There is an exhibition at Somerset House in London entitled: Valentino: Master of Couture.  My wife and I went to see it over the weekend, and I would certainly recommend it to my lady readers.  The exhibition includes a ‘catwalk’ where the visitors walk down a carpeted aisle about sixty yards long.  On either side of the aisle are female mannequins – about 130 of them – each dressed in a Valentino dress.  It is absolutely stunning!  The quantity of dresses!  The detailed innovation in each one!  And the beauty of them.  Now, I have to say that I didn’t like all of them.  Some were a little too fussy for me, and I don’t particularly like beige.  But the overall effect was amazing!  The exhibit also included photographs, letters, invitations and press releases.  Valentino was certainly well connected.  The other section of the exhibition which caught my attention concerned the techniques that Valentino used to make unique decorations like roses, unusual ruffles, lace effects, etc.  There were videos of  ‘le regazze’ (the girls) who are the seamstresses in his workshop.  What they can do with a needle and thread can only be called pure art.  Finally, there is a stunning wedding dress for Princess Marie Chantal of Greece which took something like three man-years of seamstress’ time to complete.  Imagine what that cost!

Here’s an example from Valentino’s website:

Valentino dress

It occurs to me that every novel is a mystery.  I don’t mean in the sense of a ‘who done it?’ or a detective story.  Even a historical novel – if it’s really a novel, and not a true historical account – is a mystery novel.  Because, when we pick the book up, we don’t know exactly what will happen.

For example, I was reading The Volcano Lover, a historical novel by Susan Sontag.  It is based on the lives of Sir William Hamilton, his ‘celebrated wife’, Emma and Admiral Lord Nelson, and it is set during the French Revolution and the Napoleonic Wars which followed.  I knew that Emma was Nelson’s mistress, and that her husband, Sir William, didn’t object publicly, but I didn’t know why he didn’t object.  The reasons that Ms. Sontag gives are that Sir William was a great deal older than Emma – he was about seventy when the affair began, and that Sir William considered himself to be a good friend of the great hero, and chose to turn a blind eye – at least in public – to the relationship.  What I found rather fascinating was Ms. Sontag’s descriptions of the characters of Emma and Nelson.  When we first meet Emma in the book, she is in her late teens, manipulative, very talented and beautiful.  When Nelson first meets her, she is, next to the  Queen of Naples and the Two Sicilies, the most commanding figure in the kingdom.  By the end of the book she has lost her looks, has become dissolute and bitter.  I don’t know how true to life this is.  Certainly, this is plausible, but in doing her research for the novel, did Ms. Sontag read too many of the letters and accounts of people who disliked Emma, and there must have been plenty of them?  I found the portrayal of Nelson to be inconsistent with what I thought I knew about the man from reading a great deal of naval history.  Ms. Sontag portrays his as a small, sickly man, self-absorbed, and somewhat negligent about obeying orders from the Admiralty – also somewhat negligent in keeping his fleet in Naples or Palermo (where Emma was), rather than pursuing the French.  Interesting reading, but to my mind, an overly negative portrayal.  Perhaps Ms. Sontag’s affections lay with Sir William – who comes across as a kindly, loyal, but somewhat inept figure – rather than the great hero.  My point is that we don’t know – in a historical novel – how much the writer may have interpreted history to make the story more interesting.

Setting aside the historical novel, every other genre (including the detective novel) must have some mystery.  Without mystery, we know what will happen, and we lose interest.  And it isn’t just the plot which unwinds mysteriously.  Characters are more interesting when they do the unexpected but plausible.  Settings which are unfamiliar to us and have an air of mystery about them are of interest.  Mysterious times can be quite interesting; this accounts, in part, for the popularity of the historical novel and science fiction.  But apart from these major sources of mystery, I think that a good writer will often introduce small, unexpected events, or reactions by characters to events.  These keep us intellectually engaged with the book, and we think: why did that happen? and I wonder what will happen next!

The place, or setting, where a novel takes place can be quite important to the reader.  It might be a place s/he always wanted to visit, and about which s/he wants to read.  Or,  it could be a location where the reader used to live; perhaps it has sentimental value.  Maybe it’s a mysterious, or even sinister, place.  The setting can have an effect on the characters’ behaviour or attitudes, because a place can have a distinctive culture.  And, of course, the setting can influence the plot.

My first two novels are set in locations with which I’m familiar.  Fishing in Foreign Seas takes place in Sicily and in three other US cities where the principal characters live.  My wife and I have a summer home in Sicily; we’ve been going there for many years, and some of its beauty, history and amazing culture are on display in the novel.  Caterina, a young Sicilian woman from a traditional background is very different from Jamie, an American man from a well-to-do, northeastern family.  Nonetheless, they fall in love, marry, and she moves with him to the States.  Boston (where I’ve visited many times) and Philadelphia (where I grew up) are their first two destinations.  Boston and Philadelphia are very different than Palermo, near which Caterina grew up.  But these ‘old’ American cities have enough of an ‘old world’ feeling and culture about them that Caterina does not feel entirely out of place.  It’s when they move to Atlanta that the trouble starts.  To be fair to Atlanta, the troubles have more to do with Jamie’s constant business travel than they do with the location.  But Atlanta is a modern city, and Caterina, as a foreigner, did not always feel welcome there.  My older daughter went to university in Atlanta, and her younger sister used to live there.  Neither of them felt out of place in Atlanta, but neither of them grew up in rural Sicily near Palermo.

Sin & Contritionis set primarily in Pittsburgh, and some of the characters move to New York City and Washington DC.  I’ve lived in all three cities: they’re very different in their styles and cultures.  In fact, Aspinwall, which was home to four of the characters and Fox Chapel, home to two of the characters, are neighbouring suburbs of Pittsburgh.   I’ve lived in  both communities.  Aspinwall is a working class area, while Fox Chapel is a well-to-do neighbourhood.  Yet all six of the characters attend the  same schools.  In fact, Pittsburgh is a kind of social melting pot.  New York City, where the two characters from Fox Chapel end up living, represents – for many people – the pinnacle of financial success.  And it’s Washington DC, where Gary, the poor boy from Aspinwall makes his mark as a US Congressman.

Efraim’s Eye,my third novel, which will be out this summer, follows a slightly different pattern.  It is a terrorist thriller with a romance between two of the central characters.  It is set in London (where I’m living now), and where the act of terrorism is to be carried out with great loss of life planned.  Londoners remember ‘7/7’, the day in 2005 when four suicide bombers attacked the London transport system, killing 52 and injuring over 700.  Much of the story takes place in Morocco, which my wife and I visited on holiday several years ago.  Morocco is a magical, mystical place – home to a mixture of Islamic and ancient north African culture.  It is in Marrakesh where a charity is being swindled to finance the act of terrorism and where the lovers make their discovery.  But to add to the tension of the plot, the terrorist travels to Pakistan, Afghanistan, Georgia, Azerbaijan, and Chechnya to gather his bomb-making materials.  I have been to none of those countries, and I’ve had to do considerable research about each place to make it real and to demonstrate the effects each place has on the characters.

(Efraim’s Eye has been published 24 September 2012.)

Some of my readers say that I am too detailed in my descriptions of places in my novels.  I understand their point, and  I try not to ‘guild the lily’ in my descriptive passages, but I think it’s important to the reader to feel that s/he is actually there!

For more information about my novels see www.williampeace.net.

Characters are an essential ingredient in any novel.  But what are the attributes of a character we like to read about?  It seems to me that there are several possibilities:

• There are characters with whom we, as the reader, identify: we feel that he or she ‘is a bit like me’.
• There are characters who are different and who stimulate our curiosity: we think, ‘I wonder how it would feel to be like him/her’
• There are characters for whom we feel sympathy: ‘there, but for the grace of God, go I!’
• And, of course, there are characters whom, for various reasons, we decide we don’t like, and we keep reading about them hoping that they will eventually be punished in some way.  We will probably be quite disappointed if these ‘bad characters’ triumph at the end.

 I have the impression that it is quite fashionable, nowadays, to write and read about deeply flawed characters.  The one that springs to mind is not a modern character, but he is a good example: Heathcliff, the central figure in Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights, a novel which was published in 1847.  The only redeeming feature about Heathcliff, in my mind, is that Catherine Earnshaw falls in love with him.  But, throughout Wuthering Heights,Heathcliff’s attitude and behaviour toward the other characters is reprehensible.  Heathcliff becomes a tragic figure with whom I, for one, have very little sympathy.  Still, it has to be said that he plays a dominant role in the novel, bringing misfortune to most of the characters around him.

 I find it difficult to invest emotionally in writing about deeply flawed characters.  In my two thrillers (one about to be published; the other just finished) there is an evil central character, but he is just evil.  I haven’t tried to develop excuses for his nature; I have only tried – in one case – to provide reasons for it.  Perhaps I am unforgiving, but I feel that anyone as bad as that doesn’t deserve to be made into a tragic figure.

 In Sin & Contrition, there are two characters that most readers dislike, but in each case there are at least a few redeeming things about them.

There is Bettina, the daughter if immigrant parents, who is determined to do better in life – socially and financially – than her parents.  She works hard to become the owner of a chain of lingerie shops, having never graduated from university.  She doesn’t marry the man she loves; instead, she keeps him as her lover, while otherwise remaining loyal to her husband.  She ignores her children, who manage to cheat their way into university and success.  She abandons her Catholic faith to join a more socially prominent church.  She argues with her brother about the care of her aging parents.  Still, she remains loyal to her friends, and she does repent some of her misdeeds.  She’s honest about some of her flaws, and one senses that she has limits to how far she will go.

There is Gary, the son of a working class mother and an absent father.  He has a bullying disposition, and he wants to make a name for himself.  He puts himself through Penn State, and has a disastrous affair with a fellow student.  Gary embarks on a career as a state politician, meets and marries a woman from a good family, but he is unable to resist starting an affair with another state representative.  His wife leaves him; he sinks into alcoholism, but, once rescued, he exercises restraint, is re-united with his wife and is elected to the US House of Representatives.  But he refuses to provide funds to the father who abandoned him, and is unable to face his mother’s dementia.  One feels that Gary will always be Gary, but at least he has learned from his mistakes, and he becomes a reasonably useful and honest citizen.

 (For more information about my novels see www.williampeace.net.)

Time is an important dimension in the writing of fiction.  Usually, the story we’re reading took place in the past, and it’s generally written in the third person: “S/he said . . .”, “S/he thought . . .”, “S/he did . . . ”  But it can also be told in the first person: “I said . . .”, “I thought . . .”, “I did . . .”  It is possible, I suppose, to write a novel in the second person, past tense: “You said . . .”, “You thought . . .”, “You did . . .”  The trouble with writing is the second person is that it is quite limiting: it puts another person (whoever “You” is) between the author and the other characters.  Inevitably the reader will feel that “You” is acting as a filter of the events, and the reader will want to get rid of “You”, so that the author can report events, first-hand.

Novels can, of course be written in the present tense: “I say . . .”, “I think . . .”, “I do . . .”  This construction has the advantage of being completely personal and focused on the central character.  Also, the story seems to unfold in real time, so that cause and effect are more immediately clear.  (It is possible, I suppose, to introduce flash-backs in a novel that is written in the present tense, but the author has to be very careful not to  lose the reader.)  Novels written in  the third person, present tense are quite rare: “S/he says . . .”. “S/he thinks . . . “, “She does . . . ”  They are rare because the author assumes a God-like position, reporting on all his characters in real time.  This stretches the readers credibility, as would a novel written in the present tense, second person.

Novels written purely in the future tense (“S/he will say . . . “. “S/he will think . . .”, “S/he will do . . .” are pretty much impossible, because it raises the inevitable question from the reader: “How does the author know what this character will say or do?”  Novelists tend to get around this problem by what one might call a ‘flash-forward technique’.  This technique involves specifically telling the reader ‘what follows takes place in the future’.  For example in Fishing in Foreign Seas, the book begins with a Prologue, which is signed by the ‘author’ in June 2029, and it closes with an Epilogue signed by the ‘author’ in November 2029.  In between these chapters, the story unfolds between May 1992 and December 2004.  This construction allows the principal characters’ daughter, born in 1994 to write the story about her parents in 2029.  Who, but a daughter, would know all these secrets about her parents?

When one is writing a fast-moving story involving several influential characters who are in separate locations, one has to be careful about getting the sequence of events down perfectly.  This is particularly true where several characters have a mistaken view of what has happened.  For example, in my fourth novel, which involves the drugs trade in Afghanistan and Iran, a father and son are in Iran at the same time.  But in a rapidly-evolving series of events, neither of them knows what has happened to the other, and both are dependent on external (and inaccurate) sources of information.

Flash-backs are, I think, a very useful way of letting the reader gain an understanding of a particular character’s motivation without the specific intervention of the author.  In this regard, I am particularly fond of reporting a character’s dreams about a past event.  In Efraim’s Eye, Efraim’s dreams help explain both his motivation to be a terrorist and his attitude toward women.  And Naomi’s dreams cause her to seek shelter with Paul, which leads to their love affair.

I am a non-violent person.  While I served in the U S Navy, I didn’t see combat, but I was involved in the Cuban Missile Crisis.  The only time I have actually been in a fight was when I was about ten.  At summer camp, I got into a fight with an older, bigger boy who didn’t like me.  (Come to think of it, I didn’t like him much, either.)  For the first couple of minutes, I was giving at good as I got, but then his superior size and strength took over, and I was beaten up.

Violence happens.  We all know that, and sometimes a writer finds himself in a position where he has to write about it.  When writing about violence, I try to keep several things in mind.  First of all, violence is fast moving, so the description has to move rapidly.  So rapidly that sometimes the reader has to fill in the details with her imagination.  Details just slow the action down, and the violence loses its horror.  To keep the action moving, I try to use short sentences, so that the action seems staccato.  When describing violence, I  want to minimise the number of adjectives and adverbs, sticking as close as I can to nouns and verbs.  This also keeps the action moving  rapidly.  Finally, I think it’s best to use hard clear (punchy) words.

Here’s an example from Fishing in Foreign Seas.  Jamie and Caterina are on their honeymoon in Mombasa, Kenya.  They are walking back to their hotel after dinner at a nearby restaurant.

The road was nearly deserted, it was hot, and Jamie had taken off his jacket, which was folded over one arm.

“Good evening to you!”  It was a male voice with a Kenyan accent.   Jamie turned slightly and saw the man, dressed in a brown T-shirt and jeans, overtaking them.

Jamie said, “Good evening.”

Then the man swerved toward them and said: “Give me your money!”  He was inches away from Jamie, who reacted without thinking.  He punched the man in his mid-section and then delivered a kick which sent the man to the ground.

“Give us your money, man!” This from another man who had emerged from the shadows in front of them.  He advanced rapidly toward Jamie, who suddenly saw the gleam of a blade in the man’s hand.  Jamie stepped back and flung his jacket at the man.  The jacket covered the man’s face, and as he came on, Jamie kicked out at him, connecting solidly with a leg.  The man sprawled headlong forward, dropping the knife.  Jamie seized the knife and stood looking down at the man.  The man rolled away, and got to his feet.  He glared at Jamie for a moment; then he said: “Come on, Joe.”  The first man struggled to his feet, and the two of them disappeared.

Then, there’s this example of bullying from Sin & Contrition.  It takes place in the boys’ restroom at school.  Gary and Gene have been demanding candy from Xing, a smaller, Chinese classmate.

“Oh hi, Chinkie,” Gary intoned with an insincere smile, “Where’s our extra candy?”

“I can’t get it,” Xing said softly, hurriedly rinsing his hands.

Gary moved close to Xing: “’I can’t get it, Sir Aramis’ is what you meant to say – right, Chinkie?”

Xing moved away and drew a paper towel from the dispenser.  “I can’t get it,” he repeated.

Threateningly, Gary said: “No, Chinkie, that won’t do.  We deserve to be treated respectfully.”  And he took a hold of the smaller boy’s shirt.

Wordlessly, Xing pushed Gary away.

“Now, just a minute, Chinkie.  We haven’t finished our conversation,” Gary said through clenched teeth, and he balled his right fist.

This time, Xing anticipated the blow, and turned so that it struck him in the ribs rather than the belly.  “Leave me alone!” he shouted, and he hit Gary in the throat with a chopping blow.

Gary recoiled, then rushed forward in a frenzy at having been thwarted.  He aimed a roundhouse punch at Xing.  Instantaneously, Xing blocked the blow with his arm, and landed another chopping blow, this time on Gary’s neck.

“You little bastard,” Gary shouted, realising for the first time that Xing knew how to fight.  “I’m going to fix you good!”  And he hurled himself at Xing, who was able to partially sidestep the rush, striking Gary in the belly.

Gary doubled over in pain, and Xing turned to go, but Gary attacked again – this time landing a solid blow on Xing’s shoulder.  Xing responded with a kick to Gary’s shin.

Gene, who had been watching, began to realise that his friend would not beat Xing in a stand-up fight.  “He’s too quick and he’s using Karate, or something,” he thought.  The two combatants jockeyed for position in front of Gene, with Gary taking the worst of it. The thought sprang into Gene’s head:  “I can’t let Gary down!  It’s ‘all for one’!”

Suddenly, Xing had his back to Gene, and Gene reacted immediately: he kicked out at Xing’s legs, landing a blow behind one of Xing’s knees.

Xing crumpled to the floor, and Gary flung himself onto the smaller boy.  In a fury, Gary began to pummel Xing, hitting him on either side of his head and in the face with his clenched fists.

Xing began to scream, and cry out for mercy, but Gary refused to stop until Gene grabbed Gary’s shoulders and shouted at him: “That’s enough, Gary!  You’re going to really hurt him!”

In painful triumph, Gary stood and looked down at Xing, whose face was bruised, battered and bleeding.  “That’ll teach you, you little shit!” he spat out venomously.

And, finally, this passage from Sin & Contrition.  LaMarr and his buddy Mason are on guard duty at a Marine base near Hue during the Vietnam War.

LaMarr was nervous.  He looked at his watch; the luminous dial said three fifty-three.  Still another two hours to go, he thought.  Quietly, he walked to the other end of his sentry position, brushing aside the invisible foliage.  Deeper in the jungle, a bird called out an alarm, and monkeys in the treetops took it up.  Something’s going on in there!  He stood still, listening.  Nothing but the monkeys, and now several birds.  Dawn was still an hour away, and he tried to peer through the pre-dawn glimmer.  Was that something moving over there – behind those trees – maybe thirty yards?  Yes!  It was something bigger than a monkey.  Now, two dark shapes.  No!  Three or four moving between those trees.  LaMarr shouted out the challenge: “September five!”  (to which the correct response would have been ‘eleven whiskey’) but there was no response. Even the birds and monkeys seemed to be listening.

LaMarr raised his rifle and fired a single shot above, but in the direction of the shapes.  Out of the jungle came a cacophony of yells and high pitched battle cries.  LaMarr could see a line of muzzle flashes ahead.  He shouted “hit the deck!” to Mason, whose position was thirty-five yards to his right.  From the ground, he realized he could see nothing.  He crawled rapidly to a large tree, and cautiously rose behind it, his M16 now on full automatic.  Peeking around the tree, he spotted the muzzle flashes again.  They were clustered right there!  He fired a burst from the M16, and paused.  There were several loud cries.  Were they orders or have I hit someone?  He heard Mason fire three bursts in quick succession, and from his muzzle flashes, he could just make him out – also standing behind a tree.  It was absolutely silent for a long moment.  Then there was a shout from the jungle.  That was definitely an order!  The battle cries and the firing from the forest resumed.  LaMarr heard bullets strike his tree; one tore off a chunk of bark just above his head.  He dropped down to one knee, but still able to see the enemy’s position, and partially shielded by the tree.  He fired until his clip was empty.  Pulling a fresh clip from his jacket, he saw Mason firing again.  “Take cover, Mason!” he shouted.

We’re bound to get some backup from camp soon!  Then he heard the shouting from the barracks behind him.  There was another period of silence from the jungle.  Suddenly, ahead and to his right a heavy machine gun opened up.  It was firing toward Mason’s position.  LaMarr fired a burst at it.  There was shouting from that direction, and then it resumed its loud, staccato chatter.  Bullets sprayed through the forest, tearing large splinters from his tree.

Mason shouted: “LaMarr, I’m hit!”

“Hang on, buddy!  I’ll be with you in a minute!”  Gotta get that machine gun first!  Rifle’s no good in this situation!

LaMarr crawled on his belly for perhaps twenty yards, hearing the clatter of the gun and its bullets flitting through the jungle growth above him.  He pulled a grenade from his jacket, and waited for the firing to cease.  Cautiously, he raised his head just it time to see the muzzle flashes as the gun directed its fire at the camp.  LaMarr pulled the pin and lobbed the grenade.  There was a loud concussion and a bright flash.  Then silence.  LaMarr could hear reinforcements pouring out of the camp, and he heard Mason moan.  Rising so that he could run bent double, LaMarr dropped down next to Mason.  “Where are you hit, buddy?”

“Here!”  Mason was covering his lower belly with his hands, and pleading.  “LaMarr, help me!  I don’t want to die!”

LaMarr said: “You’ll be OK, Mason!  Just hang in there!”  Then he shouted: “Medic! . . . There’s a man down!  We need a medic over here!”

Gently but firmly, LaMarr pulled Mason’s hands away from his wound.  In the semi-darkness, he could make out the dark stain which was spreading over Mason’s trousers.  “Let me get a dressing on you!”   He fumbled in his pack for the medical supply kit, and tore it open.  He wrestled with Mason’s belt and trousers until he exposed the wound: an ugly tear just below Mason’s navel, which was overflowing dark blood.  LaMarr tore the wrapping off the field dressing and pressed it on the wound.

Weakly, Mason said: “I can’t feel my legs, LaMarr!”

“You’ll be OK, Mason.  There’s a medic on the way.  I’ve got to get another dressing on you.”  LaMarr had seen that the first dressing was already soaked with blood, and he thought, Oh my God!  This is really bad!”

A Marine (actually a U S Navy Corpsman) dropped down beside them.  “Let me tend to him,” he said.

LaMarr removed his friend’s helmet, and softly stroked his head, which was cool and sweaty.  Mason’s eyes would focus on LaMarr’s face for a few moments, and then he would seem to be looking at the sky.  “I’m not going to make it,” he whispered.

“Yes, you will, Mason!” LaMarr was pleading, now: “Help is here!  There’s a corpsman tending to you.”

Mason seemed to relax, and his eyes looked only at the sky.

The corpsman reached up to feel Mason’s pulse at his throat.  He withdrew his hand, and sat back.  “There’s noting we can do,” he said, “I’m afraid he’s gone.”

LaMarr collapsed on his friend’s chest.  “No, no, Mason.  You can’t go, buddy!  Please don’t go!”  He pressed his cheek to Mason’s and wept.

(For more information about my novels, see www.williampeace.net.)