How I write: Phil Rowlands
October is the time for Conkers, Crime, and Halloween but I wonder if Stephen King had little hiccups like these as he created his worlds of horror…
I have a mantra when I start to write…
- always keep the storyline in sight
- dialogue must earn its space
- repetition must be avoided.
Writing is not easy, it plays with you, tests you, frustrates you, but also gives you hope, joy and purpose. From conception to completion the journey is full of twists and turns, some right, some wrong. Some help, some don’t. Words you use to create a story seem to be inevitable, seamless and subtle – until you read them again and they are repetitive, boring and have no place or reason to be there. As this paragraph demonstrates.
Not an optimistic start to this little jumble of thoughts but here’s the thing…
I am in the middle of writing my next book and it’s taking for ever. I am so bored with saying to those who kindly ask about it that I should have, would have, could have, finished it. Other things got in the way – life, day job of books and screenplays that seemed to be asleep but have now woken – demanding attention.
Our small indie press, Diamond Crime, is a constant source of mostly happy distraction as we collaborate with our wonderful authors to produce the best for their books. We are a tiny team and do everything with the skills we had or those we have learned. If one of the three of us is ill, the pressure mounts on the others. Not complaining, just saying.
My next book is set in Wales and Spain, both in contemporary and historic times. It is about a particular incident and its repercussions. It tells the story of a jeweller in Alicante during the Spanish Civil War and how the theft of a hugely valuable diamond causes trauma and tragedy then, and impacts dangerously on the life of his great grandson now. I love writing it but sometimes in bursts of only a couple of hours before I must prioritise my ever increasing to do list, I wonder if I should leave it, dangling, until I can steal a month or two to be alone in its world. That seems an impossible dream. It’s my own fault. When I managed to have a holiday and research respite in Alicante, I happened upon another story, so closely connected to my diamond tale, of an unsung Welsh hero of the Spanish Civil War who rescued nearly three thousand people fleeing the fascists by taking them on board his small cargo ship. He will, in a mix of fact and fiction, appear in the book. Talk about rabbit holes. It was a warren that led to Algeria and Spanish film producers who knew more of the man than anyone in Wales, apart from his wonderful ninety-two-year-old son, whom I met.
But I will finish the book this year or early next. I must. Definitely. I am a storyteller. it’s just I have too many stories swirling, fighting for a place.
Anyway, here is a little taste of the Zoyas Diamond. It introduces the jeweller, Emilio.
ALICANTE, SPAIN, MARCH 1939
In one corner of my small workshop there is a large church candle that colours the space and throws flickering shadows and shapes on cluttered shelves and the designs of necklaces, brooches and rings that cover the walls. On the smooth wooden work top, lit by a strong beam of light from a large naked bulb, are the pliers, cutters and all the other small, delicate, sharp, and strong tools I need, all passed down from grandfather to father and then to me. Three generations of designers and makers. I like to believe that their passion and love for the stones empowers me through the instruments they used, although I add in my own creative skills too, my little bit of magic.
At night I like the warmth and atmosphere created by the candle but still need the bright light to be able to do this intricate work.
It is late, after two am and I am exhausted but need to finish the diamond and ruby ring for Rosetta Osuna for her engagement. I give it a final polish then put the loupe over my right eye and look at it closely under the light. It sparkles beautifully. I know it is good but will look at it again tomorrow in the daylight. In the sun, even in early Spring, the natural light allows the purity of the stone to show through. I’m sure that Leonardo, Rosetta’s future husband, will be delighted with it. When something is this good, I have no doubt.
After long hours concentrating on the shaping and styling, my shoulders ache, my eyes are scratchy, my back tight, my fingers hurt and the tiny cuts on them from the sharp slivers of stone sting. I have been working on the ring since early yesterday, sleeping for a few hours then starting again with short breaks to eat, drink and move my fingers to ease the stiffness. I’m only thirty but if I don’t keep them supple and exercised, by the time I’m sixty, they will be arthritic, painful, and swollen. I’ve made myself a soft ball that I hold tightly and squeeze when I remember. That really helps. It amuses Ricardo, my sixteen-year old apprentice but, if he stays in the trade, he will learn.
I put the ring in a black silk bag and lay it to one side of the wooden block where there is a small pile of offcuts to be used in the setting of another piece.
We’re three years into the war now and I had been doing this clandestine crafting since the beginning of the second when people, whom I suspected were fifth columnists, falangists, living under cover in the city, had started to come to me with stolen pieces they wanted to be reworked into another design, and occasionally large rough diamonds to cut and set into necklaces, brooches and earrings. As with anything that is creative and fashionable, even in times of conflict, jewellery making and design passes from one favoured artisan to another as word of mouth gets around. I have a reputation for quality work, so the demand is high and, seeing it as a good way to raise money to pass on to the Government to help with the war, I encouraged it. The more obvious signs from these ‘clients’ were an arrogance of wealth and privilege, a furtiveness, a willingness to accept my price without argument and commissions arranged through an intermediary I already knew and who would want these transactions as hidden as I did. I worked hard to become someone to be trusted. Someone who didn’t ask questions. Although the price I could get was not what it would be in the real world, my restructured pieces sold well: for these, I used the small offcuts taken from the precious stones I was reworking. I didn’t care who bought them, it all added to the republican pot.
I have, so far, got away without being found out but I am going to stop before my luck turns. I have one more job to do though: careful prising out from an existing piece a large and pure diamond, recutting and then resetting it into a pendant. I will of course take an offcut, probably more than usual, as a last defiance. It will be my perfect swansong. It had come to me through a priest, who had over the years acted for various devious and powerful Catholic clients, but his main source was Alphonso Suarez, one of Franco’s most corrupt generals, a man of little humanity, who is evil and heartless and has accrued a fortune on the backs of those suffering the horrors of war, from stolen goods that were repurposed and sold on without his involvement or presence ever being suspected. But the priest, Pablo, had made it clear to me from the beginning who he was working for and why he was enlisting my help. He abhorred the way the Catholic elite were willing to accept, facilitate and collaborate with the fascists to ensure that when Spain came back under papal control, it would enrich, not only in the pious politics of the people but also increase their vast wealth. What worked for Franco worked for the Catholics too.
Pablo was a devout man of the people and one who made choices guided by his deep faith and belief, not the Church’s favour or instruction. And so, our relationship had grown in strength through secrecy, determination and deceit.
So, that is the excerpt, a work in progress, raw and rough.
The large diamond that Emilio will work on is the Zoyas Diamond, one of the most valuable in Spain. It had come from Russia and was originally known as the Chekov Diamond but somewhere in the late 1800s the name was changed to Zoyas, after Maria de Zoyas, a prominent feminist writer in the Golden Age of Spanish literature. It was, before being stolen by Suarez, owned by a wealthy branch of the Medina family.
I am desperate to finish the story. I know the ending but not yet how I get there.
So, to go back to where I started…
- always keep the storyline in sight
- dialogue must earn its space
- repetition must be avoided.
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