the price of the ebook version; I couldn't offer a free sample; I had no control over the translation rights. I still had to try to market the book because the publisher wasn't interested in doing it, but without all the tools that were available to a self-published work, It was frustrating so, using the lack of sales as a justification, I asked them to withdraw the book. This they agreed to do - after all they had already been handsomely paid - and the book was back under my control.
After some editing I have now republished the same novel under the name of Spanish Lavender and it is available both as an ebook and in print. I hope that the sales will now improve, at least of the ebooks.
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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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SANTIAGO TALES, published at last, thanks to a little help from my friends.

7/1/2013

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Back in October I blogged about how I came to write my latest novel SANTIAGO TALES and where the idea had come from. Now, at last, I have published it as a Kindle ebook.

Writing a novel is the easiest part for me. The hard work comes when your work has to be edited, and repeatedly proof read. Luckily I have a few kind friends who are always willing to help with the proof reading but it never ceases to amaze me how easily simple typos and spelling mistakes are overlooked. Most of my books get read a dozen times before they are ready to publish.

A fellow author and member of Costa Women, Karen McCann, also kindly gave me an endorsement for the book. You can read it below:

‘Joan Fallon's new book, Santiago Tales, lets you walk 790 kilometres in the shoes of a modern-day pilgrim on the ancient Way of St. James across northern Spain. Her book illuminates the entire experience, from bedbugs and blisters to the camaraderie of the hostels and long days of solitude and contemplation. A must read for anyone considering walking the Camino, or for armchair travellers who want to immerse themselves in the 1000-year-old traditions of this spiritual journey.’ Karen McCann, author of ‘Dancing in the Fountain’

I will be publishing a paperback edition of SANTIAGO TALES at the end of the month. This will be available on Amazon and in bookshops.

So many thanks to all my friends and acquaintances who made this book possible and I hope they are looking forward to the next one.

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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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FREE KINDLE copy of SANTIAGO TALES

SANTIAGO TALES, published at last, thanks to a little help from my friends.

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