Fiction

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HOW TO START A NOVEL James Skinner at the writers desk

Page One: Chapter One Toni searched for the landmark. His eyes glued to his binoculars....

I sit here at my laptop and think. Do I know how to write? Can I put my thoughts ‘down on paper’? Does God exist? Why does my shoulder ache? Is 64 years an old age? And so I go on, day in and day out, trying to strike a balance between sanity and senility. My grammar corrector keeps insulting me. Wait, I think I hear something inside my brain. Tormenting thoughts about the world, what world, where? I see a blue sky, its 35 degrees and humid. This isn’t the tropics so why is it hot? I’ll pause to check the grammar; the little paper clip with beady eyes and Groucho Marx eyebrows is winking at me. Pause! I’ve clocked up 118 words. New paragraph.

I’d love to write. Honest, something really good. But I need time, which I don’t seem to have. My diplomatic chores take it all up. People in distress, paperwork, more lost soles more paperwork; it’s a never-ending saga. I’m waiting for the fridge man to arrive. There’s a horrible smell coming from the kitchen. It’s seven thirty in the evening and the bastard hasn’t turned up. My shoulder still aches. The Falklands war, the screenplay I wrote way back in my student days; I think I’ll bring it back as a novel. How about that! Story about an Anglo-Argentine army colonel caught up in the conflict. Need to do some research. Tutor always said that research was the basis of a good novel. Really? But how, I’d love to go back to Argentina for at least a few months but haven’t got the money or the inclination. Besides the country is in a bloody mess. My wife would throw a tantrum. New paragraph.

Now up to 280 words of crappy monolog, as Dunne would say. Whose Dunne you may ask. A sod I knew in my young days. Read an article the other day about the housing bubble. What’s that you may ask, yet again. I agree, who cares about it. Read another about taxing sick people, I think. I have 29% left of battery power. Ha! I’ve saved this article just in case. My hard disk is full of my thoughts so why not another piece. Checked words and I am up to three hundred and something. Did you count them then? New paragraph. Where was I? Ah yes, plug in adaptor and start new paragraph.

Good glass of red wine, that’s it! Spain is a wine producing country and every sensible Spaniard drinks the stuff. God bless them! I’ll pour myself one right now, yes right now! Down it goes! Too many!!! Mustn’t over do the… Remember what your tutor said, too many… will spoil the script. What’s wine got to do with script, you may ask. I mean people, characters; you know the ingredients of most novel recipes. Forget it! Lets get back to my story.
This Colonel is the good guy. He gets caught up in a plot to overthrow the Argentine military Junta who in turn is planning to kick the Brits off the Falklands, sheep and all! Anyway, as I said he’s a good guy and loves his country, it’s back in the early days of 1982. Oh hell, I’ve lost track of my thoughts again. So how do I start the story, I’ve written the script. Shouldn’t I have done it the other way round, you know book first, second rate movie next. Lets try. I’m at halfway house, 600 words. Enter my first attempt:

‘Tino searched for the landmark. His eyes glued to his binoculars. Captain Nestor continued to bellow out the ‘shut down’ orders as the ‘Gaviota’ dropped its anchor and shuddered to a halt. A large water-tank perched atop a rusting iron tower a few yards from shore soon came into view. ‘There she is,’ he whispered to himself, holding his breath in case the ghostlike vision disappeared.
He’d waited for this moment for months. The sight grew wider. He now saw the grey shacks splattered with rust whistling at his arrival as the Antarctic wind careened through their entrails. He pictured the days when fishermen and slaughterers sweated their lives away hacking at the products of a plundered sea, whale in and whale out. Although he felt a million miles away was enjoying a precious moment, a reminder of days gone by.’

End of today’s effort. What the hell is it all about you may ask. What has all the above got to do with Argentina let alone a Colonel in the army born from British parents? Word-count now over 700, check it! Sorry mislead you again, back to where I was. My tutor will have my guts for garters if I carry on with this dog’s dinner. Help me creator; throw me a line and pull me aboard. Start again.

My book starts with the initial invasion, based on fact of the South Georgia islands by the Argentine military. A shady entrepreneur, known for borderline deals in Buenos Aires comes across a document in some dung heap department of the British Embassy describing the details of an old abandoned whaling station on the islands that is up for grabs. He figures out that the scrap iron value alone is worth its weight in gold, rust gold! Just imagine a month’s work, with a motley crew of illegal workers dismantling all the junk that could later be sold tax free on the open market and with no international implications. So he thought!

Dear reader, are you with me? Does the story jive? My story is full of corruption, torture, sex violence and love lots of love. What about the politics? You all know my feelings about the world and its corrupted politics. Well I’ve got Thatcher, Reagan and many other fruitcakes of the early eighties all mixed and shaken like an explosive daiquiri. My olive is, of course this poor sod of a colonel. Where’s the link? Eventually Maggie gets wind of Tino’s attempt and mistakenly thinks that he’s there to conquer Britain. Imagine, this wimp of a wheeler-dealer taking on Her Majesty’s Navy! War begins and the story takes off. Anyway, this is my start and I intend to keep going.
End of scene one!

© James Skinner. August 2003.
jamesskinner@cemiga.es

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