About Writing Novels

There’s this novel I’ve got that I’ve wanted to write for several years now..

You quite often hear that sort of thing said by such types who fancy themselves as writers: “Oh, I could definitely write a great novel, you know. If only I had the time to do so..”

Such sentiments are quite frustrating to me, because I’m unable to use “I don’t have the time” as an excuse, because I’ve definitely had plenty of time. Instead, I seem to find myself lacking the inclination to write anything. Which is mystifying, to say the least, because I’ve spent the past few years convincing people, and myself, that writing a book is my fondest ambition.

So, recently I decided to examine why I can’t seem to motivate myself to write more than a couple of rough pages of this thing and slowly; a realisation dawned.

Most novelists start writing because they have a story they want to tell, whether that story be an epic yarn or an embarrassing erotic fantasy based on an existing series. Others like to create whole imagined worlds or philosophies and then use novels as a means of developing or exploring them.

Here’s how the genesis of my own novel came about: A few years ago I was sitting in a Creative Writing class back in Uni when, all of a sudden, a lone sentence miraculously formed within my head.

It was a great sentence; I’m not afraid to say so. At the time, I was mightily impressed with it and I’m still extremely proud of it to this very day. “This sentence” I declared, to nobody in particular “is undoubtedly the most perfect opening sentence to a novel that will ever exist”

So that’s how my novel begins; with an outstanding sentence. A sentence which I’m not going to repeat here because I suffer a paranoia that if I discuss my ideas publicly, some villainous arse might swoop in and infringe on them for his own purposes; subsequently making millions off the back of my intellectual property, like the bastard he is – but I digress.

So, whilst I had this great opening sentence, I found myself struggling to move beyond that point. I had a vague idea of a story going on but I still wasn’t sure how it was going to progress. History suggests this isn’t that great an approach for me; back in Uni I tried writing a piece by automatic writing, which is where you basically just bash on the keys and see what happens. It seemed like a great idea to begin with; I think I imagined myself somehow hauling some transcendent, surrealist masterpiece completely out of the ether, but in the end, I stopped after about half a page because I had absolutely no idea what the hell was going on or where exactly it was going.

All I had to show for my efforts was a paragraph about a homeless man sitting under a bus shelter and shouting at a rat; hardly a compelling narrative. Still interested in the idea of a surrealist piece, I decided to rework it into a drug-induced hallucination at a music festival. It may have only been a framing device but it seemed to work wonders; I could have written the thing forever, such was the benefit of having a plan in mind. The finished piece won me plenty of plaudits with my Creative Writing tutors and it was happy days all around.

When it came to writing my dissertation (Which I posted on this site) I employed a similarly simple framing device: guy walks down road, ends up in a shed. Repeat from different perspectives. From then on it pretty much took on a life of its own and I was able to finish it comfortably within deadline.

So, when it came to my novel I already had the great sentence and I thought the same thing would work again. Only, it didn’t. Turns out a basic framing device is only good for a short story – a novel requires much more depth, the likes of which I seemed unable to find. So I did what I knew best, I ran away from it and hid, telling myself half-heartedly that I would get round to doing it properly one day, but that day only seemed to slip further and further into uncertainty.

I still think about writing that novel, and I keep telling myself that it has to happen – not the least because I have several other potential novels waiting to be written afterwards some of which are even a bit more fleshed out. I don’t know why I can’t just write those first, but I like to do things in a certain order; probably due to the British obsession with queuing.

So my objective for this year (I won’t say resolution because those only exist to be broken) is to, at some point, properly sit down and plan this thing out. So that it can finally come to fruition and stop taking up valuable space within my head.

Of course, it might be that I’m just lazy and making excuses for myself…I’ll let you decide that one.

Holy Gods!! New Stuff!!

Yes, that’s right! The other day I wrote this. I know that, given the amount of time since my last update, another piddling, little flashfic will seem like a cop out, but, whatever..

 

One. Two. Three. Four; oh, to get away some time would be nice! That one’s for certain. If only I could go somewhere different just once, that would be enough for me. Instead of being stuck here, why, I could be anywhere I choose; now, wouldn’t that be grand? I often imagine being on a beach, yes, a beach. I’ve read about beaches, I’ve seen pictures of them, they look very much like the kind of place that I’d like to be. Yes; a beach somewhere is where I’d most definitely like to go. I can almost see myself there now, in fact; I’m standing facing the ocean and there is white-coloured sand beneath my feet. Sand, yes. You’d think I’d be sick of sand by now, but to tell the truth; I don’t think I would mind it so much if I experienced it in the proper context. Where was I? Ah yes, I’m looking at the ocean, it’s deep blue and it seems to go on forever. I wonder if it does? Or are there more places beyond it? Never mind, what else is there? Trees! Yes, palm trees; I think they’re called – big ones, swaying in the breeze, small ones, ones that grow at a funny angle. Oh, and it’s sunset now, and the ocean is shimmering brightly and there’s a woman there with me. She’s wearing pink flowers in her long, brown hair which flows in the wind and brushes gently on my shoulders as I embrace her…looking deeply into her, beautiful eyes as I…

“STOP RIGHT THERE!!”

The startled worker craned his neck and looked into the glowing, mechanical eye that was now peering down at him.

“I..Is there a problem, sir?” He stammered

“YOU WERE DAYDREAMING!” the eye bellowed

“Daydreaming? N..No, sir, just taking a moment to, ah, visualise my task”

The eye whirred for a second as if in contemplation

“WELL, IN FUTURE CAN YOU SPEND MORE TIME ACTUALLY DOING YOUR TASK
RATHER THAN VISUALISING IT?”

With that, the eye retracted itself and sped off over the heads of the thousands of other human workers. The daydreamer sighed, returned to his jar of sand and began to count: “One. Two. Three. Four..”

I’m not dead.

..but my computer is. About two weeks ago, the laptop I do most of my stuff on contracted a virus the likes of which can only be described with copious swearing. Bizarrely, my old laptop, which has spent the last two years in the bottom of a cupboard after my attempt to upgrade to upgrade its memory resulted in it committing suicide, has magically returned to life. Which is nice and all, but being six years old it’s still as ridiculously slow as it was before it died, rendering it unsuitable for my purposes. I suppose you could call that a poor excuse for not having written anything for ages, and sadly, you’d be right. That’s not my only excuse, however. As it happens, I’ve recently become unemployed again, therefore writing stories isn’t exactly my main priority at the moment. There’s also all my usual distractions, which I have touched upon previously, they’re not helping things. Still, none of these are valid excuses. I often use the fact that not many people read this blog as justification for neglecting it, but to be honest, to follow that doctrine would only be doing myself a disservice. In truth, I desperately need this blog as an outlet to prevent my brain from turning to mush, so my resolve is now to post more often, even if it means filling it with tedious crap. To do otherwise would be letting myself down. Right then, I’m really not sure if any of that rant I just expelled was at all coherent. I’m actually sitting in a pub right now, writing this out on my phone, and I must say; alcohol isn’t particularly conducive to clear and concise writing, but at least it has the effect of causing me to share my thoughts rather than internalising them like I often do. Anyway, I still have a head brimming with ideas for stories. Maybe I’ll post them here, maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll ignore everything I’ve just written and let this blog die. I really can’t promise a thing.

The Great Usurper

*Unfortunately, this isn’t the brand new story I’ve been threatening. It’s another one from the archives. But after this one I will DEFINITELY write something new. Promise.*

Malcolm Jones: man of the hour, angrily grasped the dishevelled old man by the scruff of his beard, and with terrible ferocity, delivered a devastating head butt to his ancient face. His opponent’s nose shattered like an exploding light-bulb, splattering Malcolm’s spectacles with blood and mucus. The pensioner, clutching at what remained of his olfactory organ, stumbled to his knees, at which point, Malcolm was certain that he finally had him beat. But he had discounted for his foe’s unbelievable tenacity, as the elderly man suddenly leapt screaming to his feet and clasped both hands around Malcolm’s supple, forty-something throat; pinning him to the ground in the process. He tried meekly to extricate his opponent’s hands from around his neck, but the old geezer’s grip was like iron. Malcolm, retching and wheezing, was now afraid that he was done for; slain by a man old enough to be his great-grandfather – how terribly pathetic.

But then his bulging eyes touched upon a lifeline: a large, jagged stone, possibly flint, though more importantly: just within reach. Without a moments hesitation, he snatched it up and thrust the sharper end into the side of the old codger’s skull. The man exhaled sharply and released Malcolm from his grasp. A look of shock crawled across his face, as the realisation dawned upon him. Slowly, he stood and moved his hand up to his bleeding temple – a sign which Malcolm took as an invitation to take up the rock once more and dash his fragile, old head to pieces.

The old man’s body went limp and crumpled to the floor; rolling and tumbling downwards until he came to a rest at the foot of the rubbish heap; quite thoroughly dead.

Malcolm stood panting atop the garbage pile. A dull, metallic looking object caught his eye: the old man’s Tin Crown. He knelt down and picked it up, revelling in it’s majesty.

“The King is dead.” He muttered softly, and then placing the crown atop his own head, screamed “LONG LIVE THE KING!!!” punching the air in triumph.

Malcolm excitedly turned to his wife, Celia, who had been watching the whole thing unfold from a few feet away. She fixed him with a contemptuous stare.

“Do you see?” Malcolm cried “Do you see now? I told you I would be King, didn’t I, darling? And now just look at me!”

“Oh yes, Malcolm! Bloody marvellous” Celia snapped “You’ve beaten a harmless old man to death! Bravo you!”

Malcolm threw up his arms in exasperation.

“Can’t you let me have anything? I’m King for god’s sake!

“Oh really?” Celia cried “How wonderful for you. Tell me, how good must it feel to be King of THIS?!” gesturing towards the desolate, ruined landscape that surrounded them on all sides.

Celia stormed off, cursing under her breath. Malcolm remained stood, almost regally, atop his plastic pedestal.

“Of course, it isn’t much” He thought “But one really can’t pass up such opportunities in this life”

On Writing

Hello,

Ok so I’ve lapsed into allowing myself to neglect this blog a lot quicker than I previously feared I would. The main reason  for this recent quiet period is that I promised myself I would actually get and write some new material rather than constantly digging into my back catalogue. Like many things that I set out to achieve, this has failed to materialise. It’s not that I’m suffering from writer’s block – that perennial author’s complaint – the ideas are all there; swimming around inside my head, jostling with each other for position, as always.

The problem is that whenever I try to entertain the idea of committing any of these latent works to paper (or rather, computer) they somehow get stuck up there in the back of my mind. Perhaps they’re content to stay there, or possibly they’re so eager to leave they all get wedged into a bottleneck. Who knows?

The fact that I always set myself such high standards certainly doesn’t help. It would be a very nice thing, one of these days, to be able to write so much of a paragraph without having to stop to read it back to myself a hundred times over – all the while chastising myself at my own assumed inability to write anything good.

Of course, there’s also my other main vice – ‘distractions’, which are far too numerous to list here. It can sometimes be very difficult to give the proper focus to writing when you are constantly surrounded by myriad electronic wonders offering instant gratification. That’s no excuse of course, simply a reminder that I need a touch more discipline.

Right, I’d best stop myself before I go veering wildly off course again. There IS new material coming…eventually. I’ve got a fairly good idea of what my next story will be and I hope to start making some headway on it soon. How soon? I’ve really no idea.

Stay poised!

If These Trees Could Talk

Once I saw a vision of a maiden clad all in green. She appeared to me on the edges of my vision on a misty morning whilst I was cutting wood, and when I turned to look at her she smiled a brilliant, white smile and scampered away like a startled doe. I followed her down through winding trails for what seemed like hours as she laughed and sang with her long, brown hair billowing behind her as she went, the tall trees swaying in the wind seeming to turn their branches and gaze at us as we passed.

After an eternity we reached a clearing where the sunlight punctured the forest canopy with it’s warmth and many-coloured flowers blanketed the ground. There the two of us danced together until the sun plunged beneath the trees and the stars shone in the darkened sky. Then once my body could dance no more she took me in her arms and sang to me softly until my eyes grew heavy and I drifted to sleep.

She told me that she was a woodland nymph; a child of the forest, and that all living things within it reverberated to her call. I knew beyond questioning that there was magic about her, for when she sang the mice and rabbits would gather from the undergrowth to sit for hours at her feet like captivated schoolchildren and when she danced the trees about her would gently sway their branches in happy unison.

Before long I knew I could not live without her, but neither could I remain in the forest forever. So one day I knelt before her, clasped her hands in mine and told her that I loved her more dearly than anything and that she must come back with me and be my wife. I told her that she would like the world outside the forest, but she looked deeply into my eyes and replied “No, my love. Not yet.”

Then she took me by the hand and led me through the forest to a young Oak tree, which grew apart from all the others.

“When this tree no longer needs my care” She said “You and I shall be together. But until then, my darling, I must remain here.”

I could not wait forever for her though, so one night while she slept I took my axe and went to her tree. For a moment I stood poised before it, breathing heavily in anticipation, then with great fury I drove my axe deeply into the trunk . Instantly I heard my love scream from her sleep; her cries piercing the silent forest. I ignored her and struck again, feeling the tree begin to weaken. I rained blow after blow upon it until finally it crashed to the ground. As I stood back admired my work I could hear my maid sobbing to herself from her clearing.

Now we are together as I always wanted. She is a dutiful wife, she keeps my house in good order and I need never raise a hand to her Yet I cannot help but wonder why she no longer smiles.

Nebula

“You ever wonder why we’re here?” Bill said aloud whilst staring up at the blinking lights on the control room ceiling.
“Mmmm…?” Scott, who had been reclined in his chair half asleep, turned to look at his colleague.
“You getting theological on me, Billy-boy?”
“Fuck no…I meant you ever wonder why we’re out here in this fuckin’ nebula?”
“Cause it’s of scientific interest?”
“Whatever man, nebulas are huge, shitty clouds of fuckin’ dust…what’s interesting about that? fuckin’ idiots see a nebula through a telescope and go ‘Oooh, shit that’s pretty’ they never seen one close up!”
“You don’t sound like much of a scientist, man” Scott chuckled.
“We’re not scientists! We’re fuckin’ Janitors, my friend. You think we’d even be here if this super-science ship could fly at least a light-year without choking up?
“Now you’re exaggerating, dude.” Scott laughed before being interrupted by a loud beep.
“Engines back online?” Bill enquired.
“No… “ replied Scott, now buried in a monitor, “it says there’s something outside! Shit, dude! look at these gamma readings!
“Dust interfering with the sensors you fuckin’ idiot!
“We’ll see…Main Screen on!”
At which the ship’s screen burst into life with a scream of static before turning black.
“Well that’s fuckin’ weird” Scott stated, clearly stumped “I’d better head up to observation and check it out”
“Give my regards to the dust!” Bill called after him as he left.

Bill awoke several hours later and lay blinking for a moment…
“Hm? Must have dosed off….where the fuck’d Scott get to?
Instinctively fearing that his friend may have had an accident, he immediately headed for the observation deck. Rounding the corridor, he was suddenly assaulted by an unfathomably bright light. Shielding his eyes, he could just about make out Scott silhouetted in front of whatever was causing it, seemingly captivated.
“Scott….?”
Scott turned around sharply and stared at Bill. His eyes were bloodshot and his face ashen, Bill could barely recognise him.
“What were you looking at?
“Get away…..get the fuck away” Scott snarled hoarsely. Bill’s better judgement instructed him to leave at once, but for some reason he really needed to know what had Scott so transfixed.
“What were you looking at, man?
“Get away, it’s mine! Leave me!”
Bill felt his anger rising, he really had to know.
“Fuck off! Let me see!”
“NO!! GET AWAY FROM ME” Scott yelled, pushing Bill to the floor. Something inside Bill snapped and he leapt screaming upon his friend.
The two scientists fought like animals, punching, scratching and biting until finally: with his hands clasped around Scott’s throat, Bill felt his friend expire beneath him. He let Scott’s body drop to the floor and faced the strange light. As he did so, he swore he could hear a voice in the back of his mind.
“Don’t be afraid..” it said “Come closer..”