King of the World

William was King of the World.
Undisputed, unrefuted,
upon his throne he curled.

A brave new world, free of strife;
undisturbed, no discord heard,
a kingdom free of life.

William's crown was made of bone,
scrimshawed. Grim lord,
sat on a skeletal throne.

He never knew his parents were to blame.
A generation, venerated
by the world they set to flame.

They engineered a disease:
scarily viral, a downward spiral.
The world doomed by a sneeze.

Death to anyone mature.
Before puberty, mere sterility,
and, of course, no cure.

A world of orphans, grown
tired, expired,
'til William remained, alone.

****
A little bad, post apocalyptic poetry. Sorry, it won't happen again. Probably. ;)

Notes in the Margins

The astute amongst you may have noticed that the side bar menu has expanded...

This is kind of an experiment. And, because I apparently don't like to make life easy, it's two experiments at the same time. Alpha and Rise.

They are serials of a kind, growing, ongoing, at approximately one part a week. Each part is about one hundred words, and written using the weekly words from the Prediction. Just to take the challenge up that extra notch... ;)

I'm going to digress for a moment to talk about the Prediction...

There is an ancient tome, once in the possession of horror writer Lily Childs, if any could be said to truly possess it. Where she came upon it she will not talk of. In time she freed herself from its grasp in the only way it will allow, by finding a willing victim. So it found a new host in a young man named Phil Ambler, and though he had the tome for but a short while he was forever changed by it. In turn, he passed it on to an American, Colleen Foley, perhaps hoping the wide expanse of the Atlantic would wash some of its horror from his hands...

Each week the tome coughs up three words, and those that accept its challenge must create a story in a hundred words or less, using the three words. Something of the tome's nature creates a definite leaning towards horror, but other genres are acceptable. And in this way we satiate the tome, and keep its darkness from consuming the world.

Something like that, anyway. Seriously though, it's fun. My fellow cultists writers are a friendly bunch and all are welcome to join. Colleen picks a winner and runners up each week, but the best thing about it is the wide range of stories that come out of the same three words.

So, where was I? Oh yeah, Alpha and Rise. Fuelled by the Prediction's three words, which makes it harder than usual, because instead of finding a story to fit the three words, I have to fit the three words into an ongoing story. Sometimes this works more successfully, more smoothly, than others, but the prediction is good for keeping the momentum going. As a weekly challenge it makes me keep adding to the stories week by week.

So Alpha is a superhero story, and Rise is something like steampunk. They are first drafts, unpolished, and mostly unedited. In some ways they are the skeletons of what I hope to flesh out into something more meaty, more substantial. Think of it as watching me plot the stories, a peek at an early part of the process.

So the pacing may waver, it may dwell on a scene for a few parts before moving suddenly elsewhere. All those transitions that can be handled so nicely in a larger piece are not always so easy in hundred word sequential segments.

Plot is a very interesting part to the experiment. When I first conceived of Alpha, I knew straight away a few plot twists down the line, some I think are maybe obvious, some less so. And the problem I'm having is creating some kind of momentum at the beginning, something to carry Alpha towards the future tragedy that Jigsaw has predicted. So while I like a lot of the parts I've written for Alpha, it's not going anywhere in a hurry.

Rise, on the other hand, is off to a much better start. Because the story begins with the character thrown out of her comfort zone into a world she is familiar with only from her window, she is straight into the action. When I conceived of a larger story for Olivia it was more about a personal journey for her, and her discovery of her world.

So, in a way, Alpha is trying to find some way of arriving at my inspiration and ideas for the story, but Rise started out in the heat of the idea. Whether this means that when I approach endings, some time in the future, Alpha will then pick up the pace and Rise will struggle more... I don't know. That's all part of the experiment!

For now, please read what is there and let me know what you think. I hope you enjoy it, and I hope you enjoy it enough to come back for more. =)

****

You can also hear me talking a lot of nonsense and a little about writing, as a guest on the latest Bros and Cons podcast. =)

Available on libsyn (which should work in your browser just fine) or iTunes. It's Episode 18.

Once upon a Time, in the Beginning

First lines are tricksy things, and they're tricksy twice over.

First lines set the mood. A good first line starts you on firm footing; a bad first line and you're already shaky, you already have to work to get back on the level.

It occurred to me the other day that first lines occur twice in a piece of writing's life. There's the obvious one: a reader looks at your website, or picks up your book, or turns the magazine's page to your story, and the first words they read are going to shape their initial impression of you, your writing, and your story.

I mean, how much pressure is that!?

If I see a sloppy first line I have to ask myself, if the author or the editor didn't care enough to make sure that first line was the best it could be, what must the rest of the story be like? An average first line is alright, the book could go either way from there, I'll read on. But an amazing first line grabs hold of you and hooks you right there and then.

OK, so sometimes a good first line draws you in and then the next few lines hook you, but you get the idea.

"As always, before the warmind and I shoot each other, I try to make small talk."

That's the first line from Hannu Rajaniemi's The Quantum Thief. And it's superb. It instantly has me curious, it's unusual and interesting and I want to know more. The Quantum Thief actually has several great first lines - at the beginning of most of its chapters.

"Once there was a city of women."

Mike Carey, Linda Carey and Louise Carey from The City of Silk and Steel. It's succinct and again, interesting, it makes me want to read on. Simplicity can work.

"On playing back the 911 recording, it'd seem that Mrs. Stegman was more concerned that the man outside her apartment door was naked than that he had a big shotgun."

Warren Ellis, Gun Machine. Less elegant perhaps, but it sets the tone, it amuses, it puts me in the mood to read more. And that's the important thing.

First lines are not the be-all and end-all of whether a story is good, of course. I'm sure plenty of bad stories have fantastic first lines, and vice versa. But if the first thing you present is bad, you've already got an uphill struggle to convince the reader that the story is a good one.

But I mentioned two occurrences. And the other is when the writer begins. The first words he puts onto the blank page. We all know how terrifying that expanse of empty white is, like a sheet of ice that needs breaking so that the narrative ship can sail smoothly through, and other such laboured metaphors.

If the first words I put to paper are great, it puts me in a good mood. If they come easily and hit the spot then, as a writer, I am already well-disposed towards the rest of the story. The story already feels good, and if I'm feeling good about it, then the odds are it's going to flow more naturally and read more naturally from then on.

A troublesome start, an idea that doesn't quite fall right, a character who feels clumsy from the outset, will put me in a frustrated mood, tense, and that will come through in the writing. It can be edited of course, and by the end I might have a better feel for the characters and the story and rewriting the opening might be easy, but I have to work harder to get into the story and bring that character to life. And just as when I'm reading a story, if I'm struggling to enjoy something I'm writing, I may not even get to the end.

As a reader, and as a writer, I enjoy a good opening. Both in reading and in writing one. Sometimes they come easily, and sometimes they can be elusive, troublesome bastards. But never, ever underestimate their importance.

The Fear

"If you're afraid you don't commit yourself to life completely; fear makes you always, always hold something back."

-Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said, by Philip K. Dick

I'm not sure I completely agree with that. (And it's important to point out that this is a character's speech, not necessarily PKD's own opinion). There's nothing wrong with a healthy fear, but you have to know when it's worth paying attention to, when it's irrational and when it might actually be something of an unnecessary roadblock.

For a writer there is always the fear of the blank page. Starting a story is hard. Even when you have an idea of plot and character. Of course, this ties in with the writer's other fear - It's not perfect. Of all the varied, wondrous, practical, bizarre and sometimes contradictory writing advice you will find on the internet, one of the most common pieces is to accept that a first draft is a first draft, to accept that it will most likely be bad, to begin with, and that the important thing is to write on, and finish. But it can be a difficult thing to accept. If you know that paragraph is wrong, it will itch at you.

I want to talk about a different fear though.

I am a reader. I am fairly well-read within 'my' genres, although not as well-read as I would like to be (and I suspect I never will be). I like to review the books I read. A symptom of over a decade as a bookseller, maybe. Something exacerbated by my creative writing degree, no doubt, an environment which encourages examination and deconstruction of texts.

And I have to be honest. If I found something disappointing, I have to say. If I think certain elements didn't work in an otherwise excellent book, I have to say. If I think great characters were squandered on a weak idea, I have to say. You get the idea. I can be picky, because I want a book to carry me away, and little things often bother me.

Now herein lies the fear. One day, I want to be published. I will be published. And there's a part of me that fears I will offend a potential publisher.

Take, for example, my review of Dreams and Shadows, a novel soon to be published by Gollancz. And this is a review which is very positive. I say some people will find the book perfect and I finish:

"Dreams and Shadows will blow you away. Beautiful writing, far-reaching imagination, and tragedy that will haunt you long after you finish the book. Remarkable."

But I also mention minor criticisms. And I worry that someone might take note, might react badly (as people are want to do when criticised).

Now, in an ideal world, Gollancz would be my first choice of publisher. I have immense respect for them. I more often find the books I am anticipating, the ones that excite me, are published by them than anyone else. Of course, in making that statement, I open myself to another fear, if Gollancz don't want me when I finally get around to touting a novel (you know, having actually finished writing one, and editing it), then will I have offended another publisher by publicly stating that Gollancz were my first choice...?

Of course, the odds of someone at Gollancz remembering my name, and a not quite 100% review, are slim. Almost as slim as some other publisher reading this and taking offence. But the fear is there nonetheless.

(And it is the fear that prompts me to add that I'm not saying I don't like any other publishers. There are many other fantastic publishing houses out there (I say in genuine sincerity). I'd name some, but there are many, and I'd be sure to miss someone, and well, the cycle begins anew...)

Here's the thing though. I ummed and ahhed about posting the review, as I have with others before that, but ultimately, I posted it. I can't help it, I like to think about things I've just read, and I like to talk about them. And I have to be honest, I have to be true to myself.

And I have to hope that doesn't scupper me before I've even built my boat.

It's a bit quiet in here...

A blog! A post! Or... what should I call these things?

Whatever they are, here is one. ;D

And it begins with the mantra of the bad blogger...

I will do this more often,
I will write here regularly,
For sure, this time.

But since it's been a while lets make it a 'state of the union' type affair. Where we at?

So back in November I decided I wasn't going to do nanowrimo. Not because I have anything against it, I really don't, I just don't do well with pressure and deadlines, they make me put things off. I can be terribly contrary.

But I did decide I would try and power on and properly begin work on a novel. After a few false starts and dead ends, I reached 30,000 words by the end of November. And hey, I'm pretty happy with that. 30k a month for three months is more or less a first draft. Except...

Except I haven't written any since. I've written, sure. This and that. Some short stories that may or may not be part of an entirely different book. Some drabbles. And in some ways I don't mind that. What works for me, when I am most productive, is when I feel free to pootle around and write as I please. I was feeling a bit stressed about the book, a bit flat about the idea, but now I feel a little recharged. I'm going to get back to it.

And when I'm not in the mood maybe I'll write a bit more of the other thing. Or start work on one of the other two or three novel ideas I have in my mind right now. (not to mention the forty/ fifty odd ideas I have stashed around the place in folders and notepads...)

So, I'm writing, and one day there will be books. And one day they will be published. =)

in the Times, and Other Spooky Stories

The extremely exciting news, for me anyway, is that I was published in the Times. The newspaper. Me. My story. In a national newspaper.

So, OK, I was a runner-up, and it was only a 50 word story, but there were over 1500 entries so I still think that's pretty impressive. You can see my entry, the winning entry and the runners-up here.

It wasn't the story I intended to write, I was going to go for scary, but it came out sad. I had such a good feeling about it though, I knew it was something a bit different and I'm so happy the judges obviously thought so too. It's been crunched a little to fit their formatting requirements, so here it is, as I originally wrote and submitted it:
-- --


Simon wrote on the misted window pane with his finger.

I miss you

Four weeks since Michelle had died. Four weeks since her last message.

A tear slid down his cheek as he watched the words fade. He huffed on the window to bring them back.

I miss you too


-- --
And since I said 'other spooky stories'...

For Halloween, my 101 Fiction today is a ghost story: Lily. "They say the pier is haunted..."

Here's a few more 101 word, dark and creepy horror stories from the 101F archives:
Disease, by C.B. Blanchard. "Hear her cough, a deep-down, unhealthy hacking."
Fullback, by Stephen Hewitt. "Alamo Jones tipped the gritty, grey dust over the gunnels."
Presence, by Erin Cole. "Malevolence looms."
Tattered, by John Xero. "He stands in my backyard, watching."
Reconciliation, by Lily Childs. "Years of scurrying around filthy alleys..."

Enjoy! Here's hoping your Halloween's a haunted and harrowing one... in a good way, of course... ;)

Mwa ha ha ha haaa...

Guest Fiction: Compensatory Behaviour

Most of my regular readers will already know Emma Newman. She's a great writer, she's recently been signed to Angry Robot (how exciting is that!?), and she's an extremely lovely person. So it's a real pleasure that I'm hosting a story of hers. It's the first of a two parter, so you'll have to track down the second part next week (and, believe me, you're going to want to...), or I'll add a link at the bottom, when I know where it is! ^_^

Over to Emma:


This is the thirty-first tale in a year and a day of weekly short stories set in The Split Worlds. If you would like me to read it to you instead, you can listen here. This story is part of the build-up to the release of the first Split Worlds novel "Between Two Thorns" in March 2013. Every week a new story is released. You can find links to all the other stories, and the new ones as they are released here where you can also sign up to receive each story free in your inbox every week (starting at the very first one).

Compensatory Behaviour

Derek had considered murder, sabotage and theft but none of them could be committed without someone finding out. He watched the CSI programmes; he knew what they could piece together from a bit of belly button fluff and CCTV. Going to Bernard's house was the most sensible option. He just wished he'd come to that conclusion earlier.

He opened the garden gate and winced at the hinge's squeal. It set off the dog which lived next door and its barks woke the baby across the street. Lights flicked on and windows shut as the need for fresh air in the summer night was superseded by the need for quiet.

Derek tapped on the door using the duck-shaped door knocker. His wife had brought it back for them from Cornwall years before. They'd argued in the gift shop, Derek knowing that Bernard would hate it. "But Maureen loves ducks!" Sue insisted.

She won the argument and Maureen did love it. "Don't ever tell anyone you like an animal," Bernard said to him over a pint. "The buggers won't stop buying them for you. The Mrs had ten bloody ducks last Christmas. We're running out of places to put them."

The light in the hallway was switched on and revealed the stylised duck in the small stained glass panel set into the front door. Poor Bernard.

"Derek?"

Bernard was in his dressing gown and it made him feel guilty. "You were in bed. Sorry."

"It's nearly midnight. What's wrong? Come in, come in."

"I didn't know what else to do," Derek shuffled in and Bernard closed the front door as quietly as possible.

"Who is it?" Maureen called down.

"Only Derek," Bernard replied.

"Is everything all right?"

"Yes, yes, go back to sleep, love." Bernard looked at him. "Come through to the kitchen, I'll put the kettle on."

Derek scratched his stubble as he followed Bernard. Now he was there, talking to someone else, he realised he must look a mess. He hadn't changed his clothes for three days and he still wasn't sure he'd made the right choice. And leaving the house for this long surely wasn't-

"Tea?" Bernard looked at him more critically under the fluorescent kitchen light. "Or whisky?"

"Whisky," Derek nodded.

Bernard went to a cabinet in the living room, poured two generous measures and came back to sit at the kitchen table. He pushed one of the glasses across to Derek who sat heavily, all too aware of the ache in his right forefinger.

"Is it Sue?"

Derek shook his head. It had all started with her but she wasn't the reason he was there. He took a long gulp of the whisky and then a deep breath. "It's the show. The flower competition."

"What about it?"

"I need to win." Derek took another gulp and stared at the duck on a nearby tea-towel, unable to look his friend in the eye. "I'll give you a thousand pounds if you choose my roses."

"Blood and sand!" Bernard straightened. "Are you trying to bribe me?"

"Of course I bloody am! You're one of the judges aren't you? And you're my friend aren't you?"

"Well, yes, but that doesn't mean I'll accept a bribe."

Derek felt a sharp stab of pain in his chest. This was what he'd feared the most. "I wouldn't ask you if it wasn't important."

"It's just a flower show for goodness sake, what on Earth are you so worked up about?"

Derek banged a fist on the table. "It's not just a bloody flower show!"

The next door neighbour's dog started barking again. Bernard stared at him until he looked back down at the whisky. "Derek, I know things have been hard lately. I couldn't believe it when I saw your name on the entrants list… is this… I think this is something you've thrown yourself into as a way to cope. Like me and my shed. I go down there, potter about when the Mrs is driving me up the wall, it's my space, my thing. And there are no bloody ducks. It's natural. But it's gone too far if this is what-"

"Are you going to help me or not?" Derek cut in. He didn't want amateur counselling, he wanted a guarantee he would win!

Bernard's lips became a thin line and he shook his head. Derek stood and swayed a little. He hadn't eaten all day and the whisky was doing its job well. "I'll be going then, and I'll remember this the next time you're in trouble."

"What kind of trouble could winning first prize in a flower show possibly get you out of? Is this some silly bet with someone at work?"

"No," Derek headed for the door. "I can't talk about it."

"I want to help," Bernard said as he followed him. "But I'm not going to compromise my principles."

"It's only a bloody flower show, you said it yourself!" Derek opened the front door and left without looking back. He had to get back to the garden and make sure no-one interfered with the flowers.

"I'll see you tomorrow," Bernard said. "Hopefully you'll come to your senses after the contest."

"Will you keep the bloody noise down!" A neighbour shouted from a bedroom window as Derek hurried away. He should have spent the evening finding out where the other entrants lived so he could kill their roses instead of depending on a man who didn't even have the guts to stand up to his wife.

Now all he could do was go back to his garden and his shotgun and wait until dawn.


---
to be continued...
Part two is now up here.

Thanks for hosting, John!



No problem, Em!