Seven years ago, this month, my most successful novel to date, Children of the Folded Valley, was self-published by yours truly. The novel is a first-person memoir, about a man recalling his childhood growing up amid a strange, seemingly utopian cult, cut off from the rest of the world. The cult leader has gathered his followers in a mysterious valley because he believes they will be safe there, from a coming nuclear Holocaust.
The precise nature of the hidden valley is revealed later, but this science fiction ingredient is the least important part of the narrative. What is important are the coming-of-age elements, involving the protagonist’s relationship with his parents, friends, and the traumatic events that ensue as terrible secrets at the heart of the cult are gradually revealed. I should add at this point that although entirely fictional (obviously, given the sci-fi aspect), the novel did draw from some of my own personal experiences growing up. However, I must also add that the death of my father did not inform the novel, as some mistakenly claimed. The first draft was written a year before that, in the summer of 2011. The death of the father in the novel was an essential element of the plot, foreseen from the outset.
Once I had the finished draft, I shopped Children of the Folded Valley around major publishers. I came frustratingly close to success, but in the end, the door closed. Somewhat disappointed, I decided to self-publish. To say I was surprised by the result is an understatement. I had self-published a few novels already – mainly children’s adventure stories like Uncle Flynn – but this was my first grown-up book. I did not expect it to be a big success, yet in the end over 11,000 copies (most of them free downloads) flew off the digital shelves, landing me at the number one spot on Amazon’s free novels on the science fiction chart.
The decision to make the novel free for a couple of months was a strategic one, and at the time I didn’t think getting to number one on the free science fiction chart was a big deal. But apparently, it was. Later when I tried to replicate the success with other novels, I didn’t come anywhere close. This is despite the fact that my marketing and promotion was much better organised with subsequent novels (including those traditionally published rather than self-published).
What am I to conclude from all this? Was the success of Children of the Folded Valley down to good timing? Subject matter? An act of God? I honestly couldn’t say. For some reason, it struck a chord. If I were writing it today, there are a couple of things I would do differently (at least one chapter is a bit of an info-dump), but it is a good reflection of my skills at that time, and as an author, it is important to always strive for improvement (my second foray into dystopian fiction, Peaceful Quiet Lives, I think is a significant improvement). On the other hand, with over a hundred mostly five-star reviews on Amazon, and about a hundred and seventy on Goodreads, I clearly did something right seven years ago.
Children of the Folded Valley is available on Amazon Kindle or paperback here (in the UK) and here (in the US). It can also be purchased from Smashwords here.
In late 2017, I self-published my one and only animal fiction adventure novel, Echo and the White Howl. Set in the Alaskan wilderness, it’s a gripping revenge story packed with hunts, blizzards, and dangerous journeys, with a mysterious, supernatural edge. It also proved one of the most challenging projects of my writing career.
I decided to pen this novel after my youngest son begged me to write him a story about wolves. Although I initially resisted the notion, rather irritatingly, an excellent narrative occurred to me, and the voices in my head wouldn’t shut up about it. In the end, much to my son’s delight, I had no choice but to write the damn thing. In the process, I learned three important lessons:
Writing animal fiction is bloody difficult
Animal fiction is a fiend because it is tricky to tread the line between assigning relatable human attributes to animal characters whilst making sure their knowledge doesn’t go beyond what they would naturally know. A myriad of choices complicates this, from turns of phrase to the wolves’ knowledge of the world around them. For example, I had to weed out a lot of human expressions from the dialogue or create wolf equivalents. A wolf wouldn’t be unable to put its finger on the problem, for instance, as they have paws. It also gets awkward when describing human devices of which they have no knowledge (for example guns). In addition, when hearing about places beyond their natural habitat (eg cities, or the sea), again, they have to be seen to not fully comprehend such concepts.
Animal fiction is a technique, not a genre
Animal fiction can incorporate everything from comedy to satire, allegory, adventure, fantasy, romance, and more. In my case, Echo and the White Howl is a coming-of-age adventure tale aimed at anyone capable of reading it and up. The book combines atmospheric, dirt-and-snow-under-the-paws Alaskan wilderness realism with a few mystical elements. In keeping with the traditions of much animal fiction, humans lurk on the narrative periphery as an ever-present menace. Key inspirations include Watership Down, Bambi, and bizarrely, Twin Peaks.
Suspension of disbelief: Where to incorporate research, and where to ignore it
Again, this was a fiend. I undertook the usual deluge of research for writing this novel, but how much of it I should incorporate became a constant question. I have included elements of how cubs are raised, how a pack hunts, the challenges to become Alpha, and so on. However, science tells me wolves see in black and white. Needless to say, I ignored the latter point and opted for poetic licence, for much the same reason George Lucas opted for poetic licence when deciding we should hear those cool laser sounds and explosions in the Star Wars space battles, despite the fact that space is a vacuum, and we’d hear nothing were such battles to take place in reality.
Beyond all of this, I had a particularly difficult time coming up with a good title. The first draft was penned under the unimaginative moniker Wolf Story, but try as I might, I could not settle on a proper name. My excellent friend Yasmine Nuoraho, who designed the wonderful cover for the novel, trolled me with many unhelpful suggestions, including A Tale of Tails and Lupine Larks. Yet in the end, it was she who came up with Echo and the White Howl, which is nicely enigmatic.
All things considered, I don’t think I will ever attempt animal fiction again (although never say never), but I am immensely proud of Echo and the White Howl, and dare I say, I think it deserves a much bigger readership. A number of people have read some odd things into it (one person insisted it was a Brexit allegory) but whilst some of my familiar themes are present – megalomaniacal abuse of power for instance – I certainly didn’t write the novel with any clear message in mind. I just wanted it to be a first-rate adventure story.
Echo and the White Howl can be purchased from Amazon here (in the UK), and here (in the US).
I’ve been very active on Medium over the last month. I’ve even started my own publication entitled Simon Dillon Cinema for the film reviews you see on this blog, to get them to a wider readership. Obviously they will continue to be available for free here.
To the matter at hand, here are some articles that you might have missed, in various Medium publications. Check them out by following the links below. Please “clap” generously by clicking your mouse on the “clap” icon, as that is a huge help to me, trying to get the Algorithmic Overlords to distribute my work further. Thank you.
Difficult to craft but brilliant when well-written.
DISCLAIMER: The Writing Cooperative submission guidelines require I use “US English”. I know this will upset my fellow Queens-English Brits, hence the “trigger warning” (if you’ll forgive my use of an obscenity).
With the exception of a couple of short stories, last year I took an extended break from fiction writing after finishing the first draft of a novel tentatively titled The White Nest. This story proved every bit as “personal” as Children of the Folded Valley. In fact, given the level of raw nerve jabbing involved, it’s safe to say I did something of a “Truman Capote”. What I mean by that is Capote was scarred to such a degree after writing his masterpiece In Cold Blood that he never finished another novel.
I am not comparing myself to such a literary giant, nor did I do anything as drastic as attend executions for my art, as he did, but the painful truth is that writing The White Nest affected me in ways I’m still coming to terms with. For some time, I wondered if my “voices” would ever return. I wrote a bit about that experience in this article on Medium. Thankfully I can report that the voices are back.
This year so far, I have written the first novel in a planned trilogy of fantasy stories that exist in the same Universe as my as-yet unpublished dark fairy tale novel The Faerie Gate. However, despite being pleased that I’ve managed to write another novel, I’m not yet convinced the quality is high enough to warrant being shared with the world. I feared the same for The White Nest, but having finally braved another look at the manuscript, I am pleased to report that is not the case.
The White Nest (I’m keeping the real title secret for now) is another gothic mystery, at least in part. It is also a coming-of-age story, a romance, a conspiracy thriller, and obviously it contains some strong horror elements. It deals in themes of complicated sibling relationships, parental fears, and false guilt. Reading it back, I can see why the process of writing it had such an effect on me, due to some of the painful personal experiences on which I am drawing. That said, I think readers will simply enjoy it as a vivid, gripping, page-turning mystery, which was always my primary intention. I think it might contain the best first act I’ve ever written. I can’t say if the ending is up to the same standard, as I’ve yet to reread it, but so far the signs are promising.
In terms of plot, The White Nest represents something of a departure from my previous gothic mysteries, in that the protagonist is male. I’m keeping the specifics under wraps for now, but I can tell you the story contains a full checklist of my favourite gothic tropes, including a sleepy south-west England village, haunted forest, eerie mansion, secret tunnels, dubious secret experimental facilities, occult secret societies, ghosts, demons, curses, mysterious disappearances, childhood memories buried by trauma, rug-pulling twist ending… you name it. You could even call this novel Now That’s What I Call A Simon Dillon Gothic Mystery if you really wanted to, as it is something of a compilation of my preoccupations, genre wise.
Here are some photographs of locations that inspired settings for certain sequences in The White Nest. The novel is predominantly set in Cornwall, but much of the landscape is based on the rugged North Devon coast. However, the first part of the novel is set in Oxford. One key scene takes place in Port Meadow.
Once I finish a second draft of The White Nest, I am moving on to a new gothic mystery, one that’s been gestating in my mind for some time. It is getting to the point where it is an itch I have to scratch, and I’m looking forward to developing it. In the meantime, I may well release a volume of short stories in the future, as I’ve now got quite a nice pile of these, and it would be nice to have them all together in one place. As ever, watch this space.
Call the Number On Your Screen is a new short story by yours truly, available for your reading pleasure in Illumination, a publication on Medium. It concerns a corrupt televangelist who takes extreme measures to find his blackmailer. Satirical of a certain kind of American televangelist, it also draws inspiration from hard boiled noir crime fiction. As such it’s a little outside my usual genre, but writing it was a fun experiment. Besides, the themes – corrupt religious figures, abuse of power – will be familiar from my other works.
My short story Papercut was recently removed from the Short Stories section of this blog, but it has now returned. The reason for the removal was that I submitted a screenplay version to the BBC Writers Room. It didn’t win, but I did make it to the second round (the top 10 percent of five thousand odd submissions). I received an encouraging note from the BBC saying this was no small feat considering the competition. They also encouraged me to send further screenplays, which was nice.
Papercut was originally published in the Dragon Soul Press romantic fantasy anthology First Love. The story concerns a lonely teenage boy living with his ultra-strict Jehovah’s Witness mother. In his dreams, he is visited by a mysterious girl made entirely of paper, leading to a fantastical journey into… Well, click here to download the story for yourself.
If you’re curious, you can also download the screenplay version which streamlines and reinvents one or two areas of the story, particularly in the first act. Translating from one medium to another is a challenging task, especially when trying to find visual equivalents for inner monologue.
In case you were wondering, the above images, from classic fantasy adventure movie Jason and the Argonauts, and the iconic music video to A-ha’s 1985 hit Take on Me, were a visual and tonal influence on Papercut.
Trial Period is the latest short story by yours truly, available for your reading pleasure in Illumination, a publication on Medium. It concerns a former publisher and his young female subordinate, who form an unlikely friendship whilst working for a herbal remedy company. (No, nothing sexual happens, so if that’s what you’re after, look elsewhere.)
Instead of doing the usual thing of publishing it in chunks (it’s just over 10,000 words), Illumination have published it in full, mainly as a stats related experiment I won’t bore you with. However, in my view, having it all in one hit like this makes for a more satisfying reading experience, instead of needing to click from one part to the next.
This is a bit of an offbeat piece for me, but some of it reflects my present predicament. The protagonist isn’t me (he can’t be, as he doesn’t like horror) but he’s one of the closest characters to me that I’ve yet written. Speaking of horror, this isn’t a scary tale so anyone can read it, although it does have a supernatural tinge at one point.
Here’s the first part of the first chapter of my recently re-released gothic mystery novel Phantom Audition:
What Mia noticed most was the silence.
She kept expecting to hear Steven’s voice, or the insistent thud of his feet, as he rehearsed his lines, pacing up and down. She expected to hear him on the phone to his agent, publicist, or to a director.
In the mornings, she no longer heard his absurd singing in the shower. His seat at the breakfast table stood empty. Mia would avert her eyes, unable to bear staring at the space he should occupy. He should be sipping his tea, scrolling through his phone, crunching his cereal… Silence chewed the room instead, like wind and rain gnawing an eroding landscape.
At nights, Mia would awaken and roll over, hoping to warm herself on his body. But Steven wasn’t there, and he wasn’t coming back. He had been replaced with the same terrible silence that screamed, clawed, and tore at her mind whenever she entered the rooms that still had his smell. The memory of her husband had stained the entire house.
Mia had always thought the mansion ludicrously big for the pair of them, but now more than ever she felt the size of the place. A curious unease lingered, as though the carpets, furniture, paintings, and ornaments had turned against her. She felt like a stranger in her own home, imagining everything around her glared in frowning disapproval. Perhaps her presence was a desecration.
One Monday morning a month after the funeral, the unpleasant sensation of feeling watched by the house became too much, and Mia yelled out into the silence.
‘It’s my bloody home too!’
The house responded without mercy, making every tiny tick of the clock an intolerable cacophony. Mia put her hands over her ears. She knew her behaviour was absurd, but the curious mixture of anger and fear that stirred within her had taken her by surprise. Sadness at Steven’s passing was to be expected, but she had not expected to feel so defensive or fearful. Perhaps bewilderment at the events leading up to his suicide by drug overdose still had her on edge.
Even though she still wore her dressing gown, Mia continued to sit in the morning room, on an ornate Elizabethan chair that matched other antique furniture in the room from the same period. Occupying this chair felt like a strangely defiant act, as though she were challenging the house itself. Steven’s ancestors glared down at her from portraits on the wall. His home was now hers, and sooner or later, the ancestors would just have to accept it.
‘It’s my bloody home,’ Mia muttered. ‘Deal with it.’
‘A-hem!’
Mia leapt out of the chair and spun towards the doorway. A middle-aged woman in a maid’s uniform stood there, her face unsmiling and severe.
‘Liza… Good God, you made me jump!’
‘Ma’am,’ said Liza. ‘I apologise for startling you. I know I’m a little early.’
‘Yes, yes, of course… Is it Monday already?’
Liza didn’t reply. Her eyes bored into Mia.
‘Of course it’s Monday.’
Mia looked down, avoiding Liza’s glare. Eventually the maid spoke again.
‘I can come back to this room later if you like, ma’am.’
‘No, no, that’s fine. I’ll get out of your way. I need to have a shower really.’
Mia scurried out of the morning room and headed back up the main staircase to the west wing. She locked herself in her bathroom, feeling very foolish. Her heart beat a little faster as she tried to get a grip on herself, staring into the mirror.
‘It’s my bloody home. Mine.’
But it didn’t feel like her home. Liza Richards, a hired cleaner who came in on most days, had been employed by the Yardley family for years, and her demeanour was more like that of a proud, old-school housekeeper. That Mia had leapt out of the Elizabethan chair when challenged by Liza, as though she were some disobedient child, underscored to Mia yet again that she felt threatened by Elm House, the ancestral home of her late husband, the renowned actor Steven Yardley.
Renowned actor.
Renowned.
Perhaps that was the problem. Steven had been renowned in many ways. Rich family. Successful acting career. What was she in comparison? Mia recalled the whispers when they had married three years previously, that she was little more than a gold-digging, hack bit-part actress. Such rumours never bothered her whilst Steven had been alive, for they were utterly false. She and Steven had loved one another with an enviable passion. Their marriage had been one made for the right reasons. What did it matter what anyone else thought?
However, since Steven’s death, after inheriting everything, it had been impossible not to feel this resentment amid icy stares at the funeral, and at the reading of the will.
‘My bloody home…’
Tears streamed down Mia’s face as she stared into the mirror. She felt utterly pathetic. A part of her wanted to return downstairs to the morning room. She wanted to place herself in that Elizabethan chair with her arms folded, reading the paper, and glaring at Liza as she went about her cleaning duties. But she felt so utterly defeated. Her stomach twisted, and she felt sick. She slumped to the floor, bent double, sobbing.
‘Steven… Steven…’
She allowed herself a moment to cry. But after a couple of minutes of anguish, Mia took a deep breath, wiped her face, and stood up again. She couldn’t allow Liza to see her like this. She had to be strong.
Mia took a shower then headed to her bedroom to get dressed. For a moment, she toyed with the idea of lurking upstairs until Liza had finished, but part of her despised such a cowardly notion. Why should she want to avoid Liza? She was an employee. Besides, the gardener was due to arrive soon, and she had to give him instructions.
Mia returned downstairs to the kitchen. She made herself a cup of tea and sat at the kitchen table for a few minutes. Still the silence taunted, but Mia ignored it.
Outside, the mid-February drizzle threatened to become a downpour. Staring out of the window towards the driveway, her eyes came to rest on a large horse chestnut tree amid the extensive gardens. The branches were stark and bare right now, but Mia recalled Steven’s fondness for that particular tree, and the significance it had held for him throughout his entire life. Mia briefly closed her eyes, remembering a summer’s day when they had sat beneath the horse chestnut tree in the warm afternoon sun, with the lingering scent of freshly cut grass and white roses. She could still taste the honey on her lips and his. She recalled the wasp sting that had rudely interrupted their passionate kiss. Placing her hand to her arm, she rubbed the place where the wasp had struck. Was it her imagination or was there still a scar?
For more, pick up your copy of Phantom Audition in paperback or ebook here (in the UK), and here (in the US). Or you can click here, to download the book from Smashwords.
Here’s a list of all my short stories currently published, along with a brief description for each, and a link to where they can be read (titles lead to Medium, but Papercut is also available on this blog).
Dystopian Science Fiction/Romance. In a fascistic future London, a widower begins to suspect he has repressed memories when he encounters a mysterious woman.
NOTE: The above links to part one of four. Links to subsequent instalments appear at the end of each part.
My horror/supernatural thriller novel The Irresistible Summons has recently been re-released with a new cover. It’s probably the scariest of my ghostly gothic mysteries, particularly in the final section of the book. However, here’s the prologue, which I promise it’s safe to read even if your nerves aren’t up to reading the rest of the novel.
FIRE INVESTIGATION CONCLUDES: TRAGIC ACCIDENT
A tragic electrical accident started the fire that consumed 22 Bainbridge Close, fire brigade investigators have ruled. The inferno, which killed all members of the Lane family, shocked the local community to its core, on the 17th September 2001. In their concluding remarks, investigators once again reiterated the importance of fitting smoke alarms and urged for campaigns to raise awareness.
Naomi stood at Toby Lane’s grave, clutching the same tattered local newspaper article she had read again and again over the past year. Murky skies blocked out the sun and a chill wind blew in from the east. St Mary’s church – a medieval granite building with a pointed bell tower – loomed behind her. Tree branches creaked and blew in the wind, amid a light drizzle. Naomi’s eyes fell on the article again.
‘I know there were smoke alarms. I remember seeing them just before we…’
Her voice faltered. The memories were overpowering. She had been sixteen, Toby seventeen. Out of the corner of her eye, she had glimpsed said smoke alarms during a moment when she had been greatly distracted by other matters. But the alarms had been there, even if she had only seen them for a second before her eyes closed.
Naomi had been too overwhelmed with shock and grief to tell anyone about the smoke alarms. Nor did she have reason to think there was anything suspicious about the way the fire brigade had arrived at an incorrect conclusion.
For many months, Toby’s memory tormented the utterly broken-hearted Naomi. She half-expected to see him in the streets, on the beach, in the woods, or the other secret places they had visited together. When she was alone, Naomi imagined Toby’s spirit in the room with her. She would hold imaginary conversations with him, anticipating responses and acting as though he were really present.
Often these conversations were later followed by dreams. In these dreams, Naomi conversed with Toby, clinging to every moment they had together, willing herself not to wake up.
During one such dream, Toby spoke a single sentence that haunted her throughout the years that followed.
We can be together again.
For a long time Naomi wondered if this was a subconscious, suicidal urge to join Toby in death. But as months went by, she became less convinced, and eventually dismissed the dream as little more than a small, desperate part of her burning love that refused to be entirely snuffed out by the passage of time.
‘I miss you,’ she whispered.
Naomi welled up as she placed a handful of crocuses next to the gravestone, knowing Toby would have understood the significance.
A tall figure in dark robes ambled along the nearby path. Reverend Patrick Mortimer had presided over the Lane family funeral. His bony, severe cheekbones had frightened her as a child, but now she observed a comforting warmth in his hazel eyes.
‘A year to the day,’ said Reverend Mortimer. ‘Still hard to take in, isn’t it? Thousands of people die in New York. Then six days later, our community experiences a tragedy just as devastating, in its own way.’
Naomi nodded. ‘I feel like part of me is still missing.’
‘Part of you always will be. People talk about getting over the loss of a loved one, but that isn’t how it works.’
‘So what can I do?’ Fresh tears filled Naomi’s eyes. She didn’t know the vicar well, and she knew her parents would much prefer she had a conversation such as this with one of their own congregation rabbis. Yet she felt drawn to the Reverend, perhaps on account of his refreshing bluntness.
‘The distance of time will enable you to come to terms with it,’ said Reverend Mortimer. ‘Then you will see the life of the person as someone who entered your life for a season, and was important. But they will always be missing, so a part of you will be too.’
‘It hurts so much,’ said Naomi.
‘Of course it hurts. If I cut off your finger, that would hurt too. In time the skin and flesh would heal, and you would no longer feel pain. But you would still be missing a finger.’
The words Toby had spoken in the dream returned to her mind.
We can be together again.
‘Do you believe in life after death?’
The Reverend smiled. ‘I’d be pretty bad at my job if I said no.’
‘What about ghosts?’
‘I don’t believe the dead return to watch over the living. Yet there are spirits in this world of an altogether different origin.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean be careful what you wish for, Naomi Levinson.’
With those words, the Reverend turned and walked away. Naomi stared after him for a second and then returned her gaze to Toby’s headstone. 1984 – 2001. A short life for someone with such promise. What had God been thinking, allowing him to die in a house fire? Naomi’s parents had brought her up to believe in God, but right now she found it difficult to believe he cared about humans, especially someone as lonely as her. Toby Lane had understood her, and she had trusted him completely. Now that he was gone, the isolation felt all but unbearable.
Yet over time, Reverend Mortimer was proven correct. Although Naomi felt as though she had a spiritual missing limb, the pain eased. When she eventually came to terms with the loss of Toby, she no longer gave the Lane family smoke alarms a second thought. Only years later did the tragic events of the 17th of September 2001 cast their sinister shadow over the present.
Intrigued?Here’s the blurb from the back of the novel:
How far would you go to bring the one you love back from the dead?
Television producer Naomi Levinson makes documentaries debunking the supernatural. When asked to film a promotional video for computer game company Persephone, she considers the task beneath her talents. But as production gets underway at the Persephone office block on London’s Canary Wharf, a mysterious disappearance, ghostly sightings, and lingering tragedy from Naomi’s past lead her to believe she might have stumbled into a genuine haunting.
As Naomi continues to investigate, past and present collide in a horrifying conspiracy. Cutting edge technology and ancient evil meet, leading to the discovery of a shocking and terrifying secret that could change the nature of life and death as we know it.
To pick up your copy of The Irresistible Summons in paperback or ebook click here (in the UK), and here (in the US). Or you can click here, to download the book from Smashwords.
Simon Dillon Books 
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