Writing Goals and Resolutions - May Update

Here we go with May's update on my writing goals for 2009, and my general New Year resolutions.

Writing Goals

• Write every day, aiming for a minimum of two pages each day.
  Ooooh, not a good month. I've detailed the reasons elsewhere, but a wedding, a birthday, a holiday and a car crash proved to be quite disruptive to my plans!
  
• Compile an electronic anthology of my best short stories from 2008.
  The less said about this the better....
  
• Launch the Chinese Whispers anthology.
  The project here has been up and down. The start of May saw us lose one of the female writers, regain a replacement with days to spare, only to now lose one of the male writers! Fun...
  
• Enter six writing contests.
  One entered. In the end I elected not to enter the Writer's Digest short story contest. I'm beginning to feel like I have too much on my plate, so the short story contests may get the chop, we'll see what June brings...
  
• Complete two manuscripts to a publishable standard.
  Ongoing. As hinted above, I have an aggressive writing schedule planned.
  
• Participate in, and complete, NaNoWriMo 2009.
  5 months to go.

New Year Resolutions

• Read at least one book per month.
  Books read this month - American Gods by Neil Gaiman. Only one this month, but at least it was one.
  
• Get my 5k time down to 18 minutes.
  
• Run the BUPA London 10,000 in 45 minutes.
  Both of these goals came off the rails, and due to back injury from the car accident I had on holiday, I was forced to withdraw from the BUPA London 10,000.
  
• Take part in a half-marathon in late summer.
  Last month I was happy with the prospect of physio and running. In mid-May I finished my physio, but now need to return due to the recent injuries. What the physio makes of it will determine my chances for the half-marathon.
  
• Take part in a full-marathon at the end of the year.
  Again, this all depends on the assessment of my physio.

Writer Response From Write Anything - 1 February 09

This is adapted from an article that appeared on the Write Anything website on February 01, 2009. The original text can be found here. Following on from the last archive post, I had an excellent question from one of the commenters. Here's the answer I gave.

Writer Response

Last week's article drew several comments, and already there are possibly five columns' worth of questions.

Benjamin's comment was first, so I'll tackle that. He asked,

"what is the most you’re read in one year, and how the hell did you do it?"

Excellent question, and one that I'm going to have to break down into two areas, for two different types of reading.

The first of these is pleasure reading.

One of my goals for this year is to read more – I have a stack of unread books on my bookshelf, going back over five years. It took me over a year to read Les Miserables, the same for The Brothers Karamazov. In terms of reading for my own pleasure, I hope that this year will be the year that sees me read the most for my own pleasure, and I will achieve this by making better use of my time.

I probably read a lot more when I was at school. I had evenings, weekends, and long holidays to myself, no responsibilities, no distractions. When you have an abundance of time, it is easy to find time to do things like reading. When you have other demands (work, household chores etc) then you have to work with the time you have. The secret is not to try to create more time, but to use the time you have well.

These days, I always ensure that I bring a book with me wherever I go, so that when I have an idle moment (especially commuting) I can read a few pages. This month alone, I have read seven books, just by ensuring I had reading material to hand during quiet moments.

So that's pleasure reading. In terms of sheer volume of words, then the most I ever read in one year was when I was at university studying for a Master's degree. I had three taught classes and one dissertation by research. I can't even begin to calculate how much reading that was.

I spent most of that year in the library, surrounded by my research materials. How did I do it? Firstly, I treated it like a job. My main time commitment was to studying, from nine in the morning to five at night, and often a few hours in the evenings or weekends. During breaks between terms, I visited libraries at other institutions, and continued to work on my research. I had the time, and I used it to read. But that alone would not be enough.

Secondly, the style of reading was different. When reading for pleasure, we tend to slow down a little, savour each phrase, pause to consider the scene being set. For my research, my reading was purposive, driven by the questions I wanted answered. I soon learned how to skim over large areas of text, gleaning the general sense of the section I was reading, to determine whether it was useful to my purpose. If it was, I could hone in on key words and phrases. If not, a quick note would be made of it, should it prove useful later, then it was passed over.

Purposive reading has a direction and focus that takes you through a text at speed, with the intent of harvesting information, and is based on the 80/20 rule – that 80 per cent of all information comes from only 20 per cent of text. Purposive reading avoids padding, linguistic tricks and stylistic quirks, and boils down the text to the who, what, when, where, why and how.

It is a skill that we can all learn, and one that sadly I have let become rusty. Over the years I have studied various speed reading techniques (the most useful I found was Tony Buzan), as well as more unusual, almost esoteric concepts (Paul Scheele's Photoreading course). The efficacy of these techniques varies amongst users, but there are many common tips that I would like to leave you with, to help you to become a faster reader. These can be applied to reading for pleasure, as well as purposive reading.

1. Read the back cover blurb, table of contents etc of books – right there, you can often discover whether or not a book is likely to be useful to your reading purpose.
   
2. Move your eyes swiftly across the page, and don't skip backwards. Your eyes and mind can cope with more than one word at a time – whole groups of words, even whole lines can be read at a glance and understood.
   
3. Don't sub-vocalise each individual word, either in your mind, or mouthing it silently, otherwise you slow yourself down to the rate of speech (60 to 100 words per minute), when even slow reading (250 words per minute) would be faster). Dropping sub-vocalisation can easily push you to 600 to 1000 words per minute.
   
4. Use your finger, or a pencil, or any similar object, and move it across the line as you read. At school we are taught this is the sign of a bad reader. In fact, it can help you stop back-skipping to words you have read before, and help you take in groups of words at once.
   
5. Practice, practice, practice. Reading is a skill, and like all skills the more you do the better you get at it.
   
6. Stop worrying. Worrying that you can't read quickly makes you more likely to sub-vocalise, back-skip, and all the other little flaws that make us slow readers.

And that is pretty much how I did it. Making use of my time to read gave me time I didn't think I had. And learning a few useful reading techniques helped me to make better use of my time.

Tags: Write Anything Sunday Writer Paul Anderson

Blogroll

I noticed today that Blogrolling have got over their technical difficulties. Hopefully this means my blogroll will start working again.

You may have noticed that I have eviscerated the blog roll - too many links and too little time to go through them and see which were dead. So, over the next few days, I'll be adding links back to it. If you want to be included in the blogroll, leave a comment and a link to your blog and I'll add it (preference to writing/publishing blogs I'm afraid). Even if you suspect that I'll be adding you, you might want to drop me a comment anyway (Jodie, Annie - do you want all of yours or only certain ones?)

If you've got a separate podcast then I have a blogroll just for that on my podcast page - let me know and I'll link you there.

Man, I say I'm quiet and now it seems I've got plenty of posts to make....

I'm quiet

And I know I'm quiet. I also know that's not normally me. On first impressions, a lot of people think I'm quite a quiet person, an illusion usually shattered after getting to know me.

When I'm quiet, it's usually a sign something is wrong. When I get angry (and I mean real, genuine fury, not the general boisterous Scottish loudness I'm prone to) then you can tell because my voice gets softer, quieter, more measured. Sentences get shorter.

When I'm upset or sad, I also go quiet and withdraw from things, particularly the people, places and activities I love. I have to admit now that I am in all likelihood suffering from depression. Those who know me best will be able to point to multiple causes. The good run of bad luck has ground me down a little, so now it's just a case of taking care of myself enough that I bounce back.

There's a certain grim irony in quietness being a bad sign for me, given that I'm now, for all intents and purposes, a Quaker - and quiet stillness is sort of what we do best. There is a difference between quietness born of disengagement with life (decidedly un-Quakerly) and the active and voluntary stillness and quiet that arises in a Quaker Meeting. The latter is both introspective and corporate, a joined stillness with others which renews and strengthens and far from being mystic and esoteric, is actually grounded in the world and keeps you engaged.

I suppose the difference between being quiet because I have become withdrawn, and being quiet because I choose stillness, is like the difference between poverty and simplicity. Advices and Queries no. 40 counsels "A simple lifestyle freely chose is a source of strength". On a Quaker forum I belong to, some have pointed out that many around the world, even amongst Friends, have no choice but to live a simple lifestyle, as they are on the breadline. I don't think simplicity means poverty. Many early Quakers were highly successful businessmen (think Cadbury, Rowntree, Barclays Bank - all founded by Quakers as Quaker businesses). To me it means to live within your means, to not acquire goods merely because they are new and flaunt the fact you can get them - take only what you need, use all that you take, don't be wasteful or profligate.

I had a point when I started this... Anyway, I have been quiet in a bad way of late, but I'm working to change that. I have a lot on my plate, which is probably clouding my judgement. Again, I should heed Advices and Queries more - "try to discern the right time to undertake or relinquish responsibilities, without undue pride or guilt. Attend to what love requires of you, which may not be great busyness." (my emphasis)

I will be cutting down on commitments and responsibilities, attending to those that I want to be part of, or those that require me, but moving on from those that don't. It is senseless to continue doing things that are dragging me down, stealing time from other projects I'd rather be doing, and generally lowering my spirits.

It feels good to get some of that out of my system and down on (virtual) paper.

I may (although I always say this) podcast soon, for those missing the sound of my voice. Oh, the Chinese Whisperings anthology project has need of another male writer, so if you are one, or know of one, and you are interested, get in touch. I'll make a further post about it later on.

Just One Book: Saving Salt Publishing

A little late getting round to this, as I was on holiday when it was sent to me, then had the crash. Hat tip to Linda at odd is good.

As many of you will know, Jen and I have been struggling to keep Salt moving since June last year when the economic downturn began to affect our press. Our three year funding ends this year: we've £4,000 due from Arts Council England in a final payment, but cannot apply through Grants for the Arts for further funding for Salt's operations. Spring sales were down nearly 80% on the previous year, and despite April's much improved trading, the past twelve months has left us with a budget deficit of over £55,000. It's proving to be a very big hole and we're having to take some drastic measures to save our business.

Here's how you can help us to save Salt and all our work with hundreds of authors around the world.

JUST ONE BOOK

1. Please buy just one book, right now. We don't mind from where, you can buy it from us or from Amazon, your local shop or megastore, online or offline. If you buy just one book now, you'll help to save Salt. Timing is absolutely everything here. We need cash now to stay afloat. If you love literature, help keep it alive. All it takes is just one book sale. Go to our online store and help us keep going.

UK and International
http://www.saltpublishing.com/shop/index.php

USA
http://www.saltpublishing.com/shop-us/index.php

2. Share this note on your Facebook or MySpace profile. Tell your friends. If we can spread the word about our cash crisis, we can hopefully find more sales and save our literary publishing. Remember it's just one book, that's all it takes to save us. Please do it now.

With my best wishes to everyone

Chris Hamilton-Emery
Director
Salt Publishing
http://www.saltpublishing.com

So please, if you can, go buy a book from Salt Publishing. They are one of the very few publishers out there interested in short stories, anthologies and poetry. I've just ordered mine - Third Class Superhero by Charles Yu.

I'm baaaaaaack.....

Back from my holiday of reading, writing and running. Or at least that was the plan.

Some reading done. Not as much writing done as intended. Running, did a little bit, but I didn't want to injure myself in advance of the race, and St Ives has more hills in 500m than London has across the entire swathe of Greater London.

And I didn't injure myself running.... I have however managed to get whiplash after being in a car crash. Last day of the holiday too, so put a huge damper on the event, especially as we had immense problems trying to get a courtesy car so that we could actually go home.

Whilst on holiday I overhauled the plot of The Long Watch (badly needed), came up with an idea for a story for a competition, realised that I probably haven't been shortlisted in the last competition I entered (nice of them to tell me one way or the other - at least this means I can use the story), and indulged my new hobby of herb cultivation. I've got a St John's Wort, a Hyssop and an Angelica, plus three books on herbs (one identification guide, one medicinal uses and preparation guide, and Jekka McVicar's bible on herbs, Jekka's Complete Herb Book).

And the day I left on holiday, I managed to collect a birthday present from my older brother that had been delivered to a sorting office. The ever so talented Terry Anderson of the Scottish Cartoon Art Studio has done a caricature of me for my 30th birthday, in the style of my favourite author:

And the original, for comparison...

As for the race tomorrow, it is highly likely that I will be unable to run it. Apologies to those who have already sponsored me. Those thinking of doing so - don't. I'd feel terribly guilty if you did. I'm going to take down the details from the site now. Still on for a half marathon this year though I hope...

Post crash, stuck in St Ives

Stuck in St Ives until a courtesy car gets here. Not badly injured, but probably got whiplash. Fury at incompetence of other agencies has kept me going. Will be back in London tonight. Will assess tomorrow if fit enough to run race on Monday.

Out of touch

Just a quick note to say that I'm not going to have internet access for the next week. Will have basic access through my phone, but don't expect any blogging or much Twitter/Facebook activity. Normal service to resume shortly!

Fiction Friday - 15 May 2009 Epitaph

This Week's Theme: Four college bandmates who haven’t seen each other in years travel back to their former campus for a reunion.

---

Stop me if you've heard this one - a washed up rock star, an alcoholic lawyer and a corrupt Senator walk onto a stretch of deserted waste ground. Not sure what the punchline is yet. I'm not sure anyone will laugh.

"Senator." The lawyer gives a curt nod to the Man Who Would Be President next time round. It's amazing that they haven't seen each other since the last gig - Stevie's petrochemical clients would kill to know he might have the ear of a guy on the Hill, especially if the pollsters have it right, and that Bryan is a shoe-in for the White House.

Ha. The stoner drummer of a lousy soft rock cover band could be running the country. It's the kind of thing Bryan would have come up with after a frat night.

"Been a long time Steve. Dan." The Senator holds a hand out to the shambling has-been Danny Blade. Or Dan Isaacs as we knew him. Funny, four years of hard partying, he was the only one not into the girls, the drugs - and the only one who kept on with the music after. Still, he made up for it during those decades on tour. Talented guy. Shame his hands shake too much now to play the violin, but he's got enough control to keep playing guitar, and that's all the remaining fans care about.

"Bryan. Didn't think you'd come."

Look at them all standing there like they're at a damn funeral. Like the damn wise monkeys. Stevie who speaks no evil, and makes his clients sound good. Bryan who sees no evil 'cos he looks the other way in return for some hefty kickbacks. And little Dan, who won't hear no evil said against anyone. Well happy anniversary guys. Here's thirty years since we brought the house down on our final gig.

"When did they tear the Java Hut down?"

"Couple of weeks after the fire. The structure became unsound, they couldn't repair it." Bryan shivers. Guess that fancy coat isn't as warm as it looks.

Dan pulls a small bottle out from the pocket of his leather jacket, and knocks it back. "Here's to you Jim. The heart and soul of Heart and Soul." He passes it along to Stevie, who lingers over the cheap scotch. "Jim... wish you were still here brother." I can see the tears starting to form in his eyes, and Bryan puts a hand on his shoulder.

"Accidents happen Steve. You weren't to know the amp was faulty. And you got all those people out when the fire started..."

"I didn't get Jim out." He looks down at the ground. Don't feel bad Stevie. Bryan's right. You weren't to know. You didn't sabotage the amp. You didn't connect the live wire to the jack for my guitar.

They turn, and slowly walk away, muttering insincere promises to keep in touch. Like hell they will. Dan hails a cab which pulls away, then Stevie gets into his mid-life crisis convertible. Only Bryan remains, his sleek black secure car and driver sitting patiently. He gives one last look my way, before getting in to the car, his wife - my Dawn - in the back waiting for him.

I've waited 30 years to see you Bryan. 30 years unable to leave. I can wait as long again. But I will see you again. And it'll be hell.

I need a woman...

Must be dazzling with words, and committed to the cause.

In a parallel to my post earlier this year seeking male writers I now have need of more female writers. The writing project I'm working on has, unfortunately, lost one of the female writers, and so we need someone to step up to the plate and fill the void.

Of course, all the other writers are out looking too, so if you volunteer, it doesn't guarantee you'll get used. But we'll be doing more than one anthology, so if you'd like to be kept in mind for a future edition, please let me know.

The only requirements are the desire to tell a story, the ability to take and build on critique, and being a woman (although guys, if you also want to indicate interest for a future edition, please do so!)

Shaking things up From Write Anything - 25 January 09

This is adapted from an article that appeared on the Write Anything website on January 25, 2009. The original text can be found here. In advance of it's second birthday, the Write Anything site went through an overhaul. Look, writers, attitude all changed. This was one of the ideas I had for my own weekly column, to add some interactivity.

Shaking things up

Karen has already mentioned that we are planning to shake things up a little on the site.

The question of course is how? What can we, as the writers, do to make things a little more... interesting? Surprising?

I have an idea (and how fortunate, explaining the idea will take up this week's column – I know, I'm a cheater...).

Next week is the first Sunday of the month, so I thought, perhaps every first Sunday of the month I'll turn things over to you guys, after a fashion. How about a question and answer session? You guys ask a question, and I'll give you an extended answer.

Just leave your question as a comment to my posts, or contact me through my website - you can use this contact form - and ask me anything.

Now, so far, so mundane. Yawn, is what you are thinking. Did I forget to mention? You can ask me anything, and I'll answer. But you can also ask any character I have written about anything too, and they'll answer. And let's make it a challenge, shall we? If you don't want to ask me, or any of my characters a question, then ask any character a question, and I'll try to answer your question as that character.

We'll try it once, first, to see how well it works. If you're going to ask any character something, then I would ask that you make it someone reasonably well known, or public domain – I might only have a few days to try to figure out the character enough to answer.

So, let's give this a try. It could backfire horribly, or it could be a lot of fun. Either way, we'll find out, but in order for it to work, I'm going to need your help.

So get commenting!

Tags: Write Anything Sunday Writer Paul Anderson

30 years and 300 posts

Well, if everything has gone to plan this is my 300th post.

And also my 30th birthday. An arbitrary figure that represents the 30th time that the planet has been in this position relative to the sun since my birth. A day of no significance, in other words, globally or universally. Do I know how to party or what?

Some years ago, in a previous incarnation of this blog, I bemoaned the passing of a birthday laden with significance. Noting that by their mid-twenties most artists had created their masterpieces (although this popular legend is not actually true - the most commonly cited example, Michelangelo completing David at 24 is tosh - he only started it at the age of 26 and completed it when 29) I took solace in the fact that I had not yet reached the "Jesus age".

Put simply, the "Jesus age" is 30 - traditionally the age at which Jesus left home, and began his ministry. I took solace that whilst I may not have composed a great opera, or completed a famous sculpture, or devised a paradigm shifting scientific theory by my mid-twenties - at least I wasn't still living at home, had gone out into the world, and so at that point was doing better than Jesus. Of course, now Jesus is beating me, because from 30 to 33 he has a pretty good career going. However, if I can avoid being crucified in three years time, I might just have a better record in the long run....

So yes, now I'm at the Jesus age, taking stock, and wondering just what in the hell I've done and can do.

But I'm not alone. By the age of 30, Henry David Thoreau hadn't done much either. He'd been to a top university (Harvard), had a handful of jobs that didn't always work out well for him, and in the final few years before he turned 30, he laid the groundwork for what cemented his reputation. He spent two years living in the woods, and a night in jail for refusing to pay taxes, two events that would later be turned into his most famous books Walden; or Life in the Woods and Civil Disobedience. But by the age of 30, family and friends were looking at him funny - wondering why he was wasting that good education and potential, and hadn't found what he was supposed to be doing yet.

Me? I feel like that a lot. I went to some pretty good universities, I've held a handful of jobs that don't really work out for me. I've lost count of the number of times people have asked me why I'm "wasting my time" when I have law degrees (ignoring the fact that it would take a minimum of 3 years further study to translate them into an employable traineeship, all on far less money than I currently earn). I imagine that most people think I don't really have ambition, or any idea what I'm doing and where I'm going. I'll concede that if they do, then they are partly right...

But the last couple of years have been a proving ground for me. A hard, rough proving ground. I've been through things I don't want to talk about, things that I don't want to go through again. I've tried things out, some worked, some didn't. I've put myself to the test and discovered that I can do more than I thought I could, and I've laid groundwork for things that this year and next will begin to come to fruition.

Thoreau turned 30 with ideas burning in him, ideas that at last he had figured out how to put into action. So do I. I have at times stared enviously at those my age who have achieved so much, at those who have come before who were further ahead by my age. I am conscious of not keeping pace with my peers. But Thoreau, famously, had something to say about that.

If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.

I hear my own drumbeat. And the tempo has quickened.

Fiction Friday - 8 May 2009 Tempus fugit, amor manet

This Week's Theme: A man is given the ability to go back in time and change one event in his life.

---

"Of all the bad ideas you've had, this one has to be your worst."

"Thanks. Now shut up and keep an eye on the generator."

"You do realise you can't change the past, right? And that you're going to burn your one and only trip on this?"

I don't even bother looking up from the computer; I finish my calculations and run the temporal dispersal program.

"I said, you can't change the past. You-"

"Why thank you for the science update, I really needed it, because it appears that I wasn't paying attention throughout five years writing my thesis, and a further ten of lab work. I'm so glad I've got you to keep my up to speed on my own work."

"Sarcasm is very unbecoming Danny."

The machine begins to hum softly, and the air crackles with the energy. My life and my reputation are summed up by this amalgamation of spinning spheres, raw energy and exotic matter. My destiny. My last chance.

"I know Ivan. I'm sorry, it's just... look, I'm well aware of the Novikov consistency principle - I won't be able to change anything."

"So why go there Danny. We each only have one shot at doing this - why not go see something amazing? The dinosaurs, Caesar, the Crucifixion - why watch yourself get hurt, when you have all of history to observe?"

I sit down in the seat at the heart of the device, and the hairs on my arm begin to rise. This is it. "Because this is what I built it for. Others can see what they like - I'm only interested in this one moment." I press a small switch on the arm of the chair, and the electromagnetic clamps engage. "I have to try Ivan. I have to try."

The air around me screams in agony, as atoms are torn asunder. I always wondered what it would be like - observing the travels from outside the machine, you see nothing except a shimmering light surrounding the object being transported. From within, reality appears to become unhinged. All points of perspective are lost, all time seems simultaneous; this alone would put people off using the machine.

As the maelstrom around me subsides, the machine and the lab fade into the surroundings, and I find myself surrounded by people in a bar. It's crazy. I mean, I knew what it would be like, I predicted it, worked it out, but to experience it...

Novikov always thought that some external event would arise to stop you from altering the way in which events happened. But the universe is so much more elegant than that. Out of time, atoms no longer "fit" into reality. And so a time traveller can pass unnoticed, unobserved, and unable to fully interact. I say "fully" - we still have mass, still have a presence, but it requires tremendous energy to exert that influence, and the more energy consumed, the sooner you return to your present.

That's why no major historical event gets changed - there simply isn't enough energy to counteract them. But little things. Thoughts. Words. I think I can. It all comes down to interpretation.

There they are. Funny that. They, as if they are strangers. Disconnecting from the time stream makes you lose touch like that. It's really me, and her, and that night. She's getting up to leave, and this is it. A chronometer on my wrist begins to beep softly. Not long left, I can't stay here much longer. She's walking away, and that was the last I saw of her, until now. I get to see her again, and it's exactly the last time I saw her - the universe has a grim sense of humour.

Interpretations. We can't stop planes crashing, or bombs going off. We can't change how things happen, but we can change how people view them, can't we? I shadow her, literally. I'm a temporal wraith, unseen in a world that is just my past. Getting close, and beeping gets more urgent. I have a minute, at most, probably less, as I don't know how much energy this will take.

The air begins to hum and crackle around me, and I can just make out the form of the machine. I'm returning, I don't have enough time. Close to her ear, I whisper, and hope my words make it into the past, just enough to change the interpretation.

She fades from my sight, and the machine becomes reality as I return to the present. I slump in the seat, exhausted. I was gone for maybe five minutes, but feel like I've run a marathon. I can hear Ivan powering down the machine.

"Your chronometer says 12:49 and mine... 12:43. Although on this side of things the machine was only on for ten seconds." I manage to lift my head. He's preparing a drink, something to help perk me up. Hauling myself out of the chair, I shuffle towards him, and take the glass in both hands gratefully.

"So you saw her then?" I nod.

"And?"

"I told her. The things I should have said that night. The things I've wanted to tell her ever since."

"Well, I don't remember her, so I'm guessing you still don't wind up together."

I finish the drink and hand back the glass. "Novikov. You can't change how things happened. Just the interpretations. Maybe... she at least might know..."

Ivan clasps my shoulder. "She knows. She must do."

Quoth From Write Anything - 18 January 09

This is adapted from an article that appeared on the Write Anything website on January 18, 2009. The original text can be found here. This was incredibly infuriating to write, and at the same time it was immense fun. A pastiche/parody of Poe's most famous work, in honour of his birthday.

Quoth

Once upon a Sunday dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious story of blood and gore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my mind's backdoor.
" 'Tis some idea," I muttered, "tapping at my mind's backdoor;
Only this, and nothing more."

So I went back to my reading, but the tapping was succeeding
In annoying me – buoying me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
" 'Tis some idea entreating entrance through my mind's backdoor,
Some late idea entreating entrance as I said before.
This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Idea," said I, "or story, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my mind's backdoor,
That I scarce was sure I heard you. Will you now come to the fore?"
Blankness there, and nothing more.

Open here I flung my memory when, scratched and hard like emery,
Stumbled in the writer's block, from which I suffered more and more.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But with mien of lord or lady, did the very thing that I deplore.
Perched inside the mind of Paul, my creative side to ignore,
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

And the blockage, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
In the stilted mind of Paul that is stationary once more;
And his words have all the seeming of illusionary dreaming.
And the ideas linger sinking in the shadows on the floor;
And my thoughts from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be written – nevermore!

With sincere apologies to Edgar Allan Poe, to whom I wish a very gothic 200th birthday tomorrow.

Tags: Write Anything Sunday Writer Paul Anderson

Fiction Friday - 1 May 2009 In dreams

This Week's Theme: A secondary character says this somewhere in your story; "He's the cutest little boy. Makes it that much sadder, doesn’t it?"

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He dreams. Darkness and light, smoke and shadow and the images swim before him, forming and reforming before settling on the familiar. The long oak-panelled corridor, lined with the portraits whose eyes seemed to follow him as he walked across the cashmere rugs covering the flooring.

"Mummy. Mummy!" She was around, he had seen her go into his room. He came to the end of the corridor, a door, the door, the forbidden room. Father wouldn't let him go in. Not ever. He sat down outside the door, cross-legged, rocking back and forth.

"You can't do this Agnes, I won't let you!"

"You knew this was coming Calvin, you've always known. It's for his own good."

The voice, soft and tinged with sadness. He knew the words backwards and forwards. The dream never deviated. "Mummy?" He presses his ear to the heavy door, to hear the words burned into his mind.

"I didn't know what you were... what you've made him! He-"

"He is more important than you could possibly imagine. He will be in danger if he stays. He belongs with his kind."

He shuts his eyes, and backs away from the door. This is when it gets bad. He begins to shake, he wants to cry, but he can't. Father won't allow it.

"His kind? He's as much my kind as your kind!"

"He belongs with us now. Calvin, it's the only way, there are those who would destroy him if they knew. He will be safe with-"

"He's my son! And I will kill anyone who tries to take him away..."

"And what if I took him away?"

He turns away from the door, and runs, runs away from the door. Those were the last words from her; how many times since then has he wished it had come true. "Mummy, take me with you."

It is Him.
Yes it is Him.

He stops, unsure of where the voices come from. This is new, this is not part of the dream. They surround him, cacophonous, musical, terrible. "Mummy..." He wants to cry, and not even thoughts of his father can stop it.

This is He as He was, not He as He is.
He is now, can He hear us?
Yes, but this is His past and His dreamtime, and neither will remain with Him when He wakes.

From behind the door, a crash of glass shattering, and he knows his mother has been taken from him forever.

"Are you... angels? My mummy's an angel now." A glance at the door. Soon, it will open. "Can you take me to my mummy?"

Oh child, all this has passed, we see it as it is but cannot act, for all this is what once was, for you.
He shines Kilejna, He is a wonder, He will shine.
He is the cutest little boy, and has become a great man, though He does not realise it.
This is so Kilejna.
It makes it that much sadder, does it not?
Yes... for the many years of strife you will endure, I am truly sorry child. Forgive me.

The voices crescendo, then silence. A familiar, drawn out creaking cuts through his heart, and he knows the door has opened at last.

"Boy." His father barks out the word, a descriptor, not a name. "We must leave. Now."

"Mummy...?" A small trembling voice, laden with hope, that this time it is different. This time angels visited.

"Your mother has gone. She... won't be coming back."

His father fades from sight with these words, and the images swirl together, merge and dissipate. He awakens, a cold sweat forming on his brow, and tears streaming down his face. He can cry now, although he does not remember why. The images slip away from his mind, leaving only the traces of regret and sorrow.

Darkness sweeps over him, and he sleeps once more.