The magic of Turner!

Wednesday evening should see me officially no longer under the doctor and back in the land of job-seekers! Feeling so much more alive than at any time in the last couple of years, I find myself dotting around the Net and blogs and newspapers, scanning for information and inspiration. Every now and then I'll take a sidelong glance at my latest work, knowingly and unknowingly preparing for my latest writing surge. It will come, I know it will - and I'll be one step closer to the sending-off.
Looking around as I have been doing, my eyes have fallen on a few pieces concerning the Turner Prize. With Noel The Ultimate Proofreader's assertion that 'You've set yourself a mammoth task, Peter!' echoing in my head after I'd run through the plot and future events within the tale - and Noel is right, so I must be ultra-careful and diligent - a rather odd thought occurred to me that my 'off the wall' internal impression of my latest work could haunt me forever if I do not get it right. I love the Turner Prize, as it's incredibly challenging. Nowhere else is the question 'But is it art?' asked so frequently, and so seriously. Of course it's art. Thought is art! But the line between brilliance and mediocrity is incredibly thin. It is so apparent in the Turner Prize. I feel I'm close to that line and I have to be aware of it at all times. I don't want to end up at the wrong end of the Turner spectrum. Brilliance? I have to make it brilliant. One day I will be judged for real. That's for certain. If it's not brilliant, I will deserve to be unsuccessful.
Ha! This is some talking-to I'm giving myself! I'm close to writing something again and the tension is growing. Gotta be careful. If Noel's impression is one of hugeness (and it is my impression, too, and I didn't prompt him), then I know I'm going somewhere with it: it's what I intended. I got that part right, at least!

Arthur of the North

Rich's exploration of Sir Gawaine and the Green Knight is particularly interesting to me. It's funny, but my main inspirations for Sword Of Isgarion came from Peter Pan and King Arthur. An odd combination, perhaps, but life's a strange trip at the best of times, so I'm not too worried about my mental health in that respect!
Every now and then I take a trip up the North East coast, to visit the island of Lindisfarne, usually with Noel the Ultimate Proofreader, and sometimes Noel's lovely wife Chris comes, too. Windswept, bleak even in summer, Lindisfarne is a place you never forget once you've been there. In winter, the winds feel like they are cutting you in two, and as you look across the sea and capture the sky above the stormy waves, images of vikings and longships flash inside your mind, and pitched battles resonate along the deserted beach.
And there, I picture time and time again the legendary figure of Arthur, who is now named King Arthur in legend-history, fighting the invaders who often pillaged the settlements and murdered the people of the North. The true Arthur. The Northern Arthur. Oh yes - Arthur is a northerner. It's a northern name, for sure. Never a king, possibly a captain of some kind, he was a mighty leader in battle. Little is truly known about him, and the main source of information is basically legend. A great one, too - the most romantic of all legends in the history of literature in England. To me, it stands above them all.
Arthur, now though, is classed as a southerner, dwelling at Camelot, with roots in Glastonbury and the like, and cuts a dashing figure - unless you read Marion Zimmer Bradley's The Mists Of Avalon, where Arthur is portrayed as an infertile king and Camelot is turned virtually into an old people's home. There, Lancelot didn't actually get together with Guinevere until he was an elderly, failing knight, by which time the great writing had faded, along with my interest, and the story drifted away into the mist of its own title.
This, of course, brings me to the Isle of Avalon. Can't find it anywhere down south. Neither can anyone else. A mythical place.
Perhaps.
Until you visit Lindisfarne Isle in the north east of England, when the mist has cleared and the tide has gone out, and you can drive or walk across to its shores from the mainland, as people have done for centuries. And when you visit the ruined castle and stand inside the abbey, it dawns on you that you are there. That you are in Avalon. You feel it every time. At least, I know I do.

Life Imitating Art

Tonight, I'm going to do what I've always maintained I wouldn't do: I'm going to post a piece of my latest work. I wrote it some months ago and it's relatively unedited. There's nothing there to give the game away, so there's no real problem. I just had to, that's all...

...And yet, as he stood back, something flew out of the night, landing upon the road. It skidded and clattered for a few seconds, then stopped after hitting the kerb a couple of metres away.
Jael could see that it was an empty, scrunched-up Coke can. On a windless night? Jael knew that it must have been thrown – or kicked.
He looked into the dark, sensing something: a presence. Someone was there, watching him. He knew that he was being watched. How had he not noticed?
Jael stepped back into the relative obscurity of the shadows. And waited.
After a while, it was clear that whoever had been watching him was gone. But not before a voice had spoken to him. A voice that he did not recognise, though he knew that it was not human.
“Kamal,” it said, the voice falling like a whisper into his ear...

Fast forward to 7.30 p.m., October 31, 2007.
I was making my way back home along Commercial Road, just up from The Dolly Peel, though I hadn't been there for a drink. It was a quiet night, quite still, apart from a party of youngsters and an accompanying adult trick-or-treating further down the road. I stopped at a convenient point, checking for traffic before crossing to the other side. Suddenly, something clattered along the road towards me, something metallic, hitting the kerb a few metres away. It looked like a scrunched-up Coke can. I looked at the buildings at the other side of the road. There was no movement, no sign of life anywhere. I waited for a few moments, half-expecting to hear a whisper in my ear. Not even a laugh or a bang from a firework. Just silence. I looked at the can again, then back across the street. Nothing. After a few more moments, I moved warily on, looking back a couple of times down the still-empty road before turning off into the next street.

This happened.
On Hallowe'en.

Holding Court

I was in a real ale pub in South Shields called The Dolly Peel, sharing a drink with an old mate who'd come up from London, when a guy I'd just been introduced to mentioned he'd got hold of a second-hand copy of a book about the Mayans. Can't remember how it cropped up, but it did. Ha! This then got me name-dropping, and I found myself talking about how I knew someone online who was about to be published in February, and that I'd read Fingerprints Of The Gods a while back - or is that Footprints? There were only four of us (it was about 2 p.m. on a quiet Monday), but I was holding court, answering questions put to me about blogs, the internet and Maria Harris (M. G. Harris, I corrected myself). Mexico, Litopia and Critters also entered the discussion - though I made it clear I hadn't been to Mexico and was no longer a member of Litopia or Critters, so there was no real claim to fame for me there. I was asked for Maria's blog, and mine. Perhaps a few more new eyes will glance at my online ramblings. I'm actually more likely to comment on someone else's blog rather than type thoughts onto my own, but I don't claim to be the world's greatest blogger, so I hope it won't be held too much against me.
Just follow the links to the rest of blogland and you'll be fine, fellas! And entertained as well as informed!
As for my own work, I didn't mention it. Maybe one day someone will be standing in a pub talking about it. Probably me...

Andean Lounge

I got around to listening to Kalx, and the album I bought in Ocean Road.
As with all albums, there are highs and lows. Each track is heavy on atmosphere, and rather light on memorable tune - although they do slip in their own unannounced version of Samba Pa Ti. Once again, it is a more generalised rendition, with little of the mournful guitar that made the original so unique.
I did enjoy the album as a whole, but feel that they are first and foremost a live band. They will never get to the top of the charts in the UK! They've appeared a few times now in Ocean Road, and I still stop and listen. So do quite a few others, which seems to point to them being more of a live band.
Not bad, all in all.

One small step

I was wondering why I'm not diving in and writing away at my latest work, and trying not to over-analyse how I am doing things right now.
I have a fear of going too far down the road with it and not being able to unravel it if I happen to do just that. So I'm spending a great amount of time thinking and looking at different angles before making the next move. I've said this before, and it's worth realising the amount of tension and focus involved in doing this. I'm not actually doing this by choice - it just seems the way of my current world.
Once I've reviewed the next couple of chapters, that will make it prologue and three chapters in, with an already-written chapter to fit in somewhere, and another already-written chapter to fit in somewhere, too.
Each chapter is not great in size, reflecting my newer style of modern writing, but I believe they contain a lot of information and movement. A lot is made of 'show, don't tell' - and rightly so. I'm writing it in third person, allowing any person in the story to have his/her own life separate to the hero. And I'm doing my very best to ensure 'show'.
I did dally with first person, but really I would have got it all wrong at the very beginning, as I needed to have learned a lot of things - most of all how to counter the 'monologue effect'. A lot of works get away with murder, with huge amounts of tell, simply because they are in first person. Dean Koontz does first person brilliantly, so I have a first class teacher there. But the work has to match the decision of which way to write. My decision this time is to write in third. It is the right one.
I have a feeling inside me that says I should have written more than I have, that perhaps I should be further down the road with it all. But as I've said earlier, I seem unable to write until I've spent quite a while preparing for the next piece to be written. A kind of 'in-progress' structuring, maybe. And out of my control. I guess I shouldn't write if I'm not ready to write - possibly my main fault (if it should be called a fault) when writing my earlier stuff. Then, I just wrote until I had nothing left to say. Enjoyable and artistic - but I can say exactly the same about writing my new stuff. It's not a criticism. I find I can do it both ways, so it's a bit of self-praise as well as self-analysis. Neither way is wrong. You have to do what is right 'in the moment'.

Howard's End

The England football team's, too, by the look of things. They fell asleep for the first goal, and the Russian momentum brought about the second. Out of the European competition, virtually. I dunno...
In an effort to distract myself from such defeatist thoughts, I did a few things, and then found myself watching Howard's End - anything with Anthony Hopkins in is normally at least good. I've never read the book, so looked it up in Wikipedia. The synopsis is a horror story, and surely would result in any book not being published if sent out with sample chapters. Perhaps Howard's End really is a handful of smaller plots welded together to form a better whole, but it set me thinking again.
My latest work (calling it work is surely wrong, too, as it is such a pleasure to be involved in the writing of it! :-)) has smaller plots which I hopefully will meld properly into a larger whole. And I'd better get the synopsis right, otherwise I will be finished. That, of course, will come later, but it's vitally important to the selling of the story. I won't forget that.
Noel the Ultimate Proofreader has already raised the subject with me. Definitely: I won't forget about the quality of the synopsis.

Attack Of The Killer Tomatoes! pt 2

I was going to write about bread next. In the end, I realised that there's no point. Who on earth is going to be interested in my opinion of bread, and who on earth is going to change their eating habits on account of my blog?
Ridiculous. The idea, that is.
So, the first sequel to Attack Of The Killer Tomatoes! is rather shortlived. And there will be only one. I'll just change my life quietly, and my presence here will be proof that I've survived. Unless I become a ghostwriter!

While we were chatting this evening, Solvey reminded me that the Man Booker Prize winner was being announced. How could I forget the timing! Oh, what it must be like to stand upon the stage, making the acceptance speech. No point in dreaming about it. Have to keep things real. Actually, yes there is a point in dreaming about it - it's a great way to start the reality. So first, I gotta get published. Erm, first I gotta get an agent.
No: first-first, I gotta write this story...

More surprise

(I've been standing behind the prologue and looking along the line of the story, trying to view the future.)
No wonder I was struggling to come up with a way forward after the second chapter: the second chapter seemed to be in the wrong place. That is, I put it in the wrong place. As good as I believe this chapter to be, the impression given is that the story is jumping from one place to another, or from one person to another. If I place another chapter before it (one I'd already written), the story stays with the hero and moves in a more natural line towards the narrative, and forces me to focus on the narrative. And there is another chapter already written to follow on from that. They just need me to review them. The replaced chapter, coming later, will allow a rivulet or stream to form afterwards, adding a further layer to the story.
Once again, I surprised myself with my initial idea - that the story should begin with the hero and stay with him for a while until a natural break occurred. I was right the first time. I must learn to trust my instincts more. Introducing other people is an art, and not only in 'how', but in 'when'. Timing is vital.
Of course, I can't show this to you, like I can't show you anything else to do with the story. But that is where I am.
I feel more at ease, but I think I've stated this before, only to change things again. I don't think so, this time. This change should prove to have been the right one.

Study

Tonight, I'm looking to the movement from chapter one onwards. How the beginning merges the introduction of the hero and the flow of the story into the next chapter and subsequent chapters. Now that I've established a beginning, it's time to consider everything else and form the river that must flow throughout - the main story narrative.
This means that I will be looking at everything I have, feeling out the way forward; deciding which is a part of the river, and which is a rivulet slipping back and forth from the river, running alongside it, now and again affecting it, or being affected by it.
Lol, you might think my analogy is a bit odd, I don't know, like my colour association, but that's okay - I like how I do things and I like what I'm doing in my latest work. It's my way, that's all. It works for me!
How I get on will probably determine the future of this chronicle. I've enjoyed it - most of the time - but I need to concentrate and don't think I've done that properly. I need to think about that. But that's the far future. The immediate future is tonight, and progress!
Keep you posted!

Inspiration

Sunday night saw me searching for inspiration. I was worried that I was losing my way with my latest work, and even that I was blowing it a bit. Not sure where the feeling of panic was coming from, but it was there.
I looked at the scans of my handwritten stuff - I scan everything, which allows me to have two copies in case I lose the originals.
Suddenly, just by looking at the names of the people in the story, and some of the things they say or do, I found the fear disappearing. I was being inspired by my own work! Amazing!
I saw, too, that the second chapter after the prologue probably could come later. As I already had further chapters typed up, I found I had another version of the beginning to hand, so really I needed to consider which was the more likely version of the beginning. I have to remember that I will not be able to judge the strength of the beginning until I have gone further into the future with it. I love the chapters I've done so far, so no criticism of myself is necessary. It's an evolution, and I have to understand that. Beginnings, middles and ends will appear and then shift around, whatever the level of planning.
Planning is funny - in life, whatever you plan, things change and you have to be ready for this change. Writing must reflect life, no matter what kind of fantasy you place within it, otherwise your readers won't be able to associate with it. So I can't advocate planning as the way to write, if it doesn't also reflect change, or unexpected change. It must also reflect fluidity. If you can see the joins, that you are writing by numbers, then it will show. That's my main concern: I'm not a natural planner, so I'm mixing and matching. It's all part of the evolution of the story. The people in it are all different, and they each have their own ticker going. Like they should be. Just reading them again kickstarted my head into action. That's gotta be a good thing.

Attack of the killer tomatoes

Or rather: what on earth are we eating?
I decided I needed to change my diet to something healthier than it has been of late. And that a healthier outlook might help my writing, and concentration etc. All this thinking is wearing me out! More roughage, less sugar in my tea, more water, less pastries, more fruit and veg, less sandwiches. It sounded good, anyway.
First off, I'd read the latest milk debate, and felt that maybe milk was not the healthy drink it was said to be. So I tried goat's milk - it's creamy, nourishing, much more digestible than cow's milk and so on. So the container said. Except, there is an aftertaste that suggests unhealthiness. Even tea didn't taste so good with it. Goat's milk was out.
I looked at, and tried, oat milk, soya milk and rice milk. None of them actually replace cow's milk fully - you can't heat them up too much, would you believe, and you have to let tea cool first before putting them in. Cool to what? And I've never seen such a contrived list of ingredients. Who actually gives the okay for these to go on sale? They are now out.
But I like coffee, too. With cream. Hmmm...
Perhaps the answer is to stick to organic milk and cream. Should have less gunk in it to what is apparently healthy enough in non-organic milk. Beginning to wonder what the food industry has been doing to us. And that's just looking at milk!!
Next up is bread. Keep you posted...