Being Northern Irish, I'd firstly like to say in my defence that I did NOT vote for the Democratic Unionist Party, nor did any of my friends or acquaintances. I'm well aware my fellow British citizens have no wish to be propelled into some NeoReformation nightmare where women have no abortion rights whatsoever, even in cases of rape, and gay people are called 'abominations' by our elected Health Minister. The best I could manage on this occasion was a tactical vote to ensure the DUP were not the majority in my constituency of Belfast North. To put things into perspective, Gerry Kelly, who was once a high profile member of the IRA, took the top position. Given my family background, the Troubles etc, I should consider him my enemy. I don't. He was the only candidate with a chance in hell of keeping the DUP the fuck out. That's how much I hate the DUP. So, apologies, I did what I could fearing the hung parliament but for as long as the section of the community who feel a vote for anyone else but the DUP is being unpatriotic and irreligious come to their senses, there's fuck all the rest of us can do.
Writing for me is a double edged sword. I have the constant urge but not the mental faculty, at least, not all the time. It gets very frustrating. And yet, it's something I always return to. Looking through my folders, there are a multitude of half baked ideas and character studies, pieces that were going great guns until I suffered a serious mood swing and lost my way. I came across this when hoking through files this morning. I know what my intentions were and where the piece was heading but, no matter how hard I try, I just can't seem to get my head in the same mindset it was when I wrote it: The Longboat Inn was a rough house. Standing halfway between the shore and the barracks, the patrons were a motley assortment of soldiers on leave, and local fishermen fresh off the boat. Too much liquor and time spent away from home brewed resentment from all quarters, but for now the peace was holding. Not an ideal situation to be in but jobs were scarce. At the rate she was saving, by spring she would have enough for passage to the mainland. There she could take her pick of jobs, or so the papers led her to believe— columns upon columns of positions to be filled, each neat box of text an opportunity, a red ringed doorway to another life. She folded the broadsheet carefully and poured herself a cup of tea. A quick peek through the serving hatch reassured her tempers were holding, and that she’d get her well deserved ten minutes. “It’ll not last long,” said Ed, the harbinger of doom. “Word is the lanky Private’s being doing a line with Stravick’s missus.” He slammed a lump of beef down on his butchers block and hit it a thump with a cleaver. Clary jumped, and they both stared at the gaping gash. She’d thought to slip her shoes off. Maybe not. Another quick scan through the serving hatch at the ruddied faces and her eyes settled on one in particular. "Who… him? The twiglet?" “Aye.. him,” “What was he thinking?” Clary gasped. “He's only a lad, and a skinny, dying looking one at that.” “He’ll never be anything more if Stravick’s men catch on,” Ed brought down the cleaver again for added effect. "And, more to the point, what was she thinking." Making Stravick jealous, no doubt. A dangerous game if ever there was. Clary huffed out a sigh, sat down her tea, stood up and straightened her apron. A quick scan of the tables of the public house told her she was not the only person interested in the private. Scutcheon Doyle, Stravick’s right hand, was propping up the bar, ostenstibly getting drunk but Clary knew better. Even in the smoky half-light she could tell the spirit in his glass was well watered down, and he was watching the soldier’s every move in the in mirror of the liquor cabinet. She needed an excuse to approach so she turned tail back into the kitchen and ladled some stew into a heavily rimmed bowl. On a narrow strip torn from the edge of her newspaper, she hurriedly scribbled a warning and placed into under the bowl so that it was legible but discreetly positioned on her serving tray. Doyle’s eyes bored holes in her through the mirror as she weaved her way through the tables and chairs, ignoring the crude comments, and skillfully avoiding the attempted bottom pinches. “Your order, Sir,” she said loudly, so as to be heard over the din. The private went to open his mouth but Clary spoke first. “Sorry you had to wait so long but the cook…” She subtly tapped the note and looked him straight in the eye. His own widened. Make an excuse. Get out now! On cue, the lad stood up. “Call this service? I ordered an hour ago!” “But…” “I don’t care for your excuses, nor your grub, if I’m honest. This’ll be the last you’ll see of me in this establishment.” He yanked on his overcoat, feigning slight, and departed, slamming the door hard enough that Clara could feel the vibration through the soles of her shoes. Well, that was that. She checked the wall clock… her break was nearly over, although she deserved at least five minutes in lieu for her delicate handling of the situation. She might well have averted a lynching. The rest of the shift was relatively strife free, just a few minor scuffles but nothing that six foot four, cleaver-brandishing Ed couldn’t pacify with a few threatening words and his practiced maniac glare. He was a pussy cat really. That night as every night, he did the expected and offered to walk her home. She had long-since realised he had an eye for her and made her usual excuses; she had a stop to make, Ma Thorne wouldn’t be happy… anything that prevented Ed from feeling she was giving him an opportunity to make his feelings known. He wasn’t unattractive in his rough hewn way, but Clara had plans that included no-one but herself. She wasn’t going to lead him on then drop him like a piece of hot coal, just because she felt lonely. Still, loneliness was infinitely preferable to life in the poor house, and her present job rungs above service. Many of her fellow foundlings who’d come of age sought positions as washerwomen and scullions, the more gentile personalities ending up as ladies’ maids. The thought was like a spoonful of gall. She’d rather wait, hand and foot, on the soldiers and fisher folk. Gobby, often downright rude but at least she knew where she stood with them. Rich people, those with inherited money at least, treated their servants little better than chaff to be discarded on a whim, so she’d been informed by Kitty Eldridge, her oldest friend. According to the letters she’d sent home, even those who’d made their own way and had first hand knowledge of what it was like to be poor, were often corrupted by their new-found wealth as they attempted to keep pace with their ‘betters’. Money, to Clara, was no more than a way to provide necessities for herself. A means, not an end. She’d scarcely noticed how fast winter was approaching. A hot summer, followed by a mild autumn passed her by, her nose pressed tight to the grindstone, eyes blinkered by tunnel vision. Every extra shift, every uncooperative patron furthered her ambitions as the little wooden casket secreted under Ma Thorne’s floorboards slowly but surely filled. To a child it would have seemed a treasure trove; so many coins it had to have been worth a small fortune. Not so, Clary knew. She’d barely make passage with it, and there was the initial board to consider until she found a live-in position. A new outfit had to be factored in too, if she was to convincingly fake being a governess. It wouldn’t do to look like some country bumpkin draped in hand-me-down homespun when making a first impression. The cobbles sparkled with frost as she made her way home alone past the small brick hovels, chimney stacks smoking, candlelight flickering through sooty, leaded windows. Exhaustion crept up on her with every misplaced, slippery step, her ankles starting to ache with the effort of keeping upright on the incline to the church. An otherworldly noise stopped her dead in her tracks as she considered her options, a metallic squeal coming from the weather vane atop the steeple. Nothing that a good lump of lard wouldn’t fix, she mused, as her heart regained regular rhythm. A lantern winked in the near distance, the Night Watchman doing his rounds. The short cut would save her tired feet almost a mile and, not one to indulge in speculative superstition, she turned hard left past the wrought iron gates and into the graveyard. The crescent moon was at its zenith. Headstones jutted out at every angle, blue-black silhouettes rising out of the ground, uppermost edges studded with diamonds. Another shriek from the vane pre-empted a gust of wind that came from behind and, chilled, Clary wound her scarf around her face and pulled up her collar. Within moments, the air around her undulated with currents of snow flakes, some lighting on her eyelashes and the tip of her nose. With childlike glee, she held out her arms and started to turn. The turn became a spin — trees, stones, church — faster and faster — trees, stones, church, trees, stones, church — She’d never have made a ballerina. Dizzy-headed, she slowed, aware that the moist snow accumulating at her feet was seeping into her shoes. Momentary joy was replaced by the intense desire to be tucked up warm in bed, but it was more than the intense cold... something felt... off? A stray silhouette stuck out like a thumb struck by a hammer. Realisation dawned, as her initial impression melted away. It was no gravestone; it was a man kneeling over a sack. No…not a sack. Another man lay crumpled on the ground beneath him. Suddenly fearful, she backed up and peered at the shape from behind a little mausoleum. As she watched, the shape started to change, elongating, standing to full height. Relief trickled through her as she realised his back was turned. Was it Doyle? No, not broad enough, and who was the still figure beneath? She couldn’t be sure. It didn’t matter anyway, it wasn’t as if there was anything she could do. Not true, she reconsidered. The watchman was on his way. If she crept quietly she could use the tombs as cover then run the rest of the way. A frost encrusted twig snapped loudly as she misfooted. The silhouette man’s head whipped round, but she gleaned nothing except darkness, and the measure of her fear, her chest tightening.
It could almost be an interrogation scene. I'm sitting in a stark room, surrounded on all sides by fierce, white light that reduces my pupils to pin pricks. My head feels like it's going to explode due to the high pitched sonic whine that pummels me. I say it's almost like an interrogation scene because there are a few not-so subtle differences. I'm alone for one; there's no rolling up of sleeves, threatening me and giving me the stink eye. There's no actual bruising. I'm not restrained either, unless you count the mental handcuffs I've placed on myself. Even if I'd my spent my phonecall on representation, I'd likely have misinterpreted any counsel as some attempt to debase me further. And anyone (paid or otherwise) who gets too close gets short shrift. And all the time my mind is tracking wires. Everything I find unacceptable and unsettling is routed through the electrical box on the far wall. No matter which way I look, I can see it. The front plate has swung open and sits ajar. An old fashioned manilla postal tag hangs flaccidly from the breaker. 'Flip Me!' it reads, in some weird call back to when I was eleven and got lost with Alice in Wonderland. It's at times like this that I sincerely wish I could. But I can't.
I probably should ease up on the cooked breakfasts. At my age they don’t do my waistline any favours and don’t start me on my heart. I still didn’t feel the least bit guilty as I slathered my last sausage in brown sauce, and nibbled on the end. The paper was uplifting as ever; a pile up on the motorway, a cabinet member resigned, a local parent taking on the County Council over a school failing to tackle bullying head on. I swigged back my coffee, checked the time and headed to the bathroom. Ablutions over, I started to make up my face. I’ve always worn heavy make up… kinda goes with my shaven headed, tattooed and pierced exterior. I look just alternative enough to make some folks think I’ve got a screw loose. Maybe I do. It’s my armour. It doesn’t take much Keromask to cover my scar, well, at least make it less noticeable. I don’t mind it really, but it does tug at my lower lip making it asymmetrical. Silly, I know, but that bothers me. I’m one of those people fortunate to do a job I love. I work with a great bunch of folks and don’t really think of it as work, I simply provide a service. Calling it a job conjures images of it taking effort. I get paid to draw for a living; it’s hardly life at the coal face. People get tattooed for countless reasons, to be part of a peer group, or set themselves apart. They mark for themselves, for others, or just because it seems the thing to do. Not the best of reasons, the last. Clients often bail out at the last minute. I’m all in favour of that, (as long as they call to cancel.) It just so happened, I had an hour to kill that day on account of it. My assistant said there had been a walk-in, and asked was I up for doing it? A red devil… how imaginative. Not! Still, wasn’t my place to pass judgement, whatever they chose for me to indelibly etch on their hides was up to them. I fetched my usual selection of sterile packed needles; liners, shaders, and a big fuck-off Magnum for packing in the pigment. I set up my ink tray and arranged my cables for maximum reach. Clients come up to me in the street, thinking I’ll remember them, but I don’t. Open their mouths though, and I’d recognise them in a heartbeat. They forget I spend all of my time staring at an inky patch of skin — I assume they’d rather I didn’t tattoo while staring them right in the eye. They love a good conversation though, takes their mind off the pain. I hadn’t recognised him at first, his signature on the release form alerting me to who he was. Neil Thomas! Fancy you turning up in my chair. He sat completely oblivious. I picked up my lucky Queen and kissed her superglued, ebony crown as I always do, before picking up my spray bottle, telling him to sit astride, and cleaning the back of his shoulder. Utterly at my mercy, he was. Red devil? No problem. My mind flooded with explicit images, red devils with rampant hard-ons, hog tied and helpless. What a back piece that would be. I chuckled. “Sorry, what?” Or maybe, one, big penis with wings, running the length of his back, wearing a condom stating: I’m a Big, Bad, Bully. I laughed again, hit my pedal, and my gun screeched to life. Ok, so I’d turned the dial up for maximum roar and it sounded more like an angle-grinder on iron than the hypnotic buzz it should have been. I think he nearly wet himself, much to my delight. The novelty wore off quickly though. I wasn’t a vengeful person really, and he’d just been a child. “You don’t remember me do you?” “Should I?”
Part One. Draft One. I ate cornflakes for breakfast that day. Mum said I couldn’t have more sugar because it would rot my teeth. I spat minty froth into the basin, and wiped my mouth with a towel, before going to my room. Holly Hobby stared down at me from a shelf as I reluctantly pulled on my uniform, and did up my laces. I’ve never liked school. I don’t feel safe there; the boys call me names and the girls call me worse. It’s not my fault I know things. I know because Daddy sits me down and tells me stories. Sometimes he’ll tell me of Odysseus then makes me spell out his name, or asks me what the Romans called Poseidon. Other times he’ll show me pictures of the planets and tells me how far away they are and how tiny and unimportant we are, compared to everything else. Sometimes we play chess. He showed me how to castle. That’s how I feel sometimes, like I want to crouch, protected, safe in a corner. I don’t have friends. The other kids think I’m weird, but that’s ok, I don’t need them. I’d have brought Little Ted to school to keep me company but they’d only have laughed and called me a baby. I slipped my Queen into my pocket instead. She is my reminder that I am strong. The lunch-time bell sounded. A whole hour of being on my own. Better that than Milly and Janey pushing me to the ground, pulling off my pants, and running round the playground, waving them like a flag. Better than having my head pushed down a toilet, or signs stuck to my back telling kids to kick me. Better than putting drawing pins, point up, on my chair. Better than telling me there’s a fly in my hair, when the only thing wrong was the lump of chewing gum they stuck in it. I found a shady spot under a tree at the far end of the football pitch and took out Smash Hits from my satchel. I unfolded it on my lap then snuck a copy of Jane Eyre into the middle of it. They couldn’t tease what they couldn’t see, not that they needed an excuse. The bell sounded again. An hour of primary grade French before P.E. I knew all the words, comme d’habitude, Daddy saw to that. Then games followed by a shower — No, I didn’t need a bra! — and what did it have to do with them anyway? At least the boys were in their shower block and couldn’t hear. “Yo! Tiny tits!” Stew shouted after me as I left the building. Milly and Janey laughed. I wanted to hit them — wanted to bite and kick them — but I didn’t. My eyes sunk to the tarmac but, even so, I didn’t see Neill’s foot stuck out with the intention of tripping me. I fell over, my Queen tumbling from my pocket. My face hit the ground with a sharp crack. My chess piece was damaged, two points of her crown broken right off. I could have cried but I wouldn’t give them the pleasure. I didn’t realise I was bleeding until I stood up. It dripped off my chin, my mouth tasted metal. A bright red stain spread on my chest. The boys knew they were in trouble and ran toward the bike sheds. The sudden sting made me want to see what Neil had done to me. There was a hole. I pulled a face in the bathroom mirror and probed the back of the hole with my tongue. It passed right through until I was able to feel it from the front with a finger. The blood stained my teeth. One had a dark streak where it was broken. A teacher heard the fuss and came looking for me. She put me in her car and took me the doctor after phoning my mum. “This syringe is full of magic,” the doctor said, “You won’t feel a thing.” “It’s anaesthetic, not magic,” I said, with a tut. What age did he think I was. Five?
And the winner is... ...not me. Now there's a surprise. I was clearly outclassed, left, right and centre... but that's ok. I've learned a lot from taking part. Would I be quick to do it again? No...I wouldn't. And that's not sour grapes on my part. Neurologically, I just can't take it which does raise a rather interesting question: To submit or not? Obviously, my piece still needs a lot of work; I knew that even as I posted it: Is it worth putting myself through all kinds of torment in order to try and get it published? This seems very melodramatic, I know, but I also know myself and to make the attempt will push at the very boundaries of my sanity, not to mention my ego. Both are very fragile concepts that need handled with kid gloves. Once the dust settles, I'll get feedback from the judges and put my piece up for critique but that's not something I can consider doing right now. I'm feeling way too sensitive. I knew this would happen; it's all par for the course. I look forward to constructive criticism when my mood flips back and I'm capable of accepting it.
After letting my piece stew for a few days, and helping out a friend in the meantime, I'm finally done with the competition entry. Am I entirely happy with it? No, I'm not. Wish I could say I was. But... I know how I can be. I need to set it aside right now, before anxiety takes hold, before the fear of future judgement gets the better of me. Before I rip it to pieces, ending up with less than when I started. I speak from experience. To spin a positive from the negativity I'm feeling right now, I really should give myself a pat on the back for even getting to this point. This past years writing drought has weighed heavily on me, and the chance to actively work towards a goal has been very helpful. Even getting to the final edit is an achievement in itself.
I've been letting my competition entry stew for a few days but I'm still not hundred per cent happy with my closing paragraph. Luckily, I've still some time left to muse on it. What has tended to happen in the past when it gets close to handing an assignment, is that I start becoming ridiculously petty and overly self critical about the wrong elements, to the point where I either rip the piece to bits, or fail to hand it in, citing some silly, outright lie of an excuse, when what's really happening, is that my Imposter Syndrome is making itself known. Right now, I'm thinking: Why even bother? You know it's not good enough. It's times like this I have to remind myself: It's yours. No-one else on the planet could have written it. And that'll just have to be good enough.
I'm amazed that I'm about to say this: My editing is going really well. What usually happens is that I get frustrated and end up doing a lot of hacking and slashing (which can create problems with transition and flow) but, on this occasion, I seem to be more in control of myself and my thought processes. It helps that I've already trimmed the fat. A lower word count than usual for a short of mine, it's starting to read quite well, if I'm any judge. But... and this is where I always start second-guessing myself; I like it. Will anyone else? In the past, my main bones of contention have been flow, pacing and a narrator who just couldn't stop making commentary on the unfolding events. When these points came up in critique, some I understood well enough, and some (like my narration) completely escaped me. I couldn't see at the time what the big deal was, but I've always been a bit slow on the uptake. Suffice to say that now I see my failings all too clearly and my competition piece is an attempt to turn them around and make positives from negatives. For example: My narrator can opine as much as he likes. I've written the piece in First Person. His thoughts and feelings on the unfolding subject matter make up the crux of my story. The story itself can be summed up in a sentence. There's nothing clever or remarkable about it, it's just day-in-the life fare, so I'm hoping the telling will be amusing enough to keep eyes on the text. When all is said and done, I'm giving it my best shot, and that's all any of us can hope to do.
Today I start my editing in earnest. Overwriting can be as problematic as being sketchy. This time round, I have to make a cut of around 4,000 odd words. It's not going to be easy as there are some fairly well written bits that will have to be sacrificed for the greater good. Into the remnant folder they'll go. I've started the way I usually do by reading the whole piece aloud. I immediately detected several problematic spots in transition and flow. As I was reading, a thought occurred. I'm doing an awful lot of telling. And y'know what? Sod it! It's been said in the past that my writing is quite old fashioned. I'm starting to think it's my upbringing, and the traditions of storytelling that exist in my neck of the woods. Even telling jokes... you have to meander so that the punchline is delayed to the last possible moment. All you can hope for is to keep the recipient entertained while you merrily guide them round the mulberry bush. The payoff needs to be worth it. My story is striking me as being a bit like that. I'm not going as the crow flies, I'm taking the back country lanes. Hopefully I'll turn a corner and my destination will rise up in front of me.
Let's make this clear from the off. I'm not a competitive person. I can honestly say that my failure to get by in life, to my own satisfaction, comes down to this. For someone with Bipolar, feelings of grandiosity often give way to feelings that I'm better than everyone else, that I can succeed where they have failed. Fortunately, I'm aware of this, and slam myself back down to earth if ever I get so much as an inkling that I'm being an ass. The balanced me assigns value to humility. Which again, is one of my problems. I've always found it hard to put my best foot forward for fear I may be accused of acting out or showing off. There are a number of things I'm naturally good at, but I've never fully followed through. Fear of failure weighs heavily on me. Not sure where that stems from... I know it's a natural response to testing circumstances, but I take it too far and become so sensitive as to feel like I've been flayed. Parental expectations as a child perhaps... I really don't know. When it was put to me that it might be a good idea to enter, to see if it helped with my ever expanding dry spell, I immediately dismissed the notion until I thought, well... what's the harm? And because I've been feeling like a charlatan and a fraud even so much as setting down my virtual boots in these hallowed halls, I felt I needed to make a contribution. WF saw me through a very turbulent first year. I love this place and have lasting, genuine affection for so many here. I almost felt like I was letting the side down by not, at the very least, making an effort. I'm running way over the word count, and editing is gonna be a bugger but I'm bouncing inside. Read that last line back... I OVERWROTE. I started writing this as an attempt to clear my head before writing my remaining paragraphs and now they are done and dusted. I have my first draft. I was expecting to hit the 12,000 word mark and I did, almost, with the final total coming in at 11,951. Now the hard work begins. I need to precis, get rid of redundancies and still have the theme emerge as intended. How I hope it doesn't turn out to be a steaming pile of dog poo!
My Bi Polar has been playing havoc with my writing for months now but I'm starting to get back into the way of it. As most of my time has been spent playing about with my two protagonists, I've felt a little estranged from one of the other major characters. Since I'm tackling one of those chapters this afternoon, I knocked up a short piece to help to me get back into the right head space. Frankly this character scares the crap outta me. I wonder why? If you move in certain circles you will no doubt have heard of me. I am a righter of wrongs, an instrument of vengeance honed by my own experience, bent, shaped and wrought to purpose by those who sought to abuse me. I am the Flaming Dove. Praying to your god won’t save you, should I cross your path. Begging might ease your passage to the after life, but I would not count on it. Cries of agony mean nothing to me, nor does the blood I spill, nor the flesh I maim. No amount of sanguine pleasure can fill the void; it pleases me to spill it anyway. What care have I for those who quake at the sight of the instruments of their demise, when half of all that I am was raped, and tortured, and left to die. Though she is gone from this place, I sense her every moment of every day. The passage of time has done nothing to erase the pain I feel, for when I look at my aging self, she stares back at me.
Summer is finally over, and I'm glad. My bi polar brain despises the extended daylight hours, the glare of the sun (on the odd day Northern Ireland actually gets sun) triggers migraines, and really incapacitating auras that have me feeling constantly motion sick. My writing has gone to pot these past couple of months. Don't get me wrong, it's no lack of wanting to make headway on my part, just the inability to gauge what I'm writing dispassionately. Emotionally, I'm all over the place. I have a feeling peri-menopausal hormones thrown into the mix, due to my age, aren't helping matters. Despite having mental health conditions which can sometimes be a tad debilitating, I consider myself very lucky in many respects. Many people with the same conditions are reliant on medications to ease the effects of the highs and lows. I use my innate creativity as therapy. I tend to write and compose/play music on the down, and dance and draw on the up. I've been spamming the Members Picture Gallery, and my Facebook wall, with a high count of pics this last couple of weeks. It's my way of staying connected during this period of disconnection. I'm running manic but unlike some, I'm fortunate enough to realise that I am. The upshot of the mania, this time around, is the fanatical urge to compose pictures. This is not something I consider harmful to my being, (unlike errant spending) so I just tend to go with it to see where it leads me. Sometimes I'll look at a photo I've taken, and an idea occurs. Other times the concept comes first and I try to find a way to express it. Another member asked recently whether we on the forum call ourselves 'writers.' I don't, any more than I consider myself a dancer, a musician, an artist... so what am I then? Everything, and at the same time, nothing. I started a piece yesterday... it was one of those times when the concept—nay, not even so much the concept— the title, came first. That's a rarity. It was triggered by having been out for a walk when it was raining. When I got back home, I took off my muddy boots, and left them by the back door. They are army surplus. My mind got to thinking, 'mud' and 'boots' and the title just about slapped me in the face. So... I went to work with my concept. I came up with what I thought was a rather pleasing representative image, (though it is still in the early stages) although I thought, like so much of my written work, the viewer might not see in it what I do. That got me thinking. I did take art at school, but I left under a cloud at 15, so most of what I do and my approach to art is entirely self-motivated, and more visual than cerebral in nature. I love museums and galleries and, on the very odd occasion I now visit foreign cities, that's where you'll find me. (There and trawling around ancient ruins.) In the Members Picture thread, I recently mentioned the fact that I suspect my writing and artistic pursuits overlap like circles in a Venn diagram. My writing is obviously visually, (and externally sensory) inspired, so I started to wonder whether my art has a wordy element to it. I thought not, until this concept struck me, and I started to give consideration to how much the title of a piece matters. We've all seen the little plaques beside gallery exhibits giving the title, year of creation, artist, medium, etc. Even though I knew what I was trying to say with the piece, I suspected it was too vague and a little too... ummm... hidden in plain sight? By that I mean that I incorporated an element that the vast majority of people wouldn't recognise. I thought I'd try it out on my FB page to see if anyone at all understood the significance of it. That was last night, and as yet no one has clicked. So back to my title. If I need to spell out the intention of the piece using the title as a clue, does that mean I've failed? Do we really need the title of Dali's Persistence of Memory, in order to fathom what's it about? Or does the title sometimes serve as a road map of the piece, so that the viewer doesn't get 'lost'? This isn't something I've ever given serious consideration to. Is the title truly an integral part of the whole, or is that only the case when it needs to be? And does it then follow that untitled pieces need to be wholly self-explanatory, or purely aesthetic? These might seem to be naive questions but, keep in mind, saying something through my pictures hasn't been something I've even attempted before. In art class I worked on fabric designs; repeat patterns, tessellations, use of negative space, and so forth. The thought of having to say something beyond the sheer aesthetic value of the piece wouldn't have even occurred to me. I wasn't a very mature 15 year old. So, with all this in mind, here's the picture I'm working on. View attachment 22932 Okay, so there are boots, a load of squiggles, and the recognisable shape of a heart. One of my friends came to the conclusion that I clearly loved my boots. Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for, though I strongly suspected that it would take something of an enthusiast to make sense of it. Another friend was getting visions of The Elephant Man, due to the sackcloth texture and colour scheme. Uh... nope. (I don't think he even saw the boots.) Initially, when I'd been staring at my muddy, army surplus boots, I'd remembered coming down with a particularly nasty medical affliction when on a hiking trip. With that name in my head, I thought of the worst possible examples I could think of, and an idea started to germinate. It was by sheer luck I found something incredibly visually moving to me that I decided to incorporate. View attachment 22931 It's an aerial view of... well, this image is pretty self explanatory isn't it? It's an aerial view of war-time trenches. It this case, the Western Front, 1916. Even looking at it now, I get a strange feeling in my stomach. The heart stirs so many emotions. Indescribable conditions, so many lost lives. And yet there in the middle of it all, the symbol of courage and hope. I had to incorporate it, but I knew the likelihood of recogniton was slight. The question I'm asking myself now is: Is the title enough for the viewer (who has never seen the aerial photo before) to put two and two together? Do two simple words bring clarity to a mud coloured mess? Like with my writing, I'm at a point where I just can't tell. We talk of creativity in building block terms, but also it has a descontruction counterpart, knowing how much can be sheared away before it ceases to make sense to anyone but the creator. I'm starting to think my failings in both writing and artistic endeavours share a lot of similarities. What two words tie muddy army boots, my hiking debacle, and my attempt at artwork together? Trench Foot.
The decision has been made. I've decided to convert my attempts at a novel from Third to First Person. I haven't much done yet, but it's proving to be a very enlightening experience so far. I dread to think how long it'll take and I'm still not clear on what way I'm going to handle the secondary characters, so for now I'm concentrating on the opening scenes and those involving my two MCs. Thank goodness for Scrivenor. Makes the job so much easier. View attachment 22926 So, on the left pane, I have the Third Person version of a scene and on the right, my First person take on the same events. I love the fact that I can split the screen vertically and lay them side by side, both static but scrolling. I have intermittent concentration issues, so faffing around with separate docs is distracting. This works great for me. The title on the right hand doc tells a tale: Chamber-RW5-First. The RW stands for rewrite and I'm now on my fifth. I've still got a long way to go in learning the ropes, but I think each rewrite is giving me a stronger sense of, not only where I'm headed, but also the kind of writer I'd like to become. The constant honing and chipping away makes the going very slow but it's totally worth it for each little improvement.
So, for the past couple of weeks, I've been busy with my coursework. I still can't say I totally enjoy being put on the spot in regard to what I'm writing, but I'm in hanging in there. One thing that often happens to me, is that I'll be in the middle of doing one thing, when my concentration gets distracted by something else. If I can, I ignore the urge but it isn't always possible and I have to follow the new train of thought wherever it leads me, or I end up suffering from really bad writers' block. My latest diversion was when I called into question why, for my novel, I write in third person. I thought it came naturally to me... now I'm not so sure. I generally don't read books in first person, I'm not sure how much of a coincidence it is then that I come to discover that two members, who are reasonably tolerant of my third person efforts, seem to prefer my first person take on the same material. I did a little experiment and took the opening of my prologue and swopped from third to first just to see what effect it would have. I was pleased but what I really needed were the opinions of someone who digs reading and writing in third and someone who, generally, doesn't. To say I was uplifted by their reactions is putting it mildly. Thanks, guys. You know who you are. And so, rather than having it ripped into in the Workshop, I'm simply gonna post it here for posterity, my first unbridled effort with first person. Excerpt from, as yet, untitled novel: It was with a sense of relief that we navigated the misty channel into Lower Greystone. Three weeks of violent storms had taken their toll on us and The Spice Wind herself looked the worse for wear; sails tattered, foremast cracked and listing as she limped into berth and we dropped anchor. I braced myself against the flurry of activity, swears and tuneless whistles, the gang plank at once besieged by those in the employ of the Guilds, their job to tally the cargo of aromatics, oils, and silks and make delivery to their respective Guild Masters. Relief was short lived for some, as those with infractions drew straws, the losers forfeiting shore leave in favour of carrying out repairs. I was blameless so not held to account. Bad weather followed like a starved hound from the moment we departed Alhadian waters and the sky didn’t look like it was sated. Those same bruised and sullen clouds weighed down the acrid tallow house fumes that permanently hovered over the basin of the harbour, irritating my eyes, fouling up my lungs. Vapour hung heavy as tension held it an iron grip. Something was about to give. A ragged flash of intense white light split the cloud cover, and danced among the merlons of the keep high on the hill, thunder echoing against the towering, hexagonal columns that gave the town its name. I raised my eyes to the heavens, as the first spatters of rain bounced off my shaven head, pulling the collar of my oilskin tight around my throat in a vain attempt to keep the deluge from soaking me through. Still, it could have been worse: no one had drowned, the cargo was secure, and payment had been settled. And there was always the Rusty Nail, the calm eye of the storm. Almost a tradition amongst the crew, we spent shore leave ensconced in one of the snugs, gambling and drinking before making merry with the whores. All except for me. The latter at least. One by one, my mates emerged from below deck, clutching their packs and their money purses. "Uli… catch!" Flynn’s hulking frame came into view as I snatched the coin purse from the air. "The Illustrious Sister ain’t far behind us. Maybe we should make a move and nab our snug." "Nab Daisy, y’mean?" a mocking voice chided. "The amount of money you’ve handed over to that woman, you’d be better off marrying her." It was all I could do to hold in the chuckle. I’d heard him murmuring her name in the small hours when he’d thought we were all asleep. That wasn't all he'd been doing. Flynn took an exaggerated step off the plank and onto the quayside, muttering something about his land legs while giving the First Mate a look fit to curdle milk. "And what the fuck’s it got to do with ye? At least I’m getting my money’s worth… thon rake you were with last time? No meat on her bones at all." "It’s not like I was planning to eat her." His cheeks became ruddy, spreading like a rash up through his temples to his pate. "You know what I mean." He gave a hard stare. "And less of the language." "Bollocks to ye. I’ll speak how I damn well please." "Enough, you two, before you start threatening swords at sunset. Dick, you just dropped something." Big Gero stooped to avoid taking off the top of his head as he exited the Captain’s cabin. "Is Canker Bill with you?" I shouted up. "Tell him to hurry, or the first round’s on h—." "Uli Skarsen?" A young boy sidled up beside me, face screwed up as if that in itself would ward off the rain, an ever growing raindrop poised to drip from the tip of his nose. "That’d be me." "A message for you." So this was it. Time had finally caught up with me. I took the rolled up parchment noting the blood-red seal—a flaming dove. Without so much as cracking the wax, I deposited it in my pack. I paid the lad, sent him on his way and, without commenting, strode off in the direction of Lea Square, shipmates trailing along in my puddled wake. A lively step wouldn’t be enough to deflect Flynn’s questions but answers had to wait until morning. The news would only have scuppered the buoyant mood. Overhead, another bolt lacerated the heavens and the town reverberated with a cacophony of growls and grumbles. "Wait up! Are ye not gonna read that?" Flynn puffed and panted as he closed the gap between us. "I don’t need to." "Might be something important." I grimaced. "I already know what it says." "It’s not good news, then" "No." "Sorry, mate. Need an ear?" Despite my annoyance, I summoned a smile. "Any more of that and I might start to think that you care." His dense beard and moustache split apart like he’d been hit in the face with a hatchet. "Love the bones of ye, mate, but I wouldn’t go saying that too loud round here. Y’ know what they’re like." # The giant oak in Lea Square was the biggest I’d ever seen; the trees back home were hardy but constrained by lack of rain and poor soil. An obvious landmark, dwarfed only by the basalt columns and the Lightning Keep, it stood sentinel over the trade district, ever watchful of the austere stone buildings and guano encrusted roof tiles. On special days it bore witness to livestock auctions and wine tasting. On very special days, puppet shows for the children, musicians, jugglers, acrobats and, as the main event, public execution. I clenched my teeth at the thought. The tree served as shelter to huddles of people beneath it—not as dangerous a practice as it seemed. On asking, I’d been told that, in its centuries of existence and despite the inclemency of the weather, it remained wholly untouched by lightning, the keep taking the brunt. As we passed, a pretty girl with an attractive smile and rats tail hair stared out at me from between the low hanging branches. My appearance garnered fascination and her eyes told a tale; I’d seen that particular look often enough. The Dark-Skinned, Painted Primitive, I offered up a generous smile to feed her night time fancies. Even with several extra inches added, she wouldn't have been my type but, still, I aimed to please. "She likes the look o' ye," said Flynn as he gave me a nudge. "We may make this night a good’un. It’s the only'un we’ve got." I glanced over my shoulder at the stragglers. I was going to miss them. Nearly a year to the day since first coming aboard, I’d got to know them well; Flynn and the First Mate’s constant bickering, Gero and his near miraculous ability to make something useful out of next to nothing. Bill’s rations were about the best I’d ever tasted and Dick could raise a smile from a corpse without even trying. And then there was Flynn, uncouth, foul-mouthed brute of a man. I’d miss him most of all. # The familiar driftwood sign bearing the establishment’s name with the particularly large, oxidised nail rammed through the ‘a’, was being viciously buffeted back and forth as we approached, the hinges shrieking. The door was thrown open and I had to feint sideways as a buckets worth of water fanned out and hurtled toward me. "That’s some welcome for a weary sailor." I said, his attention suddenly fixed on me. "Still not got those slates fixed?" The Landlord gave what could only be described as a look of relief, then pointed to the dark clouds overhead. "It’s been pissing down nearly nonstop since you were last here. What do you think?" "I’d say not." "We’d just about given you lot up for lost. Joyce has been bending my ear for two days now." We filed inside, carefully tip-toeing around stray buckets. Whilst the lads doffed their cloaks and hung them on pegs behind the door, I helped the Landlord empty the rest of the pails. Flynn and the First Mate’s voices carried out into the courtyard, a crescendo of curses and rebukes. The Landlord and I just looked at each other and shook our heads, no doubt thinking the same thing. Worse than an old married couple, those pair. Despite arriving after the lunchtime rush, the common room was buzzing with chatter, as the Landlord fought the sodden gusts and shouldered the door closed behind us. I sloughed my oilskin and took a seat with the rest of the lads, in the corner snug by the door. "A flagon of ale, to start you all off?" Enthusiastic nods all round. "And a tot each," Flynn added as he shifted up the bench to make more room. "And what about food? We’ve got quite the selection today but, if were me, I’d have the mutton stew." "Sounds perfect." I said. His wife had worked in the King’s employ before they’d wed. Suffice to say, she knew her way round a kitchen....