Thursday, 9 February 2017


Pre-order on sale now!! Yup. 30th March. Tell your friends. Tell your family. Tell your dog. Hooray!

Friday, 27 January 2017

Fall of Blaze excerpt, part II

Artemi reached for one of her spin daggers and thrust it into the flesh of whatever it was that held her ankle. Still, she proceeded to be pulled downward, the pain in her ears growing by the second. How badly she needed to breathe! She stabbed at it again, this time dragging the blade upward to cut something vital. The leviathan’s feeler seemed only to tighten further. Her chest and limbs ached for air; and still she plunged down and down. She reached for the limb and tried to find the end of it, but the thing was vast.
Her stabs must have felt like pin-pricks to the animal. There was no other option, and time was running out. She would have to wield.
The agony in her ears was enough to make her scream, but she had to keep her thoughts ordered if the form was to be anything useful, and if she hoped not to cut her own leg off. Artemi summoned the fires into her body, feeling them scald her insides after the freeze from the sinking, and rapidly thrust them into the leviathan’s limb. It snapped in two with a crack that sounded high-pitched through the water, and freed Artemi to drag herself upward and out of that blasted lake.
Breathing was all she could think of now. Fires damn her need for haste!
The water roared past her broken eardrums as she hurtled toward her escape. Nearly there.
Abruptly, she felt the heat of another wielder forming something above her, and her senses told her that whatever was being made was solid.
It was ice.
Artemi had too much momentum to avoid the ceiling that was setting above her, and the only way to avoid breaking her bones against it was to ensure that the ceiling broke first. In a moment there was utter blackness, and then it was transformed to brilliant orange as her body erupted with flame. The fire rocketed against the sheet of white that now hurtled toward her, spreading across the surface of its underside only briefly before it exploded into a thousand shards of yellow Blaze and burning ice.
She careered into the air beyond amidst the spray of frost and fire, the sudden warmth of the air beyond tearing the water from her clothes. And then she took her breath. Deep and long and rich. How good it felt to inhale once more!
Her elation was short-lived, however, as a blast of snow knocked her sideways and back toward the icy surface of the lake.
Burn it! Mirel knew precisely where she was!
Artemi only just managed to swing her fall toward the shore before she hit the ground, but the hit was still bone-crunchingly hard. She lay there, winded and breathless, for just long enough to collect her thoughts.
Mirel was in there with her. She had to have planned this. Artemi’s father would be elsewhere. There would be more traps. More ways to be shamed…
Behind her, increasingly intense, skin-prickling waves of heat told her that Mirel was about to wield again.
Artemi thrust herself up from the rattling scree, drops of ice-water falling from her soaked clothes, her fingers blue from the cold, and her breaths laboured from several broken ribs. “Your time in this life is nearly finished, sister,” she said with a calmness that surprised herself. “You believe you serve the world, but you serve no—”
A whirlwind of hoarfrost, tearing out of the darkness like million white knives, bore down upon her before she could finish. Two blades nicked her sides and a third crossed her left bicep, turning it so cold it became stone. Artemi was fast enough to melt most of the ice knives with a few weak licks of flame, and managed to dodge out of the way of the rest, but she was feeble already. Her lungs felt as if they had been crushed, and the strength was draining from her legs. She needed to find a corner to rest, recover and ready herself for a battle she could win. This one was already lost.
“Better luck next time,” she called to the silent chamber, and threw all of her remaining energy into a sprint toward a tunnel she had sensed while she had the fires inside her.
A barrage of snow and hail followed her into it, freezing her right foot and almost sending her sprawling, but she made it behind an outcrop just in time. Artemi took a few more furtive breaths, and then launched herself downward into the passageway once more.
Mirel would know precisely where she was, of course. She would be holding Blaze inside her body – the energy that reverberated in all things – and would sense Artemi like a rat caught in her maze. When Artemi had been moving slowly and quietly, she would not have been so easily detectable, but now she had both wielded and run she was visible. She might as well have carried a great torch and flag above her head to signify her presence.
Artemi pulled just enough energy from within herself to throw up a huge partition behind her, and fed the last of her fuel into the hardest run she could muster with one frozen foot. Mirel would not lose the trail for long, but this would be enough to give Artemi time to find somewhere to hide. Such cowardly retreats were not her usual tactic, but it would do Artemi’s father no good if she were dead before he could be rescued. Besides, Artemi was known for her pig-headedness, pride and aggression even when she knew the battle was lost, and running away would not be something Mirel had planned for. No, Mirel liked traps. Traps she could keep Artemi locked in for years. Traps Artemi would be able to peer out from, offering chains to shake and vantage points from which to view the world as Mirel tore it apart. Traps to be used as classrooms for Mirel’s teachings about loved ones.
There would be one such trap here, and it would look out upon Artemi’s beloved father, Ne’alin.
It was surely a wrong thing to have a favourite father across the thousands she had been given, but he had set himself apart from the rest in so many ways. He had always known she was vanha-sielu, from the moment she had first opened her eyes and looked at him, he’d said. And he had accepted it without fear or question. He had freed her from the guilt she felt at her mother’s death, had taught her how to bear it in all the lives to come, and he had explained that family and love were the firmest sources of strength for the fiercest of warriors. “It is love that outlives death, young Temi. Even when we are gone, you will still know it through the fires.”
It had gone against many things The Daisain had taught her during the Kusuru training. In The Daisain’s twisted mind, the only family was among The Dedicated, and any other loved ones served as nothing but sources of vulnerability. What was one to make of this when a member of one family decided to kidnap and harm a member of the other?
“Everyone has an irritating relative they’d rather be rid of,” Ne’alin had once said of Mirel, shrugging.
Irritating, Artemi thought with a wry smile. She slowed her limping run and stopped, or rather collapsed, against a rock that lay at an eccentric angle. Her right foot was ruined. Frostbite would take it, or most of it, if she ever escaped from this hole. The cuts to her side and arm had healed, but had sapped what little heat remained in her body after being plunged into the ice lake. As for her ribs… Artemi was sure one of them had pierced her lung. 
She had two options: either leave the rib where it was and wait for it to work itself back into place over the next few days, or wield on herself and try to manipulate it back into its proper position.
Now, as any wielder worth her brimstone and ashes knew, working forms inside one’s own body was challenging in the best of conditions. Creating disguises, altering clothing and pulling arrows out of oneself only required the fires to be directed into the air around the body rather than through it. When a wielder attempted to wield the Blazes where there was already an inferno burning, things would become rather confusing. Ribs would be virtually indistinguishable from any other organ, and forms would be difficult to discern from the innate energy that burns in a wielder. It was very much like stirring puréed jelfruit with a spoon made of mashed jelfruit, one of the Founder Sisters had said.
A kanaala could have helped, but she did not have one of those at that moment. The best Artemi could hope for was to feel for the broken rib with her fingers, and then use a crude form to try to lever the follocking thing free. She had chosen a particularly stiff bodice for today’s battle, which in this instance was proving to be something of a mistake. Taking up one of her spin daggers, she turned it inwards and dragged it downward along the soft suede, deep enough that it sliced the shirt below. Then, reaching beneath the boning, she prodded her cold, sopping skin until it hurt the most.
Artemi wielded just a little, and quickly, to yank the bone out of whatever hole it had created. But she was too enthusiastic, and a chunk of bloody rib jettisoned out from beneath her skin, across the passageway, and it hit the opposite wall before falling to the floor with a sickening clap. She could not help but emit a small gasp of pain, though it came to her much easier now her lung could heal.
She gorged herself on more air, slowing down her heartbeat and clearing her mind of all invasive thoughts. A clear head was needed for the next battle, and dry clothes. Artemi wrung them out with another wave of blaze, and the ice water began to pool rapidly at her feet.
Her frost-bitten foot was the next item to receive her attentions, and though it was beyond repair, it could be held together with a tight brace form, which she duly applied.
Finally she was warm, she had her breath back, and she was ready to fight a good battle to find her father. Artemi filled her body with as much of the Blazes as she could hold, and in her mind’s eye, she searched the caves for any bodies – alive or otherwise – that could be Mirel and Ne'alin.
The partition she had created was one-sided, and as such, cast only the faintest of shadows across her vision. She could see well enough to detect Mirel sprinting toward her. The cave network was vast; much bigger than she had anticipated, but strewn throughout it were a dozen warm bodies. Any one of them could have been her father.
How typical of Mirel to leave ‘decoys’.
The tunnel split into three more passageways ahead, and Artemi was anxious to get away before Mirel caught up to her. She leapt into a jog, and then as fast a run as she could manage with a foot made of lead. When she reached the three tunnel mouths, she dropped another partition behind her and chose the middle path. It took her to the first of the bodies, a dying woman clutching at her stomach and writhing in agony. Her body had been cut until she could no longer heal, and it was now only Mirel’s cruel Blaze forms that held her together. There was no hope for this poor creature.
Artemi was swift in her mercy, and ended the woman’s life before she had time to plead for anything else. On to the next.
She triggered three more traps, ended the lives of seven more half-dead men and women, and launched a second rockslide before she discovered Ne’alin. He was crumpled in a heap, and had been placed in a small alcove at the end of a long passage. Another trap, of course, but Artemi was too worried about him to care about that.
With a blue light at her shoulder to help her see, she lifted his head gently from his knees. His dark eyes stared blankly at her. The looked dry, as if he had no more moisture left in his body to wet them.
“Father?” she asked, “Do you remember me?”
Some feeble noises came deep within his throat, and he worked his mouth as if he were attempting to speak.
“It’s alright,” she said softly, “I’ve come to get you out of here. Come with me.” The rest of the dying people in this place would have to wait for their pain to be ended. Ne’alin came first and that was that. He had to live.
“The light!” he whimpered. “The light is all gone. And it… it hurts to see.”
“We will find the light. Come.” Artemi slid an arm across his shoulders and tried to help him up. But something felt wrong. Very wrong. It was as if there were gaps in his body. Gaps that concertinaed open and closed as he was lifted up.
“Aghhhhhhhhhh!” he screamed, and Artemi immediately dropped him. There was blood everywhere. Blazes! Why hadn’t she checked?! Why had she not examined him for Mirel’s forms first?!
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” she babbled, searching his body for whatever feeble fires currently held it together. She could replace them… could hold him together with something stronger…
“Star light on a summer’s day, little fires out to play…” He began singing the children’s nursery rhyme, the very same one he had sung to her when she was a child. “Beware the witch, beware the witch! She comes, she comes to take your world away…” His voice was shaking as he sang.
It was no good. There were a hundred-thousand little springs holding him together. It would take her days to replace each one, and by that time he would be dead anyway. “Father-”
“Hmmm, mmm, hmmm,” he hummed.
“Do you understand it’s me? Your daughter?”
The humming ceased, and his dry eyes fixed onto her. “Temi,” he said simply, and then he began to cough up blood.
“You think you bear the world’s pain on your own,” he said between splutters, “But you do not. We all share it. Every one of us.”
Then I shall end it, her mind responded.
Artemi stood, withdrew her leading gale sword, and raised it above her head. She hesitated for only a moment, yet in that moment he blinked. It was a small thing, but in the years afterward, she often dreamed of that blink. What had it signified? Had he wanted her to stop? Was it an acceptance? Forgiveness? Or upset?
In any case, she brought down her sword, and cut his head from his neck. Her father. The one she had liked the best. The iciness in the air began to sink into her skin, making the tiny hairs on her arms stand on end. She had been trained to enjoy killing, and that response came to her as it always had, but it curled inside her somehow, as if ready for the slew of guilt that would follow.

“Poor, little Temi,” came a cold voice from behind her. “Such a broken little heart inside her. So weak. So gentle. So sweet. So… pointless.”
Artemi rounded on her with teeth bared, a great fury welling up from the hottest recesses of her soul. It set her cold fingers alight, made the tips of her frost-bitten toes burn and the ends of her hair smoulder. Pure fire poured into her first blade and then the second as she withdrew it.
Mirel stood only twenty feet distant at the end of the tunnel, her slight silhouette highlighted by the blue frost that hung in the air behind her. Artemi flung herself headlong into an attack against the woman, but immediately met with three of Mirel’s bitterly icy spin daggers. Artemi fell from the air, writhing in pain and anger.
 As she began to pull them out, one-by-one, Mirel came to stand over her.
“Oh, I was hoping for so much more than this. You know what this brings our tally to?”
Artemi ground her teeth together and reached for one of her own daggers, but her hand was paralysed. Rime and snow had formed around it.
You, if we count that appalling effort in Redfordean, have only defeated me eighteen times. I have killed you twenty-two times. Now,” she said, lifting her sword above her head, “Let us make it twenty-three.”
That was inaccurate, Artemi thought back at her as the sword came whistling down, that count was wrong.

Saturday, 21 January 2017

What's that?! An excerpt from the new book???! :-O OMG!!!!

“The living body is a wondrous thing, don’t you think?” Her voice rattled around the entrance to the cave, its esses and tees lisping at the rock’s edge.  “Don’t you think so, Temi?”
What had she done this time?
Artemi knew the answer before her mind had finished asking the question, but it asked loudly anyway, as if it wished to bury certainties beneath the noise of uncertainties. Mirel was here – a certain thing; her father had been missing for seven days – unquestionably, and a note had been left at his house – no doubt about that, and no doubt about the conclusion to be drawn from these facts. YOU NEVER LEARN, the note had read in Mirel’s lop-sided script.
And Artemi was learning. She had not shed a single tear since finding that note two days before, and she certainly would not shed another. That was all Mirel ever wanted from her – to see her tears and demonstrate to the world that Tem Fireblade was weak. Far better to be the icicle, the Ice-Kill that pierced a man’s heart and eyes, and froze them in pain for hour upon day, upon week. Better to be cruel frost than merciful steel, and Mirel would never have questioned the evidence as Artemi found herself doing in feeble hope.
Artemi had been too merciful. “I’m here, sister,” she called softly into the darkness. “We have been in discussion in your absence. Did you know that The Family have decided you are no longer worthy of the title Kusuru? As The Daisain’s last representatives of this land, we have chosen to disregard you, to omit you and forget you.” She took a step into the cavern maw, the fingers of her mind ready to take hold of The Blazes in an instant. To her right, a clump of brilliant green moss dripped gems of water onto the floor below.
She caught a few of those smooth diamonds on her tongue, as if she had five more millennia to spare, even clasping her hands at her back. The water tasted acidic, wrong, but Artemi swallowed it without so much as a grimace and continued, “Your name will be scrubbed from any history we find that deigns to mention you, and your fires permanently quenched each time we discover you. We will be relentless.”
NOTHINGS!” A wild spiral of howling snow and biting winds tore out of the cave with the exclamation before so much as a second mossy drip had time to complete its descent to the floor. “You try to give your lives meaning because each of you failed The Daisain’s tests. How can you possibly believe yourselves worthy of his message?” Cackling laughter followed her words. “Come and see the message I have prepared for you.”
A stubborn sickness took hold of Artemi’s stomach, churning her guts and numbing her limbs. Whatever this message was, she was quite sure it would make her feel far worse to see it. But Artemi fought to keep her shoulders down and her fists unclenched. She dusted a little of the snow from her clothing, and permitted herself some relief that the wall of Blaze she had constructed as a defence had been completed in time to save her from embarrassment. To speak now would have revealed the strength was gone from her voice, and though her subsequent strides forward were an attempt at a lazy amble, each step of that amble became less than convincing. Burn her inability to perform and deceive!
A trap built from the fires presented itself before her, giving Artemi’s mind a chance to clear while she destroyed the most dangerous parts of the form.
Blazes, but her father would be in the worst pain he had ever known and her greatest concern was about impressing a mad woman with court performances of calmness!
The trap puffed out of existence, and Artemi quickened her step to reach her father sooner.
The cave narrowed almost as soon as the light exhausted itself, and Artemi was forced to squeeze sideways between the rock walls. There was no manner by which a man her father’s size could be brought or forced through such a gap, or at least, not if he were whole.
Another grip of sickness caught and twisted her guts.
She had come here to end his pain, she told herself. Whatever that meant she had to do, she would do it. It was only terrible fortune that Mirel had discovered him, and nothing more. Leaving him and their tiny village of Highwood behind had been the right thing to do, hadn’t it? If she had remained there, it would simply have made her attachment to Ne’alin more obvious, whereas abandoning him as if he meant nothing was the best way to keep him safe from Mirel’s suspicion. Abandoning him.
Fires, she had abandoned him!
Artemi ducked to avoid a low-hanging rock, and almost planted her face directly into a row of rotating ice spikes. Their tips glistened with the cold fires that only Mirel could produce with such effortlessness, likely containing further forms that would sink into her skin upon contact and cause her untold agonies. It was characteristic of Mirel to leave such a large and extravagant form only just out of sight. Characteristic of her to find ways of shaming Artemi whenever possible.
Thoughts of gloom lead only to one’s doom, The Daisain had said to her. Doomed expectations were her little problems, as he described them, which needed to be purged with efficiency. His methods of purging, however, had usually involved tying her up and leaving her at the bottom of the well, or imprisoning her in some other manner that was cruel, but just about escapable. He always left her a path to succeed in some way. That was his genius.
She squeezed the form into a cone of bright light, allowed it to be absorbed by the rock face, and took a step forward into the darkness. There were gaps in the floor here – recently made – but very, very deep. Mirel could easily have cut herself a neat path to her hideaway, but that would have removed all opportunity for her twisted sense of entertainment. In the pitch blackness, and with a little of the fires within her grasp, Artemi could still see more than the keenest-eyed eagle in the daytime. The only things that were hidden were Mirel’s forms, wrapped within partitions and secreted in crevices, just waiting to p–
A pebble slipped sideways beneath Artemi’s leading foot, and another immediately followed it. The noise of a thousand more stones ricocheting down the slope of a gulley told her more would come if she did not move quickly. She leapt forward to next section of the path, but it shattered and crumbled the moment her feet touched it.
Her hands reached for the rock surface, now made smooth by the fracture, but they only dragged down the plane of the rock as useless, blunted claws.
In the next moment, she felt nothing but the air shear past her face and hair. And silence. There was still silence, lasting longer and longer –
Why had time become so stretched? Fires. This was going to hurt!
Really, she ought to have foreseen the weakness in the path ahead given that she had been holding a little Blaze, but she had been so concerned with forms—
Freezing water cracked her back and folded her legs into her, extinguishing all thoughts simultaneously. Artemi’s lungs collapsed in on themselves, which forced her to exhale what little breath she had been holding, and instinctively she pulled her arms and head inward to protect them from making contact with any rocks may have lain beneath the surface. She did not reach the bottom, however, though she was sure her descent was close to halting. All she could hear were the last few bubbles of her involuntary gasp as they made their ascent to the air above.
It was cold there. Cold and black as her hundred deaths before, and she needed to move before the energy she would need for this next fight was sapped by the freezing water. Artemi reached out for a little more of the fires so that she could gain a better sense of which way was up, and began to swim. To wield her way free of the underground lake would have given her location away to Mirel in a heartbeat, and that would have meant a rapid death for her, and death for her father only seconds later.
The ice bit at her fingers and clamped down upon the toes that were so tightly curled inside her boots. Damned fires, those boots would have to come off.
She thrashed out of her swimming stroke to free them, though they sucked onto her calves the harder she pulled at them. Embroidered goatskin, they were. The highest quality, perfectly fitted, the softest innards, and quietist suede an assassin could hope for. Ruined and less-than-useful now. The second one slipped off more easily than the first, and Artemi cursed Mirel’s name for the seventieth time that day.
The ascent to the surface had to be as fast as possible if she was to reach her father in time. A slower swim would conserve her breath and her energy, but could take minutes. Minutes were not toys she had the leisure of playing with today.
As she scrabbled toward the surface, she recalled a lesson taught to her by Sister Oshia at The Founders’ Manor. In several childhoods, she had ended up in the care of the Founder Sisters to receive training in wielding, and many of their lessons had covered the study of the natural sciences. “Caves always remain the same temperature throughout the year,” the Sister had instructed. “It is a habitable temperature, and it is why our kind took to sheltering in them before we were civilised enough to build houses.”
If the temperature of caves was habitable, then why, in the name of The Daisain and all hot flame, was this so blazedly cold as to burn her skin?! She sighed through another stroke of her arms. Of course it was. It was as cold as liquid water could be, and that meant Mirel was behind this. She had probably been listening for the splash with the same kind of nervous anticipation a Rhofin boy would feel on his twentieth nameday.
Nearly there. Only a yard or two lay between her and a lungful of perfect air now, she was sure of it. 
A sharp pain dug through the numbing of the cold and into the joint of her ankle. It remained there, unmoving and rigid. At first, she thought it a result of the strain she had placed her body under during the ascent, but the sudden tightening sensation she felt around it told her it was something else. Artemi kicked and squirmed to wrench herself free, but instead felt a solid, slippery smooth body whip past her.

Few things lurked in underground lakes, fewer that could grip a woman by the leg, and this thing was not Mirel. It could only be a murk-leviathan, and the cool temperatures had more than likely killed off its usual prey. The growing pressure on her eardrums told her it was dragging her deeper again, farther from the surface and the air she needed so badly. It would have been so much easier to wield the thing into oblivion!...

To be continued...

Friday, 27 November 2015

I'm still getting questions (understandably) about the publication of Vol 6. With the house move and everything, I admit that not a lot of book got written, and the length of time that passed has left me feeling afraid of the big, scary, white page. Maybe confidence issues are a thing with writers... I don't know. Page fright? I think I just need some encouragement... or a kick up the backside. One of the two. Anyway, I've got on with a little housekeeping in the mean time. CoB has had a couple of scenes tweaked, and I've put a flowing text epub of it on Google Play (party like it's 2010!), which should be an improvement on the clunky PDFs. I'll get round to updating the other books in good time.


Friday, 10 April 2015

Male vs Female Writers

Settle down into your fireside chairs, folks, for it is time for some rambling thoughts.

As many of you know, H. O. Charles is not my real name. It exists to give me an identity apart from the one I've cultivated in the spoken world, and it exists to mask my gender. Okay, Charles is a bit manly, but then you could interpret that as an effort to distance myself from a female gender, or indeed as a double-bluff.

Why hide my gender?

Because I know that we read books differently when we believe an author is male or female. I wanted my readers to be able to escape from that trap. Did it work? Well, perhaps, but I wonder if, in our social obligation to assign a gender to every person, it has inadvertently compelled readers to come to their own conclusions about my boy-girl identity. After all, when they come to write a review of my work, it's a difficult thing to mention the author without using a 'he' or 'she' pronoun. I would like to know how each reader came to the gender conclusion they did. Author name? Style of writing? Plot? Characters?

I've always believed that male and female brains are biologically pretty much identical, and that ultimately, we have the same worries, desires and fears as each other. It is society that tells us we should talk in a different manner, dress in a different manner, or indeed write in a different manner. From the moment we are born, our parents and those around us feed us information about the sorts of toys we should be playing with, or the colours we should like. They react to us in different ways because they have different expectations of our behaviour. For example, a boy might be permitted to get away with marginally more boisterous behaviour because it's 'the way boys are', whereas similar behaviour in a girl might be more strictly controlled as it's perceived as abnormal.

In gender-disguise studies, male toddlers are dressed as girls and female toddlers as boys. A parent of a different child is then invited in and asked to offer one of these children a toy to play with. Almost invariably, the adult will offer dolls or pink toys to the children they think are female, and car-themed 'boy toys' to the children they think are male. They will also describe the childrens' behaviour in differing terms (e.g.: more often 'angry' when they think they are talking about boys and 'happy' when they thought they were interacting with girls). What this demonstrates is that, even before a preference is demonstrated by the child, an adult will communicate ideas to that child about what they should be playing with and how their behaviour is perceived. (Please see the programmes listed below for references and illustrated examples)

In another piece of research, it was found that boys and girls' preference for dolls is similar at age 12 months (57.2% of girls looked at the dolls compared with 56.4% of boys). At 24 months, boys showed greater interest in the car image (52.7% of girls and 47.9% of boys looked at the doll first), but that shift was only slight. The researcher who led this study interpreted the evidence as suggesting that part of toy taste is acquired socially rather than being of physiological origin.
"The current study adds to growing evidence that infants younger than two years of age display sex-typed toy preferences, with boys showing more interest than girls do in cars, and girls showing more interest than boys do in dolls. Within sex analyses found that the female preference for dolls over cars begins as early as 12 months of age, whereas boys of this age also prefer dolls to cars. The male preference for cars over dolls, or avoidance of dolls, emerges later, suggesting that socialisation or cognitive development, rather than inborn factors, causes the male avoidance of feminine toys."

To be fair, I am absolutely cherry-picking my research examples in favour of the nurture argument, and for more equally balanced summaries of the evidence out there (together with some actual references!), check out:
This blog from The Guardian on gender
This radio programme from Kat Arney on the colour-coding of toys
This TV programme from Horizon on male and female brains

All of these summaries essentially say the same thing - that the jury is out as to whether nature or nurture produce the differences in male and female brains - but I am most certainly on the side that says nurture creates the differences. This is probably because I feel my brain is neither particularly male nor particularly female, and that I am capable of understanding both... because I don't see vast, inherent differences between the two. In my mind, society has prescribed gender roles, and we are all taught from a very early age about how we should fit into them.

But back to writing...

Are there differences in the ways males and females write?  Well, even if there aren't, readers out there seem to think there are. Here is a short infographic from Grammarly:

NB: I am trying to find out more about their sampling methods - will fill in this bit later

So, according to Grammarly, you readers do have your biases :-p though of course I know Fireblade Array readers are among the least sexist of any reader demographic!

What does the research say about the actual nature of writing, authored by different genders, rather than social perceptions of it?

In a study of texts, led by Shlomo Argamon from the Illinois Institute of Technology, it was found that male writers tended to use more noun specifiers (a, the, that, those, some, any etc.), and that they tended to write fiction in a more 'informational' manner. Female writers, on the other hand, tended to use more pronouns (he, she, it), and were found to write in a more 'involved' manner.

I applied some of the statistics Argamon et al used in their study to my own book, City of Blaze, and here's what I found:

My pronoun use is entirely characteristic of a female writer. In CoB, there are 808 pronouns (he, she, him, hers, their etc.) for every 10,000 words. In Argamon's study of fiction, this number averaged 683 and 559 for female and male writers respectively. However, their median value for female writers was 779 pronouns per 10,000 words, which is indicative of a few female writers with an exceptionally low pronoun count, and this is reflected by the larger standard deviation on the mean (19 for females versus 15 for males).

My use of male and female pronouns were quite similar (405 and 377), whereas male writers tended to use significantly fewer female pronouns in their works in Argamon's study (305 'he's 'him's and 'his's, versus 154 'she's 'her's and 'hers's), and female writers tended to use more female pronouns than males (although the numbers were often closer together, like mine). This is good for me - I like having something approaching equality in the appearances my male and female characters make (!).

However, my use of 'its' was bang in the middle of the male range - averaging around 10 per 10,000 words. This tends to be a lower figure (averaging 6.87) among female writers.

But City of Blaze was written four-and-a-half years ago. When I checked Voices of Blaze (my most recent novel) for the same statistics, I found that my pronoun use had become ever-so-slightly more masculine, but was still strongly female. My pronoun usage had fallen slightly, to 795 per 10,000 words, and my usage of 'its' had increased slightly - to 10.6 per 10,000 words. My male and female pronouns demonstrated a greater proportional difference in usage (379 for male, 334 for female), which again, is a more masculine way of writing according to Argamon et al. (Note to self - must ensure more equality by increasing mentions of female characters!)

But Argamon's work has been developed into an algorithm, together with some script from the Gender Genie. This algorithm tests for more elements of written texts than just pronouns, e.g. noun identifiers and proper nouns.

I pasted 6,000+ words from City of Blaze into this site to analyse my writings and find out whether it thought I was male or female. After three goes with different bits of text, and ensuring I included equal numbers of chapters on male and female characters, my results were: weak female (this means somewhere between male and female, but closer to female), weak female and weak female! Because their machine is based on American English, it also identified that I might be European, which can make the results a little unreliable. Or put another way, by American standards, I'm a weak female :-)

When I did the same with Voices of Blaze, I got the same results again: weak female, weak female and weak female.

No, that doesn't mean I write as a woman with particularly feeble arms would. It means my scores are right in the middle of the two genders, but slightly biased towards the feminine, though this bias was statistically insignificant most times I ran the algorithm.

What's more, according to Grammarly, being a female-style writer is great, because 59% of readers feel that female writers are better. Wooyay.

Incidentally, when I ran this blog post through the Gender Guesser, I got 'weak male'! Perhaps that'll make this blog post less liked than my books...

But what do readers think?

My next avenue of research was to look at reviews. How many of you assumed I was male, and how many female?

Out of all the reviews of my books (and discounting duplicates, or those written by the same reader), I have so far found six references to me as a male, two as a female and one reader described me as a he/she :-) I would suggest from this that most of my readers believe I am male, but I think I need some more data!

To summarise - does it matter what gender the author is? No. No, it shouldn't.

That said, in the field of romantic fiction, which is usually aimed at a female audience, how many male author names do you see? Not many, but that's not to say there are few male romance authors out there. Frequently, they are encouraged by their publisher to adopt female nom de plumes with the assumption that this will not put as many female readers off.

I find it pretty interesting to study the differences and assumptions, and I do wonder if authors of one particular gender do truly attract audiences of similar or differing genders. I also wonder if authors of each gender will tend to write to societal expectations, i.e. in a manner that reflects their gender, because it is moulded by the ways in which they have learned to speak, or the books they have tended to read (this assumes that female readers will choose books written by women and vice versa). And when I think back, could those toys our parents gave us so many years ago have affected the ways in which we read and write?

Anyway, I'm staying genderless for now (and keep quiet, those of you who know whether I shave my legs or my face), but how have you always pictured me? I'd be intrigued to know (and why)! Feel free to write in the comments box below...


Wednesday, 1 April 2015

Fall of Blaze is now available on Barnes & Noble

Find it for pre-order here:

Tuesday, 31 March 2015

Fall of Blaze now available from Apple iBooks/iTunes

Find it here for pre-order!