Calling all budding writers ( Archived) (92)

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

Okie dokie - he's a cool guy (methinks)!

Anybody with the intials for Great Britain can't be that bad, huh?

GBGBGB - Great Britain's Galactic Bodhi George Brown?

Nah!

He IS!!! A lovely chap..... AND a very talented writer!

I'm just getting over a block, it was there, because it didn't want to share what was in my heart with anyone, because all it sounded like was a lot of screaming. On a normal day? (when was the last time i had one of those :-) and blocks appear, i'd either start working on something else, a new riff or rhythm, or 'I Take it into the Forge'

and i batter it out again and again and again and where i have no words i just make emotional noises, on the tenth time round (or hundred and tenth - my neighbours loved me) those noises would start forming into words, my brain would start making decisions for me and guessing what the word is and this very often takes the song in a new direction.

---

I don't know if you can apply that to prose, to re-read it all and hold the story in your head last thing at night, fall asleep with it and wake up in the morning and re-read it again next to the keyboard and see if as you finish what was written if your subconscious knows where the story is going.

Do you find after the block clears that the reason it formed was because you had turned a wrong corner and the story couldn't conclude, again in the dream time, your subconscious will edit out the wrong turn and take it to conclusion.



People tend to tense up when a block appears but it will only clear with relaxation. The story, be it a three minute wonder or War and Peace is in your head, in its entirety already. If you didn't know how it was going to end you wouldn't have started it, so it's all about letting it out.


And lastly i had a mate in Edinburgh who now calls himself a novelist and he would write in parallel he would/does story board the novel and work on different chapters and characterisations depending on his mood, rather than trying to match his mood to the point in the chapter he had reached, he would reach for a piece of the narrative that matched his current mood.

this did make it difficult for his editor, but hey produced good results.

Jesus can i bang on!!!!!!


but you take it away to the stove and reduce it and it turns into things like this.

(To get the middle section you would need to be watching mobile phone adverts in 2001 when i wrote it).


And done with all the sweaty stuff,
We're crashed back down and curling up.
Riding wild emotions,
On natures favourite high.
She smiles cuddles up and sighs,
My 'Funnybones', my mermaid bride.
And slips beneath the waves of sleep.

Meanwhile on the telly,
Techyman is very cold,
Lonely at the pole,
Collates theodolite advice.
Then screen left his wife arrives,
She's walked a thousand miles tonight,
A kiss to leave,
A cheek to warm night night.

So goodnight my love,
Slip away into yourself,
Dream channel open,
I'll rush to catch that ride.
But just for one moment,
Let me hold your still soft breathing,
And I'll follow then you too,
The other side.




night night :-)

I'm a talented writer too.....I just like hiding my talent in a large wine cask of modesty!

Seriously - I can't write music, can't play an instrument (except you know what), can't draw or paint.....but I have this insane belief that I CAN paint a picture with words.

Beauty came to me that beastly night
The shadows flickered on the candle perfumed walls of
Yearning
A yearning deep inside
The beast......

The beast came unto her window
Smelling
Sniffing
Engorged with primeval passion and then...........

Beauty sighed and rolled over in her sleep
Beast felt a stirring of compassion
And, then,
This time -
Beast let his blood hunger wait another night!

Yum yum?

It was spring in Faerie; magical allergies, along with certain fevers, were in the air. Some of these ailments were associated with spring and some were of the more disgusting aspects of romance. Sylvan beings fell magically in and out of love in the space of so many heartbeats. Nature was pragmatic, and took whatever advantages it could in order to make sure her agenda of life and the requisite amount of suffering associated with living continued on schedule. Spring fever could be such a bother.
Lauren Levaull had an allergy. He was allergic to matrimony, which is why he felt a rash coming on. His wedding day with Lady Albright loomed closer and closer. To say Lauren had cold feet about his up-coming magical day would make icebergs seem tropical in comparison.
Arranged nuptials were a tired tradition among the elves, but being the traditional people they were, exhausted customs didn’t prevent the capturing of the newest generation in their elders’ lack of imagination.
Lauren wasn’t by nature a rebel against such traditions, it was only that said elders never thought about the happiness of the individuals involved. All they cared about were dowries and getting the children the hell out from underfoot. Lauren resented this. He was already out from underfoot and was at a loss to explain why his parents had done this awful thing to him. He had his own tower in the woods and just wanted to be left alone. Marriage and rashes and uncontrolled sneezing had no place in his cozy little tower.
Lady Albright and kin were not satisfied with this, nor were his own kin. The lady in question and her family weren’t trolls, but trolls would nevertheless be attracted to their cold, vituperative natures. His parents weren’t vicious, just cold and uncaring. He sighed. It wasn’t like they were unusual in this. Most elves were cold and uncaring. Most.
Lauren didn’t understand why the Albright’s wanted anything to do with him anyway, other than the prestige of being tied to his family. As elves went, he wasn’t that old, nor was he particularly handsome. He was, in the words of one rival, a bit scrawny and somewhat shorter than average. This didn’t do much to inspire passion in your typical elvish maid. Something Lauren was trying to remedy. And not for the sake of Lady Albright. He had someone entirely different in mind...
Lauren stood in his laboratory, poking with a forefinger at a beaker of mysterious potion. The potion mocked him with its silence. Beakers of fluid were not known for their oracular talents, but Lauren sought answers to his unhappiness in said silent brew anyway. The liquid stared wordlessly back at him, eyeless and triumphant. A bit smug in fact.
“Sod it! Here goes nothing!” Lauren said to the self-satisfied purple liquid and quaffed the sour-smelling elixir in one gulp. Nothing obvious occurred, at least, right away.
Lauren was beginning to think he’d done something wrong during the procedure when a doleful thrumming began inside his skull. His blue eyes bulged and he roared like an injured lion. He flew out of the lab, charged down the staircase of his tower two steps at a time and out into the surrounding woods. He shouted wordlessly as he exited, drawing his saber, looking wildly around for something to kill.
Madness was in his eyes as he started dueling with an inert stand of sycamores. The trees scoffed at his ire, taking the beating stoically. Tiring quickly of such sedate foes, he charged into the depths of the enchanted woods known as the Hell Stumps...
On the workbench, beside the retorts and alembics in the lab, was an ancient tome, the title of which to this day remains unimportant. It was open to a particular page. The top of the page bore the title: “The Inspiration of Passion In The Fairy Folk: An Alchemical Study On The Nature Of The Irrational”.