Experimentation

One of the aims for this project was to try writing a section in second person. I had this mad idea that I should be able to write something that allowed the reader to play a role, better than Complicity, where the reader wouldn't find the character written in second person reacting too differently to them. I was really disappointed with Complicity because the character was so far removed from me that I really couldn't make a connection. Mind you, since then, I have seen stuff like Twilight so there's a limit. Anyway, turns out it's really hard and I found that I hadn't got enough of a plot to keep it going, so I defaulted back to my MC, whose name I still don't know.

Anyway, that's my way of introduction. Here's the extract below:

       One thing occurred to me as I loaded the wooden trunk onto the wheeled carrier: I hadn’t seen any plug sockets in the house, nothing plastic either. I hadn’t seen anything obviously electrical, apart from light fittings, but it all seemed… well, not what I was used to. And, as I stepped out onto the street outside, I was struck immediately by the fact that the centre of the road was grassy and not tarmac. There were two tracks of cobbled surface, but no pavement. Small paths led from each front door of the terraced houses running down each side of the street but ended at those cobbles. No yard walls or yards, the whole rest of the surface was just grass. Unkempt grass at that, none of it looked like the neat and tidy lawns I was used to seeing, but nor was it completely out of control and untidy. Wildflowers bloomed, grasses grew to seed and there was a lot of green.

       I dragged the chest up the slight hill to a main road, I still didn’t quite know where I was but some things were looking vaguely familiar on some level. Perhaps this girl lived somewhere close to where I did. Then I was at what appeared to be a main road, at least there was a tarmac surface here, but once again I didn’t see any cars using it and none were parked either side. Down one side of the road there was a large building with flags hanging from the side, I didn’t recognise any of them and they didn’t look like national flags or anything. Lots of them had words on, but with a lack of breeze I struggled to make out much more than that. To my left I could see some longer buildings, taller too, standing about six storeys high. On the far side of the tarmac there were poles with lights atop, and wires strung between them. I knew what these were: they looked like the tram lines I’d seen when I visited Blackpool to see the Illuminations, but this didn’t look like Blackpool. Beyond that, at the bottom of the slope, there was a taller building, looking for all the world like one of those concrete tower blocks I’d seen in a big city.

       A tram clattered by, barely making a motor noise, heading down the slope and I watched it go. Double-decked with rows of windows, open back with a pole and a man standing with some kind of machine looking out. It seemed reasonably full. There were pavements here, well, paths of some sort on each side of the main tarmac section, and people were walking. I was struck immediately by just how old fashioned everything looked. There were men wearing flat caps and overalls walking in small groups; women in overalls too, but also long coats and long skirts, much like what I was wearing in style, and their hair tied back with scarves or under hats of their own. Other men walked in long coats and also wore different styles of hats but there were fewer of those. A gaggle of boys in what looked suspiciously like Scout uniforms, but wrong somehow, were dawdling by a shop window. At least, it looked like a shop.

       Another tram passed and I was aware of something else, I whipped my head around and saw an actual truck cresting the top of a rise to my right: it looked very different to any truck I’d seen before. A large cab but strangely streamlined rather than flat fronted, a high exhaust pipe, and pulling two long trailers behind. Like a train, almost. These were flatbeds and had tarpaulin stretched across, tied down with sturdy ropes, revealing little of their load beyond the fact that it looked like boxes had been stacked rather than containers. It thundered by and I realised that the reason it seemed so loud was because there wasn’t the sound of traffic that I was expecting – the whole place seemed unnaturally quiet. I could even hear birdsong as the truck rumbled into the distance.

 

SOMEWHERE ELSE

       The man nobody knew as Fabius Denning entered the office and turned to hang up his coat. “Good morning,” he said without looking at you. You, of course, did know him as Fabius Denning because it was your business to know such things. “Anything interesting?”

       You took a moment before responding, it never hurt to let him think about what you might say before you spoke and, besides, you’d been busy when he walked in and you didn’t want to leave the task incomplete. It was only a couple of strokes on the keyboard, watching the figures line up on the screen, so it wasn’t like you were being rude. That would never do. “Potentially.” You take a moment to adjust an aspect of your clothing, aware that Fabius was watching. He preferred to be called by his surname but it wasn’t something you felt the need to adhere to. “There’s a new case been handed down anyway.”

       Pouring himself a glass of water, Fabius turned back to face you and walked over to his own desk. “Oh?” It was hard to tell if he was genuinely interested or feigning it in order to be sarcastic.

       “Information theft,” you stated baldly, “low level local civil servant, we think. Ah…” You called up the file on the screen once again and quickly scanned the details. “Doesn’t look like it was targeted, maybe disgruntled, but it was something big. Big enough they haven’t told us what it is.”

       You could see his eyes change as he realised the implications. Yes, he was genuinely interested now, and he leaned across his desk without taking a sip from his glass. “Resources?”

       “Plod. Don’t want to draw attention if it was an accident nor tip off whoever organised it if not.”

       “Sensible.” He nodded, more to himself than for your benefit. “How long ago?”

       “Last night.” You picked up the address you’d written out on paper before Fabius had arrived and waved it at him, turning your attention back to your work. Fabius always preferred a bit of field work to making sure the office ran smoothly anyway, and sometimes it didn’t hurt to let him have his little bit of fun. “Trevor Billingham. At least, that’s the account. Worked at the office in Leeds. His building is out by Seacroft, the brutalist estates.”

       “Makes sense.” Fabius had moved from his desk and took the paper you offered. He raised an eyebrow, you couldn’t see it but you knew he had, something in the way he held himself in your peripheral vision. He was much more of an open book than he thought and that suited you just fine. No need to ever tell him, the fact you knew was good enough. “Ugh. I’ll go and put in the call to the Plod now. Wait. Do they know about this?”

       A moment for you to glance at his face, he was still looking at the paper, and then back to your screen as you typed in the query and checked the logs. “They got details of the theft first, actually, but the address was handed over by circular about two hours ago. Oh. Looks like they sent a team out already. Someone’s marked it as urgent.” You sighed, it was probably some desk warmer somewhere with an over-inflated sense of importance or too-developed sense of duty. “If you hurry you might be able to get there before they do.”

       Fabius was already getting his coat on as you spoke. He put on his hat and paused a moment with his hand on the doorknob, “Better than a day spent making small talk with Mr Security downstairs, I suppose, let’s hope they haven’t buggered it all up already. Have a good day.”

       Before you can control it you smile and glance over at him again. “You too, don’t forget to call.” Sarcasm went where truth feared to tread.

       “I won’t.” And he was gone.

 

       The small triangular common area I could have sworn was a carpark, I was beginning to get my bearings now and was fairly certain I stood in Stanwix, Carlisle, but it was very different to what I remember. In Primary School I had been shown Victorian photographs of the area, with all the cobbled streets and empty spaces and few people. The houses, the terraced houses, look like colour versions of the black and white images and the car park… well, it wasn’t a car-park. Paved, yes, but no low walls or cars, instead there were four bus shelters and a dot-matrix display showing times and destinations. On the main road section there is a raised platform for the tramlines and, behind, on both other sides there are more normal looking pavements with what I would have guessed were bus stops.

       “Remember,” says the girl’s father looking at me, “When you get to the railway station you want the Leeds service. I remember that line myself, beautiful, and you’ll enjoy it. It’ll be the one leaving from…” he tails off and smiles in the sort of embarrassed style my own Dad uses when being, well, a Dad. “Sorry, I know you know, I still want to look out for you. Forgive a silly Father for being a bit sentimental, eh, girlie?” He reaches out and rubs the top of my head.

       I seriously consider telling him, telling him that I’m not his daughter actually and that I’ve Quantum Leaped my way here or something but I get the distinct feeling that this would be a bad plan. Besides, he made me bacon butties and I’m not complaining. “Leeds,” I confirm with that alien voice and a nod that I hope exudes confidence. Apparently I’m going to Leeds then with this ridiculous chest and a sun-hat.

       “Oh!” the girl’s father looks suddenly distracted and starts fishing in his pockets before he pulls out a battered looking wallet – the first thing I’ve seen that doesn’t look new or well-cared for – and opens the coin section. “Here, you’ll need the fares.” He takes out a large copper coin, like a penny that ate a two pound coin, and a couple of smaller silver ones. He looks back at me, then pulls out a note, and closes the wallet. “Don’t spent it all at once, will you?” He smiles as though this is funny – fathers don’t ever change.

       The coins feel really heavy in my hand and I worry that maybe this girl is just comically weak before realising that the coins are just heavier than I’m used to. Inspecting them I find that the big copper one proclaims itself as a penny, putting me in mind of those lessons on Victorians again, and the two silver ones say ‘one shilling’ on them, like old ten pences my Dad showed me once. “Thanks,” I say, more to hide the fact that I’m looking at these coins like it’s the first time I’ve seen anything like them. Even though it is the first time I’ve seen anything like them. The note is similarly alien, being a sort of browned white colour of paper rather than the shiny plastic I’m used to. It informs me that I can claim five pounds on demand from the Bank of England but there’s no old person’s head on it anywhere. Honestly, it looks like play-money for some old game.

       “Thanks? Goodness, you talk like someone from the colonies. You’re welcome, of course.” The girl’s father looks a little confused for a moment, but it passes mercifully quickly and before I try to fix it and inevitably put my foot in it. “Looks like that’s your bus!”

       Following his gaze I see a red painted bus coming from the direction of Eden Bridges over the river Eden. One of the bits of trivia is that when the bridge was made wider the builders just joined a second bridge to the first, so it got named in the plural and it stuck even though it sounds stupid. Mind you, this is lucky, because apparently saying ‘thanks’ is suspicious or something.

       “Come here,” says the girl’s father as he throws an arm around my shoulders and leans down more to my level, “Have a lovely time, telephone if you get chance and don’t forget to write. Love you, little girlie.” I feel him place a kiss on the top of my head and get an irrational urge to squirm away. It all feels wrong. Not least the idea of phoning, I haven’t seen a single mobile since we left the house and even in this crowd of people not one has checked notifications or a map or anything. I am seriously beginning to doubt that anyone even has such a thing. Maybe it is Victorian times.

Spirits of the Hunt

After being assaulted by the ceremony and meeting Seer of the End I continued to have it intrude on my thoughts. They were telling me that I had missed something. An almost shapeless and formless vision of a deer spirit entering the circle and some ritualistic hunt was missing from the story. Furthermore, they had things to say, a few names were incorrect, and I realised that they would have at least two different words for blood: the blood of life and death would be different than that which could be brought out by violence from an arm. Human blood of such type would be different to that which was carried by animals and sometimes drunk. So maybe even three words.

Right now, I only have the two. One based on proto-Indo-European, as discussed last time, and the other on Old English. I have chosen to render this not as Blot or Blod but as blwd - because I do like the Celtic 'w' sound.

Anyway, that's what seized me today. Analysis as always provided by 750words.com because I like the idea that one can learn more things through statistics.

Rating: PG-13 (violence and sexual-content) - I mean, I guess so.

Feeling mostly upset, and concerned mostly about death - okay, actually, maybe it is.

Mindset: Extrovert - Negative - Certain - Feeling

Time: The Past; Primary Sense: Sight (ack); Us and Them: Us

32 minutes at 40 words per minute

High in the Mountains

Moon Dancer came to visit me this time, and had some things to say I don't think I consciously saw coming. But, honestly, it makes sense if you read the previous sections where I wrote of the coming of age and even the NSFW scene. Shadow of the Stag returned too, but he was much older and more tired than I remembered him. He's got some stories to tell, Moon Dancer's, I feel, are still to come. Perhaps Seer of the End has something to pass on to help that along, perhaps not. There was a moment in writing her coming of age sequence where I thought that maybe Moon Dancer or the Medicine Man would play a role. They still might, but they did not belong in that moment.

I seem to be gripped by an ideas sleet at the moment, and the time to indulge it, so I am not complaining nor standing in the way of it.

Analysis once again provided by the reliable 750words.com

Rating: PG (sexual-content[? I don't see this at all])

Feeling mostly self-expressive, and concerned mostly about religion - huh, I guess so!

Mindset: Introvert - Positive - Uncertain - Thinking

Time: The Past; Primary Sense: Touch; Us and Them: Them

26 minutes at 43 words per minute

Seeing the End

Oh, well, here I am again. It's been a while. Today I was assaulted by my Prehistoric setting. You may recall, you may not, it was many years ago now, that I was unconvinced by the naming of the women characters in my story. Moon Dancer and Shadow of the Stag made sense to me, their names and the reasons for their names came easily. The coming of age for Moon Dancer natural and flowing as though it arrived in a dream and, very probably, it did. But the rest? The tribe were not real to me despite my best efforts, I brought them forth with effort as though passing something uncomfortable. I wanted to do right, I could manage the NSFW section - that came fully-formed one evening - but the important parts? No.

One of the aspects of this, it's always been there, is dissatisfaction with using English for the setting - it doesn't feel right. I am doing my best to restrict vocabulary, to carry that Prehistoric feeling and not diminish meaning, rather to force the reader to see the connections between things that the society I write about does in their language. I also very deliberately looked into Urdu for some of the words: mother, sister. Proto-Indo-European for blood. Variations for aunties (something missing in my first run through of attempting this side of things here).

Over the last few days I found myself dwelling on the coming of age for girls, the point at which everything shifts in perspective and the biology of that. And I thought about how our society forces fear and shame into proceedings, how that is reinforced in so many areas of the Patriarchy and also on the research that shows that the first calendars were created by and for women. The primacy of that power, for power it is, and the fear it evokes in the men. What if men were not in charge as they are not in my Prehistoric setting and, instead, a community of women devised ways of coming to terms with things?

My desire to turn this into more than a setting, to conjure forth a plot, remains however and so the scene is bent to the will of the direction. One thing is clear though, I have a better naming system, one that feels much more natural and realistic. One in which the fear of the Patriarchy may have sprung from, for men can destroy but only women can dabble in the forces of creation and death as easily as preparing food or hunting prey or gathering shelter.

Analysis once again provided by 750words.com that, if you haven't already, you should sign up for.

Rating: PG-13 (violence and sexual-content[?])

Feeling mostly upset, and concerned mostly about death - well, I'd quibble that, but I can see how it comes from the text, see what you think.

Mindset: Extrovert - Negative - Certain - Thinking

Time: The Past; Primary Sense: Touch; Us and Them: You - interesting!

46 minutes at 40 words per minute

A Day Off - Day 3

So it is that I keep going. I suspect that, in order to make the wordcount for the evening, I shall have to take drastic action later in the month. For now there is enough guff to keep me going and plenty that, should I choose to go anywhere with this in the future, I will have to cull. But this year I am writing to participate rather than participating to write, for all that this entails.

I took the advice to write a normal day for my protagonist but couldn't resist the usual odd twist at the end, making it perfectly normal for me (the idea of the knowledgeable stranger who knows more than they ought is something of a trope with my writing - especially if I don't know where I'm going). It's... working so far. I do not believe it is like my more recent (and slightly better than usual) efforts. However, it's there.

www.750words.com tells me that it's mainly affectionate and concerned with eating and drinking tonight, but I have little else to share. There is a swear word in this, so I guess it's NSFW but it's only one.

Again!

So, here I am again to the party(?) that is NaNoWriMo and this time everything is different. I have done no preparation, I have planned nothing and I have no real idea where I am going. Even this blog has been fallow for a very long time after moving house sort of ate my life over the summer holidays and a new job (very nice by the by) ate my time since. I actually only managed to move less than a month ago and so the last few weeks have been punctuated with unpacking boxes and attempting, rather unsuccessfully, to get my lovely new home in order.

Anyway, this abomination just spewed forth from my brain, only 1,193 words so far and it's taken about half an hour. Read, if you dare, after the page break. It's pretty awful and based loosely on the Eurovision song by Margaret Berger Feed you my love. You'll find that after the line break too.

It's Psychological

Back in the saddle again, and not even side-saddle, but a new edit of those first paragraphs of the nano attempt from last year. I'm hoping this will help me get started again. There aren't many huge changes but I hope it's easier to read, has less run on sentences and fewer repeated words.

Analysis is intriguing and is from 750words.com as ever.


Rating: PG-13 (swearing, sexual content[?] and violence[?])

Feeling mostly Affectionate[?], and concerned mostly about Home - intriguing.

Mindset: Extrovert - Negative - Certain - Feeling

Time: The Past; Primary Sense: Hearing; Us and Them: Them

40 minutes at 24 words per minute

Rabbit in the Rain

The Old Road when it was new. Looking North.

Another section of post-apocalyptica. I don't think this is going to turn into a project just yet, I have too much on, and I've got side-tracked (as I do) by language and how it would have changed since my imagined apocalypse without making it too difficult to follow and understand. Also, trying to remember slang from places of my youth actually proved more difficult than I thought it would be. If ever I do something with these sections then I suspect I may need to revisit the setting and maybe change the Old Road to a route that crosses the Pennines and ends up somewhere in Yorkshire.

Anyway, I tried to write a proper discussion and I'm reasonably pleased with how the rhythm works even if the exact wording is a bit clunky, it is a first draft with little in the way of revision written solely to keep my hand in whilst I wait to be allowed to continue marking. Oh, and it may even help to pass the Bechdel test while not being overtly 'breaking the mould' in a way that would put people off.

The Old Road heading south when new, from the air.

As ever, analysis supplied by the brilliant www.750words.com


Rating: PG (violence[?])

Feeling mostly Affectionate, and concerned mostly about Eating and drinking - well, obviously.

Mindset: Extrovert - Positive - Uncertain - Thinking

Time: The Past; Primary Sense: Touch; Us and Them: Them

29 minutes at 38 words per minute

The Old Road

This is something that just sort of... popped out of my head. I was musing about post-apocalyptic fiction, as you do, when I thought about the fact that most of what I know about it has a male protagonist. Also, it focuses on the very male aspect of survival. One thing that I tried to write with some friends at University featured my own character, a man who was obsessed with the need to avoid relationships with others to allow him to commit the unspeakable acts that would have him starting a war in the climax. All a bit Boy's Own Adventure really.

So, with that setting firmly in mind, I though about exploring the world differently. Writing a different kind of story within what I still feel is a pretty well constructed and well-known world. Well, well-known to me at any rate.

As ever, I am the queen of self-analysis and so I thank the makers of 750words.com once more (if you write, this is like word porn):


Rating: PG (sexual content[? - I do hope not])

Feeling mostly Affectionate, and concerned mostly about Family - well, it is a mother and daughter

Mindset: Extrovert - Negative - Uncertain - Feeling

Time: The Past; Primary Sense: Sight; Us and Them: Us

22 minutes at 49 words per minute

So NSFW it's untrue

I recommend that you don't read this at all if you are in a place that would track your internet usage. I haven't written for a while, work stuff, and I wanted to get back into the swing of things. I also wanted to get back to St Avril and, obviously, that didn't happen. Since when do I write what I actually set out to write? Instead I ended up thinking of the Prehistoric setting and trying again to get into the head of my female protagonist. I think I have Moon Dancer now and I think I know how he works and what I would like to do with his part of the story, at least insofar as I understand what the story is.

No, with the females I am less convinced. So... I wrote my very first sex scene. Well, no, not quite. I wrote one at the age of 16, when on exchange in Germany, and as angsty teen it was was unrealistic and ended in a murder. The woman kills the man, just because. I never did work out why, it was brutal and angsty and... well, I was a teen. Anyway, it turns out to be really difficult to write feelings in sex in actual words. I did my best.

Rating: R (sexual content, violence[?] and swearing[?]) The first I get, the rest I don't.

Feeling mostly upset(?) in a dead heat with happy, and concerned mostly about religion

Mindset: Extrovert - Positive - Uncertain - Thinking

Time: The Past; Primary Sense: Touch; Us and Them: Them

37 minutes at 44 words per minute

Group Dynamic

Well, despite having some big discussions with some friends in real life concerning the non-existence of left and right in aboriginal tribes; the harmonics of circular breathing when playing the saxophone and Turkish having two past tenses for events seen by oneself and events that were not, I ended up writing the next section of St Avril.

In my original story there was a single protagonist. However, one of the main issues that story always had was the boredom in the beginning despite the threat. For reasons that will become patently obvious, the threat could never be too close, and so a sense of urgency was lost. The mystery was not enough to carry the early scenes on its own either. Also, I once ran the story as a form of role playing game with some friends, who theoretically gave me more characters to play with. In the spirit of using my writing time to play with things a little more I decided to expand the character list for this piece and came up with this. It follows on from this post.

I have no idea if I have managed to maintain that post's strength of voice.

Analysis courtesy of 750words.com.

Rating: PG (sexual content) - well, probably yes.

Feeling mostly upset and concerned mostly about success - interesting.

Mindset: Extrovert - Negative - Uncertain - Thinking (but only just in each case, apart from thinking)

Time: The Past; Primary Sense: Touch (no option for smell then); Us and Them: Them

41 minutes (39 actually typing) at 39 words per minute

Secrets that men keep

Tonight I fill in a section. I realised today that Moon Dancer doesn't eat or drink on his quest for about four days. Okay, that's fine, I guess, but there's no way he can't drink in that time. He'd be mad with thirst, something I haven't even mentioned. Okay, the lack of hunger is fine, I guess, but the lack of thirst? Unforgivable!

So, tonight I thought to simply edit that section a little and then move onto new stuff. Instead we have an additional discussion in which I learned more about how males operate in this society I am creating. Also, a little about how the sexes are viewed by men, I hope that came out right. Anyway, another conversation that I hope retains enough of the poetry of previous entries to stand with them.

Analysis from 750words.com as always:

Rating: PG (sexual content) - not sure where that is. I guess one of them is naked?

Feeling mostly self expressive and concerned mostly with religion

Mindset: Introvert - Positive - Uncertain - Thinking (very male?)

Time: the Future; Primary Sense: Sight (damn); Us and Them: You

22 minutes at 36 words per minute

Shadow of the Stag

So, apparently I am attacked once again by the Prehistoric thing. And tonight I was shown how a boy becomes a man. I was also shown a little bit of the nomenclature that I had been so missing. Up until tonight I had no concept of the naming of people. I now have some knowledge of naming and how it is going to go, some idea of how the society works and, apparently, two ways in which the males of this setting can be aligned. It follows on from this post.

There is a poetry in this section, I hope, certainly I felt it as I wrote. I was writing mainly to the tune of Victoria Lucas by Moby, and that may show through too. For at work today I had a moment alone with no one else around and I danced in a way that I haven't for a good few years. It felt good to dance. It felt good and probably looked terrible. But it felt good. That may have influenced what I wrote tonight.

Analysis, as ever, from 750words.com who are brilliant. If sometimes a little strange in their analysis.

Rating: PG-13 for swearing, sexual content and violence (I'm going to go ahead and say here that I see none of that in what I wrote).

Feeling mostly self expressive (with upset as a side-order) and concerned mostly with religion (with leisure as a side order)

Mindset: Extrovert - Positive - Certain - Thinking

Time: The Past; Primary Sense: Hearing; Us and Them: You (with a side order of them)

36 minutes at 43 words per minute.

Giving Birth

This is probably the closest I can ever come to articulating birth in a way that actually makes any sense and draws on the experience of a home birth with the Boy. It is not perfect, one of the greatest issues I had with this little exercise was just how much of birth is communicated through sound effects and feelings that have no words. It really showed the limitations of modern English in describing such an experience. Sadly I lack the knowledge to know if this is different in other linguistic traditions or if older languages were better at it, but it did bring home the problems that I am going to have with a Prehistoric setting.

Namely, the idea that I am trying to put across here is a society that is very alien to our own. There are aspects of that society that I confess I feel are superior to our own and there are aspects that I feel are not. I want it to be a balanced experience for the reader. It is not a preachy thing that I wish to create but something sufficiently different that it becomes curious.

In many ways it has commonalities with the work that I did creating Socialist Britain for Regarding Bakunin in that I want to present a generally positive alternative without it being so uselessly utopian that it can be dismissed. I want to create a realistic world where I am not blinded by my own bias and prejudices but, instead, am free to explore those differences and those positives that I feel are there in a way that other people can make their own mind up. I am fully prepared, for example, in good science fiction to take a positive and paint it negative or vice versa - as it should be - and I want readers to feel the same way with my work. I should not be telling them what to think, merely providing the scenes and the story so that they can decide for themselves.

Analysis courtesy of 750words.com - if you are a writer and not using this site then what are you doing?

Rating: PG-13 for sexual content (maybe) and violence (no, really not seeing this)

Feeling mostly happy (a first) and concerned mostly with eating and drinking (ah ha ha)

Mindset: Extrovert - Positive (75%+) - Certain - Feeling (50%+)

Time: Past (60%) and future (30%); Primary Sense: Touch; Us and Them: Them

36 minutes at 33 words per minute.

I still have no idea how I'm going to name these people or what to do with the dialogue. You'll see what I mean if you read on!

Prehistoric: Stalked

Another night another dream but always this. He is stalked. Still no names, still no plot.

Analysis:

Feeling mostly affectionate and concerned mostly with eating and drinking

Mindset: Introvert - Negative - Uncertain - Thinking

Time: The Past; Primary Sense: Touch; Us and Them: Them

29 minutes at 54 words per minute

Prehistoric: Coming of Age

It appears as though this particular vein is continuing. Tonight I write a scene in which something actually happens. My main character is coming of age.

No, I don't know how it relates to the previous two sections yet, only that I need to know how this all works. It's not finished, he's just about to start his quest but I don't want to force it. The style of this work and the way it's moving are completely, I think, different to my normal style. They may even be different to what I did for NaNo.

Anyway, again the analysis (thank you 750words.com):

Rating: PG-13 (sexual content and swearing[!]) - really not sure where there is swearing.

Feeling mostly affectionate and concerned mostly with religion

Mindset: Extrovert - Positive - Certain - Thinking

Time Orientation: the Past (with a dash of the future)
Primary Sense: Touch
Us and Them: Them (well, it is third person)

42 minutes (37 actually typing) at 38 words per minute

Prehistoric Detective Novel?

I have long toyed with the idea of setting a story in Prehistory, but I am no Jean Auel and I have never even read the series. Equally, my knowledge of Prehistory is small and slim. That doesn't diminish my urge to do it, just make it harder as I lack the time to research and the inclination to really go for it. As I haven't touched my NaNo project since February (and then didn't really do much of use having left it since December) I figured I'd try something that had nothing attached to it.

What follows, then, is a quick exercise to try and get going. Before I share it I shall place the analysis (courtesy of 750words.com, where you should also be going) and then a line break so that it doesn't clutter up the blog any.

Rating: PG-13 for sexual content and violence (not sure about violence)

Feeling mostly affectionate and concerned mostly about religion

Mindset: Extrovert (75%) - Positive - Certain - Thinking

Time Orientation: the Past; Primary Sense: Touch; Us and Them: Them

Time: 28 minutes at 46 words per minute

Fade to Grey

Back to form this evening. Something I knocked up... ooh, must be back in 2005. However, it has the potential to go somewhere at some point if I ever want to write sci-fi action. Thus, I plant it here:

There were about five of them in the coffee shop: all quite clearly ready for business. A female holding a cup of double espresso sat by the entrance to the establishment, to stop me bolting I supposed, and there was a thick-set man by the bar nursing a muffin. The others were slightly less obvious, though it was always difficult to disguise the raw power they had brought with them and commanded at their fingertips. In truth I was quite honoured by all of the attention I was getting, it meant that they considered me at least noteworthy to send out the Interdiction like this.

I stood, mopping my hands with a napkin though there was really no need, and sauntered toward the toilets at the back of the building. They knew as well as I did that there would be a window in one of the stalls, but my game plan rested on the fact that they would not realise I had spotted every single one of them already. I did not have to wait long and no sooner was I safely obscured from view than I felt the breathing on my neck and stopped.

“I wouldn't, if I were you.”

It was the man I had seen near the back corner, keeping his eye on the whole proceedings, this was probably the field commander, his voice carried with it a tone that was used to being obeyed. Everybody had to learn sometime.

“You’re wrong, you know,” I protested as loudly as I could manage without drawing undue attention, “I’m not the one you’re looking for.”

“Heard it all before, the next thing you’ll be claiming is that we’ve made a mistake and how this must all be the result of a misunderstanding.”

He was right of course, and the reason was quite simple. They had made a terrible mistake and there had been a misunderstanding. Something told me that my explanation would neither be welcomed nor even consciously noted, the truth was simply not enough in this case. “Fine.”

“Do we have to read you your rights or will you save us that little pandering?”

“To be honest I’m just flattered there’s so many of you. Five? Plus one in the toilets? I am truly flattered it would take five heavily armed members of the Interdiction to bring down what you consider to be a simple thief.” Reasoning with them had broken down before it had properly begun.

A jolt in my back, I had the man rattled at least. “Your type are always flattered by the strangest things. Still, if that’s the way you want it then I must inform you of your rights under section 4 paragraph 7a of the Codex. You have a right-”

Despite the rough way in which I was being handled and my lack of sympathy at the best of times with those who would employ brute force where subtlety would be better suited to the situation I felt that it was only fair I offered them a warning, a chance to back off and leave me be this time. “If you must persist in this mockery of official business then I am afraid that I shall be forced to retaliate to protect myself and my interests. I hereby serve you fair warning that failure to let me be to continue my interests will result in my no longer being responsible for my actions.”

At first he started and I could imagine him shaking his head. This was clearly not what his combat oriented brain had told him would come next. I suppose I could understand that, they had the advantage of numbers, power and weaponry, there was little that I could do. Added to that, they would have read my profile before and would have been aware that I was unlikely to use force to resolve issues. In the event he began to laugh softly. He was a fool, a weapon jockey sent on an errand for someone else who was unwilling or unable to get their own hands dirty, I had expected no better. “As I was saying, you have a right to-”

Now I confess that my dander was up and that I was angry, to have a fair warning laughed at after all that I had been through was a little too much. Without warning I found myself growling and moving at speed. This took the commander behind me by surprise and he moved far too slowly to block the fist that suddenly appeared in his vision.

I connected. Blood sprayed from the impact, a square blow to the nose. A second blow caught him in the stomach, neatly crushing a kidney and dropping him to the floor. I did not have long now. The toilets were simply not an option.

One of them was moving, people were beginning to realise that something was going on. A staff member was moving to the telephone, no doubt to call in the pitiful excuses for law enforcement officials they had here. I grabbed the top of a table and up-ended it, stopping an attack from one of them to my side. The rest were fumbling to pull weapons.

The woman was close by now, launching herself into a two footed kick designed to take me unawares, the speed was incredible but time slowed as I turned and calmly took hold of her shins. That done I spun as if throwing a hammer and sent her head first into the cooling unit above the counter. Pandemonium had broken loose and at least one of the Interdiction had pulled a gun. They were shouting something but with the roaring in my ears from the effort I could not make out what they were saying. It didn’t matter, a shout in their direction burst their eardrums and prevented them being a factor any more.

Two more between me and the door, though the plate glass windows had shattered due to the shout so how I left was entirely up to preference. Most of the customers were cowering on the floor, a few were crawling toward the exit, who could blame them?

The first gunshots were wide, they were learning, and moved with agonising slowness to aim themselves at my head. Wood splintered and plastic shattered as the projectiles cut their way through the air. Shockwaves pulsed and fire spat from the muzzle, singing some of the fittings closest to the shooter. I threw myself backward and fired a plate in their direction. Pottery smashing and the firing stopped. Direct hit.

I rolled and stood quickly, projectiles impacting where I was a moment before as I made a dash to the door. My peripheral vision registered the final member of the team emerging from the corridor to the toilets, the commander was gradually regaining his composure and no doubt cursing the fact that he had come in too close and without immediate back up. Like I said, weapon jockeys.

It was all too late.

Love scene with a difference

You need to play the song as you read this.  I hope I've captured it.  Eventually I want all the stuff in <..> to be in proper French. I want the reader to feel as out of place as does William in this.  However, I don't know any French.  This took a few hours.  I wanted to get it right. I didn't want to rush it and I didn't want it to be anything other than realistic. I fear that it is not. I fear that it is very much a scene with cardboard cut-outs rather than real people.

       “So.” Batemann had been the first to leave the table, ably supported by Claudette, and it had been very obvious what they were going to do. There had been giggling and squeaking from the room since they left ever since. Then Pablo had simply nodded to the elder woman and they had left together in silence, descending the stairs. Whatever they were up to made little noise that could be heard in the upstairs kitchen but the embarrassed smile of Eponine told William that it would be little different to the activities ongoing in the nearby bedroom. “I don’t speak any Aixlenean.”

       “<Have you eaten enough too?>”

       William stared for a moment at the girl’s hopeful face. “I don’t know what Pablo was saying either. But I have eaten rather well.” He reached over to his jacket and dislodged the letter that Pablo had given him. Both of them watched it fall, it landed close to Eponine’s foot.

       “<Your letter, sir, I…>” Picking it up from the floor, with William’s steadfast gaze fixed on her, she paused and then, with a quick look at his face, she opened it. “<I can read Merkavian a little, sir. With your permission…?>”

       Failing to snatch it back, and catching her hopeful tone, William shrugged and sat back heavily. “It’s not like you can understand a word of it. I’d sooner you were doing something like that rather than… well, whatever else we’re supposed to get up to.” As she bent her head to look at it more closely, William shifted uncomfortably and looked anywhere but at her, as if by not seeing her do the deed he could ignore the breaking of Pablo’s trust.

       Something about delivering food for a night of sex seemed rather tawdry and not a little unfair. Unbidden, he remembered his mother and sisters, and shuddered at the thought of any of them being so hungry and alone that they would agree to such an exchange. Whatever romance there had been vanished from the room and he just felt cold and wet and tired, huddled in a towel with illicit food roiling in his stomach. Battles had been fought with less concern and worry. She was still studying the letter, who knew what she was scrying, and he watched her expression grow shocked, a hand over her mouth, and then enormously sad. Most likely she had read into the unfamiliar language whatever she wanted to find, whatever would make the situation most palatable.

       Presently she looked at him again with concern in her eyes and the look of something else that William couldn’t quite place. She put the folded letter carefully back on the table and, without meeting her eyes, William snatched it back. Too late, he knew, but simply leaving it there seemed worse than doing nothing.

       Throughout the night he had caught her looking at him, as a young girl would look at passing soldiers, with a mix of wonder and awe; so that, he felt, if he so much as bared his teeth she would either laugh at the gaiety or else take fright and fall dead on the spot. Now that look of awe had changed but he would be hard-pressed to offer any guesses as to what it had become.

       “<You have known loss on all sides.>” She spoke very slowly, enunciating clearly, trying desperately to make him understand something, “<I think that you are different from the others. I think that, if there was no war and we had met I would like to get to know you better. And now, sir, I do not know what to do next for you. For we shall not meet again, however much I wish it.>”

       Her hand grasped his and held it, softly and warmly, while she fixed him with her eyes. William did not know how to respond, nor could he understand what was being said, but it sounded important enough to keep listening.

       “<I… Should I undress? Would that make it easier for you, Willy?>”

       The way she said his name alerted him to something else going on, he still couldn’t place it, but he found himself responding physically. This was like nothing he had ever felt, even with Jerry, and his heart began to race with the prospect of the unknown and dangerous. It reminded him of the moments before being called to attack in the trenches but without the certainty of leaving things to fate and trusting in his own place in things; this was worse. “Call me William.”

       “<Will-yam,>” repeated Eponine with a giggle, “<It is better than Willy, Will-yam,>” standing, but not letting go of his hand, she pointed to a room at the opposite end of the room in which they had been eating, “<Shall we?>”

       Wordlessly, he stood and followed after her, something had occurred and he wasn’t sure what it was but the beating of his heart propelled him forward. As she stepped across the threshold she turned to face him and took both of his hands. Awkwardly he took them, letting the towel fall from his shoulders. His mouth was dry and he could feel the cold sweat beginning, everything in him was screaming to flee but, at the same time, he was simply transfixed. “How… How old are you?” he tried, “Age? Years?”

       A frown before realisation dawned on a face now lit only by the dim moon through the window. He had to admit that it was a lovely face. “<Twenty-nine,>” she answered, then, seeing that he had no idea what she had just said, held up both hands with fingers outstretched twice, then just one hand. She smiled. “Et tu?”

       Jerkily, and keenly aware that he was only wearing his underwear, William signalled that he was thirty. “Twenty-three,” he added, as if by adding it he could shrug off the obvious lie. It was not her face or body that had him drawing breath though, but whatever it was remained tantalisingly out of reach, like the one thing that one forgets to check before going into battle.

       Slowly, she backed away, her face flushing and her movements more spasmodic than seductive. She was trying too hard to impress him, part of him supplied, she was trying to move like he had seen far more practiced women doing in the dingier parts of Alnwix on the way to the show. Whereas they had been slinky and even quite adept she was uncomfortable and very much out of her depth. All at once she caught sight of his expression, “<This does not excite you?>” There was no mistaking the twin themes of disappointment and relief in her voice.

       “Just…” Breathe, you idiot, breathe, “Just stop. Eponine. I… Eponine.”

       Moonlight filled the space between them, there was a bed in the corner, everything seemed black and white now that the door was closed. In the distance there was the rumble of the war as far away from them as was the moon herself. If anything, space seemed nearer, blazing with starlight and pregnant with promise. And he found it difficult to breathe.

       “Will-yam?”

       Moving to the bed, but keeping his distance, he sat down heavily. “Eponine.”

       “<You seem… delicate,>” she chose her words carefully, but kept undressing: functionally rather than trying to make anything of it at all. “<A flower, no?>” She smiled sympathetically at him. Stood in her underwear by the window she did look beautiful. Forbidden. Out of reach. “<I think…>”

       She was delicate, but strong, like a rose growing on a garden wall turned to the sun. The white rose that grew in the father’s flowerbeds, tough and wiry, flowers delicate like spider web but with thorns that would cut and tear flesh. There would be no rough treatment of this woman and no arguing with her if she got an idea in her head. He needed to say something. “Thank you,” and he meant it, “I have known few who would do for me what you have done. But it is not needed,” he shook his head, “It is not needed.”

       “C’est la guerre?” As she sat down next to him he fought the urge to jump away, it would not have been polite, she caught his expression. “C’est la guerre.”

       A wan smile met her remark, William had heard similar sentiments in Aixlenean before, enough to know what they meant. A nod. “It is hard.” There was nothing else to be said.

       Her arm snaked round his shoulders and he did not mind, merely closed his eyes and let her do it as her free hand took is chin and rubbed along its smooth surface. For once he was glad that he shaved every day. “<You would look better in a dress, my friend, you were not born for war.>”

       Grunted assent. He would have agreed with anything at that moment.

       Looking at him, she seemed to grow in confidence, and he returned her look as best he could, lost in the feelings that ambushed him and beat him down with the flat of their spades. No shots were fired, no artillery barrage was required, he surrendered freely to a superior foe without ever knowing quite why he was doing so. Fate decreed that he do so and he had yet to argue with fate.

       Pecking him on the cheek tenderly, she placed a finger over his lips and drew back, a smile greeting his confusion. She stood, placing the same finger on her own lips to cover the playfulness there, and walked back to where she had undressed, looking at him all the while as an artist would at a subject to be painted. There was a confidence in her that she had previously lacked, it oozed from her, and he could feel his own response to that awareness, to that aura of assuredness.

       “Mon petite fleur,” her whisper was so low he had to strain his ears to hear her properly, “<My beautiful, delicate, little flower.>” She picked up her dress deliberately, let it fall from her hands whilst holding the shoulders and fussed with it until it fell straight and clean. “<Would you wear this for me?>”

       Unable to understand her words, but following that something had been asked of him, something pure and deep that could not be denied, William nodded dumbly. He was rewarded with a broad shining of the sun from her face, bringing colour back to her body that was robbed by the silvery light from the window in his mind’s eye if not in reality.

       She walked back to him deliberately, one foot in front of the other placed with precision and care on the wooden floorboards, not a sound seemed to be made. She bade him stand with her eyes, and he did so, then rolled the dress and indicated that he should raise his arms. Now William was simply unable to speak, unable to discern how it was he knew her instructions, unable to register anything beyond the room or Eponine. It didn’t exist.

       Material at his fingertips. Passing. A breeze across all of him and the skirts fell about the floor. It shouldn’t have fit, but Eponine was already working at ties and buttons so that it seemed to expand to take him in, falling easily to the floor. Unbidden, his arms returned to his side as she walked behind him and pulled at various laces and clasps. He felt the bodice tighten around his chest and waist, hugging him tightly in a way that made him feel more relaxed and safe than he could remember feeling before.

       He was home.

       This was right.

       Darkness was ending in light. Movement below.

       Stillness behind, Eponine had finished her work. He felt, rather than saw or heard, her move back to inspect her handiwork. She said something, he did not catch anything, but twirled to face her, causing the skirts and petticoats of the dress to flare up and brush against his legs. An electric feeling.

       Instinctively he looked down as he faced her, hands catching the flare of the dress and holding it from the floor. His mouth opened but no words came out.

       “<The flower is opened. You are beautiful.>” Her hands were clasped in front of her and her smile was as a mother to a child. “Mon petite fleur.” A short, but only semi-mirthful, laugh. “Fleur, oui, <it is better than Will-yam,> Fleur <it is>.”

       “William,” he corrected her instinctively.

       She shushed him with a finger again, “Non,” she said, playfully but firmly, “Tu,” she pointed at him, “Fleur, oui?”

       Pointing to himself, “Fleur?”

       Nodding, “Oui, Fleur.”

       He tried to shrug, but his body would not obey, instead he simply bent his knees and lifted the dress a little with his hands, that had re-clasped the dress. “Fleur.”

       “Tres bien,” she clapped softly, without making any noise, “<Now, repeat after me:> je suis Fleur.”

       “Zhe swee Fleur.”

       “Bon!” She took one of his hands and kissed the back of it, “Je suis Eponine. Enchante. Je suis, por tu, madame. Oui? Madame.”

       “Oui, madame.”

       And that was when the screaming started.

It'll be over by Christmas

That's what they said at the time, but they were wrong. I'm beginning to feel the same at this project too. I've read too much about experiences of men during that time, too much raw emotion and carefully hidden experience. I can't just write a few anecdotes and finish. I find I have to draw the characters realistically, have each man in the tale take his own full role and situation. I now know that they all have to die, or at least never see the MC again, and I even know how that has to happen. But I must also make sure that the reader knows these men, trusts these men, so that they can share and understand the grief and shock and sorrow of the MC when it happens.

So the war drags on. Two battles to go before the last one and another scene in reserve before we have the dalliance with Aixlenean girls. Tonight brought an unofficial truce and the handing out of helmets and a rat killing session. I just hope I've not made it so long and boring that people stop reading when the character of the novel changes.

Also, I'm not sure whether I sympathise more with William or Badger in the argument I just transcribed them having. Given where William is heading and Badger's role as mentor I'm hoping that means I have more realistic characters.

Extract follows:

In amongst shared meals and baths the two groups of soldiers became firm friends, parting with the agreement that they would continue the unofficial truce wherever they were stationed next. The Aixlenean unit, from the centre of Aixlene with its guttural accent and rolling farmland, were the first to leave, giving way to a unit from the more mountainous north of the country. They took a while to convince of the intentions of the invaders but, by the fifth and final day, they too had been won over.

“Looks like its Shiremen from the Home Counties coming in here next,” said Badger gruffly to one of the Aixleneans as they shared some salted beef in a shell crater left over from the beginning of the war. “I don’t care about you making a truce with them. Give ‘em Hell, the pompous bastards.”

The tallest Aixlenean, they’d nicknamed him ‘The Bear’, laughed with genuine mirth. “If you meet any of us from the coast, return the favour. I think our men of artillery need some practice here. Give us starlight to signal and we wait an hour.”

“Oh, you are terrific gents.” For the first time William looked on Badger differently, “I shall see to it!”

Despite his confusion, William said nothing. Salted beef was eaten; Aixlenean wine was quaffed and songs were sung before both groups retired, warm and tipsy, to their respective trenches and the evening roll-call. “Enjoy your jaunt, chaps?” asked Sergeant Batemann by way of greeting, “Hope you brought back some of that-”

Redbar cut him off by handing over two full bottles of red wine. “Like we’d forget you, Sarge,” he grinned and then tottered off in the direction of the rest of his section who had pulled sentry duty for the evening. They had all agreed that it simply wouldn’t do to have a surprise inspection find out just how peaceful this sector was.

“Aren’t we all brothers?” asked William of Badger when he was sure he wouldn’t be overheard.

“Us and the Aixleneans?” a hiccough, “Only so far as this bastard war I think. And not everywhere. Anything else would be Socialism.”

“No, I mean Merkavians.” Frowning was beginning to hurt his forehead. “You told them to give our brothers Hell.”

Badger looked at him for a long moment. “Think of it as a way of keeping this sector from getting too much attention. Burst of activity from the Aixlenean side’ll do it all the world of good.” Lighting a cigarette he took a quick drag.

And, in that moment, William hated smoking.