In the past, I have said on this blog that self-consciously striving to put across a message in a story will invariably result in the writing sounding preachy. Instead, I try to simply write a good story with no intended message of any kind, because what is important to me will ultimately be inherent in the material.

With that in mind, this might sound strange, but sometimes it takes others to tell me what my stories are really about. I have often been surprised at the interpretations that have resulted, and in many cases I have agreed – in retrospect – that these interpretations are correct.

A few examples:

During my University days, I made a short science fiction film entitled Gardening and Other Crimes (incidentally this short was subsequently remade with a bigger budget by a friend of mine who is a member of BAFTA). At the time I didn’t intend the film to be anything more than a compelling future shock drama that showcased my ability to direct actors. However, one person who viewed the finished product commented that the whole piece was a political statement about the European Union. Looking back, I can sort of see what he meant.

More recently, I have been told George goes to Mars is about the threat of religious fundamentalism – particularly to women – and the journey to becoming a responsible leader. Again, I didn’t write it with any of that in mind, but yes, it does seem clear in retrospect.

A novel I wrote earlier this year set on Lundy Island – the content of which will remain top secret for now – turned out to be less scary and more melancholy than I originally intended. It was only afterwards that it was suggested to me that the subtext was about dealing with the loss of my father.

I didn’t consciously set out to write a book about grief. Never have. Never will. I mean, how depressing would that be? No, I try to write genre stories that hopefully grip and entertain. Yet in spite of this, I must admit in retrospect that the story does contain an undercurrent of coming to terms with death.

Speaking of my father, one of the comments he made on my upcoming novel Children of the Folded Valley was that it contained a message about the ironies of trying to hide from very serious dangers only to fall victim to those very same dangers by doing so. I have to be a little bit vague, for fear of spoilers, but I was very pleased to hear that he thought I had succeeded in writing something ironic, as that is, quite frankly, bloody difficult to do. But more on that in a future post…

I recently had a conversation with someone about The Place Beyond the Pines in which I said that the film was the most upsetting I had seen in a long time. This person took this to mean I didn’t like the film when the exact opposite was true. I loved it.

Some people cannot comprehend why anyone would want to put themselves through such an experience, or indeed actively seek it out. An acquaintance once told me that he thought every story should have a happy ending. I countered that this was nonsense. How should The Godfather Part II end? Michael Corleone forgives his wife and Fredo, gives up organised crime and embarks on a legitimate olive oil business? Such a finale would be lunacy, and The Godfather Part II, obviously, is one of the most brilliant cinematic experiences out there.

I am interested in stories that scar, stories that make me feel something, and that doesn’t necessarily always mean feel something good. Hysterical laughter and triumphant exhilaration are not the only extremes to which I like to be taken. Being offended, terrified and even monumentally upset are equally valid and often profoundly cathartic responses to a story. Such a response makes me feel alive, and incidentally is one of the reasons I enjoy the horror genre.

How do I explain this supposedly peculiar personality trait to those who don’t relate to what I’m saying? I think Sally Sparrow said it best in the terrific Doctor Who episode Blink. When challenged by a friend who didn’t understand her penchant for abandoned, empty houses, Sally said she liked them because they were sad, and that “sad is happy for deep people”.

I don’t think I’ve ever heard my penchant for all things melancholy summed up so perfectly. On many occasions I have defended my taste for such things in all artistic fields (for example, one of the many things I love about pop group Pet Shop Boys is the way they have such downbeat lyrics to such up tempo music). I remember another conversation I had with someone who found The Remains of the Day (the book and the film) depressing – not because of the beautiful, poignant insights it contains into the tragedy of wasted lives, but because it had no car chases, no sex, no violence, and an unhappy ending.

On a related note, I am often struck by how much tragedy the Bible contains. For instance, Samson is one of my favourite stories ever. It is deeply, deeply moving and I want someone in Hollywood to make a proper film of it.

I wouldn’t go so far as to claim the reverse of Sally Sparrow’s assertion (ie happy is happy for shallow people), but I remain perplexed and baffled at why some individuals seem unable to appreciate tragic art. Generally I find those who have been through difficult or traumatic experiences are not that way inclined (for example, Holocaust survivors do not avoid dark or downbeat stories). Rather, it seems to be individuals who have been through no significant problems in life that are unwilling to engage with such material. Perhaps what lies at the root of this is fear – a subconscious burying-head-in-sand refusal to acknowledge that life can be pretty tough at times.

Obviously, what I have just said is a gross generalisation. All people are different, and if you don’t like tragedy then fair enough. Nevertheless, I believe what I have said has a grain of truth. Stories that are genuine and honest but upsetting allow us to come to terms with or perhaps occasionally make sense of the absurdities and cruelties of our existence.

I must be honest and admit that a couple of people who have read my upcoming novel Children of the Folded Valley found it “desperately sad”. But they meant that as a compliment. Perhaps for them sad is happy for deep people. Incidentally, I disagree with this particular verdict. I don’t think Children of the Folded Valley is desperately sad, although there are certainly upsetting scenes in it. My intention was for it to have an undercurrent of hope, but obviously readers will ultimately judge whether I was successful or not.

Here is the cover for my new book – my first novel for grown-ups – Children of the Folded Valley.

The process of coming up with an appropriate image for this story was tricky for a number of reasons – not the least of which was fear of spoilers. I wanted to avoid a situation akin to the notorious Planet of the Apes DVD, where the famous twist ending was given away by the image on the cover. In the end my designer Charles Bown opted for something minimal and enigmatic. I hope you like it.

Once again, here is the blurb from the back:

“From the author of Uncle Flynn and George goes to Mars…

During a journey to visit his estranged sister, James Harper recalls his childhood in a mysterious valley cut off from the outside world, where he grew up as part of a cult called the Folded Valley Fellowship.

In this seemingly idyllic world, the charismatic Benjamin Smiley claimed to be protecting his followers from an impending nuclear apocalypse.

But the valley concealed a terrifying secret.

A secret that would change Smiley’s followers forever.”

Children of the Folded Valley will be released on the 20th of July as a digital download. Print copies will be available at Lulu.com from the 27th of July.

This year, in addition to the third George Hughes book, George goes to Neptune, I have also completed a first draft of a novel set almost entirely on Lundy Island. Details of this novel will remain top secret for now, but the fact it is set on Lundy got me thinking: is it possible to write convincingly about a real location if you have never actually set foot there?

Visiting Lundy is something I could easily do since I live in South West England, but I haven’t got round to it yet. However I have researched the island in immense detail; examining photographs, poring over maps, reading guide books, discovering details about its population, history, buildings, coastline, flora and fauna… you name it. Furthermore, my mother-in-law has stayed there, and has also provided a great deal of information about what the place looks and feels like.

I am reminded of another author who did very little travel yet wrote extensively about other lands and cultures without actually visiting them: Herge. Many of the cells in the Tintin comics are based on photographs of real places, and it is clear from the text that his subjects are meticulously researched. The fact that Herge did not actually go to many of these places doesn’t seem to detract at all from the richness of his storytelling.

Frankly, if you do your research properly, I don’t think it is strictly necessary to visit a location in order to write about it. A visit can certainly help and provide inspiration, and I would always prefer to do that (I am determined to visit Lundy soon), but I don’t think it is absolutely essential.

Conversely, I would argue that writing about things outside your personal experience is a much more difficult proposition than writing about a location you haven’t actually visited. By that I don’t mean the mechanics of a plot – after all, I haven’t been to Mars, Titan or Neptune but that didn’t stop me writing about visiting them in the George Hughes series – but more the underlying themes of a story.

For example, the battle scenes in The Lord of the Rings have clearly been written by someone who has been in armed conflict (Tolkien served in the British Army during the First World War). As a result, in spite of the fantasy setting, the horrors of war are far more resonant than they would have been otherwise.

Heartbreaking themes of lost fathers crop up again and again in the works of Charles Dickens. Because his own father was imprisoned for debt, this experience no doubt informed much of his writing, making it far more poignant and believable.

My upcoming novel Children of the Folded Valley (out on the 20^th of July) draws on themes of control and abuse in religious cults, of which I have personal experience. I’m not saying it is impossible to write about being in a cult unless you have been in one, but I believe personal experience on the part of the author does make a difference, and is a far more important factor in the success or otherwise of a novel than simply whether or not you have actually visited a location you are writing about.