Nathaniel M. Wrey's Blog

We will start with a test: create a drama about the construction of a motorway through the pleasant rolling hills of the British countryside. I can already visualise the cast of characters. There’s the angry homeowner forced to leave his cottage, where his family has lived for over two centuries, as the bulldozers move in, the environmental activists determined to do anything to protect nature, the apologetic and slightly incompetent government official trying to appease all parties, and then the ruthless owner of the construction company who quotes the need for progress while cutting corners to make as much profit as possible. The reason this appears with such ease is I’ve already watched this scenario, or there abouts, unfold in a number of TV dramas, usually where the nefarious builder comes a cropper, murdered and un-mourned, while the remaining cast become the chief suspects. The crime inevitably has nothing to do with the motorway and the murderer will turn out to be the embittered son of a woman the builder drove to suicide when, despite being the lad’s father, he forced her to give their child up for adoption, but I digress. My point is, it is hard to present the components of such fiction in any other way. The only time you might get the road-builder presented as a hero is in some 1950’s Soviet propaganda film, where all the workers sing and laugh as they swing their pickaxes in the hot sun, while the peasants greet them with flowers and kisses as the concrete artery brings ‘paradise’ to their sorry lives, all under the giant poster of the beloved leader: the reality somewhat different, but the actual suffering of the workers and peasants is a worthwhile sacrifice for the ‘greater good’ and does not need sharing to sully the revolutionary march towards utopia (every government had similar promotional films during the early days of the motorways, though minus the kissing in the UK).

The truth is both these representations are driven by a core ideology: the latter a highly centralised, forward-looking one and the former a conservative, individualistic viewpoint. Yet, the strange thing is both groups will ultimately be grateful for the motorway, albeit a generation or two down the line. While not everyone likes motorway driving, it’s good for trade and we do like to get where we’re going as quickly as possible, avoiding congested towns and narrow, winding country lanes with the risk of getting stuck behind a tractor. They are the arteries of a modern, prosperous nation. In Britain we have a term, NIMBY, which gets applied to those objecting to construction projects impacting on their home or neighbourhood. It’s an acronym, standing for Not In My BackYard, and is often used as a criticism, inferring a selfish motive. I dislike the term and think those objecting take a perfectly natural and rational position, but the majority of people for whom it’s not in their backyard, will either not sympathise or not invest in objecting because they don’t have the emotional connection. So, motorways will still get built because protests remain containable with not enough people objecting.

Now, this blog is not about the pros and cons of motorways or large building projects, but rather the world we present through our imaginations and in the form of dramas, against the reality. For some reason, we are willing to sympathise and invest in the fictional victims’ situation more than those suffering in real life. Why?

Is it because it’s a non-consequential emotional commitment? We naturally sympathise with the underdog, those fighting authority, and don’t like to see the suffering. If we’re watching a drama with a family driving along a motorway, we’re not thinking about the lost trees or evicted homeowners over which their wheels metaphorically drive. But when the destruction is visually presented to us, albeit through the interaction of a set of characters, we subconsciously recoil from the conflict, siding with the comfort of continuity, consciously aware no trees or homeowners will be harmed in the making of this drama.

Are we afraid that if we did instinctively side with the fictional road-builders then it will give the green light to government to go crazy and let loose the real road-builders to tarmac anywhere the whim takes them, including our neighbourhood? Our inner NIMBY recognising the threat that exists, a small smirk curling on our mouth with the murder of the fictional construction boss: a victory over those fears.

Even with the news, a window on the real world, we seem able to compartmentalise the suffering, distinguishing what is not in our backyard. A war in a distant land you have no connection with may impact you less than a fatal train crash in your own country, even if the death toll is a thousand times greater. Culture plays a part. The reach of empathy seems to require numerous elements of familiarity, even if we believe all lives have equal value. Would we sympathise more with a road-builder in a drama set in the Gobi desert, because we can’t relate to the disruption to the lives of local nomads or fauna and all we see is a barren landscape?

Our brains don’t want new and dangerous concerns keeping us awake, so they detach us from many terrible things, rationalising that spatial and cultural distance means it’s not a direct threat. When make-believe enters the frame, our brain gets a little confused, the visual information received suggesting one thing, while another part reassures us there’s no threat. However, if the drama fits a particular template the brain is appeased. So, just like the accordion will always be required to evoke a scene set in France, our dramas will depend on stereotypical formulas to fit our emotional needs. They must shield us from our fears, present the characters subsumed within our psyche and deal with them like a therapy session, bumping off the figure threatening our emotional neighbourhood, letting the good guys (our ego) win, reinforcing our comfort (our id): our inner NIMBY is satisfied.

Of course, the motorway construction never gets stopped in these dramas, but the credits roll before such a disagreeable reality comes to light. Such is life!

Nathaniel M Wrey

It is estimated around 10 million visit the Mona Lisa in the Louvre each year. Why? Because it is a masterpiece of the Renaissance, a legacy of Leonardo Da Vinci’s genius, a global icon. Few would disagree with such sentiments, but I also suspect 99.9999% of those 10 million visitors have no qualifications to determine why it is considered a masterpiece, a work of genius or an icon. Do they recognise the intricate brush strokes, the symbolism present in the details, or appreciate the ground breaking techniques used? Most will parrot something about the enigmatic smile, mention it was smaller than they expected, while pointing their phone camera over the heads of others with phones aloft, hoping to capture an image of an image, then regale others with their time in the company of the Mona Lisa.

Now, before you huff and curse at me for being a cultural snob, I confess to no qualifications. I too consider the Mona Lisa to be a masterpiece without an ounce of personal knowledge to back up my claim. Art is largely subjective and thus a very personal experience. In truth, aesthetically speaking, I would not want the Mona Lisa hanging on my wall - it just wouldn’t go with Aunt Maude’s painting of a squirrel with five legs. So, my appreciation of the early 16th century portrait by Da Vinci is very much driven by its cultural standing and fame, not the technique or appearance. To put it simply, I don’t want to appear ignorant and uncouth by not liking it.

You see something similar with sites like Pompeii, a miraculous time capsule from the height of the Roman Empire, with a visit a must on most people’s bucket list. Few will come away without a sense of awe but even less will arrive with an adequate knowledge to appreciate what they are witnessing, their education on Roman history finishing at primary school or with a Hollywood blockbuster. Indeed, that is why Pompeii appeals. It is an historical blockbuster: a dramatic catastrophe that appeals to our curiosity in the same way the Titanic disaster does. So, we generally visit not to understand but to experience and belong to the story. Just like the tourists of the 18th Century on the Grand Tour, we visit to have visited, and return swollen with cultural pride, our position in society feeling a little bit more important, our understanding of the past superficially expanded.

This is all very natural, though somewhat odd. Who doesn’t remember your school days, declaring your allegiance to a music band or sports club to boost your standing among your peers. You probably didn’t think very hard about it at the time, just found yourself following something popular, so that you weren’t unpopular. Even as you got older, into your teens, you might have gone the other way, finding a niche taste, rebelling against your parents’ expectations, thinking you were unique, when all you were doing was creating a sense of belonging among those peers you wished to impress. And then, and it comes to all of us, you turn into your parents, you return to the fold carrying a chip of denial on your shoulder, dancing at the Abba experience in your Velvet Underground T-shirt. This need to belong both shapes our tastes and restricts them.

Perhaps this is the definition of culture - a shared appreciation, allowing a sense of belonging to the culture. But shouldn’t we all be able to judge with a detached and individualistic eye, challenging or justifying why we like or don’t like something, seeing beyond the social pressure, and into the very heart of the piece? Our obsession with fame - hero worship or seeking it - dilutes or subsumes this independence. It has always been thus, but whereas in the past the channels of influence were limited, as were the opportunities to shine, nowadays even a uninspiring glow can reach millions through multiple different channels. ‘Influencers’ is now a designation and aspiration. You start life looking up to your parents, a sole beacon as we learn behaviours and standards, but the danger comes as we develop independence, particularly if those lessons proved insipid and unsatisfactory. Rather than flourishing on the foundation of positive virtues and self-determination, we risk the substitution of one uninspiring beacon for another: a processed ready-meal rather than a homegrown and freshly sourced nutritional repast. Thus, the singer with nothing but a nice voice guides you like the Pied-Piper of Hamelin, the lying politician becomes a priest for your faith and the YouTube influencer the captain steering your ship towards the rocks. The culture we aspire to belong to becomes nothing but a shallow and bland emotional fix.

Until we understand the enigmatic smile, the story beneath the brushstrokes, the technique that lies at the heart of creation, and why we admire or dislike, then we will struggle to build on the past and add our own masterpieces for the future.

Nathaniel M Wrey

In 2021, I published the first adventure involving the everyman, Richard ‘Jock’ Mitchell, a lance corporal in the Royal West Kent Regiment, captured in France in May, 1940, and held prisoner by the Nazis in far-away Poland for the remainder of the war. At just over 30K words, Triumphant Where It Dares Defy, was a writer’s distraction; a step away from the intense business of completing my first novel, Liberty Bound, and awaiting the energy and determination to write its sequel. It was a pleasing exercise, drawing out some strong characters and creating a new twist on the POW drama. It also left some unresolved issues and an invitation to pen further adventures for Jock.

Having completed my second novel, the sequel Where Liberty Lies, it seemed fitting to once more turn my attention to Jock, and recharge ahead of a third novel. I took the unusual decision to leap forward four years to 1945 and the end of the war (Triumphant being set in 1941). Historical reality offered a perfect framework for a tale to slot Jock into, with the forced marches across Europe in the harsh winter, and A Place More Dark was born in 2024, stretching to over 40K words. Both stories offered me a chance to explore the challenges of life as a POW, recognising the bravery and endurance of those who didn’t escape at Dunkirk, and weave in some fanciful adventures.

The plan was then, of course, to complete my trilogy of novels, but life doesn’t always go to plan. Jock had survived the war but his story was not yet complete. The threads of Triumphant remained hanging and that played on my mind. What was another 40K words to tie things up in a blink? There was also this misconception that just because World War Two had ended, the returning prisoners had found their peace. Post-traumatic Stress Disorder, though unheard of in the 1940s, still existed and while it’s impossible to estimate how many soldiers and civilians suffered as a consequence of their experiences, it is hard not to believe a fair percentage did, their behaviours perhaps hidden behind closed doors and stiff upper-lips. With all this bouncing through my mind, an idea emerged of Jock back home, within the arms of his loving family and garden, but in truth the real Jock had not returned from the horrors of the camp. Demons and ghosts haunted him, guilt weighed down his soul, anger and escape through drink the only way he knew how to express his feelings. An exorcism was required. While no data exists, it is estimated soldiers returning from war are four times more likely to commit suicide than the general population. That was not an option for Jock, but putting himself in danger’s way and inviting death offered an open door for another adventure, and, as is the way with us humans, as one war draws to a close, another opens!

In 1948, the dust and debris of the world war had still to settle: occupying armies were in barracks and guardhouses across Europe, rations persisted, and a bewildered population settled scores and sought new futures within reordered borders and ruined cities. A new political structure also existed, based around the surviving ideologies of Western democratic capitalism and Eastern autocratic communism (snuffing out any post-war embryonic attempts at democracy and liberty) . The concept of continuing the war after the defeat of Nazism to defeat communism was real, championed by Churchill, as was Stalin’s desire to exploit a Europe on its knees and colour the continent red, as occurred in the east, but Churchill’s defeat in the 1945 General Election, the deterrent from America’s atomic bomb, and the practical reality of a war-weary Europe and world, put paid to such plans. So, instead of an actual war, we got a cold war.

Drawing Jock away from his family and into this chaotic world only makes sense with the psychology outlined in the earlier paragraph. Here is a man who, with good reason, hated the war, wishing only to return to a place beyond memory with his family and garden. Realising that is impossible, a nihilism replaces the idealism, and when government man, Trenton-Harper, turns up with his hare-brained scheme to go behind the Iron Curtain, it suits Jock’s needs, even though he recognises it as foolhardy. What follows is a 50K word adventure, For All the Treasures Buried Far, a journey into danger, but more importantly an introspective journey for Jock. He faces his guilt, views his own disturbed behaviour from a distance, and finds some resolution, if not closure, for those demons and ghosts. It brings Jock’s adventures to a close and each story both stands alone and links together, painting a picture of one man’s experiences during this tumultuous period. Bringing them into one volume made perfect sense.

I don’t believe the war ever ended for some, but they somehow found the courage to carry on, returning to family life, their jobs and into old age, finally, taking those scars and memories to the grave. With In the Face of the Foe I hope to have done their memory proud.

I’m my own person. No one tells me what to do. My choices are my own. We’ve perhaps all said or thought as much at some point in our lives, but is it true? With genes establishing our template, from the day we’re born our lives are shaped by outside influences, starting with our parents, the culture we grow up in, the education we receive, the people we meet, and the events which cross and determine our path. There exists very little personal choice in it and so the person we become can hardly be said to be their own person.

The first 1001 days of your life are said to be the most important, with the brain and immune system developing through bonding, diet and nurture, influencing the rest of your years in a way few will appreciate. Meaning that when events and people cross your path, your decision-making is partially determined. This doesn’t mean you have no choice but you may be inclined to go in one direction rather than another. Think of it like the binary system and a tree. You always have a choice to do ‘0’ or ‘1’ with what is before you, but that is built on a trunk of hardened determinants shaped by those early years, and so what direction the next growth/branch sprouts from (0 or 1) is influenced by the size, shape or location of that trunk. Your eating habits, response to emotions or inability to behave considerately will all be influenced before you can even say the word.

There are still plenty of neural pathways to construct through our childhood, offering us the ideal time to absorb and learn. By the time we go to school we have a distinct personality but we’re then exposed to the social chaos of other distinct personalities in the shape of our class mates, all vying for attention, influence and dominance, when before all you had to cope with was your parent’s influence. The child seeks acceptance and so will walk a delicate path between fulfilling the values instilled by their parents and impressing their peers by acting the fool. A battle takes place between the gravitation pull of the former and latter, the mischievous winning out when one is too weak or the other too strong. We hope the education provided to our children allows them the strength to think for themselves but there is a certain depth of commitment one must reach in order to arm ourselves with the ammunition to critically think, and, for most, the allure of cultural ‘sugar’, the celebrity of entertainment or empty promises, keeps them in the shallows, aspiring for fame and fortune through the pursuit of style over substance. A teenager’s clothes will likely be ‘selected’ by a celebrity and, as time goes by, peer pressure will push them towards another trend, another influencer who inspires by appearing to occupy an elevated utopia at the end of a video screen (a modern day Wizard of Oz). Even those decrying the mundane existence of society and its automaton masses, declaring their desire to free themselves from its restraints and become an individual, will end up looking like the person who influenced such radical thoughts and all the other followers of the rebellious philosophy of the day.

Rebellion has a strange place in western society. Protestantism was born from standing up to authority (the clue’s in the name), the French like a revolution or two, and Hollywood always plonks a rebel in the lead role. So, is this not a sign of free-thinking? On one level this is true, but, in a historical context, rebellious upheavals are conjured or exploited by other members of the ruling elite manoeuvring for personal power, utilising a cause or ideology to justify their actions. A peasant would only become aggrieved if they had an empty stomach or paid too much tax, and this primordial behaviour, of demanding what we need and objecting to what is taken from us, remains true today. If rebellions are successful they become a narrative of future culture and that in turn influences the young minds to carry the same narrative in their own behaviour (think how the American Revolution and the Wild West fed into America culture and are expressed in those Hollywood rebels, who in turn feed into other cultures around the world). So, your average rebel is a product of the very culture they’re rebelling against.

The chances are your religion will mirror your parents’. You won’t have much choice in the matter, exposed and schooled from a young age. If you do change your beliefs during your life time, then you likely live in a culture that allows other influences to penetrate this oft inflexible domain. Even your favourite sports team will not be a free choice. A father will feel a failure not to have influenced his lad or lass to follow his own team, while you’ll want to keep in with your friends at school and support one of the popular clubs. And when, in later life, you’re watching your team lose their tenth game on the trot, there won’t be a choice to change.

When adulthood arrives, those neural pathways are pretty rigid and we’re set in our ways. With some irony, this is when choices fall squarely on the shoulder of the individual. Experience is the only advantage for us mature folk, because, other than that, our decision-making abilities are largely pre-programmed. But we’re still not beyond influence. From an advert to the politician, your kids or your pet cat, everyone is trying to nudge you in a direction. How you respond to that influencing will likely be down to that trunk and the main branches you grew back in the day. Will you bend in the wind or break?

Oh, and just when you understand this strange montage of influences that is the version of ‘you’, there’s the risk of a brain injury which completely changes your personality, making you question whether we really have any choice in who we are.

Free speech is rather fundamental to liberty and it has been at the centre of a fair bit of news recently. Indeed, this very blog is possible with the luxury of this precious freedom. But, like with most things, the term is not as straightforward as some may think. We don’t get to say anything we want due to laws, manners or tradition. Try telling your mother something outrageous and you’ll get clipped round the ear. As with the word democracy, which gets owned across the political spectrum (East Germany’s formal name was the German Democratic Republic but their democracy was based on Rosseau’s philosophy of the general will, which argued only an elite is fit and able to express the collective will of the masses), free speech is similarly fought over. With some irony, factions battle over their ‘truth’ and the right to say whatever they like to further their cause, be that a half-truth, a falsehood or something vulgar. I don’t know anyone who likes to be lied to or sworn at, and this is not what we fight for when defending free speech. But equally, if we restricted speech to anything that didn’t cause offense to someone, somewhere, then we’d be competing with the Trappist Monks (I apologise to Trappist Monks offended by this and am more than happy to listen to your objections in person). Of course, some will say, the unpleasant is the price you pay for all those other utterable freedoms: the ability to criticize, to challenge the status quo, to stand alone when everyone is telling you you’re wrong, or to write about the meaning of free speech. But the reason it has recently become such a fractious topic is because of a revolutionary change in how we communicate: social media.

Social media has become a platform empowering the individual to present their inner most thoughts and feelings without fear of consequence and that is a very strange thing in social interaction. All social activities have evolved over generations and, generally speaking, we restrain our speech to suit the environment. When you visit your grandma in the nursing home, you don’t turn the air blue with foul language; when presenting for your business you aim to impress, putting on your most respectful tone and demonstrating your intelligence. For a romantic dinner over candle light, you’ll try all in your power to appear funny, knowledgeable and sophisticated, avoiding talk of bodily functions or hairy moles. At university you might stray into the taboo with the debating society, arguing one side of a contentious issue while politely listening to the other. Only, perhaps, when down the pub with your mates do you colour the air with fruity anecdotes and risqué jokes, unless there’s a new face in the crowd, when you’ll restrain yourself a little, testing the water, before playing the cheeky chappie. Why do we behave such? Well, our social radar adjusts to recognise the situation and we don’t like upsetting our companions when they look us in the eyes or deliver instant retribution for a slight and might eject us from the ‘tribe’. Society acts as a natural regulator, because we belong to it or want to belong to it. This handbrake only comes off when our inhibitions are diminished and this can occur when power (the abuse of power), or alcohol/drugs are added to the equation. The despot can scream and shout, curse and insult, with fear preventing the underlings responding with anything other than compliance and a shiver; while the drunk fires off words to shame them in the cold light of a hangover. For the former, there are no immediate consequences for their actions (their comeuppance might arrive with time) and, for the latter, no thought of the consequences. Those boisterous lads down the pub are a mix of the two, over empowered by the company and safety of their peers and fuelled by king fluid. They seek to outdo and impress with ever more ribald stories, but transfer them to a public setting, such as a TV show, and it is exposed for what it is, rude, offensive and disgraceful, and society won’t allow it.

What social media has created is a new environment, controlled by money-making industries, who have said, we want you to use our platform to speak to your grandma in her nursing home, to show off your talents to potential new bosses, share your love for your partner, or have a laugh with your mates whether drunk or not. But it’s like meeting your granny round the table in a pub, while you’re pitching an idea and listening to a rude joke from your mates. Soon, the boisterous prat who’s downed eight pints is insulting your gran, while the businessman is calling you an uncouth lowlife because he thought you were laughing at him and not the joke, while your mates wolf whistle at your girlfriend, who storms off when your gran comments on her wonky teeth. The bounderies don’t exist, nor the social rules to provide order, and the right to say what you want, when you want to, is now a dangerous thing.

Leaving a comment on a social media platform can be an abstract process. You are addressing no one; you are addressing millions. It is like throwing a message in a bottle into a vast ocean, but the difference is you know which beach it will washup on, if not who will read it. When the recipient finds the bottle, they don’t know where it came from or who sent it, but they experience all the same emotions on reading it as though you said it to their face. Imagine a hundred bottles washing up and half tell you you’re wonderful and the other half inform you you’re an idiot. Neither sounds a particular healthy social experience, because strangers just don’t come out of the blue to praise or insult in normal circumstances. But because our minds feel the same sensation to normal social connection, we crave the ‘likes’ and work to build up ethereal followers, while trolls dispatch their poison because pressing ‘send’ doesn’t trigger the same sensation of having a social connection - all they see is the empty ocean.

Cancel culture is just as worrying as the vitriol of an extremist. It is that crowd in the pub turning on granny because it suddenly went silent when she mentioned your girlfriend’s wonky teeth. No one else was meant to hear, certainly not the girlfriend; it was just a subjective viewpoint. But now the mob owns the narrative and gran is fed to the wolves. Fear now dominates the pub and no one ever mentions teeth again! Free speech is stifled. Of course, lots of people foolishly speak their mind to the worldwide web and wonder why others turn on them, but imagine how something like this would be handled in a traditional social arrangement. You’d have a quiet word with gran, ask her not to be so blunt in future and apologise to the blossom of your eye, then give both a big kiss on the cheek. If you said something inappropriate in the work place, your manager would have a word, maybe issue a warning and, if behaviours didn’t improve, you might find yourself sacked, but a process would be followed to determine context and both sides of the story etc. A single faux pas on social media can turn out to be the epitaph on your social gravestone. The golden rule is don’t say anything on social media you wouldn’t say in polite company, but if you have no reputation to lose, what is there to hold you back? There are laws to protect against slander and libel but the law has a flaw: it is expensive. The poor man can’t afford to seek restitution, while the ultra-rich can either take a hit or afford to drag out proceedings until out of the price range of a plaintive. So, beware those with deep pockets championing free speech, while sharing unfounded views.

As I’ve written about in a previous blog, liberty can only exist in conjunction with responsibility, and that is what’s lacking on social media. Plenty of people post responsibly but you don’t have to (Manchester United are rubbish - see, even I can’t help myself sometimes!). Rules apply in all areas of our life, many to protect our freedom, many unwritten, so if someone lies or abuses another, companies should hold them to account and take sensible and measured action, be that the quiet word or a formal process (no kiss on the cheek is required). Even the Wild West had sheriffs to bring some law and order. In this spirit, I, therefore, retract my previous statement about Manchester United on the grounds it was crass, subjective abuse. It would be better if I simply stated, Manchester United are 12th in the league at the halfway point of the 2024/25 season (fact).

So, enjoy the privilege of your free speech but use it responsibly or there will be a price to pay in the long run.

Nathaniel M Wrey

With my nine-to-five office job it’s only fair I consider myself an amateur author. Despite the critical success of my books, I certainly don’t make any money out of them and could not afford to write as my sole occupation. I’m undecided if the life of a ‘professional’ author would be for me, should my readership ever expand to a sustainable level. But it got me thinking about what makes an author, amateur or professional.

To my knowledge, Charles Dickens had no special author training, nor did Jane Austen, nor Steinbeck, Orwell, the Brontes, Scott Fitzgerald, Twain, etc. Some may have studied literature or trained as a journalist, but I suspect most learned to read and write at school and furthered their education by simply reading other novels and regularly putting pen to paper. A master of a musical instrument must practice, practice, practice; mastering technique and theory. To be an author, we must master our own language; something that is all around us most of our lives. There are no laborious keys or chords to rehearse, no using two hands at once. But it is no less complex than music (a language in its own right), its omnipresence meaning we somehow learn the complexity even if we don’t fully understand it. Of course, there are those who have swallowed a dictionary and can show-off with their long words, but communication has never needed a big word when a small word is available. To turn this gift of vocabulary into a novel there are a few other steps an author must take: reading and writing.

With reading, the practice rewards in more subtle ways. After a certain level of attainment, you don’t become a better reader. You absorb information, become more rounded and knowledgeable, and perhaps, without realising it, you appreciate a good writer more. We then need to practice our writing. It’s something we do as part of our everyday lives, be it pen to paper, finger to keyboard, or scribbling a shopping list or constructing an essay. It's a big leap to then write a novel. Do we subconsciously pick up the style of our favourite authors, enabling us to follow in their footsteps and write ourselves? It doesn’t necessarily translate that reading Dickens will turn you into a great author, and, if you try writing in his style, it is unlikely to be well received among the modern literati. We may learn how to structure a story or develop a character, but combining a good yarn, with a relatable cast, in the company of good prose, is a hard thing to teach. Your modern writing course (something Dickens certainly didn’t attend) will drum into you the importance of showing not telling etc, but I suspect the recipe of a good author is life: a melting pot of all those books you’ve read, the people you’ve met, the problems you’ve solved, the tears you’ve cried, the love you’ve felt and given. While the sign of a good book is the reader loves it. That's quite a flexible pool.

Producing a novel is a little like raising a child in Victorian England, in that it is a lot of hard work, poverty awaits most, many don’t make it, and, for those that do, once your job is done - they fly the nest or you publish the book - you’ll love them to bits but there is little you can do to improve them (beyond the odd edit and new edition - wouldn’t that be helpful with those kids!). You tackle your future children with all those lessons picked up from the first, and that is true with your future novels. And there are no professional parents, just amateurs with a variety of skills and circumstances, and, despite their backgrounds, some are good parents and others not so good. Some will raise angelic children you’ll never know about and others will create monsters you wish you had never heard of. So, I conclude that all authors are amateurs, finding their way, making mistakes, stumbling on a method, reaching the end and creating angels and monsters.

I must go. I can hear my new novel wailing and it needs a feed.

Nathaniel M Wrey

I’ve not blogged about my Jock Mitchell novella series before. Not sure why, as I’m very fond of them. I’m now two ‘books’ in and, with one at the start of World War Two (Triumphant Where it Dares Defy) and one at the end (A Place More Dark), it would appear that’s that. There is an awful lot of water that flowed between 1940 and 1945 for those held as prisoners of war, but the truth is the nature of captivity leaves limited room for story development. The escape story has been done to death and isn’t for our Jock. He’s an everyman, caught up in something he wishes he wasn’t, but he’s not your dashing adventure seeker. That said, the prison camp does provide an interesting stage, with a collection of personalities functioning under impossible conditions, and I may return to Stalag XXa at some point in the future. However, the tales of Jock Mitchell definitely aren’t over and there are some elements to tie up in a third adventure. Therefore, I’ll be bringing him back to the page with an adventure set a few years after the end of the war. Watch this space!

I’ve a confession to make. Despite having read many a non-fiction book about the Second World War, I’ve never read a fictional one. So, to write one may seem odd. Like with my dystopian novels, I don’t write to satisfy the criteria of a genre, but rather to create interesting characters in a compelling situation. The war is just the stage and it provides many compelling opportunities for the actors. It’s a strange genre. War itself is abhorrent and nothing to be celebrated, but it tests the participants to their limits, thus providing a wonderful canvas for exploring the human spirit. Of course, depending on who is writing, a war can easily be presented in black and white, good verses evil, them against us, but, as with all things, it’s never that simple. Not all Germans were Nazis or bad, not all Allies were honest or nice. The imperial framework of the world dragged millions of people into a war they had no direct interest in. The high ideals of saving democracy meant little to those living under the imperial cosh.

Imagine you’re a German caught up in the brutality and madness of the Nazi regime. Without them you would have lead a relatively insignificant life in your insignificant town. You have little interest in politics, cast your vote elsewhere and possess no ill-will to others. All you care about is providing for your family. But with the Nazis, you must follow laws that discriminate against another race, prove your loyalty to the regime or risk punishment. You find yourself conscripted into the army, while your children are brainwashed via the Hitler Youth. Soon, you’re fighting a devasting war, freezing in the siege of Leningrad, while your family are sheltering from the bombs. Few would abandon their country or their family at such a time, and so you fight with all your might. Victory somehow means a greater chance at survival; a better future. There are horrors perpetrated by your own kind. You disagree but say nothing through fear. Then you see the retribution, atrocities committed by the other side against your comrades, and the enemy becomes de-humanised in your eyes. A threshold is passed. You lose your own humanity but that is what you think is required to win and survive. What an impossible and futile position. It is like being swept along by a tsunami: no choice, no steering, just an overwhelming force controlling your fate. That is why I introduced the character Konrad in A Place More Dark. A German to sympathise with. Somehow he turns against the current but still his future is uncertain, his options limited. He is the grey between the black and white.

We find ourselves at a time of great uncertainty in the world. A vicious spiral of hatred threatens to consume the Middle East, while aggression is used by Russia in the Ukraine to deflect from domestic problems. Elsewhere tensions exist that just require a spark to ignite a war. Peace and the removal of violence and fear would solve everyone’s problems but that will be impossible if we continue to view everything in black and white.

Nathaniel M Wrey

I guess it started with the Industrial Revolution: society thrown up into the air and resettled in an urban environment, away from their food source and traditions, the individual’s role a tiny cog in an enormous machine, on which all depend. New opportunities arrived, mass education and, gradually, rights, democracy and freedom, but an insidious irony also accompanied this sea-change: we started to forget how to do things. And, as technology advanced, the malaise grew and continues to grow. Welcome to the Amnesic Age.

Okay, what am I on about? Well, have you noticed how disconnected we have become from some of the fundamentals of life and survival? The basic skills we have forgotten leave us rather vulnerable and each new break-through, such as the internet and now artificial intelligence, make us even less self-reliant and more dependent on a highly complex, but ultimately, fragile system. As the individual gorges on the luxuries of our inventive age, they vegetate, a couch-potato on the human journey to a less certain age.

A city depends on the countryside to provide its food: its residences’ time and energy being required for manufacturing or administration. So, as an agricultural society transforms into an industrial one and generations pass, skills are lost, enthusiasm wains, and people complacently assume the food in the markets will always be there. Technology advances, the food comes pre-prepared and packaged and some don’t even know what they’re eating anymore or where it comes from. With the opportunity to commute to the city, the urban mindset spreads and soon gardening is a burden. Walk down any street with gardens and count the dominance of the unkempt or sparse foliage, the tarmacked surrender to a different priority, the car. If the rug of civilisation was pulled from beneath our feet, how many could find or grow their own food now?

Of course, the advancements of an industrial society bring many benefits. No more back-breaking labour for most, time for leisure pursuits and a chance at longer and healthier lifespans. And new skills and knowledge are learned. I remember weekends when fathers opened the bonnet of the car, tinkering and fixing, while mothers, their arms coated in flour and assisted by mixers and recipe books, baked and created in the kitchen. Weekends have changed. There's not much an owner need do to maintain a car these days, with their computer-tuned engines and slick production, while a kitchen is no longer solely a woman’s domain and ready meals or eating out removes the obligation for anyone to master the craft of cooking. They can binge watch a TV series instead.

As I type this blog, music playing in the background, my concentration wavers, a word comes out wrong, I forget to add a comma. Not a problem: spellchecker has my back. I type furiously but carelessly. No longer do I worry about mistakes or words I can't spell. Technology relieves my of that burden. It’s a wonder but comes at a cost. Discipline is undermined. Do I even need to master my trade to deliver a product now? It took humans millions of years to invent writing and some might say it’s been positive progress ever since, but are we now in danger of going backwards, forgetting the fundamentals? Schools still teach the basics but many children are now unsupported at home with their reading and writing and leave education with no desire to ever pick up a book again. Even with spellcheck, the basic errors I see in others’ writing is shocking.

Schools are only one part of our education; our family, friends and culture the other elements. Yet children can arrive at school without the most essential skills: toothbrushing, toilet training, social skills and behaviours. The art of parenting has also suffered in this amnesic age. Our culture has developed some marvellous teaching tools but our freedom gives us choice, and our culture also provides ‘sugar-filled’ distractions. An educational programme or an action-filled cartoon? Like the chocolate bar, the latter should be a treat, the former your child’s nutritious, healthy dietary staple. The BBC started out with education at it’s heart but to compete it depends on entertaining. That great educationalist and broadcaster, David Attenborough, charms and teaches us with his wildlife programmes, but I urge you to watch Life on Earth from 1979 and compare it to the later series. The technology and visual power of the latter are stunning, giving us access to some incredible sights that the former just couldn’t achieve, and yet the original series treats its audience in an entirely different and mature way, heavy with detailed analysis and theories. It is the visual that sells and not the stuffy lecture hall dialogue but again we lose something, happy to cruise downhill, unwilling to peddle uphill.

The teenage years should be a preparation period for adulthood but, in the worse cases, have become little more than opportunities for egos or neurosis to develop unchecked. Perhaps this is why many parents have forgotten how to parent. This is not assisted by mobile phones. They are an umbilical cord, stifling independence. Why learn to do something yourself when a call to mum or dad sorts it. Teenagers will always have a rebellious streak, it’s a necessity to ensure they fly from the nest, but if we forget how to nurture them towards being responsible adults, the hedonistic, self-centred adolescents who cause havoc, will simply grow up to become hedonistic, self-centred adults. Picture the stereotype offspring of your 18th Century aristocrat: no responsibilities, life handed to them on a plate, running rough-shot over and with no care for others. That all seems rather familiar to me in this Amnesic Age.

Just like the child heavily dependent on their parents, we have become a spoilt society, expectant and entitled. As a consequence, community-spirit fades from the memory. No longer do we give and sacrifice in the same manner. You’ll hear people justify their selfish actions with phrases such as ‘Yeah, but I have…,’ oblivious to putting ‘I’ at the heart of their justification and blind to the impact on others. I recall a couple of decades back the government did a slightly odd campaign to ‘restore respect.’ It floundered largely because the word had lost its fundamental meaning, corrupted by an interpretation more akin to homage. That campaign was promptly forgotten! It was a clear sign society’s moral compass pointed to a different, more-individualist ‘magnetic north’.

All of these observations are me generalising. Yes, plenty of people still know how to garden, cook, fix a car and consider others. I am in awe of a number of teenagers I’ve seen growing up, ready to become far better adults than I. But I believe the general direction of society is how I have painted it. I don’t argue for a step backwards into some mythical, utopian agricultural age, but we do need to rediscover a discipline that gets us up off the couch, reconnected and thinking for ourselves again. If we let the problem grow, anyone left with these skills will find themselves ‘exploited’, relied on by the deficient masses, until consumed. You’ll also start taking certain things for granted yourself, just as this author does with his spellchecker. Lett th,e revoluton bigin/

Industry works by meeting demand, right? The consumer has a need and the producer meets that need. That’s certainly how any industry starts, and as demand rises, costs fall, creating further demand. Now, logically speaking, there should come a time when everyone’s needs are met, with the exception of a new generation seeking its place in the world. Of course, that’s not how it works, with new, ‘improved’ products calling your name or replacements required as your device conveniently gives up the ghost a month after its warranty runs out. Every industry must grow to survive, otherwise the capital dries up, it stagnates and collapses. On one level, this is good. It creates competition and drives improvement, innovation and invention. But the downside is it sometimes creates markets with a false sense of need, just in order to justify the industry’s continued existence or growth: the self-perpetuating industry. The most obvious example is the fashion industry. A warm coat has one job: to keep you warm. No matter what technical advances are made, if it keeps you warm, it is doing its job. But how many of us adults, waistline permitting, will retain such an item until the threads have rotted and the lining thinned? That’s because we also demand style. But that is nothing more than peer pressure shaped by an industry re-inventing the wheel to foment demand. What a dull world it would be if we never changed style, but equally, where does one draw the line for how many clothes we need? Artificial concepts, such as the fashion ‘season,’ have been introduced encouraging us to dump the old and buy the new. Magazines exist with no other purpose than to convince you what you’re wearing is no longer flavour of the month and you too could pull off a new garment like the stunning model in the picture. It feeds into our desire to belong, to be popular, stand out and feel successful; no different than the warrior of prehistoric times preening within the skin of the mighty beast they caught, proving their prowess. But the difference now is the industry telling you endlessly that ‘sabre-tooth tiger’ is so last season, you need a new one or the ‘tribe’ will reject you.

You see similar self-justification in other industries, such as the event/conference or media industries. Anyone working in an office will have seen their fair share of invites from event organisers or perhaps been invited to speak. Some events will be highly valuable, bringing together peers to share and learn from each other, but I imagine the majority will barely meet the value threshold of improving your own business. Venues and the organisers need you attending to justify their own existence. Thus the hyperbole on those invites increases to attract, while meeting demand is no longer the motivation, creating demand is. With the media we’ve seen this develop with 24/7 coverage. There is a demand for news, but is there really a demand for saturation news, looping all day and night? Are we in a situation where the media are driving the need for news, over-dramatising or highlighting non-consequential material for the sake of filling time, competing to be the first to report and justifying their own existence. Surely, this undermines journalistic integrity? The internet with its instantaneous qualities and multiple sources, is just as likely to feed incorrect as correct material, but I am happy to wait for a scheduled time once or twice a day to receive well-consider information, which has been checked and double-checked by professionals following robust standards.

This self-perpetuating industrial complex has also filtered into social movements. The majority start out as well-intentioned and necessary challenges for change, but they utilise the modus operandi of the marketing industry to embed themselves and grow. Others join the band wagon, a threshold is crossed from project to industry, and focus lost of their purpose; further growth sought simply to justify their own continued existence. Someone told me the other day an academic had a grant to help ‘decolonise’ Hadrian’s Wall! Now, I don’t know the full background and suspect it has been embellished through a rabid news source, but if there is an ounce of truth and I interpret it correctly, then it is, of course, ridiculous and an example of finding something to get upset about to fulfil a need to feel aggrieved, while justifying a grant that exists to fuel an industry. Historical interpretated by emotion is never a good thing, and money is better spent improving the core education of everyone to give them a better future, rather than painting the past with the colours of today. We’re seeing similar behaviour in mental health. A problem exists and lots of really good work is being done to address our wellbeing but it has also become a self-perpetuating industry of apps, pseudo-psychology and amateur YouTube videos that don’t tackle the fundamental problem. It dilutes the essential work that has to be done, turning people off with saturation and trivialisation. I saw an advert for a game app which claimed it helped to relieve stress, missing the irony that being stuck in front of our screens is one reason for our poor state of mind.

An analogy for the self-perpetuating industry is a vehicle built to carry you to your destination but soon everyone wants to come on-board to tweak the design and you end up with a hamster wheel, forever running in the direction of your destination but never arriving. Let’s not forget our purpose for each journey when setting out.

Nathaniel M Wrey

Watching an old travel TV programme the other day, the host interviewed the head of a top public school(1) in India. He asked if they were preparing the pupils to become the country’s elite. The headmaster replied, ‘no, we are training them to be confident, so they can become the elite if they choose.’ Such a trait is synonymous with public school pupils the world over, confidence sweating from their pores. A grammar school(2) boy myself, I can’t compete which such self-assurance, but, in some aspects, my own school life imbued me with a level of confidence those from other walks of life lack. So, what is confidence? How do you obtain it? Why does it come and go?

The dictionary definition is belief in oneself, but my own interpretation is it stems from knowledge: either the possession of knowledge or complete ignorance. We lose confidence when we understand we lack the knowledge to tackle a situation. I would separate it from our ego (the self), something that can certainly grow with confidence, but is perhaps built from the less clearly defined aspects of our genes and early days.

The ethos of a public school is built on developing future leaders, the best available teachers inculcating a sense of purpose, while the pupils, often from wealthy, powerful or driven families, know only success. Boarders will learn self-reliance early, responsibility drummed into them, while even their youthful irresponsibility will be flavoured with an independent spirit. They know their privileged status, their superior education, the doors that are open to them with their connections, and with all that knowledge they are confident in life. Now, that is some broad stereotyping on my part and different schools and different parents, will generate different children, but it makes my point.

But confidence is not confined to class. We’ve all seen the yob walking with a swagger, immune to others’ opinions, confident in ignoring the law and not giving a hoot. Rather than a public schooling education, they may have neglected their schooling altogether, preferring to get theirs on the streets in a feral environment. I could argue their confidence comes from ignorance. You’ve nothing to fear if you don’t know anything. But that oversimplifies the issue. Education and intelligence are two different things and it could be equally true that the outward facing bravado is a show to hide their insecurity or they understand fully how creating fear helps get their own way or how helpless the law sometimes is. If you misbehave and get away with it, you’ve accumulated that as knowledge and can exploit it: your confidence grows. Society, as a whole, has lost the ability to police itself. You no longer have the old grey-haired lady chiding teenagers for their behaviour on the bus, confident the driver will step in and clip an ear or two if required. They don’t know what reaction they’ll get: compliance, swearing or violence? And in that climate of uncertainty and fear, they lose confidence, while the teenagers, unrestricted in their unruly behaviour, gain confidence. However, as we are seeing, that lack of robust societal framework is also leaving a generation rather fragile, often disingenuously referred to as the snowflake generation. Outwardly, they appear as boisterous as any youngster should be, but for some it is an eggshell covering a vulnerable centre. Whether this is related to confidence or something deeper, I don’t know. Modern life, social media and smartphones may have created a safety blanket or warped outlook on life, undermining an ability to feel secure within themselves? Or maybe they’ll prove us all wrong when they grow up and sort out the mess the planet’s in. I’ve come across enough to give me hope.

For the majority of us, confidence is a mixed bag. Our experiences will nurture or wither it. Some will always be confident with the opposite sex, knowledgeable in their own looks or comfortable in their company because of the environment they grew up in. Others will only gain confidence once their hormones push them into gaining experience and some will revert to jabbering wrecks every time they try engaging. Money will empower some with confidence, the power that comes with it intoxicating and alluring. There is no better instiller of knowledge than an education, and the further you go through the system the more confidence you will have. It may be you only come to life when talking about a specialist subject, but others will grow as their life experience is reinforced by knowledge from the text books.

But why do we lose our confidence? Surely, if it’s built on possessing knowledge, you retain that for life. Well, no. You’ll recall I also said confidence was built on ignorance. We carry a fair bit of faith with us, fostered by our egos. When you walk up to an attractive stranger to ask them out, confident they’ll say ‘yes’, you’re actually doing so with ignorance. You’ve no idea what their tastes are, if they even like your gender, or are already in a relationship. Their rejection will expose your lack of knowledge, undermining the faith you had in any knowledge you did possess, hitting your confidence. A flirtatious look from another stranger may reignite it but too many hits and the confidence is shot. Of course, some are immune to such rejections altogether, their egos compensating for the facts, and I guess one has to ask whether any love they have to offer will only be available for themselves?

So, where does the line exist between confidence and arrogance. I’ve heard some people describe a world famous footballer as arrogant, and others say it is confidence because his ability and achievements back up his words. There is some truth in the latter, though I would argue a confident individual, secure in themselves, should be humble and self-depreciating, but that is just opinion. Of course, any person claiming knowledge or ability they don’t possess is arrogant, as is anyone using their confidence to show up others. The fuzzy area is those gaining confidence from information that is fundamentally wrong. Misinformation works in the same way as information, reinforcing faith and beliefs. Amongst the conspiracy theorists, they will possess a deep-rooted narrative which only accommodates new information that fits with it, rather than using evidence as a building block to a more fluid narrative. The arrogance comes from the intractable starting position. So, if I see a blurred thing whiz through the night sky, I can be confident in saying it is unidentified, flying and and an object but not that it is an alien space craft. Someone who believes E.T. has already visited, will use the same incident as proof they are right. Many areas exist where it’s okay to have an opinion based on a theory or hunch, but we need to retain doubts, keeping our confidence at a safe level, and remain open to new knowledge that may deconstruct confidence in one direction and build it up in another.

I write all this from the position of understanding just enough to know I’m no expert but I am a good observer. So, please take these musings as mere observations. I have confidence you will do so… I think. Maybe…

Nathaniel M Wrey

Public School - in the UK, a public school is an elite fee paying institution, as opposed to a State school, which is free. The confusing name comes from old legislation (1868 Public Schools Act) that established schools as available to anyone… as long as you paid (some gain entry through scholarships).

Grammar School - in the UK, a grammar school is a selective institution based on educational ability rather than a fee. Once wide spread, only a few regions, such as the South East, have them now. An entrance examine is taken at 11 years old by those wishing to apply and the top percentage are accepted. Others can join later, in what was termed the sixth form when I attended i.e. 16-18 years.