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.