A SECRET ATTIC

DID YOU HAVE AN ATTIC IN YOUR LIFE?

When I was a child I lived in a house with an attic that 

 stretched all the way from front to back of the house. It had a little dormer window with a casement that opened, in some areas the ceiling was so low you had to crawl beneath it. There was no electric light. A narrow twisting unlit staircase led to its solitary door.

And although my family knew about it, no one else came up those twisting stairs. It was mine. My secret attic, with all my possessions, some old pillows and blankets, a torch, and lots of books.

It's still vivid in my memory, which is probably why I include attics in so many of my novels. The book I'm writing just now will be called THE GIRL IN THE ATTIC. It's for young adults and is about Helen, a teenage girl who was killed in 1948 by her father and whose ghost lives on alone in the attic of his abandoned house.

In the meantime, here's an excerpt from THE MYSTERY OF CRAVEN MANOR, where Matt is taken by Sam to her secret attic:

The attics at Craven Manor were very different. Dark except for the odd chink of light from between the roof tiles, they were crammed with old furniture, pictures and ornaments, chests, toys, and dozens of other objects Matt could only guess at in the darkness. The dust-laden air smelled of musty clothes, damp and mothballs.

“There’s no electricity up here,” whispered Sam, “but I’ve got lots of torches hidden away. Stay there while I collect a couple.”

As she shuffled away he heard other noises. Mice, he guessed. Or even rats. He wasn’t really scared, but all the same he curled his toes. He didn’t fancy being bitten in the dark.

Then Sam clicked on two torches and came back to him. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s have some fun!”

Each attic led to another, and another and another, some quite small, others enormous. Matt lost count of how many he had passed through. His torchlight flashed on a dressmaker’s dummy swathed in cobwebbed shawls. In the next attic a battered rocking horse, minus its mane and tail, lay on its side. There were travelling trunks covered with faded labels, rolled up carpets and rugs, things that sent human-like shadows in the light of the torch.

Matt had no idea where they were in relation to the rooms below.

“We’re over Great Aunt Dorothy’s bedroom,” Sam whispered. “Better tiptoe!”

“Who’s Great Aunt Dorothy?” he whispered back.

“She’s another of them,” said Sam. “Honestly, you don’t want to meet her!”

They passed through another three attics .

“We’re coming to my favourite place,” said Sam.

As far as Matt could see, they had reached a blank wall with just a low chest of drawers against it, but Sam bent down and moved it easily out of the way. “It’s empty,” she said. “I threw all the stuff out.”

Behind the chest was a low opening. “You’ll have to crawl,” whispered Sam. Once through, she quietly pulled the chest back into place and hooked a piece of heavy tapestry curtaining across the opening. “Now we can light the candles.”

There were a dozen or more of them, shoved into candlesticks of every shape and size, and Matt shone his torch as Sam produced a box of matches and shuffled between them.

As the candlelight increased, he saw they were in another large space but this one glowed with colour and gleamed with the silver and copper of the candlesticks. Sam had strewn the bare boards with rugs and old bedspreads in a rainbow of colours, crimson, emerald, purple and gold. Silk and velvet curtains were pinned to the walls with drawing pins, and an inviting tumble of cushions filled the centre of the floor. Carved and painted masks decorated the walls,. A huge dried snake hung between two beams.

Sam flung herself on to the cushions. “This is my secret nest,” she said. “I’ve got my I-Pad and all my favourite books and games up here, and nobody except me knows about it!”

Matt’s mouth fell open with astonishment. It was Aladdin’s cave, the Arabian Nights. All they needed was a genie with a magic lamp. God, she was lucky!

“Well?” she asked. “What d’you think?”

She didn’t deserve it, the way she behaved. He turned away. “You want to be careful, with all these candles. You could set the whole house on fire.” 

CABBAGE BOY

Finished at last! 

My latest book is a tragi-comedy for Young Adults (14-18 years). It's a little more off-beat than my previous novels and tells the story of an insecure and lonely boy and his growing relationship with a mutant cabbage.

Here's an excerpt from Chapter Two:

It must have followed me home last night - or sniffed out my trail this morning. I dodged down below the level of the sink unit.

'What's up?' asked Becca, my sister. She's always late down on Sundays, having become an evangelical vegetarian. She stared reproachfully at Dad who was still hoovering up my bacon and sausage.

'Just doing my exercises,' I said.

She came to stand beside me at the window.

'Bloody hell!'

'Sssh!'

'What is it?' she whispered.

'It came from Dad's allotment. Last night I think it ate a load of his cabbages.'

'How does it eat? It's got no mouth.'

'No idea.'

But then the thing squirted some sort of slime from its nose on to Mum's favourite rose bush. The bush dissolved into a steaming puddle of sludge. We watched, transfixed, as it sucked up the green slime. After a moment's hesitation it expelled it again with a fart so loud it nearly shattered the window.

'Oh God, that's disgusting!' said Becca.

Mum and Dad hadn't noticed anything. Dad had finished his own and my fry-up and was sunk in gloom again. Mum was trying to cheer him up with the news that yet another Line Dancing Class was opening up in Swindon. They're both passionate about line dancing. They already attend two classes and a Saturday night session at the local Sports and Social Club. They've got all the gear. Stetsons, embroidered shirts, cowboy boots. Dad has a belt with a huge silver buckle and Mum has a blonde wig that makes Dolly Parton's look like a bargain buy.

Two or three times a year when there's a special event - the anniversary of Hank Williams' passing or anything to do with Dolly Parton, Mum's idol - they insist on Becca and me going with them. It's so embarrassing, just thinking about it makes me cringe. If anyone at school ever found out, I'd be a joke forever.

'What are you going to do about it?' Becca said.

Now Dad's seen the evidence at the allotment, he doesn't have to know I was there, does he? But how could I explain the thing's presence right outside our kitchen window? I didn't have to, I realised. It could have followed Dad home this morning. Which meant Chloe and me were in the clear. Sorted.

I shrugged.

'Me? It's not my responsibility, is it? Why does it have to be me?'

'Well, don't expect me to help. I'm just a girl.'

Becca makes a lot of noise about equality and women's rights, but when it suits her - like now - she can switch easily to the frail helpless little female act. It takes pretty good acting, seeing that at seventeen, 5'8" in height and probably weighing a good 160 lbs, she looks more like a female rugby player.

'If it's up to anyone, it should be Dad,' I said. ' He's always going on about the secret ingredient in his manure that makes his stuff bigger than anyone else's.'

'What? You think that's just an overgrown vegetable? With arms and legs and revolting habits?'

'What else can it be?'

'An alien from another planet?'

'Don't be daft. Even if there are aliens flying around, why would they want to land on an allotment in Swindon? No, I reckon it's a mutation - although even that's weird enough.'

We watched as the thing sampled other plants in Mum's precious garden. It seemed to enjoy the herbs and some of the ornamental grasses but quickly regurgitated a couple of delphiniums, some peonies and an orange day lily. Mum and Dad had disappeared upstairs, probably to try on their line dancing outfits ready for the new class.

'They're going to go mad when they see this. You'll have to tell them,' said Becca.

'I don't want to tell Dad.'

'Why not?'

'I don't want to upset him. He'll think it's his fault.'

Becca stared at me. 'No. You don't want to tell him because you were there last night. With Chloe.' She smirked when she saw my face. 'My little brother. At it again!'

'I'm not - we're not - I just - '

'Don't worry, I won't say anything.'

One of Mum's chickens had escaped from its run and was wandering across the lawn. It took a tentative peck or two at the thing's feet. A piece fell off. The chicken gobbled it up, then wandered off again.

'Well, whatever it is, it doesn't seem to mind being eaten. I think it's a vegetarian,' said Becca. 'Like me.'

'Oh, so you're kindred spirits, are you? OK, in that case you can go out there and tell it to clear off.'

'No way! What if I'm wrong? Maybe Dad's cabbages and Mum's flowers are just for starters. How do we know we won't be the main course?' She looked at her watch. 'Well, I'll leave you to it. I've got revision to do.'

Sisters! I thought bitterly. Neither use nor ornament, as my Gran used to say about Grandad before he ran off with a widow from the Silver Threads Choir.

Mum and Dad were still upstairs. I knew it would be at least half an hour before they came down again.

The thing showed no sign of leaving, and Mum's back garden was already a wreck. I didn't really care if Dad lost a few cabbages but Mum loved her garden. She spent hours mowing the lawn, trimming the edges, spraying the roses, planting annuals and generally preparing for the neighbourhood Best Garden Competition. There was no chance of her winning this year.

If I'd told Dad last night, he would have killed the thing right away. How? Bashed it on the head, knocked it unconscious? Hacked it apart with an axe? Chopped its arms and legs off?

So what? It's just an overgrown vegetable, I told myself. But I didn't really believe that. It moved, it walked, perhaps it had a brain of sorts, perhaps even a heart. It was probably the first of its kind, and not just here in Swindon. In the world. It could be a really important new species. Scientists could set up laboratories to observe, experiment, reproduce them. DIY gardeners could have a go. There could be a growing market for magic manure, produced artificially in huge quantities. Dad could become famous as the creator of the first independently mobile cabbage.  

CREATING THREE-DIMENSIONAL CHARACTERS

Flawed but Lovable? Evil but with a Sense of Humour?

It should be easy, shouldn't it? 6'4, strong-jawed. an enviable six-pack, walks alone, always wins, always gets the girl, etc etc?

Well, that's OK for JACK REACHER, the hero of Lee Child's popular action book series, although I suspect the attraction is more in the escapist story lines - and anyway, I can only picture him now as 5'5 (or is it 5'4?), with a boyish little face and a mumbling delivery, standing on a box to punch the villain on the nose.

Here are some of the ones that interest me more:

JESSE STONE, Police Chief in the Robert B Parker series. Laconic, never using two words where one would do, an alcoholic, a loner, still in love with his divorced wife, unpopular with his superiors, his only companion a dog that no one else wanted.

CORMORAN STRIKE, JK Rowling's war veteran, missing a leg, now a practically bankrupt private eye - 16 stone, messy, ugly, bad-tempered and untidy, a 90% failure rate but his brilliant intuitions keep him in the headlines.

JOHN REBUS, Ian Rankin's Edinburgh detective, middle-aged, cynical (but with a well-buried kind heart), a hard-drinking messy misanthrope who sleeps in his car by night and props up his favourite bar by day.

Just three main characters, but they're multi-layered, they have strengths and flaws, they're endearing in some way.

These are all detectives, but the same criteria apply if you're writing about a romantic idol, a politician, a robot, a scientist or a schoolboy. Out-and-out saints are boring, devils are far more interesting if they have one or two good traits; however intelligent the character, they should have a few blind spots, etc.

The hero of my latest book is a small and skinny fifteen year old boy with OCD, desperate to be taller, braver, more athletic, more popular, who despite his inadequacies proves himself to be courageous, determined and loyal. I've grown very fond of him.

All the above, of course, applies equally when you're creating a female character, heroine or villain.

So take time to bring your character to life and let him or her dictate the story for you!

COMMENTS

AN APOLOGY!
I would love to receive and reply to comments but, like a lot of other bloggers who've appealed for help on Google, I can't get my Reply button to behave,  and I prefer not to correspond by email. At present, also, I'm very busy writing the last few chapters of my latest book (a YA novel called CABBAGE BOY - more about that later), so I don't have time to sort out the problem.

So this is an apology to those of you who've contacted me. I'm really pleased to hear from you and I would love to read your comments but I'm afraid it will be a one way connection for the near future at least.

BOOKS FOR HOLIDAY READING

GOING AWAY? OR STAYING AT HOME?

Make time to read an enjoyable book, whichever you decide. Here are some suggestions for all of you, all on Amazon Kindle, some also as paperbacks:

THE MYSTERY OF CRAVEN MANOR (for 9-13 year olds). A boy and a girl trapped in a creepy manor house. Still a best seller.

ME, DINGO AND SIBELIUS. Penny Plain Charlie longs to find a partner, lose her virginity and make a success of her life. She achieves all three when she inherits a fortune.

NEVER SLEEP WITH A NEIGHBOUR! After a bitter divorce Ali is off men. All she wants is a quiet life in a quiet village to pursue her writing career, but her new neighbour has other ideas.

THE RELUCTANT BRIDE. A Will they, won't they? romance.

THE FLOATER. Short macabre stories for both sexes.

All available on Amazon http://www.amazon.co.uk/JOY-WODHAMS/e/B00C8T4WOQ/ref=ntathr_dp_pel_1

HOW TO INTRODUCE CONFLICT IN YOUR NOVEL

Here's a story:

Jess was a very pretty baby. Everyone admired her. As she grew, she made many friends. At school she was always top of the class. She left university with an excellent degree. She got a well-paid and interesting job and rose to become a director of the company. She married her childhood sweetheart who loved her to bits and they had two beautiful perfect children, who also did well at school and were perfectly sweet and well-behaved. They had a perfect house which never needed repairs, a car that never broke down. Nobody had a moment's illness. The story ends with Jess and her husband celebrating their silver wedding, surrounded by loving family and friends.

A good story? Interesting? NO!

All the way through such a story you're waiting (hoping!) for the Big Foot Up There to stamp down on them and disrupt their perfect life.

You can't sustain interest in a story or novel without introducing some form of CONFLICT, something to upset the status quo. It can take any number of forms. Here are some of them:

Another character, or characters, who is jealous, envious, hostile, more ambitious, unfaithful, dishonest.

A health problem, a crippling accident - to your main character or a loved one.

Loss of wealth, loss of job, loss of home, loss of a loved one.

External events - a terrorist attack, a murderer on the loose, floods, storms, war.

These are just a few suggestions.

Whichever you choose (one or several) your story will then show how your main character struggles with, and hopefully overcomes, the problem(s), becomes stronger and regains that perfect life.

A much more interesting story.

It doesn't have to be melodramatic. Here's a very simple and homely example:

Two newly-weds move into their first home, a ramshackle cottage on the outskirts of a village. They renovate it and live happily ever after. Where's the conflict?

a) Husband falls through the bedroom floor and breaks a leg

b) They find the cottage has dry rot and they have to move back in with Mum and Dad while it's being sorted - and while husband's leg is in plaster.

c) There's Japanese knotweed in the garden

d) Their planning application is turned down and they have to rejig it.

e) The work goes on and on and they become so exhausted they begin to squabble.

And so on, and so on.

This can be a warm and funny story, and the reader expects and knows there'll be a happy ending, but it's how your character(s) struggle with and overcome conflict and problems that will hold their interest to the end.

I NEVER KNEW FONTS COULD BE SO INTERESTING

A REMARKABLE BOOK

I picked up a fascinating book at a secondhand store. It's called JUST MY TYPE by Simon Garfierld and is all about fonts. No time to do more than dip into it at the moment but each time I do I get something of interest. For instance, John Baskerville,printer and creator of the Baskerville font (obviously), died in 1774 and his widow had the equivalent of a car boot sale and offered everything in his print foundry for £4000 including the matrices etc for the Baskerville font.
John Baskerville, at his own wish, was buried vertically in his mausoleum but was subsequently moved several times, ending up (horizontal) in a bricked up vault in Birmingham.There are sections on the 10 most popular fonts, the ten worst fonts, fonts to write a love letter, one called Jesus Loves You which incorporates thorns and barbed wire. The Sex Pistols publicity used Ransom Note, which is the one that looks as if every letter has been cut out of a different magazine or newspaper.And if you're into illustration or cover design there's an app called TypeDrawing which allows you to choose a font, colour and size, and use your finger to swirl the word patterns on screen to paint an object or picture.