The Art of Photography: Alex’s Perspective

So: is photography an art? And why is Alex, your (I hope) favourite writer of all things fantastic, romantic, and political, suddenly talking about it?

Perhaps a little introduction is in order. Recently—as of a few months—yours truly has been interested in photography. He has scoured the web for photography advice, detailed technical explanations, reviews of various photography gear (they are remarkably informative), and read critiques of fine photography. He has almost developed an obsession; but then, for Alex, hobby has always bordered dangerously close to obsession. He would not have been a published writer at 16 otherwise.

Anyway, the content of this post will be concerned with answering two questions. What are the fundamental characteristics of art? (This is a question Alex has explored before, albeit in less detail.) And secondly, to what extent can photography be considered art? Finally, Alex will also share some of his own experiences with photography; the photos he’s taken, and what it felt to be taking them.

What Defines Art?

As it happens, this is a philosophical question. Aristotle, in his Poetics, addressed this. And what did he think, you ask? Well; to Aristotle, art is a representation of the real world. This is similar to Plato’s position (his master) but distinct from it in one important way: whereas Plato thought art worthless—a mere shadow of the real thing—Aristotle believed that art, through imitation, could reveal facets of our life otherwise hidden.

What’s my take on this? As you might expect, I don’t buy into either theory. Art is not an imitation of something—that’s a crucial mistake. It may seem so, ostensibly; but this is a superficial analysis. Allow me to peruse some examples.

Fantasy is the most obvious counter-example. It is difficult to see how demons, vampires, werewolves, mages, and the Fae can be classed as ‘an imitation of reality’. Certainly—they may possess some of the qualities of humans. That is what makes them so powerful; they are uncanny. Like us, but not.

But of course, in fantasy, faeries and mages are not elaborate metaphors for people in real life. In fantasy, faeries are faeries and mages are mages. (Yes, I am guilty of abusing the tautology.)

But even in other genres, I feel the classification is inaccurate. What I see in art is not imitation; it is creation. The beauty and power of art lies in the fact that is born of an artist’s imagination—that ideas which seem too crazy in the real world, or which have no precedent elsewhere, can actually be explored through the medium of art.

RELATED: The poems Objet D’Art and Essence explore some of these ideas in poetic form

Anyway, what does my theory of aesthetics mean in practice? The essential elements of art, I believe, are the following:

1. It is something that the artist creates through the use of their imagination. Be it music, art, or fantasy worlds ;)
2. It contains emotion; this is part of what makes art so powerful.
3. It has a peculiar abstract quality.

You may wonder at the third condition. Why, do you wonder, is art abstract? I believe answering this question in totality (if that is indeed possible) would require extensive philosophical digression—and is thus beyond the purlieu of this post. Instead, I will answer the question in descriptive, rather than normative terms; what art is rather than what it should be.

A cursory examination of art immediately reveals what I mean. There’s something intangible about art—it is difficult, perhaps impossible, to say why a particular melody seems to resonate with our psyche, while another falls flat in dissonance. It is hard to say why some art is beautiful, and moves us, while other art leaves us bored. Why do some books become huge bestsellers, while others flounder?

Once more; this is a difficult question requiring extensive discussion. Personally, I believe art has an objective and a subjective element. Some art resonates with us on a deeply personal level—it appeals to something inherent in our personality. But there is also a general status of art. Technique, be it in writing, composing songs or drawing, does noticeably improve art.

In any case, I have presented the 3 key elements of art. The second question of this post is, of course, whether photography can classify as art. My answer is yes; photography is art in much the same way painting is. But it may not be immediately obvious why this should be so...

Photography as Art

‘Isn’t photography just snapping a picture? How is that art?’ Without doubt, this is the most common question asked by non-photographers. Answering it requires some familiarity with photography.

You see, photography as an art form is a very different beast from the ugly snapshots your average Joe takes in their average family holiday. The latter is indeed not art—it’s just pointing the camera and hitting a button. But the former; that is quite another matter.

The reason for this has to do with photographic input. Artistic photographs require something from its creator; they are a product of deliberate artistic intent. To take a beautiful photograph, the photographer has to think about where to take the shot; what elements she wishes to include and what elements she wishes to crop; and she needs to consider how colour, contrast, and depth of field combine to make a beautiful photo.

These ideas can be illustrated with the help of some photos:

See what I mean? The latter photo has no focus; it just is, so to speak. It does not tell a particular artistic or aesthetic story; it does not contain emotion; it is not particularly abstract; and it requires no great input on my part.

Whereas the former photo, taken by Soner B., exemplifies the opposite. It tells an aesthetic story; it makes you feel a particular way. (For me, warmth, and the wildness of nature.) And it of course it took some effort on the part of its creator in order to stage it.

For an even more dramatic example, consider the iconic photo by Yousuf Karsh:

Alex’s Interest in Photographic Art

So what is about photography that tugs at our darling writer’s heart? Transience, would be one answer. Photography captures a fleeting moment of real life: the particular vermilion shade of a sunset; the dimpled smile in a moment of joy; the neon hues of a city at night.

Another explanation would be... perspective. In taking photography to a higher level, I have found that I need to think, intimately, about how perspective can change the appearance of a scene. This skill is one that has—to some degree at least—carried over to my writing. I have found myself thinking about how a scene would be different if it were written from his point of view instead of hers; how would a plot carry with this scene instead of that; what do two characters see in the same situation?

So there you have it. Alex—writer extraordinaire, and photographer?

Gallery

Below you will find some of Alex’s best photos so far. Naturally, Alex is working on improving his technique (and on buying proper equipment, once suitable funds have been drawn up).

Feedback, as usual, is appreciated.

The Ark, and Completion

Hail readers!

My news regarding the Ark has been sporadic, I must admit: often I was more pre-occupied writing essays concerning things like the Soviet Union, Corbyn (alas he is not so omnipresent as before) and even my scathing critique of Toryism. But with all this set aside, my focus is still on the Ark.

In the Upcoming page, I mention the ‘estimated date of completion’ to be around the end of February. Alas, with February’s end fast approaching, that deadline proved optimistic.

On the good side—I’ve written 54,000 words and about 270 pages. This is respectable progress: I am now more than halfway through the completion of what was, months ago, little more than a dream. Granted, I did not in fact dream the Ark; but the process by which I experience new stories is not altogether dissimilar. The Ark started off as a fragment—a very vivid, inspiring fragment albeit. I saw the Ark dominating a deep blue sky; I saw Casey’s ocean-blue eyes mirror it below; and I felt their love.

Anyway, that was a bit tangential. The bad news is that I’m not finished; and I have my A2 exams coming up towards May. This means it is unlikely I will finish the Ark before, oh, June or so. Maybe August. Such is the nature of the business, folks; a writer’s greatest virtue, after all, is patience.

There are also a number of other tasks I intend to perform along with completion of the first draft. Firstly, I wish to obtain more feedback—professional feedback. I’ve had the serendipity to find Reedsy; a website devoted to the the professionals behind books. I can find book designers, cartographers, and of course: editors.

I’ll likely solicit an editorial review from one such editor. They will address a number of things, including:

1. The book’s ability to interest an agent;
2. What might make an agent more interested;
3. The book’s ability to interest a publisher;
4. Editorial feedback about writing, characterisation, and plot.

After that, I’ll also likely get my cover letter looked at by an editor. The cover letter will be sent to agents—it’s important, because it gives first impressions (and first impressions are always important).

This will cost a few pretty pennies, but is still cheaper than a serious self-publishing effort. For the Necromancer, which I released on Halloween the year before last (making it a year and four months and since publication—whew!) I ended up spending:

1. Approximately £160 on cover design and the creation of marketing materials;
2. £120 on map design;
3. About a £100 on various marketing;
4. Close to £200 for the print copies and the associated shipping.

Grand total: £580

If I were to self-publish the Ark, I could easily surpass that figure. This is not impossible for me to do financially: my grandparents have given me an eighteenth birthday present that could cover that and more. But it’s not something I’d take lightly to doing.

And yet there are more important reasons still for why I’m choosing the traditional route.

Why Alex Won’t Be Self-Publishing, This Time

The first order of concern is time. Unless I am to spend a great deal of money getting reviewers and hiring a professional to market for me, I am going to have to do a fair amount of marketing myself. I simply do not have the time to realistically do this; school, and later university, will be chief concerns. What’s more—even hiring a marketing team would still drain time. Add to that:

1. Co-ordinating and working with the designers (which requires a lot of input from me!);
2. Editing—a lot of time is needed to review the edits, talk over the entire minutiae of the book over with the editor, and often times re-write, remove content, or add new content;
3. Formatting takes time, especially if there are technical hiccups along the way;
4. It takes time to submit the book to the various retailers, to Lulu, to order and get printed copies, and more;
5. All of the above would have to be co-ordinated by me, and the marketing team would need to know deadlines, review the cover, perhaps themselves request things from the designer, etc. etc.

I also, to be honest, fancy getting an advance. There will be expenses to recoup, and plenty of money will be needed at university.

Besides that: I’ve never done it before. I’m curious to experience the process.

Keeping You Busy

Let’s face it: this process will take months. And the publisher could take months to perform all the various complex tasks aforementioned. The actual book could be out next year!

So: I’ve decided to release snippets of the Ark. I’ve already done this once—and indeed I have released sample chapters on the Upcoming page—but it’s good to release more. Along with that, you’ll get my thoughts and difficulties. Later on, you’ll get my experience of the editing process. And to top it all off: you’ll get to read what my beta readers think.

On top of all that, I will be releasing more… essays! I’ll be working on one such, entitled ‘Social Democracy versus Socialism’ soon. Others will follow it. (I’ve already done a pretty good job of turning this blog into a library of political philosophy though, haven’t I?)

And, I’ll be working on some poetry. I won’t say too much about this right now—I’ve promised another poem on the topic of love; others will also follow.

Conclusions

The road travelled by a writer is a long one, and fraught with many an unknown difficulty. That said, there is many a beautiful sight along the way; and the destination—that could be heaven!

Besides that, there will be much going on here on the Magical Realm. I’ve already detailed much of it. And, I may find the time to do one more thing: re-theme and expand the blog’s capabilities. Perhaps I’ll have an updating feed dedicated to my political musings. I’ve touched on this before.

Now, I leave you. Bid me good luck.

Alex.

Seeking Love—a Poem

Previously, I wrote on all of my goings on thus far—including my progress on the Ark, and more thoughts on Jeremy Corbyn. I was planning on writing, today, about that contentious political figure; however, I have decided to postpone this momentarily for something else: a poem.

I wrote Seeking Love (as it is now named) as part of my efforts in the Ark. I thought it quite fitting, you see—’tis only too close to my protagonists’ hearts. Nevertheless, its length compels me to at least consider shortening it, or including only an extract in the actual novel.

As for the poem itself: firstly, please do read it.

Now, I’ll not beat around the bush here. This poem is a little unusual, like some of my works are. For one, it is both a romantic poem and a poem set in Norse mythology; it’s a rare combination. Even so, reading it one may discern why I ended up doing it the way I did:

And so they set sail.
Many lands, they sought;
Great storms, wrought of bright thunder and fury
Did not keep them from Nordrland.

There, they sought women.
Tall, and strong, and blonde; beautiful, perhaps
To some; but not to them.
And so they called good cheer, and left.

Throughout the poem we see this; I am talking about… a peculiar phantasmagoria—the ‘great storms, wrought of bright thunder and fury’, for example, are evocative of the atmosphere that characterises the Norse tales.

There’s also a certain aptness when you combine such writing with:

‘But,’ says Jörg, ‘at least we’ve found—
‘A kinship; a warm strength to draw on
‘A desire met and quenched;
‘A soft word spoken in the night.’

Besides these literary technicalities, there’s the obvious: Seeking Love is not only a poem about love, but about two men. In the likely event that you have noticed the fact that they seek women, but end up together, allow me to allay any speculation: no, the poem is not making any assertions about sexuality. That’s not the point.

The point is rather more simple: it’s about looking long, and hard, for that which can never be sought. When, really, you should be looking rather closer to home...

Musings

Hail readers!

A number of changes have occurred in the blog since I last wrote on matters of philosophy. For one, there’s a new gadget on the side—it’s called ‘Featured Posts’ and it contains my most popular and/or well-regarded pieces written recently. The second addition is one of a new page: it’s called ‘Services’ and indeed, it concerns the paid services I have begun to offer.

I shan’t speak too much on this, except to say that—for a reasonable price—I will format and typeset any Word or LibreOffice document to either an eBook (available formats include EPUB, AZW3 and MOBI), a print-ready PDF, or both. If you’re interested, take a look.

You may be wondering why I’m doing this. Won’t it take up my time, you wonder? Well, fear not: I shan’t be taking too many projects on at once. And, to be frank, I do wish to make my own money.

Anyway: let’s leave such matters aside. Instead, we’ll focus on a few of my musings.

The Ark

Alas, I have not written a great deal more on the Ark since I last updated you. Currently, I am on Chapter Fourteen; I have a number of important plot elements coming up, and I feel a little… gridlocked. Such is the nature of writing.

Fortunately, I have just entered the winter holidays! This will, as you can imagine, give me a significant amount of time with which to play with—and first on the agenda is more work on the Ark. I shall be writing more of my experiences in creating it; and—there may be a sneak peek of some of the chapters.

On top of this, I am looking for some more beta-readers. Although one beta-reader—the mysterious Peter—has been quite helpful, there is nevertheless strength in numbers. There’s also good sense in having multiple opinions. So: if you do want to beta-read, email me at alexstargazerwriterextraordinaire AT outlook DOT com.

On a more tangential note, here’s a link to one of the songs I’ve found evocative of the Ark: Sunrise.

Ubuntu

Recently, I have upgraded my hardware through the installation of an SSD. On top of this, I have installed Ubuntu—the OS I recommend for all things writer-related. This has not been without difficulty, however. I struggled with a third-party driver for my USB wifi dongle; eventually, I figured to connect an ethernet cable from my wireless extender to my PC.

This solved most of my problems. The nVidia driver for my graphics card is the proprietary blob, and works well. I’ve even taken a liking to a particular game: SuperTuxKart. It is essentially a Linux-flavoured Mariokart. It’s rather good fun; but it’s also surprisingly taxing on my graphics card. Perhaps another upgrade is in order.

Besides that, I am trying to figure out which desktop environment works best for me. Unity, the default, is actually quite alright; it is aesthetically pleasing, reasonably customisable, and has some nice features like the Heads-Up Display. Nonetheless, I am not content. I don’t like its implementation of virtual workspaces, which are meant to aid multitasking when one has a large number of applications running.

I find Unity’s version problematic because it does not actually remove applications from the launcher (left), which therefore defeats the primary function of virtual workspaces.

I have tried Cinnamon, a more traditional interface, but it experiences a strange graphical bug that results in blurriness outside the mouse. Thus, I am now going to try Gnome.

Anyway: enough about this.

Politics

Since my usual politics piece was ditched in favour of a philosophy piece (on the basis of reader feedback), I’ve decided to write a little bit more on—you guessed it—Jeremy Corbyn. This will likely be my next post. I will address a few issues, chief among them: his ‘electability’ and analysis on various miss-steps and successes; his relationship with the media; and his chances of winning 2020.

Well, that about sums things up. I’ll be back soon—I do have a holiday...

On Plot

Hail readers!

To continue from my previous post on the length of a story, I shall now write—relatively briefly, alas—on another troublesome matter: plot.

And why is plot so troublesome, you wonder? Well; the answer to that lies in its complexity. Some tales have relatively straightforward narratives—romance novels being one such. Other tales are more complex; thrillers, for example, depend on complex fast-moving plotlines to be effective. Being primarily concerned with fantasy and Sci-Fi writing, one might think plot would not be quite so significant as, say, worldbuilding. One would be wrong.

Plot in Fantasy & Sci-Fi

Any tale relies on plot of some form. Whether it’d be a boy and a girl and how they come to be in love; whether it be about an apprentice mage, and how she came to war with a necromancer (…); or whether, indeed, it is a mix of how two boys came to be love, and how the world around them begins to crumble. (In case you’re wondering: the Ark is what you want to be looking at for that.)

In the case of the latter two, plot has proven both crucial and difficult. Crucial, because plot imparts to a tale its strength; it gives it tension, and drives a reader’s curiosity. In the Necromancer, plot was what kept the readers on the edge of their seats:

I was constantly on the edge of my seat wondering what would happen next and who it would happen to.

—Margaux Danielle, a kind reviewer.

But plot is also difficult. Here’s why.

Why is Plot Hard?

As I’ve already alluded, plot is highly complex. It is best understood with a metaphor. Consider the act of putting a puzzle together; one effectively starts with several separate pieces of puzzle, whose purpose is perhaps clear individually but less so in the aggregate. Now consider trying to put the puzzle together when certain pieces are liable to change, or indeed—when you don’t yet have certain pieces.

Now you may understand the nature of the problem. When one plots, one effectively brings together ideas and scenes: one may, for example, have the piece of Linaera (chief protagonist) meeting with the necromancer. But how, one wonders, did she get there? One can have the pieces of cities wrapped in cold winter, or of strange magics worked under the canopy of a distant forest; and yet numerous details remain unresolved.

What makes plot more difficult still is the aspect of pacing, and fluidity. Haphazardly moving from scene to scene does no good. It must be that the tale progresses naturally to its intent.

Furthermore, some plot elements work best when correctly timed. If one’s protagonists are to be attacked by mutant creatures, perhaps the moment when they do so can be subtly foreshadowed. And maybe if Linaera is to fight monsters wrought of dark magic, then may the reader also be in doubt, initially, as to whether she has perished.

But Alex! How do you Write Plot?

As of present, I am of the belief that plot is a process both planned and spontaneous. I begin by outlining the key events that are to occur in a tale; these will be the directions by which the tale is built on, but even so they are flexible.

Secondly, I plan individual chapters and scenes. But this is not a mere synopsis of everything that is to occur; rather, it more of an outline, and a tool by which to organise a great many thoughts.

Even with planning, my chapters never quite turn out the way I expect them to. That’s part of the charm. If I do not quite know what direction the tale is to take, how can the reader? Indeed, not knowing is what gives my tales that sense of pent-up excitement, of ‘wondering what would happen next and who it would happen to.’

But nor is this to say that one can just waltz up to writing a book. I initially took such an approach in the Necromancer, and it was a mistake I never quite got over. Planning is necessary to clarify and to give light to.

To Conclude

Thus far I have written a great deal on the matter of writing. I hope my musings have been both fascinating and entertaining; regardless, I shall next be writing on very different matters. I may write on Syria and the situation there. Or, perhaps I shall be bold and address an entirely novel topic: moral philosophy.

But until then, may the stars be with you. Also, do await my updates with regards to the Ark’s progress—including notes on chapter thirteen, and news of an upgrade I am making to my computer. That will allow me to spend less time waiting on the computer and more time writing.

Anyway: enough of that. Begone!

The Length of a Story

Hail readers!

Previously, I wrote on matters of writing; specifically, that concerning how much detail is too much detail—especially in sex. To continue from my literary deliberations, today I address another oft-troublesome aspect of writing: length.

Writers often feel anxious about the length of a book: will I write enough, the more inexperienced among them wonder; what if I write too much, think others. Both, you may notice, assume there is particular set length to a story—but is this true?

In a manner of speaking, yes. A sweet romance tale is best when told with strictly the detail and length required to capture the lover’s heart; no more and no less. A sweeping epic fantasy novel, on the other hand, or a thought-provoking scifi masterpiece—they need length. Length is part of their charm. They wouldn’t be what they are were it not for all those dialogues on philosophy (what is knowledge? What is moral? etc.) or on science, or on the architecture of the world—a particular favourite of ours.

But so too is there a degree of… flexibility, in length. Perhaps the epic fantasy novel may choose to employ language in a manner befitting of 18th century writers—as is indeed traditional. Or, perhaps it may not. Maybe the scifi masterpiece could do with missing a particularly technical discussion on the means of propulsion of the spacecraft. And maybe that romance novel might need a bit more side-character development or plot.

So how does one determine a suitable length? To answer that, one must go back to the key principles of writing.

The Key Principles

All tales are unique, but I believe certain key principles are universal among them all. These are:

1. The struggle. A significant philosophical discussion can be had here; but as far as we, the writers, are concerned: a tale must have a struggle. It could be the protagonists finding what lies in their heart, and the struggle to find love. It could be a struggle to defeat a disturbed but immensely powerful necromancer. (Did anyone mention the Necromancer?) Or it could be a struggle for life—a struggle to reach the spaceship that will bring you to salvation.
2. The fight. How do the protagonists find love? How is the Necromancer vanquished? (Not telling!)
3. Resolution and aftermath. If the duo (or trio?) do find love… what happens after? If the Necromancer is indeed vanquished… what will become of his apprentice? And so on.
4. Life etc. What happens in the meanwhile? And why, oh why, is it important? It could be to bring depth to the characters; it could be to elucidate on the finer details of a world. Or it could be there simply because… stories are like that.

Now, the above is probably incomplete. And addressing even these basic principles would require an entire book devoted to the subject—such is the complexity of writing.

But for our purposes, let’s consider these principles specifically with regards to length.

How Long is Too Long?

Without doubt, the first three principles make up the core of a tale; you cannot remove those. You can shorten them, perhaps, or re-write them—but you cannot remove them.

Number four, on the other hand, is where the grey truly lies. Number four makes up the bulk of a story; why? Well—because it’s lengthy by its very nature, and important in the workings of the tale. But: it can be cut down.

However, this is not to say that one ought necessarily do so. My scenes in the Necromancer that pertain to, for example, the workings of the mage schools; or, in the Ark, the scenes relating to the protagonists’ education and life more generally—these are important in developing the world and the characters.

Still, let’s be honest: it’s not as if the exact reasons for why fireballs break up beyond ~500m or why certain bullets are only used rarely make up some key idea.

No. The question that a writer must ultimately ask themselves is rather: how far do these scenes serve the first, second and third principles? For these scenes do, in fact, possess a peculiar derivative quality. In some ways, principle four is an extension meant to serve the other three.

Language

A final concern lies with language. Even beyond a large number of subplots or backstory, the workings of language can extend or contract a book’s length to great degree. Consider:

The city known as Trebon by those who inhabit its boundaries, or as Trabean-bennevont by those that made its ten foot thick walls by a hundred feet high, is majestic indeed. The Elves known as the Druiadath had named it ‘the Forest of Stone and Blood’—and as for why, well: that is no trouble for any man with half a sight to see.

For a thousand years the city had stood firm. A thousand by thousand soldiers had dashed themselves against its walls; all had perished. It is said that in the city’s catacombs their bodies lie entombed, for purposes that only the city’s necromancers know; it is said, also, that in the city king’s throne is made from the bones of some terrible beast, summoned centuries past.

The Black Beast of Denar—if it is indeed that beast which the legends speak of—had torn ten cities and a hundred towns to pieces. It had turned thousands of soldiers to bloody ribbons; but even it could not flout that impregnable gate.

But the force that rules it now had broken the gate. That feat had been performed by Selein, the city’s new ruler. He had used nought but his own power.

They say the sky went dark as raven’s wings; they say that some strange phantasmagoria had stolen into the city’s domain; they speak of dead men that walked, of mothers turning against their babes, and of a strange blackness that cut through the Great Gate as if it were no more than string.

They say Selein opened the gates of Hell.

The above is large enough to occupy a page; and yet Trebon could have been described in perhaps half that, had I truly been willing. Indeed, some writers can take the above—which is merely very detailed and verbose—and turn it into three pages, by festooning it with flosculations and asides.

And to some degree, fantasy works on that. It likes it when you describe the world with many names, according to many people, and through the ages of history. It loves legend (e.g. the Black Beast). And it also likes this kind of detailed description—of ‘dead men that walked, of mothers turning against their babes,’ and so on.

But the kind of writing above would be less appropriate for a thriller or a romance. And, even in fantasy, things can be taken to their extreme:

There was Eru, the One, who in Arda is called Ilúvatar; and he made first the Ainur, the Holy Ones, that were the offspring of his thought, and they were with him before aught else was made. And he spoke to them, propounding to them themes of music; and they sang before him, and he was glad. But for a long while they sang only each alone, or but few together, while the rest hearkened; for each comprehended only that part of the mind of Ilúvatar from which he came, and in the understanding of their brethren they grew but slowly. Yet ever as they listened they came to deeper understanding, and increased in unison and harmony.

And it came to pass that Ilúvatar called together all the Ainur and declared to them a mighty theme, unfolding to them things greater and more wonderful than he had yet revealed; and the glory of its beginning and the splendour of its end amazed the Ainur, so that they bowed before Ilúvatar and were silent.

Then Ilúvatar said to them: ‘Of the theme that I have declared to you, I will now that ye make in harmony together a Great Music. And since I have kindled you with the Flame Imperishable, ye shall show forth your powers in adorning this theme, each with his own thoughts and devices, if he will. But I will sit and hearken, and be glad that through you great beauty has been wakened into song.’

Then the voices of the Ainur, like unto harps and lutes, and pipes and trumpets, and viols and organs, and like unto countless choirs singing with words, began to fashion the theme of Ilúvatar to a great music; and a sound arose of endless interchanging melodies woven in harmony that passed beyond hearing into the depths and into the the Void, and it was not void. Never since have the Ainur made any music like to this music, though it has been said that a greater still shall be made before Ilúvatar by the choirs of the Ainur and the Children of Ilúvatar after the end of days. Then the themes of Ilúvatar shall be played aright, and take Being in the moment of their utterance, for all shall then understand fully his intent in their part, and each shall know the comprehension of each, and Ilúvatar shall give to their thoughts the secret fire, being well pleased.

—J.R.R Tolkien, the Silmarillion.

The above is certainly beautiful, but Tolkien takes so many pages to say what may take but paragraphs that, truth be told, the Silmarillion was only published because it was written by Tolkien.

To Conclude

Ultimately, the length of a book—or, should I say, the ideal length of a book—depends on genre and on the tale’s personality. Some fantasy works, such as for example the Hobbit, are quite fond of the embellishments of writing and the details of the imagination; others, like—say—Prince of Thorns, are rather less verbose.

To really address the question of length, one needs two things. Firstly, one must understand one’s creation. And secondly: one must consider how far the language, or the fourth principle, actually contribute to the three key principles.

Anyway: I believe I have addressed this question as far as it is possible for it to be addressed. I shall be back with more news on the Ark—which has thus far accrued 200 pages—and will also write on a topic of current affairs.

Until then: may the stars be with you…

On the Ark, and a Poem

Hail readers!

Hitherto, I have mentioned my progress regarding the Ark (my upcoming scifi novel come romance, for those of you who managed to miss my numerous posts so far). I promised that part I, entitled Love, is to be complete; and I can indeed confirm that my promise has been fulfilled. Part I is finished, and I have a few words that need be said.

Firstly, I have decided to precede the section with an epigraph; this shall be a poem entitled A Fool’s Hope. You may consider it appropriate once you have read it:

In the warm whispers
Of timeless summer zephyrs
A message; a word, is carried
By its caressing touch.
A word named love.

Through the bright summer sky
Across the golden light of that
Eternal cosmic giant; across willows and oaks
And pools of perfect blue-green water
The word makes its way.

Who can know where it may go?
Will it find me, alone in the forest
Whose name is a thorn
To all those foolish?
For it would be a foolish thing, indeed!

To believe in that warm promise;
To hope: of nights spent in your embrace
Alive with your awesome temptation.
A fool’s hope, a trinket for peddlers!
Or is it, in truth, what I have always desired?

The word—a whisper in the wind, a rustle in the leaves
A bird, bright red in that green world—settles on my shoulder.
It sings a beautiful song; the forest sighs
Released from its dark thoughts.
You have come.

(A PDF of this poem shall also soon be posted to the Poems page, if you are wondering.)

Aside from this, allow me to address certain ideas about this part in the book and the wider plot in general.

Part I, and its Place

Part I is, as you may be able to infer, about our darling protagonists’ love affair. It is chiefly concerned with bringing about that strange sequence of events; that which leaves two young men smitten one with another, and their lives hopelessly entangled.

In some ways, Conall and Casey’s connection is surprising. It is true: they share a thing or two in common. Both are really rather keen intellectuals—for Conall this generally means politics, and its brethren, economics; and for Casey this means computers and the universe. The two are not nearly so disparate, however; for they find that in discussing their interests, they begin to see both sciences as being absolutely fascinating.

Anyway: let’s leave their intellectual pursuits aside. They do have substantial differences. Conall is the son of the Minister for Foreign Affairs, and his mother is a multimillionaire. Casey is the son of deceased parents, and is taken care of by his academic Uncle. While both suffer from the pursuit of the intellect, there are substantial differences in their economic means that I take pains to explore.

Part I, however, is not only about their love affair. It also serves as an introduction. It details the situation of Cork, in 2120; it speaks of the Plague, and how it can turn night into day and summer into winter (quite literally!) It speaks of the technology, much of it already extant—as I explain here—but more developed, and more mainstream. It also addresses everything from how nature has adapted to such circumstances (phosphorescent grass being a particularly obvious example) to the style of the architecture.

And in the broader plot, part I sets the scene. It hints of the dark reason for the Plague’s inception. It hints also of the troubles that our protagonists will face; for, of course, no tale is complete without hardship. (Indeed, to misappropriate the great C.S Lewis: if God had made the world, he would be a cosmic sadist.)

‘Alex!’ you cry; ‘this is all fine and good, but why don’t you show us the damn book?’ That, alas, I cannot do. But if you have not already done so, you may take a look at the first two chapters.

Now, I must leave you. I shall write more on the Magical Realm, when time permits. But I am of course concerned with the Ark, for not only am I consorting with an English teacher with regards to what changes I may make to part I; but also, I must think of part II: Life. For that, dark omens lie in wait…

The Ark and Other Difficult Matters

As of late, dear reader, I have ceased to blog. This is unfortunate, but to some degree unavoidable: I was concerned both with my UCAS application—I am applying to a number of UK universities as a contingency plan—and also because A levels are a substantial endeavour. In particular, I have been quite busy with physics coursework.

I shan’t talk too much of such matters, for they are not the goal of the Magical Realm. What I shall say: I have decided to study PPE (politics, philosophy and economics) at university, due primarily to the fact that I enjoy all three subjects and cannot decide between them. Also, my interests in the Labour party would be well matched.

But onto the topic of this post. The Ark, my romantic scifi novel extraordinaire, has been steadily growing; I have finished writing chapter eight, and will soon have chapter nine written. With chapter ten, the first part of the book—entitled Love—will have been completed. There are two parts that will follow.

The first, entitled Life (perhaps ironically), shall concern itself with Conall and Casey’s struggle to survive. It will likely be of similar length to part one, or perhaps slightly longer. The final part, however, shall be entitled Fate; it shall be shorter, but will culminate with the end of the Ark.

If you are wondering ‘Will there be a sequel’ then I shall say this much: it is a real possibility.

With such detail aside, let us address some questions regarding part one. Or, indeed, the book in general.

Conall and Casey; Not Conall and Clara

This is almost without doubt the question that will trouble readers most of all. To put it crudely: why is it a gay novel?

The answer lies with three aspects. Firstly, the Ark was conceived with Conall and Casey—and in my conception, as you may know, I have no conscious hold. My ideas originate from some strange creative ether; from the part of my mind that sees beauty and wonder, and creates tales to behold.

It is true that the process of writing is also a conscious one, not merely a conduit for the unconscious. But it would be sheer folly to attempt to consciously alter such a key aspect of the novel: it could, in fact, destroy it.

Secondly, why would I even wish to change it? Their relationship is a beautiful one. And as they say: why fix what ain’t broke?

Finally: let’s talk politics. It is no secret that being gay was frowned upon in the Anglophone world, and indeed much of the rest of Europe, for some centuries. Not since forever, mind you—in Russia, Orthodox and patriarchal as it was, homosexuality was common and open since Ivan IV up to about the 19th century[1]; likewise it was spoken of in pre-mediaeval England, and in Ancient Greece Theba had an army division of male lovers [2]—but, by and large, it was taboo throughout the post-mediaeval world.

It was only since the 1967 that being gay was decriminalised in the UK. Gay marriage—which may perhaps be termed the ultimate acceptance—wasn’t made law since later into Cameron’s first term. That’s just two few years ago!

The gay equality movement has long since struggled with repudiating certain pernicious ideas about homosexuality. One such is the belief that gay people—men in particular—are promiscuous and not interested in monogamous, loving relationships. Another is the belief that gay people are somehow abnormal—pathologised, even.

But what better way to put these myths to rest, than by the very antithesis of all these pernicious stereotypes?

That said, don’t get the wrong idea. The Ark is not a polemic and is not created out of political desire; it is a story. A story with a very powerful tale to tell—and one that ultimately transcends mere politics.

Let’s Talk Scifi

The matter of creating a scifi world is a difficult one. Indeed, any kind of universe creation is a difficult proposition; but unlike, say, fantasy worlds—a scifi world is yet bound by the laws of physics as we currently understand them.

This provides both challenges and opportunity. I do, for example, explain the operation of super-light travel:

‘Now, Conall, do you recall asking about the Ark’s means of propulsion—specifically that pertaining to superlight speeds, better known as warp?’

Conall nods. Admittedly, I had been curious also, though I had
never taken to asking.

‘Are you two familiar with General Relativity?’ he begins. We nod.

‘I don’t really believe you, so I’ll explain a bit. Einstein’s theory was many things, but one of its key discoveries was linking space with time; and it is this space-time fabric, which the Ark affects.

‘We see General Relativity in action all the time: satellites, as you
may already know, operate to a different timescale. Time, in space,
actually “flows” faster than on Earth. We have to correct for this; if not, GPS would never work.’

‘We know all this—right, Conall?’ I interrupt. Conall nods.

‘What you are probably unaware of, however,’ Alistair continues, ‘is
that space-time is affected not only by gravity, but by a variety of other factors. Broadly known as the stress-energy tensor, this includes radiation and electromagnetic fields.

‘It is the latter by which the Ark operates. Its ‘engines’—more correctly known as field generators—produce a powerful electromagnetic field that alters space-time. The effect is such that the Ark can distort space itself, and thus achieve faster-than-light travel.

‘It should be noted, however, that the Ark does not travel through
space, but rather: that space itself is being “distorted” so to speak. You must be weary of applying classical paradigms to quantum events; time, for example, is not so much a continuum by which we traverse, but an abstraction generated by varying rates of change of physical events.’

Much of what I say is actually correct. There is indeed a space-time fabric, and a stress-energy tensor; whether these principles can be applied in practice is another matter, but the principles are sound.

In other areas, I take a uniquely… philosophical view of technology. Rather than inventing improbable technological creations, I instead think it more compelling to take extant technology to new heights. Electric cars, for example, are common place; and yet the descriptions of the electric powertrain, for example, is actually true to cars that exist today—like the Mercedes SLS electric drive.

I believe this makes the Ark a world in which one is remarkably familiar with, and yet utterly amazed by. That, I believe, is true to how change actually works.

Finishing Off

I have talked at length on the matter of the Ark. Now I must continue with writing it; please do humour my efforts. And as for the Magical Realm, I shall see whether I can persuade my friend Oli to once more write an essay on political matters.

Until then: may the stars be with you.

On the Bourgeois Novel and the Ark

Hail readers! You may have observed that I have written a great deal on politics (and political economy) as of late; these concerns are however secondary to the point of this blog, which lies with literary matters. It is also fortuitous that a matter in the Ark has come up which merits attention. In complex terms, it concerns the nature of the characters and the merits of intellectualism.

In simpler terms: the protagonists are not ordinary teenagers. They live in a world that is on the brink of collapse, and yet on the apogee of human development. Their language, mannerisms and intellect is at once both typically teenage and vastly beyond the purlieu of many adults. They are also typically bourgeois characters.

‘But Alex: shouldn’t teenagers be more like the ordinary, and less like the creations of an armchair philosopher?’ you ask.

And that would be the crux of the question, dear reader. But allow me to make a case for the armchair philosopher.

The Ordinary versus the Extraordinary

Ordinary characters appear to be in vogue, in some literary circles. There appears to be a belief that, the more ordinary the character, the better readers are able to relate to relate to them and the more they will empathise.

This is rubbish.

Empathising with a character is an act dependent upon a writer’s ability to instil emotion and portray characters vividly; believing that a more ordinary character will permit a closer connection is, to be frank, lazy writing. The whole point of a novel is not to be ordinary; not to be trapped in the same taedium vitae and mediocrity that befalls so many.

The power in a novel, the magic, lies with characters that are both extraordinary—and in whose shoes you may walk in. It is the writer that brings the reader into the characters’ mind; it is the writer that makes their struggles their own, and their emotions felt as truly as one’s own.

But nor is this to say that a character must be made into something that they are not; that they ought be exaggerated or subject to the vagaries of market calculations. A character is a character is a character, to paraphrase Gertrude Stein. Some characters are ordinary; others extraordinary. A good novel (usually) has both.

A Very Bourgeois Novel

The Ark, as I have said, also happens to be what is known as a ‘bourgeois novel’. It does not follow ordinary people. Conall, for example, is the son a of Minister; Casey’s uncle is an astrophysicist. Not only are they not-ordinary, but so too do they belong to a particular social class.

A great many an essay has been written on the matter of social class. Certainly, the 19th century Marxist account—of the workers (the proletariat), and the owners of capital (the bourgeoisie) as two distinct entities in contradiction—is one that struggles to fit today’s, or 22nd century Cork’s, ideas of class. The capitalists still exist: Casey’s mother is the owner of a major corporation.

The workers still exist. They are the people who work in supermarkets, as cleaners, or even lollipop ladies.

But many people seem to be somewhere in between. Casey’s uncle is a researcher; what of him? What of the teachers, or the programmers, or any of the other professional classes? Are they petit bourgeoisie? Evidently not—for Casey’s uncle is hired by a university, not being himself an owner of capital.

But Casey and Conall belong to what may be termed ‘the modern bourgeoisie’. These are the intellectuals, firstly and foremostly: teachers, researchers, engineers; those involved in professional and mentally complex work. They are also present in wealth, yes, but while wealth may be correlated—it is not the defining factor.

To employ a modern example: Nigel Farage is a very rich man. So is Donald Trump. But they do not make up the bourgeois, or—more accurately, I should say—the aristocratic class. Not only do the lack intelligence (both emotionally and technically, if not financially) but they also lack other features of the aristocrat: manners, charisma, eloquence—even such things as honour, or loyalty.

Perhaps I ought call the bourgeois novel the aristocrat’s novel. Yes: that would be more fitting, I believe.

Conall and Casey are aristocrats. They are not ordinary, not people you might bump into on the streets. And that’s okay. Good novels require extraordinary characters; and ordinary characters are not necessarily more relatable, or more valuable artistically.

Now, I must leave you. Chapter Six is a-written; the Ark has now over 100 pages; and I have a rather important plot point to address…

On the Ark—and Sex

Hail readers!

You may have noticed my essay on Jeremy Corbyn; alas such political matters occupy me deeply, but they are nevertheless not the main scope of this blog. Instead, I shall concern myself with an issue more pertinent: my upcoming novel, the Ark, and the strange and difficult matter that inevitably troubles writers of romance. I am, of course, talking about sex.

What Did You Say?

This very attitude is deeply illustrative of the problems that many writers face, whenever the matter crops up; indeed prudishness is not only an issue that may trouble readers—but more often than not, it troubles the writers themselves.

The Anglophone world has a very paradoxical relationship with sex: we seem, at once, unable to speak of it and yet able to speak only of it. We are bombarded with sex implicitly, and less often explicitly. We see rather more brazen references in fashion advertising:

And yet sex is frequently employed in more subtle fashions. Many magazine covers feature attractive people—and not only attractive in the purest aesthetical sense, but also dressed and posed in ways that are implicitly sexual.

Here, the woman’s dress is cut at the shoulders; and this is very deliberate. Such an expression, in women if not men, is flirtatious. Equally important is the significant amount of make-up and editing that has gone into the photo.

To some degree, this is understandable: the magazine is concerned with fashion and appearance; it would only make sense to show someone who does it right, under the guidance of professionals. However, there is nevertheless a distinctly sexual element to it—the shoulders are the giveaway.

A great deal more can be and has been said on fashion advertising; however, this is beside the point. My point is that we live in a society where sex is hinted at—explicitly or subtly—in everyday life. And yet, how many images of naked men or women do you see? Nudity is exceedingly rare (the Sun’s Page 3 isn’t on the front page, and even so is subject to criticism) while sex is never shown outside of the insides of a porn magazine.

This strange relationship, one could say, is not especially conductive for the business of a writer.

But even leaving aside prudishness, sex in a book is a proposition that has distinct literary merits—and problems.

Literary Deliberations and Other Strange Musings

The latest chapter in the Ark—which you shall see when the time is right—has finally breached the subject of a serious romance, between Conall and Casey. They have kissed. But they have not had sex.

Why? On purely literary terms: sex is serious business. In one sense, there must be a crucial sense of character and relationship—or, in other words: they must be in love. Such ideas may seem arcane; a paragon from another age. And yet, it isn’t. Emotional connection is what gives literary romance its power. Sex for the sake of it means nothing; for no matter your capabilities as a writer—and some writers are indeed remarkably able at describing sex—there is, at the end of the day, a problem.

Books are not films. They have power in subtlety; in describing a character with the slightest of gestures—a flash of green eye, a voice that seems to steal into your heart. But they will never compete at trying to be more explicit than film. To put it quite bluntly: seeing fucking on camera is always going to be more visually elucidating than reading about it. Such is the nature of our medium.

But there’s more to it than simply the medium. In truth, a novel deals with matters of emotion; of fire in the heart, rather than in the groin. To give your characters true emotional connection is to breathe them life. To give them perfection, or Twilightesque beauty? That would be mere indulgence.

So: there you go. Conall and Casey are not ready for the bed just yet; but maybe they are ready for that first kiss. For that ember, that starts the blaze…

Poem: The Lady and the Dragon

The interlude has been long. A week ago, I wrote on the Ark; there I discussed the direction of the plot, matters of writing, and other such literary deliberations. I also presented a new chapter, the last to be made public before the date of publication.

Alas, I have done little in the way of the Ark hence. The cause may be attributed to a case of the flu—an unpleasant virus it is, easily capable of sapping energy from even the most lively of souls.

But another cause lies with the topic of this particular post. I have completed an epic poem entitled the Lady and the Dragon; and I do not speak of it as an ‘epic’ lightly. It is over two thousand words and nearly five hundred stanzas in length; it is, to put it simply, pretty damn big.

Why, you ask? To answer that particular question, one need look at what this poem actually is: a story. A fairytale, even. It describes the journey of the Lady Stella, and her faithful companion, Orem the Dragon. It is in many ways the archetypal novel: an antagonist—or rather, a multitude of them: the Golden Prince and the Keeper being the most notable—contrives to wreak some evil, or are presently in some state of evil. The protagonists attempt to survive, but also to truimph.

For the Lady Stella and the Dragon Orm do indeed truimph. At no small cost to themselves, alas—such is the workings of any good tale—but triumph they do.

Before I present my analysis—why not take a look?

Read the Lady and the Dragon

Analysis

Here I shall refrain from providing an in-depth analysis; for to do so would require many words, and more time than I’ve permitted—curse this illness of mine. Instead, I will draw attention to (and provide clarification for) the most pertinent aspects of this work.

Chiefly among these is the evident metaphorical aspect to this fairytale. The Lady Stella is a woman, and a kind, tenacious one at that; but she is also a symbol of the oppressed. And who would be the oppressor, you ask? Well: that would be not the Dragon (hardly; and it would be terribly cliché) but the Golden Prince.

He—along with the real mastermind behind the plan, the Keeper—represents the patriarchy. The latter is not some crash caricature invented by certain contemporary self-proclaimed feminists (who indeed are professional offence-takers, not fighters for freedom) but rather: it is the truth. Behind it, there lies a callous king; a desire for power and sex, no matter how it be given; and most of all: an enduring disregard for human life and human suffering.

The patriarchy has subtler, more insidious forms too. Take one such:

‘You are no man, but a shadow;
‘A creature of ghastly evils done
‘Of dark words said by men to boys
‘And evil to good.’

Now, this being a mere poem, it does not concern itself with analysing the many and varied forms of patriarchy, the causes, the expression, et cetera et cetera. No: this poem serves merely to give an insight. Patriarchy can be insidious; it can embed itself deep into the minds of children (male and female alike) in a manner not dissimilar to a genetic disease.

There are other metaphorical plays; indeed it may be argued that the poem itself is actually one giant metaphor. In the beginning, Stella is imprisoned within a castle:

Forged of men’s cruel intent
Built of crude granite; its windows barred
Its walls high, and its gate impenetrable,
The castle secures the Rebellious One
Oh so very well.

The castle may best be surmised with the words: ‘Know thy place.’ If you are imprisoned within its confines, you are in effect trapped from interacting meaningfully with the world; from political discourse, ownership of the means of production, and from any meaningful kind of self-agency. Yes, Stella has some limited control over her body in her choice of fashion, for example; but being imprisoned, she is unable to, say, ride a horse.

The topic most pertinent, however, is not the castle but the Dragon. Who is he? We learn that his name is Orem, and that he once betrayed the Ways:

I am Orem, the Great Dragon;
‘I betrayed those evil Ways
‘And neither Keeper, nor King
‘Nor the many men of savage armies
‘Could break my vigil.
‘I cannot control, but I cannot be defeated.’

Beyond this, I shan’t say too much. He is certainly loyal to Stella—even as a dragon, free to roam the world, and immune from near all human depredation, he yet holds fast. He protects her from many a dark scheme and insidious plot, despite having no such obligation. On a personal level, he is a hero; a man willing to stand in her defence, no matter the cost.

On another level, he is perhaps indicative of some societal force. Not all men are power hungry patriarchs; and though many may be deceived by the patriarchies’ lies and corrupting words, few willingly choose to subvert women for personal gain or sheer sadistry. Orem may be that man who treats his wife well, despite whatever others may think or do; Orem is he who stands for the defence of the innocent, no matter the price.

Let us conclude by addressing one more important thing: their success. Somehow, Stella and Orem do defeat the Keeper and his acolytes. How? The cause is two-fold. Firstly, Stella fights. At times, her fight may seem futile; but it is her defiance that ultimately destroys the Keeper’s insidious powers.

And it is also Orem, the Dragon, that kills these purveyors of evil. Take from that what you will.

Musings on the Ark

Not too long ago, I promised more news of the Ark. Today I can fulfill that promise; I have indeed news of the Ark, including an extra chapter, and details on the direction of the plot—as well as more general comments on writing, characterisation, and so forth.

The Ark

First off: take a look! I have now written four chapters and a prologue; these can be read right here. Beyond this, I will publish no more; instead I will keep you up to date and interested with other endeavours. Up on the list is more poetry, along with a few more essays on literary matters—characterisation will be one such.

But back to the matter at hand.

In terms of plot, I am currently writing part one—entitled Love. This, as you may be able to guess, will focus primarily on character development and backstory. I am elucidating on Conall’s personality; on Casey’s too, with both being painted alike but different. Conall is a studious sort, but not averse to rebellion—to living free in the pursuit of happiness, as teenagers are wont to do. He is eloquent, yet blunt; and he is attractive, but not vain.

Casey too is at least intellectually minded, if perhaps not nearly so studious. Both find interest in poetry, and in the technical aspects of existence; and yet both are willing to joke, to find release... to be teenagers.

There are differences too. Conall still has his parents, whereas Casey must live in the care of a strange, dotting uncle. These differences may seem trivial, but they are not. The loss of two parents is no easy burden to bear, for one so young.

For all these details, however, one thing must not be forgotten: they are but mere details. Part one has to do more than be a primer. It must excite, it must capture the imagination; it must be, to put it in simple terms, an Alex Stargazer novel.

On matters of plot I shall speak little. But rest assured that though the beginning may be... gentle, in its impetus, it is not a mark of the book as a whole. For in the Ark there will be pain, and loss; there will be love, too—and not the love of newly awoken teenagers, but a love tempered in fire.

And if there be life, so there be death. No tale is complete without it, in truth.

But until then, the beginning shall suffice in elucidating on the strange, complicated word of the Ark. Read it to learn of phosphorescent grass that glows bright green in the night; read it to learn of strange new technologies, of powerful computers and cars of the future. And most of all: read it for the beginnings of a great romance.

To Finish

This post is number 100 in this blog. It is part of many more pages, essays, and the great unfathomable effort behind this behemoth.

This is a blog that has been accessed ten thousand times, since its inception months ago. Like the Ark, it is the product of great labour, and great energy spent in creating its analogies; it insights; and its strange stories born of words and desires. Like the Ark, it has taken months to build—and months it will take, to even reach 100,000 hits.

But like so many good things, it will not come cheap. Nor will the Ark. I do not hope to circumvent the path set out by Fate, or its emissary—necessity. What I do hope? That the Ark can reach the success it so rightly deserves.

Is this foolish? Perhaps. I have yet much to do, many more journeys to take. In a sense, I am much like Conall and Casey: I’ve gotten this far, but there is so much more yet to see...

Until then, may the stars be with you. And do keep an eye out on this blog of mine—there may yet be another addition to my thirty poems.

On FPTP

Hail readers! My previous post on the Refugee Crisis may have been overly political for my literary-inclined followers; but rest assured that literary content is indeed on the table. Though I am kept occupied by school—with its homework, exams, and hard decisions—I have completed more of the Ark. Thus, I will soon release a post outlining the progress of the Ark; along with, naturally, a selection of quotes and introspection with regards to what direction the Ark will take.

Currently, it is yet in the early stages of inchoate love. But of course, the Ark is more than just a love story. It is a tale of a fight against all odds; of finding purpose and the will to live in a strange, fantastical new world.

But until then, I am releasing my article on the First Past the Post voting system. Initially, I hoped that OpenDemocracy—a small online magazine specialising in politics, human rights and foreign affairs—would be kind enough to publish it. Alas, they have not replied to my submission. So: why not take a look, and judge for yourself?

---

FPTP is unrepresentative and obsolete. But few have proposed convincing alternatives; and fewer still are willing to challenge the status quo.

Attribution: Wikimedia foundation.

The General Election should have been a wake up call. British politics has finally become pluralistic; as, indeed, many European nations already are.

But somehow, it wasn’t. The Tories are happy to continue with the dreaded First Past the Post, having been gifted with a majority—tenuous as it is—now and for much of their history; while Labour is too concerned with its leadership election, and deciding what it really stands for, to campaign. (This is assuming the Labour Party even wants to change the system, which many in the PLP don’t.)

It is the sad irony that underlies FPTP: the victor, even if possessed of good intentions, is given every incentive not to change the system. And it is the victors—and in the case of FPTP, only the victor—who can change the status quo.

The Lib Dems have been campaigning against FPTP for years; and for years, their efforts have been in vain. The Greens have no meaningful power with which to amerlioate their situation. Ditto UKIP, which won 13% of the votes but only achieved 0.2% representation in Parliament.

Such a system can no longer be considered just. In the days of old, when there was only Labour or the Tories (or the Liberals, back when they were a political force) FPTP might have been considered fair—or at least, necessary. Even then, there were always internal conflicts between different ideological factions: Atlee had the Bevanites, Major his Bastards.

But with divisions now increasingly clear—as shown by Cameron over Europe, and most strikingly in the Labour leadership contest, with Kendall and Corbyn being quite different animals—it is increasingly clear that FPTP is a dinosaur.

The question, then, is what to replace it with?

The Hybrids and the Bastards

Aside from a simple proportional representation system—where MPs are elected to Parliament on the basis of party votes, and their position on “party lists”—there are two proposed alternatives. One such is the Single Transferable Vote.

STV, in short, is a system whereby voters indicate their preferred choice of candidates in a constituency—e.g. I can nominate my local Labour candidate 1st, the Green candidate 2nd, and so on—and the second preferences of losers are distributed once they are deselected. For example: if Liz Kendall comes last in the contest, her voter’s second preferences will go mainly to Yvette Cooper, with a few ending up for Andy Burnham.

This system generally works for internal party elections, corporate board votes, and the like: the most favoured candidate is usually selected, and the system is well equipped for dealing with voters divided between broadly similar options.

STV can also help ameliorate instances where voters live in marginal seats between, say, Labour and the Tories: they may choose to vote Green, or Lib Dem, but can gift second preferences to Labour, for example.

But STV was rejected in a referendum, and for good reason: it still produces unrepresentative and often unexpected results, with tactical voting and gerrymandering playing a significant role

The other alternative is the Additional Member System—as used to elect members to the Scottish Parliament, and (in modified form) to the German Bundestag.

In this, voters get two votes: one for their constituency, the other for a proportionally represented region. Essentially, AMS is a hybrid. It works to allow voting for both party and individual candidate; but it is only semi-proportional—the Greens and UKIP, for example, would still end up with only half the MPs their votes would have given them under PR.

AMS is as much a damning indictment of FPTP as anything: the results produced under FPTP are so disproportionate, so out of touch with the voter’s intent, that even a hybrid system still produces highly irregular outcomes.

In the case of the German Bundestag, “hanging seats” are used to ensure proportionality: if the Greens, for example, won 8% of the popular vote but only 1% of the seats, the system permits them to elect additional MPs from their regional party lists. Thus, proportionality is ensured.

There’s just one problem. Two, in fact. Firstly, the House of Commons already has well over 600 MPs—is it practical to add 100 hanging seats on top of that, resulting in a house that has close to 800 MPs?

Secondly—and more importantly—the system effectively leads to toxic power struggles within parties: in smaller parties, it is advantageous for members to gain a place on the regional lists. This can lead to all manner of backstabbing and gerrymandering; and it also means that candidates with good track records have little chance of getting into Parliament if the party elite doesn’t like them.

In the case of larger parties, the opposite holds true: members will want nominations to seats—especially safe seats—and few will desire being on the regional lists.

There are proposed workarounds. In some systems, members can stand for both regional lists and constituencies; but while this can be helpful, it poses various complexities and difficulties.

But let me be clear: party politics is an issue that affects any kind of voting system. Whether it be party lists, or preferred candidates being “parachuted in” to safe seats (as occurred with Shawn Woodward, the Tory defector, under Blair’s primeministership)—either way, it is an issue that needs to be resolved by parties, not by voters.

A Question of Proportionality

The final alternative is pure proportional representation: if you have votes, you are given seats. Who gets to go to Parliament is decided by the party list.

This system has been denounced by the Tories for being subject to “party favouritism”—including by my very own Tory MP, Nadhim Zahawi, who was himself chosen by the Party to represent a safe seat! But more legitimate criticisms have been posed, and the most pressing of these concerns stable governments.

Critics argue that PR leads to unstable minority governments, or to fragile coalitions; but this argument doesn’t wash, for two reasons. Firstly, countries in which PR is implemented—examples include Austria, Denmark and many more—do in fact have relatively stable governments. Rarely was Helen Thornen Schmidt, the former Social Democratic PM for Denmark, bound by her hands when discussing on behalf of the nation (to quote John Major). This is despite having been in a coalition in which her party made up half the MPs; the reminder belonging to an eclectic alliance of People’s Socialists, Red-Greens, and Liberals.

Secondly, is not it true that FPTP produces these so-called “stable governments”. British parties are coalitions—one need only look at Corbyn and Kendall, or at Cameron and IDS, to realise this. But not only does FPTP give the illusion of stable government; it is in fact less stable than the governments produced by PR.

In a PR system, a coalition is subject to formal coalition pacts; to non-binding confidence and supply agreements; and to clearly defined positions on issues, held visibly by different parties. This arrangement is much more stable than that found in a “broad church” party, whereby each wing serves to denounce the other (as Labour is experiencing now) or to reach compromises that neither please the party nor convince the electorate (case in point: Miliband).

Fearing the Little Guy

The final complaint levelled against PR is, ironically, is that it doesn’t block small parties from gaining representation. This is only partially true: countries like Germany, for example, have 5% limits on gaining any seats in the Bundestag (parties with votes below the threshold are excluded and the composition of the Bundestag reflects that).

This is helpful in keeping out, say, the BNP; but what about the elephant in the room: UKIP?

Tony Blair raised this very concern, and even went as far as to suggest that smaller parties generally hold excessive power by virtue of deciding the majority.

But there are problems with this. Firstly, small parties will never be in government on their own; and if you’re not in government, there is little you can do. Labour knows this the hard way. It is therefore imperative that small parties attempt to gain favourable standing with larger parties; but doing so requires making compromises. In short: a small party cannot hold a large party to ransom, because to do so means being irrelevant.

Smaller parties are also often ideologically left-leaning or right-leaning; the Danish Red-Greens will never go into coalition with the Danish far right, for example.

But Blair is right to ask questions over what a Tory–UKIP coalition would look like. A match made in Hell, some would say; and a very fragile one at that, seeing as to their considerable differences over Europe, gay marriage, and more besides.

It is however worth mentioning that the vote share under FPTP is likely going to be different to that gained under PR. Many Tory voters will vote UKIP; and many Labour voters will vote Green. But let’s not exaggerate: the Tories and Labour will still be the two biggest parties in Parliament.

The challenge may be a more unexpected one. UKIP, at the end of the day, is a minority party. But the differences between Corbyn and Kendall are real, while the difference between Kendall and Cameron is not that great. It may be the case that the entire party landscape will be fundamentally altered: the Blairites will join the Cameroonians (and the Cleggites), to form the Market Party; UKIP will remain UKIP, but IDS will find himself at home; while many Greens and what remains of the Lib Dems will defect to Labour, perhaps to form the Liberal Green Socialists, or something of the sort.

Such speculation aside, one thing is clear: it is in the interests of democracy, and that of the country, for FPTP to be scrapped. At this stage, anything would be better.

And to assuage the nervous socialists among you: if you want to keep out the far right, look to Austria. Despite two far right parties collectively gaining over 20% of the vote, moderates among Social Democrats and Conservatives set aside their differences and formed a coalition.

Conclusion

Whatever system will replace FPTP, there will be challenges. The establishment—among the Tories, but even within Labour—will not take kindly to having their hegemony disappear behind a flurry of compromises and coalitions. There will be doubters, among left and right. But Britain must challenge this political inertia. The future of meaningful, working democracy rests on it to do so.

Poem: The Darklands (Fallen Saga #6)

‘Alex!’ you say; ‘have you not promised us poetry, so long ago? Instead you give us the Machinations of a Writer!’

And you would be correct. But allow me to rectify this: in addition to my musings on the Ark, I am now armed with with a new addition to the increasingly substantial Fallen Saga—entitled, fittingly enough, the Darklands.

In many ways it is a simpler work than its predecessors: it does not concern itself so much with the mythopoeia behind poetry (and this particular concoction)—aside from a few passing references to the Elysian Fields—but instead with carrying forward the ‘plot’. I say plot, though of course a poetic saga like this is more a loosely interconnected series of narratives.

Such technicalities aside, the Darklands is at its heart a poem of darkness (it is not named in vain) concerning the plight of the underworld’s denizens. They are a doomed bunch. Many were struck down by God’s fickle wraith, or were condemned for minor acts of wickedness and sedition; others still are there because they were previously heroic, but are nevertheless... dead.

Before I continue, it is advisable to actually read the damn poem...

Read the Darklands

There are some intriguing portrayals within this. The Elysian Fields, though a place chosen for heroes and demigods, is nonetheless described:

Among the grey depths
Of Death’s cruel domain

It is strange, then, that even the favourites of the Fickle One are sent to spend eternity in a rather... unpleasant sort of place. One wonders what becomes of those sent to Hades—or to Hell. And what surprise, then, to see them rebel:

Their eyes blue—like the coldest Northern ice—their eyes
Black, like age-old malice; the Dead
Cry their final battle scream,
And call Lucifer
Their prophet.

But the Darklands most important contribution is in its message. Lucifer summons the Dead to his cause not only for the benefit of himself and his protégées, but also for the benefit of humans: for our benefit, in other words. The greatest of all rebellions must include all of God’s most fabulous creations; in that lies true rebellion.

‘But Alex! Our question is a simple one: why?’

To answer that, this stanza need be adduced:

‘You believe in Justice,’ says Merthiol.
‘Aye,’ says Lucifer. ‘For Justice
‘They rise. For all those struck as babes by vicious plague;
‘For all the virtuous ignored, for all the wicked harshly condemned.
‘They rise for the Justice of their kind, as we for ours.’

This poem’s parting words need no explanation. Lucifer, though possessed of selfish intentions and grand machinations, has good at heart. Even Merthiol is compelled to agree...

The Ark: A Second Interview

Hail readers!

If my previous collaboration post on Socialism failed to capture your attention—’tis not my usual contribution to the Magical Realm, I admit—or if it merely irritated you, fear not: for today, I have updates on the Ark.

Chiefly among these is another interview—following on from the one conducted on our other main character, Conall Danann—which once again features the Guardian. This time, It concerns itself with asking our darling protagonist pressing personal questions on, for example, his fascination with technology.

Additionally, it also serves to bring in a few tentative details of the Ark: the shortage of leather, for example, is one such detail. There are numerous others.

With the second interview complete, the first stage of planning is over. Expect to see the prologue soon; along with, in due time, the first chapter. As mentioned previously, all posts concerning the Ark will be titled with the prefix. I will post parts of the Ark, in future, along with various analyses and personal insights.

Until then—here is the interview with Casey Kearney. If you wish to comment, do so. The Ark is as yet inchoate, and feedback is much appreciated...

An Interview with Casey Kearney

How remarkable, I think, as I examine these queer technological creations. There are a multitude of them: I can see microprocessors—new graphene and old silicone present among them—along with RAM sticks, GPUs (bright red and verdant green among the motifs), and many more computer innards besides.

I have always been amazed at humanity’s ability to invent; to create wonderful designs of creativity and ingenuity. Despite their inherent physical weakness, their impotence in the face of awesome divine power, humans have always possessed one thing the Gods do not: genius.

‘Impressed?’ he asks. ‘I’m Casey, by the way. I would ask who you are, but I’m more interested in how the hell you got here. What are you doing back here, anyway? The store is at the front.’

‘Call it idle curiosity,’ I say, as I examine him. He is broad, tall, and blond. His eyes glimmer softly, alive with the depths of a blue sea. He is dressed simply—jeans, the quintessential white shirt—and yet appears curiously elegant, in a manner quite unlike that of the ordinary teenager.

‘Well, sorry to burst your bubble—whoever the fuck you are—but idle curiosity won’t fly by my uncle. He’ll feed you to the vultures if he finds you squirming through his stuff.’

‘A pity,’ I remark, ‘since these, if my intuition serves me, constitute your stuff. And alas, the vultures have long since forsaken me; death is not a choice bequeathed to those such as I.’

‘Huh. I guess you’re right. What was your name again?’

I smile, entertaining possibilities. ‘I am the Guardian; but ask no more.’

‘Why?’

‘You are not ready for the answers, even if you were to truly understand them. Now, instead—tell me this: why is it that you retain these technological paraphernalia of yours? Many, I see, are obsolete; and of the more modern specimens, none form a coherent whole.’

‘Call it a hobby. I collect old computer parts; I enjoy turning them into computers of the past, or even simply trying to make them work.’

‘A noble quest,’ I opine; ‘but what is it, fundamentally, that so draws you to them? Why do you embroil yourself so; and why do you entertain yourself with technology, as opposed to, say, poetry—or the other, more hedonistic aspects of your existence?’

‘You mean, why aren’t I fucking girls out in the big wide world?’

I can but laugh, amused at his indecorum. ‘Though I know it is not women that draw your fancy, yes: in essence, that is the question.’

‘Aside from not liking girls—I mean, what is it about tits? I never understood it—I’m not screwing every hot guy that passes me by because, well, tech fascinates me. We—humans, I mean—have developed these amazing inventions, based on nothing but looking at the world, developing hypotheses, testing them... basically: common sense. And through years of hard work, passion, and brains, we can send people into space; talk across the other side of the world; and have tiny little chips that do, like, billions of calculations per second. It’s amazing.’

‘Your creations are no doubt remarkable, considering the limitations brought to you. But even so I wonder: is there a personal element to this? Are you so fascinated by computers because of... something about them—something that calls to your analytical mind, your questioning thoughts, your fascination of the world?’

He takes rest on a nearby chair; I content myself with hovering above, lounging as if dispassionate at his amazement.

‘How do you do that?’

‘What? This parlour trick?’ I exclaim, as if surprised. ‘For one such as I, gravity is but a mere construct of a supreme imagination.’

‘Is that code for “I have this, like, really awesome antigravity machine; and fuck it, but I’m not telling you a damn thing about it?”’

My mouth pulls itself into a wry smile. ‘If by “awesome antigravity machine” you really mean to say “being master of the universe,” then yes; I do harbour secrets.’

‘Anyway...’ he interjects, as if suddenly remembering my former question. ‘About that. You’re right; there is a personal element to it. I’m fascinated by the interconnectivity of it all, for one,’ he elaborates, moving to one partially completed unit. ‘I’m fascinated by the fact that the motherboard recognises the processor; that the processor that communicate with the board to relay a variety of functions, such as sound; and that, somehow, when I plug-in the RAM, the PSU, the monitor, everything... it all lights up. It’s like magic.’

He begins connecting cables, tightening screws, and plugs in the power source. ‘Then—bingo! It all lights up.’

As if one cue, the BIOS screen flashes. I place my hand on the contraption; suddenly, blue zeroes flash. I don’t need physical contact in order to perform this, of course, though it does add to the drama.

‘Whoa.’

‘Indeed,’ I confirm. I change the scene to show parts of the universe: stars collapsing; supernovae alight; nebulae, resplendent in their multihued magnificence, birthing new solar systems and galaxies.

‘That’s some trick,’ he exclaims, awed. I wonder if he has finally figured out that my powers do not stem from mere technological fancy. I suspect he did so the moment he saw me levitate; but he indulges in the charade, not yet keen to change conceptions about reality. (I would search his mind for my answers, but they can wait. Besides: it would be most impolite.)

‘But onto more important matters,’ I say, allowing the computer to boot normally.

‘Such as?’ he enquires unabashedly.

‘Questions about yourself,’ I elaborate, helping myself to one perfectly ordinary seat. It is fashioned from a synthetic leather (real leather being much too expensive these days), and designed in the minimalist fashion of former years. It is surprisingly comfortable, regardless.

‘Explain.’

‘What would you do if...’ I continue, tasting possibilities, ‘... you had to survive this Earth? What would you do if you—let’s not tread softly here—wanted to get on that ship?’

‘You ask difficult questions.’

‘So I am told.’

‘Well, let’s start with the worst, then. I would never get myself on that blasted ship if it involved foul play; if, according to my actions, I would hurt those more deserving than me. I am consigned to my fate, whatever it may be. And as for surviving, well—humans got this far, didn’t they? We survived ice ages, the plague, even managed not to fucking nuke ourselves all these years. What’s a few droughts gonna do?’

I smile, considering his words. ‘Noble thoughts indeed. But what if failure meant more than just survival, more than just escape from a difficult world; what if it meant abandoning the one whom you hold most dear?’

‘Love? This isn’t fucking Romeo and Juliet, Dr G,’ he responds, eyes questioning his nickname. I smile in amusement. ‘I will find new love, new possibilities—be they here or on that sanctimonious Ark.’

‘Very well,’ I concede; ‘think what you may. You have never experienced love; never felt your lover’s caressing hands, their soft kiss of life. But, as I so often say: time will tell. Until then, best of luck to you, Casey Kearney.’

‘How did you know my surname? You must have looked it up,’ he adds, though he is evidently uncertain as to how I might have done so.

‘Just as I must use that door to get out? Just as I cannot walk through that wall?’ I probe.

‘Nobody can walk through walls, Dr G.’

I laugh. His eyes are still wide long after I have passed through that wall. What fun he will be, I muse. And what majesty the world will see! Consigned to his fate, indeed...