A Bigly Christmas 2017 to You



Christmas Day 2017.

Joy to all women, children and men in this season of pantomimes and circuses.

     We seem to be living through a seven-ringed conflation of the two.
      Ho, ho, ho ho.
     Overseeing it all we have our very own grey Mother Goose and what a gigantic goose she is. Off she goes to church, the Vicar's daughter, in her Dolce and Gabbana shoes costing £600 while her government cheerfully cuts and delays benefits to the disabled and barely-managing across the land. Ho ho ho.

Behind her, the stage is filled with mugging, smirking, prat-falling clowns tumbling from Stage Right and, as ever, these clowns aren't remotely funny... But they are bigly sleazy, scary and sinister.

You have to appreciate the sheer audacity of the humour. Shiny, smarmy 'Calm down, dear,'   Clown Cameron completely misjudges his referendum, trips over it and falls smack on his face. But up he skips, to announce that he will see the negotiations with the EU through to the end. Then, quick as a blown raspberry -- such timing! -- he's running off-stage to hide in his £25,000 'shepherd's hut' that's never seen a sheep (apart from him) and never will. Oh, the laughter at his slippery, cowardly, insulting antics! -- I thought it would never start.

The clowns run and prat-fall about the stage for a while and then Mother Goose comes from the church to lead them. How can she possibly top Cameron's turn? She manages it with a superb piece of surprise business. Leading forward Bozo the Buffoon, she makes him foreign secretary.

The whole theatre rocks with disbelief. Oh no, she can't --
Bozo Buffoono, the 'highly educated Eton classicist' representing us to other nations? No, no! Oh no, she can't!

But oh, yes, she can, she does! What can possibly go wrong? Hilarity must ensue.

Buffoono is celebrated for his comic skits, like the famous one where he plotted and planned to push Clown Cameron off the top spot by lying himself Tory Blue in the face while pretending to be a 'Leaver.' He managed the difficult trick of never allowing even the tiniest, loneliest thought to cross the great echoing, empty chambers of his Eton educated head about what he was going to do if 'Leave' should actually win.

After all, what highly Eton educated classicist career-politician could ever have been expected to see that possibility coming? It was a 50/50 chance -- how could a highly Eton educated classicist career-politician with advisors coming out of his ears possibly be expected to calculate difficult odds like those? (Though you would have thought the Russians might have mentioned to him that, for their money, Leave was going to win.)

And so we were were treated to the wonderfully comic sight of Buffoono running around Westminster, trying to avoid reporters while also trying not to think of how he was actually going to untangle the UK from all the treaties and agreements made with the twenty-seven different countries of the EU.

Give us one of your famous jokes, eh, Buffoono? How about a bit of speechifying on a subject that you haven't bothered to research or learn or rehearse? Such is your Eton-educated highly intelligent respect for us, your unfortunate audience.

Original artwork, copyright Andrew Price
You might think antics so ridiculous couldn't be topped, but after the Leave win, Buffoono was joined by his comedy side-kick, Gove-o, the other half of the Loathsome Brothers, who at once comically stabbed him in the front. This bit of slapstick allowed Mother Goose to take centre-stage in her £600 shoes and sing, 'Strong and Stable.'  Interminably. Where's the Fat Lady when you need her?

Mother Goose can't match the rough and tumble of the Brothers Loathsome -- but with a nice echo of Clown Cameron's theme, she astutely called for a General Election, thus demonstrating that she matched her predecessor in keen political nouse and understanding of the country she pretends to govern. In one move, she lost the Tories their majority. Ho ho ho. It seemed we might be rid of them.

But in one of the transformation scenes so beloved of pantomime, Mother Goose was able to make a Magic Money Tree grow before our wondering eyes. One of those Magic Money Trees she'd told us didn't exist almost as often as she told us her government was strong and stable. From this glittering tree, she plucked a billion juicy bribes to pay for the shoring up of her half-derelict house with planks from the DUP. Hooray!

      And also: Ho, ho, ho.

But what is this? The leader of the DUPpies, Arlene, steps from behind the magic money tree. She pockets the dosh with one hand but, with a big wink to the audience, uses the other hand to present  Mother Goose with a big parcel. A big ticking parcel. What will come of that, do you suppose, boys and girls?

Bozo the Buffoon claimed centre-stage again, and found a dozen different ways to embarrass the UK and insult the funny foreigners that Mother Goose hopes to trade with after we crash out of the EU without a deal.

Perhaps most memorably he magically increased a British citzen's jail sentence in Iran by not bothering to get his facts straight in that bumbling way of his that is so charming and that we all so love. "Boris is Boris," Nazanin Zaghari-Ratcliffe no doubt chuckled to herself, as she faced another ten years of separation from her family, in an Iran jail.

Another of the clowns, Dimbo Davis, most amusingly can't seem to get a grip on the first thing that he's supposed to be doing. He fumbles and drops things and spins round and slaps the EU with a plank, spills whitewash everywhere and ran on the spot for 18 months, getting nowhere.

Heckling voices from the audience demand to know if he and his department have looked into what the effects might be of leaving the EU. Of COURSE they have, he replies. They have drawn up a very detailed analysis. An excruciatingly detailed one. A biglier, more detailed one than anybody in the audience could have drawn up and that's the truth!

Well, can we have a look at it then? -- In a minute. In fact, after we've left the EU, THEN we can have a look.

But we want to look at it now! Before we leave. So we can see what might happen if we do, and if it might be a better idea to stay.

Oh, says Dimbo Davis. Did I say there was a detailed analysis? Sorry! There isn't!

It's behind you! shout the audience.

Dimbo spins round. "Oh no, it isn't!" he shouts.

"Oh yes it is! -- It must be, surely?"

It turns out that in eighteen months Dimbo Davis and his 'Brexit' department have done nothing -- NOTHING -- to prepare for what comes next. And consistently lied about it to Parliament. And yet escapes from the sack quicker than Houdini. And although contemptible, is somehow not in contempt of Parliament.

It's such a joy being governed by a pantomime troupe.

In December, the pantomime month, the panto understandably ups its pace, with wheels falling off and spinning in all directions.

The strange orange-wigged clown in the Uncle Sam costume who hilariously calls himself 'President of the United States' retweeted a bit of English right-wing nutters' propaganda, apparently believing it and giving it publicity. What a brilliant piece of surreal comedy! Just imagine the real President of the United States doing such a thing!

When Mother Goose protested that 'The President' really shouldn't have done this, 'Prez' tweeted his reply to the wrong Theresa May. One with only 6 followers. An understandable mistake. How likely is it that there is more than one woman the whole of the UK named Theresa May?

When his reply was finally retweeted to the real Treeza, it was to tell her to mind her own business. Because, as PM of the UK -- albeit, a terrible one -- the fomenting of unrest among her citizens is in no way her business. Not in the Prez's zany world, anyway.

Washington, Jefferson and Lincoln aren't spinning in their graves -- they're trying to tunnel to Australia.

Meanwhile there were joyful cheers because -- at last! -- Mother Goose and the Europeans had talked and talked so much that, finally, they could begin talks. At last it was all going to happen! Buffoono Boris was going to be crowned king!

And then -- KA-boooom! Remember that big ticking parcel given to trusting Mother Goose by DUPpie Arlene? It exploded! Phew! I didn't see that coming, did you?

All the clowns fall flat on their arses with their ruffs in tatters round their ears.

So all of May's donkeys and all of May's men had to stay up all night, sticking everything back together again. The UK and the EU were all stuck back together so they looked exactly the same as they did before -- only Britain had to pay a great deal of money for breaking it.

No sooner was this agreed than Dimbo stood up and told everyone that sticking things back together again was only 'a statement of intent' and didn't really mean anything.

"Excuse us," the Irish shouted across the sea. "It means rather a lot to us, if you don't mind." And, over in Europe, everyone agreed that nothing the UK said could be trusted. Why, they asked each other, why, oh why did they put the thickest man in all of Britain in charge of steering the ship?

And then a bunch of Tories, who had been snivelling in a corner, finally found the courage to stand up to Mother Goose and the Loathsome Brothers and Dimbo (though some of them weren't quite brave enough and ran away at the last minute.) "We don't like this game," they said. "We don't think you're playing by the rules."

But on the game goes anyway. Westminster has, in the past, seen plenty of two-faced crooks, liars, embezzlers, swindlers and cheats. But has there ever been such a bunch of *noggin-headed, incompetent, goose-saddling*, bed-swerving*, cumber-grounding* malkins*?

I would rather be governed by these two.

Merry Christmas, folks. And a Prosperous New Year. Ho ho bloody ho.

Hell's Fierce Flames

"The Devil stood on Dudley's keep
And far about Him gazed,
And said, 'I never more shall feel
At Hell's fierce flames amazed."
If I look across the valley from my house, I can see Dudley Castle on the opposite hill.
A former owner, John Dudley, was executed for trying to put Lady Jane Grey on the throne and as a child I used to be told that it was 'one of the ruins that Cromwell knocked about a bit.' Parliament's guns were set up where the present day Castlegate roundabout is, just by the 24-hour Tesco's. (It's a long way from the castle and gives you an idea of just how big a castle's outer baileys were.)
But the rhyme above refers to the period when industry came to the Black Country, the period from, roughly, 1760 to 1860: the Industrial Revolution.



My Scottish partner has just told me, flatly, that 'nobody knows where the "Black Country" is.' So I'll tell you. It isn't Birmingham. That overgrown village with too high an opinion of itself is to the south-east.




The Black Country was an area of small towns and villages until Industry arrived -- and Industry arrived because of the district's geology. Dudley Castle is built of limestone and the 'Seven Sisters' caverns beneath it are quarried from limestone. Where the Black Country isn't limestone, it's basalt, streaked with rust from the iron in it. Alongside enormous quarries there were enormous 'marl-holes': holes from which marl, or clay had been dug. And through the Black Country ran the massive thirty-foot coal seam. It was said to be the only place in the world where ladders were needed to cut coal.

Cutting coal in the thick seam -- Wikimedia, unrestricted.


Clay to make bricks to build factories; iron-ore for smelting iron; limestone to act as a flux for the iron; and coal to fire the furnaces. All of it within a small region which meant little time and energy would be spent hauling raw materials over roads little better than dirt tracks. Once canals were dug -- and the Black Country has many 'cuts' or canals -- the iron and coal could be floated right up to the factory's own quay.

Within a short time, the Black Country became a place of brick-works, coal-mines and iron-works. Coal had been mined and iron worked in the district for centuries. Small, family run mines were common where the thirty-foot seam came close to the surface and 'Smethwick' means 'the town of the smiths.' There had always been back-yard nail and chain shops in Dudley, Oldbury and Cradley Heath. But these had been small-scale cottage-industries, worked as and when demand was there or when the work-shop owners felt like it. At other times, they tended their pigs, chickens or vegetable patch.
But the 'Revolution' meant more mines and deeper; more nail and chain shops, more foundries, more steel mills. There was a sudden steep increase in exploitation too. It was the kind of capitalist free-for-all that the Tories are itching to return us to, if they can only get rid of all that nannying red-tape from the EU: all that wimpy stuff about workers' rights and air and water purity.
There was none of that fuss-potting in the old Black Country. The Agricultural Revolution had forced people off the land:
'They hang the man and flog the woman
Who steals a goose from off the Common--
But leave the greater villain loose
Who steals the Common from the goose.'
People poured into the Black Country from surrounding English counties, from Wales and from Ireland. They came to a place where there were no laws against child labour: children worked in factories and were lowered into mines on the end of a rope, to spend all day down there, in the dark, o be hauled up again after dark had fallen. Many fell to their deaths or were brained by objects falling from above. There were no safety rules, no guards on machinery, no minimum wage, no welfare -- not even something as inadequate as Universal Credit.

Great mechanical hammers pounded day and night, 'wildfire' burst out above ground from ill-kept mines, and a dense dark cloud of smoke and soot obscured daylight. It's said that, at night, the red glow from the foundries and forges reflected off the underside of this cloud of smoke.  
"The Devil stood on Dudley's keep
And far about Him gazed,
And said, 'I never more shall feel
At Hell's fierce flames amazed."
The old Black Country was Hell on earth for most.
 It's the setting of my book, The Ghost Wife.
The book was partly inspired by the Dudley Devil. His real name was Theophilius Dunn and he was born in Netherton, a village near the town of Dudley, in 1790. He made a living as a witch, telling fortunes and 'finding things lost.' He was called 'Devil' because, like 'cunning man,' it  was a name for a witch. He was known locally as 'Owd Offie.'



He was supposed to have been such an accomplished witch that 'great personages' came in carriages from as far away as Scotland to consult him. Despite such claims, he seems to have been the usual con-artist, doing business at all the local 'Wakes' or fairs, from a tent decorated with occult symbols. He sold charms and potions.



Theophilius Dunn hanged himself in 1851, at the age of 61. One story has it that he foretold the day of his own death. When that day came, finding himself in good health, he was so annoyed at the thought that one of his predictions wouldn't come true, he made sure it did.


My devil comes to a sticky end too, though not by hanging and I'd like to make it clear that my devil, though inspired by Dunn, is not intended to be a portrait of him. My devil, Amadeus Warley, is far more wicked. And, of course, this being fiction, has genuine supernatural powers.

 Another of the characters, Rattle, goes to visit the Devil and has to walk through the town of Dudley (called 'Dudham' in the book) through its streets of slum dwellings, where blood and guts were washed downhill from the market-place beneath the castle walls. The narrow streets were often blocked with refuse, including human waste. A din of hammers rings out on all sides. Dudley was a nailing town.

Rattle is a 'pit bonk wench' -- a girl who usually works on the pit banks, loading coal onto carts, or carting away waste earth and rock to the 'pit bonks.' In my childhood, if a girl or woman was untidy or grubby, they were accused of 'looking like a pit-bonk wench.' The chains of figures cut out of newspaper to amuse children were always called 'pit-bonk wenches.' That, or 'brickle wenches' who were very similar wenches who worked in brick yards.



The pit bonk wenches you did not mess with. They were muscular and they came mob-handed. Old photographs usually show them dressed in skirts, bonnets and big boots and grimy as anyone would be who worked loading coal all day. I think they'd dressed in their best for these photos, though, as the tales I was told as a child always described them as wearing an old flat cap that had once belonged to a male relative and often one of his old jackets too. Sometimes a shawl or sack was draped around the head and shoulders with the flat cap on top. And a pipe in the corner of the mouth.

I've never seen photos of them wearing trousers but they did. They often rode astride on the horses that pulled the carts and were climbing on and off carts all day. It was easier to wear trousers.


The Ghost Wife herself is not inspired by the Black Country at all. She stems from my reading of sinister Icelandic folk-tales about 'followers' -- a kind of ghost which attaches itself to a particular family and follows them relentlessly through generations. This is usually said to have happened because of a curse inflicted by a witch. The witch -- who was as often male as female -- created the ghost by murdering some luckless beggar and then sends the ghost against his or her enemy, to torment them or spy on them.

In the book a 'Methody' farming family had a rather less religious ancestor who drowned a beggar girl in order to create for himself a witch's familiar. The witch died -- but his familiar continues to haunt the farm-house and attaches herself to some unfortunate young man in every generation. As the Dudham Devil remarks, the classical writers would have called her a succubus.











A Dip In The O.C.E.A.N


Ocean surface wave. Jon Sullivan.

I read a few ‘how-to write’ books when younger but as I remember, they concentrated mostly on how to lay out your book and how best to approach publishers. Apart from that, they directed you back to good writers with the instruction to pay attention to the way, for instance, dialogue was used to tell the story and reinforce character. These peeled back the Art a little, so you could take a look at the hidden art.

Some things I’ve seen lately differ from this in that they seem to be trying to provide a formula or recipe for writing a story or novel. Write so many words, make chapters so long, put in so much description, add a certain mix of characters…

O.C.E.A.N, for instance. It stands for:—

 Openness — Conscientiousness — Extraversion — Agreeableness — Neuroticism 

It began as a a tool used by psychologists to assess patients but has been co-opted by writers to help them build and understand character. Each of these qualities is a sliding scale and probably no neuro-typical adult is 100% Open or 100% Closed. But the theory proposes that every personality is made up of these five qualities in various degrees. (That's if you even accept that such a thing as 'personality' exists. Psychologists and psychiatrists are punching it out in a secret arena even as I type.)

A high score for Openness supposedly makes you curious, imaginative, accepting of other groups’ moral codes and customs, unconventional.

A low score makes you nasty, bitter and twisted— Sorry, I'll re-phrase. It makes you narrow-minded (not that we’re being judgemental here. We’re being scientific.) It also means that you don’t analyse things, are rather incurious, and tend to find ‘foreign’ attitudes repugnant.

Conscientiousness measures the drive to complete tasks. Those scoring highly would be hard-working, punctual, driven, self-disciplined and always finish the job at hand. On time, of course. They sound like nightmares.

Those scoring low for C are laid-back, unreliable, pleasure-seeking and spontaneous. They sound almost as bad as the high-scorers.

Diagram of the Big 5 Personlity Traits: wikimedia

Extraversion —measures the degree of extraversion (obviously) as opposed to introversion. Extraverts love stimulation and company. They have positive outlooks, are the life and soul, always take charge and I hate them. High-scorers on this quality are, apparently, the best leaders. Really? I wouldn’t follow them. Where are they going to lead you? Into the Valley of Death, I’m telling you, lured by all those stimulating, exciting flash-bangs and shell-screams.

A low score for E makes you an introvert. You find too much noise and chatter exhausting and painful. You hate parties and have a tendency to go to the furthest point of an empty Hebridean beach and read a book. Not too exciting a book, mind. Low Es tend to be pessimistic, dour and aloof. My kind of people.

Agreeableness — People who score high on Agreeableness are weak leaders, apparently. They are tolerant, sensitive, kind, warm— like Bhudda and Jesus, y'know. And nobody wants to follow them, obviously. But assuming that the scientists are correct and no one follows those high As -- well, right there, is what is wrong with the human race.

Those scoring highly on A are also forgiving and helpful, but gullible. I get the feeling that, if I ever take this test, I’m not going to score highly on A.

A low score for A makes you suspicious and antagonistic; quick to assert your own rights, irritable, vindictive, uncooperative and rude. Now there is a thumbnail portrait of me that my nearest and cowed would immediately recognise.

Neuroticism — I’ve never been sure what this means, apart from being a word psychologists and doctors use to insult you. Especially if you’re a woman. Apparently, it means ‘emotional instability.’ A tendency to feel sadness. (You mean, there’s an option not to? Where do I sign up?) A tendency to feel vulnerable and, as result, to be anxious, moody, quick-tempered.

A high-scorer is likely to be a hypochondriac, worrying over every little twinge— or one of those who constantly invents horrifying scenarios which ‘might happen’ and then worries themselves into fits over them.

A low scorer is calm and unemotional, self-reliant and wastes no time worrying, to the point of being complacent.

Psychologists presumably find OCEAN useful, though I’m not sure why. I doubt I’m the only person who would simply supply the answers best guaranteed to have the good doctor eating from my hand. Which is exactly what psychopaths do and it’s why they get worse with treatment, not better. Instead of 'working on themselves' and becoming better people every day, they quickly learn exactly what to say to convince the trick-cyclists that they've reformed and can be safely released immediately. But then, psychopaths and me, we’re low on Agreeableness, which makes us manipulative.

It’s suggested that writers use OCEAN's sliding scales to map out our characters, to help us figure out how they will react in any given situation. Presumably, we draw a graph for each one. Consulting our graphs, we can easily see that, if asked to make tea for everyone, A will smile and rush to the kitchen because A scores high on Agreeableness — whereas B will tell everyone where they can go because B scores low. And C wouldn’t even be at the meeting, because C is an introvert.

You can also, it’s said, use these sliding scales to plot a change in a particular characteristic. A character begins a story as overly driven and conscientious but in the course of the story learns to cheer up and relax, little square by little square, as you mark up your graph.

I have occasionally found this diagrammatic approach helpful with plots— but only after I’ve written three-parts of the book in my usual pantser, make-it-up-as-I-go-along style anyway. But it can help, when stuck for an ending, to lay a transparency of a perfect plot over the mess I’ve created and see if this suggests any stream-lining, or points broadly in the direction of a conclusion.

'Dear Boy, why not try acting?'

But I could never begin with ‘The Plan’ and then stick to it. I would find it stifling. I feel the same way about OCEAN. These tricks and schemes always remind me of the anecdote about Laurence Olivier. He spent a long time listening to Dustin Hoffman explain The Method and then said: ‘Dear boy, why don’t you simply try acting?’

For me, characters emerge, from the story you’re telling. For instance, Sandy in The Drover’s Dogs. The idea for the story came from reading about Highland cattle drovers in the 18th and 19th centuries and how they sent their herd dogs home alone while they stayed on at the lowland farms to earn money by helping with the harvest. I wanted to write about those dogs and their independent trek across Scotland for years.

Books seldom come from one idea. Ideas have to cross-pollinate. The cross-pollination happened when my partner told me about the ‘bonders’ of Scotland— farm labourers who were almost slaves. They were often mistreated but if they ran away, would be returned to their bond-owner by the authorities, just as slaves were.

The Drover's Dogs by Susan Price

I imagined a boy in eastern Scotland, running away from a bond he hated and meeting a couple of herd-dogs on their way west, returning to their home in Mull. I needed a character who, though a child, was capable of taking the decision to run away and capable of surviving alone as he trudged more than a hundred miles over rough country.

He had to be a boy who willing to leave his family— so the circumstances of the story dictate the characters of the rest of the family too. Runaways rarely come from happy homes.

I remembered some Scots friends talking about their country childhoods. Once they could walk, they said, home was somewhere they ate breakfast and slept. They always had string, matches and a penknife in their pockets. When they were hungry, they made a fire, stole potatoes from the edge of a field and set them to roast, caught some ‘troot’ with their string, and enjoyed ‘fish and tatties.’ They knew where to find mushrooms, berries and nuts. They stayed outside until long after dark, even when the weather was below freezing. They knew -- without ever seeing Ray Mears or Bear Grylls -- how to build themselves a shelter.

I drew on this in creating Sandy, a hardy, tough little nut. He’s about ten, but already works whenever he can. His relationship with his family is distant because he’s hardly ever at home. After his mother bonds him to a neighbouring farmer, he feels that he owes his parents little. He can’t bear the thought of spending the next ten years as a bonder and runs. He's far more scared of being caught and possibly hung (for stealing himself) than he is of surviving on his own. He knows he can do that.

He readily and gladly befriends the two dogs he meets but is suspicious and fearful of people because they might inform on him and have him sent back to his bond-owner. There is always another, opposing and almost equally strong side to a character, though. Despite his self-reliance and hardiness, Sandy longs to find a safe home where he can drop his guard, where there are people who love and value him. When he finds such a home, his loyalty to his new family is deep.

I didn’t need to plot his Openness, Conscientiousness, Extraversion, Agreeableness and Neuroticism. I only had to think about the background and time that had formed him.

The Sterkarm Handshake by Susan Price

It was the same with my Sterkarm books. The Sterkarms are a reiver family, living in a pele tower on the lawless Scottish borders of the sixteenth century. The young hero, Per Sterkarm, is the son of the tower’s laird, which immediately gives him status. It supplies confidence and a ‘sense of entitlement’ but is also something he has to live up to. He can’t lose face or back down from confrontation.

Despite the title of ‘laird,’ his family are glorified cattle farmers in a poor and embattled part of the country, where life was always hard and often desperate. People had to stick together and help each other -- but also be prepared to defend what they had against outsiders. This means that Per has been raised with the attitude ‘Ourselves Alone.’ Everyone outside his family is the enemy and since family is the only security, loyalty to family is everything.

His formal schooling was negligible, but he trained to ride, to shoot with a bow and to fight with weapons from a young age. Physical confidence can be added to his general bumptiousness.

We end with a young man who can be charming when it suits him to be— and generous because in his world, generosity is how you display your status and keep the all-important friends and allies. Per loves the Elf-woman Andrea (who is really a time-traveller) and he is quick to defend her— but when he has to choose between her and his family, he always -- to her dismay -- chooses his family. It would be impossible for him to do anything else.

Capable as he is of charm, if crossed or cornered, he can be murderous— and cunning and treacherous. He cannot bear to lose face in his family’s eyes and he will win by whatever means he has to undertake. As Per sees it, lying is only wrong if he lies to a Sterkarm; treachery is only treacherous if used against Sterkarms. He acknowledges no authority except that of his family— which confuses the time-travelling executive Windsor, who expects obedience from those he sees as beneath him. (And as Per is much younger and one of the 16th-Century 'natives armed with sticks,' Windsor considers him very much beneath him.)

Again, Per’s character rose from his background, his influences, his upbringing. I don’t think that sitting with a blank sheet of paper or screen and trying to calculate how neurotic, agreeable or conscientious he was would have helped.

 I could, now, give you his readings for all the qualities. Openness? Almost zero. Accepting of the codes and customs of others? No. It's his family’s way or nothing.

A Sterkarm Kiss by Susan Price

Conscientiousness? Middling. Per's world isn't run by the clock, but by the sun and the seasons. If something seemed to him important and necessary, he would do it, or make sure others did it. The buildings had to be repaired before winter, for instance and there had to be enough fuel to last through the worst of the snow. If a raid ran off their cattle, they had to get out there and ride. This wasn't a matter of conscientiousness but of necessity.

On the other hand, when not pressed by necessity, there's plenty that can wait, especially if there's something better to do, like ale, women and song. (I think this reveals that the OCEAN scale was invented for a 21st Century society -- and only a small part of this society -- that orders its life by the clock.)

Extraversion? Per would score pretty high, but how much this is an inborn quality and how much something his upbringing would have engrained, is hard to say. Life in a pele-tower granted very little quiet or privacy. And when you're a big fish in a very small pond, you're pretty sure that the company is going to welcome you. -- In Handshake, when Per is translated to a 21st Century hospital, he becomes rather shy.

Agreeableness. Per would encompass the whole scale of Agreeableness, from 0 to 100%. On the low end of the scale, he's certainly capable of being vindictive. In fact, his whole family pride themselves on how very vindictive they are. Revenge was a duty. Where there is no reliable force of law to act as a deterrent, then the reputation for being willing and able to take revenge for any slight becomes an important protection. You touch not the Sterkarms with impunity.

Per can certainly be very quick to assert his own rights and inventively uncooperative. But he and his family can also be kind and warm, sensitive to others and helpful. Hospitality was as much a duty as revenge.

A Sterkarm Tryst by Susan Price

Neurotic? Well, if being neurotic is the opposite of 'calm and unemotional' then the whole Sterkarm family would probably score high on the Neurotic scale. Their time and place imposed a high degree of day-to-day anxiety. They were at the mercy of the weather and harvests. They never knew when they were going to be attacked. Moodiness, quick temper and raw emotions all round.

But though I've used OCEAN to express this character reading, I didn't arrive at it by using OCEAN. Instead, I studied the time and place the Sterkarms lived in and their way of life. I thought about how it would shape them. I’m tempted to say to those who favour OCEAN, ‘Dear thing, why don’t you simply try writing?’

But perhaps I’m being too harsh. Perhaps I've even misunderstand how OCEAN is meant to be used?

I’d be interested to know how others feel. Is OCEAN something you’d find useful in creating characters? Something you’d consider trying?

Or, if not, how do you get to know your characters?

Susan Price won the Carnegie Medal for The Ghost Drum and the Guardian Fiction Award for The Sterkarm Handshake.