To Test Sea Lore/Ding-Dong

And now, a randomly generated scene…

… using words collected from fellow choristers…

… inspired by Mäntyjärvi’s setting of Full Fathom Five from Shakespeare’s The Tempest.

Nouns: Notre-Dame, funnel-web spider, congee, rust, jacaranda, charter boat, fatigue

Adjectives: shiny, backward, phenomenal, stupendous, evil

Verbs: decompress, inflate, grind

Adverb: atmospherically


Ropes tossed and tied and anchor dropped, a party of tourists strolled from the charter boat onto the dock. The clouds above were evil and the sea more so; judging by the chatter, what was left of their day trip had been cancelled due to an approaching squall. Though some weren’t quiet in their discontent, most seemed perfectly cheerful, keen to join the labourers and sailors buying bowlfuls of congee for their supper from vendors scattered about the harbour.

Intent on escaping the dire weather as tiny raindrops began to speckle their coats and then plummet more steadily, and far too occupied by their own selves and stories, no one noticed the pair that walked in the opposite direction, onto the pier rather than safely off.

The two walked hurriedly, huddled together, the larger with an arm around the smaller. The larger—a man—seemed to have loaned his great overcoat to the other; barely any of their figure could be seen beneath its folds.

They walked past the stupendous charter boat—they weren’t forgetful tourists come to reclaim some lost camera or treasure, a shell or jacaranda blossom claimed from island shores. Instead, they stopped beyond it where there looked to be nothing to attract anyone, local or sightseer. On more careful examination, a tin dinghy, so alike to the waves in colour so as to vanish against them, floated there. A ladder descended from the pier alongside.

The man’s companion seemed reluctant to approach the ladder: they dug their feet into the pier’s wooden planks and refused to climb down. A sudden movement beneath the overcoat caused them to cry out, and they stumbled forward with the man’s push, just managing to catch themselves on a rung. Trembling, the man’s companion awkwardly descended.

A savage gust caught the coat’s folds as they did, so strong it lifted the heavy garment and it flapped, bat-like, in the dim.

That’s when we saw the zip ties locking their wrists together under the coat and the dark spot of blood staining the white of their shirt just below the ribcage.

No, his ribcage. He was a man, too, darked haired and young.

The man’s companion clung to the ladder, desperate not to fall, as he tried to board the dinghy in one piece. Above, the man inflated a life jacket—only one—and slipped it over his shoulders, fastening it at the waist. Then, with a light, but urgent step, he hopped down the ladder, joining his plainly frightened captive.

We saw the flash of a knife as the man slipped the blade beneath the overcoat, pressing it to the other’s side with warning words:  keep silent and still.

Once he’d flicked a funnel-web spider to damp doom—ferried far from its preferred habit, it had been spinning there, making itself a nice new home with sea views—the man tugged the motor’s cord and cursed as it pathetically spluttered. He ground his teeth in frustration. When the little motor at last puttered into life, he directed it into the storm, leaving the pier behind, his reluctant passenger huddled in the bow.

Lightning crackled as silver fireworks overhead, illuminating the scene while thunder rumbled atmospherically seconds behind; we’ll admit this storm impressed even us. It was a wonder the little boat wasn’t tossed about more than it was, pushed backward and tipped up almost to capsizing point. Battered and rust-flecked as the tiny boat was, the man knew how to steer. He had more the look of a businessman, though, than a sailor; his suit was pristine, shoes shiny and black. Perhaps he had the sea in his blood from his father or father’s father.

On they went, further from the pier, on and on until it was merely a blip in the distance.

He let the engine die.

Surrounded by roiling grey on grey, cloud, sea and sky, the younger man gave a small whimper.

Far from the eyes of any who might prevent it, the man took his captive by the lapel of his overcoat and hurled him overboard.

‘A drowned man,’ he muttered, fingers entwined in the other’s dark locks as he pushed his head underwater and held it there.

There was fatigue in his voice, no pleasure drawn from this act of violence. Only desperation.

‘Bells,’ he uttered next, and sat very still, elbow rigid, sleeve soaking through as his captive thrashed.

He spoke again, growing even more tense.


We held ours still in our hands, feeling no little regret. We would chime for this poor victim. But not for this. Instead, we swam closer.

‘Come on!’ the man shouted, growing angry as the struggles of the drowning man stilled. We felt life leave him through the water. ‘I’ll be no better than him if you don’t! Do us a favour!’

A few of us angled our wrists, prepared to ring.

Wait, we whispered, our voice one with sea and storm.

In the boat, the man had begun to pat frantically at his suit pockets. Curious, we watched his antics. He pulled free a slim, rectangular device and began to press upon it with his fingertips. He must have given it some command, for instantly great bells tolled, as mighty as Notre-Dame. The sound was phenomenal. Even the wind seemed to die with their power as sound erupted, lone and stark, from the small device.

Without our blessing, against our will, even as we swam, hidden beneath the boat, and took the drowned man’s hands, his body collapsed into golden sand. Bone transfigured into blossoming white coral and hair fell into thick cords of knotted black pearls.

Aboard the dinghy, the mood immediately decompressed, relief swamping the man as saltwater had swamped his victim’s lungs moments before.

‘Yes…’ he hissed with the reprieve, sea treasures drifting at the ocean surface on a bed of once-skin seaweed, ready to please any lover, pay any debt… whatever trouble had been worth the other’s life.

Hand now tangled with many strings of precious stones, the man dragged them from the water in elated handfuls, piling them into the dinghy. Then, taking a small sieve—he had come prepared with more than backup imitation bells—he scooped up as much gold dust as he could.

But two treasures beyond value, shining as moon-white orbs, had begun to sink—pearls were far weightier than any eye of flesh and blood.

Keen not to lose them to the deep, the man plunged both hands into the water, each reaching for a twin pearl. Fingertips just brushing the smooth sheen of their surface, he stretched even further, shoulders straining, knuckles popping with effort.

Rain pelted bullet-like upon his shoulders, driving him further forward, nose to the swollen ocean, its roar almighty.

The boat tipped.

We didn’t seize and draw him under; such savage elements don’t appreciate offerings, though we weren’t averse to seeing his knife find his life jacket once he tumbled.

Were he truly of the sea, this man would know more than merfolk lore.

The ocean, the wind and rain: they take what they please.

And as we carried the treasures that remained to rest quietly on the ocean floor, we held our bells ready.


After the First Hurdle

And now, a randomly-generated scene…

Nouns: loss, bite, breath, record, peace, silk, wash

Adjectives: handsome, aberrant, gentle, guiltless, slippery

Verbs: defer, ensure, write

Adverb: alluringly


A butcher’s son, Dom could appreciate a good cut of meat. But the smell as his dish was uncovered, tender chunks of goat dusted in flour and spice, fried in the best oil with leeks and strong garlic – on any other day, he would have fainted.

He wanted to enjoy his meal. His stomach begged him to – they’d been without supplies for four days, robbed in the Wastes as they travelled to reach this oasis city.

‘Go by night, when you can,’ Calahur had instructed as Dom hurriedly made preparations, shoving smoked pork and fresh underwear into a pack and stealing his father’s second-best cleaver, belting it to his waist. ‘This is not a task we can defer any longer. Avoid being seen – take the secret ways, not the road. I will point you through them,’ the aged record keeper—if taking census was really all he did on his travels—had said, and then sketched a map. In a narrow, slanted hand, he wrote a few lines telling Dom how to navigate the paths.

‘Memorise, then burn,’ Calahur had said, thrusting it at Dom and waiting, Dom under his heavy gaze – it was unsettlingly frantic behind his customary sternness—until he crumpled the paper and threw it in the fire.

‘So not quite as less-travelled as the record keeper claimed,’ Dom had grumbled after they were robbed.

‘At least petty thieves aren’t likely to report to… well, them that Calahur warned you about,’ Ral had remained cheerful, though their stomachs growled and their sunburnt skin froze in the night wind, coats taken along with their packs and weapons.

‘Who knows how big their network is,’ replied Dom moodily, slapping his sore arms and rubbing his chest, trying to keep warm as they trekked on.

‘Well, at least we’re travelling light, now. We’ll make the oasis in no time.

‘Eat, will you? That’s a handsome dish you’re letting cool.’

Their first night in the oasis they’d spent in the gutter, sleeping outside the magnificent inn where they now ate. That morning, Ral had pinched several glass bottles from street corners, washed out what liquor remained, and juggled a fistful of coins into her pockets, entertaining market goers and buying a few days at the inn, meals and baths included.

Ral nudged Dom under the communal table where they sat cross-legged.

‘Eat, or I will.’

She’d nearly finished her own share.

Urged on by Ral along with his empty innards, Dom picked up his fork.

‘We don’t have time for this,’ he said between mouthfuls, eyeing a trio of robe-swathed patrons at the end of their table. He was sure they sneaked looks his way, speaking in low voices over their steaming bread. Dom’s hand crept to his trouser pocket, closing over his handkerchief stuffed beneath. It was knotted about a glossy stone that shone shades of blue and green. Ral had stopped teasing once the thieves rode off – Dom had no clue what would have happened had they found its aberrant hiding place.

‘We need time to recover,’ Ral insisted. ‘You, especially.’

‘Why me more?’

‘My boundless optimism keeps me upright. You, on the other hand, my dear pessimistic friend, look like you’re unravelling at the seams. And it’s only been a week.’

Only a week.

Dom couldn’t believe it.

And there was still such a long way to go…

‘And we’ll be off again once we’ve seen this mineralogist fellow to get your stone looked at and all.’

‘Keep it down,’ Dom hissed thinly, shooting a glance down the table to ensure the trio had their attention elsewhere. ‘You’re unbelievable, Raleven. What have we just been through, and you’ll bring heaven knows down on our heads with your massive mouth.’

‘You need to relax,’ Ral announced, as cheery as ever, but Dom didn’t miss how she looked on him with deep concern.

He felt terrible, sick with exhaustion. He could barely fathom what was happening to him, Calahur cryptic and unknown dangers and responsibilities playing on his mind. Ever anxious and so tired, after only a week this quest-business he’d once dreamed about had already taken a hefty toll. Right then, all he wanted was to be home with his father, wielding a cleaver and smelling of carcasses for the rest of his life.

And it would only get worse. So he didn’t protest when Ral, after watching over every bite he took, led him to the inn baths. In his own cubicle, Dom stripped, scrubbed the Wastes from his skin with fragrant lotion, rinsed in the flow from the ceiling and donned the silk robe that had been folded for his use. But it had no pockets. And, unlike in the Wastes, he wore nothing beneath where he could shove his potentially-precious cargo.

Too tired to think straight, Dom stood motionless in his cubicle, stone in hand, until Ral rapped on his door.

‘You’re taking forever. You were no filthier than me… what’s the problem?’ she asked, seeing dilemma on his face and slipping inside, swiftly closing the door.

Wordlessly, he held out the stone. Without missing a beat, Ral unravelled her braid, shaking out the black cord that had held her hair back through the Wastes. Clucking patiently, she took the stone and bound the cord around it, knotting so it hung safely around Dom’s neck.

‘Everyone will see…’

‘It looks just like the cheap glass gems in the market, now. And who would wear anything valuable in a public bath? Not someone as paranoid as you, for sure.’

Taking his hand, she gave Dom a comforting kiss on the cheek.

‘You’ll be fine, you know? This’ll all sink in, and you’ll be fine.’

Still unable to summon words, unimaginably grateful Ral was there with him, Dom rested his head on her shoulder as she held him, relishing her warm support. Then, she led him out into the bathing chamber.

In deep rectangular pools and waist-high bathing pots, water glittered alluringly in the sunset, almost open to the outside beneath the massive glass ceiling. Decorative pebbles edged the pools and marked paths, leading bathers across the slippery tiles. On the other side of the chamber were towering shelves stacked with soft towels in every size.

‘I’ll grab us a towel or two,’ Ral said, leaving Dom by a vacant bathing pot. ‘Don’t wait for me—plenty of water for the both of us.’

Used to doing what Ral told him and the water increasingly inviting, Dom grew almost convinced a long soak would help him feel sunny again, even just for a minute. So he hung his robe on a nearby stand and gripped the edge of the pot, hoisting one leg over into the blessedly warm water.

‘Hey, boy!’

Dom started at the hiss, a dark shadow falling over him. His neck snapped around violently to find its source.

Inside the pot, his foot slipped with the sudden movement. Above, his legs tangled with the edge, and he lost his grip on the pot’s edge. A moment later, Dom toppled, striking the tiles headfirst.

It wasn’t a guiltless death, nor was he at peace. But it was fast; Dom was gifted that, at least. The almighty agony in his head faded along with everything else, gentle pressure failing to hold in all that seeped from his cracked skull. He barely had time to panic for himself and his father—what would he do when Dom never came home? By the time his thoughts reached Ral—he couldn’t see at all, but imagined she was at his side; she always had been—and the task Calahur had charged him with, he could only worry dimly.

It’ll be all right, he even managed to decide with his last ragged breath, though he felt bad he’d failed, fallen when there was still so much he was meant to do.

Ral will be all right.


Ral was with him. He’d asked her to come with him.

Perhaps he hadn’t failed, after all.


Above him, her usually-merry mind numb with sudden, sickening loss – dead, the inn doctor had already pronounced him, covering him with a robe—Ral clung to Dom’s hand, stroking it, ignoring the questions and sympathy from the crowd of bathers. But though otherwise blocked out to anything besides herself and Dom, over the kerfuffle Ral heard a door creak. Not letting go of her friend, Ral peered through the dripping legs of onlookers.

The creak had come from Dom’s wash cubicle. The door was ajar.

A shadow rifled through Dom’s belongings.

Ral set her jaw. Leaning over Dom’s silk-draped form, she kissed his cheek in farewell, hearing as a few sensitive bathers began to cry.

She could cry later. Right now, she had to get the stone from Dom’s neck and around her own before anyone – particularly whoever searched Dom’s cubicle – noticed. Even with her juggler’s cunning, this would be some feat.

Honouring and Enumerating Inspiration

As most creative sorts will no doubt be aware, an original mind, even coupled with rock-hard determination, often needs a push to get off the starting block. A better analogy might be a light bulb moment. Or, rather, the flick of a light switch, the globe to which it’s coupled rendering our surrounds, a new concept with quirky themes and an honest voice, bright and clear. That friendly shove of encouragement, that finger flick birthing ingenuity, we know is inspiration. And it can take many forms – music, a good dinner, nostalgic scents, a wind-up watch, or sudden changes in weather.

Those familiar with my writing will probably be aware of many of my crucial muses – most notably, everything Japan and Florence + the Machine. They would likely also be aware of my love of lists. So now, in honour of inspiration and in an effort to remind myself and others that all is not lost when you’ve been months without it – or months without adequate opportunity to act upon it – I present a list, in no particular order, comprising five perhaps more unusual inspiration engines that have sparked ideas in recent-ish times.

1) Folks who stand outside shops and hand out flyers – I got a whole novel out of this, my 2012 NaNoWriMo effort, Pulp Runner.

2) Unexpected encounters with taxidermy – not to mention the ensuing debate with curators of a distinctly dissimilar mindset. Again, a whole novel came of this (and two more shall hopefully follow).

3) Belching in the bathroom – now, perhaps you mightn’t find this particularly inspiring. But would you change your mind if, immediately after you habitually excused yourself, though there is no one to hear but an otherwise empty bathroom, you instinctively imagine the bathroom replying with a polite “That’s quite all right”?

4) Soundtracks from 1994 platformers – you try walking through the streets of Kyoto at dusk with the track from Tubelectric in Jazz Jackrabbit on a loop and not coming up with an urban dystopian concept

5) Roadkill – admittedly, the poor thing had been moved onto the footpath. And it was more the call to the council to remove said poor thing after days and days of passing it, its state becoming increasingly decayed and fly-infested, on the way to the bus stop that has inspired Book 6 in the Treading Twisted Lines series (there is at least as much of this written now as Book 4, which is still sadly suffering).

What’s the oddest thing that’s ever inspired you? Did it lead to something great? Is the idea tucked away safely, waiting for the right moment to explore? In what form has the mighty light-flicking finger of insight aided you?

the idea!

Here’s To Another Round of Bombarding Every Literary Agent I Have On My List Right Now

Sat up late last night double-checking cover letters, brief synopses of varying lengths, and preferred formatting of sample chapters before sending submissions of my more user-friendly novel, Missing Exhibit – the young adult/fantasy/psychological drama one as opposed to the not-so-young-adult/fantasy/maybe a little sci fi/psychological drama one, in case anyone was wondering… – into another six UK literary agencies.

Not exactly a relaxing evening, but a hopeful one.

I’m still surprised when I sit down for a spot of nervous editing (this is most of the time right now when I sit down to do anything remotely writing relating – just can’t focus on newer projects at the moment… and that’s getting kind of old) when I find most of it reads pretty well.  I like it, and enjoy reading it over. Almost a year after finishing Missing Exhibit, for the most part, I’m still really happy with it. I like to think that’s a good sign.

So I maintain hope that this novel will eventually stand out from amid its fellow slush. It only has to stand out to one person. Just one. That’ll be more than enough, for now.

I look forward to the day this unknown, but already much revered and appreciated literary agent can help my stories stand out to others, too.

Semiautomatic Sons

And now, a randomly generated scene…

Nouns: adjustment, son, burn, structure, brass, news, trade

Adjectives: cryptic, inflexible, limited, frequent, semiautomatic

Verbs: underscore, carry, scale

Adverb: amazingly

worn white cardboard box isolated on white background..

A harried skip to his step, commonly seen in those eager to reach a destination or keen to escape their previous one, Kwan scaled the low stairs in the lobby and jabbed the upward-pointing arrow by the lift. The doors opened moments later, though it had travelled from the thirty-second floor to reach him. This structure – this company – never boasted anything less than the best technology could produce, the very best money could buy. Generally speaking, though, ever-cryptic Benton & Brown had a hand in the production of this very best of technology;  money had little to do with its presence here. And money, Kwan fathomed, had become an issue after their most controversial brainchild had been taken off the shelves a year ago. They were staking an awful lot on this new version.

On level twenty-three, Kwan was expected. Still, Song-Hee looked surprised to see him, shaking his hand and her head simultaneously as security and shop staff looked on.

‘You’ve got some brass, working your way through that crowd,’ she said. ‘I was sure, after one look at the fuss down there, you would reconsider my offer to discuss your purchase electronically and have your order couriered straight to you.’

Her eyes flicker to the large windows. At eye-level was a stunning vision of the city in the glow of the late afternoon as it faded. Straight down, Kwan knew the protesters remained with their banners and megaphones, rights activists mingling with bigots and dissatisfied customers, these starkly different minds united only by their abhorrence of Benton & Brown. Amazingly, he’d made it through the front doors unscathed as police officers held off the crush of angry bodies.

‘If you’ll follow me, sir, we can talk about your order.’

Song-Hee invited Kwan into her office. Following the Benton & Brown representative, Kwan bypassed shelves stocked with large, glossy boxes of replacement parts and examples of the new version standing freely at strategic intervals about the shop, their eyes down, un-activated and powerless.

‘Please sit down.’

Kwan sat in the offered plush lounge chair across from Song-Hee’s clinically-clean desk.

‘Our sincerest apologies again for what became of Jessie.’

‘It wasn’t your fault,’ Kwan waved a hand in what he knew was a dismissive fashion. ‘You didn’t lead that mob to my door.’

‘It is remarkable you are unhurt.’

‘Well,’ Kwan said, indicating a cut by his lip, ‘mostly unhurt.’

He winced, jaw still aching. Se-Jin could really land a punch, and Miller had told him to make it look like it hurt.

‘We know it must be hard for you, but we can’t express how pleased we are that you wish to purchase a new version. We’re very excited about our first line – Semiautomatic Sons. They’re not boys, though, of course – gender neutral, all of them. We learnt from that mistake… I have to ask, though, sir,’ Song-Hee said, looking uncomfortable, ‘you will be taking every precautions to keep it safe? We’ve made an adjustment so pain sensors can be deactivated, but that does hinder its learning process. Our products require protection from certain… well, you’ve experienced that unpleasantness yourself.’

He hadn’t. But Kwan had seen the news. The predecessors to Semiautomatic Sons were too human, was the most common gripe. He’d seen more in the streets – an abandoned child-version wearing out, synthetic skin dotted with burns, denied the adolescent upgrades it needed. Owners – parents – trading to other parents. Parents trading to labs. Trades from labs to criminal syndicates. The city had become very unsafe for synthetic persons from the day they were released.

‘Of course I will do everything in my power to protect it – it will be my child, after all.’

‘Well, all of your fresh screenings have checked out,’ Song-Hee said, though she still pursed her lips uncertainly.

‘I have bought a new apartment since the attack,’ Kwan said, producing details on his tablet and sending them to hers. Assured that no unwelcome, frequent visitors with violence on their mind would be able to find him or his Semiautomatic Son for some time, Song-Hee immediately relaxed.

‘Before we finalise the purchase, I just want to double-check my research,’ Kwan said once Song-Hee had updated his customer profile. She nodded, clasping her hands on her desk and smiling professionally at him. Kwan cleared his throat, recalling the questions he’d been instructed to ask.

‘How exactly does the new version differ from the originals?’

‘It’s all in the name, sir,’ Song-Hee said fervently, leaning forward in well-contained pleasure and excitement at the advances they’d made to synthetic persons since the original release. ‘Semiautomatic Sons. They’re still intelligent, learning products; they’ll think as well as the originals, as well as you and me – better, if you let them. But they’re limited.’

‘How so?’ Kwan asked, surreptitiously confirming his tablet recorded every word.

‘They are now subject to inflexible rules that govern their learning, actions and beliefs, rules that can be set and adjusted as you see fit.’

‘Such as?’

‘I’m sorry for the simple example,’ Song-Hee smiled, well-prepared, ‘but say you had a room in your apartment you didn’t wish your Semiautomatic Son to enter. You can instruct it not to do so, and it never will. It will never question you about it, never wonder about it – never even think of disobeying to satisfy its curiosity. Put simply, such a rule would wipe that room as a subject it is able to learn about.’

‘So, basically, I can make any rule that would keep it from questioning anything I liked?’

‘Yes. Of course, many of the original versions were very obedient, compliant – often it depended on the buyer’s parenting skills.’

‘Of course,’ Kwan nodded, thinking how Miller would laugh if he heard. For him, Jessie had been anything but compliant.

‘But this just ensures their best behaviour. Honestly, sir,’ Song-Hee confided in him, ‘the main reason we’ve limited our Semiautomatic Sons is to keep the protesters happy.’

‘Which ones?’ Kwan asked, smiling crookedly.

‘The ones who are frightened of them,’ Song-Hee sighed, running a hand through her perfectly-combed hair in general frustration. ‘Scared they’re too smart, convinced they’ll take over the city… this should calm them down for a while. But those protesting poor treatment of synthetic persons… this will only rile them up. We’ve as good as taken their freedom to learn, their free will. But there’s fewer activists to worry about,’ Song-Hee shrugged unhappily. Clearly, this seller of synthetic persons sided with the activists. Just as clearly, despite her eager investment in their development, Song-Hee was in the wrong line of business.

‘Of course, these limitations aren’t the only thing that’s new.’

Song-Hee moved on to underscore more new features, Kwan now barely listening. He already owned the information he’d been sent for. Now he just needed the box with the Synthetic Son inside.

‘In response to public surveys, we’ve toned down the human appearance – not by much. Focus groups have said they look partway between dolls and humans, now, and responded very positively to their new appearance. We’ve placed controls where they can be seen, as well – mostly on the wrist and arms – and adjusted their joints so they can’t move as smoothly.’

‘Little things keep the bigots quiet,’ Kwan said, nodding distantly. ‘To remind everyone they’re just machines.’

Song-Hee blinked.

‘They’re hardly just machines, sir…’

‘And they’re gender neutral now, you said?’

‘Yes, sir. Well, genderless would be a more appropriate term.’

Kwan paid with credit – he would be given the equivalent in cash over the next few weeks – and an employee emerged from a storeroom with an enormous box.

‘Here you are, sir. It’s set with the name Jordan – that was in your customer profile as your next choice after Jessie. We didn’t think you’d want to re-use that name so soon after…’

‘Jordan’s a lovely name.’

‘Make sure to keep your receipt for discounts when it’s time to upgrade to older child-versions and adolescent stages.’

After reassuring Song-Hee, again gone anxious, that his car had taken a lift up to the top level and he was meeting his driver there, Kwan wheeled the box with the new Semiautomatic Son out of Benton & Brown’s synthetic person store.

Miller’s new Semiautomatic Son.


Miller would be glad Se-Jin had convinced him to keep every part after scrapping Jessie. Once he’d heard of the new version’s limiting factors, he’d been quick to take her apart. And there was at least one new feature Miller wouldn’t be so happy about. Kwan would need to replace a few parts before he activated Jordan.

A New Look and Hopefully a New Attempt to Create Some Kind of Schedule Here

Lookit – pretty new theme. Nice and simple. Took a long time to choose…

In addition to this visual remodel, this blog’s content needs a bit of a remodel, as well. And, when I say remodel, I mean actually release content in a vaguely consistent and predictable manner as once used to be the case.

So, current plan:

Sundays: post a randomly generated scene, a picture in 100 words or a Balderdash (or any other format I can think of – been tossing around an idea for a while tentatively titled the other-other archetypes)

Tuesdays: post some meek attempt at poetry or a six-word story

Thursdays: post the next album piece

Any days (if at all): post random, chatty, observational posts

I don’t think I’ve explained the album pieces at all… I meant to get right into it last year with Genesis, but, as you might have seen, I only wound up writing the next one, Salt In The Wounds, the other day. Basically, I choose an album – I’ve started with Pendulum’s Immersion – really good album; you should have a listen, if you’ve not heard it. For each song on that album, in order, I shall create a short piece written while listening to that song on repeat, the word count taken from the length of the song – for example, Salt In The Wounds is six minutes 39 seconds on the album, therefore, I wrote a piece 639 words long.

I think these will have to be considered a little like art pieces… all in the name of writing practice. I’m trying to link the songs on the album with similar ideas (a bit like an ultra-short story cycle, I suppose) and by ending them the same way, however silly it may seem. I may try something different with the next album – the current plan is to write for The Jezabels’ album Prisoner next.

So let’s see if I can stick to this proposed scheduled. Most likely not… at least, not at the rate I’ve been blogging recently. I should probably try to use transport time for planning instead of just staring into space…