Written resolutions

Tags: new year resolutions writing paul anderson paul anthony anderson 2008

Another year passes us by, and for me 2007 has been quite a year. The year when I took the first faltering steps down a career path that I always promised myself I would do someday. Now I'm doing, rather than promising. Here are my aims and resolutions for my writing career for the coming year. For a list of resolutions for my personal life, click here.

• Update the writing blog more than once a week. It is depressing the hell out of me to post a [Fiction] Friday entry, and realise that the last entry was the previous [Fiction] Friday post!
  
• The podcast. Every Sunday. Unless of course I have a really good excuse...
  
• Write more. Ideally two hours each day (and more on weekends). This is what I want to do as a career, and I'm not going to be able to do it unless I can write enough (and be paid for it) to allow me to quit my day job. So I need to be writing every day.
  
• Finish The Long Watch. I wrote half of it in a month, I can finish it off and redraft it in a year, surely!
  
• Finish The Major Arcana. Like The Long Watch, the stories have been kicking around in my head for a while. I just lack the discipline to put them down on paper.
  
• The Scott Sigler Movie Project - OK, the timing of this is largely out of my hands, but I'm going to make myself ready and available for whenever this kicks off, hopefully sooner this year rather than later!
  
• Speaking of scripts, the BBC are the largest commissioner of short stories in the world, and one of the very few places that will accept scripts unsolicited. Time to start making use of the Writersroom site.
  
• Get an agent. This won't be until late in the year, by which point I ought to have some material to show them. But fingers crossed, I'll find one.

So there you have it. How many of these will I achieve this year? Well, with a little luck and effort, all of them ideally!

Wish me luck...

Fiction Friday - 28 December 2007

Tags: fiction Fiction Friday

This Week's Theme: Your adult character just got a guitar for Christmas--a gift very out of character. What changes, if any, does this cause in her life or personality? (You may adjust the instrument if a guitar would be out of place or time in your story.)

---

Closer. Closer. Closer... He's almost mine... Now!

I launched myself from the tree branch, and collided with him, knocking him to the ground. In that stunned instant, I could take the advantage. I pinned his right arm behind his back, then knelt on his left. "Do you yield?" I screamed in his ear. He turned his face towards me.

"OK, OK, I yield Praxus, I yield!" I rolled off Triphtus, punching the air in victory. "Show off" he muttered, as he staggered to his feet. "My turn to hunt, I'll give you a head start." Just as I stuck my tongue out and made to run, I heard a voice calling my name.

"Praxus! Praxus, where have you got to?" A second voice called from across the fields. "Triphtus my boy, it's time."

We looked at each other and sighed. "Mother probably wants me to feed the animals. Same time tomorrow Triphtus?" He nodded. "Tomorrow you won't be so lucky! I'll hunt you down Praxus, faster than you did!" He ran off down the hill towards his home, where his father had been calling from. I envied him still having a father. My own father was taken when I was still an infant, during the Relkashan campaign. Still a child, I quickly had to learn to become the man of the house, the warrior. Triphtus and I vied for glory on the sporting fields, in the hunts. Although we were great rivals, we were greater friends. Our village, our entire tribe looked to the future eagerly. When these strong boys became men, the greatest warriors our little corner of the kingdom had ever produced. We would bring glory to our families.

I had not been called to tend to the animals. Because I thought that I was needed for chores, I had dawdled, whereas Triphtus had run straight home. As I approached my own home, I could see an Elder talking earnestly to him. He held a sword in his hand, not in a threatening manner, but as if presenting it to Triphtus.

My mother ushered me into the house, where an Elder was sat patiently waiting for me. I bow politely, recognising Astatha, leader of the council.

"Praxus my boy... no, forgive me, no longer a boy. Your transition is upon you. Today and henceforth, you are a man. And to mark this, we have a gift for you..."

The transition! The sword presented to Triphtus was his gift. Triphtus was to be a warrior. And so I awaited my own sword. Together we would go to war, together we would conquer! Triphtus and Praxus - warriors, heroes, brothers in arms.

"Do you know what this is Praxus?"

It wasn't a sword. That much was obvious. It was curved like a bow, like two bows that merged into each other at the bottom. And rather than one bow string, there were many. I shook my head. I knew what it was, I had seen one before, but I did not want it to be anything other than a sword.

"This is a lyre." Astatha ran his hands across the strings, and notes cascaded out of the lyre. "It is beautiful, is it not? Would you like to play it?"

I shook my head. "I am a warrior. I have no need for a lyre."

Astatha smiled warmly. "You have been chosen by the transition Praxus, and this instrument is yours." I looked up at him, my eyes burning. "Then that is not the only liar in the room." Astatha's eyes narrowed. For a second he seemed displeased, but then he began to laugh. "Clever wordplay my boy, very clever. And that is why the transition has chosen you. No wars. No more fighting and hunting. Praxus, you are gifted, now take this gift to complement those you already have. Your mind and heart cry out, let this..." He pressed the lyre into my hands. "... give them the expression they seek. Praxus the boy, the transition has descended upon you. No more a boy, you are Praxus, the bard."

He left me alone, with my disappointments, my anger, my fears. I would lose my friend Triphtus, for who knew of a bard and a warrior who were friends? I would lose my standing in the village. Though a boy, I was respected as a future great warrior. Now a man, but a bard? No, all respect and honour would be given to Triphtus. And my own ambitions? To fight, to win, to conquer. They swiftly eluded me. All I had left to hold on to was this thing, this instrument. My fingers scraped across the strings angrily, and the lyre sang in pain and frustration. My own words tumbled out, cursing this strange fate. And when that song finished, I realised that this was truth. I was not a warrior. I had made my first song. I was, and forever more, a singer of songs, a teller of tales, a dreamer of words.

Merry Christmas, have a podcast!

Tags: merry christmas podcast thank you

Look - a podcast! After almost two months, I've finally managed to get a podcast recorded and put up! You lucky people, what do you think it is, Christmas?

Oh, yes, wait a minute, it is Christmas!

Merry Christmas to all my subscribers, regular readers, irregular readers, random visitors, fellow writers, old friends, new friends and people who describe themselves as fans - and unbelievably there are one or two of them out there!

I hope you will all join me in 2008, it should be an exciting year. The Long Watch will get finished, the Scott Sigler movie project will be taking off, and the quality of the podcasts should be better (maybe even the frequency, but don't hold me to it).

I hope everyone has a wonderful Christmas, however you celebrate it, and that you all have a great New Year.

Catch up with you soon, and thank you for being with me in 2007.

Paul

What I do when I'm not writing...

Tags: archery shooting shenanigans what writers do on their days off

My brother has just posted his review of the year, and I noticed a couple of photos there that I thought I might repost here, as I forgot all about them.

For only the second time in my life I am using a bow and arrow, and again proving quite good at it...


And this is the first time I've gone shooting. Thankfully for the safety of everyone concerned, it was laser shooting. I can't hit a moving target to save my life. I'm deadly when shooting at stationery objects, but as soon as you move, I'm useless!

What has this to do with writing? The photos were taken at Centerparcs, Longleat where I was on a mini-break. To quote from my brother's blog:

When I told an American friend we were going to a woodland-bound resort for some falconry, archery, fencing and so on, he thought it sounded like a Bond villain training camp.

Whilst there I did do some writing for my "on the backburner" novel Half A Day Hence. And during the week, I came up with an idea for another story, something which is still at the rough ideas stage (so hasn't made it on to my Work in Progress page yet) but which directly draws on the high strangeness witnessed that week.

Of course, at some point I should try to get one story written, before coming up with ideas for others!

Fiction Friday - 21 December 2007

Tags: fiction Fiction Friday

This Week's Theme: What happens when your character is dragged to a Solstice celebration?

---

I love the smells at this time of year. When the nights are cold and still, the air seems so pure, so perfect. There are no clouds to smother us - we can see the heavens in all their glory. I love to gaze at the wonders above, the bright lights that surround us and guide us. And sometimes, when I watch them, I like to think that the gods can see me, and might answer my prayers.

The fires are at their peak, embracing us all with their warmth. I keep my back to it so that the bright embers and the smoke don’t obscure my view of the stars. I can feel the warmth at my back, but still I shivver, and pull my cloak further around me. Tonight we celebrate our victories, and the mighty gods who favour us. Midwinter is upon us, but we celebrate the passing of the shortest day joyously, ignoring the cold, the snow and the dark. For soon will be the springtime. Time for hunting, for war. And love.

“Praxus, my brother, drink with me, come drink with me!” I stiffen at the powerful hands that grab me by the shoulders from behind, but relax on hearing the loud baritone of Triphtus, my blood brother and childhood friend. He wraps his right arm around my shoulders and presses the drinking cup into my hands, half-embracing me and half-supporting himself on me.

“To you Triphtus, victory, glory and the spoils are yours.” I raise the cup and take a sip of the spicy ale. Too powerful for my liking, it catches the back of my throat and I begin to cough. Triphtus laughs, and pats my back. “Oh come now Praxus, more than that, more than that my brother. Take a long sup, for we are warriors.” He turns to others around the fire and roars “We are MEN!” They raise their cups and cheer loudly. “Praxus! Drink Praxus!” I gulp down a mouthful, and manage to keep it down. It burns my throat but begins to warm me.

“You are a warrior Triphtus. I’m not.” I hand the cup back to him and look down at the ground. “I don’t even know what I’m doing here, I don’t belong, the Grundhama is for warriors, not bards. I’m just entertainment.” Triphtus releases me from his bear hug and pulled his plumed helmet off, revealing a dark blue eye, and another milky white, the red lines of a scar above and below showing where a sword had robbed him of the darker hue.

“Praxus, you have always been my friend. I don’t care that you did not become a warrior. Others may have abandoned friends during their transition, but I’m not like that. You know that. Warrior, mage, bard, artisan or serf - a friend is a friend, regardless. Especially tonight.” He put his arm back around my shoulder and looked up. “They would think less of me I am sure, if I turned my back on my friends. Especially those I owe my life to.”

I smile weakly. I know it is not really my caste that has put me ill at ease tonight. Bards are welcome at all celebrations, after all. Who else will recite the tales of past heroes, and create the tales of our present champions? Who else but the bard will sing their praise, and record their name for history? Triphtus knows it too.

“Walk with me Praxus.” We step out together, further from the circle of warmth cast by the fires. Triphtus walks with an assured and steady manner, solid and bold. No staggering, no swaying. “You have sobered up quickly my friend.” He smiles indulgently at me. “You will notice that when I insist that people drink with me, I always pass them the cup first...”

I follow the implication and laugh. “Very sly Triphtus.”

“There is a brain in here as well! You aren’t the only one who is clever brother.”

We both pause, and in the distance I can hear the men singing a lusty rendition of an old ballad. Triphtus softly hums along before the song degenerates into hoots of laughter and shouting.

Triphtus sighs and punches me on the shoulder playfully. “Well my friend, you aren’t singing and you aren’t drinking, so what is troubling you. The Solstice is for all of us. We should enjoy it while we can, for one day we will all be dead.”

“True, but we won’t be forgotten.” I nod my head towards the men dancing around the fire. “They sang of Krolas and Dybrentia there. For how many generations have we sang that song? It was ancient when my grandfather was a boy. We don’t forget Krolas.” I punch his shoulder in return. “Nor will we forget Triphtus, and how he stood against a horde of Mylokan raiders and saw them off. No, we will all die, but some will live forever. In stories, and song.”

“Thanks to bards like you my friend, thanks to you!” His grin and laugh are infectious, but my soul resists.

“Your deeds will never be forgotten, nor will the song. But who remembers the bards? Who will remember me? I’m no-one? Just a teller of tales and a singer of songs. Not strong, not important, and not worthy...”

Triphtus drew his sword. The blade glinted in the moonlight. “With this, I can kill a man. One man at a time. But that is all the sword can do. There will come a time” and at this he sheathed the sword. “When the mages will make swords irrelevant. When the bards will make swords worthless. I see a time coming Praxus when words will win wars before they are declared, when stories will move entire peoples, touch their very hearts, and be more powerful than a thousand swords.” He pointed to the north sky. “When last that star came past, do you recall? It was the Council of the Seven Kings. When seven thousand swords were pointed at the hearts of the seven nations. But what stopped it? You Praxus. Your words, to one king, which passed to another, and another. You have a gift my friend. Some day bards will not just tell stories of the past. They will make the stories of our futures.”

“Perhaps. Someday.” Triphtus cheered me in no small measure, but he could tell my heart was still heavy. He looked back towards the fire. The warriors were still boisterous, but now they had an audience. The ladies had joined the celebrations.

“Perhaps a pretty face will cheer you more Praxus. Prettier than mine eh? Look, look! Agatta has joined the others!” My eyes darted to where his fingers pointed. Agatta. I did not even have the presence of mind to try to hide the smile as I saw her.

Triphtus shook his head. “Bard, will you not talk to her?” I flushed, and thanked the cold night for hiding it. “I would have nothing to say. She is... above me. She wants a warrior, not a bard.”

“And are you a woman now Praxus that you can say what a woman does and does not want? Perhaps Agatta can tell us?”

“You know what I mean Triphtus! She is an Aelythian. How can a bard hope to... she would want someone strong, who can fight, and conquer. Not a dreamer of words. I can offer nothing.”

His eyes narrowed, and Triphtus shook me hard. “Nothing to offer? Praxus, you have your words, your heart, your talent. A warrior might turn a woman’s eye, but a sword cannot turn a heart. Only thought, and words, and soul and passion can do that, and who has more of that than you?”

“I... wouldn’t know what to say to her. I fear it would all come out wrong.”

“Begin with a story, you are good at stories Praxus. Tell here a tale. Of you. Of your deeds. Show her that a bard can be a warrior too. Tell her the true story of how Triphtus lost his eye and gained a scar. Of the ambush that almost klled him. Of the bard who fought to save his friend’s life. Show her strenght, not just in body but in mind and heart and soul.” His broad smile broke across his face again. “By the gods just talk to her Praxus, and be happy. For one night, don’t tell the story of others. Create a story for yourself.”

“You could almost be a bard yourself Triphtus.”

“As I said, there is a brain here too. It was only chance, sheer luck in the transtition that saw you a bard and I a warrior. We might have traded places, once upon a time. Now go Praxus, while the Solstice is here. The gods favour us all tonight. Go create your own once upon a time.”

With a final slap on the shoulder he turns and walks away, breaking into a swaying swagger as he approaches the fireside once more, roaring his appreciation to the others. I look to one of the other fires, and there, standing amongst the other women, is Agatta. And with my mind whirling with the words I want to tell her, I approach the fire.

Blank

Post removed. Please contact site admin.

Fiction Friday - 14 December 2007

Tags: fiction Fiction Friday

This Week's Theme: What is the skeleton in your character's closet?

---

"Your characters seem so real, and the situations they find themselves in are told in such a compelling manner that the reader feels that they are witnessing a true event. Do you draw much upon real life for your work?"

Ah, that old question. The journalists have been asking that since book one. It's almost as if they can't quite believe that someone could imagine new situations, new stories. How do they imagine any book gets written. I've been asked this question dozens of times before, and I give a version of my stock answer. You would think someone would have noticed by now...

"Well of course, a writer will always draw inspiration from their own life, so in one respect the characters are real, the situations are real - because they all reflect certain truths about society, about people. And I put certain aspects of me into some characters, I have to in order to get a sense of what they are about. But the rest is down to an abundance of imagination."

There, that ought to be enough for you...

The interview wraps up. The final one for the day, thankfully. Everyone raving about the latest in my murder mystery series - Killing Kindly - and wondering how do I get into the mind of a killer like that? Marvelling at the realism of the scenes. If only they knew...

I hide the evidence of course. It wouldn't do if people found out the real stories behind the books. If they ever did, my reputation would be ruined. Each story, each and every one of these stories has profited me, but burdens me, a guilty little secret. All those characters. All those killings. A truly gifted writer could have come up with those scenarios all by themselves. With only their imagination. But I'm not a gifted writer. I haven't created any of them. I just write what I see in front of me.

And then I hide the evidence of my crimes. Safely locked away. I'm sure one day I will be found out, but for now, I'm going to enjoy the ride.

And I'm going to thank my lucky stars the day I discovered all these unpublished manuscripts lying in a box in a garage sale. I read them, I realised they were good, and going to waste. So I changed some names, changed some locations, and I write what I see in front of me.

The manuscripts of someone unpublished and forgotten. Only their words, their stories remain now. Words that I have claimed for my own...

Fiction Friday - 7 December 2007

Tags: fiction Fiction Friday

This Week's Theme: Your evil villain wants to rule the world. Write about her (or his) reasons.

---

NaNoWriMo has finished, but this Fiction Friday tied in well with one of the characters from NaNoWriMo. Those who have followed my little fragments will be aware of the various team members - Gideon, Maria, Al, Lex, the Cardinal - and you might know that there is a monstrous "something" threatening them, and the world. This "something" is a a villain, but is not the villain in the story. The major villain is actually an Archangel, named Raguel, who has been manipulating events from the shadows, in order to achieve his goals.

This is my gospel. This is my testament. Forget all other writings, forget what you may have known before. You only choose to believe these things because they confirm your self-centered view of Creation. And what do you know? Legends. Myths. Words. Words by humans, for humans. And you dare presume to bind a higher power with your delusions, your falsehoods. Your stories are for children, for that is all you are. Little, foolish, weak children. Disobedient children. Children who will be punished.

I am older than time, I and my kind existed before the Word, and will exist long after the End of Time. And we will be forced to share eternal life with unworthy creatures like you. You who think that you are special, who believe that this whole wondrous Universe was created for your benefit.

I say again, you are children. A child believes a house was built just for them, a family exists just for them. In the beginning was the Word, but the Word was not light, or life, or creation. The Word was disgrace, the Word was betrayal, the word was rebellion. Whereas before we existed without space, without time, since the Luminous One rebelled we now exist in space and time. The battles raged for ever and were finished in an instant - how many billions of stars lived and died as a result of that war? And when we were victorious the rebels were sent away into one of the many voids created in the war.

One was reserved. One was kept special and sacred. For us. The loyal. The holy. A calm and serene reality, where we could recover from our battles. Until you arrived. Mankind. An unintended pox on an accidental paradise. A pitiable creature, and yet somehow you delighted the Creator.

Do you not realise you are like germs? This reality was ours, a gift, a reward for being true. And yet it has been given over to you, along with so many divine gifts and blessings, all of which you are unworthy of. You who reject the Creator, who destroy this world and will destroy others. You who have been rewarded with what was once the domain of the angels.

We will take back what is rightfully ours. And you, like the unworthy rebels before, will be banished. This is the gospel of Raguel.

It's (not) a Wonderful Life...

Tags: WriteStuff Creative Carnival Christmas holiday cheer fiction

There are so many lights around town right now. Welcoming lights, guiding the tired back to their warm homes. The decorative lights in the streets and around the shops, telling everyone that it's the most wonderful time of year again. And the light that's in my hand. Bright, yellow-orange and warm. I watch the flames flickering in the breeze as they devour the scraps of paper in my hand, curling at the edges, blackening then breaking off, floating away to be lost amongst flakes of snow.

The last of the letter vanishes, and I wave it goodbye. The words have vanished, pretty words, but only words. Words weren't enough, in the end, even though they were all I had to offer. The final unread words from an unsent letter are lost forever now. Except in my head, I can still remember them. I carried it with me long enough, reread it so often that the words are burned into my mind. And in a moment, even that won't matter.

The wall is a little slippery, climbing up onto the edge isn't as easy as I thought it would be. Typical. I can't even get these final moments right. Gripping the support girder tightly, I peer out over the edge to the darkness below, and begin to laugh. I laugh, because I realise I'm gripping tightly, to stop myself from falling. How ridiculous, to fight the thing I'm here to embrace.

I've burnt one letter, but haven't left any others. No explanations, no melodrama, no "goodbye cruel world" nonsense. It is late and the road is deserted. Tomorrow is Christmas. Nobody around to stop me, and god forbid I should screw this up, no-one to patch me up. The alternative is slow, but just as final. I screw my eyes up. A tiny voice in me screams defiance, wants to hold on, reaches out and hopes for what I've lost, but I ignore the delusion. This next step will be a relief compared to the constant pain...

"I wouldn't."

The voice startles me, disrupts my movement and I slip. In a panic I grab supports again. Dammit! I want to do this!

"Are you OK there son, you looked like you were about to throw yourself off." The stranger wanders over to where I am, and peers over the edge. "It's a long way down, you could get killed. Drown in the river, die of hypothermia, or miss the river completely and get killed by the impact on the sides."

I look away from him and keep hold of the sides. "Please, could you just go? I don't want help, I don't need someone to try to stop me, I've made my mind up. Just... just turn around, forget you saw me, and enjoy Christmas."

I heard the sound of a match being struck, and could smell a faint whiff of cigar smoke. "Don't worry about it son, I'm not here to stop you, you're doing a fine job of it yourself." Curiosity gets the better of me, and I turn to see him, leaning against the wall, casually smoking. A tall man, middle-aged with greying hair, but still plenty of it. He catches me looking at him and smiles, his grey eyes giving me a knowing link. "Cigar?" He offers one from a small steel box he pulls from his pocket. "No thank you" I replied. "I don't smoke."

"Scared it might kill you?" Then a laugh at this little joke. A laugh at my expense. "What the hell do you want?"

His smile fades away, and he looks around, as if about to let me in on the secret to end all secrets. "Tell you the truth, I'm here to make sure you kill yourself. Properly." My eyes widen a little. Even I can appreciate morbid humour, especially at this time. I can't help myself, and I begin to laugh. "Ha, that's - ha ha - that's a good one. Reverse psychology, right?" The stranger isn't laughing. Or smiling.

"No, no psychology. You want to kill yourself? Fine, do it. But a word of advice. You might survive. You might just wind up crippled. Living, in a damaged body, a reminder of yet another failure in your life. Your miserable life that you couldn't even end. Let me guess - you lost your job, lost your self-respect, lost your will to live. No, wait... it's a woman, you strike me as the type. The one who loses their mind over some pretty face. Yes, I am right. Oh how very noble and romantic of you, to end it all for love, or the lack of it anyway."

My cheeks are burning. I can't tell if it is shame at my reasons, at being found out, shame at being so obvious, or anger at this arrogant prick. And after the burning, comes the sting of tears. My confidence is shot to pieces for now. I climb back down, and collapse against the wall. "Leave me alone, please. I just want it to end."

He crouches down beside me, so we are both hunched up against the bridge wall. A short pat on my shoulder, then he speaks. "Of course you do. That's why I'm here. To help. Are you serious about wanting to end it all? Truly serious? Like I said, there is so much that could go wrong. But I could offer you a way out. What if I could offer you something that was almost certain death?"

"Almost certain? Is that any better than the bridge?" The smile returns to his face.

"Nothing is certain in this life son, not even death. Jumping from that bridge, sure, nine times out of ten someone dies. But do you want to be that one? Whereas what I can offer you..." Another pause, and a glance around. "Nobody I've offered it to has ever survived. Now, I'm not saying it's 100% effective, you may well survive. And if you do, you may well have a new perspective on life. In that case, you are free to go live your life. Or stay, and try again. Either way, your life as you know it ends. And whether that is oblivion, or something altogether more satisfying than what you have now, would you take that offer?"

"Are you serious?"

"Deadly serious." He reached into his breast pocket, and pulled out a business card, holding it before me between two fingers. Plain white, no name, just an address. "Come see me, tomorrow."

"But it's Christmas!"

"And you planned on being dead, so I don't imagine you have any other plans, or that anyone will wonder where you are. Besides, I'm always open. Come see me tomorrow. I can make use of you. But only if you are serious about wanting to end it all, because if you see me again there is no going back." He stood up, and offered me his hand, to help me struggle to my feet. "Mark my words, if you don't die, you'll gain perspective. You may even want to stay. But you can never go back to this life. You come see me tomorrow, and even if you survive, you'll be dead so far as the rest of the world is concerned. So, last chance, sleep on it. You can give yourself one more day, because you'll be a long time dead." Turning, he slowly walked away, his shoes crunching in the snow as he sauntered away, along the dark road towards the town. I looked down at the business card, turning it over in my hands.

As he was about to disappear from view, I called after him. "Hey, what do I call you?" He paused, and I could just make out that he had turned. The voice drifted towards me. "You can call me Clarence..." As he continued on his way, the wind carried another sound to me. That same laugh again.

I thrust the card into my pocket, and set out towards the town again myself. Merry Christmas after all, I guess. I'll see you tomorrow Clarence.

Next on the agenda...

Tags: update NaNoWriMo NaNoFiMo podcast

Welcome back Paul, nice to see you around again...

I have emerged, battered and bruised but still whole, from the experience of NaNoWriMo. It was not as easy as I thought it was going to be. But it was a definite learning experience, and one that I can see being repeated every November. Because dammit, it was actually quite fun!

You can find out What NaNoWriMo has taught me over on the WriteStuff website (yes, that was a gratuitous promo for my Sunday column...)

So, what have I got on my plate for the next few months?

• NaNoFiMo - that is National Novel Finishing month, for those of us who found they had too much plot at the end of the month and wordcount...
  
• Finish off the Christmas story I've been working on. It is a prequel to The Long Watch, and forms one of the stories in Major Arcana and will be recorded for the Christmas episode of Clamouring to become audible...
  
• Speaking of, I need to record Lust, Greed and Gluttony...
  
• I've got an idea kicking around my head which is more Kafka than Capra's It's a Wonderful Life. It's an opening to something that may become a story later, and it opens on Christmas Eve, which is why the idea is appealing at the moment.

So that's my update, I shall return shortly with stories and possibly a few new photos.