The Word Cloud

 I started writing this a couple of days ago - bits of it are cannibalised from an old short story I wrote ages ago and never finished. I want to create a 1st person narrative (present), which I have never done before, intermixed with 1st person diary accounts from another person (past-ish), where the diary-writer and the narrator discover similar things at similar times. I've tried to make the voices mirror distinct writing 'vogues' - the narrator (modern) is far less verbose than the diary writer (1924), whose writing mirrors that of the pulp horror writers of the time (Lovecraft, Machen, Ashton Smith and the likes). I'm not putting this in critiques because it is a trifle longer than the usual pieces. :-)

My main issue is how to differentiate between the two voices on the page. I've thought of using different fonts, but that seems like a cop out... so I've decided t post here and see if what I have so far works.

_______________________

 

I don't know what prompted me to volunteer. I mean, I barely knew the woman. But here I am, large as life, standing in her small kitchen, trying to ignore the all-pervading stench of cigarettes and cat piss.

Great Aunt Clarissa, Grammie's bonkers sister. Even more bonkers now. They finally shipped her off to the home after they found her in her nightshirt, yelling at the pigeons about how the stars were finally right and then they'd pay for crapping all over her porch. I kind of feel sorry for her, in a way. It's not something I look forward to, but I suppose I'd better get used to the idea. Most of my family on my mother's side end up going batshit crazy towards the end, so the prognosis isn't all that good.

We used to joke about her when we were kids – say she was a witch and if you went anywhere near her house, she'd cast a spell on you. I used to pretend I wasn't related to her, but when it came to light that she was my great aunt, the tormentors turned on me. The Curse of Great Aunt Clarissa, my brother used to call it. All I know is that it ended up with me living a pretty lonely existence until I left this one-horse town for good. At least I thought I'd left it for good.

God, it stinks in here. And how much shit has she accumulated over the years? I don't know where to start. Boxes upon boxes of rubbish stacked up against every wall; every surface filled with clutter; every cupboard full to bursting. It would probably be easier to set a match to the lot of it, but I promised I'd sort it out. Mum is convinced Clarissa hoarded a load of Grammie's trinkets when she died, and she's buggered if anyone else is going to get their hands on them. Families. You've got to love them.

So far, the boxes are full of rubbish: Old tins. Newspapers. One, rather memorable container hid a wealth of underwear of all sizes. I have no idea why she hoarded those. But there is something about this box. For some reason, I can feel it. I don't know if it's because I found it secreted at the back of a cupboard, swathed in packing tape, but there's an odd weight about it that stirs my curiosity.

A box within a box. That's what's in there. This new box is made of intricately carved wood, and its locked. I give it a shake; something heavy rattles around. I rummage though the remainder of the container, through years of newspaper cuttings and bits of old paper, but I can't find anything that even remotely resembles a key.

I eye the box. Would she know? Would she even care? She hardly recognises herself in the mirror these days. I pause, conflicted. In the end, curiosity wins. I pick the box up in one hand and a pocket-knife in the other. I work it backwards and forwards, up and down until, eventually, the lock pops open. For a moment, I feel a little dismayed with myself; my knife has scored the wood, marring one of the beautiful carvings.

But then I see what's in there.

Fuck. I know Grammie said nice girls don't swear, but there really is no other word that does it justice. I pick the ring up and let the dusty light that filters through the grime encrusted window play upon its gilded surface. I'm no expert when it comes to these things, but that's easily the biggest ruby I have ever seen. Maybe this is what Mum was on about when she referred to 'trinkets'?

I glance to the window, like a child afraid of being caught with the cookie jar, and slip the ring on my finger. When I first held it, I thought it looked a bit big for me – in all honesty, I thought it was sized for a man – but it fits me perfectly. I gaze at the ruby, entranced; it is a deep red, the colour of good claret, and flawless.

But is it?

Something catches my eye. What is that, at its centre? I peer into its depths. Yes... something small: a bubble, perhaps? Call me shallow, but I can't help but wonder how that might affect its value. Not too much, I hope. After all, the ruby is huge, the band pure gold-

That's odd. I know this sounds stupid, but I swear whatever it is inside the ruby just moved. I look again. Small pinpricks of light spin at its core, a tiny dance caught in a crimson world. I blink. The lights are gone, replaced by what looks like a small, dark stain. It pulses, just once, but this is enough for me to look away.

A sense of unease settles over me. Maybe I shouldn't play with the ring, after all. Suddenly, I wish I'd never found it. I pull it from my finger and set it to one side.

I resume my rummaging. Nestled within the box is a collection of books. I pick one out at random and flick through it. The pages crack under my fingers, betraying their age. Their contents are handwritten in a faded black ink - journals, I guess. I turn to the first page; it has a little square of card stuck to it, bearing the legend:

Journal of James Penderson

1924

Penderson. Penderson... Now that name rings a bell. I'm pretty sure there was a Penderson at Grammie's funeral. Odd fellow, if I remember rightly – tall, thin, didn't speak anyone. I thought he looked a little bit like a vampire, with his sunken cheeks and reddened eyes, but it was Great Aunt Clarissa who reassured me he was just another branch of Grammie's family. That's exactly what she said. Not our family, but Grammie's family. I didn't think much of it then, but it does seem a bit weird now. Maybe it was just a sign of how far removed Clarissa felt from the rest of us. Anyway, the strange man left before we arrived at Grammie's Wake, so I forgot about him

Until now.

Unconsciously, I sit upon the sticky floor and begin to read. At first, there is nothing of note; just a man detailing his days with his wife, Evelyn. Boring, really.

But then I reach a page that has a letter stuck to it...

 

7^th March,1924.

Today Evelyn and I received a letter informing us of some unfortunate, yet not unexpected, news; that my Uncle Roderick - once a man of adventure and rude health - has died. It seems that he succumbed to the wasting disease that consumed his once vibrant body, leaving him the mere husk of the man he used to be. The letter is short and to the point, as my uncle had largely estranged himself from the vast majority of my family, indulging as he did in his travels where he explored the little-known corners of the world. If I remember correctly, he favoured Borneo, Mongolia and the smaller islands of the South Pacific: true wilderness. My family despaired wholeheartedly of what they saw as his dogged pursual of own selfish desires, and willed him every time they saw him to find a wife and settle down. But with each entreaty, he would treat them all to a devil-may-care smile, and instead of stepping out with the demure, homely girls my grandmother ushered into the house to meet him, he would plan his next trip with a gusto that I, as a young boy, found fascinating.

“One day, dear James, you will walk in my footsteps,” he once remarked to me with a wink as he packed his battered leather suitcase for another excursion. “It is in your blood, the desire to explore... your father had it, may the Lord rest his soul, as did your grandfather, before your grandmother browbeat him into submission... mark my words, young sir; one day, you will hear the wild whispering and there will be nothing you can do but heed its call.”

For many years – from childhood, through adolescence and into manhood – I held onto his words with a child-like air of wonder and expectation, waiting for that call, but alas, for me Fate intervened and it never manifested. I know I have never detailed these desires here before; in truth, I think I buried any such feelings, since I know my old war-wound would not allow me to even begin such an excursion, let alone complete one.

Roderick's funeral is to be held on Tuesday.

 

12^th March, 1924.

 

 Forgive me, dear diary, for not detailing the last few days, for I have been busy at first travelling, and then reacquainting myself with the more distant members of my family.

 The funeral it itself was a sombre affair. I feel this was, if anything, a little inappropriate; Roderick was such a larger-than-life character that I think he would have appreciated a little levity to the proceedings.

After his funeral they read his will; most of his meagre wealth was left to my grandmother – his mother – a character who had been beaten more than once upon the anvil of life having lost both a husband and a son in close succession, creating a persona as hard and unyielding as steel. The rest of his a few personal possessions were left to friends and more distant family. To me he left a locked box, its contents unknown, accompanied by a sealed envelope. Upon opening the box, I found a small brass key and a note written in Roderick's shaky script, giving me explicit instructions not to open anything company, but to wait until I was alone and with some time upon my hands. Shrugging my shoulders at the enquiring looks the other members of my family gave me, I took my bequeathal and waited for the rest of the will to be read before leaving.

Upon returning home, Evelyn and I sat at the kitchen table, the box between us. It was about the size of a cardboard shoebox but made of a hard wood stained black with use and age. I had, of course, allowed her to read the letter, but I could see by the slight hint of excitement in her eyes that she wanted to discover its contents as much as I. At first, I considered allowing her to stay, but instead, out of deference for my uncle's wishes, I asked her to leave.

I could tell that she was bitterly disappointed at being excluded, but after I reassured her that once I knew what was what, and that there was nothing salacious or degrading about the box's contents, I would call her in and share the mystery with her. After explaining this, she left the kitchen with a slightly angry sigh, and made to our sitting room, where she said she would await my call.

Now I was at last alone, I drew the box to me, took up the key and with a deep, shaking breath, slid it into the lock and turned it. It was stiff and I had to force it; feeling a faint tickle upon my brow, I realised that I was sweating a little in nervous anticipation, all the time praying that the key wouldn't snap. It took a little coaxing, but eventually the lock clicked open and I was at last able to lift the lid and examine the contents inside.

I will admit, dear diary, that I was forced to sublimate a small stab of disappointment as I peered into the box; it seemed to be full of nothing more than old, yellowing papers, newspaper cuttings and fragments of dusty old books. I nearly called Evelyn in to join me, but stopped myself when my searching fingers discovered a small, moth eaten velvet pouch buried in amongst the paper. Tipping it out, I was astonished as a substantial ring rolled out; examining the pouch further, I also found a small, folded unadorned envelope, which, after setting the ring aside, I extricated with care before unfolding and opening.

It was a letter, addressed to me, written in that familiar shaky script that I only just recognised as belonging to my late Uncle. I have enclosed it here:

Dear James,

If you are reading this, then I am dead. I would have dearly loved for you not to have received this letter, but as my faculties finally give in to the parasitic horror that has invaded my very being, it is becoming more and more apparent to me that I will not survive this long enough to end what I started... to end the abomination that I rather foolishly invited into my life.

First and foremost, there should be a ring with this letter; if there isn't, then pray for all our souls. If it is present, however, I cannot stress this enough: do not wear it. Do not even look at it for too long. Whilst it resembles nothing more than an expensive ruby ring, it is something else entirely... something dangerous. I am not sure how it works, or even if it is of this world, but it conceals hidden – nay, forbidden - depths; depths that no man should ever know about, let alone explore. I did not listen to the frantic warning of the locals I had been in contact with in New Guinea, and this has been much to my detriment – have no doubt, my death is directly linked to this loathsome ring, and yours will be too if you do not heed my words here.

You cannot imagine the regret with which I write this letter, James. That I must pass this cursed artefact to you and charge you with its destruction pains me more that you will ever know. If there is any justice in this world, you will never read this; I hope with all my heart that I can destroy it myself before the malign denizens of those crimson wastes concealed within that terrible stone so innocently set upon its golden band spill forth and sow their seeds of pure chaos. If I can't, then I must pass this dubious honour to you, my boy. You are my last and only hope to stop the madness before it is too late.

The ring itself is not the problem; the problem is the stone that is set upon it. I cannot explain fully what it is, for I myself do not completely understand its nature... nor quite why anyone would see fit to craft a piece of jewellery out of it (if, indeed, anyone did). If the faint carvings upon the golden band are any indication as to who made it, then I have serious doubts as to whether they were human at all... I know this sounds like the ravings of a mad man, and maybe I am now mad, but I do wonder if its construction was even within the bounds of the known universe, let alone upon this planet.

But I am getting ahead of myself. It seems to me that what looks like an innocent ruby is actually some kind of gateway... but to where, I could not say, nor even guess. All I know is that it is dangerous – dangerous beyond all human comprehension. At the risk of sounding rather melodramatic, the very fate of reality as we know it could very well be at risk; I have seen what lies beyond that swirling crimson curtain, and the very memory of it is enough to stretch my sanity to its very limits. The mere thought of anything breaking through that bleak void is enough to make me welcome death itself... although I doubt I would be safe even then; I fear that these horrors may even transcend even death, since I am certain what I saw – what I experienced – is outside the normal parameters of what we understand as reality. So I must charge you, my dearest nephew, with finding a place where the ring may be cast and never found again. Although I cannot be completely certain that this will be enough to prevent the cataclysm that this stone harbours should anyone learn how to activate the gate it conceals, I do believe that it needs a sentient intelligence to unlock it, and therefore the very depths of the ocean, or within the hearts of the deepest caves seems to be the only logical places to cast it, where it will hopefully be lost forever to both man and time.

Once again, I can only repeat how very very sorry I am for making these requests of you, but I am desperate; you are the only one I feel I can trust with this most terrible of tasks. I hope, at some point, you can find it within your heart to forgive me.

Your Loving Uncle,

Roderick.

 It took me a fair while to calm my mind after reading Roderick's letter. I tried to convince myself that it was nothing more than a testament to my Uncle's ailing physical and mental state, and that his illness must have made him prone to paranoid hallucinations. As if to prove myself right, I switched my attention from the letter to the ring that sat before me upon my kitchen table. Oh, how I wish I hadn't... but hindsight is a wonderful thing, is it not?

 Despite myself, I straight away could tell that there was something unusual about it; first of all, it was much larger in circumference that you would expect a ring to be. I extended a hand, cursing myself for my foolishness as it trembled towards the artefact in front of me and, after swallowing hard, I picked it up to examine it more closely.

At first, I felt nothing but the cold, dead weight of the gold in my palm, but this was quickly overridden by a strange sensation of what I can only describe as a weird vibration. It wasn't very strong, however, and it was easy to put down to my imagination playing tricks upon me, the contents of the letter obviously having strained my nerves more that I had initially realised. Holding the ring up to the light, I marked my Uncle's words and studied only the golden band; at first, I could only see what I thought were random scratches upon its glossy surface, but soon my mind began to pick out strange and unsettling patterns. I quickly surmised that they must represent some form of hitherto unknown hieroglyphic script. What is more, the more I studied them, the more unsettled I felt, for no matter how closely I inspected them, I could not shake the creeping feeling that, if I had been asked to, there was no way I could have reproduced the shapes I could see. Even now, thinking about them again some hours later, I do not know quite what is was that was so fundamentally wrong with their construction; maybe it has something to do with their angles... I am sure that if I manage to find the courage to measure them, they will not add up to the accepted figures that mathematicians and physicists proclaim are central to all scientific theory, and this worries me.

 I then switched my attention to the ruby that was set within the golden claws of the ring, my Uncle's written warning ringing in my ears as if he had spoken directly to me. Lord forgive me, even now I do not know why I did this. My heart within my throat, I lifted the ring and clasping it carefully between my thumb and forefinger as if to minimise skin contact with it, I peered into its depths. Again I saw nothing more than a flawless ruby, worth a king's ransom should I decide to auction it (in fact, for a split second, that is exactly what I considered doing. Such a piece would undoubtedly fetch thousands of pounds, enough to set the both of us up for life) – and just as my heart began to settle back to its usual rhythm, something caught my eye that turned the very blood in my veins to ice.

I am not entirely sure what I saw, and I do not know if I can describe it with any justice – but I shall try. At first, I thought it was merely a flaw in the stone that I hadn't noticed before, but as it drew my eye, I could see that this was not true, for it moved. It was a hazy, almost imperceptible thing, like smoke or mist; I tried to convince myself that it was down to the shadow of a passing cloud moving across the gemstone's surface, but deep down, I knew that this was simply not true – that whatever had moved was actually located deep within the stone itself. Mesmerised, I peered closer into the crimson depths of the stone. Part of me was aware that I was disregarding my Uncle's dire warning, but I was unable to stop myself. My initial uneasiness now forgotten, I gazed in awe and wonder as a beautiful kaleidoscopic display of light and colour that unfurled before my very eyes. I continued to watch as the lights began to spin and dance, causing me to laugh in delight; this, however, was soon replaced by an acute sense of dread as the very centre of the lights began to pulsate and boil in a most nauseating manner before something nebulous surged forth from the the centre of the incandescent flower, groping towards me at an alarming velocity. At the same time, I felt a sense of pressure build quickly to painful heights behind my eyes, as if something was pushing from deep within my brain, seeking entrance to the world through my very skull. I shook my head and let out an inarticulate cry; I quickly closed my fist around the ring and dropped it back into the velvet pouch from whence it had came.

For a long while, I simply sat, trying to take in the enormity of what I had been charged with. Taking a deep breath, I then began to sift through the other papers in the box. Not once did I question the validity of my Uncle's request; since experiencing the ghostly movement from within the heart of the ring, I knew on a deep, instinctual level that it was somehow against the natural order of things, and that my Uncle was indeed right – the ring had to be destroyed, regardless of the risk.

 

 I put the diary down.

 Feeling a little sick, I look to where I left the ring.

 It's gone.

 My heart jolts in my chest. I swear I put it down there, I swear I left it on the side next to m-

 A dead weight upon my left middle finger pulls me up short. I raise my hand, and there it is.

 The ring.

How did that happen? I must have put it on without even realising whilst I was reading.

 

I was once invited to the launch of a new film company associated with the Pythons. Terry Jones gave a speech and considered what is art and what is craft.

I had a ‘YES!’ moment, followed by several more ‘That’s IT’ moments and even though the occasion was a long time ago, I think on it often. And modern art suddenly made sense; I could walk around Tate Modern saying, ‘Wow!’

Thought I’d share.

Art, he explained, was the creation of something original, something that has never been done before. Something that makes you think long afterwards, a whole new take on an issue or common artefact that you’ve never considered until now. It attracts your interest, for better or worse; it provokes.

You don’t have to like it as such, but it has to disturb, to linger in your mind. Art surprises. And as you think about it, you learn.

So the crowds of people who discussed (negatively) Tracy Emin’s unmade bed, or Rachel Whiteread’s pile of bricks – almost confirmed that it was art, by the attention they gave it.

You can only do art, once. If you repeat it, it’s not original any more.

Craft, on the other hand, is the repetition of a winning formula. It’s a skill; honed, practiced, perfected. There’s a lot of it about: in William Morris prints, in Chippendale furniture, in Barbara Cartland novels, in Hollywood films. With each iteration, the skill can refined so that it’s more effective for less effort, but there’s a plan, a blueprint. I read so many Agatha Christie novels in my teens that I could work out the murderer early on – not through any plot device, but from the way it was written. Regardless of the impossibility of any events, I knew it was going to be X because of features I learnt to look out for. I might tell if you torture me.

So any recognisable style, is, by definition, craft; not art. The first one of the series might have been art, unless it was derivative. All subsequent efforts become craft.

Terry Jones argued that British films were often experimental art whereas the Hollywood industry only churned out craft. Art is too risky for them, art might fail. Of course, he pointed to ‘Life of Brian’ and I’d have to agree with him. Not everyone liked it, but it certainly provoked.

‘The Blair Witch Project’, I’d offer, is also art because it was radically different to what went before.

Both, incidentally, made on a shoestring budget. With billions at stake, can you take a chance on art, when you know craft is more likely to repay? Therefore, does too much money stifle creativity? (my thought, not Terry’s)

 

So what of books and book-writing? Clearly there’s craft involved. Skill, practice, learning, going over and over it; finding what works and doing more of it.

How much is also art? Books that were so different, that they stopped you in your tracks. Not the cosy Catherine Cooksons or the formulaic James Bonds – both skilful in their own right – not knocking them at all. Sometimes you want the comfort of familiarity; sometimes you want the ride of your life.

Which books were so original, they took your breath away? Are you an art or a craft person? In what you read and what you write?

Here are a few of my most haunting artworks:

Annie Proulx – Postcards, Patrick Hamilton – Hangover Square, Margaret Atwood – Oryx and Crake, Sylvia Plath – The Belljar.

To be a good artist, I’d argue that you first have to be a good craftsman – but not necessarily the other way round. However, craftsmanship can be enough; and the pay’s better.

What do you think?

            As many of you may remember, I have been studying the Wiccan faith to gain a greater understanding of its beliefs and practice for my novels and short works of fiction. I have utilized witches and witchcraft recently in some of my works, and I have found a new avenue for character development with it. It’s been very interesting reading about the practice of folk magic, and it certainly has educated me on the subject (I take broom flying lessons on Thursdays). In the vein of exploration, I thought I would take a break from the instructional lessons and give you a glimpse into Wicca. Here we go…

           

            First, I learned Wicca isn’t what I thought it was. I approached the subject with no skepticism, but an open mind and I found so much more than I expected. I thought I would uncover the conventional ideas expressed by our culture: dark-cloaked people, black cats, old grey-haired ladies with malice upon their faces, sacrifices and death spells, etc. Cartoons and movie have instilled in us such an impression that it is difficult to see around the pointed hats and bubbling cauldrons, as well as the kid with the scar on his head. Witchcraft is very common, very real, practiced by very normal people who have learned to harness the energy of the Earth. Their Rede, or set of rules, forbids them from doing harm to anyone and allows for free practice so long as it harms none. What I nearly expected and what I found were two different things.

 

            Second, nature is imbued with power. This may be a little foreign to some, but after being infused with so much Christian doctrine, I do not find it strange at all. For Wiccans, everything has energy dwelling in it. That is how they can cast spells; they simply arouse the energy of the Earth, then direct it towards a goal. Rocks, especially certain varieties, have unique powers that enable the Wiccan to perform rituals and spells. I was certainly struck by the idea of nature seemingly being “God.” The Christian texts have sayings that strike at the notion of God being “above all, through all and in all.” To me, it certainly makes more sense to see the divine as a real and functioning part of this creation, and not some abstract entity realms away. The trees, the rocks, rivers, mountains, buildings, people, animals, all are part of the divine and a living expression of it. The divine in nature can also be experienced and touched; that amazes me. It is not distant, but very much a thriving part of all that is.

 

            Third, Wiccans believe in reincarnation. Now, on this point many people divide; Christians especially do not want to believe in reincarnation. The Christian view is that life is lived once and once only. It is easy to follow that until you look at ancient documents and see how many faiths have ideas concerning the notion. The Hebrews believed the prophet Elijah would return again. The Christian texts speak of Jesus as being Elijah, and John the Baptist as him also. The Dali Lama is a reincarnation of past spiritual leaders. The list goes on. For now it is easy to say that for Wiccans, and many Eastern faiths, reincarnation is a very natural process. Buddhists believe in reincarnation, though they see the process in a negative light and believe enlightenment allows them to escape the cycle of reincarnation. Wiccans believe in a more positive approach to the idea; we simply return and return. Life is not something to be escaped, but something to embrace. I like the idea of reincarnation, although I have many questions and have seemingly found some loopholes. Let’s hope I don’t fall through one when making my return trip!

            Lastly, natural energy can be harnessed. As I stated above, the energy of the world can be collected and used to achieve a goal. In most of the major world faiths today, you have to use prayer or some form of petition to bring about change. It is very taxing and will not always bring about the desired results. With prayer, the power is not in the person’s hands, but in the hands of the divinity to which they are praying. With Wicca, the power rests solely with the practitioner; they have the ability to harness the energy and send it forth to bring change. Of course, I see some loopholes here as well, but I think there is also a great chance of success. It is freeing to think one has the ability to create change. Personal power, it seems, is invested in the practitioner and not a distant entity. I might be more inclined to believe in the practice if I saw a witch make it rain, but for now I am open to it. After all, the energy is there; why not use it?

 

            It has been an interesting time reading about the subject. What I listed here was only a sampling of what I have read. As I read more, I will try to pass it along to you all. Remember to never judge a book by its cover and never take someone else’s opinion; research it yourself and come to your own conclusions. Until then, remember, when flying on your broomstick, slower traffic keeps to the right.

 

            As always, good luck writing.

That's kind, many thanks for your welcome Weens and greetings to all my fellow writers.
Can I pitch in with a question? Mmm, don't know any of you but I'll assume you wouldn't mind ; Is anyone here represented by AP Watt, Casarrotto Ramsey, A.N. Heath, The Wyeley agency or Curtis Brown or William Morris Endeavour for screenwriters in the US? Wondering if fellow novelists/screenwriters might share their experiences, I'm shortly  to leap and don't wish to make the wrong decision. As a final question is there anyone out there who's a feature film (rather than TV) screenwriter as well as a novelist and if so would you choose representation from the same agency e.g. Casarrotto Ramsey handle Screenwriters and novelists or would you  place your work separately? ICM for example handle screenwriters but not novelists.
Is that terribly tedious ? I hope not, in return may I suggest the most interesting book on the craft of writing I've yet to come across, written by a heavyweight novelist rather than an unpublished 'writing guru'?
It's 'The Spooky Art" by Norman Mailer, anyone who writes prose so muscular you need a fork lift truck to turn the pages has my undying admiration, shame on you if you haven't read him, him and that other fella what was his name? The chap who ended his days mad as a snake at a regional Moscow railway station bemoaning the fact that his dim witted wife wanted to hold tea parties whilst he in his novels  was trying to reinvent Christianity? Leo and something beginning with T and ending with Y. Oh the Count, he really was quite mad. Brilliant but quite far gone.

Newbies and dabblers tend to buy into this line of b.s. - and who could blame them? The idea that a story, any story, should have a beginning, middle and end, has gained ever greater credence since it was first promulgated by some dumb Greek a couple of eons back. It's like saying a story needs a central character or that one sentence should follow after another. Well this is a writer who knows there's only one rule when it comes to writing: follow your gut. If it feels right then it probably is right. Why do certain publishers, agents and self-appointed teachers beg to disagree? If a flea could talk it would probably tell a dog it was indispensible to the dog's well-being. My guess is, most dogs would know that pesky little flea was selling them a line and just get scratching. Dogs can be a lot smarter than humans that way.

"I fear my enthusiasm flags when real work is demanded of me" H.P Lovecraft, 1890 - 1937

*Stands up*

My name is Ely, and I overwrite.

From the tiniest shimmer of the dust mote that floats elegantly down from an incandescent heaven to the overpowering maelstrom of the storm that rages with a power that defies all overhead, I overwrite. Adjectives, adverbs, overextended metaphors, overblown synonyms that have been sought desperately for in my well-thumbed thesaurus are all my friends; dear, dear friends I have spent a lifetime collecting, devising, enjoying.

But, alas, unlike my idols Lovecraft, Poe and Stoker, we do not live in a time where a love of language is de rigueur. To write because you love words is not enough. For fear of being rather melodramatic, I would describe myself as a bit of a shadow out of time  (nudge nudge, wink wink); an anachronism who needs to let go of these archaic mentors and begin to live in the literary now.

But how to cut those ties? To cut loose that which brings fire to your belly? To prune, yet feel you are not losing that which defines and inflames  you?

That, I do not know. It escapes me, cantering into the depths of the maelstrom above with a gleeful kick of its heels, defying me, challenging me: come and find me, but do it with less reliance on adverbial phrases and passive passages beginning with words that end in 'ing'.

Time to put the thesaurus back onto the shelf, methinks...

 

I knew! I knew! I knew! Cats are crafty! How are they crafty you ask? Well they emit a purr that is meant to somehow hack into our caring side....personally this is one of those amusing things of life. So if you want to know more follow the link below.
http://news.uk.msn.com/uk/article.aspx?cp-documentid=148550530

Beside that startling piece of information.....my day been fun...been considering how rare it is to see a decent cartoon on other channels compared to the god of digital channels "Cartoon Network" best freaking channel you'll ever get for original material.

It's all very strange. Normally I rattle off a story at top speed, often producing in excess of 8,000 words a day. The writing is dire, of course, but the ideas are on screen for me to edit. I expect to edit a story something like 20 times before publication, with each chapter being edited several times within one edit, if you see what I mean.

But this time I find myself editing as I go. It has taken three days to feel mostly satisfied with the opening chapter. Not that I am writing all day. I am also a craftswoman and have some orders that need to be honoured, and for the next fortnight,  I will be distracted by Wimbledon, starting with Laura Robson at midday when she steps out onto the brand new court number two.

What has my first chapter achieved? Well, Q and C are the stars of the show. I have not attempted to describe them as yet. The reader doesn't know if they are tall or short or dark or fair. What the reader has learned is how they are feeling and their very different life-styles. As yet, they have not met. The trick has been to tell two stories without one story getting in the way of the other. I don't think it's quite right yet, but it will do for now.

I have made Q and C's feelings etc  part of the action, just as their appearance will be when it is appropriate. I try to avoid passive writing. As Chekhov said, “Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.”

For the moment, the reader has met both Q and C. Vaguely similar unsettling events that turn quite scary by the end of the chapter are happening to each. These events are not frightening for the reader. I am not writing a Thriller, I am writing an adventure story for youngsters. At this stage, the fear is for the characters to feel. By the end of Chapter one, the reader will be intrigued as well as concerned for the welfare of Q and C. I have left them both in very difficult situations.