Pic of the Week . . . Hassansins

Hassansins were a group of feared Persian warriors between 1092 and 1265. Their order, Nizari Ismailis, captured many fortresses in the Middle East under the leadership of Hassan-i Sabbah, and their legends had a lot to do with their training and public missions, in which they were willing to give their lives to eliminate enemies. (Just watch Prince of Persia. You'll realise who they are . . .)

These were the first breed of assassins.

I love assassins. Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't like to meet one face to face, for surely that would mean they have business with me - but in the world of fiction our minds can work wonders. I love the whole dark mysticism that surrounds them, the power they hold, and the pain they must harbour despite supposedly being cold hearted. But that's just me.

I posted a Pic of the Week a while back that saw a piece of art from Assassin's Creed. I've never played the game, but the art work is stunning. I love the character. Anyway, flicking through yet more piccys of Assassin's Creed, I come across these. Something tells me they are done by the same artist, but I couldn't find who, so I decided to use both. These are two pieces supposedly depicting the real Hassansins.

Enjoy and have a good weekend!

The Perfect Writing Companion . . .

When you settle down to write, is there something that you always have to have with you? Like when students go for an test, they take in their lucky charm?

Ok, that may have been a bad example. You don't really need a lucky charm to just sit down and write. You just need your writer's brain and imagination. But you know what I mean.

When I sit down to write, besides having the appropriate music on (after spending hours of wasting time and trying to decide what to actually listen to) I have to have a drink - mainly a cup of tea. But it can't be just any cup of tea. It has to be made to a specific standard. It has to be strong but milky so that it has the perfect consistency. I can't look into it and see the remains of the water, but yet it shouldn't look like a mug of milk, either. It has to be just right. And I NEVER leave the tea bag in to stew (yes, I use teabags, not tea leaves. I is common.) I find when you do this the tea creates a film on top, and when I drink it, I imagine it to be lining my insides. (Random Fact: Did you know, if you have heart problems the doctors prefer you not to drink too much tea as the film does just that. It's not good.)

But this doesn't say I'm fussy when it comes to tea - oh Lord no. If someone offers me a cuppa, I'll happily accept and drink it with out worrying. But coffee, however, is a different matter. I rarely have coffee when I'm out because if it's not made to my standards I don't enjoy it. I like a heaped teaspoon of coffee, followed by a substantial amount of milk to compensate with the amount of coffee, and then followed by the water. If you pour the boiling water straight onto the coffee before adding the milk, it scolds the coffee and gives it a bitter taste. I don't know about anyone else, but I can taste it.

Anyway, another of my 'must-have-with-me's' is my cat. I find it comforting having her with me. If I'm curled up on the sofa with my laptop on my lap, she curls up next to me and purrs away while I type, and if I'm on my computer - which I am most of the day seeing as I work from home - then she sits either on the back of my chair or the computer desk between me and the monitor. Yes, she gets in the way sitting here, and I often struggle to see the tabs at the bottom of the screen, but again I like it so I work round her.

I do have to wonder though, whether she's jealous of the fact I sometimes pay the computer more attention than her and she just has to flaunt herself to remind me that she's there and needs some loving. Hmmm . . . jealous puddy cat . . .

Anyway, so these are just a few of my writing companions, and I tell you this because I can't think of anything else to blog. So what about you guys? Is there something that you have to have with you when writing?

To Write Or Not To Write . . . That Is The Question

Well, I want to write. I really do. But every time I open my WIP the words don't want to come. I don't know why. Is it writer's block? Or is it just my lazy streak being allowed more rein than usual?

I've been reading a lot of blogs just recently, as well as talking to fellow writer buddies, and they're saying the exact the same. They're going through a lull and their words just aren't flowing. Why not? Is there something in the air? Is there some conspiracy to stop writers writing? Maybe the Internet is getting so flooded with ebooks, 'they' (you know, thems) have decided to take drastic action to slow us down . . . or maybe it's just because Summer is here and people would rather spend their evenings out in the garden as opposed to cooped up at their work space.

Hmm . . . I know which theory I'd go for ;D

Or is it writer's block? I've gone from someone who couldn't put a pen down, to someone who can't be bothered to pick it up. My zessed for my WIP is still there, flowing strong. I dream and plot about it while laying in bed at night (oh, the words seem to flow without a problem then . . . grrr); I visualise my characters as if they're real people; I put them in other situations to see what they would do, hoping to get to know them better and get a feel of how their minds work.

And as usual, I'm thinking about the next installation in my world. I'm plotting, planning, visualising, building and creating . . . but I'm not writing. I'm so excited about my work that it confuses me why I'm having difficulties just sitting down and doing the deed.

Maybe I've just allowed myself to get too slack. One blog mentioned that once you get out of the habit of writing, it's hard to get back into it. Maybe that's what my problem is. I need to be more strict! I need assert my authority over myself, and tell myself that I'm not leaving this desk until I've written so many hundred/thousand words. Maybe I need to be taken and shackled to the whipping post outside my house and whipped back into shape . . . (gasp! maybe that's a bit too kinky)

Either that or can somebody please track 'thems' down and tell them to stop putting stuff in the air that prevents people from writing! Thank you!

Killing Off Characters . . .

We've recently lost a family member . . . as well as a highly valued blog follower . . . and yesterday we attended his funeral and gave him a good send off (why is it, when you concentrate really hard on not crying, you end up blubbering all over the place twice as bad? Good job my sister came equipped with a pack of tissues).

I didn't realise how big the family had grown. He left a grand total of 18 grandchildren. Some of these stood up at the funeral and read their own pieces in honour of his memory. That was the hardest part to listen to and watch when you're trying not to cry, but it was nice.

This got me thinking about death in writing. It's true what they say. You have to really hate the characters you write about. It's the hardest thing to recover from when you lose someone close to you, so why do we willingly put our characters through such pain? Why do we create someone for our protagonist to love and then cruelly rip them away - and sometimes, depending on the genre, in the most gruesome fashion?

I've created many characters who've had their lives shattered by the death of a loved one. I'd hate to meet them in person. God knows what fate they'd bestow upon me. But no matter how hard the subject is in real life, people still like reading about it in fiction.

It's called life. People can relate to it, and you can easily connect with readers using powerful, evocative emotions. By reading about a fictional death can make them realise how lucky they are to have the people they love in their lives - and make them remember those who have gone with a smile.

But I write fantasy and horror. I doubt whether some of my deaths will bring a smile to their face . . . lol . . . And I am, despite writing a piece at the moment, planning and conjuring the idea for my next manuscript which involves an assassin and, needless to say, lots of death. So I must be one wicked person . . .

Zen Teachings . . .

And Now For Something Completely Different . . . Again

Not a lot has been happening since I last posted (although I did receive another Blog Award, with which I will post another over-the-top-award-acceptance-speech again soon) but for today I'm going to share with you some Zen Teachings - something I was emailed this morning and that made me smile. I'm hoping to pass this smile on. It's a shame to waste such a thing.

ZEN TEACHINGS

1. Do not walk behind me, for I may not lead. Do not walk ahead of me, for I may not follow. Do not walk beside me for the path is narrow. In fact, just p**s off and leave me alone.

2. Sex is like air. It's not that important unless you aren't getting any.

3. No one is listening until you fart.

4. Always remember you're unique. Just like everyone else.

5. Never test the depth of the water with both feet.

6. If you think nobody cares whether you're alive or dead, try missing a couple of mortgage payments.

7. Before you criticize someone, you should walk a mile in their shoes. That way, when you criticize them, you're a mile away and you have their shoes.

8. If at first you don't succeed, skydiving is not for you.

9. Give a man a fish and he will eat for a day.. Teach him how to fish, and he will sit in a boat and drink beer all day.

10. If you lend someone $20 and never see that person again, it was probably well worth it.

11. If you tell the truth, you don't have to remember anything.

12. Some days you are the dog, some days you are the tree.

13. Don't worry; it only seems kinky the first time.

14. Good judgment comes from bad experience and most of that comes from bad judgment.

15. A closed mouth gathers no foot.

16. There are two excellent theories for arguing with women. Neither one works.

17. Generally speaking, you aren't learning much when your lips are moving.

18. Experience is something you don't get until just after you need it.

19. We are born naked, wet and hungry, and get slapped on our arse. Then things just keep getting worse.

20. Never, under any circumstances, take a sleeping pill and a laxative on the same night.

That Very First Manuscript. . .

I read a few blogs last week which spoke about first manuscripts, both published and practice runs. Carole Gill from over at Wicked Writers (everybody wave) spoke of her first novel being in the Crime Genre - although she now writes Dark Lit. Her first manuscript, 'Death is my Destiny' was inspired by the great noir classics. (Check out her blog post on Wicked Writers to read more).

It reminded me of my first manuscript. Yes, it's a complete mess; yes, there seems to be no such thing as Grammar within; yes, there are plot holes; yes there are flaws. In other words, it will NEVER see a publisher. But when I wrote it, I never intended for it to be published.

You see, I was 10 years old when I wrote it.

I'd written a few short stories before this; the first about a father who built and gave his daughter a time machine, allowing her to go back to prehistoric times, rescue a young Triceratops from a Tyrannosaurus (I loved Dinosaurs as a kid), and bring him home to keep as a pet; another being about a woman befriending a Dolphin who eventually got washed ashore and died - very sad stuff for a kid between the ages of 6 and 9. I had also attempted to start my first novel on numerous occasions, but it fizzled after a couple pages . . . until one day at the age of 10 I started and didn't stop.

I remember, somewhere in the age bracket of about 6 or 7, sitting down and watching an animated film with my family. It had everything; dragons, princesses, wizards, heroes and adventure. This film inspired my first manuscript.

I titled it: 'When Dragons Roamed the Earth' . . . or 'Romed' as I originally spelt it.

It was about a man named John who got taken from earth to a new fantasy world and was given the mission of rescuing a princess from an Evil Brother. There were four magical brothers, blue, yellow, green and red - but the red one was evil and was intent on killing the last two remaining princesses in order to rule the world. With two talking dragons as travelling companions, his adventures began and continued throughout 76 pages of scrawling handwritten text and illustrations.

The other month I was curious to remember what that film was that shaped the way I am today, and spent hours looking for that needle in a haystack on the great-wide web. But I was rewarded. I found the film, 'The Flight of Dragons', and I was pleasantly shocked. As I watched the trailer on YouTube I saw my first characters come to life. The film had everything; my two princesses - or heroines - the hero, the dragons, and four magical brothers including the evil red one. I had re-written the film - or at least stolen their characters. But the feeling of seeing this again after 25 years was overwhelming. Even though I can't remember the whole film now, it's played a HUGE role in my life. I'm now contemplating whether or not to look for the DVD . . .

Since writing my first manuscript, I've gone on to write 14 more, beginning with fantasy, then moving to thriller, horror and now, 20 years later, back to fantasy. So how come I've written 14 manuscripts but am not yet published? Carole Gill answered that.

"We grow while we wait, if we don't stress or pressure ourselves into paralysis. That first MS is our springboard--it might be a mess but it's a first step and first steps are important because every journey begins with one!"

It's taken me 20 wonderful years of writing adventures to get where I am today, not only honing the craft, but building confidence -something that is so important when wanting to put your work out there - and it's only now that I'm longing to meet publication round one of the nearing corners . . .

*Thank you Carole Gill for the inspiration for today's post.

A Conundrum and a Moose's Head . . .

Flicking through my notebook, I found an old piece of writing from an exercise we did at our writers' group. I can't remember when we done it or what the exercise was, but I think it had to involve a 'moose's head'. (*Shrugs shoulders)

I remember writing the piece, and I remember what inspired me. It was a story I heard on the radio that morning that was so unbelievable but yet true. It's listed up there with the Darwin awards. The story is not exact, all characters purely fictional, but the key elements are there . . . and I involved a moose's head.

Enjoy.

Conundrum: Can a person be charged for their own murder?

Daniel Redgrave, the alleged murder victim, had suffered with depression for most of his adult life, and during a particularly bad period, decided to take his own life by jumping from the roof of the tower block where he still lived with his parents. However, after he jumped, the coroners stated that the cause of death was not the suicide fall, but the bullet wound in his chest.

This puzzled the authorities, and after an investigation, this was what they found.

Three months prior to Daniel Redgrave's suicide/murder, he had been the cause of a family feud and was disinherited from his parent's will. It appeared that his mother refused to give him anything in the event of her death, including the head of a moose that hung on their wall.

In a fit of rage, Daniel Redgrave loaded his father's rifle - the very rifle used to kill the moose - and placed it back on its perch above the mantelpiece. His father, it was told, often got into heated discussions with his wife and always grabbed the riffle from the mantelpiece, threatening to shoot her. Daniel knew this, and this spurred him into loading the rifle in hopes that his father would shoot and unwittingly kill his wife.

But after three months nothing had happened and the bullet was forgotten.

Daniel Redgrave's depression continued to worsen, and eventually he decided that enough was enough. He climbed the stairs to the roof and stood on the edge, determined to take his own life.

Little did he know that floors below him, his parents were engaging in one of their heated discussions. As he always did, Mr Redgrave grabbed the riffle, unknowing that it was loaded. As Daniel Redgrave leapt from the roof in his suicide bid, Mr Redgrave shot the rifle. However, the bullet missed his wife, passed through the window and hit his son in the chest as he plummeted to his death.

He was dead before he hit the ground.

The courts tried to charge Mr Redgrave for the murder of Daniel Redgrave as he was the one who had shot the rifle, but because he didn't know the rifle was loaded, all they could charge him with was manslaughter.

However, because of the evidence against Daniel Redgrave, clearly showing that he was the one who loaded the weapon with the intent of murder, the charges against Mr Redgrave were dropped and they had no choice but to charge the victim with his own murder.

His mother kept the moose's head.

Agent Reply From Preditors And Editors . . .

Bonjour. I know I didn't post on Tuesday. I have no excuse really. Maybe I forgot, maybe I was subconsciously waiting to make the discovery that I'm blogging about today. Who knows. One thing I do know is that I am sorry . . . and you should really read this...lol

For those who aren't aware, I'm currently seeking an agent to represent my work. It's slow progress - mainly on my behalf too. I've tried to pick out those who accept email submission first, but now I have to get off my butt and buy paper and an ink cartridge for my printer to start sending via snail-mail.

One website that I absolutely love, regarding the search, is Preditors and Editors. I've think it's invaluable. They list most agencies and whether they're cosha or not. (But I think they only list UK agencies). Just by chance I was looking yesterday, and someone had posted a reply they received from someone after querying. Made me chuckle, and I had to share:

Following is an email from Abacus to a writer:

Tell you what, since you think you're ready to go as-is and, after all, you've "checked things out beforehand," if you can con some lame brained literary agent into sending your work in as-is and the Red Sea splits again and the work is sold to a major, we'll pay you $2,000 flat out, no questions asked if accomplished inside of two years. If on the other hand you fail to do so in two years from today's date, then you owe us $2,000. Sound like a winner? We'll exchange notary of public official, binding contracts and, on 20 May 2007, one way or the other, one of us owes the other one $2,000. Are you game?

Of course not because you are perfectly aware of your limitations and know hands down that your manuscript will never sell as-is...the actual iteration you just sent us...which we would keep on file to verify our offer. The reason we will never hear a response to this is because you cannot win, couldn't win in a thousand years and don't have the foggiest what it takes to sell a manuscript. The morons whose web sites you are referring to can't compete with us in the open market and so have to rely on outright lies and misdirection and people like you take advantage of free evaluations. Thanks for tipping your hand, however.

The proof of what we're saying... You made no comment whatsoever concerning your sixth-grade level e-mail previously sent. Any of us at my agency could write better than that when twelve years old... And any hint of your work being remotely in the category of commercial salability is a stretch even Plastic Man couldn't make...


Chow

There are some good agencies out there, there are some dodgy agencies out there . . . and then there are these. Can you imagine the look on that poor writer's face after reading a reply like this?

Unbelievable. As you can imagine, the website didn't recommend this agent . . .

Writers and Exercise . . .

People say that writing is a lonely game. I read many blogs about such things not so long ago. The fact is, it can be, but then it isn't. It depends on the writer. Shutting yourself away from the world so you can have some quality time creating your new one isn't everyone's idea of a good time - but for the writer, it might sound like heaven. And, let's face it. They won't be entirely on their own. Their characters will be with them.

I bring this up now because I have nothing else to blog about at the moment and I'm in danger of becoming a full time Hermit.

I like my own company. I'll quite happily sit at home, just me and the cat, and spend all that time creatively. And with a husband who is a lorry driver and away most of the week, I almost get my wish - but it's not healthy. Now I'm working from home, so I have no more travelling into the office everyday, no more interacting with people - it is literally just me...ALL DAY! Definitely not healthy.

So I've taken up going for walks in my lunch break or, like today, going for a bike ride. I used to bike all the time before we moved. I used to ride to and from work everyday and I loved it. It kept me fit and gave me the exercise that I wouldn't have otherwise got from working behind a desk all day. Then we moved away, then I got a driver's licence and now I get no exercise at all. (So you can imagine how I'm feeling today - exhausted, sore and reminded how unfit I am.)

However, despite deadlines and just that one more paragraph that needs writing, remember that getting out, socialising and getting some exercise is just as important. You'll be no good to anyone if your not healthy and in no state of mind to write that best selling novel. Once that's done, then you can shut yourself away.

Prioritise. Health or Novel.

And it was just bad luck for Stephen King to get hit by a car on one of his daily walks all those years ago.

Right, well I'm now off to sulk and nurse my aching muscles. Tomorrow is but another day . . .

Pic of the Week . . . What does the Egg mean to you?

Well, Good Friday has come round again. It's that time of year when children go hunting for Easter Eggs and then consume far too much chocolate. But just like Christmas, people are now beginning to forget what Easter actually symbolises - apart from little hens, mad march hares, sweets galore and time off work.

So I ask you, what does the Easter Egg mean to you?

I'm not really a religious person, so I won't be holding any gospel, but here's a little brief history for you to help explain why the easter egg is so special this time of year:

One legend states, when it comes to Christianity, that Mary Magdalene brought cooked eggs to Jesus's tomb, and that when she saw Jesus resurrected, they glowed bright red. Another version states that Mary Magdalene went to the Emperor of Rome to bring news that Christ has risen. The Emperor then pointed at an egg and said that "Christ has no more risen than that egg is red" to which the egg began to glow blood red.

However, the symbol of the egg dates further back, centuries before the Resurrection of Christ. It is the pagan symbol of the start of new life, a symbol of the rebirth of the earth, and celebrates the arriving Spring and all the new life it brings - hence this day also being known as 'Earth Day'.

So, no matter what your beliefs are on this subject, just remember to enjoy this Easter/Earth Day and have a wonderful time. I'm now off to enjoy my garden and eat too many easter eggs :D ...

Lessons In Punctuation . . .

I've always known, but it was confirmed last night that the school I went to all those moons ago wasn't all that. When it comes to writing, everything I know today is what I have picked up through reading, practice, and through critiquing sessions in our writer's circle. I don't remember them teaching us a lot about punctuation - let alone creative writing.

One member of our writers' circle is someone I've been friends with since those wonderful days, and she agrees. She finds punctuation hard to deal with, although I have to admit she is getting better. Using the correct punctuation is just as important as every other detail of the story you are trying to tell, from the characters, their world, their dialogue - everything.

However, choosing your punctuation is an art form. Some people use a bit of everything, throwing in a bit of this, a bit of that, and maybe one of those too, where others may just prefer to use the basic full-stops and commas. And is this wrong or right? It doesn't really matter. As long as they are used in the right context, it can help to aid your story along.

But your personal use of punctuation is much like your style of writing. It differs from the next writer.

We ran an experiment last night. I was hoping that it would prove useful to those who struggle with their full-stops. We wrote a short piece in our own writing style, how we usually would, but left out all the punctuation. Then we passed it to the next person to add in where they thought the punctuation should be. Despite us getting a large percentage of it right, the added punctuation changed the original flow of the story completely. There was punctuation added in places where I wouldn't have used it. And despite them not being wrong, it was surprising how much a extra comma or one less full-stop can change the style so much.

Anyway, this was the piece I wrote with the original punctuation in.

Purgatory

The door closed. Should I have gone through it? I didn't know.

I stood and stared at the giant doors before me. They reached so high the top was engulfed in the gloomy mist above. Relief sculptures climbed the paneling, each body entwining with the next, and each with a story of their own to tell.

I looked around me, confused and nervous. Had I missed my chance? What was I supposed to do now? This was new to me, as it was new to everyone else who stood before these doors. Purgatory wasn't a place often frequented by the living.

I continued to take in my surroundings; the shadows; the mist; the pillars. The room appeared round but was somehow shapeless, and it was spacious but felt small and oppressive. And there was a ceiling. I knew that, but I couldn't see it.

What was I supposed to do now? When I first entered the room, the great doors had opened, revealing a light that was warm and tempting, but fear had held me back. As I stood and watched, debating whether to walk through, the doors had closed. Would they reopen?

Movement caught my eye. I looked up and saw as figure on the door moved. He turned his body, untangling himself from another figure and then turned to face me. And he wasn't the only one. The whole door was now alive with squirming bodies, all turning to face me. There was no noise, but their mouths were open, calling me and reaching out their hands.

Fear engulfed me. I wanted to step back, to run, but their hands, even though too far away to reach me, seemed to pull. I couldn't fight the force and I began to move forward. I realised then what was happening. The doors had shut on my one chance to enter Heaven. I was stuck in purgatory, and those who entered before me were the figures on the door. As I was pulled closer, I knew my fate now lay with them for the rest of eternity.

Pic of the Week . . . Grzegorz Rutkowski

I know it's a day late, but what can I say. Things haven't quite settled down yet on the move front.

This week's Pic of the Week is from Polish artist Grzegorz Rutkowski. It's his version of the Ice Queen, and I thought it a stunning piece, but strangely enough, not very apt for this week, seeing as the sun is shining, the birds are singing, the flowers are shooting and Summer is well on the way. And to top it all off it's HOLIDAY season. Yes, I'm away next week, so you get a break from my ranting for a while.

Consider yourselves luckily - and enjoy. See you in a weeks time.

Tonight Was Different . . .

Wow! What a week I've had. If you happen to work for an Internet company and they come up with the bright idea of working from home, make sure you - AND they - think it through good and proper before taking that leap.

Still, hopefully now everything should settle and life can start to resemble something that was once considered normal.

For today I thought I'd blog a little something I wrote last night during our weekly writers' circle meeting. We were given three random words and basically we had to come up with something that involved them all. This is what I churned out.

Words: Quivering, Society, Lurched

She couldn't see me. I was invisible to her, just as I was to everyone else. For neigh on 50 years I had been trapped in my own purgatory, free to roam wherever I pleased, but doomed to do so alone. Despite often being surrounded by people, no one ever knew I was there.

I was a ghost - once a man who's life had been stolen from them at the age of 31. I had the chance to move on then, to follow the path that opened to me, but things had happened so fast and so unexpected that all I could do was turn and run. I was frightened and didn't know what was happening. Now I regret not taking that unknown step forward.

It took a while, but I soon become accustomed to my new existence, and I took to sitting and watching as society evolved and grew. It comforted and soothed me to see people come and go, blissfully unaware of my prying eyes. And I'm sure that my eyes were not the only ones watching - but I had never seen these.

Tonight, something was different.

Tonight she had an aura about her, an aura that heightened her senses and made her more open to my presence.

Tonight she knew I was there.

The first time I saw her, I was engulfed with emotions and feelings that I hadn't felt in over 50 years. They enthralled me and she enthralled me. I had never met anyone like her before, and suddenly I was longing to be alive again, to be able to touch her, to feel the softness of her blonde hair running through my fingers, to smell her sweet scent, and to experience the warmth of her breath on my skin. I wanted all the things any lover would want - but I was denied.

Instead I watched.

I watched her work; I watched her cook; I watched her relax, and I watched her sleep. I wanted her so badly it hurt.

Tonight was different. She huddled on her bed, quivering, feeling my presence in her room. I meant her no harm, but she didn't know this. She was only aware of something she didn't understand, and this frightened her. Wanting to calm her, I leaned on the bed and gently reached out my hand. I had never attempted to touch her before, but as I said, tonight was different. As my fingers touched her chin, my palm brushing her soft skin, I expected to feel her. I wanted to feel her, and felt shocked and surprised when I didn't. Why, I didn't know. I hadn't felt anything physically since I died.

But she felt me.

Her eyes widened and within an instant she had lurched towards the other side of the bed. She was terrified, and I had done this to her.

I was grieved by this revelation so much. I didn't want to frighten her. I loved her. But seeing my affect only made it clearer in my mind what I had to do.

I had to leave. I had to move on.

I loved her too much to succumb her to anymore fear.

Turning, I faded into the shadows, leaving to go back to my loneliness, and as hard as it was, I refused to look back.

Creating Real Characters . . .

My thoughts on this topic:

I read a blog not so long ago about whether or not your protagonist should appear pleasing to the eye - ie, should they be the tall, dark handsome stranger that us women often fantasise about - or should they be rugged with flaws?

Well, there's no right or wrong answer. I believe it's down to the author. If you want your character to be the next Casanova, to be dashing and handsome and be able to sweep women off their feet with just a whisper, then so be it. But if you need your protagonist to be disfigured in someway that makes them feel ugly, then you should. It all boils down to the story you're creating and who needs to be involved.

In my opinion, a protagonist who's either disfigured or drop-dead gorgeous doesn't alter a good read.

But for characters to feel real, they do need flaws. A lot of writers with good-looking protagonists compensate by giving them 'psychological problems'. Maybe they're smug, knowing that they're good-looking, and they constantly look down their noses at others.

Or those who are disfigured, how would you have them be? Underneath their scars, could they be the nicest person in the world? Is that nice person trapped under all the resentment that they harbour over their looks, the main reason why people cross the street when they see them? Either way, these little things help give a character depth, making them feel real.

A couple of examples:

Phantom of the Opera: He hid his scarred face under a mask and lived under the opera house where no one could see him, then fell in love with Christine after hearing her sing. But Christine was able to see past the scars and his bitterness and fall for him, too (I'm guessing at the storyline here).

Quasimodo from the Hunchback of Notre Dame: Seriously disfigured and kept in the tower away from civilisation - until he falls for a gypsy woman.


THEN - something I watched the other night - V for Vendetta: Horribly disfigured and hides beneath the mask of Guy Fawkes. He's a monstrous terrorist who's killing everyone involved in what happened to him - but beneath he's a kind man who is reminded that he is capable of loving - and of being loved (rather touching).

But then, what about those in between? Those who aren't stereotypical, Hollywood hunks, but those who aren't disfigured. One man has caught my attention. Professor Brian Cox. He presents the TV Documentary, Wonders of the Universe, which explains about the big bang theory and supa-novas. He freaks me out. When he's quiet, he looks fine, but when he talks he has a constant, wide grin on his face, with those round, chubby, gleaming cheeks - and the way his whole mouth moves when he talks. It's probably just me, but there's something about him that makes me question his looks . . . do I like him or don't I? . . . or are these questions that I see one of my characters asking? Forget Hollywood Hunks (if that's possible). These are the real people that would inhabit worlds of fiction.

What do you think about this guy? I know I'm being vain - and I apologise if it sounds like I'm judging him on his looks alone.

Normal . . . I'm thinking, yeah, he looks ok . . .




Then there's the grin - and yes it is that wide when he speaks, too . . . lol

Pic of the Week . . . Benita Winckler . . .

This week's Pic of the Week is another from Benita Winckler.

She is superb at capturing that subtle beauty in her work, and I have to admit, she is one of the most colourful artists I've come across . . .

Oh, and if you like her work, be sure to keep up to date with her website. It says it's being updated soon, and it will be interesting to see any new pieces.

Enjoy and have a great weekend!

Benita Winckler - Io

The Dark Tower - Film Adaptation . . .

Something has been brought to my attention today (which is a good thing because I didn't know what to blog about). This is something that I should have known, seeing as I'm a huge fan, and I hang my head in shame with the fact that I didn't.

The Dark Tower series, by Stephen King, is being made into a film (for 2013).

For those of you who haven't read The Dark Tower series, shame on you. I give you permission to flick away from this blog right now, go find the first book, and read that instead (as long as you come back and finish this post, that is...). There's seven books in total, starting with the Gunslinger (1982), The Drawing of the Three (1987), The Waste Lands (1991), Wizard and Glass (1997), Wolves of the Calla (2003), Song of Susannah (2004), and the finale, The Dark Tower (2004). They follow Roland Deschain and his companions across worlds that mix Fantasy, Sci-Fi, Horror and Western, in search for the fabled Dark Tower, the source of all existance.

It truly is a King masterpiece, and I'm sure those who have read it will agree.

However, there's much debate about this movie adaptation (or three movies and a TV series to be precise). Will it do the books justice, or will it be like other adaptations and be a disappointment? I'm open minded - and easily pleased when it comes to the big screen.

One of the other big debates was who is going to play the role of Roland Deschain. The choices were Daniel Craig, Christian Bale, Viggo Mortensen and Josh Holloway . . . but it looks like they've decided upon Javier Bardem. I like him. He's rugged enough to play the part.

And for those who have been blogging about art work commisioning for their WIP's just recently, you should check out some of the pieces for this series. There are some fantastic pictures.

Oh, and did I mention that it's being directed by Ron Howard? Happy Days . . . lol . . .

I will continue to fish for news regarding this topic.

Pic of the Week . . . An Anonymous Artist . . .

I fell in love with todays Pic of the Week, and I know nothing about the artist. Its a piece I accidently stumbled across. All I know about it is that it's oil on canvas and being sold on some random site similar to Ebay for $60+.

One of my favourite artists of all time is Leonardo Da Vinci - a little odd considering all the fantasy art I publish on my blog. I absolutely adore some of his unfinished pieces, the ones that look like mere sketches on canvas, and this very piece reminds me of that.

This looks like one of those unfinished masterprices, but that gives it magic . . .

Short Piece . . . Anchored . . .

Friday's Pic of the Week inspired me so much I thought I'd write a little piece to go with it. Enjoy!

Anchored

And so this was how it was to end. There was to be no fairytale romance for me; no riding off into the sunset with the man I loved. Instead here I was, bound and waiting for death. His blood churned with the water that surrounded me, like smoke in open air – only this was red. It danced in the currents, taunting me and reminding me of its intentions. It was calling on the waves; calling to any willing to listen; any that was willing to bring about my death. I prayed that none would come, but I knew it was inevitable. The smell of blood on the open currents carried for miles. Something would be coming soon to answer those calls.

I closed my eyes against the swaying sight in front of me. I didn’t want to look upon the horrific scene anymore. It wrenched at my broken heart. I felt the gentle shift of the sand against my tail, a contrast compared to the rough feel of the iron anchor against my back. Every little movement caused it to grate against my skin, and I should have been reeling in pain but my sorrow numbed me to it. Instead I had no choice but to accepted it – and wait.

I recalled the events that brought me to this situation, this final hour. They had started off so promising, and I was hopeful that there was going to be a happy ending. I didn’t know how it was going work, but I knew we’d be together. Then things went wrong. We were caught and we were punished – by both our people.

Man and mermaids were forbidden to meet.

At least that was the law under the waves – a law that I chose to disobey. But it wasn’t my intention. I couldn’t just stay back and watch as nature claimed the life of this man. He had been thrown overboard from the galleon ship that he crewed during a storm. He would have died had I not taken hold of him and carried him back to shore. As I lay on the sand watching over him, I had no idea what was happening to his ship. I didn’t know that the storm was to claim it, that the seas were going to drag it down and state it as its own. How could I?

I was too preoccupied with staring at the man I had just rescued, mesmerised by his beauty and innocence. And when he opened his eyes and stared upon me, we were both hooked.

I knew it was wrong, but my heart couldn’t deny what I felt. My love for him continued to grow, and he felt exactly the same. We’d meet in a nearby cove where no one ventured, and we’d share our love – but one day we were caught, and our relationship wasn’t just frowned upon, it was revolted against. His people were sickened and claimed that it had been me who had taken down their ship. I had been the cause of all those deaths, despite the fact that I saved one and was nowhere near the ship when it went down.

They sentenced my love to death.

Horrified, I sought help from my own, hoping that they could help, that they could somehow rescue him, but they shunned me. Our law of never meeting with man was because of this exact scenario. Men believed mermaids to be a bad omen, and because of their beliefs, they were cruel and cold hearted. They believed me that I had nothing to do with the taking down of their ship, but my being there at that time was bad luck.

They wouldn’t help, and they turned me away.

In the end I had no choice but to go back and try to plead with the men, but they chose to use me as an example instead. They wanted to send a message beneath the waves that they were not people to toy with. If we took lives, then so would they. Where their beliefs came from, I didn’t know, and I certainly didn’t understand. We had never hurt anyone, but still I found myself captive and brought back out to sea. I was forced against their anchor and bound, the crew jeering and taunting. My love could only cry as he watched, his eyes telling me how sorry he was.

And then the anchor was dropped overboard.

What they hoped to achieve with this, I didn’t know. Didn’t they understand that I couldn’t drown? That I lived in these salty waters? But as I registered the splash above me, I knew what they meant to do.

Looking up I saw as my love, bound and tied to iron weights, sunk to the seabed before me. He withered against his ties, the oxygen in his lungs running out, and I screamed and fought against my own ties, wanting to help him, wanting to prevent him from downing.

But I couldn’t help.

I watched with shame as he stopped moving and stared at me one last time, and then as he died before my eyes. I had wept then, cried and wailed. I fought some more against the rope that bound me to the anchor, but I couldn’t move.

My heart was broken.

And then I noticed the blood.

I understood then how they were intending to kill me. They had slit my loves arms, wanting his blood to be taken by the surrounding currents. They wanted to call the beasts that lurked in the deep, wanted them to smell the blood and come with hunger in their minds. They wanted to have our flesh ripped from our very bones. And me being tied to the anchor, I couldn’t hide. But then why would I? I had lost the one person I loved, been shunned from my very people because of it, and I couldn’t live with the grief and guilt that it had been I who had done this to him, I who had caused his death.

No, I decided. Let the men win. Let the beasts come.

Pic of the Week . . .

This week I'm going back to the faithful Nene Thomas . . . Still love her work.

'Pretty' by Nene Thomas

Sci-Fi V's Fantasy . . .

I made a discovery last night. That discovery was the fact that I would never be able to write a piece of serious Sci-Fi.

I like Sci-fi, but I mainly stick to watching movies as opposed to reading books. Having mentally scanned through my book mountain, I don't actually recall owning anything in that genre. I have horror (lots of horror), thriller, drama, historical, romance, adventure and fantasy etc - but no Sci-fi. (note to self: read a Sci-Fi novel)

I used to believe that when writing, there was a fine line between fantasy and Sci-fi. They come part and parcel. When hunting for publishers and agents, amoung their lists of accepted genres is their list of unaccepted genres - usually including fantasy and Sci-Fi.

In my opinion the two genres are very similar in that the worlds they are based in is nine-times-out-of-ten completely fictional. They have fantastical characters and aliens, robots and mythical creatures, space ships and enchanted lands, scorcery and technology. However, one happens in space and one happens on land. That's the basic difference.

So why, coming from a person who has devoted the best part of their years to writing fantasy, will I not be able to write Sci-Fi?

The truth is . . . I don't have the brains!

A few people in our writers' circle write Sci-fi, and last night we gave critique to a short piece. And it was a good piece. It was well written, easy to follow, and descriptive enough for me to imagine where we were. Okay, there were a few points regarding characterisation etc, but nothing that couldn't be fixed.

Then they decided to delve deeper into the Science Fiction of the story - and I'm not kidding, I was lost. These people were talking about the laws of physics, what decay would be like in a world with no atmosphere, how the world would differ in sight because of the lack of atmosphere (there wouldn't be a blue sky, for starters. Its the atmosphere that makes that blue) etc. I was stunned. They were discussing the reasons why a world would be desolate, what could possibly have happened to kill the entire world off, and the natural events that would follow within the next million years. I didn't know any of this - didn't even have the foggiest clue as to what they were talking about half the time.

I couldn't help but sit in silence throughout most of it. I offered my part where I could, but I soon realised that writing Sci-Fi is so much different to writing fantasy. There are rules that need to be followed to make it sound plausible and possible, whereas with Fantasy we can just add mystical reasoning - 'it's like that because it is . . .'

Nope, I'm blonde, and when it comes to Sci-Fi, it shows.