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Alyssa has a dream. She’s alone at night, and she’s standing at the very end of a pier, staring out to sea. The pier is old, twisted by the elements until it resembles something from a funhouse, or a fever. Behind her, she knows without looking, is so much of nothing. Miles of darkness, empty fields and wet marshland. Not a single light to be seen, nobody around to see or hear her. Nobody who could help, if she should need it. Nobody to turn to for comfort. And before her, it seems the same. The sky, vast and dark blue, the sea vast and dark blue. A full moon, white as bleached bone, bloated as something pregnant or a tear-drop waiting to fall, holds itself low in the sky, just above its shattered reflection in the sea, a reflection which seems like a jagged pathway right to the pier where she stands. If something were to step down from the moon, it need only follow the light and it will find her. Opening in the year 1750 and containing an abominable secret that has been kept hidden for the next 260 years, 'The Cold Heart Of Summer' is a horror novel of epic scale. They always said that the world was changing... but never like this. January 1st 2010 - September 2nd 2010 This novel is now complete.
- JMF My first update on this novel finds me around about the 20,000 word mark, and though in theory that means I'm right on target, it actually feels as though I'm just getting started. On last year's novel, 'Vermilion Dawn', that would have put me a quarter of the way through, but this one is shaping up (as expected) to be an altogether different beast; far bigger and more complex. I'm five chapters in and have introduced about half of the main characters, and I have to say I'm having quite a lot of fun. In recent years I've learned to love novel writing in a way I'd never have believed possible. It's a wholly different experience from working on short stories: a much greater investment in time and energy and mental and emotional demand, but a much more rewarding and involved relationship. One of my favourite things is to see how the characters take on a life of their own and reveal themselves to me. When I first began writing about them, they're little more than a name to me and sometimes not even that, with just my ideas of some of the unpleasant situations they'll end up in. Generally, by the end of the first chapter with each of them I've come to know a little about them, and look forward to joining up with them again further into the story. Sometimes I feel guilty about what I'm going to do to them. But it always passes... - JMF Perhaps the intruder had chosen this room to hide in because of the lack of sunlight. Even though it was daytime, Banning could barely make out the figure curled on the floorboards in the far corner. If it hadn’t been rolling from side to side in paroxysms of pain, he would have mistaken it for a bundle of strewn rags, so thin and shapeless was it. The smell struck him: the same smell as had been downstairs, but worse still. This time there was a tinge of decay to it, like rotting meat. He gagged as he noticed it, and raised a hand to cover his nose and mouth, but it was too late to stop him from coughing and spluttering into it. The noise must have reached the intruder, even through their pain and crying. A head came up out of the form on the floorboards, though in the dim light it was barely a sketch of a human face – hairless and white and with black pits for its features. The face turned towards him like a blind animal scenting prey. Rigid with morbid fascination, or perhaps fear itself, Banning could only watch as the mouth drooped open and that dreadful mournful cry filled the room. Something that might have been blood ran over the lips of the unfortunate creature, and it shifted on the floor again, this time dislodging a number of long, bone-white sticks that Banning realised were its limbs. The arms raised into the air, the fingers clawing at the distance between them, as though reaching for, pleading for, help. Ludicrous as it was, Banning felt in danger of being touched even from this distance. The arms seemed too long, perhaps had too many joints, more like the legs of spiders than human limbs. It must be his eyes, he thought, his eyes must be playing tricks on him. He couldn’t possible be seeing that, and worse. The figure was moving again, but not in a way that it should be able to. It pushed its legs against the floor and began scuttling towards him on all fours, but it was still facing the ceiling. Its head swung around to try and find him, its mouth stretching wide to voice a cry that had less pain in it now than it did sheer hunger, and Banning finally felt able to move. Released from his paralysis, he turned his back on the abomination and took his first unsteady step towards the staircase. He only hoped that it wouldn’t be too late. - JMF 50,000 words in and I'm right in the thick of it. Overall the writing is going well. I had a minor crisis back in March when I completed a week's worth of absolutely wonderful writing in the middle of a particularly fluent spell... and then lost it all. I was utterly dispirited. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted a hug. But what could I do except set about trying to painstakingly recreate the missing section? This I attempted to do, having made as many notes as I could about the work I'd just lost. Believe me, it wasn't easy. I slowed down to half my usual pace of work and every word was like pulling teeth. It was absolute agony. What made it even more frustrating was knowing that the lost section had been so good. It was well written, full of surprises (for both the reader and myself), contained various elements to drive the narrative forward, had some excellent dialogue that was every bit as witty and sinister as it needed to be, in turn... I just couldn't recapture that magic. I went away for a short holiday the following week, came back refreshed (having taken a break of only 2 days from the actual writing) and carried on. It's the only thing to do when you've got a great big novel to write and the clock is ticking. Thankfully since then there's been no major mishaps and long may that continue to be the case. I've a good many more months work to do on this one yet, and hopefully a lot more fun still to have. JMF He turned towards the door and, at once, he realised two things about the footsteps. Firstly, they were the soft light step of a child, and secondly, they were heading towards the building at a frantic pace. A moment later the child appeared in the doorway, painted silvery blue in the moonlight that was the only source of illumination. Banning stepped back from the door to let the child through. In its haste it hadn’t slowed. More than a run, there was a sense of somehow angry urgency about its movements. He noticed its unusually bald head, gleaming in the moonlight, and then almost immediately realised that the head was devoid of more than just hair. The child had no face. -
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