Authors Electric

The more I write about history, the more I love it. Considering my school tried everything they knew to make me hate the subject, I consider myself extremely lucky that I got there in the end. Kings and queens meant nothing to me until a history lecturer at University – the great and sainted Ian Kershaw – told me that William the Conqueror fell off his horse and burst. Now that for me, is a proper kingly way to die. The real beauty, and frustration, of history is that an extraordinary amount of it is guesswork. That's why I've always been wary of biography. Somebody spends many years examining everything recorded about a certain personage, and is confident at the end of all that they have drawn a perfect picture. Sadly, that is balderdash. I don't even know myself why I do most things that I do, and looking back on them, the problem just gets murkier. Take Nelson. One of Britain's most authentic heroes, still revered, still cited in any naval argument. Then ta...

Sitting down here in the wilds of Leicestershire, back on family duty, I suddenly realised that I had a blog to do. Shouldn't have been a surprise, because it usually coincides with our turn to keep the home fires burning now that one of the Aged Ps is sadly no longer with us.   But it did raise the immediate question – what shall I write about? That, being a writer, is not a new question, obviously. In fact many AE blogsters ask from time to time where ideas come from, and how different people process them. As it happens my need for a subject matter coincided with some historical work I'm doing, and a couple of barely-related strands popped unbidden into my sights. One was the extraordinary suggestion/possibility that Abraham Lincoln had been shot because he was gay and refused to come out of the closet, and the other was the destruction of ancient monumental works of art or worship by the ‘new Puritans’ of ISIS. These subjects are hardly related, except that they are...

I get very jealous when I read all you other writers’ blogs. You all seem so effortlessly serious in your choice of subject and the erudition and application you so generously put in. And here am I, pushing the monthly deadline to its outer limit (not for the first time, or the second, or the third). Look at Dennis. Spends half his life zooming around the planet enjoying himself, and still has time to produce a wonderful new volume, and make me dribble with longing for his buckshee television. And then a spiffing blog on top. As you can see, deadline or not, I haven't got a thought in my head as to what to write. My brain is wrecked. I'm seven-eighths of the way through revising a big thriller, I've just spent a week doing a final polish on the second of my nautical novellas about Charlie (Craven) Raven, and in the interstices (try saying that to a voice recognition programme!) I've hammered out an outline and pitching document for a novel about Napoleon. Fasc...