Tag Archives: future

Quiet please

Remember the Cat Stevens song, Father and Son?

Pico Iyer’s article talks about the same thing, only reversed. I see it myself in my own life. The difference is, I think, that technology is to us adults what addictive substances are to addicts.

We get addicted, distracted, embroiled, discombobulated.  Children can take it or leave it. My daughter has a mobile phone she uses less than me to check on the world and her friends.

She has a Mac desktop she uses mainly for homework. She also has an iPad, which she uses primarily for games.

The world is open to her. She knows how to get at it. Yet because it is normal she is not enamoured. She is a jaded technologist. And I am glad.

Me, I need to watch what I let my phone interrupt. I need to take a break, regardless of my job.

I have always said that for all of this doubling of speed and new and improved technology, how useful is it really? What do I use regularly? Notepad, Word, Excel. Extensions of paper. In fact, nothing more. And really only because of ease of reading (my handwriting is getting worse, not better) and ease of access – it is harder to lose an online file than a piece of paper…yet only slightly.

Sure there are useful websites (google maps…i.e. an atlas, or Trello i.e. a to do list), yet are they worth the aggro? Really?

I don’t think so. I do not know where all this is going. I do think the internet will really come into its own when oil is scarce and travel is truly a luxury once more.

Then solar powered totally self-sufficient data centres linked by solar powered satellites will link billions of hand crank kinetic powered laptops and computers.

Steampunk, here we come! ;D

Birdsong

 
“Save yourselves!” cried a tiny voice, squeaking in the early dawn as the collosal clock of doom ticked away. They could all hear it, deep in the gentle settling ticking and creaking of the great oak tree they nestled in, reverberating cold empty echoes in their frail hollow bones.

“Save yourselves! Fly away!” another tiny voice piped up, singing out harmoniously with the first.

The light broke proper over the forest, and the rest of the tiny voices began to shout out their warning, “Save yourselves! The end is coming.” But no one seemed to be listening.

“Save yourself!” shouted a red-breasted fellow, ululating the cry, choking on the final syllable. He himself could feel the warning of time ticking down to Doomsday vibratingly to the tips of his tail feathers. The fear froze him from within, even as he swallowed air to shout his warning once more. Still the large hand swept to the final time, resonating deeper still, deep down next to where the primal fear nestled in his subconscious.

“Save yourself!” echoed from branch to branch, tree to tree, yet no one was listening. Winter was coming. A winter that would last. And only the ancient memory of the dinosaurs vibrating spider-like in their tiny souls knew what that really meant.

And still no one listened.

We’ve only just begun…

Killer Application novel update…

…from the first set of feedback I received on my novel, I realised that I had some major rewriting to do.

In other words, I was going to have to buck up and blood myself as an ‘author’ by doing a serious rewrite of my novel, pretty much from start to finish.

I think it was more difficult to accept that what I had been doing for the past few weeks up until this ‘revelation’ was mere dabbling, rather than proper rewriting.

Yet when the pieces that needed some attention were pointed out to me and the repercussions in how much work was still required before this piece of writing could be taken to the next level, i.e. professional ‘2nd draft’ editing, I had to swallow some semi-sweet pills regarding my writing style, including the banks of snow I had plowed right up across my own driveway (in some cases).

Basically, this was a wake-up call.  So I sat down on Saturday and started to put together a proper outline of what I thought the story was, where it was going, who the main characters were and all that jazz.

You’d think, after writing more than 500 pages or nearly 170,000 words, I would know all of this off the top of my head…and you’d be right – I did.  What I did not realise is how much ‘tweaking’ (read ‘major overhaul’) I had to do to bring the story back on track.

I think the major issue is that I knew in my head all of the missing gaps – I had been living with this story for so long that I presumed anyone reading it would know it as well as I.  Then in midst of my outline writing and drafting of character and plot and subplot details, I realised in a ‘Eureka’ moment, that I did not have to sacrifice what I was writing.

In fact, I had to admit to myself that I had ‘chickened out’ of the original underlying subplot I had thought of writing in the original storyline.  I had ‘chickened out’ by justifying that it was too much to put into one story – it would meander and get lost in details.  It would take too long to play out.  It would not be interesting enough to everyone.

In rejigging my original idea to fit what I thought would be a broader audience I had sufficiently transferred what (I think) is a good idea into something that had to be padded to make sense (and even then was trying ‘too hard’ at times, and ‘not hard enough’ at other times).

In other words, in 500 pages I had written the skeleton of the story with some padding that I thought made sense.  Going back to it now, I have to strip almost all of the fat (tasty bits) away and get to the gristle, muscle, tendon, ligaments, bone…the gruesome guts of the story and build out from there.

Maybe this is the experience that all writers have, I would not know.  In the blogs, books and articles I have read writers talk about how they ‘got there’ (made it into a deal with an agent or publisher) or how they ‘got their idea’ (the basis for their story) or ‘the journey’ (the whole or any part of the start-to-end journey of their publishing life).

All of these are extremely useful, but I guess trying to explain the ‘Doh!’ realisation of what ‘rewriting’ truly means (the ‘blooding’ of an author) is like trying to explain what it is like being a parent…to someone who does not have any kids.

This is not something that is easy to explain, aside from picturing the growth and maturity of a writer into an author.

  • Imagine that writing the full novel is an author’s childhood, full of wide-open vistas and bright-eyed wonderment.
  • Then editing the novel is puberty, where I know what I am doing, I know I what I want out of the story.  I just need to massage it out.  The form is there, I just need to kneed the shape of the loaf, chip the remainder of the sculpture, colour in the rest of the painting, before I get to the final finished 2nd draft product.
  • Finally the birth of adulthood comes when I realise that the novel is not actually ready for ‘editing’.  The novel is awaiting the ‘breath of real life’, the rewrite.

Now, this probably all seems a bit coy or simplistic, and of course it is.  Trying to describe the growth of the writer to author-hood (child to adult-hood) is like trying to explain the psychological alteration of going from individual to parent.  There is no way to describe it aside from ‘it is’.

I also have to admit that I am in the middle of the transformation.  I believe I am on the cusp of the writer-to-author teenage-hood, where I have realised there is more to rewriting than editing, that first I must rewrite my story to make it stronger, to make it worth reading, to make it the best it could possibly be.

Yet even being here is not disheartening in the slightest.  I am excited by the journey as much as by the end result.  I am as intrigued and interested by my own development as an author as by the novel I am writing (or any of the poetry or prose that I may work on now or in the near future).

I say, “Bring it on!”

So what if it takes another six months to get to first draft status (again).

So what if it takes a further six months to get to second draft status (for the first time).

What matters is the journey, the experience, the growth and the end result.  It all matters.

Now I just have to stay focused.

I know in my heart of hearts that it will definitely be worth the trip.

What a great experience to have, to grow up a second time doing what I love to do.

In the meantime I will continue to self-publish more free ebooks of poetry, short stories, essays, quotes, rants and other bits en route – watch this space!

“In there always pitchin’ and sometime’s bitchin'” as my Gamp used to say.

Life’s gonna throw curveballs – you have two choices, swing or get out of the way.

What happens after you decide how to react is down to dumb luck.

Taking the outcome personally is not only grossly egocentric, it is also fundamentally shortsighted.

How do we know what is coming around the corner?

We only know what we want or what we think is the best for us and others. We never really know what’s right or wrong until it’s already been and gone.

I just hope my hindsight plays out true, that this is the right journey and not too presumptive on my part, seeing as I am only just beginning (cue “We’ve only just begun“).

Let’s see what the next step in this journey brings.

Hopefully the end result is not total pants! 🙂

Until next time – a river dare-chi,

Em (mE)

Potatoe potahto

Recently I was accused
Of some sort of racial slur
In a story I wrote
About gorillas in
Much Like Us.

When I looked again
Re-reading it through someone else’s eyes
Or as close as I could get in my own mind’s eye
I still could not see what they meant
Though I tried as hard as I might.

So I sat
And I thought
About all the pictures people see
About how we all see a different world
Through a myriad of different eyes,
How everything is up to us to define
Decipher, discover, decide
And we are all as infallible as each other.

From the slightest misunderstanding
To religious discourse, to racial hatred and outright war
The whole problem is us humans, desperate to not be alone
Fighting for some real meaning, some vital substance
In this life, on this rock, floating alone through space,
The vacuum that surrounds us.

There is no straight answer,
No all-encompassing truth that we can all happily
Accept, nothing that is so clear cut and true
That we all see it the same way, so we go on
Fighting and arguing, judging and describing
Pidgeon-holing. Reinforcing our own preset world view
Until all that exists in the wonder of reality
Fits within our own ten-second segment of bite-size life,
Allowing us to relax back into comfortable modes of behaviour,
The ruts of common existence and habitual blindness.

When will we all wake up to the pure beauty of clear sight?

money dreams

‘What if someone steals it,’ Cheryl asks me,
Ramping up previously nonexistent fear
I quickly file away and smile nonchallantly,
‘I’m not worried,
if they steal it and make money, it’s extra publicity for me,’
Hearing my own bald-faced lie,
emotional attachment to letters arranged,
I pulled the strings, touching my soul
and back out again,
I file the fear for a different day, the future calm,
My subconscious
with time to digest
Then spurts the answer I need to relax, and
When the answer came
Of sculptures soaring free
Where anyone can climb and enjoy,
see and take in
Interpret their own meaning
The clear thought that true art,
Coming from deepest space inside,
Should be free to disperse in the public’s eye,
To remind us all how, as humans together,
There is more than fragmented dreams allow,
I could say all of this in a lengthy late reply,
But the answer was just for me,
The fear breathed out,
after-stress sigh.
Thank you, subconscious,
For sorting all that out,
Now if only you were focused
On feeding my monetary drought.
the answer for that seemingly life-long question
would come just as easy, and take away the stress
that desolate accounts plague my dreams at night.