It's been a while since I posted here, but I have good reasons (I swear). Mostly I've just not felt I had anything decent to say here, but it's also been a bit of a busy couple of weeks. I've broken a few milestones in writing Maiden Voyage this last week, including 20 chapters, 200 pages and 50,000 words. Frankly, it's starting to look like a novel, and that's exciting.
It's also starting to look like I might actually finish, which is somewhat mind blowing for me. It's not that I didn't think I wouldn't reach the end, it just looks like so much stuff when I look back on what I've written and I come to wonder how on earth I managed a story with an actual cohesive narrative, characters with coherent voices and scenes that I'm reasonably happy with.
When I've finished the first draft there's a few conversations I need to have with a few friends of friends (of friends) about approaching publishing and all that and I'm actually getting pretty excited to have those conversations. Back when I started the whole notion of actually approaching publishers or even people that could help me get published was a little terrifying.
I'll also have to start going about the monumental task of full-scale editing.That's something I still find terrifying. I don't know what's pointless and terrible in the story so far and have no clue as to how to go about removing or replacing those sections seamlessly. There's a couple of formatting things I need to sort out too, which are simple but oh so time consuming. I'm very unsure as to whether there's any point to getting an editor in to help (or even how to go about getting one).
Anyway, everything is looking very promising and with some luck I should soon know if I'm headed toward being published or not.
Tuesday 28 May 2013
Tuesday 14 May 2013
A Wandering Shovel Bite-Sized Story: The First Day
I recently got a group of writer friends to start a Wandering Shovel game. The way the game works is someone gets 'called out' and has to write a piece of 1000 words or less based off a prompt they are given. The other parameter is that each and every story must involve someone getting killed by a shovel in some form. Once someone has finished their story they upload it to facebook so everyone else can see it and calls out the next person, giving them their prompt.
Anyway, this week I got called out with the prompt 'the love of mushrooms'. The piece I wrote is set in the same universe as Maiden Voyage. I didn't quite get to develop some parts of it, but then I only had 1000 words (of which I used 973). Perhaps it could become a short story sometime later. Below is the piece.
The First Day
Anyway, this week I got called out with the prompt 'the love of mushrooms'. The piece I wrote is set in the same universe as Maiden Voyage. I didn't quite get to develop some parts of it, but then I only had 1000 words (of which I used 973). Perhaps it could become a short story sometime later. Below is the piece.
The First Day
I was born on the first day. The world ended and I began, a
miracle child adrift in the sky. My people saw the end as it approached and
fled in a ragtag complex of balloons slaved to one another by a thousand ropes.
They feared technology, and with good cause. They did not fear me.
I was hope on the first day, an impossible breath of life as
the world seemed dead. All thirty of us, all ten balloons, the only living
things we could prove were real. All thirty of us to raise one child. We were a
castle in the sky, a bastion of safety in clear air. I could not have hoped for
a better childhood. There was so little to teach me. I came to understand
language and people but there was no schools or masters for an apprentice.
There was twenty nine parents. There was me.
I was then born on the 6209th day. They had stolen
something, one morsel of technology to satisfy their craving, because they were
impure. They were tainted by that machinery and I was pure as the saccharine
sky. My purity was sacrificed. I was told it was for a greater cause. As their
collective memory flooded my consciousness and became my own I understood why,
but I was still made impure and that made me no different to them. Hope died on
the 6209th day.
From the first day I had felt nothing constant. Now there
was an anchor inside of me. They had tied me, slaved me to the past. My purpose
was to remember, to warn, to protect the future. The knots were too tight. The
ropes were too short. On the 6210th day nothing was different save for that
anchor. Their survival was justification, was leverage.
I did not know that I remembered for them all. There was
nothing to remind me of anything up there in the abyss. The end of the world
had not made them afraid of clouds or blue sky. They were not afraid of storms,
for they had bigger things to fear. The drifting cloudscape was the embodiment
of calm. I never learned panic.
I was then born on the 7670th day. I came to understand what
land was. Until then I had only been able to remember land. The anchor in me
grew heavier. I was pinned to the ground from that day forth, no longer adrift
as I should be. Now there were things to be learned, but I did not have to be
taught them. Collective memory provided me all the information I needed about
survival. Collective memory did not teach me how that need for survival
condoned what they had done to me. They gave me an anchor and I became like
them. I was no longer a fresh start, a blank slate, a miracle child. I knew
that. I did not understand it though.
On the 7694th day I came to understand. All their memory lay
in my head and they grew lazy. They absolved themselves of their memories of
the End. I was meant to remember the past and warn the future, but only because
they were too weak to do so themselves. They forced it upon me.
On that day we had established ourselves on the ground and
were finding what the land could provide us with. We had proven there was life
other than ours, but we had not proven there was other life like ours. Back to
earth. Back to the beginning so far back even I could not remember it. We were
scavengers, still thinking we might be kings.
Twenty nine, and me. Number seventeen found mushrooms. He
had allowed himself to forget what they meant. He remembered a delicacy. I
remembered destruction, the clouds of death, the pool of burned mutants below.
I remembered it all and no-one else did because they were selfish. They were
victims of the same flaws in people that had caused the End. I understood that
and they did not. So much pain. So much anger. It rose, then exploded all at
once inside me.
Here I do not understand what happened, but I remember it,
and I remember it as my own memory. They lifted into the air around me. A slow
explosion with me at its epicentre. Everything else lifted with them. The
recycled balloons which had become tents for houses. The food and water. The
tools they had selected so carefully. I took them back into the sky for the
last time, so that they might feel what I had felt up there. They could see
that freedom all around it but be unable to experience it. They were anchored
by me now as I had been anchored by them. They understood.
Then they fell. They returned to the home of their graves.
They returned to the mother they had betrayed. They fell.
Most were not people by the time they reached that mother,
that home. They collided with blank thuds. Some were still people, lying in
pain incomprehensible. Their minds were overwhelmed by the stimuli, like I was
if I made myself remember. All their equipment followed them down. Of those
that had not died instantly and whose minds had not shut down from the overload
of agony a few had the luxury of dying to something that they had not brought
on themselves. A crushed body here, a torso flayed by ropes there, a head
severed from its body with a shovel lying between. Then the last light blinked
out.
I did not die that day, and I never will. But I will never
remember. Their warning to the future, their legacy that they thought they
could legitimise, now it lies in bleeding consciousness. I refuse to remember.
I hope to forget.
Tuesday 7 May 2013
The Zone
Today, at around 4 30 p.m, I found myself in the Zone. I quite like being in the Zone, it's a space that harbours hyper-productivity and I like being able to get a lot done given that I spend a lot of time getting nothing done on most days. I was looking like I would be finishing a whole chapter within the hour and would undoubtedly be finishing another whole chapter by the end of the week.
At 5 20 p.m someone came into my room and made a fuss about who would be cooking dinner, deciding that since I had mentioned I was at home during the day I could cook (despite not being able to plan a meal and get ingredients etc etc etc) even though the task had been prescribed to someone else. To put it plainly, my mother came in to my work space and acted rudely. The interruption in and of itself was frustrating. The death sentence to my precious Zone was that the exchange left me feeling angry. I haven't written a word of that story since, despite being on a roll of sorts.
This post is meant to be about the Zone, not the interpersonal dramas in my home, so I won't go into further detail about my afternoon. The Zone is like a bubble. You can call out to someone inside it and they will be able to hear you, but try and interact with the person inside and the bubble will burst instantly. It's such a delicate thing. Staying in the Zone can be challenging purely because it is so fragile. One can learn, and do so very quickly, how to stay in this Zone provided they are not interrupted. Thankfully the Zone promotes tunnel vision, so it is surprisingly difficult to get voluntarily distracted by things like the internet and food and that spot on the wall that is suddenly very interesting, all of which are common distractions to a person working while outside of the Zone.
The externals can simply not be controlled so easily. I can turn my phone onto silent mode but it will still light up and beg for my attention if someone sends me a message or calls me. I can ask that my dinner be left aside so I can reheat it at my leisure but at some point I will still have to eat it. I can be in the most isolated room in the building and someone might still choose to enter it.
Minimising these external threats to the integrity of the Zone is crucial to prolonging its lifespan, I have found. I have also found that there are in fact simple was to minimise these threats. Leave phones out of sight. Have an emergency sandwhich in your workspace when you start writing. Hang a 'Do Not Disturb' sign on your door. Untangle yourself from headphone cables lest you find yourself in an infuriating spaghetti-esque bundle.
"But Pixie," you cry, "I did all these things and someone still ignored my 'Do Not Disturb' sign so they could tell me off for not cleaning my room!"
Here's a quick guide for what to do when you are, for some reason or another, pulled out of the Zone. Fist of all, let it out. If you're angry, let it out and get the anger out of the way. Then lie down for a bit, maybe watch something on youtube. Numb your brain a little bit and let yourself get distracted. All the explosive emotion released when that bubble burst will get buried beneath the distraction and you'll return to the neutral state you were in when you entered the Zone. If you can't just sit down and pick up where you left off, go do something else creative. Pick up your local guitar, doodle something, make fart noises to the tune of 'Call Me Maybe', go write a blog post...
At 5 20 p.m someone came into my room and made a fuss about who would be cooking dinner, deciding that since I had mentioned I was at home during the day I could cook (despite not being able to plan a meal and get ingredients etc etc etc) even though the task had been prescribed to someone else. To put it plainly, my mother came in to my work space and acted rudely. The interruption in and of itself was frustrating. The death sentence to my precious Zone was that the exchange left me feeling angry. I haven't written a word of that story since, despite being on a roll of sorts.
This post is meant to be about the Zone, not the interpersonal dramas in my home, so I won't go into further detail about my afternoon. The Zone is like a bubble. You can call out to someone inside it and they will be able to hear you, but try and interact with the person inside and the bubble will burst instantly. It's such a delicate thing. Staying in the Zone can be challenging purely because it is so fragile. One can learn, and do so very quickly, how to stay in this Zone provided they are not interrupted. Thankfully the Zone promotes tunnel vision, so it is surprisingly difficult to get voluntarily distracted by things like the internet and food and that spot on the wall that is suddenly very interesting, all of which are common distractions to a person working while outside of the Zone.
The externals can simply not be controlled so easily. I can turn my phone onto silent mode but it will still light up and beg for my attention if someone sends me a message or calls me. I can ask that my dinner be left aside so I can reheat it at my leisure but at some point I will still have to eat it. I can be in the most isolated room in the building and someone might still choose to enter it.
Minimising these external threats to the integrity of the Zone is crucial to prolonging its lifespan, I have found. I have also found that there are in fact simple was to minimise these threats. Leave phones out of sight. Have an emergency sandwhich in your workspace when you start writing. Hang a 'Do Not Disturb' sign on your door. Untangle yourself from headphone cables lest you find yourself in an infuriating spaghetti-esque bundle.
"But Pixie," you cry, "I did all these things and someone still ignored my 'Do Not Disturb' sign so they could tell me off for not cleaning my room!"
Here's a quick guide for what to do when you are, for some reason or another, pulled out of the Zone. Fist of all, let it out. If you're angry, let it out and get the anger out of the way. Then lie down for a bit, maybe watch something on youtube. Numb your brain a little bit and let yourself get distracted. All the explosive emotion released when that bubble burst will get buried beneath the distraction and you'll return to the neutral state you were in when you entered the Zone. If you can't just sit down and pick up where you left off, go do something else creative. Pick up your local guitar, doodle something, make fart noises to the tune of 'Call Me Maybe', go write a blog post...
Saturday 4 May 2013
A Preview Part II
I decided it'd been a couple of days since the last post here and as much as I don't want to be constantly posting things I've written I don't feel I have very much to talk about on here at the moment. Today I'm posting the second chapter of The New Age of Steam: Maiden Voyage. This will probably be the last complete chapter I post. Further previews will be smaller excerpts unless a good number of people ask me to post a full chapter.
Chapter 2
Aeronautics
A dozen Engineers, Malcolm in their midst, stood hunched over a large table with papers scattered about it. They were in the main hall of the Engineer's headquarters, a mass of wood and iron which sat suspended below an overhang allowing a breathtaking view of the lake. The view was largely ignored today, the content of the sprawled papers was far more interesting.
"And you have funding?" asked Giorgi, an Engineer in his mid 30's who always knew what those in the room were thinking.
"The Archaeologist's guild expressed interest when I discussed it with their head guildsman and they've agreed to supply most of the funds." replied Markus, the Engineer's head guildsman.
"Most?" asked Giorgi, again capturing the question on everyone's minds.
"The rest consist of a few small donations from wealthier families and organisations. Nothing unusual." Markus replied in his exceptionally level voice once more.
It seemed that after so many years of life, almost a hundred, nothing anyone said caught Markus off guard. There was very little about him to show his age though, he had been bald all his life, having been born a Purple Eye, so there were no grey hairs to suggest old age. His skin was remarkably smooth, again a result of his mutation, and aside from the creases caused by years of conversation he could boast almost no wrinkles. As far as science was concerned he would live to be even older. The Purple Eye mutation had emerged sometime during or after The Ending and after years of study it was believed everything there was to know about it was known. Carriers of the gene might not have the mutation themselves, so it was difficult to tell who might give birth to a Purple Eye. It was fairly rare, though, with only a dozen or so living in Lucerne. They lived to be very old, often as old as 150, grew no bodily hair and had very tough skin that repaired itself with ease. The changes normally brought about by puberty were somewhat hit-and-miss, with some experiencing most of the normal changes and some experiencing none whatsoever, so a large number were in fact infertile.
"And what are the construction plans?" asked Guildsman Tristan, a small and sharply aged fellow, after a few more moments of quietly poring over the blueprints drawn neatly on the papers they crowded around.
It was perhaps the biggest question on everyone's minds, now that it was understood the costs were covered. The thing was enormous, some 250 metres long, there was no way it could be built in the Engineer's cavern.
"We have secured a warehouse in the lake districts. If we allow this project to go forward then construction will start tomorrow provided a few of us Engineers lend our services for the build. We will be undersupplied on manpower given that most of the city's men will be returning to full-time Spring work." replied the head guildsman.
Silence again fell until slowly they began to drift away from the table.
"If we are done examining the designs then I would like to call an official vote." Markus said, letting the silence gracefully fall away beneath his calm yet authoritative tone. "Those 'for' may vote now."
Every hand was raised.
"For formality's sake, those 'against' may vote now."
And the silence held control of the room again for a brief moment.
"Now, then, for the more important matter. Who will offer their services for the project?"
And silence invaded in full force. It was a loaded question. Those who lent their time and skills would have to temporarily abandon their own projects, or in Malcolm's case their freedom, until the project was complete, and this looked to be a very big and time-consuming project. Most of the Engineers were working on their own inventions and few of them were young enough to leave them behind, if only temporarily, without risking their comfortable retirement. Those that were young enough, such as Giorgi, had largely been pursuing funding for their own projects. Benefactors were generally difficult to come by and finding them was often the most time-consuming part of a project. Malcolm had been lucky since the factory owners saw the benefits to themselves his invention offered and Frederick, the present project's mastermind, had been similarly lucky in gaining interest from another guild. In short, nobody was overly prepared to give up their life's work for this project, no matter how groundbreaking it was.
The silence hung for too many moments and Markus, sensing Frederick's growing nervousness, chose then to break it tactfully.
"Perhaps we should allow everyone some time to consider the question and ponder the matter. We will hold another meeting three days from now, which will mark the final time at which one of us can express interest. If you wish to express it between now and then you are more than welcome to. Frankly I don't want to bring in junior Engineers to the project, especially without any interest from our longer-standing guildsmen. This meeting is adjourned."
Everyone, save for Markus and Frederick, made for the door. In the main hallway of the headquarters the silence was again broken as the thought of discussing the project became too exciting. Snippets of conversation made their way into Malcolm's ears as he walked with his fellow Engineers.
"... remarkable thing, though. The implications would be enormous..."
"... possible military applications. One has to wonder..."
"... but how long until the Francians take interest...?"
"Say Malcolm, you're one for Aeronautics. Do you have any sort of opinion here?" Giorgi asked him.
He hoped Giorgi hadn't asked the question on everyone's mind, he was terrible at addressing crowds, even small ones of familiar people.
"Well," he began as slowly it became apparent he would indeed be speaking to everyone, "It's marvellous." he stammered.
He took a moment to pause and arrange his thoughts into sentences.
"First of all the superstructure means an unprecedented amount of integrity, and I'm slightly annoyed I had not thought of such a thing myself. Then the stabilisers, provided they do work as Frederick claims, could mean he has in fact brought us close to achieving this breakthrough. There would have to be all manner of tests though, and I wouldn't dare to dream that the first one built is entirely successful. I'm willing to wager there's something he hasn't thought of or taken into account, or perhaps something we have yet to discover that could ruin his design. I..." he drifted off, giving way to the expectant silence of the others. "I'm hopeful, but at the same time sceptical, and I'm not usually one for downright cynicism."
"You have to involve yourself in the project then." responded Morton, who had worked with him on the Skytrain. "I must say, there were problems on your own project you predicted that had not even crossed my mind, you have a sense for this sort of thing. Frederick needs you."
"Yes... well..." he began to reply, even though he had really nothing to say.
"Oh, stop by your office. I've left you a parting gift of sorts, to help you enjoy your indefinite hiatus." Morton said, graciously interrupting Malcolm's needless words before turning off to return to his own workstation.
Malcolm stood for a moment, watching the others, before turning around and heading to his office as Morton advised. Upon arrival he noticed a fine looking wooden box. Sliding back the cover he found it contained a single bottle of brandy. It seemed the world was trying to intoxicate Malcolm, and as he left his office he decided he would merrily succumb.
* * *
He returned to his room only a few short hours after he left, having stopped at a few shops on his way home. Again as he opened the door he found his roommate already there.
"Hello." he said chirpily.
"Someone's lightened up since this morning." replied Douglas.
"Well I've decided to have a proper celebration this evening, so there's plenty to be happy about."
"And what are you celebrating?"
A cheeky smile was spread across Douglas' face as he asked the question.
"My various achievements, which far outnumber yours at this point." he responded with a similarly cheeky look upon his face.
Douglas laughed and responded with a slightly heightened level of good cheer.
"I'll get in touch with the lads then."
"Wonderful. Have them turn up around eight. We'll have a few here then go find a beer hall."
And he left for the kitchen smiling. There was plenty to be happy about. He was looking forward to a night on the town, he had no work commitments for however long he chose and he had just examined the blueprints for the new world's first long-haul airship.
Chapter 2
Aeronautics
A dozen Engineers, Malcolm in their midst, stood hunched over a large table with papers scattered about it. They were in the main hall of the Engineer's headquarters, a mass of wood and iron which sat suspended below an overhang allowing a breathtaking view of the lake. The view was largely ignored today, the content of the sprawled papers was far more interesting.
"And you have funding?" asked Giorgi, an Engineer in his mid 30's who always knew what those in the room were thinking.
"The Archaeologist's guild expressed interest when I discussed it with their head guildsman and they've agreed to supply most of the funds." replied Markus, the Engineer's head guildsman.
"Most?" asked Giorgi, again capturing the question on everyone's minds.
"The rest consist of a few small donations from wealthier families and organisations. Nothing unusual." Markus replied in his exceptionally level voice once more.
It seemed that after so many years of life, almost a hundred, nothing anyone said caught Markus off guard. There was very little about him to show his age though, he had been bald all his life, having been born a Purple Eye, so there were no grey hairs to suggest old age. His skin was remarkably smooth, again a result of his mutation, and aside from the creases caused by years of conversation he could boast almost no wrinkles. As far as science was concerned he would live to be even older. The Purple Eye mutation had emerged sometime during or after The Ending and after years of study it was believed everything there was to know about it was known. Carriers of the gene might not have the mutation themselves, so it was difficult to tell who might give birth to a Purple Eye. It was fairly rare, though, with only a dozen or so living in Lucerne. They lived to be very old, often as old as 150, grew no bodily hair and had very tough skin that repaired itself with ease. The changes normally brought about by puberty were somewhat hit-and-miss, with some experiencing most of the normal changes and some experiencing none whatsoever, so a large number were in fact infertile.
"And what are the construction plans?" asked Guildsman Tristan, a small and sharply aged fellow, after a few more moments of quietly poring over the blueprints drawn neatly on the papers they crowded around.
It was perhaps the biggest question on everyone's minds, now that it was understood the costs were covered. The thing was enormous, some 250 metres long, there was no way it could be built in the Engineer's cavern.
"We have secured a warehouse in the lake districts. If we allow this project to go forward then construction will start tomorrow provided a few of us Engineers lend our services for the build. We will be undersupplied on manpower given that most of the city's men will be returning to full-time Spring work." replied the head guildsman.
Silence again fell until slowly they began to drift away from the table.
"If we are done examining the designs then I would like to call an official vote." Markus said, letting the silence gracefully fall away beneath his calm yet authoritative tone. "Those 'for' may vote now."
Every hand was raised.
"For formality's sake, those 'against' may vote now."
And the silence held control of the room again for a brief moment.
"Now, then, for the more important matter. Who will offer their services for the project?"
And silence invaded in full force. It was a loaded question. Those who lent their time and skills would have to temporarily abandon their own projects, or in Malcolm's case their freedom, until the project was complete, and this looked to be a very big and time-consuming project. Most of the Engineers were working on their own inventions and few of them were young enough to leave them behind, if only temporarily, without risking their comfortable retirement. Those that were young enough, such as Giorgi, had largely been pursuing funding for their own projects. Benefactors were generally difficult to come by and finding them was often the most time-consuming part of a project. Malcolm had been lucky since the factory owners saw the benefits to themselves his invention offered and Frederick, the present project's mastermind, had been similarly lucky in gaining interest from another guild. In short, nobody was overly prepared to give up their life's work for this project, no matter how groundbreaking it was.
The silence hung for too many moments and Markus, sensing Frederick's growing nervousness, chose then to break it tactfully.
"Perhaps we should allow everyone some time to consider the question and ponder the matter. We will hold another meeting three days from now, which will mark the final time at which one of us can express interest. If you wish to express it between now and then you are more than welcome to. Frankly I don't want to bring in junior Engineers to the project, especially without any interest from our longer-standing guildsmen. This meeting is adjourned."
Everyone, save for Markus and Frederick, made for the door. In the main hallway of the headquarters the silence was again broken as the thought of discussing the project became too exciting. Snippets of conversation made their way into Malcolm's ears as he walked with his fellow Engineers.
"... remarkable thing, though. The implications would be enormous..."
"... possible military applications. One has to wonder..."
"... but how long until the Francians take interest...?"
"Say Malcolm, you're one for Aeronautics. Do you have any sort of opinion here?" Giorgi asked him.
He hoped Giorgi hadn't asked the question on everyone's mind, he was terrible at addressing crowds, even small ones of familiar people.
"Well," he began as slowly it became apparent he would indeed be speaking to everyone, "It's marvellous." he stammered.
He took a moment to pause and arrange his thoughts into sentences.
"First of all the superstructure means an unprecedented amount of integrity, and I'm slightly annoyed I had not thought of such a thing myself. Then the stabilisers, provided they do work as Frederick claims, could mean he has in fact brought us close to achieving this breakthrough. There would have to be all manner of tests though, and I wouldn't dare to dream that the first one built is entirely successful. I'm willing to wager there's something he hasn't thought of or taken into account, or perhaps something we have yet to discover that could ruin his design. I..." he drifted off, giving way to the expectant silence of the others. "I'm hopeful, but at the same time sceptical, and I'm not usually one for downright cynicism."
"You have to involve yourself in the project then." responded Morton, who had worked with him on the Skytrain. "I must say, there were problems on your own project you predicted that had not even crossed my mind, you have a sense for this sort of thing. Frederick needs you."
"Yes... well..." he began to reply, even though he had really nothing to say.
"Oh, stop by your office. I've left you a parting gift of sorts, to help you enjoy your indefinite hiatus." Morton said, graciously interrupting Malcolm's needless words before turning off to return to his own workstation.
Malcolm stood for a moment, watching the others, before turning around and heading to his office as Morton advised. Upon arrival he noticed a fine looking wooden box. Sliding back the cover he found it contained a single bottle of brandy. It seemed the world was trying to intoxicate Malcolm, and as he left his office he decided he would merrily succumb.
* * *
He returned to his room only a few short hours after he left, having stopped at a few shops on his way home. Again as he opened the door he found his roommate already there.
"Hello." he said chirpily.
"Someone's lightened up since this morning." replied Douglas.
"Well I've decided to have a proper celebration this evening, so there's plenty to be happy about."
"And what are you celebrating?"
A cheeky smile was spread across Douglas' face as he asked the question.
"My various achievements, which far outnumber yours at this point." he responded with a similarly cheeky look upon his face.
Douglas laughed and responded with a slightly heightened level of good cheer.
"I'll get in touch with the lads then."
"Wonderful. Have them turn up around eight. We'll have a few here then go find a beer hall."
And he left for the kitchen smiling. There was plenty to be happy about. He was looking forward to a night on the town, he had no work commitments for however long he chose and he had just examined the blueprints for the new world's first long-haul airship.
Thursday 2 May 2013
A Bite-Sized Story: Occupation
It's a day late but here is the small story I wrote a few years ago in English class I said I would post. It is very loosely based on the experiences of my grandfather but the characters are entirely fictional.
Occupation
I was born in 1933, the year Hitler became Chancellor of Germany. This meant that by the time war broke out I was only six. My older brother, Roald, was fifteen when France officially declared war. My parents were a part of a generation for whom war had left a wound, still fresh, on the memory. My father was older than my mother and was almost in his forties when the Nazis began conscripting men in occupied Holland. He managed to avoid conscription thanks to that and the expression he wore in those years changed between fear and relief every few days. I didn’t understand much more than smiles or tears back then but it still made sense that my Papa was glad to not be fighting after his own Papa was killed in the First World War. We’d visit his grave when we visited Belgium in the summers. He was one of the ones in Flanders. We didn’t know which cross was his though so we’d walk along in silence while Papa paid his respects to every grave. I would think about how impossible it was that somewhere so quiet and peaceful with playful zephyrs and motherly sunshine could serve as a place of remembrance for a time of shrieking artillery, staccato choruses of gunfire and the howls of dying men. Of course, I didn’t know war was like that until I was a little older but when I was five and I went to Flanders I knew that war was loud and scary and dangerous.
After Hitler thrust his tanks through the Ardennes and France fell we stopped going to Flanders. I didn’t know why we stopped going but I had this almighty sense that the world was just bad at the time, like God himself was separated from earth by a black screen. My brother started to take it upon himself to keep me happy and oblivious to the dangerous Europe we sat on top of. By 1942 I was nine and Roald was eighteen. It was in those times, I now realise, that Papa had the fear on his face. He feared his son would be conscripted and, in hindsight, I can see that my brother was scared too. For me it was almost an adventure sometimes. I would be frightened but it was a fun kind of frightened because at the age of nine I just didn’t know what getting caught meant. It was hide-and-seek to me and it could happen anywhere at any time if I was with my brother. We had been in Rotterdam for the day one time and were only a few streets from our home in Ridderkerk when my brother told me we would be hiding again. It was good to be outside when it happened, I learned, because they came inside the houses and if that happened Roald would have to go out the side window and climb onto the neighbour’s roof where he would crouch in the shadows, trying not to hit any loose shingles. This time we had to dive under a bridge as the Nazis marched around a corner and out to the edge of the canal. We were deep enough in the mud that it didn’t squelch noisily as the drum sound of boots rang out from above us. One of the Nazis slipped on the wet wood and landed awkwardly on one foot and one knee on the bank opposite us. As he collected himself his eyes caught our two faces adrift in the mud and matched frantic movements with frantic words before wrenching us out of our failed hiding spot. He looked at me the way all adults looked at me in those years. Now I realise they were all thinking how unfortunate I was, just a little boy, too young to understand. And I was too young to understand as one of the men spat German at my brother’s face while another translated it into equally angry Dutch. I don’t remember what was said and am not sure I knew at the time what they were saying.
They marched us home where the rest of the day happened in brief images and dreamlike scenes that were seen with clarity but heard and experienced from a distance. Shock is how I describe it now but even though the symptoms of the aftermath would suggest shock I wonder whether my nine-year-old mind was capable of such an emotion. Mama cried, her tears adding new dimensions of flavour to the tea she gave the waiting soldiers. Papa cried too, but he only told me that soon before he passed away many decades later, while he helped his grown son Roald pack under the supervision of one of the Nazis that had played seeker in our game. Roald came downstairs with a suitcase and gave calming hugs to hysterical Mama and received silent advice from Papa about life and death and everything. To me, suitcases meant holidays to Flanders, and holidays to Flanders meant coming home again afterwards. It wasn’t until 1947 when I was a bit older, about thirteen or fourteen, that I came to understand that Roald wasn’t coming back home.
When I was eighteen I packed my own suitcase and gave calming hugs to hysterical Mama and received silent advice from Papa and left to start my own life, like Roald would have if he hadn’t been spotted that day, if his nose had been smaller, or his eyes less blue.
Occupation
I was born in 1933, the year Hitler became Chancellor of Germany. This meant that by the time war broke out I was only six. My older brother, Roald, was fifteen when France officially declared war. My parents were a part of a generation for whom war had left a wound, still fresh, on the memory. My father was older than my mother and was almost in his forties when the Nazis began conscripting men in occupied Holland. He managed to avoid conscription thanks to that and the expression he wore in those years changed between fear and relief every few days. I didn’t understand much more than smiles or tears back then but it still made sense that my Papa was glad to not be fighting after his own Papa was killed in the First World War. We’d visit his grave when we visited Belgium in the summers. He was one of the ones in Flanders. We didn’t know which cross was his though so we’d walk along in silence while Papa paid his respects to every grave. I would think about how impossible it was that somewhere so quiet and peaceful with playful zephyrs and motherly sunshine could serve as a place of remembrance for a time of shrieking artillery, staccato choruses of gunfire and the howls of dying men. Of course, I didn’t know war was like that until I was a little older but when I was five and I went to Flanders I knew that war was loud and scary and dangerous.
After Hitler thrust his tanks through the Ardennes and France fell we stopped going to Flanders. I didn’t know why we stopped going but I had this almighty sense that the world was just bad at the time, like God himself was separated from earth by a black screen. My brother started to take it upon himself to keep me happy and oblivious to the dangerous Europe we sat on top of. By 1942 I was nine and Roald was eighteen. It was in those times, I now realise, that Papa had the fear on his face. He feared his son would be conscripted and, in hindsight, I can see that my brother was scared too. For me it was almost an adventure sometimes. I would be frightened but it was a fun kind of frightened because at the age of nine I just didn’t know what getting caught meant. It was hide-and-seek to me and it could happen anywhere at any time if I was with my brother. We had been in Rotterdam for the day one time and were only a few streets from our home in Ridderkerk when my brother told me we would be hiding again. It was good to be outside when it happened, I learned, because they came inside the houses and if that happened Roald would have to go out the side window and climb onto the neighbour’s roof where he would crouch in the shadows, trying not to hit any loose shingles. This time we had to dive under a bridge as the Nazis marched around a corner and out to the edge of the canal. We were deep enough in the mud that it didn’t squelch noisily as the drum sound of boots rang out from above us. One of the Nazis slipped on the wet wood and landed awkwardly on one foot and one knee on the bank opposite us. As he collected himself his eyes caught our two faces adrift in the mud and matched frantic movements with frantic words before wrenching us out of our failed hiding spot. He looked at me the way all adults looked at me in those years. Now I realise they were all thinking how unfortunate I was, just a little boy, too young to understand. And I was too young to understand as one of the men spat German at my brother’s face while another translated it into equally angry Dutch. I don’t remember what was said and am not sure I knew at the time what they were saying.
They marched us home where the rest of the day happened in brief images and dreamlike scenes that were seen with clarity but heard and experienced from a distance. Shock is how I describe it now but even though the symptoms of the aftermath would suggest shock I wonder whether my nine-year-old mind was capable of such an emotion. Mama cried, her tears adding new dimensions of flavour to the tea she gave the waiting soldiers. Papa cried too, but he only told me that soon before he passed away many decades later, while he helped his grown son Roald pack under the supervision of one of the Nazis that had played seeker in our game. Roald came downstairs with a suitcase and gave calming hugs to hysterical Mama and received silent advice from Papa about life and death and everything. To me, suitcases meant holidays to Flanders, and holidays to Flanders meant coming home again afterwards. It wasn’t until 1947 when I was a bit older, about thirteen or fourteen, that I came to understand that Roald wasn’t coming back home.
When I was eighteen I packed my own suitcase and gave calming hugs to hysterical Mama and received silent advice from Papa and left to start my own life, like Roald would have if he hadn’t been spotted that day, if his nose had been smaller, or his eyes less blue.
Wednesday 1 May 2013
Bashful Prose Sweeping The Nation
I remember reading somewhere that there are two types of writers. Some of us are Sweepers and some of us are Bashers. I've never found something that seems to so accurately summarise the two approaches to writing. I may have tried a bit too hard to incorporate a pun into this post's title.
Sweepers, like myself, are writers who get it all down first. They write, and they write a lot. They will do big chunks before going back and editing. These 'chunks' might just be a single chapter or might be the whole book. After it's all down on paper they go back to the start and begin editing. This makes absolute sense to me as I tend to get 'in the zone' when I write and need to keep going until I comfortably reach a point where I can stop, at which point I walk away and spend some time thinking about how to continue. Rinse and repeat, hang out to dry for a few hours, bring in, fold, first draft done. It also makes sense to me from an editing standpoint. I can't edit the beginning until I know what the end will be like, otherwise I'll end up editing myself into a direction I don't want to take the story.
Bashers are perfectionists. For them, writing and editing are synonymous. They fight for every sentence and by the time they reach the end of the novel it's a completed work. Where a Sweeper might edit a whole act at once after finishing it, a Basher will instead opt to edit each scene as it is completed. This gives them a clarity of direction and helps soothe the pain of constantly questioning oneself about whether the last thing they wrote was 'right'.
I don't want this whole post being about the pros and cons of Bashers and Sweepers, or a bashing of Bashers, or an extensive list of notable Bashers and notable Sweepers. I want it to be about how us Sweepers seem to get catered to a little less than the Bashers.
I do think the writers that edit as they go are more common, and I do think most Sweepers do some small editing as they go (changing sentences here and there, correcting spelling errors, etc). I also think that the advice often given surrounding editing is geared heavily toward Bashers.
I would, given the above, like to offer some of my own advice. Edit. Definitely edit. If you don't do full-on edits where you re-write entire scenes and alter character arcs and so on until you've totally completed the first draft then that's ok. If you finish writing a bunch of pages, then go back and edit them before moving on then that's ok too. What's important is that you do, one way or another, edit your work before you call it 'finished'.
Bashers, go a little easier on yourselves from time to time. It could be worth your while to write that next little bit before editing lest you write yourself into a corner.
Sweepers, don't get discouraged. You may not have edited yet but that's fine, you'll find it easier when you've completed the novel's first draft as the whole story will be clearer in your head.
Commenters, seeing as I have some now, which of these are you? Are you a methodical Basher or an unbridled Sweeper?
Tomorrow I'll be uploading a short piece of fiction I wrote a few years back. In true Sweeper spirit, it will be completely unedited.
Sweepers, like myself, are writers who get it all down first. They write, and they write a lot. They will do big chunks before going back and editing. These 'chunks' might just be a single chapter or might be the whole book. After it's all down on paper they go back to the start and begin editing. This makes absolute sense to me as I tend to get 'in the zone' when I write and need to keep going until I comfortably reach a point where I can stop, at which point I walk away and spend some time thinking about how to continue. Rinse and repeat, hang out to dry for a few hours, bring in, fold, first draft done. It also makes sense to me from an editing standpoint. I can't edit the beginning until I know what the end will be like, otherwise I'll end up editing myself into a direction I don't want to take the story.
Bashers are perfectionists. For them, writing and editing are synonymous. They fight for every sentence and by the time they reach the end of the novel it's a completed work. Where a Sweeper might edit a whole act at once after finishing it, a Basher will instead opt to edit each scene as it is completed. This gives them a clarity of direction and helps soothe the pain of constantly questioning oneself about whether the last thing they wrote was 'right'.
I don't want this whole post being about the pros and cons of Bashers and Sweepers, or a bashing of Bashers, or an extensive list of notable Bashers and notable Sweepers. I want it to be about how us Sweepers seem to get catered to a little less than the Bashers.
I do think the writers that edit as they go are more common, and I do think most Sweepers do some small editing as they go (changing sentences here and there, correcting spelling errors, etc). I also think that the advice often given surrounding editing is geared heavily toward Bashers.
I would, given the above, like to offer some of my own advice. Edit. Definitely edit. If you don't do full-on edits where you re-write entire scenes and alter character arcs and so on until you've totally completed the first draft then that's ok. If you finish writing a bunch of pages, then go back and edit them before moving on then that's ok too. What's important is that you do, one way or another, edit your work before you call it 'finished'.
Bashers, go a little easier on yourselves from time to time. It could be worth your while to write that next little bit before editing lest you write yourself into a corner.
Sweepers, don't get discouraged. You may not have edited yet but that's fine, you'll find it easier when you've completed the novel's first draft as the whole story will be clearer in your head.
Commenters, seeing as I have some now, which of these are you? Are you a methodical Basher or an unbridled Sweeper?
Tomorrow I'll be uploading a short piece of fiction I wrote a few years back. In true Sweeper spirit, it will be completely unedited.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)