I haven't got much to post today because I'm doing some Open University activities but the more I've thought about him, the more I like the character, Beach. I had an idea about him being lonely and longing for human connection but then rejecting that connection when it was offered. It's something that we are all guilty of doing: Holding a deep desire for something and either not being able to recognise our own desire, or shunning the very thing we want. People are often self-destructive, and I think it's something that readers might connect with. As a result, I want to try and develop this element of Beach a little more.
So my plan for the next couple of days, in between my Open University course work, is to work on my encounter with Beach and try and turn those few hundred words into a short story. I'll post it as it develops.
Monday 24 September 2012
Sunday 23 September 2012
Beach
The following was written as part of an Open University exercise in genre. It's written in response to David Mitchell's Cloud Atlas, which uses several different genres and styles to tell six separate stories. This is therefore an exercise in genre. My intention was to mix science fiction with a biographical narrative. I wanted to use an imagined colloquialism because I thought it would strengthen the character's voice. It also seemed reasonable that, in a post-apocalypse where there are significantly fewer people, that speech might devolve slightly.
They call me Beach. I' been walkin' these shores forever an' I'll keep walkin' 'em 'till I'm dead. When The Flash came I were an infant. I don't 'member it but I been told. The Flash kilt near everyone. Them as survived did by hidin' in holes unnerground. Some died soon after 'cause of the radiation. It burned up their insides. Ma Momma, she lived near on four years. I can just about 'member her: Hair thin, hands and face like paper, but her eyes were the greenest I' ever seen. That's why I like the shore. The water's green an' deep like ma Momma's eyes.
Anyways, after a few years only a couple o' dozen o' us was left. People had to drink what water they could find and eat whatever food they found. Them as knows things says it's all contaminated and it's what done in most o' the survivors. But there's some, like me, what are immune or somethin'. We can walk about up top an' it's OK. Them as knows things says we're evolved. I don't know about that; I'm just a seeker. I come up top an' see what's what. Sometimes I find innerestin' stuff washed up, but mostly I like to see the sky. An' the sea, green like ma Momma's eyes.
I'm not sure how successful I consider this as an exercise, but I rather enjoyed writing in such a distinctive voice. I like Beach. He's like a grown up child. I imagine him being very good at some things, like survival, but lacking in any kind of greater knowledge. I think there's a sense of loneliness to this little piece and also a sense of longing. I like the idea that Beach is returning to the shore because it reminds him of his mother and I think that creates a sense that he's longing for emotional connection to other people. When he returns, day after day, to the shore looking for 'innerestin' stuff', he's actually looking for his mother, or at least someone he can connect with. In that sense, I think maybe it's reasonably successful.
I'm not sure where this would go as a story though; it's all a bit Cast Away at the moment and liable to be very dull.
* * *
They call me Beach. I' been walkin' these shores forever an' I'll keep walkin' 'em 'till I'm dead. When The Flash came I were an infant. I don't 'member it but I been told. The Flash kilt near everyone. Them as survived did by hidin' in holes unnerground. Some died soon after 'cause of the radiation. It burned up their insides. Ma Momma, she lived near on four years. I can just about 'member her: Hair thin, hands and face like paper, but her eyes were the greenest I' ever seen. That's why I like the shore. The water's green an' deep like ma Momma's eyes.
Anyways, after a few years only a couple o' dozen o' us was left. People had to drink what water they could find and eat whatever food they found. Them as knows things says it's all contaminated and it's what done in most o' the survivors. But there's some, like me, what are immune or somethin'. We can walk about up top an' it's OK. Them as knows things says we're evolved. I don't know about that; I'm just a seeker. I come up top an' see what's what. Sometimes I find innerestin' stuff washed up, but mostly I like to see the sky. An' the sea, green like ma Momma's eyes.
* * *
I'm not sure how successful I consider this as an exercise, but I rather enjoyed writing in such a distinctive voice. I like Beach. He's like a grown up child. I imagine him being very good at some things, like survival, but lacking in any kind of greater knowledge. I think there's a sense of loneliness to this little piece and also a sense of longing. I like the idea that Beach is returning to the shore because it reminds him of his mother and I think that creates a sense that he's longing for emotional connection to other people. When he returns, day after day, to the shore looking for 'innerestin' stuff', he's actually looking for his mother, or at least someone he can connect with. In that sense, I think maybe it's reasonably successful.
I'm not sure where this would go as a story though; it's all a bit Cast Away at the moment and liable to be very dull.
Saturday 22 September 2012
Introduction
Have you ever felt like there is something you should be doing, like a greater destiny that is out there somewhere waiting to be discovered? I call that feeling my Writer Inside.
Somewhere inside me there's a little perspex cube with a tiny person beating on the walls and screaming to get out. Sometimes, when I'm inspired by a great book or a brilliant TV show or movie, that Writer Inside screams a little bit louder and beats on those walls a little bit harder.
I have been inspired and my Writer Inside is making a lot of noise.
A very talented friend of mine - someone that I've known since high school and who was a bridesmaid at my wedding - has a sketchbook on Conceptart, which I discovered the other day. She's an amazingly talented artist but her sketchbook reveals a ridiculous dedication and work ethic that has paid dividends. It is fantastic to see how she has developed her raw talent and how she's honed her skills. She's grown and developed and improved and she's inspired me to do the same.
Playwright, Gill Adams, once said "Writing is not a job. It isn't even a hobby. It's an addiction for which there is no cure."
It's such an appropriate quote, because my Writer Inside is stamping his feet. I have to write. It is imperative. My Writer Inside is screaming at me to set him free; hopefully, if all goes well, this blog will chronicle our journey together.
Somewhere inside me there's a little perspex cube with a tiny person beating on the walls and screaming to get out. Sometimes, when I'm inspired by a great book or a brilliant TV show or movie, that Writer Inside screams a little bit louder and beats on those walls a little bit harder.
I have been inspired and my Writer Inside is making a lot of noise.
A very talented friend of mine - someone that I've known since high school and who was a bridesmaid at my wedding - has a sketchbook on Conceptart, which I discovered the other day. She's an amazingly talented artist but her sketchbook reveals a ridiculous dedication and work ethic that has paid dividends. It is fantastic to see how she has developed her raw talent and how she's honed her skills. She's grown and developed and improved and she's inspired me to do the same.
Playwright, Gill Adams, once said "Writing is not a job. It isn't even a hobby. It's an addiction for which there is no cure."
It's such an appropriate quote, because my Writer Inside is stamping his feet. I have to write. It is imperative. My Writer Inside is screaming at me to set him free; hopefully, if all goes well, this blog will chronicle our journey together.
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