Nail-Biting Novel

Mike Bodnar is in a state of nervousness as he awaits feedback from a group of pre-readers about his next novel...

Not the real cover!

I am on tenterhooks about my next novel. It's written but not yet published, and I am in the Unknown Zone where time stands still, there is hushed silence (can there be any other?), and if the silence is broken at all it will be by the ping of the email inbox, which could herald either triumph or terror. I am a bag of nerves.

I did this with my last novel, Unity: Peace for All, Freedom for None, when I asked a 'focus group' of people I knew to read the first draft and send me feedback. It proved to be very useful, as readers picked up on things that had been staring me in the face for a long time, but which I never saw. An author is too close to their own work to see the bleeding obvious sometimes. 

And I expect it to be the same with this new novel, but likely more complex. My previous book was a fairly standard Cold War spy thriller, but Settlement is very different, and could open the proverbial can of worms on all sorts of different fronts, not least those of political correctness, historical accuracy, and cultural appropriation. There could well be an element of 'how dare you?' to this, because I have written a story that inevitably involves Māori, and as someone who is pale, male and (arguably) stale, I could be accused of literary trespass.

Here's my draft blurb for the novel: 

It is 1839, and a private, clandestine expedition to New Zealand, involving astounding new imaging technology, is under threat from the start. The principal of the venture mysteriously disappears en route, leaving his protégé to undertake the mission alone.

His name is Lucien Treadwell, but he too becomes a target. His endeavours ashore in the nascent colony of Port Nicholson are closely watched from the shadows, and danger is never far away. But what he sets out to achieve also ignites tension and subterfuge almost two centuries later, on the other side of the world.

Fabienne, one of the characters in Settlement

Okay, that might change, but in essence that's what it's about, and with half the book set in New Zealand of 1839, to ignore the presence and roles of Māori would be a sin in itself. But to include them - even any reference to them - also today invites argument, ridicule, contempt, and accusations of everything from ignorance to outright racism. Controversy looms.

And yet it's a 'history-mystery,' so how does an author safely navigate the historical truths of a period - even though they're writing fiction - and avoid accusations of interference or manipulation? Or should they even worry? Is it not a novelist's calling to tell a story, one fabricated from their imagination? Sure, it may well draw upon historical facts, but should that in itself require the novelist to 'play it safe'? I suspect in safety lies boredom. (Which sounds like it should become a Latin motto: In securitate taedium inest)

However, I am getting ahead of myself. As I write this I have yet to receive any feedback from the PRFG - the Pre-Reader Focus Group - so I am crossing bridges before they're even built. But yes, I am nervous.

The author maintaining composure...

The PRFG comprises eight people of mixed genders, ages, and reading interests. It is also international, in that three of the participants live in England. This is important because I need to know whether the story has international appeal, or whether it will remain firmly on Kiwi bookshelves.

The feedback on the first draft of Settlement will decide how much of a rewrite it needs (possibly total), whether the concept is viable, whether the story arc works, whether the characters are credible/relatable, and so on, before I approach a publisher. Having a high New Zealand content I aim initially to approach Kiwi publishers, but to be honest I don't hold out much hope.

Poor overworked publisher
(Image: Copilot)

Why? Because publishers are today inundated with manuscripts. During Covid, suddenly
everyone found themselves with extra time on their hands, and guess what? They wrote the book that had been fermenting in the back of their minds for years. I was living in England at the time and I researched what the impact of Covid had been on publishers; it was dramatic, and many of them were completely snowed under with submissions. What used to be dozens of manuscripts per week suddenly became hundreds. 

Self-publishing also went through the roof, and that's not changed. It remains my backstop position for when every publisher in New Zealand has turned me down, or more likely just not responded at all. That's okay; I am thick-skinned, but this time I would dearly love a publisher to take me on.

I am, however, my own problem. Forgive me for elaborating on something I mentioned earlier, but I am a prime candidate for the pale, male and stale category of writer. I am also seventy-two years of age, and am likely to be perceived as being beyond my use-by date, particularly as I have never been successfully published before, and therefore have no track record.

Quantum physics: what you observe
changes what you observe
(Image: Caltech Science Exchange)

Also, as with quantum physics, the act of observing or measuring a system fundamentally alters it, so to ask a group of people I know to evaluate the story could mean that they tell me what they think I want to hear rather than what I should hear. It is likely to be a flawed experiment, so perhaps this time I will take into account what they say, edit the manuscript based on their feedback, and then send it out to a group of people I don't know for a more robust second opinion. If you'd like to be one of them, please email me at mgbodnar@gmail.com.

In the meantime, and while I endure this twilight zone of the unknown, I am avoiding reading the draft novel again, deliberately not editing anything, and trying basically to forget all about Settlement. It's not easy, but to take my mind off it I've started to cobble together the next next novel. It doesn't have a name yet, but it is post-apocalyptic in nature, and yes it's set in New Zealand, one of the few countries that could survive a global nuclear conflict. Does that mean we're safe here? No, not at all. The characters live by their wits, taking each day as it comes, always ready for the unexpected and to fight for their survival.

Pretty much how I'm living right now.

The Path of the Ancients

Mike Bodnar sets off an a short odyssey to try out the newly-opened Te Ara Tupua - a shared walking/cycling path along the western coast of Wellington Harbour...

The Walking Man

Wellington's harbour (wake up at the back there; we're in New Zealand...) was unexpectedly gifted some land in 1855, which made quite a few things possible that hadn't been before. This surprise donation didn't come daintily wrapped, or with a bow tied round it; it was an earthquake, of serious magnitude - 8.2 to be precise.

I'm not here to give you a lesson in tectonics though; just know that the quake uplifted certain parts of the Wellington coastline between 1.5 and 2.0 metres, especially along the western shore. Over to the south-east it rose as much as 6.4 metres. I know, right?

There's a certain irony in useful land being created not long after British colonials had bought (or 'stolen', some would argue) whatever useful land they could from local Māori, because the uplift of the terrain along the western edge of the harbour - and especially around the nascent city of Wellington - enabled much reclamation and development where there had been little or no opportunity before.

It also allowed a road and rail link to be established from the city to the north. Prior to the uplift, there had been no useful shoreline on which to build what we now call a 'transit corridor.'.

So here I was today strolling along the newly-opened Te Ara Tupua, the Pathway of the Ancients, which follows those same shoreline contours and serves all sorts of useful purposes - until the next major earthquake returns it to the sea. But let's not think about that right now (although I will return to it shortly. There's no escape. No, literally: there is no escape. You'll see.)

The northern end of Te Ara Tupua

This new pathway is a shared cycling/walking facility, running alongside the aforementioned transit corridor which carries a railway line and a major road - State Highway 2. In short, what they've done is build a rocky seawall/defence in the shallows, and on the inside of that have created a flash new dual-purpose pathway, safe from the railway and traffic on one side, and from the crashing waves that bless our harbour on occasion on the other. Having only just opened (at time of writing), it has yet to weather its first major storm, so we'll have to wait and see just how robust it is.

Today though the harbour was calm, with just an amateur northerly blowing. Wind? Pfft. I chose to do the trek from north to south so that the breeze and sun would be behind me. Wasn't born yesterday.

An infrastructure minister (left) and son
Image: RNZ

Pathways like this don't come cheap, and as soon as I'd set off after leaving the train at Petone station, a media story replayed in my head from the previous weekend. A man named Chris Bishop, (a minister of infrastructure, m'lud) officially opened it on 15 May, taking the opportunity to criticise the overall NZ$348.7 million cost of the project.

Which made me realise that even after just my first ten metres, I had walked along a section costing almost NZ$775,000. Ka-ching! (No, I didn't do the maths in my head - I cheated)

But hey, I'm not here to be churlish about it. Don't get me wrong; I believe in investing in car-free alternatives, and I'm sure those who now zoom along the new pathway on their bikes thoroughly enjoy passing the traffic in its rush-hour clog evenings and mornings. I do worry, however, that projects of this nature cost so, so much.

The arguments for this particular pathway are many and sound though. It's not just a pathway; it's a 'resilience project' - a buzz-phrase which actually has some merit in this case. In 2013, a major storm washed out portions of this coastline, undermining the railway line and causing fairly major disruption. Given the effects of climate change, it seems sensible to build a robust seawall to counter future such incursions, and within it place an alternative transit corridor.

In the event of an apocalypse...

I haven't read this anywhere else yet, but it seems obvious to me that if the western hillside were to slip onto and block the state highway (as it does on occasion), then the new Te Ara Tupua is actually wide enough for, say, emergency vehicles to use it. Or, in the event of an apocalyptic event, zombies would be able to shuffle from Wellington to Pito-One at a horrifyingly leisurely pace. In perfect safety.

But I digress. The pathway is split unevenly: two-thirds of it is given over to a cycling lane, while the remaining third is for those of a more perambulatory nature. This distinction hadn't made it into some people's brains though; I had covered no more than fifteen metres before a cyclist pulled over and stopped literally in front of me, blocking the whole walking lane. She hadn't even seen me. What am I? The Invisible Man? I gave her a full-on EXCUSE ME and pushed past, listening to her and her partner, and the man they'd stopped to chat to, guffawing in laughter. Sorry cyclists, but behaviour like that does nothing to endear you to the rest of us.

So, while I'm on a rant, let me just point out two other niggles. One is that there are no toilets, either at the ends or in the middle. Secondly, not a single rubbish bin in sight. 

On my stroll today - a normal Wednesday late morning - the vast majority of those using the

Searching for a toilet?

 Path of the Ancients were, well, ancient. It was definitely Te Ara Senior, and although I'm sure not every one was incontinent or suffering prostate issues, if one were to be, shall we say, "caught short" in transit, then to nip behind a coastal rock would be to take your life in your hands, among other things.

Oh wait, a third niggle. To prevent us from straying from the path onto the railway line and causing inconvenient bus replacements for the next day or so, there is a chain-link fence along the entirety. From a health and safety point of view, that's good, until the next 1855 earthquake causes a large tsunami. In which case we'd have a hard job 'getting to higher ground' - as we are advised to do by the emergency management services. See, I warned you: literally no escape.

Oh, and I just remembered a fourth niggle, but let's just call it an 'observation': There are three 'AED' cabinets (AED = automated external defibrillator), one at each end and one in the middle, so plan your heart attack carefully, or be prepared to run approximately two kilometres to the nearest paddles. Clear? Clear!

Drainspotters have it easy...

On the plus side, Te Ara Tupua is flat along its length apart from the overbridge at Ngauganga, but even that's a gentle gradient. There are many attractive Māori motifs built in to stonework, and on pou (poles) at various places, as well as Māori-influenced patterning on pathway signage. Even the manhole covers have Māori 'location finder' paintwork across the entire path so that they're easy to spot (for those who like manhole covers, i.e. Drainspotters).

Information boards telling of local wildlife or history are plentiful, and there are multiple rest areas - or ūranga - along the way, with seating, so that you can watch the whales and dolphins frolicking in the harbour. Or, as an ancient, check your heart rate or work out how long it's been since you last had a wee.

Trees, grasses and other plants have been planted, particularly at the laybys, so if you want to know which varieties grow well in a harsh coastal environment, bring a notebook. It'll be nice to have some fully grown trees eventually, you know - to nip behind in the event you need to.

I noticed there's lighting as well, which suggests evening or night-time strolls are doable. Personally, and this really is just me, I would love to ride my motorbike along Te Ara Tupua around three o'clock in the morning; there's nothing stopping a motorcycle accessing the path either end. (But shhh, don't tell anyone).

Just before I reached the overbridge at Ngauranga I was treated to a brief but obvious whiff of eau de sewage, which was a shame. And no, despite the lack of conveniences, it wasn't me.

But let's not end on that. During my stroll I admired the harbour a lot, looking in the hope of seeing the aforementioned whales or dolphins, but sadly I saw only a few shags, who seemed to appreciate the 'islands' that have been created specifically for them just off-shore. I did see one of the interisland ferries coming in, and saw at least four fisher-folk who had obviously taken advantage of the path giving them access to previously unreachable fishing spots. 

All-in-all, the distance from Pito-One to Ngauranga is just under five kilometres, but you could walk another five and you'd find yourself in Wellington city. I didn't, and chose to catch the bus at the Ngauranga flyover instead. I mean, I didn't want to end up a zombie.

(Author rating of Te Ara Tupua: 7 out of 10)

I say! The story behind screamers, and other literary curiosities...

Mike Bodnar explores some of the stuff we take for granted in literature every day...

"We all know what exclamation marks are for!" smirked Julian.

"I didn't ask you what they're for," retorted Gabby, "I asked if you know where they come from, not what they're for or where they go."

Julian shuffled on his knees to the door of the tree hut, then turned. "You're a girly swot, Gabby. I'm not playing!" And with that he exited the structure, and - forgetting the ladder had been hauled up - fell immediately to his death.

The End.

Okay, not your average Enid Blyton snippet, but, y'know, lol! It's just to grab your attention.

Because, while I was reading a novel the other day (Mick Herron's latest Slow Horses book, Clown Town, since you ask), I suddenly wondered where exclamation marks came from. 

No reflection on Mr. Herron's writing - I am easily distracted - but when he relates that one of his characters says something 'in italics' - that got me pondering the origins of italics too. There is a link between exclamation marks and italics, and it's called Italy. The clue, obviously, is in the word italics itself. Jackson Lamb and his clowns had to wait while I investigated.

So let's start with - yes let's! - exclamation marks, because I have done the legwork for you. 

"Guarda! Posso mettere più parole sulla pagina!"

Turns out we must travel back to the 13th or 14th centuries (the jury is still out), where, stepping from the Tardis, we discover that monks, toiling away on their tomes, would use a particular way of spelling 'joy' ('io') in Latin, which was to put the 'i' directly above the 'o'.

Over time, the 'o' became more of a dot, and the word eventually ceased to be a word and became the exclamation mark we all know today. Does that bring you joy?

If it does, you'll also be delighted to know that io is pronounced 'ee-oh', or even 'yo'. So when someone in your 'hood calls out, 'Yo!' you know they are really shouting joy to you. Either that or they're about to mug you.

But here I am being flippant again. Straight face, let's continue.

The man himself

For evidence, while we're in bygone Italy, we can meet Coluccio Salutati, where in one of his manuscripts we find the very first example of io written as an i above an o. 

However, he wasn't the one to popularise it; fast forward just a few decades - still in Italy - and we find printers such as Venetian Aldus Manutius standardizing the i above the dot to express and emphasise strong emotion. The rest really is history.

(As an aside, printers later called the exclamation mark the 'bang,' 'screamer,' and even the 'shriek'!)

Italics

As mentioned, the word italics provides a glaringly obvious clue to its origin, and once again it's printer Aldus Manutius who is the prime suspect. And we don't even have to get back in the Tardis.

Just a year or so after he discovered and popularised the joy of the exclamation mark, he got his assistant to craft a more cursive script for an edition of the Epistole of St. Catherine of Siena

Italics in action

. There followed rapid adoption of the slanting italic script by Manutius, but not, I must emphasise, for emphasis.

No; instead, the smaller slanting cursive script was used because it took up less space than more traditional typeface, enabling the publishing of more compact pocket books, in, for example, octavo format.

Not that cursive script was new - scholars and other scribes in the 14th century had often written in italics, but it was Manutius who began using it in print, and he in fact modestly named the type 'Aldino.' 

We don't call it Aldino today, because, very soon after Manutius claimed ownership (which, by the way, received papal approval three times, bless), competitors outside Venice also adopted it (some say counterfeited it), but called the script 'italics' as a way of giving Italy as a country ownership, rather than just one man. (I'm surprised they didn't call exclamation marks 'exclamitali' ©Mike Bodnar).

Just my type

Italics have a special place in my heart because when I was about ten or eleven years old, I was given a brand new typewriter, an Olympia 33 portable. I didn't think twice that it actually had italic type hammers, and that everything I typed was strongly emphasised. Writing a letter, I'd begin with, 'Dear Shaun,' except it would of course come out as an imperative Dear Shaun, and finish with an emphatic 'Your friend, Mike.' 

My school assignments likewise were presented in urgent typeface, though not, it has to be said, always in a timely manner.

But I learned to type on that machine, and it was my trusty workhorse for at least the next ten years.

Ellipses...

And so, at least in this article, to the final item of punctuative interest: dot, dot, dot - the ellipsis. Ellipses have, of recent times, become somewhat controversial. But first, some more time travelling. Follow me.

Terence, Andria, translated by Maurice Kyffin: 
London, 1588
(The British Library Board, C.13.a.6 sig. Iiiiir)

The use of dots to show a pause or a tailing off in speech can be seen in an early Roman play, Andria, in a 1588 English translation of previous Greek versions. Here, it seems, the translator has taken the liberty to introduce a pause or tailing off in speech using a series of dots. In this case (see pic) there are four, and they are more dashes than dots, but their purpose is the same: they demonstrate a deliberate absence of words.

Literary academic Dr. Anne Toner, in a paper on the origins and use of ellipses, has this to say...

But an absence of words usually signals a heightening of emotion or action ... The ellipsis acts therefore as a form of stage direction. As such, it has proved to be a powerful and extremely useful dramatic resource. In speaking aloud, pausing is, after all, a vital aspect of the delivery of meaning: a slight hesitation speaks volumes. As Toner says: “...not saying something often says it better."

Which makes me want to leave the rest of this article blank, just so you can marvel at the creativity that isn't actually here...

'Jack sweeps Rose up in his arms
and takes her into the bedroom...'

But you don't get rid of me that easily. I agree with Dr. Toner that something unsaid can also be something revealed. I feel, for example, that ellipses are the equivalent of the slow mix between scenes in a movie, something that suggests time passing, or a 'meanwhile moment.' 

Also in movie terms, ellipses are like the fade-to-black at the end of a scene, where no more needs to be said. For example, 'Jack sweeps Rose up in his arms and takes her into the bedroom...'

You could adopt this in a practical sense at home. For example, tomorrow evening, when it's approaching bedtime, try saying to your partner, 'D'you fancy a bit of dot dot dot?' and see what happens. Don't blame me if you get a black eye.

'Boomer ellipses'

So, to the controversy. Ellipses, when employed in a messaging or texting context, have taken on a tone of aggression in today's internet-based communication. Apparently. But - it must be stressed - this interpretation is entirely the domain of... young people. (See what I did there?)

Ooh, sarcasm!

People my age - and let's not say anything about that other than I was a teenager when Apollo 11 landed on the moon - and 'boomers' in general, have been accused by Gen Z and millennials of not understanding ellipses, or at the very least, misusing them. 

Seriously; they even call them 'Boomer ellipses,' because, duh, they're so old fashioned? (The question mark is so that in your head this sounds like a young person speaking.)

A Gen Z or millennial today will typically use ellipses in their phone messages to indicate sarcasm, displeasure, hesitation or annoyance, whereas we boomers continue to employ and interpret ellipses as they have been understood for over 500 years. In short, we have a generational divide; we employ ellipses as they were originally intended - to show a continuation, a pause, or a passage of time, while Gen Z and millennials have reinterpreted them as the bad guys - the Three Dots of the Apocalypse.

It's just one indication of how language usage is evolving at an increasingly rapid pace. But at least, for now anyway, bangers, screamers, shrieks and exclamitali (© Mike Bodnar) are safe. 

But, one wonders, for how long...

(Cue dramatic music. Fade to black.)

Epilogue

Julian didn't really die after falling from the tree. No characters were harmed in the writing of this article, although some Gen Z and millennial egos may have suffered mild bruising.