The Man of Many Projects!

So, book three 'Lay Me Restless' is progressing steadily. I'd argue that you can never write a book quite as quickly as you would like to, but every time I sit down to write at the moment I make progress and it's always between 2000 and 3000 words, so I have nothing to complain about in that respect.

What is very exciting for me though, as a side project I suppose, is that I've finally managed to edit the musical a friend put in my hands a few months ago. I added a few bits of dialogue, pitched a few jokes (which, if he has even a modicum of a sense of humour will dismiss immediately) and rounded off the characters, just gave them a little more life and added a dimension or two to them. Anyway, they were absolutely thrilled with the result. Apparently, and this is the most exciting part of all, they have a producer who's interested in reading the script. Any author will tell you that it's not the easiest thing in the world to get an agent / publisher etc to read your manuscript, so being able to get a theatre and film producer to read the script immediately is pretty good going on the part of my friend. It's an exciting prospect and it'll be interesting to see what happens.

But, enough from me. It's pancake day and batter doesn't make itself!

Inspiration

So, since everything's going well and there isn't really much to report, I thought I'd just do a few musings on the subject of inspiration this week.

Inspiration can be elusive, abundant or even inherent.Some people manage to find inspiration in places other people might not even think to look. One of my favourite pieces of writing ever is a chapter in Gormenghast by Mervyn Peake about the ticking of a clock. Clearly, Peake had heard a clock and the time it senoted as passing and felt inspired to write the passage. We all encounter clocks in our everyday life and time is a very interesting subject, though I wouldn't call a clock a particularly inspiring object. Of course, all it takes to find it inspiring is a slight change of perspective and we're left with a fantastic piece of writing.

Elusive inspiration can be frustrating for any creative person. To be yearning to create something but to not find that spark anywhere is a bane some know all too well, but can inspiration be manufactured? Is manufactured inspiration even inspiration at all? I would argue that art breeds art, whatever medium one is using. An author might re-read their favourite book to make them write. A musician might listen to their favourite album. A film maker might watch their favourite film. It's by no means a sure fire way to make yourself want to go and create something, or even give you an idea, but it might just re-ignite the passion for the medium.

We all have the things that inspire us, but maybe we should all be looking a little further afield. I've always found music, films, books, and even video games equally inspiring. Obviously every medium has its limits, I can't accurately recreate a song just by writing it down, you might be able to read the notes, but the emotion wouldn't seep through. However, all can tell a story and show characters and we can all learn about the different developments these show.

So, next time you're feeling uninspired, look at a different medium. Be the director who reads books or the musician who plays video games. And me? I might just start writing about clocks.

In The Footsteps of the Behemoth Teaser

The moon lit the path languidly, piercing through the darkness with apathetic impulse. The breeze whispered by, calling names nobody heard.

            His heavy footsteps swept up clouds of dust around him; a metronome beat in the night. His thoughts hung burdensomely on his mind, intensifying the already vehement fear that he was too late. He tried to push such ideas away into some fathomless reach of his being, yet he had always been one to brood; a fault in himself he knew all too well.

            He paused, finding a tree beside him. Yes, he was perhaps late, though he was only a man and one who had been walking for days at that – he needed rest. Yet, just as he moved to sit beneath the ancient, dying tree, something caused him to halt. In the corner of his eye he saw but a wisp of vermillion, though it was enough to garner his attention and distract him from even his most tempestuous thoughts.

            He turned to where he had seen the curious effigy and looked further up the path. Of course, he was correct in what he thought he had seen; his were not the kind of eyes the light plays tricks upon. Indeed, the light venerated him, spurned him, would cast him away at each opportunity it was given to do so; he had known this for some time.

            He inspected the apparition, far away though it was. It stood like a man, with a shape that vaguely matched, though the colossal horns atop its head caused some confusion. Yet, upon noticing the substantial spear in the right hand, it all fit together. The horns were a feature of an arrogant helmet, worn by a man in vermillion lacquered armour. He stepped forwards, tearing himself from the shade into the light of the moon and revealing an iron mask, contorted into an expression of profound, anguished fury. The mouth; slung open into a violent roar. The eyes; bulging and wide, threatening disaster to all who believed themselves to hold the fortitude to gaze into them directly.

            The man in the vermillion armour seemed to regard the weary traveller. He tilted his head slightly, the angle gifting the expression on the mask an even more potent ferocity. Upon completing his examination, he took a step back as if to steady himself.

            “Who goes there?” he called, his gravelly voice echoing off the mask giving it a metallic tone. “Who goes there in such malevolent apparel?”

            The traveller took a moment to consider himself. He supposed that his black clothing was somewhat mysterious and his tattered, faded, crimson cape even more so. Yet, neither could match the suspicions that the gargantuan sword strapped upon his back wrought.

            The breeze swam by, catching his matted black hair, blinding him for a moment. When it ceased, his hair fell back into place, shrouding the left half of his pallid face and trailing over his shoulders.

            “A mere traveller,” he said. His voice was no more than an effortless whisper, yet it inexplicably reached the armoured man – distant though he was. He watched with his glowing amber irises as the armoured man regarded him with the same tilt of his head.

            “Of course,” he said in that metallic voice. “Pale skin, dark hair, amber eyes; you’re a shadus!”

            The shadus said nothing.

            “No doubt you’ve heard of me, shadus,” the man in the vermillion armour said. “I am none other than the infamous Vaiske Parlet.”

            The shadus ran his eyes over Vaiske Parlet.

            “I do not know the name,” he said.

            “I assure you,” Vaiske said in an angered tone that struggled past his mask, “it is a name that holds some weight.”

            The shadus said nothing.

            “Tell me, shadus: what is your name?”

            The shadus slowly raised his right arm and ran his hand through his thick hair, though his eyes never left Vaiske Parlet. He only answered once his arm had fallen back down to his side.

            “My name is Lament Strife,” he said.

            “Lament Strife,” Vaiske said, as if he was tasting the name. “Then tell me, Lament Strife, what brings a shadus to the Northern Continent?”

            “Personal business,” came the reply. “And business I must be getting back to at that. Excuse me.”

            He walked towards Vaiske with slow, dragging steps, his heavy black boots whipping up flocks of dust with each pace he made. His cape swam lazily behind him, beneath which the wooden hilt of his gargantuan sword poked out. As he passed Vaiske, the spear shot before him, blocking the path. Lament suspiciously rolled his eyes towards the warrior.

            “I’m afraid that answer doesn’t suffice,” Vaiske said, leisurely slanting the horrific mask in the direction of the shadus.

            “It is as much of an answer as I have,” Lament replied.

            He was now close enough to notice Vaiske’s mouth curl into a sly smile, though the warrior’s eyes still eluded him behind the iron mask. Lament peered into the apocalyptic face; what was disaster to him?

            Vaiske perpetually met his look, causing Lament to frown slightly. Gradually, the warrior’s smile faded.

            “Well then,” he said, “I’m afraid you go no further!”

            With this roar, Vaiske drove his spear at Lament, the shadus only avoiding the strike as he turned his back on the warrior, causing the tip of the spear to meet the gargantuan blade on his back. Lament drew the sword, pushing Vaiske away, only for the warrior to drive the tip at the shadus once more. Lament easily parried the strike, wielding the cumbersome sword as if it was a slight dagger.

            The wooden hilt should not have supported the blade as easily as it did, thin as the cylinder of wood was. The guard was a mere rectangular slither of oak attached to the top of the hilt, more for some kind of angular decoration than any practical purpose. The blade was sharp on only one side like a katana, though it held not even a hint of a curve. All in all, the sword matched the height of the shadus comfortably (the hilt alone was the length of his forearm) and, when on his back, the blade was almost as wide as him. But, despite all of this; despite the size, the weight, the impracticality of the sword; he swung it in one arm with ease.

            As the duel raged on and each strike was parried, blocked or dodged, the men became more desperate; the moon glinting off their weapons and singing death to the night. It was then, when his mortality seemed most upon him, that Vaiske drove his spear at Lament only to catch his cape, though the warrior struck with enough force to pin the shadus to the tree.

            Vaiske leapt backwards as Lament tried a wild swipe with his sword only to find the trap too constricting for such an attack. Vaiske laughed mechanically and knelt, taunting the shadus.

            Lament tore himself from the tree, ripping his cape in the process and found a haze in his eyes as Vaiske released dust from his hand. Blinded, Lament clawed frantically at his eyes, audaciously trying to regain his sight.

He turned, his eyes correcting themselves, and saw Vaiske kneeling upon the shadus’s moonlit shadow. The warrior drew a platinum dagger from his belt and plunged it into the ground on which his shadow was cast.

Lament fell, agony ravaging his entire body, trying to make sense of the sensation but finding nothing. Moments later, Vaiske was stood above him, the dagger in his hand; now obsidian black.

“Forgive me, shadus,” Vaiske said. “No doubt, although a stranger in these lands, you are a good man. More important still, you were a worthy opponent; I only overcame you through the use of my less reputable tactics, but please know this was nothing less than necessary.

“I know you can feel the life draining from you, so I shall be as brief as I can. Know that your death was not in vain. Indeed, here today, you have been a part of history, for this is the moment that that future generations shall look to as heralding the age of peace. Your death shall save many lives.”

Lament watched, amber irises still glowing in the world of black, as Vaiske Parlet, silhouetted by the crying moon, thrust the dagger into his own chest.

Darkness.

*

He left Farras, the town of his birth and childhood, as his mission dictated; under cover of night. There were moments that he feared the moon would exonerate him and whisper to his kin of his leaving. But the moon, and all light with it, was soon hidden behind a thick blanket of cloud. On he walked, passing the outskirts of his beloved hometown and into unknown fields.

Spring was slow in coming. The late winter air froze his lungs and restricted his blood as each breath drew yet more sharpness into him. His black robe did little to warm him, though he was thankful for the camouflage in the night.

But, as easily distracted as he could have been by the cold, only one thing was on his mind: where was Master Snow? His teacher had promised to return by the first sign of winter and yet now, with winter waning, he gave no indication of re-appearing.

Thusly, Arvan Deit, young apprentice to the greatest swordsman in the world, ventured into the impenetrable darkness of that night on his first adventure.

*

Rain, so complete to fall almost as a sheet, crashed down upon him as he watched the immense frame wander gracelessly away. The Behemoth, malevolent monster to most, harbinger of death to others, ignored the rain as only something of its size could. It towered above all, only mountains competing to succeed it in height. Fitting, for its skin was as hard as rock, save for the few places that its tangled fur grew from.

He chased after it, though he never managed to convince himself that he had even a shade of a hope of not losing it. One stride for the creature was one hundred paces for him and the lumbering beast was deceptively fast. Even if he’d had a horse he could never have kept up with it. How many times had he lost it now only to mistakenly happen upon it a few days later? Enough for him to have lost count some time ago, yet that was all he knew. He often considered submitting, but told himself that it was not an option; his research was far from complete.

It was then that he witnessed the most peculiar behaviour the Behemoth had exhibited yet. It stopped and turned, as if aware of his minute presence, fixing its listless white eyes upon him. They seemed not to comprehend him, but to encase him.

He should have been excited – such behaviour was unknown to him, even after the time he had studied the beast and there was nothing in the millennium worth of research he had read that suggested similar conduct. No, this was a new discovery. Though all he could think of was the oblivion that surely awaited him. The oblivion that awaited all who garnered the attention of the Behemoth.

The creature ruptured its mouth open and screamed viscerally.

His hand wrapped uselessly around the hilt of his katana. His usually calm heart sped to a beat he had never known before. Remembering every duel he had ever fought, he tried to ease himself in some meaningless effort of control, and inhaled slowly.

The listless white eyes left him and the creature turned away.

His heart fluttered as he realised he was still alive and supposed that, after the way of life he had been engaged in so far, he should have grown used to the threat of death. He sighed in a thankful breath as the breeze whispered past. He would not be joining it that night.

He held his white robe closer to him against the cold and continued to track the Behemoth. Though he smiled subtly, knowing he would lose it once more, soon enough.

Endless Tides Teaser

The benevolent, almost smiling, moon of that night spun a pool of light in the desert. Far beneath the sky the wind swept up flocks of sand making them waltz as if to a lament.

            Three men stood in the pool of lustre, locked in their struggle.

            The thief’s hands moved slowly to the pocket of his brown garbs, checking his loot was still there. It was, although he knew not for how long it would stay.

            The man in the crimson coat rested the blade of his katana on his shoulder; the blade, black, even in such magnificent, haunting light, seemed as stoic as the smiling man holding it. The hilt, as crimson as the man’s coat, gave an air of arrogance to the weapon. Two red ribbons swam from the hilt in the breeze.

            The third man, wearing a blue coat, was stood next to the man in crimson. His sword remained sheathed, yet something in his face whispered to the thief that he would use it more readily than his companion.

            The men were silent. Their thoughts were muted, mere images running in the reflection of a flowing mind.

            A lone black cloud crept across the sky obscuring, at first, only the stars, then, as it seemed to swell with night air, the moon. The pool of light disappeared leaving the men in darkness – a veritable nothing in the nothingness of the desert.

            The man in the crimson coat moved his shoulders wearily before tilting his head to the man in blue.

            “You want to kill him, don’t you, DeFlare?” he said. His voice was frivolous, yet a deep and soothing baritone. It shattered the silence instantly.

            DeFlare nodded.

“We have our orders.” He placed his hand on the hilt of his sword.

The man in crimson tilted his head back to the thief. The thief observed as the breeze blew his enemy’s chin length blonde hair, causing it to shroud his face. In the already thick darkness he thought it must have impaired the man’s vision at least slightly, though the thief knew not how to take advantage of this. The man in crimson ran his fingers through his hair, clearing his face of obstruction.

‘So much for that advantage...’ thought the thief.

“Do you know who we are?” the man in crimson said.

“You’re Captain Laike Skyheart of the Fourth Division, although, I don’t know your associate.”

Skyheart smiled.

“Actually, it’s Division Four,” he said. “But I’ll allow the mistake to go unpunished just this once. At this point the identity of my associate is unimportant.” His smile faded. “I assume you know why we’re here?”

The thief nodded.

“Give it to us,” Skyheart said, “and you’re free to leave.”

“We’re wasting time,” DeFlare said.

Skyheart held his free left hand out to the thief. The black cloud continued on its journey, washing the men in light once more.

The thief didn’t move.

“You’re making this harder than it needs to be,” Skyheart sighed.

Lieutenant DeFlare began a slow, heavy walk over to the thief, his footsteps singing out, serenading the silence. The imposing figure constantly growing with shrinking distance caused the thief to shiver, though he told himself it was the cold. Unknowingly, he placed his hand in his pocket, grasped the jewel and, in a smooth sweeping motion, threw it to the Captain. Skyheart caught it in his free left hand, his sword in his right still resting on his shoulder.

“Thank you,” the Captain said.

DeFlare continued his advance. A glint of steel shone out in the desert and the sword being drawn from its wooden scabbard screamed. The blade cut through air, then man, then air once more.

The thief fell.

“We had our orders,” DeFlare said, sheathing his sword and neatening his short brown hair.

“Indeed we did,” Skyheart replied, “although, I never was one for following them.”

DeFlare turned and looked back towards to younger, yet higher ranking, man.

“We’ve a long walk home,” he said. “We’d best start now if we’re to be back by morning.”

“And so ends another adventure,” Skyheart said, placing the jewel in his pocket and sheathing his sword. “How long must we wait until the next?”

The two began the long walk back to Thieron, paying no mind to the dead thief, his blood colouring the sand a familiar shade of red as the viscous fluid seeped into the grained ground, as if at the request of the leaving men; their silhouettes shrinking in the distance, their long leather coats swimming in the breeze.

*

The sun reigned down on the island; their island. The only inhabitants were a mother, her young son and his pet baby turtle. They sat on the beach looking out at the calm sea doing nothing other than being.

The boy named Paccon stood.

“I’m ready now, Mama.”

She looked up at him smiling. He was wearing the tall pointed straw hat she had made him and his grey rags. His face was practically non-existent under the shadow of the hat’s rim, yet still she knew he was smiling.

He clambered into the fishing boat and she passed him the fishing-rod.

“My first time fishing alone,” he said, beaming. “What an adventure.”

“You be back by dark.”

“I will, Mama.”

“And if the waves get too strong you come back straight away.”

“I will, Mama.”

She kissed him and pushed the boat out, sending him on his self-deemed “adventure”. She waved as he rowed further out. He waved back and set the rod out, waiting for his catch.

The woman saw he was consumed with his fishing and returned to the hut. The adventure could begin.

He felt a tickling in the pocket of his rags and reached in. The baby turtle was revealed as he pulled his hand out.

“Franklin!” Paccon said, elated by his pet’s presence. He laughed, leaned back and lay in the boat.

He lazed the hours away doing nothing. He exhaled gently and the warm air from his body met the cool air of the sea, creating perfection. He sat up and checked the line. Nothing had bitten. He sighed and lay back down, looking to the sky. It was perfectly clear. Franklin clambered over Paccon’s chest eliciting yet more laughter from the boy. After a few minutes the combination of the peacefully buoyant sea and perfect temperature led Paccon into a deep darkness. A deep nothingness. A deep sleep.

Back on land, the woman stepped outside of the hut onto the rocky beach – a collage of grey against the blue of the sea. She looked to see him, but instead saw the sky’s new blackness. Heavy clouds had drifted in from the north. She ran to the shoreline but still she couldn’t see him. She screamed out for her son to return but her voice fell silent on the air. She screamed again but was masked under a symphony of thunder. Rain crashed free of the clouds. She ran back to the hut, praying to any deity that might be listening to bring him home safely.

He woke to the sound of thunder; an antagonistic, violent roar from the heavens ripping through his ears. The seas, before so pleasantly buoyant, now attacked the fishing boat with visceral impact. The whining wind, winning in a contest against the terrified boy, caused the boat to spin in the apocalyptic waters.

“Mama!” Paccon screamed.

He reached for the oars only to find they had long been blown or swept away. Franklin clambered back into Paccon’s pocket finding what little sanctuary there was. The boy screamed again.

“Mama!”

The wind made its final assault, lifting the boat, boy as well, from the sea and carried them further into the night.

*

The flowers had long been blooming in the garden. Blossoms of pink and white sprouted from the soil beds and high bushes, obscuring her garden from prying eyes.

The young woman placed a bouquet of red blossoms onto the first of three graves.

‘Here lies Lawce Harmoire,

Beloved husband and father taken in The Mineral Wars.

He is dearly missed.’

She moved onto the next, placing blue blossoms.

‘Here lies Farr Harmoire,

Beloved mother who took her own life in The Mineral Wars.

She is dearly missed.’

She moved onto the next grave, removing a previous wilted bouquet of ambiguous origin and replacing them with black blossoms.

‘Here lies Kote Venar,

Beloved fiancé of Myri Harmoire.

May we finally be wed in time, my dearest?

When next we meet, perhaps fate will be less cruel.’

            She stood facing the ground for a few minutes experiencing a familiar itching behind her eyes. A feeling she had felt so often as a child and on days like that one. A tear made its way to the outside. More followed.

            Myri fell to her knees and clutched at her heart, with every will and intention to tear it out. Alas, she could not. She knelt there shrieking lightning in the graveyard garden. A garden in full bloom of life yet containing an equal amount of death. And that death was growing.

            “How long?” she asked her fiancé’s headstone. “How long until we are reunited? Have the Gods not toyed with me enough?”

            Tears turned to a river, birthing from her eyes.

            She heard thunder approaching her town of Port Fair. Consumed in her sorrow she continued to cry, mourning the long dead and new dead for as long as she could bear or as long as she could before she was stopped. Stopped before it was her time to be mourned.

Hurdles, be gone!

So, any writer will tell you the same thing. Life gets in the way of writing.

I suffered a small set back to Lay Me Restless recently with having to cover extra shifts at work, which will continue (to a slightly diminished extent) for the foreseeable future. My laptop broke too, but that's fixed now. I have no money, but it's fixed.

In other news, I gave a talk at my old college a couple of weeks ago and it could not have gone better. The students were all really interested and almost everyone wanted one of the books after. They'd like to get me back at some point and I'm more than happy for that to happen. It was a really inspiring day and left me lustful for writing the next day.

Progress on Lay Me Restless is fairly steady. With the few minor setbacks I'm a little further behind than I would like, but it's all part of the rich tapestry that is writing. Besides, I'm sure I can catch up.

So; hurdles, be gone! I've writing to do.

Jameson! Bring forth my quill!

Progress!

So, it's been a very productive time of late. I've been doing a lot of writing on 'Lay Me Restless' and I think I'm probably about a third of the way through the first draft now. Maybe a little more. This is great news as there was no progress on it for such along time. It's flowing really well and I know exactly where the story's going.

Both 'Endless Tides' and 'In the Footsteps of the Behemoth' are selling pretty well too. I have business cards for them both now, to leave around in the name of 'awareness'. So, that might help a little more too.

I'm doing a talk at my old college next Monday. Collyer's in Horsham. It should be a good session. I'm talking to the Creative Writing class so I should have a very interested audience, and it should be a nice experience to go back there. I really enjoyed College and I'm looking forward to seeing how it's changed and being part of it from a different perspective.

So yeah, in short, it's all good at the moment.

New Year

Okay, so I'm a little late with this, but oh well.

I'll be honest, New Year is never a big deal for me. It's just kind of an arbitrary line where we start the cycle again. But, while that line's there, I may as well make some use of it. This year I need to get book 3 finished and published while doing some more promotion. My local promotion went really well last year, so I'm going to start off with a little more of that and then step up on the internet side. It's always a hard call how much time is enough and how much is too much, but I'm sure I'll get there with it eventually.

I got my sales for the last quarter today. Weirdly, 'In the Footsteps of the Behemoth' is selling quite well in America. I haven't done any special American promotion, so something I'm doing is working well, I'm just not sure what that is.

I'll write an update on book three soon.

Sam