I know many will not believe my story; I can barely believe it myself, but it happened nonetheless. I’m not even sure where to begin telling it. She meant the world to me, still does, but when she told me she was pregnant then claimed it was God’s will so I shouldn’t be upset … and that she was still a virgin anyway – well, it was pretty hard to take. At least I thought she should be honest with me. Still, I loved her and didn’t want her to suffer for some mistake. I was going to break it off quietly, let her find a way out on her own. Then he, she or … I guess it, came.
Now I know people won’t believe this. I walk into my room and there’s this person in there and it scared the daylights out of me. Possibly because it was like daylight only human shaped; bit more freaky than an intruder and somehow more convincing when they claimed to be a messenger from God. Turned out she wasn’t lying, the pregnancy was God’s will and she was still a virgin. I was going to be the step-dad of God’s son. How was I meant to deal with that one? I was still getting my carpentry up to scratch, setting myself up in life and now I have to look after not only a baby but a divinity? Come on. Still, when a glowing celestial being appears in your bedroom and tells you that’s how it is, you don’t argue. Sure I could have argued I was now insane, but that would mean she was too and that didn’t add up. Besides, insane people don’t think they’re insane – do they?
Anyway, any doubts I might have had about my sanity or the general nature of reality got burned away that night the baby was born. She was so brave, my little love. The innkeeper’s wife kept me outside while it happened, I avoided the temptation to talk to the cattle, that would’ve been nuts but they were the only ones there. Then. After, well, it got crowded.
I’d just met my little boy, by proxy at least, when this noise erupted. The sky was rent with this singing, unlike anything I’d ever heard. The voices were so clear and resonant and – commanding. When it became as bright as day at the same time, I knew it was back and it had brought friends. A whole host of glowing beings; flying this time and worshipping the little bub in my wife’s arms … I was more worried about her to be truly honest. She was covered in sweat and looked absolutely exhausted. Utterly beautiful though, so happy, so content, so very much in love with her son. And when she looked up and smiled at me, gripped my hand – let’s just say there was a lot of love in that little huddle. Enough to make the angelic chorus outside seem almost natural.
I wasn’t as impressed when the shepherds turned up. I’d never seen so many of the uncouth vagabonds in the one place before. It stank more than the oxen; I understood then why baths were invented and never begrudged one ever after. All these rough and ready blokes, some with scars from fighting wolves of all things, all gathering round my wife and son … it’s not something you normally want to happen. But the looks on their faces – they didn’t even notice my love, or me. Just him, the divine son.
They didn’t hang around but they got very excited and promised to tell everyone they met they’d seen the Son of God. I thanked them very much, but who listens to shepherd talk anyway?
After that life just seemed to go on. We settled into a new house in Nazareth where people couldn’t do the math about wedding and son’s birthday. Some strange men turned up one year, gave us some really expensive presents – for the King of Kings of course. I asked if they’d mind changing his nappy while they were at it but they declined.
So there you have it, the birth of my first son – so to speak. Like I said, I know a lot of people won’t believe it, but that’s what happened. If you ever meet him, you won’t be so surprised. He has that way about him.
Tuesday, 25 December 2012
Thursday, 13 December 2012
NaNoWriMo Reflection
It’s been a long while since I wrote here but I’m back. The main delay was of NaNoWriMo as I worked away to write 50,000 words in November and get The Scarlet Ring really on its way. I have to say it was a fantastic experience and I’m very happy with myself for completing it successfully.
It showed me a number of things, the first and most important one being that I can apply myself to write something and if I do it will actually come along. I went into it with the first part of the story written and a rough plan as to where the middle part was going, and while it dragged at times it generally came along fairly well and developed in new ways as it did. Characters suddenly sprung into existence which meant things shifted course ever so slightly and new scenes ran their course.
I also noticed certain pitfalls I kept falling into and phrases I was clearly far too keen on using which I might not normally pick up on if writing more intermittently. Unfortunately with the looming deadline I didn’t always get to fix what I knew I was doing, but I could at least recognise they exist for when I go back for the rewrite. “Fix it in post,” was my wife’s declaration whenever I voiced a doubt about anything.
The biggest issue for the rewrites will actually be the timing of events; I have a few plot lines running and they do crossover but I have characters meeting another character on an island when they were still on a different island for another three days in their story. Bit of a physical impossibility but not a major drama believe it or not.
Another thing I noticed was, in writing with more abandon and with the aim of meeting a word count within a strict time limit, things got more fleshed out. I started to get the feeling the first part that I wrote over months beforehand was a pasty skeletal figure next to the NaNo passage. I’m quite sure some of what I wrote in November will disappear entirely by the final draft, but I think the lack of momentum in the earlier stages led to a more fragmentary narrative which may need beefing up.
Finally, and somewhat obviously, the whole process reminded me of the most essential thing – for me – about writing: how much I enjoy doing it. Sure, there were times when I was struggling and just forcing myself to keep putting words down, but even doing that brought a sense of satisfaction. And breaking through those stages to the really good bits where things flew along (notably so did the action) was a great feeling.
So, thank you Office of Light and Letters, it may seem a strange thing to some but NaNoWriMo is a wonderful initiative. I’ll see you in November.
Keep dreaming.
It showed me a number of things, the first and most important one being that I can apply myself to write something and if I do it will actually come along. I went into it with the first part of the story written and a rough plan as to where the middle part was going, and while it dragged at times it generally came along fairly well and developed in new ways as it did. Characters suddenly sprung into existence which meant things shifted course ever so slightly and new scenes ran their course.
I also noticed certain pitfalls I kept falling into and phrases I was clearly far too keen on using which I might not normally pick up on if writing more intermittently. Unfortunately with the looming deadline I didn’t always get to fix what I knew I was doing, but I could at least recognise they exist for when I go back for the rewrite. “Fix it in post,” was my wife’s declaration whenever I voiced a doubt about anything.
The biggest issue for the rewrites will actually be the timing of events; I have a few plot lines running and they do crossover but I have characters meeting another character on an island when they were still on a different island for another three days in their story. Bit of a physical impossibility but not a major drama believe it or not.
Another thing I noticed was, in writing with more abandon and with the aim of meeting a word count within a strict time limit, things got more fleshed out. I started to get the feeling the first part that I wrote over months beforehand was a pasty skeletal figure next to the NaNo passage. I’m quite sure some of what I wrote in November will disappear entirely by the final draft, but I think the lack of momentum in the earlier stages led to a more fragmentary narrative which may need beefing up.
Finally, and somewhat obviously, the whole process reminded me of the most essential thing – for me – about writing: how much I enjoy doing it. Sure, there were times when I was struggling and just forcing myself to keep putting words down, but even doing that brought a sense of satisfaction. And breaking through those stages to the really good bits where things flew along (notably so did the action) was a great feeling.
So, thank you Office of Light and Letters, it may seem a strange thing to some but NaNoWriMo is a wonderful initiative. I’ll see you in November.
Keep dreaming.
Wednesday, 31 October 2012
NaNoWriMo Eve
So tomorrow is the beginning of National Novel Writing Month. 50,000 words to be written in just 30 days. It's a challenge, it should be fun and it's the kick in the pants to get things going I've been needing.
Prep is going all right. I have some plotting worked out - it's allowed - and I'm going to do a bit more shortly. Just finishing up getting my work area fairly clean so it's not distracting.
Got coffee supply and tea, might need to invest in some nuts to munch, keep the grey matter ticking. Got tunes aplenty, from classical to rock depending on my mood, and the sound system is good.
Yup, I think I'm ready. Wish me luck, and to anyone else doing it, good luck!
Keep dreaming.
Prep is going all right. I have some plotting worked out - it's allowed - and I'm going to do a bit more shortly. Just finishing up getting my work area fairly clean so it's not distracting.
Got coffee supply and tea, might need to invest in some nuts to munch, keep the grey matter ticking. Got tunes aplenty, from classical to rock depending on my mood, and the sound system is good.
Yup, I think I'm ready. Wish me luck, and to anyone else doing it, good luck!
Keep dreaming.
Saturday, 20 October 2012
Initial Response to ETA Hoffmann's The Sandman
When Delibes' ballet Coppelia featured in ABC Classic FM's Classic 100 The Music of France it reminded me that I had written a response to Hoffmann's story, on which the ballet was based, so I thought I'd share it with you now. Warning - spoilers. You can find the story here.
Hoffmann sets up the situation and the theme of the story straightaway through three letters. The first tells us of the terrible events in Nathanael’s childhood and the possible reappearance of the villain of those events in his life. The second is the rational explanation of Clara dismissing the whole Nathanael’s fears to his own mind and in the third he accepts them.
The rest of the story revolves around, to a large degree, the irrational fears he has and the rational explanations that may dispel them – if they are irrational. We read how his conviction in the mystical is so fired up, and Clara’s adamant rationality is so fixed, that he almost comes to blows with her brother. This ends with another Clara-inspired revelation that he’s just being silly.
He continues the debate in his own head when confronted with the seeming double of the old villain from his childhood. Rationality seems to win out until Nathanael looks through a ‘perspective’ at the figure of Olimpia whom he becomes obsessed with – and who appears to steal his eyes.
This irrational period during which he forgets his former life and woos Olimpia, who says nothing in return but stares at him always, is unlike his morbid fears and bears none of the similarities to the ‘dark presence’. He is bewitched.
Olimpia, to all eyes but his, is ‘too perfect’ and unnaturally stiff in her movements. Having lost his ‘perspective’ to her Nathanael only sees her as true perfection. When going to propose to her she is revealed as an automaton; the eyes of which were stolen from Nathanael by Coppola. Coppola – speaking with the voice of Coppelius, the childhood villain – steals Olimpia but throws Nathanael’s eyes back into him. After temporary madness Nathanael is once again ‘rational’ until he sees Clara through the ‘perspective’ and believes her to be an automaton too and goes mad. Coppelius watches on, possibly stealing the eyes back.
PERSPECTIVE
To me this story is about perspective. Nathanael’s perspective, for the most, is affected by the events of his childhood. He is told the story of the sandman, who steals children’s eyes – so their sight, their view on the world. When he spies his father with Coppelius they seems to be in some sort of alchemical experiment, possibly creating homunculi – all that’s needed are eyes.
Clara’s perspective is steadfast in its rationality. She suffers only a minor wavering in the description of the events but quickly returns to her disbelief in the mystical as an outside force. Her eyes are described in glowing terms – like a lake even. Her perspective then is sharp and unchanging.
Thirdly, we have Olimpia, whose eyes seem to ‘lack vision’ but are not blind. She is simply without a perspective; she sees but does not comprehend. Those eyes however draw Nathanael in through the glass ‘perspective’ of Coppola, and cause him to lose all perspective and see only her.
Only after this happens will her creator allow the public to see her. After Coppola/Coppelius steals her body, Nathanael gets his eyes returned. The rush of perspective drives him seemingly mad – but he has just realised he’s been tricked into an obsession with a ‘doll’ so his madness is not singularly surprising.
Clara’s clear, clean perspective restores his sanity, so he says. Seeing her through Coppola’s glass perspective however, he again loses his sanity and Coppelius seems to claim his ‘foine eyes’ once more. So Nathanael’s perspective is again stolen, he goes mad and dies. Coppelius disappears. Did he exist outside the mind of Nathanael? That remains unclear. He may have, Nathanael did have the glass perspective, or Clara may have been right and Coppola was a normal man Nathanael’s perspective turned into a childhood nightmare made flesh. Hoffman doesn’t say. It’s a matter of our own perspective.
If there were any moral behind this tale it would be to keep your clarity and not allow outside forces to alter your perception of the world. Clara remains true to her world view and ends up happily. Nathanael’s view changes with the wind and he dies violently.
Hoffmann sets up the situation and the theme of the story straightaway through three letters. The first tells us of the terrible events in Nathanael’s childhood and the possible reappearance of the villain of those events in his life. The second is the rational explanation of Clara dismissing the whole Nathanael’s fears to his own mind and in the third he accepts them.
The rest of the story revolves around, to a large degree, the irrational fears he has and the rational explanations that may dispel them – if they are irrational. We read how his conviction in the mystical is so fired up, and Clara’s adamant rationality is so fixed, that he almost comes to blows with her brother. This ends with another Clara-inspired revelation that he’s just being silly.
He continues the debate in his own head when confronted with the seeming double of the old villain from his childhood. Rationality seems to win out until Nathanael looks through a ‘perspective’ at the figure of Olimpia whom he becomes obsessed with – and who appears to steal his eyes.
This irrational period during which he forgets his former life and woos Olimpia, who says nothing in return but stares at him always, is unlike his morbid fears and bears none of the similarities to the ‘dark presence’. He is bewitched.
Olimpia, to all eyes but his, is ‘too perfect’ and unnaturally stiff in her movements. Having lost his ‘perspective’ to her Nathanael only sees her as true perfection. When going to propose to her she is revealed as an automaton; the eyes of which were stolen from Nathanael by Coppola. Coppola – speaking with the voice of Coppelius, the childhood villain – steals Olimpia but throws Nathanael’s eyes back into him. After temporary madness Nathanael is once again ‘rational’ until he sees Clara through the ‘perspective’ and believes her to be an automaton too and goes mad. Coppelius watches on, possibly stealing the eyes back.
PERSPECTIVE
To me this story is about perspective. Nathanael’s perspective, for the most, is affected by the events of his childhood. He is told the story of the sandman, who steals children’s eyes – so their sight, their view on the world. When he spies his father with Coppelius they seems to be in some sort of alchemical experiment, possibly creating homunculi – all that’s needed are eyes.
Clara’s perspective is steadfast in its rationality. She suffers only a minor wavering in the description of the events but quickly returns to her disbelief in the mystical as an outside force. Her eyes are described in glowing terms – like a lake even. Her perspective then is sharp and unchanging.
Thirdly, we have Olimpia, whose eyes seem to ‘lack vision’ but are not blind. She is simply without a perspective; she sees but does not comprehend. Those eyes however draw Nathanael in through the glass ‘perspective’ of Coppola, and cause him to lose all perspective and see only her.
Only after this happens will her creator allow the public to see her. After Coppola/Coppelius steals her body, Nathanael gets his eyes returned. The rush of perspective drives him seemingly mad – but he has just realised he’s been tricked into an obsession with a ‘doll’ so his madness is not singularly surprising.
Clara’s clear, clean perspective restores his sanity, so he says. Seeing her through Coppola’s glass perspective however, he again loses his sanity and Coppelius seems to claim his ‘foine eyes’ once more. So Nathanael’s perspective is again stolen, he goes mad and dies. Coppelius disappears. Did he exist outside the mind of Nathanael? That remains unclear. He may have, Nathanael did have the glass perspective, or Clara may have been right and Coppola was a normal man Nathanael’s perspective turned into a childhood nightmare made flesh. Hoffman doesn’t say. It’s a matter of our own perspective.
If there were any moral behind this tale it would be to keep your clarity and not allow outside forces to alter your perception of the world. Clara remains true to her world view and ends up happily. Nathanael’s view changes with the wind and he dies violently.
Friday, 28 September 2012
September Reading
Thought I might do a quick review of what I've been reading this month - if for no other reason than keeping it clear in my own head. I already mentioned the Elric novels so that was a big portion of it.
The other big one was Robert Chamber's The King in Yellow. I got this from the University of Adelaide ebook site as it was mentioned in terms of Weird fiction and having influenced HP Lovecraft. It was weird all right but not always in the sense of the supernatural genre.
It's a collection of short stories, the first four of which make reference to a fictional play, the eponymous King in Yellow. This play is so artistically wrought that anyone who reads it, or at least the second act, is mentally disturbed by it or downright insane. This concept Lovecraft liked and he referenced the play or the places mentioned in it a few times. He also liked some of Chamber's style at times.
The rest of the stories in the book, which make up the other two-thirds or so, have nothing to do with The King in Yellow or Weird fiction whatsoever. They are predominantly romances about naive American art students in Paris. One of them, The Street of the Four Winds, was absolutely brilliant though. It wasn't about a student but was set in Paris. It's a simple tale of a man who is kind to a stray cat and tells him something of his history. The coincidence at the story's heart will break the reader's own, at least it did mine.
I confess the concept of a play so powerful it affects people's psyches to the point of madness did rather rub the bells of synchronicity. I've been thinking about Artaud's Alchemical Theatre and the role of theatre to create a reality beyond our own mundane existence. The 'liminal' space and the greater truths of myth and story than everyday banality. Anyway, somewhere in that idea is my Masters thesis, one day.
The other things I've read, in full, are W W Jacob's The Monkey's Paw and some Lovecraft shorts. The former is a classic of the Weird too, and I believe Lovecraft thought it such as well. It works on the premise of less is more, terror over horror, suggestion over detail. And it works well. Reminiscent of a Buffy episode too, I suspect it was involved somewhere.
The Lovecraft were Pickman's Model and The Shadow Out of Time. The latter is one of his slightly longer works, a whole 76 pages in eight chapters, and is about a man possessed by a mind of a Great One from several epochs before humans evolved and consequently possessed the body of the Great One for a few years. Like In the Mountains of Madness, his longest work I think, it's less gripping than some of his shorter pieces but the atmosphere of dread slowly works a pervasive spell over you and the history of the world and the Great Ones and Elder Gods etc is quite fascinating.
Pickman's story has a more immediate effect, following in the Poe mode of first person 'I know this is unbelievable but it's what happened okay'. The plot itself is quite see-through these days but the descriptions and atmosphere are classic Lovecraft who truly knew the language of nightmare.
Keep dreaming - but not about Great Ones I hope.
The other big one was Robert Chamber's The King in Yellow. I got this from the University of Adelaide ebook site as it was mentioned in terms of Weird fiction and having influenced HP Lovecraft. It was weird all right but not always in the sense of the supernatural genre.
It's a collection of short stories, the first four of which make reference to a fictional play, the eponymous King in Yellow. This play is so artistically wrought that anyone who reads it, or at least the second act, is mentally disturbed by it or downright insane. This concept Lovecraft liked and he referenced the play or the places mentioned in it a few times. He also liked some of Chamber's style at times.
The rest of the stories in the book, which make up the other two-thirds or so, have nothing to do with The King in Yellow or Weird fiction whatsoever. They are predominantly romances about naive American art students in Paris. One of them, The Street of the Four Winds, was absolutely brilliant though. It wasn't about a student but was set in Paris. It's a simple tale of a man who is kind to a stray cat and tells him something of his history. The coincidence at the story's heart will break the reader's own, at least it did mine.
I confess the concept of a play so powerful it affects people's psyches to the point of madness did rather rub the bells of synchronicity. I've been thinking about Artaud's Alchemical Theatre and the role of theatre to create a reality beyond our own mundane existence. The 'liminal' space and the greater truths of myth and story than everyday banality. Anyway, somewhere in that idea is my Masters thesis, one day.
The other things I've read, in full, are W W Jacob's The Monkey's Paw and some Lovecraft shorts. The former is a classic of the Weird too, and I believe Lovecraft thought it such as well. It works on the premise of less is more, terror over horror, suggestion over detail. And it works well. Reminiscent of a Buffy episode too, I suspect it was involved somewhere.
The Lovecraft were Pickman's Model and The Shadow Out of Time. The latter is one of his slightly longer works, a whole 76 pages in eight chapters, and is about a man possessed by a mind of a Great One from several epochs before humans evolved and consequently possessed the body of the Great One for a few years. Like In the Mountains of Madness, his longest work I think, it's less gripping than some of his shorter pieces but the atmosphere of dread slowly works a pervasive spell over you and the history of the world and the Great Ones and Elder Gods etc is quite fascinating.
Pickman's story has a more immediate effect, following in the Poe mode of first person 'I know this is unbelievable but it's what happened okay'. The plot itself is quite see-through these days but the descriptions and atmosphere are classic Lovecraft who truly knew the language of nightmare.
Keep dreaming - but not about Great Ones I hope.
Thursday, 20 September 2012
The Eternal Ramble - A Haphazard Rave about Elric
I said in a previous post that I might write about the Elric novels I've been reading and to stop myself from debating whether I will or not I am. Many of you will already know something about them even if you've never read them but for those who don't I'll give a quick idea.
Elric is the last emperor of Melnibone, an ancient and decadent empire. He can summon aid from demons and elementals and has a sword of mystical origins which forms a love-hate symbiosis with him. All of this is part of Michael Moorcock's multiverse where Elric becomes just one facet of the Eternal Warrior.
It's epic fantasy but in episodic form. Every novel (of the first five which is all I've read so far) is divided into three and each section is its own story which was published in a slightly different version (or not) in journals. At least that's how they're designed. So the chronology occasionally jumps slightly but the stories do follow one after the other even if some events happen at different points in other characters' lives, by which I mean Corum who pops up twice but is actually also the Eternal Warrior.
With that in mind I have to say I found Elric less compelling overall than Erekose and Hawkmoon who are two other facets or forms of the Eternal Warrior and whose sagas are told in a continuous flowing story. However the shorter format provides for more variety and interest, and if one story isn't so great there's always the next one.
The format also puts Elric into the tradition of Conan, Solomon Kane and other "pulp" figures (those being Robert E Howard's most famous creations). But this is early 20th century pulp in the mid 20th century, which is to say slightly nuts. You never know when Elric is going to leave his own plane of existence, or time stream. He meets demons, crazed agents of chaos, plenty of women who he has wild sex with, and brave heroes like Rakhir the Red Archer - so named because he's an archer who wears red from head to toe, bright crimson at that.
In all I can see why Elric has such a cult following, but while I enjoyed his stories - and will read Stormbringer, the sixth volume which was the last one till there was a seventh - I'm not as fanatical. It's classic, it's fascinating but it's not world-shattering. I remain a Hawkmoon fan first and foremost; long live the Eternal Warrior ... yes that's a redundant comment, although he does die too, frequently actually.
Keep dreaming!
Elric is the last emperor of Melnibone, an ancient and decadent empire. He can summon aid from demons and elementals and has a sword of mystical origins which forms a love-hate symbiosis with him. All of this is part of Michael Moorcock's multiverse where Elric becomes just one facet of the Eternal Warrior.
It's epic fantasy but in episodic form. Every novel (of the first five which is all I've read so far) is divided into three and each section is its own story which was published in a slightly different version (or not) in journals. At least that's how they're designed. So the chronology occasionally jumps slightly but the stories do follow one after the other even if some events happen at different points in other characters' lives, by which I mean Corum who pops up twice but is actually also the Eternal Warrior.
With that in mind I have to say I found Elric less compelling overall than Erekose and Hawkmoon who are two other facets or forms of the Eternal Warrior and whose sagas are told in a continuous flowing story. However the shorter format provides for more variety and interest, and if one story isn't so great there's always the next one.
The format also puts Elric into the tradition of Conan, Solomon Kane and other "pulp" figures (those being Robert E Howard's most famous creations). But this is early 20th century pulp in the mid 20th century, which is to say slightly nuts. You never know when Elric is going to leave his own plane of existence, or time stream. He meets demons, crazed agents of chaos, plenty of women who he has wild sex with, and brave heroes like Rakhir the Red Archer - so named because he's an archer who wears red from head to toe, bright crimson at that.
In all I can see why Elric has such a cult following, but while I enjoyed his stories - and will read Stormbringer, the sixth volume which was the last one till there was a seventh - I'm not as fanatical. It's classic, it's fascinating but it's not world-shattering. I remain a Hawkmoon fan first and foremost; long live the Eternal Warrior ... yes that's a redundant comment, although he does die too, frequently actually.
Keep dreaming!
Monday, 10 September 2012
A Promethean Symphony
So I've been thinking today about my playwrighting and where it's going/hasn't been going. Aside from numerous personal factors, I think one reason so little happened for as long as it didn't, was that I can never seem to produce anything that would be deemed a full-length play. This strictly speaking shouldn't really matter - Samuel Beckett only wrote one, his first. After that his works got shorter and shorter as he tried to produce a pure theatrical image. However, outside festivals of 10-minute plays and the occasional special event of one-act wonders there's little call for shorter works.
But I've also realised I'm not interested in writing a long play. I have stories to tell and theatrical images to attempt, and my style of telling these stories is generally very quick. My longest play actually suffers from its size I think - that and it has a light and a dark side that don't mesh.
What does excite me is an idea I've tossed around in my head a few times but until now never gotten fully into. Basing my works on other structures borrowed from other mediums. I got the idea listening to classical music - well Romantic probably but that's a pedantic argument - and the prevalence of short pieces in collections. Three Sketches; Two Poems for Orchestra, etc. Why not turn a shorter piece of mine into a 'movement' of a greater work?
So comes my idea to write A Promethean Symphony. My first movement is Prometheus Rebooted, an Andante if you will as it does move along fairly slowly and isn't high on the action front. It will be followed by three more movements, I haven't figured out what, based on the general nebulous theme of Promethean/Frankenstonian lore.
I've also come up with the plan to finish part one of the first book of The Scarlet Ring by the end of this month, work on one or two movements of the symphony in October then get into NaNoWriMo before finishing both works over December/January. I should get back to Five-Fingers too ... hold that thought.
Keep dreaming!
But I've also realised I'm not interested in writing a long play. I have stories to tell and theatrical images to attempt, and my style of telling these stories is generally very quick. My longest play actually suffers from its size I think - that and it has a light and a dark side that don't mesh.
What does excite me is an idea I've tossed around in my head a few times but until now never gotten fully into. Basing my works on other structures borrowed from other mediums. I got the idea listening to classical music - well Romantic probably but that's a pedantic argument - and the prevalence of short pieces in collections. Three Sketches; Two Poems for Orchestra, etc. Why not turn a shorter piece of mine into a 'movement' of a greater work?
So comes my idea to write A Promethean Symphony. My first movement is Prometheus Rebooted, an Andante if you will as it does move along fairly slowly and isn't high on the action front. It will be followed by three more movements, I haven't figured out what, based on the general nebulous theme of Promethean/Frankenstonian lore.
I've also come up with the plan to finish part one of the first book of The Scarlet Ring by the end of this month, work on one or two movements of the symphony in October then get into NaNoWriMo before finishing both works over December/January. I should get back to Five-Fingers too ... hold that thought.
Keep dreaming!
Sunday, 2 September 2012
Retreat by the River
Just spent a few wonderful days relaxing with my wife on the South Coast. We needed a getaway so we took one. We stayed at Bewong River Retreat which is a series of bungalows right in the bush. It's designed for couples - no kids allowed - and I'd certainly recommend it if you want to get away from the world. It really does feel like you're in the middle of the bush, largely because you are. There are birds aplenty, kangaroos all around and even some wallabies. It's also right on the river.
While there we went for a bit of sightseeing and saw Green Patch, which is just idyllic, and Sanctuary Point. There were many birds and another wallaby but the echidna was the biggest thrill. It was by the side of the road at the end of a National Parks road and was very intent on some tasty ants so didn't mind us at all.
I managed to get some writing done too, adapting an earlier version of a scene in The Scarlet Ring and writing the following scene which I had no idea how it would pan out until I did it. Pretty happy with all that. Finished reading two books too: Michael Moorcock's The Vanishing Tower and ER Eddison's Worm Ouroboros. The former is one of the Elric novels which I'm working my way through, may blog about them later. The Worm however was the ebook I was reading and it's an older fantasy novel written like a chivalric romance. It's quite bizarre in its way and the style of it won't be to everyone's taste but it's well worth reading if you're a fan of fantasy and/or romances (not the modern sort but Arthurian/Charlemagne etc).
Keep dreaming!
While there we went for a bit of sightseeing and saw Green Patch, which is just idyllic, and Sanctuary Point. There were many birds and another wallaby but the echidna was the biggest thrill. It was by the side of the road at the end of a National Parks road and was very intent on some tasty ants so didn't mind us at all.
I managed to get some writing done too, adapting an earlier version of a scene in The Scarlet Ring and writing the following scene which I had no idea how it would pan out until I did it. Pretty happy with all that. Finished reading two books too: Michael Moorcock's The Vanishing Tower and ER Eddison's Worm Ouroboros. The former is one of the Elric novels which I'm working my way through, may blog about them later. The Worm however was the ebook I was reading and it's an older fantasy novel written like a chivalric romance. It's quite bizarre in its way and the style of it won't be to everyone's taste but it's well worth reading if you're a fan of fantasy and/or romances (not the modern sort but Arthurian/Charlemagne etc).
Keep dreaming!
Monday, 27 August 2012
First Response to H P Lovecraft’s The Outsider
This is my initial thoughts on the story, nothing too in depth. Warning, big spoiler, if you want to read the story do that first. It's here.
The beginning of this story reminded me somewhat of Gormenghast but with a more literal take on the idea of Titus Alone. Its mouldy, decaying castle is viscerally described and the infinite loneliness of the narrator is palpable. The nature of this castle with its immense forest is kept a mystery, but there is a hint that not all is as described when we're told the narrator believed himself young because he remembered so little. A failed memory and a life in a place that seems to exist outside the real world.
Only when the escape is made – and leads not to a high tower above the forest, but ground level in an aged churchyard does the mystery of the castle, a veritable crypt, become clear. From there it’s clear what must happen, the narrator must learn it is a dead thing crawled up from its grave, but Lovecraft spins the discovery out to full effect in both horror and sympathy.
The use of nepenthe to erase the sorrow through forgetfulness and allow the ghoul to be just that in some sense breaks the sympathy we might feel for it, but at the same time gives rise to an explanation behind the raison d’être of ghouls and ghosts everywhere. The horror, the otherness and extreme loneliness of their existence drives them to flee the light and take delight in scaring the living who shun them.
Calling the story the Outsider and giving the reader an attachment to the ghoul before revealing its nature allows Lovecraft to make the connection – is this a ghoul or a man shunned for being different? Obviously in the story it is a genuine undead being, but the metaphor is carefully woven so the simple horror of the story is twisted to an analogy of human existence and the loneliness of the ‘other’.
Until next time, keep dreaming!
The beginning of this story reminded me somewhat of Gormenghast but with a more literal take on the idea of Titus Alone. Its mouldy, decaying castle is viscerally described and the infinite loneliness of the narrator is palpable. The nature of this castle with its immense forest is kept a mystery, but there is a hint that not all is as described when we're told the narrator believed himself young because he remembered so little. A failed memory and a life in a place that seems to exist outside the real world.
Only when the escape is made – and leads not to a high tower above the forest, but ground level in an aged churchyard does the mystery of the castle, a veritable crypt, become clear. From there it’s clear what must happen, the narrator must learn it is a dead thing crawled up from its grave, but Lovecraft spins the discovery out to full effect in both horror and sympathy.
The use of nepenthe to erase the sorrow through forgetfulness and allow the ghoul to be just that in some sense breaks the sympathy we might feel for it, but at the same time gives rise to an explanation behind the raison d’être of ghouls and ghosts everywhere. The horror, the otherness and extreme loneliness of their existence drives them to flee the light and take delight in scaring the living who shun them.
Calling the story the Outsider and giving the reader an attachment to the ghoul before revealing its nature allows Lovecraft to make the connection – is this a ghoul or a man shunned for being different? Obviously in the story it is a genuine undead being, but the metaphor is carefully woven so the simple horror of the story is twisted to an analogy of human existence and the loneliness of the ‘other’.
Until next time, keep dreaming!
Monday, 6 August 2012
Goals and Plans
So I have a couple of plans in mind and I'm going to commit them to this blog to make sure I stick with them. There's one about my playwrighting and one about The Scarlet Ring.
The thing with the playwrighting is I did actually finish two one-act pieces this year and since then both have sat on my computer not bothering anyone or finding out if they're any good - let alone trying to come to life on the stage. So the plan is a play reading picnic in the park.
People will gather, some volunteering to read, others just coming to enjoy the event and join the discussion, then while a picnic lunch is eaten the two plays will be read out. Then as we digest the food everyone who wants to can give some feedback on the plays. That should at least give me the basis for a second draft. That's the plan. A date will be set soon and people will be invited via Facebook, so if you're interested watch that space. It'll be in Sydney in case you're not.
Plan two. I've decided to give NaNoWriMo a go this year. That's the National Novel Writing Month, where you sign up and challenge yourself to write 50,000 words of a novel in November. The idea is to start a new novel, I don't want to do that but I do want to face the challenge properly. Bit of an issue when I've already started but I have a plan.
Before this came up I had divided The Scarlet Ring into three parts (not the trilogy but three sections of book one). So the plan is to finish part one before November and do parts two and three as the challenge.
The thing with the playwrighting is I did actually finish two one-act pieces this year and since then both have sat on my computer not bothering anyone or finding out if they're any good - let alone trying to come to life on the stage. So the plan is a play reading picnic in the park.
People will gather, some volunteering to read, others just coming to enjoy the event and join the discussion, then while a picnic lunch is eaten the two plays will be read out. Then as we digest the food everyone who wants to can give some feedback on the plays. That should at least give me the basis for a second draft. That's the plan. A date will be set soon and people will be invited via Facebook, so if you're interested watch that space. It'll be in Sydney in case you're not.
Plan two. I've decided to give NaNoWriMo a go this year. That's the National Novel Writing Month, where you sign up and challenge yourself to write 50,000 words of a novel in November. The idea is to start a new novel, I don't want to do that but I do want to face the challenge properly. Bit of an issue when I've already started but I have a plan.
Before this came up I had divided The Scarlet Ring into three parts (not the trilogy but three sections of book one). So the plan is to finish part one before November and do parts two and three as the challenge.
Monday, 30 July 2012
The Scarlet Ring - First Draft Excerpt
So this is just an excerpt of a rough scene early in the novel. I'm sharing it because it has the first appearance of a lute player Tomorillo, who was inspired by Tom Dickins and his music.
The three acolytes sat at a table across from the hearth, warming themselves from the twilight chill and waiting for more people to come in. Hanissa sighed; it didn’t feel right to be here, doing nothing. Darian had made the plan, go to the inn where Calestra had been last seen, ask people who had seen her if they knew where she’d gone; simple enough. She knew it was logical, and Alisan certainly liked the idea, but ... it meant being here, in the village, surrounded by people.
“Cheer up lil’ sis,” Alisan gave her a nudge with a tankard of ale, “it’s just one night. We’ll find where she’s gone and be on our way.”
“On our way where?” Darian said. “Chances are we’re going to be in villages for a while, maybe even Esst, if not some other city. You’re going to have to come to grips with it Han, I’m sorry.”
Hanissa sighed again, as melodramatically as she could to try to hide the genuine pain behind it. “I know,” she murmured, twirling a strand of her hair in her fingers, “I’ll be fine.”
“Course you will,” Alisan put her arm around her, “you’ve got us to watch out for you.” Hanissa looked up at her friend’s smiling face, framed by flaming auburn hair, and smiled back, still not sure how she felt – about more things than she cared to admit.
The sun set and the locals began to drop by the tavern for an evening meal or just a taste of the ale. They were barley farmers for the most part so they took pride in a good drop. At least we know the ale’s fresh, Hanissa thought as she tried another mouthful of the stew. The landlord insisted it was cooked today from a freshly butchered cow, but she seriously doubted the man’s honesty on that score.
Her mind wasn’t really on the food however, she was watching Alisan chatting to locals she’d befriended the night before. Ostensibly Hanissa was watching for trouble but really she was enthralled. The casual way Alisan could handle people, charming them all without even knowing it – at least the young men. She wasn’t jealous exactly, just fascinated.
“Stop staring,” Darian nudged her with his fork while mopping up his gravy with a hunk of day-old bread. “This is good isn’t it?”
Hanissa raised an eyebrow and took to staring out the window. The man walked by so quickly and suddenly she couldn’t be sure of what she’d seen. Were those wings? She looked to Darian but he had his whole attention on getting the last dregs of stew from his bowl. Surely she hadn’t seen a winged man ...
The door opened and there he was – complete with wings. He wasn’t the tallest or bulkiest of men, but lean with tussled blonde hair and a roguish beard. The wings were jet black and as he walked in she could see they were elaborate constructions with carefully placed down and wing feathers, she guessed from crows. She also noticed they were upside down as if the man would fly feet first or perhaps, downward instead of heavenward. The enigma smiled and waved and many of the locals who hailed him as he walked towards the hearth. His eyes twinkled and Hanissa noticed he had a pair of tattooed wings sprouting from his brows.
So mystified by his sudden and strange appearance, Hanissa didn’t notice he carried a lute until he strummed his first chord. “That’s Tomorillo,” Alisan said, suddenly seating back down beside her, “you’re going to love this lil’ sis.” Darian glanced up from his now empty stew bowl, grunted and started on Hanissa’s half-eaten meal.
Tomorillo began to sing and the room fell hush save for some muttered conversation in the corners from the older and more slovenly looking patrons. He sang a tale of broken hearts and battered lives, of losing hope and feeling only pain. It was a personal song, detailed and told from his own point of view. Hanissa could tell he sang truth, but for all that he sang of his own specific experience she knew it was hers too. The words weren’t hers but the music ... that was shared. She felt a chill go over her, tears welled in her eyes, but the song took a turn, his pain is but a moment, he’s felt it but now he’s standing here – he’s singing to these people, to me, she thought, and his hope is not gone completely and the pain will fade, one day.
The final chord faded and was lost to the crash of breaking plates as a barmaid dropped her bundle. People clapped and cheered; Tomorillo smiled at them all, almost embarrassed by their applause but clearly grateful. “Thank you my dears,” he said in a gentle voice. “If I might trouble one of you for an ale I’ll begin the next song.” A local lass jumped to her feet and rushed to the bar.
“What did you think?” Alisan asked with a gentle nudge to Hanissa’s arm. Her reply was a look of astonishment. Never had she heard music so personal and ... real before.
“Not bad,” Darian replied unwittingly, putting Hanissa’s now empty bowl beside his own. Alisan laughed and punched him playfully in the arm and Hanissa smiled for the first time all day.
The three acolytes sat at a table across from the hearth, warming themselves from the twilight chill and waiting for more people to come in. Hanissa sighed; it didn’t feel right to be here, doing nothing. Darian had made the plan, go to the inn where Calestra had been last seen, ask people who had seen her if they knew where she’d gone; simple enough. She knew it was logical, and Alisan certainly liked the idea, but ... it meant being here, in the village, surrounded by people.
“Cheer up lil’ sis,” Alisan gave her a nudge with a tankard of ale, “it’s just one night. We’ll find where she’s gone and be on our way.”
“On our way where?” Darian said. “Chances are we’re going to be in villages for a while, maybe even Esst, if not some other city. You’re going to have to come to grips with it Han, I’m sorry.”
Hanissa sighed again, as melodramatically as she could to try to hide the genuine pain behind it. “I know,” she murmured, twirling a strand of her hair in her fingers, “I’ll be fine.”
“Course you will,” Alisan put her arm around her, “you’ve got us to watch out for you.” Hanissa looked up at her friend’s smiling face, framed by flaming auburn hair, and smiled back, still not sure how she felt – about more things than she cared to admit.
The sun set and the locals began to drop by the tavern for an evening meal or just a taste of the ale. They were barley farmers for the most part so they took pride in a good drop. At least we know the ale’s fresh, Hanissa thought as she tried another mouthful of the stew. The landlord insisted it was cooked today from a freshly butchered cow, but she seriously doubted the man’s honesty on that score.
Her mind wasn’t really on the food however, she was watching Alisan chatting to locals she’d befriended the night before. Ostensibly Hanissa was watching for trouble but really she was enthralled. The casual way Alisan could handle people, charming them all without even knowing it – at least the young men. She wasn’t jealous exactly, just fascinated.
“Stop staring,” Darian nudged her with his fork while mopping up his gravy with a hunk of day-old bread. “This is good isn’t it?”
Hanissa raised an eyebrow and took to staring out the window. The man walked by so quickly and suddenly she couldn’t be sure of what she’d seen. Were those wings? She looked to Darian but he had his whole attention on getting the last dregs of stew from his bowl. Surely she hadn’t seen a winged man ...
The door opened and there he was – complete with wings. He wasn’t the tallest or bulkiest of men, but lean with tussled blonde hair and a roguish beard. The wings were jet black and as he walked in she could see they were elaborate constructions with carefully placed down and wing feathers, she guessed from crows. She also noticed they were upside down as if the man would fly feet first or perhaps, downward instead of heavenward. The enigma smiled and waved and many of the locals who hailed him as he walked towards the hearth. His eyes twinkled and Hanissa noticed he had a pair of tattooed wings sprouting from his brows.
So mystified by his sudden and strange appearance, Hanissa didn’t notice he carried a lute until he strummed his first chord. “That’s Tomorillo,” Alisan said, suddenly seating back down beside her, “you’re going to love this lil’ sis.” Darian glanced up from his now empty stew bowl, grunted and started on Hanissa’s half-eaten meal.
Tomorillo began to sing and the room fell hush save for some muttered conversation in the corners from the older and more slovenly looking patrons. He sang a tale of broken hearts and battered lives, of losing hope and feeling only pain. It was a personal song, detailed and told from his own point of view. Hanissa could tell he sang truth, but for all that he sang of his own specific experience she knew it was hers too. The words weren’t hers but the music ... that was shared. She felt a chill go over her, tears welled in her eyes, but the song took a turn, his pain is but a moment, he’s felt it but now he’s standing here – he’s singing to these people, to me, she thought, and his hope is not gone completely and the pain will fade, one day.
The final chord faded and was lost to the crash of breaking plates as a barmaid dropped her bundle. People clapped and cheered; Tomorillo smiled at them all, almost embarrassed by their applause but clearly grateful. “Thank you my dears,” he said in a gentle voice. “If I might trouble one of you for an ale I’ll begin the next song.” A local lass jumped to her feet and rushed to the bar.
“What did you think?” Alisan asked with a gentle nudge to Hanissa’s arm. Her reply was a look of astonishment. Never had she heard music so personal and ... real before.
“Not bad,” Darian replied unwittingly, putting Hanissa’s now empty bowl beside his own. Alisan laughed and punched him playfully in the arm and Hanissa smiled for the first time all day.
Monday, 16 July 2012
Reading Round-up
I thought it might be worthwhile to cast a reflective eye over some of the things I read during the first half of the year. A number of things really don’t require much discussion; I was just catching up with what many people already know. I finally caught up with the first two Discworld novels for instance, although I’m loathe to admit I actually expected a bit more from them – possibly the vice of too much success. I also read Game of Thrones, in some ways bowing to peer pressure but seriously, it’s right up my alley anyway. It truly is epic in scope, while remaining character-orientated and is just generally beautiful fantasy. I was less impressed with the TV series I hate to say, I enjoy it but it just skips too quickly over things and doesn’t give the depth that makes the book so good.
Very recently I read Marianne de Pierre’s YA novel Burn Bright, and I didn’t waste much time finding, buying and starting its sequel Angel Arias. This is undeniably YA but that really doesn’t matter when it’s written so well. It’s dark and strangely seductive, with an ominous atmosphere that lures you in. The only problem is the third book isn’t out yet.
In terms of the 50 Plays in 2012 plan, I’ve only managed two full length ones and two short ones; so not going quite to plan. I’m downgrading the target to 15-20 and will publish my responses to them on my website when I’m done. Don’t hold your breath but it will happen.
I have read a lot of short stories lately, both on my e-reader and in anthologies. I think they’re really good ways to discover writers and series. You get a taste without having to set aside huge amounts of time – there are authors who probably just need to cut it down a bit, sure epic is good but a lot of epics suffer from mid-book drag I find – and of course they have their own traits which make for intriguing reading.
Two of the anthologies I read bring me to a decision/realisation I made about what I read and how to think of it. They were The Best of the Realms Vol 1 and Heroes of the Space Marines. Already there will be some who read that who scoff, frown, smirk or in some way look down upon these books and their like. They’re not “serious” literature or even “serious SF”; they’re mass-market, escapist guff; at worst they’re just commercialised tie-ins with no “creative merit”. Firstly, I didn’t think all those things, but I was aware of the disdain they’re held in. Check Goodreads reviews of titles from this ilk and you’ll find people admitting to their ‘guilty’ pleasure in reading them, or generally panning them – but hey, you read them people.
Now, it’s difficult to actually define this ‘type’ of book; it’s not a specific sub-genre, but you can hopefully see what I mean. These are book written to entertain yes, they are filled with adventure and action and don’t weigh themselves down with introspection or literary cleverness. I guess what I’m talking about are in many ways the ancestors of pulp SF, sword and sorcery etc. I have read a lot of them in the past and have more of them to read, part of me felt the scorn and thought to myself, if I want to be a writer I’m meant to read the ‘high-end’ stuff. Reading The Best of the Realms, I thought, wait a minute, who defines high-end? Why should I be bothered by people’s prejudices? And, if I’m honest, isn’t this the sort of book The Scarlet Ring is?
Which is all a way of me saying I’ve decided to read what I want and to ignore all the ridiculous notions out there about ‘serious’ anything. I won’t feel bad for reading something or think of how I need to get back to ‘worthier’ books – a phrase I recently saw go to print by someone currently reading Game of Thrones (I dread to think what she’d make Heroes of the Space Marines). Judge not by prejudice, judge by content and what you enjoy.
Read on and keep dreaming!
Very recently I read Marianne de Pierre’s YA novel Burn Bright, and I didn’t waste much time finding, buying and starting its sequel Angel Arias. This is undeniably YA but that really doesn’t matter when it’s written so well. It’s dark and strangely seductive, with an ominous atmosphere that lures you in. The only problem is the third book isn’t out yet.
In terms of the 50 Plays in 2012 plan, I’ve only managed two full length ones and two short ones; so not going quite to plan. I’m downgrading the target to 15-20 and will publish my responses to them on my website when I’m done. Don’t hold your breath but it will happen.
I have read a lot of short stories lately, both on my e-reader and in anthologies. I think they’re really good ways to discover writers and series. You get a taste without having to set aside huge amounts of time – there are authors who probably just need to cut it down a bit, sure epic is good but a lot of epics suffer from mid-book drag I find – and of course they have their own traits which make for intriguing reading.
Two of the anthologies I read bring me to a decision/realisation I made about what I read and how to think of it. They were The Best of the Realms Vol 1 and Heroes of the Space Marines. Already there will be some who read that who scoff, frown, smirk or in some way look down upon these books and their like. They’re not “serious” literature or even “serious SF”; they’re mass-market, escapist guff; at worst they’re just commercialised tie-ins with no “creative merit”. Firstly, I didn’t think all those things, but I was aware of the disdain they’re held in. Check Goodreads reviews of titles from this ilk and you’ll find people admitting to their ‘guilty’ pleasure in reading them, or generally panning them – but hey, you read them people.
Now, it’s difficult to actually define this ‘type’ of book; it’s not a specific sub-genre, but you can hopefully see what I mean. These are book written to entertain yes, they are filled with adventure and action and don’t weigh themselves down with introspection or literary cleverness. I guess what I’m talking about are in many ways the ancestors of pulp SF, sword and sorcery etc. I have read a lot of them in the past and have more of them to read, part of me felt the scorn and thought to myself, if I want to be a writer I’m meant to read the ‘high-end’ stuff. Reading The Best of the Realms, I thought, wait a minute, who defines high-end? Why should I be bothered by people’s prejudices? And, if I’m honest, isn’t this the sort of book The Scarlet Ring is?
Which is all a way of me saying I’ve decided to read what I want and to ignore all the ridiculous notions out there about ‘serious’ anything. I won’t feel bad for reading something or think of how I need to get back to ‘worthier’ books – a phrase I recently saw go to print by someone currently reading Game of Thrones (I dread to think what she’d make Heroes of the Space Marines). Judge not by prejudice, judge by content and what you enjoy.
Read on and keep dreaming!
Sunday, 24 June 2012
Time to catch up with a few events of recent times. First off, Supanova. I went to this with Sam last Saturday at Olympic Park. There weren’t too many celebs we were that interested in so it was a good chance to enjoy the rest of the event properly. We started off with a publishing seminar where we heard some useful things from Garth Nix as a successful author with experience in the industry and from a couple of publishers. The bookseller representative I have to admit thought she had more useful info than she did and showed her distinct dislike of e-books a little too clearly. Anyway it was useful and we later had a chat with Caroline Lowry of D-Publishing who is likely to hear from me again when I finish something worth publishing.
From there we met up with our good friend Erin, moseyed about the stores, listened to Christopher Lloyd answer some fairly inane questions (for the most part) and met a few more people. Artists’ Alley was of course home to some interesting and inspiring people. Last year we found Girl Quirky and Goblin Design and bought a few prints, since then Sam has done a workshop series with Girl Quirky, so we went back to say hi to them and of course buy more prints. We then stumbled across Selina Fenech and her beautiful fairy-based artworks and her silent graphic novel Fallen.
Having enjoyed hearing him in the seminar and learning that he’s a prominent Australian fantasy author, I decided I should buy a book by Garth Nix and since he was signing at the time we got it signed, and I must say he’s a really nice guy, very encouraging of writing in general. We then heard more from him in a fantasy writing seminar which also featured Marianne de Pierres and Kate Forsyth. There were some encouraging words spoken indeed. I’m not sure I learnt much specifically but many ideas were reinforced and felt strangely confident by the end of it. I’ve since started reading Marianne’s Burn Bright, which we bought last year at Supanova and she signed then, and I plan to buy one of Kate’s novels electronically – partly for convenience of reading it at work and partly to annoy the bookseller from the publishing seminar.
The other event I want to mention is the Sydney Dance Company show The Land of Yes & The Land of No. I managed to win a double pass to this via Australian Stage so Sam and I went down to the Riverside Theatre in Parramatta for opening night. Now, I’m not that into modern dance I do confess, my previous experiences of it were some rather ... well, pretentious shall we say, shows at The Performance Space back in my uni days. My opinion was not high. This show however changed that and you can see the difference between a high-quality company and a bunch of people being “artistic” (oh I’m an opinionated so-and-so I know but there you have it).
Anyway, I found this show quite fascinating in its way and the performance was elegant, graceful and beautiful. I didn’t have a way to reference what was happening so much of it remains an enigma to me, but there were some scenes I could get the gist of. I found myself quite in awe of the physical mastery of the dancers themselves and viewed the movements with the music so they became one expression. I think if there were a way to combine, seamlessly, the movement of dance with the poetry of written performance that would be my ideal theatre.
Just a general development, I rearranged my computer desk to create a more efficient and hopefully inspiring workspace. Books right in front of me and more sunlight – it has to be a good thing.
Keep Dreaming!
From there we met up with our good friend Erin, moseyed about the stores, listened to Christopher Lloyd answer some fairly inane questions (for the most part) and met a few more people. Artists’ Alley was of course home to some interesting and inspiring people. Last year we found Girl Quirky and Goblin Design and bought a few prints, since then Sam has done a workshop series with Girl Quirky, so we went back to say hi to them and of course buy more prints. We then stumbled across Selina Fenech and her beautiful fairy-based artworks and her silent graphic novel Fallen.
Having enjoyed hearing him in the seminar and learning that he’s a prominent Australian fantasy author, I decided I should buy a book by Garth Nix and since he was signing at the time we got it signed, and I must say he’s a really nice guy, very encouraging of writing in general. We then heard more from him in a fantasy writing seminar which also featured Marianne de Pierres and Kate Forsyth. There were some encouraging words spoken indeed. I’m not sure I learnt much specifically but many ideas were reinforced and felt strangely confident by the end of it. I’ve since started reading Marianne’s Burn Bright, which we bought last year at Supanova and she signed then, and I plan to buy one of Kate’s novels electronically – partly for convenience of reading it at work and partly to annoy the bookseller from the publishing seminar.
The other event I want to mention is the Sydney Dance Company show The Land of Yes & The Land of No. I managed to win a double pass to this via Australian Stage so Sam and I went down to the Riverside Theatre in Parramatta for opening night. Now, I’m not that into modern dance I do confess, my previous experiences of it were some rather ... well, pretentious shall we say, shows at The Performance Space back in my uni days. My opinion was not high. This show however changed that and you can see the difference between a high-quality company and a bunch of people being “artistic” (oh I’m an opinionated so-and-so I know but there you have it).
Anyway, I found this show quite fascinating in its way and the performance was elegant, graceful and beautiful. I didn’t have a way to reference what was happening so much of it remains an enigma to me, but there were some scenes I could get the gist of. I found myself quite in awe of the physical mastery of the dancers themselves and viewed the movements with the music so they became one expression. I think if there were a way to combine, seamlessly, the movement of dance with the poetry of written performance that would be my ideal theatre.
Just a general development, I rearranged my computer desk to create a more efficient and hopefully inspiring workspace. Books right in front of me and more sunlight – it has to be a good thing.
Keep Dreaming!
Monday, 11 June 2012
Fahrenheit 91
I wrote this a couple of days ago but I’m finally putting it up.
I wasn’t sure whether to write a blog about the passing of Ray Bradbury but the Sydney Morning Herald online tipped my hand. Bradbury was without a doubt a master storyteller and a prolific one. He created worlds and ideas with clarity and precision. It’s not stretching anything to say he was one of the greats of SF – by which I mean Speculative Fiction, not just science fiction.
What drives me to write this however is not simple memoriam but an element of disgust with SMH for its reporting of Bradbury’s death; a brief paragraph followed by a reprint of an opinion piece arguing that Bradbury was not a ‘literary’ SF author but the king of ‘pulp’. A simple short obituary would’ve sufficed but to spare the effort they rerun something that ends by saying “The king of pulp [Bradbury] lives.” I ask you, is that appropriate?
Now, the piece was not disparaging of Bradbury overall but it did seem to argue against his skills in writing while explaining how brilliant a writer he was. Regardless, it was not a way to report the death of a writer, pulp or otherwise.
This brings me to the other thing this piece made me want to write about, the whole premise of ‘literary’ and ‘pulp’ as opposite ends of some sort of spectrum. It seems to be a polemic SF is cursed to suffer from for all eternity. Even within the genre there are levels of snobbery demarcating the ‘escapist pulp’ with the ‘heavy’ or ‘literary’ works. Applying such things to Ray Bradbury just seems wrong and, if anything, the piece SMH has deigned to run on the day of his death simply shows that the polemic is an artificial construct – one Bradbury broke.
A piece of fiction should be judged primarily on its own terms. Yes, it needs to be well written. Beyond that it could serve any purpose the author and reader agree between them. For me, the main thing is for there to be a good story told well. My experience of ‘literary’ fiction is of no or limited banal story told with overdone language. My experience of ‘pulp’ or ‘escapist’ stories is stories where things happen. Not all are well told and not all are good – but that will depend on who’s reading them. Bradbury told good stories and told them excellently. So the ‘literary’ side claimed him and the ‘pulp’ side did too. He was neither, they don’t exist. He was Bradbury, the storyteller. Let’s remember that and read the stories and enjoy them. That’s what really matters.
Keep dreaming!
I wasn’t sure whether to write a blog about the passing of Ray Bradbury but the Sydney Morning Herald online tipped my hand. Bradbury was without a doubt a master storyteller and a prolific one. He created worlds and ideas with clarity and precision. It’s not stretching anything to say he was one of the greats of SF – by which I mean Speculative Fiction, not just science fiction.
What drives me to write this however is not simple memoriam but an element of disgust with SMH for its reporting of Bradbury’s death; a brief paragraph followed by a reprint of an opinion piece arguing that Bradbury was not a ‘literary’ SF author but the king of ‘pulp’. A simple short obituary would’ve sufficed but to spare the effort they rerun something that ends by saying “The king of pulp [Bradbury] lives.” I ask you, is that appropriate?
Now, the piece was not disparaging of Bradbury overall but it did seem to argue against his skills in writing while explaining how brilliant a writer he was. Regardless, it was not a way to report the death of a writer, pulp or otherwise.
This brings me to the other thing this piece made me want to write about, the whole premise of ‘literary’ and ‘pulp’ as opposite ends of some sort of spectrum. It seems to be a polemic SF is cursed to suffer from for all eternity. Even within the genre there are levels of snobbery demarcating the ‘escapist pulp’ with the ‘heavy’ or ‘literary’ works. Applying such things to Ray Bradbury just seems wrong and, if anything, the piece SMH has deigned to run on the day of his death simply shows that the polemic is an artificial construct – one Bradbury broke.
A piece of fiction should be judged primarily on its own terms. Yes, it needs to be well written. Beyond that it could serve any purpose the author and reader agree between them. For me, the main thing is for there to be a good story told well. My experience of ‘literary’ fiction is of no or limited banal story told with overdone language. My experience of ‘pulp’ or ‘escapist’ stories is stories where things happen. Not all are well told and not all are good – but that will depend on who’s reading them. Bradbury told good stories and told them excellently. So the ‘literary’ side claimed him and the ‘pulp’ side did too. He was neither, they don’t exist. He was Bradbury, the storyteller. Let’s remember that and read the stories and enjoy them. That’s what really matters.
Keep dreaming!
Wednesday, 23 May 2012
Kickstarting the Possibilities
So there's this development in the creative scene called crowd funding. Many of you may well have heard about it; it's been around for a while now, someone I went to uni with has even used it. But it's come more strongly to my attention through projects by Amanda Palmer and Tom Dickins - names that have popped up once or twice in this blog before. Amanda's in particular is turning heads as it has raised well over half a million and is still going.
For those who don't know what crowd funding is, here's the basics. There are websites, two that I know of, Kickstarter in the US and Pozible in Australia, I'm sure other countries have them too, where artists from any creative medium can propose projects they are trying to get up. Using Tom as an example, he wants to make an album but has zero money and no backing from a label or anything. So, he's put up a project on Pozible and told his fans about it who have spread the word too. When they go there they can pledge a certain amount of money towards the project, there's a goal that has to be reached within 30 days. If enough people pledge enough money to make that goal they're pledges are processed and Tom will get the money (less a percentage for the website). Now, he has to explain where all the money will go etc, it's not an easy con, and most backers pledge their support for a reward which is related to the project - in this case a CD and digital copy of the album is the most logical. Tom's taking it all a bit further and every backer will have access to inside development information and is welcome to provide feedback and give ideas.
This concept is obviously an exciting one for anyone trying to produce creative works. It also puts certain responsibilities back on the artist. No-one's doing the boring stuff for you here. It sounds like a lot of money but, as Amanda Palmer has explained in her blog, it really isn't. It can provide the necessary funds, maybe a few more, but first of all you have to get the backers. And no-one's helping you find them either. Done well and with some strategy and realistic attitudes however, this really could be the future of creative endeavours. I doubt it will replace corporate entities and government funding etc, but it will allow emerging artists to be heard and seen.
Expect requests for pledges in the future. And maybe take a look at the sites to see what you can help happen. That's the other thing to remember with this, you become a part of the art, it's community and freedom all wrapped up in a confusing and exciting bubble. We really can make things happen.
Keep dreaming!
For those who don't know what crowd funding is, here's the basics. There are websites, two that I know of, Kickstarter in the US and Pozible in Australia, I'm sure other countries have them too, where artists from any creative medium can propose projects they are trying to get up. Using Tom as an example, he wants to make an album but has zero money and no backing from a label or anything. So, he's put up a project on Pozible and told his fans about it who have spread the word too. When they go there they can pledge a certain amount of money towards the project, there's a goal that has to be reached within 30 days. If enough people pledge enough money to make that goal they're pledges are processed and Tom will get the money (less a percentage for the website). Now, he has to explain where all the money will go etc, it's not an easy con, and most backers pledge their support for a reward which is related to the project - in this case a CD and digital copy of the album is the most logical. Tom's taking it all a bit further and every backer will have access to inside development information and is welcome to provide feedback and give ideas.
This concept is obviously an exciting one for anyone trying to produce creative works. It also puts certain responsibilities back on the artist. No-one's doing the boring stuff for you here. It sounds like a lot of money but, as Amanda Palmer has explained in her blog, it really isn't. It can provide the necessary funds, maybe a few more, but first of all you have to get the backers. And no-one's helping you find them either. Done well and with some strategy and realistic attitudes however, this really could be the future of creative endeavours. I doubt it will replace corporate entities and government funding etc, but it will allow emerging artists to be heard and seen.
Expect requests for pledges in the future. And maybe take a look at the sites to see what you can help happen. That's the other thing to remember with this, you become a part of the art, it's community and freedom all wrapped up in a confusing and exciting bubble. We really can make things happen.
Keep dreaming!
Wednesday, 9 May 2012
Where the Wild Things Are
As most of you will already be aware, Maurice Sendak died last night at the age of 84. There has been quite a huge outpouring of grief and reminiscence since, so in many ways it could be said I’m jumping the bandwagon here, but I want to put my two cents in. I think it fascinating that this man’s death is getting such a reaction; after all his best known work – the only one I know about – was a short children’s book written decades ago. But it’s that very book causing such a stir, because what a book it is.
I know next to nothing about Maurice Sendak; I believe he was a wonderful man with great creativity and a way of looking at the world we should probably all envy. But for me to write anything more about him would be wrong, I simply don’t know. But I do want to talk about Where the Wild Things Are. This book must have been one of the first I remember reading, and re-reading and re-reading. It’s easily one of the most important books of my childhood – even more important than the pop-up about the crocodile who tours London with a dump truck and crashes a garden party at Buckingham Palace.
This short, simple story told me some very crucial things about life. It told me I could go to fantastic places whenever I wanted. In these places I would find many things, some of them scary some of them exciting and all of them beautiful. I could be whatever I wanted to be when I got there. I could dance with monsters and be a king. I could sail seas, climb mountains, run through forests. All these things were right there, accessible at a moment’s notice – and when I’d had enough, the real world would be waiting for me, and my supper still warm.
More than that, these places, although dreamt up in my mind, were not any less true than the real world I left to visit them. So while I know so very little about Maurice Sendak I owe him a great deal. He gave my imagination credence, he told me it was good and that I should go to those places. The places are dangerous at times but I would always be safe, because those places are, in fact, part of me. Going to them validates myself, allows me to be who I am.
So today, in honour of a man you may know nothing about but who gave the world an invaluable story, go to the wild places in you. You’re supper will be waiting when you return.
Keep dreaming.
I know next to nothing about Maurice Sendak; I believe he was a wonderful man with great creativity and a way of looking at the world we should probably all envy. But for me to write anything more about him would be wrong, I simply don’t know. But I do want to talk about Where the Wild Things Are. This book must have been one of the first I remember reading, and re-reading and re-reading. It’s easily one of the most important books of my childhood – even more important than the pop-up about the crocodile who tours London with a dump truck and crashes a garden party at Buckingham Palace.
This short, simple story told me some very crucial things about life. It told me I could go to fantastic places whenever I wanted. In these places I would find many things, some of them scary some of them exciting and all of them beautiful. I could be whatever I wanted to be when I got there. I could dance with monsters and be a king. I could sail seas, climb mountains, run through forests. All these things were right there, accessible at a moment’s notice – and when I’d had enough, the real world would be waiting for me, and my supper still warm.
More than that, these places, although dreamt up in my mind, were not any less true than the real world I left to visit them. So while I know so very little about Maurice Sendak I owe him a great deal. He gave my imagination credence, he told me it was good and that I should go to those places. The places are dangerous at times but I would always be safe, because those places are, in fact, part of me. Going to them validates myself, allows me to be who I am.
So today, in honour of a man you may know nothing about but who gave the world an invaluable story, go to the wild places in you. You’re supper will be waiting when you return.
Keep dreaming.
Friday, 27 April 2012
Reviews, progress and fear
It’s been a few weeks since I blogged, shame be upon me, but my how time flies. There has been some progress on some projects, a bit of a personal insight and a minor bit of excitement. The last one first, I wrote a review for one of the albums I’ve bought through Classicsonline and it was selected as one of the best customer reviews in April; bit of a thrill I must confess. You can read it here.
As for progress, the most exciting for me has been coming up with a plan and a plot outline for the first book of a trilogy I’m writing – The Scarlet Ring. None too surprisingly it’s a fantasy story set in a world I’ve been devising for over a decade, off and on. Mostly off for a long time, which is fine as it’s given me the chance to do a revision of everything and focus the world from the sprawling chaos I had to a more distinct and workable form. And the story I started in that world almost a decade ago is finally taking shape!
The pieces started falling into place only in the last couple of days, interestingly the key bits did so while I was thinking about other things, the subconscious is a wondrous thing. In light of previous posts about method I find I’m using both extremes – planning and spontaneity. I’ve been building the world and the characters, fleshing them out, plotting things out in bits; but part of doing that is of course pure invention – and it was a random title that I gave one, then side character, that has led to the breakthroughs. Hats off to the Prince of the Hunt.
The insight I spoke of was also in relation to my writing and the rather long dry period I’m only just coming out of. More specifically it’s about fear – the dread of not being good enough, of failure and of not being a ‘writer’ at all. It struck me again the other day when, I admit with a certain amount of shame, I read about a success someone else had in their writing. It’s a friend of a friend, but hearing about what they achieved (a place in a masterclass) I thought how it wasn’t me, how I didn’t even know about it, how I should’ve, how I wouldn’t have gotten in even had I known … it’s all ridiculous but the wondrous mind is also torturous.
Anyway, mind emptied of story by this pervasive fear and self-doubt, I realised it doesn’t actually matter. I don’t write stories to be a successful writer, I write them because I love doing it. And when I’m not panicking about failing as a writer I write a lot, because I love it and it’s part of who I am. So the fear is misdirected. Failure is a part of life and it’s possible success in that field may not come, at least not to the point I would like. That isn’t the point and is no reason to not write and to try.
So my final comment to you, generous reader, is to ask yourself if there are things you love doing but don’t do because you’re afraid of ‘not being good enough’. If there are, just do them. Do them for the love of doing them and don’t worry how ‘good’ you are at it. Life’s too short to worry about such things.
Keep dreaming!
As for progress, the most exciting for me has been coming up with a plan and a plot outline for the first book of a trilogy I’m writing – The Scarlet Ring. None too surprisingly it’s a fantasy story set in a world I’ve been devising for over a decade, off and on. Mostly off for a long time, which is fine as it’s given me the chance to do a revision of everything and focus the world from the sprawling chaos I had to a more distinct and workable form. And the story I started in that world almost a decade ago is finally taking shape!
The pieces started falling into place only in the last couple of days, interestingly the key bits did so while I was thinking about other things, the subconscious is a wondrous thing. In light of previous posts about method I find I’m using both extremes – planning and spontaneity. I’ve been building the world and the characters, fleshing them out, plotting things out in bits; but part of doing that is of course pure invention – and it was a random title that I gave one, then side character, that has led to the breakthroughs. Hats off to the Prince of the Hunt.
The insight I spoke of was also in relation to my writing and the rather long dry period I’m only just coming out of. More specifically it’s about fear – the dread of not being good enough, of failure and of not being a ‘writer’ at all. It struck me again the other day when, I admit with a certain amount of shame, I read about a success someone else had in their writing. It’s a friend of a friend, but hearing about what they achieved (a place in a masterclass) I thought how it wasn’t me, how I didn’t even know about it, how I should’ve, how I wouldn’t have gotten in even had I known … it’s all ridiculous but the wondrous mind is also torturous.
Anyway, mind emptied of story by this pervasive fear and self-doubt, I realised it doesn’t actually matter. I don’t write stories to be a successful writer, I write them because I love doing it. And when I’m not panicking about failing as a writer I write a lot, because I love it and it’s part of who I am. So the fear is misdirected. Failure is a part of life and it’s possible success in that field may not come, at least not to the point I would like. That isn’t the point and is no reason to not write and to try.
So my final comment to you, generous reader, is to ask yourself if there are things you love doing but don’t do because you’re afraid of ‘not being good enough’. If there are, just do them. Do them for the love of doing them and don’t worry how ‘good’ you are at it. Life’s too short to worry about such things.
Keep dreaming!
Wednesday, 11 April 2012
Flights of Discovery
So, I have been on a plane – twice. It’s actually quite exciting in its way, seeing the world below; Sydney at night became colonies of fireflies and the clouds in the daylight were mountains of ethereal wisps floating on shadows above the ground. Take off isn’t great on the neck however. Not much to say about airline food, they were only short trips. The tea is pretty average, but QANTAS did give us a very nice biscuit.
My holiday was a relaxing and fun week during which we covered a lot of ground exploring the beaches of the Northern Rivers, driving through some villages and dropping by Nimbin for some shopping. There’s also a very good local art gallery there I recommend to anyone passing through. Currumbin Wildlife Sanctuary is also well worth the time to explore, say hi to the tree kangaroos for me and watch out for the dragons. Seriously, during the week we saw so many water dragons – at my aunt’s house there were little ones we’d watch over breakfast, running about a stone wall, waving at each other and catching ants, and a bigger one who dropped by one evening; and there were more of them in Currumbin and South Bank, Brisbane where we made friends with one.
I also had the chance to explore numerous worlds, starting with those of Lord Dunsany’s Book of Wonders; a delightful series of very short stories in the manner of fairytales but with a modern twist, I strongly encourage discovering them for yourselves; they’re public domain, quick to read and absolutely charming. I also caught up with the last four issues of Aurealis, which gave me plenty of worlds to discover. I won’t say every story was my cup of tea but they’re all different and give something for everyone – and no I’m not remotely paid to say that. It’s Aussie fiction and done through love for the literature not for monetary gain so check it out and support local writers.
On that score, no I am not about to be one of those writers. My two recent submissions have been rejected; however, both came back with very encouraging and constructive comments. So, while a touch disheartened and disappointed, overall it was a positive experience and will hopefully produce better work. Which is what I must do some of now.
A final thing, an idea for some theatrical evenings has occurred to me embracing both the darker and the more absurd sides of my writing and their short natures. Watch this space. In the meantime, keep exploring!
My holiday was a relaxing and fun week during which we covered a lot of ground exploring the beaches of the Northern Rivers, driving through some villages and dropping by Nimbin for some shopping. There’s also a very good local art gallery there I recommend to anyone passing through. Currumbin Wildlife Sanctuary is also well worth the time to explore, say hi to the tree kangaroos for me and watch out for the dragons. Seriously, during the week we saw so many water dragons – at my aunt’s house there were little ones we’d watch over breakfast, running about a stone wall, waving at each other and catching ants, and a bigger one who dropped by one evening; and there were more of them in Currumbin and South Bank, Brisbane where we made friends with one.
I also had the chance to explore numerous worlds, starting with those of Lord Dunsany’s Book of Wonders; a delightful series of very short stories in the manner of fairytales but with a modern twist, I strongly encourage discovering them for yourselves; they’re public domain, quick to read and absolutely charming. I also caught up with the last four issues of Aurealis, which gave me plenty of worlds to discover. I won’t say every story was my cup of tea but they’re all different and give something for everyone – and no I’m not remotely paid to say that. It’s Aussie fiction and done through love for the literature not for monetary gain so check it out and support local writers.
On that score, no I am not about to be one of those writers. My two recent submissions have been rejected; however, both came back with very encouraging and constructive comments. So, while a touch disheartened and disappointed, overall it was a positive experience and will hopefully produce better work. Which is what I must do some of now.
A final thing, an idea for some theatrical evenings has occurred to me embracing both the darker and the more absurd sides of my writing and their short natures. Watch this space. In the meantime, keep exploring!
Wednesday, 28 March 2012
Autumnal Musings
Perhaps it’s genetic; the evenings begin to cool, life begins to slow and we crowd round the fire to hear the storyteller conjure up new worlds from the flames, exciting our imaginations and reminding us of who we are. Perhaps I’m just odd; but whatever it is, autumn is here and as the cool evening breezes blow round me in the dying golden light I feel a stirring in my mind. Dreams awaken and I’m suddenly impelled to do the things I should’ve been doing all summer – writing, rewriting and actually submitting works to potential publications!
It’s early yet and my first attempt met with an unexpected setback. I thought I’d typed a story up but it turns out I hadn’t; so task one is to do so. That’s The Truth of Dragons, the first piece I completed as a married man and there are a few places I’m thinking of sending it to; watch this space. The second, ongoing, attempt met with a bit more luck. The Tale of Five-Fingered Jack (working title) which I started on New Year’s Day finally has a structure and is over half written. No idea what to do with that when it’s finished though. The idea was it would be a one-man show and told to a theatre audience, whether that’s a practical idea or not I don’t know but I know it can be done.
In fact, I think most first-person narratives can be mounted as live performances, and many have. I’ll never forget seeing John Astin reciting Poe’s Tell-tale Heart on an episode of Good News Week; I was putty in his hands. The trick is the language and the gift of the teller; which goes back to my idea that it’s genetic – we love stories, they’re our oldest tradition.
While I’m here, on a totally different topic, I’ve been troubled by certain comparisons being made in the media. The Hunger Games (no I haven’t seen it or read the book) is a new film franchise; obviously comparisons will be made, they always are – it’s sort of like this, or it’s this movie crossed with that other one. Fair enough, it seems to be how we decide if something will interest us, or is a shorthand way of getting a grasp on that. But The Hunger Games is being compared to two other franchises which bear no relation to it whatsoever, Twilight and Harry Potter – why? As far as I can tell to get people to read the article and to stir up hype that doesn’t exist. The three series may have started out as books for younger readers and may all belong to the all-encompassing speculative fiction genre, but they are vastly different properties that gain nothing in the comparison. Let’s just forget all that and judge each one on its own merits. And please, please let’s wait till we’ve seen them before we make that judgement; beating on something because it seems the cool thing to do, is not cool.
Back to the autumn, dreams shared are worth more than lost fancies. Fire your imaginations!
It’s early yet and my first attempt met with an unexpected setback. I thought I’d typed a story up but it turns out I hadn’t; so task one is to do so. That’s The Truth of Dragons, the first piece I completed as a married man and there are a few places I’m thinking of sending it to; watch this space. The second, ongoing, attempt met with a bit more luck. The Tale of Five-Fingered Jack (working title) which I started on New Year’s Day finally has a structure and is over half written. No idea what to do with that when it’s finished though. The idea was it would be a one-man show and told to a theatre audience, whether that’s a practical idea or not I don’t know but I know it can be done.
In fact, I think most first-person narratives can be mounted as live performances, and many have. I’ll never forget seeing John Astin reciting Poe’s Tell-tale Heart on an episode of Good News Week; I was putty in his hands. The trick is the language and the gift of the teller; which goes back to my idea that it’s genetic – we love stories, they’re our oldest tradition.
While I’m here, on a totally different topic, I’ve been troubled by certain comparisons being made in the media. The Hunger Games (no I haven’t seen it or read the book) is a new film franchise; obviously comparisons will be made, they always are – it’s sort of like this, or it’s this movie crossed with that other one. Fair enough, it seems to be how we decide if something will interest us, or is a shorthand way of getting a grasp on that. But The Hunger Games is being compared to two other franchises which bear no relation to it whatsoever, Twilight and Harry Potter – why? As far as I can tell to get people to read the article and to stir up hype that doesn’t exist. The three series may have started out as books for younger readers and may all belong to the all-encompassing speculative fiction genre, but they are vastly different properties that gain nothing in the comparison. Let’s just forget all that and judge each one on its own merits. And please, please let’s wait till we’ve seen them before we make that judgement; beating on something because it seems the cool thing to do, is not cool.
Back to the autumn, dreams shared are worth more than lost fancies. Fire your imaginations!
Friday, 9 March 2012
The New Dystopia
I just read Craters, a short story by Kristine Kathryn Rusch and it's left me feeling very thoughtful. It's a near-future SF piece about a journalist going into a refugee camp in an age where everyone has microchips inside them for identification and the war on terror is in disturbing place. I'll try not to give any spoilers - to read it yourself go here http://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/craters/
While I'm not sure Rusch was deliberately writing a dystopia it certainly is one. I should probably explain what I mean by dystopia, it's not that common a term ironically enough. The best explanation is an example, the archetypal dystopia is George Orwell's 1984. Essentially they're opposite of utopias; where society has turned to some other thing, a controlled status quo. The core dystopias include Huxley's Brave New World, Vonnegut's Player Piano and Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451. These all show an imperfect world where free thought and action is restricted or forbidden by some means or another – and most people are happy about it, or think they are.
Rusch hasn't done what those stories do; Craters is not demonstrating the society or showing how the dystopia works. This is the frightening thing, the story is simply set in a world where the state has means of control; security is paramount over liberty and everyone lives according to these paradigms. In other words, it takes elements of today's world and extends them, quite logically and very plausibly.
I don't mean to suggest the world Rusch sets her story in has the drastic levels of control Orwell established. Rather it has simple things, things we already have and elevates them. James Cameron did the same thing in Dark Angel; even V for Vendetta treads some sort of middle ground between the two. We may not be going in the direction of nameless autocracies as some older dystopias suggested; but these near-future stories are as dystopian in spirit as ever even if they don't mean to be.
I'm not sure how well I'm explaining any of this – the ideas are still flying about in my head – but I guess what I'm getting at is that SF has shifted from drastic visions of potential realities to subtler extensions of current issues. And if that's the case we really need to think about how the world around us is going and if there's anything we can do about.
Tuesday, 31 January 2012
January Running Down
As we bid farewell to Janus for another year I figure it's time to consider the first month. The biggest highlight for me would have to be the Dresden Dolls' concert; it started with a far too short set by The Jane Austen Argument, those two are such beautiful souls and talented musicians. Then came the Bedroom Philosopher with his line of musical comedy and self-deprecating humour that tickled my fancy; but of course the Dolls themselves rocked out the house for a long time. Seeing them work together on stage, the level of communication and trust between them was as amazing as the music itself. And seeing Brian Viglione play drums is entertainment in itself.
In terms of my writing the year is off to a shaky start but it's still a start. The tale of Five-fingered Jack is developing in bursts and is the first completely new creation of 2012. Working on it has also confirmed my process involves some planning ahead and some improvising. More improvising around a set plan so I at least have a destination and some waypoints so I don't get lost.
With that in mind I've also started chapter outlines for novels; one was more practice than anything and probably won't be written, the other is for a novel I started years ago and long ago stalled. I also started writing descriptions of places as background work for the story. I might not use whole passages as written but having them gives me something to go off when using the places and helps me develop them in my head as well. The city of Esst, for instance, has gone from a hazy blob of streets with a port to a home of ruffian merchants, religious pariahs and a husband and wife who own an inn in a cave by docks at the base of a cliff in a secluded harbour off the Grey Seas.
The idea of reading 50 plays this year is also off to a rough start. Ibsen's Peer Gynt opened the account and led me into a strange tale of a man who'll be anything other than himself. The fantastic stories he invented or was involved in actually reminded me of Five-fingered Jack to some degree so there was that sense of synchronicity which often haunts me when my writing is going well.
Other than that I only managed two short works by Ferdinand Arrabal, a Spanish playwright who fits in to the post-Absurdist school if you believe in such things. Fascinating works; Guernica is an anti-war story but without the heavy-handed sentimentality or didacticism you might expect, and The Labyrinth is a metaphor, possibly, for life that denies easy interpretation and shows the absurdity of human existence quite clearly.
In other reading however I encountered Thomas Love Peacock for the first time. He was a friend of Percy Bysshe Shelley to give you the timing and wrote short satirical novels in a vaguely Gothic Romantic bent that lampoon the genre and German philosophy and society of the day all in the most charming an inoffensive way. The characters in Nightmare Abbey are hilarious send-ups of various stock types and social stereotypes. I mention this, partly to recommend Peacock, but also because of how I found him, which was on the internet looking for things for my e-reader.
While I do love physical books and the tangible experience of reading from them, I've found the e-reader a wonderful addition. It means I can read at times I wouldn't normally, so I'm reading more; but it also means I'm finding things to read I wouldn't have otherwise. I haven't gone to the shop sites and bought e-books; I've gone to the sites which have free e-books because the texts are in public domain. The University of Adelaide has one which has provided me with numerous texts and from its lists of authors I've discovered names like Peacock as well. There are also books it's hard to find physical copies of these days and ones I probably would've put off interminably if I had to rely on paper and ink alone. So for anyone still in a flap about e-books not being as good as the real thing, well that may be, but you're missing out on a world of reading never before so open.
A final comment, while the technology of e-readers is a wonderful development, the casual games of Facebook are not. They're distracting and I really must be better at avoiding the temptation of 'just a quick game of Bubble Brew' ...
On to February my friends – and remember, it's the month of the dead according to ancient Romans, hence the name.
Monday, 9 January 2012
A Different Point Of View
On the second day of the year I went with Samara to collect our Christmas presents to each other, our Merlin passes. These are yearly passes to several attractions including Sydney Aquarium, Oceanworld, 
I'd never been up there before and it really is a gorgeous view and it was such a clear day too. I suddenly thought how cool it would've been to have been up there while they were filming the helicopter scene in The Matrix so we had a look to spot the roof Neo landed on. It looks a little different but we found it all right.
Afterwards we quite naturally went to Kinokuniya for a bit of a browse. On the $10 sale table a book caught my attention and I had to buy it. Terry Brooks' Sometimes the Magic Works is a look at his writing life with advice for unpublished authors and wannabe writers. It seemed to fit in well with what's been going on so far this year. It certainly inspired me somewhat given I read it in two days.
On the topic of planning your work, which I revelled in Stoppard saying was unnecessary, Brooks takes a very different view. He firstly admits that many famous writers do not outline before they write, they just jump in and see where they end up. Good for them he says, he also points out the number of rewrites and full redrafts these writers do; the amount of work is the same as when you plan your story in advance, it's just done in a different order.
He on the other hand much prefers to have a blueprint of where he wants to go. It's not a rigid outline but a reliable plan on which to fall back on. It contains a general idea of the plot, character arcs and ambitions, scenes and background information. There's a lot of worked involved, although to be honest it sounds rather fun if you like world building the way I do.
Reading Terry Brooks' case for outlining so soon after Tom Stoppard's case against it made me stop to think, what exactly is my process? It's actually possible that my dry period is partly due to my abandoning my process, or not really knowing what it is. This blog is as much me trying to work it out for myself as share any insights with anyone else.
I think I may be somewhere between the two poles. I love world building and dreaming up characters, but I also like to leap in with stories and see where I end up. The problem is the number of times I end up at a dead end or a ponderous crossing I can't see across. The very spot Brooks mentions as being due to a lack of organisation; if I had my blueprint I'd be able to ford the stream and keep going strong on the other side. In short more pieces would get finished because I wouldn't lose interest from not having any idea what to do next.
And, when I think about it, I have often done some planning and outlining, just not always in the beginning. The other thing this allows me is to write scenes out of order. The play I just finished consists of five short episodes, I planned the episodes then wrote them in whatever order I felt like. So again, it was the planning that got me through to a finished piece, even with months in between putting pen to paper – I always knew what needed to be written.
The real lesson from both these perspectives is to get into it. Find the process that works best for me, which I think I have, and apply myself to it.
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