The Word Cloud

I think all writers have a natural flow.  A style of writing that comes naturally to them.  But what if you have a story in your head which requires you to write in a style that doesn’t come naturally ie, a romance writer having a really gruesome crime story running around in their head? 

 

Do you think it is best that ‘we’ write stories that suite our writing style, or, if we have a good story to tell that doesn’t suite our writing flow, develop our writing to fit the tale we are telling?

 

I wonder if this is related to my Image v. Personality blog in some way?  That the ‘image’ is our story, and the ‘personality’ is our style?

 

Or, do you think a good writer can turn their hand to writing any story, no matter what it is about?

 

It’s got my brain working and wonder what other Clouders think?

 

Minxie !???  Confused [as usual]...

Certain dates have always held major significance for me. It's as though all sorts of events get caught up by them - like a piece of celestial fly paper. And one of those dates is 28 April. It's the birthday of a couple of people I've worked with over the years and who've had a big impact on me. And when he was alive, it was the birthday of a very special member of my husband's family.

Back in February, I decided that 28 April was a fitting birthday for the main male character (who's a publisher) of my current novel. I like assigning birthdays to my characters - it helps me to get a good sense of them. And 28 April seemed to suit this particular character perfectly. A couple of days after choosing that date, I was sent a big envelope which contained an invitation to the sort of party I would normally only dream of attending. Each year, Hatchards bookshop in London hosts a party for the authors whose books have sold particularly well for them during the past year. Sales of my latest book, Red Sky at Night, had made me one of their authors of the year. My agent was almost speechless with excitement when I told her. And the date of the party? What else but 28 April. 

My work has been going really well recently. On a personal level, it's been very sad watching my mother-in-law's health deteriorate dramatically. She was diagnosed with inoperable cancer last October and the doctors gave her between two weeks and two months. She was still with us at Christmas, pulling crackers despite being so weak that she nearly fell out of bed in the process. She was still here in January, to celebrate two family birthdays. She was still here in February, when I told her about the Hatchards party. She was so excited that she questioned me closely. What was I going to wear? How would I get there? Was my husband invited as well? (No.) She referred to it several more times. A month ago, by which time her voice was barely above a whisper and she didn't have the strength to lift a cup of tea without assistance, she rang me to ask if I'd like to borrow her best Bruno Magli shoes for the big night. Unfortunately, I couldn't take her up on her kind offer as she's a size 3 and I'm a size 7. It was a brief call and I knew it had exhausted her. Apparently she'd wanted to ring me at 6 that morning, as soon as she woke up, but she'd been persuaded to wait until a more civilized time. 

When I got back from the Festival of Writing at York, she could barely talk any more but she squeezed my hand when I told her how much I'd enjoyed myself. When we were alone, I told her that I'd let her know how the Hatchards party went, wherever she was when it happened. We'd already discussed her imminent arrival in heaven. 

We saw her on Sunday. She looked terrible and I felt that her essential self was no longer present. We got a call on Monday night to say she might not last the night. But she did. We visited her on Tuesday afternoon. She looked like a worn out shell that someone had discarded, but she was still alive. Yesterday morning was 28 April. And yesterday morning we got a call to say that she'd died. 

Although we'd been expecting it - and, in some ways, hoping for it because she was suffering so much and wasn't going to improve - it was still a shock. But I knew I had to go to the Hatchards party. I knew she'd be furious with me if I didn't. In a way, I was going for her.

When I got there last night, I was terribly nervous. I gave myself a pep talk and walked through the doors. Someone walked in with me, and I turned to see who it was. She looked so familiar that I said 'Oh, hallo!' She looked a bit startled but said hallo back. And then I realized that I didn't know her. Not in person. I recognized her face because I'd seen her in a documentary last year and had used her as a starting point for one of the central characters in my novel. Arriving with her reassured me that the evening would go well. And it did.

There were an awful lot of famous faces there. PD James. Clive James. Michael Frayn and Claire Tomalin. AN Wilson. Beryl Bainbridge. Helen Mirren. Penny Vincenzi. William Boyd. Antonia Fraser. John Simpson. Nicky Haslam. Wherever I turned, I saw someone I recognized. I didn't dare approach any of them because they were all chatting furiously to one another. But I also saw Alan Whicker, sitting on a chair. I've always loved his documentaries so I decided I'd tell him so. He got to his feet, shook my hand and was utterly charming. He asked me my name, and when I told him he nodded and said 'Oh yes', as though it meant something to him. I knew it didn't but I was captivated by his immense charm and courtesy. 

I shall enjoy telling my mother-in-law all about it when I feel she's ready to hear it. And I must make sure I remember to tell her about Alan Whicker. I know it will make her laugh. 
 

So, when the bounty on my back becomes a deadweight, I almost wish that I was apathetic. Wander on without worry. I fathom faith but I cannot find it. I would blindly follow the moon if it would petrude from behind the clouds. Dare anyone offer a hand, when I carry the weight of everyone I have ever loved in my pocket? I feel as though I am confessing trouble into the wind, and for a second it soothes me, and seconds later it is beyond an echo away. The shitstorm harbours it's intensity for when I think I am walking straight. Wishes don't exist and neither does my backbone...I am late. I hear no voices, but I hear a thousand. Oh, a paradox. I'm on my own, but I'm not alone. Another. Look at me, though -- I am smiling against it; knowing I'll wake up soon in my bed, breathing, right?

I’m a new arrival to your site, but I couldn’t help noticing a heated debate about multiple POVs and other assorted nonsense. The first thing you need to ask yourself is: do we really need to hear the opinions of each and every one of your characters? What are you writing here? A book, or the minutes of your local PTA meeting? Sure, everybody is entitled to their point of view (even your fictional creations) but chances are, some of them are going to be complete assholes and I won’t want to hear their point of view on anything.

I also noted some debate about an omniscient narrator. Now at the other end of this spectrum you’ve got your passive narrator.  I hate this character. This is a guy who’s  prepared to let life take him wherever it will. Passive = loser. Well, in my book anyway. So I can understand the appeal of some guru-type guy who knows everything that’s going on in everybody’s heads – but a cool idea can often make for a very boring story. Your guy should be up against something – I know, I know, I’ve already said I’m no fan of fancy literary theories, but there are exceptions – and a fellow who knows what everybody’s thinking isn’t the sort of guy I feel like cheering for. Why?  Because he’s always going to out-smart his opponents. After all, he knows exactly what they’re thinking at any given time.

‘Nuff said.

This as a short scene from a proposed TV drama that might-  or might not be - an episode of Dr Who.  (Dr Who would only be one thread of many story lines.  He often appears half way though an existing story and could be eliminated from the plot)

TV utilizes a variety of sources and genres for it’s dramas and a certain amount of genre bending occurs, This vampire story could start with a news item ‘VAMPYRE  SLAIN’ (or not, as may be)  The plot could be experiences of a journalist following up a story  (Viz Citizen Kane)  It occurred to me that the drama would be more effective if the vampyre is never seen - a subconscious fear - merely  shadows and suggestions.  It all takes place in real time and cinema - or video - verite.

This is  the proposed  scene.  A psychiatrist of the Viennese School is being interviewed  about his sessions with the vampyre. The interview takes place  at night in a hospital.  The moon is shining and a window is open. (It could be suggested that the hospital is a mental asylum. An inmate could be Dracula’s assistant - the fly eater)

The psychiatrist is pure caricature and the interviewer could be just a voice heard of screen.  The voice is optional. The Vampyre is now a ‘celeb ‘and his problems concern more his ‘celeb’ status than any other.  ie Max Clifford and a proposed interview with a Jeramy Paxman look-alike. But the psychiatrist is also injecting the vampyre with warm blood taken from other patients - suggesting a link between blood injection  and drug addiction. 

(Excuse my Dutch - it is the nearest I can get to German)

SHRINK   Ja, Ja, hey comt.  Avant.

VOICE     At  night?

SHRINK   Ja. hevening   (He indicates the window) I am seated - so.  (He                                indicates his desk),   There vass  sound -  ssss, like a Zephyr.  How     you say?

VOICE       The wind?

SHRINK   Ja  Ja just so.  The curtain - it moves - sssh-   I turn. He  Iss  there.                         (He indicates a line  from the window to his couch)

VOICE    What does he say?

SHRINK    Nix. Hey sprechen nill.  His arm - ah  - so. (He makes a gesture                                 rather like Mar lon Brando in the Godfather)

VOICE     Languid?

SHRINK   Precise,  He acknowledged me.  I rise.  (He rises ands clicks his feet                           and  bows)  Gooden Avant  Herr  Vampyre, .He is  comme  -  ah  - un Junker. He wears  cloak.  Maybe he come from the opera house?  Hah, hah!

VOICE       An aristocrat

SHRINK    He  haff, how you say - I throw zee  bon mot - yah - blue blood.                               Hah hah (there  is silence)  Hum hum. , ja ja. So!   But he is Count.                        (he clicks his heels once more)

VIOCE      What did he want?

SHRINK   (Sitting down  and producing a syringe filled with red liquid.) Ah,                          the elixir of life.  But first we talk. He says, I want the Doctorr.  take                      me to the Doctor

VOICE      Dr Who?

SHRINK    Ja.  Mais!  We talk in German.  Zee Vampyre and I.   He is hoff Eastern European stock.  I cannot tell Hungarian? Maybe?

VOICE       What do you discuss.

SHRINK.    About  zee Dr.  I will  transcribe

VOICE        ranslate?

SHRINK     Ya! Ya!  Zee count says, “We are  both travellers in  time and         eternity.”  Yah! That   is so!

VOICE        Is that all?

SHRINK      Is good, no?  Well. Ah, so  (sighs)   Ess paradox, a paradox - a most hingenious paradox  (sings Gilbert And Sullivan)

VOICE          It’s funny?

SHINK           Gott in Himmell No -no - no.  C’est tragic - tragic monumental.   Berg!    Wozzeck!   A paradox.   The vampyre- he wishes to die - he cannot.   In order  to live he must kill the  very thing he loves,  Very Wildean. Dear Oscar. Is   no?

VOICE          What then?

There then follows a scene in which the psychiatrist describes injecting the vampyre with blood - a syringe of AV positive - the Count’s favourite  blood group.   He describes the injection as though he is the Vampyre’s lover. (There is a good description of the relationship between the drug addict and supplier in  Charles Dickens.   An opium den in ‘The Mystery of Edwin Drood)

Then the psychiatrist  describes the vamprye’s corpselike appearance  changing as the blood beings to course though the veins - highlighting the viens in red,   He turns to place the syringe on his desk and when he turns back the vampyre has gone,

The whole drama is built up out of scenes like these - almost a montage effect.  Bits of arts programmes, police interviews, etc etc,   Once the premise is set up, the drama almost writes itself as there is so much material from films etc that can be used as visual sources,   It is my day off work and the weather has turned for the worse, so i spent the morning doing this,  The sun seems to be coming out now.....

This is the first chapter of a story I'm writing.  Any guidance or help would be welcomed.  Like writing in the first person - is it ok to do that? 

CHAPTER 1 - SLUG STATUES

I stared at the slug statues, carved by the sun on their way to the leafy, damp undergrowth. Stopped in midtrack on their slow, unyielding bid to reach sanctuary.

Prior to the accident I am sure I had not noticed such things. Even though I was in a constant state of confusion it had enhanced my life. It had brought a strange reality to it. This heightened sense of my surroundings was not a conscious effort on my part, but something that had occurred naturally as a result of whatever had happened to me.

Maybe the circumstances that had caused me to be in the loving arms of Westside Rehabilitation Centre was no longer a memory. Perhaps my brain had chosen to erase them completely, insisting instead that I overindulge in counting how many threads make up a spider's web and how many spots on every ladybird I see. Maybe this was my subconscious way of keeping my head full of these mysteries rather than the one I should be remembering... what had happened to bring me to this place?

Instead I ponder as to why the slug statues still looked as though they were moving. If I stare at them, very closely, unflinching, not allowing myself to be distracted by the butterflies dancing around the buddleia bush's powder pink fists. The slugs slow march seemed to continue.

I know 'they' want me to remember; the doctors and carers, the woman who visits every Wednesday and called herself 'mum'. She is the stranger that keeps telling me who I am, who my friends are and why I needed her. I felt that I didn't need anyone, just me. I was the only person I could rely on and trust.  Even with all the missing episodes, the only person I recognised was myself.

Today was going to be the scariest day of my life, from what I could remember that is, for today the tall, skinny man who was called Uncle Jack, was coming to collect me, to take me home to the lady called 'mother'.

Unlike the lucky slug statues, I was not going to be staying, still and motionless in this place, surrounded by calming gardens and soothing water fountains. I was going to the place 'they' called home.

'thanx for reading'

minxie

I thought I would publish my first post to talk about the night-time drama's of being married to one Mr Benjamin James Holmes. And for those of you, whose minds automatically go there...you know who you are...I am not talking about THOSE night-time drama's!

My husband is a chronic sleep talker/walker/one-manned-motion-picture, during the night! Now to be honest, I truly love his early morning antics, as it is most definitely the cause of much laughter each morning as we recount the nightly events! Although it can cut into my sleep, meaning that in the last 2 1/2 years of marriage, I would have been lucky to get a dozen full nights sleep! No, this is an exaggeration, but you get the idea! When we were first married, I was often confused by the events that took place in our bed, as I was not used to this extremity of activity. I remember that at one point Ben, thinking I was a big black bull, was leaning over me, trying to decide how I got there. And when I awoke to his face directly above mine, got a fright and promptly tried to question him as to what he was doing, he was very quick to turn over in bed and tell me nothing...as though his actions should not cause any confusion and he had been behaving perfectly normally. Over the last 2 years, Ben has saved me from falling rocks by attempting to push me out of the bed, encouraged me and the large audience in our bedroom, by clapping and cheering, given the thumbs up to my brother and his friends while on holiday, and had many many conversations with Stevo... apparently a very good friend of ours, whom I have never met!

I usually wake earlier than Ben for work, and on one morning in particular, I had got out of the shower and was by the bed turning on my hair-straighteners...I had not dressed at this point, and due to the fact that we have just returned from a holiday in South America, have quite obvious tan-lines...when I find Ben staring at me oddly. This was one of the only time's when I have not been able to tell straight away that he was still asleep, as his eyes usually give him away. He started saying to me, "No thank-you", (a polite boy, even in his sleep). I asked him what he meant but he simply kept repeating himself. At this point I realised I was talking to him in his sleep and asked him what he was talking about, to which he responded by pointing to my body and repeating, "No thank-you", (Luckily I am not easily offended, or I might have assumed that he thought I was hitting on him, and was rejecting my offer of wake-up sex), instead I started laughing and asked him why he didn't like me standing there naked, to which he looked me up and down with a very confused expression on his face, then realising I was telling the truth, he rolled over looking very silly, and pretended he had said nothing. As it turns out, he had thought I was standing in front of him covered in brown powder, and had offered to cover him with the powder also, to which he very politely replied, "No thank-you!"

But recently he has taken to rearranging the ornaments around our bedroom. I first noticed it a couple of weeks ago while we were Skyping friends of ours from home. Sitting next to the computer, on the desk in our room, were all the items from Ben's bedside table. Now being the neat freak that I am, I should congratulate myself in training him so well to the point of tidying in his sleep, although I doubt very much, that this was the cause of the movement. Usually Ben's night-time antics involve him rescuing or saving someone, being in some adventure in some jungle, or flying some plane. But the common theme is that he is the hero in each event. So to be honest it would not surprise me in the least if these items were actually some poor, helpless citizen he had saved from certain death, or possibly a litter of kittens he had rescued from a burning tree?

Ben has however, gone from moving the items from the bedside table and placing them at other locations in the room, to taking them into the bed with him. He awoke this morning, after dreaming that the bedside table was in fact an overhead luggage compartment in a plane, that he was given the duty of unpacking, to find all the various items from the table, in the bed with him. Being the sneaky man that he is, he then removed them from the bed before I awoke and noticed his odd behaviour, and placed them on the window sill...much less suspicious if you ask me!

Well, all in all, I do feel just a little bit smug that I am privilege to so much entertainment during the night, as not all women could boast such adventure while they sleep!

Today, as usual, my brain was working overtime (behind the scenes).  It keeps popping things into my head I don't know the answers to.  Sometimes I wonder where it got the question from seems the answers don't always seem to exist - or at least they don't in my head? 

It directed me to something I hadn't realised before!!!  We 'may' have a word missing in the English language that WE can do something about...

No partner, husband or wife = SINGLE

Having a husband/wife = MARRIED

Living with someone = COHABITING

But what if you're seeing someone, but don't live with them...  What's the word for that?  Is there one?  I know we can say 'dating' but they're not a 'dating'... ? 

We say 'Im with someone', or 'I'm attached', but is there a noun?

I suspect a clever clouder will put me straight, but if not, I think we owe it to these 'inbetweeners' to give them a name.

I've come up with:

Chumming, Chumbly, Chumblet so far.  So if they're asked 'are you single' they can say, 'no, I'm chumblet'...  Not a good word, so if, as I seem to think, there isn't a word for this state of relationship, can I have some suggestions so we can get it into the English Dictionary... 

I hope I don't get just one reply, telling me what the word is?   As I suspect there is one, just I can't think what it can be...  even attached doesn't describe a person living on their own with a partner?   It could mean married or cohabiting... 

Please someone put me out of my misery, or alternatively, word suggestions please... 

Minxie :]

Aardvark.
Smudging ink blots on my page
because the shapes make sense
in my brain. 
Dogmatic before I
learnt of romance, romantic as
the day is dark,
I give you it all
whilst you give me half.
A flint spark when my finger's on a lightswitch.
I am an idio(m)t. This is an idio(t)m
speaking. A thesaurus and a mood-
s w i n g. I remember when I had 
a song to sing, when I was a 
human
being something, not a something
being
human.
I've been swallowing 
placebos to sleep.
Counting trees that 
fall from their leaves.
Reach for a peak
that'll always be 
tangible in dreams.
Fools learn.
Writing's a system, and it's as jaded
as wisdom. (Glitch)
I am a fruitcake, you are
a wizard. Let's be human together
and pretend we fathom fate
whilst three (narrowminded) words
copulate. 
x+y+z
zyzzyva.

All the girlies say I'm like a sniffer dog,
coz I can smell good pussy from across the bar,
I point you out, coz you're making me hard
lets film a porno.You're the star.

show me your tits, I'll show you a wad
get on your knees, I'm your only god
I'll explore your crotch like inspector morse
you'll beg me for more, and I'll say 'of course'
YEAH.

You're a cheeky little girl,
always gettin what you want
but I'm acting hard to get
coz you like 'em nonchalant
all these motherfuckers
they dont stand a chance
take my hand,
lets dance dance dance.

You're a dirty little bitch
with your legs around the pole
showing off your hips
I want to drill that hole.
I'd take you home right now
and your best friend, too
Stick my shaft in both your twats
fuck it fuck it fuck it
til your fannies are buckets.
HAHA!

All the girlies say I'm like a sniffer dog,
coz I can smell good pussy from across the bar,
I point you out, coz you're making me hard
lets film a porno.You're the star.

show me your tits, I'll show you a wad
get on your knees, I'm your only god
I'll explore your crotch like inspector morse
you'll beg me for more, and I'll say 'of course'
YEAH.

You know that I've been drinking
but I'm okay to drive
In my motherfuckin hot rod
I'm doing 65
That's the way I like it
and you both like it too
coz you know we'll all be at it
like bunnies in a petting zoo.

You're a cheeky ltitle girl
always getting what you want
but now I'm hard again
yeah, you like 'em big and long
I'm a womaniser,
I take them as they come
but girl, I know you're special
coz you take it up the bum
YEAH.

You will scream my name
You'll tell me that you came
Bri..he don't play games
I am your claim to fame.

Whoa, you know what's good for you
Whoa, you know it's right
Whoa, you know it's good for you
Beg for more.

All the girlies say I'm like a sniffer dog,
coz I can smell good pussy from across the bar,
I point you out, coz you're making me hard
lets film a porno.You're the star.

show me your tits, I'll show you a wad
get on your knees, I'm your only god
I'll explore your crotch like inspector morse
you'll beg me for more, and I'll say 'of course'
YEAH.