THE STORY SO FAR: PART 158

HOW DOES A THRILLER WRITER STAY UP TO DATE?

OY VEY! WITH DIFFICULTY

There is combat in all my thrillers, and I normally feature some unusual weapon or other. However, up to now I have been relatively restrained in relation to advanced technology—if only because the pace of change is so fast. 

I do try to remain up to date with technology. I read widely, and have friends who are on the cutting edge. Even so, I continue to be surprised.

A good example is the drone illustrated in the above photo. It looks like a toy, and a fairly small toy at that. In fact, it is an operational drone currently deployed in Afghanistan.

But surely it is too small to be of any use, I hear you say. Apparently not.

It is called the Black Hornet Unmanned Air Vehicle, and measures just four inches by one inch and comes complete with a tiny camera. It was developed by Prox Dynamics AS of Norway. And yes, I did say Norway.

And the damn thing—let me repeat myself—is not just a research project. It is operational right now in Afghanistan, a real shooting war (and who knows where else). Achievable altitude, range and duration? Sadly, I don’t know them.

The Duke of Wellington—he of the Battle of Waterloo and the dry sense of humor—used to stress the importance of being able to know what was “on the other side of the hill.” Well, now the average soldier is in a position to find out very quickly by way of this ridiculously tiny device.

Oy Vey! Sometimes I wish I was a Jew and could express myself with such feeling. English is a marvelous language, but it has some frustrating limitations.

 

 

 

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 157

OF WEEKENDS AND THE INTERNET—AND OF THE DEATH OF MY MOTHER

I love my weekends, but tend to treat them in a decidedly illogical fashion.

On the one hand, they constitute what I consider to be an essential period of rest (Saturday is my day where I feel I don’t have to do anything).

On the other hand, I normally work quite hard through them—the difference being that I normally work on things I want to do—as opposed to have to do.

But work is not rest, so I freely concede that my behavior is decidedly illogical. But, since when were humans logical—let alone writers.

The internet is proving to be marvelous in terms of surfacing and maintaining family connections I didn’t know existed—and of fanning the flames of friendships. My sister, Lucy, seems to be the Facebook expert whereas my chosen mode of communication is the e-mailed letter. Lucy’s approach is decidedly more time efficient, but I feel the long letter is still worth writing—even though each one takes a ridiculous amount of time (I am no more than a two finger typist—and slow at that).

Of course, that is partly the point. Content is always the primary thing, but a manifest display of time and effort also pays tribute to the recipient—and is that not the overall intent? I rarely write a letter these days without trying to say “Thank you” in some way; or as a minimum, to acknowledge another person’s dignity. People have a real need to be recognized—something that I did not understand when I was younger. A short note is tokenism. A decent letter is both recognition—and a hug. Or such is my belief.

Such communications apart, I particularly enjoy the way photographs seem to be resurrected. Today’s is that of my mother as a child—and she looks startlingly like my daughter, Evie. Sister Lucy seems to have a secret stash of such photos. They appear on Facebook and I grab them. Mine are all in store unfortunately.

Since I have written a great deal about my mother in this blog, the above photo may be of some interest. She was decidedly photogenic when a young thing, but lost that attribute as she got older. She became self-conscious and tended to freeze. As a consequence, there are surprisingly few photos of her as an adult. However, her physical appearance—though striking—was never her dominant feature. That was, without question, her personality—with all its strengths (which were formidable) and all its faults (which were many). I regarded her as charismatic and charming—when so inclined—but dangerous to the point of destruction.

As she grew older I am told she mellowed. Perhaps, on a day to day basis, she did. I just know that during out last conversation—which was by telephone when she was dying in Spain—I was living in Ireland at the time—she was about as unpleasant as a human being can be. As normal—as was her way—she went for the jugular, and zeroed into what she thought would hurt me most—a negative opinion of my writing. She was scathing. “You were never very good,” she said. Harsh words from a dying mother.

I was too stunned to reply adequately; and my young children were present. Alzheimer's, I was told. I think not. I think I was hearing from a deeply troubled woman—and I felt nothing but relief when she died. That is still my feeling when I think of her passing. Nonetheless, I freely acknowledge her profound effect on my creativity—such as it is—and the simple fact that she was a remarkable woman.

Yes, I know that is pretty sad—and I deeply regret it. But, it is the way it was—and is.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 156

ANOTHER WEBSITE; AND ANOTHER SHOOTING

I prefer to display some humor in my writing—but that can be hard when commenting on this country’s economic woes. True, I might be writing about such issues with hilarity, but if my dry humor is so subtle it cannot be detected, where does that leave us all? As a consequence, I have decided to switch my political and economic comments to a new site http://titanicnation.com which will be updated weekly (or thereabouts). This site will continue being updated daily (more or less) as normal.

Now we come to the shooting. Have you ever been shot at? The first time I ever had a gun pointed at me was in Nice in the South of France. I had left something behind on the aircraft we had flown in on, and when I went back to get it, I just ran up the aircraft stairs without thinking. Security was much looser in those days. All I expected to encounter was an air hostess tidying up after her flight.

Instead I encountered several gendarmes supervising the unloading of a high value cargo—gold to be precise—and one of them stuck his semi-automatic pistol in my face. I was eleven or twelve at the time, and absolutely terrified. When a gun is pointed at you with intent, the impact to one’s psyche is not trivial. The gendarme relaxed as soon as he saw I was a kid, and dropped his pistol to his side, but I have never forgotten the experience. It was to be followed by a number of others. One involved sniper fire in Northern Ireland which resulted in a policeman being killed close by me. He dropped like a sack of potatoes when the 7.62mm round hit him. It was a singularly un-dramatic death, but the following day a BBC film of the situation had me shaking like a leaf.

You think you are more or less in control of your own body, but in extremis you are not. Fear just grabs you and refuses to let go. Bravery is about overcoming such physical manifestations—being able to move and act—but fear still doesn’t go away. Fortunately, sometimes the pace of events can be so intense that you get distracted. That happened in Cyprus shortly before the Turkish invasion. I had taken to cross-country walking for some insane reason—civil war was about to break out—and during one of my walks I ran across a bunch of armed Greeks hauling weapons, wrapped in polythene, out of a well. I knew they were weapons because their silhouettes were outlined through the semi-transparent plastic.

My arrival caused consternation. What were the perpetrators to do? Killing me was an obvious option. That solution didn’t appeal to me at all—but I could not think of any dramatic action short of running, and I knew if I did that, I would be shot. Instead I waived cheerily, shouted greetings, and walked on as if I had not seen a thing. I didn’t turn, and while I remained in sight, kept feeling that a round might shortly penetrate my back. It was a very unsettling feeling—and I never did cross-country walking in Cyprus again.

Enough of past war stories. Currently I live in what is generally considered to be a high crime area because their have been four fatal shootings within the last year or so—all of which have taken place along the route I walk every evening. A couple of days ago, a man was shot in the chest outside my local Safeway—frequently the destiny of my walk. What to do?

My general feeling is to continue walking as usual because these events seem to be gang related, and I have encountered nothing but courtesy. But, it makes you think.

 

 

 

 

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 155

A BLOG A DAY FOR FIVE MONTHS—A MODEST REASON TO CELEBRATE

Writing a blog is one thing. Writing one, day after day for months, is entirely another. In the past, I have failed to be consistent. Now, I seem to have overcome that issue—and I am deeply pleased.

On occasions, there will be gaps in my blogging—because of illness, travel, or because I am just plain too busy—but this time around I am committed to fill in any gaps, even if in arrears, and to blog every day. I’m learning that it is really good practice to sit down at my computer and not know what I’m going to write about. When I start the writing day with book-writing –which is my normal routine—I almost always know the next sentence I will write to move the book along—if only because I will rehearse it when still in bed. In contrast, my blog is quite deliberately more of a battle of wits—a mental exercise, if you will.

Will a subject come to mind, or will I stare blankly at the screen without any idea what to write?

As good fortune will have it, so far so good. Does that mean I have never hesitated before hitting the keyboard? I’m not going to answer that on the grounds that every author needs a few secrets. But, in truth, the words have—generally speaking—flowed.

So far I haven’t tried to market this blog in any way, but have focused entirely on the writing of it. That will change in the months ahead because a primary purpose of an author’s blog is to communicate with readers and help sell books. That said, I don’t write it as a sales document—and doubt I could, even if I wanted to. Instead, it is a very personal communication—particularly because I know it is read, not only by readers, but also by members of my family—extended and otherwise—and by friends. Enemies too? I wouldn’t be at all surprised, though I hope I don’t have too many.

I know it doesn’t give a detailed picture of my life—a writer’s life—and that decision is quite deliberate. On a day to day basis, I do little more than research, think and write—and I doubt a description of that would make for compelling reading. Today, I thought about this and that, wrote 1,728 words, and cleaned my keyboard with compressed air. On the other hand, I live in hopes that this blog will, over time, give you considerable insight into how I think and work,, the issues that concern me, and—perhaps—the people I really care about. I also hope that you will learn something about the circumstances that made it inevitable that I become a writer. I really had very little choice in the matter. Although I have deviated from my calling on several occasions—primarily because of the need to put bread on the table—in the final analysis I was, and am, compelled to do what I do. As far as I am concerned, writing is an imperative and a sustained joy. It has exceeded my every expectation except, perhaps, on the financial front—and even there I have been more fortunate than many.

From time to time, I try and write about writing itself—if only to share my enthusiasm. I find that more difficult than one might think because I find writing—like sex—is more conducive to doing than talking about. Also, I don’t really understand the process of writing. I can theorize about how words and phrases pop into one’s mind, but I don’t really know how the whole exercise works—or why some people write entertainingly and others do not. Style is a very strange thing. So is perspective.

I just know that I have had a most unusual upbringing, have read many thousands of books, and have had considerable experience of life—s0 have a vast reservoir to draw upon. But quite how I think of words the way I do is something of a mystery to me.

I suspect that is no small part of the attraction. If writing is your passion, you may not secure fame and fortune—in fact the odds are decidedly against you—but you will rarely be bored.

I confess that I am largely a self-taught author. I read other things at university—such as Economics—and was actually worst at English. For some strange reason, I wanted to learn how to write a book on my own. If  had known how hard the task was, I might have sought help. I’m still not sure. Technique is highly desirable to know—though it tends towards the formulaic—but good writing isn’t just technique. It comes from deep within you, takes a long time to mature—and, at its best, adds a whole new dimension to the human experience.

Ray Bradbury, an author I respect, seems to have agreed with me. This is what he said in 2010.

"You can’t learn to write in college. It’s a very bad place for writers because the teachers always think they know more than you do—and they don’t. They have prejudices."

I find it hard to disagree. Unfortunately, the downside of that is a long and lonely walk into the future while you wrestle with mastering your craft in your own particular way. But are all those frustrations, rejections, failures, and years of effort worth it?

I can reply to that question without hesitation: Yes.

 

 

 

 

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 154

THIS TIME A MASSACRE—THE ENTIRE TOWN OF ORADOUR-SURE-GLANE WAS DESTROYED AND ITS POPULATION KILLED BY THE SS—A CURIOUS CASE OF CONSISTENT COINCIDENCES

The above picture shows Robert Hebras, one of the few people who survived the massacre, against the backdrop of the ruins of Oradour-Sur-Glane in South West France—not far from Bordeaux. It survives as a memorial. It has, quite deliberately, never been re-built.

On June 10 1944, virtually the entire population of the town—some 642 people—was massacred. 240 women and 213 children were among the dead. There were a total of five survivors.

The massacre was carried out by an SS Panzer Division, Das Reich, which was trying to make its way from Toulouse, in South West France, to the Normandy beaches. Its mission was to destroy the Allied forces that had just landed. It was an immensely powerful armored force—and could have made a strategic difference—except that it was was delayed by the French Resistance aided by Allied Special Forces. As a consequence, the frustrated SS engaged in ferocious reprisals. Oradour-Sur-Glane was just one incident.

My novel, THE BLOOD OF GENERATIONS, was inspired by such a story though my initial inspiration came from a memorial to massacre victims from a little French village called Fressinet-Le-Gelat. But I soon realized that this was just one massacre in a pattern—and that the worst had been Oradour-Sure-Glane.

Amazingly, investigations into the Oradour massacre have recently been re-opened by the public prosecutor’s office in Dortmund, Germany, even though the surviving perpetrators are now in their eighties. An initial 1953 trial of dozens of soldiers suspected of being involved in the massacre resulted in most being set free due to a political amnesty.

I mention coincidences in the headline because this is the fourth time that one of my books has been ahead of the curve. Let us hope I am not being prescient with my fifth.

Let me list my books in chronological order.

• GAMES OF THE HANGMAN focused on the very real threat of global terrorist before its significance was truly appreciated.
• RULES OF THE HUNT focused on terrorism in Japan before its existence was even generally accepted.
• THE DEVIL’S FOOTPRINT focused on terrorism attacks in the U.S. and the fact that parts of Mexico were no longer under the control of the Mexican government, prior to 9/11.
• THE BLOOD OF GENERATIONS focuses on a massacre by an SS Division in France in 1944—together with the fact that the Nazi threat is very far from over all these years later.
• SATAN’S SMILE focuses in the threat of nuclear terrorism in the U.S. from people who are willing to die for what they believe in.

Somehow, we seem to have virtually forgotten about the threat of nuclear terrorism. Why not? The Soviet threat is over.

In the days of the Soviet nuclear threat, life was much simpler. We knew who the enemy was—and could deter them. MAD was in vogue—Mutually Assured Destruction. Now, though we are spending more on intelligence than ever before, we don’t—and there are few things more frightening than an unknown enemy.

What we do know, but prefer not to think about, is that there is a vast quality of Soviet era nuclear weapons out there; that not all are accounted for; and that numerous groups have every reason to hate—think about that word—the United States.

But it doesn’t stop there. In addition, there are other nations and groups—non-state actors—who have the necessary expertise and resources to construct and deliver nuclear weapons.

Sleep well.

 

 

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 153

LET ME PARAPHRASE MICHAEL CAINE IN THAT GREAT MOVIE, ALFIE: “IF YOU AIN’T GOT TRUST, YOU AIN’T GOT NUFFING.”

I saw the original ALFIE in 1966—nearly half a century ago—so if I have forgotten the original quote, I trust you will forgive me.

I think what Michael' Caine’s character actually said was: “If you ain’t got piece of mind, you ain’t got nuffing.”

But back to trust.

The adjacent chart is from Pew Research—and its conclusions are devastating. They show that the Republican campaign to remove trust in government has been extraordinarily successful—at great cost to the health of this democracy.

Here is an extract from the Pew report

The growing view that the federal government threatens personal rights and freedoms has been led by conservative Republicans. Currently 76% of conservative Republicans say that the federal government threatens their personal rights and freedoms and 54% describe the government as a “major” threat. Three years ago, 62% of conservative Republicans said the government was a threat to their freedom; 47% said it was a major threat.

By comparison, there has been little change in opinions among Democrats; 38% say the government poses a threat to personal rights and freedoms and just 16% view it as a major threat.

Personally, I tend to view government with a jaundiced eye, but I also accept the fact that we need it because there is a long list of things we cannot achieve alone—or even at a local level. As a consequence, my interest lies in making government work better rather than abolishing it.

But can it work better—or is the very concept of government intrinsically flawed? Based upon travel, experience and research, I have no doubt at all but that the U.S. Government can be made to work dramatically better. But we will have to be prepared to learn from other counties, implement drastic change, and amend the Constitution. Are such prospects likely? As matters stand, they are not.

But what about Congress? Here, I have no instant answers other than to mention the obvious fact that until Congress stops being primarily a money-raising machine, it is hard to know what to do. As matters stand, it is structurally corrupt—and primarily a tool of the Rich and Special Interests. That makes something of a nonsense of democracy. We say the words, but fail to implement the deed.

So what is the alternative to government? In essence, it is privatization. For a massive example of that, look no further than the Department of Defense where it has been repeatedly shown to be corrupt, extraordinarily expensive, and, frequently, inefficient. The MICC—The Military Industrial Congressional Complex—shows the private sector at its worst.

One possible solution might be to change much of the very nature of government so that many people work in both at the same time—thus helping to eliminate the tendency of civil servants to see themselves as a breed apart and correspondingly arrogant.

Is there any precedent for this? Actually there is. One example is the Swiss Army which maintains only a tiny permanent staff, but still manages to field a large fighting force of some sophistication when required. It can do this at minimum cost because the bulk of the Army’s administration is handled—for free (as far as the taxpayer is concerned)—by its part-time soldiers. The Israelis operate a broadly similar system although their permanent force is much larger. Moreover, if you contrast what the Israelis get for their money compared to what the U.S. does, you will go into shock. Or become enraged. Or dance the Hokey Pokey. However you react, the figures show pretty clearly that the U.S. taxpayer is being ripped off, has been for decades, and that as General Smedley Butler commented so memorably: “War is a racket.”

But whatever be the answer, all successful human interaction is based upon trust—so one has to regard any campaign to deliberately destroy trust as shabby indeed.

As for the other side of the situation, it doesn’t say much for the health of this democracy that the government—held in such low regard by the very people who are paying for it—seems to be making no sustained fundamental effort to change its ways.

Deuced odd don’t you think?

 

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 152

A QUICK WAY TO WASH THE DOG—SOME THOUGHTS ON HOW TO CORRAL ‘THE BABIES’

Writing requires such total focus that I have long advised that all pets should be stuffed, and that babies should be kept in the washing machine until fully potty-trained—and for as long as one can get away with thereafter. The above photo is in the spirit of such practical thoughts—and was taken, I gather, by my talented sister, Lucy.

I don’t think this particular animal is stuffed. It may have to be after going through a full dishwasher cycle.

When back from boarding school, I was sometimes allocated the task of looking after my younger siblings. Recall that I was the eldest of twelve—so keeping track of eleven was a not inconsiderable task, though I was primarily concerned with the youngest eight under the title of “The Babies.”

At the time in question, we lived in a rather impressive mansion on five acres of land outside Bray, Co. Wicklow, Ireland—which was a large enough area for the smaller members of the clan to get lost in. Also, apart from the house itself being substantial, there were numerous sub-areas where small people could wander into and vanish. There was the front yard and the back yard, the out-buildings and the garage, the walled garden, the swimming-pool garden, the front garden, the paddock, the orchard—and much else besides including a wooded area And then there was the road which the tiny ones were prone to wander onto until they got sense—unless the front gates were closed. They seldom were because they were wrought iron, heavy and awkward to handle—and my step-father liked to sweep in and out in the family Bentley. True, there was a lodge, but the days of its inhabitants doffing their caps and opening and closing the gates had been lost in history.

Today, I suppose you could tag “The Babies” with GPS locators and equip them with the dog collars that zap you if you leave a designated area. I grew up when dinosaurs ruled the earth. We are talking pre-history here, folks. Good grief, Hitler had died less than two decades earlier. Julius Caesar was probably still conquering Gaul.

Initially, I tried penning them—“The Babies”—into the empty swimming-pool. It worked for a while, but then the larger ones found they could reach the bottom of the ladder and made a break for it. I contemplated boiling oil and other counter-measures—I felt rather as if I was in a besieged castle as they climbed—but despite the brutality of an English boarding school education, which should have prepared me for extreme measures, found I hadn’t the heart—and boiling oil is hard work. Of course, I wasn’t yet a writer in those days. If I had been, matters might have been very different. The need to focus makes us authors absolutely ruthless.

Finally I found the perfect spot where the kids could play, see out, be seen—and yet not escape. It was in the tennis court which was rarely used. It was positioned under a magnificent eucalyptus tree which tended to bombard the grass surface with seed pods—making play erratic because you never knew how a ball would bounce. Yet it was a substantial area, and was surrounded by a chain-link fence equipped with a door you could padlock. Our very own Stalag, I thought to myself. Just in case you are not a fan of war movies, a Stalag was where prisoners of war were put by the Nazis.

But the Germans love long and complicated names. Surely Stalag can’t be it? You are absolutely right. Stalag is actually the quick and dirty version of Kriegsgefangenen-Mannschafts-Stammlager. Every home should have one—and we did.

Eureka!

In fact, it worked quite well for a while, but then the sight of all those small people staring mournfully through the wire started to remind me far too much of all those concentration camp newsreels I had seen when I was a kid—so I let the little monsters out.

It is tough being a big brother—nearly as tough as being a writer.