Some Thoughts About Leeds

Two nights ago I thoroughly enjoyed the official launch of my new novel, The Constant Lovers, at Leeds Central Library. After from the cock-up – the booksellers actually only had two copies of the book for sale – it was a great event, and as close as I’ve come (geographically at least) to appearing on the stage at Leeds Town Hall.

It made me think about my relationship with my hometown. I haven’t lived there since 1976, and I’ve actually spent more time in another place (Seattle). But Leeds has a claim on me, and exerts a hold, that no other place can ever match. In part it might be genetic. My family’s been there since the end of the 18th century. The place is in my DNA. My father grew up in Hunslet, and spent his summers in the relative countryside of Sheepscar, where a relative ran the Victoria – much bigger in the 1920s that it became later, and with a huge garden and supposedly renowned rhubarb garden. For him, above all, it had a piano he could play. My mother’s family was decidedly more middle-class, out in Alwoodley, with a maid and a chauffeur.

Each time I return to Leeds, which is several times a year now, it renews me. Yet, curiously, I see a place that isn’t that. Several places that aren’t there, really. In my mind I see the place from my books, the jail at the top of Kirkgate, the Moot Hall in the middle of Briggate, close to where Harvey Nick’s is (and I know which I’d prefer), Garroway’s Coffee House on the Headrow. In truth, there’s very little of those days left; about the only private residence of that time is now Nash’s, just off New Briggate.

I also see the Leeds of my childhood. The magical toy shop that was the Doll’s Hospital in the County Arcade, Fuller’s where my other and I would meet my grandmother for tea every week, and the department store Marshall’s, which had a uniformed doorman, and where I, a very innocent four-year-old in 1959, saw my first black person in 1959 and asked my mother why the woman was made from chocolate. My mother apologised to the woman, but I truly had never seen a person of colour before. It was a very, very different time, and not a better one. Then there was the music shop at the corner of County Arcade and Cross Arcade where I went with my father when I was seven. Ostensibly we went in to buy a harmonica for me and came out with a baby grand piano, which appeared a few days later in our front room. And I did get my harmonica.

And then I see the Leeds of my youth, the great bookshop opposite Leeds Poly, sorry, Leeds Met, where I discovered Hamsun, the small, two-storey Virgin shop on King Edward Street (I believe), the head shops close buy, the discos at the Poly, gigs at the Town Hall and the 100 Club not far away where I saw Taste and the Nice. On Saturday mornings I’d go into town (before I had a Saturday job), get off at the ABC, cross the street and go down to the basement coffee bar for a frothy coffee before spending the morning mooching around, and maybe buying a record at Virgin or Vallance’s.

Before this descends into mawkish reminiscence, let me say this is simply a small sampling of memories that tie me irrevocably to Leeds. The city formed me much more than I was willing to admit for many years. It took a long time, and many miles, for me to really understand that, and give me the desire to start studying the city’s history.

Out of that have come my books. Apart from being mysteries with (hopefully) good characters, they stand as love letters to Leeds. The city of the 1730s that I describe might not be a beautiful place. The people, many of them, anyway, a degradingly poor, the place stinks. But it’s mine as much as it’s Richard Nottingham’s, and I love it then as I love it now.

A New Year Underway

Perhaps you think that writers don’t work hard, that they jot down a few words and call it day, stopping to laze and enjoy a drink or several. Maybe there are some like that, but I’ve never met any, and hope not took. We tend to be a bunch of real grafters. Especially those who combine fiction writing with other types. It all revolves around deadlines, and in the case of music journalism, those can sometimes be tight. Still, that’s part of the fun, and music remains such an important part of my life…

December and January saw three – yes, three – manuscripts depart from here. A medieval novel is now being sent out to publishers by my agent (yes, it’s crime, but unlike the Leeds books, somewhat gentler), the Seattle novel – now a long novella of almost 50,000 words – is being considered by a small press, and my non-fiction book on Studio One reggae is being considered by an ebook publisher.

That’s a busy start, right? On top of that, Cold Cruel Winter came out as an ebook on January 1 (buy it here), and my new Richard Nottingham novel, The Constant Lovers, will arrive in hardback on the 26th; I’m looking forward to having my author copies this week. America, which has really taken to Cold Cruel Winter of the back of some frankly astonishing reviews, will have to wait until May 1 for publication (although Book Depository in the UK will sell you a copy and not charge you postage). I’ve complete the book trailer for The Constant Lovers, now up on YouTube, and yes, I even did the music. The launch event will be in the Exhibition Room at Leeds Central Library on Tuesday, February 7, 6.30-7.45 pm, and all are welcome, with copies of the book on sale.

That’s all topped by the news that the publishers have accepted the fourth book in the series, Come the Fear. My wonderful editor has gone through it and I’m making my final changes now; it will come out in July, so more on that later. But, even as I plough through those words, I’m writing others – the fifth book in the series, provisionally titled Over the Hills.

Last Friday I discovered that my second novel, Cold Cruel Winter, had been named one of the Top 10 Mysteries of 2011 by Library Journal. At first I didn’t believe it, even when I saw it, and then I became almost speechless for the rest of the day. Next morning I had to check again, just to be certain it wasn’t all a dream. But the words were still there, still in the same order.
It’s one of those things writers dream about, but never expect to actually happen. When it does, when those dreams come true, shock sets in. It drains away slowly, but even six days later it doesn’t feel completely real.
Library Journal is one of the biggest publishing trade magazines in the US, aimed – as you’d guess – at libraries. It had given the book the kind of review I’d have killed to have, but I’d never expected more. Publishers Weekly had also raved about the book, and Kirkus and Booklist had both been very, very positive. The book has been better-received than I’d dared hope.
Since then I’ve been told by the publisher that Cold Cruel Winter has gone into a small second hardback printing. On January 1 it’ll be available globally as an ebook, and January 26 will see it out – in the UK, at least – as a trade paperback.
That’s the same day the follow-up, The Constant Lovers, appears. The official launch will come a week or so later at Leeds Central Library, and I’m flattered that they’ve agreed to host it. I’ve every reason to be grateful to Leeds Libraries, huge supporters of the books in the branches and reading groups. I’ve learned a great deal since The Broken Token appeared in 2010, and now I just want to make the most of that and write – and continue to learn – as much as possible.

On Finishing That Final Edit

And so the edit for my second novel, called Cold Cruel Winter, seems to be over. At least, it’s gone back to the editor, although there might still be a few minor points to discuss.

Am I happier with it? Well, happier than with my first, given that I approached the book with more knowledge of my shortcomings and attempted to correct them. The proof, however, will be in the pudding, which is what readers and reviews think when it appears in May. But I do believe it’s a 100 per cent improvement on the first novel.

The map of Leeds has been drawn by a very talented artist and looks very good indeed. Given that the book revolves around the streets and landmarks of the city, I think a map helps place and ground it for those who don’t know the place, and aids them in finding their bearings. I want the Leeds of 1732 to live for people reading it.

Finishing that edit, saving the file and sending it back is a little like seeing a child leave home – or at least going to school. There will still be the proofs to read through, of course, but the real work is all done.

And meanwhile I’m more than halfway through the third book in the series ( currently known as The Constant Lovers), which is a bit of a surprise. The Broken Token - the first novel - feels like the work of someone else now, in many ways. The characters of Richard Nottingham and John Sedgwick have grown, but I’ve grown even more. This playing God thing is quite fun, as long as I don’t let it get out of hand.

New Novels and the Problem of Literary Agents

Now 12,000 words into The Constant Lovers. The Broken Token was published in America last week, and I’m awaiting word from a pair of publishers about Drive the Cruel Winter Away.

I would happily have stayed with my publisher, but she’s sold out to someone larger (one of the publishers considering the new book). It’s a shame when that happens, having built up an excellent relationship, but she has her reasons, and I respect that. I was pleasantly surprised to receive interest from another publisher, so it’s a case of wait and see what happens, and whether one, or both, make offers on the book.

With this you’d have thought it should be no problem finding a literary agent. Instead it’s just as difficult as if I’d never been published. One, recommended by a fellow author (who also told her agent I’d be getting in touch) hasn’t even bothered to answer my e-mail. Another has my book but has yet to reply; I’ve been advised to give her a month.

All of this makes me greatly appreciate the non-fiction agent I had in America. She replied very promptly, and if she believed something was saleable it tended to sell in days. Fiction is a different beast, I understand that, and that agents can be overwhelmed with submissions. However, you might imagine a record of 30 non fiction books, countless articles, one novel, and 16 years of making a living as a writer (not to mention the interest from two publishers on the second novel) might carry a little clout. Apparently not. The attitudes I’ve had have been decidedly offhand.

Ah well, such is life, it seems. There might well be a good agent out there who’s truly interested in working with someone.