Writing Exercise: A Lunch Break To Remember . . .

Back from holidays. And did we let the recent storms ruin our time? Never. We soldiered on like the proud holiday-makers we were.

Having said that, the weather wasn't too bad where we were. We had two full days of rain out of seven, and the rest was just wind (well, I say just wind; some nights we did believe our caravan was going to be blown over, not to mention the bowing walls). But at least we didn't find ourselves having to stand on a hill, watching as our caravans drift out to sea in flood waters like many suffered in Wales.

And at least we saw some sun. I even managed to get a little tan (or is this wind burn?)

Still, back to reality now, and back to blogging basics. Today I'm going to publish a writing exercise piece from last night's writers' meeting. The task was to write about a lunch break from your school days, and we only had ten minutes to do it.  And before you ask, yes this did happened  :)

Enjoy.

A Lunch Break To Remember . . .

As soon as the bell sounded we were out that side door, running passed the music block to a little secluded area that was almost out of bounds. A yard or so further and it would have been.

So what made this corner so special? The privacy it gave our group was one thing. It was well away from the main playground and the hoards playing football or tag. It was well away from scornful looks from those who flirted and guarded their targets like prey. It gave us the freedom to be who we were with our friends and to enjoy the hour we had outside class.

The second was the wind. It blew in from across the field and caught in the alcove we gathered in, creating a whirlwind that blew us around. Hours of fun was spent on windy days, seeing what could float on these up drafts and what could go the highest or the furthest.

One of these thing was a coat - a lightweight Naff-Naff jacket that seemed to be the in-thing back in those days. Of all the things we tried, from crisp wrappers to food, this was the one item that beat the lot, the champion, and the only thing to cause one girl embarrassment as she had ask the caretaker to retrieve it from the roof...

Writing Exercise . . .

This piece was written a while back as an exercise for our writers' group. I can't quite remember what the in's and out's of it were but I know it had to include the sentence:

' . . . As I watched the mountains began to fade away . . . '

This is what I churned out.

Enjoy!

Time travel. So many people had been warned of the consequences of messing with time, but of course the advise was never listened to and the price was always paid.

I had always considered myself as someone with their head firmly attached to their shoulders. I was smart and sensible. Time travel was something I would never mess with - but that was until I met the hand of temptation.

I stared at the photo - the one thing left I held close to my heart. To my relief it still looked the same. The family - my family - who stood in front of the log cabin looked happy and excited, and I remembered back to when the photo was taken.

We had inherited the log cabin two years ago, although to say two years ago now would be an error as the booking wouldn't take place for another hundred years - at least. The location had been my parents favorite, with the picturesque scenery and the mountainous backdrop, and it had been a holiday to remember.

It had been our last holiday to together.

"As long as the picture remains the same, you will be okay," had been the last advice given to me before I left. Now every second I got I was staring at the picture.

My actions in the deep past had not yet affected my present, and my heart slowed with relief in my chest. Whole families had been wiped off the planet because of simple careless actions and irresponsible decisions. I didn't want to be one of those, the cause of something like that happening.



Copyright Lea Roberta Michelle Weikert

 But it had happened, and it had happened fast - too fast for me to realise. Suddenly my spontaneous actions in response to what was happening was wrong. They were the kind of actions that would bring consequences to my family. I continued to run every event over and over in my head for some speck of hope that I might be saved, but I couldn't see anything. The only reassurance I had that my actions hadn't been disastrous was my photo - but as I looked it began to change before my eyes.

And as I watched, the mountains in the background began to fade away.

I wanted to cry but I felt numb. There was nothing I could do. Within minutes my family would be erased from existence . . . and I would fade with them.

Writing Update . . .

I missed my usual blogging slot yesterday. I do apologise. My cat is poorly, bless her, and I had to take her to the vets. She's gone in today for tests, and even though I know she'll be fine, I have no control over the tears. It's great having pets but I can't help but think maybe I'm a little too attached. Here's a piccy of our Daisy . . .

Anyway . . . A brief update on writing, seeing as most people are giving one at the moment. Seems to be all the rage just recently.

I've gone and broken all my rules, but it's for a good cause. I've started a second novel. Ever since my early writing days, I've always restrained myself to one manuscript at a time. That way I can pour all resources into it for the best result - and saves getting confused with minor details that could ruin continuity. Short stories are fine, in fact I recommend writing them as they allow you to work on something different without having to put so much commitment into them. Anyone who has more than one novel on the go at a time, fair play, but it's usually not for me.

My first, Lady of the Seas, is still going strong. She's up to 37k and is rolling smoothly.

But my second is called Son of Jack, and is going to be published via our new project 'Starfish ePublishing'. This is being run by members of our Writers' Circle, and we're all putting something forward for publication in November. Visit From Sand to Glass for more technical details surrounding this venture.

Son of Jack was a basic idea I come up with for an exercise that our group were doing, and it just evolved from there. It's based around the fears of four people who live in a society shadowed by the threat of a serial killer. Even though it only took me five minutes to come up with the idea, I felt it deserved more attention and so decided to write it for Starfish ePublishing. Within the two weeks of planning and writing, she's up to 12k. I'm aiming for around 70-80k. And, as usual, I was so excited I've even designed a front cover.

So there you go. All other projects are being put on hold and my concentration is now laying within these - if I can stop blubbering and worrying about my cat, that is . . .

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.

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.

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.

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.

Awards and Acceptance Speeches . . .

I discovered this morning that I've been awarded the Stylish Blogger Award by Amanda Borenstadt at A Fortnight of Mustard.

What can I say? I'm dead chuffed!!! And as I wipe a tear of happiness from one's eye and stand proudly on the stage holding my award close to my heart, I can't help but think how lucky I am. I feel (*sniff) so honoured to be here accepting this. I never dreamed this would happen, and I'm sooo happy (*Wipes at another tear). But I couldn't have done it without my wonderful followers, who's very presence has been a constant reminder that I need to keep my (*snivel) my blog looking stylish so as to appeal. So I thank you. I thank you all from the bottom of my heart. Thank you! THANK YOU . . . (*Squealing as one gets dragged off the stage).

Anyway, back to reality. Because this is the first 'award', I feel it's only right that I carry on the tradition that Amanda brought to my attention. I need to list 7 things about myself, and then award 7 other lucky bloggers.

7 Boring Facts About Myself:

1: Writing and drawing are my life, and have been since I was knee-high to a grasshopper. I also squeeze reading and movies in there from time to time too.

2: DRC are my maiden initials - Dawn Rose Cartwright - and I think it's great when I hand over my credit card, they see DR Cartwright and think I'm a Doctor.

3: I'm a big believer in the paranormal - but I'm also a sceptic. If I can't think of a rational explanation for something I put it down to those pesky ghosts, ghouls and goblins.

4: I love cats. I go all gooey over them - including my own persian fluff-ball.

5: I'm a major daydreamer. This is probably where I get most of my ideas.

6: I'm a blonde through and through (although starting to speckle with grey). I'm the sort of person who puts blindfolds on and then turns to a mirror to see what they look like wearing it (yes, I did this).

7: I love writing horror and reading horror, but I seldom watch horror films.

Now, those 7 lucky winners are:

1: Darke Conteur
2: Volataire
3: Ted Cross
4: From Sand to Glass
5: Boudica Marginalia

6: Flights of Fantasy

7: Maria Zannini

So there you. Here's your award. Hold it high with pride . . .

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.

Pic of the Week . . . Elena Dudina

I've always been a bit of a traditionalist, and my taste in art has never been an exception - until today. I've always liked art that's been created with a paintbrush or some other means that has relied on manual talent.

In other words, I like artists who can draw, and not the type that relies on a computer to create their artistic masterpiece (despite the fact that some of these look pretty good - I don't deny that).

Then I discovered Elena Dudina.

Elena Dudina is what you call a 'photomanipulator'. I presume this means she takes photos and alters them to create her pieces. As soon as I saw her work I instantly fell in love, and decided that she just HAD to have a mention today.

Have a look and see what you think . . .

Doodles of a Writer . . .

Well, after my discovery on Friday of Jason Chan and his fantastic piece, I decided to go home and attempt my own piece.

As dipicted in my new novel, the King of the Seas is a legendary creature that lurks beneath the waves, consisting of the torso of a man and the tenticles of an octopus (thought I was being original...meh!). This was what my imagination saw.

Anyway, as stated in my profile I'm also a bit talented with the grahite pencil. After some time of consideration, I've decided to put to use the 'Pages' feature on blogger and create a page purly for my art.

Say Hi to the new page 'Doodles of a Writer' . . .

It's a work in progress at the moment, and I am in the process of loading pictures. Stay tuned.

I do have to warn some people though about the nudity. I love drawing the human body - what can I say . . .

Enjoy.

Pic of the Week . . . Jason Chan . . .

Look at what I found!!!

During my search through artists, I found this piece, and to my surprise it matches one of my legendary characters in my new novel. He won't be in the novel in person, but his story is well known throughout, and when I imagined him, this is what he would have looked like. Here's the paragraph from my first chapter where the King of the Sea's is first mentioned. (Click here to read the whole piece again).

'The anchor continued to drag and then came up against a large boulder that it hooked on. The boulder leered back, its shape resembling the form of the King of the Seas, with the torso of a man and the tendrils of an octopus. The anchor gripped firm, refusing to let go, and the boulder rocked with the pressure. As the Captain continued to struggle at the helm above, the boulder gave and toppled on its side. The seabed stirred, sending a cloud of sand rising up into the whirling tides, and from beneath the boulder something emerged that resembled a large bubble. It cut through the dust cloud, ascending through the stormy waters and up towards the Scarlet Sail. '

Just goes to show that you can never create something truly original...lol...

Love this art...

Enjoy.

Jason Chan

Exercise: I Suppose It Could Have Been Worse . . .

On Monday night we pulled out the ye-oh faithful word box. Inside is a collection of random sentences used to inspire. This is the consequence of the sentence I pulled out . . .

Exercise: I Suppose It Could Have Been Worse . . .

As the door to the partitioned gangway in front of the dungeon opened, the Duke of Dorset crawled from his dark, dank corner to see his visitor. "What happened? What went wrong?" he asked.

The man stumbled into caged gangway, helped by the forceful hand of the prison guard. "We tried, my Lord. The legions were in place. The attack went as planned, but there were just too many of them to fight."

"So you failed?" The Duke's words drowned in the sound of the barred door being slammed and locked in place behind his visitor.

The man cowered to the floor and dragged himself over to the bars. Clinging onto them, he pressed his regretful, grubby face through and searched for the Duke in the darkness. "It wasn't our fault. We were misinformed. The information provided by the Duke of Buckingham was wrong. We didn't expect there to be so many Yorks."

The Duke sighed with frustration and slumped back into the gloomy shadows. "So King Henry still reigns."

The man tightened his grip on the bars, pressing himself against them as if hoping that he could pass through. "But my lord, word has spread that King Henry is of ill health and that he won't be seeing the winter through."

"And what good is this news to me?" The Duke sprung from the shadows like a demon. The man in the gangway recoiled with fright as the Duke's hand reached out for him. "Your rescue attempt for me failed. Even if King Henry were to die of ill health, what good is that to me when I am still locked in here? What good?" The Duke's fingers gripped tighter around the bars, wishing they were the man's neck.

"Well," the man replied as he made himself comfortable on the gangway floor. "I suppose it could have been worse."

The Duke's face twisted with rage. "Really? Pray tell."

The man gave a shrug. "You're being beheaded tomorrow. At least with you gone I'll be released and free to live as I please without the fear of you."

The Duke raised a single eyebrow. . .

Creating 'Awesome' Characters . . .

One word and one word alone inspired today's post. That word?

Awesome!

Why? Okay, allow me to explain. Who out there has heard and ever watched the sitcom `How I Met Your Mother`? For those who don't know, this sitcom is based around a group of five friends in New York City. Each differ from the next and each have their own little habits and problems. One word they always use is AWESOME, and it fits their character's dialogue well.

However, I tried it the other day. I used that one word in a sentence when talking to a friend, and suddenly I felt very silly. The word just didn't have the same effect. It didn't sound right. It wasn't in my character to say such a thing, and I realised that I should never use that word in conversation again. But this made me think.

How well do you know your characters, and are you making them say things that are causing them to feel just damn-right silly?

Dialogue is an important tool when writing a story. It breaths life to your character and helps to show the sort of person they really are. It's also a great way to give them independence and individuality. There's nothing worse than reading a story where every single character appears the same.

Let me give you an example: Imagine that before you stands two little girls of approximately ten years old. Each share the same golden ringlets, the same blue eyes, the same pretty blue dress, and the same cheeky but innocent little grin. You realise then that you are either seeing double or they are identical twins. They are the same. How are you ever to tell them apart?

In writing, that's easy. You give them both a complete different voice. One could be an optimistic, the other could be a pessimistic. One could be very well spoken, the other could be full of slang and sarcasm. One could be normal, the other could have a slight stammer.

The idea is that if you took all the narrative away so that all remained was dialogue, you would still know who was talking. You would be able to pick out accents and little differences in speech. You would know that the little girl on the left said this, and the girl on the right said that.

This makes characters come alive. It gives them individuality and keeps them interesting for the reader. No one wants to read something where everyone is the same. That can be very boring and monotonous.

Likewise if you give someone something to say that is completely out of their character. You can't put a Medieval Knight upon a daring steed, readying to do battle with a blood-thirsty prince in order to save the throne and the beautiful princess in a situation like this. . .

"My liege," says the Medieval Knight as he steadys his excited steed. "The enemy is waiting upon the brow of the hill. Shall we ride to battle?" His eyes beneath his armour glint in the moonlight as they look upon the beauty of the princess.

The King gives a nod. "Indeed, brave Knight. Ride with the wind, and fight strong!"

The princess places her token, a handkerchief of the finest white silk, on the end of the Knight's staff. "And may a thousand of the lord's pure white doves fly above you and watch over you, and may they bring you swiftly from harm and back into my arms before the rising of the sun. For then you will be gallant and noble enough to win my hand in marriage."

Despite the threat of the battle looming on the horizon, and of the slim chances of him making it back unscathed, the Knight smiles. "Awesome!"


(Actually, in certain circumstances, that could work . . .)

Pic of the Week . . . Dreamscape . . .

I originally saw this picture on a blog that I follow, and I instantly fell in love with it. It's available to download as a wallpaper but I don't know the artist.

For me, it's a wonderful, relaxing dreamscape that harbours mysterious enchantment. It also breaths life to endless story possibilities, and this made me wonder.

For all you fantasy writers out there, how much dreamscape does your world have? Is it home to enchanting places like this? I feel that by adding enchantment adds history and depth to a world, bringing it more to life and making you feel like you'd rather live there than here. I love it, its possibilities, and its...well...entire dreaminess...

Opening Chapter . . .

Hi everyone.

As promised, here is the first draft of the opening chapter for my new novel. Feel free to leave feedback if you want (every little helps) but mostly...enjoy.

Lady of the Seas

Opening Chapter

“GET those god-damn sails in!”

The Captain’s yell struggled to be heard over the constant roar of the seas. He fought to keep his grip on the ship’s wheel, his hands trying to hold on to the wet wood. A force kept yanking at it, wanting to turn it to port and he put in all his strength to keep it from going.

Most of his crew were on deck, fighting and trying to prevent the ship from being turned by the wind. Men were climbing up the shrouds of the masts to help bring in the sails. Without them catching the wind, the pressure on the ship would be reduced but it was proving a difficult task. The storm was battering them. The Captain’s heart jolted each time he saw one of his men slip from their footings around the mast. They yelled orders and encouragement to each other as they gathered the material up, suffering the onslaught of rain and gales. They worked as a team, fighting the winds that wanted to turn them into the vicious waves. If that happened the Scarlet Sail would then become vulnerable to whatever the storm threw at them. They had to keep her straight.

The Captain groaned, baring his teeth as he pushed against the wheel, trying to keep it from going its own way. The deck around him was slippery, and as the ship veered over, his feet slid. He yelled as he fell, clinging on to the wheel for support. The wheel turned in the direction he didn’t want it to go. His legs scrambled, his feet searching for the grip he needed to push himself back up, and just as he found it, a torrent of water engulfed him.

He fell back down, his fingers just hooking the wheel. Catching his breath, he gave another yell.

The ship was turning.

As the wave subsided, the water draining back to where it came from, the Captain found his footing again and heaved himself up. His eyes stung and his throat throbbed with the amount of seawater he had swallowed, but he couldn’t care about that now. He had to get the ship back on course. Standing up against the wind and rain, he pushed himself against the wheel. It didn’t want to move. The force was too great for one man. The ship veered again, rolling with the giant waves, and he could see the ocean’s surface over the edge of the deck. The ship was leaning too much. He had to win her back.

His continuous yells were lost amid the crashing thunder. A streak of fork lightning illuminated the black seas, and the Captain’s eyes opened wide with horror at the sight of the surrounding waves. If he didn’t turn the wheel soon they would crush the Scarlet Sail as if she were made of paper. They would smash her apart, taking the lives of everyone on board.

“Turn, you bitch!” he screamed into the storm.

A second pair of hands joined his, gripping the slippery wood and heaving. The Captain looked at the Master’s Mate. His gaze spoke of his gratitude, and as both men pulled on the wheel, it began to turn. The Scarlet Sail struggled against the onslaught, twisting and groaning with the force of the storm, but despite everything, she obeyed. The Captain laughed with triumph as his control over the vessel came back. They weren’t beaten yet.

Another wave crashed over the deck, pounding down on both men, but they kept control. The ship leaned with another wave. A crew member screamed as he slipped across the deck to the other side. The Captain watched, powerless to help, but was glad to see him crash against the ballast railing instead of slipping overboard. Another member grabbed him, pulled him to his feet and slipped a rope around to secure him.

His crew were strong, but the storm was stronger. They were struggling and weakening quick. He didn’t know how much more they would be able to tolerate. They had been battling this storm for the best part for three days, but today was by far the worst. The winds had changed direction and the waves were now taller than the Scarlet Sail herself. Little sleep had been had and there was no time for eating. The galley fires had to be extinguished incase it spread, and no food was cooked.

A few injured men lay huddled below decks, unable to assist in the battle and unable to get comfortable with the constant movement. They had no choice but to look after themselves, to tend to their own wounds, and pray that the storm would soon subside.

Below them more yells echoed about the hull as men worked the bilge pumps, but as quick as they were removing the floodwaters, more was replacing it. It was a continuous battle that they couldn’t win. And about them, others scuttled around, repairing any damage that the Scarlet Sail sustained. It had to be done quick, make-shift, if necessary. If a split was left for too long at sea, it could rip the ship apart. It needed to be fixed as soon as it appeared.

The Captain could feel his crew’s pain. They were exhausted, but they couldn’t stop. If they did, they knew their lives would be handed to the seas. They refused to go without a fight, and they refused to let the ship give them up. She had been battered, broken, repaired, broken again, but still she sailed on, crashing against the waves, rolling with the winds and fighting her way through. The Scarlet Sail was as strong as the crew who sailed her, but even she had her weaknesses, and the Captain wept for her. He didn’t know how long she could fight, didn’t know how much strength she had left in her, but he had to hope that she had enough to see them through the storm. She had come too far to give up.

The cracking sound was one that the Captain had dreaded to hear. It was louder than the thunder that exploded overhead and louder than the crash of the surrounding waves. It was the sound of the Scarlet Sail breaking. Another flash of lightning illuminated the sight of the Foremast as it split half way down. His men screamed in panic and horror as the beam toppled forward, pulling sails and ropes with it. They scuttled out of its way as it crushed the deck where it landed. Screams of agony came from those who had been pulled down with it, along with those who hadn’t managed to run in time.

One voice in particular struck the Captain as he heard it fall overboard and be engulfed by the seas, lost forever. He wanted to mourn the loss but it spurred on his determination to survive this and to bring the Scarlet Sail and her crew to safety.

He gripped the wheel tighter as another wave pounded him.

Throughout the commotion of the breaking mast, the Captain refused to acknowledge how much damage it had caused at the bow. As he fought to keep control, he was unaware of the anchor stay being shattered and of the anchor falling from the ship. It plunged into the black waters, sinking deep, and pulling the anchor rope with it. The weight carried the anchor through the murky water straight to the seabed where it collided with the submerged rocks.

The storm forced the Scarlet Sail onwards, her anchor dragging. She lurched on the waves, one minute anchored, the next free. The Captain could feel the jerking movements on the wheel and applied more pressure in fighting to keep her steady, unaware of what was happening below the surface.

The anchor continued to drag and then came up against a large boulder that it hooked on. The boulder leered back, its shape resembling the form of the King of the Seas, with the torso of a man and the tendrils of an octopus. The anchor gripped firm, refusing to let go, and the boulder rocked with the pressure. As the Captain continued to struggle at the helm above, the boulder gave and toppled on its side. The seabed stirred, sending a cloud of sand rising up into the whirling tides, and from beneath the boulder something emerged that resembled a large bubble. It cut through the dust cloud, ascending through the stormy waters and up towards the Scarlet Sail.

The anchor stayed fast to the mysterious carved boulder, pulling the anchor rope taught, and no matter how much effort the Captain put into holding the wheel, he couldn’t stop the ship from turning.

Pic of the Week And My New Novel . . .

Last night I took the plunge. I sat down to a blank Word screen and I wrote just over 1,300 words to my brand new novel. The opening chapter is complete.

I finished my last novel, Kiss of the Gypsy, on New Years day. I've since then gone through with a first, brief edit. I've corrected any spelling and grammer, added things that I originally missed but later thought could be useful, and taken things out that weren't needed.

The thing is, when I write I write as if this is my final draft. Spelling and grammer is something that I try to correct as I go (Spell-Check in Word is a god-send). I write as if there can't be any edits after. Everything has to be spot on - or as close as I can get it - in the hope that when it's finally finished there isn't much to do. I'm dreaming, of course. There's always edits, but writing this way seems to help me.

Anyway, so I'm soon to send Kiss of the Gypsy out to the big wide world of critique, (I think she's ready) and anything that is brought up, I can then correct. But I can't go that long without writing, so I've planned and started my next novel.

'Lady of the Seas'

It's a cheesy title, could be a working title, but this is the name of the huge galleon ship that plays a vital role to the story. If the name should change at a later date, then so will the title. Until then, this is it.

I've had to do a lot of research on galleon ships so that I sound like I know what I'm talking about in the story. It has to sound real but not overpowering. You can't blind readers with your new-found knowledge, and I think that so far it's gone rather well.

Next week I'm going to do something that I've never done. I'm going to publish my first chapter on the blog. Feel free to leave feedback if you wish, but most of all I just wanted to finally share a piece of my actual writing with you.

Because I'm all about Galleon ships at the moment, I thought this weeks Pic of the Week should go with the tidal flow . . .

Enjoy!