Frustration and then triumph. Then frustration.

I’ve been plugging away at an opening scene for the novel for some time now (not since 2003, which is Raheny_Eye’s best bet, but there is probably not much difference. I want the scene to be dramatic and make the reader want more. I’m wondering how much to give away. But I suppose on the basis that the novel will never be written, or if it is written will never be published, or if it is published will never be bought by anyone reading this (because you have read my writing and are well aware of its limitations), I can proceed with a little candour.

The scene is outside Buchenwald in December 1938. Two of the main characters—Jan and Max—have been arrested by the Gestapo, having been accused of being homosexual by Jan’s jilted girlfriend. All you needed then was an accusation, the Gestapo would set about finding the truth. After Röhm’s outing (the Nazis had been very willing to accept his homosexuality as long as he was useful), things took a more sinister term. Re-education, forced sterilization, then concentration camps. (I first got into this subject after watching a documentary called Paragraph 175, terrifying and perfect.)

So, having been arrested, they are subject to the horrors of the camp and are picked out for a bit of sport by some of the more sadistic guards. One is brutally murdered, the other is subjected to Pfahlhangen and left for dead; a Kapo, also selected to be killed, has his throat torn out by a guard dog as he tries to escape. It’s a light introduction, as you can tell.

Anyway, Jan has been left for dead and is saved by a group of “pirates” – which is an unfortunate name in these Johnny Depp-crazed days, but nothing I can do about that – or youths who rebelled against the Nazis and basically fucked things up domestically until they started being hanged publicly. My problem has been to tell the story in an engaging and rapid way, using quick, driving language (short words, repetition, increasing the idea of stress and panic). I’ve written this piece 100 times and every time I rip it up and think it’s shite. I did it again today – only this time I think I solved one of the main problems with a prologue: the need for brevity.

Having justifiably been called “verbose” by a certain gentleman of this parish, I began to see what he meant. So, this morning, I ripped through it and slashed and burned, then re-read it and cried. It was abject. I then spent the whole day pacing around various rooms and beaches and boardwalks, looking for all the world like a portly Sherlock Holmes pondering a clue, and couldn’t find the solution. Ten hours into my writing day and I was at -3,000 words. This, by anyone’s calculations, is not good. Even James Joyce was more prolific.

So, I poured a glass of wine, made myself a crappy Mediterranean salad (with sardines as the protein), had another glass of wine and stared at the screen in protest. Ninety minutes later, I had rewritten the prologue. “The boy was 15 and he had never killed before,” it starts. I’ve bashed it out, and will refine tomorrow morning, but I am happier with it than I have been before. Ooof.

But now, the more I look at it, the more my use of the word Pirate has unfortunate modern connotations. These groups existed and used this name: the Edelweiss Pirates, the Navajo Gang, the Kittelbach Pirates. For obvious reasons, I want to not give away the location of what is happening too soon. It’s not obvious that it is in Germany, so I don’t want to use the German word “Piraten”, which gives it some distance – or a name that relates to the geography such as the “Weimarer”. Does “pirate” make it all sound a bit too “Just William”-ish? These were serious groups, part of the Widerstand and absolutely worthy of respect… I don’t want to use a word that connotates that they were just kids playing around… frustrating again!

So, I went out for a walk, ignoring the temptations of Chambao Beach and La Tabla Belga, and went out taking photos of nature in the dark instead. Which is where these photos come in. It’s now 11pm and there is a large glass of Orujo blanco with my name on it.