December: What bringeth ye

 

It’s been 4 days since NaNoWriMo but a week since I wrote anything. How well did I do? I failed again. I reached 25 000 words and completed the word count with a sentence that changed the entire premise of the story. Suddenly a character sneaked in and bam, they became the center around which everything else revolved. I did not even see it coming!

So what does that mean? Do I discard what I’ve written, crawl into the fetal position and mourn over my inability to write 50 000 words in a month…again? Well that stage is already past, I’m at the “What’s next!” stage of what I like to call the “Failure to Sit Down and Write Syndrome”, symptoms include procrastination, walks to the kitchen to make coffee, excessive bathroom breaks from multiple cups of coffee, an idea that seems more fun to write etc etc. You get the gist of what I’m saying.

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The Convoluted Abyss: NaNoWriMo Week 2

Abyss by IlaydaPortakaloglu

The convoluted abyss one can only refer to as the imagination, continues to draw the soul into its depths. Like the gazelle, panting on the edges of the water, my soul laps continuously upon the calling abyss, its thirst never quenched and its hunger never sated.

Over 11 000 words.

We continue.

Monday Motivation

Happy Monday!

Are you happy it’s Monday? Why not? Did you know that Attitude determines Altitude? If you are down in the dumps and your attitude displays that then the day will be like that too, and how hard you are willing to work will reflect that attitude. So let’s turn it up!

So now that we’ve got that out of the way I will move forward to the post itself.

Dark Tales: eBook now Available on Amazon!

A while ago ( a few months ago in fact), I received a message from a fellow blogger, S.R. Tooms, regarding an anthology that a fellow writer Vincent V Cava was going to work on. This was on the heels of another book that the two writers had worked on and published as an eBook – Decomposing Head: Frighteningly Funny Tales That Will Rot Your Brain.

Knowing S.R. Tooms to be of a worthy reputation ( and buying and then reading the Decomposing Head book above helped too), I followed up on the information and began communicating with Vince. Vince let me know that this would be for a charity and therefore none of the sales would be for the authors or for him – in other words, not for Profit. Not wanting to miss the opportunity I agreed anyway, glad to have an opportunity to get my stories published…and besides, it was for a worthy cause!

Scares That Care, is the charity that we have been writing for, a charity that is providing toys, money and other various items to help children. It has been great knowing that for every person who reads my short story, which has been included in this anthology, is a contributor to this charity and is one of the many helping these children improve their lives; worthy cause indeed! You can find out more about the charity here: Scares That Care.org

The book is available as we speak, has been since the 20th of July (My Birthday! Yay!) and can be purchased on Amazon here –> Dark Tales Anthology

It would be great if you checked the book out, bought it, read it, spread the word you know but hey if you can’t it’s all good, sharing the link or even reblogging this post to reach others would be awesome too. I really appreciate it! Thanks!

PS – An audio book is on the way too!

Junk Yard Angel – In Progress

Junk Yard Angel: courtesy of Jason Chan: http://www.jasonchanart.com

 

The Excitement

My body is bubbling with excitement! Why? Well I’m finally writing a novel that has been plaguing me for quite a while now. By plague I really mean plague, as in every idea I have is sucked in and eventually, somehow, falls into this story and I have to consciously steer my writing away from it. This novel seeks to infect all my ideas, its tendrils worming their way into and then around my thoughts, growing in hunger and persistence until it becomes the single source of my attention. So when a fellow writer said,

“Hey let’s hold each other accountable for the writing we do…”

this novel had already extended its miasmic vines up towards my brain, stimulated the right nerves with each twitch and tug and twinge and the words

“Yes! I will get the outline of my “probably-will-be-don’t-know-how-it-to-make-it” Steam punk novel done!” came spilling out before I was consciously aware of all the implications that that statement held; but by then, the infection had spread and was too far gone to attempt to prevent let alone eradicate it.

Spider Diagrams

I’ve spent enough time during numerous English lessons at school, learning about and how to use this extremely useful yet somewhat scattered writing gimmick that spills all of my thoughts and ideas onto an incoherent web of lines and words and arrows, all of which connect each thought to the other to weave my novella of a web. I actually have five sheets of webbed diagrams (four and a quarter really), that outline the entirety of my novel and now I am ready to let the spider out of its nest to feed upon its entangled prey; let the writing begin!

The Way Forward

Seek out a publisher? Self publishing? What will I do!? Well first I’d have to write this story out haha and so for that, and also so that you as the public and also those who follow this blog (thank you to those who are following this blog!) can hold me accountable to both the writing and then the finishing of this novel, I will look to get a gadget here that counts up the number of words written. That way that constant pressure will keep me on my toes and I am sure that my fellow writers (yes you BBC-ians!) will hold me accountable locally too.

After that I will ask that ever important question, how will I get this thing published but until then, thanks for reading and I hope you look forward to this novel as much as I am!

PS, I found the gadget, its up on the right!

Creating New Worlds – The Golden Thread

There is something about writing that makes my entire body restlessly ruffled up. Like a feather stuck in the ground, immovable and yet unable to prevent itself from swaying against the billowing wind. Somewhat of an oxymoron isn’t it? Immovable yet swaying? Picture that why don’t you.

Recently I’ve been going through a horrible spat of events that both inspire and dissuade me to write. At times I sit in front of the computer, begin to etch characters into the fabric of a fictional reality and feel goosebumps ooze over my arms as worlds unfold in front of my eyes then suddenly; Nothing. Just nothing. Who ARE these characters? I ask myself. This is followed by a torrent of related questions: where are they headed and why? What is their purpose? What am I trying to get to with this? What is this story actually about? And the conclusion I come to each time is; I have no idea.

Yesterday I touched on a burden of mine that has been troubling me for…well since my conversation, and the desire I have to present God in every aspect of my life including my writing has been my source of inspiration since. I find that without God, life is painfully meaningless and void; we endure life, pain, death, love and all other aspects of humanity in vain. What good is morality if in the end we as dust return to it without consequence;  let the lions endure the pain of regret and the hardship of prison for the death of the zebra. Let them contemplate their purpose in life and lament over their murderous, sinful hearts. Ridiculous isn’t it? Well then ask yourself this question; What is the difference between them and us? Is it our minds? Our ability to talk? Is it because we are highly evolved animals that no longer conform to our bestial nature? No! It is because we are made in the image (likeness) of God (Gen1:26).

Creating New Worlds

Although there haven’t been any  new posts on this blog for a while, this doesn’t mean I haven’t been writing. I just haven’t written anything good enough that it is worth sharing here. In fact my WordPress “Posts” page has a few unpublished drafts  that I have been working on. Unfortunately they all are missing the Golden Thread that weaves them together, binding them to the crux of my convictions or thoughts; they are hanging on a bare thread that is as brittle as dry twigs.

Thankfully, writing for Gamecca (a Gaming magazine) has helped keep my sword sharp and I do feel less guilty about my lack of publishing any posts. However during this continuous search for the Golden Thread and with all that I have written so far, things have began to roll into place like solving a Rubik’s cube. Previously written stories and currently drafted ideas, pieced together like a well written detective story that has started dotting its i’s and crossing its t’s. I mean this has come together so well that I’m laying out a foundation for a “new” world in which my characters will live, incorporating previously unrelated characters and events into a single environment. Just writing this and the ideas formulating in my mind as to how I’m going to go about it has me intensely excited. I already have a plausible idea for what my Golden Thread will be!

The Golden Thread

What then is the Golden Thread? It is the glue that holds everything together; the cause that drives the hero forward, the intention hidden within the villain, the inspiration that holds the village together. It is the hinge on which everything hangs; without it, all becomes naught. Love may be the Golden Thread of a romantic novel but who is the author of love? Where does the conviction that drives the actions of the “good guy” stem from? Morality? Good works? Love? Justice? Righteousness? Vengeance? Anger? They all stem from one Being who displays all these characteristics perfectly and without sin!

Where does all this lead me? Well keep on visiting the blog and you shall find out! In the mean time, may you have a glorious time worshipping the One true God…Who is One in Three persons.

Junk Yard Angel

JunkYard Angel: courtesy of Jason Chan: http://www.jasonchanart.com

The Outer Edges

A dreary, grey sky draped over the metallic hulks that lined the outer edges of Chatarra City. Dark looming shapes that etched the sky in jagged patterns; husks of old cars, machinery and all things scrap. I stood outside the junk yard,  in front of its rusted entrance gate that was now nothing more than a bent frame. I let out a puff of smoke from the cigarette between my lips, watching the tendrils of smoke dissipate into the air.

Cool. Calm. Collected.

I let the words play over in my mind as I walked into the yard, aware of the silence that emanated within the compound. No junk yard dogs. No junk yard owner yelling inquisitions at me. Just the silence of rusted metal. I walked through the alleyways of the compound, looking at the familiar junk piled together haphazardly. Apart from the nervousness caused by the eerie silence, there was a rising belligerence from irritation; this isn’t what I wanted. With one final puff of smoke I threw the stub of my smoke  down and crushed it with the heel of my shoe.

Cool. Calm. Collected.

Why I was here was simple.  I’m an inventor of sorts. I love to tinker with all kinds of machinery; building contraptions and gizmos. A rather fulfilling and exciting hobby I took up at a young age, when I realized that banking wasn’t for me like it was for my dad. No. I found my joy in dismantling toys, calculators, toasters and radios, and once, my dad’s old computer. It sure didn’t end well but it awoke in me a desire for more. Not merely dismantling…but building from scratch.

I frequented junk yards from then on. Collecting all kinds of scrap metal and mechanical components to the point where my backyard became a scrap heap in itself; but I was never satisfied. I then started to travel from city to city, junk yard to junk yard, searching and never satisfied, until finally I found myself in a dilapidated, smoke hazed bar, drowning my dissatisfaction in warm draughts of cheap beer. My companion, whose name I could not recall nor where I’d met him, endured my ceaseless babble with nods and grunts and the occasional “sure”. We sat across from one another on creaky wooden chairs, the bright yellow globes overhead illuminating my companion’s dark wiry hair and thin somber face.  I loathed the look of pity engraved on his face but I endured it as he endured me.

It was as I ordered my next round of warm ale that my companion shooed the attendant away and dragged me up to my feet, pulling me away from the smoke filled room towards the back of the bar. He dragged more than led me out the back door before shoving me out into the cool night. I landed onto the dusty ground on my back, drunkenness rendering me incapacitated.

“I know what you seek…I know where you can find it” He said to me in a thick Spanish accent. From his flannel shirt pocket he pulled out a thinly rolled cigar and from the back pocket of his faded jeans he pulled out a lighter.

“There is a place…in the Outer Edges” he began to say, as he placed his cigar in his mouth, “it is a quiet place…a secret place” He flicked the top of the lighter with his thumb, producing an orange flame that cast an unnatural glow across his face. His eyes flickered with the flame and I felt a chill crawl up my spine.

“This place is…different” he continued, taking a drag from the cigar before blowing a plume of smoke up at the purple sky “…Chatarra City…it is not like the other cities…but no city in the Outer Edges ever is huh?” He chuckled softly to himself.

“…it is there where you will find what you are looking for. It has everything that you could possibly look for. A haven for people like you.”

He looked down at me, giving me a wry smile before turning around and disappearing through the door, heading back into the bar and leaving me to sober up outside. With set mind I headed out towards Chatarra City, hoping that I would finally find what I was looking for.

Now here I was, disappointment and dull anger vying for my emotions as I perused through the familiar junk. There was nothing special about this place; it was like every other scrap heap I’d wasted my time and energy on. I grabbed a loose piece of metal, anger overpowering every other emotion and diverting all of that energy towards my arm.

Cool. Calm. Collec…

With a thrust, I bashed the metal husks in front of me. Then again. And again. And again. Still in my fit of rage, I turned around and hurled the rod across the yard as hard as I could.

She caught it.

“Are you calmed down now?” She asked. Her voice drifted across towards me, sinking into my head and echoing melodiously. She nonchalantly pushed the fringing tresses of her white hair behind her ear.

“Who are you?” The words rolled off my tongue yet I was sure I hadn’t said a thing. I could still feel a dull anger radiating through my twitching arm as she walked towards me, the metal pipe in her hand swinging lazily.

“Does it matter?” She asked. I shrugged. She shrugged back, mocking me. With a light chuckle ,she flitted about around me, bouncing on her toes with nails painted black. Her white hair flowed more than bounced with each skip she took, the cuffs of her grey sweat pants dragging across the floor. She smiled a devious smile, standing on the tips of her toes, holding the metal rod out towards me.

“Grab hold” she whispered. I tentatively reached out, grabbing hold of the steel rod. It was cool to the touch, tingling on the nerves; electrifying.

“I know what you seek…I know where you can find it…” she breathed. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end under her mischievous yet ethereal gaze; her eyes were gleaming dark orbs that pulled at me.

“This is the place…here on the Outer Edges. It is here where you will find what you are looking for…” The familiarity of her words struck a cord inside my mind, yet I could not pinpoint where exactly I’d heard them.

“…everything that you could possibly look for…”

Wait!… At the bar! My mind began to piece together the pieces. I tried to say something, but my voice died in my throat, coming out as nothing more than a raspy murmur.

” A haven… for people like you.” She grinned a devilish grin, pulling the metal rod out of my hands in a deliberate fashion. I stood transfixed as I was, watching a brilliant light emanate from behind her dark eyes. A whirring sound filled my ears as the rod slid out of my paralyzed hand.

“You are not hu…”

“No” She interjected, crackling mechanically while raising the metal bar above her head.

“And neither will you be” with a deft flick, she struck me across head. The pain shot through the side of my head, lodged itself right between my eyes in a searing hot flash. The world rotated.

Darkness.

************************************************

Thus begins my journey into a new genre, something different from the normal stuff I write. Sci-fi? Steam Punk? A combination of both? I’m not sure yet but the idea looping itself inside my mind sounds fun. If you have any ideas, see any loop holes or spot something I missed please let me know, comment and stuff I would really appreciate it!

In Need of a Saviour

A single plume of steam, slowly writhed its way up from the coffee mug, on the large wooden table she sat behind. Her hands were wrapped tightly around the mug, keeping her icy fingers warm. She sat silently, her convoluted thoughts bouncing back and forth in her mind. The kitchen was cold and gloomy. The winter sun remained hidden behind dark clouds yet letting in enough light, to illuminate the barren trees in the garden… and  the freshly dug hole. She’d been outside. Four in the morning. Robe and all. She’d held the cold steel handle of the shovel. With each hard thrust into the soft ground, her hair swung forward in disarray, swinging back as she threw dirt back behind her. Her once lime green robe turned a shade of brown, the same shade as her eyes, that stared blankly at the ground. Her mouth moved but no words formed as she ceaselessly worked the shovel into the soft earth. In her mind her past played out like a movie; the characters her family, friends and acquaintances, the protagonist herself and the story…her life. An endless loop of episodes past and present, all intermingled into one, making it difficult for her to distinguish between the time frames. There she was as a little girl, twirling in her yellow sun dress lined with white frills, her bare feet sweeping across the softness of the green grass below, the lace tied around her waist spinning along  behind her. The sun shone, making everything glimmer that fine spring afternoon. A shadow fell over her, making her look up to see who it was, squinting against the glare of the sun to see a manly figure. She could not make out the face of the man above her, but she knew it was her father..however, when she could make out features of his face…she became certain, that it was her husband. He proceeded to lift her up by the waist, making her giggle in glee then laughter as he spun her around..and around…and around until her twirling younger self spun fast enough to make the face of her father…husband… blur across her vision. Her laughter turned to screaming, the soft warm gleam of sun became the cold harsh beam of headlights and the crackle of bending, twisting metal swallowed up every other sound.

She raised the cup to her lips and took a sip of the bitter coffee. That seemed to soothe her slightly. Her thoughts began to dwindle into single occurrences, events that made her heart in her chest pang with regret and anguish. Her past was like a dark cave, hiding a malicious creature that thrived off the darkness in her heart. With each hurtful memory came that deep anguish, one that struck a cord so deep her whole body shivered; and that creature wallowed in her displeasure. She knew, wholeheartedly, that there was nothing she could do about those past events, no place to hide them both within her mind or in the world.  Even with her mud caked robe and dirt streaked face, even with all her husband’s possessions scattered haphazardly within the shallow grave, she would not be able to erase her past; she felt burdened and heavy-laden. Burdened and heavy-laden. The phrase sounded familiar, somewhat nostalgic yet foreign, like a familiar yet unrecognizable face in a dream. She grasped for it, something of it, yet her mind brought up blanks each time, no closer than she was when she started. She took another sip of her coffee, allowing the thought to filter out and into the dark abyss that was her mind. She was lost, well and truly lost.

Dennis van der Berg stood outside the large wooden door, smoothing his dark grey suit down with one hand. It was a habit he’d developed in the early years of his ministry, one he was yet to break. Nervousness, as usual before these kinds of works, filled his stomach with a queasiness that both excited him and made him sick. He recited his exhortation softly to himself, silently mouthing all the main keywords that would help direct his conversation. When he was satisfied, he raised his hand towards the doorbell and pressed it. Nothing. He waited a while, listening for any sort of sound that would let him know that someone had heard him. A full minute passed before he pressed the doorbell again. When no one opened the door he lightly rapped on the hard wood, knocking louder with each passing minute. Finally he heard the shuffle of feet behind the door and with practiced ease, placed a friendly smile on his face. The rattle of keys came from behind the door, followed by a soft cry of frustration, some more rattling and then the tell-tale click of a door unlocking. Dennis opened his mouth to greet, a smile still across his face, but instead of a greeting his mouth remained agape, his smile faltering then drooping into an “O” of shock at the figured that appeared before him. He quickly tried to cover the shock with a smile but he found it hard to smile at the ghastly, face that peered at him from behind the slightly ajar door. She was half hidden within the darkness of the house, yet he could make out the bedraggled locks of hair that draped wildly over her face, the streaks of dirt that lined her cheeks, broken by a clear trail leading down from what was most assuredly tears. The bags under her brown eyes added ages to what should have been a young face. Dennis’ face softened, the shock wearing off as quickly as it had appeared and in its place, sorrow took hold. He felt his heart drop in his chest, weighed heavily by emotion and without thinking reached towards the door and softly whispered within her hearing,

“You look burdened and heavy laden…come to the Lord for He will give you rest.”

The Challenge! – Update

Hey all, as mentioned in my last blog, I was to post an update of my progress regarding the Intel, W Hotel, Vice short film story competition this week (yesterday). However, while I was perusing their competition details to see if there was any specific criteria I would have to follow, I was greeted by this following statement…and yes it was in All Caps as you see it

” THE COMPETITION IS OPEN TO LEGAL RESIDENTS OF AUSTRALIA, CANADA, MAINLAND CHINA, FRANCE, HONG KONG, GERMANY, MEXICO, SINGAPORE, THE UNITED KINGDOM, AND THE UNITED STATES WHO ARE AT LEAST EIGHTEEN (18) YEARS OF AGE OR OLDER (OR THE APPLICABLE AGE OF MAJORITY IN HIS/HER JURISDICTION OF RESIDENCE, BUT IN ANY EVENT NO YOUNGER THAN EIGHTEEN (18) YEARS OF AGE) ON THE DATE OF ENTRY. VOID WHERE PROHIBITED BY LAW. “

As a legal resident of South Africa, my entry would be null and void and therefore there is no point in entering the competition. Nonetheless, this does not necessarily prevent me from writing the would be story out anyway and posting it here on my blog as a personal work. Sure there would be excitement waiting anxiously for results to return and spending nights up on roof tops gazing out at the starry sky while the mind envisions a production set with props and actors and actresses reciting words that you wrote, dressed in attire that you prescribed, making real what was on paper….

Anyway to all those who were supporting me on this endeavour, I appreciate your support greatly and therefore will finish the challenge, post it here and then you can be the judges.

The Challenge!

The Challenge

One of the  great things about knowing other writers, is that when they find something interesting, they send it along to inspire and challenge you. So I want to use this opening paragraph to thank you, Dani, from Of Readers and Writers – http://scribbable.blogspot.com/ – for introducing me to this community of writers, that is NaNoWriMo – National Novel Writing Month  http://www.nanowrimo.org/en/dashboard – without you, I may have stumbled late…maybe never…across this website and not become aware of this very interesting challenge they have.

I received an e-mail from the aforementioned website NaNoWriMo, with tantalizing details regarding a writers competition with a fantastic outcome for the winner. The details are:

[ They’ve (Intel, W Hotels, and Vice) also invited Wrimos (those who are part of the NaNoWriMo community) to submit up to ten pages of a script or story by August 30 in a short film series and competition entitled “Four Stories”.  The four winning stories will be filmed by the esteemed Roman Coppola. The contest poses the kind of challenge only Wrimos can tackle with their spirited imaginations: each story has to be set in a W Hotel and feature an Ultrabook computer as a key character. ]

 Progress

Today is the 15th and therefore I have fifteen days to write a ten page story that involves a W Hotel as well as feature an Intel Ultrabook computer as a key character and all I have to say is “Bring it on!” My mind has been abuzz so of course I have already started writing and the story is progressing in a direction that I did not anticipate. The possibilities are just endless! Whooo so excited!

In order to make sure I reach this goal, I am making this Public announcement that I will write and finish the story and also I will post another update next week on the 22nd working towards a finished draft at the least. I will also post a copy of the final work here on my blog so that you can read it and let me know what you think.

As I write this, I have to remember that my glory should be the last reason for doing this challenge and that God should most definitely be first. One of my favourite Proverbs comes to mind:

Proverbs 16:9 – The mind of a man plans his way, But the Lord directs his steps.

May He indeed direct my steps in the right direction.