Do more with less, already

I’ve just been reading a really interesting post about CGI effects in current movies, and why they have become so screamingly underwhelming. It’s a long piece, but worth your time, particularly if you’re in the business of telling stories, and what it comes down to is this: pacing, style and creativity will trump raw power, every single time. Here’s what he has to say about this scene, from the upcoming (and obnoxiously crap-sounding) Jurassic World.


Sure, that looks pretty awesome, but destruction on that scale should blow our fucking minds. The response to dinosaurs wrecking a helicopter should be nothing short of paralysis, but this scene has no sense of gravity or consequence. Theres no scale to it. Theres even going to be a scene where (minor spoilers) a Pteranodon picks up a woman and literally drops her into the mouth of the Mosasaurus. It doesnt matter how real the CGI looks, because that scene belongs in a fucking Sharknado movie. Its an absurd cartoon orgy.

via 6 Reasons Modern Movie CGI Looks Surprisingly Crappy |

As I’m writing a thing at the moment which could, unless I’m very careful, degrade into an ‘absurd cartoon orgy’, I found this very relevant.

Stick or twist? The art of stretching yourself

I’ve just been reading a fascinating piece from the Guardian about Amorphous Androgynous and their experiences working with Noel Gallagher on new material. Gallagher brought AA in to stretch his sound, and it’s fair to say it didn’t end well.

We tried to force him to write new material. But he dragged his heels and failed to stretch himself. Eventually, we came up with two new backing tracks for The Right Stuff and The Mexican to justify it being “like Pink Floyd”, the two songs that ended up on Chasing Yesterday. We spent six months on them. Now people are citing The Right Stuff as one of the best things he has done, and proof of how good he can be when he explores.

via Amorphous Androgynous on Noel Gallagher: ‘He was too afraid to be weird’ | Music | The Guardian.

I’m listening to The Right Stuff as I type these words. It’s excellent – essentially Gallagher, but with a new and fascinating twist. It’s a shame he didn’t put more of this stuff out, but there’s a lesson in here. If you’re not stretching yourself, you’re turning in on yourself. And that can’t end well.

Amorphous Androgynous on Noel Gallagher: ‘He was too afraid to be weird’ | Music | The Guardian

The Riddle of the Sands Adventure Club


It’s been a while – for which, apologies. But my absence is at least partly explained by the project I’d like to tell you about now (I’ve also been working on a new book, which is finished and set for spring 2016, but I’ll tell you about that another time).

I’ve teamed up with my old friend Tim Wright to conduct an experiment in reading. We’re planning to have an adventure by means of a book. The book in question is The Riddle of the Sands, the first spy novel. It was written in 1903, and it takes place between the dates of September 23 and October 26 in an unspecified year.

It starts in London, it finishes in Amsterdam, and in between our two heroes, Carruthers and Davies, sail their way from the Baltic to the North Sea, via the Kiel Ship Canal, and uncover an extraordinary plot among the windswept and tide-drenched East Frisian Islands.

That’s their adventure. Our adventure is to follow in their footsteps: to visit the same places, in the same timeframe as they did, to try and experience the world through their eyes, to try and make this vivid, extraordinary, riveting book come alive again. We call it taking a book for a walk, and we’d like you to join us.

How? Well, to start with, you can visit our website, the Riddle of the Sands Adventure Club. There’ll you’ll discover the text of the book, and a whole range of stuff we’ve dug up about its background – the history, the literature, the methods of travel. You can read about Danish princesses, German champagne, Flushing steamers and northern anchorages. Each week, we move forward in the book by another day, and try and dig deeply into what’s going on.

Also on the Adventure Club website is our weekly podcast, in which we try smoking pipe tobacco, sample naval grog and interview people who know things we don’t – from spy novelists, to transatlantic sailors. Our sixth podcast went online this week (it’s available on SoundCloud and on iTunes), and includes a tasting of German Sekt (not from the bilge), everything you ever wanted to know about Danish princesses, and a possibility of us all heading off to re-enact the Battle of Als.

All this is leading up to September 23 this year, when we plan to start reliving the action of the book, in exactly the same timeframe. Yesterday, we announced that we’re working with Unbound, the innovative publisher of crowd-funded books, to raise the money to set out on the adventure for real in September, and ultimately publish the Handbook Edition of ‘The Riddle of the Sands’.

For full details of how you can support us on Unbound, please go to

£10-£25 ENTRY LEVEL: The Adventure Club will be free right up to the point we leave for Flensburg. But from September 23 2015, you’ll need to be a supporter of the Unbound project to get onto the site. For £10, we’ll give you access, so you can follow us live, day by day, as we take on the Adventure for real. For £25 you get the Handbook proper (including the text of the original novel). Other reward levels include a Field Audiobook and a deluxe ‘Navigator’ edition of the book.

SPREAD THE WORD: Please pledge what you can at, but even more importantly do spread the word about the Unbound offer, and about all the good stuff we’re doing on

Tell your sailing chums, tell the lovers of this classic novel, tell history buffs, tell Childers fans, tell people interested in exploring northern Germany, tell people who are interested in new forms of digital storytelling. Please, spread the word.

And please sign up to be an active member of the Adventure Club online at We are so enjoying sharing this adventure with the people on there. I really hope you’ll join us.


Oliver Sacks will be leaving us soon

For all sorts of reasons that I won’t go into here, I wanted to record this beautiful piece by Oliver Sacks, who has been diagnosed with secondary liver cancer:

Over the last few days, I have been able to see my life as from a great altitude, as a sort of landscape, and with a deepening sense of the connection of all its parts. This does not mean I am finished with life.

On the contrary, I feel intensely alive, and I want and hope in the time that remains to deepen my friendships, to say farewell to those I love, to write more, to travel if I have the strength, to achieve new levels of understanding and insight.

This will involve audacity, clarity and plain speaking; trying to straighten my accounts with the world. But there will be time, too, for some fun (and even some silliness, as well).

via Oliver Sacks on Learning He Has Terminal Cancer –

All great art needs constraints

Setting the stage for a new book

My fourth book has gone to my agent, and I’m starting to lay the foundations for the fifth. This one will be entirely different. The first four books form a series, telling the tale of constable Charles Horton and his strange encounters with crime and detection and all sorts of very odd stuff in early 19th century London and beyond.

(As an aside, the American academic Miriam Burnstein’s written really perceptive practical criticisms of the first three books, which explain a lot of what I’ve been trying to do. Honestly, it’s like she’s opened the top of my head, Locke & Key-style).

The next one isn’t like that. It’s going to be historical fiction, but without the weird stuff and without the crime. Well, it will have crime in it, but of a political kind. And no, I’m not saying anymore right now.

I’m knee-deep in research at the moment, but while I’m walking the dog and pondering the book I’m thinking about how to tell this story. What’s the point of view? What’s the voice? Is it a Babel of viewpoints, or is it a single voice? So far, all my books have had multiple viewpoints, and I’m leaning very much towards trying just one.

But even if that decision is made, what kind of viewpoint will it be? First-person or third-person? Reliable or unreliable? Contemporary or historical? Self-aware or deluded? Etc etc etc.

Two works of art are very much on my mind while I think about these things. The first is Life After Life by Kate Atkinson, which I finished very recently and which is quite remarkable. The level of skill shown by the author is mesmerising, not least because it’s the least showy book I’ve read in a very long time. ‘If it looks like writing, I cut it out,’ Elmore Leonard said, and there’s something of that in Atkinson’s writing too. But the apparent simplicity belies a narrative sophistication and control which I’ve been thinking about ever since.

The other work of art is Raiders of the Lost Ark. Sort of. This morning, a friend of mine linked to Steven Soderbergh’s site. I’m an enormous fan of Soderbergh – I admire his skill and his talent, but I also admire his commitment to art and his absolute integrity. If you’ve never read his speech on the state of modern cinema – and why he stopped making films – you really should.  On his site, he talks about something he calls staging:

I’m assuming the phrase “staging” came out of the theatre world, but it’s equally at home (and useful) in the movie world, since the term (roughly defined) refers to how all the various elements of a given scene or piece are aligned, arranged, and coordinated. In movies the role of editing adds something unique: the opportunity to extend and/or expand a visual (or narrative) idea to the limits of one’s imagination—a crazy idea that works today is tomorrow’s normal.

How does he illustrate what he means? Through the brazen method of taking Raiders of the Lost Ark, removing all the audio track, replacing it with a really awful stock EDM thing, and changing it to black and white. The result is startling – you notice, for the first time, the staging. The arrangement of the actors, the lighting, the perspectives, the relationship between the frame and what comes into it from outside. It’s really fascinating. Take a look.

So now, I’m not thinking about voice and point-of-view. I’m thinking about staging. Because how a scene is ‘aligned, arranged, and coordinated’ is exactly the nut I’m trying to loosen. Trust Soderbergh to give me an interesting tool to go at it with.

Where does it all come from?

I’m just back from a session at the marvellous Centre for Literacy in Primary Education (disclaimer: my better half is chief executive) to see a truly fantastic talk by David Almond. The audience were primary school teachers (and me), and David gave us an insight into how he writes books that was at once modest and genuinely inspiring.

‘I’m going to give you a word,’ he said. ‘A four-letter word. When I tell you the word, you have to keep it in your head, but it can only be the WORD. The letters of the word. It can’t be anything else. Just that single word. Ready? Here it is. T-E-N-T.’

The point being, of course, that you can’t. Those four letters become so much more than a word – they become sights and smells and pictures and memories and sounds and everything you’ve ever thought or that ever happened to you that involved a tent.

And that was the theme of the talk: how our minds are vehicles for imagination and creativity, two words which, David said, he was scared of as a child, because they seemed to sonorous and difficult. I still remember my granny saying to me the morning after one of my regular nightmares ‘you have them because you’ve a strong imagination,’ so that imagination became a condition, like asthma or myopia, that made your life more difficult.

David Almond is one of those people who’s not afraid to talk about the magical side of writing, the spark of inspiration – catch his anecdote about when and where the first line of Skellig came to him, and I defy you not to shiver. I’m emotionally hardwired to be sceptical about this stuff, to poo-poo those writers who talk about the mystical side of creativity. But I’m wrong. It’s right to talk about that stuff, because sometimes what we do as writers does feel magical, or at least inexplicable. This morning I wrote two chapters, one after the other. One was great, the other so-so. I have no idea why.

But then, as a counter-balance and a mild name-drop, I did get the chance to chat briefly with David before his talk. What did we chat about? Freedom, the software which allows you to turn off the Internet on the machine you’re working on to allow you to write. So yes, even magicians like David Almond need the right environment.

One other Almond anecdote – when he writes, he writes in Page View, with the numbers of the pages and the title of the book at the top of each page, so he can see the book physically coming to life as he goes. I think that’s brilliant.

A fantastic writer and a wonderful fellow. He signed a book for me, too.

Astonished by Richard Pryor. And Maya Angelou.

This may be well-known to a lot of people, but before I’d read this article on Dangerous Minds | Watch Richard Pryor’s jaw-dropping ‘Willie’ sketch featuring Maya Angelou I didn’t know anything about this extraordinary slice of popular culture, during which a very troubled but brilliant man performs a comic sketch about drinking, at the end of which he collapses unconscious onto a sofa to be lamented by his wife, with words that would not have disgraces Tennessee Williams or Eugene O’Neill.

The wife is played by Maya Angelou.

I can’t think of anything remotely like this in British comedy.

David Mitchell on self-editing

I think this, from David Mitchell, is brilliant on self-editing. He said it during the Humber School for Writers Summer Workshop in 2009:

A consolation: as you perform the necessary editing, it really hurts. “I love that line, its such a neat bit, its brilliant!” Brilliant isn’t actually enough–its got to be brilliant, and have a place there. And oddly enough, you cut it, but in a weird way, its still there. It’s gone but it hasn’t actually gone. It’s still there in your denser, and your richer and your better text. It’s in the texture. Books are palimpsests of your earlier drafts. So don’t be too disheartened because its gone, because it isn’t really. Or to give you some Confucianism: what the pruning shears remove remains on the tree in its enhanced vigour. A good rule of thumb: if you have to think more than five seconds about whether or not a thing should be cut, that means do it. In the age of word processors, I’ve got a file called “may be useful one day,” where I put things that are great and that I can’t bear to lose. I cut and paste and put it in the file, so at least its there in case I ever want to go back and retrieve it. How often do I go back and retrieve it? Never. Not once. Which I feel proves my point.

via David Mitchell on self-editing | Humber College – The School of Creative and Performing Arts.

On writing every day

This is a little thing I wrote for IdeasTap last year sometime. I’ve just found it in an obscure iCloud folder so thought I’d stick it up here

There are only two rules you need to make a living as a writer.

The first rule is: ‘write every day.’ Writers are made, not born. Of course, you’ll need a little bit of talent, but that’s just the raw material. To make something out of it, you’ll need to put your bum in a chair, and write every single day.

Some people write a few hundred words a day. Others (like me) write a few thousand. The ones who write a few hundred take care over every thing they put down. The ones (like me) who write a few thousand take less care, but then spend a lot of time editing, revising, chucking out and adding. Both end up at the same place.

But that’s not why you write every day. You write every day because writing is a muscle, and like any muscle it grows flabby and useless through disuse. And by ‘writing’ I don’t mean just putting words down – I mean that strange, mystical combination of the physical act with the intellectual, that combination of concentration, creativity, intense attention and inspiration that only comes for maybe half-an-hour a day, but only arrives once you’re warmed up, like the engine of a classic sports car.

If you write every day, that moment becomes more common, and grows longer. You find yourself reading stuff you wrote the day before which is really good but which you don’t remember, and you realise that, for a moment at least, you were inspired.

That’s why you write every day.

The second rule of writing is this: ignore all the rules of writing.