Still haven't finished The End of The Dream. I've been working on my Thinking Sideways and 2 Year Novel project a lot in the last week, so haven't been doing a lot of work on TEOTD. And I still haven't got an ending I'm entirely happy with.
In other news - I am a tea addict! Still, at least tea is good for you. Or is it, if I drink an avarage of 5 cups a day? Even though its ruddy boiling, I still want my tea.
I've also found a new film to be obsessed with. Sweeney Todd (2007). I love Johnny Depp. No, seriously. I do. Love. Him. And the film is quite good too. :)
Tuesday, 30 June 2009
Wednesday, 17 June 2009
The Narrative Particles....
Oh God. 'The End of the Dream', which was supposed to be a nice short, bridging the gap between novels kind of story is going to be a novella (or a novelette, at any rate. I always get confused as to how many words you need for each). I got to 20,000 words last night with no signs of stopping just yet. I can see it going on for at least another 10,000 words, so help me. And I don't even have a satisfactory ending.
You know what I'd like to do? I'd like to start putting my fiction on this website as EBooks. I'm not sure how as I'm not sure if I can upload PDF files to this thing. I could with Wordpress, but I love Blogger. It's my home. I could post stories into the actual blog as text, but it isn't the same thing. You can't take it home with you, if you know what I'm getting at. Advice would be really helpful at this point. As I say, it's something I'm just thinking about at the minute, but it would be cool to have some free downloadable Ebooks on here.
Anyway, peace out, guys. I must try and do something constructive for the rest of the night (haha, who am I kidding?)
You know what I'd like to do? I'd like to start putting my fiction on this website as EBooks. I'm not sure how as I'm not sure if I can upload PDF files to this thing. I could with Wordpress, but I love Blogger. It's my home. I could post stories into the actual blog as text, but it isn't the same thing. You can't take it home with you, if you know what I'm getting at. Advice would be really helpful at this point. As I say, it's something I'm just thinking about at the minute, but it would be cool to have some free downloadable Ebooks on here.
Anyway, peace out, guys. I must try and do something constructive for the rest of the night (haha, who am I kidding?)
Sunday, 14 June 2009
Back
Yes, I'm back, after a short detour to Live Journal. I've been reading some of my old blogs, seriously, they're all over the place, and I used to have so much spirit. I wasn't afriad to say or do anything. But maybe that was just in 2007 when I was fucked up with bad love and didn't care what anyone thought of me as long as I could drink and have fun. I feel a lot older than that girl now, but I still have the will to fight. And hey, in a post I wrote in January 2008, I asked for a quiet year in which to take over the world. And I kind of did. :)
Anyway, to remind me of that time, here is a poem I wrote when I was going through my 'experimental' phase. Enjoy.
Rose
Mixed mediums,
broken fragments,
fragmented hybrids of an established art form,
tiny blind and hairless creatures, unable to touch or think or breathe, struggling to move among the sea of thier fellow impoverished artists.
Mindless drunk one night, no longer caring, no longer wanting to care, can't take any more pain,
they bring into the world these half beasts of beauty and nightmare, an assault on all the senses:
a story to be written in song,
a song to be seen never heard,
a painting for the sense of touch alone,
a novel read in rhythm - the intricate melody of repeating phrases.
Another song on the Ipod, words and noise to bring you out of the dried dead heat of the commuting bus, hot as hell, windows tight shut as though the fresh air could kill the honest hard working folk this time of the morning.
Another story just been read, sounds in neon, beats in grey, swirling together, mating, moving on the sea and breaking out in motion. A desperate fumble behind a train station, Thursday morning, one AM, with ears still pulsing with the noise from the speakers, not wanting to let go of this moment, for the knowledge that it can never last.
The public won't stop drinking, they sway in time to the spoken words, mixed, hands open and stary eyed, swinging from the barriers, screaming out the poets name, their own voices mingling with his as they surge forward, crushing, willing to die just to feel the touch of his hand.
The children sit quietly in bus stops, hearing their own lives through the throbbing basslines, crying out at the raw power, the feeling it stirs up inside them like a restless rush of air shifting leaves, its noise, its endless ceaseless poetry becomes a wall between them and the rest of the world.
a song that no one can hear,
the colours and textures and marks on our faces,
instruments and changes of voice,
structure as melody,
grammer the background noise, a static,
the plot becomes lyrics, optional.
Anyway, to remind me of that time, here is a poem I wrote when I was going through my 'experimental' phase. Enjoy.
Rose
Mixed mediums,
broken fragments,
fragmented hybrids of an established art form,
tiny blind and hairless creatures, unable to touch or think or breathe, struggling to move among the sea of thier fellow impoverished artists.
Mindless drunk one night, no longer caring, no longer wanting to care, can't take any more pain,
they bring into the world these half beasts of beauty and nightmare, an assault on all the senses:
a story to be written in song,
a song to be seen never heard,
a painting for the sense of touch alone,
a novel read in rhythm - the intricate melody of repeating phrases.
Another song on the Ipod, words and noise to bring you out of the dried dead heat of the commuting bus, hot as hell, windows tight shut as though the fresh air could kill the honest hard working folk this time of the morning.
Another story just been read, sounds in neon, beats in grey, swirling together, mating, moving on the sea and breaking out in motion. A desperate fumble behind a train station, Thursday morning, one AM, with ears still pulsing with the noise from the speakers, not wanting to let go of this moment, for the knowledge that it can never last.
The public won't stop drinking, they sway in time to the spoken words, mixed, hands open and stary eyed, swinging from the barriers, screaming out the poets name, their own voices mingling with his as they surge forward, crushing, willing to die just to feel the touch of his hand.
The children sit quietly in bus stops, hearing their own lives through the throbbing basslines, crying out at the raw power, the feeling it stirs up inside them like a restless rush of air shifting leaves, its noise, its endless ceaseless poetry becomes a wall between them and the rest of the world.
a song that no one can hear,
the colours and textures and marks on our faces,
instruments and changes of voice,
structure as melody,
grammer the background noise, a static,
the plot becomes lyrics, optional.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
