Torn From Today's Headlines

A story ripped from today’s headlines. That’s the tag line they use sometimes for a novel that’s especially topical.

But what happens when you unknowingly write a novel that, it turns out, could have been ripped from the current headlines? You’re faced with a dilemma, that’s what.

Next February the fifth Richard Nottingham novel, entitled At the Dying of the Year, will be published. It’s set in late 1733 but there are strong parallels to events that have happened very recently in 2012 – events that occurred after I’d completed the book, I hasten to add. I’m not going to offer any details or even say what events – you’ll have to wait and see, but I will give one hint, that, in the wake of a greater outrage, an allegation was made about the late politician Peter Morrison (I refuse to call anyone Sir or Lord). Enough said. If you want to know more then Google is your friend and follow the trail.

Writing a novel is one thing. It’s a work of the imagination, and the events aren’t even the emotional centre of the novel; they’re the trigger for everything else. But realising that reality goes further than fiction is disturbing. And with the dawning of that fact comes an epiphany: I’d rather keep quiet about the connection than exploit it. I know, I’m writing this blog which is almost a signpost, but no one will remember it come February. Let the fiction stand on its own. Better than that piggyback on what has been hell for some people.

Leeds - An Occupied City

In the Civil War, Leeds was an occupied city. It changed hands several times in the fighting, finally being taken by Parliament forces in 1644 and a garrison station there under the leadership of Major (or Major-General) Carter.

The Scots troops who’d helped finally take the city did cause some destruction, with houses burnt, and in the wake Leeds was a depressed place, the wool trade that was its lifeblood in tatters for a few years. It would come back, of course, but not all would thrive. Several wealthy merchants who’d aided the Royalist cause received heavy fines, including John Harrison, one of the city’s great benefactors who gave Leeds St. John’s Church, the original grammar school (located more or less where the Grand Theatre stands today) and the Market Cross (which was at the top of Briggate by the Headrow).

To top it all off, early in 1645 there was an outbreak of plague that lasted most of the year, with the poor areas of Vicar Lane and the Calls the worst hit. The first victim was a little girl named Alice Musgrave.

As a novelist, not a historian, I’m not going to go into all the facts. Instead I offer an excerpt from a work-in-progress set in Leeds at the time that – I hope – sets the scene of despair and desperation.

He rode across the bridge and into Leeds, his uniform covered in dust and mud, the shine worn off his long boots. The sword at his waist tapped gently against the horse’s flanks as the animal moved.

He looked around at the place as the animal trotted. Several houses had been burned, with only a few, fragile blackened timbers remaining, lakes of dark water and slush where floors had once been. One of them must have been a fine place once, a rich man’s mansion, proud and bold. Now it would give shelter to no one.

The troopers on the street saluted him, but he only spotted a few local folk, scuttling quickly and quietly about their business, trying to remain unnoticed. The town seemed hushed, dead, as if a pall had descended and wouldn’t lift. It was hard to believe this had once been a bustling place, starting to grow fat on the wool trade. Since then it had been fought over, taken, lost, recaptured, and each time its fortunes had fallen a little further. Now it looked as though they’d reached their lowest ebb.

The biggest building stood right the middle of the street, cart tracks in the muddy road on either side. He dismounted, gave the reins to a soldier and entered. A clerk looked at him, then snapped upright in his chair.

“I’m Captain Eyre,” he said. “Here to report to Major Carter.”

That had been a week before, at the end of February 1645. He’d been seconded from Hull to serve as adjutant with the garrison of Parliament troops here. They’d stormed Leeds for the final time the year before, led by the Scotsmen who’d had their vengeance for the resistance in the burning and hangings, the looting and rape.

At least they were long since gone, praise God, sent back north of the border in disgrace. The commandant was trying to bring order here, to return Leeds to what it had once been.

The captain looked out of the mullioned windows and along Briggate. It was Tuesday morning, so the twice-weekly cloth market would be held on the bridge. The weavers would display their cloth on the parapets and the merchants would go around, deciding what to buy.

He’d been there on Saturday, dismayed by the poor turnout. No more than ten clothiers and just a handful of merchants, the deals that conducted in whispers. Orders were low, he’d been told, with men preferring to take their trade to Bradford and Wakefield, anywhere that hadn’t been torn apart by battle.

He’d walked the streets and seen the looks on the faces. Whether rich or poor, they all carried fear in their eyes. The world they understood had vanished. Instead of the Corporation there was martial law, the commandant issuing edicts and enforcing them with troops who patrolled or stood guard on the corners, the dull light glinting off their pikes. Men had to be off the street by nine, women had to dress with due modesty. Sunday worship could only be at St. John’s, and there could be no trade on the Sabbath. Whether it wanted to be or not, Leeds was becoming a city of God.

All the merchants and aldermen who’d supported the king were being assessed. They’d have their day in court, make their cases and receive fines. A few had already left, like lawyer Benson, with nothing left to his name after his house was torched to its bones.

Officially the Captain was adjutant to the garrison, but his true job was gathering intelligence, to learn of any Royalist plots and stop them. By itself that would be difficult enough in a place where he knew no one and all the citizens distrusted the soldiers, but he also had to uphold the laws. Already he’d ordered a whore whipped through the streets for plying her trade and a baker in the stocks after he sold adulterated bread.

This could be a good place, he decided. Trade could be rebuilt, normality return, the sound of laughter heard in the air again. With time and God’s good grace.

He turned at the knock on the door.

“Come in,” he said, hearing the familiar limp of Wilson, the pikeman who was his clerk. The soldier had been injured at York, a musket ball breaking the bone in his thigh, but he could write and do his sums, more valuable at a desk than on any battlefield. He was better doing this than begging on a corner somewhere.

The man had his hands pushed together in front of him, his face full of terror.

“What is it?” Eyre asked.

“There’s plague, sir, down on Vicar Lane. A little girl.”

Entertain Us: The Rise of Nirvana

Entertain Us: The Rise of Nirvana

Gillian G. Gaar

It’s probably not surprising that some of the best books about Nirvana have come from writers in Seattle. Charles R. Cross’s book on Kurt Cobain was largely definitive, and even Dave Thompson’s quick biography of Cobain, released within a month of the suicide, was well-researched and written. However, probably no-one’s written more about then band than Gillian Gaar (in the interests of full disclosure, she and I both used to write for Seattle publication The Rocket, as did Thompson, and it was owned by Cross).

It’s a book that’s full of detail and minutae, not a primer for anyone wanting to know the band’s career arc. She takes the tack – quite rightly – that the early years are the most interesting, and the interviews and research she’s undertaken to put everything together is impressive to the point of being terrifying. This isn’t a job, it’s just as much a labour of love, and she’s such a good, clear writer, that everything is laid out like a road for the reader. There’s plenty of depth about the Chad Channing years, as the band was getting into gear, and the comparisons of different versions of songs comes with the real knowledge of the music journalist and the devotion of a fan.

Every show the band played is documented, as is every recording session, radio session, festival, TV appearance. All through the focus is on the music and how, if not always why, it turned out the way it did. For most fans, Nevermind was the album that brought them to the band. By then Gaar was already a longtime fan, seeing them through the Sub Pop years, and she’s someone who sees the first album, Bleach, as seminal. In many ways she’s right. The ripples didn’t spread as wide as they did later, but it was a vital recording that signalled a shift in music, coming as it did in the same period that Mudhoney, Soundgarden and others to herald what became called grunge. But, as Gaar shows, Nirvana stood apart, and, as she shows further, did so throughout their existence and even into their strange afterlife.

The Audiobook Released into the Wild

Today sees the release of my first audiobook, The Broken Token, done through the excellent people at Creative Content and spoken by the veteran actor Steven Pacey, who’s done similar work for authors like Susan Hill and Joanne Harris, both of whom are in my pantheon of greats, so I feel in esteemed company.

I received my copy last week, eight CDs of it. I’ll admit, I was full of trepidation when I put it in the CD player. At appearances I’ve read sections from the book numerous times. I know the language, the flow, the Leeds feel of it all. Above all, in my head I had the voices of the characters.

What I heard wasn’t those same voices; of course, it couldn’t be. As a wise woman told me, it’s an interpretation. But it’s an excellent one. His Amos Worthy seethes with menace, every bit as good as I could have hoped. Listening to it I’ve learned a great deal, most particularly that a book from someone else’s point of view will be different, but it can be just as good, if not even better, as those people come at it objectively.

So I’ve moved from trepidation to outright joy. More than that, to gratitude to the team and to Steven for putting so much into it, and finding things I’d never imagined. Go on, have a listen to an excerpt. You can do it here. I’ll guarantee that you won’t be disappointed. The audiobook has been released into the wild. May it soar high.

An Open Letter From A Pleb

Dear Dave – you don’t mind if I call you Dave, do you, only that friendly diminutive of your name was what you wanted when you were leader of the opposition and courting every possible voter with your brand of compassionate Conservatism,

Well, you’ve got a bit of a problem with this Chief Whip of yours, don’t you? You have to show him some loyalty and accept his story, but in doing so you’re effectively saying the police lied, which is like being stuck between a rock and a hard place. To my count, the letter released tonight is the third attempt to ‘draw a line’ under the matter. But really, you can only do that when things add up. And they really don’t in this case, do they?

Now, I don’t know Andrew Mitchell – let’s call him Andy, shall we, and make it all friendly? – how could I? I didn’t go to public school, I didn’t have generations of MPs in my past, I’m not a rich banker. He may be the nicest chap in the world for all I know, although many accounts seem to doubt it. But one thing he seems unable to do is recall exactly what he did say. At first he didn’t swear, then he did. Now he’s clear on what he said, but he won’t tell us? That seems a wee bit odd to me, Dave. Aren’t we good enough to know? Or could it be that even coming out and saying the word ‘pleb’ is too, too dangerous? Even if he didn't say it the damage has been done. Oops,eh?

I know these are trying times for you lot. You growing more unpopular and even parts of your own party keep threatening to knife you in the back (“Et tu, Brute?” See, you don’t need a posh upbringing to quote Shakespeare). The truth is, you’re just not very good in your choice of people, are you. There’s poor Andy Coulson. All you were doing was giving him a second chance. And let’s not forget Liam Fox, eh? What about Jeremy Hunt? And now old Andy. But you mostly stick by them. Well, it’s the public way, isn’t it, and someone has to show leadership. But I think it’s time to admit your people skills aren’t so hot. Dave.

Of course, you were just a PR flak. Probably you’re not the one who gets to makes the decision on who goes into what spot. You don’t pull the strings, you’re just a marionette who’ll end up making a lot of money after you leave office (maybe you can do better than Tony, eh?). I hate to say it, Dave, but you’re not even my Prime Minister. To me you’re a squatter in Downing Street (aren’t there laws against that now?). You were never elected to the job, you only got in on a technicality. You don’t have a government with a mandate from the people. But if it makes you feel better, go on believing that you do.

But right now you have a real problem. You’re damned whichever way you turn and all you can do is hope it’ll all go away very quickly. It’s never nice having to dump friends, is it? Still, if this doesn’t get swept under the rug (and I believe the rank and file police aren’t happy with you about those policing cuts) you’ll be able to give Ade a nice send off.

Signed,

A Pleb

The Early Days of Running Water

A chance remark on Twitter left me thinking about the early days of water supply in Leeds. In my second novel set in the city, Cold Cruel Winter, I have a scene set in the pumping station by below Leeds Bridge (as it’s shown in the 1725 Cossens map).

Some houses in Leeds – the wealthier ones, obviously, received running water from the end of the 17th century. Engineers George Sorocold and Henry Gilbert undertook work todrawn water from the river Aire and pump it through a network of pipes to a reservoir on Wade Lane, above St. John’s church. From there pipes were laid to the houses of subscribers (there’s also mention of hydrants for fire engines; how true this is, I’m not sure). However, although they might have had running water, the ways of hot water on tap were still a long way off.

A water wheel, it would seem, was attached to the bridge (the third span, evidently), and, once lead pipe had been laid under the streets, a total of 2.5 kilometres, or a little over a mile, it reach the reservoir or cistern. Historian Ralph Thoresby recalled the pipe being laid under Kirkgate. The process began in 1694, with Sorocold, an engineer who’d work in Derby, among other places, evidently in charge of th4e project; certainly it’s his name that’s most associated with it.

The lead pipes for pushing the water, which was pumped by early steam engines through the system, were of lead, 75mm in diameter, and possibly some were bored trunks from elm trees, which were commonly used for pipes in the early days of water and sewage.

It’s perhaps surprising that the rich folk of Leeds had running water so early, one of the first cities in England to offer this. But it was a subscriber service, and likely not cheap. In a place with a population of between 6-7,000, only a few would have been able to afford it so it might well have been a while before there was a good return on investment. But within 60 years there was a need for a new pumping works, and a century after the system was built, three new cisterns were added, close to where Albion St. stands today – by then Leeds had around 17,000 residents and was, to some degree, fat off the wool trade.

The Launch Party

The last few weeks have been stressful. It’s not just the holiday cover in the part-time job I do, more than doubling my hours and taking away from writing work (novels and unpaid), it’s the preparation for the launch of Come the Fear.

It went off very smoothly in the end, thanks to those who participated and Blackwell’s Leeds who arrived with copies of the book to sell. And great kudos to everyone at Arts@Trinity (the old Holy Trinity Church), who did a great, unruffled job most professionally and provided the perfect venue, a church built in 1727, right in the period of the books. As I reflect there, the real Richard Nottingham – and there was a real one, the Constable of Leeds – would have walked in that place, probably many times. I was in his footsteps, something that truly gave me pause.

But making sure everything was in place, at a distance of 80 miles, could be fraught at times. The phone calls and emails began in the summer, setting the date, letting people know, working with others, like the fabulous Leeds Book Club and Leeds Libraries in order to involve them (and thankfully they wanted to be part of it). It’s been an interesting and rewarding trip.

The night was all I’d hoped it would be, in its own ways quite magical. It took a good 48 hours to recover fully. The book had come out a fortnight before the launch party, but that saw it well and truly christened. But I will say that I’m not planning a launch for the next one (due in February). It’s not even the work involved. The question is – how do I top that?

The Paradox Of Publication Day

The official UK publication date of my new book, Come the Fear, is August 30. Yet last week, even before I received my author copies of the novel from the publisher, a friend in America already has hers, ordered from Book Depository and sent airmail. Other people I know have received pre-ordered copies.

That’s fine. I’m grateful to anyone and everyone who spends their money on a copy, but it does create a small paradox. There are bloggers and reviewers who’ve timed their release of pieces around the publication date. But when copies are already being shipped, how relevant does that publication date become?

In the greater scheme of things, of course, this is nothing, not even a trifle. But it certainly leaves me wondering. Anyway, now’s the books been released to the wild, I hope some of you will read it and enjoy it. Remember, too, that if you’re in Leeds on September 14, the launch for the book will be at Arts@Trinity on Boar Lane at 7.30 pm.

Music, Politics...And Pussy Riot

Music has been a form of protest for centuries. A glance through any folk song collection reveals that, with people railing against injustice and laws that punished the poor but never touched the rich.

In the 20th century – the era when recordings really began and started to be commercially available, and the radio let thousands listen to something that otherwise might only have been heard by a few – Woody Guthrie, the Dust Bowl balladeer whose centenary was celebrated last month , had a guitar that killed fascist and words that described the plight of those who had little and lost everything anyway as the bankers grew fat.

Bob Dylan, who at the start of his career was very much Woody’s heir, made his reputation as a protest singer, coming out of the very politically aware folk revival (on both sides of the Atlantic) in the 1950s and early ‘60s.

After that, it was reggae and punk that took up the mantle, with Bob Marley, a longtime champion of the underdog becoming a global superstar, and bands like the Clash and others spitting out words of venom against a heavily weighted system. From there, jump to Crass, Chumbawamba, the modern folkies and…Pussy Riot.

The Russian women have taken a stand in a country and time where that’s politically dangerous. It’s easy to be a critic in the fairly liberal air of the West, but in Putin’s Russia words carry huge power. Their actions have been deliberate, their primary-colour appearances cartoon-like with the deliberate anonymity of balaclavas. Anyone could be Pussy Riot; they’re speaking for millions over there.

And now three of them are in court for their actions, for the ‘crime’ of performing a song that dares to suggest Putin should go in a church. It’s sacrilege. But in an Internet world, everything is broadcast, Tweeted and disseminated in minutes. We know what’s happening in their trial, how they’re being treated, and the fact that, on the surface, the trial is a politically motivated farce intended to stifle any opposition to Putin. The man himself told the British PM, David Cameron, that he thought the woman should be punished lightly. It’s an astute move. If the judge gives a very light sentence, then the power of Putin over the courts is obvious. If not, then he can shrug and insist that the judicial system is independent and there’s nothing he can do to influence it.

But the fact that so many people around the world know and care about what’s happening in this courtroom in Russia, that these women have become a focal point, shows that music can still carry a punch far beyond its weight, that it still matters, and that the art of the protest song, whether satirical, veiled, or blunt as a fist in knuckle dusters, is still vital to the well-being of society.

For all the talk of the Olympians competing in London being heroes, these women are the real heroes of 2012. They knew from the start exactly what they risked. They’re putting their freedom on the line to stand up and be counted. And that’s worth remembering and praising. Be glad that we live in a time when we can all learn exactly what’s happening and see the system exposed for the sick, totalitarian sham that it really is.

Let Good News Abound

It’s a time when good news seems to abound (and, aptly, it's Yorkshire Day). The other week, up in Leeds, I was showing my son the interior of Holy Trinity Church, which dates from the times of my Leeds novels. It suddenly struck me that this would be the ideal place for the launch of the fourth in the series, Come the Fear. After a quick word with the venue director – it’s now called Trinity Arts – things were set in motion, and a week ago everything was confirmed. There will be readings from the book by young actors, storytelling from a couple of England’s top storytellers – Shonaleigh and Simon Heywood (who’ll celebrate their marriage just two weeks before) – along with music and artwork from young artists inspired by passages from the novel. Hopefully a great evening’s entertainment, and for anyone around Leeds on the evening of September 14, come on down.

And then, yesterday, my publisher made an offer, which I accepted, for the next book in the series, At the Dying of the Year, which will be published February 2013 in the UK (June in the US). I’m thrilled. It was a difficult book to write, very emotional and draining. I won’t say why, but I will let slip that it’s the fifth in the Leeds series. Whether Richard Nottingham himself is in it – my mouth’s zipped, and if you read Come the Fear you’ll know why.

On top of that, I’m working on the publisher’s edits for the first of my Seattle books, Emerald City, which will appear as a simultaneous ebook and audiobook in the next few months and waiting to hear the audiobook version of The Broken Token. I feel as if I’m beginning to make at least a little headway. It’s been a long, hard slog, but when I finish something and feel that it’s good, it’s all worthwhile.

Bodies in the Bookshop

A couple of years ago I was at an event called Bodies in the Bookshop at Heffers Bookshop in Cambridge. It’s a venerable institution, crammed with volumes, but the press of people and authors (about 30 of us) all signing books for people, wasn’t the best for preserving sanity.

This year they invited me back, and the setup has changed. It was on a Saturday, rather than a weekday evening, and consisted of eight different panels. I was on one concerning historical crime, along with Ros Barber, Robin Blake, Rory Clements and Peter Moore – with whom I had a great discussion, as we’ve both worked as music journalists. Well moderated, it was a joy, but perhaps the biggest thrill was that it took place in the debating chamber at Cambridge Union, where so many august people have spoken. That alone made it all worthwhile.

I’d love to say it offered a chance to mingle with other writers, but there was little of that. I had a brief walk around the town before the event (my son and I had done Cambridge properly two years back), then a quick trip to Fopp afterwards, where the Black Keys’ Brothers and a 2-CD best of Bob Dylan for a fiver each really made the trip worthwhile, before heading back home.

But it was very enjoyable, a chance to talk and be directed, a contrast to a different event in Leeds earlier in the week at Oxfam Books. That, too, was a joy, hopefully helping them put a little money in their coffers and to show my son an area of Leeds where I spent a couple of years before moving to the US, and a visit to old stomping grounds.

50 Shades of Yorkshire - The Start

CHAPTER ONE

She saw the advert in the Yorkshire Evening Post and it was as if it spoke to her soul. ‘Wanted,’ it said, ‘lass to work in chippie. Hard graft, but good rewards and free scraps.’ She read it again and again, and she knew it was fate calling. This was a job made for her, with the sensual feel of fat and batter.

It was up in Leeds, but she wasn’t going to let distance stop her from following her fate. The next morning she dressed well in her fanciest coat, taking the rollers out of her hair before she finally put on the new headscarf from the market her mam had given her for Christmas, and took the bus from South Elmsall.

The journey was tortuous, but that only strengthened her resolve. If she could get there before three, the job would be hers. She willed the driver on through the puddles, noticing how, as she moved north the people began talking funny, saying town instead of tarn and right instead of reet. It scared her, being in this alien land.

She found the place at five minutes to three. Green’s Fish & Chips, the sign read, and her heart raced to see it, scarcely contained by her lacy 38F bra. A world of promise lay inside.

‘Eh up, luv, what that having?’ a girl said to her. She was dressed in whites, the clothing pristine and pure except for the stains across her front.

‘I’d like to see t’owner,’ she answered, he voice as meek as a mouse in a cattery. ‘About t’job.’

The girl nodded at a door with the word 'private' painted on it. A door of temptation and promise, she thought.

‘Go through there, luv, and up t’stairs. Office is at top. I’ll ring him for thee.’

‘What’s…’ she began, and had to force herself to breathe before she could continue. ‘What’s ‘is name, please?’

‘Herbert Green. Right bugger wi’ ‘is hands he is, too.’ She surveyed the lush form in the low cut dress. ‘He’ll be over you like a rat on a corpse.’

Herbert Green. Even the name sounded magical, she thought as she climbed the stairs to a small waiting room with two old chairs and a coffee table. She balanced her handbag on her lap and waited, crossing one leg over another. Finally, after five minutes, a door opened and a man stood looking at her.

‘Thas’s here about t’job?’

He had a deep, masculine voice that flowed liked water through a slag heap. His belly bulged invitingly against a 1974 Leeds United home shirt, and over the waist of his brown terylene trousers. He had a thin, cruel mouth, and he gave her a smile that would have been overwhelming with a full set of teeth. She felt the heat flow through her. She’d never seen a man like this, one who exuded power and the smell of mint humbugs in equal portions.

He began to turn away from her, back into the office. She stood quickly to follow and tripped over the rug, sprawling behind him. He offered a hand to help her up.

‘Do that near t’fat fryer and tha’ll be ruining a tenner’s worth o’ chips’ he warned her. ‘Can’t be going arse over tit here.’ She held his hand a little longer than she needed, relishing the strong grip. ‘And summat else, lass, you forgot to put your kecks on this morning.’

She blushed deeply, embarrassed by her stupidity, the haste in which she’d dressed to come her following him into the office. The windows looked out onto a row of back-to-back houses and the desk was scarred wood. This was a man’s office, she thought, the centre of an empire.

‘What’s tha name?’ he asked, and she could feel his eyes boring into her. She could never have any secrets from this man.

‘Call me…Doris.’

‘Aye, right. What experience do you have, Doris?’

‘None,’ she admitted, lowering her eyes. ‘I’ve done nowt.’ Suddenly there was pleading in her voice. ‘But I’m eager to learn. I want this. I want it all.’

‘Steady on, lass,’ he said quietly, reaching across the desk to pat her wrist. So there was tenderness in him, too, she realised. He was a complete man. ‘Can tha make a decent cuppa?’

‘Pot to the kettle,’ she said, ‘and let it steep for three minutes before I pour.’

He smiled and she knew. The job was hers.

‘When can tha start?’

‘Now,’ she said impulsively. She had nowhere to stay in this strange town, no money, no spare clothes, not even a pair of knickers. But life was giving her a chance, and for Herbert Green she was willing to take it.

‘Champion,’ he told her. ‘Champion.’

50 Shades of Yorkshire

She left me tied to the chair, unable to move. Luckily there was rugby league on't telly. The way she moved on holiday gave a whole new meaning to Leeds United away strip. She was dressed to the nines for me, like a chip shop goddess, snapping the clip on her suspenders. "Right then, love," she told me, "I'm off to bingo." She looked back over her shoulder at me, her eyes full of sensual warmth. "Whippet," she said, "whippet good." The dog whimpered. "By 'eck," she warned, "I'm going to make tha peas the mushiest ever, big lad." He was dressed in a dark blue suit that was nothing less that Burton's best, the dog hair lovingly brushed from the material, with a C&A bri-nylon shirt and his Leeds Rhinos tie. His Hush ~Puppies has been cleaned, the brown suede crisp, the soles silent as he walked to meet her. Later, at home, he hung up the jacket. "What's that?" she asked in surprise. "Belt...and braces," he whispered in her ear, knowing that she loved a man who looked after himself. She ran calloused fingertips between his shirt buttons, pressing herself close to him so he could take in the scent of salt and vinegar crisps. "Oh luv," she said adoringly, feel the juices run as she held his kebab tightlu "you wore the string vest."

For The Last Several Weeks I've Been A Woman...

For the last several weeks I’ve been a woman. Well, not in my daily life, but in my writing. I’ve been changing the main character of my Seattle mystery Emerald City into a female. It’s affected every dynamic in the book and made me much more aware of what women go through – and even more so in 1988 when the novel is set – every day. Seattle has always been a progressive city, and it was back then, too, but it’s never been perfect. In some ways the book is a love letter to the city where I lived for 20 years, as well as to its music scene, life and to The Rocket, that most glorious of music papers. But it’s become a love letter with a different edge to it in the rewriting. It’s now back with the publishers, the people who first suggested the sex change, so I’ll be waiting for their reaction and hoping they love what they read. I’ve even started on the follow-up, set six years later, with the first chapter complete (and I don’t plan on continuing it for a while yet). Right now I feel I can breathe again, if only for a few days until I receive a critique on the new Richard Nottingham novel from my most trusted reader. But I need that little space, as my son arrived – from Seattle – for the summer. For a little while I can enjoy him every day.

Making That Main Character A Woman

For my new Seattle Emerald City series of books, my main character was a male music journalist – something I did myself in that city. I say was quite advisedly: the company that’s publishing the books (simultaneously as ebooks and audiobooks) suggested making the protagonist female. It wasn’t a demand, by any means, and I understood the practical rationale behind it (one of the women behind the company is American and an award-winning ebook narrator and actress – Lorelei King). But it appealed to me. I’m male, think like a man. Now I’m changing the character’s sex and it’s proving to be a wonderful, deep challenge. It affects every dynamic in the book, every interaction with every character, male and female. More than that, I have to get into her head and learn to think, and more especially feel, as a woman. What writer wouldn’t relish? Seattle in the late 1980s was far more feminist than most parts of the US. Gender politics were rife, as were gay politics, which were interlinked. That has to be part of it, and it’s made me think and become more aware of the sexism inherent in everyday life. It was more so then, and quite casual, but it still exists. It was even there in the music scene, not too bad but still there. There were some female music journalists around, but men remained in the majority and they made up most of the musicians. A woman writer said to me that women feel more. That might not always be exactly true, but in general women are more aware of their feelings, and they’ll discuss them, with partners and friends, so that has to becomes part of the equation of character, too. Add to that the fact that I’m inserting this character into a story that’s already written, although there will be some changes and it becomes even more interesting. Am I enjoying it? Absolutely. Will it succeed? I hope so, but you’ll have to read for yourself to decide. That’s your challenge…

Going Digital

As some of you will already know, I’ve just signed a contract for a three-book deal. This is wonderful news, of course, and it’ll give me chance to explore the Seattle music scene from the late 80s up to around 2000. The first book, Emerald City, will hopefully appear later this year. What’s particularly interesting is that the novels that will comprise the series – and yes, they’re all mysteries – will all appear as ebooks. I’ve worked with this publisher before; they put out the digital version of The Broken Token and also my John Martyn biography. But I was in the unbelievable and enviable position of having an offer from another publisher, a small press who would have issued the book in both paper and digital formats. So why choose digital only? In part, because it’s the future. More and more people have ebook readers, and that number is only going to grow. It’s handy, portable, and you can carry a staggering library on one. It’s cheaper for the reader and often more attractive. That’s not to say books will fall by the wayside, by any means. I still read more books than ebooks and it’s likely to continue that way for a while. But I also work as a music journalist and I’ve seen the changes wrought by the mp3. So many labels distribute their music to reviewers in that format. Buying music on mp3 is easy, and for most people any difference in sound quality is hardly noticeable. You can burn a disc of it, play it on your computer, transfer it to your mp3 player – it’s amazingly versatile. Ebooks are still a few years behind the mp3 in acceptance, but the statistics are telling. More ebooks are sold than hardbacks, for example. Giving people the chance to look in the book on a site like Amazon allows people to get a taste of what they might be buying. Granted, most magazines and newspapers don’t review ebooks, but libraries carry them now, and mainstream reviews are only a matter of time (with the exception of self-published). It’s growing, and I’m happy to be a part of it. With production costs spiralling, I think a time when we generally see only paper and ebooks of new titles published is just around the corner. And, no small matter, a writer can earn more from ebook sales than from other methods. That’s important to those of us who are scraping by.

A Three Book Deal

I'm very pleased to say that I'm a signing a contract with Creative Content for a three book series of novels. These will come out as ebooks. They'll all be set in Seattle, where I lived for 20 years, and set around the music scene. The first, Emerald City, takes place in 1988 as the local music scene that will become known as grunge, is crystallizing and involves the investigation of a musician's supposed heroin overdose by a local music journalist. That one's written, and will receive a final polish. We've yet to sort out a publication date, but it will be available worldwide.

Finishing a Draft

I’ve completed the first draft of my new novel and I feel drained. There’s been no huge rush to it, no deadline, it’s not even under contract, but it’s left me completely drained, more than the ones that have gone before it.

Why, I wondered last night? What was so different about this? It had been very hard to write in parts, quite emotional, and trying to convey what my characters were thinking without going over the top was a challenge. That was part of it, certainly. But more than that, it’s a book that’s taken me into some very dark places inside myself and forced me to explore them. I’m told that my novels are quite dark, although I’m not sure I’ve always seen it. This time, however, I wanted to look into the shadows, and it appears I’ve succeeded. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. There can be plenty of truth in those places. And without truth there’s no point to a novel.

Now I’ve put the book aside for a month. There are plenty of things that need to be changed in it, and small additions, changes to language, and all the other things a revision does. I’ll have a better idea of how well it all works when I read it through. For now, my brain is pretty much on empty. And I’m glad.

Mônica da Silva

Mônica da Silva
Brasilissima
Socialite Fiasco Music

Mônica da Silva’s second outing (which actually dates from 2010 but is still well worth covering) showcases not only her Brazilian roots and MPB sensibilities, but also her life in America. She’s a luscious, sensual singer, whether in English of Portuguese, but much of the credit here goes to partner Chad Alger, who shares in the compositions, and whose guitar is the underpinning to much of the music. Yes, there’s bossa and samba here, with some wonderful warmth (witness “Canta Coração”), and the mood can also become soft and languid. Made by the duo with just a smattering of guests, there’s some excellent rhythm programming. It’s a disc that connects the north and south of the Americas; Alger has a feel for Brazil, but there’s also a mildly indie sensibility lurking in there, while da Silva herself is close to her roots but still influenced by modern – and classic – pop. “Somewhere,” for instance, could easily have wandered off a vintage Stevie Wonder album, with its driving clavinet, and much of the production reflects. As a singer she’s more Maria Bethânia than Daniela Mercury, but still capable of a wild edge. All together, it makes for a very satisfying disc, with the hope that there’ll be more soon.

Justified

I owe a huge debt to my friend Thom Atkinson (incidentally one of the very best writers around today) for pointing me in the direction of the TV series Justified. Set in Kentucky – pretty much bouncing between Lexington and Harlan, it features characters created by the masterful Elmore Leonard in his short story Fire in The Hole and in a couple more novels.
Raylan Givens is a deputy US Marshal transferred back to his home state after shooting a criminal in Florida. But in spite of gunplay here and there, it’s anything but macho. He gets his ass kicked with regularity – usually after a few drinks. But when he’s one his game, which is most of the time, he’s smart and savvy, and very intuitive.
So far we’re partway through season two – a year behind the US – and it all becomes more and more delightful. Wonderfully written, directed and acted, it has the easy, wry flow that typifies Leonard (who didn’t work on any of the scripts). The speech captures the Eastern Kentucky rhythms and vocabulary, and the way life is life there. Or if it doesn’t quite, it’s convincing enough that you believe it.
More than Givens himself, it’s two other characters that are among the great television creations. Boyd Crowder (Walton Goggins) is a man who likes to blow shit up, someone who finds God and starts preaching when in jail. But is his change for real? Played with a subtle intensity, he’s a character to leave the viewer guessing and wrong-footed, capable of sudden great violence, at times Biblical in his speech and always quietly menacing.
Mags Bennett (Margo Martindale) is head of the Bennett clan, who farm much of the eastern part of the state with marijuana. She’s a powerful woman but down home with the general store. She also delivers the very best speech I’ve heard – possibly up there with anything written and performed in serious theatre – when she gives Walt McCready some of her apple pie moonshine. It’s so perfectly done that you want to hit rewind and play it over and over.
But it’s a series full of wonderful moments, with powerful story arcs, great humour and moments of violence. There’s drama, laughter, tears. It’s everything great television ought to be.

Some Thoughts About Leeds

Two nights ago I thoroughly enjoyed the official launch of my new novel, The Constant Lovers, at Leeds Central Library. After from the cock-up – the booksellers actually only had two copies of the book for sale – it was a great event, and as close as I’ve come (geographically at least) to appearing on the stage at Leeds Town Hall.

It made me think about my relationship with my hometown. I haven’t lived there since 1976, and I’ve actually spent more time in another place (Seattle). But Leeds has a claim on me, and exerts a hold, that no other place can ever match. In part it might be genetic. My family’s been there since the end of the 18th century. The place is in my DNA. My father grew up in Hunslet, and spent his summers in the relative countryside of Sheepscar, where a relative ran the Victoria – much bigger in the 1920s that it became later, and with a huge garden and supposedly renowned rhubarb garden. For him, above all, it had a piano he could play. My mother’s family was decidedly more middle-class, out in Alwoodley, with a maid and a chauffeur.

Each time I return to Leeds, which is several times a year now, it renews me. Yet, curiously, I see a place that isn’t that. Several places that aren’t there, really. In my mind I see the place from my books, the jail at the top of Kirkgate, the Moot Hall in the middle of Briggate, close to where Harvey Nick’s is (and I know which I’d prefer), Garroway’s Coffee House on the Headrow. In truth, there’s very little of those days left; about the only private residence of that time is now Nash’s, just off New Briggate.

I also see the Leeds of my childhood. The magical toy shop that was the Doll’s Hospital in the County Arcade, Fuller’s where my other and I would meet my grandmother for tea every week, and the department store Marshall’s, which had a uniformed doorman, and where I, a very innocent four-year-old in 1959, saw my first black person in 1959 and asked my mother why the woman was made from chocolate. My mother apologised to the woman, but I truly had never seen a person of colour before. It was a very, very different time, and not a better one. Then there was the music shop at the corner of County Arcade and Cross Arcade where I went with my father when I was seven. Ostensibly we went in to buy a harmonica for me and came out with a baby grand piano, which appeared a few days later in our front room. And I did get my harmonica.

And then I see the Leeds of my youth, the great bookshop opposite Leeds Poly, sorry, Leeds Met, where I discovered Hamsun, the small, two-storey Virgin shop on King Edward Street (I believe), the head shops close buy, the discos at the Poly, gigs at the Town Hall and the 100 Club not far away where I saw Taste and the Nice. On Saturday mornings I’d go into town (before I had a Saturday job), get off at the ABC, cross the street and go down to the basement coffee bar for a frothy coffee before spending the morning mooching around, and maybe buying a record at Virgin or Vallance’s.

Before this descends into mawkish reminiscence, let me say this is simply a small sampling of memories that tie me irrevocably to Leeds. The city formed me much more than I was willing to admit for many years. It took a long time, and many miles, for me to really understand that, and give me the desire to start studying the city’s history.

Out of that have come my books. Apart from being mysteries with (hopefully) good characters, they stand as love letters to Leeds. The city of the 1730s that I describe might not be a beautiful place. The people, many of them, anyway, a degradingly poor, the place stinks. But it’s mine as much as it’s Richard Nottingham’s, and I love it then as I love it now.

A New Year Underway

Perhaps you think that writers don’t work hard, that they jot down a few words and call it day, stopping to laze and enjoy a drink or several. Maybe there are some like that, but I’ve never met any, and hope not took. We tend to be a bunch of real grafters. Especially those who combine fiction writing with other types. It all revolves around deadlines, and in the case of music journalism, those can sometimes be tight. Still, that’s part of the fun, and music remains such an important part of my life…

December and January saw three – yes, three – manuscripts depart from here. A medieval novel is now being sent out to publishers by my agent (yes, it’s crime, but unlike the Leeds books, somewhat gentler), the Seattle novel – now a long novella of almost 50,000 words – is being considered by a small press, and my non-fiction book on Studio One reggae is being considered by an ebook publisher.

That’s a busy start, right? On top of that, Cold Cruel Winter came out as an ebook on January 1 (buy it here), and my new Richard Nottingham novel, The Constant Lovers, will arrive in hardback on the 26th; I’m looking forward to having my author copies this week. America, which has really taken to Cold Cruel Winter of the back of some frankly astonishing reviews, will have to wait until May 1 for publication (although Book Depository in the UK will sell you a copy and not charge you postage). I’ve complete the book trailer for The Constant Lovers, now up on YouTube, and yes, I even did the music. The launch event will be in the Exhibition Room at Leeds Central Library on Tuesday, February 7, 6.30-7.45 pm, and all are welcome, with copies of the book on sale.

That’s all topped by the news that the publishers have accepted the fourth book in the series, Come the Fear. My wonderful editor has gone through it and I’m making my final changes now; it will come out in July, so more on that later. But, even as I plough through those words, I’m writing others – the fifth book in the series, provisionally titled Over the Hills.