The Writings of Milena March

Eight thoughts on Nanowrimo, 2011

2011-12-01T11:41:00.001+08:00

I've been doing Nanowrimo for three years now, and although that's not exactly the longest time in the world, I think I can safely say that I'm pretty well aware of my own patterns over the course of November.

For one, I always begin the month with a fabulous, ambitious, glowing idea of what it is I'm going to accomplish. I have dreams, hopes, aspirations! I imagine myself churning out the most amazing novel that's ever been written. I imagine writing a brilliant novel that is not only enjoyable to read but intellectually stimulating as well; my own personal treatise, arguing for whatever it is that has caught me up this year.

By the end of the month I'm sitting bleary-eyed before my computer screen, making up random collections of words in order to claim that final prize - the little purple bar above my username that proclaims WINNER! Gone are the dreams of literary brilliance, of masterful thematic exploration and in-depth analysis of modern society. Instead, I just want to quietly hobble over the finish line and sit in the corner mumbling softly to myself, massaging the fingers that are still sore from typing those last 10 000 words.

And yet I return year after year. I'm not going to spend time wondering why I do this - I guess it's just who I am.

But I do want to spend a few moments pondering what it is I've learned from this year's Nanowrimo experience. So here it is, a brief look at some of the things I've learnt about myself and about writing in general, all in one month:

1.) Writing historical fiction, even if it's only short snippets in the midst of a contemporary novel, is impossible without at least some sort of in-depth research.
2.) There are only a finite number of love-plots available to writers.
3.) Love triangles suck. They're a pain to write and dull to read. Especially when you have to think up fifteen different love triangles which all, more or less, end in the same way.

4.) You can't write a novel exploring the evolution of the concept of 'love' in Western society without someone calling you a cynic.
5.) Sometimes, finishing is enough.

6.) The moment you finish your novel, you will immediately want to write another. No matter what hour of the morning it is, or how long you've been up trying to get those last 1 000 words down.

7.) Every novel is significant, once it's been written.
8.) Some things can be solved by a nice cup of hot tea and a quick nap.

And there you have it. Nano was always supposed to be for 'me', and it was supposed to be fun, a form of 'guilty pleasure' writing, like my own personal bar of November chocolate. But I think I'm going to try and snap out of that a little bit. I think Nano has helped me tackle my demons when it comes to finishing a novel, no matter how bad I think it is. Now it's time to tackle a new demon: editing. I've never really been good at going over my novels and actually pulling apart the draft and editing it. Generally my policy is to just re-write the whole thing. So I think it's time to try a new approach, editing a raw draft, and actually seeing what I can make of it.
So here's to editing the crap out of December!

Destined for Each Other? Nanowrimo 2011

2011-11-04T06:53:00.001+08:00

I'm back, and I bring my Nanowrimo novel with me! Yes, I've decided I'm going to do Nanowrimo again this year, and hopefully keep up my two-year winning streak. I'm a little bit late in posting this, as I've been frantically finishing my coursework this past week, but now that uni's over I can focus more on writing.

So, here it is: my novel and a short excerpt. I had a horrible time writing the synopsis. For some strange reason I had a very clear idea of the way the plot was supposed to go, but the minute I tried to put it down on paper, I couldn't do it. I thought the idea behind me novel was so simple, but apparently I was wrong.

Anyway, this is an idea I got in November or December last year, after reading Lauren Kate's Fallen. I think what originally frustrated me was the love-plot that the novel focused on. In essence, a girl dies and is reborn over and over, and an angel who's in love with her keeps seeking her out to make her magically remember that they're soulmates.

This got me thinking about the whole 'destined for each other' thing. I've always been rather unconvinced by the 'soulmates' idea that seems to be so popular in fiction and film, and lately it's started to really actively annoy me.

It struck me as pretty unfair that you should be born over and over again and yet get no choice as to who you're forced to fall in love with. If all that ties you to one person is the memory of a romance in a past life, is it not rather tyrannical to insist that you have to love them in the next life too?

With that in mind I decided to re-write this plot in a way that reflected just that. The tyrannous system of so-called 'true love'.

Eliot Cage has always loved Andie Walsh.
It began with a simple curse in a little marsh-village, more than one thousand years ago. It began with a boy, and a girl, who did a very foolish thing. They fell in love.
Across the centuries, Eliot and Andie have endured the cycle of life and death, cursed to find each other again and again, yet fated never to survive their first deadly meeting.
For centuries, Eliot has lived with the truth of his destiny. Until now, his conviction has been all that he needed to find his soulmate. But this lifetime is about to prove more challenging than any he's yet faced.
Twenty-first century Andie Walsh doesn't believe in love, or soulmates, or destiny, or fate. And when Eliot finds her this time around, convincing her that they have been linked across time and life is going to be harder than Eliot could ever have imagined. Even as Andie tests the limits of Eliot's belief in the tyrannous system of love, the two of them will be forced to fight for their lives, running from the shadow of a man who has stalked them across the centuries. Fate holds Andie and Eliot tight in its grasp - will they have the strength to break free?

And here's a short excerpt:

In a hospital bed in 1989 a woman dies.
She is alone, apart from the ticking of the clock.
Only the man who has loved for over seventy years holds her wrinkled hand as the breath of life leaves her, and wishes that he could take back the stolen years already behind him.
In 1893 a black-haired beauty follows her husband through the humid jungle, sweat collecting beneath the thick bones of her hidden corset and underneath her white lace gloves.
In London a girl dances an elaborate waltz, and in 1824 a child of the Alhambra chases a chicken across the dusty yard for a visitor’s supper. Five hundred years earlier a German peasant-woman allows a stranger to carry a bucket of milk into the house for her.
And in 1989 that same ancient, finished old man enters the richly paneled study of an equally ancient, old, and finished man, and gives him his enemy hand.

I know you want this to be a story of love. And in a sense, it is. And while all these things happen in that distant past, and are reduced to words on a parish register, or a painting on a wall, or a last, lonely photograph, what you have to understand is that while these things have happened in the past, they have also not happened yet, and are still happening right now.

Fun With Charts, Part Two: My Reading In Perspective

2011-06-16T12:48:00.000+08:00

Source.

I was going to give this post a title something along the lines of, 'See? Playing Charts Can be Used for Good!' but I didn't think it had that certain something. I've been playing around with Excel and thought I would use my newfound powers for good rather than evil.
As I've said before, I'm the sort of person who likes keeping a record of every single book I've read. So when I was searching for some kind of data to test my mad new Excel skills on, I thought I may as well chart my reading progress throughout the year. I mean, technically, it's almost the middle of the year, so why not, right?

(By the way - Sarah Enni does some amazing things with graphs and charts at her blog, which I can never hope to live up to. But if you're interested in YA fiction, there's brilliant graphs for you right there. :)

Anyway, I believe it's good to have some variety in your reading; try new things, broaden your horizons, that sort of thing. The only problem is, of course, that at times I can be very cautious about my reading. I can go whole weeks without trying anything new or exciting, and I inevitably go back to my favourite authors for comfort. Not that this is a bad thing, of course. I also believe if you love a book you should be allowed to re-read it at your own leisure, and without being judged for constantly reading 'the same old thing'. Still, however, I thought making up a few funky graphs would make it a lot more exciting and colourful to keep up with what I'm currently reading.

Sorry for the way the graphs stretch across the page; I tried making them smaller but they weren't readable that way, so they'll just have to overlap with my sidebar.

Anyway, I decided I'd better start by taking a look at how many books I've read so far this year. The total number is a surprising 84. Of course, on Goodreads it says I've only read 24, but I don't bother listing books I've re-read, or indeed many of the books I'm forced to read for school.

And since there was such a huge spike in May, I thought I'd take a look to see exactly what was happening there...

Yes, I admit, I have listed Jane Austen as a separate genre. This is only because she's one of those authors I constantly re-read, and I wanted to see just how much I was re-reading her throughout the year. I seem to be reading a lot of classics, possibly due to school, so I'm not quite sure about that. Summertime, I find is usually the time of year when I like YA. In winter, I prefer to curl up with the classics, fantasy, or re-read Harry Potter. Which, now that I come to think about it, I want to do rather badly right now.

Speaking of genre, I thought I'd take a look at it throughout the year.

Classics still taking an alarming lead. I was forced to classify Bridget Jones as 'Chick-lit', which broke my heart, as I'm a firm believer in it being a hilarious modern satire though obviously is about twenty years out of date, and I'm sure I would laugh even harder if I understood half the cultural references made in the book. Still.

And speaking of Bridget Jones, I thought I'd see just how much re-reading I'm doing.

My favourite authors, the ones I read over and over again, or read with regularity as soon as they release a new book. 'Brand new, never-before read' means an author I've never read before, while 'Other/one-off' stands for those I have read before but don't read regularly, or don't re-read. This seems encouraging, although I would wish the 'Brand new' section was a little larger. I'll just have to wait and see how it looks at the end of the year.

Anyway, if you've made it through to the end of this post, thank you for sticking by my random little personal journey through my reading habits. Of course, if I really want to see what my habits are like, I'd have to follow them over the course of several years, make up a bunch more charts, compare and contrast... but I won't subject you to that. :D

Fun With Charts, Part One: the Power of Pies

2011-06-15T18:35:00.000+08:00

Source.

I have to admit that I was always one of those people to whom the mysteries of Microsoft Excel were... well, exceedingly mysterious. But the power of procrastination does wonderful things. So this morning, while I was (unsuccessfully) trying to study for a dangerously close exam, I suddenly thought to myself, "By golly! I sure don't know how to use Microsoft Excel! Perhaps I should go and teach myself. That would be a productive and intelligent use of my time!"

And, indeed, that's exactly what I did. Because after all, what's more important than learning to create meaningful visual representations of data? The only problem was, of course, that I didn't actually have any data.

But I didn't let that stop me, oh no! Luckily I'm the sort of person who records every single book they read in a little notebook, and so pulling out my handy notebook I got to work. The problem was, once I made one graph, it just wasn't enough. I was spookily reminded of that episode of How I Met Your Mother when Marshall becomes addicted to making charts. My favourite, which I will never forget, being of course the Cecilia chart. Pure genius.

"This circle represents people who are breaking my heart." Source.

Unfortunately, Excel won't let you do Venn diagrams. I checked. But I still managed to have a little fun anyway. I thought I'd share the finished results, partly because I was so proud of myself at getting it to work, and partly because I just thought they looked kinda cool.

As you can see, I have a pretty good idea about how I should be spending my free hours of study break. But as you will also see...

...the reality is vastly and disturbingly different. Let's face it, I might have been generous by suggesting that 1% of my time is spent studying. It's probably more like 0.2%.

Fascinating, right? Oh, and by the way, 'shonky' is totally not my word. I heard it on the bus the other day, and since then I've been trying to slip it into every conversation as casually as possible. It's actually quite fun.

RTW: Elevator Tales

2011-06-15T17:57:00.000+08:00

Wednesdays are 'blog carnival' days over at YA Highway, where readers respond to questions posted by the YA Highway team. Today's question is:

You're re-reading one of your favs when someone asks the dreaded question: "What's that book about?" Give us your best off-the-cuff blurb of any book, any genre, and have your readers try to guess the title in the comments!
This is a great challenge as I often find I have trouble explaining things. (Also I find it weird when people talk to me on the lift, as if we're on the set of some sort of late-nineties romantic comedy and the old lady with the crazy hair, the tuna-fish smell and the shopping bags is about to tell me something profound and life-changing that twenty years later I'll be telling to my own kids when I tell them the story of my whirlwind romance with their father.) I'm the sort of person who, when asked to define a word, tells you to go and get a dictionary so that either a) I cover my own ignorance and shame at not knowing the answer, or b) I can cloak my own incompetence in a display of intellectual superiority.

So anyway, here goes:

"Okay. Um. So it's the story of Armageddon, right, but there's this angel and this demon who are both trying to stop Armageddon from happening for different reasons, but they unwittingly lose the Antichrist and he grows up as a normal little English boy. And it's all framed by the prophecies of this sixteenth-century witch who predicted the whole thing happening. And her great-great-great-something granddaughter is also trying to stop it happening with the help of a twentieth-century witchfinder. It's absolutely hilarious."

Any guesses? ;)

RTW: Goals and Rewards

2011-05-19T10:24:00.000+08:00

Wednesdays are 'blog carnival' days over at YA Highway, where readers respond to questions posted by the YA Highway team. Today's question is:

How do you reward yourself when you meet your writing goals? Answer for big goals (i.e. I will buy a Lear jet when I get published) and/or small goals (I eat an entire pint of Ben and Jerry's in one sitting when I finish each chapter).
I realise I've been MIA for a few weeks, and just when I was starting to get into the habit of posting regularly. Sadly, my assessments tend to come round in horrifying unexpected cycles, huddling together like baby bears afraid of the cold. So I've been struggling to keep a hold of my sanity as I rush towards the end of semester. Hopefully I'll make it out alive, but at the moment it's touch and go.

I thought I'd keep up with YA Highway's RTW though, so here's my response to this week's question.

I had a surge of creativity about a week ago, sat down and wrote for four hours straight three days on end. For me, this is a record as I haven't really worked out a system for my writing yet. Of course, sometimes it's just hard to sit down and write. Which makes setting goals and rewards a tempting thing. Sadly, I've never been the person to do such things. So I've decided for today's RTW to post a plan I'd like to put into action rather than one I'm actually following.

(I should note that I'm currently dieting from fear of winter weight gain, although maybe it's because I'm a sucker for pain. So don't be surprised if most of my rewards seem to be centred on food at the moment. XD)

Each day I sit down and write for more than ten minutes: I get a Mintie. (Don't laugh. These are my weakness. The amusing pictures help to remind me there are harder and more painful things than sitting down at my computer and forcing myself to write. :)

A new addition to the Minties collection?
Possibly. I may need to work on my sketching.

Each time I finish a chapter: I'm allowed to bake a batch of cookies of my choice. (Sharing said cookies with family members negotiable.)

If I write every day for a fortnight: I get to order myself a reasonably priced book from the Book Depository, which shall henceforth be known as My New Heaven.

If I ever, by some miracle, finish a first draft: I'm allowed to... wow. I don't even know. The thought has scarcely crossed my mind. Ok. How about: I'm allowed to get a kitten? Hmm. Perhaps something a little less drastic. Maybe I'm allowed to buy myself a new Little Black Dress. Yeah. That'll work.

Honestly, who wouldn't want one?
Sadly, my parental units probably wouldn't approve of one of
these in their house. Especially if they take to sleeping in the coffee mugs.
Source.

Review: The Heart of Midlothian

2011-04-29T11:17:00.011+08:00

So I took a little break from the Internet - and, in fact, the computer! - over the Easter break (something my Script Frenzy script is now punishing me for) and spent a bit of time reading a bunch of books I've been meaning to finish for a long, long time. One of these was The Heart of Midlothian, by Sir Walter Scott, which has been sitting on my night desk for about three months. No kidding. But I finally finished it and I wanted to post a review on it, seeing as I haven't posted for a while. Plus the fact that I finally finished the book made me want to celebrate a bit. I thought it was a waste to read the book for three months and then just put it back on my shelf. So, with that in mind....

How far would you go to save a sister's life? Would you tell a lie? How much would you sacrifice?

The Heart of Midlothian is a simple story which probably could have been several times shorter than it actually was; it essentially centres around a young woman called Jeanie Deans, whose half-sister is accused of child-murder and sentenced to death. Jeanie, unable to lie in a court of law to save her sister's life (a point which didn't quite sit with me, but more on that later), heads down the long road to London to try and get a pardon for her sister from the King.

As always with Scott, however, a simple story is never just that. The novel opens on the infamous Porteous Riots in Edinburgh and Scott describes a wide range of characters and events which, though at times remotely linked to Jeanie Deans and her journey, aren't necessarily related. I'll admit, the first few chapters are interesting, but once the dust settles on Edinburgh the story begins to slow down to the point where you begin to wonder what the whole book is actually, in essence, about. I admire the scope of the novel's interest. There's a thorough examination of recent history on Scott's part, and court scenes described in tediously exact detail. Yet I'd be a liar if I didn't say that by spreading himself too far, Scott created a story and a host of characters I cared very little about, detracting from the story about a young woman who treks to London to try and save her sister's life. As a reader, there is too much description and discussion of the mundane, unimportant things. Perhaps it's just me; I'm the sort of person who would have liked to read the story of Jeanie Deans' personal struggle and journey to London; every heart-wrenching, breathless, torturous step and thought that crosses her mind. To a person interested in Scottish history, however, it may just be one of the most brilliant and useful books of the period.

The Porteous Riots. Source.

The Heart of Midlothian has no shortage of characters who are all, in some miraculous way, interconnected, even across the span of the British Isles. But my biggest problem was with the character of Jeanie Deans. Perhaps it was her religious nature. It's a difficult thing to relate to nowadays, but Jeanie Deans' entire life is shaped by her religious belief. I could understand why Scott believed that Jeanie couldn't risk lying in a court of law, even to save her sister's life (her religion taught her it was wrong) yet I couldn't help thinking that sisters (even half-sisters as Jeanie and Effie are) wouldn't stop at such things to protect each other. Many people believe Jeanie Deans' strength comes from her religious devotion. To me it made her less human. I may, of course, be blinded by my own personal beliefs when it comes to the relationships between sisters. I've always been attached to my own sister, yet this part of the novel made me think. I'm not personally religious; I don't believe in any sort of retribution, and I don't believe in 'sin'. Yet I still believe that, in principle, it's wrong to lie. But to ensure justice is carried out? To me, this was the biggest conflict of the whole novel. It was certainly the issue that influenced me the most personally. I believe that, when placed in that sort of situation, we would do anything to protect the people we love, no matter how hard they've disappointed us. Yet we see Jeanie Deans, who is faced with the possibility of saving the woman she - for all intents and purposes - raised rather like a mother. I think Scott points out that it's not as easy as we think it is; we all have some sort of moral compass that starts going haywire, especially when we're faced with a situation where we've sworn to tell the truth. And so Jeanie Deans cannot lie, and her sister is condemned to death. With this in mind I had to read her journey to London as a kind of penance; a way of eradicating the guilt she felt as she condemned her sister to death through her own refusal to lie.

Effie Deans in a portrait by John Everett Millais. Source.

The female characters, though at times showing great strength, are on the whole unrealistic, or at least they were to my mind. Effie is punished, apparently 'justly' at the end of the novel, because although she was wholly innocent of child-murder she had still committed a 'sin' in her relationship with a man who was not her husband. It was difficult, furthermore, to sympathise with Jeanie Deans; I wanted her to succeed in London only because I wanted her sister to be freed. As for Jeanie herself, I was very much neutral towards her. I felt the most strongly, perhaps, for the madwoman Madge Wildfire, and her mother. This is a woman presented as wholly evil, and yet I couldn't help but feel sorry for the way she was treated by everyone around her. Her daughter is likewise shunned for her madness and she makes for a tragic figure throughout the novel. But Scott clearly wants us, at the end of the day, to take Jeanie Deans as a figure of admiration.

All in all, Scott took a tale which could have been both riveting and simplistic and built up the context surrounding the sisters. Though the novel is rich and detailed, through this Scott sacrifices some of the humanity of his characters, making them appear less believable and likable. Perhaps we aren't meant to like any of the characters in this novel, not even Jeanie Deans; but to me it seems much more likely that Scott wanted us to see how nothing can ever really be taken out of its historical and political context completely. Jeanie Deans' story takes shape because of her religious, cultural and political context, without which it might have turned out very differently. It's an interesting novel; at times difficult and tedious to read, but in the end something I'm glad I had the patience to finish.

Rating: Three out of Five Stars.

Source for cover image.

'I'm Lord Vader' and Other Signs He's Probably Not 'First Kiss' Material

2011-04-20T22:53:00.000+08:00

Wednesdays are 'blog carnival' days over at YA Highway, where readers respond to questions posted by the YA Highway team. Today's question is:

Compare your first kiss with your favorite characters first kiss?

Ok. So this topic is a little problematic for me because I often struggle with the accounts of first kisses in YA fiction. My main problem? They're over-romanticised.

Let me start by describing my first kiss; being fairly hopeless with men on a 'romantic' level when I was younger, I didn't have my first kiss until just after leaving school. By the time it actually happened any romantic notions I'd developed about it had all been blown out of the water. Eventually, I had my first kiss because I was so desperate to tick another box in the 'teenage experiences' list that I managed to get over my customary awkwardness around sexually appealing members of the opposite sex and just went for it. It happened in a dingy club, after a few too many shots* and with a man whose name I instantly forgot (which probably wouldn't have mattered anyway as it was so loud in the club he could have said anything from 'I'm Jim' to 'I'm Lord Vader, scourge of the Galaxy' and I wouldn't have known the difference) and whose face I cannot now recall. He was very attractive, thankfully, and my kiss was relatively brief but with it came a rush of understanding.

Now. My biggest problem with first kiss scenes in YA fiction is how they seem to be so... perfect. Here's an example from Evernight by Claudia Gray.

I kissed him, and my dreams told me the truth - I did know how to kiss Lucas ... The knowledge had been inside me all the time, waiting for the spark that would make it catch fire and come alive ... We kissed ... a thousand different ways. All of it was right. (p. 138)

Always there's this idea of the first kiss being something profoundly 'right'. The stars align and everything is perfect. And of course this doesn't take into account that most of the time, it's two teenagers who have had little or no experience locking lips. Perhaps they don't know any better. Perhaps they truly believe for that one moment that this is as good as it gets. I somehow feel this is a bad message to send to teenagers; why build up their hopes when the reality can potentially be, if not disappointing, then just a bit... ordinary?

"Damn it Edward, this is supposed to be the best moment of my life!
Can't you try to look happier?"
"I'm trying, baby! But the sound of those fireworks going
off in my head is really distracting!" (Source)

Here's what I learnt from my experience: first kisses are never perfect. Even if - unlikely though it is - they happen to be with the right person, and you happen to be thirty-five at the time, with the other party thus having gathered enough hands-on experience to make it a real whopper, it will never be the way you built it up in your head. I guess in this way I was lucky. I had already lowered my expectations to the barest minimum.

I remember that going into my first kiss I wasn't expecting much; my friends had been playing it down to me for months, going on an on about what a let-down it was (to spare my feelings? Possibly, though in this case I think they were just being honest). So I went in with low expectations and all these romantic 'first kisses' from fiction crowding together at the back of my mind and telling me, against all reason, I should expect something spectacular.

And yet I did feel better. The kiss itself was quite enjoyable, but what I really got a kick out of was feeling like I finally had a control over my own destiny. I wasn't sad, doe-eyed Drew Barrymore in Never Been Kissed, hanging around for that special someone to sweep me off my feet with the perfect kiss; I was a real woman, making decisions for myself (albeit slightly clouded by the alcohol*, though the kiss was premeditated for a few weeks; the guy was incidental. Sorry Jim/Lord Vader, scourge of the Galaxy; if I ever meet you again I'll buy you a cookie for your trouble, although the chance is I won't recognise you and if I do I'll probably blush to remember how drunk* I was and walk away really slowly, not making eye contact.)

The moment you realise you're about to kiss the boy of your dreams... and screw it up.
Source.

Sure, I didn't get my magical first kiss with the boy of my dreams, but I got a valuable life lesson upon which to build. That's why my favourite 'first kisses' aren't really first kisses at all. They're 'firsts' more in the sense that they're the first between a certain couple. Take, for example, Bridget and Mark in Bridget Jones's Diary. Or Harry and Sally in When Harry Met Sally. These are people who have struggled, made bad decisions, kissed a heck of a lot of people before, not all of them enjoyable, but have eventually found, through a life of experimentation and experiences, that they're happy with a certain person.

Source.

I'm not a cynic. I love a good first kiss as much as the rest of them. But at the end of the day a first kiss, like everything else in life, should be an experience, a learning step, not the be-all and the end-all, the final signpost, 'This is the Best in the World'.

Source.

*(disclaimer: for children and other impressionable readers. KIDS! Drinking is bad. As you will soon learn, it makes you do and think stupid things, like: 'I look great in this skirt!' 'I can dance on that table-top in my six-inch heels!' and 'Who says men with eyepatches can't make good lovers and potential life partners?')

The Narnia Debate: or, Kids vs. Adults

2011-04-18T11:02:00.005+08:00

"Make 'em think, Blondie." Even kids'
films are trying to tell us something.
But can we figure it out?
Source.

The other day I was reading this post over at Erinn’s blog and yesterday, it popped into my head again. You see, up until yesterday I’d been firmly convinced that being an adult runs circles around being a kid. Sure, I know all the usual arguments: lack of responsibility, freedom of imagination, ability to wear awesome Elmo backpacks without irony... but I was still convinced that being an adult was several hundred times better than being a kid.

And then yesterday I sat down to watch Disney’s latest movie Tangled, having heard how wonderful it was, and my sister said to me, “Wow, now I want to watch old Disney movies.” Without thinking I replied, “me too.” At this we shared a look; what were we thinking? We were two mature, intelligent and – though I say so myself – not unattractive young women... and all we wanted to do of a Sunday afternoon was sit down and watch kid’s films. At first I was dreadfully embarrassed, but then I began to think to myself... maybe being a kid isn’t so bad after all.

And, because being a kid isn’t so bad after all, I’ll admit that after a few hours we sat down and re-watched Tangled, and enjoyed it even more than the first viewing.

There comes a low point in every person's
life when they realise it is no longer socially
acceptable to wear an Elmo backpack.
Even ironically.
Source.

But during my second viewing I began to follow lines of thought I’d tried to block out the first time round. Being a Literature student my brain has, for years, been geared to analysis and deconstruction, to the point where, according to my sister, ‘I can’t just enjoy watching something anymore, because I have to look for meanings in everything.’ Perhaps that’s true. But I couldn’t stop myself from trying to pull apart the threads of what was, in all honesty, a really great film.

And that’s when I realised... sure, being a kid is great, but isn’t being an adult better? Every day we are bombarded with ideas buried in texts and images. As children we don’t have the capacity to break down these ideas or think about what a movie or a book is trying to tell us. For instance, I had no idea growing up that C.S. Lewis’ Narnia Chronicles actually preached, to some extent, Christian theology.

"Something tells me patriarchal ideology isn't quite
dead yet."
Source.

And yet... in this dilemma I will hereby nickname ‘The Narnia Debate’, you have to ask if it really matters. Does the fact that books and movies try to mould our impressionable young minds and espouse ideas we disagree with necessarily detract from the fact that they’re just great stories? Looking at Narnia with the innocence of a child all I saw was an incredibly awesome story about a bunch of kids, an enchanted world, and a few dragons thrown in for good measure. Sure, as kids we’re impressionable, but I can attest to the fact that after reading and re-reading Narnia as a child I wasn’t even remotely persuaded to join a church or go to a Sunday school. Re-reading Narnia last year I picked up on so much I hadn’t when I was young. And yet, against all the odds, I still enjoyed the story of Narnia.

"Who says you can't still get a great story out of us?
...
"No, seriously, who said it? The pointy end of
my sword would like to meet them."

At the end of the day I wouldn’t want to be a kid again. Even if I’m unaffected by the ideas a text advocates, I still appreciate the ability to deconstruct; to see the way people want me to think and the way they go about trying to achieve it. Best of all, at the end of the day – and despite the belief that breaking down a text means you can’t enjoy it – I can still recognise a great story when I see it, and enjoy it even more, perhaps, because I understand what it’s trying to say to me.
What about you? Are you nostalgic for the Days of the Old School Yard? Or are you all for being All Grown Up?

And For Your Challenge THIS Month...

2011-04-11T19:23:00.004+08:00

Nothing to do in April, as the cold winds begin to roll in and you feel it’s almost socially acceptable for you to wrap yourself in a massive doonah and disappear for months on end, until forced once more out of your little cocoon by the hot weather?

Yeah. That’s how I felt mid-March this year. So I thought I’d try something different. I decided to try out Script Frenzy. What is Script Frenzy, you may ask? Well, it’s to screenwriting what Nanowrimo is to novel-writing. Essentially it challenges you to write a 100-page script – TV, film, stage – in the month of April. Sounds like fun, right? I thought so, while I was pondering how I was going to celebrate the long winter nights that were fast approaching. And so I decided to take a leap into previously uncharted writing territory. Essentially, this was my thought process...

1.) I need something to do. What would be better than challenging myself by trying out a new form of creative writing? Clearly, trying to write a novel right now just isn’t happening. Who knows? Maybe I was never meant to be an author. Maybe I was supposed to become a world-famous screenwriter with Oscars lining my shelf, cruising down the streets of Los Angeles with Ray Bans on my head and a Starbucks latte in one hand. Yeah..

2.) I know all about movies! I mean, I watch a lot. So... I must know about them, right?
Yeah. Apparently film, like so many of those things which appear so simplistic and elegant to the untutored mind, is actually insanely complex. There’s so many rules and conventions to follow that it makes your head spin. Also, as I’ve learned, a scriptwriter is NOT a director and apparently, directors don’t appreciate upstart screenwriters telling them, down to the very last detail, how their movie should look. Of course I’ve always been the sort of person who likes to occasionally mess around with conventions in my writing, but apparently with scriptwriting, there’s a line. What sort? Well, to answer that we must examine my third train of thought...

3.) It’ll be easy to write; I’ll just type it up in Word like my Nano novel! No expensive software or dodgy downloads required!
Oops. I took one look at the style guide for MS Word and nearly fainted. Apparently there’s a strict standard when typing up scripts. Have a look if you don’t believe me. Formatting that in Word is an absolute minefield. So what did I do? I broke my sacred rule about not downloading programs onto my laptop, in an effort to keep it free of spyware and other bugs. And I have to admit, Celtx is amazing. I mean, it solves all of your formatting problems. You go from fighting with Templates in Word (“Why won’t you just change to Courier font, WHY?!?!”) to creating gorgeous professional-looking scripts in seconds. Swish! Best of all? It’s free. My attitude towards writing programs is generally, “show me one thing it can do that MS Word can’t.” But when I first began using Celtx I wanted to run down the street singing. It made me feel like a movie star, like a non-neurotic and glamorous version of Nicholas Cage in Adaptation. Only female, of course. And with less flannel in my wardrobe. Not only was it simple, it was actually fun! Which reminds me...

4.) It’ll be FUN!
Like I said, if you don’t have a scriptwriting program, formatting a script in Word is one of the most frustrating exercises you can go through. And if you do manage to tame the Wild Word Beast, there’s always the sorts of experiences you may be familiar with from Nanowrimo. Brain blanks which last for days, lack of motivation, surly, difficult characters that refuse to comply with your requests.... Not to mention dialogue, which I always secretly felt I was pretty good at... until I realised that I had to write people talking almost all the time, and it’s not good when you can’t even distinguish the male from the female characters.

And yet it’s eleven days into April and I think I’ve finally hit the turning-point. Now that I’ve kind of come to grips with scripts and how they work, I can actually focus on the story I’m telling. And to tell you the truth, even if none of the points above turned out quite like I imagined they would, the last one almost turned out better than I could have hoped.

Writing a script can be a lot of fun. It’s one thing to sit down and watch a film, and quite another to sit down in front of your computer and realise just how fine-tuned a process it is, from one tiny person coming up with a great idea for a story to the movie showing up in cinemas across the world. And of course I’m not thinking of even hoping that my first script will one day turn into a film, but it is fun. As a writer I think it’s great to challenge yourself from time to time, and one way is to experiment with different genres or, in this case, different art forms. Writing a script requires imagination and vision, and it’s a great exercise in creating realistic characters and believable dialogue. So April, give me the best you’ve got. I’m ready to write a movie.

RTW: A Tourist's Guide to 2111

2011-04-07T11:37:00.000+08:00

Road Trip Wednesday: #74

Wednesdays are 'blog carnival' days over at YA Highway, where readers respond to questions posted by the YA Highway team. Today's question is:

Assuming we make it through the 2010 apocalypse, what do you imagine the publishing world will look like 100 years from now?

Picture it. The year is 2111. A lazy afternoon sun dips across the scorching red wasteland that is the Australian outback. The dust stirs. One man - dressed all in leather, Mad Max style, despite the heat - zips across the landscape on a motorcycle like a black-and-grey wasp. But this is no joy ride. This is war.

Suddenly, on the horizon, shimmering, appear his pursuers. Even from a distance, they're high-tech in comparison to this Mel Gibsoneque vigilante. You can't see their faces because their vehicles seem to encase them in what looks like - if you're not afraid to have your fingers broken for making such an observation - a giant, flying silver egg.

Welcome, traveller, to the future.

Now, being from a pre-apocalyptic era you won't understand the complex political upheavals that led us to this sun-scorched Australian plain which, if you didn't know better, looks more like a shot out of a Hollywood movie than the dreary Australian Outback. But never fear! Because there's a whole lot of literature out there designed just for you and other time-travelling visitors to Earth, 2111.

So let's get started. You might want to read up, for example, on the reasons why the figures emerging from the egg-pods appear to be seven feet tall and entirely blue. For that you can consult the great and epic work

EARTH: THE DAY THE SAVIOURS CAME!

written by the lead Extraterrestrial (use the term 'alien' and it won't just be your fingers that are broken) in charge of Human - Extraterrestrial Relations. Find out how these marvellous beings came from the sky and saved Planet Earth in its hour of need!

...of course, traveller, you won't actually be able to access this epic work, seeing as you don't have a database chip installed in your brain to which the entire contents of this exciting tale can be instantly uploaded, but never fear! Our travel agency sells temporary chips which can be installed by our master surgeons in just two quick and relatively painless operations!

And once you've got your chip in and have devoured

EARTH: THE DAY THE SAVIOURS CAME!

in all of .06 of a second, you might wish to sample some of the other literature available to you in this exciting new world. Try, for instance,

HUMANS: WHY THEY STINK: AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY

or, if you're not a fan of the whimsical and politics is more your style, why not try

LAWS FOR THE PLANET EARTH: A HUMAN'S GUIDE TO THE NEW ORDER

Perchance you are a fan of the classics? Then may I recommend that most beautiful of romance tales; one to make you weep, cry and even laugh. It's the tale of

THE TRAGEDY OF GLOOP AND GLOOP or, THE TALE OF TWO EXTRATERRESTRIAL FREEDOM FIGHTERS (with a full chorus of triumphant extraterrestrials, angry fathers, and subjugated humans.)

But if your appetite is but whetted by this experience, you may be wondering why the man on the motorbike is roaring through the Australian desert with a bulky backpack and half a tank left of oil.

This notorious man is the leader of one of the fiercest underground human printing presses. In this backpack are two leather-bound copies (priceless now that the cows have all died out) of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice and Dante's Inferno (the Musa translation, in case you're wondering, not one of the unreadable ones) which are almost all that remain of real paper-and-ink books. He's in charge of ensuring that the human stories of the past two thousand years don't die out entirely. And at the moment, his prospects don't look too good. And while his human comrades fry their brains with Extraterrestrial propaganda, this one man is left to fight for the freedom of the press... and tell people how bad the aliens really are. He's carrying a top-secret manuscript by one of Earth's most brilliant and inspired underground authors, and he's going to get that manuscript to the masses if it's the last thing he'll do. Which, all things considered, it probably will be.

Well, that's all we have time here on this tour of Earth: 2111. Please make sure to take all of your valuables with you when you exit the time-travel pod. On behalf of all of us here at Earth: 2111 Tours, we'd like to thank you for your time and wish you a safe journey back to whatever time, universe or dimension you come from.

New Layout... But Will it Last?

2011-04-06T16:59:00.001+08:00

New layout. Why do those words always fill me with such dread? I guess I just get bored easily. I like new, shiny things. So every once in a while I like to renovate. And that doesn't just go for my online haunts. I think if I had the money and the upper body strength I'd constantly be re-arranging my room. As it is I generally take down the books on my bookshelf every couple of months and just put them all back in a different order. Thrilling, right?

But today I re-arranged the layout for the blog. And gave it a new name, though I decided to stick with the mirror theme. Just to keep a little consistency going.

Chicago Ink is going well; it'll probably start showing up around Easter. Yay!

Coming Soon: Chicago Ink

2011-02-28T09:48:00.002+08:00

First of all, and before I get any further, go and enter the great giveaway contest at Hope Junkie. Because it's awesome. :) You can win some great books, including The Book Thief and Sara Zarr's Sweethearts.
I thought it was high time I updated with a little of my actual writing. (I think that's the reason I started blogging. I can't honestly remember! :D) And so I've decided to begin uploading chapters of Chicago Ink, a story I began writing a few years ago simply for fun, no pressure, that sort of thing.

In the heart of Chicago, trouble is brewing....

Stella Isaacs is opinionated. She’s a firm atheist, and spends her weekends in the centre of Chicago, running Greenpeace stalls at local supermarkets. She believes in fighting for what you believe in; even if it means using your job as an Opinion Section journalist in a local paper to do it.

Taylor Roberts is the star journalist of America’s favourite fashion magazine, H&F. He’s not a day older than twenty-one, and has been for the past ten years. His interests are wide and varied, and range from party-hopping to miniature golf. From new diets to celebrity interviews, to travel articles, Taylor Roberts can do it all.

Delilah Forster hates her name. It’s a relic from her Tom Jones fan of a mother, and the only thing she hates more than it is her job at the Chicago Sun. Delilah is determined to dig up the truth – even if it means sifting through celebrities’ trash cans to earn a living.

Chase Stanley is anything but remarkable. He lives with his mother and spends his spare time writing a blog about journalists in Chicago. Or, rather, just one journalist. His arch-nemesis: Stella Isaacs.

But a fearsome discovery will throw these four writers together, forcing them to combine their skills to come up with the Story of A Lifetime. That is, if they can first escape from the headquarters of Chicago’s most fearsome twenty-first century mobster, who has cunningly hid them in his mother’s basement, and a myriad of other confusing and bizarre situations that will require all their combined wile, wit, and aversion to fast food...

I'll be uploading chapters soon, hopefully, after I finish editing and proofreading. I'm hoping the story will remain a kind of cheerful stress relief for me, the sort of thing I can write without too many expectations for it.

RTW: Whadda Ya Know... About WIPs?

2011-02-24T11:49:00.000+08:00

This week for YA Highway's weekly Road Trip Wednesday, the idea is to ask a question:

What do you want to know about writing and getting published?

Although I'm not currently working on a major story or idea, I'd be lying if I said I didn't one day hope to get something into print. Publishing is a long and daunting process, it seems to me, and not a little terrifying.

But my problem seems to be centred more on one thing: I just can't seem to focus on one story long enough to write up a full draft. I have at least fifteen stories that I choose between. I write depending on what mood I'm in, rather like my reading. Do I feel like Fantasy? Tackling the Sci-Fi? Romance? Working on a Fanfiction? Believe me, I've got a semi-finished story in just about every genre.

So my question is this: How do you find that one idea that you feel confident enough about to actually say, yes, this is the story I one day want to hold in my hand as a published book? How do you decide which idea you want to become your official WIP; and how do you stick to it?

Image from here.

Fifteen Reasons Why Books Are Better Than Computers

2011-02-21T15:06:00.001+08:00

So. First off, I have spent the last four days valiantly battling with a persistent little virus which turned up, uninvited, on my computer last Thursday. It was only thanks to the magical and miraculous articles of How to Geek that this computer un-savvy girl was able to successfully root the little bugger out. Sadly, not before it seems to have damaged my Sims game, forcing me to spend the next fifteen odd hours in a joyful re-installation coma. Naturally, I spent a lot of time waiting for virus scans to complete over the weekend, during which I composed the following, in honour of my pesky little friend. It was written during the brief intervals when I wasn't trying to rip my hair off my head patch by patch. Here's to you, you rotten little bugger, and may you rot in hell.

Fifteen Reasons Why Books Are Better Than Computers.

1.) Books don't take ten minutes to load and, when they're done, demand you do a full virus scan and reboot.
2.) Books never crash.
3.) You don't have to spend three hours a week backing up your books.
4.) Books don't require a plethora of different passwords in order to access them which, after you've entered them, you promptly forget, and spend the next three hours trying to recall.
5.) If books took over the world, the worst you'd be able to say would be that we'd all be incredibly verbose and intelligent. If computers took over the world, we'd only be able to communicate in ones and zeroes.
6.) A good book is hard to put down, but a good computer is impossible to pick up.
7.) You don't need to take a book to the repair shop if you accidentally drop it in the pool.

8.) From books one can learn of the many subtle beauties of language. On comptrs, u lrn 2 type lk ths. (lol, totes! rofl.)
9.) Books never download bizarre intercontinental viruses created by some computer nerd in Brazil with a cold heart and way too much time on his hands which, when secretly installed, send you to websites selling tampons and black-market Viagra.
10.) Dymock's, Barnes&Noble and WHSmith are all still cheaper than PC World.
11.) When buying a book you are never bombarded with long, foreign technical words including RAM, processor and disk, by a condescending 16-year old salesperson.
12.) Have you ever seen a supervillain attempt to blow up the world with his handy paperback?
13.) Books are still useful after five hundred years. Computers are redundant after five minutes.
14.) You are never forced to upgrade to a 'newer version' of a book.
15.) You don't need a thick User Manual, usually written in seventy-six elusive foreign languages - including Swahili and Ancient Tibetan - but not English, to read a book.

Review: The Castle of Otranto

2011-02-18T09:43:00.002+08:00

The Otranto Observer:

Prince Squashed by Giant Airborne Helmet! Full News on Page Six!

Lord of Otranto Says - "Sorry, the Castle Ain't Mine!"

FULL Interview with Covergirl Isabella - "He was Never the One for Me!"

Love Advice from Star-Struck Pair! Theodore and Matilda Tell All - How YOU Can Find True Love in Just Ten Seconds!

Jerome and Hippolita's 'Faithful's Corner': Why Entering a Monastery's the Only Way to Go!

The Commoner's Chronicle: Bianca and her Fellows Tell Why THEY'RE the Ones Who Saved Otranto!

Phew. Sorry. With a novel like Otranto it's hard not to inject a little sarcasm into the reviewing of the book. In honour of Horace Walpole - father of Gothic fiction - I'm going to write this review with as many dashes - and breaks - as I possibly can.

It's not difficult to see why Otranto is still an important book today. As a novel it marks the beginning of a new form of popular fiction - the Gothic - which would never quite die down. Its ancestors are alive and well today - Just look at the shelves of any YA section in any bookstore in the world.

So. It's an important book. It's pretty famous, too. Added to that, it's short, at a measly 100-or-so pages. It's a quick read, even if a little challenging. Otranto is a book I've long wanted to read but never found the time to. Mostly, it's due to laziness, but I decided now was the perfect time to take a dip into the pool of Early Gothic.

Original Title-Page. Source.

Primarily, Otranto is challenging because of the way it's written - kind of like this - with speech - bless old Horace Walpole - not even graced with a new line each time it presents itself. This leads to the disturbing technical difficulty of the text blending into one huge hunk. You really have to concentrate on your reading - or you find yourself drifting off. Everything happens rather quickly, so you might find that by the time you tune in, five different things have happened and you've completely lost the thread of the plot.

And what is the plot? Well, it's fairly simple. The son of Manfred, lord of Otranto, is killed on his wedding day to Isabella, by the aforementioned magical flying helmet. Manfred, who now needs a male heir, decides - oh, that most blackhearted of villains! - that he's going to divorce his wife Hippolita and marry Isabella. As a Gothic villain I would have expected him to try and kill Hippolita, so I guess Manfred gets points for good behaviour.

And there's romance, naturally; a love triangle, between Theodore, Matilda - daughter of Manfred - and Isabella. Theodore, the dashing young hero, speaks surprisingly well for a man who was a slave on a pirate ship for most of his youth. But that's pirates for you. Rightful heir of Otranto, though he doesn't know it yet, Theodore turns up dressed as a peasant and leaves as a Lord. Lucky him.

Walpole's famous house at Strawberry Hill,
said to have inspired Otranto itself. Source.

Because the book is so short, there's very little time to develop the characters. Walpole seems to sit on the fence about Manfred in particular. The women characters are simple and boring, as in most Gothic fiction - they exist simply as victims. Take Hippolita - "It is not ours to make election for ourselves; heaven, our fathers, and our husbands, must decide for us." (The Castle of Otranto, Chapter IV) But Manfred could potentially be seen as a bit more complex. One moment he's hurrying around trying to divorce his wife - "I desired you once before, said Manfred angrily, not to name that woman; from this hour she must be a stranger to you, as she must be to me ... too long has she cursed me by her unfruitfulness..." (Otranto, Chapter I), badmouthing her behind her back - but Walpole rushes to assure us that he's not all bad - he has a tender heart, we're told, which is not unsusceptible to goodness. Then he goes around trying to stab his would-be daughter-in-law (beacause, of course, the way to solve any problem is to stab the pretty woman. That'll make everything better) and ends up killing his daughter.

Manfred, whose spirts were inflamed, and whom Isabella had driven from her on his urging his passion with too little reserve ... Provoked ... and enraged at her father [Frederic], he hastened secretly to the great church ... the tryant, drawing his dagger ... plung[ed] it over her shoulder ... -Ah me, I am slain! cried Matilda sinking ... -Stop ... cried Matilda; it is my father! Manfred, waking as from a trance, beat his breast ... and endeavoured to recover his dagger from Theodore to dispatch himself.
...Matilda, resigning herself to her fate ... she begged the assistants to comfort her father. I took thee for Isabella [cried Manfred]; but heaven directed my bloody hand to the heart of my child!
Otranto, Chapter V

Oh, no. How embarrassing. Looks quite exciting, though, doesn't it? I must admit that bit was, though I wanted to slap Matilda for being a wet blanket. Then Manfred rushes to assure us, himself, that he's not really a bad guy; "My ancestor was really the evil one!" he cries, conveniently pinning the blame on a guy who can't refute his arguments on account of being dead:

I would draw a veil over my ancestor's crimes-but it is in vain: Alfonso died by poison ... I pay the price of usurpation for all!

Still from the 1979 film, depicting the
giant suit of armour which terrifies the
characters. Source.

Oh. Poor Manfred. But don't worry! Be jolly! Both his kids are dead, but that's OK, because he goes into a monastery with his wife and lives happily ever after. After a surprise appearance from a cloaked skeleton - the one bit in the book where I sat up and said, 'This is going to get good!' - Frederic is told - "Remember the wood of Joppa!" Ah, Joppa. I remember it well. Stopped by this apparition from doing something hasty - like trying to marry the gorgeous Matilda, for instance, that sinful dog! - it leaves, never to grace us with its presence again. We never really do find out what happened in Joppa. But religious conversion brightens that oh-so-jolly ending. Order and balance are restored! Tyrants are reformed! Lovers united! (Except for Matilda, poor dear, on account of having been stabbed in the heart by Daddy)

Engraving by James McArdell. Source.

All jokes aside, though, Otranto is an interesting read. It's easy to see why Walpole enjoyed writing it so much. Like many Gothic texts (think Mary Shelley's Frankenstein) it originated in a dream. "The work grew on my hands," Walpole says, "and I grew fond of it ... I was so engrossed with my tale ... I completed [it] in less than two months..." (Letter to the Rev. William Cole) In 'blending two types of romance: the old and the new' Walpole pioneered a popular genre which has as yet refused to die down. It really is a landmark in popular literature, and a triumph for the Gothic elements of storytelling over the seriousness of Enlightenment writers. Three cheers for our boy Horace!

Review Posted on Goodreads: 3 out of 5 stars.

Cover picture from here.

When the Tenses Start to Blend...

2010-11-02T20:31:00.001+08:00

... you know you should stop writing your Nanowrimo novel and clean the fluff out of your brain. Like today... which was a good day, in that I somehow managed to write over 10 000 words of utter crap. I'm thinking of it as my 'buffer zone' for when exam study becomes a pressing necessity rather than a faraway possibility.

But 10 000 words in I still haven't decided whether I'm writing in first person or third person, or even which tense I'm currently using. So I go from Mia's POV to narrating what she does, and then I realise it's time to stop.

For some reason, I cannot decide whether I want to write in first or third person. Perhaps I want to keep my options open. Perhaps I'm just going mental. I even made my characters diss Tim Winton, a WA author I admire quite a lot. But I knew I'd lost control of my story when my character went on a two-page rant chewing up my favourite books of all time, namely Wuthering Heights, Jane Eyre, and Pride and Prejudice. And that was when I realised... there is no way I can make Mia Sargent sound like she isn't a whiny little brat.

...Also, judging from my taste in books, I'm also a walking cliché. But then perhaps that shouldn't come as a surprise. XD

This post is part of the Nanowrimo Blog Chain.

Fear the Blank Page: It's Only Too True

2010-11-01T10:56:00.000+08:00

November the first is here. Oh, my. And because I'm on study break and technically studying for Psychology, what I'm actually doing is staring at the computer screen too terrified to open a blank document and type the title of my novel at the top of the page. Numerous questions come to my mind. Does the title count as three notches in my 50 000 words? Is it immoral to count 'Chapter One' as two words? And just how much Earl Grey tea is it possible for one teenage girl to drink before exploding?

As anxious as I am to answer these questions and more, what is most confusing for me at this point is just why I cannot bring myself to open Word and get cracking with something I've been waiting to do since the beginning of the year, or even November last year. What is it? Cold feet? Jitters? A sudden and inexplicable drop in self-esteem? Or perhaps it's the fact that I want to shoot myself in the foot for spending hours reading Twilight as research for my novel, time possibly better spent learning to use a loom, teaching the principles of Zen Buddhism to iguanas, or planning an elaborately staged game of Simon Says in front of the town hall. Kudos to the people who are already past the 4000 word mark only a few hours into November. I salute you, and wish I had your resolve.

This post is part of the Nanowrimo Blogchain

Dreams of Darkness: Nano Approaches!

2010-10-31T18:39:00.000+08:00

So there's only one more day before Nanowrimo begins, and I am excited. Have I mentioned that? Perhaps a few times. So as the sounds of rabid pre-teens dressed as ghosts, vampires and Miley Cyrus fade away down my deceptively dark driveway I thought I would upload the blurb for my novel, and the cover. Perhaps my Miss Havisham-like confinement to the house on a Sunday night and my intense dislike of small children might perhaps make me question my attitudes towards life, tonight I couldn't care less. And why? Because I'm about to write what I hope will be my most well-thought out and fun story yet... in just thirty days.

Yes, I think I can honestly say I have never planned so hard or researched so much for anything I've ever written before. And now that I'm actually here, I'm gripped with a nervous fear; what if I open up Word tomorrow and have absolutely no idea what to write? Worse still, what if I write ten words of such complete and utter garbage that I'm forced to abandon the entire project and take up something less challenging than writing a novel, like piranha-baiting or designing ballerina outfits for small, vicious, and underfed Chihuahuas....

But here it is anyway; because I figure my Nano-induced cold feet may just, in their own way, defeat the whole point of the exercise. Namely, to write 50 000 words in thirty days and just enjoy finishing what I've started for once.

So with this thought in mind, I signed myself up for the Nanowrimo Blog Chain, which can be found here, and took another long look at my blurb and cover (which I must admit I am quite happy with).

So here, for better or worse, is my novel plan. Based on my intense love of Jane Austen's Northanger Abbey and Austen's funny yet humane parody of the Gothic novels which were so popular in her own time, I plan to write a parody of the supernatural romance genre which is so popular at the moment. So without further ado, here we go:

There is a formula. It goes like this.

You take one plain and unsuspecting heroine. Separate her from her natural environment. Add her to a small mixing-bowl of a typical small-town high school. Blend lightly. To this mixture add one dark and brooding hero with supernatural cravings and an eye for large mountainous animals. Then separate the two from the rest of the mixture and leave to set.

Mia Sargent knows this formula by heart. So when she is transplanted to the small Australian town of Hemsworth she knows that all of her darkest and most delicious dreams are about to be fulfilled. When Mia meets the dark and reclusive Declan Brown she thinks she's found her romantic hero. If only she could convince him to admit his undying love, burning passion, and unquenchable bloodlust for her very existence. Or maybe even just call her.

But Mia won't let this stop her. She's going to make sure this story goes the way she wants. Even if that means proving that things in Hemsworth are more dangerous than anyone realises.

Sometimes things are exactly as they seem. But just how much trouble can one girl get into to prove herself a heroine?

What fun! So now, with only a few hours between us and the beginning of Nano (it hardly seems real!) I feel a bit better about the whole endeavour.

So there we have it. I've made a number of different covers, but the cover up the top is the final choice, a decision made with the wonderful help of everyone at Scribbler's Abode. Just for fun, though, here are two other potential covers:

This post is part of the Nanowrimo Blogchain.

My profile at Nanowrimo is here.

Nanowrimo novel covers: Images courtesy of Rammkitty-stock and Dazzle-Textures. Design by Milena March.

Review: Immortal: Love Stories With Bite

2010-10-30T17:35:00.002+08:00

Immortal: Love Stories With Bite was a book I picked up in the hopes of finding some inspirational material for my Nanowrimo novel. I was looking for a variety of vampire love stories which could perhaps expose some of the reasons why teenagers love reading vampire fiction so much. What I didn't expect to find, upon opening the book, was an introduction by the editor P.C. Cast, which actually answered so many of my own questions. Aside from the perhaps forgivable plug for her own series of vampire stories, Cast suggested the reason so many teenagers identify with vampire stories is the seductive idea of immortality. I must admit this hadn't really crossed my mind, so I was pleasantly surprised.

But the book itself; it's an anthology of vampire stories by contemporary writers. To sum it up is difficult considering there were stories I liked much better than others. So I'll just look at each of them in turn.

Haunted Love by Cynthia Leitich Smith

Smith is the author of Tantalize, and in this short story, set in Texas (where a remarkable number of vampire stories, and a fair proportion of the ones in this book, seem to be set) in an abandoned movie theatre which is re-opened by a recently turned vampire. The ghost of a long-dead girl and a new human arrival in town compete for his attention in this cinema, and I must admit this first story didn't give me too much hope for the rest of the anthology. It was a little patchy - towards the end of the story dismembered heads randomly make an appearance, which was a bit of a shock for me at 11 pm at night. XD

Amber Smoke by Kristin Cast

Cast, who is co-author with her mother on the House of Night series, contributed a story in which the ancient Greek Fates send up a vampire to save a human girl from a death, to fulfil an unnamed Revenge. It was an interesting idea, I have to admit, but the writing was a little choppy in places and the bloody scenes were a little disturbing right before I went to bed.

Dead Man Stalking by Rachel Caine

Set in the same place as her Morganville Vampires series, this story recounts the encounter of a young man with a zombie of his former schoolmate. The main character's father returns to town as a vampire-slaying bikie. I liked the idea of a town run by vampires. The writing was much more suspenseful in this story, but I didn't actually figure out the main character was a guy until the story was more than half-over, which I think was a major oversight on Caine's part, especially as I'm unfamiliar with her other work.

Table Manners by Tannith Lee

This story, in which vampirism is more a state of the mind to be treated through psychotherapy, intrigued me. I enjoyed it a lot, as the main character, who is herself a sort of vampire, encountered a new vampire and tried to convince him to visit her father, the therapist.

Blue Moon by Richelle Mead

I was looking forward to this piece greatly, as I love the Vampire Academy books, and I wasn't disappointed. Mead handled the short story format very well and I found myself more drawn to her characters than most of the others in this book. The main character is a vampire on the run in a city where vampires are boss. Her unsuspecting partner is a human who hates vampires for what they did to his family. It's fast paced but we still get a sense of the characters and come to like them very quickly.

Changed by Nancy Holder

Vampires invade New York and turn it into an apocalyptic nightmare. One girl struggles to survive and reach her best friend and 'love of her life' on the other side of the city. This story was certainly interesting and different, but I found myself confused by the main character. Apparently only sixteen she has already gone through drug abuse and rehab and a two-year relationship with her (now gay) best friend. For a sixteen-year-old in New York City, I think, she's certainly had a busy life. On the whole this story kept my interest but I found I couldn't like the main character or her love interest, though I could at times feel sympathy for them.

Binge by Rachel Vincent

'Binge' has a very interesting premise, dealing with sirens who drink human energy as they sing. I found this fascinating. At a party the main character and her siren friend meet a young musician who the main character quickly realises is a 'genius' that she can act as a sort of deadly muse to. It's a fascinating idea and I enjoyed reading this.

Free by Claudia Gray

I had already formed a less than favourable impression of the author of Evernight's writing; I think judged solely on what I had heard about the books from others. But 'Free' surprised me. Set in the 1800s in New Orleans it is the tale of a young woman destined to become a concubine for a rich white man. But the likeable heroine has other ideas. I loved this short story, which is the background of one of Gray's characters in her Evernight series and found myself drawn to the characters and deeply sympathising for them. Perhaps this has a lot to do with the tragic death of the heroine's chosen lover, Amos. Either way, this was a good read.

All in all, Immortal depicted the wide world of vampire fiction and shows just how dynamic and varying it can be. At times it's a nice deviation from the perhaps all too kid-friendly Twilight and I think that was part of the reason I found it unexpected when I began reading. The stories improve markedly towards the end of the anthology, but in retrospect, that might have less to do with the authors and more to do with my own reading preferences when it comes to the genre. For lovers of the vampire genre there's quite possibly something for everyone.

Overall Rating: 3 out of 5 Stars

Oh, Yes, It's That Nano Time of Year...

2010-10-30T16:46:00.000+08:00

This year, I told myself in mid-October, I will plan my Nanowrimo novel down to the last minute detail.

And I must admit that, for the most part, I was fairly honest with myself. Not having done Nanowrimo last year I was determined that nothing short of nuclear holocaust would stop me from writing a 50 000 word novel in November. And even then I probably would have tried to scribble a few words on the back of abandoned factory walls, dipping my finger in green radioactive goo and keeping track of my wordcount by making notches in a permanently smoking Seaworld fishtank.

But as the long days of October crept by, I found myself itching to actually start planning now. I've heard lots of people say it's never too early to begin planning for Nanowrimo, but then again I felt strangely as if there was simply too much of October left to begin contemplating what I would do in far-distant November...

So I contented myself with other things, but Nanowrimo was a slumbering pod in the back of my mind just waiting to leap awake. With the result that ten days before the end of October I sat down in front of my computer and didn't have a clue what I wanted to write about. Fifteen ideas and only one novel; but which was the right one?

And a mere two days later, I had, by a system of elimination, narrowed my choice down to three ideas that I quite simply couldn't decide between. It took another day for me to whittle it down to the one idea I wanted to do.

So at last I have an idea for Nano. After a mad search for an appropriate plot, title and cover (all of which the wonderful people at Scribbler's Abode patiently helped me to figure out day after day) I can at last sit back and wait for that final day of October to tick away.

Today, in anticipation, I wrote a short story. I don't know why. Possibly I was inspired by my reading, but perhaps I just couldn't wait to put pen to paper (metaphorically speaking, at least).

November, here I come!

The images used here are from the Nanowrimo site. My profile on the site is here. ;)

Rainy Day Reading

2010-08-18T19:22:00.000+08:00

Vampires, werewolves, and... Edinburgh dinner parties? Yes, since the mid-semester break offered me the opportunity to dig deep into the local library shelves, I've been such a frequent visitor during the rainy months that I'm pretty sure the librarians will start inviting me round for tea at their houses pretty soon.

No, it's not beyond the point of exaggeration; I'm reading a bizarre assortment of titles. For one, I've re-established my love for Alexander McCall Smith, finally finding time to catch up with the Isabel Dalhousie series (there's nothing like McCall Smith's Edinburgh stories to dispel the gloom of the winter months) and the 44 Scotland Street stories. It's funny how some books can be seasonal; more enjoyable to read in winter than in summer. Perhaps it's because I can sit down and enjoy a cup of tea while reading the Isabel Dalhousie novels (the story of a forty-something Edinburgh philosopher who uncannily seems to find herself drawn to mysteries in the city and the past) but I couldn't really imagine reading McCall Smith's most famous series, The No.1 Ladies' Detective Agency, in any other setting other than beside the pool or on the beach at the close of a scorching hot day.

Perhaps it's something to do with visualisation; it's much easier to picture the rain-lashed Scotland (where, apparently, it's too cold even in summer - except for a few weeks - to drink your coffee in an outdoor cafe) than in the 40 degrees Celsius heat of the Australian summer. And it's hard to really feel the heat of an African summer with a miniature cyclone starting up just outside your house. Not that that generally happens in Australia. At least, not where I live.

Then, of course, there are the paranormal romance novels which are my guilty indulgence. Of course, not all of them are as enjoyable; I've just finished, for example, the first in L.J. Smith's well-known Vampire Diaries series. Now, usually the rule follows that movie and television adaptations will never quite live up to the book. But I think I can safely say, in the case of The Vampire Diaries, that this is a lie.

Take, for example, the main character, Elena. Clearly intended to be a strong and 'inspiring' female lead - and at least you have to give Smith credit for trying, which is more than can be said for many people - but in reality Elena is a selfish, irrational, and downright boring character. In fact, from start to finish, there is almost no character I feel disposed to like in the entire book. The only exception would be Matt, Elena's ex-boyfriend, who I was very fond of in his TV incarnation; so perhaps I'm biased. But Elena is boring, boring, boring - wanting Stefan Salvatore simply because he doesn't seem interested (which I understand) and relentlessly and one-mindedly pursuing him (which I don't). Perhaps it's nice to see the woman as the pursuer, and I would be more sympathetic to that, if it weren't for the fact that she finds his creepy retention of her 'apricot ribbon' ridiculously romantic and, furthermore, that the minute she 'has' Stefan she immediately and in a very out-of-character way falls in love with him.

This was the part that bothered me the most; Elena simply seems to fall in love with Stefan for no good reason. Sure, he's saved her life, but she doesn't seem to feel the gratitude naturally; she knows nothing about his tastes, or his personality, and yet she still 'falls in love' - the whole cliche, perhaps minus the tweeting birds - with him. Even for a teenager this is irrational. I just had a feeling it was too much too soon.

The book itself had a very '90s feel about it, at least for me; perhaps that was the effect of the old cover which my book had. I found the scenery very mixed. Smith can describe things very well, and the first chapter of the book is quite good in terms of establishing mood and tone, but she continues this in the book and at times the description seems a little repetitive and forced.

Of course, I realise this is just the first book, written almost twenty years ago, and I may have exaggerated many things in my mind because I expected the book to be 'trashy'. In some ways it lived up to my expectations, but I've decided to read the next book. I'm partly interested to note the deviations from the television series (Catherine, the main antagonist in the series, is in the books a very meek, perfect little woman who eventually kills herself because she can't decide between the Salvatore brothers, Stefan and Damon.) Very little of the books actually remains in the show; characters' names, mostly. Obviously the television series taps into the sorts of things that a new generation of teenagers would be interested in; the whole idea of a school Halloween party setup is a little bit elaborate compared to the basic 'come-drink-dance-go home' style parties we're used to nowadays, both at school and outside of it. Or perhaps it's more of an American thing. Certainly our school dances and formals were rare and fairly unexciting, with early hours and fairly unimpressive efforts at themed decor.

And now, of course, I've borrowed Maggie Stiefvater's Shiver, which my friend has been nagging me to read for months - mainly because we both loved Twilight's Jacob and can barely imagine a book without werewolves in it. I've already heard a lot about the Bella Swan-like attributes of the heroine, namely a complete learned helplessness which is ridiculously irritating - but I'm still hopeful about the whole werewolf story.

And, of course, there's Cassandra Clare's Clockwork Angel coming out very soon, which I'm so excited for. It looks to be very good.

Of course, while reading is for enjoyment it's for educational purposes as well. I'd be a liar and a fool if I claimed that I couldn't learn anything, writing-wise, from published authors. So while I love curling up with a good book there's also no denying that every new book read is a broadening of the mind and way of looking at the world. No wonder people love reading so much.

It's Tough on Those Offspring...

2010-08-16T17:07:00.000+08:00

Every once in a while there'll be a slump in the television shows on. You know what it's like; every time you switch on the television there's some stupid reality show about cops training dogs to sniff people's luggage at airports, or aspiring chefs trying to impress a panel of fat, overpaid foodies with their ridiculously sculpted creations not nourishing enough to keep even a small child from starvation. (Don't get me wrong. Masterchef is a lot better than many of the television shows out there, and at least it's creative and constructive, but ten minutes of it makes me want to go to sleep. Although I suppose it's better than making me want to stuff my face...) Naturally, you find yourself going back to more old-fashioned forms of entertainment; for me, that's often reading book after book inbetween schoolwork. Making a serious dent in your To-Read list is great, but there are times when television is indispensable as a way of just unwinding.

That's where Offspring comes in. Last night, here in Australia, a new drama series aired on Channel 10 which I think has a lot of potential. After a myriad of fairly average grunge-city cop shows and the gritty Underbelly, it's a relief to finally see a more down-to-earth drama series produced in Australia....

Offspring is the story of thirty-something nurse Nina (played by Asher Keddie), whose crazy family and ex-husband with a penchant for blowing things up (specifically Nina's things) makes her life something of a minefield. Add to that the hot new paediatrician working at the hospital (Don Hany) who she just can't seem to pluck up the courage to ask out, and Nina's life seems to be one constant mess of family and love-related tangles. Offspring is a sort of Packed to the Rafters meets Grey's Anatomy show, more intimate than a lot of the hospital dramas which are imported from America and a bit classier and more upmarket than the suburban chick of Australia's recent export about the Rafters family. At times the sleek perfection of almost all the sets in Offspring got me down, although having visited Melbourne, where the show is set, I'd have to say that a lot of the fancy cafes that Nina and her family visit are probably not too exaggerated and fancy.

Chris (Don Hany) and Nina (Asher Keddie)

The characters are almost instantly lovable; particularly Cherie, played excellently by Deborah Mailman, new mother and former nurse. Mailman creates an intensely loveable character, a wide-eyed and friendly woman determined to face up to her situation as a single mother. Also amoung my favourites is Mick (Eddie Perfect), Nina's sister Billie's barefoot, keyboard-playing ex-boyfriend, who's in love with Billie but who can't seem to stop arguing with the love of his life. Kat Stewart as Billie is as sharp as a knife but still reveals enough inner insecurity to make her likeable.

Cherie (Deborah Mailman)

As for Nina herself, she's a female character who will doubtless appeal to many women. She's easy to sympathise with, as we watch her agonising attempts to gain the attention of the gorgeous Chris, her new colleague, and I think most women will find a lot to identify with in Nina. Her confusing relationship with explosives expert Brendan proves just how bad relationships can be when a woman marries a man who she knows so very little about.

Offspring's costumes are to die for, the sets are detailed and realistic, and the acting is probably some of the best on Australian television; certainly the best I've seen in a long time. It's not a show that will speak to everybody, but I have a feeling Offspring is set to make quite an impact in the next few months.

Billie (Kat Stewart), Nina's brother Jimmy (Richard Davies) and Nina (Asher Keddie)

Offspring airs every Sunday night on Channel 10 at 8:30 pm.

Glee, and More Hoorays...

2010-06-05T17:30:00.000+08:00

First of all, I was very excited to see Neil Patrick Harris (Barney from How I Met Your Mother) appear in an episode of Glee last week. Funnily enough, I had no idea he could sing....

The Dream On episode was, I think, much better than the last few, which I found a little lacking considering how awesome the Madonna episode was. There was a little bit too much focus on main members of the Glee club and the teachers' romantic problems in particular, so it was nice to see the less prominent members of Glee get a little face time....Though I must admit I do miss the episodes where Sue is prominent. She's an awesome character, the sort of character you love to hate...

In other exciting news, I'm writing a paperback at Scribbler's Abode with my wonderful partner Bryony, and we were just selected as Paperback of the Month! Yay!! What's a paperback, I hear you say? Well, the two of us take it in turns to write from the perspectives of our two characters, roleplay style.

Want to know what our paperback is actually about? Well, brace yourselves...

...Agatha Christie meets Jane Austen in Bath, 1830. Old loves and friendships are rekindled as Grace Wright's wealthy husband is murdered on the streets of the resort-city. Called in to investigate the murder is her childhood sweetheart Charles Punter, whose determination to get at the truth is fuelled by the threats to Grace's life. But as this perfect crime begins to unravel, Charles and Grace are left to solve an even more complicated mystery, one which will change their lives forever...

...dunn dunn dunn...

Interested? Read it here. (You have to be a member of Scribbler's to read it, I'm afraid. :)

Psst: want to know who I'm playing? The charming Charles Punter, of course! :D

WOW Hoorays and Killer Bees.

2010-05-27T19:32:00.000+08:00

I know it sounds silly, but I truly didn't imagine that it had been so long that I hadn't posted anything since February. Wow. I'll put that into context for you: the last time I posted something here, China threw a surprise birthday party for Mugabe. (How sweet of them. D'you think they had icecream cake? Gotta have icecream cake, or else it's not a real party. Also fairy bread.) The last time I posted, Odeon cinemas had sworn to boycott Alice in Wonderland. (Aww.) And the last time I posted, the Columbian President told the Venezuelan President to (quote) "be a man". (Thank you, Wikipedia!)

(And yes, for all of you that picked up that slightly reworded reference, I have been watching way too much How I Met Your Mother! :)

So what have I actually been doing since then? Have I been doing anything at all? Well... I could tell you that... but then five hundred very angry killer bees and one seriously disgruntled genetic scientist would probably sue me for libel. ("Secret genetic laboratory beneath the scraggy sands of the Sahara? What secret genetic laboratory?")

Let's just say that I've been leading a remarkably snuggly and cheerful existence with absolutely no requirement for Stingose, or any other insect-bite related medication. Honest.

I have been doing a lot of work, mostly on Mr Feathercott's business. The 365 Day Challenge became the 22 Day Challenge, and I reconnected with my inner romantic comedy junkie.

Also, the lovely people over at Scribbler's Abode nominated me as Writer of the Week, which means I get this snazzy avatar. I thought I'd take this little picture to commemorate the event. I know, I know, this is on the verge of being annoyingly proud of this, but I do honestly believe this is the first time I've ever been nominated for anything like this, so I'd like to enjoy it while I can. :D So forgive me, dear friends.

...And now you fully have my permission to kick me. :D

The entry in question was this one, a submission to the Writer's Workshop being run at Scribbler's. It's an amazing project where you participate in activities to improve your writing skills. That particular week was speech, and it was huge fun to write as I used my Wedding Affair couple, Nina and Nathan, who are, in my opinion, very cute. That's them in the signature. ;) I decided to write a little passage about how they met - bumping into one another in a supermarket. (Though they actually met weeks before, when Nathan nearly hit Nina's car at a red light. But she didn't find that out until much later.)

So... plans for the future? Well, do a lot of writing, obviously, but I really just want to enjoy myself for a while, and hopefully get back to writing a little bit each day forProject 365. Though at the moment it's more like Project 234 With Many Breaks In. Still, if it makes you happy...

365: Word Count

2010-02-22T18:58:00.001+08:00

Today's word count is 1731. I'm pretty happy with that; it's about two chapters in Mr Feathercott's Business. Here's a little sample:

“Good morning, Mr Feathercott.”
Mr Feathercott would have ignored her, had not the infuriating manners of his youth forced him to return the salutation.
“I trust you slept well, Mrs Feathercott,”
“Yes, Mr Feathercott.”
“How comforting. I had a very unpleasant evening,” Mr Feathercott said, still not looking up from his meagre meal. The smell of bacon and eggs made him stomach turn rather abruptly.
“Oh?” Mrs Feathercott replied, clearly preoccupied.
Mr Feathercott was not satisfied with this. His wife, surely, should show more concern for his welfare! He wanted to complain, moreover, of her lack of support the night before. But complaining would mean recalling the disagreeable events of the previous evening, and Mr Feathercott did not wish to be confronted with this.
They breakfasted largely in silence, with Mrs Feathercott eating with a healthy appetite and Mr Feathercott regarding the glistening bacon with a look halfway between disgust and desire. Their repast was nearing an end when a small figure entered by the side door which led to the kitchen...

The Right Place to Write?

2010-02-22T11:53:00.001+08:00

I've been doing a little bit of catch-up blog reading before university starts again, and YA Highway's Road Trip Wednesday for this week (or rather, last week, as it turns out...) asks where your favourite place to write is. Now, I'm going to be cliched and say that I need to write somewhere quiet. Since I do most of my writing on the computer nowadays, it's often at my desk. Wherever I end up, it has to be a very quiet, private place. I can't work with distractions all around me (and in my house distractions are a way of life!) so my room is the obvious choice. I tend to write in bed, especially when it's down on paper. But I actually find this incredibly uncomfortable.

Ideally, I'd love a hammock or a comfy sunlounge somewhere. I like being out in the daylight and feeling the breeze around me; it makes me feel a little more connected to the world around me when I'm in my hermit-like writing mode.
Basically my only real issue is silence and comfort. I'm the sort of person who hates sitting in a straight-backed chair. I always end up sitting on my legs, or sprawled over the sofa. Possibly I don't have a spine, but I'm pretty sure I would have noticed if I'd missed something like that. Once I get a new laptop I'm hoping to be able to move about with it a little more, test out different areas and where the best place is.

And speaking of writing, I've been doing quite a bit of it thanks to Project 365, though a lot of it is on paper which means I really can't be bothered to go and type it up. But rest assured I'm making progress, though I've decided I need to work more exclusively on one thing to avoid becoming lost in fifteen different ideas. My aim is to finish at least one WIP by the end of the year. This juggling of thirteen or so WIPs is getting a little ridiculous.

I also entered myself in the 400 followers giveaway at In Which a Girl Reads. Head over here to win some awesome books!

Mr Feathercott's Business, Chapter One

2010-02-21T07:38:00.006+08:00

Had one wandered up a remote London road one gloomy Tuesday in 1957 one might have observed Mr Feathercott making his way home, his impeccably trimmed whiskers drooping in the chill evening air.
On the other hand one might not have; for Mr Feathercott was a singularly unremarkable character, with his wilting whiskers and his crushed bowler hat. Mr Feathercott, alas, was the last of a race of rather ordinary Victorian gentlemen, now nearing his seventieth year, and with no notable achievements in his long life to single him out for fame and fortune. Born to a dying race, Mr Feathercott had lived much of his life in obscurity. He had once brushed the hand of celebrity with his overly large nose when he had, after the unfortunate drowning of his elder brother (unfortunate insofar as it brought his heretofore ignorant brother into some sort of renown) come to a moderate inheritance. Moderate it was indeed, for ‘moderate’ was a word which could be applied to Mr Feathercott from the tip of his frayed bowler to the toes of his unpolished brown shoes.

Mr Feathercott principally wore brown, and managed to do even this simple and unpretending colour discredit when he ported it. He frequently clashed with his wife, whose colours of choice were dirtied pinks and blues, colours which under ordinary circumstances might have done her pale complexion credit, but which, when worn by her and in conjunction with her husband’s muddy coloured clothes, made her appear consistently at a disadvantage. She had learned to bear this with patience; though nearly twenty years his junior, she had been born to that fascinating fin de siecle generation which had managed to liberate its art, its literature, its economics – but not its women. Mrs Feathercott’s marriage had been one of convenience, and she had no qualms in letting this be known. It was sadly noted by her daughters, on more than one occasion, that their poor mother had never had the advantage that so many women had had in that wartime period when they had finally felt some freedom from the presences of their husbands. Mr Feathercott had been too much of an invalid to be forced to enlist in the army, though in the years after the war his health had improved so drastically that he was now, at seventy, sprightlier than he had been at forty. During the war Mr Feathercott had aided his wife in knitting, sewing and preparing various household items for the soldiers in the trenches. Many a warrior, on a cold and lonely night, with the clash of shells peppering the dust above him as his soul, or rather sole, music, had armed himself with the carefully stitched tablecloths and handkerchiefs which the Feathercotts had crafted. As such, Mr Feathercott could comfortably consider himself a patriot, and congratulate himself on having contributed to the glorious victory of his country. Mrs Feathercott, already in her thirties, had understood that Mr Feathercott was a constant in her life, one she would never escape. She had accepted this over the years, and had decided that depressing as this knowledge was, there was little she or Mr Feathercott could do about it.
But no doubt the reader’s attention has already strayed, in this short meander through the battlefield of time. One may question, and quite rightly, what such an unremarkable man (as Mr Feathercott undoubtedly was) was thinking as he walked down this remote London road on his way towards his bleak townhouse. And the answer would be: something positively unremarkable, of course.

Mr Feathercott's Business

2010-02-21T07:38:00.005+08:00

Project 365: Soul Catchers, Chapter One

2010-02-19T08:29:00.005+08:00

When one considers soul’s mates, one thinks of three words; destiny, love, and impossibility.

Destiny operated on a tight schedule in the kingdom of Stillvalley. While in other universes Destiny might be known for her fickleness, in Stillvalley she was as sharp as a needle and just as likely to prick you till you bled. She ran an efficient operation and never failed to reward heavy tippers. It was her duty to ensure that each and every being in Stillvalley, from the lowliest flea to the mightiest beast, had a soul’s mate. And she had never missed one single solitary creature.

Well. Not yet, anyway.

Love, sadly, had little to do with how Destiny chose soul’s mates. A soul’s mate was, quite simply, the second half of you, freed out into the world somewhere. Love was just a bonus. She wasn’t sure if she or her sister Destiny had gotten the better deal; Love was uncertain about a lot of things.

And impossibility; well, the people of Stillvalley never liked to use that word. For one, in a kingdom where to see an official delegation of mountain trolls dressed in ornamental mud-brown (for state occasions) trudging its way down the halls of Stillvalley Castle was little more than A Day in the Life, Impossibility was rarely ever on anybody’s lips.

Soul’s mates, in Stillvalley, were anything but an impossibility.

“May the Sun always smile down upon thee, but not burn thy skins. May the Rivers quench thy thirst, but not drown thy love. May the Breeze blow fairly, but not destroy thy harvest. May the Soil bring forth new life, but not fill thy boots. And all thee today-”

Alunah jumped guiltily as her mother prodded her in the ribs. The official presiding over the soul-binding ceremony turned his eagle gaze upon the thirteen-year-old girl who had been serenely snoozing throughout the ceremony, lulled by the heat of the day. Beside the official, her sister Lily glared pointedly at Alunah. She straightened up, knowing that Lily would box her ears when she could find an opportunity for so drawing the attention away from herself on the most important of days. Alunah wanted to stick out her tongue at her sister, but Alunah’s mother had been very strict on the subject of tongues as she wiped the ever-present dirt from her second-youngest daughter’s face. The morning before the soul-binding ceremony had been a whirl of activity, but Immiel Lightfeather had still found the time to warn her daughter about the importance of the afternoon’s activities.

“You must be very good today, Alunah,” Immiel had said, taking a cloth and scrubbing ineffectually at her daughter’s ever-filthy face. “Today Lily becomes a young woman, and you must be polite and well-behaved. And you must not stick out your tongue, or the elves will come and cut it off for you.”

Immiel’s threat was non uncommon in the kingdom of Stillvalley. The elves that inhabited the forests which fringed the kingdom were the fear of every serf and lord alike. But though Alunah’s village was near the borders of Stillvalley, she had never before seen the elves which her family had such cause to fear. Sometimes Alunah imagined meeting an elf. Always she found herself befriending the pointed little creature rather than tearing it limb from limb as she had been taught to do by her brother, Xerk. Xerk sat beside Alunah now, and tugged violently on her sleeve to bring her attention back to the soul-binding ceremony. The official was talking pointedly in the direction of Alunah.

“And take heed, all ye who witness this most reverend of ceremonies, that ye shall know your soul’s mates when ye shall see them, and take their hearts unto your heart, and join your own souls in this most sacred of ways…”

Alunah could not resist letting out a little giggle.

The soul-binding ceremony was the single most important ceremony in the land. It was the ceremony wherein you pledged your soul to your soul’s mate for good or ill, and it was more intimate, and more dangerous, than any marriage ceremony in this world.

Finding a soul’s mate was a less than difficult task. About the age of fourteen, you began to have flashes of your soul’s mate in your mind. These flashes were too indistinct to make out any features, but when you finally did meet them you knew in your mind that you had found your soul’s mate. Then you could hold the soul-binding ceremony, for it was said that if you knew of your soul’s mate and did not bind yourself to them in the ceremony within a certain period of time, the kingdom itself could be put in danger, and the King’s Wards, which protected the kingdom from attack, could begin to flicker from the imbalance of soul forces. And then the elves would sneak into the kingdom by night, and slit the throats of every Stillvallian one by one.

By the time Alunah was fifteen, she had been to seven soul-binding ceremonies, and four of those seven had been for her own brothers and sisters.

When Alunah was sixteen, she attended the soul-binding ceremony of her youngest sister, only nine months younger than she, and then Alunah was the only Lightfeather child who had not found their soul’s mate.

As her seventeenth birthday approached, Immiel Lightfeather began to fear for her daughter, and she began to fear, moreover, for the kingdom itself.

***

***

It was dark as Alunah tried to sneak back into the Lightfeather farmhouse without alerting her mother. A single candle burned in the parlour, and Alunah began to walk on the tips of her toes to prevent the floorboards from creaking. She thought she made not a sound, but as she passed the door to the parlour and let out a little sigh of relief, she heard Immiel call her name.

“Kelpie fodder,” Alunah swore under her breath. “You have the ears of a faerie,” Alunah told her mother as she reluctantly entered the whitewashed parlour. Immiel looked sadly at her daughter. Her tanned face, darkened from many days working in the harsh sun, was littered with worry lines. They made her skin appear soft, pliable, despite the many days she had spent working. Her light blonde hair, almost whitened from so much exposure to the light, was tied up carelessly atop her head. She regarded her daughter mournfully with eyes the colour of little blue amethysts. The flickering orange candlelight threw a wealth of shadows across her face, and created thick, obtrusive shadows in the far ends of this, the finest room in the Lightfeather farmhouse.

“Where were you, Alunah?” she asked in a resigned voice which spoke of many long nights like this one, waiting for her daughter to return home as she saw fit.

“Helping Miss Jeylda and Miss Dolores fish newts out of their well, Mother,” Alunah answered promptly.

“Miss Dolores came to visit me an hour since, Alunah, and told me you had finished with the newts two hours ago.”

Alunah bit her lip to stop from cursing Miss Dolores. Alunah liked the old woman. She was soft and gentle and loved little children; it was her sister Miss Jeylda who frightened Alunah, with her thin mouth and her searching eyes which reminded Alunah oddly of that official who presided over the soul-binding ceremonies in the village.

“Alunah?” Immiel prompted, forcing Alunah out of her reverie.

“Yes, Mother?” Alunah answered meekly.

“Can you explain yourself?”

Alunah hesitated. Her mother would not like to hear the truth, but Immiel had a way of knowing when Alunah was lying. It was something about her eyes, Alunah had figured out, but she had never been able to learn what it was that she did with her eyes which always gave her away. Taking a deep breath, Alunah said, “I was swimming in the lake.”

Immiel pursed her lips before asking, “Alone?”

“Alone,” Alunah confirmed, glad that in this at least she was blameless.

“Alunah…” Immiel began on a familiar theme. “You must be careful. Not everyone is so respectful of their soul’s mates that they would not take advantage of a young girl swimming alone, naked as the day she was born, in the middle of a forest!”

“I wore my shift, Mother!” Alunah argued quickly, glancing at the floor as she did.

Immiel did not need a second to say, “You did not.”

“No, I did not,” Alunah admitted, frustrated that her mother had found her out again. “There was not a soul about, Mother, I checked quite thoroughly,” she added quickly, hoping to repair some of the damage.

“The forest has eyes, Alunah.”

Alunah couldn’t help but laugh. “Mother, if elves truly are hiding here, they would have more important things to do than to watch a little human girl bathe in the lake!”

“I do not like you going there, Alunah,” Immiel persisted, in her voice of quiet authority. “The forest is a dangerous place.” As she said this she glanced over at the faint watercolour a wandering painter had once made of a then-young and handsome man. Lionel Lightfeather smiled up at his soul’s mate with a half-hopeful, half-penitent expression, as if he were seeking forgiveness for being foolhardy enough to get himself killed and leave Immiel to deal with their troublesome daughter all on her own.

“The War was a long time ago, Mother.”

“Not that long ago,” Immiel argued softly, turning around and sweeping the floor with her rough linen work dress. “We forced the elves out of our realm, Alunah, but that does not mean that we vanquished them completely. They will be back. I am only thankful that your father will not have to live to see it, and I pray my children will not either.”

“And you?’ Alunah asked, sensing that her mother’s reminiscing had ended their argument.

Immiel gave a small smile. “I will be on the front line, and I shall beat any with my scythe, any who try to set so much as one poisonous foot on my land.”

Alunah smiled. “That would be a magnificent sight,” she said. “I should dearly love to see you flay the elves within an inch of their lives.”

“You shall not be here,” Immiel said. “You shall have left this village to go to Stillvalley Castle with your soul’s mate.”

The atmosphere in the room changed perceptively. It was a common joke in the Lightfeather house, not entirely unfounded on hope. Immiel would cast her pale eyes to the rough plastered wall and put for the suggestion that the reason her daughter still lived with her on the old family farm was because she was destined for a nobleman, who would come at any opportune moment to whisk her Alunah away to the Castle. Noblemen were thin on the ground in Havenlock, the village which the two of them inhabited, but deep down inside, Immiel treasured the hope that the day would, indeed, come at last. Alunah looked down at the scrubbed wooden floor as her mother eyed her with a new intensity.

“I worry, Alunah,” Immiel sighed.

Alunah stood up, no longer wanting to speak of her future. “I’m tired,” she muttered.

“Alunah,” Immiel called softly, but her daughter had already escaped through the door and ran upstairs clutching her water-soaked skirts in her hands.

Immiel sighed and glanced back to the picture of her long-dead mate. “I will not say I wish you were here, Lionel, for I do not. I am glad you were spared this anxiety. You had a good heart, but you were a weak man.” With that, Immiel kissed the tips of her fingers and lightly put them to the paper, before extinguishing the candles and groping her way upstairs in the dark.

Soul Catchers

2010-02-19T08:29:00.004+08:00

Destiny has your soul.

What if there was a place where there was a somebody for everybody? In the kingdom of Stillvalley, everyone has a soulmate - whether they like it or not.

But when one young farm girl appears to flout destiny and reach her sixteenth birthday without her soul's mate, danger threatens to cloud Stillvalley and destroy it from the outside in. The King's Wards are slipping, allowing contingents of the kingdom's most deadly enemies, the elves, to enter by stealth and destroy Stillvalley.

Only Alunah, the farm girl who managed to escape destiny, can save the kingdom now. Accompanied by a poacher called Wren and armed only with her handy sickle, Alunah must travel to Stillvalley Castle and consult the most famous witch in the land. But Alunah's quest to find her soul's mate and save the kingdom will change the way she views the world forever. Loyalties will be tested, fears realised, and nothing in Stillvalley will ever be the same.

Chapter One

Project 365

2010-01-20T19:49:00.001+08:00

It's the time of year to make New Year's Resolutions, so here's mine; I'm going to complete the 365 Days Challenge by this time next year.

Run by the amazing Scribbler's Abode, Project 365 challenges you to do something creative - photography, art, or writing - each day, every day, for an entire year. So I've decided to apply it to my writing, and I'll be posting snippets, short stories and excerpts as I go. The 365 logo shows that this piece is a part of the challenge, but for all my WIPs I'll still have a little icon to show which story it belongs to. The main story I'll be focusing on this year is Mr Feathercott's Business, and I'll post up the summary for that very soon.

Last night I wrote a short story which I hope to post up soon; it was really just to get into the mood, but I'll say this now; I'm really excited about this challenge. It's something to keep me motivated and focused, and I sincerely hope it will help my writing too.

Soul Catchers

Please Sir, I Want Some More

2009-12-22T20:17:00.000+08:00

IT'S very well known that I'm a sucker for a good BBC miniseries, and so I was very excited to watch Oliver Twist last Sunday, because I'm always up for some Dickens. What I like most about modern interpretations of Dickens is that they tone down some of the sentimentality of his work and really tease out the weighty issues of the text.

Now, first things first, this adaptation aired in 2007 on the BBC, and it's pretty disgusting that we're getting it at the end of 2009. But whatever. We are, after all, living on the bottom of the world. XD

I certainly wasn't disappointed with this new adaptation.
The cast is good, the script well done, and in general it was thoroughly enjoyable. William Miller was good as Oliver Twist, and Timothy Spall as Fagin was very good, he made me feel a certain amount of pity for the character, as I did when I read the book. Monks was wonderfully creepy; I think Julian Rhind-Tutt is pretty good at playing a villain. Tom Hardy as Sikes was brilliant; he was very creepy and threatening and certainly looks much better than he did in Wuthering Heights. He was probably my favourite, simply for the fact that he was so loathsome.

At times I thought the writers changed things around in such a way as to make me wonder how they're going to get out of the hole they've dug for themselves. Rose living with Mr Brownlow, for example, and Monks being related to him. I liked the fact they sent Rose out onto the bad streets of London to search for Oliver; she's one of those overly 'good' characters I can't stand, and giving her a bit more pluck and courage made me like her a little more.

The scenery was excellent, as well, and the contrasts between the London streets where the thieves live and the Brownlow's house really bring out the differences in lifestyle which were such a big problem in Dickens' time.

All in all, I enjoyed watching the first part of Oliver Twist and can't wait to watch the conclusion next week.

Rereading 2009 - or, My Year of Reading Dangerously

2009-12-15T14:52:00.001+08:00

I'M a little bit behind this time, but I love the 'Road Trip Wednesdays' over at YA Highway, and last week's was a particularly interesting one I was eager to answer, because it gives me the chance to look over the past year, reading-wise. I've decided to add a few questions of my own, just to really summarise 2009. So, the questions:

1) What are the three best books you've read this year?

1.) Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Bronte. I've gushed about this book at length, but that's because I really did love it. I spent a lot of this year reading books I really didn't enjoy, so to sit down and read this book, and end up devouring it in about three days, was a joy. It helped me find that love of reading that I'd lost this year.

2.) City of Glass by Cassandra Clare. These books made me return to YA fiction with a vengeance, for which I'm glad. They're full of action, which I like, but there's a heapload of tension throughout the book and I loved reading it.

3.) 44 Scotland Street by Alexander McCall Smith. Another book I simply couldn't put down. This book, and its sequels, kept me reading right through. The characters are delightful and endearing right from the first page. You can't help but love them and it keeps you hooked on this series like nothing else.

2) If you could meet one author (living or dead), who would it be?

I guess this one is pretty easy. It would have to be Jane Austen, my all-time favourite author. Not only do I believe she'd be a very amusing guest and a fascinating conversationalist, but there's just so little known about her. I'd have a few questions for her. Like:

"Tell me, Jane - can I call you Jane? - tell me, did you ever actually fall in love? or were you just writing emotional propaganda?"

and

"Say, what's with this Tom Lefory character, anyway? Did you two, like, hook up? or was it just a fling?"

and

"If you were alive today, d you think you would still be writing books about marriage?"

and finally:

"Is there any man on earth who even remotely resembles Mr Darcy in any way? Or is he really too delicious to be true?"

Ok, so maybe I'm playing up my teenage-speak a little. But I honestly would love to meet Jane Austen. She was so mysterious, it would be fascinating to get into that head and learn just a little bit about who the real Jane Austen really was.
3) What book are you most looking forward to in 2010?

Hmm. That would probably have to be the first book in Cassandra Clare's new Infernal Devices series. It looks awesome, and I love the Victorian/steampunk setting, I have very high hopes for this book.

...and my own questions:

4.) Three worst books of 2009?

1.) The Mysteries of Udolpho by Ann Radcliffe. I was initially attracted to this book because of Northanger Abbey, which is one of my favourite Austen novels. Catherine Morland is obsessed with Udolpho in the book, and when I saw it into the book in the library I knew I had to see what it was like.

Four volumes later, I was finished. First of all, I was ready for a really good scaring in Udolpho. The only time I felt so much as a prickle of fear was near the end of the fourth volume. I think you really have to read the novel from a nineteenth century perspective to understand what was so terrifying about this book; not the ghosts or castles or bodies but the loose morals of the antagonists.

What really prevented me from getting into this book was the main character. She was irritatingly good - saintly, really - and when faced with a difficult decision she did one of two things, which was to faint or cry, sometimes both, though not at the same time (I hope) as that would have been terribly uncomfortable. All in all, I'm glad this book isn't widely read anymore; Emily is not the sort of heroine young women should be looking up to. (But then neither is Bella Swan, so perhaps modern heroines are no better.)

2.) The Last Man by Mary Shelley. I thought this book, as what is probably the first post-apocalyptic novel in the style of so many Uglies and Pretties of today's world would be a really cool read. Added to that was the persuasion that it was written by none other than the author of Frankenstein, which some say was the first science fiction novel ever. (Wouldn't that look good on your resume?)

But I was sadly disappointed with The Last Man. First of all because it's quite easy to argue that Shelley has a feminist agenda in writing Frankenstein; it's much harder to see that in this book, which is polluted by nineteenth century patriarchal values and is, essentially, a love song to Shelley's deceased husband and his big, bad buddy Byron. I can understand why, in her creeping and lonely middle age, Shelley wrote The Last Man, but it's just nowhere near as good as Frankenstein. Like Frankenstein, the main character quickly becomes a pain, and questionable in terms of his hopes, beliefs and motives. I found this book immensely hard to get through and was left with a sense of dissatisfaction which also affected the way I looked at the rest of Shelley's work as well.

3.) Fairest, by Gail Carson Levine. I hovered between love and hate, but ultimately I think it was written for a younger, less mature audience and I found the simplistic writing style a little irritating. There seemed to be very little motivation for anything; the main character seemed to do everything simply because, well, she wasn't pretty. It was the explanation for everything and I think it was blown a little out of proportion, despite being the basis of the plot.

5.) Longest time reading which book?

This one would have to be a tie. I think it was between Udolpho, The Last Man, and Ivanhoe, with Ivanhoe being the only one I really enjoyed, despite how long it took to get into.

6.) Shortest?

That would have to be No One Writes to the Colonel, by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. This was a beautiful, short book which I finished in one morning. I love the way Marquez writes and Of Love and Other Demons was also among my favourite books this year.

7.) 'Most Worth It' of 2009?
Dante's Inferno would be it, without a doubt. Thought it took a long time to read, and I kept switching between translations, once I'd finished it I felt not only so happy; it's an amazing work, and I haven't even read Purgatorio or Paradiso yet. The way Dante captures the journey through Hell; the way he creates this terrifyingly ordered and structured afterlife is incredible and incredibly disturbing.

8.) Books you almost gave up on?
I almost gave up on Udolpho several times, as well as The Last Man. But I almost gave up on Uglies several times, perhaps because I just didn't enjoy the way it was written. The writing and the characters didn't hold much life for me, but I found that it improved as it went on, so I'm glad I didn't give up.

9.) Most 'different' book you read this year?

I think that would have to be the Agatha Christie books I read, including The Clocks. I've never read crime or mystery books before, so this was a new experience for me, and I really enjoyed it. Hunting and Gathering was another book. I don't know quite how you would class it; perhaps somewhere around 'chick-lit', and it just wasn't the sort of thing I usually read. But I was glad I did, because I really loved reading it.

main picture from deviantart

It's Been A While, Hasn't It?

2009-12-15T13:32:00.000+08:00

SO, it's been some time since I posted anything. Partly that's because I've had a busy month; what with schoolwork and holidays and work. In fact, I've barely picked up a pen to write for more than five weeks. As a result, I've got quite a few ideas running wild and unchecked in my brain.

But first things first: as you may have noticed, I've posted the last few instalments of The Manor on the Moor. It's now well past Halloween so there's absolutely no excuse for it sitting idly on my computer.

Looking over it after a month or more, I found a lot of little errors, as you inevitably do.

I also realised I really don't like Notingham. I asked myself how this had come to happen; perhaps it was partly because he was initially just a character in a 500-word short story for a Halloween competition. But I realised as I refreshed my memory that halfway through the writing I'd created a character I didn't like; and so from that point on I decided to deliberately make him unpleasant, partly as an example of eighteenth century male ego and partly to cover up my own weak writing boo-boo.

Though preferably I'd like to write about characters that I like - but then sometimes I believe a writer needs to be objective, and to treat their characters with caution. Are they doing the right thing? What am I saying, through this character, to the people who read my story?

But I'm glad that the end of The Manor on the Moor is finally out there, for the simple fact that this is the first time in about three years that I've finished a story. So hooray for me!

In other news: I am loving the ABC right now, because this weekend is the beginning of a two-part Oliver Twist miniseries (yay!) which looks very exciting. Life is lookin' good.

The Manor on the Moor: A Letter in the Gothic Style: Letter the Seventh

2009-12-15T13:14:00.001+08:00

Letter the Seventh

To Mrs E— Kirk

London

1st December 18—

Wales

MY Darling E—,

I mentioned in my last letter that my tale is nearly complete. I am going now to Scotland, and thence to Ireland, and thence to – I know not where. The only thing I am sure of is that I am going with the best and dearest of girls, and when I return, I trust you will pay your dutiful and devoted respects to the new Mrs Jane Notingham.

As for myself, I shall always think of my darling girl as Miss Jane. I mentioned that I have very little to say before I set sail and close this tale forever, and it is this – that whether what I experienced is indeed the solid truth, or whether it is as one can imagine, part dream and part reality, I do not know for sure. I do know, however, that my dear girl is flesh-and-blood proof of my story. I love her better, my dear Sister, than I have loved any person in the world. The moor which surrounded my tale and which was the chief cause of it I will never seek out, and I trust no body every will. Though I know I have encountered and learned of the basest and the best parts of human nature, I would not recommend it for any other person in the world.

And now, farewell, dear Sister, until we meet again. I am going to travel the world and hopefully return a well-seasoned man, with a few children and a beloved wife in tow.

Be assured, dearest E—, that no matter how far we may travel, I and Mrs Notingham hold you ever devotedly in our hearts, and sign our names here and now, with the hope that you will accept our love and compliments, &c., forevermore.

Your Loving,

The Manor on the Moor: A Letter in the Gothic Style: Letter the Sixth

2009-12-15T13:10:00.001+08:00

Letter the Sixth

To Mrs Kirk

E—ton House, —shire

31st October 18—

Wales

My Dearest Sister,

I have at last removed to a more comfortable lodging than that which I had hitherto remained in. Being, at last, deemed strong enough to remove myself, Miss Jane was most helpful in the moving and re-establishing of my personage in a smaller but infinitely more comfortable abode. I am now quite settled here and determined to regain my full strength before any continuation of my journey. Your letter much cheered my spirits, and your eagerness to hear the end of my tale prompts me to once again take up Miss Jane’s Tale. I last told you of the machinations of the Knight with respect to the person of Mrs Forbeson. In continuation;
“The Knight went out onto the moor in search of this plant, but could not find it. It grew rarely, and so he was forced to wander across unfamiliar land. With no lamp to guide him as night fell, he tumbled into a bog, breaking both his legs and fracturing his neck, and there he drowned. Thus the household was dissolved, but Mrs Forbeson, loyal to the last, was cursed with remaining in this house. For, unknown to the Knight (who was blinded by ambition and by jealousy, and who had never, I believe, looked at his wife properly above twice since their marriage) the Countess had in secrecy given birth to a child by the Nephew, a little girl. Mrs Forbeson was charged with raising this girl, and the Countess had forced her to swear never to remove the child from the house.”

I quickly perceived how it was; “And you, Miss Jane – you are this child?”
Miss Jane nodded her assent. “I have been cursed to remain in this house forevermore, with Mrs Forbeson as both my mother and my jailer. I love the woman as a mother and despise her as a jailer.”
I reflected at length on the shame it was that Miss Jane had never seen anything of the world; and how hard it was upon a young lady to be imprisoned in such a run-down manor, with all manner of evil things surrounding her. Miss Jane was imprisoned by the moor most thoroughly, for she did not know the way out of it. As she was leaving the room with the only source of light she added, not to add to my terror, of course, that no traveller had yet survived a night in the dreadful house. She looked sad as she departed, and gave me a long glance which seemed to put fire in my veins, and a determination in my heart. I swore I would live out the long night, at whatever cost, and furthermore if I could, free Miss Jane from her prison.

With this determination I retired. No sooner, however, had my eyes closed in sleep than began what I can only describe as a nervous fever; for I drifted in and out of consciousness in a state I had never before experienced. I dreamt many terrible and ghastly things. I dreamt I wore a crimson red Lady’s dress; and a man with a pinched and snake-like face was pursuing me – wanting to marry me. And as I lay in the bed ghostly hands crept over the covers to grasp at my wrist. The dancing Lady returned, her face once more veiled, and her beautiful hands withered before my eyes, and when I lifted the veil with trembling fingers I beheld the skeletal form of Mrs Forbeson.

As I awoke with a cry I thought I should never live through the night; but I arose to find daylight peeking through the grimy window. Shuddering, I dressed with alacrity, though I could not be rid of the smell of musty sheets. I ran down the stairs and nearly collided with Mrs Forbeson, who was standing still on the landing. As I drew more into the light I perceived that it was in fact nothing more than a skeleton, propped up against the wall. Mrs Forbeson was clearly long dead. With a beating heart and terror in my throat, I descended the stairs where there stood a petite female form, the hair covered with a bonnet, and with its back turned to me, pulling on a pair of leather gloves. As I approached I called out, for I recognised it as Miss Jane. She turned to face me, and I saw that her cheeks were sunken and hollow, and, though she was alive, looked to me as if she was more than a hundred years old. Tears filled the once-beautiful eyes. Illusions, I thought to myself. At first I was disgusted by the sight of the once-young woman and determined to escape from the house forthwith; but then recalling how I had sworn upon my honour the night before to free her, I took her hand gently and led her to the door. As I drew closer to the door, however, it creaked upon its hinges and fell to the floor with a crash and a great disturbance of the dust. Bright sunlight filtered through into the shadowy house and as I stepped out to breathe the clean air, Miss Jane followed me timidly, blinking furiously against the light. I now regarded the moor before me, wondering how I was ever to find my way through it. On the horizon, however, I quickly perceived a small fire dancing, and knew at once it was my coachman. By straining my eyes I could just make out the dark form of the carriage in the morning mist, and so set my course for him. As we passed the rusted gate it, too, fell from its hinges and as we descended the hill we could hear the crashing of masonry as the old house collapsed upon itself, and as I led its last living inhabitant far from it.

As we made our way further and further away from the house, across the misty moor, I soon began to see a change in Miss Jane. The further we walked, the quicker our pace became, for her back was beginning to straighten, the lines in her face to unfold, and her hair to lighten. A new kind of joy filled my heart and as the years began to melt from the face of the lovely Miss Jane, I took the lady’s hand and began to trot, then canter, then we were flying across the moor, and it sounds strange, my dearest E—, but I do not believe our feet touched the ground once, until we alighted beside the carriage where the coachman looked very much put out at having to spend a whole night on the fringes of the accursed moor. But Miss Jane and I laughed at it all, and would not hear another word.

And that, my dearest E—, is almost the whole story.

Your Ever Devoted,

The Manor on the Moor: A Letter in the Gothic Style: Letter the Fifth

2009-12-15T13:03:00.001+08:00

Letter the Fifth

To Mrs E— Kirk

E—ton House, —shire

13th October 18—

Wales

My Darling Sister,

Words cannot surprise my happiness – my surprise – at receiving your letter which informs me that you were, in that short period during which I fought for my life, happily engaged in the pursuit of Matrimony. What a shock it was, indeed, to open a letter addressed to me and signed by Mrs Kirk, wife to the esteemed Captain Kirk of the Royal Navy!

My reply comes later than expected, and for that I am truly sorry.
I have been taking short airings, supported by Miss Jane and the Innkeeper (a rough, but a kind-hearted fellow) and upon returning do not find myself up to the task of writing. But I have resolved today to put that at rest. Indeed, these past few days have been gloriously happy, for the company of Miss Jane and Elder, the son of the local factory-owner (not, perhaps, the most esteemed of company, but this is Wales, after all) has been a delight. Both are devoted and caring creatures, and I should have been indeed lost without their guiding hands.

But now I come to my Tale; and I would not sooner delay it than cut off my own hand. It is indeed a fascinating Story, and the more I consider it, the more I believe it would make a very fine Novel; but you yourself may judge from the letters I have sent you. And now to continue with Miss Jane’s Narration.

“He planned his murder carefully. He withdrew himself from the Countess’ society, and as he had hoped, this drew the Countess and the Nephew together more and more, as she relied on his charms to ease the many tedious hours she spent in the house; and ease them he did, so thoroughly that she soon became so absorbed in the Nephew that she barely saw the changing of the seasons nor the dawning of a new day and the setting of the evening sun. It is happy that the Countess knew such gladness before her untimely End; for her husband, in her days of Joy, was plotting and scheming. She suspected nothing, for her mind was on one thing alone, and that was the Nephew. At last, one night, about the midnight hour, the Knight crept up to the Countess’ chamber, where he knew her to be secluded with the Nephew. The Knight had added a little sleeping-herb to their drinks at the dinner table, and so when he crept up he knew them well to be fast asleep. He had with him a shining Knight’s dagger, studied with rubies along the hilt. He entered the Countess’ chamber, where he found the nephew and the countess wrapped in each other’s arms, the Countess with a look of contentment on her beautiful face, the Nephew wearing a serene and blissful expression on his own. They lay like two young fawns, or birds; tender and innocent young forest-animals, as the hulking Bear approached them. The Knight was quick in the deed; with one well-executed thrust, he stabbed his wife straight through the Heart. The woman had been wearing a beautiful white gown, and when the blade pierced her heart, the scarlet blood quickly soaked through the dress and pooled about her heart where the blade had entered. And strange as it may seem, as the blood pooled, it formed a very distinct shape; a kind of shimmering ring about the heart of the Countess.”

As Jane described this to me, I suddenly recalled the pattern of the dress which the Lady had been wearing as I had been dancing with her. The rubies on her bodice had indeed formed the shape of two intertwining rings, though I had not recognised it as such. Was this, then, the lady? But before I could ask, Miss Jane had continued her Narration.

“The Nephew, meanwhile, had been somewhat aroused by the force of the blow and the small gasp the Countess had given upon her demise. The drug, too, was beginning to wear off, and the Nephew was stirring. For him, the Knight had reserved the worse punishment; his face was deformed by the Knight as he wielded the small dagger. His Heart the Knight cut out of his chest while it was still beating, and threw it out of the window. With that, the Knight left the two lovers entwined together in the Countess’ chamber. Though the Nephew’s wounds bled profusely, the Countess’ bled only into the pattern of two interlocking rings, and after that she bled no more.

“The Knight cleverly convinced the Household that the Nephew had been murdered by the Countess before she had turned the blade on herself; but one servant – the Housekeeper, in fact – protested that this was a lie. The pattern on the Countess’ chest, and the way in which the pair were entwined together, suggested to the Housekeeper that this had not been a suicide, or a crime of passion on the part of two young lovers. She suspected the Knight, and openly denounced him. The Knight, enraged by her penetration of the case, hastily left the house and wandered onto the moor in search of a rare herb which grew there, to place in Mrs Forbeson’s drink, which would kill her without leaving a trace.”

Miss Jane now calls me from below, My Dearest E—. Rest assured, however, that I shall not long leave you in suspense in this Tale of Horror.

My compliments to your new husband, Dearest E—, and I remain Yours Ever, &c., &c.,

The Manor on the Moor: A Letter in the Gothic Style: Letter the Fourth

2009-12-15T12:54:00.002+08:00

Letter the Fourth

To Miss E— Notingham

Henrow House, —shire

2nd October 18—

Wales

My Dearest E—,

I continue my Narration with no more interruptions, for I must and will finish this Tale for you. I too am anxious to unburden myself of it, and this History will no doubt live on in our family. I trust for this reason you will retain my letters to you that we may entertain our children and they in turn their own children with tales of my Adventure, what one may say is currently my only claim (though I trust it will not long remain so) to Fame.

So, as I have said, I reached the landing accompanied by the woman Mrs Forbeson had named Jane. She gave me a friendly smile and began to lead me past an immense tapestry, the colour of which was so faded that I could make out neither picture nor pattern. As we walked in oppressive silence, I ventured to address her thus,

“Miss Jane” – for I had no other name for her – “Would you be so good as to describe to me what this place is?”
Miss Jane turned to me with a sad smile (though I was glad to see she did not amend my address to her) and said softly, “Even I do not properly know what it is, Mr Notingham, and it has been my home for eighteen long years.”
I enquired as to her birthplace, and she sorrowfully replied, “This very house, Mr Notingham.”
As we entered the dim chamber where I was to repose, I studied at length her Angelic features, not unlike, now that I saw the likeness, the face of that beautiful dancing Lady. Miss Jane, however, was pale, and fair, and less Aristocratic and more Gentle in Countenance. She was altogether more pleasing in aspect, and I begged her to enlighten me as to the house’s history. She assented, and seated herself on a dilapidated Ottoman Seat, the likes of which I have never before seen in our house. She began to tell me the tale of the building.

“This house once belonged to a very great and very rich Knight, who married a poor lady with whom he had fallen in love. But on their Wedding-Night she revealed herself to be a great Countess. This Countess, having come of age, had chanced to see the Knight riding out one day and had fallen madly in love with him. But, not wishing to enter into a Marriage with a man who chose her simply for her wealth, the Countess had disguised herself as a poor woman and had entered into the Knight’s service. At length the two fell in love and so great was the Knight’s passion that he married her despite her apparent poverty. When she revealed her true position in the world on the night of their Marriage the Knight was overjoyed, and her happiness could not have been more complete.

“But the Knight was by nature Greedy, and the wealth which his wife brought to the marriage was not enough for him, despite his passion, to so easily overcome. The Countess, to protect her own interests, was to retain control of her own fortune; the Knight could not touch it without her permission. For a long while this was immaterial, and both husband and wife were happy with each other and their love for one another. But the Knight, one evening, decided to throw the most magnificent ball that had e’er been seen this side of Christendom, to celebrate the anniversary of his marriage to the Countess. The Knight spared no expense, and in short, it was the most lavish and exquisite evening that had ever been seen. The Knight, unawares, had spent his entire fortune on the entertainments, which were spectacular. He threw his money away wildly, convinced that he would easily be able to live off the Countess’ fortune alone. He soon learned, however, that the Countess, having seen the way in which he spent his money – wildly and without restraint – was decidedly against letting him have so much as a penny, for Fear of his wasting it all and leaving the two of them Destitute. Aware of this, the Knight quickly grew angry and jealous. The Countess had already begun to show a coldness towards him, and what is more, an inclination towards another, younger man who was often in the house and who was the Nephew of the Knight. The Knight, torn by what he saw as a disloyalty, vowed to destroy the Countess and lay a hold, if he could, on her fortune…”

This is where I must leave you now, my Dearest Sister, but do not fear for my Safety or Health, for indeed I am well looked after.

Your Loving Brother,

Miss Austen Regrets... Several Things?

2009-11-18T15:47:00.001+08:00

GREAT was my excitement when I saw on the ABC site that Miss Austen Regrets (made in 2008) would FINALLY be screening in Australia. I saw it advertised last year when it was shown in the UK, and I just couldn't believe we'd finally gotten it. I taped it when it was on but only just got around to watching it today. I sat down with a warm blanket and noodles determined to flood my brain with all things Austen.

Now, the story...

Miss Austen Regrets attempts to re-create the final years of Jane Austen's life, apparently using some of her letters and so on which survived. Jane Austen's life is, I think, both a disappointment and an excitement for movie-makers everywhere, simply for the fact that there's so infuriatingly little information about it. Of course, this means they're almost completely free to write whatever their hearts desire, and if Austen fans complain that it's hogwash, they can smugly reply, 'And how would you know?'

Miss Austen Regrets really plays up the flirtateous side of Jane Austen's reported nature. I found myself nodding along to a few famous lines; 'A large income is the best recipie for happiness...', for example. The Jane Austen in this film was very flirty, which made it seem strange that she'd never married as not only was she 'friendly' (wink wink) but the various men (including the young ones!) seemed genuinely interested.

And it seems there's been a craze for it lately, too; trying to give Jane Austen whirlwind romances which somehow justify her as a writer of romantic fiction and make all the romantic Austen fans in us sigh with hope for our own humdrum futures. Take Becoming Jane, for instance, a film which paints Tom Lefroy as the 'love of her life'. I remember when I watched that movie my eyebrows were raised so high they almost graced my hairline with their presence, and that was partly from the inconceivability of Anne Hathaway playing Jane Austen and partly for the pure wonder that is James Mc Avoy in Regency costume.

Miss Austen Regrets was not the most amazing of films; watching it you got a sense you were watching a slightly bleaker version of a Jane Austen novel, and this sort of prevented me from seeing it as anything but that. I wasn't convinced by Olivia William's performance. She wasn't bad, but she didn't convince me I was watching a chapter of Jane Austen's life. By the end of the movie I did, admittedly, find myself shedding a few tears, and I realised this was because over the course of the film, I had quickly given up the idea that I was watching Jane Austen, and instead settled for a nice period drama where I couldn't remember any of the character's names and everybody ended, not unhappily, but on a melancholy note.

On the whole, Miss Austen Regrets, as a film about an ageing woman and the regrets she has had throughout her life, as well as the choice between marriage and hard work/fame (apparently in her day the two were mutually exclusive. How dull) was not too bad. I ended up getting quite caught up in it but it took a long while to get into the film initially, perhaps because I approached it quite sceptically, having been disappointed by Jane Austen life stories in the past. In the end, all of the films on Austen's life are largely speculative, and I enjoyed watching this version of it.

What Do You Read?

2009-11-12T18:10:00.000+08:00

OVER at Young Adult Highway, the question this week for their Road Trip Wednesday was:

Topic #6: What else do you read, besides YA?

I'm one of those annoying people who likes to go around saying they read 'everything'. Which is not strictly true. I read a lot of the 'Classics'. I love Jane Austen and the Brontes, and I also really like Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

I'm not big on magazines; that's the one thing I barely ever read. I like historical fiction, including prehistoric (I read The Clan of the Cave Bear a few months ago...
and thought it was great. Though I agree with Kaitlin in her post that the description was at times WAY too long. But I do admire the depth of Auel's research for that book. For a long time I was really into historical fiction. I'm not so much anymore, but I admit I do still like it.

Hem. Gosh. It's harder than I thought listing the stuff I read. I figure it would just be easier to list what I don't read. I don't really like horror books. I don't mind vampire/werewolf stuff but all-out horror I'm not a fan of. I don't particularly like mysteries, though I admit I do love Agatha Christie.

Suspense also really isn't my speed. I love fantasy though; when I was little it was all I read. I've lost track of the number of times I've read The Chronicles of Narnia. I don't read as much fantasy nowadays, though.

And that's about it. It's strange trying to list everything like this. I'll probably turn off the computer and think of another five things to put on this list.

Picture is from Deviantart

Columbine Icefly, the Goddess of Scandanavia

2009-11-11T14:19:00.000+08:00

I'M one of those people who has an obsession for online quizzes and name generators. I was browsing just this afternoon and came across a fairy name generator. Now I've always wondered, if I had wings and was ten centimetres tall, what they'd call me. It seems they'd call me something like:

Your fairy is called Columbine Icefly

She is a bone chilling bringer of justice for the vulnerable.

She lives in mushroom fields and quiet meadows.

She is only seen at midday under a quiet, cloudless sky.

She wears lilac and purple like columbine flowers. She has icy blue butterfly wings.

Get your free fairy name here!

Cool, right? Although to be honest I'm not sure about the colour purple. It really doesn't go with my eyes. Especially my blood-red vampire eyes:

The Great Archives determine you to have gone by the identity:

Goddess of Scandanavia

Known in some parts of the world as:

Mother of The Vile

The Great Archives Record:

Vile, foul, filthy and greedy: this creature knows nothing of light.

That's me, all right! Seriously, try it. It's addictive. :D

As for me, I've just finished reading Brisingr, the third Inheritance book. I have very mixed feelings about this one; I'm not a huge fan of the Eragon books anyway, and at times I found it a drag, and at others it was really interesting. Here's my full review from Goodreads:

Brisingr by Christopher Paolini

My rating: 2 of 5 stars
I find this book a little mixed. Sometimes I found it really interesting, and at others I found it a real drag. I liked the Roran parts, but the Eragon parts began to drag a lot. Also, I missed Murtagh. Where is he? I seriously hope he's more involved in the final book, as he was one of my favourite characters!

Having said that, I thought there were some really cool ideas in this book. The soldiers who couldn't feel pain, and the Trial of the Long Knives, though a little unnerving, was an interesting concept. I think I'll have to read the final book before I can make up my mind about this series.

View all my reviews >>

It was OK. A bit rubbery. Tasted Like Chicken.

2009-11-10T18:53:00.000+08:00

DON"T The Beatles have some of the weirdest lyrics in the world? Maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm not listening to the right stuff. But honestly. Look at this. I was listening to Octopus's Garden just a little while ago, and wondering what must have possessed Ringo Starr when he wrote it:

" I'd like to be, under the sea
In an octopus' garden in the shade

He'd let us in, knows where we've been

in his octupus' garden, in the shade.

I'd ask my friends to come and see

An octopus' garden with me

I'd like to be under the sea

In an octopus' garden in the shade.

We would be warm, below the storm

In our little hideaway beneath the waves

Resting our head, on the sea bed

In an octopus' garden near a cave "

Having said that, it is an awesome song. It's fun to listen to, but then perhaps I'm just a little too serious about it...

God I'm hungry. I don't know why I just wrote that, but I can't remember the last time I ate a proper meal. Which is bad, considering I've been consuming ridiculous amounts of cough syrup and Vitamin C. I am feeling a little better, but I wish this nagging cold could go away so I can SWIM! The water looks fantastic, and I'm dying to go to the beach.

Imaginariums and Crunchy Nuts

2009-11-08T15:52:00.001+08:00

WELL, time is hurrying by without even bothering to stop and say hello (unforgivably rude) and I've been in a terribly lazy, over-the-counter-flu-tablet-induced stupor for most of the week (damn those pesky colds). I did manage to drag myself out of bed, I must admit, to go to the movies the other day. I decided on The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus as I've always been quite a Heath Ledger fan. Plus I'm a sucker for bizarre, twisted fantasy, and I must say I wasn't disappointed. The film was definitely well-made, but at times your brain threatened to explode watching it, because there was just so much to take in all at once. But it was definitely a testament to the creators' resilience that they didn't let Heath Ledger's death stop their film (with a budget of $30 million dollars I don't think they could afford to let it) and in the end I think it turned out very well...

The visual effects were good. What else can I say? I like Terry Gilliam's style. The costumes were awesome, and I must say I loved Anton's Mercury makeup. His 'Fat Lady' costume was hilarious too. Which reminds me; I saw a trailer for Alice in Wonderland while I was there and it looks amazing, so there's another date on my calendar for 2010.

And then this morning; several hours of dull, dull, dull study in preparation for a set of hideous exams which I would sooner eat my own hand than discuss aloud, unless it be to complain about them. I seem to do a lot of complaining. Which brings me to the other thing that happened this morning and which I want to discuss simply for the fact that I don't have anything more worthwhile to think about in my everyday life. The issue of breakfast cereal naturally weighs heavily on my mind. I've been watching those silly Crunchy Nut ads on TV for years; you know, where ordinary people go to extreme lengths to get a bowlful of Crunchy Nut, when any sane person would argue the only way a person could be driven to do such things would be if the individual corn flakes were made of solid gold. But whatever. I decided to try them this morning and discovered a magical fact known only to small children and producers of breakfast cereals. And it is this: Crunchy Nut is the adult's Frosties. They're pretty much exactly the same thing. Corn Flakes coated in a thick layer of sweet crap. It's like diabetes in a bowl. Not that there's anything wrong with that, of course. But for those adults who find they would be too ashamed to eat cereal out of a box with a grinning tiger on the front of it (can't say I blame them) the good folks at Kellogg's have answered their plea. Is that not kind? Personally, I always thought the tiger was a little creepy. I don't like the thought of being greeted by a carnivorous animal first thing in the morning. For one thing, I might get confused and think it's my reflection, seeing as the Morning Me would make a tiger look like Skippy the Kangaroo.

In Pursuit of the Nano

2009-11-03T18:18:00.002+08:00

WITH the spirit of Nanowrimo in the air, I've been thinking about last year's all-out Nanowrimo challenge. It was the first time I'd heard about Nano and I was eager to give it a go. Reading over my completed novel today made me wish I had the time to do it this year. It's a lot of fun, writing flat-out for a month; it's even more fun when you're juggling exams, housework and Christmas plans into the bargain. But I finished it in the end, and I remember just how proud I was when I opened up the certificate pdf.

I was considering doing Nano this year for a while...

Last year certainly wasn't the best time to do it (being during exams and all) but I don't think it was too great a distraction. And then there's the feeling of accomplishment, too. It's the first and only novel I've ever completed, and I somehow have the feeling that if I don't do something similar again soon I'll become too unused to the feeling of completing something like this.

Having said that, some of the writing is truly terrible. Here's a sample from my first and only Nano novel, In Pursuit of the Fox. It's the story of plucky nurse Adelaide Forster who, when a meteor crashes to earth, falls in love with a mysterious space-man who appears at the scene and then disappears in a flash, as all awesome space-men inevitably do. This is a scene where Adelaide, at a dinner party, gets talking to an eccentric scientist who believes he's built a time machine.

" "Oh, no. I'm not sure if I could let that happen," he said. "I don't know if it's safe or not. I mean... anything could happen and I don't want to just send people out like that at random."
"Fair point. But with something like a time machine, you can't exactly test it like any other machine," Kenmore pointed out. "I mean, how would you do it, for a start?"
"Oh, I've already sent a hamster out there," Roy said cheerfully. "It worked... though the hamster couldn’t exactly tell me about it," he conceded.
"So how do you know it worked?" Talia asked.
"Oh, it came back with a genuine medieval spear. I took it to all the experts and everything. Tested the wood and the make. I suppose it could always be lying."
"Wood never lies," Kenmore said.
"You never know," Roy joked. "We have some pretty strange trees down my way. They're almost feral." "

I don't remember what exactly I was thinking, but I believe I wrote that part about the hamster in all seriousness. Which kind of worries me. But then, when and where else would you find a medieval spear-wielding hamster if not in Nanowrimo month?

It's strange, but I remember being insanely proud of my story, despite the fact that a) I wasn't a science fiction or a romance enthusiast; b) I had no clear or logical idea about what a future of the earth might involve, and c) I'd written most of it at top speed using a tool on the internet which forced you to write quickly and consistently or it began to make a truly terrible noise. Mind you, that's not to say I thought my plot was terrible; but as time went on I inevitably found it turning out very differently from what I'd planned; kind of like this post, actually.

As I've said, I toyed with the idea of doing Nano this year for a long time, but eventually I decided that it would probably be tempting fate too much, and I didn't want any major distractions this month. It's probably a decision for the best, though not one that thrills me terribly. But I've got a lot of stuff planned for this summer, and although I won't write a whole novel this November, I might manage one over December, January, February, and March.

Looking Up

2009-11-02T15:01:00.003+08:00

Hah. After much agonising searching (nearly half the morning, actually) I've managed to fix the blog layout and the Amazing Disappearing Sidebar. It looks like it was something in the posts themselves, possibly helped along by the fact that I'd copied and pasted the Manor on the Moor stuff straight from Word. In the end I was forced to delete the posts and code them all myself. Luckily I've only got a few posts to my name!

I watched the second half of Wuthering Heights last night and was pretty happy with how it turned out. From what I can remember of the book...

(and admittedly I did read it quite a while ago) it seemed to stick to the plot pretty well, so no complaints there.

But now to more important business. Namely, my reading of Jane Eyre, which has progressed so rapidly that I'm starting to get depressed at the lack of pages. Can I just say that Mr Rochester is probably coming dangerously close to overtaking Mr Darcy as my favourite hero in literature? Yes, apparently I just can't get enough of the dark and brooding types. Worrying? Possibly.

Be that as it may, It's hard not to like this sardonic but romantic character, and it's helped by the fact that although I was wary of Jane Eyre as a character, she too is likeable and does not make me want to reach into the book and slap her every time she opens her mouth. Unless something really drastic happens in the next 100 or so pages, I think I've got another Favourite Book For Life. Pride and Prejudice (in fact, all the Austen books) has been up there for as long as I can remember, but Jane Eyre looks very promising.

The best part, however, came when Jane, at one point, had to make A Very Difficult Decision, which I will not spoil by writing about it exactly, though it appears in Chapter 20, I believe. She stands up for herself and shows strong self-respect and determination, and for the first time in the long time I actually spoke when reading a book; I said something along the lines of, "Jane Eyre, you are amazing." And that, dear friends, is the story of how Jane Eyre became one of my favourite books of all time.

I can't wait to finish reading, now, because I'm eager to see the TV versions. That's another joy, although just looking at the girl I've got a small fear that the woman playing Jane Eyre is one of those actresses who I have an incredibly hard time liking. Mr Rochester, too, doesn't look like I pictured him at all; but I suppose that's inevitable. Anyway, mustn't judge by appearances, right?

Also there appears to be another production in the works with, of all people, Ellen Page as Jane. This strikes me as a little... stupid. Page is a good actress but she's good at playing a very specific character. I've never seen her in anything so far which convinces me she's the right person to play one of the most famous heroines of English literature. Apart from all else... she's American. I can't imagine anything worse than a Jane Eyre with an American accent, as these sorts of scenarios often end up... and that's the best-case scenario, too.

Ok. Perhaps a touch melodramatic, but I still have my reservations.

But who cares? Jane's just left Mr Rochester's to go... God knows where. But I'm about to find out!

The Manor on the Moor: A Letter in the Gothic Style: Letter the Third

2009-11-01T16:33:00.042+08:00

Letter the Third

To Miss E— Notingham
Henrow House, —shire

1st October 18—
Wales

MY Dearest Sister E—,

I thank you for your kind letter, which reached me in good time. The post is slow here, but that is not, I confess, the reason for my delay in replying to your letter. Though I do not wish to alarm you, I must explain my long silence which surely caused you much anxiety. Not long after despatching my last letter to you, I was taken to bed with a fever, and for many days lay unconscious of time and human presence. I surely felt that I had come near to the end, and in my fevered lamentations was greatly sorry that I could not write to you even once to bid you adieu. I spent the better part of September unwell here at this unsavoury inn, with nobody to attend me but a lady I will later dwell upon at length, Miss Jane, who is an uncommonly hard-working and kindly girl. She offered many a time to pen a letter to you but I did not wish to alarm you by sending tidings in another’s hand, which I was convinced would only serve to distress you more. But let that matter rest – I am now strong enough to hold my pen again, and Miss Jane has been clever in fashioning, with the help of the local blacksmith, a kind of writing-table which I may use from the comfort of my bed, thereby eliminating the need to spend many hours in the draughty room, sitting up rather than remaining in my current position.

But I have now done with myself – You are no doubt anxious to hear the continuation of my story, which you showed so much enthusiasm for in your letter. I believe I left off with the unveiling of the beautiful lady with whom I was dancing. And indeed she was a Lady, for she had the most Angelic face I had ever seen, with dark curling hair and a long and elegant nose. She was a born Aristocrat if I have ever seen one in my life. But as she whispered that fatal word – “Murder!” – my breath caught in my body as all at once I found myself alone in a dark and musty room, my arm entwined with thin air. I had danced right into a cobweb, and as I did so tripped over an End Table which was covered with all manner of dusty Things, a frame and a small box which toppled to the ground. I bent to retrieve it but a harsh voice cried out, “Leave it!” I looked about, and demanded aloud to know who had spoken. At the top of a moulding staircase stood a woman dressed in a drab grey dress which might once have been very pretty indeed. But the woman was as faded and wrinkled as the dress itself, and so covered in dust besides that she looked like a part of the house’s peeling wallpaper.

She demanded my name, which I reluctantly provided, and as I looked up at her in her magnificent position I wondered if this was indeed what one might call a Relic. Her beetle-eyes stared down at me and I felt as though my skin were crawling with thousands of the little black animals. My breath left me, and I felt chilled to the bone. Terror pulsed through the Heart of me.
“I have come to seek shelter,” I told her haltingly, as if I was being examined. She certainly did examine me with her gaze, as her withered bonnet flopped on her grey head. I begged the favour of a dry room for the night, and after gazing at me piercingly for a moment she slowly turned and called up the staircase,
“Come here, Child!” A voice replied, and I turned around trying to ascertain from which direction it came. The woman pointed up the staircase to where a shadowy figure lurked. “There,” she said. “There is your room, Mr Notingham, much good may it do you!” She said my name with a kind of contempt in her harsh voice which would have sent a shudder down my Spine had I been less in control of myself. Unaware what to do but go whither I was sent, I began to mount the creaking stairs. The rotting wood at every moment threatened to collapse and take me with it to the dark damp earth below, and I trod as lightly as I was able to. At length I mounted the top stair and drew eye-level with the woman. She glared at me and, when I enquired as to her name, she replied,
“I am Mrs Forbeson, young man, and I am the housekeeper here. If you wish to remain here tonight, you will follow young Jane to your chamber.” As she said this she pointed to the shadowed figure, likewise that of a woman. From what I could see, however, she appeared to be better dressed than Mrs Forbeson. I was unwilling to turn my back on the old woman, but it was necessary to climb the second flight of stairs and reach this Jane. I could feel the cold stare of Mrs Forbeson on the back of my neck as I climbed. At last I drew level with Jane, and turned around to find that Mrs Forbeson had disappeared, without a sound, from the creaking staircase. Jane then held up a lighted candle and I saw for the first time her simple, sweet, and honest face in the dull yellow candlelight.
“This way, if you please, Sir,” she said, and led on.

And now I am growing weary again, Dearest E—, for which you must forgive me. I will write again tomorrow but I am anxious to get this reply to you soon that it may ease your Concerns for my Welfare.

Believe me, &c., &c.,

Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, and Emma. Quite Possibly Heaven?

2009-11-01T16:17:00.005+08:00

IT'S been a long time since I sat down and coded anything, and I must admit the thought doesn't thrill me. Easy-to-customise layouts were made for lazy people like me. I've been trying to fix up the sidebar on the right, but it's persistent in wanting to hang round down the bottom of the page, for some unknown reason. Anyone who knows how I can get this pesky critter back where he belongs...

please let me know!! :D I've been trying to add a nice little widget, too, from Goodreads(my current obsession) Unfortunately it's being less than co operative so we're getting nowhere fast. It was a very pretty widget, too.

Next things next: I've been reading Jane Eyre for the past few hours:

This is one thing I've been meaning to do for a long time, and I'm glad I finally got to it. I was worried I wouldn't particularly like it, but I needn't have feared. I'm about ten chapters in and I'm already hooked. I've been wondering whether people in the 19th century, when the book was published, actually believed it could be written by a man. Did they really believe it? That a man could have such thorough knowledge of female schools, and the female psyche for that matter. Considering many women (eg Mary Shelley), when they chose to write, wrote with male narrators, I find it strange that people wouldn't suspect. Certainly all the male writers of the 19th century wrote using male narrators. (Not all all, I admit; Charles Dickens in Bleak House is one example)

And then there's Wuthering Heights on tonight. I was rather disappointed to learn it's not, in fact, a BBC production.

Still, it's fairly well-made, and I'm looking forward to watching the second part tonight.

I am comforted in this, however, with the knowledge that while Wuthering Heights is not BBC, I will hopefully soon have something to comfort me in he midst of painful exams and end of year Christmas madness. And it is this: a 4-part BBC series of Emma. I think I've just died and gone to Austen heaven. It's the place all good Austenites go to die.

Unfortunately, there's no hint as to when it'll be screening in Australia, and this has put me out. It could be as late as next year, though it's already finished in the UK. But if the US is getting it soon, it means we still have a while to wait down here.

Ah, well. For now merely the thought shall sustain me. The reviews look very good so far, and the actress playing Emma was one of my favourite actresses for a while when I was about 13 or 14. So I'm greatly looking forward to this, and combing the ABC website when I can.

The Manor on the Moor: A Letter in the Gothic Style: Letter the Second

2009-11-01T09:21:00.010+08:00

Letter The Second
To Miss E— Notingham, London

25th August 18—
Wales

My Dearest E—,

Having attempted, over the course of yesterday’s rest, to improve the state of my Health, which is not, I fear, at its very best (though certainly not nearly so bad as to trouble yourself with, my dearest E—) I have again come to my writing-desk to pen the promised tale of Horror to you. I trust the first instalment was amusing, and to your liking – certainly it was diverting for my own sake. The experience of it will live on in my Remembrance I believe, until my Final Hour. And so, without further ado, Dearest Sister (for I know how you hate to be diverted from the topic you are most interested in) I continue with my tale.

I had just told you, Sister, of my entrance into the House, and how I came to see the most astounding Sight in my eight-and-twenty years of life.
As I entered the house I was unable to keep from exclaiming in wonder. For what had outside been so worn and dark and covered in dirt and dust was inside the most delectable creation I have ever known. I felt as though I had stepped into a painting of the glittering court of some long-dead monarch. The golden room was impossibly large; too large to be able to be contained in the small house I had stepped into. The contrast between the Exterior and Interior was so great that for a moment I was convinced I was dreaming. Every surface was covered in gold, and a brilliant chandelier illuminated the space so that there was not a shadowy corner to be found in the room. I turned, in great Confusion, to the door; but it had already shut behind me. I then perceived that I was dressed differently. My grey travelling garb had somehow been exchanged for a glittering white suit, cut in the old-fashioned way, and long stockings. I am sure I looked not a little like that old likeness of the Prince Regent which my mother keeps by her bedside – but between the two of us, Dearest E—, (and I hope it is not treason to speak so) I fancy I looked a good deal handsomer than he. Well you know I am not vain, my Dearest Sister, but I could not resist admiring my reflection in the great mirror which hung above the great staircase in the centre of the room. I now believe that this vanity was a part of the witchcraft of that evening. Before me there now appeared a veiled woman, likewise dressed in a style not dissimilar to that favoured in the time when this country was ruled by a ruler by the name of George. She was dressed in white like myself, and the bodice of her cloathes (I am thus much familiar with female garments as to be able to distinguish the bodice – you, no doubt, dear E—, would be able to describe much more prettily what she wore) was studded with a thousand blood-red rubies, scattered in what seemed a strange circular pattern about the region of her Heart. Other figures – the women all dressed in that same shade of bloody red, the men wearing a deep drowning blue – now filled the room, and an invisible orchestra began to play a quaint English country-dance, as we have often ourselves executed in the assembly rooms of our own native county, I trust with no small amount of accomplishment. There was a kind of frenzy, however, in the way that these figures (I could not see their faces, for whenever I tried to discern features the faces blurred as they often do when one is in the throes of sleep) danced about the room. As the lady in white led me to the top of the set, and the two of us made our bows to the company, my feet seemed to move of my own accord; and though it was but a sprightly jig, I found myself quickly out of breath. Soon I found I did not know the Motions of the dance, but that the lady was starting to lead me like a meek little lamb through the dance. And as our feet danced quickly and still more quickly through the dance, they seemed to tap out a rhythm and at the height of the dance the lady’s veil flew from her face and I perceived that she was beautiful, and she whispered one word to me, softly over the heat of the music – “Murder!”

Yours Ever, &c., &c.,

The Manor on the Moor: A Letter in the Gothic Style: Letter the First

2009-10-31T19:10:00.008+08:00

A letter in the Gothic Style.

To Miss E. Notingham

23rd August 18—

MY Dearest Sister,

What a rare moment is this when, in my solitary rambles across the countryside, I occasionally have the pleasure of addressing you in a confidential letter! I trust you enjoy the quiet pleasures of home as you have always done. Though my heart is, as well you know, steeled with a Lion Strength, I must admit to you, my sweet sister that the experiences of the past twenty-four hours have stirred within my breast such Convulsions and Terrors that I shudder to recall. So great are these Horrors that they surpass anything one might encounter in the most horrid of Modern Novels. I shrink back from describing such things to one as gentle as you, my dear E— yet share them I must, for I fear that even my hearty Constitution will not long withstand the concealment.

Last night was tempestuous; black clouds rolled across the sky and I felt myself shrink somewhat. For my carriage, bound for Wales, had stopped at the edge of a chilling moor, shrouded in mist, which seemed to have appeared out of nowhere in the darkness. The horses and likewise their driver refused to cross the moorland. Finding myself obliged to seek out shelter for the night, I alighted from the carriage and perceived a single, glimmering light across the wasteland. There being no other buildings in sight I quickly made the decision to follow the light. In my coachman I was disappointed however; for when I insisted that the rascal follow me in the pursuit of the beam of light he refused, claiming that the light belonged to a bog-goblin who lay in wait to drag travellers into the mud. Perceiving, however, that the light was constant and at such a height as suggested the shape of a large house or manor, I could not persuade the man to follow. As the rain and wind grew ever more oppressive I at length resolved to leave the coach and set out on my own.

I set off at a fair pace, but it was slow, for I had but one of the coach’s lanterns to guide me, and I was quickly surrounded by a chilling mist. I quickly realised my own folly. In our country, dearest E—, there are no such things as marshes and I trust my sister need never encounter such a twisted and perilous landscape. I made little progress, for the light appeared as far away as ever. Suddenly there appeared before me an uncloaked figure, with all the appearance of having been made out of mist. Beckoning to me in the darkness, the figure (and I perceived by the shape of her garments that she was a Lady) began to weave her way towards the distant speck of light. I held up my lantern to better recognise the figure, but she evaded the lamplight as if the darkness was cloaking her. I followed…

…I cannot say, in that moment, or even now, my dear E—, what it was in that figure which induced me to follow it. I can only surmise that cold, and hunger, and fatigue, hurried me on until I was not able to resist it. I followed behind that lady silently, and at length came upon a gate, rusted and creaking. We had ascended a small hill and the lady trudged across it. In the moonlight I could make out the shape of a once-magnificent house outlined against the night sky. As I stepped over the boundary of the gate, the whole marshland seemed to come alive in a flood of light. Lanterns – those which can only be lit by a man, one at a time – were illuminated at once of their own accord. I was able to see the whole of the façade of what had once been a surely admirable manor. Now it was dilapidated, ruined. One sole light glimmered in the upper window of the building, and I believe it was this light which I had set out in search of. Drifting about the house were pale, ghostly figures. At least, I felt them to be ghostly. Perhaps in recollection I think of them as ghosts. At the time I told myself they were little more that shapes in the mist, illuminated by the moonlight; whatever they were, they kept a good distance from myself. As I turned to my companion I found I was alone; she had already escaped the light and was hiding in the shadows of the front door. I walked slowly across the expanse of muddy terrain to find myself before the great door. The knocker had fallen off, but the Lion’s mouth which had heretofore held it remained on the door, and, poised as it was, looked as though it would devour me whole. The woman pushed on the rotting wood of the door and it creaked open gently. As I stepped inside I saw the most astounding Sight I have ever seen in my life. As delicious a place as this is to break my narration, dearest E—, I fear I must; for my weary head is drooping and my hand is scarcely less tired. I will continue my narration in my next letter.

Until then, believe me to be
Your most affectionate, &c. &c.,

The Manor on the Moor: A Letter in the Gothic Style

2009-10-31T19:02:00.006+08:00

TWO posts, one after the other; I must admit I am a little eager (but give me a little time, until the novelty wears off!) But today being Halloween, and this piece being written expressly for Halloween, I thought it would be right to post it.

I thought, however, that it would be good to give a little history of this story. It is, as the title suggests, a letter written in the Gothic style.

Or, rather, several letters. It seems to have turned out that way, at any rate. I was watching Wuthering Heights last Sunday. I had just read about a Halloween contest at Fictional Faction which requires you to write 500 words on or around a picture which you are given; this time it's a rundown old haunted house. This, combined with the (quite good) Wuthering Heights I'd watched, got me to thinking about doing a Gothic-style letter for my entry. I've never really tried writing anything in this genre before, but I thought now was as good a time as any. So I sat down and began writing, and then abandoned my draft for the better part of the week. I picked it up today and decided to type it up. I had a rough plotline in my head, but what I hadn't realised was just how expansive my plot was becoming. Before I knew it I'd hit the 500 word limit, and I kept going. One Letter in the Gothic Style became two letters, then three, and finally seven. Well, they do say that seven is a lucky number, right?

I'm not sure I can claim that the letter is terribly original, or cleverly plotted; but I did have a lot of fun writing it, and so I'm going to post the letters, one by one, for your perusal.

And So It Begins...

2009-10-31T18:30:00.001+08:00

INEVITABLY, when starting up a blog or anything of the kind, I end up writing a lot of rubbish that generally begins with "Well Now" and "I can't believe".

But this time I've vowed it's going to be different.

I love writing. I'm not sure that I'm particularly good at it, or that I'll ever be able to make a career out of it. What I do know is there's nothing like practice, especially when that practice is so very enjoyable. And so, I have decided to start up a blog where I can post fragments of upcoming stories, new chapters, and of course my many experimentations with different styles, genres, and plotlines. Will it make for compelling reading? Who knows? What I do know is that I intend to have a lot of fun doing it.

In the interests of reducing confusion, all chapters/writings will be posted in the Georgia font, while all of my regular, everyday posts, such as this, will be posted in the current font. Chapters and other writings will (provided I don't get too lazy) be posted with a small image or header so that they can be recognised.

And now, my friends, it's time to set sail, onwards, to the great wide horizon of storytelling. As you gaze into the dephs of the mundane mirror, I trust you will find, in time, that perhaps... it is not so mundane after all.