The ‘Alright’ Wall of China

Today’s blog post for the A to Z Blogging Challenge, is K for Karl Pilkington, from the TV show Idiot Abroad. Why?

He taught me not to judge a book by its cover.

The first time I watched Idiot Abroad, I’d caught it mid-show and was faced with an onslaught of moaning and whinging from Karl, who was somewhat bemused at being traipsed around some grubby streets in India.

I thought to myself: Why do people rave about this? This is just irritating to watch! Then I switched it over.

I thought nothing more of it for ages. I just presumed it was another Reality-TV show (I don’t watch much telly, by the way). One day, I walked into the living room and Colin was watching this scene:

I cried with laughter.

We’ve since bought series 1 & 2 on DVD and I’ve now put myself in the mood to watch it again. If you haven’t seen it, I suggest you watch it. Immediately. Who else is up for some Arseboarding?

I’m not sure why I was so put off the first time round. Was it just the mood I was in at the time? I know I’ve closed a few books, after “not getting into them”: have I done said books an utter disservice? Maybe I shouldn’t be too hasty next time. 


Have you ever given a book a second chance, and were glad you did?


I'll leave you with some of Karl Pilkington's finest quotes, pinched from Pilkipedia:


"You know how they say people have six senses? There's loads more than that. [The ability to feel someone looking at you], that's been around since man and dinosaur were knockin' about."


"I look at life like a big book and sometimes you get half way through it and go 'Even though I've been enjoying it, I've had enough. Give us another book'"


"They keep saying that sea levels are rising an all this. It's nowt to do with the icebergs melting, it's because there's too many fish in it. Get rid of some of the fish and the water will drop. Simple. Basic science."

Today’s K music video is by Klaxons performing Gravity’s Rainbow on the Jools Holland show. Enjoy!

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The ‘Alright’ Wall of China

It's a journal, dahling, not a diary...

One of the most common pieces of writing advice I've read, is this:


Keep a Journal.

For most writers, it's a great way to expel their thoughts and ideas onto paper.


That's why I do it... mostly. Other times, I just question my mental health over and over again, and whine about why my novels aren't writing all by themselves.


If you'd also care to question my mental well-being, here's some entries from 2010/2011 that I felt acceptable to share with you all.




*WARNING: POTTY MOUTH AHEAD.* *Sorry Mum.*

20th August, 2010: I believe writing a truly good book takes craft and skill, and I'm going to learn it if it kills me (although I'm sure it wont).

27th July, 2011: I just wrote the penultimate entry into my wee purple diary, and totally squashed up the last page and rushed the ending, to save enough space for when I go back to it, in whatever time it takes to make a success of myself. I feel quite sad. It's like finding out your best friend is moving to Australia the next day. We didn't get a proper goodbye.

31st July 2011: Please note it is 6:19 on a Sunday morning and I am awake, writing this entry. Please let this be an encouraging sign that I'm ready to write like a motherfucker.

20th August, 2011: (On Nancy Mitford's “The Pursuit of Love”) I thought Uncle Matthew was a big arsehole: violent, aggressive and vile. But the teeniest glimpse of him softening (the small edge of the wedge) made me instantly adore him. But that says more about me than the book. Give me an inch and I will call you master, unfortunately.

15th September, 2011: Colin explained Scottish Football to me this morning, and I despair. It's like the more I learn about something, be it the government, the country's history, football associations and politics, the more I wish I didn't know. Does the privilege of knowledge come at a cost of personal contentment? I envy the blissfully ignorant.

And lastly, on what I learned from NaNoWriMo, written on the day I completed it:

I've learned:

I can't sit and do 1667 words a day. I work better when I do clumps of 5-6k words every 2,3 or even 4 days.

I can try and plot and outline and create spreadsheets all I want, but at the end of the day, I'll probably not use it. From now on, I'll just be writing the stories, then focusing on the craft later.

Sometimes, I write until I get to a certain restless point. It comes to me through no choice of my own and trying to battle through it is about as effective as a chocolate teapot. My little mind is stubborn. If I try to force myself to think about something, it will rebel. So, I go for a bath. I watch a cookery program. I do the dishes. I always end up drifting off into the land of my novel, thinking about my characters and writing the story in my head. THEN I'll go back to writing it.

I've learned that I have to treat my writing like a good marinade or stew. Sometimes, it's better to be left to develop. Perhaps for a few hours, even better overnight. Too long, though, and it'll go off.

I've learned that I'm at my happiest when writing, or thinking about writing, or watching my characters coming to life. Even the nasty, vindictive ones. I love them too.

I've also come to suspect that I may be quite mentally ill. I mean, who can come up with some of the sinister shite I have in my novel? Troubled soul? Or too many Virginia Andrews books in my lifetime? I hasten to prefer the latter.

Honestly, I have about three years worth of this (and counting). Anyone want to buy it as a book? No? OK then...

Do you write a journal? Do you think it helps you with your writing?

Today's J music video, is Jefferson Airplane, with Embryonic Journey. It reminds me of my twinny :)

 

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It's a journal, dahling, not a diary...

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

Hook, line and sinker

Of all the literary techniques I'm analysing right now, this one is proving rather enjoyable. 


Today's H in the A-Z Blogging Challenge is for Hook, sometimes known as the "Narrative Hook".


Some people refer to the hook as the first sentence of the first chapter. Others define it as the first paragraph, or even the whole first chapter. Many will say it's vital to end every chapter with a hook, to convince the reader to turn that page. 


Me? I don't care what it is, as long as it draws me into the story. In my own writing, I want hooks-a-plenty. I want my readers to feel perpetually hooked: Don't you dare put that book down, I'm not finished talking to you!


Anyway... *ahem*


I began to scrawl through possible examples of good hooks online, but turned to my very own bookcase for inspiration in the end. Funny how I always go to Google first, when I have a plethora of information right in front of me!


Here are some of my favourites:


This happened in 1932, when the state penitentiary was still at Cold Mountain. And the electric chair was there, too, of course.
Stephen King - The Two Dead Girls


The last thing I expected was for Alexander Taylor to answer his own door.
Michael Connelly - Lost Light


If a road could look welcoming, then Summer Street had both arms out and the kettle boiling.
Cathy Kelly - Past Secrets


"It must look like an accident. Can you arrange that?"
Sidney Sheldon - Memories of Midnight


"I'm going shopping in the village," George's mother said to George on Saturday morning. "So be a good boy and don't get up to mischief." This was a silly thing to say to a small boy at any time. It immediately made him wonder what sort of mischief he might get up to.
Roald Dahl - Georges Marvellous Medicine


Oh I could go on, but I shan't. Instead, I'd love it if you'd share your favourite hooks with me?


In the meantime, have a listen to today's music video. It is dedicated to the humble Harp. I love the sound of harps playing. Lets all bask in the tranquillity... sigh :)

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Hook, line and sinker

Gone Fishing

Today's entry to the A-Z Blogging Challenge is, I'm afraid to say, a complete cop out. Today's G is for...

Fishing in a pool of creativity, that is. Ahem.


I was originally going to do today's post on Glasgow, since that's where I'm from, but my muse has struck me over the head with his mallet, and dragged me by the hair to his cave of ideas.


I have to do everything he says, or else.


Back with you all on Monday. Have a glorious weekend, everyone. x

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Gone Fishing

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

Expectation is the root of all EVIL

In September last year, I listed my expectations for my first novel; one that I was yet to begin writing:


My extensive research suggests the average book is between 90,000 and 120,000 words, so here is my own little plan:

• Aim for 70,000 words for my first draft
• Take a few weeks off, and prepare for Xmas break. 
• 2 tear-inducingly blissful weeks off work, to be spent working on 2nd draft. 

I hope to bulk up to 90k + words during this time.  Once I've got that out of the way, I'll look into critiquing and getting a few objective readers arranged, but first things first... the planning stage!

I know what you're thinking... it's time for another Face Palm.

I'm going to dismiss my naivety as over-eagerness to thrust myself into Authordom. I'm not knocking it, but this is what happens when you are seduced by NaNoWriMo: you're surrounded by hundreds of thousands of writers who don't bat an eyelid at pouring out a 50k novel in 30 days.

What with my obsession for goal-setting, my attempt to run before I could walk was inevitable.

Thus, today's post is dedicated to E for Expectations, and what my new expectations are.

I did get to the 50k mark by the end of November, but I'll tell you something: about 5% has made it into my current WIP. 

Currently, I only have one expectation:

Put the hours into my novel, and don't even look at that word count. It'll be done when it's done, 'orite?

Please don't mistake this new attitude for apathy. I'm very optimistic about this outlook! Coupled with my enforced-discipline-writing-schedule, I'm positive I'll get to where I want to be, in a time-frame I'm happy with.

And I'll be sure to keep you updated along the way of course!

Please share your expectations with me: how long do you normally take to write your novels? Have you set yourself goals for the week/month/year?

 Today's E music video is Enter Shikari's "Arguing With Thermometers". Ugh... TUNE! Enjoy :)

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Expectation is the root of all EVIL