The Curse of the NaNo Plot Bunnies...

Now there's a title for a new book...well, maybe when I finally get around to finishing this one, I shall write it. (Not to mention the small matter of all my other unfinished ficlets whose characters abuse me constantly for forgetting about them. I must finish 'Children of the Revolution' before the next millenia, otherwise they may kill me...not to mention the two and a bit fantasy novels I found half-started in a notebook the other day, all of which need doing because, dammit, they're good. Ish.)

But I digress. And procrastinate, something I've been doing rather well at throughout the *checks NaNo discombobulator* 16 days of NaNoWriMo. As you may have guessed, it's going swimmingly. Not. The two stories I was originally going to write both fell by the wayside, so now I'm only writing one and it wasn't one I'd planned on doing in the first place. Don't you love it when a plan comes together like that? [/sarcasm] However, I am rather in love with my new story. It's a steampunk-esque Jack the Ripper-based novel, with a fiesty heroine, a supernatural twist and guest appearences by a (very) thinly-disguised Doctor Watson from the Sherlock Holmes stories; a fan fiction-based Bill Sikes from Oliver Twist, complete with dog; long dead poets and, er, the Elephant Man. Please don't ask me how poor Joseph Merrick came to be part of this whole shebang because it wasn't planned, but lo and behold there he is. God bless him. And the steampunk thing is just me being a tad obsessed with the whole genre. Cos I like to make things difficult for myself.

A brief synopsis:

London, 1888. Death stalks the East End district of Whitechapel, striking fear into the hearts of all citizens of the fair capital. At the bidding of her mysterious mentor Charlotte Gunner-Hawkyns, the headstrong only daughter of a widowed wealthy lawyer, investigates the murders using 'steampunk' technology and the help of her sailor lover and a streetwise but loyally affectionate urchin, all the while thwarting her aunt’s suggestion of marriage to a Viscount and the stifling social whirl that this would entail. She knows Queen Victoria, has an inventor on speed-dial, and is mentored by a mysterious yet ancient old man who knows a thing or two about the darker side of life. Can Charlotte identify the Ripper and stop him from killing again? Will her aunt’s scheme to marry her off be thwarted? Who exactly IS her mysterious teacher? All this and more will be revealed…

Well, it will be revealed if I ever get off my bum and write. Right! Enough procrastination - I've characters to torment. 22,723 words and counting...erk!!

Remembrance Writing...

I know, I know - two blog posts for the price of one, right? And I have yet to fill you all in on Brighton. To follow, I promise...But I just wanted to post this because, for some ridiculous reason, I am quite proud of this poem. Since November 1st I've been writing a poem every day, the idea being that by Samhain next year I'll have 365 poems to do something with. Burn, probably. Who knows? Anyway, since today is Remembrance Day, I took it as the theme of my poem this evening and as I'm procrastinating like anything instead of NaNo-ing, I thought I'd post because I actually quite like it...

Red The Poppy, White The Grave (A Villanelle)

I do not know your names, but I know you died.
Fighting for your land in some foreign field.
Today we shall remember you with pride...

And what of all the friends you fought beside,
Who answered when the country first appealed?
I do not know your names, but I know you died.

Through mud and blood and desert you did stride,
And not to fear or anger did you yield.
Today we shall remember you with pride...

How many of you left at home a bride,
And learnt to keep your sorrow tightly sealed?
I do not know your names, but I know you died.

For when your country sent you, you complied
And all your own emotions were concealed.
Today we shall remember you with pride...

In conflicts past and present you abide,
And now at last your bravery's revealed.
I do not know your names, but I know you died.
Today we shall remember you with pride...

Not that bad for a half hour's work, methinks (oh-so modestly). If only my NaNo novel was as easy; of the two that I started on November 1st, both have now fallen by the wayside and I've decided to concentrate on the story that replaced the Arthurian legend one. It's a sort-of steampunk Jack the Ripper thing, with a twist. Now I just need to crack on, catch up and get writing. GO!

And So The Epic Adventure Begins...

Well, that was an unqualified success...not. Having set myself the task of writing two novels for NaNoWriMo this year, I've stumbled at the first hurdle. And so farewell, Morgan LeFaye and King Arthur in your Swinging Sixties remake - 300 words in and I could tell you weren't going to play ball. (Although bugger the lot of you for annoying the hell out of me for weeks and then getting stage fright at the last minute...) Even the turning-of-the-short-story-into-novel may not be as straightforward as I initially thought, so this could be a very long 30 days.

Having said that, I have just opened a blank Word document and might just go with what I did the first year and write whatever comes into my head, with no thought of plot, marvellous prose or what the hell my characters think they're doing. Watch this space...

And to all those who are also embarking on the long and perilous NaNo voyage, I bid you luck and shall see you all on the other side. It's a long and ardouous journey, but at the end of it we'll emerge blinking into the sunlight wired on caffeine, skinny as they come and rambling incoherantly, but dammit, we're writers...bring it on!!

Lorem Ipsum...

And so November is almost upon us, which means several things...

1) Lots of complete and utter idiots with fireworks.
2) An excuse to wear snugly jumpers, curl up with a hot chocolate and a good book and not go out because "ooh, it's a bit parky out there and it's raining".
3) My annual attempt to render myself even more insane than I already am begins.

Yes, it is indeed *that* time again. National Novel Writing Month, or NaNo, as it's affectionately/grudgingly known, kicks off on November 1st and once again yours truly is going for it. Write a novel of at least 50,000 words in a month, you say? Certainly, my fine fellow; in fact, why don't we make it two for the price of one and I'll throw in some apples as well!

One month, 50,000 words...except make mine a double because this year I'm attempting two novels. Oh, as well as having two or three rehearsed readings with my writer's group, setting myself the challenge of writing a poem a day for a year (starting on Samhain) and holding down a full-time, stressy job, among other things. Oh, and blogging. I may end up shooting myself at this rate. But it will, as always, be an experience.

Luckily for me, I have a vague idea of where my stories will go this year. One is to attempt to turn a short story I wrote into a fuller-length novel (thanks to kds at the Emilie Autumn forum, otherwise known as published author Kathryn Smith, for making me think I could do it. Read her 'Brotherhood of the Blood' books; they're amazing). The other is a modern retelling of ye olde Arthurian legends, set in the 1960's and reclaiming Morgan Le Faye from the 'incestuous whore' tag she's been saddled with over the years. It'll be interesting. I think. Come back to me on Tuesday and I'll probably be pulling my hair out and screaming that I can't write anything ever again, but for now I'm upbeat and positive.

In fact, to get my itchy fingers sorted out and attempt to engage my brain, I set myself a bit of a challenge: write a 26 word story in alphabetical order. Et voila the result...

A Little Piece of Heaven
At Beachy Cove, dawn echoes from ghostly hideaways immemorial. Jack kissed lucky me near open pools; questing, reaching, searching the undulating valleys, watching xanthic Yellowbill’s zooming…

It's short but sweet, and certainly made my brain work. Right, bring on November...

Head. Desk.

This is going to probably be a very, very, very short and possibly quite ranty and disjointed post because I am close to blowing a gasket. I shall not dwell on the details because to do so would only make me turn violent; suffice to say that certain people need to realise that a group that was set up for fun is not a dictatorship and I will not be held responsible for expressing an opinion. I'm awaiting both the backlash and my expulsion from said group. Up the Proles!!

On a related-but-happier note, I am trying to get my arse in gear to come up with something vaguely workable for the annual trial that is NaNoWriMo (that's National Novel Writing Month to the less acronym-happy among you). Every year I say 'never again' and yet, come November or July, I am poised over my laptop in a feverish haze attempting to knock out 50,000+ words of something sort-of coherant. It's like an addiction or something. So as November prepares to roll around, I find myself once again at a complete loss for what to write. As it's NaNo, I can't finish the never-ending epic that I started last JulNoWriMo (July Novel Writing Month) because it has to be a completely new piece of work; but although I have a few vague ideas floating around, I can't make a decision or formulate a plot. The options so far?

1) Something based on the life of one of my heroines, Elizabeth Siddal, which is what I planned to do for one of my 2 (yes, 2!) novels last November; I started it but it didn't go to plan as I had no real idea what I was doing, trying to combine her life story with that of a modern girl who was obsessed with Lizzie. So not autobiographical at all, then. ;)
2) Something about the 'Winchester Geese' and the Crossbones Cemetary - I'm spending my days at work at the moment researching prostitution and the 'single women' *coughprostitutescough* buried in Crossbones intrigued me even before I started this.
3) I have a vague notion of Death's Goddaughter being my heroine. She works in a morgue and has a smart-arse cat called Mr Eddie, a live-in ghost called Henry and...and I have no idea what to do with her/them.
4) Something based on a weird dream I had this morning involving the world being devastated by plague, 'safe' communities and the wandering rabid plague victims, and me marrying some Irish guy clled Johnny. Nope, I dunno what it means either.
5) Just writing "help" 50,000 times over.

So yeah, no pressure to come up with anything. Maybe something will crop up the night before, like it did when I wrote the epic that became Poppy Valentine. I must revisit that...

Anyways, to lighten my mood, a video. This was taken (not by me, although I was picture-happy on the night!) at the Sarah Jezebel Deva gig at the Underworld in August. She's awesome, her band are awesome (I got friend-requested by Ablaz, the bassist, which was weird but uber-cool; he rocks!) and the whole night was awesome. I love this song...

Never Back Down From A Challenge...

With thanks to Lee for the prompt: Think of a character from any piece of literature that made you fall head over heels in love; as if you wanted to run away with said character and be his or her best friend forever. What was it that caused you to like this character so much? Strengths? Flaws?

Lestat de Lioncourt. The Vampire Lestat. As soon as I met him, between the battered pages of a second-hand copy of Interview with the Vampire, I was in love with him. He oozed charisma and charm; even when he was being pig-headed, stubborn and arrogant, he was captivating. His capricious nature and the sheer magnetism of his personality won me over even though I’m sure I was supposed to be rooting for Louis throughout the book. Oh, there were vampires before him, for sure, and there were vampires after him; there have been literary men and women who have touched me from the pages of books both before and since we met, but Lestat…well, there’s only one Lestat de Lioncourt. That’s probably a good thing, actually…

See, the thing with Lestat is he has a tendency to be…well, to be a bit of a bastard. But that’s part of his charm, honest; you find yourself simultaneously laughing at him and wanting to throttle him. But it’s his devil-may-care attitude and sheer bloody-minded arrogance that make him who he is; not for Lestat the life of hiding in the shadows, apologising for his existence and the truth of his nature, oh no. Monsieur de Lioncourt, seventh son of the Marquis d’Auvergne and the Brat Prince, apologises to no one for who and what he is. He may be the anti-hero of Interview, but don’t be fooled by his vanity or his attitude: underneath it all, Lestat has a heart of gold. He just doesn’t like to talk about it.

This is why I’m going to sing his praises instead. Underneath that prickly exterior and the selfish impulses, Lestat cares. When he realises that Louis is unhappy he turns the child, Claudia, into a vampire in order to bring love into the life of his companion. Some have seen this as a selfish act, a desperate attempt to keep Louis with him, and while I admit to a more than passing horror at the thought of an immortal child with a vampire’s appetite (and there is almost a none-more pitiful figure in the Vampire Chronicles than Claudia), there is some sort of method in Lestat’s madness. And he does love Louis, maybe because he reminds him of his first love, Nicholas, but it is love nonetheless. When his mother comes to him in Paris, dying of consumption and desperate to see her child one last time, Lestat turns her, too, keeping her with him and ultimately saving her from the lingering death that awaits her otherwise. He is generous to a fault; paying off the debts of the man who managed his acting career when he was still mortal, and buying the theatre he worked in to give to his friends. When the Revolution sweeps France and his petty-aristocratic family are all but wiped out, it is Lestat who takes pity on his old and sickly father and takes care of him, despite the distant relationship between the two. He is also fiercely brave, singlehandedly destroying a pack of wolves that had been terrorising his local village.

But as well as these heroic acts, Lestat has his faults. He is all but incapable of taking orders, advice or instruction and, thanks to him coming ‘out of the coffin’ with his autobiography and rock band, he is solely responsible for the events that take place in ‘The Queen of the Damned’; reviving the First Vampires and almost destroying both humanity and the vampires. Not for nothing was he named ‘The Brat Prince’ by an affectionate yet deeply exasperated Marius! Yet the events that he has unwittingly unleashed also give Lestat pause for thought, driving him to take a long, hard look at himself and what he has become. He may still be the irrepressible Brat Prince of old, but it is this moment that makes him realise that he is still deeply bewitched by humanity and spurs him to fight for some form of redemption. Lestat endures great trials in the next two books in the series, and yet he comes out of it a much wiser and, to my mind, nobler person. Of course, being Lestat, there are still moments when you could quite cheerily drive a stake through his heart without a second thought (not that that would kill him, but it would certainly go a long way to relieving your own tension); but the losses he experiences and the revelations he undergoes all serve to make him someone worth fighting for.

It was these hidden depths and his love for humanity, as well as his questioning mind and his spirit that made me fall for Lestat. Others may well be hypnotised by his beauty or drawn to his money and power, but for me it was his mind and his passions that excited me, and the overpowering desire to wrap him up and shield him from the evils of the ‘Savage Garden’. He’s not perfect, but then again he never professed to be and although I’m sure there would be times when I’d want to kill him, ultimately Lestat is one of life’s good guys. I can’t think of anyone I’d rather spend eternity with...

The Year of Living Dangerously

Sometimes you can really surprise yourself. Sometimes you find yourself stepping outside your comfort zone and doing things that you would never, in your wildest dreams, have ever seen yourself doing. And I know what I'm talking about because this has been my (almost) year of living dangerously...

Ok, so I haven't walked a tightrope across Niagra Falls without a safety rope or anything like that, but since August last year I've done some things that have really forced me out of my cosy little world and I have to say I feel better for it. I'm sure my list of 'achievements' probably doesn't look much to anyone else, but to a girl who would never do anything about anything because a) previous experience made me wary of repeating things, b) it was easier to just stay in my room and c) I was just too plain shy and scared to these are a prettybig deal.

So, in my year of living dangerously I have...

1) Taken a chance on love for the first time since I dated a real bastard at 17, got my heart broken and realised that it's not the end of the world;
2) Gone on holiday by myself;
3) Joined a book club;
4) Joined a writing group;
5) Shown 'real' people my writing instead of relying on the vaguaries of cyberspace;
6) Performed my work on stage;
7) Been persuaded to audition for a play;
8) Discovered that, actually, other people can be quite fabulous and don't mind the fact that I talk complete rubbish 99.9% of the time (this is my way of saying that the new friends I've made this year are totally awesome and I love them);
9) Decided to actually go to New Zealand next year instead of procrastinating and wussing out;
10) Found a buddy for burlesque and pole dancing classes, so now I can't wuss out or Melissa will be disappointed.

There are other things, too, but these are the big ones that have made me realise a lot about myself, other people and the world in general. So here's to the next year of living dangerously...maybe that walk across the falls isn't such a crazy notion after all!

The Show Must Go On...

Okay, so yesterday there was an epic fail on the blogging front again, but I have an exceptionally wonderful excuse up my sleeve. I was on the stage.

No, seriously. Stop sniggering. It's true - yours truly spent the day locked in the Palace Theatre in Southend having a mini-diva hissy fit before performing in 7 sketches as part of my Writers Group performance. So not only have I been dragged kicking and screaming into the light of day where my writing is concerned (i.e. showing it to someone who a) isn't my mother and b) I actually see as opposed to random people in cyberspace, now apparently I act as well. And considering I haven't acted since I was about 14, I actually really enjoyed it...

It's kind of amazing to think that in 3 months, not only have I joined a writing group and physically had to share my work with other people, I've also had my work performed in a proper theatre. It's totally bizarre, really. I was so scared before I went on stage to read my poem, even during the dress rehearsal in the afternoon, which was just in front of the other writers and actors, but once I'd got that one out of the way I relaxed and just did it. And it was brilliant. Apparently, even my mother was surprised - and that was a shock to me considering she knows what a drama queen I am on a daily basis!! But I now appear to have been convinced to audition for something else as well, so who knows? Maybe I'll give it a go and surprise myself!

But despite being a total ball of nervous energy yesterday, I got through it because of the brilliant friends I've made at the group, who are not only fabulous writers and performers but incredibly wonderful people as well. So...to Daisymay, Hannah and Dan, who stepped in and helped us out with performing and who are amazingly good; to Michael for helping us out, for acting and for almost deafening me in sketch 3; to Jack, for bullying me into acting in the first place and for managing to direct us all; and to my Three Musketeers Melissa, Danielle and Liam, who are fabulous beyond belief and put up with my complete manic-hysteria yesterday more than they should have done - thank you. I would never have got through it without you and hanging out with you over the past 3 months has been amazing. You guys are fabulous and I'm really, really pleased that I've met you! (Mel - we'll take over the world with our burlesque/pole-dancing double act!)

So here's to the next 3 months and the next performance...and I promise I'll try and be calmer next time!! xx

Procrastination Central

It's July which, of course, means only one thing in my world: July Novel Writing Month, also known as JulNoWriMo. A spin off from November's National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), JulNo sees intrepid or possibly foolhardy writers huddled over their laptops/PCs/bits of paper with frenzied looks in their eyes as they attempt to bash out fifty thousand words before the end of the month. Yes, that's what I said...fifty THOUSAND words. In a MONTH. Are we mad, I hear you ask; no, my good sir, we are WRITERS!!

Having got the NaNo and JulNo bugs a few years back, consequently this time of year sees me once again hunched over my laptop attempting to make sense of a plot that was vaguely conceived on a scrappy bit of paper in a pub one lunchtime, and cursing the writing gods for making me this way. Other people don't feel a burning need to write, I can be heard to scream semi-coherantly; so why did you curse me with this unfortunate affliction? To make things even worse, this year - for a variety of reasons - I started late and so I'm several thousand words behind. 12,684, to be precise. I'm also labouring with a story that I started two years ago and have been bullied into finishing (you know who you are...) Some days it flows like a dream; other days - like now - it's like wading through treacle: you get nowhere fast. I'm sure it would be easier to just write 50,000 words of utter garbage and not worry about it, but that kind of defeats the point in my mind; I want to have a very basic first draft of the story to give to people to read so that I can edit it and make it a coherant story. I did it twice before, how hard can it be? And why the hell am I scribbling this blog and googling complete rubbish when I have words to complete?

Right, I've done my entry for today, so back to the coalface of those 12,684 words still missing. Why can't my bloody characters just do as they're told; Stephanie Meyer made a killing churning out nauseating dialogue and having sterotypical one dimensional characters, so surely I can do the same for the sake of a few thousand words, right? Right?!

Umm, no, actually. I am certainly no Shakespeare but I have a little thing called self-respect. So: once more unto the breach, dear friends, for the writer is returning to her garret to bash out another few sentences. All this and I have my Writers Group performance tomorrow, which I am utterly stressing about. I'm a writer, therefore I sit in my garret and, well, write. Judi Dench I am not. Ah well, enough procrastinating and pathetic whining, I have words to attack! Forth Eorlingas!!!