Many of you have been concerned with word counts the past few weeks. I didn’t officially do NaNoWriMo, but I have been cranking out a fresh piece of writing. And as always, I’m haunted by the conviction that it’s too short.
Thing is, I’m not usually short of words. My first four novels are all well over 100,000 words. In fact, the second and third were once a 235,000-word monster that I clove into two smaller monsters.
And yet, when I set out to write something more ambitious than a blog post or flash fiction piece, there’s an imp on my shoulder whispering, “It’s too short! It won’t have enough depth. Come on, flesh out that paragraph a bit. How about some dialogue? They can talk about alchemy again, can’t they?”
I write my first drafts by hand, with pen on paper, so at that stage I never have an exact word count. But I know that 15 pages of my scribble adds up to about 7,500 words, so I’m always counting pages. When I hit ten and still have several key scenes to complete the story or a chapter, I smile and relax. Once the manuscript plumps up, I know I’ll have enough material to work with.
Because when it comes to editing and rewriting, I like having too many words. Cutting stuff is easier than crafting new material from scratch and figuring out where to wedge it in. In my finished scenes, however imperfect, sentences and paragraphs fit tightly to those preceding and following. Writing is sort of like making a piece of furniture or a garment, where skimpiness is bad news. Adding new material means having to disassemble the work, unpicking the seams or prying apart tightly-fitted joints — a painful process.
Strangely enough, though, I don’t have a problem moving things around. Words, sentences, paragraphs, even entire scenes. Once they’re finished, they acquire an integrity that helps them survive my whims.
What about you, fellow word-crafters (and NaNoWriMo survivors) — do you agonize over word counts? Do you end up with too many words or too few?
In November 2000, I started writing the first novel of what would become the Herbert West Series. This November, I have set myself a goal to finish writing a collection of stories I intend to publish in 2020. Call it my own version of NaNoWriMo. So, I’ve scheduled posts for the next four weeks featuring each of the four books of the series. Oh, and November 7th was Herbert West’s 133rd birthday!
The final book in the series is Hunting the Phoenix.
Journalist Alma Halsey chases the story of a lifetime to Providence, Rhode Island and finds more than she expected – an old lover, Charles Milburn, and an old adversary, renegade physician Herbert West, living under the name Francis Dexter. Fire throws her into proximity with them both, rekindling romance and completing a great transformation.
In writing The Friendship of Mortals, I wasn’t sure what to do with Charles Milburn’s girlfriend, Alma. I sent her off to be an ambulance driver in the Great War, after which she became a journalist in Boston and New York City. To compensate, I decided she would be the narrator of Hunting the Phoenix, in which Herbert West/Francis Dexter’s story ends. Before that, Alma rediscovers her poetic talents as well as shocking things about Charles, Herbert, and herself. In this final book, the theme of alchemy as a symbol of transformation is evident, both in the titles of the five parts and in the narrative itself.
This scene is from the section titled “Calcination.” It’s followed by one of Alma’s poems.
I woke up so suddenly that the dream I was dreaming came
with me. I had to save my brother Danforth from taking off in his homemade
flying machine and falling to his death. To do that, I had to figure out the
plans for it that he’d left in his room. I had to read them aloud to the wind,
so the wind would know how to help him. There were so many papers! They kept
re-shuffling themselves as I scrabbled through them. I would catch a glimpse of
the drawing I needed – the machine drawn in blue ink and Dan’s neat block
capitals labelling the parts. My fingers grasped it as it flipped past, and I
began to slide it out from the other papers. But to my horror, the ink was
crumbling, shifting into other shapes that meant nothing. If I couldn’t
preserve it, I couldn’t read it, and Dan would die. I strained my eyes. “Aileron,”
I stammered. “Flange. Wing control lever. Strut.”
“Strut,” I muttered, coming awake. The word
hung in the air as the urgency of the dream faded, to be replaced with the
beginnings of relief. But instead of sliding back into sleep, I came fully
awake, slowly becoming aware that something was different. Something was wrong.
There was a smell of smoke. Sometimes Jim Priddy would light
a wood fire in one of the fireplaces, as a treat on a cold evening. But he hadn’t
done that tonight. “No damn wood left,” he’d said. Donna Maria burned
garbage in a metal drum in the back yard every few weeks. But never at night.
There was a flicker of orange light under my door. I thought
I heard people shouting, far away.
I scrambled out of bed and ran to the door. The doorknob was
warm and the floor was warm too, pleasantly warm to my feet. And smoke was
thick around me.
Panicked, I pulled open the door. As though they had been
waiting for my summons, flames leaped and rushed into my room from the inferno
of the stairwell. Closing the door was impossible. I jumped back, but not
quickly enough, heard an intense crackling and smelled my own hair burning.
Heat enveloped me. I beat at the flames with my hands and arms. Fire seared my
skin, pain shrieked through my body. The window! The window!
Rushing over to it, I fumbled with the catch. It was stuck.
No use. Break the glass! Grabbing a shoe from the floor, I pounded the glass
with the heel. A star of cracks appeared, but it held. Frantically, I pounded
harder. The glass shattered and my hand came down on a jagged shard. Hot blood
steamed in the icy air that blasted in, whirling snowflakes over my desk. The
shoe fell from my hand, teetered for a second on the outside ledge, was gone. I
grabbed a towel from the back of a chair, wrapped my bleeding hand in it and
thumped out the remaining shards from the frame.
Behind me flames capered, feeding joyously on the fresh air.
Time to go, Alma! Thought fragments whipped through my brain
like bullets. Bathrobe? No time. Coat? No time. Slippers? No time. Shoe gone. My notes? My
notes! They’re in several piles,
all over my desk. I start to gather them up.
Stupid Alma! Stupid!
But I’ve got to –
Go, you fool! Go!
The room is full of
fire. There’s no more room for me. Too late – the hem of my nightgown is on
fire. Monstrous pain screams up my legs. Clawing frantically at the garment, I
tear it off and scramble naked over the desk, scattering papers to the flames.
My hand catches on something solid and I clutch it as I push myself through the
window, feeling a long tear on my left thigh from an up-pointing glass
fragment. The house has teeth, it’s
fighting back. But it should bite the fire, not me!
Now I’m on the
edge, on the ledge, the very edge, a tiny balcony, just wide enough for me to
crouch on. I’m still burning; soon I’ll be a torch. There’s no fire escape. (“Oh,
there was a ladder once,” Donna Maria had said, “but it got rotten. I’ll
get Jim to make another one in the spring.” Yes, Maria, but I need it now). It’s a long way down, to black and white studded with faces looking
up. Their mouths move, yelling things I can’t hear. A siren wails and wails. I know, I know it’s burning! You don’t have
to make all that noise!
The fire is done
with my room. Now it’s coming for me. No more time, Alma.
I stand up. What a
Juliet I am! There’s no Romeo here and this isn’t a nightingale night.
Snowflakes swirl around me, turning orange from the flames. Or maybe they’re
sparks. Orange flowers in the air. The wind howls. The mouths below me howl.
The fire talks to itself, smacking its lips as it eats the house. I’m alone.
This is no place to be. I clutch my hands around the only thing I’m taking with
me – square, smooth, hard. Is that Charles down there? His face is like a
flesh-coloured flower. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but I see his lips
moving.
Closer to you soon,
Charles.
The fire gives me
one last shove and I’m in the air, snowflakes all around me, swirling
themselves into a net, holding me up. So this is what it’s like inside the star globe! But where’s my
unicorn?
A long rush, a hard thud. Then nothing.
Once I built with wood, Stone, steel, bricks, cement– Heavy, straight, squared off and carefully measured. A life for a lifetime, solid and strong And all my own. My house of life.
I did not think it could be so easily destroyed, Corroded by resentment, Weakened by desires deferred, ambitions unrealized, Split by ambivalence And burned, burned, burned.
Rebuild now? I have no materials, My tools are gone to rust, Mud, air, the water of my tears, The sulfur of solitude, And the salt of sorrow.
These are my matter, But I have no formula, No vessel except myself. I need a catalyst. I need magic, a secret fire.
Is there a magician in this house of night?
What readers have said:
“… the culmination of the final book is exactly what it should be: tragic, but beautiful. I wish there was more, the story was brilliant.”
“I absolutely loved this series. Beautifully written and unpredictable. At times both heart pounding and heart breaking.”
“I really wish I could give ‘Hunting the Phoenix’ a 10 out of 5 but even my limited math knows that’s impossible. Suffice to say that this book, in fact the whole series, is as close to perfect as a story can get. It joins a relatively short list of books, including Dostoevsky’s ‘Crime and Punishment’, that I consider to be exceptional, and I would recommend it to anyone who wants /more/.”
“A noteworthy aspect of this book is the author’s skill in evocative description. She really knows how to set a scene and create a mood; furthermore characters appear, take shape, and are molded in front of your very eyes.”
In November 2000, I started writing the first novel of what would become the Herbert West Series. This November, I have set myself a goal to finish writing a collection of stories I intend to publish in 2020. Call it my own version of NaNoWriMo. So, I’ve scheduled posts for the next four weeks featuring each of the four books of the series. Oh, and November 7th was Herbert West’s 133rd birthday!
The third book in the series is Islands of the Gulf Volume 2, The Treasure
Abandoned and abused, young Herbert West resorts to drastic measures to survive. At Miskatonic University, he becomes a scientist who commits crimes and creates monstrosities. Decades later, haunted by his past, he finds safety as Dr. Francis Dexter of Bellefleur Island, but his divided nature threatens those he loves and forces him to face the truth about his healing powers.
I intended Islands of the Gulf to be a single novel, but it was so long, I split it into two. This part is narrated by Herbert West/Francis Dexter himself, the only time in the entire series he gets to tell his own story. The first half covers his childhood and early years, the second his time on Bellefleur Island. He’s not an entirely reliable narrator, though, so the reader has to consider where the truth may have been shaped by his experiences.
In this scene from Chapter 3, Herbert is questioned by his father, Hiram West.
In his office, Hiram took his place behind the desk and
waved me to the usual chair in front of it. “So, Herbert,” he said, “from what
I hear, you’re spending a lot of time in the North End these days.”
As recently as a year before, and certainly in my mother’s
time, I would have responded to such a remark with floods of
self-justification, or a sullen, guilt-admitting silence. Now I let his words
reverberate in the air around us for a second or two before I responded.
“What is it that you hear?” I asked.
“I hear that a kid who looks a lot like you has been running
with a bunch of little punks that call themselves the Raiders. The North End Raiders.
Small-time thieves – specialize in stealing from little old ladies, it seems.”
If this was a strategy intended to provoke me into a
self-incriminating defence of the Raiders, it failed.
“Is that all?” I asked.
“Isn’t it enough? Come on, Herbert, ‘fess up. What have you
been up to? Believe me, I’m not interested in paying Collins a fat salary just
to have you wind up arrested for stealing apples with a bunch of third-rate
twerps. So start talking.”
“Excuse me, Father, but I must question your initial premise.
You’ve heard that someone that looks like me has been seen in the North End.
Well, that’s quite possible. But I must ask you – who said this? And when, and
under what circumstances did he see this person? Without knowing these things I
don’t believe I can give you an answer.”
Hiram looked at me hard, as though I had sprouted wings or
developed a third eye.
“Well, well, well, what do we have here? Twelve years old
and talking like a professor to his old man! So this is what Collins has been
teaching you. ‘Initial premise,’ indeed. Geez, boy, you’re going to be a
lawyer, if you don’t watch out.” He grinned broadly, a grin I didn’t often see
aimed at me.
“Okay, here’s the goods – a while ago, I asked someone (no
one important, believe me) to keep an eye on you. I know what boys are like,
and I got an idea you weren’t always in the house on Collins’s nights off. So
this fellow told me he’d seen you (yeah, he was sure it was you) running around
the streets by the Haymarket. Two Fridays ago, this was, and he said he spotted
you again last week. He asked around about the kids you were with, and people
told him they call themselves the North End Raiders. Just a gang of boys, they
said. Minor mischief, that’s all. But no one seemed to know who you were, just ‘some other kid that
hangs around with those guys.’ Okay, Professor, is that good enough? Now it’s
your turn to do some talking, so get busy.”
I had been busy thinking already, so when he finished I
promptly produced a fabrication. I had heard a lot about the North End of
Boston from Mrs. Petrucci and her grandchildren, who, I reminded Hiram, had
been guests at my ninth birthday party, more than three years ago…
“Yeah, I remember,” he said, making a face. “Regular fuss
you kicked up about that birthday of yours. Go on.”
I figured I was old enough to go places on my own, I said,
and was tired of the museums, art galleries, concerts and church services that
Mr. Collins took me to, so I decided one Saturday to take a walk around this
other part of the city, which was not so distant in miles, but socially might
as well have been another planet.
“It was like a field trip,” I said. “I was walking along,
just looking at things, when I saw this little kid crying on the sidewalk. He
told me that some other kids had knocked him down. I asked him where he lived
and took him home. His mother and sisters were glad to see him back and thanked
me. They asked me to come and visit again, so I did. I guess that’s when that
fellow saw me.”
He’d been watching me narrowly while I talked. Now he said,
“I dunno, Herbert. The way I heard it you were with a bunch of other boys.
Running around, not calling on young ladies. So what about these sisters? You
been seeing a lot of them? Don’t tell me you’re getting ideas like that at age
twelve, for God’s sake!”
“Ideas like what?” I was genuinely puzzled. “When I went
back to visit, I met some other kids and we got friendly. A couple of times
they… showed me around the neighbourhood. It was interesting. That’s all.”
“That’s all, eh?” Hiram stood, went over to the window and
looked out long enough that I almost went over to have a look myself, thinking
something interesting was happening. He turned quickly and came back to the
desk, resuming his seat and leaning forward, close enough that I could see the
pores on his nose.
“I’m thinking you need an extra lesson or two,” he said.
“Things Collins can’t teach you because his head’s full of Greeks and Romans
and fancy notions. So let’s start right now. Number one – don’t get mixed up in
things before you understand what’s really going on. Now, who are these pals of
yours in the North End? What are their names?”
“They’re just kids!” I protested. “What do their names
matter?”
He slammed his open palm down on the desk, startling me.
“Answer my question! Names?”
“Angelo, Lou, Mike, Joe, Pete – ”
“No last names? Come on, Herbert – stop playing games and
spit it out!” No smile now, not even a smirk. His face was a block of stone.
“I don’t know their last names,” I said, almost truthfully.
“They didn’t tell me and I didn’t ask.”
Hiram blew out his cheeks. “Sheesh, you kids. So one of
them’s called Angelo? Are they all Eyeties?”
“Italians? I suppose so.”
“You suppose so. All right, Professor – what’s your name?”
“You know my name, Father – Herbert West.”
Hiram laughed, a harsh laugh with a note of derision in it.
“Right, but I mean what’s your name when you’re with your gang? What do they
call you?”
I was afraid to hesitate too long and provoke him, but my
inventive skills had left me. “Frank,” I said, reluctantly.
“Just Frank? Come on, Herbert, I don’t have all day.”
“Franco Petrucci,” I muttered.
He laughed again. “Oh boy, does Mrs. P. know she’s got
another kid? Why an Eyetie name?”
“Well, I thought… I wanted to fit in.” What I really wanted
was to get away from him. Trying to avoid the gaze of his narrowed eyes, I
looked at the floor, hating myself for letting him put me in this supplicant
position.
“Okay, Herbert,” he said. “Lesson two. There’s Back Bay and
Beacon Hill and then there’s everywhere else. You can’t take short cuts in
between, and you can’t sit on the fence. Not unless you know what you’re doing,
and I don’t think you do. So let’s make a deal. Go ahead and play with your
Eyetie friends, but keep your eyes and ears open while you’re at it. Find out
your friends’ dads’ names – their last names – and who they work for.
And remember – I’ll hear all about it if you make any wrong moves. So will your
pals. Okay, kid, that’s enough for now.”
Relieved, I made for the door, but he called me back. “One
last question, Herbert. Everything you told me just now, was it true?”
I pretended to think for a moment. “Most of it,” I said.
He laughed again. “Oh boy, you’re coming along! Just
remember your old man’s advice and you’ll be fine.”
As my hand touched the doorknob, he spoke again. “Okay, I
lied. One more question. What were you really doing in the North End?”
I knew he was playing a game with me and began to feel
angry. “I was looking for my mother,” I said, realizing too late that I was
telling a painful truth.
“Now that’s a complete waste of time,” he answered, his
voice going flat and hard again, all traces of hilarity and false camaraderie
gone. “Don’t bother yourself about her, Herbert. She’s gone.”
“Where has she gone?” I asked. “Do you know where she is?”
It took a lot of resolve to ask these questions, and my voice came out gaspy
and breathless.
“No,” he said. “I don’t. She made her choices and no doubt she’s taking the consequences, somewhere. I don’t think about her and I don’t talk about her. Now get out!” He picked up some papers from his desk and began looking at them. He didn’t look at me. After a moment, I left.
What readers have said:
“… it is beautifully written, with descriptive passages that are a joy to read. Some of the paranormal passages are particularly memorable. ”
“I love character driven stories and I found book 3 incredibly satisfying. It’s not often that all the parts of an over-arching story are equally good. These are. Very good.”
“The adult Herbert explores love and experiences loss and learns to see beauty. I came to care for him so much that he will stay with me many years I’m sure.”
Islands of the Gulf Volume 2, The Treasure is available from:
In November 2000, I started writing the first novel of what would become the Herbert West Series. This November, I have set myself a goal to finish writing a collection of stories I intend to publish in 2020. Call it my own version of NaNoWriMo. So, I’ve scheduled posts for the next four weeks featuring each of the four books of the series. Oh, and November 7th was Herbert West’s 133rd birthday!
Next comes Islands of the Gulf Volume 1, The Journey
Once, he was Herbert West, superlative surgeon and revivifier of the dead. Now he’s lost his reputation, his country and his name. Rebuilding his life as a country doctor on Bellefleur Island, he struggles with doubts, emotional entanglements and terrible memories of the Great War. Above all, he must forge a new relationship with his old adversary – death – and negotiate with a new one – love.
When I finished writing The Friendship of Mortals, I couldn’t let go of the story. As one of the reviews I quoted says, it ends with something like a cliffhanger. I also decided to move the action to my part of the world — the west coast of Canada, specifically the Gulf Islands. I invented a fictional island and people to live on it, and sent Herbert West (under an assumed name) on a long journey to that destination. As other reviews (see below) point out, this novel is about relationships and personal choices, rather than the supernatural.
The novel has two narrators, Andre Boudreau and Margaret Bellgarde. Here is an excerpt from each of them.
I don’t have memories of my childhood. My first memories are
of blackness. I came out of blackness. I was a very small thing, a little spark
in the blackness. That was all, for a long time.
Then I began to see. Only for short moments, like when
there’s lightning at night. Except it was slow lightning. I’d open my eyes and
see things, but I didn’t know what they were. Now I think they were the roof of
a tent, the inside of a train, the ceiling of some building. A face. Another
face. Faces coming and going. Sometimes I heard groans, screams, someone
praying in words I couldn’t understand. Maybe it was me. I couldn’t feel
anything, though. There was no pain. I wasn’t even cold. Then the darkness
again, for I don’t know how long. It wasn’t really me who saw and heard these
things, just a little part of me acting like a scout for the rest, which was
back in the blackness, waiting for the scout to report so it could decide what
to do next.
There was one picture clearer than the rest – I saw the
angel of death standing before me. He was beautiful and terrible – all white
and silver, with eyes like ice. He looked at me for a long time and said, “No.
Not this one. He’s already dead.” So I thought, “There’s no need to hold on
anymore,” and let myself slide back into the blackness. As I went I said
goodbye to everything – my childhood, family, comrades, my newly hatched young
man’s ambitions and lusts. I wasn’t going to go back to New Brunswick after the
war to show them how things worked in the big world. Goodbye, everyone. Goodbye
Maman, Papa, Nicholas, Michel, Roger, Paulette, Marguerite, sweet little
Louise. Goodbye, Grassadoo, goodbye Andre. Short but sweet, it was. Now it’s
all gone.
I don’t know how long it lasted. I don’t think I’ll ever
know. But it was nothing. There was no “I” any more. It’s like trying to think
of what there was, before there was anything. Before God made the world there
was nothing, they say. But there was –
No, nothing. My mind can’t think this thing. So I say only: there was
nothing.
Then, my first new memory. It was only a feeling. Hot, like
fire. Fire was running all through me. I was a man made of fire and heat, my
shape burning a hole in the nothing. A red mist swirled through my head and I
could feel my heart pumping. No, being
pumped, by something outside me. It was like a machine had taken over and was
running me, running too hard and hot and jerky. It felt dangerous. It felt wrong. It was worse than dying. I was
terribly afraid. Maybe I was in Hell and this would go on forever.
Then I opened my eyes. No, that wasn’t it. My eyes were
opened, like somebody pulled a string. Light stabbed into my head, and the pain
it made joined the heat in my body. I saw the angel again and thought, “I must
be in Heaven. But why does everything hurt, and why am I so afraid?”
He was different now, not like the death angel I saw before. He was white and golden now. There was a brightness behind his head, and his strange bright eyes seemed to look right into my soul. I was still afraid, but I could feel his hands touching me, cooling the heat in my body. Then I was in a river, moving faster and faster. Was I going to drown? I didn’t care any more. It was too much trouble to care. I closed my eyes and gave up. If the angel wanted to, he would save me. If not, it didn’t matter.
The first time I saw him I thought he was my husband. Which was absurd, of course, because by then Richard had been dead for nearly ten years – Richard Bellgarde, the man I married, who brought me to Bellefleur. But the evening before I had seen a perfect little silver crescent moon floating over the house – just like the one over the old London houses the night we met. So an unthinking part of me must have expected to see Richard as well.
That day in April of 1926, when the Captain came back from
Victoria, I was on the dock, along with Joe the handyman. A couple of men from
the farm were there too, and the usual collection of boys who should have been
in school, but had escaped early to hang around the dock in case something
interesting happened.
As the launch came closer, I could distinguish the four men
aboard – Todd at the wheel as usual, and the Captain close by him. He rarely
steered a boat, but was generally ‘on the bridge,’ a hold-over from his
seafaring days. A little apart from them were a short, dark-haired fellow and –
it’s Richard! I thought, even though
I knew that was impossible. But for a moment there was such a resemblance – the
way he held his head, his bright hair ruffled by the breeze. Almost I could see
the smile in his eyes, the one he saved for me alone.
These notions vanished in the time it took to dock the
launch and make her fast. I could see then that any resemblance between Francis
Dexter and my dead husband was a fleeting and illusory one. Dexter was rather
short, not very much taller than I. As he and the Captain approached me, I thought
that he was quite young, not much over thirty. His face had a sculptured
fineness that created an impression of youth and delicacy.
But there was nothing delicate about the way he gripped my
hand, after a brief awkward moment when it seemed he was about to offer his
left but changed quickly to his right. His eyes looked straight into mine for a
few seconds that banished forever any idea of a resemblance to Richard. For
they were grey eyes, not blue, a strange light colour I found disconcerting,
even as I was charmed by the contrast of long dark lashes and finely drawn
brows. If he reminded me of anyone, it was my son Alex, who has a way of
looking at me sometimes that seems to go beyond the eyes and finds a way
straight into my unspoken thoughts. This man had the same sort of gaze.
Feeling uncomfortable, I distracted myself by paying
attention to his general appearance while we exchanged the conventional
amenities. He wore a tweed suit, old and weathered, but obviously of excellent
cut and quality. The buttons, however, were of bone, rather coarse, suggesting
that the originals had been replaced for some reason. His boots and hat
appeared to have been of the first quality when new, but had been subjected to
long, perhaps hard wear.
His voice was rather soft, or perhaps it was only his
American accent that made it seem so, to ears more familiar with the King’s
English spoken by people anxious to maintain it at all costs in this land so
distant from the mother country. At close quarters I could see that he wasn’t
as young as I had first thought – nearer forty than thirty, judging by the
lines around his mouth and eyes, and the gold-rimmed spectacles he wore.
He struck me as someone who had come down in the world, yet
he wasn’t another remittance man, or one more of the marginal types so often
attracted to our part of the world. He didn’t have the look. There was
something about him that reminded me of the missionaries we sometimes
entertained on Bellefleur – a deliberate renunciation of comforts for a greater
purpose. But that wasn’t quite it either. I wondered who he was, exactly, and
why the Captain had invited him to stay with us. Walking toward the house with
them, I made a mental list of things that would have to be done to accommodate
this guest, and wondered how long he would stay.
“Are you on holiday, Dr. Dexter?” I asked.
“Not exactly,” he said. “A journey, rather. One without a destination as yet.”
What readers have said:
“Islands of the Gulf-Part I slipped down like fine sherry … Beware, though, reader, there’s more than a bit of Patricia Highsmith in Ms. Driscoll, and her heroes–like the Talented Mr. Ripley– have a dark side.”
“The characters are compelling and the plot is a page-turner!”
“Hardcore HPL fans might be disappointed … However, this is a terrific novel in its own right–one of the better works of literary fiction I’ve read. I repeatedly thought of Steinbeck as I read it, specifically “East of Eden”. Like that book, it’s long–sometimes meandering–but it always commands the reader’s interest with its sweeping narrative and gorgeous prose.”
“… this one really kept me up at night as the character of Herbert West continued to evolve and /change/. I particularly liked seeing Herbert West aka Francis Dexter through the eyes of Margaret, the narrator of the second half of the book.”
Islands of the Gulf Volume 1, The Journey is available from:
In November 2000, I started writing the first novel of what would become the Herbert West Series. This November, I have set myself a goal to finish writing a collection of stories I intend to publish in 2020. Call it my own version of NaNoWriMo. So, I’ve scheduled posts for the next four weeks featuring each of the four books of the series. Oh, and November 7th was Herbert West’s 133rd birthday!
First up, The Friendship of Mortals.
Herbert West can revivify the dead – after a fashion. Miskatonic University librarian Charles Milburn agrees to help him, compromising his principles and his romance with Alma Halsey, daughter of the Dean of Medicine. West’s experiments become increasingly risky, but when he prepares to cross the ultimate border, only Charles can save his life – if his conscience lets him.
The novel was inspired by H.P. Lovecraft’s short story “Herbert West, Reanimator.” Don’t ask me why. Something about the premise (scientific reanimation of the dead), the setting (HPL’s fictional Miskatonic University), and the nameless narrator kept niggling at me. I wanted to create something using those elements, with a few of my own added. I gave the narrator a name (Charles Milburn) and a profession (cataloguer at the Miskatonic University Library). In November 2000, those sparks turned into a blaze.
Here is an excerpt from Chapter 3
Alma lived in a curious little apartment at the top of a
house on French Hill Street. Although only a short distance from Arkham’s best
neighbourhoods, the area was showing signs of decline. Many of the houses had
been turned into apartment buildings. Paint had faded and peeled, and efforts
to conceal small blights such as ash cans and laundry lines were flagging. It
was as though the waterfront slum to the north had thrown out a tentacle and
induced a subtle decay.
Alma’s place was furnished in a style which could be
described only as eclectic, but the atmosphere was warm and welcoming. No less
so was Alma herself, wearing a kind of smock over her skirt and blouse, her
hair tied back with a ribbon.
She motioned me to a cushion-laden sofa and went to make tea
while I admired the way she had accommodated the comforts of life in the small
space at her disposal. Her home resembled a ship’s cabin, afloat on the sea of
leaves visible through the windows.
Once she had furnished me with a cup of tea fragrant with honey,
Alma lost no time in pressing me for more details about my dinner with Herbert
West.
“What did he want from you, anyway?”
“What makes you so sure he wanted something? Besides someone
to share a meal with, I mean. He’d just finished exams, he said, and wanted to
celebrate.”
“Hmm. From what I know of Mr. West he is not usually given
to such spontaneous conviviality.”
“He didn’t seem to want anything much, really, just to talk
about… well, his studies and that sort of thing.”
Alma looked unconvinced. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s
softening you up for something.”
“What do you have against Herbert West, anyway?” I asked.
“It was quite plain to me from the moment we met him at the concert that you
don’t care for him.”
“You’re quite right there. I don’t like him. I think he’s
unscrupulous and devious. And a real manipulator. Look at the effect he’s had
on you, for example.”
“What effect?”
“Well, I think you’re quite impressed. I do admit he is very
attractive. But make no mistake, he’s entirely self-centred. And cold as ice.”
I was beginning to think that Alma’s aversion to West was
rooted in nothing more than some sort of romantic connection gone wrong. She
quickly dispelled this notion, however.
“Oh, don’t think I dislike him because he rejected my charms,
or something silly like that. He’s not my type, for one thing. I’ve had very
little to do with him, but I’ve heard quite a lot, from Papa and others at the
Med. School.”
“So what is it you’ve heard?” I asked.
She looked serious. “That’s why I asked you here, actually,
Charles. To tell you what I know about Herbert West so you have something to
counterbalance your romantic notions. Because I still think he sought you out
with some purpose in mind.”
“Sought me out? But he just happened to be at that concert –
”
“Never mind all that. Just listen.”
I listened.
Herbert West had gained admission to the Miskatonic
University Medical School some three years previously, Alma said, having first
obtained a Bachelor of Science degree in chemistry. In short order he began to
make a nuisance of himself by proposing wild theories about the reversibility
of death, and worse, carrying out bizarre and unauthorized experiments on
animals in the Medical School’s laboratories. It was this latter habit that had
caused the college authorities to step in and threaten to restrict his
laboratory privileges.
“Why?” I interjected. “Was he breaking the law – stealing
people’s pet dogs and cats, for example?”
“Well, no,” Alma answered, “but there was something
undisciplined and unstructured about his carryings on. They weren’t part of a
program of rational study, which is what first and second year medical students
are supposed to be engaged in. They aren’t expected to do original research at
that stage, for God’s sake.”
I reflected that for whosever sake West did his experiments,
it wasn’t God’s. Aloud I said,
“It sounds to me as though they were out of their depth with
him. Did it ever occur to anyone that he might be the medical equivalent of a
prodigy? Like that young fellow we heard playing the violin the other night.”
“Oh Charles,” Alma said, shaking her head, “it’s quite
obvious that West did a good job of impressing you. I’m probably wasting my
breath. But he didn’t stop at cats and dogs, however legitimately acquired.
“He got a dead human body from somewhere. Probably one of
his father’s mortuaries. This would have been the fall before last – October or
thereabouts. He’d been told to stop his animal experiments by a certain date,
or else. So I guess he got desperate and decided to try a human being.” She
shook her head again. “Such a waste of his talents. Papa says he’s really very
competent at his normal studies.”
I refrained from pointing out that this could be another
indication that the good professor-doctors of the Medical School simply didn’t
know what to do with the cuckoo in their nest.
“Anyway,” Alma continued, “he got this corpse into the lab
somehow, late at night, of course. He’d bribed the night watchman not to report
him. First and second year students aren’t allowed into the labs at night, you
see.”
West had also smuggled into the lab some sort of apparatus
which he had connected to the corpse. He was engaged in pumping a fluid into it
when he was discovered.
“It was bizarre and horrible to see, apparently,” said Alma.
“It looked as though he’d had an accident with the equipment. A tube had burst,
or something. When Papa and Dr. Hobson got there the place looked like a
slaughterhouse – blood everywhere – the ‘patient’s’ blood, of course, and all
over West too. There he was, blood all over that pretty face of his, but cool
as can be, and laughing! That’s what really bothered them.”
I nearly laughed myself, realizing that this description of
the scene neither surprised nor shocked me. In fact, it was exactly what I
would have expected of the Herbert West I had begun to know. I wondered what
had prompted his laughter. The experiment had failed, of course, so it must
have been ironic amusement at the outrage of those whom he believed to be
willfully ignorant.
“How did your father happen to know that West was in the
laboratory that night?” I asked.
She looked uneasy. “I think someone tipped him off. Another
student, maybe.” She didn’t go so far as to suggest that West had been watched,
but I remembered what he had said about betrayal.
“Anyway, the next day Papa called West on the carpet and
told him he had one chance to redeem himself. And he was forbidden to use any
laboratory at the Medical School except under close supervision, for his course
work only, for the remainder of the year.” She paused. “That seems pretty
lenient to me, considering that he was already under threat of suspension. I
wouldn’t be surprised if West senior weighed in with the senior college
administration to smooth things over for his boy.”
“Yes, what about Hiram West?” I asked. “His son seemed
rather ambivalent about him.”
“Really? A point in his favour, there. Hiram’s a typical
businessman, in most ways. Into every kind of enterprise, and filthy rich. But
none too scrupulous, if what I’ve heard is true. The thing is, he’s the sort of
person that could be persuaded to be a major benefactor of Miskatonic. So it’s
not really in the interests of the college to discipline his son too harshly.
And in your case it’s another reason to be careful.”
“I hardly think I’ll ever pose any threat to Hiram West,” I
said. “Really, Alma, you’re taking all this much too seriously. I admit I find
West a rather interesting type, but our paths aren’t likely to cross very
often, after all.”
“I hope not, for your sake. I have a bad feeling about that
young man.”
“And this young man?” I asked, feeling suddenly playful.
“What sort of feeling do you have about him?”
She regarded me with her head tilted to one side, a little
smile on her lips. “Oh, I think he’s a very nice young man. I quite enjoy his
company. Seriously, Charles, I do. I’m glad you came to Miskatonic.”
We went on then to talk about other things, including Alma’s
ideas about the ‘new woman.’ She felt very strongly that young women should be
encouraged to leave their parents’ homes and support themselves for a while
before they married.
“Otherwise the poor things are perfectly helpless, aside
from housekeeping and looking after children. And so dull, too.”
“You are surely an example of the other kind of woman, then,
Alma. There’s nothing dull about you.”
“I hope not,” she said, looking pleased.
We parted in this mood of friendly bantering. But walking homeward, I knew that my mind was operating on two levels. On one, I was developing a closeness with Alma that I found pleasing and gratifying. On the other, I was ready to throw myself heart and soul into whatever adventures I could find in the proximity of Herbert West. It was as though I stood in a house looking out through two different windows. From one I saw a warm and sunlit meadow, humming with bees, from the other a black sky blazing with unknown stars.
What readers have said:
“Herbert West alarmed, enchanted, and terrified me all at once.”
“An extremely clever and skillfully written reimagining of Lovecraft’s episodic Herbert West stories.”
“Driscoll weaves a believable and intriguing tale, with sympathetic characters despite their skewed moral compass.”
“Wordy but good. I thought I’d never get through it, but it was worth it…even though it sets you up with a cliffhanger at the end!”
“It starts off slow and builds and builds and builds until it’s a wild affirmation of life and love.”
A big old one is down. We knew it was ailing. It had given up part of its substance to the Eaters and Dissolvers, and for long its messages had become faint. It went down hard. The whole net shuddered. The Burrowers trembled and Stompers scattered. Now the entire flow shifts and jiggles. Water has backed up through the nets and mineral transport has halted. Our hyphae tingle, for we know what is to come.
We’ve been through this before. The fall of a big one tears a rift in the fabric, laying the matrix open to That Which Is Above. The whole network redeploys, full of flurries and judders. Messages vibrate through us. Carbon, nitrogen, phosphorus—hold those supplies! Protective compounds, a flux of nutrients—more, more, more! Make chitin, build new tubes, shut down useless sections. Pump and transmit. That old one existed for many lives of our kind, many cycles and thrummings of the World. Its mass—everything it built in its long life—will have to be divided, managed, mobilized for All. Transformation commences!
The crawlers and wigglers, burrowers and borers, they’re at work already. The matrix vibrates with their chewing, grinding, and jabbing. Water comes down from Above. Some of our kind are brewing solvents to squirt down the holes and cracks, loosening the bonds, freeing the elements—to us. We absorb liquids and shunt them from tube to tube, to the ends of our net, to where it mingles with other nets. Our tubes will take the stuff of the Big One and turn it into the stuff of Life.
Life. For the Big One made seeds. We know where they fell, descending soft into the matrix, swelling, breaking open, extending roots and stems. We surround them, cradle them, feed the tender rootlets, make substances to tell them of others of their kind. We transmit wisdom, help them grow and stretch, so they will fill the rift and seek That Which Is Above. We are always here. We endure. We sustain. We dwell in the matrix, and the matrix dwells in us.
Read and see with your mind’s eye these fantastic creatures created by Charles and inspired by made-up words contributed by bloggers. In this case, author John W. Howell and me.
Here we are again at the lab. Going prehistoric for some of these. Enjoy!
The first three monsters have been donated by John W. Howell:
Prehenseltaurus
Thought to be extinct, this ancient bison was recently rediscovered in a small valley that is surrounded by a volcanic ore bubble. They have been living here with minimal predators, so they have thrived without destroying the restricted area. Not as large as a bison, but still bigger than a human, the Prehenseltaurus lives among thick forests. They are capable of getting into the trees thanks to their long horns, which they sharpen on the many chunks of quartz found in the region. Their horns are usually hard and immovable like one would expect, but they are actually made of muscle instead of bone. By relaxing, these parts can be turned into prehensile appendages that allow them to…
After nearly 10 years of writing blog posts, reading blog posts, and commenting on blog posts, I have a pretty good idea of what I like in a blog post: an interesting (to me) topic, well-written, and relatively short. Good comments by other bloggers are a definite bonus. They can elevate a post from statement to conversation.
What are good comments? Ones that add something to what the blogger said, even by arguing disagreeing a bit. Remember what we’re always being told about our fiction writing — conflict adds interest. No one likes vitriolic troll-spew, but when every single comment is blandly positive (Great post! Thanks for this! Got to bookmark!), or there are no comments at all, the reading experience falls flat.
For example, a while ago, I read a reblogged post advising writers to use “sensitivity readers.” I knew from elsewhere that this topic is controversial; some writers see it as bordering on self-censorship. Several bloggers “liked” the post, but no one had anything to say about it. I’ve seen this happen often enough to wonder. Did all these readers just think, “Oh, okay,” and move on to the next thing? (And did I put in my 2 cents’ worth? No, actually. Being in the Far West of the world, I’m often among the last bloggers to read a post, and there’s not much point in formulating a comment only the original poster will see.)
Some posts lend themselves better than others to discussion-type comments. If someone is announcing a new book or sharing a milestone of some sort, no discussion is needed. On the other hand, posts offering advice to writers, or strongly worded screeds taking a particular position on an issue, are vastly improved by comments.
I’m not advocating flat condemnations or being argumentative for the sake of it, but sometimes I wish people wouldn’t appear to swallow all advice with a bland affirmation. If you have reservations or questions about advice given or opinions expressed in a post, articulate them! If you’re a published writer with any measure of success, you have a ground from which to comment and question.
Perhaps bloggers are reluctant to differ with or question opinions in a post because they fear being labelled as negative. In the culture of “positivity,” an apparently negative attitude is perceived as a major flaw. I agree that whiny, bitter screeds full of self-pity, or personal attacks are never acceptable, but a bit of civilized discussion can add dimension and interest to a post.
We’ve all heard this piece of advice: “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything.” I suggest modifying it to: “If you don’t agree with something, turn your disagreement into an opportunity to discuss.”
So, fellow bloggers, what do you think? How do you feel about a bit of civilized quibbling? Feel free to disagree!
In my previous blog (Declared a danger to public health & well being by High Priests of Akismet….sometimes you gotta love a cheap-shot). I put this out along the themes of encouraging Writers when the going gets not so much tough, but as Arid. I thought it might be worth putting out again…..
Annnd Take 2!
Sometimes I indulge in a Shakespeare play session in my DVD collection, and there are effects on my writing which insist on being displayed….
The characters in my novels and stories frequently roam around in the dark, often on some sort of nefarious business. Writing those scenes can be tough. If I want a character to see something important, I have to furnish a plausible light source. In fiction set in the present day, there are reliable flashlights and the mobile phone’s flashlight feature. Imminent battery death can supply a bit of tension to the scene.
But what about earlier eras? Much of my writing is set in the past, specifically the early to mid 20th century. I’ve spent a good deal of time checking whether a specific light source existed at a particular time. When did electric torches (otherwise known as flashlights) come into common use? Eighteen ninety-six. What about car headlights? The earliest ones were carbide lamps. Integrated all-electric lights weren’t common until the 1920s.
Sources of Light
Other light sources include torches (the kind with actual flames), camp fires, glowing lava, candles, oil lamps, gaslights, street lights, moonlight, starlight, lightning flashes, and the ability to see in the dark. (The last is not to be bestowed on a character unless they’re really special, because for humans, it’s a superpower.) Whichever mode of illumination I select, it has to fit the situation. No flashlights (or electric torches) before the late 19th century. Lightning bolts aren’t predictable and usually involve other phenomena as well. If someone is close enough to molten lava for it to show details, they may be dead. Moonlight doesn’t show colours or details all that well, so forget about characters seeing eye colours or reading maps by moonlight. Starlight sounds magical, but is even dimmer.
Matches as we know them didn’t exist until the 19th century and personal cigarette lighters until the 1930s. (The match has an exceedingly interesting history, complete with bad smells, explosions, and phosphorus poisoning, both accidental and intentional.) For even earlier settings, it would be advisable to learn about fire starting methods such as flint and steel, and containers such as fire pots for maintaining and transporting the precious results.
Other Considerationsand the “Ambient Glow”
Candles and torches (the flaming kind) are fire hazards, a fact that can be useful or annoying, depending on your plot. Light can reveal one’s presence as well as help one see. It can conceal as well as reveal if it’s bright enough to blind. The writer must exercise as much caution with light in the darkness as his or her characters. Unless, of course, the action involves the supernatural. In paranormal situations, the ever-popular ambient glow (sourceless, magical light) may be invoked judiciously, as I did in key scenes of my novel She Who Comes Forth.
Utter Darkness
In other scenes, the main character of that novel must endure absolute darkness — the kind where you can’t see anything, even your own hand in front of your face. That degree of darkness is hard to come by, but it’s worth experiencing if you’re planning to write about it. In fact, before writing a scene that takes place in any kind of darkness, the best research might be to replicate the conditions and literally see what you can see (or not).
Stein’s Lab in Soul Eater 
