Phil M. Shirley talks to Flemish author Vince Piessens about chemistry, working on a farm in Costa Rica, old flames and his new book, Searching for Adeline. When Vince Piessens was just fourteen, he landed his dream job reviewing video games for a gaming blog. “A friend of mine mentioned my love for writing and gaming to them, and they reached out to see if I wanted to give it a shot,” he recalls with a chuckle. “The perk? You get a free game for each review, and at fourteen, I thought, ‘Great! I can play even more games for free!’ So, I started writing. My early work wasn’t very good, but the editor-in-chief, who was studying journalism, took me under his wing. He taught me a lot about sentence structure and how to develop my writing skills, and it all just grew from there.” It’s a revealing anecdote, speaking to Piessens’ passion for writing that makes you feel something, but also to his open-mindedness and willingness to master a trade. It’s one of many anecdotes the blogger turned chemist turned novelist regales me with from our meeting place Mazette, a cooperative café-brasserie located in a square in the heart of the Marolles district of the City of Brussels. After his journalism stint, Piessens found himself eager to write more, but he wasn’t keen on returning to journalism. Instead, he turned to fiction. “At first, writing longer pieces was challenging,” he recalls, “but I quickly became immersed in it.” During this time, the young Flemish writer was also wrapping up his chemistry thesis, which focused on bioplastics. “I had about a month of free time before heading off on holiday, and I wanted to make the most of it,” he says. “I began writing again, sharing my work with a couple of friends who were eager to read along and discuss it. They, too, were completing their internships related to our theses and would soon be moving away. I was determined to finish my story before they left so I could gift it to them.” The result was a short story titled The Last Day, about a young boy who finds himself lost on the coast of Spain. Piessens’ latest work, Searching for Adeline, was crafted during a transformative period spent working on a farm in Costa Rica, where he had no internet access. “The afternoons were too hot to work, so I would sit at my laptop, listening to podcasts about politics and other subjects. I met many inspiring people there, and their stories fuelled my creativity.” He gathered various ideas as a foundation for his novel and spent about three years developing it, allowing the diverse inspirations he encountered along the way to weave naturally into the narrative. Piessens’ shrewd and provocative debut novella follows the fate of a wealthy but disillusioned older man, Adam Wilson, on an impulsive journey to find an old flame who has gone missing on the other side of the world in a highly secretive and post-totalitarian country. One day, while watching the news, he discovers that an old acquaintance and former flame has gone missing. This revelation sparks a sense of urgency within him; he feels compelled to help them, as it seems like the right thing to do. This journey not only leads him to assist someone in need but also prompts him to reevaluate his own life. The novel explores a well-known sentiment, an idea that reflects how many of us feel unfulfilled, losing touch with our true selves. “In my view, a strong message in this story is that we often hope for a crisis or a dramatic event to give our lives meaning and reignite our passions,” Piessens says. “The protagonist is a successful man who doesn’t need to get involved in this situation, yet he finds himself drawn into a predicament he could easily avoid. It’s almost a relief for him, as he waits for a catalyst—something that might give him a reason to truly live again. Life can sometimes pull us along, making us feel stuck. We may find ourselves making choices less actively, until an opportunity presents itself. He jumps into action without any real incentive, but this chance allows him to rediscover his purpose. “Can it be that sometimes our lives must be completely shaken up and rearranged to guide us to where we’re meant to be? We all have a mission on this earth, and figuring out what that mission is takes time. Ultimately, aren’t we all seeking something beyond our current existence? At some point in our lives, many of us have dreamed of a different reality. The allure of a new and better life might make us willing to risk losing our current one entirely. Yet, part of us often hopes for an end, believing that it might lead to something greater.” A portion of Searching for Adeline is set in London, as the protagonist shares his memories of the woman he quickly fell in love with. These nostalgic reflections include several references to the city. One of my favourite passages is when the protagonist Adam Wilson, as a young version of himself, comes across a cafe-bar, the very place where he would first meet Adeline. The Dusty Bookshelf, as the place had been called, had been one of an ancient and arcane beauty. The walls had been made up of rows upon rows of books of every shape, size, and age imaginable. On the ceiling there used to be a mural of Aphrodite in her clam shell, so exquisitely painted that it convinced me of being the perfect mix between Michelangelo’s work in the Sistine Chapel and Botticelli’s masterpiece, the Birth of Venus, only with more charm to the whole thing, charm expressed through flaking and dust. The wooden floorboards had made a satisfying creak as I’d shifted my weight from one foot to the other, marveling at the incredible range of plants filling every nook and cranny of the room. There
Read an extract from The Blood Coast by Jason M. Kennedy – A GRITTY SPY THRILLER FROM A FORMER INTELLIGENCE AND PARAMILITARY PROFESSIONAL. In an adrenaline-fuelled ride along the Cornish coast, Peter Krane, a world weary MI6 agent, comes into contact with a rogue Government agent that he thought was dead, and beyond that into the secret world of weapons testing and a shocking family revelation. 1. ON THE FAR SIDE of England. Deep in the West Country. Things where winding down. Drawing to a close in a simple quiet Cornish way. The same as it always had. It was the end of yet another warm sunny day. And the night was slowly drawing-in. The sky was blood-red and seemed almost angry. But in the small harbour community nobody noticed. Things seemed the same and nothing out of the ordinary. The last of the small fishing boats had already come in and landed their catch. And the seagulls had long since flown away to their roosts. And the last of the dockside trades had closed up. But further out, just past the point, another wasn’t ready to come in yet. The calm gentle sea gently lapped against the side of the old fishing boat. Wave after wave rolled over, danced and fizzed as it chugged along. Silhouetted against the horizon and the pitch of the bruised red sky, it didn’t look out of place. It was probably one of many, that had past that day. And no-one ashore would think any different, even perhaps if it was seen. But it sailed on. It had a purpose. An intent. And the two men aboard were bringing to a close the final stages of a dark one. Banking around the boat sat broadside. The engine was cut and the small vessel was allowed to drift on the gentle current. The two occupants in the wheelhouse gazed out at the vast sea surrounding them. And surveyed the shore-line through an old pair of battered German Naval binoculars. They were alone. Totally alone. No activity in the harbour. No other vessels coming their way. Not even a seagull flying above. The sun continued to sink slowly and majestically into the sea. And now only the harbour lights and bluff-point were faintly visible in the hazy shadow of the fading light. The darkness was now starting to take hold. Becoming ‘Witching-Hour’. The door to the wheelhouse creaked open and together the two occupants slowly strolled out onto the old, weathered deck of the little trawler. They stared hard in unison at the large grey parcel that lay there. They seemed to be gauging it. It was really no bigger than a small under-croft fridge. So at least perhaps manageable. They circled it. Several times. Then their hesitation vanished and they both stooped and grabbed the ends as best they could. It was heavy. Slippery and cumbersome. The contents were uneven and even appeared to move and fight back at being man-handled. They struggled on. Then heaving it up, landed it with a thud onto the stern-cover. Just above the now silent engine. They paused studying it. Then with a shove, rolled it over and it splashed-down into the sea like a depth-charge. They both reeled, avoiding the spray, then finally leaned forward. Scanning the surf to make sure it had sunk. There was no mistake. It was gone. No sign of it. Only the tell-tale fizz and foam of where the sea had been broken in its wake. The older of the two turned and gave a slight nod. And the other sauntered back to the wheel house and started the engine and with a burble the little boat gathered pace and slowly moved away. The man on deck flexed his chest, taking in the salty breeze. Then reached in through his over-coat and pulled out a slim pencil-like cigar. He twirled it in his fingers then tore-off the wrapping and cast it out into the sea. With a flick of his silver Dunhill lighter, he breathed a spit of flame into it. And finally with a strong powerful exhale, kept a watchful eye on the last of the bubbles, just to make sure. *** The turbulence was heavy. And seemed relentless. The 747 had a smooth flight. But as it neared the UK the bad weather kicked in and the sheer hulk of the plane rocked countlessly from side to side. Coupled with dropping attitude several times like a kite dancing in a gale. Those who weren’t awake, were now. Nervously shook from their slumber by the cabin floor coming up and almost hitting them square in the face. But finally, the wheels of the 747 screamed as they touched-down at Heathrow. And seat belt clicks reverberated through the cabin like metal castanets. As everyone made a sudden and eager scramble for their bags and the exit. But one person remained still. He wasn’t in any hurry. And leaning forward from his seat, he glanced down the aisle. He could see the plane was almost empty. So realising this he finally made his move. He liked to hang at the back. As no one ever paid any attention to who was last. Everybody on board just wanted off. After almost 30 years of tirelessly serving the government. Peter Crane was ready for some leave. Indefinite! And long-overdue. Grabbing his bags at arrivals he sauntered through customs via a secret route. Being an operative for MI6 had its perks. Crane breezed on unseen down through a side corridor. And to his left through mirrored glass, he could see the holiday makers queuing-up. There were only two guys checking passports, so they would have a long wait. He’d seen this so many times. It was almost second nature. Tired mums and dads. Screaming kids. And grandparents who looked like death-warmed-up and ready to give-in and collapse were they stood. Luckily, there was no sound. Crane was thankful for some small mercies and the genius of
If you are ‘lucky’ enough to get accepted by a so-called traditional publisher (less than four per-cent of new writers are), then your difficult journey as a writer may be about to become even more bewildering. Of course, it’s always wonderful to make this breakthrough as a writer and nothing can take away from the moment you receive that dream letter. It is something to be immensely proud of. What follows next, however, can be, and for most usually is, something of an anti-climax. What authors receive when a traditional publisher buys their book is far from the dream of the unpublished author. The simple, hard reality for many of them is they receive little, or nothing at all. They may get an advance (against royalties, which are usually less than 10%), but the amount you receive for a lot of hard work (usually several months or even years work) often works out at pennies per hour: not the kind of return on investment a hard working writer deserves. And it gets worse. The sales and marketing support you thought you would receive, is negligible (the author of this article spent several frustrating years chasing his then publisher (one of the most well known in the whole world) to do more to promote his books). And then, even more disheartening, are the royalties that follow; the scraps after the publisher has taken the lion’s share (usually 92.5 % on a paperback). Of course, most writers never even get to the stage where they can be shortchanged in such a shocking way. Because most traditional publishers demand you get an agent before they will even look at your work, and it’s arguably more difficult to get a decent agent than to get accepted by a traditional publisher: a circle of frustration. Yes, it can be incredibly frustrating indeed having your beloved book (months or years of hard work) rejected by traditional publishers, or not even given a chance to be rejected. And so… what happens next, for a writer beset by despondency, is that people will tell you that what you really need to do is self-publish: take the other (well-travelled) road to the land of (Amazon KDP) dreams; (they don’t mention that what you are about to do is cast your work, like a pebble, into a vast ocean of work). Despite (Amazon) royalty rates of 70%, I think self-publishing is a terrible idea for serious fiction writers. For starters, if you self-publish your book, you are not going to be writing for a living. You are going to be marketing for a living. Self-published authors should expect to spend only 10% of their time writing and 90% of their time marketing. Secondly, good writers need even better editors. They need brilliant cover designers. They need imaginative marketers and well-connected publicists. All these things that are not provided by Amazon. Of course, one can publish for ‘free’ on Amazon, but you usually get what you pay for. Paying some cheap freelance £25 or knocking up a DIY design on Canva will not result in a distinctive, professional-looking cover. And don’t get me started on the value of good editors, copyeditors, and proof-readers; they are the difference between professional and amateur books. Editing, proofreading, cover design, ISBN, printing, publishing, and marketing costs money. Why not do it all under one roof with a ‘one stop shop’ to save time, energy, and risk, instead of searching for separate service providers? At Foreshore Publishing we do all this and more and try to make it as easy as possible for good writers to get good novels into print and into bookshops. We offer instalments to help spread the cost and we even offer a full refund if your book is not physically on shelves in bookstores within 12 months. We also have the same, if not greater reach than traditional publishers and agents. With access to proper distribution networks, we can get physical books into real bookshops. We can also represent you at the major book fairs and sell your books to international markets. For those who value their work, who want to go beyond Amazon KDP, get into bookstores and build fanbases, and would rather write novels than social media posts, self-publishing is not the answer. Contact us today and chat about how we can help you to make a positive impact as an author. 0800 099 6689 or contact@foreshorepublishing.com.
