The Great Big New Pain in the Arse

Far too long without an update- naughty sen, to your bed.

The last week or so has been quite a difficult one writing-wise. When I sat down to start on the new project I was immediately met with a big fat problem, namely, whether or not to write it in the first person. While I was finishing Bad Apple Bone and this project was beginning to form in my mind, I always imagined it to be in the first person. I wanted to try writing an entire book in that style, mainly because when I've done it in short stories I've found it quite enjoyable, and a couple of my favourite writers almost always write in the first person- namely John Connolly and Michael Marshall Smith.

So when it came to the first day of writing, I sat down all ready with my character's voice and the opening scene and... I completely dried up. It felt terribly forced and awkward, and I didn't like it. Mostly, the character just sounded like me. Like me writing a book. This was not what I had planned at all, and even worse, my brain was already re-writing the chapter in the third person. I was crippled with indecision- should I soldier on with my original plan, despite how wrong it felt, or abandon most of my plans for the book and keep to my usual style?

In the end, I did the only sensible thing and wrote the chapter in both the first and third, to see how they compared (this was, by the way, an incredibly painful thing in itself. I am really fucking lazy you see, and writing the same bit twice drove me up the wall). I couldn't help noticing how much easier the words came though, and how much more enjoyable it was the second time around.

So I think I've learnt some things from this:

1) You can't pick a style of writing just because you like the sound of it and because you admire people who do it well- it may simply be inappropriate for the project.

2) I've spent two years on Bad Apple Bone essentially learning how to write (successfully or not I cannot say) and that was in the third person. Perhaps I should use what I've learnt, and carry on improving as much as I can.

3) There will be another time for a big first person story. Yes there will. Possibly in one huge mad rush in November.

I'm on to the second chapter now, the characters are getting to talk to each other and I'm finding out strange things about them. There are lots of juicy bits about it that I love, I just need the framework to make itself a little more obvious, and it's still being difficult and fairly unpredictable (I only realised fairly recently that it all makes a lot more sense if one of the main characters is dead) Not to mention that the sodding thing doesn't have a sodding title!

But I think I'm getting there. Chapter 3 is in my sights.

You deductive motherfucker, you.

Here then, is a blog about bits and pieces and things, and not about writing, for the time being.

I think I’ve figured out what makes The Wire so good*. I mean sort of aside from the acting and the wit and the sexy theme tune. It’s the complete and utter lack of any needless exposition. At no point do you find any characters sitting around discussing the plot or what has happened in the previous episodes, in a handy summary so you can catch up or refresh your tired brain. In fact, The Wire moves at such a zippy speed, and the characters are so realistic in their chatter that it’s actually a real bloody effort to keep up with what’s going on (I’ve heard of people watching it with the subtitles on, and to be honest I don’t blame them). The Wire, in fact, doesn’t care if you can keep up with it or not, it just tells its story at a breakneck speed and gets on with it. Or perhaps it actually credits you with the intelligence to figure it out; even if you didn’t quite figure out the significance of that scene, or catch on to who’s who just yet, it knows you’ll get there in the end, and that it’ll be a more exciting ride for all the complexities.
And that’s why it feels so different too. So much of our drama is so clearly signposted with exposition and foreshadowing that I’m surprised they don’t give out instructional guides with each programme. Taking an example at random *ahem* Doctor Who suffers from apparently being written for very tiny children much of the time. Alright, yes, kid’s programme, and I know comparing Doctor Who to The Wire makes absolutely no sense at all, but so often NuWho (hate that phrase) is written with a big pink crayon, with no acknowledgment of the intelligence of the viewer. Yes, kids are clever. Particularly the ones who watch Doctor Who. Perhaps it would be nice if Who surprised us with a plot that was difficult to understand because it was complex, and not because it just makes no bloody sense (the recent special being a case in point).

Anyway. I did not mean this to be a rant about Doctor Who. What I meant to say is; The Wire is excellent because it treats you like you have a brain, and more of that please.

*I am aware, by the way, that I am late to the Wire party and it's been out years and so on. I don't have proper telly, alright? ;p

The End

Alright. Okay. So I think it's finished.

After very almost two years, I have finally written those last little words for Bad Apple Bone; The End.

It's a strange feeling. I've been fiddling about with it this afternoon, thinking "That bit needs to be moved. Need to take that out. There's a little bit missing there..." but I've come to realise that these are all editing issues, things that can be polished and fixed in the redraft. The important thing is that I've come to the end of the story for William and Noon, and it's time to let it be for a while. The book needs to rest. I need to rest.

I'll probably leave it alone for, roughly, around 4 or 5 months; it's vital to get a bit of emotional distance from the bugger before I begin the painful process of chopping and slicing and making the whole thing make some bloody sense. During that time, I will be enjoying the novelty of researching a new project, and the beginnings of a new book. As well as looking back on what I've learnt, which I hope is an awful lot. When I started writing Bad Apple Bone I didn't even know I was writing a book, and had never really contemplated that underneath it all, what I really wanted to do was make stories. I know that for certain now, and if nothing else ever comes of my first proper full length novel, I'll always have that marvellous little epiphany.

And one last big thank you to all the people (you know who you are!) who have provided endless encouragement and a cheering section when I was flagging, or feeling the terrible urge to go and do something else; you've all been excellent, and are truly very hoopy froods.

sen xxx

100 big ones

I finally reached the 100,000 word mark on Bad Apple Bone. 100,002 to be exact. I knew I was approaching it, so after an evening of dodgy writing I randomly stopped and did a word count (er, not manually, you understand) and BING! It was 100,000 words, dead on! There was much excited jumping about for a bit and clinking of imaginary champagne glasses (sadly). It probably says a lot about my writing process that I could only think of a further 2 words for the rest of the night.
The mind boggles at such a number. I vividly remember reaching the 10,000 word mark, and being all dead impressed with myself because, I think, my dissertation was around that long. My smugness ended when I realised I would have to write around 10 times that to get to the end of my book.
And at the end of my book, I am not. At least, not yet. It still twinkles in the near distance, like a shiny American diner all full of hot breakfasts and exciting milkshakes on the desert road of my writing journey. Or something. Emotionally, I am about one and a half chapters away from the end. Technically, I am one and a half chapters and a few-bits-and-pieces-I-left-out away from finishing, which is a little frustrating but entirely my own fault; part of the fun of writing Bad Apple Bone has been that I’ve been learning how I write as I go along, and one of the things I found out is that I sometimes like to write with no regard for chronological order. Marty will point out that I often read this way, too.
So this is my plan. At the weekend I have a sort-of free Saturday, and if I am good and disciplined, it is possible I could push myself over the finishing line. Write my little socks off.
Bad Apple Bone, finished, after two years. It’s almost as unimaginable as reaching 100,000 words!

Writing as distraction, and distraction from writing

So April plods on, and in the distance I can hear the faint screams of a script frenzy project dying, trampled under the feet of other-things-to-do. It's a shame, mainly because although I didn't have a clue what I was doing, I was quite enjoying it, but it seems that one weekend of debauchery and bad science-fiction with friends can throw you off track quite a bit, and I suspect that I am now so far behind it is irretrievable. Still, a couple of things, namely The Dead Garden and Guttle Flog the ghoul, were so much fun to make that I'm certain I will return to The Sinister Bend one day, even if it's in a different format.

Bad Apple Bone continues in awkward little fits and starts. The final big confrontation, or the Endgame as I've been calling it in my head, is complicated to write and I'm taking my time with it. I know I'm anxious to finish because I'm itching to start research on the next project (working title, The Odd) but I don't want to cock it up by rushing.

In some other small writing related news, in an attempt to stop my brain from collapsing during an incredibly boring hour or so yesterday, I wrote a very short, very silly story. I thought since I am unlikely to sell it on anywhere else and I was using it as a sort of writing exercise/brain crutch anyway, I'd pop it up here on the blog, for the amusement of whoever happens to read it. So here we go:

Goose

There were no photos of Albie. He had checked.
On his Grandmother’s sideboard, on the mantelpiece and on the dresser, were quite possibly hundreds of photographs; some framed, some covered in dust, some in those flimsy cardboard frames they give you at school. All his cousins were represented there- Diane waved gaily from a fairground ride, Timothy in his cub scouts uniform, Helen dressed as one of the Three Kings in her school nativity play. Albie’s pudgy form did not make an appearance anywhere, not even in the big photo frame that hung on the wall, with lots of holes for different faces. Baby photos were just as virulent; a few old and yellowed, many fresh and pink, all featuring largely identical squashy faced babies in various states of undress and usually, a layer of drool. Albie, through shrewd detective work, had matched babies and clothes and locations and surmised that no, there wasn’t even a baby photo of him present.
He asked his Grandmother about it, but she just cooed at the boy and handed him a biscuit.
“Don’t be so daft, my little lamb.”

Albie loved his Grandmother very much, which was good because he lived with her. Many years ago, his parents had arrived on her doorstep with Albie in tow, his little hands clasped in theirs. Taking hold of him firmly they had passed him over, and with a few hurried goodbyes had disappeared back down the garden path. He had vague impressions of that day; the sunlight and the cheeriness of his parent’s voices. Mainly what he remembered was his Grandmother’s long cold hand taking his, and the lunch of cold meats she had already prepared for him. Pickles, mayonnaise, bread. Soft white meat in great slices, and a big glass of lemonade to wash it all down.
Many of Albie’s memories centered around food. It was, he thought, the best thing about living with Grandmother. She was a brilliant cook. She produced huge, steaming dinners from the perpetually busy kitchen, and followed them up with enormous, heaving puddings. Roast chicken with fragrant crispy skin, fat golden roast potatoes, lamb chops and pies with suet crusts, thick rashers of pink bacon and great wobbling piles of scrambled eggs. Treacle puddings, spotted dick, chocolate cakes with inch-thick icing, home made ice-cream, bread and rice pudding, and all with the option of custard.
Of course sometimes the family would come round and they would share the feast together, particularly Grandmother’s prized Christmas Dinner, the crowning achievement of her year. But mostly she cooked for Albie, plates upon plates upon plates, as much as he could stand to eat, and more besides. He never missed one of his three meals a day, and elevenses, supper and tea were also as strictly observed.

There were downsides to living with his Grandmother too, of course. The prodigious output of food meant that he out grew his clothes continually, and a man appeared at the house often to measure him for new outfits. Mr Wax was a tall man with a stern, grey face who peered at Albie with such interest that it made the boy quite uneasy. And his apron was always dirty. When, a few days later, the clothes would arrive neatly folded in a brown parcel, Albie would always hope that they would last somewhat longer this time.
Grandmother was also very strict about bathing. Every night after his supper, she would run him a good hot bath, and fill it with what she called her “herbal soaks”.
“It’ll look after your skin, Albie my poppet. And it makes you smell like a prince”
Albie hated bath time with a passion. For one thing, Grandmother always ran them very hot, so that it took him ages to settle into the blistering water, and his skin was a livid pink by the end. And the herbs and bath salts certainly smelt pleasant when she threw them in the water, but being shut in with the aromas in a steamy room meant that Albie was quite sick of their sweet aroma.

He was home schooled, which meant that each afternoon (shortly after lunch) Grandmother would heave down from the shelves her set of Encyclopedias and they would have a brief lesson about whichever chapter Grandmother chose that day. Mostly, Grandmother would become bored and distracted from these studies very quickly, and would suggest a snack instead.
“That’s enough of these dusty old books, Albie my lambkin. How about some raspberry fool?”
On his tenth birthday, Grandmother bought a special bottle of ten year old port. The taste of it filled Albie’s head and made his nose itch. He liked it very much. They drank large glasses of it and Albie ate slice after slice of his enormous birthday cake.
“It’s been aged for ten years Albie,” said his Grandmother. “Just like you!”
From that day on they often shared a glass of port in the evening. If it sometimes made him a little wobbly on his feet and somewhat tired, Albie did not really mind, and it certainly didn’t worry his Grandmother.

In early November Mr Wax made an unexpected visit, much to Albie’s displeasure. His clothes, although certainly snug, were not due to be replaced for some time. Regardless, Mr Wax brought out his tape measure and took particular care measuring Ablie’s wide stomach and thick ankles. The old man nodded to himself with apparent satisfaction and conferred for some time with Grandmother in the kitchen. Feeling self conscious and stupid in his large white underwear, Albie distracted himself by looking again at all the family photos; Stephen by the beach with a lilo under his arm, James and Gary down by the river bank, a bucket of maggots between them, and Sue in a wide brimmed summer hat and glasses . One of the larger photos showed almost all the family together around the long dinner table, party hats askew and the wreckage of crackers strewn between plates. In the middle of the table were the remains of dinner, bones picked clean.
When Mr Wax finally left, Grandmother took one look at Albie’s sulky face and squeezed his pudgy arm.
“Just measuring you up for some special festive clothes, my sweet. This year’s Christmas dinner is going to be the best ever!”

And certainly it was. Mr Wax hung Albie for ten whole days to ensure the tastiest cuts, and Grandmother had saved up her best goose fat, resulting in the sort of crackling that was both crunchy and chewy and full of juicy fluids. A triumph, the family said. A masterpiece.
By New Year’s Eve, when all the cold meat sandwiches were finally eaten, and all the bubble and squeak finished off, Grandmother added a new photo to her collection; the Christmas feast. Glimpsed upon the serving plates and grasped in the greasy fists of uncles and aunts and cousins, Albie finally found his place on the mantelpiece.

Boys from the Dwarf.

Red Dwarf isn't perfect. Of course it's not. But when I was a kid, sitting up round my nan's house on a friday night while my family played cards, and I finally had control over the TV, Red Dwarf was the highlight of my evening. It was funny, and silly, and sometimes had wibbly rubber monsters in it and it was pretty much my favourite programme. After... how many series? 8, I think, was the last one... it's easy to look back and see where it started to go wrong, for me at least. Over time, the writing was less sharp, the jokes less funny- odd, unnecessary things like emotion and "proper story" started to intrude. The essential "git" at the heart of each character was "redeemed" and I lost some affection for them. Rimmer performing a selfless act? It just isn't right. By the time they reintroduced the dreadful Kochanski (with all new actress and accent) I'd sort of given up, but kept watching anyway... CGI became more important, the lovely and endearing model shots were replaced with slicker graphics, jokes seemed more forced and plot given more importance (when did plot ever matter with Red Dwarf?), and Kochanski got on my bloody wick. I eventually gave up, I think, somewhere at the beginning of series 8. Our DVD collection reflects this, ending abruptly at series 6, essentially the last time we laughed at it.

And tonight, on Dave, we have new Red Dwarf. I wish I could write about a return to snappy dialogue, model shots, daftness and slobs in space, but really, there isn't much to report. Stuff happened, they all look a bit older, I didn't laugh once. It's probably true that it suffers from the lack of a laughter track, but when an entire sequence is given over to a new character doing vaguely scientific things in a lab, without a single joke in sight, I don't think some canned laughter would help that much.

It's kind of painful that Dave have followed it directly afterwards with a really good episode, Gunmen of the Apocalypse. It's worth remembering, I guess, that it was brilliant once. Ten year old me certainly thought so. Bob bless Red Dwarf, the only science-fiction sitcom that was ever any good.

fools

So how is April going? How is it going?

Well, despite absolutely definitely deciding not to do it because it would be silly and I don't have the time, I seem to be doing Script Frenzy anyway by accident. Sort of. Before April 1st came around I tried to fling out a quick plot outline for the idea, reasoning that if I could figure out roughly what it was about I might give it a go. I struggled and complained and filled out a "beat sheet" and eventually discovered that, no, I still didn't know what happens or how it would work, so I would take that as a sign that I wouldn't be doing it afterall.

And then when the 1st of April came around, I had a quiet moment inbetween avoiding getting rickrolled so I very quietly, without looking very closely at what I was doing, kind of sort of started writing the screenplay anyway. *sigh*

It hasn't been a disaster quite yet. I'm still working steadily towards the end of Bad Apple Bone, and the screenplay, called The Sinister Bend, is merrily being made up as I go along with no thought for plot or where it's going- this is fun.

But it is only the 5th, and as I'm sitting here in a Sunday funk failing to get anything done at all, it could still all go wrong!