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Tuesday, 8 February 2011
Disaster attraction
Why crave apocalypse tales? Why watch Charlton and Mel grapple doom-spawned vampires and leather-clad crazies? Why pursue the ash-strewn trails of Viggo and Don (Tiger too), only to end up hunkered down in a craterish bed sitting room waiting to thumb a lift from Ralph in his horse-drawn Rolls?
If all is truly lost, why seek perverse delight in this end of all ends? Is our hope to hang out with Ish, that Last American? Do we seek an audience with the Walkin' Dude? In planning our odyssey, what route should we map across the Cursed Earth? Damnation Alley looks likely enough, but if you want to get along after the bomb be sure to watch out for Hoppy. And, however hungry you are, don't patronise the Delicatessen.
Why then the lust for liquidation? Why the delight in demise? Why count the days, all the way down to the day of days? Armageddon, Ragnarok, 2012 ... have you made your choice? Is it redemption you seek? Catharsis? Is that a bang I hear or a whimper? Do you hail the great tearing-down for mere gratification, or in the hope of seeing all rebuilt? After the end, the beginning?
Or could it be that the broken world is simply simpler than this muffled reality through which we roam eternally confused? Might it be not the grey-ash wasteland we ache for but pure black and and its companion white? Is the apocalypse, after all, dream or despair?
Discuss.
If all is truly lost, why seek perverse delight in this end of all ends? Is our hope to hang out with Ish, that Last American? Do we seek an audience with the Walkin' Dude? In planning our odyssey, what route should we map across the Cursed Earth? Damnation Alley looks likely enough, but if you want to get along after the bomb be sure to watch out for Hoppy. And, however hungry you are, don't patronise the Delicatessen.
Why then the lust for liquidation? Why the delight in demise? Why count the days, all the way down to the day of days? Armageddon, Ragnarok, 2012 ... have you made your choice? Is it redemption you seek? Catharsis? Is that a bang I hear or a whimper? Do you hail the great tearing-down for mere gratification, or in the hope of seeing all rebuilt? After the end, the beginning?
Or could it be that the broken world is simply simpler than this muffled reality through which we roam eternally confused? Might it be not the grey-ash wasteland we ache for but pure black and and its companion white? Is the apocalypse, after all, dream or despair?
Discuss.
Sunday, 6 February 2011
Hardy and the nymphstone
Today I wrote about a storm and a strange thing called a nymphstone. The nymphstone started as a MacGuffin but already it's taking on a life - and character - of its own. More so than I'd intended really. Another reminder of how the outline's just a sketch on the back of an envelope, and the novel's more a gigantic sculpture hacked out of a glacial cliff made of solid, highly resistant and ever-so-slightly radioactive granite (see my previous post about sweaty writing).
I've also taken a moment to reflect on my decision to blog-as-I-go while writing this novel. While it might seem that novel-writing is essentially a dull and solitary experience with very little entertainment value for the outside observer, I'd like to think it might one day be elevated to a spectator sport, perhaps even achieving Olympic status. If you doubt me, I recommend you restore your faith with Monty Python's classic Thomas Hardy sketch.
I've also taken a moment to reflect on my decision to blog-as-I-go while writing this novel. While it might seem that novel-writing is essentially a dull and solitary experience with very little entertainment value for the outside observer, I'd like to think it might one day be elevated to a spectator sport, perhaps even achieving Olympic status. If you doubt me, I recommend you restore your faith with Monty Python's classic Thomas Hardy sketch.
Friday, 4 February 2011
Solid foundations
23,356 words
The Dragoncharm prequel is on track. I've solved the problems of chapter 3, as outlined here. And yes, that's why another 2,000 words have dropped off the count.
Next step is a light edit of chapters 4-6. Chapter 6 marks the end of the first section - or book - of the novel, which is why I'm indulging in all this reviewing. Some writers would shudder at the idea of editing so early in the game. But this is the foundation not just for this novel but the planned sequels, so I need to make sure it's not built on sand.
Of course, come the time for the second draft, I'll rewrite the whole bloody thing anyway!
The Dragoncharm prequel is on track. I've solved the problems of chapter 3, as outlined here. And yes, that's why another 2,000 words have dropped off the count.
Next step is a light edit of chapters 4-6. Chapter 6 marks the end of the first section - or book - of the novel, which is why I'm indulging in all this reviewing. Some writers would shudder at the idea of editing so early in the game. But this is the foundation not just for this novel but the planned sequels, so I need to make sure it's not built on sand.
Of course, come the time for the second draft, I'll rewrite the whole bloody thing anyway!
Thursday, 3 February 2011
Sweaty writing
Over on Aliette de Bodard's blog, Nancy Fulda's posted a nice article comparing writing to sculpture. She takes as her starting point Michelangelo's famous line: “I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.” She goes on to talk about how, through writing and editing, it's the writer's job to carve away all the unnecessary clutter, revealing the story hidden within.
Nancy's right on the button. But there's a spookier aspect to this whole sculpture analogy: the unsettling sensation that the story has been there all along - that I'm not actually writing the thing at all, just unearthing it, like a fossil.
I had a art tutor who was always talking about the physical nature of sculpture. He liked to work on a large scale, outdoors, stripped to the waist, sculpting "with my whole body." It's hard to equate such physicality with writing, although legend has it both Hugo and Hemingway used to write naked. Me, I stay clothed and comfortable, expending only the energy it takes to make my fingers to hit the laptop keys. So why do I come out of a writing session feeling utterly - and satisfyingly - exhausted.
There's only one explanation. The act of writing transports you to another dimension. Literally. Somehwere there's this beach where all the good stories are buried. It may look like I'm sprawled on the couch idling tapping my keyboard - in fact I've abandoned my body altogether. I'm stripped to the waist, digging at the dirt, trying to winkle out the story-fossils before the tide comes in. Occasionally I manage it. Usually it's a close thing. Often I drown.
When the fossils are free though, like angels, they fly.
Nancy's right on the button. But there's a spookier aspect to this whole sculpture analogy: the unsettling sensation that the story has been there all along - that I'm not actually writing the thing at all, just unearthing it, like a fossil.
I had a art tutor who was always talking about the physical nature of sculpture. He liked to work on a large scale, outdoors, stripped to the waist, sculpting "with my whole body." It's hard to equate such physicality with writing, although legend has it both Hugo and Hemingway used to write naked. Me, I stay clothed and comfortable, expending only the energy it takes to make my fingers to hit the laptop keys. So why do I come out of a writing session feeling utterly - and satisfyingly - exhausted.
There's only one explanation. The act of writing transports you to another dimension. Literally. Somehwere there's this beach where all the good stories are buried. It may look like I'm sprawled on the couch idling tapping my keyboard - in fact I've abandoned my body altogether. I'm stripped to the waist, digging at the dirt, trying to winkle out the story-fossils before the tide comes in. Occasionally I manage it. Usually it's a close thing. Often I drown.
When the fossils are free though, like angels, they fly.
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