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 End of an Era

If you’ve been following my various musings on this blog, you may be wondering: what happened to the Poem of the Week? Is he back from his trip yet—or has something eaten him?

Well, I am not writing this in the stomach of some creature, rest assured; and I am back, too.

The Poem of the Week will restart itself after the Necromancer has been published. Don’t get me wrong: I enjoy writing it, and I have no intention to stop altogether; but I have other priorities now. I should begin working with my cover artist from tomorrow. I have a publication date planned—though I won’t be revealing that just yet. And honestly? I need to publish everything, and begin working on something new.

I am a writer of novels before one of poetry. I feel... so much more alive and empowered when writing a book than a poem. I won’t deny the commercial allure—I’m not rich—but writing novels is just more fun and ultimately more satisfying.

That said, I have written two of my finer works while on my retreat. Those, however, I will try to get into higher visibility places. One in particular would be of interest to the likes of Stonewall, though the other may please a great many atheists...

But back to the point. The Poem of the Week won’t come until after the Necromancer’s publication date. I am working with a cover designer; I have planned a date; and most of all: I need to build up some buzz.

That is of incalculable importance. The Sandman has taught me that. It is so important, in fact, that I am not going to be publishing any essays or theoretical works until that date.

You can still, of course, read the poems that I’ve written thus far—there are ten of greater interest, and five more minor ones too—and go through past work using this blog’s archive utility.

This is not to say that I will not be writing anything at all on this blog. I am merely prioritising other venues (for I have decided this venue too crowded to try and gain attention at present).

I will be writing about me. This novel has practically changed my life—in scope and direction certainly, and perhaps even in wealth too (one can only hope). It has altered me as a person. I was a very rational creature before; I saw things too much in terms of goals and logic.

Now I see the subtler things in life. The things that can be, the fullfilment of living the life you desire; and all the small, emotional aspects of this existence. To put it short: I have realised that much of our life does not revolve upon objectivity and logic. We are more than that.

I do not believe my personal tales will garner this blog great attention—but that’s okay, because it means something to me. And I do have other ideas, as I’ve hinted.

When—hopefully when—readers start coming here (and I have taken great pains to tempt them) I will start releasing material pertinent to the Necromancer. Trivia; cuts; previous drafts. Indeed, I have written an entire short history on Arachadia, which I may expand further. So: do stick around—I have no intention of remaining unheard.

But now: to the title of this post.

The Necromancer: The End of an Era, and the Herald of a New Age

Think of me—at fourteen, on a grey October day—and understand my thoughts: I want to write a book. I have been a bookworm since I was five, and books became my life from age eight.

Some history is in order, is it not?

At age five I moved from Romania to England. I had been taught English... but not nearly enough. I struggled—at least for the first year. I was a difficult child. My teacher was... less than congenial. And honestly? I don’t think I would have liked myself then. I was spoiled, in many ways unpleasant, and very, very ignorant. Not stupid—I recall finding a colleague’s inability to correctly write ‘8’ immensely amusing—but ignorant.

Being in what was then a foreign country shook me a little. A lot, even. I had learned of a more difficult reality—and eventually I was forced to accept that, improve myself, and become a better person.

At first, books were a way to learn English. That proved extremely helpful, which instilled in me a great respect for them.

At eight I moved to Holland.

Again a foreign country; and though I now knew English quite well—most of the Dutch speak it, in case you didn’t know—life was difficult all the same. At first I couldn’t participate in the Dutch lessons; and those constituted half the day.

Commence the library. I lost myself there. I read books in a quantity that was really... awe-inspiring, for someone my age. I think I must have gone through 200 books—most of them non-fiction. For an eight year-old, I was the apogee of erudiation.

But more than the facts and the acumen and inalienable logic—books inculcated a wonder in the world. So much I did not know; and so much I wanted to know.

I experienced a personality change too. I was somewhat spoiled, proud and even a little vindictive before. I am still a little spoiled, proud and slightly vindictive—but I am also much more kind. That’s the crux of it all, at the end of the day. Children can be cruel. I said no. I had experienced some of that cruelty firsthand—you get that, being unable to speak a language at such an early age—and most importantly: I had seen its effect on the world.

And yet despite my new self, I still did not know the power of a story. I wouldn’t until two years later—once I’d spent my final year of primary school in England, and entered Secondary.

The Love of that Other World

I read 123 books in year 7—a yearly amount that surpassed even that of Holland. Most of those were fiction.

I believe my most impressive completion time for a book had been picking it up one morning and finishing it in the other. It was about 400 pages. A year later, I would beat that—I read a 500 page book within a day.

My most beloved book was Philip Pullman’s Northern Lights. To this day, I still think it the best book I’ve ever read (though Narnia did come awfully close).

I had come to love the other world in which books talked of. My life was terribly troublesome—I had some detentions, problems at home, financial concerns—but in that world I saw a better future. A place far more exciting; a place of wonder, and magic. I had reached the peak of escapism—and boy it changed me.

Tales grew in my mind. They were the most detailed, elaborate fantasies: animal kingdoms, magicians, worlds of myth and magic; and even a certain being of powers infinite, whom I identified with. I have given it a name. I shall not speak of it now; but know that I have been keeping its tale within me for a very long time. I shall write it, eventually. Right now I have less challenging and (almost) equally interesting ones to tell.

Basically: by age ten I was a dreamer.

At fourteen I started to become an artist. A writer.

Writing the Necromancer

My first draft was terrible. You’ll get to see it, after the Necromancer is published.

Why, do you ask? Well, the answer is simple: I was totally unprepared. My teachers had taught me only the most basic of writing techniques; but worse was the fact that I did not know all the rules of punctuation, dialogue, paragraphing, etc.

I didn’t really plan it, either; a grave mistake. And I was a writer inchoate. I hadn’t truly discovered myself, my talent needed experience to grow; and I found it difficult, having not been enured in the difficulties of book writing.

But I didn’t stop.

Don’t get the wrong idea: I thought of doing it. I wondered how and if I would ever finish it. But I didn’t want to stop. I could no longer contain the ideas that bounced around my head—could not deny that itch in my fingers. Honestly, I had to do something about it.

To get an idea of what I’m talking about, imagine this: me, the sunless sky above; and me, not seeing the cars, the houses, or the people. Not hearing. Not knowing. Alone in my own world.

Somedays, I’m still like that.

In retrospect, I wouldn’t have written a full size novel. I would have created a novella: that would have been a more manageable endeavour, and still rather satisfying. (Especially compared to just writing poems.) And I would have planned it: that makes things so much easier, you know?

At the end of the day, though, it doesn’t matter. I wrote it. And I began to feel myself... growing.

I’m not certain exactly where in the book it became not a struggle, but a natural extension of my consciousness. My writing started to improve noticeably by about chapter twenty, but especially in chapter twenty one—an ironically minor one.

But it was not until chapter twenty nine— nearly three quarters of the way through—that the worlds really started to flow. The relationship between the mage whose life was upside down, and between the elf whose life was to be changed irrevocably... something about that really harmonised together.

The setting helped too. I’ve always been captured by two things: mountains, and forests. The Elven Forest has both. I had always wondered of the elves, too: of the beings unique, in tandem with nature; possessed by the allure of magic, and so different from us... yet so similar.

Not that I was in any way a master of my talent. I still aren’t... at least for now. Maybe I never will, for it is a gift fickle and mysterious and impervious to my acumen.

But I could write stuff people wanted to read.

I wonder if I should have stopped there, and wrote something else instead. The Necromancer was to prove a huge amount of work—and I knew that, deep down, though it took a while to accept. Maybe I was just too enamoured by my first work. It doesn’t matter, anyway.

What matters is that I rewrite most of it, and used my skills—which were improving by the day, having started writing poetry and seeing the extent of my competition—to better it. I dreamed, once more; and this time of the possibilities. I was imbued with a determination, and fire.

I still am.

The End of an Era

I am no longer a child. I have gained ambition that I never had.

It isn’t all because of the Necromancer. I’ve matured, read more books, and experienced the feelings of adulthood. I know of people unpleasant—all must learn of them eventually—and I have started to see that a future other than writing would be both less oportune, and not able to satisfy my imagination.

By age eight, I became a being of that wonderful blessing. By age fourteen, I tried to make it real. At fifteen, I became ambitious. A being of fire.

I am now sixteen. I am more realistic. I know that this work probably won’t make me a best selller, or particularly well off.

But it has given me more than that. It has awoken my talent. It has given me a skill. It has promised a future.

And most of all, it has defined me. Knowledge was an aphrodisiac; logic a comfort; dreams a better existence.

This is my purpose.

Essay: The Essence of a Good Tale

PART I: The Forms of Art

I shall begin by saying that, although this will be an essay, it cannot really be called that; for it shall include elements of art, and—therefore—a more apt description would be ‘philosophical fiction’.

Such semantics aside, the purpose of this essay/tale/enter-what-you-think-is-right-here is not merely to ascertain the purpose of a good tale (contrary to its title); rather, it is to determine what art is, why it is important—and to make some (hopefully) humorous comments on all of it. Let us begin with an anecdote.

(Clearly, I am already committing a faux pas. Mea culpa.)

The Anecdote: Dutch Paintings

Recently, I was in the Netherlands. There, I had the pleasure of examining some of the works displayed in the Groninger Museum (named after the town I was in).

I saw some wonderful things there: abstract forms hinting of nightmare imaginations (ironically); capturings of strange, crazy artists; and landscapes—so many landscapes!

They were vast, awe-inspiring things; and they seemed filled with both the timelesness of nature, and the tenacity of the humans that lay upon them, and the very spirit of Holland: of the tiny, utterly flat country that yet seemed so imposing, and so full of the feats weaved by its inhabitants.

And yet—despite all of the myriad of colours, the range of expressions, and the intangibility of the forms—I felt there was something missing. I felt that it was somehow… incomplete.

One does not think such of paintings. After all: they are our most tangible sense—sight. We can easily tell that the man is decimated by a crushing sadness that pervades into every aspect of his world; and we can quite comfortably recognise the need for a rock in the children’s expression. Everything is clear. And yet so much is missing!

Paintings in Further Detail

Let me use another example: the smiling Dutchman. You can perhaps tell from the warm, brown eyes (bordering a shade of orange) and the strong, leathery hands, wizened by years of exposure; you can perhaps tell that his voice is powerful, and strong—and that he would move in confident, reassuring strides; and that, even, he would smell of freshly cut hay and angrily uprooted tulips and orange carrots.

But you would not really get all that. You wouldn’t get it straight from the artist’s imagination—that strange otherworld that seems to reveal itself only to a chosen few (and rarely then).

You would have to imagine all of these things yourself. Create them, if you like. To truly experience, a painting (or a drawing, or a pastel, or a photo)
requires that you fill in some of the blanks yourself.

In a way, this is a good thing: for the purpose of art—or better put, one of its purposes, for it has many—is to inspire its receiver. And art that requires this emotional and intellectual investment will invariably inspire you more—because it makes you think.

But writing—to take the personal example—does this too. The writer must never attempt to cover every possible minutiae of a scene. And writing can give you those other senses directly; those feelings of loss, and confusion, and fear—or the wonderful euphoria of falling in love.

Likewise, writing can make you feel the deadly caress of the assassin’s blade. It can make you smell death, and taste its bitter aroma. Writing can be everything.

But this comes with a cost.

Investment, Difficulty; Two Foes of an Artist

There is no question of the fact that a painting is immediate. You can instantly see the blackness of malice and the white of puerillity. And this means less work, for you as a viewer; and so a painting can be gazed at by so many more (for we all know that not many take the promise of a large, heavy book easily).

We can argue idealism all day. Why, you say, should a greater art form be confined to less? Heresy!

But this does not take into account the realities. (I shall refrain from discussing the relevance of said ‘realities’, for to do so would drive this off on a tangent.)

The best art is also experienced by the many. It is why a bestseller may be the better art than the niche tale, despite the fact that it uses less of the greater language and may employ some simplifications. While it is true that a more refined, upper-class work of literature may give those equipped to deal with it a greater short-term enjoyment (and inspiration), it does so at the cost of alienating many more.

Moreover, inspiration and enjoyment is also drawn by the reader when they are able to communicate (read: discuss) the work in question with others. Such a feat is much more difficult in the case of the latter. Furthermore, it will relegate such discussion to a small strata of people. There would be less variety, and less understanding.

Allow me to elucidate. Let us assume, briefly, that a story follows the life of the most quintessentially poor man in history. I shall say no more on this; for no more need be said.

A reader from more fortunate echelons may scoff and laugh; but the working woman—whose life revolves around the 9-to-5—would quite easily comprehend the true difficulty of the opprobrium faced by the poor, poor man.

But to go back to the point: writing requires greater Investment from the reader; and this isn’t a good thing.

What’s more, there is always the question of difficulty.

Oh no…

I have no doubt this topic has been debated before. To some of you, it has even been debated ad nauseam.

But perhaps the viewpoint of a writer and hobbyist pianist may be of interest to you.

Writing is hard. You will see this mentioned, but very few outside the literary circle really understand the scale of it.

Pay attention now. What does a writer do when they are writing? (This isn’t about what writing and other art is, though, mind you; but we’ll get to that.)

You cannot write if you do not have something to write about. Firstly, therefore, you must create.

And now understand this: you must create the kernel of the story first. (In much the same way one does for an operating system, to use a rather oblique IT analogy.) What is the plot? What is the premise of all of this? What makes you want to know more?

And who is involved? Why? What motivates these people; what do they cherish—and what terrifies them?

When you begin, you will start with a character and a scene. Thus begins the creation of sense 1: sight. You must describe the tower that your character is looking from, for example.

She lay in a tower—a terrible thing it was: embittering the clouds in envy; deterring any climber with its perfectly sculpted, gleaming bricks (of which no man had made); and imprisoning her.

You must describe her thoughts—and more.

Once, she had been angry; then an all-encompassing loneliness had made its den inside the confines of her mind; and then she had been sad, so sad. She could have made the tower cry, had it not been as lifeless as its master.

Now she was empty. Emptier than the damnable walls that so cruelly immured her.

A husk—but one with a purpose.

To kill the man who put her there.

You must describe touch, and smell, and even taste.

The floor underneath was hard, unyielding, and totally impenetrable. The air lay still; it seemed to mock her, she thought, with that stillness of it. There wasn’t much in the way of smell: rocks lacked that little human feature.

But she could definitely taste the power of the magic that bound her there. It was like drinking acid, bile and poison in one fatal gulp. (But it was not fatal; that would have been merciful.)

It was almost as bad as the taste of meaninglessness that was forever imbued in her mouth. She had no meaning now.

She was shattered.

And she would be the shard that could finally kill him. If only one thing went into place first: the birth of a mage foretold by a mad woman.

Yeah, it wasn’t much to bet on.

The final paragraph leads me to my next point: not only must you imagine all this, but you must transcribe it—you must give it form, through the medium of words, grammar, and punctuation. Indeed, not only is this aspect alone difficult (for children take years to master them to the point that they can produce something intelligible), but it is actually an art in and of its own.

And did I mention plot? Or direction? Or any of the numerous techniques that are employed (subconsciously, it seems to me) by writers in order to really take their prose into the next level?

I admit to not being able to paint or draw much. I can, however, create music. Making a song requires inspiration, technique, and a great deal of effort taken perfecting the song to the point that it becomes what it can be. (Hopefully.)

But song writing feels more raw, and turning it into a conglomerate of sounds is considerably easier for me than writing is. (And I am a much better writer than musician.) And of course, writing also necessitates some revision—quite a lot of it, often times.

Now you’re thinking: ‘Geez, Alex, but shouldn’t you be proud that you’re the toughest kid on the block?’

Well, if only it were that simple…

The Quality of Art

A lot of art isn’t very good. There, I said it. But it’s true: many ideas are never realised. Many books that could have been written, are not. Likewise many paintings go… unpainted, and many songs unsung.

Humans are fallible creatures, and we can’t always do an idea justice. Nor, indeed, are our ideas fit for the big, bad world.

Easy art is good. Easy art means an easier time for the artist (and artists go through much dolour in their quest to become who they are), and it means more art to go around. This is also good. Art brings to us inspiration, emotion and carries with it meaning—detail into which I shall be going into later on.

That said, a difficult art form can forever challenge and develop the burgeoning artist. It is why so many move from the pencil to the brush, and from the marimba to the piano to the violin. (Please appreciate that I am making some simplifications here for the purposes of illustration and brevity.)

Music…

I have thus far made little reference to this popular art form. Which is quite strange, considering my background.

This is because I think music to be a little… different, from other forms of art. Music is not something concrete, and easily tangible—it is, after all, based on a weaker sense. While all art is to some degree intangible (why does one particular shade of vermilion remind one of death, while the other reminds one of lazy days spent basking on the beach?) music is especially so.

This is not to say that being so is a bad thing, or a good thing. It is merely the way in which these artists express themselves.

The beauty in a less tangible art form is that it brings the most unique emotions and inspiration to each particular listener. This is also its curse. While a certain melody may remind one of vast arctic plateaus imbued with the light of the cold, white pearl that is the sun; for another it may remind them of alien electronica playing to the tune of dancing club-goers.

This aspect of music can also present Difficulty for the musician. The musician may be able to apply some of the principles that help music—rhythm, harmony, or even simple intuition—but the true nature of the song will always seem impervious to analysis.

And yet again, this confers an advantage: for if the subtleties and feelings, and meanings, of the song are conferred not through didactic telling—as plagues certain writers and storytellers—but through the true medium of the art itself, then the essence of the song shall be carried, specifics be damned.

Concluding Part I

I have made numerous comments on the forms of art, their difficulty; their weaknesses, and strengths—and on why this is so, and what this means for the art.

The perfect art form would require the smallest amount of Investment and Difficulty while producing the greatest amount of Utility, Emotion, and Inspiration. Clearly, this is impossible: Investment is usually a requirement for all of these three, and likewise Difficulty can enhance the artist themselves—again improving the desired qualities.

There are other concerns for the art forms, naturally: commercial success, let’s take. Once more, the idealistic may espouse the arts in lieu of any financial considerations; but the realities cannot be ignored.

It is possible—though difficult—to make a lot of money with a book or a song. For a painter, however, the tale is different: it is generally easier to gain attention for their work (this being particularly troublesome for writers, but posing problems to musicians also) but to become commercially successful is very much easier said than done.

The problem with much of the visual arts is that they typically pose high financial value only to an elite class of the wealthy—meaning that there is less money available for those artists as a whole, and that what money there is usually gets thrown on an even smaller artist elite.

This is not to say one should condemn said artists. It isn’t their fault, now is it?

No, what I hope this work will do to artists reading is to make them better aware of their strengths and weaknesses. It is a great strength to be able to make someone gasp with wonder at a brilliant painting; for the musician—and especially the writer—more time is required.

It is also a great strength to be able to give viewers a powerful view into your imagination, without requiring a great deal from them; again, this is not the case with writing.

But the power of a painting is so often ephemeral. One becomes used to the curves of the arches, and the strange hue of an insouciant sky; until, eventually, the painting becomes no more than a commodity—a crude fashion accessory.

Getting around this requires some creative business thought. I shall leave you to it, dear reader, if you are so inclined; for I have concerns of my own as a writer, and because only the artists themselves can truly empower themselves.

Also, this section is getting long. There is much to be discussed…

PART II: The Essence of Art

I am reminded of the phrase ars gratia artis. For those of you unacquainted, it means art for the sake of art. And that is part of my view: art is by its own merit a reward; a gain for the one fortunate enough to have completed it.

Of course, gain can mean anything at all. For a deeper understanding, I believe we should examine what art is—then its purpose shall become clear.

So: What is Art?

Is art the precisely engineered camera, capable of revealing the reality behind the world—as per the likes of Aristotle? Is art an illusion?

Or is art an expression of emotion, imagery, tale, sound and scent and taste?

Is art the heightened form of our experiences? Or are those experiences, in a way, beyond what we normally experience—and is that why art is valuable?

So many questions. I am of a clear opinion on this matter, and through my cogent writing (‘Alex, let’s not get too cocky…’) I shall convince you of it.

Art—Not Engineering

I like engineering: I enjoy the challenge brought about by real world situations; I enjoy the difficulties of research, experimentation and calculation; and of course I enjoy perfecting the final solution—and making life that little bit easier.

Art could not be more different for me.

I cannot engineer art. I cannot force it to follow my wishes, or to include things that—from a casual perspective—would improve it.

Because they don’t.

Art is not like an engine, where the problem is clear—and the solution is achievable by logic and fact. Art is not solving a problem. And there is something about it that defies logic: it is emotion and idea and it resonates in a way that cannot be measured by a microphone.

I do not invent a story in the way that I do, let’s say, a tablet: there is no thought of why consumers would like such a device (the story), or why it will have an USP over the rest of the market (rest of the stories), or how I should go about building said tablet.

Art comes to me. I did not come about the idea of a tower that puts the clouds to shame, or a Necromancer whose plight is so powerful I cannot deny it, or a about a ship that could save two lovers from extinction—I did not come about it by analysing markets.

Perhaps some of them are, to a degree, reflections of other art. Towers are a common sight in mediaeval tales; and there is a lot of work done on zombies, for example.

And yet, every story is unique. Clearly, we are not regurgitating the work of others. (Which would in itself be a logical fallacy—where did those artists get such a wealth of different ideas?)

I still think some art is inspired by and altered in the presence of other art—and that’s not a bad thing. A populated subconscious means ideas can grow, and meld with other ideas; the power of both can be combined.

The word subconcious is key here. I did not smash these ideas together consciously; instead they formed together, naturally, the way birds and bison collaborate after being together for a great deal of time.

And remember: the subconscious never sleeps…

The greatest proof of this, I think, is not from the art—but from the artists. If you were to put Aristotle to try and create a novel, what would you get? Even if he were to learn every writing technique known to man, and toil away at it for hours on end; his work would still seem to lack alacrity, and soul.

It would be nothing more than empty words.

Okay, Al; But What Is Art?

I must admit to not being of clear opinion. It is difficult to make an analysis on the nature of art: for art is something unique to each artist, and even unique to many of those who experience it.

I shall, therefore, contain my analysis to the things experienced by myself. References to the aforementioned shall only be made when they are suitably clear.

For me, art is… an experience.

It seems vague, but the word is the best one available in the forever limited vocabulary of language.

I suppose I could say that art is the culmination of feeling, thought and imagination amalgamated into artistic form.

I believe imagination is most important here. When writing, I have always felt there was something more to things—the glimpse of a deeper reality becomes visible when producing art.

Perhaps an example would better elucidate my thus far vague assertions.

Let us take my aforementioned excerpt: the woman in the tower. For some reason, many people would find her plight of great importance—they would wish for her escape almost as surely as she would herself; and, moreover, their hatred of the captor would be powerful, despite never having met the man.

There is a certain amount of emotion related to this. It is emotion that makes bestsellers, bestsellers; and likewise it is emotion that reaches out to grab the hearts of art admirers, and it is an emotion that makes a tune’s last echoes reverberate forever in our memories.

So there you go. Art is emotion.

But it is also an unusually powerful form of emotion—a dramatised version, you could say.

Still, part of me denies this. Many books do not dramatise the experiences of their characters. Indeed, this is considered a bad thing: feeling that seems forced or out of proportion becomes… unnatural. It alienates, rather than draws in.

So what do we end up with? Is art just true emotion?

Well, to a degree yes. True emotion is important; a lot of our behaviours in daily life show false emotion. The forced smile at coworkers who need not deal with concerns of your own. The faux interest in a boss’s ideas. Even, perhaps, the ostensible enthusiasm at a child’s new toy.

Humans do a lot of pretending. Much of that is unavoidable; for the realities of life cannot be ignored, as I have stated all too often now.

If art is true emotion, then art is who we really are.

So Why Is Art Important?

Why are we important? For if art is the expression of our true selves, then it would not matter if we had no care to find that out. Perhaps some of do prefer a life of unjust pretense and patinas devoid of meaning.

But for most, art brings happiness, and truth; art is a gateway to a better, truer world.

That’s the real crux of it all, isn’t it? By seeing who we really are, we can improve ourselves; and so we attain greater.

I suspect the above will lead some to debate the merits of various genres. No doubt some of these arguments will be rehashed, but allow me to present cursory reasons for the power of each genre:

1. Fantasy. By creating worlds and characters with features beyond this one, we highlight the very importance of the human characters in an alien world. Additionally, Fantasy is the truest genre; for art is fantasy—as well as an expression of emotion—and this allows Fantasy to truly bring art’s greatest purpose to life: building a better world.
2. Science Fiction. Again, syfy is a fantasy and humanity is all the more apparent in a world full of non-humans and tech. Syfy also shows us a glimpse of the future, or of a different place (a la fantasy). Thus current mistakes are revealed: the cyberspying, to take a popular example.
3. Crime. Humans do evil things, at times. It helps to see the whys and the maybes. Additionally, a crime can shatter a person; and through this harsh punishment, their inner self is revealed.
4. Romance. Love is one of our best creations, but it can also poison with verisimilitude. Romance can reveal these fallacies. Furthermore: it is good to learn of another’s love. It may show what you’re doing wrong.

Who Are Artists?

The gifted and the cursed. A most literary description, is it not?

But it’s true. Artists are… emotional people, for one. They’re people who feel, and who aren’t dissuaded from making that clear.

Artists do have a gift. I do not pity those of you who wished for egalitarianism in this regard; there isn’t any. Artists have a talent, and not all are as equally talented as one another. Nor, however, is the difference as great as some claim; truly, it is practice and dedication and determination that makes a good artist.

What is their gift?

I believe—and not without some uncertainty, mind you—that our gift is to be able to… not visualise; rather, imagine,
emotion that is not our own, people unmet, and places unseen.

We have imagination.

But imagination is also a curse. After all: you can imagine the empowerment of a poor farmer boy—his rise to power; fame; glory.

Likewise, you can imagine the terrible downfall of a great leader; or the decimation of a beautiful city; or the crumbling relationship between two highschool sweethearts.

And as I’ve also stated, we have emotion. The two seem follow one another. Emotion is a wonderful thing—who would abandon all happiness, love and excitement just to avoid sadness, loneliness and depression?

But this does mean we have unusually sensitive emotional antennae. Not necessarily thin skin though—just greater heights (and lows) of emotion, and smoother transitions between the two.

Sounds Like I’m Missing Out

Thankfully, it is not a selfish gift which we have. In fact, we feel a great desire to spread it as far and wide as possible; to make it the beautiful butterfly, seen and spotted—called to the many.

The others need not work to experience art. But they never experience it fully; an advantage and a disadvantage. You decide which is better. I suspect the artists will always choose art, and the non-artists will be too afraid to want it. Such is the way of things.

Finale: Good Art

And now we arrive to where this essay started: good art.

We’ve talked of the what. We’ve talked of the why. You cannot create good art without understanding those first.

You could say this is the how. It isn’t. This is not a guide to writing fiction, or any other form of art. There are other things for that.

(And if you do desire a comprehensive guide into my art written by me, email me at alexstargazerwriterextraordinaire@outlook.com and maybe I’ll think of making one.)

No, this final section is about recognising the things that produce emotion, produce the truest emotion, and which shows us—ultimately—of a better world.

Being specific is impossible. I shall try to keep my ideas confined to the literary medium; although many of these should apply to any other form of art you care to consider.

1. Write for yourself, not for a ‘market’. Art is your emotion, your imagination, and your creation. Be true to yourself. If you try and write what you think x will like, x will not like it; for people are unique (and cannot, therefore, be taken as a whole and used to construct art) and also fickle. More importantly, you would have created a piece of art that… really isn’t one. It would be devoid of anything that would make anyone want to experience it.
2. Prepare yourself. It isn’t easy.
3. Understand yourself. Or in other words: don’t force your art to try and conform to a set of ideals or preconceptions. Your art is a reflection of yourself. Unless you’ve forced it. If you understand yourself, you can tell. The danger, of course, is that you do not understand who you are—or that you’ve changed. Always give art a long look before making major alterations. You might not like what you get if you don’t.
4. Know that not all art is created equal. And don’t despair: you can improve.
5. Practice. A lot.

‘Alex!’ you say; ‘but what about the features of good art?’

Alas, dear reader, this is where I leave you. Not that there aren’t techniques which can help polish and improve a specific art medium—for there are—but the real problem is: art is subjective. To a degree, at least.

While one may objectively ascertain the skill at which a novel is written—or a painting painted, or any other axiomatic example you care to think of—the final product produces what I have said uniquely for each person.

That said, a reviewer may make comments on how well they believe a piece of art accomplishes its purpose for the general audience.

But ultimately art is emotion and fire and the imaginings of strange irrational beings: cherish it, criticise it, and let it make you a better person.

This essay is finished. I am contradicting myself by writing that, so please don’t make me repeat myself. If you desire (for reasons unknown to me) to discuss it, email me at the aforementioned address. If you are reading this on my blog, comment. I don’t spy. (Google does that for me.)

Poem of the Week; And Goings On

Dear readers!

Alex has been most lackadaisical in his blogging, has he not?

This is because Alex:

a) Is now in Romania, to which he arrived by travelling east on a midnight plane—his body clock is totally off, you see, and he has trouble sleeping;

b) Has had a mole removed on his back, which is uncomfortable and annoys him to no end;

c) Has been made busy with a problem in his external drive: specifically, nothing will read it.

Being plagued by such vicissitudes, I have been unable to entertain you lot. This will now change. I have written a poem—the one which was supposed to be the poem of the week—and I shall even deign to talk about my little town of Vaslui.

So What’s This Place Like?

Depressing. I don’t mean to sound all negative and downer; but I am finding quite depressing. This is partly because I am a little unstable with my various worries (exam results, moles, etc.) and am therefore prone to depression.

But, still: this place is quite underdeveloped. It’s not poor by the standards of a not-so-well-off country in a not-so-well-off county—but even coming from little Britain, I do find it depressing.

There’s more to it than that though. Heck, Barcelona—which struck me as underdeveloped when compared to the likes of Luxembourg, Bruxelles, Eindhoven, Paris, Hamburg, etc.—was one of the liveliest places I’ve seen.

I could blame it on the architecture. There are a lot of Communist-era flats: their hard concrete and decaying windows don’t exactly inspire me to sing YMCA, or whatever idiotic song they do for that nowadays. Neither do the pothole covered roads. Or the stray animals. Or…

You get the point.

It’s not like Romania as a whole is this depressing. My country home (located in a village I guarantee you’ve never heard of) is much nicer: it’s got lots of flowers around it, it’s got vineyards, multiple buildings over multiple levels, hidden gardens…

It’s a lot more peaceful too. For a town of 50,000, Vaslui sure as hell is noisy. You can’t sleep with a window open—the pneumatic drills and lorries will drive you stark raving mad.

Okay, enough on Mr Stargazer’s location. Time to read some poetry!

(Check out my latest photos on Vaslui. I’ll promise I’ll make better ones once I get to my little country home.)

What About That Essay?

The Essence of a Good Tale is almost complete. In fact, this Poem of the Week was written in part to give me some more… direction in the essay.

Poem of the Week: Essence

This poem was actually entitled ‘Void’ to begin with. Why?

My initial premise for the poem stemmed in relation to the place which—funnily enough—I call the Void. The Void is actually a place in a (very future) novel I plan on one day writing (which shall be entitled Biology, and would—hypothetically—be made a series called Biology, Chemistry, and Physics.)

‘Alex, get on with it…’

Yes, so. The Void is the place where nothing but consciousness exists. There is no life. There is no light. There isn’t even time. Or space. It is a pure place: in it, you are your truest self. There are no illusions, nor any false pretense.

(‘He’s getting all weird again, isn’t he?’ some of you are no doubt thinking.)

However, this poem isn’t really about that. As my fingers glided over the (most uncooperative) keyboard, something else was created. Something about the essence of art.

The Essence of Art

The poem is quite short; I shall break my usual structure of weird-quotes–weirder-analysis–weirdest-poem (it was lying in tatters anyway, the poor thing) and give you the poem directly.

Read the Cause of the Altercation

I honestly don’t think any analysis is necessary: the poem is quite clear; and its implications are debatable—better for you to figure out. Of course, if it’s really leaving your knickers in a twist, you could ask me to do it. You’d have to say Please—with a cherry on top.

Very well. Here endeth this blog post. Stay following, because that essay will be coming soon. I just need to fix my hard drive, get myself a proper haircut, see a doctor with this mole removal of mine, and maybe save the world.

All in a day’s work, right?

Poem of the Week: The Pianist

It is time for the Poem of the Week, and this time it’s another poem that was initially submitted to a literary magazine (of which I have made enough mention in the previous poem of the week).

This particular poem is called the Pianist: it’s cute, light, and has some nice metaphors. It isn’t my best poem by any means—most of my best have been submitted to the Foyle poetry competition, and are rather more dark on the whole—but I think it a pleasant read all the same. (Please tell me if this is not the case. Alex is not very good at ascertaining the merits of his own work; a curse bequeathed to all writers. Oooh, I’m starting to sound all weird and literary, now aren’t I?)

As part of my new strategy, I have decided to structure these analyses (is that the right word?) in the following format: weird quotes at the beginning; weirder analysis thereafter; and weirdest poem at end.

(Tsck tsck. I’ve used that word too often now—I’ll have to start using pseudo-synonyms like ‘strange’ and ‘odd’, which so don’t sound the same. Poor me. Poor writers.)

Weird Quotes

The Pianist
Is lost in the tones
Of his own melody.

—Quote I.

For no ordinary person
Can instil such
Emotion.

—Quote II.

All the sounds of music:
A song to the unheard listener.

—Quote III. (You getting the gist of this?)

He smiles: a quirk of a mouth
That has known humanity.
But he does not know all;
That is reserved
For my kiss.

—Quote…

(I would put more, but my weary bones tire from all this typing; and besides, to do so would make this a turgid piece, which would bore you. I think. Although some of you read the so-called ‘Classics’ willingly, so who knows?)

Weirder Analysis

Let’s start with Quote I, strangely enough. (You noticed I didn’t use weird this time. You clever devil!)

Now, we are told—quite didactically, I admit—that the Pianist is lost in the tones of his own melody. This is important: it suggests that art is something in which you can forget about the world—about your worries, your fears, and even who you are. You can become a being ensnared by the magic of art; forever living in the moment, and forever subject to the most fickle of emotional changes.

And once you’ve read the poem (which you will do, I’m sure—I don’t write these for nothing, ya know) you’ll see quite a few of these emotional changes. Art is not in stasis; even paintings have the suggestion of change—the idea that this is only a snapshot of a world, and that it is not a whole representation. (Though paintings do have with them other advantages, which I shall mention in my upcoming essay.)

In any case: you can forget about yourself in art.

The next selected quote (Quote II, under the Roman system), reveals something special about the artist himself: that he—and all others of his type—are able to instil their feelings to their audience, in a way ordinary people cannot. Basically, artists are not the same as everyone else; and by implication, therefore, art is not a learned skill.

The third quote is little off-on-a-tangent (I do love going on tangents) but it reveals that much art goes unheard, unseen and unfelt. This is not entirely without reason: published art assumes that it can be critiqued, and not all art is that great (sadly). Of course, the debate is rather more complex and multi-faceted than that—hence why I shall be discussing it in my upcoming essay.

(‘Boy, he’s really doing our head in with that essay of his,’ I bet you’re thinking.)

The final quote is also very interesting. (If you happen to be a bod like me.) The fact that he’s known humanity—through art—shows that art is perhaps… a reflection, of human emotion. And in a way, it is; and another, it’s so much more. You can guess this one: to be talked of in my essay…

(‘Oh Alex!’ you wail. Patience, my dear; patience is a powerful virtue. It also means I can keep you coming back for more. Aren’t I just so clever?)

The final line suggests that one must experience certain things to truly capture them; but yet, I do believe you can gain a great deal of understanding about a phenomena even if you have never known it: that is the power of art.

Stay tuned for that essay of mine…

Alex!

Oh, yes. Here’s the weirdest poem:

View Weird Poem on Google Drive

PS: This was written in and uploaded with StackEdit—if you are of a literary disposition, you should definitely check it out.

Exams, Exams, Exams

As you have been able to ascertain over these past few posts, I’m busy with exams. Monday is Math. Then there are two more sciences, and another Math one.

I’ve sort of become... de-sensitised to it all. Revision today, revision tomorrow. Exam? Big deal. Done it a million times already.

I suppose it’s better than the alternative: a breakdown. Or maybe bombing them all.

But, let us leave unpleasantries aside; I have a new poem for you! I call it ‘The Lovers on the Mountain’. It’s a little odd. Which is no surprise—I myself am a little odd, so it would only make sense for an odd poet... to produce odd poems?

Anyway, it’s happier than most of my doom-and-gloom-and-death poems. Which isn’t saying much. But I do think it’s pretty happy: it has nice emotions—although some are not so nice, but no real work of literary merit doesn’t—and it has a nice message (I think; I’m not so sure I understand the message myself, though that’s a different matter...)

Okay, so here it is.

The Lovers on the Mountain

I would write you an essay, but I fear that: a) I would bore you; and b) I wouldn’t have the time. (Remember: the song goes ‘I have exams, exams, exams; I must revise, revise, revise’. If that were really a song, though, it’d be a pretty bad one...)

Also, I think I should keep some of it a mystery... at least for now. Heck, maybe you can give me your theories on it. I mean, I don’t understand it perfectly either; perhaps you can better determine my strange little mind...

(If that sounds creepy, sorry. It’s a little late here.)

Above: my revision so far. Quite the pile, eh?

Keyboards, And A Cool Photo

Okay, let me start by saying that keyboards are important. Very important, even. You’re probably thinking: yes, genius, we get that. You’re a writer, right?

Now, I should probably mention that I always knew keyboards were important—the real question, of course, is how important.

My old keyboard—a Dell one (yes, Dell from Hell and all that)—was actually a very good keyboard. It had a nice, strong feel to it; it made a nice, big CLANK when you hit it; it had nice, big keys; and it was black; and it was a great keyboard. It even had really tall keys, that required a fair bit of effort to press.

It’s weird, huh? You’d think that a keyboard should be easier to press, not harder—but actually, I find that keyboards lacking in attack (is that what it’s called?) have a tendency to provoke errant keystrokes, which are very annoying!

There is nothing more irritating than typing away at your latest scene (‘The dragon made its lair, in much the same way an oversized, carnivorous bird would’) and then—BANG!—you’ve accidentally changed to a different window and all your prose is on the web browser!

Or—my personal pet hate—you’re typing away, and a bad keystroke sends your writing on the previous paragraph, in the middle of a sentence... heck, in the middle of a word!

(You must be thinking I’m really weird after all that...)

Anyway, I broke the Dell keyboard in a fit of rage. It wasn’t directed at the keyboard, mind you: I had to edit my Drama essay to hand in the next day, and LibreOffice writer had, for some unfathomable IT reason, decided that the particular paragraph I was trying to edit should be read-only.

I still don’t why it was doing that; instead I saved the doc, and worked on it from Word.

But not before I broke the keyboard.

(I would have broken the monitor, but that would have been rather more expensive to replace.)

Anyway, I bought a BenQ keyboard thereafter.

I’m not naming and shaming here. The keyboard was actually pretty decent: it had lots of buttons—like this one—whose purpose I have never ascertained; it had big keys; and plenty of spacing; and it was a decent enough keyboard.

But it didn’t have attack. It was too soft.

So, I am now writing this on a different keyboard which I managed to find buried in the house. I’m not sure who made it, because the only branding is a funny little blue thing that looks kinda like an ‘E’. Regardless, I can smash the keys with abandon and they CLACK! nicely, and it has everything the other ones do, so I’m happy.

The keyboard is also UK, so I don’t have to deal with all that no-pound-or-euro-sign bullshit the US ones give. (I’m not too keen on the placement of the @ and # signs either. Oh, Americans...)

What About That Photo

I was always confused about what you call pictures and images and photos in the English language. In Romanian, we just have ‘imagini’ and ‘poze’. ‘Pictures’ is kind of a grey area with me.

Anyway, take a look:

‘It’s a landscape!’ you say; ‘It has snow and mountains and trees and shit’.

Well, that is correct. However, it looks eerily similar to a major setting in my novel, the Necromancer. Specifically, it looks like the ‘Northern Mountains’; a mountain range—who would have thought?—towards the north of Arachadia—surprise!—in which the Necromancer has his lair.

So there you go. A little, pale view into my imagination.

Update: had to fix some typos. Sorry for that.

On The Sandman

Unfortunately, the fates have not deemed to give me much time. Exams are known as hard, time-consuming things for a reason, you know?

But regardless: I shall be writing about my wee little short story—the Sandman—and about how it was written, and I shall also address some complaints I’ve come across.

This is not to say that I shall be giving you any evangelical preaching about its message or writing contrived literary dissertations.

The book itself has an essay in it; and moreover, its message is pretty clear anyway.

What I want to do is just give you a little background and trivia into the whole thing. And hey, maybe you’ll learn a thing or two while we’re at it. (One can only hope...)

How D’ya Write It?

This question is usually brought up for the big books. Short stories are a little too... short.

That said, there’s more than one meaning to the question.

I wrote my short story in an exam.

Strange, isn’t it? Most people think of writers as those weird people stuck in dry, dusty rooms; surrounded by other books; and of course, writing on a typewriter (and throwing out unsuccessful draft after unsuccessful draft).

I can assure you that most—in fact, all—of my work, is done on a computer. Computers are incredibly powerful tools: you can write, cut, track your changes, stick it on a kindle or on paper... the possibilities are virtually endless—provided that you know what you’re doing.

(And no, I don’t throw out drafts. Most of my work isn’t heavily revised; I can pretty much do something in one go.)

Computers sometimes give me incredible frustration. That’s okay. I have lots of computers; and dealing with the occasional oopsie is still easier than getting horrible cramps in my hands, or having to copy hundreds of pages of text to a computer anyway...

But you’re probably wondering why I wrote my short story in an exam. Did I fail the exam? Was it really that terribly done?

I apologise for not getting on with stuff. Such is my nature: I tend to wander, going from thought to thought, from feeling to feeling; from ideas to ideas. You can write books this way, you know. Three of them, to be more precise.

Now, I wrote my short story in an exam because it was an English exam. I was supposed to write it, believe it or not. It was one of the least stressful exams I’ve ever done.

(And yes, I got full marks. Indeed, the teacher called it ‘well beyond GCSE level’, though that’s not saying much.)

Was It Hard?

Well... it was easier than writing my previous books, I’ll tell you that much. This is partly because it was shorter than my other books; and partly because I am, now, a better writer. (Or at least, I hope so.)

That said, it wasn’t easy. There were times when I had to re-write sentences, or even paragraphs. There were times when I deleted certain sentences—either they didn’t work, or were inconsistent with the character’s actions. At other times, I even went off on a totally different tangent.

Writing is like that.

But not just any writing, mind you: non-fiction stuff is usually pretty methodical—it’s more about getting your thoughts on paper. You don’t really have to think about what you’re writing, because you know it already. And while good form is important; it isn’t critical.

Creative writing is harder. Quite a lot harder, I’d say. It’s why English teachers often can’t produce a good book: they don’t have the experience, sure, but there’s a deeper reason.

First of all, creative writing necessitates that you not only write good content, but also good sentences. In fact, the sentences themselves are a work of art, and create their own, unique effect; a good book can’t be good if you don’t get your message across—and a story is that much more effective if your sentences can mirror the emotions.

Examine the following: (Yes, I know I’m not supposed to doing this.)

The demon looked at me. There was madness in its eyes. Yes: and worse, there was evil.

Pure, unmistakable, evil.

It was the infernal glare of billions of years of killing and torture; of plans plotted, and executed; of a being that had not the slightest ounce of humanity.

‘Ready to meet your worst nightmare, human?’

See how the words ‘evil’ and ‘executed’ give the whole thing a visceral power that infuses into the prose itself? Notice the repetition? The short sentences? The way the clauses slide into one another until they begin to almost carry a rhythym of their own?

(Sorry if I sound arrogant there. We writers must have some measure of self confidence: we’d never write anything otherwise.)

Anyway, the second part of my point is to do with the content itself.

Where to start? In creative writing, you are not merely codifying known information into a human-readable format; you are actively creating the information itself. You must form every little detail—every rustle of a leaf, every cry of every zephyr; each part of a world. You must create emotion: both within the characters and the reader. You must be, for a brief while, god.

That’s quite a contrast isn’t it?

So, yes, writing is hard. Writing is work.

But it’s worth it.

Even if not for any monetary gain, there is a certain personal satisfaction in knowing you’ve done it; in knowing you can do something few people can do. And hey, if you get a truckload of money doing it, even better.

Finally: The Complaints

Your book’s too short.

Yes, it is. But I had to write it in two hours—exam, remember? And personally, I think writing a two and a half thousand word story in that amount of time isn’t a mean feat.

It could have been lengthened, that’s true. But would it have been the same tale?

Your book is anti-religious/anti-Islamic/etc.

It is difficult to see how a form of art that, by definition, is designed to instil empathy for a character; how can that be construed as hateful?

It baffles me.

Your book offends my religious sensibilities.

I shall say this simply: if you know a book is going to offend you, don’t read it. And if you accidentally read it, well; don’t hold it against the author. I do not write books to appeal to everyone on the planet. That’s just impossible.

Okay, that concludes my rather long blog post. Enjoy. I’ll be having fun in my exams...

The Poem of the Week... Will Be Delayed

Okay you lot, before you start crying, know this: the only reason the Poem of the Week will be delayed is because I will be submitting five poems (yes, five) to a Literary Magazine called the Threepenny Review. Therefore, I will not have time to create a poem for this week; and neither can I publish the ones I have done, because the magazine only publishes previously unpublished poetry.

So there you go. But—there will be a Poem next week; I’m a very dilligent poet, you see.

(Suddenly rummages in his computer’s hard drive.)

Oh wait! It seems there is a wee little poem lying in my computer; it’s an earlier one, but it might interest you...

That Damned Philosopher

There once was a philosopher, and he lived on a mountain.
The mountain was the incarnation of philosophy:
Jutting out miles from the Earth
Content in its superiority,
Even if its roots still came
From the Earth that made it.
The Philosopher,
Was its compatriot.
The philosopher was neither large, nor small;
The philosopher was neither young, nor old;
The philospher was both green-eyed, and blue eyed;
The philosopher had hair, that was both grey,
And white,
And blond,
And sometimes he had no hair at all.
Only his mind was remarkable.
It was the system of logic,
The conglometure of ideas,
The resting place of genius.
It did not fear the politicians,
With their empty promises and dubious threats;
It did not fear the soldier,
With his deadly weapons and binding hands.
It feared only the ignorant.
Ah yes. The ignorant.
They lived underneath the mountain,
The subjects of his studies—the enemies of his kind.
They lived, below him.
And yet, he studied them: out of curiosity?
Out of fear?
Or out of that innate human desire,
To know one’s ancestors.
One day, the ignorant held conference.
The topic was small, the topic was trivial.
The new technology. The Oil.
Somehow, it became a debate.
The farmers screamed—‘We shall lose our income!’
Others, the philistines, they said: ‘People will lose their jobs!’
The majority—the guardians of ignorance, and stupidity—
‘We shall be rich.’
The philosopher, he was not impressed.
First, he studied: studied the effect on the nearby ocean;
Studied the effect on the forests, the plants, the animals;
Studied income distribution graphs, and expenditure of capital;
He studied everything.
He was still not impressed.
But his argument was simple:
‘This will not last.’
The ignorant, they ignored him, as they always did.
Oil wells sprang up, like mutated mushrooms;
Then sea-ships, with their radars;
Then frackers, with their explosives.
Some of the ignorant, they gained huge houses,
Huge yachts, huge interests. They said,
‘Tax is bad! No more tax!’
The tax want away.
The philospher, he became irritated.
Life had become more difficult.
He insisted, ‘This will not last’—
‘You’re just jealous!’ the ignorant said.
But he quietly saved his money,
Boarded up the windows,
And of course,
He waited.
The oil, away it went. They fracked and they fracked,
But none was left.
They protested and they protested, but the rich held firm.
Riots broke out. The rich died;
The ignorant became poor;
Poorer than they ever were,
As the banks ran out of money,
And the philospher waited quietly.
They came for him.
‘You knew this would happen!’
‘Why did you not help?’
‘But I did. You did not listen.’
The ignorant cried, ‘Liar!’,
And they burned his house down.
Then the world heaved its mighty breath,
And we were once again savages.

On the Nature of Writing

Writing is a funny thing. First off, it’s time-consuming: it took me six months and two weeks to finish the first draft of my 108,000 word novel (which has now been shortened to 104,000) and that was with me writing for about six to seven hours a week. If, like some people, you’re not very good with maths, then that translates to about 150 hours.

Now you wonder, ‘What made you do that?’

Well, I’m not entirely sure myself, to tell you the truth. But read on.

Writing is also difficult. Very difficult. It takes even experienced authors a fair amount of effort to get a full-size novel down to a T. For inexperienced authors, you can multiply that by a factor of at least three; and unsurprisingly, many would-be authors give up before finishing a novel, sometimes very early on.

Speaking personally, I can say that writing is perhaps the most intellectually challenging activity I can perform—in fact, I find physics and maths easier!

Finally, writing is not all that profitable. Writing poetry is unlikely to ever win you a penny, and even a very successful and well-known poet usually needs to supplement their income somehow; writing novels is more profitable, but still only yields about twenty thousand pounds for a reasonably good book. (And many get far less.)

So why do I—and indeed, many others—do it?

Well, the first reason is that I feel a compulsion to do so.

‘A compulsion?’ I hear you cry. ‘That doesn’t sound nice!’

Perhaps compulsion is too strong a word. I can use itch if you prefer. I feel an itch: something strange and incurable (though of course I would never want to ‘cure’ it) at the back of my hand, in my fingers, and in my head. I have to write. It does not matter if I write poetry, or novels, or this blog post—I have to write.

Some of it is down to practice. Practice makes perfect; and without it, I will never become the author that I can be. I may even forget some of what I know, and be forced to spend more time relearning skills.

But another part of it is inherent to me, and other writers, I would imagine; perchance it is even inherent to all artists, that nagging feeling that you have to create something.

I also compose music. Mainly, it is on the piano. I am not a particularly good musician. That’s okay: there is more to life than being successful.

So What Else Makes You Write?

I love it!

That’s an obvious reason why a person would do such a thing. But it’s not wholly true: I love to write—most of the time. Maybe even some of the time. Writing is hard work. And sometimes, it’s not fun—sometimes you have a plot that refuses to mould itself into something workable, at other times you have a character that you think shouldn’t be there, or even entire scenes that seem extraneous; basically, there is a significant amount of uncertainty involved in creating art.

And yes, writing is an art. It is partially a science—the techniques of creative writing, such as alliteration, onomatopoeia (yes, I included that because it’s hard to spell), anaphoria and so forth are well known and studied—but it is, at the end of the day, an art.

There are some people in books that reach out to us. This is partly because of who we are: humans are an empathetic species by nature. Some of it is because of our individual circumstances—a gay character may appeal more to people who are actually gay, for example, and likewise women, ethnic minorities and other less, shall we say, powerful groups can emphasise more with specific characters.

Coming-of-age stories are popular among some; yet most of us young kids hate them. Why? Well, some of them are corny, and nostalgic about a time we never experienced, but mostly it is because we cannot emphasise with the characters as much. Hindsight is a powerful tool.

But behind all of the science and psycho-analysis, there is something indefinable about books. Why does the story of Bella Swan, for example, (for those of you who don’t know, that’s the Twilight girl) grab the imagination of some people, but leaves others shaking their heads in confusion? Why does the Da Vinci Code grab the attention of many of us; but at the same time, others don’t see what the fuss is about?

There is undoubtedly something very personal involved in the creation of a book. You pour yourself into the page, and since you are, probably, human, then you end up making something which others will, ineluctably, find intriguing (at least if done right).

I would even say there is something subconscious about a book.

‘Subconscious?’ you ask. Yes. In fact, I would say we writers don’t have that much control over what we write...

The Nature of A Text

Poems are short pieces of text that can have a significant impact. Novels are much longer, bigger beasts, but although less information-dense than a poem, they can still achieve things a poem struggles to do.

In either case, though, they represent a little part of the writer’s subconscious. Writers will, invariably, write about the things that have affected them most. And sometimes, a writer can discover things they never knew about themselves. Writing something is, in a way, a journey: and depending on its length, it is a journey that can change you as a person.

I became a different person after I finished my first draft of the Necromancer. Obviously, some of that was simply due to the fact that I had managed to complete such a vast piece of writing (for a fifteen year old). But also, I had discovered something in my completion of the plot.

To write them on this blog would be too personal, and futile, anyway, since I am still uncertain about what precisely has changed. But something has changed, make no doubt: and what exactly that is, well, that will be ascertained in the future.

A Final Note on Literary Interpretations

You have heard that some authors do not know the exact meaning of their novels.

You may also have derided this as hogwash, and impugned it as politics. And it’s true: the author does have a ‘political’ (for lack of a better word) incentive to keep his or her fans happy (along with the pretentious critics).

And yet, there is a certain degree of truth to it. When I wrote the Water Tower (see the Poems page) I didn’t fully realise what I had written. I still don’t. There are feelings inside of us that we do not consciously register until much later—and even then, we may not want to accept them. Ultimately, a book is an expression of emotion more than anything else. It is a story that needs to be told. Everything else is secondary.

Anyway, I’ve bored you enough with my ramblings. If you thought they were interesting, please leave a comment. Otherwise, have a good day. I hope you visit this blog in the future.