Tag Archives: story

2012 – Planning for the End of the World

Should the end of the world not happen later this year (it didn’t happen twice last year, although I get the feeling the toilet paper is approaching the end of the roll), I’ve made a few plans.

I’ve never been one for plans, resolutions, agendas or sticking at one thing for long enough for it to become a habit. The intention was always there, but the execution was lacking.

Therefore I’ve put together a one page table of projects I intend to complete this year. Included in this ingenious piece of planning is predicted dates for completion of drafts, editing, beta reading and “final.”

On that list is 3 novels (two YA and one lit fic), a novella/multimedia project and a handful of short stories. It’ s ambitious; the main focus is on the novels and novella, but I want this to happen. It means cutting back in some writing I like to participate in, like #fridayflash, but in order to achieve my goals, I need to prioritise my writing.

By posting my intentions here, I am declaring publicly what I intend to do. You can prompt me from time to time to see how I am progressing. I’ll keep you updated from time to time.

Now to indulge in my inner Arnold J. Rimmer, crack out the highlighters, and colour-code my projects and timeline.

As Iron Sharpens Iron

Writers, by nature, are solitary beings, loitering in libraries, browsing bookshelves and hunkering over a laptop or paper alternately cursing and praising the words in front of them.

You do find them congregating at literary festivals and the adjacent pubs and bars where they will hold court and pontificate about process, craft, literary technique, genre, publishing, moleskins and every other ennui about writing.

But there’s one thing I’ve noticed writers tend not to talk about: story ideas. In particular, the current WIP. Writers become like professional poker players when it comes to discussing their WIP. The dark shades go on and the cards are held close to the chest. Is there a fear someone will steal our precious and brilliant idea?

A writer works in isolation, writing, drafting, editing, polishing.

A writer knows the benefit of a beta reader in helping to shape a novel/flash fiction from what it is into something better. The beta reader helps identify when the plot is flagging or the characters are not fully realised. But this is normally done only after the piece is written.

A new way?

If we were to collaborate with another writer, a critical friend or trusted beta reader, in the initial planning and drafting stages, would our WIP benefit from it? Would we avoid a flagging middle section, have more developed and real characters because we’ve talked it over with a trusted writer?

Do we not talk with someone because we are afraid of our brilliant story idea being stolen. We always think our ideas are brilliant, don’t we?

But why are writers so different from other creative types? Musicians collaborate all the time. Dramatists workshop a play before performance. A fresh set of eyes and ears could open possibilities you as a writer may not have thought of. Develop a critical friendship with a peer who writes in the same genre or a different genre.

I’m working on a multimedia project with a colleague where I am doing the writing (novella length) and she is the artistic director for the short film/website/graphic novel/art installation. It’s a partnership where the dialogue about possibilities and options will make for a better product. It will still require a beta reader in the later stages, but the collaborative approach is engaging, inspiring and fun.

During a rehearsal for a carols performance this week (where I was playing percussion), I was chatting to one of our singers, another creative type.  We were talking about the need for developing creative texts like short films and dramas for events like Easter and Christmas. It sparked a brief, but enthusiastic discussion. While no real plans were made, it opened an avenue for new directions to explore in the new year.

Whilst driving to the carols performance on the weekend, I had an idea for a short film for Christmas next year. And no, I’m going to keep it a secret. Hey, it’s Christmas, so there’s a limited repertoire and focus, know what I mean.

But as iron sharpens iron, so a discussion with someone creative opened new possibilities. My idea requires refinement and development, but the collaborative approach can surely produce a better product.

Would you consider a critical partnership to make your work better, even before you start?

Ashes to Ashes

Josh clambered up the high stool in the kitchen and sat down with a bemused look on his face and directed a question at his mother, “Mum, what did the priest mean when he said ‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust’ at Grandpa’s funeral last week?”

His mother dried her hands on a tea towel, to give herself time to think of an answer to satisfy a five year old’s need for information.

“Do you remember from Sunday School, when you learnt that God made Adam out of the dirt of the Earth?  Well, it means that when we die, we go back to dirt and dust, just like where we came from.”

Josh nodded vacantly as he began to process this new information and wondered if he should store it in the category marked “Science” or the one labelled, “Weird Stuff Mum Says.”

“Does that help you dear as it looks like you have another question to ask?”

“If that’s the case I need you to have a look under my bed at all the dust and tell me if someone is coming or going.”

The Hagiography

[Fiction] Friday Challenge #149 for April 2nd, 2010

An April Fools prank gone too far.

In Mr Gorman’s Year 9 History I learnt a new word: hagiography.  I forget the two Greek words that it comes from, but I remembered that it was the writing of saints’ lives.  They made wonderful reading for a pubescent lad, like a Boys’ Own Adventure.  In the name of piety they lived high up off the ground on poles or in remote caves like bats, or ate random bugs and insects.

My school had its own hagiography: the holy scriptures of the boys’ toilet block.  History is written by those with a permanent marker.  The disciples and zealots wrote in indelible ink the actions and statements of their saviours.  I remember sitting in a cubicle in my first year of high school, amazed at the profundity of adolescent thought: “Here I sit all broken-hearted, tried to crap but only farted.”  From time to time a persecution would take place and the toilet block would be repainted.  In time, new scriptures would replace the old.

The ghosts of boys from ages past were immortalised in gold letters on tablets of darkened oak.  They hung above, in the shadows of the hall, ranged along side pennants of long won tournaments of the paddock.  For some, this was the path to righteousness, the whispered legends of past old boys who had become bigger than their exploits.  These were the heroes and legend of old, stored in the apocryphal gospels of yearbooks and school photos.

For others, status was born out of unbuttoned collars and half-slung ties.  Years of indeterminate rebellion characterised by subversive acts or a single moment so inspired it was without peer.  I wanted it.  That moment.  That glory.  I wanted to walk the footpath to the front gate of the school with a swagger and nonchalance.

After Mr Gorman’s history lesson I started to look for Greek and Latin phrases.  Fortes fortuna adiuvat – “Fortune favours the bold” became my motto as I chalked my way around the school, boldly proclaiming my intentions.  My other favourite was “luceat lux vestra,” let your light shine.  I was going to be the brightest candle that burned, even if my time should be cut short; there was to be no pastoral retirement.

My final year.  I planned for April 1, Holy Thursday, to engage in an act that would make me immortal.  Six hundred boys filed into the assembly hall for the term’s final liturgy.  I was poised, waiting for the moment.  After the priest’s homily, in that moment of quiet reflection, I set off my mobile phone.  It rang once and all eyes darted to find the culprit.  Twice.  Eyes focused in.  Thrice.  I had their attention.

“Hello.”  Pause.  “Yes, I shall pass a message on.”  I stood to my feet.  “That was God.  He says that we should have girls at our school next year.”

The laughter teetered, but I knew I had them.  I had my moment.

The priest leaned forward.  “It seems that there is no need as we already have one in our midst.”

The jeers and hollers rang as loud as church bells.  I had been trumped.  The nearest teacher stormed down the aisle and I obediently followed.  The aftertaste was acrid, bitter.  I couldn’t spit enough.  Status, legend; all illusory onanism.

The Table of Knowledge

“Here’s to a ten years of The Table of Knowledge,” said Dan as he slopped the first round of beers down.  James reflected on the Table of Knowledge, the weekly symposium begun by six idealistic university undergraduates; they had been at the same table discussing the world’s problems and in some measure solving them.  Their banter traversed stories of marriage and divorce, children and careers; their friendship now held together by alcoholic glue.  The better part of a decade had been wiped away like dregs and James now saw five men discussing which female newsreader would look better naked.  He was startled to think that in another ten years he could still be at the same table, telling the same stories, just like other patrons who inhabited the dark recesses of the pub.  James put down his half finished beer and walked out into the night.

She Loves Me, She Loves Me Not

John stamped up the stairs and flung himself on the bed, burying his head in his pillow while sobs racked his body. As a comforting hand rubbed the small of his back, he blurted out, “Susie said she doesn’t love me anymore.”
Amidst the debris of a failed relationship, it needed to be cleared up, to understand what had gone wrong, to provide an anchor for hope in the future, “What brought that on?”
“At recess when kindergarten went out to play, Susie said that we were boyfriend and girlfriend because we both liked using the red pencil first when colouring in. But at lunch Susie asked me if I liked blue Smarties and when I said that I didn’t like blue Smarties she said that she couldn’t be friends with someone who didn’t like blue Smarties and then she said that she didn’t love me anymore and that we weren’t going to be boyfriend and girlfriend anymore.”
“I’m sure things with Susie will be back to normal tomorrow.”

The Fortress of Solitude

Just like every superhero has their fortress of solitude, I have my own refuge and sanctuary.  I pick up my book and return to where I left off, skimming the earlier paragraphs to reacquaint myself with the plot and characters or flick through the paper or the latest edition of my music magazine.

My mates have a great name for this place: Manland.  We joke about it in our own code, with knowing winks and nods as our wives shake their heads in mock agitation and derision.

While this is a place for contemplation and solitude, a respite from the roles of husband, father, automatic cash machine and operator of the dishwasher, it is not without its visitors.

“Come on Dad, you’ve been in there for ages; I need to use the bathroom.”

Parenthood

“Every sitcom, rom-com and chick-flick lied,” thought Peter.

There was no inappropriate breaking of the waters, frantic taxi rides or giving birth in the car park.  No milling throng of family waiting for the proud father to emerge from the delivery suite like a prophet in scrubs announcing the good news that a son had been born. Instead, there was the interminable waiting of fourteen hours of labour, followed by a brief period of unspeakable profanities and finally, a delivery. Now there was the silence of a husband and wife cradled into each other with a small, wrinkly, slightly bemused-looking human being nuzzling into his mother’s breast.

Peter looked down at his son and muttered, “This is going to be harder than I thought.”

Father and Son

The crease and crinkle of paper caught Dave’s ear as he walked passed his bedroom. Looking around the door he saw his son crouched on the far side of the bed.

“What are you looking at?” he asked as he came around to see.

Spread out between in front of James was the curvature of breasts and buttocks and a finely manicured lawn with the staple as her bellybutton ornament. Dave stood and rehearsed the reprimand forming in his head, but was interrupted.

“Do you wish that Mum looked like this?”

Waiting – A Triptych – Part 3

She picked up the silver-framed photograph of a woman nursing a newborn baby.  In the photo her arms were wrapped like a wall, protective and sheltering. She remembered the woman she was then and the intense possessiveness she had felt. A selfishness that drank like the child at her breast; even wanting to withhold the child from its father.

“Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone,” she murmured.

She waited for that sensation again as she packed the photograph into her luggage, waiting for the taxi, hoping the grit would become a pearl.