You never can tell.

Some progress since last night.
1. Eddie is now John.
2. Dislikable characters, mixed tones and Americanisms all need some attention, but at least I've faced my fear of them. Phew.
3. Haha, yep, biscuits. Who knew?
4. No RL here, I've concluded. No one thinks this is a good plan. And I don't think I'd cope. Ah, weight lifted :)

***

I just received a short but sweet e-mail from someone who was absent from Friday's seminar. A few choice quotes, to avoid repeating the whole thing:

'I've read your creative writing piece and I loved it.'
Well I never. There's no predicting it. It's like X-factor evictions.
There's nothing amazingly constructive in the rest of the e-mail, just effusive praise and no signs of confusion.
I hated this person's submission. Grammatically eye-watering tragedy about Mary-Sues wandering the snowy French mountains and tripping over every so often. But she's nice enough in person.

'I have found no fault in this extract.'

Alright, so she didn't read it. Can't blame her.

And the best one:

'I hope the session went well. Will see you soon.'

Oh my giddy aunt. I have to see these people again.

First batch of notes.

Face the music and blog. Gulp.

Five weeks ago I embarked upon a Creative Writing module, having bypassed the *oh fuck this will emotionally drain me* stage to the *this is a piece of piss* level of calm. Having now submitted my piece, I'm back at *I'm draining, I'm DRAIIINNING* ***

Each week a member of the group submits their piece for group discussion. This Friday it was my turn. I'll say this fast: It did not go well. It went worse than any other person's submission. All of which went very well.

I'll admit, I shed a tear afterwards. In RL, I have't yet told anyone about this, which is a hell of a restraint for my fat gob, so subconciously I must be really upset about this.

Still, no use wallowing in self pity; the point is to achieve a good grade. As well as writing a piece of creative writing (about 2500-3000 words long for prose, although obviously this is only the roughest of guides. The idea is not to bore anyone. Which I did.) you submit an accompanying essay, talking about the piece's creation, inspiration etc. Mine is so far all about the radical rewriting I'm going to have to do.

I had initially thought to include the current draft of the piece every Sunday, but we'll omit the inclusion this week as my baby can't take any more attention in its current state. Next Sunday, rain or shine, a marginally shinier version will exist.
Over the next 6-10 days (a reasonable goal!) I will go through all the notes submitted by the group and the professor. Here's what they've turned up so far:

Fun facts:
Novel's current title: Crackers and Rappers
Piece's current title: Chapter Eight: ALl Over the Floor
Piece's current word count: 2402

Initial goals:
1. More than one person complained that the father and daughter Eddie and Ellie were named too similarly. I quite liked it as a feature. Is it really too confusing? Regardless, as a concedence to public opinion, one name will be changed. Ellie was originally 'Brighde' (unpronouncable) and Eddie was always Eddie (loosely based in my mind on Mr Izzard). What oh what should I call them?

2. The opening paragraph of a man with a hangover rushing to the toilet to vomit initially went down well. Then the group started complaining: too depressing; too out of sync with the comedic tone of the rest of the chapter; too short; too long; (and my favourite injry) 'we already know that he has only one sock on, don't tell us he has one off as well'. A pedantry point is ever I heard one. Still, that's going too. But should the whole submission be similar in tone, ie. humurous or serious? Can't I blend? How should I blend?

3. The first instance of Brit-picking I have ever encountered in Reasl Life: is it 'cookies' or 'biscuits' in the UK? Well it's blatantly a bastardization of both, and I preferred the sound of 'cookies' in this instance. But it's gonna become biscuits. And I may scrap it altogether. This is demoralizing.

4. Dashes. Too many dashes. 'What are they for?' one person asked. I studied my piece. Well, they appear in dialogue to indicate a strained pause, I realized. But if that is not immediately apparaent to the reader than what are they for? I don't know.

5. Intentionally, none of the characters are particularly likeable. Though this was not said aloud, it's come up in notes. Especially Ellie: childish, having a tantrum, unreasonable, defensive. Apparently either she or her sister Rebecca have to be likable, as the fued is between them and the reader needs a favourite. Crap. I don't know how to write likeable people.

6. And only one--ONE--count it--grammatical error. Wasn't even an error, it was a typo, a full stop got left at the start of speech after a sentence was scrapped. Very different to every other punctuation wasteland that has been submitted so far. But if I say things like that I can't make these posts available to RL people, can I? :)


Final point for today: I'm thinking very seriously if giving RL people, friends, members of the module group, anyone, the LINK to this blog, for comments and advice. Is this even remotely a good idea?


*** Question: do capitals cheapen dialogue? If used sparingly, ie. once per story?

Parents are divorcing--

---or at least I hope.

This is difficult to explain, but briefly this is the situation: My parents have never been entirely happy since I was little and I hope this most recent split will be the one that ends in divorce. When they are apart they are simply happier. Neither have been on proper speaking terms for several years. My mum drinks and my dad has, I believe, sought comfort elsewhere, which I don't blame him for in the slightest. Of course neither one is understanding of why I cover for the other--my dad has now moved out, I don't know where, and my mum has fallen into a sort of slump, where she does nothing except cry and rave about what a cowardly liar my dad is.

I love them both very much and will do what I can to help them, but I have to go back to university this month and am very scared about what will happen in my absence. Adding to this, all their money is tied up in their property, which my mum is refusing to sell, and the property needs a lot of attention before winter sets in or it is in danger of collapse (it dates form the 1860s). No one is doing anything about this.
My name is on nothing and I have no rights to anything except the house I rent near my university, and for this I depended on my parents. I suppose what I'm asking is for some advice, suggestions I can put to my mum or dad, or any action I can take myself. I understand that they both need time to get through the raw period following a definite split but financially they don't have time.

I am behaving sefishly but I do not want to give up my degree.

Following writing that, of course, mum's stumbled in with renewed humility, talking about fixing windows and getting a man friend in to do some electrics. I've gone since Friday night without even a hint of squeaky talk. It's like I've aged ten years. Fed up with shouting and crying, now I'm just ignoring them all.

Lay Down (The Long Goodnight): Chapter Two

(The Long Goodnight)

Chapter Two

Earlier on the voyage, Guy had remained still long enough to come to the backstabbing conclusion that his body imagined itself seasick. Rather than a distraction to the churning guilt in his gut, it was the straw that broke the camel’s back. He launched his stomach overboard in great gasping retches.

She rubbed his back soothingly. He could hear the Sheriff further off behind him, complaining of the stink carried over the deck.

“Drink some water,” she recommended.

He spat, ridding his mouth of the taste. “Don’t issue me any more orders,” he wheezed.

“I wouldn’t dream of telling you to do anything you didn’t want to do.”

He wrenched himself out of her reach, the movement of which added horribly to his dizziness. He turned to her, his face a demonic mask the like of which would have scared the living spirit out of a weaker woman.

“Or a livelier one,” she added impiously. She held his stare for a long moment.“That confirms it, doesn’t it?” she said, amused. “I know what you’re thinking, therefore I’m not really here.” He stared at her, unable to voice his agreement. It seemed that saying what he ought to say was something he had also lost overboard.

She stepped closer to him. “But I’m always here,” she whispered conspiratorially, tracing her fingers over his cheek to his temple. “Right here. Safe, and always.”

Forlornly, he let her pet him into submission, easing himself to the deck floor.

“Marian,” he whimpered piteously.

“Always,” she said again, cutting off all further denials with a kiss.

....................

The evening on which the ship docked in England was welcomingly grey and drizzly. Guy was no better for the rest period he’d had aboard ship. His arrogance had diminished but his rigid self-control had reasserted itself. Yet his continuing silences kept the Sheriff watchful. And the boatswain had his own ideas about what was troubling Lord Gisborne. He’s seen cabin fever and seasickness and superstitious fear bring down the hardiest of voyagers. This was an impressive compound of the three. The carriage journey back to Nottingham was lengthened by its unrewarding conversational exchanges. Vasey would comment and Guy would nod, or shrug. Vasey could smell the stale wine on Guy’s breath, and lost patience with his lackey. He fell to watching the scenery, tapping the side of the carriage and humming erratically. Gisborne continued staring downwards, always in collected, unshared thoughts.

She joined in the Sheriff’s tune lightly, her cheek on Guy’s shoulder.

“I learnt this in the nursery,” she whispered, grinning at the thought. “Do you suppose his mother sung it to him?”Guy looked upwards briefly. The Sheriff was conducting with his finger, his eyes squinting at his own imaginings, and he hadn’t heard her.

“It’s about a little boy, running alone on the heath when his mother wants him home,” she said close to his ear, then hummed the rest of the tune in time with the Sheriff.

“Run away little lad.

Sunshine...da da da… sun is warm,

One da da da-da…lad,

Da da mother won’t be sad,

If you da da through corn.”

He became aware that hers was the only voice he could hear, singing that nonsense rhyme with half the words missing. The Sheriff’s head lolled back, and his breathing had slowed.

“The corn hides you,” she explained dreamily. “It’s a sunny colour. Your mother will trust you to its protection.” She shifted her cheek on his shoulder. He looked down at her head, not understanding.

“My mother?” he questioned, voice barely above a whisper. He glanced again at the sleeping lord. “Do you mean him?”

She smiled patiently, with some amusement.

“Do you mean you?”

“Guy, Guy,” she said mockingly. “Who’s looking after you now?”

The guards at the castle gates escorted the carriage through with little more than a hand wave, once the guard had seen the Sheriff snoring inside.

“You’re not real,” Guy insisted as the carriage covered the short distance to the steps.

She raised an eyebrow. “So who does that leave you with?”

He scowled, breathing heavily through his nose.

“My Lord!” he said suddenly.

The Sheriff jerked awake.“Oh, are we back?” he grunted. “Good.”

Guy exited the carriage, looking disturbed.

Vasey sat in the otherwise empty vehicle for a long, contemplative moment. Gisborne, it seemed, had left his sanity lying somewhere among those sandy, bloodstained streets.

Lay Down

(The Long Goodnight)

Chapter One

The sun set over the Holy Land, bleeding its amber glow out to sea, and over the vessel that carried the Sheriff back to wetter, safer climes. Vasey watched the tide take him away, gnashing his teeth against the clotted mess of his failure. From below deck, the scraping, pacing and wailing of Gisborne was aggravatingly audible. The crew aboard deck stayed eerily silent, unable to raise the atmosphere above the tune of Gisborne’s grief. Vasey snarled at the sea spray, and paced.

The big booby had thrown himself headfirst into the abyss, there was little Vasey could do now but cultivate that darkness; nourish it as a new lifeline for Gisborne. Now that he’d gutted his last chance of deliverance.

A short distance from his foot, the wooden deck planks splintered upwards, providing a better outlet for the huffing and puffing of the big sad wolf below.

Spitting sharply, Vasey headed below deck, having had more than enough of this idiocy.

“Boatswain!” he roared. “Inform me if there’s any change.”

Once the Sheriff was down the ladder and out of earshot, the boatswain shrugged to the nearest deckhand and asked quizzically, “What sort of change is he expecting?”

..........

The iron crate that Guy heaved upwards above his head in an impotent fury lodged itself in the upper ceiling of the ship, splitting planks and spraying splinters. He dislodged the crate by pulling at its lopped handles, and the metal lump came crashing down above his head. He crumpled to his knees, the fingers of one hand smashed beneath the crate. He pulled again at the crate, attacking the situation so blindly that the weight on his digits doubled. Panting at the struggle and the pain he could only dimly register, he noticed light flood the wrecked cabin, and the Sheriff’s short, cloaked form stamp forward.He slammed the door shut, bolted it, and the room returned to its former grey.

“Get up you great waste!” the Sheriff shrieked.

Guy looked up, eyes hooded, not so much in defiance as discovery: another target. The two men locked gazes and the sheriff recognised some lingering shadows of treachery in his eyes. With a grimace he put out one well placed foot and rammed it into Gisborne’s face.

The man flung back heavily, his head cracking at the contact with the hull and his arm dislodging from the iron weight and falling to his side at an unnatural angle. He was out cold, and seemed grateful for it.

Vasey straightened his shoulders, his usual spirit returning for a moment. Curiously, Gisborne’s expression shifted from one if blank oblivion, to something vague, approaching fear, and misery. Uninterested, and happy for the peace, Vasey left the cabin.

...........

Guy stood by the bow after dusk, his hands tight around the railing. The Sheriff’s snores were the one noise disturbing his peace as they floated through the splintered deck.

“You should use a splint on those,” she reprimanded him brightly. He felt her warm hand on his cold one, gently ease his clench from the railing and examine the injuries. He looked at her calmly, holding a breath.

“They’ll heal,” he replied finally.

“But they might heal crookedly,” she argued. “Bandage them around small splints—this one…and this one. And don’t use them until they’ve fully healed.” She looked up at him expectantly, wheedling.

He looked down at the hand. His right hand, his sword hand. It was mottled purple and red. The knuckles were split and blood encrusted. The palm was cold.He looked up at her. He could feel the immeasurable distance between them though she stood right beside him, viewing the glittering ocean. There was empty space where she stood, stagnant air where she took in great salty lungfuls in relish.

“I was kept below deck for the journey here,” she told him. “I didn’t see it.”

“The sky?”

“The ocean. I’ve never seen it before.”

He watched her watch the water. “Is it how you thought it would be?”

She smiled blithely, answerless. Empty space.

An ache began in his forearm, the twisted arm being brought forcibly to his attention. He looked up, blinking blearily, and saw the cracked hole above him. Through it, he glimpsed one star burning, tiny and distant, and a swish of skirt flying in the wind. Whether white or blood red he didn’t decide.

.........................

Vasey came into the cabin later in a significantly better mood. He’d been plotting. His plans to regain power after this disaster were fresh and alive. He took off his fur and regarded Gisborne who was sitting on the opposite bed mat with his back to him.

“Take heart, Gisborne,” he said softly, undressing. “We have a head start on Hood, if he ever comes back at all, that is, and I can fantasise,” he groaned, tugging off one boot, “and on our return to England, we’ll have a day or so to catch our breath. And then we shall see how England’s fate is to be decided. And then we shall see.”

Greedily content with his optimism and his plots, he came up behind Gisborne, and stopped. Looking down over the unresponsive shoulder, he saw Guy obediently bandaging his broken fingers, slowly, with small, roughly fashioned splints.Vasey frowned with his lips pursed, then stepped backwards. He rolled his eyes, lay down on the thin mat, and did not comment.

Good thing I don't put much faith in biology.

Or I'd be screwed.

The sheer insanity of the nevertheless very upsetting conversation (converstaions, technically, as she hung up on me three times) I just had with my mother I HOPE is testimony to the fact that my edgy, secretive nature is not my fault.

So: I tell her that I've pierced my ears. And hell blows over. Everyone thinks I exaggerate when I say, 'Oh, my mum'll go mad' BUT I DON'T. SHE'S INSANE. I could have her committed, I swear.

She's lovely. But she's irrational, hypocritcial, over-emotional and dramatic. But everyone else loves her. Nobody sees the ridiculousness of, for example, having to tell her that I've pierced my ears. Or when I cut my hair: She still hasn't gotten over it.

She doesn't mean it, just like I never mean half of what I say when I yell back at her. But she's very cruel. Very, VERY cruel.

I get over these ups and down down downs by resurrecting my Muse from the gloomy pit she's been hiding in for the last few months. Two major projects still going at the moment: One original novel and one Master/Rose Doctor Who fanfic: working title 'Mine for all Time', inspired by some lovely artwork by mitashade over at LJ, and further exasparated by that living muse wiggiemomsi. I'm a slow writer though, and working hard to fail my last English module, so don't look for any updates in the near future.

But once I do, there's gonna be a lot of slashing and burning elsewhere, starting with that awful Harry Potter fanfic era *shudder*