Monday, 31 October 2011

Another Little Slice

Title reccomendations are welcome, by the way. As of now, I'm writing under the title "Poole" for reasons I can only really explain post-reading. I don't like it though.

Anyway, sorry for dropping paragraphs on you without revealing much of the story. The brief build up to this is that the guy, Chris, who was running from the police in the first part is now home, having escaped successfully.

I don't proof-read before posting these, not even a skim, so forgive any glaring errors. The editing process will come later for me!

"Hang on mate, I'll just grab it," he said. "Cheers for this, by the way."
The driver nodded and Chris chucked his phone onto the back seat before jogging up to his door. He let himself in and looked in the living as he passed it. He saw the DVD player's clock, it was 10:40. Peeling his jacket off and hanging it from a chair at the foot of his stairs, he glanced into the dining room. Neither his mum nor brother were awake. He delved a hand into his mother's handbag, sat on the same chair, and lifted her purse out.
Chris jogged back outside, a £20 note in hand.
"Here you are mate, cheers."
"Cool, there is yours," said the driver, handing back a couple of pounds change.

Chris jogged back into through the front door, pushed each trainer off with the other foot and kicked them under the stairs.

He rummaged in his fridge for a moment before he found some sliced ham. He defrosted two slices of bread  in the microwave, stripping down to his boxers while doing so, and piled his sandwich together as he walked into the living room.
Chris' mother loved chintzy decorations; she believed she was brightening the place up. On the faded powder pink walls hung ceramic cats with bow-ties, wooden hedgehogs with homely phrases etched in, and a flat, stick-on dado rail that ran a dirty gold smear across the room. His dad had always complained openly about how awful it was up to, during and after the divorce six months before his death. He was ill for years before he passed away, but his weakness didn't extend to politeness.
"I wish you'd take that shit off the walls," he'd say. "It's like a fucking time warp in here."
He was never overly aggressive or even angry, just brisk and honest to a fault. He cared more about saying what he wanted to say than he did about what the person listening might feel.
Chris flicked on the TV and looked through the listings. Nothing but the usual mid-morning rubbish.

Saturday, 22 October 2011

Ernest Hemingway

"I love sleep. My life has the tendency to fall apart when I'm awake, you know?"

Sunday, 16 October 2011

Chapter One... I suppose!

Well, to be clear, this is just a very short excerpt from the first chapter. Furthermore, it's the first draft of the first part of the first section of the chapter... as such, don't treat it too harshly! As ever though, I'm keen to hear criticisms or areas for improvement!

I understand it means very little without context, so I apologise. I'll give a brief outline of the story in the next post in a few days.

Thanks a lot guys, and thank you for helping me feel like I can do this!

With a forceful shove, Chris had created enough space to get past. His Flailing hands followed him as he jinked to the left and began to run, but they missed; the police would have to run after him.
When he remembered back the chase was a blur, but in the moment he had clarity. He sprinted across the bridge, pulling further away from the pursuing officers with each stride. The shirt he had tied around his face was beginning to come loose and the cold December air was biting at his face as he glanced left and right, searching for the next opening to take.
He didn’t dare look back to see if the police were close, the mess of footsteps, shouts, clinks and clicks told him whether he was safe or not.
With a look into the distance, Chris spotted a house. He was growing tired already and the brisk weather had taken his wind quickly, and with a concern for his fitness and the house around 100 metres away, he chose it as a finish line.

Tuesday, 4 October 2011

NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month)

Yeah, it's a terrible name.

In case you're wondering (as I was, until recently) what NaNoWriMo means, check out this link and this wiki page to get an idea!
In case you don't have the time/patience, the gist of the idea is that during the month of November, a community pull together for encouragement and inspiration, with the goal being the production of a novel per member.

Now, the parts of my life I've mentioned fleetingly here in relation to my depression (I only capitalise when I'm trying to prove a point!) are something of a part-time occupation or pastime. Full-time(ish) I'm a writer. Well, I'm trying to be, with varying degrees of success.

What I'd love to do though, is write a novel. I've never written one, but like so many other people I feel like I've got ideas and potential. The writing I do currently is less creative, with an emphasis more on comment, opinion and news. I'd love to write a story.

I'm not at all interested in joining the NaNoWriMo community. It's just not... me. But, like any good idea, the concept behind NNWM can easily be modified to fit wants and needs. As such, I'll be writing my first novel over the next few months and, depending on how it goes, pitching it to some publishers.

My proposition to YOU, my beloved (and importantly, NOT NaNoWriMo) community, is:

Should it become something in the choose-your-own-adventure mold or not? I'd be asking you guys to pick from options, and if replies aren't timely I'll lead with what I'd prefer personally.

The story would be heavily based on my own experiences, and the experiences of those around me. Would you prefer the story to focus on crime, love, depression, education, work or the character(s) themselves? An exploration of the them, or the things they're experiencing?
The novel will hopefully cover all of those things, as that would be what I want to write about, but I'd love to know how I could emphasise certain parts to give the most to the reader.

I'll be posting short excerpts, a paragraph maybe, per day. If anyone should want a copy of the whole thing, please let me know and it would be my pleasure to send you a copy via email or something. I'd only ask that you keep it to yourself as I'd like to approach publishers, ideally.

Clearly I wouldn't even consider charging for my work here, but a dream of mine is that of a publisher paying me for my novel. Not because I'm struggling for cash (although I definitely am) but because... well, I just want it! Imagine it, being a novelist. I'm proud enough that I'm a writer, I feel like the luckiest guy in the world on occassion, but a novelist? Well, gee...