I graduated with first class honours in Chemistry in 1978, and I knew that I wanted to carry study further. I began a PhD, still at Nottingham, in sythetic organic chemistry under the supervision of Don Whiting - he was a Reader in organic chemistry, in the UK the next payscale down from Professor.
And so began a whole new era, and some very odd stuff along the way. Mostly down to the daftness of the people in the research lab, C29, who were there at various times: Dane Toplis, trumpeter and research technician, who was always a laugh; Ray Denman, a chubby guy who loved his dogs who was a Demonstrator to undergraduates; Roland Smith, postdoctoral researcher, who was known as either the Baldy Moron or Mr Semi-Erect but whose intelligence was not in doubt and did not walk around in a state of dubious arousal; Andy Hobbs, known as Hobbs the Gob (or HG for short) who always bragged how great he was until his girlfriend left him and he crashed his car into a bridge, luckily wothout injury; Paul Clawson, whose Danish grandfather changed his name from Claussen after the war, fellow chess player, and the only person I know to have saved on a student grant, who was always stirring mixtures in conical flasks - it looked very simple but was actually a delicate reaction of a carbonyl ylid; Phil Thomas, known as Dick Brain (or DB for short), fellow chess player, and very high on the list for entertainment value with many lab cock-ups; Clive Till, postdoctoral reaearcher who got his PhD at Southampton, and who had the ability as a personal timepiece - you could set your watch by him when he rolled up at 10am every day, who had a girlfriend called Rowan from Huntingdon (or Humpingdon as we called it); Khalid Khan, lothario, and the palest Pakistani I've ever seen; Peter Amos, known as Groper for his wandering hands, who was Roland Smith's morning running partner; Samuel Yeboah, postdoctoral researcher from Ghana, who wondered how I got to be always filtering off fine crystals (I kept some odd hours); then there was me - the guy who once managed to get a crappy brown froth to ooze out of a flask before I'd even put the solvent in or heated it up. There was a special award for that, bestowed by the lab members, but that is for next time.
Jack Orchison
May 25, 2014.
Monday 26 May 2014
Being a writer, part 11: Real examples 2
I'm going to let you compare extracts from the beginning of two novels, one published, one not (yet). I wonder if you can tell which is which?
FIRST EXTRACT
Alan Greening was drunk. He'd been boozing all night in Covent Garden: starting at the Punch, where he had three of four pints with his old friends from college. Then they'd gone to the Lamb and Flag, the pub dowwn that dank alleyway near the Garrick Club.
How long had they lingered there, sinking beers? He couldn't remember. Because after that they'd gone to the Roundhouse, and they'd met a couple more guys from his office. And at some point the lads had moved from pints of lager to shorts: vodka shots, gin and tonics, whisky chasers.
SECOND EXTRACT
'George,' Olivia says, 'are you a bad person?'
I take her little hands in mine and kneel down to her level, completely disarmed by her. I gaze at the pretty face with the sparkling blue eyes below the blonde hair and the black hair band, knowing I can't lie to her. 'I've been a very bad person.'
'Are you going to do bad things to me, like make me deaded?'
'No, sweetheart, but you do need to pretend you're my little girl for a while. There's something I need to finish. I think you can help me.'
The first is from The Genesis Secret (Harper, 2009) by Tom Knox, the second is from one of my works in progress, entitled Victim.
The trouble with the first passage is that it's a boring pub crawl itinerary and you don't care about Alan Greening and his drunken mates. Chances are, you've already switched off. This is not the way to start a story.
The second passage sucks you in, even if I say so myself. The named characters speak and interact, coming to life in the process, we are in the head of the creepy, evil George, and we are shown (not told) that the two characters have a captor and captive relationship, that the captive is very young. And it poses questions: what has George done and what has George yet to do? Doeas George tell lies? Does Olivia survive? This is why we read on, why we turn the pages. Make the reader care, make the reader ask, and you'll not go far wrong.
Jack Orchison
May 25, 2014.
FIRST EXTRACT
Alan Greening was drunk. He'd been boozing all night in Covent Garden: starting at the Punch, where he had three of four pints with his old friends from college. Then they'd gone to the Lamb and Flag, the pub dowwn that dank alleyway near the Garrick Club.
How long had they lingered there, sinking beers? He couldn't remember. Because after that they'd gone to the Roundhouse, and they'd met a couple more guys from his office. And at some point the lads had moved from pints of lager to shorts: vodka shots, gin and tonics, whisky chasers.
SECOND EXTRACT
'George,' Olivia says, 'are you a bad person?'
I take her little hands in mine and kneel down to her level, completely disarmed by her. I gaze at the pretty face with the sparkling blue eyes below the blonde hair and the black hair band, knowing I can't lie to her. 'I've been a very bad person.'
'Are you going to do bad things to me, like make me deaded?'
'No, sweetheart, but you do need to pretend you're my little girl for a while. There's something I need to finish. I think you can help me.'
The first is from The Genesis Secret (Harper, 2009) by Tom Knox, the second is from one of my works in progress, entitled Victim.
The trouble with the first passage is that it's a boring pub crawl itinerary and you don't care about Alan Greening and his drunken mates. Chances are, you've already switched off. This is not the way to start a story.
The second passage sucks you in, even if I say so myself. The named characters speak and interact, coming to life in the process, we are in the head of the creepy, evil George, and we are shown (not told) that the two characters have a captor and captive relationship, that the captive is very young. And it poses questions: what has George done and what has George yet to do? Doeas George tell lies? Does Olivia survive? This is why we read on, why we turn the pages. Make the reader care, make the reader ask, and you'll not go far wrong.
Jack Orchison
May 25, 2014.
Saturday 3 May 2014
Being a writer, part10: real examples
Today I'm going to look at the start of a real novel to see if it is good or bad. It goes like this:
Call me Ishmael. Some years ago - never mind how long precisely - having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world.
This is the start of Herman Melville's 'Moby-Dick.' The ridiculous hyphen apart, generations of writers and critics have waxed orgasmically about this opening and Melville's authority and 'voice.' But, in truth, the passage stinks.
It's sloppy and lazy, and makes Ishmael look like a flake who floats from one whim to another - and someone you don't care for very much. Not what an author needs. Oh yes - Melville goes into great detail later on about the anatomy of the whale only to call it a fish - what a plank!
He fails to put the situation in context, in scene, and to show proper reasons for Ishmael's departure - you wouldn't go to sea on a whim in the nineteenth century.
How about this instead:
I dropped my bag on the harbourside and took a last look at the grey, prospectless town that had given me only intermittent work, shoddy accommodation, and that unfaithful bitch in my bed.
'Hey, Ishmael! You comin' or what?'
I turned to see the first mate waving to me, the ship rigged and ready, and behind it a brightening horizon. I picked up my things and almost ran up the gangplank.
Okay, so I've just made this up and it's not exactly deathless prose, but I hope you get the idea. The character doesn't have to name himself, the passage shows his state of mind, and compares the new and the bright with the grey and the despised. It shows both problem and goal in a way the other version doesn't.
Next time: more openings.
Jack Orchison
May 3, 2014.
Call me Ishmael. Some years ago - never mind how long precisely - having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world.
This is the start of Herman Melville's 'Moby-Dick.' The ridiculous hyphen apart, generations of writers and critics have waxed orgasmically about this opening and Melville's authority and 'voice.' But, in truth, the passage stinks.
It's sloppy and lazy, and makes Ishmael look like a flake who floats from one whim to another - and someone you don't care for very much. Not what an author needs. Oh yes - Melville goes into great detail later on about the anatomy of the whale only to call it a fish - what a plank!
He fails to put the situation in context, in scene, and to show proper reasons for Ishmael's departure - you wouldn't go to sea on a whim in the nineteenth century.
How about this instead:
I dropped my bag on the harbourside and took a last look at the grey, prospectless town that had given me only intermittent work, shoddy accommodation, and that unfaithful bitch in my bed.
'Hey, Ishmael! You comin' or what?'
I turned to see the first mate waving to me, the ship rigged and ready, and behind it a brightening horizon. I picked up my things and almost ran up the gangplank.
Okay, so I've just made this up and it's not exactly deathless prose, but I hope you get the idea. The character doesn't have to name himself, the passage shows his state of mind, and compares the new and the bright with the grey and the despised. It shows both problem and goal in a way the other version doesn't.
Next time: more openings.
Jack Orchison
May 3, 2014.
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