The Work-In-Progress Blog Tour

Late to the party as usual, but I've been invited to participate in a blog tour by the lovely and talented Elizabeth Brooks... I just hope all the other participants haven't gotten bored and gone home. :)

The rules of the WIP blog tour are as follows: provide the link back to the post by the person who nominated you, write a little about and give the first sentences of the first three chapters of your current WIP, then nominate four other writers to do the same. Piece o cake, right?

I hit a snag straight away, in that I'm not at all happy with any of the first lines of my initial chapters. In point of fact, I'm currently at that wondrous stage of the writing process where I'm unhappy with pretty much every damn line, and am two glasses of wine away from binning the whole thing.

But, since temper tantrums are only advisable and/or tolerated when you're a proper artist, here's some bumf about my current Work In Progress.

Okay, so, I love crime novels. Apart from Horror, Crime is my favourite genre to read in. I have a long and illustrious history of stalking crime authors and fan-girling at them until they sign something so I'll go away (in fact I did it just today with the fabulous Alan Bradley, who was launching his new book, The Dead In Their Vaulted Arches... but I digress).

So I figured I'd have a go at writing a crime novel. In typing that last sentence, btw, I can feel a thousand crime writers wince, because it must be infuriating for someone to blithely announce they're "having a go" at the thing you do for a living. ("Oh yes, I'm taking a swing at being a nurse, how hard can it really be?")

And I've also discovered, crime novels are flipping difficult. I'm not cut out for suspense. For a start, I have a lousy memory, so there's no real point in peppering chapters with carefully laid clues, because by halfway through I will have forgotten their existence, or at least their purpose. The second problem is, I get overexcited when I write (enthusiastic is the term I like) and am terrible at keeping secrets, so I keep trying to tell people who the murderer is every ten pages or so.

Then there's the issue that the first draft of my carefully plotted novel came in at 45,000 words, which even for me is a bit skimpy. So I had to go back and add a whole second strand, resulting in the story now being told partially in the present day, and partially in a (very extended) flashback.

The plot (tch, it says something about my writing that I've only got to the plot after four paragraphs, doesn't it?) concerns Daniel, who returns to his home village after a seven year absence. Naturally, when he left he did so under a cloud, and no one is happy to see him back, least of all his family. His timing is lousy as well - he arrives in the middle of the spring floods, when a major river has burst its banks and the whole village is washed out, so the only people remaining are the very determined or those with a substantial collection of sandbags.

Things get worse for Daniel because, on returning to the family home, he finds his brother murdered. Dun dun DUN. Concealed around the house, he also uncovers an unexplainably large amount of cash. He's anxious to find out what the hell happened, but finds himself implicated in the murder.

With the village cut off by the floods, there's no way for Daniel to escape from either his wrathful family or the true murderer... and no way for the police to come save him.

Okay, it sounds fairly passable when it's set out like that. :) The novel is called Fourth To The Devil, and these are the first lines of the first chapters:

CHAPTER ONE:
To return to Stonecrop, Daniel was forced to sprint across the closed road bridge while the police officer wasn't watching. In another few hours the bridge would be impassable even on foot. The river was still rising.

CHAPTER TWO:
The Crossed Swords public house benefited from its location at the junction between the high street and the road out to Westbridge Farm.  The land there was slightly higher than the rest of the town, and the pub now sat on a tiny island some fifty feet wide.

CHAPTER THREE:
Samual eyed the cup of coffee on the table.  His need for a warming drink was apparently less pressing than his wish to stay out of obligation to his younger brother, and he pushed the cup away untouched.

As I say, I am unhappy with these lines, and they will hopefully be prettified to some significant degree at some point. :) They do, however, hit on several important parts of the novel - floodwater, pubs, coffee, and the two main characters. So I guess it could be worse. :)

Ok, that's enough from me. I nominate:

Sonja Perrin
Matthew Baugh
Charles Phipps