Oh look a survey, what a mighty fine thing on this mighty fine day, what else would I want to be doing on this wonderful sunny day.
If you read the post below you would know I was writing a novel, and I have a survey going because there's a part I want to write, but I need to know what people think about beauty. If you do it it's not going to spoil or give away any of the story at all and its anonymous as most surveys are these days. I would appreciate it terribly, it would be a great help.
If you do do it thank you very very much and if you don't thank you anyway for reading this.
Friday, 15 March 2013
Every now and then a writer gets a spur of inspiration and decides to sit down with a computer screen in hand and a several hundred thousand word goal. There are those, that sit there with such a determination that after several millions cups of coffee, three computers and that little laptop you found in the street collection, they do reach their goal. Once this far some are lucky enough to get it published, others are lucky enough to be bothered to self-publish and then the others are lucky enough to not care either way and have it sit collecting dust. There are then, of course, the people who have the several millions cups of coffee, three computer and that little laptop, but still never manage to complete their goal. This could be for several reasons; lack of inspiration, no time, or they already have the whole story planned out in their head and that makes them happy enough that they don't need to write the rest. I'd say may problem is a combination of the first and the last. There is a reason why I never plan out a story before I write it. But now I am determined, I want to be one of those first people that let their novel sit and collect dust (because I doubt I'll be the other two). I have the time (those thats debatable as I will need to get a proper job to pay for those several million cup of coffee), and I have the inspiration. And, the best of all, despite the fact that I did write the end before I even decided to write the rest of the story, I have no idea what's going to happen in the middle. Anything can happen. So, without much ado, I present to you my several hundred word spurred by several hundreds coffees story; Ponytail Start Girl. I hope that you enjoy, not get too confused, and no matter what you read, everything is meant to be there.
It starts with a girl, with ponytails and two hands; eight fingers, two thumbs, some toes and a little pink nose. She was youngish and her blonde hair sometimes looked grey in the light. She wanted to be a ballerina when she grew up, or a princess, but her parents made sure she was never too hopeful.
There’s moments in childhood when the mind flits between dreams, when they know what they want inside, and then find another. They can do anything they want, they can be anything they want to be. What is it that forces them to lose those dreams? When does the ballerina stop believing they can be a tap dancer?
One day he put on his tap shoes and danced around the house, cracking the tiles and singing away the moths. Who knew how he could one day be an astronaut and fly to the moon whilst gazing around at stars with dancing people called Marty.
Our ponytail girl, now she was a pretty girl, quite pretty, absolutely gorgeous as her parents would say. She stopped believing them though when they started calling her sister gorgeous. But she’s ugly, she would say, she’s not gorgeous. You’re both gorgeous. She didn’t see anything beautiful about her sister. Gorgeous means ugly then. Of course not. She didn’t like being called gorgeous. She grew though, as any person would. Age could not be defied by her as slowly, she lost her innocence. To some she lost her beauty, to others she gained it.
She meet a woman from the red part of town, glazed in pettiness.
“You could be a right picture you know girl.”
“What do you mean?”
“Slash you up with some powder, cut that skirt and you could be pitch perfect.”
“I don’t want that.”
“You got too much pride, is that it?”
“No. I just don’t want that.”
“What are you doing around here then, looking for your own doll?”
“I’m not really sure.”
“So you are looking for a little grub.”
“I have to get going.”
“Bet you need it, that’s why you’re here. You need some dough. Parents push you out, that it?”
“My parents are royalty.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
And for those who feel inspired to read more, let me direct you here:
Tuesday, 4 December 2012
This is my latest story. It didn't turn out as planned, but my stories never do, and in the end I like how this one went.
It was with inconceivable circumstances that I came to learn of things that are not meant to be heard. Whilst maybe the events did not end in light consequences, they were finalised with a lesson learnt by all. The situation all began with a call which woke my household of one at the late hour.
“Hello?” I said less spritely into the phone.
“Gregory. Someone’s been shot.”
I was speechless for a moment, unsure of what to say in reply to this outburst of a comment. “Richard, what do you say the problem is?”
The voice returned hurried and frantic. “Harry’s been shot.”
I did not know any by the name of Harry, and had never heard Richard speak of him. “Richard you have my deepest sympathy. But who is Harry?”
There was still no calming in his voice. “I don’t know, I don’t know, but someone shot him.”
It dawned on me suddenly what he had been doing.“Richard, have you been tuning into the police radio?”
There was silence, then a soft answer. “Yes.”
I had consulted with him many times about the radio he had that unwittingly could tune into the police radios. “Richard you shouldn’t listen to that, we’ve already discussed this matter.”
“I couldn’t help it. And now Harry’s been shot.”
“You didn’t know Harry. Turn the thing off and forget it.”
His tone had lessened in desperation but it still had not returned to normal. “I can’t forget it, someone just died.”
I sighed. “You don’t know he died, he may just have been shot in the arm.”
“He died Gregory, I know he did.”
He had told me often the things he heard on the radio; thefts, assaults, but it had never amounted to this.
“Forget it Richard. You did not know Harry, and you can’t do anything about it now. Forget it.”
There was no noise on the other side, and I knew he was contemplating.
“Richard I’ll come over in the morning, but for now you should go to bed.”
There was only a slow pause on the other end. “I suppose I’ll see you in the morning Gregory.”
“Good night Richard.”
“Good night.” I let there be a moment before he hung up.
It was with an easy mind that I returned to bed, as I was sure it would be with a heavy mind that Richard returned to bed. I had known the radio would not bring him any good and it had proven that just before. In the morning there would be a hefty conversation passed, and with all hope on my side, he would never touch the radio again.
The morning was brisk as I set off for the few blocks in which Richard lived. The sun had yet to entirely lift the winter fog, and I watched as my breath exhaled before smoothly dissipating into the air.
I rapped swiftly upon his door and he answered in an instance. Seeing his appearance I doubt he had slept; dark circles laid under his eyes and his clothes covered his body rumply.
“Gregory.” There was relief in his voice.
“Richard, it’s good to see you.”
He let me into the living room and we each took a seat. He sunk into his seat and for a moment his eyes fluttered. Then they rose and he turned his gaze on me.
“I’m going to throw the damned thing out.”
“That’s a very wise choice. I’ll take it if you want.”
He glanced at it and I saw it sitting on the table; a small black box.
“Richard you must remember that you didn’t know Harry. Do not be vexed about it, it’s just like something you hear on the news.”
He sunk again. “I won’t think on it for too long. Do you know what irritates me the most? That I was listening when he died. When the blue vests got there he was still breathing, they declared him dead three minutes later. Where was the point that he stopped in life and started in death. There must have been one moment, one millisecond where he was alive, and then the next he was dead. Why couldn’t that small moment of been dragged into just one millisecond more, and then so, why not an eternity of milliseconds more. I think of dying, and wonder whether I’ll beg for that millisecond again and again and wonder how I can’t have it, or just let it pass.”
I was struck with nothing to say. What I had thought was just a worry that a man had died had become more, and I knew not how to quell it. “Richard, you shouldn’t worry about these things. You have many years left in you; he died because he was shot, you are in great health.” I attempted to be as reassuring as I could, but I was not sure my words would soften him.
“I’m just a man, and death and time are like gods, just hovering over you, knowing when you will fall into its grasp. I’ll meet them both one day.”
“As will we all, but not for many years to come.”
“But it will come. Time is just waiting, always going at the same pace and always waiting. There is no way to stop time, and it waits knowingly. It smiles , there is evil in its smile, a crooked, harsh, knowing smile. And death, it stays with time, make deals with it, wanting to always take another into its hold. It finds ways to cut time, but never quicken its pace; always the same constant pace. Death doesn’t smile, but laughs; a laugh that cuts to the very core and shakes a person’s hold on life to its roots. They are both evil evil things.”
“Richard! What you think is not true, there is no need to think of these things now. You cannot change time, or death, just as you cannot change what happened yesterday. You must put all these things out of your mind, and never think of them again.” I was increasingly worried about my friend, he had never spoken in such a manner before and I did not know what it would lead to.
His eyes fluttered again and he sat up, as if spurred by a spritely attitude. He gave a sigh, a long sigh and then spoke. “Ah Gregory, the ignorant mind is the better is it not. We will not discuss it further then.”
“Then you will not think of these things further.”
“Once a mind has left ignorance it can not go back. But I will not bother you with these thoughts again.”
He smiled and I returned it, though I was still wary of the matter. It was not good for a man to think too much of things he can not control, and it would be better to forget such things and be surprised when they came upon one. I knew I would not dwell on any of these matters beyond the front door.
We moved to easy conversation, just as we always would. When midmorning came I left, the radio tucked within my hands.
“You won’t worry about these matters any longer will you Richard?” I put out as a leaving comment.
He smiled warmly. “Do not fear Gregory, I have found a way to forget these thoughts.”
“Good man, I will see you tomorrow then.”
He kept his smile up in reply.
It is now with a heavy heart that I relate all these matters. I did in fact see Gregory the next day, when I called on him after he had not called on me, but I did not talk to him. I wondered if they would relay the matters over their police radio, and an unwitting stranger would find that he could no longer be ignorant. I dared to hope not, lest they meet the same pondering that Richard felt, and ultimately, the same fate. For a long time I wondered if I could have said something to stop his actions, but as I considered his demise, I realised it had not been that at all. I was sure in his final moments he had smiled at time, and laughed at death, for taking things to himself. There had been a lesson for all, and it would be only mine that I could put to use. Ignorance can be easy, but knowledge allows one to understand how ease can be brought, and whilst I was not knowledgeable, I was neither ignorant, and in that, I found my ease.
Tuesday, 20 November 2012
I recently wrote a choose-your-own-adventure story. I've always wanted to write one. It's quite short (I realised that because I didn't plan it out if I didn't finish writing it in one night then I would lose my track). I'm still not entirely sure if it fully works, and that is why I want other people to read it (wink wink). I'll just post the first chapter here, and you can find the rest at the link below.
Deep and dark, in the treacherest alley of the most deepest and darkest bog, there was a story taking place. This story was so deep and dark, that it could only occur in the deepest and darkest, most treacherest alley of the most deepest and darkest bog. It is not the story of a murder, though perhaps by the end you may feel you’re mind has been murdered. There will be tense changes, and there will be words that do not exist. Those who cannot stand the slaughter of grammar, the goriest of bad literature, please, cover your eyes for the sake of humanity. But for those who find it a liberation, a proud glory on earth, uncover the person’s eyes next to you and shout your anarchy!
Let us begin.
Down in this deepest, darkest, treacherest alley, of the most deepest, darkest bog there was a storyteller just sitting there. They had a tale in their mind, and words upon their heart. But there was no one to listen, no one to hear the beautiful tale they so longed to tell. A moment of silence please I must request, for this poor storyteller who has such a magnificent story to tell, but no one to tell it to.
Now that the world has stopped to pay respect to me, I can continue with the actual story in this. This storyteller now has someone who will listen to their magnificent story. Then again, maybe it ain’t so magnificent.
Gather round now, like any good storyteller would say. Warm up by the fire (we’re just waiting for it to spontaneously combust at any moment now).
Wednesday, 3 October 2012
It had always been my dream to be a writer. I was going to have my name on the front of a book, sell a few million and be a household name. Well I really just wanted the book, that would be enough for me. Writing has always been what I was going to do with my life. I was going to go to university, and do some writing degree which would make me a brilliant writer, and even if I didn't, I was going to enjoy it more than anything. But now, it's not my dream anymore. Oddly enough in all of it that hardest part to contemplate is that I may never walk through a university's gates. Going to uni was always something that I was going to definitely do, no matter what I did there. When I was younger I thought that people who didn't go to uni didn't go because they couldn't, and I didn't want to be one of those people. I've since realised that that isn't the case, but I still feel that if I don't have a uni degree to my name, then I won't be seen as someone who could do it. I'll be seen as one of them (I know who I'm talking about at least). I've spent too much time rambling about uni's. Even if I didn't study writing I would study business, or just anything really that make my life end up in an office. I wanted an office job. But now I want to go into theatre, not the acting part, every other part. I want it more than anything. I'd give up writing to do that. I've never wanted anything this much. Part of me wonders if this is just a spur of the moment thing, but I feel that it's not. It's gone from never even contemplating doing what's really spurred it, to it becoming more than the on-the-side thing, to me wanting to do it more than anything. But it's odd no longer wanting to be a great writer. If I died now my one regret would not be that I never got published, as it would've been six months ago. It's funny how thing's change. When there's something you've wanted for so long, it's hard to realise when you stop wanting it.
Monday, 24 September 2012
This isn’t me, I’m losing myself and where I found it. I found it in her, in her writings. How I wish it were her words that sped from my fingers now, not mine. The day has danced it’s mystery upon my mind, clouding in a crippled confusion as I wander about the streets, no longer knowing who I am, or who I want to be. I barely know who I ever was. Why won’t they all just understand? Why won’t they just see me for who I am? Because I am afraid to show them, I know that is the answer.
The empty night lights the face of the wanderer with a speckled fascination, throwing shadows upon those that pass.
Why won’t they ask? If they did, I would lie, I always lie. Nothing’s wrong with me. Yet I want there to be. I’m just too afraid to tell them, to have them judging me.
The shadows are clicked into her, the wanderer steps over the pavement. They follow her, always following, always one step behind. In a rush of a moment she attempts to let them catch up, they’ve bent down to tie a shoe.
How could someone judge me? That would mean there was something wrong with my mind, and to admit a flaw… it would be to admit the way they brought me up. Oh how how how, and that one word is emphasised in its glory because I do not know any further way to place it.
There is a question on the smooth mouth of the wanderer, that sits in the air, waiting for a passer-by. There is none. Again it repulses into the soft night, and again it is left without remembrance. She cannot do anything but walk in the willows of the moon.
This all, this is both who I am, and who I want to be. There is no fantasy, only reality. There is truth, that can never be real. There is a life, that is waiting to be lived, and has already past. All that’s left, is everything that was there at the beginning, no answer gained. And that’s the way it shall always be, that’s the way she wants it, the way I want it.
Saturday, 8 September 2012
I feel like it's been too long since I've sat down and written a story. It hasn't really been that long, only a couple of weeks actually. But when I was writing this I realised that I had missed it. I must start writing more often. Well anyway, here's the story:
There’s something trickling in the distance, she can hear it. It must be water, what else would it be? Blood. This isn’t a horror story though, and there is doubt in credibility when the writer squirms at their own words. So it must be water. That’s the magic of writing, the sheer possibility of it all. There’s no water in the distance; yet for you, at this very moment, there is. My mind is past the trickle though, already onto the future.
Someone must go see this trickle, find out what it really is. So she gets up, and leaves her spot on the grassy floor. There’s a blue dress dragging against the knees, she likes it since it covers her arms. By the time this story is over you may have forgotten that her eyes are green. There’s a park around her, and two trees at the edge. That is where she heads, she’s sure the trickle is coming from there. I can hear a trickle, but it may not be the same as yours. My trickle is soft and slow; melodic, hypnotic. Drip... Drip… Drip. Each drop is a new life. Your trickle may be different. It may be fast, persuasive. Drip. Drip. Drip. Or then again, it may be one continuous stream, bigger sounds coming when a rush overflows. Driiiidrrrrriiipppppdrrriiiddddddrrrriipp. Everyone’s trickle is different. I’m the writer, and you’re the reader, but no one’s trickle is wrong.
With all of this she reaches the trees. There’s no water, not a pond or a just a drop. There’s still a trickle somewhere, she can hear it. She’s been invented by me, created by you, but even her trickle is different.
It has to be known where this trickle is. As her curiosity grows, does yours? Mine does, and it should be thought that I already know where it is. Just as she is honest, I am when I say that I do not know.
She puts her hand upon a trunk, there was a root that she almost tripped on. She pokes her head through. And she stumbles.
Perhaps it was a mirror, or maybe just a dream. Maybe it was her yearning for treasure, a yearning for love?
She can see the trickle. You can’t, not yet. But she can, and what she sees is beautiful.
She asks a question, and he gives her his name.
In a mountain, a trickle falling from the top can only be heard by those below. They cannot see it, the water too small for their eyes. One day someone will climb to the top, to see the trickle. She has, maybe one day you will. I never will, I prefer the suspense.
She’s still looking, listening for the sound is still coming. It’s emanating from him. She wonders what will happen if she passes back through the trees. Maybe she will lose this trickle, she never wants too. She hears on a whim, for this writer gives whims, that she cannot step back through the trees with him. This writer want this story to be a heartbreak, love that can never be. What is the reader thinking, what do you want?
She smiles whilst taking his hand, she knows what to do. They step together, the trees are right there. She passes them. But she doesn’t go through them, she goes around. Trickles can go anywhere when held by another. She’s defied the words wanted, broken the law of the writer. There shall be no tragedy.
She walks off with him, leaving the grass, and the trees, with a blue dress dragging against her knees. She prefers brown eyes.
Now all that’s left is for you to stumble through trees to find a trickle. There’s a trickle for me and a trickle for you, trickles of many things. Your trickle is different to my trickle, just as her trickle was different. Just remember to go around, not through, in case you lose your trickle to ease.
She’s happy that her curiosity took her to the trickle, and she’s happy that she saw a way around. This writer is happy that it wasn’t a horror, and can smile at what’s been created. Now all that’s left is for the reader to think, to decide if they are happy.
There’s a trickle out there for you; it could be water, it could be a horror. That’s up to you to find.
Anyone can create their own story.
She’s found her trickle, I’m looking for mine. And you, maybe you’re just beginning to hear the trickle. Or then again, maybe it’s already in your sight.