A Tale of Two Box-sets

A while ago, my brother in law grew weary of recommending TV shows to me, and forcibly gave me a couple of box-sets. Consigned to the pile, and overlooked for a while, were Spiral (or Engrenages) and The Killing - both crime series.

We watched Spiral first. It's very stylish, very French and, despite the rather open ending, season one was gripping. Each episode has short story arcs, with crimes that the team are investigating, while the larger conspiracies unfold gracefully across the length of the series. Though some of the characters are more likeable than others, they all feel true, and it's hard not to be engaged in all of the interweaving threads.

We immediately bought season two, which was even better, and followed it with season three, which was still enjoyable but a little more laboured.

And then we watched The Killing. I'm aware it's a remake of a Danish show called Forbrydelsen, but we came to it cold so I can't compare the merits of the two versions.

The first episode was mostly excellent - gritty, beautifully shot, wonderfully scored - with a few jarring "oh the humanity" moments that almost put me off. Fortunately, we persevered, and the series largely manages to shrug off these "subtitles for the hard of thinking" and deliver a one long arc, that twists and turns agonisingly around a group of disparate characters, drawing them together...

...except, it's actually less than one arc. Just as the last episode builds to a neat climax that wraps (almost) everything up, one deft move scatters all the pieces of the puzzle ready for season two. It's a measure of how good the show is that this wasn't too frustrating.

Season two starts this week, and while I love the ongoing nature of the story, I hope it does what shows like Twin Peaks never quite had time for - resolves!

And across the line...

So, I'm sitting on the train at Bristol Templemeads, waiting for it to leave. I've opened my laptop out of habit, but this will be the first train journey in almost a year where I've not been writing Book Two.

It’s a strange feeling, coming to the end of such a long endeavour (and yes, I know that there are months of editing ahead, but this is the only definite point you can celebrate in the process, and I intend to enjoy it). I came up to Bristol yesterday and checked into a hotel with the intention of staying until I’d wrapped the first draft. I finished at lunchtime today.

Part of the reason to come up here is because this is where so much of the book is set. Indeed, we’re moving now, and I can see the large grey building where Bristol CID are based – an important location for the story – out of the window. But I also needed to isolate myself from all the distractions of home, and sadly that means that I’m away from my family at a time when I really want to hug people with excitement. Somehow, I don’t think the rather serious-looking woman sitting opposite would appreciate that.

Oddly enough, as I’m writing this, my iPhone has just started playing The Moment I Said It by Imogen Heap – eerily appropriate, as the song has been a sort of mood-board for getting into the head of my principal female character, and my working title for this book came from within the lyrics.

I’m getting such a kick looking out of the windows – we’ve just left Bath and I’d forgotten how beautiful this journey can be. And there are more significant locations coming up shortly, when we pass through Avoncliff and Salisbury – like so much of the book, it seems this blog post is being written “on-location” ;-)

Time to close the laptop, I think.

Back again...

It's been a while, but Book 2 is progressing well and drawing towards a traumatic (and rather bloody) conclusion.

I've spent a few weekends in Bristol, where much of the story is set, freeing myself from the tempting distractions of home, and allowing me to quickly visit the places I am writing about. Sometimes I stay at the Radisson Blu, which overlooks the Watershed area of the harbourside - you can just make out the street where my detective lives from the higher floors - but this weekend it was fully booked so I tried a boutiquey little guesthouse in Clifton and had a very productive couple of days.

The weather was glorious this morning, and my walk into town was really rather cultural - passing Damien Hirst's giant Charity figure, the Banksy window mural, and at least one of those bizarre painted gorillas that you see all over the city - before a spell spent typing in the Arnolfini.

Later, I moved across to my normal haunt upstairs in the Watershed Cafe, and managed to complete two of the linking chapters that have been eluding me recently. By the time I got off the train and walked home, I had yet another section done.

A couple more weekends like this, and the draft should be wrapped. The only problem is all the calories - I now have so many places I like to eat in Bristol, and if I'm not careful, either myself or my detective will need to go on a diet.

Reluctance

It isn't easy to kill someone, especially someone you know. Over the past couple of weeks, my thoughts have increasingly been drawn to the last moments of a character who I'm really rather fond of, and the fateful chapter I know I have to write.

Strictly speaking, it's not "due" yet – chronologically, there are other bits to finish first, but the scene is growing ever clearer in my mind, and I think I'll have to address it soon. I wonder if doing so will change how I feel about the character – going back and writing other parts of their story, knowing that they're already dead?

These major scenes can certainly be emotionally draining to do – perhaps that's the reason for my reluctance to tackle it. Then again, with my habit of writing on-location, I must admit that a storm-swept clifftop will be more appealing once the weather gets a little warmer.

It's been a while...

It’s been a strange day at the end of a strange year. I travelled to London today, ostensibly to do some writing, but also to try and clear my head a little. Things have been difficult recently, with an onslaught of very troubling health issues for two of the people I care about most, and it’s been almost impossible to shake off the fear and prevent my imagination running ahead of itself, especially when home is a constant reminder of the challenges we’re currently facing.

And so I went to London. I usually go to Bristol or Oxford when I want to write, but railway engineering works and holiday timetables conspired to drive me to the capital instead. When I got off the train at Waterloo, I had no particular destination in mind – I just went down into the Underground station and decided on the Northern Line rather than Bakerloo.

Sitting on the tube, looking up at the list of Northern Line stations, the first name that leapt out at me was Hampstead. It wasn’t too far and, being a fairly affluent area, I thought it might be a good place to find a quiet little cafe where I could sit and type for a while. As the journey continued, I noted the adjacent station, Belsize Park, which always puts me in mind of the lyric from Marillion’s “Kayleigh”, but I also had vague recollections of that station being one I’d used a few times in the eighties, when I was working for Activision.

After completing another chapter in a Starbucks on Hampstead High Street, I followed a whim and wandered down the hill towards Belsize Park. After walking for five minutes or so, I got a prickling of déjà vu while gazing up at an old church, and felt compelled to turn off onto a road called Pond Street, which also had a familiar feel to it. Some way down this hill, I suddenly recognized the building where Activision used to have their London office, and a whole wave of past events came flooding back. I’d not been here for something like 24 years, and an awful lot changes in that length of time, but I found myself walking down to the bottom of the hill and turning left to stroll up onto the Heath.

It was a cold, bright afternoon, with an amazing red sun hanging low in the sky, and I suddenly knew that I’d been here before too. A press photoshoot for myself and Anna (who was then my girlfriend rather than my wife) had been organised beside the wreckage of an old fallen tree, and we’d sat there – two shivering teenagers on a day as cold as today – while the photographer tried to capture that post-apocalyptic feel so popular in the eighties.

And now here I was, almost a quarter of a century later, wondering if I’d meant to come here, trying to remember where we’d stood and what we’d said. The recognition was eerie, creeping up on me as I walked around – vague recollections snapping suddenly into place. And it made me appreciate the importance of memories – a particular challenge that’s facing two people I care about, and who are both struggling with memory problems – as they define so much of who we are.

In any case, it was oddly fulfilling to revisit the ghosts of the past. I think I may track down a few more of my old haunts and see what thoughts I left there.

Happy New Year, everyone.

Sobering Thoughts

I've not discussed it previously, but this seems an appropriate point to mention the tragic death of Jo Yeates, now that neighbour Vincent Tabak has been convicted of her murder.

Jo went missing in Bristol on the 17th of December last year and her body was found in the snow on Christmas day. The case attracted a lot of media attention, but there was a particularly unsettling aspect for me as it became clear that the real events echoed a number of themes in my first (then unpublished) novel. Over Christmas, discussing the story with family, a number of parallels emerged. Although it was the first section I'd written (more than a year earlier) it was chilling to see so many coincidences - young blonde woman in Clifton, working for an architectural firm, found strangled.

At the time, I stopped writing, and stopped sending out the manuscript - it just seemed inappropriate to continue with the project. The sickening nature of the case wasn't helped by the newspapers' evil persecution of Jo's landlord and, when he rather inconveniently turned out to be innocent, their snide criticism of Avon & Somerset Police.

There was a sense of relief when Vincent Tabak was arrested, even more so when he admitted causing Jo's death. I felt able to continue with the books and was fortunate enough to secure an agent and publisher.

Naturally, the story has now been altered. Even though there were lots of significant differences between the novel and the terrible events of last Christmas, it seemed important to make a few more changes, out of respect if nothing else.

Now that Tabak has been convicted, hopefully the real-life story is over, and those impacted by his crime can get some closure. It's been a sobering journey, and one that puts a lot of things into perspective.

An hour from home

I’m sitting on a train, on my way back from the West Country. It’s late, and I’m half asleep from the combination of an early start this morning, and a post-midnight finish to my book 1 edit last night. However, it’s hugely satisfying to have passed another milestone – in this case, working through feedback from my excellent editor Francesca. "Eye Contact" is now deeper, tighter, and quite a bit longer than before. For my part, I’m now older, wiser and quite a bit happier with it ;-)

Annoyingly, after weeks of looking back and fixing fine details, today’s train journey has given me the chance to look forward and notice major plot issues. I’m pleased with the premise for book 2, and a lot of the material I’ve written for it feels promising, but I still feel as though something significant is yet to click into place. Hopefully I’ll have the chance to visit Bristol some time in the next week or two. Writing in the place where the action unfolds has often sparked some of my favourite and most pivotal scenes, and I’ve a feeling that the idea I’m looking for is there somewhere.