Tomorrow...

The National Novel Writing Month begins tomorrow.

Am I ready? Not particularly. There is still always more to plan, but I've long since come to the conclusion that, even if someone granted me limitless time to prepare, I would still never consider myself ready to sit down and write the damn thing.

I must admit, I am a little nervous. While this may not be all that important to others - most of the people I spoke to this month didn't even know NaNoWriMo even existed until I mentioned it in passing conversation - it is a big deal to me. One of the compelling reasons for writing during November is the knowledge that I am not alone; there are almost a million others throughout the world also taking part in this same competition. While I don't usually interact with the forums that much, it is always good to read about how others are faring with the development of their stories. Writing is a rather solitary hobby, but knowing there are others out there that are also standing at the foot of the mountain and staring up at it with equal parts fear and excitement is reassuring.

So, yes! NaNoWriMo begins tomorrow. An entire weekend of uninterrupted writing.

I even thought up a rather fitting title that I think reflects my story rather well:

'The Hollow Man'

... and yes, before you say anything, there is a bit of a T S Eliot vibe going on there. That was intentional.

For the rest of the evening I plan to relax and get a good night's sleep in preparation for tomorrow morning. Maybe fit in a bit of The Last of Us, because everyone knows that shooting zombies in the face while trying to survive in a post-apocalyptic wasteland is always the best way spend a Friday night.

It's also reassuring to know that there will be very few distractions this November that could prevent me from focusing on my writing...

Well, apart from this...

Inspirations

This blog has been rather quiet, wouldn't you agree? No random thoughts, no chit-chat about writing and, most noticeable of all, no incessant demands for coffee. I guess some of you must think that this silence has something to do with me giving up on NaNoWriMo, right?

WRONG!

The truth is the last couple of weeks have been rather hectic. Not only have I been settling into a new job, but most of my free time in the evenings has been dedicated to jotting down idea after idea in preparation for November. You can barely move in my room for all the random bits of paper strewn about the place, all covered with idle sketches and plot stuff!

In short, it has been a busy couple of weeks.

Probably the busiest I've been in quite some time, actually.

I imagine you must think that, what with all this talk of frantic planning, I must be ready for November 1st. Right?

WRONG!

There is still a ton of stuff I could be working on right now, but with only a few days remaining I can only conjure up so much, and I have absolutely no idea what a lot of this story will be about. But you know what?

I'm okay with that.

There have been a couple of times in the past, before I ever took part in any NaNoWriMo'ing shenanigans, where I have spent over a year planning out every inch of a story that, when the time came to write the thing, the project fell to pieces. In my limited experience, I do feel that there is such a thing as too much planning. Over that time I transformed a basic concept into something so ridiculously epic and monumental, with countless characters struggling to throw themselves into the limelight, all the locations mapped and pretty much every aspect of the story sussed out. Yet, after all that attention to detail, there was no way I could get the project up off the ground no matter how hard I tried.

Looking back in retrospect, I suspect it had something to do with how rigid the planning was. There was little room to breathe, and no possibility for a character to make a sudden unexpected choice or deviate from the beaten path without shattering the story into pieces. I chalked it all up to experience and decided that, in the future, I would be a little less crazy when it came to working on an outline. An outline is useful, but go too far and it can be just as detrimental as not making the effort to plan at all.

Then again, it probably had more to do with the story being a bit rubbish. And by "a bit rubbish" what I actually mean is "so putrid even the rats wouldn't go near it". Either way, like most of these mistakes, I learned my lesson.

Anyway, where was I going with all this...

Ah! Of course! NaNoWriMo 2014...

The last update on this journal blog thing mentioned that I had some very basic ideas for this project. Lots of disparate ideas with little to connect them, that sort of thing. Thankfully the last couple of weeks have been rather productive and I have worked out the basic premise of the story and several of the key characters that will be integral to the plot. So far it seems to be going rather well, and here's to hoping I can scribble down a few extra bits and pieces in preparation for November 1st.

At this stage I'm reluctant to discuss my story in any detail. It was hard enough getting this far into the blog without crumbling under the pressure of expectation, but when November is underway I might go so far as to provide a little synopsis of what it's about. Until then, I aim to keep it all low-key.

What I will do is let you see what books and other mediums of entertainment have inspired this project.

Quite a list! Some books have been more of an influence than others, but there is no doubting how important each of them have been throughout this entire process.

So yes, there is a plan. Sort of. A very brief one. A basic outline with a massive amount of freedom to allow the story to expand and change if the need arises. There is no chance of planning myself into a corner this time, and the thought of seeing what weird and wonderful choices my characters might make does fill me with excitement. It's almost akin to stepping out into the great unknown, and it certainly feels very liberating. What will be fascinating is seeing what my imagination can create, what stories I could tell in the space of 30 days...

I think it's time to bring this blog post to a close. Struggling to stay awake these last couple of weeks and could do with some tea and chocolate. 

As I have said, time and time again: Tea and chocolate makes everything better.

Ideas

Sometimes in life we reach a crossroads. Take one path and the other closes off forever, but you are always left wondering what might have happened had you chosen the other option.

I came across one those crossroads just a few moments ago, and the decision was one of the hardest things I've ever done...

... Do I write this blog entry, or embark on an evening of binge-watching Supernatural?

You see, my life is often crammed full of such important, life-defining choices. It explains why I am such a social person who rarely ever stops talking.

Yeah, there's no way I could maintain a straight face while writing that...

I could've sworn I sat down to write something meaningful. Then again, in my life and in my stories, you should never expect to read anything truly meaningful or profound. In truth, I have not experienced nearly enough of life yet to be able to offer such an opinion, to bleed onto the blank page and provide some insight into the human condition. Maybe one day I might have something worthwhile to say, but until then I will continue to write strange stories about detectives and aristocrats and supernatural stuff and have a ton of fun seeing what my imagination spawns next!

I guess this would probably be a good time to give an update on how the planning side of things is going. NaNoWriMo is certainly a time to write like a destructive force of nature, but as I mentioned in one of my earlier blog entries I require a rough plan to work by. So, what have I been up to?

Firstly, I have some books I need to get through. One massive inspiration right now is the masterpiece that is Rebecca, by Daphne Du Maurier. Seriously, if you haven't picked this up then you need to reassess your priorities in life. Gothic fiction at its finest; protagonist's inner monologue is truly fascinating, and complements the constant sense of foreboding that hangs over the entire household. It also features an aristocratic manor, because what Gothic story is complete without a creepy aristocratic manor or castle? Just ask Dracula, or Carmilla. I doubt Jane Eyre would disagree, and what about you, Fall of the House of Usher? I was about to add Jamaica Inn to that list, but that was more of a creepy pub than a castle. Slight difference, sure, but it has certainly provided me with an unhealthy fear of the Cornish moors...

The problem at the moment is that I don't really know what sort of story I want to write. I have a loose collection of disparate ideas, but most of them are so vague that I'm not sure how to combine them. Plot is still an unknown factor, and while I do have a couple of thoughts about some of the characters that will populate this story they have yet to take shape or identity, still to develop personalities. So far the planning stage of this project feels akin to standing at the foot of a mountain; one gigantic, impossible obstacle, with an even bigger one behind it that will have to be tackled in November.

I think the best course of action would be to separate the planning into individual segments, rather than look at it as the aforementioned mountain: insurmountable and daunting. Try and work out the characters first, then the plot; I would rather have a flawed story with interesting characters than the opposite. Hopefully once those are planned the rest should follow easily enough. It's something to think about...

What I do know for certain is that it will be focused around an aristocratic family, so expect lots of sketches and notes on the household and its surrounding grounds. It will contain elements of the supernatural, with lots of other weird things taking place that will be integral to the story. Not decided whether it will be set in our reality, or a fantasy equivalent. Not even sure what time period yet, though I do have an interest in the Victorian era. Hmm, questions, questions...

... Everything is a little uncertain at the moment, a little unclear. Once a more concrete idea presents itself then I'll discuss it further. Glad I have a few weeks to prepare!

All this typing has given me a thirst for tea. I need to do something about that.

I could also do with watching some more Supernatural.

A blog post and a couple episodes of Supernatural?

Turns out it wasn't much of a crossroads after all. Who would've thought?

Thoughts...

Tomorrow is my Friday. In truth, as many of you are no doubt aware, tomorrow is not Friday. Not at all. Not even a smidgeon, no matter how hard one may try to wish it. Is it Friday anywhere else on this planet, or in this solar system? Who knows? Maybe? Why are you even asking me?

The point I am trying to make is that, although tomorrow is, indeed, Tuesday, to me it is Friday.

Friday...

The reason for this is that, after tomorrow, I have some time booked off from work. Right now I am sitting at my desk, listening to a bit of music, all the while pondering what to do over the course of eight empty days. London is always an option, but recently I haven't been in the mood to navigate a path through the hustle and bustle of the metropolis. Something quieter is in order, less frantic. I need some time to think, to imagine and piece things together. My mind is a maelstrom of thoughts, doubts, excitement about the upcoming month and the challenge it holds. But it is nothing compared to my current desire to...

to...

... to go downstairs, enter the kitchen, and make myself a hot chocolate. Preferably without milk (never add milk to hot chocolate, you monster). It has been months since the last one.

Not a bad idea, actually. In my mind, indulging in hot chocolate is the first step in welcoming the approach of Winter.

For the first couple of days I think I will stay at home for a bit, or maybe travel to some of the other towns close by. Embark on an adventure of sorts. Explore bookshops and haunt coffee shops, wrap up warm against the chill winds, and just observe and take notes and think for a bit and try and piece November's story together. The story is there, somewhere. The characters are staring out at me, but they lack clarity or substance.

It'll be time to get some Winter clothes soon. Is there nowhere nearby that sells a thick coat in black? Or perhaps a red scarf? Probably for the best; at this rate I'll be wandering through town dressed like a character from The Night Circus. Not that that's a bad thing. Victorian fashion would probably stick out a bit, though. Tophat is probably not a good idea. Now we're getting less Night Circus-y and more Dickensian. Best keep searching. Clothes shopping is such a bore...

I guess the free time will be dedicated to planning. And hot chocolate. Exploring? Why not. There is no shortage of ideas for this project, most of them having coalesced over the course of the last two years or so. It is a pleasant thought, sitting in a warm cafe, laying the groundwork for a novel, sketching the setting, thinking up names for things and the identities behind those names. Sometimes I wonder if there are any other writers in these same places, sipping at steaming drinks, perusing the shelves at bookshops - all thinking their own silent thoughts, minds constructing tales of imaginary places and people? It would be nice to think so.

Tired. Need sleep. This is the sort of stuff I write when I just feel the need to write something. A random collection of thoughts to usher in the end of another evening.

That hot chocolate is sounding great right about now...

Five Years Ago

A couple of days ago I mentioned that I was considering taking part in this year's NaNoWriMo challenge. The more I think about it, the more appealing it sounds; none of this "oh, I'll spend a month tinkering away at some short story" that pretty much summed up my last writing endeavour. No sir! I think something bigger is in order. As November 1st falls on a Saturday, I have the entire weekend to kick start what will undoubtedly be one colossal undertaking. 50,000 words! A challenge! Imagine my excitement now that I can finally make use of all the ideas that have been floating aimlessly through the empty space between my ears these past few years - all the inspiration and lessons picked up from hundreds of books - ball it all up and hurl it at the blank page. November will be a time when I write something to be proud of.

To be honest, this is not the first time that I have felt this way about the National Novel Writing Month. Almost this exact same situation took place five years ago, albeit in a somewhat different setting than now.

So let us leap into H. G. Wells' time machine for the duration of this blog entry and travel back in time, away from today's full-time working pattern, all the way back to the halcyon days of November 2009. My life was different then; university was the main focus of my attention, evenings were spent mostly playing video-games and watching terrible films in the company of housemates, and it was also a time where I was in the process of  acclimatising to a world where I no longer had lip piercings or long hair. It's hard to believe that this took place half a decade ago. Makes me feel old and creaky. Someone throw some more wood on the fire while I tell this tale, and pass me my teeth while you're at it...

* * *

By November I was well into my first year of studying Creative Writing. Well, I say "first year" with extra emphasis being placed on the quotation marks. In truth, it was my second year. I was studying Media Production in my "first first year", but something told me I was in the wrong course when 1) I had no real interest in films, and 2) I was sneaking novels into the lecture theatres, and rushing out the moment lecture ended so that I could read during the 10-minute break before the next class.

It was roughly two months into my new course. During this time, most of my fellow classmates mentioned that they were going to take part in the NaNoWriMo challenge. Considering I had some free time to spare between shooting monsters into the early hours of the morning on Gears of War and trying not to doze off in workshop sessions, it seemed a good time to try and see whether I was up to the task of writing those 50,000 words. It would be good to put some of those ideas I'd conjured up over the Summer to paper, and I set about typing with such enthusiasm that I barely slept for days on end, often foregoing meals and company, intent on transferring the vivid scenes in my mind onto paper. I would write something deep and original and like, totally awesome in every way.

What was the story like, I hear you ask? Well, put it this way: I pretty much ripped off the entire Thief franchise. No, that's not entirely true. I did have a lot of my own ideas. Ideas that made no sense. Ideas that were downright hokey. Awful dialogue (oh, the dialogue! Five years later and the memory of that dialogue still haunts my dreams. Only vast amount of chocolate can silence it.)

Oh fine, I admit it, it pretty much read like embarrassing Thief fanfic, which is not all that surprising really considering how obsessed I was with that series. Most of my evenings were spent stepping into the shoes of Garrett the Master Thief, pilfering shiny objects from unwary aristocrats and zombie things, while smirking at how easy it is to pilfer shiny objects from aristocrats and, you guessed it, zombie things. Seriously, the only thing stopping me from playing that game right this second is that the damn thing no longer works on my laptop. Perhaps it's worried about what might happen if I did play it during the month prior to NaNoWriMo 2014, and is terrified that it would be responsible for unleashing Thief-Fanfic 2.0 on an unsuspecting world...

I finished the challenge over the course of about 10 days, I think. Made it to about 58,000 words before I keeled over and slept for what must have been an entire decade, but was probably closer to about 11 hours. Burned out big-time and had a splitting headache. But y'know what? As cringe-worthy as the story was it had an immense effect on my writing at the time. To use gamer-speak for a moment, it felt as if my writing skills had "leveled up", and I had so much fun writing about the stuff that interested me at the time. While I wouldn't stand anywhere near those characters without making sure I was armed with a can of "anti shit-story repellent" spray, it was one of the most exciting experiences seeing those (cardboard) characters come to life (if "cardboard" translates to "alive"), seeing them speak to one another (Eugh! Someone, bring me some chocolate) and working to an extremely tight deadline. It made me feel alive, apart from when I'd dozed off through sleep-deprivation.

* * *

One experience in particular sticks out in my mind, one that has brought about equal parts amusement and facepalm-ness ever since. It was nearing the end of November. It might even have been sometime in December, just before we all broke up for Christmas. Either way, it was very cold. Very Winter-y. An event called the Creative Writing Society gathered every week in some old Tudor-esque pub across the road from the university. Students and lecturers, or even just people wanting to discuss the writing craft or listen in on the workshop sessions, met up in some pokey room at the back of the pub for a couple of hours. If you were expecting this to sound a little more clandestine, then you will be disappointed; none of us had to wear ceremonial robes or engage in mysterious joining rituals, but then again I only ever went to one meeting so who knows? From what I could tell from the proceedings the idea was that people would read out a page of their most current project and receive praise or constructive criticism from the group as a whole. It was a promising idea; writing is a solitary craft after all, so being able to communicate with peers and other like-minded people can be a good thing. Sometimes working in a vacuum is not beneficial, and considering that I, Frank Burtenshaw, King of all Loners, am saying that then it must mean something.

At the time I and some of the others in my class decided we'd read our work aloud to the group. There was some time to kill before the society gathered to be all creative and society-ish, so a few rounds of drinks and conversation would do well to alleviate the needles of anxiety I was experiencing at the time. I am a solitary person by nature, so the prospect of talking out loud to a group of people - worse, reading out stories to random faces for the first time in forever - was downright terrifying. Everyone took their places; both my lecturers were there, as well as some old faces from my previous course from the year prior. There were a mixture of people from some of the higher years that wanted to showcase their material, as well as a few elitist snobs here and there to add variety. Not a massive crowd, but enough people to keep things interesting.

I can't remember all the details, but I do recall puffing out my chest, brandishing my freshly-printed manuscript and reading out my magnificent story in a trademark sonorous voice. In retrospect, I might have been a teeny bit tipsy, so the effect was probably louder than I had hoped. I unleashed this masterpiece of literature upon the crowd, gaining momentum with every sentence, confident that I would receive adulation and applause for this piece of work that I had produced during my first foray into NaNoWriMo, smiling to myself at how well the words flowed from the page. The group listened without saying a word. I reached the end of the manuscript, ending the final sentence with a flourish, and waited, victorious, as silence descended like a pall upon those present. I waited with them, still smiling, excited to hear their response.

They tore me to pieces.

It was brutal. Though I've forgotten most of the feedback I received, the general consensus was that it was a complete and utter disaster. They butchered every sentence, every piece of dialogue, and poked holes in all descriptions and the character motivations. Though humiliated at the time, it was during the following day, upon re-reading my manuscript, that I realised that I was the one who had butchered every sentence, every piece of dialogue, and that most of my descriptions were flawed and made no sense, and the character motivations unrealistic and two-dimensional. That experience alone taught me the importance of editing a story from a rough first-draft into a coherent story, and it is something I still continue to learn with every project that I work on. The knowledge that just because I churned out a novel in less than a month it does not necessarily mean that it is good. It takes dedication, patience and a ton of practice to improve the craft, and the one thing I should not have done was read this travesty aloud without having taking the time to meticulously edit it. Still, it was a mistake that left its mark and, like all mistakes, I use it to better inform my next projects so that they will hopefully be better than the last. There have been other situations like the one above, but this sticks in my mind the most because of it's proximity to NaNoWriMo.

* * *

Thankfully the time machine was able to bring us back to the present day - October 2014 - without leaving us stranded in Morlock territory, so allow me to say one thing before I bring this blog entry to a close. This year's NaNoWriMo will be an entirely different challenge to the one I took part in five years ago. The rules are the same, but my situation is different. Unlike my uni days, I am now in a full-time job with less free time to spare, so my evenings will need to be split between reaching my word count for the day and continuing to read and research. Also, since late 2012, I have read through hundreds of books in an attempt to explore the types of stories I would never have even given a chance back in uni. I am in the throes of a literary Golden Age, eager to learn all that I can and always seeking to discover new things. My interests, my personality, my reading tastes: all completely different. I am not the same person I was five years ago, and I have a feeling that this year's NaNoWriMo will reflect that.

So, what's the plan? I have just under a month before the challenge begins. That gives me some time to plan and prepare myself for the month ahead. No matter what happens, the story begins, one way or the other, on the morning of November 1st.

One thing is definitely for certain: I won't be complaining of boredom anytime soon!

One Months' Time

At the time of writing this it has just gone 11pm. During any other evening I would be winding down for the night, preparing to get some shut-eye. Right now, however, I feel the need to tap-tap-tap away and write a couple of things that have flitted through my thoughts. What better place than on this blog, hmm? I knew there was a reason I created this thing, even though it has been somewhat neglected as of late.

An interesting month is fast approaching, one that I have been considering for the last few days. More on that in a second. Let me build up to it first. Recently my free time has been rather lacklustre; my reading has slowed down, my writing has atrophied and most of what little time I have in the evenings is spent slumped in a chair, chocolates within easy reach with one hand and endless mugs of coffee in the other (for, as you should know by now, everything in my life somehow relates to coffee) and numbing my mind with the second series of Arrow. Which is awesome, by the way. Nothing wrong with watching Arrow. To tell the truth, I switched over to it a few months ago so that I could laugh at how awful I thought it would be, how terrible and cheesey and something else worth writing in Italics. Turns out it was a lot of fun to watch, so much so that I have sat through both series' so far and feel a bit giddy that the third series starts in a few days. How to make a crime-fighting comic book vigilante even more awesome? Give him a bow

The point I'm trying to make is that I don't do much during my free time. I'm bored. I haven't written as much as I'd like. Most of what has been put down on paper has turned out to be nothing more than a pile of pretentious shit. Not just pretentious: pseudo-pretentious! I don't even know what that means, but it sounds appropriate. What I need is a project that I can really sink my teeth into, something that will inspire me and, I can't stress this enough, to not take myself too seriously and instead have some fun. If I'm not enjoying what I write then how can I assume  anyone reading it would feel any different?

My biggest problem - other than impatience - is that I often feel that I need a deadline, a cut-off point, an imposed limitation that will spur me on to focus more than I normally would...

... which leads me to the so-called "interesting month" I mentioned earlier. I will give you a hint as to what it is:

NaNoWriMo

To the uninitiated, that would translate to National Novel Writing Month. A challenge to write 50,000 words starting from the November 1st and ending on November 30th. So far I'm still rather on the fence about it. Most of this evening has been spent jotting down a few disparate ideas, trying to gauge the kind of story I might like to write if I did decide to take part in the challenge, but so far I'm not sure. I suppose it would provide a deadline, even if it is the illusion of one, and it would give some purpose to this otherwise aimless blog. Plus it would be good to try talking with other members of the NaNoWriMo community and see what they are working on. Hmm...

One month to plan something, followed by one month to write a story roughly the size of The Great Gatsby...

How hard could it be...

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.