Thursday, 28 October 2010

Edgar Allan Poe . . .

Continuing with the Edgar Allan Poe topic, a little while back we took up an assignment where we had to choose a historic person and write a little bio about them. Despite the fact we all write fiction, this was a great little exercise to see how well we write non-fiction incase we ever decide to broaden our horizons (Despite the fact I am now employed to do most of the web-copywriting for my company).

Anyway, as if by coincidence, I chose Edgar Allan Poe, done a little research, and this was the result.

“Quoth the Raven Nevermore…”

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door —
Only this, and nothing more."

“The Raven,” Edgar Allan Poe.

Edgar Allan Poe, born January 19, 1809 in Boston, Massachusetts, is mostly remembered for his writing in the macabre, works that include titles such as `The Pit and the Pendulum`, and `The Murders in the Rue Morgue`. His poetry was just as dark, with pieces such as `The Raven`, as quoted, and `A Dream Within a Dream.`

He is also credited as being the inventor of the `Detective Fiction`, starring the fictitious C. Auguste Dupin and contributing to the growing world of Science Fiction. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle said of Poe, "Each of Poe's detective stories is a root from which a whole literature has developed. Where was the detective story until Poe breathed the breath of life into it?"

As well as his interests in Physics, Cosmology, and Cryptography, he was also a well-known literary critic, however this did not make him popular. A fellow critic, James Russell Lowell, described him as “the most discriminating, philosophical, and fearless critic upon imaginative works who has written in America.” His own work was often under such criticism also, often being described as “vulgar” and “too poetical”.

Despite his reputation, Poe’s writing career was successful, but the circumstances revolving around his personal life were not. In 1835 at the age of 27, he married his thirteen year old cousin, Virginia Clemm. Even though the couple were close, their relationship was often described as that of brother and sister, and the marriage was never consummated. A few years into their marriage, Poe was involved in a scandal involving Frances Sargent Osgood and Elizabeth F. Ellet.

In 1845 rumours of an affair between Poe and their friend Frances, a 34 year old poet, began to circulate. These were started by Elizabeth Ellet, who was said to have admired Poe and was jealous of his friendship with Frances. The rumours made it back to Virginia who had for some time been battling an illness. On January 30th, 1847, Virginia died of Tuberculosis, aged just 24, but upon her death bed it is said that she stated `Ellet had murdered her`.

Poe’s life took a downward struggle after his wife’s death. Even though some of his best works were said to be inspired by the tragic event, his behaviour became erratic and he developed a serious drink and drugs problem. On October 3, 1849, Poe was found on the streets of Baltimore delirious, in great stress, and in need of immediate assisstance. He was taken to Washington College Hospital and died on October 7, aged just 40 years old, and reputedly calling out the name Reynolds. The person to who he was refering to remained unclear.

To this day the cause of his death is a mystery. Speculation has included heart disease, epliepsy, syphlis, and even cholora and rabies. However, biographers state that after his wife’s death, he became increasingly unstable, and even though he had a further two relationships after, he still was not happy. They suggest that his frequent theme of the `death of a beautiful woman` in his works stems from the repeated loss of women in his life, which brings about another speculation that Poe, despite how cold and hard he was reputed to have been, and the number of enemies he made, merely died of a broken heart.

Wednesday, 20 October 2010

Dream Within A Dream . . .

We set ourselves a little project the other week. We had to take a poem or the lyrics of a song, and convert it into a short story.

I'm no poet, and poetry doesn't hold much interest for me, BUT I do like Edgar Allan Poe. His poems are usually dark and sad (probably why I like them) and his most famous piece was `the Raven`, which inspired The Crow series, films, books and comics. I considered shoosing this, but then I decided against it. Instead, I chose`A Dream Within A Dream`.

A Dream Within A Dream
by
Edgar Allan Poe

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

There was nothing I could have done. Everyone had told me. She had got it in her mind that this was what she wanted to do, and there wasn’t anyone out there who could have done a single thing to change it.

My love was like that. Stubborn. She had the kind of mind that when it was set, it was set in concrete. There was no dislodging it or dissuading it. It was made and it was final.

No one could have prevented what happened.

As I walked along the shores I pondered the question. My bare feet sunk deep into the wet sand every time they trod. I used to like the feeling. We both had spent hours laughing at the feel of the sand as it pushed between our toes. Now it was just me, and the sand was nothing but irritating.

I had often found inspiration as I walked along these shores. Those inspirations soon found themselves turning to words as I created stories of fiction. Sometimes I even cut our walks short so that I could go home and write. My love never complained. She supported me. She understood when I needed to shut myself away, when I needed to be alone for hours on end, hours that often turned to days.

She had always accepted this, and I loved her all the more for it. But did I ever tell her? I was sure that I had, on many occasions, but now I wonder whether it had been enough. I didn’t pay her as much attention as she needed, and I didn’t realise this until it was too late. The moment I walked into that room I knew. I knew what she had done and what had happened.

My world crumbled the instant my eyes fell upon the sight of her. She had been lying there a while, with me completely unaware as I worked in the other room. I had no idea. She had given me no clues, had shown no indication that this was what she intended to do. But then even if she had, would I have picked up on them? I was so consumed in my world of fiction that everything else was just a blur in my mind. She could have been screaming for help at the top of her voice, but I heard not a whisper of her torment.

On the surf tormented shores, I crouched. I watched the surf as it rolled in over the sands, reaching just in front of me before being swept back. I inhaled the saltiness in the air and listened to the hiss of the sand as the surf washed over it.

I had counted just six tablets from a bottle originally containing twenty that day, and my heart leapt with dismay as I realised where the other fourteen had gone. She had swallowed them. One tablet was enough to ensure you experienced a restful, uninterrupted nights sleep. Fourteen ensured you never woke. My love had wanted a restful peace that she never wanted to wake from. She wanted to live forever in her dream.

She was dead.

Reaching down, my fingers submerged themselves beneath the sand, each grain giving way to my presence. Curling my hand, I cupped a handful and lifted it from the shores, but no matter how tight I held them, I couldn’t stop the grains from falling through. It reminded me of how I had let my love slip through my fingers with such ease. She could have been helped, she could still be alive, but the trickling sands continued to scream of my incompetence and my failure towards her.

As I watched the last of the grains fall back to the sands I couldn’t help but weep.



Monday, 18 October 2010

1 Year on . . .

I've just missed my 1 year anniversary of blogging!

My first post was October 9th . . . today is October 18th.

So a happy belated bloggers birthday to WTF's!!! (WTF standing for Writing Thrilling Fiction, of course. What did you think? lol . . .)

And have I had a good year?

Well, I've enjoyed blogging, sharing some weird and wonderful amature fiction with everyone, as well as random posts and Pic of the Week, so yes. I've had a good year. I hope all readers out there have enjoyed it as much as me . . .

Friday, 1 October 2010

Pic of the Week . . .

I've discovered a new artist (He may not be new, but he's new to me) and I feel blown away. His name is Ryu Takeuchi, and he specialises fairy art (I call him a he, but I'm only assuming here).

So what is about his work that I love?

Well, you can't deny that even from a distance it's eye catching. The contrast in colours are stunning (in these pieces. Others are fairly subtle), and I love the figures themselves, with their slender limbs and their curved stature. They're delicate and beautiful . . . and, what's more, it looks raw and not digitally remastered.

I love them, and it's because of this that I'm posting two for this week's pic of the week. I could have posted more, but I'll stick with two and keep the rest for the future.

I hope you enjoy them as much as I do.

Kokuyouseki


Spinel

Thursday, 30 September 2010

Progress in Writing . . .

I had a pleasent surprise last night. Working away on my current piece, I decided to do a word count. I usually do this periodically to know how far I've got, and it gives me a rough idea how far I have to go.


I don't know how other people work, and there are so many other writers that I know with working formats that I can't get on with. One person writes a novel like a series of short stories and then pieces them together; works perfectly for them. Someone else may not have a plan at all and find it difficult to stick to one. Their characters drift from scene to scene, and both them and the writer have absolutely no idea what's coming around the corner. It can be an exciting way of writing, discovering what fate has in store for your characters, and it can have some amazing results.


But they're not for me. I'm a planner - of sorts. I know the beginning of my story; I know the end of my story; I know important turning points throughout my story, and the parts I have to drift across are the parts inbetween these. I know where my characters are going. I know where they've come from and I know what's in store for them, be it a happy ending or a tragedy. I know it all. I plan. And while I'm working on one piece, I'm planning the next, although most of the planning is done in my head. I actually have very few notes written down.


Oh yes, I have many novels planned for the future, and I know what one is coming next.


My last novel (my 14th...ish) was the first novel where I implented the skills of proper world building. I must have spent well over a year editing it, slowly bringing my world to life, layer by layer. I did spend a long time editing it and putting it through critiques, but I didn't mind this. All my stories are based in this fantasy world called the Lieflunds, and by spending so much time building it, my job has been made easier for my current work.


But because I spent so long in the editing stage as opposed to the writing stage, I found it quite difficult getting back into the swing of writing something new. Because of this I feel that my current novel has suffered somewhat in it's progress. It was never intended to be as long as my last piece, but it still feels like it's taken forever to struggle up to the point where I am now. I'm aiming for the 80k word limit for this piece (not an unreachable limit, by far), but for a long time the ending has seemed so far off.


Imagine my surprise when my word count told me I had reached the 60k mark. What?! Where did the last 30 thousand words come from??


I'm not complaining though, far from it. My 80k aim is now in reaching distance, and with the end climax to look forward to, I'm sure the last 20k words will appear with no hassle at all.


Just goes to show that persistant struggling pays off . . .

Friday, 24 September 2010

Pic of the Week . . .

This week's Pic of the Week is by the talented Anne Stokes. This piece is called "Water Dragon" and I thought it apt to help describe the sort of day we are having here.

WET . . .

Enjoy!

Anne Stokes - 'Water Dragon'

Thursday, 23 September 2010

Movie Review: Robin Hood . . .

We've been going on for the last few weeks about writing book reviews. A colleague of mine is making a big success writing book reviews for Hub magazine and getting his foot in the door of publishing - and a very well done to him. Even though this is actually a good idea, and a way to build a fan base before you even have your beloved work published, I can't help but sit there and think that reviews just aren't for me. And they're not. That's just me being honest.

But I still had to do my homework and write one - despite the fact that it's three weeks over due. Anyway, last night I treated myself to a movie night. I purchased Robin Hood on DVD - yes, the new one with Russell Crowe - and I curled up in my jim-jams on the sofa and pressed play.

Me, personally, I wasn't disappointed, so I thought I'd practice review writing on this. The thing to bare in mind with reviews is that it's the opinion of one person - and people differ, so not everyone will agree with this. In fact not a lot will. I've read some real dismal reviews about this film, and even though some of them state some valid points, I wouldn't go as far as giving it a bad review.

ROBIN HOOD

So, what's it all about? A hero coming back from the crusades and robs from the rich to give to the poor? Wrong. The film lacks any of that legendary, romantic hero malarkey - to a point. It's gritty history, not romantic dribble.

Robin Longstride (Russell Crowe) is an archer on the crusades with King Richard. After the King's death in France, Robin and a few fellow crusaders flea and make a run back for England. On their way they come across an ambush and discover that the party were escorting the King's crown and the news of his death back to the Tower of London. They also manage to catch the dying breath of Lord Loxley, and Robin is made to promise to return the Lord's sword back to his father in Nottingham. Seizing the opportunity, the group pose as Knights and use the crown as their key home.

Alongside all this is the tale of Prince John and his friend Godfrey (Mark Strong). But Godfrey is more than just a friend. He's a traitor to the crown and is liaising with the King of France who is planning an invasion. His scheme is to use the rise in taxes as a way to get the people to revolt against Prince John, thus putting England at war with itself and leaving it open for the French.

But Godfrey didn't count on Robin Longstride.

In Nottingham, Robin is made discover his heritage, is acquainted with Maid Marion (Cate Blanchett) and then discovers the truth behind the invasion. It is he who manages to persuade to people of England not to fight each other, but to unite as a country and stand against the French - which they do and succeed. It is in this battle that Robin finally kills Godfrey, saving Maid Marion in the process. But Prince John is outraged when the people start to hail Robin and not him, thus, in a fit of rage, he classes Robin as an outlaw.

The story line feels like it could be continued, and indeed it could, because this is the point where legend begins; where Robin and his band of merry men hide in the depths of Sherwood Forest, and where they rob from the rich and give to the poor. But never, I feel, has the full reason why Robin was outlawed been truly explored . Now it has, and despite the fact this is still fiction, it paves a perfect path for the legends that we so know and love. And it still has those lovably rogues; the not-so-Little John, Friar Tuck and his love of mead, Will Scarlet, and the dastardly Sheriff of Nottingham (who only has a few walk on roles, but a role that paves the way for the bigger role to come).

As for the film itself - I have to agree with some reviews that this isn't Ridley Scott's finest moment. It's no Gladiator. The last battle scene on the shores of Dungeness feels stifled. I'd imagine that if the French were to invade England, they would have had a larger army. The battle itself would have been bigger and bloodier. The scene's main focus isn't the battle itself, but Robin's flight against Godfrey. However, you can't help but be aware of the sparseness of everything around you as the battle to save England supposedly rages on.

I also found it a little odd how everything that happens to Robin is due to coincidence. He promises to take a dying stranger's sword back to his father - coincidence. The stranger's father happens to know of Robin's mysterious heritage - coincidence. The stranger's father and his father plotted together - coincidence. Some people believe everything happens for a reason. There's a name for this: Fate. For those who don't believe in it, it can begin to look a little unbelievable and pretentious.

BUT . . .

Life is full of coincidences. The world back then wasn't as populated as it is now. In a land ruled by one monarchy, why couldn't one Lord know the name of another? So the fact that Lord Loxley Sr knew of Robin's father could very well have happened. That's the thing with this film. It's not filled with the romantic fairy tales we grew up with. It's based on English History. I know it's something that shouldn't be taken as text-book gospel - it is purely fictional - but it's probably closer to the real story of what actually happened 700 years ago than anything else that's been told.

As for the film? I found it enjoyable with a steady pace - and if you're like me who doesn't delve too far into the 'hows' and 'whys' of a plot, who is quite happy to sit there and let the DVD entertain a couple of hours away, then you'll probably like it. I did, and if you ask my opinion? I think the Crowe still has it.

7/10

(So, how did my first review go . . . ?)