Wanderings

I took a trip to London yesterday. I'll be honest, a big part of me would like to say something profound (or pompous, as is often the case when I try to be profound) about how I wandered the streets of the city, breathing in the atmosphere and basking in the sights and sounds, searching for the ever-elusive muse in the hopes that she would bestow upon me the inspiration for a new story, or some nonsense to that effect...

The truth is, I needed a new pair of shoes. It has become quite a serious issue with me this past week. Enter any high street shop in my town and ask for anything larger than a size 11 and watch as the staff back away, glancing at their colleagues in fear at the very mention of the mythical "shoe-size-that-must-not-be-named". By their reactions you'd think asking for a pair of shoes in a size 12 would inadvertently result in summoning Cthulhu or some other cosmic monstrosity from the depths of the Topman changing rooms. Anyway, where was I going with all this...

Allow me to deviate from my usual blog entries about the writing process and instead regale you with the random events that took place during my afternoon in London. I'm sure there will be something related to writing somewhere in all this, but let's get on with it...

* * *

The National Gallery was at the top of my list of places to visit (disregarding my search for shoes). I often feel a sense of peace when exploring the galleries and examining each of the paintings, taking a note of the artists' names so I can search them up upon my return home. Even standing outside in Trafalgar Square, with my back to Nelson's Column, I find myself impressed by just how majestic the building, almost as if it is a remnant of classic antiquity.

Sadly the sight was spoiled somewhat by a blight of mimes - one of which was dressed as Yoda, oddly enough - resting upon long canes while sitting cross-legged in midair. I'll be honest, it took me far longer than it should have to work out the secret to that trick; initially I thought they must have amazing upper-body strength to keep themselves suspended for hours on end in that position. Yes, common sense was never my strongest attribute...

The paintings themselves are still a source of wonder to me. More often than not I can spend hours studying the detail that has gone into each, all the while attempting to comprehend how they managed to create such beautiful masterpieces. Considering I know next to nothing about the craft of painting and what it entails, all I can do is provide my own interpretation of what I see on the canvas, and the thoughts and emotions they invoke for me. There is one painting in particular, by Thomas Gainsborough, that would remain in my thoughts for a long time and eventually go on to form the basis of my current short story. Allow me to explain how...

(Cornard Wood, near Sudbury, Suffolk

1748, Thomas Gainsborough)

What I see in this picture is a glimpse of the English countryside almost three centuries ago. If you went to that location now you'd either find this forest and the glimpse of distant fields bisected by a motorway, or a generic housing estate dominating the horizon. This painting offers a glimpse of a time long ago, and while it may no longer exist in the same way that it is depicted here, this landscape has forever been immortalised on canvas, as if the very soul of that place has been captured by the artist and exists within the painting. No doubt anyone with a modicum of knowledge regarding art will scoff at my interpretation and state how wrong I am, but that is my personal thoughts on the matter.

Sometimes I wonder what other people think when they see these paintings. I guess for the time being I will never know, considering the only other person in the immediate vicinity was slumped against a chair in the centre of the gallery, fast asleep for the entire time I was there. Never mind, then!

* * *

My final say on the gallery: there are signs on the entrance that state "no photographs". Naturally, everyone took photographs. I think the staff should take advantage of this phenomenon and place a giant label on the big money box in the entrance, stating "whatever you do, do NOT donate!" Would it work, I wonder?

* * *

Most of the places on my list to visit were within walking distance. Others required travelling by tube. Climbing those eternal escalators are tedious at the best of times, without the hundred or so posters on either wall advertising nothing but bottles of Strongbow. Halfway up it became almost hypnotic. Three quarters of the way I could have sworn there was some grand cider conspiracy afoot, to lull unwary tourists into the nearest bar. By the time I reached the top I was rather surprised I wasn't tipsy just from the influence...

* * *

The bargain bookshop in Moorgate is a strange place. It possesses an almost magnetic force that draws me to it the moment I step off the train at Liverpool Street. Many times I have found some wondrous treasures there that I would have dismissed elsewhere. It was with some pleasure that I approached the shop, with a long list of books that I knew they had in stock and that would provide me with enough reading material to last me until next century.

The damn place was closed. Closed! The nerve of it all. I could see the books through the window. So close, but so far away. With a heavy heart I proceeded onwards, with the knowledge that there was a giant Foyles bookshop waiting for me in Shaftsbury Avenue that was bound to be open.

* * *

I made a decision to walk most of my journey. There are so many interesting and strange sights to observe when you mingle with the crowds that you would otherwise miss when travelling by tube. Quaint little cafes that served up dinky little cups of coffee no larger than a thimble (I know, absurd!). Restaurants stretched in every direction, from the most expensive where I did not dare glance at the prices, to not so nice establishments that would probably render you comatose with food poisoning if you so much as walked through the front door. And the street musicians! Some were great, while others howled like banshees as they hammered away at out-of-tune acoustic guitars. It was an experience, to say the least.

All this walking made me feel like one of my favourite writers, Charles Dickens, who was known to traverse the streets of London in his day and observe those around him. The only difference being that he was a master at writing, whereas my talent is more or less non-existent. And I don't dress nearly as suave as he did. Nor do I have his epic beard, or his encyclopaedic knowledge of London's streets. Seriously, if it weren't for the maps posted on every street corner I would be halfway to Paris by now and still be none the wiser. Okay, so I guess I'm nothing like Dickens. Bit of a silly comparison, really...

* * *

The ever-elusive muse/shoes notwithstanding, I knew with certainty that I would not escape the city without enough books to fashion my own raft and float down the Thames. Forbidden Planet was on my next stop, but as chance would have it I took a wrong turning and ended up on the same street as Foyles bookshop (totally a coincidence, I assure you. Probably). It is a rallying cry to all readers out there, the promise of pretty much every book that you can imagine. Needless to say I couldn't wait to look around. I approached the entrance...

... only to discover that the shop had closed down.

Closed down!

This isn't even that funny anymore. Whitewashed windows and signs recommending I go elsewhere. Disappointment! Sheer soul-crushing disappointment. Words cannot even describe it. Waxing frustration for a good minute or two, I weighed up my options and, dejected, made my way to Forbidden Planet...

... only to pass the Foyles Bookshop that was open next door. Next door. As in, next door to the Foyles bookshop that had closed down. Now I know how those guys from Inception felt. I must admit that I was overcome with relief, but I did feel rather foolish. Thankfully I cast aside my confusion and bought some books. Books! Books everywhere! Books as far as the eye could see. Books I've been meaning to read for a while now. I have a lot of reading to do...

In truth this picture is a bit of of a lie. I later had a look in the Waterstones in Trafalgar Square and picked up Heart of Darkness and The Bloody Chamber. Why I didn't get them while I was in Foyles, you ask? I cannot answer that; it is another mystery for the ages.

* * *

My adventures are nearing the end. I completed my quest and found a rather nice pair of shoes in Topman. The staff there had no fear of summoning Cthulhu at the mere mention of size 12 shoes, despite my fears to the contrary, so all's well on that front. Not only that but I found a fedora. That's right, a fedora. At least I think it's a fedora. It certainly looks like a fedora. Every so often I forget that I am not Philip Marlowe: private investigator, and it's during these moments that I end up buying fancy hats. I shall wear it with pride, damnit!

* * *

I am writing this during a storm.
The rain lashes the gardens beyond the windows of my room.
Lightning sears the sky.
A perfect atmosphere for stories.

* * *

Forbidden Planet is one of the most amazing places ever. They are currently celebrating Batman's 75th anniversary and the store windows are plastered with scenes from the comics. I do have a love for Batman comics and was on the verge of picking up a copy of Arkham Asylum (the graphic novel, not the video game) but changed my mind at the last minute. The art style is something to behold; both unsettling and disturbing in the way that it reflects the insane minds of Arkham's  super criminals that Batman faces on a regular basis. Plus it was drawn by the same guy that designed the Sandman covers - a series that I love. Maybe I'll pick up a copy of Arkham Asylum some day...

* * *

It was a good day. Visiting the National Gallery reignited the waning enthusiasm I was suffering from with regards to my latest short story, and it felt good stocking up on books for the rest of this years' reading. Things are progressing rather nicely.

Writings

My second blog entry in as many days. Didn't see that coming, I must admit, but there is a very good reason for the sudden desire to throw my thoughts out into the void once more.

I started writing my short story today.

I know, I know ... shock! gasp! can it be? Everyone stop what they're doing, Frank is writing again! All joking aside, it's a big deal for me. Half the time I rarely make it past the second page without losing interest in what it is I was writing about. Most of that was due to a lack of planning and not really having a clear definition of the kind of story that I wanted to tell, or how best to tell it. They always end up abandoned and cast aside for the literary vultures to feast upon.

Today was different. I had a plan. I knew the characters (as far as one can know them before putting pen to paper, anyhow), the themes and all the other intricate details that I would need to breathe life into this new creative undertaking. It was all there, in a small notepad, within easy reach.

So, it begins at last...

I sat down at my desk, pen and pad before me...

I opened to the first page, a blank page...

And then I realised that the notebook I'd got some weeks prior was faulty, and by faulty I mean the pages were upside down and back to front, the margins were also upside down, the bookmark was on the wrong part of the book, the elastic thing that keeps it closed was on the front rather than the back (which just looks odd from an aesthetic point of view) and pretty much everything that could go wrong did go wrong. Hardly a good omen for my first day of writing. How, I hear you ask with mild disdain, is it possible to come across a supposed faulty notebook if all it consists of is lines? Very easily, it would seem.

Thankfully I had a spare empty notepad. Perfect. Nothing would prevent me from immersing myself in the creative endeavour that has hounded my thoughts this past week or so.

I sat down and opened to the correct page. I lifted my pen...

You know what would go well with writing? A cup of coffee. I'd already had a nap to refresh my otherwise flagging senses, so why not some caffeine? I got up, wandered downstairs and helped myself.

Fine, fine. Third time's the charm. I sat down for an hour or so, initially umming and erring and tapping my pen against the table while attempting to conjure up a suitable name for my lead character (I hesitate to call him a protagonist, for reasons that will become abundantly clear one day). But no sooner had I happened upon a name I sat down and wrote, wrote some more and continued to write until I could write no longer.

So here I stand. Or sit, as truth would have it. I have made a small bit of progress into the opening scene that I had painstakingly planned yesterday evening. What are my thoughts on it all so far? Though still early days, once again I am stumbling upon the same nagging sensation I often suffer upon writing the first draft of any story. What I put on the page never seems to reflect the mood, the atmosphere or the general image I have in my imagination of what the story should be like. It's superficial and lacks the subtle nuances and depth that I had hoped to get across. I can't comment on my characters yet as they've only made a brief appearance so far, but the prose itself feels a little forced, a little unnatural, as if I am subconsciously saying "You know this will probably be scrapped and rewritten in the second draft. It better be. Stop using so many adverbs. Adverbs are not your friend."

I am still confident, however. Even more so than when I started, as hard as that is to believe. Perhaps the plan is what is keeping me focused, knowing that I have a faint blueprint to work to. Also, I'm learning to be patient, and to not beat myself up about the fact that this is only a first draft. This is raw, unrefined prose without the polish or the very detail that will make the project into the thing that I always imagined it could be. For now, I'm going to get the story down any way I can and worry about the corrections in the later drafts.

So far, it just feels good to be writing again.

Plannings

It's taken the best part of a week, but I can finally announce that I have finished the plan for my first short story. Seriously, it's been a long week of pacing up and down my room for hours on end, pen in one hand and empty notepad on the desk nearby, talking to myself in an attempt to work out what sort of story I want to tell and how best to tell it. There have been moments when the ideas have poured from my mind in such a torrent that I could hardly get them down on the page fast enough, and my main concern above all else was worrying whether I'd be able to read the illegible scrawl that pretty much sums up my handwriting. Other times I would find myself wandering around the house in frustration, trying to throw out possible scenarios and abandoning them just as quick, consumed with the knowledge that there was a story knocking around somewhere within the cobwebbed recesses of my mind, yet for the life of me I couldn't find the damn thing. One of the most common sentences during these moments is usually something along the lines of: "It's not working. It's all shit. All of it. Shit!" If it wasn't for the continual supply of tea and being able to unwind by killing darkspawn in Dragon Age I don't know how I would have coped! But the first stage is over with. The planning is done. Despite the ups and downs of the whole process, I thoroughly enjoyed it.

One of my main faults with regards to writing - at least the one that I feel is the most prevalent, though no doubt there are many others - is that I am impatient. Very impatient, in fact. It's weird, really, considering I need to have most of the details at least present if I am to have any hope of writing something that doesn't end up as some awful miasma of cardboard characters, plotholes the size of small craters or just something so putrid and unreadable that my writing skills end up being worse afterwards than when I began. For me, planning is key. Yet most of my past experiences are littered with times when I might as well have said: "Y'know what, I want to write something awesome and I can't be bothered to put the effort into planning. I have this great idea, only one idea, but it's so good and I'm sure it'll turn into a novel..." *two paragraphs later* "...It's not working. It's all shit. All of it. Shit!"
Who knows what this story will be like once it's written - until I sit down and work on it then there's no way I can talk about it - but it's been a lot of fun just sitting into the late hours of the evening, jotting down even the most minute of details that will hopefully have an effect on the narrative, even if it's just to provide a greater sense of immersion or depth for the reader.

So now comes the hard part: the writing. I'm more excited about it than anything else. Considering my recent reading habits it will probably come as no surprise that it is heavily inspired by Gothic fiction and a few other influences thrown into the mix. Got a brand new notepad waiting to be unwrapped (that's right, I'm writing this story by hand) and an entire evening ahead of me tomorrow to get started on this thing.

It might also be a good idea to hide both Dragon Age and Game of Thrones for the next couple of weeks. It's going to be a tough enough task as it is without having to deal with distractions of that magnitude...

Beginnings

I have created a new journal blog thing. Again. There's a surprise if ever I saw one, considering I have a history of starting a blog, writing a few posts and then letting it fall by the wayside while some new interest takes my fancy. The reason behind this is that I have never really been all that comfortable talking about myself. Most of my interests are rather solitary; reading into the late hours of the night or thinking up stories for no audience but myself, so much so that I feel that talking about it to others often removes some of the charm and wonder I experience while immersed in those activities. Stories are a big part of my life and the books I have picked up along the way have taught me so much, often affecting me on both an emotional and personal level. Or maybe I'm just strange, and these are merely the ramblings of a guy trying to think of the best way to start his blog journal thing before the motivation drains away...

The reason for starting this journal blog thing (one of these days I'll think up a decent title, but for now it'll suffice) is because an important time in my writing life has finally arrived. After reading and studying hundreds of books for inspiration something has finally clicked in my mind - like unlocking a door within the recesses of my mind, a door that has always been present but remained hidden until now - and for the first time I feel I have a general idea of the kind of stories that I want to write. It's still very early days, and my writing talent (or lack thereof) is laughable at best considering how little practice I've had since I left uni, but now is the time to put pen to paper and write like a crazy person until the day I hone and polish that idea into a style that will be unique to me.

So think of this journal blog thing as my companion while I write; a place where I can muse on different topics that interest me, vent my feelings and discuss all manner of things. Maybe people will read it, maybe they won't, but it will be good to get some of my thoughts down on paper and get into the habit of chatting about the things that I am passionate about, or just talk about life in general. Most of this weekend and the evening next week will be a time of frantic planning (seriously, I've stocked up on coffee and Belgian chocolates, so I must be serious). I have a basic, yet unrefined idea for my first short story, so it will be good to see how it will progress in the coming weeks.

Another thing that I find exciting about all this? There are only two paths for me to follow, and my actions will determine whether I work hard on my craft and hopefully make something of myself in the distant future, or fall into my old lazy habits and watch in dismay as my literary interests fade into dust and ruin before they even get off the ground...

You know me, I pride myself on being such a confident, optimistic person.