It's Jules Verne's birthday so I thought I'd reminisce a little about my experiences with the works of this wonderful creative spirit.
I can't remember a time when his name didn't mean something to me, that's probably a slight exaggeration but not much. Hearing about travelling with Captain Nemo in the bookshop at the beginning of The Never-ending Story became synonymous to me with adventure and the excitement you could have reading. I heard there was the man who went around the world in 80 days, and another who went to the centre of the Earth. These were thrilling concepts to my young imagination.
At some point I must have seen some of the 1950s film of Journey to the Centre of the Earth and the dinosaurs and volcanic eruption stayed embedded in my imagination. (So it was very exciting when I found it on DVD in a garage sale).
Despite these early impressions and the resulting desire I had to read his books, I was in my late teens before I read one. Even then it was his lesser known and quite short Master of the World. It's a sequel, to wrap up how bad a choice it was for a place to start, but in some ways it possibly was actually better than diving straight into the sea for an epic voyage. It was short and had plenty of action right from the start. It also had fantastic inventions and a mad genius hellbent on world domination. Thrilling stuff.
Since then I've read a handful more of Verne's novels, most notably 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea and Around the World in 80 Days. The former is a worthy classic, it has scenes of suspense and drama, the action of fighting off cephalopods is breath-taking and Nemo is a brooding antihero ahead of his time. On the downside, Verne does go into some very nitty-gritty details about the technical aspects and the longitude and latitude etc. It is at times stifling and could interrupt the pleasure of some readers.
Around the World in 80 Days has fewer passages which really slow the action and romance. It's an action novel right through, but with a lovely whimsy to it, making it very accessible.
So with all that, what is the legacy of Verne for me? I think it's the sheer creative energy he had. He poured himself into writing his books, he gladly and openly tried to forge a new genre and was quite put out when HG Wells started getting credit for it too. His stories are fantastic yet nailed down with his reasoning, he could bring exciting adventure with serious drama, or send us on a whimsical romp. What he didn't seem to do was small. His stories are so vivid and full of adventure that even their echoes in our culture stirs the imagination. So happy birthday Jules Verne and thank you for the spark of dreams.
Keep dreaming!
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Monday, 8 February 2016
Thursday, 20 August 2015
The Art of Asking - or how I came to embrace my giant squid
I remember the first time I met Amanda Palmer. It was at a signing (for context here's a blog I wrote at the time), so it was over fairly quickly. All I said was thank you, and I smiled. She smiled back and looked me straight in the eye.
At the time I couldn't comprehend that she could be interested in me as much more than another face in a line of fans. The look in her eye said otherwise. Yes, she was in a daze, but in the moment she was searching me, looking for a connection, trying to see if I'd enjoyed the show - her Fraud Police were in force that night.
She talks about eye contact and communicating by making these connections with people in her book, The Art of Asking. She also talks about the Fraud Police which I'll get to in a minute. For her, these connections are easy to make, second nature really. She's been making them since she was fresh out of college earning money as a living statue (and yes, earning is the right word, it's not a job I envy).
For me, it was startling and unlooked for, almost unnatural. My learned behaviour is a reflexive wall to keep people out, or myself in I don't know which. So when she reached out in that moment ...
Her book also made me look back at my writing and theatre careers that weren't. I was trying to make theatre, but it all stopped. I stopped. I stopped asking, I stopped making connections. I started listening to the Fraud Police.
The Fraud Police are those voices we hear in our heads saying we're not really what we seem, people will soon realise we can't do what they think we can etc.
I did make one big connection some years ago however, when I met my now wife. And she believed in me when I didn't, and that was enough for me to start writing again. It's even been enough for me to start putting some writing out there - this blog for instance - and ask in a general way for people to read it. But there's still Fraud Police.
Symbolic of all this is the giant squid. Yes, I said that. There's a scene in The Scarlet Ring with a giant squid, and when I've told people of the book I often end up feeling apologetic about describing a book that has that scene. Which is ridiculous when I would never hold it against anyone else's book and even count it as a good reason to read it. But there it is. And my wife is aware of that, and bought me a kraken bottle opener. She even forced me to tell someone about it - there was context - and the person in question thought it was cool.
Amanda's book showed me that if I'm going to find my audience I have to ask the question - will you read my book? To ask the question I have to accept that no is an answer and so, more frighteningly, is yes. I have to connect with people, to be honest and open with them. Even if that simply means letting people read about the giant squid.
Amanda's honesty and openness have inspired me. I will release the kraken!
Keep dreaming!
At the time I couldn't comprehend that she could be interested in me as much more than another face in a line of fans. The look in her eye said otherwise. Yes, she was in a daze, but in the moment she was searching me, looking for a connection, trying to see if I'd enjoyed the show - her Fraud Police were in force that night.
She talks about eye contact and communicating by making these connections with people in her book, The Art of Asking. She also talks about the Fraud Police which I'll get to in a minute. For her, these connections are easy to make, second nature really. She's been making them since she was fresh out of college earning money as a living statue (and yes, earning is the right word, it's not a job I envy).
For me, it was startling and unlooked for, almost unnatural. My learned behaviour is a reflexive wall to keep people out, or myself in I don't know which. So when she reached out in that moment ...
Her book also made me look back at my writing and theatre careers that weren't. I was trying to make theatre, but it all stopped. I stopped. I stopped asking, I stopped making connections. I started listening to the Fraud Police.
The Fraud Police are those voices we hear in our heads saying we're not really what we seem, people will soon realise we can't do what they think we can etc.
I did make one big connection some years ago however, when I met my now wife. And she believed in me when I didn't, and that was enough for me to start writing again. It's even been enough for me to start putting some writing out there - this blog for instance - and ask in a general way for people to read it. But there's still Fraud Police.
Symbolic of all this is the giant squid. Yes, I said that. There's a scene in The Scarlet Ring with a giant squid, and when I've told people of the book I often end up feeling apologetic about describing a book that has that scene. Which is ridiculous when I would never hold it against anyone else's book and even count it as a good reason to read it. But there it is. And my wife is aware of that, and bought me a kraken bottle opener. She even forced me to tell someone about it - there was context - and the person in question thought it was cool.
Amanda's book showed me that if I'm going to find my audience I have to ask the question - will you read my book? To ask the question I have to accept that no is an answer and so, more frighteningly, is yes. I have to connect with people, to be honest and open with them. Even if that simply means letting people read about the giant squid.
Amanda's honesty and openness have inspired me. I will release the kraken!
Keep dreaming!
Monday, 13 July 2015
Shiny Aliens, Atlanteans and Serendipitous Exiles from Space
Most of my reading lately has been taken up with George RR Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire as I try to catch up with the TV series and avoid spoilers (I'm into A Dance of Dragons), but a couple of events recently saw me in need of my e-reader as opposed to thick epic paperbacks. As a result I read two short stories from old pulps.
One was pretty dreadful if vaguely amusing. It was Hal K Wells' Cavern of the Shining Ones which appeared in Astounding back in 1932. The Shining Ones turn out to be a highly advanced alien race which came to Earth 10,000 years ago and went to war with the Atlanteans. They destroyed Atlantis but not before the Atlanteans had made the planet uninhabitable for them for 10,000 years. They went into suspended animation except for a small number who fled home so someone could come back one day and wake up the rest.
It has some moments of suspense early on, not highly effective but they're there. It also has a quite blood-thirsty battle, but it doesn't really fire and the plot is pretty weak.
The other story was more interesting; Judith Merril's Exile from Space. It was published in 1956 in Universe as a 'short novel' but I'm not sure it would even qualify as a novella these days. Regardless it was a well told story of the 'other' with some nice satire and social commentary. The exile of the title is the main character, a woman who comes to Earth for unknown reasons, sent by unknown others she just refers to as 'them'.
Much of the plot is taken up with rather mundane human experiences, most prominently a romance, but the exile's approach and insights are handled really well and make the piece a fun read. Merril also keeps a good level of intrigue as to who the woman is and neatly plants the suggestion that the whole story is true with some direct from the author narration.
I admit I also found reading this one slightly serendipitous as the observational style in some of the early passages reminded me of my City Sketches (shameless plug and link to the published copy of Sketch No 1 here). I find serendipity encouraging, so the City Sketches idea is certainly continuing. Eventually I'm hoping to put out a collection of them, interspersed with some photos and maybe some longer stories. The beauty of them is they're so short they don't take away from my bigger projects, particularly Hierophants' Fall which reached another milestone recently so progress continues.
Meanwhile, don't trust rude enigmatic scientists who wear goggles - they're probably shiny alien slugs hellbent on conquest - and keep your eyes open as you go about life, you never know what or who you're really looking at.
Keep dreaming!
One was pretty dreadful if vaguely amusing. It was Hal K Wells' Cavern of the Shining Ones which appeared in Astounding back in 1932. The Shining Ones turn out to be a highly advanced alien race which came to Earth 10,000 years ago and went to war with the Atlanteans. They destroyed Atlantis but not before the Atlanteans had made the planet uninhabitable for them for 10,000 years. They went into suspended animation except for a small number who fled home so someone could come back one day and wake up the rest.
It has some moments of suspense early on, not highly effective but they're there. It also has a quite blood-thirsty battle, but it doesn't really fire and the plot is pretty weak.
The other story was more interesting; Judith Merril's Exile from Space. It was published in 1956 in Universe as a 'short novel' but I'm not sure it would even qualify as a novella these days. Regardless it was a well told story of the 'other' with some nice satire and social commentary. The exile of the title is the main character, a woman who comes to Earth for unknown reasons, sent by unknown others she just refers to as 'them'.
Much of the plot is taken up with rather mundane human experiences, most prominently a romance, but the exile's approach and insights are handled really well and make the piece a fun read. Merril also keeps a good level of intrigue as to who the woman is and neatly plants the suggestion that the whole story is true with some direct from the author narration.
I admit I also found reading this one slightly serendipitous as the observational style in some of the early passages reminded me of my City Sketches (shameless plug and link to the published copy of Sketch No 1 here). I find serendipity encouraging, so the City Sketches idea is certainly continuing. Eventually I'm hoping to put out a collection of them, interspersed with some photos and maybe some longer stories. The beauty of them is they're so short they don't take away from my bigger projects, particularly Hierophants' Fall which reached another milestone recently so progress continues.
Meanwhile, don't trust rude enigmatic scientists who wear goggles - they're probably shiny alien slugs hellbent on conquest - and keep your eyes open as you go about life, you never know what or who you're really looking at.
Keep dreaming!
Wednesday, 1 July 2015
Catching Up
So it's been half a year since I wrote anything in here. That's deplorable. Anyway, it also leaves a lot of things uncovered. I don't think I'll ever be able to fully catch up in any detail so I'll try to put some things in here.
In terms of my writing the past six months have been pretty good. I've had two very short works published by Grouch - an online literary journal that aims to promote new writing/writers. The first actually came out in December last year, and I'd written it a few years before that. The second came out last week. The newer piece is very different for me, it's real life for one thing. It can be found here.
I've also been working slowly but surely on Hierophants' Fall, but in the meantime I entered Chapter One Blitz through Freshly Squeezed. This was a sort of competition where the first chapter of a YA novel was submitted and read by teens, peers and professionals. All of whom then gave feedback - so winning was a bonus, not one I got but I won through the feedback.
I submitted part of the first chapter of The Scarlet Ring, although I left the prologue out which I had to take into account when I got some of the feedback about how books open. Overall the feedback was positive and the criticism all agreed so it gave me a clear direction to go in. So that was a great experience and one that deserved a blog entry or two on its own.
There's been a lot of reading I haven't mentioned as well. Too much for this blog but I will mention two books: Last House Burning by Katy Scott and Unwanted by Amanda Holohan. Disclaimer - Katy and Amanda are friends and former co-workers. Amanda was a fellow subeditor and Katy was one of the writers who happily didn't need much work done subediting wise.
Amanda was already a published author when I met her; her first book was The King's Fool, which she nicely gave me a copy of when she left work. It's a great fantasy novel with some amazing characters and a vivid world. The sad part is, it's book one of a trilogy and books two and three are not published, so I remain hanging on that one.
Unwanted similarly left me hanging but thankfully in this case the publisher is running with the series. It's a dystopia with a teenage heroine, which may sound familiar to fans of the Hunger Games and Divergent series, but it's very much its own world and story so don't get any silly notions of bandwagons or anything like that. For one thing, there's a rich vein of alien invasion in it as well. The world is very detailed and has a strong mythology and history, which runs counter to truth so the world of our heroine is turned on its head.
Katy is self-published, for which she has my strong admiration. Last House Burning is also YA but in the urban fantasy genre. It's actually a mix of comedy and drama with some delicious satire. It has an Australian setting which I loved, and most of the action takes place in a fictional suburb of the Blue Mountains - where I grew up, so it had a nice homey feel for me. Not that I've met one of the Sentenced, St Peter or any employees of the devil. It's a fun ride with characters you can genuinely feel for and invest in. You can buy it here.
Hope to hear more on these pages more often!
Keep dreaming!
In terms of my writing the past six months have been pretty good. I've had two very short works published by Grouch - an online literary journal that aims to promote new writing/writers. The first actually came out in December last year, and I'd written it a few years before that. The second came out last week. The newer piece is very different for me, it's real life for one thing. It can be found here.
I've also been working slowly but surely on Hierophants' Fall, but in the meantime I entered Chapter One Blitz through Freshly Squeezed. This was a sort of competition where the first chapter of a YA novel was submitted and read by teens, peers and professionals. All of whom then gave feedback - so winning was a bonus, not one I got but I won through the feedback.
I submitted part of the first chapter of The Scarlet Ring, although I left the prologue out which I had to take into account when I got some of the feedback about how books open. Overall the feedback was positive and the criticism all agreed so it gave me a clear direction to go in. So that was a great experience and one that deserved a blog entry or two on its own.
There's been a lot of reading I haven't mentioned as well. Too much for this blog but I will mention two books: Last House Burning by Katy Scott and Unwanted by Amanda Holohan. Disclaimer - Katy and Amanda are friends and former co-workers. Amanda was a fellow subeditor and Katy was one of the writers who happily didn't need much work done subediting wise.
Amanda was already a published author when I met her; her first book was The King's Fool, which she nicely gave me a copy of when she left work. It's a great fantasy novel with some amazing characters and a vivid world. The sad part is, it's book one of a trilogy and books two and three are not published, so I remain hanging on that one.
Unwanted similarly left me hanging but thankfully in this case the publisher is running with the series. It's a dystopia with a teenage heroine, which may sound familiar to fans of the Hunger Games and Divergent series, but it's very much its own world and story so don't get any silly notions of bandwagons or anything like that. For one thing, there's a rich vein of alien invasion in it as well. The world is very detailed and has a strong mythology and history, which runs counter to truth so the world of our heroine is turned on its head.
Katy is self-published, for which she has my strong admiration. Last House Burning is also YA but in the urban fantasy genre. It's actually a mix of comedy and drama with some delicious satire. It has an Australian setting which I loved, and most of the action takes place in a fictional suburb of the Blue Mountains - where I grew up, so it had a nice homey feel for me. Not that I've met one of the Sentenced, St Peter or any employees of the devil. It's a fun ride with characters you can genuinely feel for and invest in. You can buy it here.
Hope to hear more on these pages more often!
Keep dreaming!
Thursday, 23 October 2014
A Fresh Start
This year has been a complicated one. There have been the extreme joys of watching my son in his first year of life, the awe of each new discovery he makes and the ongoing marvel that he is indeed my son and I am a father. Not sure I'll ever get used to that bit but it is fantastic.
Then there's been the downsides. The biggest being the loss of my father-in-law to cancer. He battled the disease for over a year and for much longer than was initially predicted. He was a good man and it was good to see him with my son, they got on so well and shared many laughs. I won't say any more about that here, but he is sorely missed in this house.
On top of that I was made redundant from a job I'd had for almost a decade. I didn't love the job but losing it so suddenly shook me up and my sense of purpose. As it happened the timing was very good, I was able to be there for my wife when her mother was sick and she had to look after her father. I also got to see more of my son as he learnt to crawl and stand and so much more.
And now it seems that I have two options. I could find another job I don't love just to make an income, or I could have a go at creating my own niche and living my creative dreams. I will still need a job of some description, at least initially, but I think it's important I take this opportunity to live my life my way.
Already I've written a short story which I submitted to an anthology which is coming out in December. I won't know if my story will be included for another month I imagine but it was good to write and finish something. As it happens it was a prequel for one of the minor characters in The Scarlet Ring, the sequel of which I'll be having another go at in NaNoWriMo.
So there's writing going on; I'm going to look into recording audiobooks to release on Bandcamp; and I'll offer my copy editing services to people who have written manuscripts and plays.
A bleak year is turning around. A pitfall is becoming an opening to a new opportunity and Stoppard's Player from Ros & Guil are Dead was distinctly correct, every exit is an entrance some place else. Screw plan B, grab your chances and ...
Keep dreaming!
Then there's been the downsides. The biggest being the loss of my father-in-law to cancer. He battled the disease for over a year and for much longer than was initially predicted. He was a good man and it was good to see him with my son, they got on so well and shared many laughs. I won't say any more about that here, but he is sorely missed in this house.
On top of that I was made redundant from a job I'd had for almost a decade. I didn't love the job but losing it so suddenly shook me up and my sense of purpose. As it happened the timing was very good, I was able to be there for my wife when her mother was sick and she had to look after her father. I also got to see more of my son as he learnt to crawl and stand and so much more.
And now it seems that I have two options. I could find another job I don't love just to make an income, or I could have a go at creating my own niche and living my creative dreams. I will still need a job of some description, at least initially, but I think it's important I take this opportunity to live my life my way.
Already I've written a short story which I submitted to an anthology which is coming out in December. I won't know if my story will be included for another month I imagine but it was good to write and finish something. As it happens it was a prequel for one of the minor characters in The Scarlet Ring, the sequel of which I'll be having another go at in NaNoWriMo.
So there's writing going on; I'm going to look into recording audiobooks to release on Bandcamp; and I'll offer my copy editing services to people who have written manuscripts and plays.
A bleak year is turning around. A pitfall is becoming an opening to a new opportunity and Stoppard's Player from Ros & Guil are Dead was distinctly correct, every exit is an entrance some place else. Screw plan B, grab your chances and ...
Keep dreaming!
Tuesday, 22 July 2014
The Rest of Astounding Stories May 1931
Following Dark Moon which I discussed earlier, comes the short story When Caverns Yawned by SP Meek. It’s one of his Doctor Bird and Operative Carnes stories, the first I’ve encountered, and I have to say it was terrible. The villain was a one-dimensional evil genius and he has an infallible plan for world domination – or giving America over to Soviet Russia at least. Doctor Bird matches wits with this scheme and of course comes up with a way to stop it.
The story is bland, the characters cardboard cut-outs and the writing gets lost in useless explanations of scientific theories. Apparently he was a popular contributor to the SF pulps in the early ’30s but as tastes turned to more literarily acceptable fare he gave up science fiction and wrote children’s stories.
Then came part two of a four-part novel by Ray Cummings, The Exile of Time. I’ll go back, read the other parts, then get back to you.
Next came Hal K Wells’ When the Moon Turned Green, which was about a scientist who’d been in his underground lab for three days working on a new explosive based on radium. He comes out to test a small charge of it and finds the moon is green and every living thing is in a sort of living death, totally immobile but not dead.
Then he’s attacked by a monstrous spider with a half-human face. Story short, aliens from Alpha Centauri were bathing the moon in a green glow that was sapping the life from everything on Earth to make them mindless so they can be used to make hybrids, like the monstrous spider, and so rule the world.
Thankfully for us, the scientist has discovered this powerful explosive and his friend has invented a radio-seeking missile that’s already locked on to the space ship. His friend (and his friend’s daughter who is his fiancée) escaped the “Green sickness” because they were interrogated by the Centaurians on Earth who used a crystal thing to bring them out of it. The alien base was of course on his property. Talk about a string of lucky coincidences.
Plot aside, it’s a fun story with some nice monsters and aliens. Okay, so I’m a sucker for pulp tropes, so sue me.
Finally there was The Death-Cloud by Nat Schachner and Arthur L Zagat. This is a war story set in The Last War, where almost the entire planet has fallen under the Red Flag except for America, of course. The action takes place before the Big Push of ’92 (1992), and sees a secret agent infiltrate a mysterious enemy location.
It’s a fairly exciting cross-genre story but not all that gripping. The best part for me was the war was not being fought on land but in airships and with submarines. Interestingly, as with When the Moon Turned Green and When Caverns Yawned, the principal weapon and scientific concept was a ray gun. There seemed to be a lot of belief in the powers of rays yet to be discovered at the time. Not sure I’m sorry it didn’t turn out to be true though.
Keep dreaming!
The story is bland, the characters cardboard cut-outs and the writing gets lost in useless explanations of scientific theories. Apparently he was a popular contributor to the SF pulps in the early ’30s but as tastes turned to more literarily acceptable fare he gave up science fiction and wrote children’s stories.
Then came part two of a four-part novel by Ray Cummings, The Exile of Time. I’ll go back, read the other parts, then get back to you.
Next came Hal K Wells’ When the Moon Turned Green, which was about a scientist who’d been in his underground lab for three days working on a new explosive based on radium. He comes out to test a small charge of it and finds the moon is green and every living thing is in a sort of living death, totally immobile but not dead.
Then he’s attacked by a monstrous spider with a half-human face. Story short, aliens from Alpha Centauri were bathing the moon in a green glow that was sapping the life from everything on Earth to make them mindless so they can be used to make hybrids, like the monstrous spider, and so rule the world.
Thankfully for us, the scientist has discovered this powerful explosive and his friend has invented a radio-seeking missile that’s already locked on to the space ship. His friend (and his friend’s daughter who is his fiancée) escaped the “Green sickness” because they were interrogated by the Centaurians on Earth who used a crystal thing to bring them out of it. The alien base was of course on his property. Talk about a string of lucky coincidences.
Plot aside, it’s a fun story with some nice monsters and aliens. Okay, so I’m a sucker for pulp tropes, so sue me.
Finally there was The Death-Cloud by Nat Schachner and Arthur L Zagat. This is a war story set in The Last War, where almost the entire planet has fallen under the Red Flag except for America, of course. The action takes place before the Big Push of ’92 (1992), and sees a secret agent infiltrate a mysterious enemy location.
It’s a fairly exciting cross-genre story but not all that gripping. The best part for me was the war was not being fought on land but in airships and with submarines. Interestingly, as with When the Moon Turned Green and When Caverns Yawned, the principal weapon and scientific concept was a ray gun. There seemed to be a lot of belief in the powers of rays yet to be discovered at the time. Not sure I’m sorry it didn’t turn out to be true though.
Keep dreaming!
Friday, 16 August 2013
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead
1996. Year 11. My memory of that year is that it was always overcast. When I try to think of sunlight all I remember is the girl I had a huge crush on at the time, her face was never in shadow. It was the year my chronic fatigue was at its worst and life was all a bit hard and confusing.
It was also a transformative year. I wrote most of our drama class’s recreation of the Eureka Stockade, I studied Hamlet and I discovered Tom Stoppard’s Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead. Suddenly, amidst the bleak mists of illness teenage and addlement I knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to write plays.
I don’t think I can overestimate the impact Ros & Guil had on me at the time. It was hilarious and demonstrated a high level of wit, but it also had these speeches of philosophical quandaries. Quite simply it was breathtaking and life-changing.
But I never saw it performed – live anyway and the film is a different beast, still brilliant but different, and well, it’s a film so it can’t be the same; Ros & Guil is about characters in the wings of a play, it’s quintessentially theatre. So when my good friend and fellow raving loon Ash Walker offered me a ticket to the opening night of the new STC production … insert mad acceptance here.
I had one reservation – I’ve never been a Tim Minchin fan and he was going to be Rosencrantz. But, I was willing to chance it. And it’s a good thing I did. The production is quite simply fantastic. Tim played a somewhat dimmer Rosencrantz than I expected but he was nonetheless fitted and fully the character for that. The repartee between him and Toby Schmitz was flawless and the pair of them had an energy that carried the play along to each terrifying moment of nothing that inevitably followed every chaotic moment of action.
The rest of the cast was equally strong, particularly the players who had the right amount of knockabout comedy and the Shakespearean characters were the stereotypical ‘Shakespearean’ and brilliantly overdone which juxtaposed nicely with the ‘reality’ of Ros and Guil’s situation.
There’s much more sunlight in my life these days and the girl’s face has been replaced by my beautiful wife’s, but Stoppard’s influence remains. Whatever I end up achieving as a writer and in whatever field it is, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead will always be one of the underlying influences and its discovery will always be remembered by me as a major turning point in my life.
I’m now remembering all the stuff I’ve read of Stoppard saying art isn’t important and his plays just entertainment, nothing more. Well Sir Tom, you were wrong on that one, I know that much and right now the wind is southerly.
Keep dreaming.
It was also a transformative year. I wrote most of our drama class’s recreation of the Eureka Stockade, I studied Hamlet and I discovered Tom Stoppard’s Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead. Suddenly, amidst the bleak mists of illness teenage and addlement I knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to write plays.
I don’t think I can overestimate the impact Ros & Guil had on me at the time. It was hilarious and demonstrated a high level of wit, but it also had these speeches of philosophical quandaries. Quite simply it was breathtaking and life-changing.
But I never saw it performed – live anyway and the film is a different beast, still brilliant but different, and well, it’s a film so it can’t be the same; Ros & Guil is about characters in the wings of a play, it’s quintessentially theatre. So when my good friend and fellow raving loon Ash Walker offered me a ticket to the opening night of the new STC production … insert mad acceptance here.
I had one reservation – I’ve never been a Tim Minchin fan and he was going to be Rosencrantz. But, I was willing to chance it. And it’s a good thing I did. The production is quite simply fantastic. Tim played a somewhat dimmer Rosencrantz than I expected but he was nonetheless fitted and fully the character for that. The repartee between him and Toby Schmitz was flawless and the pair of them had an energy that carried the play along to each terrifying moment of nothing that inevitably followed every chaotic moment of action.
The rest of the cast was equally strong, particularly the players who had the right amount of knockabout comedy and the Shakespearean characters were the stereotypical ‘Shakespearean’ and brilliantly overdone which juxtaposed nicely with the ‘reality’ of Ros and Guil’s situation.
There’s much more sunlight in my life these days and the girl’s face has been replaced by my beautiful wife’s, but Stoppard’s influence remains. Whatever I end up achieving as a writer and in whatever field it is, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead will always be one of the underlying influences and its discovery will always be remembered by me as a major turning point in my life.
I’m now remembering all the stuff I’ve read of Stoppard saying art isn’t important and his plays just entertainment, nothing more. Well Sir Tom, you were wrong on that one, I know that much and right now the wind is southerly.
Keep dreaming.
Wednesday, 19 June 2013
I Write Like
I don't know how the site does the analysis but if you insert text you've written into it, it analyses it somehow and tells you what famous writer you write like. So I put the first page of The Scarlet Ring in and was pretty chuffed with the result. Here's hoping I get the success he's had.
Keep dreaming!
Keep dreaming!
Sunday, 26 May 2013
Author Profile - Edgar Allan Poe
I’ve decided to start a series of author profiles. Not just any authors of course, but ones who have influenced me – positively – or that I’m interested in, intrigued by or who fit in the nebulous conglomerate of sub-genres I’m most ‘in’ to. So who better to start with than Edgar Allan Poe who is all those things?
It’s worth noting that in more recent times he would probably have been known as Allan-Poe as he adopted Allan into his name from his foster father who was a more positive role model than his biological one. So from the get-go Edgar had emotional damage and an alcoholic father. The course for this tormented genius was pretty much set from there.
I won’t get into his biography that can be found out easily enough if you’re interested. What I do want to talk about is his broad scope of influence. Some call him the father of modern horror, which is debatable but certainly he is best known for his macabre works. He’s also possibly the father of modern crime fiction, with his tales of ‘ratiocination’ as he called them seeing Auguste Dupin solving crimes through logical deduction years before Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes.
Moreover, aside from writing short stories and poems, Poe was talented editor and essayist. He had a passion for the facts and was sometimes in trouble for presenting them too harshly in the eyes of people involved. For instance, his logical mind saw him demonstrate Maelzel's Chess Player, which was supposedly a machine that could play chess, had a man hidden inside - this ruse had fooled thousands.
These aspects of his career have a great bearing on his fiction as well. His stories are filled with facts, at least as known to him at the time, which influence the narrative. Take Descent into a Maelstrom, which is about a ship caught in a giant whirlpool; alongside his evocative prose the tale details a means of escape then believed to be scientifically accurate. It’s since been debunked so if you’re in a maelstrom, don’t try it, but Poe couldn’t have known that.
His first major success, MS Found in a Bottle, also discusses a theory then believed to be true – that the South Pole would be ocean not land, again clearly no longer believed – all while dealing with a man alone on a ghost ship. And the level of detail in The Unparalleled Adventures of One Hans Pfaall are considerable. That story also bears the marks of the other overlooked aspect of Poe’s writing – his humour.
There’s no humour or indeed relief in his most macabre tales, his goal is to chill the reader and he typically succeeds. But in works like The Unparalleled Adventure of One Hans Pfaall or The Man Who Was Used Up, his humour is right at the fore, if somewhat droll. And of course what is now sometimes read as the story The Balloon Hoax was a hoax he wrote in one of his newspapers at the time.
These things went into his work, and his work went into the world’s consciousness and infused themselves into its literature. He’s influenced numerous writers across a range of fields and continues to do so today. So, gentle reader, I implore you, read more Poe.
Keep dreaming.
It’s worth noting that in more recent times he would probably have been known as Allan-Poe as he adopted Allan into his name from his foster father who was a more positive role model than his biological one. So from the get-go Edgar had emotional damage and an alcoholic father. The course for this tormented genius was pretty much set from there.
I won’t get into his biography that can be found out easily enough if you’re interested. What I do want to talk about is his broad scope of influence. Some call him the father of modern horror, which is debatable but certainly he is best known for his macabre works. He’s also possibly the father of modern crime fiction, with his tales of ‘ratiocination’ as he called them seeing Auguste Dupin solving crimes through logical deduction years before Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes.
Moreover, aside from writing short stories and poems, Poe was talented editor and essayist. He had a passion for the facts and was sometimes in trouble for presenting them too harshly in the eyes of people involved. For instance, his logical mind saw him demonstrate Maelzel's Chess Player, which was supposedly a machine that could play chess, had a man hidden inside - this ruse had fooled thousands.
These aspects of his career have a great bearing on his fiction as well. His stories are filled with facts, at least as known to him at the time, which influence the narrative. Take Descent into a Maelstrom, which is about a ship caught in a giant whirlpool; alongside his evocative prose the tale details a means of escape then believed to be scientifically accurate. It’s since been debunked so if you’re in a maelstrom, don’t try it, but Poe couldn’t have known that.
His first major success, MS Found in a Bottle, also discusses a theory then believed to be true – that the South Pole would be ocean not land, again clearly no longer believed – all while dealing with a man alone on a ghost ship. And the level of detail in The Unparalleled Adventures of One Hans Pfaall are considerable. That story also bears the marks of the other overlooked aspect of Poe’s writing – his humour.
There’s no humour or indeed relief in his most macabre tales, his goal is to chill the reader and he typically succeeds. But in works like The Unparalleled Adventure of One Hans Pfaall or The Man Who Was Used Up, his humour is right at the fore, if somewhat droll. And of course what is now sometimes read as the story The Balloon Hoax was a hoax he wrote in one of his newspapers at the time.
These things went into his work, and his work went into the world’s consciousness and infused themselves into its literature. He’s influenced numerous writers across a range of fields and continues to do so today. So, gentle reader, I implore you, read more Poe.
Keep dreaming.
Monday, 8 April 2013
The Next Step
As mentioned on my Facebook page, I recently finished the first draft of The Silver Ring. This is a completely unprecedented step for me. I’ve finished short plays, even fairly long plays, and I’ve finished short stories – but a novel is a whole different scenario. I have no methods for revising something this long. Which I admit is somewhat daunting, but also pretty exciting.
I know the story has some problems in terms of plotting. People are in one place when they don’t actually get there for several days. That came about because of the way I wrote the strands separately without detailed planning, so there’s a lesson for book two, keep a diary for every character so I know how many days they have to do things. Which is how I’m going to fix it; I’ll do a day-by-day account of events – and finally come up with fixed times for how long it takes to travel from one place to another. All of which probably should’ve been done before writing the first draft but yar, lesson learnt.
Once I figure that out I can shuffle bits around again and make any adjustments necessary. I already think one character will have to stay where she is and have something happen to her there because there’s no feasible way of her reaching the place where it happens at the moment in time. Which is annoying in a way, although just thinking about it as I write this I see a possibility. That could work …
Anyway, once the continuity is sorted I guess it’s just a matter of going over it with a fine-tooth comb, correcting the errors, tightening the language and losing the dross. Then comes the scariest step – letting someone read it.
Keep dreaming!
I know the story has some problems in terms of plotting. People are in one place when they don’t actually get there for several days. That came about because of the way I wrote the strands separately without detailed planning, so there’s a lesson for book two, keep a diary for every character so I know how many days they have to do things. Which is how I’m going to fix it; I’ll do a day-by-day account of events – and finally come up with fixed times for how long it takes to travel from one place to another. All of which probably should’ve been done before writing the first draft but yar, lesson learnt.
Once I figure that out I can shuffle bits around again and make any adjustments necessary. I already think one character will have to stay where she is and have something happen to her there because there’s no feasible way of her reaching the place where it happens at the moment in time. Which is annoying in a way, although just thinking about it as I write this I see a possibility. That could work …
Anyway, once the continuity is sorted I guess it’s just a matter of going over it with a fine-tooth comb, correcting the errors, tightening the language and losing the dross. Then comes the scariest step – letting someone read it.
Keep dreaming!
Tuesday, 25 December 2012
Joseph's Story
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.
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.
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.
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, 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.
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!
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)