The Period Of Nothingness

After the amazing achievement of reaching 1,000 views on the blog the other week, I realised that it has been some time since I've posted something up here that is solely book related. Those of you who follow me on Twitter may have picked up on the fact that recently I have been ill in bed with tonsillitis, but more importantly that I'm now currently at University and therefore a great deal of my time is taken up sleep- I mean working. Several of the pieces I've worked on in class have actually ended up on the blog (See Writing Bursts) but little time has been spent writing anything that is vaguely related to the book at all. Why, I hear you ask? Because of a little thing I like the call "The Period Of Nothingness."

So what exactly is this unusually titled entity? I finished the second draft of my book after solidly working on editing it over the summer. Emphasis on the word 'solidly;' literally, I spent my entire holiday in Thailand religiously trying to iron out the many creases of a first draft that by the time I had finished, I was pretty much sick of the sight of Anna, the VW bus and half of the essential plot lines. So I made a conscious decision as I stared at the full printed out manuscript: I wouldn't look at it or even touch it for several months (as many celebrated writers do) simply to give myself a rest from it. I gave the copy to a trusted friend and told her to read. It has been a while since I've seen her or the only physical copy of the book that exists, but my decision to keep it from the front of my mind until she returns it still stands. Obviously, I have days when I think about plotlines and character development, but my eyes haven't glanced at the document for any longer than copying and pasting the first chapter onto the blog since: it has been sat festering away on several memory sticks and computer hard drives since completion.

Don't get me wrong, I may have earlier stated that I haven't been working on the book itself, but I'll reveal to you all now (drum roll please...) that I am in fact in the careful planning stages of two, if not more sequels. Now that I've experienced what it's like to actually have a complete manuscript that I've written myself in front of me, I've realised how bad my planning was for it!! Thankfully with all the Creative Writing lectures too, I've been able to refine the planning technique and actually have some kind of a storyline in my head instead of writing with no deliberate direction this time.

I plan, now that the Christmas holidays have started, to return once more to the book, and possibly attempt to read it myself - forgetting as much as I can that every single word it contains has been written by yours truly. I'm hoping that these past few months away from it can give me a clear head and a clear view of what I'm reading so that mistakes, plot holes and all the other creases can be identified and ironed out. The Twitter account is once more getting closer to that 500 followers milestone and the revelation of the next chapter online, so maybe achieving that could spur on the reading and editing process further (Yes, that was a subtle 'SHARE THIS AND HELP ME TO GAIN MORE TWITTER FOLLOWERS NOW'). Or, to be more polite, keep on checking out what you see on here, and if you're interested, mention it to somebody who you think might also be interested. And of course, contact me if you have any interest in what I write at all: all nice tweets that aren't spam replied to, Facebook wall posts commented back on and especially comments on blog posts themselves!!

Peace. x

A Very Belated Thank You

I know that this post is a little overdue, however I just thought I'd do a short thank you to anyone who has ever shared my blog with someone else, given me a Follow Friday on Twitter or even just had a curious glance at the the kind of stuff I've been posting in the three and a bit months that it has been in existence for. It is all down to you guys that I get the confidence and determination to carry on writing, and I am so incredibly grateful to every single one of those 1,000 views I have now received. So here's to another thousand, and another thousand after that and fingers crossed that maybe one day it won't just be the blog that's getting 1,000+ views, but the book itself. This post is dedicated to all of you, thank you for all of your support and encouragement.

Peace. x

What's Actually Going On Here?

When I tell people that I've written a book, the first response I get is more often than not:

'Really?! What's it about?'

And I can tell you that pretty much 99.9% of the time, my response is:

'Oh, I don't really like to tell people.'

Cue rapid change of topic. However recently it's been crossing my mind that one day soon I'm going to have to let slip somehow, otherwise how can I progress any further with the publicising of the book or indeed gaining any interest from potential publishers or agents. (Okay, admittedly that part is a long shot, but I'm keeping my fingers crossed for a best case scenario here.) And not to mention certain people I know pestering me for a full synopsis. So without trying to give too much away, and after a great deal of consideration, I'm about to reveal to you, potential future readers, exactly what kind of a story you're in for. Recognise anything in the plot you like? Let me know, I'm always open for feedback!! :)

(The angle I'm going for is 'clichéd cheesy-film-synopsis.' Just to warn you.)

So the story begins with a girl called Anna and her best friend Sam (See Chapter One) lying in a boat. Just your typical last-afternoon-of-the-summer for two particularly bored teenagers. Then Sam suggests to go over to the other side of the lake: a venture that previously has been kept from the pair. Everyone knows you're not meant to go over there, but nobody exactly knows why. After much persuasion, Anna finally gives in, and the pair find themselves standing at the edge of quite possibly the most dangerous situation they've ever been in. The large unexpected pit that they come across in the middle of the forest feels eerily out of place and it isn't long before it feels like they're running for their life back to the boat and back to town. They swear never to mention what happened over at the pit to anyone, but it isn't long before things start to happen in their town. Anna's mind is plagued with dreams and flashbacks to that afternoon: that, and a recurring phrase. Who (or what) exactly are the Dark Assembly? After meticulously trawling the internet for any information, the only other recognition of them is from the mysterious girl that turns up at Anna's window in the middle of the night with a request. Cue the appearance of a VW bus loaded down with enough weapons to sink a battleship, and her once stable small town life will never be the same again as she finds out what actually happened at the pit, and why the Dark Assembly are such an integral part of it. From here onwards, Anna's life is turned completely upside down as she tries to come to terms with how reality is different from how she'd previously perceived it. When she leaves town, things become even more dangerous as she delves deeper into the world of the Dark Assembly and finally realises the true extent of what happened and the impact it has made on her life. 

So that took a lot for me to write out for you, seriously if anyone has been checking my Twitter carefully, this post has been in the drafting stages for at least three weeks. I hope this appeals to some of you out there: and let's hope that this post can boost my blog views up to 1,000 by tonight.

Peace. x

Requiem (A Writing Burst)

(Whilst doing this writing burst, our lecturer Jo played the main theme to the film Requiem For A Dream - link here - as a source of inspiration. As a fan of classical music, I really enjoyed this technique, and hope to be able to compile a soundtrack to accompany my book - watch this space!!)

I'm running. Where to matters not to anyone, not even me right now, the only goal to me: my only significance is that I keep going. Keep going until the friction in my body reaches a peak and my lungs burst out into a scarlet flame with the heat of overwork. I risk a glance behind me. I can't quite see them, but fuck, I sure as hell know they're behind calculating my every move.

Things escalate. Dingy dark back-streets morph into a hall of mirrors. Everywhere I turn, I see the sick reflection of myself: beaten, bruised and exhausted contained within a thousand silver framed walls. A noise signals that my time to pause has been cut short. They're here too. I dart down into the path of the maze and plunge into the heart of what could be one of the most dangerous decisions of my life. There's no time to think however; I have no choice.

Each turn promises a new way out, and with each turn I'm disappointed. They're close now: I can feel the soft thrill of the chase that lingers on their breath hot on my neck. I dare not look back for fear that that single moment of a pause could lead me imminently to my doom. This thought catches me unaware. I stumble. The ground looms up towards me, and I feel the sharp stab of defeat piercing my thoughts. I've lost. This is the end.

Staring Out At The Sea (A Writing Burst)

(This writing burst was to be Inspired by surrealist pictures. The painting Julie handed out to me is by Belgian surrealist artist René Magritte and is entitled 'Decalcomania.' I decided to give this one a mysterious melancholy tone to reflect the ambiguous nature of surrealism.)

Staring out at the sea, now he’s here the introspective reflection of his mind is spurred onwards into overdrive. What exactly is it that is out there on the periphery? What kind of nonsensical otherworldly wonders would he find just beyond the limits of what the eye can see, he asks himself.

Surely there is more to the sea than the ocean. He stands in silence: a solitary insignificant black smudge on the horizon to any other viewpoint than his own. The ocean, he concludes, is such an allusion to his own version of the reality that is his life itself – at present so still and calm , yet at the same time ever-changing after the single moment of time in which he is living in has passed. An infinity of minute details underneath the currently tranquil composed surface. Anything could be happening in the depths of this unexplored utopia: a thought his mind finds strenuous to comprehend. The choice he has yet to make ripples through his stream of consciousness once more. Yes or no. In clear black and white, the two different futures spread out ahead of him like two distinct paths: he is standing stock still at the crossroad.

Like a play. Like two different states of mind; the contradictory state of reality being much more like what he has watched onstage than its counterpart of sitting in that theatre. Like life is all one great show in which the living postulate their outward exterior to such great extents that what is underneath this surface act is forgotten. It is all an act: he knows this too well.

A new thought penetrates his mind. The melancholy white noise of possibility interweaved with the conflicting probability is all that plays around his head: like a picture split down the middle showing the two different outcomes of this particular choice, he stands for a timeless age thinking. So if this life is indeed a play: what if it was, say, to be cut, he wonders. Removing a single fragment of its internal structure by taking himself out of the picture (His existence he has already deemed to be as meaningless as the next man): would it fall and crash down as a failure without that single missing piece? Or as that old cliché goes: must the show go on regardless, without him?

His mind made up, he doesn’t linger to find out.

Beatnik Generation (A Writing Burst)

(Inspired by the Beats movement of 1950s America. Before you start to assume I'm a bad writer, all grammatical and structural mistakes ARE intentional. Also, a warning: this piece contains adult language and themes, parental guidance required...)

Welcome to jazz club... nice. Dingy, dirty, dark smoky little shitehole around the back alley of someone else's front door facade. Jazz isn't nobody's preferred admittable taste in life, but then again, I doubt any of these no-good messed up junkie whores got here with any resistance to it. Pulls you in like some smoky great monster until you're sat around here doing fuck all and just breathing in the atmosphere until it chokes your lungs with the purple haze of a million beat down musicians and artists and no-good working ladies of the night ready to strike their next hit and crooks or criminals looking to score their latest load. In short, it's not the kinda place your average everyday middle class man would chance upon on a business trip.

Dark corners and flickering blue strip lights are the only distinct features of this little corner of paradise - everything else is obscured by darkness and dripping with hazy thick smoke coming from the mouths of these other no-good Joes next to me. The women here are all the same caressing the night air with heavy sickly to mask their state of poverty but mixed with the musky ash coming from the end of their cigarettes, it isn't pleasant one bit to a nose more accustomed to something a little less... fragrant, shall we say?

Its only redeeming quality is the beautiful stream of music that somehow billows around the fog and haze of the noxious smog of the room like a sweet redemption and rebirth of beauty, no sound has ever felt so pure than a sax pulsating through the night overlaid with a walking bassline that acts as motivation to make us plod through the very infinite working of existence and onwards into uncertainty. The saxophone makes for beautiful ambience when juxtaposed with our beatnik audience he plays to, all us "scum-of-society" "hippie" "fags" who "can't-catch-a-fucking-break-and-should-be-locked-away-in-the-fucking-workhouse." As you can see, we're not accepted round here.

About An Apple (A Writing Burst)

(Inspired by Julie, our lecturer, handing out various objects for us to write about. I got handed a slightly mouldy Granny Smith apple and felt like doing something completely different to my usual prose-centered style.)

Once scarlet,
(Blood red, now the colour of decaying dreams, mottled aesthetic imperfections)
And dewey crisp green underneath,
(The colour of envy, rage, fresh new days with fresh new starts)
:
It is the very epitomy of poison,
Innocent as the beautiful snowy white winter's morning
Yet at the same time,
An image,
A false idol
Of innocence lost
In a garden somewhere.

Aged imperfections on the surface are the
Only clues to the symbolic significance of this
Devil's fruit.

A clever disguise.

An Update On The World Of Writing

So as some of you may have noticed, my activity here recently has been lacking. Not necessarily because I am writing less frequently, but because the majority of things that I am writing these days are connected to my creative writing course at uni. And as I have been sat here trying to perfect my book synopsis for all of you for at least a week, the work that I've been doing towards the blog has been based around that particular post (I promise to you now that it's coming soon, so all you inquisitive readers out there won't have to wait for much longer!!). Subsequently this means as a consequence I haven't been focusing on writing or planning any other posts.

Basically, what I'm trying to say is that from now on, I have decided that whilst the book is being perfected and followers are being gained on the twitter account, I shall also be posting on here some of the short pieces that I write during our "writing bursts" on my creative writing course. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the term, writing bursts are ten minutes of pure solid creativity from a stimulus given by the lecturer: one has to continue from where that thought is left off. Ten minutes with no revisions and little thought going into any form of editing at all. The only focus is simply the desire to constantly keep writing.

My decision to do this is based around my desire to keep the blog going with regular posts to draw in more and more interest in what I write. I hope that you enjoy the variety of styles and genres that are coming your way: remember if you like what you see, tell people... Especially me!! I love any kind of feedback that's thrown at me, good or bad, constructive or otherwise. Enjoy!! :)

Peace. x

Time To Die

It does not take a significant amount of emotion to dredge up the memories of the initial occasion I made contact with the eyes of my executioner. I recall them, clearer than daylight: incomprehensible unforgiving grey-blue pools of eternity, framed solidly by matching lines of golden brown eyelashes that, in any other situation would conflicted and clashed in the presence of my own eyes. However in this instance, they seemed to fit together like pieces of some overly-eccentric puzzle, as though in some warped way, the contrasting colour combination was lazily premeditated. And of course, within conforming to the archetypal stereotype; his skin was riddled with a maze of freckles, forming mysterious constellations that foretold a future riddled with the threat (or could that be promise) of no specific pathway or direction. They say that the eyes are the window to the soul: in this instance, his soul was equivocal, suppressing any intrusion from outward influence. It was as if he didn’t want to let anyone in. Those were the only aesthetics that I remember to begin with. If anything, they are the only aesthetics that truly matter.

Our first meeting had been ritual: the typical exchange of introductory greetings, and then, with a response that sealed my destiny, a simple sentence formulated from my own curious subconscious desires. The question. He laughed, shrugged it off; his face revealing the nonchalant dismissive frame of mind that I have become so used to these days. Nothing more than the ghost of a smile began to curl the corner of his lips, breaking apart his previously jaded expression. Simultaneous to this remark, those eyes casually grazed my dark silhouette as I retaliated: taking in my smart, yet conventional appearance so carefully chosen to conceal any form of individuality a person was to possess. Factoring appearance alone, I was a lone sheep in the midst of a herd. Nonetheless, every herd has its black sheep, and it was clear from the beginning that my fate was different from the others n this cited position.

There it was.

The beginning.

Time passes in the prison. The flutter of a butterfly’s wings could have been lengthier for all I was aware of, or indeed, concerned about. As days melted seamlessly into weeks, he steadily infiltrated my time spent in confinement by stealing whatever chance he could get to find conversation. Inevitably, by this constant desire for dialogue, we drew ever closer, the lines binding us to our once frangible lives becoming less defined and more interweaved the nearer we ventured towards the penultimate pages of our ‘ever-so-troubled’ tragic... solitary stories. The date was set for the end – I would even endeavour warily to say that I had anticipated from that first moment what was to happen. Like a grotesque clichéd tragedy, the future was damned even before it had begun. He would bring about the end of this era.

Time passed in the prison. The date tip-toed ever nearer: its enticing possibilities seeping effortlessly into the cracks in my selectively private existence. I had a troubled past, and knew that this was almost solely the factor behind the inevitable future that I was destined to face. My thoughts once more returning to him (as they so often did these days), I could deduce that from the stories he’d recounted to me as I sat in my virtual cell, our lives were mirrored in the ways that we had both surmounted (or so at that point, I wanted to pretend) our own demons. So similar in fact, that he mused the information himself, with the same arrogant smile playing on the corner of his rough-looking face.

That face. You could call it beautiful in an almost twisted way. My favourite facet of his multifarious existence was the way those eyes peered out from under a velvety waterfall of auburn hair whilst concentrating intently on any form of trivial activity – I studied avidly from the side of my ever-nearing prison walls at the way he deliberated the unblemished surfaces of snooker balls on the smooth velvet table in front of us. We played Snooker: a simplistic coincidental allegory to the game that was beginning to enslave any conscious thoughts in the tortured chambers of my own mind.

On the night we knew it was to happen – death – the termination of my angst-ridden existence, my heart resembled that of a hummingbird’s: beating out an over-exaggerated rhythm against the concrete walls of my heaving chest. My body felt like it was finally breaking free of the bonds that had restrained it for so long – there was almost a sense of sickness and nausea present in my voice, let alone my head.

I had almost wanted to be in some mindless form of stupor as he made it happen, and I had no trouble in achieving this, considering the copious amounts of... yes, mind-numbing substances shall we say? I had wanted the end to be instantaneous and clear-cut, and there was nothing more I could have done to ensure this. He willingly accepted my request, and my thirst was satisfied – I was assuming that he too had wanted the end to be particularly swift on his part. The emotional attachment that we had built up over these past few weeks was finally working up to my advantage.

It could have easily been the sound of the blood pounding in my ears, but I could hear the faint drum beats resonating around my head as I seized those fateful steps towards the end. Away from the only forms of safety and security that I had ever had the fortune of knowing. Away even, from him. For the moment anyway. I had known deep inside my unfathomable soul that he was pursuing me – even when I ran, he followed, and there was nothing I could have ever attempted to escape his muscular arms. I was caught, and pulled back to the place where I was fated to be.

Falling. Falling as a result of the gyrating mess that my head had become: a head that was now comfortably resting on the rich earthy ground. The dark soil below me had smeared itself on my face as I lay there and awaited his presence for an indefinite amount of time, not quite knowing at this point where this would take me. Almost in two distinguishable personae – the so-called ‘sober; girl inside: careful and prudent, and her reckless counterpart that the presence of alcohol had so easily procured – I waited.

He was next to me. I could sense his hot sticky breath encountering the skin on my neck, casually feathering down the back of my dark hood – so close to my own shivering figure. For once, this proximity was physical in addition to emotional, given that I had never before let anyone venture this close in my meagre short existence. Looking back, I’d gather that this was possibly one of the reasons I had walked so easily into the trap. I listened to his voice for a blurred interlude. He explained himself. Words that, even in my state of intoxication, I understood. And then... the three words. Interpreted loosely as “Time to die.”

That was the moment.

The moment.

Our Moment.

All in those few seconds, everything that my life had been directed towards ever since that fateful day back when, in trepidation, I first condemned my fate with that frank question was finally beginning to happen. A prospect I had repeatedly imagined, yet never really conceded as truth.

I flicked my eyes up and for a brief few milliseconds, the two pairs synchronised for the first time. In the dusky light of a half moon, they were nothing but two reflections of a distant fire that was burning behind us. But it didn’t matter that I couldn’t see the very colour of perfection I knew they hid, and as he leaned in closer to deliver the final swift move that signified the end, I closed my own eyes in anticipation: it was almost too perfect, almost too typical of the moment. There was a pause: a brief hiatus in which neither of us spoke a single utterance, and all I could feel was the scarlet heat of the blood coursing through my head in the face of impending doom; the cool damp dirt against my flushed visage. And then...

And then he pressed his soft warm lips to mine, meeting them at the exact moment any threads connecting either of us to another individual on this earth were severed. Nothing mattered in the world other than him for those few beautiful moments that I could use to forget everything I realised that I would one day have to return to. Consumed by an ecstasy of temporary amnesia... bliss.

My fate. Sealed with Love’s first fatal kiss. And I would come quietly. 

It's Late, And I Can't Sleep (Something Different)

It's ten past two in the morning here, and unusually for me, I'm finding it very difficult to muster up the willpower to actually get into bed, turn off the lights and succumb to the land of nod. So instead of crossing the hallway and raiding the fridge yet again, I remembered a conversation I had with one of my flatmates earlier about a certain blog of mine, and his scepticism about my current target Twitter following of 500 people. After much debate, we not only came to the conclusion that I need to blog more, but that I need to go to a greater degree of diversity with what I post on here in regards to the actual works of creative writing. And it got me thinking: the book isn't the only writing that I work on (after all, I am on a Creative Writing university course...), so why should I restrict myself to simply just book-related extracts?

So here we go, because really at this hour, I've got nothing better to do than waffle on online to a select audience of faceless strangers. What I'm about to post is my A Level English Language coursework: a piece that has been through such vigorous editing and analysis that I'm actually quite proud to present it as a standalone short piece of writing. (I hasten to add that this extract has absolutely nothing to do with the book in any way.) Enjoy.

Peace. x

What Happens Next...

So it's been a while since I posted Chapter One, and I've been thinking: I've not had a great deal of blog traffic in the past couple of weeks, so what can I do to make things a little more exciting; what kind of a motivation can I give people to spice things up and entice them towards checking The Story Of A Book out? I debated freebies, live webcam sessions - pretty much all your generic promotional ideas. Then I realised I probably don't have enough followers to merit that level of publication (and am not yet actually in possession of a fully/functioning webcam), so I settled with a new idea: the next step in getting this blog places.

Here it is then: Five hundred twitter followers, and I'll post Chapter Two. Simple, yet effective. It worked with the last one, and that was from scratch, so hopefully this won't be quite as difficult. Five hundred people following @thestoryofabook on Twitter, that's all it'll take.

Getting there? As ever, I'll push it: read and share. Doesn't even matter how - websites or online blogs (Hi Lewis if you're reading this), Twitter, word of mouth... Heck, even graffiti it on the back of toilet doors for all I care. (Okay, I'm joking about that, vandalism is frowned upon in modern society. Don't do it kids, it's not cool.) Just help me to get it out there, and maybe you never know, something magical could happen.

Peace. x

A Brief Hiatus From Blogging (I'M SORRY!!)

I guess I'm due an apology for what I think is around two weeks with nothing on the blog and a minuscule amount of activity on twitter. Or at the very least, an explanation. But exciting things have been developing in my absence from the social networking sphere, so even though I've not been online as much, that doesn't necessarily mean that my writing has come to a standstill too.

So you may have been wondering what's been going on around here to make my life so incredibly busy that I can't spare half an hour or so to orchestrate a blog post? For those of you that don't know already, I'm only eighteen, and therefore the further education of university has been calling out to me for some time. To cut a riveting and exciting story short (think too much Jaegermeister, midnight trips to kebab houses and trying to remix the Pokemon theme tune so it fits to an Iron Maiden drum riff), after an eventful freshers week - that isn't even over yet - tomorrow my first creative writing lecture begins, and I will officially be a poor university student living off takeaways and packets of noodles.

Enough of the partying though, what about the writing side of things then? Well, I guess there's three things really:
1) A girl I met has a sister who is a published author and said she'd give me the details of the publishers and agents her sister used. Okay, that's pretty cool.
2) One of my closest friends has just acquired a deal to publish his very first children's book. Even cooler.

And finally (my favourite)...
3) Whilst sat in a cafe with my mum the other day, we came across the parent of some of the children she used to teach in one of her old schools. A woman who is none other than Harriet Goodwin; author of The Boy Who Fell Down Exit 43, The Hex Factor and a couple of other books for children. Now obviously, being a wannabe writer, I pretty much attacked her straight away with questions about the writing processes, and how she managed to get published (check out her website, http://www.harrietgoodwinbooks.com/) and after much conversing, not only did she recommend me the editors she used, but also she told me I could get in touch any time I needed some advice. Now if that's not an amazing thing to happen, I don't know what is.

So there you have it, the amazing adventures of Jennifer Claire Bunn of the past two weeks. Normal blogging service will resume as soon as possible... Maybe when this hangover has died down. If you're interested, share this with your friends, keep checking back here for more, tweet me: I'm always looking for feedback and people to get in touch. I'm nice, promise!!

Peace. x

Chapter One

Life is perfect. There is nothing at all in the world that can change that. Nothing at all. It’s the last day of summer, and with a blue sky, mirrored in the water of the lake, lush green trees that sway even in the non-existent breeze and a small old-fashioned blue rowing boat everything seems as it should be. My best friend Sam is smiling, lounging back in the boat, his old aviator sunglasses reflecting the glare from the sun and faded red converse lying discarded next to the empty bowl of pasta salad that we ate for lunch. The boat, practically an antique, has seen its fair share of rowing trips and this time is no different. Just me and Sam escaping the summer heat, alone together.  Even though I’ve only known him for three years, we’re that close that people always refer to us in the plural – Anna and Sam it’s always been and always will be. They all say that you don’t get one without the other. He’s my best friend and I know that I can confide all but one thing in him.

“Pass us another malteaser.” He groans, and I chuck one at his face, knowing that somehow it will end up in his mouth. I’ve overshot and it lands in his sandy hair, catching him by surprise.

“No wonder you’re not on the netball team,” he mutters, plucking the chocolate out of his hair and into his mouth. “- you throw like a girl.”

“Well in case you hadn’t noticed, stupid, I am a girl. Like it or not.” I respond playfully and he looks up, pulling the sunglasses off his head.

“I do like it. It makes teasing you so much easier.” He laughs and I chuck another malteaser at his head, missing completely this time and I hear it land with a splash in the lake. Sam takes advantage of my distraction and lunges for me and I’m at the mercy of my very own Mr Tickle.

“Stop it, stop it!!” I squeal like a little kid, the boat rocking almost dangerously beneath us. He smiles and lets go, looking back at me, hands poised for another bout of the tickling torture. He waits for a moment, those sky blue eyes staring at me for a second, as if deliberating what to say.

“Can’t believe it’s the end of summer already.” He finally complains, a nostalgic look crossing his face. “There’s so many things I wanted to do...”

“Like what?” I question him. “We’ve done loads over the past two and a half months. Glastonbury, camping out at Zac’s, our first proper gig, London... and what about all these days out on the lake...”

“Hey, I never said I didn’t enjoy them.” He protests, giving me a playful shove. “But we could have had so many more days like them.”

“Well go on then...” I begin. “You tell me... It’s the last day of freedom; got anything you have a burning desire to do?”

I study his face at his silent response, not quite sure why a sudden devious smile has surfaced.

“What?” I venture when he doesn’t reply.

“Anything?” He repeats, raising a perfect blonde eyebrow.

“What are you implying?” I ask cautiously.

“Well there is one thing.... and I’ve wanted to do it for ages-“

“So spill it, you loser.” I interrupt him again, throwing my last Malteser at his face. From this short range, it actually hits him.

“I want to go over to the other side of the lake.” He says finally, picking up the chocolate and popping it into his mouth, as if what he had just said wasn’t so much of a big deal to anyone. I stare at him, slightly open mouthed at his revelation. When I finally overcome the shock revelation, I pick up another sweet – a jelly baby this time – and throw it at him again.

“Hey, don’t waste the orange ones!” He complains.

“Sam you know why we can’t do that; our parents would kill us!” I splutter.

The other side of the lake - my parents have always said – is out of bounds. To any of us. Sam’s parents have told him the same. As it seems, every single person in our town has accepted this as fact, and I don’t think I’ve ever come across anyone who has been over there, let alone talked about it. Come to think of it though, as far as I can remember, nobody has ever expressed a reason why the distant shores are forbidden – I’d always just taken it as a generally accepted fact.

“So we don’t let them find out.” He says simply. “Think about it Anna: It’s the last day of the summer, before we have to go back to boring old normality. Don’t you want these amazing past few weeks to end with something we’ve never done before? Come on, we can go out with a bang.” His face changes from the scheming expression from earlier to a more genuine half smile that plays about the corners of his mouth as he says this. I look at him for a long moment then sigh exasperatedly. With those perfect blue eyes wide open, and sunglasses pushed back on top of his sun-bleached hair, he’s always been able to win me over like this.

“Just make sure we don’t tell anyone. And that if there’s anything over there that freaks me out...” I trail off my warning tone as he gets up to take the oars, grinning now from ear to ear.

We continue to make the slow journey over there, the rhythmic sounds of the oars like the apprehensive drumbeat before an execution – the calm before the storm. The greenery is different here, less welcoming and it’s eerily silent, even for a forest. The water darkens underneath us and we go from being able to stand up easily on the bottom of the lake to not even being able to see the floor.

“I don’t get why you even want to go over here. I mean, what are you expecting to find, buried treasure or something?” I ask incredulously.

“Curiosity, my dear Anna.” He replies, taking on a mocking Sherlock Holmes impression. “One can never discover the true nature of this world without a little investigation.”

“Huh, curiosity killed the cat.” I murmur under my breath, He gives me a sarcastic look.

“Why do you think we’re not allowed over there anyway?” Sam asks casually, with a slight hint of excitement, as if he’s wanted to have this conversation for a long while. I take a look around at the approaching shore - it’s a foreboding shade of dark grey - and ignore his question, still clocking all the details of the surroundings. Its elegant almost, each tree with its own individual withered shape, each rock on the shoreline carrying the same monotone colourings. I guess that it all could be almost beautiful in its own twisted way. We reach the grey beach and Sam jumps ship impatiently, tugging at my sleeve so that we can pull the boat up. I step out hesitantly and together we drag it behind a rock.

“Exploration time.” He states, turning to look at me. “Or would you prefer to get back into the boat and row back to our crappy little town.” He catches sight of my expression. “Christ Anna, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I just don’t feel like we really should be here. It’s…” The explanation sounds weak, but I say it anyway “I’ve got a bad feeling about this Sam. I really don’t think this is a good idea. It’s creepy. Our parents probably had a good reason for keeping us away and, like it or not, I trust them.”

He turns to look at me, sunglasses pushed back into his tousled movie-star hair.  I’ve always thought he was insanely attractive, but when it comes to it, I’ve never ever had the guts to tell him to his face and mean it: making it the one and only secret I’ve ever kept from him. I see a smile creep onto his lips and he takes my hand in his. I’m putty in-between them.

“Look Anna. I understand if you don’t want to have a look around. But seriously…” He pauses and looks into my eyes. “… Think about it. We never know what we might find over here. Anyway, what’s life without a bit of risk? Let out that inner rebel. I’m gonna be here with you holding your hand. I promise that I’ll look after you if anything goes wrong.” He smiles, knowing from my wordless sigh that I’ve been won over, and we begin to walk into the trees, a feeling of dread building in my stomach.

The forest is dark and gloomy, with moss covering every tree stump, rock or fallen branch. We pick our way through the hard earthy floor, a pair of converse and flip-flops, both trying desperately not to get caked in mud. We fail miserably. For what could be an hour we continue to trudge in a steady line, Sam continually debating the possibilities of what we are going to find. I mostly stay quiet, letting him excitedly talk for the both of us: considering everything we could encounter over here. To be honest, I’m scared. My parents always seemed incredibly wary of this side of the lake, if not scared themselves, and somehow I know that there must be a reasonable excuse for this, a reasonable explanation behind the taboo that is the other side of the lake.

“Anna, stop.” Sam holds his hand out suddenly, and I stumble. In the midst of his talking I hadn’t realised where he had been leading us. We’re standing at the edge of a large clearing, almost completely empty. Almost. The clearing itself doesn’t look in the least bit different from the rest of the forest: dark, dingy and unearthly quiet. But it’s the colossal pit in the centre that really seems to radiate a certain sense of unease. To say that it’s enormous would perhaps be an understatement. Three of our school’s playing fields could easily fit into its diameter. The sheer precipice that lies feet in front of us is comprised of a cold grey rock that stretches down for a few metres. Beyond that however, the pit is completely shrouded in a deep grey mist. It could be a mile deep, but nothing penetrates the still mist beyond a few metres.  There’s no sign of civilisation or life at all. No animals or birds in sight.

“Wow” breathes Sam. “That’s one big pit.”

I’m too scared to say anything. Something about the pit, whether it’s the size, or the colour, completely freaks me out. The more I gaze down into it, the more depressed I begin to feel. It seems to radiate hopelessness, a never ending fissure of sadness. I see Sam next to me pick up a pebble and toss it lazily downwards. It soars through the smoke in a great arc and disappears. We wait together in silence, anticipating the noise of the pebble smashing on the bottom, but the sound never comes.

“Wow” Sam repeats. “That’s one deep pit.”

We laugh awkwardly, but the despair of the pit seems to cut short my happiness. In an attempt to combat this, I pick up another pebble, larger this time and throw it into the smoke. Sam turns and walked off a few paces. I open my mouth ready to call him back, to save me from the chill of the pit, but he’s back before any noise could escape. In his hands, he holds a small, moss-covered boulder, the size of a large cat.

“Let’s see how much noise this baby makes.” He smiles again and heaves the boulder over to the side of the cliff. It rolls through the smoke and we listen again for the noise but once more, silence.

“Well, it’s either so incredibly deep that we can’t even hear an echo, or lined with feathers to muffle the sound.” His attempt at a joke is, as ever, pathetic. We stand staring at the pit for a few more moments, taking in the distant far side, and trying to make out shapes within the mist. Eventually, Sam looks down at his watch.

“I think we should go; it’s been ages and mum’s making Bolognese for tea tonight.” There’s a slight hint of a worried tone to his voice, the Bolognese merely an excuse to get away from the cold. The pit, although it doesn’t seem to affect him as much as me, still appears to have a hold upon him too. We turn to leave and are just about to reach the trees again when a noise comes from behind us. It’s the sound of rocks sliding over one another, as if the minor pebbles that we’d thrown in have caused an avalanche. We turn round, with no idea of what kind of a sight would greet our eyes. There seems to be no visible effect on the pit, apart from the smoke curling upwards where the rocks pierced the carpet of grey. Following the noise of the rock, comes a creaking sound and then, the final noise that chills me to the bone, a sound that haunts my darkest nightmares, a sound that I only have to think about before I break into a sweat; a cold voice, cracked and cruel as if it has not been used since the dawn of time. Laughing.

My legs are rooted to the spot. Movement seems impossible. The voice has caused my whole body to seize up in terror and when I try to get away it feels as though I’m stuck in quicksand.

“Anna.” Sam’s scream penetrates my frozen stature. He turns to me, a look of shock crossing his face. In an instant, the spell breaks and I can tell that we’re thinking exactly the same thing. We begin to run away from the clearing, without even turning back to look for the owner of the voice. I can feel the chill of the pit rising, even though we’re bolting away from it at lightening speed. Its cold fingers grip at my throat and heart, but I resist them, concentrating fully on escaping. Sam’s running beside me, his legs hurdling every fallen tree, every moss covered stump. We reach the boat at the same time and to our relief it’s still in the same position that we left it. As quick as possible, we drag it out onto the lake and jump on, each grabbing an oar, rowing as fast as our arms will allow.

“What… the bloody hell was that?” Sam asks, his voice, usually chilled and relaxed, the most stressed out I have ever heard it.

“I don’t know.” I whinge, clutching my oar so tightly now that the knuckles on my left hand turn white under the strain. We continue rowing at top speed, not even pausing for breath.

The sky, I suddenly notice, is darkening around us. The wind is picking up, rippling the surface of the lake. It’s suddenly very wintery for the middle of August. Once we’re back within sight of the small beach on our side of the lake, Sam stops rowing finally, his breath coming in short sharp pants.

“Anna.” He looks gravely at me and I understand almost immediately what he’s about to say before he says it. “You can’t tell anyone about that. Not even your family. Especially not your family, or mine either. We’ve done something to that pit, something that’s made it have a massive avalanche or something, but if we’ve caused an accident I don’t want anyone to find out, understand?”

“You know I would never tell.” I protest and Sam’s about to interrupt, but I continue speaking, talking over him. “But Sam… there was something freaky about that pit. Call me crazy or whatever, but I definitely heard something back there. Don’t try to convince me I didn’t because I know you heard it too. There was no one in the forest around us, or we would have heard them Sam, wouldn’t we? And the only place I can think of that it could have come from was in the midst of all that mist... in the pit. Believe me; I have such a bad feeling about whoever... or whatever it could have been.”

“I never said I didn’t hear anything.” He protests. “I don’t know what we’ve done over there, but if it’s something bad, I just don’t want it to be traced back to us. So if anyone asks... we’ve been on the lake all day.”

“And we came back early because of the weather, right?” I finish his sentence in the same way I’ve been doing for the past three years. “This isn’t usual weather for August, and we don’t have an umbrella.” The slight hysterical note in my suggestion is a result of the short vocal track that’s replaying in my mind. Despite the far-fetched excuse, I’m still speaking the truth, because now there’s a gale blowing and I can hear the thunder, rumbling off in the distance. It’s also turned freezing cold, a complete contrast to the boiling heat that there was earlier this morning. There’s a storm brewing somewhere, and I know that it will be barely minutes before the rain reaches us.

“Okay, now I think you’re crazy.” He ponders. “But it’s the best I can think of right now...” There’s an awkward silence between the two of us, in which there’s another rumble of thunder, louder this time. The first of the raindrops drops down into the boat between us.

 “Do you think that we’ve like... awoken something? Do you reckon that, whatever was in that pit is evil and is coming to get us?” Everything is so serious until that last sentence, but the slight smile that penetrates Sam’s face makes me laugh and it’s not long before both of us are in hysterics, laughing over our own stupidity. Of course there’s nothing in the pit that’s going to hurt us. It’s just something stupid, like we’ve dislodged a couple of boulders or whatever. And the laughter… it’s got to be a figment of my imagination. I’m almost positive that I’ve imagined it, or that the noise was simply a by-product of the avalanche we caused, a mental over-exaggeration of the sound of falling rocks. But as I relive the harsh tone of it, a shiver ripples down my spine. Despite trying to convince myself that I imagined it, I can’t help but feel unnerved the one unexplainable factor to our escapade. Sam seems to have cheered up, and has dismissed the laughter as part of our overactive imaginations, his expression a little less tense now we’re back on our side of the lake. As we put the boat away in the ramshackle wooden hut by the side of the lake, my mind is somewhere else, back at the pit, wondering what on earth we could have done.

(Find Chapter Two here)

A Little Introduction Before All The Exciting Stuff Happens

So I reached 200 followers on Twitter (Yay!!) and as promised, the first chapter is in the stages of being posted here very very soon.

Just as a pre-revelation warning (it's not that bad, I promise you!!) I'd just like to point out that the classic method of copyrighting this chapter by posting it to myself has been undertaken, so anyone wishing to potentially steal my work, YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!

Basically, what you are about to read is the first chapter of a full length novel that has taken up the best part of four years to achieve second-draft stage. The first chapter is simply an introduction in which the scene and tone for the rest of the book is set; however for a particularly private person such as myself, allowing other people (let alone strangers from the Internet) to read my work has taken a great deal of courage.Therefore, all I ask of you is that if you have a problem with any of it, tell me in the nicest way you can. I'm always open to criticism (especially if it's constructive): indeed, any kind of comments are greatly appreciated - good or bad.

So without much further ado or any more pointless waffle from me, I'd like to simply get on with posting it. I hope you enjoy what you're about to read, and please, please, please let me know what you think of it.

Peace. x

The One With The Recurring Dream

Considering how close I am to reaching 200 followers, I thought I'd keep this short and sweet (and somehow not quite as heavily book-related as the others have been).

I've been having recurring dreams about a particular beautiful valley for several weeks now. Each one is from a different perspective (a different season, different viewpoint or time of day) but as far as I know, this place isn't actually a real place that I've ever visited or even heard of. It's never the same series of events that happen to lead me to it, I just find myself there; and each time I always feel notably tranquil and serene, as if there's no threat of potential negativity of any kind to occur.

So what I've been thinking is the possible inclusion of this particular location somewhere in a future part of book somehow - hence why I haven't gone into any details on specific visual aspects of my dream. Considering the plan of the first sequel is still not even a skeleton, I'm sure I'd be able to tailor events for its inclusion. Anyhow, before I start to go off on a dream-related tangent, I guess I'd better be saving the majority of my blog-posting energy for the big reveal of Chapter One. Keep your eyes peeled, it's so close now!!

Peace. x

A Spanner In The Works

It seems that the tone of each one of my blog posts is completely different from the last, and this one is no exception.

So this was originally going to be a post about how I went about creating the ever so endearing character of Anna Felicity Clarke: the main protagonist, however two things arose that threw that post completely off course. The first of which is quite typically writers block: instead of editing like I have been doing these past few months, I set about attempting to write a passage towards the sequel to the first book. The thing is, I knew exactly what I wanted to say, I just couldn't grasp how to put it into words or even begin to narrate it properly. The image is still there in my head, shifting around as if molten, but the action of translating it into readable, understandable words? Impossible.

The second spanner, if you will, is a little more unusual. One of the things I have maintained throughout everything of a fictional nature that I have ever written is that no character is directly based upon a real (living or otherwise) person. Sure, there maybe be similarities in some areas of their natures: odd little personality traits or quirks, or physical features, but no character is a real person, except for within the book. (Which for me merits as being real enough).

Enter Sam. A stranger I practically bumped into, and through an unusual turn of events managed to get to know quite well. And as I got to know him, I realised suddenly how very similar he is (uncannily, in fact) to a familiar character I seem to remember coming across before. Down from the same long blonde hair that flops over his eyes when he's trying to concentrate, past his weathered drummers hands and sarcastic sense of humour (that carefully masks a softer and more compassionate side) to a pair of tatty old converse on his feet. And spookily enough, even his first name is the same as that of Anna Felicity Clarke's best friend, drummer and partner in crime: Samuel Marcus Fitzpatrick. (Just as a side note, I don't always refer to every single character I create by their full names, but for the purpose of the first blog post to mention them, I feel some kind of a formal introduction is necessary).

So there we have it: someone I thought was completely fictional alive before my very eyes. (If he ever reads this, he'll think I'm completely crazy, and I'm really sorry Sam if you do ever find me again!!). It's made writing passages involving the Sam of my story a lot more difficult, because I'm trying so hard not to write about the Sam from my memory and instead about the one from inside my head... But I think it's an interesting twist of realism to know that Anna and Sam could indeed be real people out there, and it makes me feel so much more in touch with the potential reality of the storyline.

Another blog post so quickly over, and the twitter following is ever so close to the promised 200 that will yield Chapter 1 to the Internet. If you're reading this and you're interested, tell people: because I'm so close now, that your share or publicity could indeed be another step closer to having access to the first chapter. (Oh, and I swear that that promised post on character development WILL come, this one just took priority this time!!).

Peace. x

How It All Began...

Not all writers deliberately begin with the intention of writing a full length novel. James Patterson (yeah, him again... I like his books a great deal and owe a lot of inspirational credit to him for the first incarnation of the now-redundant prologue) first mentioned the character of Maximum Ride in another novel, and she stuck in his mind to such a degree, that her own series of books were created.

Mine starts with a computer. A barely-working old windows '98 model in a very fetching shade of grey. This was way before flat screens had completely replaced their more boxy predecessors, and as my parents upgraded to something a little less grey and a little more flat, I inherited their old modem. It was practically on its last legs, and the function of connecting to the Internet was just too complex for its ageing components. So what did I have on this computer with the exception of minesweeper, solitaire and the ever so addicting space pinball? I had MS Word 97.

I've always been a writer, even from the very early year five and year six classes in primary school, during which my nine/ten year-old mind was always whirring with plotlines, characters and narrative. I spent many evenings in bed listening to audiobooks, and when the tape had come to the end of its side, I would resist tuning it over and come up with my own works of fiction inside my head; often featuring a specific story that could go on for months and months at a time.

Anyway, back to the book. What I remember most about the beginning of my journey wasn't a deliberate intention of writing 75,000+ words. I was bored, as any teenager who lived in the middle of nowhere would be. Sat behind my trusty grey computer, I'd grown tired of space pinball and absent mindedly opened up Word without a second thought. I just remember thinking, "Okay Jenny, you're bored and you like writing... How about setting yourself a little short piece of descriptive writing task?" And the rest, as they say, is history.

The story somehow seemed to blossom. Names and ideas were cropping up everywhere; soon enough, I was somehow on chapter four, and all of a sudden, I could see paths opening up for the story to go down. It must have been only about twenty pages long, but back then, for a 13/14 year old, that was magic. Then, disaster struck. I can't quite remember what happened to the original first few chapters, and as hard as I try, I can never decide if they were lost when my faithful old computer blue-screened and crashed for a final time, or were simply rewritten to accommodate a less juvenile style of narrative. Whatever happened though, the first few chapters were completely changed, with many of the original ideas replaced: bar possibly the key theme and the so-called 'bad-guys.' All that remains of what was around back then is the prologue, which, funnily enough, I decided to remove altogether from the manuscript.

And so it snowballed. I got bought a laptop, and my writing quota peaked and then subsided again - sometimes I could write 2,000+ words a day for consecutive days, at other times, I went weeks without a single word or thought on the matter. But none of those months really count in the end, as finally... Finally, last December (2011) it was loosely stitched together in one word document for the first time ever. Only at a mere 68,000 words or so, it still needed much work doing to it. But that came later. Finished. I knew then more than ever before that writing was the only real direction that I wanted to take (other than music - but that's a very different dream!).

So there you go. The formation and growth of an idea. It wasn't complete when I started it, and it almost certainly isn't anywhere near completely finished now. But it's there. And before my tone ends up on that ever-so cheesy level of whimsical self-praising, another blog draws to an end. Remember, if you're liking what you're reading, tell people, or get in touch: all comments, promotions or even random greetings are accepted and replied to.

Peace. x

The 'Hard Work' Stage of Blogging (Or basically another post to entice people into checking out my blog)

So here we are, the second post, and I'm reliably informed that I've made it further than 50% of people that start a blog these days. It's several days after I started, and I'm already feeling the burning desire to just give up waiting until I get 200 followers on twitter before posting my first chapter - but patience is a virtue, so I'm sticking to it.

For my second post, I'd decided I was going to divulge more about the genre or general idea of the book. I'm not a fan of likening or comparing it to other works (because I would rather it became a benchmark of its own) but instead I think it would be appropriate to list some of my main sources of influence to give all you potential readers out there an idea of what you're letting yourselves in for. In no particular order:

The Percy Jackson series by Rick Riordan - This has been a firm favourite series of mine for a while now, and many of the storylines that revolve around travelling and quests have had a particular impact on some of the themes I've tried to connect with. Also the recurring Greek Gods and 'higher powers' of the books: many of which have both negatively and positively had an impact upon my own deity-like creations.

The Maximum Ride series by James Patterson - I've always loved how these novels were so fast paced, and that the action was so vivid and continuous throughout.

Darren Shan - The horror side of my work that I've tried to lace in alongside the reality.

Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows by J.K.Rowling - Again with the theme of travelling throughout, and need I even mention Rowling's genius when it comes to character development.

The Twilight series by Stephanie Meyer - Unfortunately, I have to give a great deal of credit to Meyer for the way she crafts the detail in her narrative. I'm not a huge fan, however I do admire the depth of detail she works with.

A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess - The last book I read; an amazing psychological exploration that I got through in three days - captivating!!

Cherri Bomb, Courage My Love, Hole, Orianthi, Paramore and We Are The In Crowd - Not actual works of fiction, but still a huge influence on the way in which I write. All of these names in rock music (be them young, old, classic stadium fillers or rising stars) share the common, female fronted theme. I've always admired a strong female frontwoman or guitarist within a band, and I've tried to emanate this fierce attitude in my somewhat reluctant protagonist (more on her later!) at various points throughout.

So before I go off on a music-based tangent, I guess I'll draw my second post to a close. Remember, if you're a fan of fiction that isn't geared towards the stereotypical teen vampire romance novel, or are sick of hearing about the pornographic raunchy romps of a charismatic businessman, spread the word: follow me on twitter, promote my account and check out the blog from time to time.

Peace. x

The First Post

Okay, I don't really know where to start with this... I guess an introduction is in order...

Hi there, I'm Jenny, and I write (and always have written) fiction for leisure. I've just finished the second draft of a novel which, for the first time with something I've completed, I feel could potentially go places (trying not to sound big-headed there!). Whilst on holiday recently, I read an article in a magazine about how to get yourself known as a writer and one of the ways in which was reccommended was through the internet: the stratosphere of blogging, twitter etc. So I came home, and thought about it for a while. The book as its first printed incarnation came into being in the form of my second complete draft, and I decided that now was a better time than ever to start up this blog. In no way is the novel finished or perfect, and I'm hoping that as my blogging progresses, so it will too. Basically, I'm planning on charting my journey of trying to become a published author through my blog.

If anyone's reading this, I'm assuming you're wondering what kind of a genre it is that I write for. I've never really discussed it with anyone I know before: I find it awkward talking to people that I'm close to, but then again, this is the internet, and we're all as anonymous as we want to be around here. I've always been particularly interested in 'fantasy' fiction - or anything with an aspect of magic or the paranormal/superhero/mythology to it. My book (as yet untitled) revolves around this particular idea. Without wanting to liken it to anything specifically, it's a: 

Travelling-in-a-VW-bus-fantasy-in-an-alternate-version-of-history-told-in-first-person-about-just-your-average-teenage-protagonist-guitarist-with-various-weapons-and-otherwise-trying-to-make-sense-of-what's-happened-to-her-whilst-running-from-the-'bad guys'-and-trying-not-to-get-caught-breaking-the-law-for-weapons-offences.

kind of book. 

There we go, I just sold it to you. Right there. So here it is; here's my blog. If you're interested, let me know, all messages returned. :)

Peace. x