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I blogged off and on whilst I was writing 'Felt's Theorem' and found it a good way of nudging me along so thought I would do the same with this one. Unlike Felt which was based around a 'big concept' this one is based around 'lots of explosions' and was intended to be dumb fun. It is getting a bit more thoughtful than I intended - but not much.
Currently it stands at 30'000 words, it's Space Opera, I suppose. The loose premise is that 400 years ago Aliens made first contact with Earth. 300 years ago second contact was made and Earth destroyed. Now the remnants of humanity are indentured workers, serving as army or ambassadors to the 'Conclave' a technologically advanced alliance of various species, to earn a planet of their own. We join the crew of the salvage ship 'Birth of Khalsa' as they make a discovery that someone in the conclave wants hidden. Cue havoc, intergalactic war etc.
I think, the central theme is what makes us, us? Maybe. That might change.
Wednesday 29 February 2012
Tuesday 28 February 2012
On Writing
I am not a quitter.
Those words, metaphorically, are tattooed on my forehead. I think, they have appeared there some time in the last six years or so. Before then, well yeah, I have been a quitter, a glorious, gadfly. Try this, try that - flit from one thing to the next.
I did, for a long time want to a be a rockstar. I wasn't going to be held back by the fact I couldn't really play anything and had no aptitude for music. Not at all, I mean, I had great hair after all.
But I could never shake the feeling when I held the bass in my hands that it was an alien thing. A thing apart from me. Practice was a chore, a task I had to do to stand any chance of keeping up. When I finally gave up it was with a sense of relief. I never enjoyed sitting in a van for hours on end, I am a creature that enjoys comfort, or waiting around for hours to go onstage and be 'not quite good enough'. Those odd times when it clicked and everything came together were becoming less and less frequent as the band I was in got better and better. It stopped being an escape from work and instead became more work.
So I had a think about what I really wanted to do, about what I really loved.
The answer was the book in my pocket.
Can't remember what book it was, could have been crime, SF, fantasy, 'serious literature' or poetry; I dunno. It was just a book. Except a book is never just a book, every one is a little window onto a world. A place I have never been and never will go – the mental landscape of another.
And I knew that was what I wanted to do. Was what I had always wanted to do.
So I do it. I think, on occasion, it's good. It's often very very frustrating; mentally and physically. But even when I was really ill it was the thing I kept doing. Intermittently, yes - but it never stopped.
So on days like today, when words are slow and I doubt anyone will ever buy the novels I am (or have) slowly constructed I remember that I am not a quitter. I may feel like giving up, my fingers might be stiff with pain and my head fuzzy with painkillers and tiredness but I will carry on. It's not even really as serious as that makes it sound. It's gone from a conscious effort to a compulsion and unlike the bass guitar the words are never alien. They may be wrong, or uncomfortable, or infuriating or leave me exhausted but they are also a source of joy. It's the only thing I do where time vanishes, one minute I'm trying to think of what to write the next it's a couple of hours later and one thousand or so words. And if I'm not quite good enough? Then that's fine as it's primarily for me and one day it will be good enough. It will.
So. I might be really ill. It may be infuriating that the words on the page are never as clear as the world on my head. It may feel like no one will ever buy the last book and that like finishing this one is an interminable task that will have no reward. But that is not the point, it is partly the joy of writing and partly the escape it provides.
Also, I am not a quitter.
Those words, metaphorically, are tattooed on my forehead. I think, they have appeared there some time in the last six years or so. Before then, well yeah, I have been a quitter, a glorious, gadfly. Try this, try that - flit from one thing to the next.
I did, for a long time want to a be a rockstar. I wasn't going to be held back by the fact I couldn't really play anything and had no aptitude for music. Not at all, I mean, I had great hair after all.
But I could never shake the feeling when I held the bass in my hands that it was an alien thing. A thing apart from me. Practice was a chore, a task I had to do to stand any chance of keeping up. When I finally gave up it was with a sense of relief. I never enjoyed sitting in a van for hours on end, I am a creature that enjoys comfort, or waiting around for hours to go onstage and be 'not quite good enough'. Those odd times when it clicked and everything came together were becoming less and less frequent as the band I was in got better and better. It stopped being an escape from work and instead became more work.
So I had a think about what I really wanted to do, about what I really loved.
The answer was the book in my pocket.
Can't remember what book it was, could have been crime, SF, fantasy, 'serious literature' or poetry; I dunno. It was just a book. Except a book is never just a book, every one is a little window onto a world. A place I have never been and never will go – the mental landscape of another.
And I knew that was what I wanted to do. Was what I had always wanted to do.
So I do it. I think, on occasion, it's good. It's often very very frustrating; mentally and physically. But even when I was really ill it was the thing I kept doing. Intermittently, yes - but it never stopped.
So on days like today, when words are slow and I doubt anyone will ever buy the novels I am (or have) slowly constructed I remember that I am not a quitter. I may feel like giving up, my fingers might be stiff with pain and my head fuzzy with painkillers and tiredness but I will carry on. It's not even really as serious as that makes it sound. It's gone from a conscious effort to a compulsion and unlike the bass guitar the words are never alien. They may be wrong, or uncomfortable, or infuriating or leave me exhausted but they are also a source of joy. It's the only thing I do where time vanishes, one minute I'm trying to think of what to write the next it's a couple of hours later and one thousand or so words. And if I'm not quite good enough? Then that's fine as it's primarily for me and one day it will be good enough. It will.
So. I might be really ill. It may be infuriating that the words on the page are never as clear as the world on my head. It may feel like no one will ever buy the last book and that like finishing this one is an interminable task that will have no reward. But that is not the point, it is partly the joy of writing and partly the escape it provides.
Also, I am not a quitter.
Friday 3 February 2012
Raymond goes for a run.
I can't believe the BBC turned down my script for Mr Bloom's Nursery.
Mr Bloom's Nursery. A Script By RJ Barker.
RAYMOND GOES FOR A RUN
Colin the runner bean runs past the camera, he is closely followed by Raymond the Squash.
Colin: Runner bean.
Raymond: Don't run Colin, you know there's no escape from ripeness day.
Colin: Unripe bean!
Raymond: There's nothing to be frightened of, Kitchen is a beautiful place, come on Colin.
Colin: Frightened bean!
Colin is just about to come out to Raymond when he is shot from offscreen, Sebastian the singing aubergine appears.
C: Dead bean
S: Pah, runners, why do they do it do you think?
Raymond shrugs.
R: I don't know, what's this thing he's wearing? Picks it up Fruitarian society? What do you think that is, Sebastian?
S: I don't know, but didn't Joan the fennel have something similar-la-la-la-laaaa as a necklace?
R: Did she? I think I'll ask Mr Bloom. See you later Sebastian
Raymond goes to see Mr Bloom who is beside the compostarium preparing it for ripeness day.
R: Hello Mr Bloom.
MB: Hello Raymond, how can I help you?
R: Well we tracked down Colin when he ran away from ripeness day and shot him.
MB: You did? Ooh, tasty.
R: But he had this funny thing on him. Shows Mr Bloom the Fruitarian badge.
MB: Fruitarian eh? I don't like the sound of that much, do you?
R: Well, I'm not sure Mr Bloom.
MB: Tell you what, you take this gives him the fruitarian badge and you can run now and see if you can find out about it.
R: But it's not my ripeness day, Mr Bloom.
MB: I know that, and you know that, but if I say it's your ripeness day who'll know, eh?
R: I'm not sure, I...
MB: Hey everybody, Tiddlers gather round, Raymond is lovely and ripe!
Tiddlers: Yay! Kitchen! They chant Kitchen! Kitchen!
Raymond looks worried back away and then runs off. He bumps into Joan the fennel.
J: Raymond, whatever is the matter?
R: I'm ripe, I'm ripe but I'm not ready for it.
She sees the fruitarian badge
J: Don't you worry Raymond, I know just the place. You follow me.
Together they run from the nursery. Sinister music plays and Sebastian the singing Aubergine emerges form the shadows. He follows them
Mr Bloom's Nursery. A Script By RJ Barker.
RAYMOND GOES FOR A RUN
Colin the runner bean runs past the camera, he is closely followed by Raymond the Squash.
Colin: Runner bean.
Raymond: Don't run Colin, you know there's no escape from ripeness day.
Colin: Unripe bean!
Raymond: There's nothing to be frightened of, Kitchen is a beautiful place, come on Colin.
Colin: Frightened bean!
Colin is just about to come out to Raymond when he is shot from offscreen, Sebastian the singing aubergine appears.
C: Dead bean
S: Pah, runners, why do they do it do you think?
Raymond shrugs.
R: I don't know, what's this thing he's wearing? Picks it up Fruitarian society? What do you think that is, Sebastian?
S: I don't know, but didn't Joan the fennel have something similar-la-la-la-laaaa as a necklace?
R: Did she? I think I'll ask Mr Bloom. See you later Sebastian
Raymond goes to see Mr Bloom who is beside the compostarium preparing it for ripeness day.
R: Hello Mr Bloom.
MB: Hello Raymond, how can I help you?
R: Well we tracked down Colin when he ran away from ripeness day and shot him.
MB: You did? Ooh, tasty.
R: But he had this funny thing on him. Shows Mr Bloom the Fruitarian badge.
MB: Fruitarian eh? I don't like the sound of that much, do you?
R: Well, I'm not sure Mr Bloom.
MB: Tell you what, you take this gives him the fruitarian badge and you can run now and see if you can find out about it.
R: But it's not my ripeness day, Mr Bloom.
MB: I know that, and you know that, but if I say it's your ripeness day who'll know, eh?
R: I'm not sure, I...
MB: Hey everybody, Tiddlers gather round, Raymond is lovely and ripe!
Tiddlers: Yay! Kitchen! They chant Kitchen! Kitchen!
Raymond looks worried back away and then runs off. He bumps into Joan the fennel.
J: Raymond, whatever is the matter?
R: I'm ripe, I'm ripe but I'm not ready for it.
She sees the fruitarian badge
J: Don't you worry Raymond, I know just the place. You follow me.
Together they run from the nursery. Sinister music plays and Sebastian the singing Aubergine emerges form the shadows. He follows them
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