Here’s a first look at the cover of my new novel, Dr Gribbles and the Beast of Blackthorn Lodge.

The cover was designed by Charles Bown, who also designed the artwork for my previous books.

Whilst the covers for Uncle Flynn and George goes to Mars were more “adult” covers for books aimed at a younger readership (akin to the “adult” covers you find for some editions of the Harry Potter books), in this case, Charles has designed the cover much more with children in mind.

That said, I would never say Dr Gribbles (or any of my books) are exclusively for children. They are really for anyone who enjoys a thrilling adventure.

Dr Gribbles and the Beast of Blackthorn Lodge will be available in various digital formats from the 30th of March.

Print copies will be available from the 6th of April.

Here is the text from the back of the book as a taster:

A thrilling new tale from the author of Uncle Flynn and George goes to Mars…

September 1987.

Curiosity lands Tim Rawling in a world of secrets, spies and a desperate race against time.

The haunted house, the monster and the mad scientist are only the beginning of a terrifying adventure…

My next novel now has a release date.

Dr Gribbles and the Beast of Blackthorn Lodge will be available in various digital formats from the 30th of March.

Print copies will be available from the 6th of April.

If you were gripped by the adventures of Uncle Flynn or the page-turning escapades in George goes to Mars and George goes to Titan, you’ll love the scares, thrills and unexpected twists of Dr Gribbles and the Beast of Blackthorn Lodge!

A fantastic adventure for the young and young at heart, Dr Gribbles is something of a companion piece to Uncle Flynn, whilst also being a rather different, crazier beast. It is definitely a little scarier too, especially in the beginning chapters.

Here is the text from the back of the book as a taster:

A thrilling new tale from the author of Uncle Flynn and George goes to Mars…

September 1987.

Curiosity lands Tim Rawling in a world of secrets, spies and a desperate race against time.

The haunted house, the monster and the mad scientist are only the beginning of a terrifying adventure…

“I used to be partial to tragedy in my youth, until experience taught me life was tragic enough without my having to write about it.” – Amon, Clash of the Titans.

I have included the above quotation not because I necessarily agree with it (although I do share the sentiment to a degree), but because I think it amusingly hints at the two kinds of tragedy we invariably encounter in stories.

The first is what I call Greek tragedy or Shakespearean tragedy. This is the kind of tragedy that we are mercifully unlikely to experience. I’m talking about the likes of Oedipus Rex or Hamlet or The Godfather. Most of us aren’t going to discover we’ve been unknowingly sleeping with our mothers and gouge our eyes out. Nor are we likely to have our uncle murder our father, plan vengeance, commit murder and end up inadvertently responsible for the deaths of our entire family (whilst our other half goes insane and commits suicide for good measure). Nor are we likely to become heads of a mafia organisation, committing – amongst many other sins – fratricide in the process.

The above kind of tragedy, when done really well, makes for a gripping, dramatic story that we can all enjoy from a safe distance, knowing it is extremely unlikely we will find ourselves in similar situations. However the second kind of tragedy is what I call private tragedy. This is the kind of tragedy we are likely to or inevitably will experience; the tragedy of small, mundane and seemingly insignificant events that only spell despair for the person directly involved. Susan Hill’s collection of short stories entitled A Bit of Singing and Dancing contains many tales that illustrate private tragedy. The Remains of the Day is another good example, as is the animated film The Illusionist.

To expound briefly on the latter two examples, The Remains of the Day is about the personal tragedy of wasted lives and being blinded to what is in front of your eyes. The butler Stevens misses his opportunity for happiness with housekeeper Miss Kenton out of a sense of misguided loyalty. Such tragedies are entirely believable not only from that era, but in the present too.

The Illusionist is an interesting one because it taps into a tragedy we will all inevitably experience: wistful nostalgia at the passing of an era. The music hall magician finds himself increasingly upstaged by the rise of rock bands in the late 1950s. He is, like the other music hall acts, gradually becoming obsolete. The highest compliment I can pay The Illusionist – one of my very favourite films of recent years – is that it made me nostalgic for an era I never knew. It is downbeat, deliberately paced and emphatically not for those whose measure of a good film is how many vehicles are destroyed. However, it is nevertheless an achingly sad but lovely, lovely film.

I’ve actually only written one book that is out-and-out tragic. I won’t say which, as I haven’t released it yet, but I tend to think it belongs to the former rather than the latter category. Whilst part of me would like to write a “private” tragedy as brilliant as The Remains of the Day, I’m not sure I have it in me for the reason Amon gives in Clash of the Titans. But I’m not saying it will never happen either.

One of the most popular techniques in first person narrative is that of the “unreliable narrator”. For the uninitiated, this is where the perspective or opinions of the character telling the story are called into question either directly or implicitly. Using such a technique can be difficult, because it really forces the writer to credit the reader with intelligence and draw their own conclusions.

Here then, for no particular reason, are three favourite examples:

In Wuthering Heights, Nelly Dean is far too close to events and the characters concerned to be objective. The other narrator in the story, Lockwood, accepts without question Nelly’s version of events he did not witness, making him unreliable too. Therefore it is left to the reader to make their own judgements on Cathy and Heathcliff’s tumultuous and destructive romance. This very ambiguity that forces the reader to make their own conclusions is what makes Wuthering Heights a great novel.

Similarly, The Great Gatsby also features an unreliable narrator in the form of the emotionally timid Nick. He views Gatsby through seriously rose-tinted spectacles and it becomes increasingly clear to the reader that Gatsby is not merely what Nick says he is. For one thing, Nick continually glosses over the fact that Gatbsy is, for all intents and purposes, a bootlegging gangster.

I’ve talked about The Remains of the Day at some length in other posts, but again the butler Stevens is a classic unreliable narrator – not merely on events, but on his own feelings. His repressed nature is both absurdly comical and heartbreakingly tragic. Therefore when he comments on weighty matters such as whether Lord Darlington was guilty of treason, the reader takes what he says with more than just a pinch of salt. Indeed, the reader can see the truth long before it occurs to Stevens, and even then he can barely admit that he has given the best years of his service to a man who did not deserve it, at the cost of his own happiness.

In addition to the above three examples, there is also cinematic equivalent of the unreliable narrator technique. For example, in Get Carter no-one calls the hypocrisy of Michael Caine’s character into question. That is left to the audience. During opening scenes we see him enjoying a pornographic slideshow with gangster pals in London. But later when he discovers the 8mm dirty film that features his niece, he goes berserk and ends up killing the woman he just slept with (who was involved in the 8mm film). Several other killings follow, but as the story progresses, the viewer does not cheer Caine on in his quest to avenge his brother, as it is clear he is a destructive hypocrite. Yes, those who cross his path are bad, but they don’t all necessarily deserve to die. As a study of the futility of revenge, Get Carter gets the point across better than any other film I can think of.

I’ve tried to employ the unreliable narrator technique a little in some of my as yet unpublished work, though I confess that I don’t feel I have quite cracked it – yet. I shall keep working on it, and in the meantime watch this space.