If you let them make you, they'll make you paper mache

When I say Incubus, I'm not referring to the demon that sexually preys on women in their sleep...

(who sleeps like that, anyway?)

I'm referring to one of my favourite bands of all time.

I've chosen Incubus as today's I for the A-Z Blogging Challenge, as there is something unique about them that makes me feel better as a writer. 


Why? Because they transcend genre.


I don't know if anyone else has this problem, but I struggle with the notion of sticking to a particular genre in my fiction. Is it because I'm not dedicated enough, or have enough direction? I don't think it is.


In my "ideas spreadsheet" (lets not get too bogged down with my geekiness), my scribblings and ponderings span a whole range of fiction genres: sci-fi, romance, thriller, comedy, the list goes on.


When people ask me what genre I write in, I tense up. I waffle on about what my story is about instead, and let them come to their own conclusions. My WIP has yet to be pigeon-holed.


And, like Incubus, I don't think I fancy sticking to one particular route.


Prepare your ears for an audible feast as we explore my argument further.


Observe this track "You Will Be A Hot Dancer" from their debut album Fungus Amongus. Like many, I'd describe it as Funk Metal.

Fast forward to their next album, S.C.I.E.N.C.E and you'll hear their style changes. According to Rolling Stone writer Rob Kemp, it "links funk metal to the rap metal" This can especially be said for New Skin:

Could that be any more different to this song, Drive, from their following album (aptly titled), Make Yourself?

Their next album, Morning View, spans various genres, from Metal to tranquil songs like Wish You Were Here:

I'm not going to go through every album; I hope that's been enough to illustrate my point: That here lies a band who've reaped massive success without adhering to a particular direction, musical or otherwise.


Do you know of any authors who have fleeted between genres, successfully or otherwise?


I shall leave you my favourite Incubus song, Make Yourself. If ever I felt like just joining the rat race and aspiring to a life of mortgages, 2.4 children and wishing my life away, week after week, in a shabby office, I'd listen to this song and get a grip of my life:

You should make amends with you

If only for better health

But if you really want to live

Why not try and make yourself?

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If you let them make you, they'll make you paper mache

The Fortune Teller

Today's A to Z Blogging Challenge is dedicated to a little piece of Fiction I wrote this morning:

The Fortune Teller

Fiona gazed into the crystal ball, willing it to give her good news. She watched the psychic's hand roam over the globe; the old lady had a feather tattoo on her middle finger, which waved and fluttered with every movement.

“You're a pretty lady,” the psychic observed, “I sense heartache.”

“Yes.” Fiona whispered, her heart racing. She'd just broken up with Frank Fitzgerald that day, after he'd taken that job at McDonald's. She'd been mortified when she heard. I can't go out with someone who works there!

“You will meet someone, very soon. His name starts with J,” she glared at Fiona, cautious, “you may not have chemistry straight away, but persevere. This man will make all your dreams come true.”

“My God, is he rich?” she squeaked, all thoughts of Frank vanished.

The psychic smiled, but there was sadness in her eyes. “Persevere.”

Fiona thanked the woman and left, her heart bursting with optimism. As she approached her beat-up, old car, she began rummaging through her bag for the keys.

“Excuse me, do you have change for the parking meter please?” A tall, gangly man stood in front of her, waving a £5 note. He stank of B.O and his face was scarred with acne.

Repulsed, she replied, “I don't, sorry.”

“Thanks anyway.” he said, folding the note back into his wallet. His drivers licence poked out from one of the slots, and Fiona's eyes clamped on it in shock.

“Your name is... James?”

“Yes. Do we know each other?” His glassy blue eyes slithered over her face, looking for recognition. Her flesh crawled.

Persevere.

“Let me check my car, I may have change in there,” she retrieved coins from her glove compartment, “here,” she giggled, letting her hand linger in his.

“Thanks!” Blushing, he smiled, flashing his decayed, rotten teeth at her.

As he turned to leave, she yelped, “Wait! So... what brings you to the Psychic Centre anyway, are you having a reading?”

“Oh no,” he laughed, “my Aunt is in there. I said I'd pick her up, but I'm an hour early!”

“Perfect,” she gasped. This is fate, “would you like to go for a coffee?”

And so it began. Coffee turned into a whirlwind romance, and they were married within three months. They lived in his mother's converted loft, and he continued to repulse her daily, but she just kept telling herself: Bide your time. It will pay off in the end.

She continued this mantra for the next ten years, distracting herself with visions of a fancy house, a fleet of sports cars and all the jewellery she could ever want.

Three kids and five stone later, she'd resigned herself to the fact the psychic was wrong. Her husband still only worked part-time at the local pharmacy, and she still had the same beat-up old car from when they met.

One day, James burst into the house, in tears, “My poor Auntie Florence has died!”

Fiona feigned sympathy, but she had a good feeling about this. Maybe she was wealthy. “Florence? I don't recognise that name. Have I met this aunt?”

“She's the reason we met,” he sniffed, “she was the Aunt I picked up at the Psychic Centre. She couldn't make the wedding though, she was in Monaco at the time.”

Fiona's heart raced. It was destiny.

It was the first open-casket funeral she'd been too. Aunt Florence was decked out in jewels that sparkled from the entrance to the parlour. As she got closer, Fiona's excitement diminished. The jewellery was fake. It was all plastic, costume jewellery.

Then she noticed the feather.

It lay still now; etched onto the cold, dead finger of the woman who promised her a life of riches, ten years previously.

Back at home, Fiona was half-way through her daily bottle of vodka, when James came off the phone with an announcement to make.

“I've been offered the assistant team manager's job at McDonald's. Apparently the last guy won the lottery yesterday. £83 million he won, the lucky sod! He came from your old area, do you know him? Frank Fitzgerald?”

The End.

I hope you enjoyed that! :)

Today's F music video is dedicated to Fats Domino. I think this is what Frank would sing to Fiona, don't you?

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The Fortune Teller

Winning is not everything, but wanting to win is.

Quote by Vince Lombardi

I'm delighted to announce that I won the #weekendwritercize competition! Look at my shiny badge :)

This is what the host, Alana Garrigues, said about my entry:


I chose this story because outlandish as the pairing was, the dialogue and circumstances felt very natural and true to their characters. I really enjoyed the humor and the light-hearted exchange.

Just look at the following dialogue between Paris' personal assistant and financial advisor.

Paris scowled at Meredith. She would try and change Daddy's mind about firing her when she got back.

“Never mind Mere-bitch,” François hissed, “I happen to know 100% that he performs miracles. There's absolutely nothing he cannot do. Face it honey,” he placed a hand on his hip, “do you think we'd even know who he was if he couldn't?”

Thanks, Alana, I'm chuffed to bits!

 

The other entrants, Rossandra White, Nicole, Aurora Lee and Christopher H Mitchell, were excellent. I thoroughly enjoyed reading every one of them!

 

To take part in #weekendwritercize (or any of the other excersizes), visit the Writercize Website. Go on... flex that creative muscle.

 

:) x

 

 

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Winning is not everything, but wanting to win is.

Wake Up Little Snoozy...

Is it appropriate to say Happy New Year, being the 14th January and all?


Nevertheless, I bid you a tremendous 2012.


It's been a while since my last post. I'd love to tell you I've been horrendously busy, writing my novel with ferocious voracity.


I haven't. My muse has had a terrible case of the Black Dog. If it had a chaise longue, it'd have been sprawled across it, damp cloth on the forehead, fainting occasionally.


The excitement from my NaNo days (which seem so long ago now) had all but disappeared. It abandoned me, leaving me with a 50k story that I had no idea how to progress.


Guiltily, I started writing other story ideas, and the creative buzz returned somewhat. But, as anyone who knows me will tell you, I don't care for failure. That's what The Caretaker was starting to look like, and it pained me.


Was I just procrastinating? Surely procrastination is what happens when you put off something you don't want to do? I want to finish the novel, goddamnit, what the F is going on?


I consoled myself, reading blogs from experienced authors, writing about how your first novel is never publishable anyway, and how people really don't find their true novel until they've written five or six of them. I even tried to write a couple of blog posts, about how The Caretaker wasn't The One for me. How shameful.


It still didn't change how I felt about The Caretaker.


I'm pleased to report, stubbornness has prevailed.


The smelling salts arrived in the form of this Creative Writing Masterclass video. Not to impugn videos, but that's how bad it was getting. I couldn't bring myself to write, so I was watching videos on writing. If Charles Dickens could have witnessed this spectacle, he'd have poked me in the eye with his feather-tipped pen.


This video ignited the epiphany within me. It made me realise which character I wanted to be my "hero". Something every writer probably has pegged from the first page, but I'd become so close to all the characters, I didn't want just one hero.


That doesn't make for a good story though, does it?


Here's my very first synopsis of The Caretaker, before I started writing it:

When a car crash leaves Harry crippled and his mistress dead, his previously idyllic world collapses around him.
He seeks forgiveness from his devastated wife, Wendy, who agrees to give up her teaching job to take care of him. Can she bring herself to trust him again? Or does she succumb to the advances of the school's Caretaker; so desperate to be someone's first choice again?
The mistress haunts them both, in more ways than one.
Experience the turmoil of both sides of the coin, in this tragic tale about the fragility of trust.

Here's the synopsis of The Caretaker, written 30 days and 50k words later:

When a car crash leaves Harry crippled and his mistress dead, the lives of those around him change forever.

His devastated wife, Wendy, agrees to stand by and take care of him. But she cannot forgive the betrayal and, when advances from the local school's Caretaker distracts her, Harry's well-being is severely at risk.

The mistress haunts them both, in more ways than one.
Not only did Tina lose her sister in the accident, she lost the love of her life, Mick, Harry's brother. Mick can't see any future with the sister of the girl who tore his brother's life apart. When she finds out she's pregnant with Mick's baby, she hides it from him, convinced he'll tell her to get rid of it. As the baby grows inside her, so does her obsession with Mick.

Helen is out for revenge, after losing her favourite daughter in the accident. Hell bent on
vengeance, she blames Wendy's inability to maintain a good marriage; her inability to keep her man from leading astray. When her other daughter, Tina, falls pregnant, it fits into her plan perfectly. A stout Catholic, she believes it is her religious duty to make everyone pay for their sins.

As you can see, the story is riddled with other stories. They do all tie in together, but there was something missing from it.


My hero, Harry.


Yes, he is a cheating scumbag. I have no more time for love rats than you do. But my aim is to make this book his journey. I aim to weave his tale throughout the rest of the chaos and hopefully come out on top.


Although... you never know... he might just be too despicable to save. There may be more bad karma coming his way...


You'll have to read the book to find out! :D

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Wake Up Little Snoozy...

The Importance of Reading. In Writing.

No matter how busy you may think you are, you must find time for reading, or surrender yourself to self-chosen ignorance.
Confucius

When studying music at college, I was taught how to use one of those big mixing desks you find in recording studios. I learned how to make things sound better: how to make a kick drum sound sharper; how to pan sounds to give it a more spread-out, stereo effect; how to put reverberation on the vocals, to enhance their voice. Why do you think so many people love to sing in the shower? Good old acoustics.

Anyways, learning all those things changed the way I listened to music.

For every song I listened to, I couldn't help but notice the "gated" effect of the drums, or the duplication of vocals, amongst other production techniques. I couldn't figure out whether this new found, heightened awareness enhanced or detracted from my enjoyment of music. It doesn't matter now; that era of my life was so long ago, I hardly notice these things anymore. I've just about returned to the world of the average listener.

The reason I mention all this, is that it appears I'm going through the same thing with reading fiction.

I’ve been reading voraciously since I completed NaNoWriMo. I’ll be honest with you, I’ve spent more time reading than writing this last fortnight. Reading and analysing. I'm happy with this; I’m confident that reading will make me a better writer. I don’t understand the mentality of writers who say they don’t read books; do you?

I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to read a book the same way again. I’ve been picking up on all sorts of things: how other writers switch scenes (some do it in the same chapter, some use a chapter per POV), how other writers deal with certain situations without making it look too contrived, and how well they manage to build tension, to entice me as a reader.  It's a writing skill I'm very interested in honing!

I've always immensley enjoyed reading, but it's different now. Now, I find myself wondering how the author developed the story, and I have a new, deeper respect for writers because of it!

I have no intention of returning to the world of the regular reader. And I don’t feel it has hampered my enjoyment of fiction. Quite the reverse, in fact! 

This must be what it’s like for wine connoisseurs. They appreciate a decent wine once they’ve educated themselves a bit more.

That's all good and well, but we know a wine connoisseur can’t solely educate themselves by drinking lots of wine (although I’m sure they might try!), and in the same vein I know I can’t educate myself on writing, by only reading lots of books. I have to write, and plan and detail and organise. Then write some more.

My current draft feels more like a 50,028 word outline at this point. Yes, it’s got the backbone of my story in it, but I’m confident that I will rewrite every single word of it. I hope to make a start on that during the Xmas holidays (oh, sweet release).

In the meantime, I’ve been a major spreadsheet geek. I didn’t use any of my fancy NaNoWriMo spreadsheets during November, which taught me Lesson No. 1 in writing a novel: My lovingly prepared spreadsheets have no place in the first draft. I shall post about my wee spreadsheet in more detail next time, lest I waffle on just now.

I'd love to know your thoughts on the benefits of reading, as a writer. Do you have any specific (fiction) books that influence, or spur you on to write? I know there are millions of books on how to write fiction, but I'm starting to feel I'd get a better writing education by reading works of fiction I enjoy and figuring out what it is about those books that work for me!

On a separate note, I discovered last week that the practice of putting two spaces after a full stop was obsolete. I'm gutted! I keep having to correct my spacings after every sentence now. Why, goddamnit, why?


*huff*

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The Importance of Reading. In Writing.