So where does that original and unique idea for a story come from? What is it that ignites the spark, germinates the seed? Is it born out of pure imagination or real life experience? For me I guess it's a touch of both. I'm certain that the adage - always write what you know about - shouldn't be set in stone, but I think it's probably a good starting point, or at least a way of weaving that germ of inspiration, that golden nugget of an idea into a cohesive story. But what of the idea itself? Was it something that was simply there upon waking one morning, a light bulb moment, or maybe something that morphed slowly from the rolling and tumbling vortex at the back of the mind, something that the subconscious nursed and nurtured until the idea one day fully formed and you suddenly found yourself at the computer feverishly pounding away at the keys, getting it down in case the whole thing vanished into the ether?
I can't see there being a formula for this. I would hope and imagine each writer's process and experience is unique to them.
For my first novel, The Albion, I had scenes in my head. The opening shots came fully formed; I was the director in a screenplay, cutting and dissolving as the narrative kicked in. Still doesn't explain where the idea came from? Well, I can only surmise that this particular seed came from my real-life experiences as a football coach in the local junior leagues where reality regularly outdid anything a writer could dream up.
Scrapyard Blues was a different kettle of fish. The Genesis of this story came about one cold and crispy New Years Eve back in the mists of time.
All the planets must have been aligned that night because it shaped up to be the most bizarre, surreal and yet thoroughly enjoyable evening.
The Melbourne was one of those tatty but warmly welcoming waterholes, loved to bits by its regular patrons. The Exterior was fashioned in a faux Art Deco style, all stucco walls and glazed tile. The landlord was a feisty Irish character called Eamon, purveyor of fine ales and excellent live music. Eamon addressed everyone as "brother", even the women.
The band that evening was a bunch of gnarly looking dudes who kept everyone happy into the small hours with their own brand of tried and tested, no-nonsense R & B standards. The punters on this particular Old Years Night were having such a good time that midnight came and went in a alcoholic haze of happiness without anyone resorting to that God awful "Auld Lang Syne" crap. No fall-outs, no fights - even the wife was behaving herself.
It was during a bladder-bursting bog break that things became predictably hazy. I remember being stood at the urinal admiring the 1930's craftsmanship in the shape of cracked glazed porcelain that adorned the Gents in vivid bottle green and brick-red and cream colours, when some guy, a total stranger in the adjacent trough sparked up a conversation. He started by asking me if I was enjoying the band. I replied in the affirmative.
"I used to shag the singer's missus," he confirmed, swaying happily. "I hope he don't recognise me else I'm f***ed."
"How long ago was this?" I enquired.
"Oh, ages ago - not even sure if they're still together."
"Would he still be bothered after all this time?"
"Course he'll still be bothered, he's a Marsden lad," he said indignantly. "The whole f****ing band comes from Marsden."
I raised an inquisitive eyebrow, at which he proceeded to quote John Wesley, word perfect and at great length about what the Methodist Theologian and lay preacher had to say of the wild and nefarious ways of the Godless people of Marsden. He was still at it long after I'd emptied my bladder, but I was so impressed by his recitation I didn't want to appear rude and Interrupt.
I never saw the guy again after that. Whether or not he'd decided to stagger home early, jump in a taxi out of harms way I'll never know, but that fascinating and surreal conversation will stay with me forever.
So, bizarrely, that's how the idea for Scrapyard Blues was born. Ironically, on the weekend that I completed the first draft of SB I attended the annual R & B fest in Colne, Lancashire and quite by chance bumped into the hairy lead guitarist of the band that played The Melbourne on that NYE. We whiled away the early hours of that late summer eve outside my tent drinking cheap red wine and eating Polish kabanos sausage, debating the universal merits of the wondrous element that is Carbon until the sun came up. I never brought up that New Years Eve gig or the mysterious stranger who once shagged his missus.
Footnote: Sadly, The Melbourne no longer exists in its boozy R & B manifestation. It's now a shop that sells saris.
I can't see there being a formula for this. I would hope and imagine each writer's process and experience is unique to them.
For my first novel, The Albion, I had scenes in my head. The opening shots came fully formed; I was the director in a screenplay, cutting and dissolving as the narrative kicked in. Still doesn't explain where the idea came from? Well, I can only surmise that this particular seed came from my real-life experiences as a football coach in the local junior leagues where reality regularly outdid anything a writer could dream up.
Scrapyard Blues was a different kettle of fish. The Genesis of this story came about one cold and crispy New Years Eve back in the mists of time.
All the planets must have been aligned that night because it shaped up to be the most bizarre, surreal and yet thoroughly enjoyable evening.
The Melbourne was one of those tatty but warmly welcoming waterholes, loved to bits by its regular patrons. The Exterior was fashioned in a faux Art Deco style, all stucco walls and glazed tile. The landlord was a feisty Irish character called Eamon, purveyor of fine ales and excellent live music. Eamon addressed everyone as "brother", even the women.
The band that evening was a bunch of gnarly looking dudes who kept everyone happy into the small hours with their own brand of tried and tested, no-nonsense R & B standards. The punters on this particular Old Years Night were having such a good time that midnight came and went in a alcoholic haze of happiness without anyone resorting to that God awful "Auld Lang Syne" crap. No fall-outs, no fights - even the wife was behaving herself.
It was during a bladder-bursting bog break that things became predictably hazy. I remember being stood at the urinal admiring the 1930's craftsmanship in the shape of cracked glazed porcelain that adorned the Gents in vivid bottle green and brick-red and cream colours, when some guy, a total stranger in the adjacent trough sparked up a conversation. He started by asking me if I was enjoying the band. I replied in the affirmative.
"I used to shag the singer's missus," he confirmed, swaying happily. "I hope he don't recognise me else I'm f***ed."
"How long ago was this?" I enquired.
"Oh, ages ago - not even sure if they're still together."
"Would he still be bothered after all this time?"
"Course he'll still be bothered, he's a Marsden lad," he said indignantly. "The whole f****ing band comes from Marsden."
I raised an inquisitive eyebrow, at which he proceeded to quote John Wesley, word perfect and at great length about what the Methodist Theologian and lay preacher had to say of the wild and nefarious ways of the Godless people of Marsden. He was still at it long after I'd emptied my bladder, but I was so impressed by his recitation I didn't want to appear rude and Interrupt.
I never saw the guy again after that. Whether or not he'd decided to stagger home early, jump in a taxi out of harms way I'll never know, but that fascinating and surreal conversation will stay with me forever.
So, bizarrely, that's how the idea for Scrapyard Blues was born. Ironically, on the weekend that I completed the first draft of SB I attended the annual R & B fest in Colne, Lancashire and quite by chance bumped into the hairy lead guitarist of the band that played The Melbourne on that NYE. We whiled away the early hours of that late summer eve outside my tent drinking cheap red wine and eating Polish kabanos sausage, debating the universal merits of the wondrous element that is Carbon until the sun came up. I never brought up that New Years Eve gig or the mysterious stranger who once shagged his missus.
Footnote: Sadly, The Melbourne no longer exists in its boozy R & B manifestation. It's now a shop that sells saris.