Walking. The things we can find while simply walking, in a City of no escape, are incredible. Today we must acquire practice material. We walk up the High Street a little, before taking the left turn down Niddrie Street. We do not come here often, because it is filthy, the street is painfully narrow in places. It is hard to see. But the people here are among the poorest one will ever encounter, and abject poverty of this sort carries certain advantages – such as a willingness to believe in just about any sort of charity. Even when that charity is distinctly perverse, as it will be today. (more…)
Archive for the ‘Edenbvrg’ Category
Edenbvrg excerpt: Surgery
Tuesday, December 8th, 2009Damnit sideways
Tuesday, November 10th, 2009I am not going to make personal life comments. Because I morally cannot. That’s life.
My working hours have collapsed to an average of 4 per day. At this rate I will be bankrupt in a few weeks.
I have written one short passage, which its one reader very much enjoyed. I will, I hope, manage to squeeze out some more.
The Lies Of Locke Lamora turned out fairly well. Scott Lynch’s quite excellent writing skills kept me going long after I was bored of the main plot. For the first half I greatly preferred the ‘Interlude’ scenes, which provided snapshot backgrounds to the core characters, not least because the ‘current day’ plot bored the hell outa me. It only really got interesting when the Grey King appeared, at which point the Gentleman Bastards found themselves in genuine trouble – and had to deal with it.
There is one scene I found playing out in my head before I read it, in glorious widescreen cinema. Locke is stuck in a barrel, plumetting to his DOOM. In my head, Jean Tannen hurtles an axe at the barrel, which explodes in mid air freeing its captive. The book scene is very different [and in fairness far more likely], but I couldn’t help but find this symptomatic of the whole book: Scott Lynch is clearly capable of producing something much better than this. He _must_ be. The true test of a trilogy is do I want to read the next part. Here, unfortunately, I don’t.
Sorry.
Recently I have watched the SAW series, up to V. I will attempt to catch VI cinematically.
Reading From Hell – which is sheer genius, but viciously depressing. Also reading Jeff vanderMeer’s Still Life, which is really quite excellent.
Also tripping my way through back issues of Black Static magazine [issues collected from TransReal Fiction]. It truly is a treasure of little horror gems, and is causing me to consider writing short fiction as a method of getting some feedback on my own work, as I’m proving utterly useless at coming up with the epic volumes I have stuck in my head.
Watched Perfume: The Story of a Murderer, which is simple stunning. I first saw it in the company of a dear friend, who pointed out that I behaved with the same level of obsession he did. I agreed.
While the whole film is exceptionally well done, I especially enjoyed the closing scenes where he both proves himself right, and invites fitting retribution for his sins. If only more people were so true to themselves.
It may merit mentioning that I find the film particularly interesting as I have no sense of smell.
Reading a fair bit of William Blake as well. Which is drawing me back to my original set of passions and beliefs.
Anything. ANYTHING. Other than talk about the one thing I want to talk about.
S x
Further complications
Monday, June 15th, 2009I realised very recently that the biggest block I have to writing is that I have at least three separate narratives going on, each in a different century. I’ve been trying so hard to focus on doing this chronologically that I’ve been battling the noise of 2/3 of my own imagination. That’s not sustainable. So in order to get any of it done, I’ve set up those other 2/3 as unique projects. That way I can always just dip in and add whatever burns my mind. This is proving to be especially healthy, as one particular character is blossoming and simply refusing to go away. It is fortunate, I suppose, that the original intention was to have all parts directly linkable – as such there is no reason *not* to write them all at one, other than the plausibility of getting anything finished. My free time is so limited that I’m now considering just writing some short fiction to get the damned stuff down and done.
That, in itself, may turn out to be a good idea.
In other news. the chain on my bike totally barfed while going down a hill on the way home. The back wheel got totally seized in the middle of some of the heaviest rain I’ve ever witnessed. This caused a two mile walk home. The entire way, one vehicle beeped their horn at me, and that was to display a nasty hand gesture. I got utterly soaked and will need to walk my bike to a repair shop in the morning. LOVE THIS TOWN.
Mary Kings Close
Sunday, May 31st, 2009I finally did the tour. It was a lot less scary and a lot more informative than I expected. The tour guide impressed me pretty much instantly by debunking the ‘legend’ and concentrating on historical fact. I will not spoil the tour itself with descriptions, but I will say that an hour passed incredibly quickly. I was part of a full 20 person tour, half of whom were [I think] Dutch with very poor English, who talked among themselves loudly and often. The guide took this in her stride and very politely brought everyone to attention as required.
The tour actually follows three parallel Closes via interlinking rooms, most of which flow together as they would have. Only at one point did I think the tour was inaccurate, and this was confirmed by the guide afterwards. As I said, the tour was not – to me – remotely scary, but does give a good, rounded idea of what Edinburgh was like 400 years ago. Models and lighting/sound effects are set up along the way to demonstrate certain dark moments, and these were all fairly well done [you’ll probably have seen them in promotional materials anyway]
The one point where I was genuinely surprised was at Annies room. I expected to feel nothing at all, but was hit by a feeling of intense claustrophobia, head pressure, and very mild depression the moment I entered the room. That may be because the room is very small. I don’t know. It was certainly more than I anticipated by a long shot.
The facilities pre and post-tour [ie, the shop and cafe] are well appointed with lots of quite good quality tat to buy, including varying values of notepads, postcards and interesting literature. The Plague Doctor face masks are, unfortunately, open-nosed so you can’t stuff them with ‘authentic’ herbs. And you can’t buy the hat or jacket. This disappointed me because I WANT THEM REALLY BADLY.
Pending
Monday, May 11th, 2009So I’ve been completely radio silent of late, which is bad. I have, however, settled nicely in New Place, I’ve got some excellent maps in and am now ready to get hammered back into the writing business. There are also a few book reviews incoming, as I’ve been reading rather a lot more. Specifically in the pipeline is Marcus Sedgwick’s ‘My Swordhand Is Singing’ and its sequel, ‘The Kiss Of Death’. I picked up a few on period history today as well, which I’ll get through as gracefully as my dodgy eyes allow. I need to figure out exactly where the Tolbooth was and what it looked like before I can finish the opening scenes.
I intend to visit Mary King’s Close this week, and will use the experience not to go on about people being bricked up, but to get a feel for the City itself. That’s the point.
Also fairly important, I’ll be going into recent musical discoveries in considerable depth, because the soundtrack I use when writing/exploring is often an essential ingredient in what I feel at the time, and then that hits the page when writing starts. I recently purchased some lovely notepad too, which will be used extensively for field notes along with the trusty iPhone camera. My Canon 400D will be used later, during specific photography expeditions.
xx
S
Fail.
Tuesday, March 10th, 2009So I’ve been doing pretty much no writing this last week. Not even research. Life is just being too stressful. The work side is slooowly picking up and I’m still trying to track down person about room. The price is crazily good, I just need to see the damned place!!
I finished watching The Wire season 1, which was just brilliant. I may write up more on that later.
Then we watched more BSG, and I’m amazed at how crappy it seemed by comparison. The writers have apparently decided to bring back all of the incredibly annoying characters and sub-plots I was glad to see the back of, and concentrate the last few episodes entirely on them. I hope that changes, because the entire show until now has been incredible.
Unedited exerpt
Thursday, March 5th, 2009This is an idea I just threw down, which will probably be rewritten dramatically over the coming days, weeks, months…
———————–
High up the wall, there sits a figure, wedged into the space under the bridge. It is dark there, so very dark.. He waits and he waits, a glint in his eye reflecting an unknown source of fire. His left hand holds on to a pipe or bar over his head, his right hand holds a wickedly curved dagger he sharpens every spare second he gets.
He waits. Many people pass under the bridge, but none feel right. None smell right. The taste in the air as they pass informs a choice, and he snuffles damply moment to moment, person to person, meat to meat. An hour passes, maybe two. It barely matters. The rain starts again, water seeping down between the cracks in the hastily built bridge above. The pipe becomes slippery first, a little adjustment needed, a little slide avoided. Then the stone underfoot, starts to grind under heel. His back becomes damp as the grime on the wall collects the given moisture. Just as he is becoming irate, the air changes… someone is coming, someone sweet. The footsteps become louder, padding at first then firm and grounded – if uneven. The figure comes into view, finally. A big man, swaying under the influence of a few many drams, his soaked coat slung over his shoulder, hat tipped back to let rain fall on his face. He sings a song, the words lost among the cryptic melody. Just outside of the bridge he stops, shuffles around in his trousers, finding his penis there. He pulls it out, spraying urine wherever it will fall and giving a delighted victory roar, fist raised and pumping. He finishes, shakes himself off, pausing a further few seconds to enjoy the sensation. Replacing his manhood he takes a few more steps forward.
The figure above feels his chest pounding, the scent so very tempting. He licks his dry lips, tongue running over sharp incisors. Just a few more steps…. He launches himself from the hidden place, legs and arms outstretched, landing in the perfect spot immediately behind his prey. Absolute silence. The dagger slips through air, flesh, bone. The song is over, taken with a jet of scarlet. Jagged mouth finds sliced neck, gorges on the flow. The big man finds himself deathly cold, sobriety a lifetime away, taken in the arms of some violent stranger. HIs feet leave the ground and up he flies, under the bridge, in a dark hollow where eyes never care to quest. His last vision is of wicked teeth, wicked dagger, wicked eyes glinting with some unknowable fire.
———
thoughts?
Winning Things
Tuesday, March 3rd, 2009First, I’ve just switched to MarsEdit [demo] which seems to be much better than MacJournal – other than the nasty Windows-esque default in-app font. It at least shows all of my available categories!!
I have discovered [much to my surprise] that i get a lot more work done when I’m not being constantly distracted by shiny things on my Mac. I have loooads of shiny things. Not all of which are necessary or remotely helpful. So things are being switched off while I attempt to write. I prefer to keep SongBird running though, because I struggle to think in silence. I do avoid songs with words though. Nice dark ambient music tends to be best.
Flathunting is not getting far just now, though I have only tried two. My budget is a major downer, at least until I have my debts paid off.
The level of frustration, though is ironically giving me quite a lot to write about. The idea to have were-rats is working incredibly well. I just wish I had a firmer grasp of the environment, which I very badly want to get right. The story itself is important, but I want to write about the City as a living entity – a character in and of itself if you will. I may even take that concept somewhat more literally.
On a lighter note I just won a copy of a 3D home interior design app. Which is nice.
Changes, endings, stuff
Monday, March 2nd, 2009 The Edinburghsdarkside course died. This, on a personal level, is fairly horrid. I had come to rely heavily on the course to get my bearings on the historical City, make sure I had enough bits right that I could carry on and not worry too much about being caught out. Sadly not to be. The first week was informative enough, got me thinking in the right directions to the extent that not only is a lot of my preconception confirmed but I’m now utterly convinced the story is worth writing – and that I can write it.
The number of changes I have now made to the tiny amount I have written is rediculous. While the basic intent remains the same, the idea has grown well beyond my original intention and I regularly find myself forgetting a lot of the original research I have noted in various places. I should probably take some time to recap it all and make sure I haven’t missed out a great chunk of the original concept. Or it could just be, simply, that because this is my first writing project in several years, I have lost track of how involved writing is. Certainly I do not recall Aborym to be this deep.
Still, onwards. I am informed that the bits I have written are of good quality, so best stick with it and keep on keeping on.
I only hope that current flathunting issues will not get in the way too much
S
Paradise Lost
Tuesday, August 18th, 2009For too many reasons to bother recounting, I am reading John Miltons epic again, limiting myself to one book per day.
Normally I’d just read [or more likely give up] until I felt like I’d read enough, but Paradise Lost deserves a special level of attention. PL is, beyond any doubt, the greatest poem ever written in the English language and arguably the greatest feat of literature ever endeavoured. It deserves, it needs to be savoured, to be loved, to be appreciated a line at a time. One cannot simply devour Paradise Lost.
The impact of Paradise Lost on the Western world is easily overlooked, simply because so many are entirely unaware of that impact. Most are aware of Satan and his Legions, of the pits of Hell, of the War in Heaven, of the Serpent luring Eve. What is routinely ignored is that Milton defined those moments, described them, invented them. He took the content of the Bible and showed the world the other side. He created the first true Anti-Hero in Satan, the fallen Archangel and Lord of Hell.
But Paradise Lost is not a mere story in parallel to the most important book ever published (only decades before): it [much like it's Italian cousin the Divine Comedy] is a heaving allegory of the world Milton lived in, the chaos he endured.
Paradise Lost is Milton’s comment on the civil wars that reshaped Great Britain in the early 17th century. Which, by incredible coincidence, is exactly what I’m painfully attempting to write about myself. Only I am no Milton, and never will be [though it has been mentioned that I look rather a lot like him...]. That does not mean I cannot strive. So once again I digest Paradise Lost. This time I’m reading the glorious Folio edition, illuminated by my literary hero William Blake.
And lest we forget, just as with Dante’s Inferno, there is a latter volume near criminally ignored. Dante wrote of Purgatory, and then of Heaven.
Milton wrote of Paradise Regained.
that, surely, is the whole point.
If you have not already done so, do yourself the favour of a lifetime: pick up all three volumes of the Divine Comedy [I hugely recommend the Dorothy L. Sayers translations] and Paradise Lost/Regained. Your brain and soul will thank you for it.
Good Night.
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