Simon Sylvester

  • Beginnings

    When Monica was pregnant, we didn’t tell anyone the baby’s name. We had a funny idea that telling someone else might jinx it, so Dora’s name remained a secret until the moment she was born.

    It sounds daft, but I feel the same way about the title of my new novel. I know what it’s going to be called, but I’m not ready to talk about it just yet. I have this strange sense that I don’t want people to know. So, for the moment, I’ll use another name. This was actually the first title I thought of, but decided was a bit of a mouthful; it’ll do for now. When I talk about the new novel, I’ll call it ‘We Are Always Reaching Out For Heaven’.

    I mention this because I started writing today. I didn’t think it would happen so quickly, because I’ve been stewing on the idea for months, but this morning I divided the story into chapters and blocked out the scenes, then copied the whole plan into a new document. Each of the chapters has a summary of the action, ready to go, so I can work on whichever part of the story shouts the loudest without losing sight of the whole. This method worked nicely for me with Riptide Heart, as I seldom write in chronological order (I like to write my ending early on – it gives me a destination to work towards).

    Then I simply started writing. The first line was quick, and the rest of the paragraph took me an hour, trying sentences, rephrasing them, deleting them, rewriting them…. and it evolved, slowly, feeling out the words, building a story. It’ll take a while to settle on a voice and a vocabulary that works for this story – and to keep it distinct from Riptide Heart, which is still fresh in my mind after such intense redrafts.

    So there it is – the first 500 words of my new novel, down on paper. It’s an odd sensation to be in a triple figure word count after dealing with a redraft of 105,000 words, but I’m quietly excited about it. And I need something to keep my mind off Riptide Heart while agent Sue starts the nerve-shredding process of submitting the manuscript to publishers.

  • Bad Language in April

    Another great reading coming up in Manchester – fantastic line-up of talented writers. Sounds like it’s free as a bee – 24th April.

  • Ladders upon ladders

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    This brilliant photo gallery shows the vertical commute to school taken by mountain-dwelling children in rural China. This is exactly the sort of imagery which is feeding into my plans and dreams about the next novel – ladders upon ladders, and buildings upon buildings. I can picture the world and the culture so clearly, and I’ve almost finished blocking out the plot. The weight of my workload is making me hesitate a little, but I think it’s almost time to start writing.

  • Shap Fell Road

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    I had a few hours to write, yesterday, and managed to burn through the first draft of a 2,500 word ghost story. It’s set on the drive between Kendal and Shap on the surprisingly desolate A6 – a road I’ve driven hundreds of times when working in Great Strickland. This atmospheric photo, pinched from a very talented photographer called Richard Berry, shows the pylons that stalk the route just visible against the dusk. It’s a phenomenally stark landscape, with sections of the road blasted through steep slate hillside, and gigantic quarried cliffs glaring dark against a backdrop of the Lakes. Perfect for a foggy day and a haunting…

    Mon read the story last night and gave me some great ideas for developing it further – obvious tweaks that I don’t always see on a first draft. Looking forward to working through a second draft and thinking about submission.

  • The novelists of 1993 had it easy… How will today’s writers publish their work?

    I’m always interested in articles about the industry. It’s obviously a time of great flux in publishing, and it’s good to assimilate as much information as possible.  Opportunities for conventional publication are becoming fewer, even as new modes are developed. None of it changes my urge to write, nor my hope that people will read and enjoy my work. Stories are stories.

    The most amusing thing about this article is the thought that, in another decade, I’ll be 43, which makes me too old to be a ‘young’ novelist. That doesn’t trouble me too much. In ten years’ time, I’d be perfectly happy being a 43-year-old novelist.

  • LoveSexTravelMusik

    Readers and writers in Manchester should make the time to see this: Rodge Glass and Anneliese Mackintosh are great readers, and Freight are a brilliant publisher. Should be a smasher.

  • Brindley Hallam Dennis reads Turkey Cock

    Check out this wicked, vicious little story from Brindley Hallam Dennis. It’s a great reminder that stories are for speaking and listening, as well as reading and writing. I’m keen to start committing more of my work to film; I have the equipment and the stories, but I seldom have the time.

    On another note, this clip makes me want to track down more of BHD’s work. It’s a perfect short story – snappy, sharp and engrossing, with a perfect pay-off.

  • Fiction Desk Ghost Story Competition

    Fiction Desk Ghost Story Competition

    I quite like the look of this, and I’ve had a ghost story in mind for a while. Need to find the time to write something around plotting the new novel… 

  • Rich Sylvester – The Ant and the Peacock

    The Ant and the Peacock

    Here’s my awesome uncle Rich telling the tale of the ant and the peacock to some very happy kids – for the Guardian Children’s Books podcast, no less.

  • Kingfisher

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    I used to go climbing several nights a week, but I haven’t the time any more. And when we lived in the old house, I cycled to work; now my wife drops me off at the college before she goes to paint. In short, I don’t do any exercise. I’m constantly zipping about at a thousand miles an hour, juggling my different jobs, but that’s hardly a substitute.

    Walking is the only activity I can really make time for. Mon and I both love walking. We’re lucky enough to live in an amazing part of the planet, and our little corner of it has some excellent trails. We can walk from our wee cottage in Burneside to see friends in town – or strike out in any other direction to find open countryside.

    I’m not a purist about the countryside. I like edgelands and places of threshold where the natural and the man-made have grown old together. Yesterday, we walked to Staveley in Kentmere and back. It’s a great walk for rusted farm machinery, gnarly stiles, fallen trees and tumbledown barns. There’s a troll bridge with missing slats, and a beech tree strangled by a noose of barbed wire. The tree’s bark has enveloped the wire completely, lapping over it like the slowest wooden wave. In one spot, a fence has been mended with an old iron bedhead. It’s lambing season – we passed new lambs, minutes old. I saw my first ever kingfisher.

    Walking gives me more than physical exercise. It’s a source of constant, ever-changing inspiration. Walking around London fuelled my first short stories. My walks on Islay, Gigha and Kintyre fed into Riptide Heart and the fictional island of Bancree. My longstanding work-in-progress, Year of the Whale, is about walking – and the need to walk. Location is crucial to the way I write, and walking in real places fires my imagination. I try to create a geography – physical, atmospheric and emotional – that I believe in. When I get it right, my characters play out the story in that environment like a drop of water on a slope, finding the simplest route to ground.

    Walking is good for the soul.

    I’m calling a character in my next novel Kingfisher.