Path Of The Writer

I have thought in the past about the type of medium I write in – the path I take. Without doubt, I tend to lean towards the novel and prose-form. But why? What makes some write a screenplay, a book, a comic book? Over the last week (since writing Hell’s Highwayman) I have wondered about this.

Sometimes I get plot ideas and entire stories that don’t fit specifically into the setting of a three-hundred page book. They lend themselves towards visuals and sounds, rather than page-turning in silence with a mug of coffee. Does this mean I should try to write in a different fashion, or develop the ‘thought’ without prescribing exclusively to the novella?

Hell’s Highwayman is a perfect example. Bypassing the usual ‘I had this idea’ formula of explaining it, I’ll cut to the chase: I’m not sure it worked, perhaps because the medium was wrong. I visualised what played out with exactly that – visuals. The colours of hell, the shading and artistic style of the highwayman. I could see the demon at the end, and feel the visceral nature of where this man was. Personally, I think it would be better off as a graphic novel. The BANG and KAPOW of the sequences in my head are not hefty enough to turn novel pages.

This has happened before. A while ago I had a strong notion in my head that I could progress with a story built on the relationship between two brothers. One becomes the almighty and evil ruler (with super powers to boot) and the other becomes the champion of the people. This is irrelevant for now, but the showdown between them played out in a film-like way in my head. I could see how it would be filmed, where slow-down would occur between physical strikes, what kind of powerful and then sombre music would play after a death, and how the shot would take us to the heavens before credits rolled. I don’t think I’m going (gone?) insane, but you never know.

I’ve also considered the forms of script writing/screenplays and novels, and the different ways I envision things in relation to these versions of the craft. I try to write something and it’s dialogue heavy, and I don’t particularly want to get bogged down in layers of environment – I would much rather state the place and be done with it in these instances. This is obviously not a great approach to novel writing. It’s too brief, too much is not down on the paper and left to the reader (or director) to generate.

Other instances tell me to write the setting richly, to try and develop the world before worrying about who fits into it. To build upon the foundation and create an alive stage for my characters. This would not be good, or possibly boring as a film (though some independent flicks will be risky and do this and it’s quite enriching).

Maybe I should try my hand at some other form of writing, and not stick exclusively to my prose? There is a chance something else could bloom, something that leads in a different direction. Maybe, maybe not. But if it’s one thing I’ve learnt as a writer, it’s never stop trying.

Hell’s Highwayman

This was written straight onto the site with little editing, basic spell checking and a couple of once-overs. I’m attempting to get myself into writing again and I figured a balls-to-the-wall approach might prove best. I was aiming for a narration POV with some a build up moving through it. I’m 50/50 on how it turned out, in that with some care and attention, an interesting – and exciting – storyline could come out of it.

Please read, maybe enjoy, comment and above all, be gentle!

-

Our hero stood before a sea of hard black and crimson. Below the rocky precipice he balanced himself upon, a bloodied sea spread itself into the distance; enveloping mighty cliffs as dark as a demon’s eyes and leaving them reaching from the molten river like charred fingers vying for the stars.

Above him fiery skies burst with nightmarish glare as flames licked like hungry tongues. The entire sheet of yellow and red and brilliant burning blue vanished behind an endless horizon. It was truly an awful place, where the damned were tortured eternally and the sinners prayed for salvation.

The Highwayman however, did not pray for anything. There was more to keep him on the side of sanity. Inside him churned a wanting revenge bent on perpetual agony for any that stood in his way. Stripped from the cobbled streets of London by something altogether more evil than any man he had ever known – or killed – he would not let the sacrifice of his life go quietly.

The bliss of a single breath was as crisp as life could get, so with his life gone and this damnation brought upon him there was nothing left to loose. Every pocket of the underworld would know his name until his soul was worth less than the pain and anger and blood that he would deliver to the Devil’s door.

The man who stood before hell and watched it like a King eyed the lands he would conquer had to fight the fight, for he was not the only one taken by the creature that night. The wild energy that ran through his veins and spirit was born of a violent criminal of the shadows, but the love found in the arms of a woman that did not hate him or run away in fear created a presence within him – it made the Highwayman dangerous and truly fearless.

Unlike him however, she was a being born of purity. Where he was darkness, she was light and where he was death, she was life. The Highwayman had not understood her affection and desire to live in the fold of his coat, but there had been no part of him that would say no. He was selfish – as were all men – and when separated, that defining difference had been laid out in all its truth. She had gone to heaven, and he to hell.

It was not so unbreakable a wall between them though. Hell would revel in the atrocities he would create in the wake of his path to her. He would raise the gates of the Devil’s yard until God himself heard the rattling cries of bleeding demons.

Taking a final look over the ruby-red wash unfolding below him, the Highwayman turned on a swift heel and swung a once holstered flintlock out. Peering over the edge of his high collar, he took a step forward and pressed the barrel into the temple of a putrid creature dripping black blood. Pulling the trigger, a snap cut the billowing fires around him and sent the demon to the molten-rock path below him.

This is where the Highwayman’s journey began.

The Non-Believer

So, Natania Barron from The Aldersgate Cycle posted something that sparked a question in my head. One that I have danced over before in a moment of casual curiosity, but never looked into deeply. Namely, ‘- do we write what we are? If so, who are you?’

Now, I know that from experience I tend to write nothing like what we – or I – am. My imagination is bored with the everyday life of an Englishmen in America. Indeed, it’s even bored with the notion of the human race as it is and whatever it may, or may not have given us. My mind seeks to conjure up anything and everything, and often things that are so far removed from reality that even it (and consequently me) gets confused by it’s own plethora of thoughts and mutant-creations.

I have bounced from Neo-London futures to dying universes, from Kings and Queens of made-up realms to Angelic societies battling one another in post-apocalyptic, mechanised worlds (the latter of which is to be the basis – and thesis – for my NaNoWriMo attempt).

But back to the question at hand; writing what we are, and who we may be if this is the case. Now, I took this question in a religious context. I am not religious: I have two children, a wife and two cats, but I believe in nothing, I follow no faith. That is not to say there is nothing out there, but the fallible nature of man leads me to conclude that we can never be certain that that something is indeed out there. We are not omnipotent, or omnipresent therefore how can we ever know?

This is not an argument however, as an agnostic (as I have considered myself to be for many years) I do not protest the existance of something beyond our reality, be it samsara, heaven or anything in-between. I just don’t have enough evidence or a small enough doubt that we cannot, truly, know.

So, do I write what we are? No. Does this tell me who I am? Yes. At present, I am writing the foundation for Arbiture which will be my NaNoWriMo entry. I cannot truly describe it in simple terms, but to sum it up: it is about two angelic races from different realms of existance, converging at a point where their own balance of suffering and enlightenment causes the realm they inhabit to implode, causing a visceral-ethereal war in the process… I told you it’s not simple to ‘blurb’.

The nature of the story lends itself to Judo-Christian beliefs played out on Buddhist stage – reading that back gives me cause to raise an eyebrow in scepticism. What have I gotten myself into? I am questioning faith, the nature of sacrifice, a life of suffering and a life of angelic pride and divination, and what might happen should these two cornerstones of separate existences collide. There is also love vs. faith, passion vs. doubt and some inter-realm travel for good measure (or plains of existence if you like) and I’m not even religious!

What the fuck am I thinking?

The answer, it came to me simply, is that I like to present myself and my doubts with what others see as their truths. What better way to answer one’s own questions than to look into a mirror, or walk in another’s shoes. I imagine my mind chose this in some subconscious way. I am intrigued, but do not believe and as such my imagination has sought to throw these two things together in some kind of Cage Fight.

It’s fascinating – to me at least – to loom beyond what I once thought was a cool vision in my mind’s eye and to discover there is so much more behind it. There are questions, and maybe even some answers in the things I write. For me that makes it even more fulfilling to do.

Character/World

I have come to a crossroads. I am creating my Arbiture characters and although I have a general idea of what and who they are, I am finding it hard to discern whether my characters should influence the situations presented to them, or whether the situations and choices unfolded before them should alter the traits of their personalities.

For example, if my character (in this case, X) is already a battle-hardened, cold and downright unemotional creature then he will approach events with this suitcase of traits in play. He will endeavour to get the job done – ruthlessly – and in no way fail. This causes the situation to bend to his will, as is inherent to the nature of character control within the story. It means no matter what: the ups and downs, he will remain as he is and unflinchingly remain so.

In the second example, character Y will begin this game as an inexperienced, yet hearty individual. He will approach situations with gusto, but not always with the talents and skills to succeed. In this case however – and to produce a growing character – he will be affected by the story. He will learn and grow and make mistakes, and these mistakes will influence future choices.

I like the ideal of character Y more than that of X; the thoughts of growth is obviously an intriguing thing to follow as a stalemate-personality can become exactly that – stale. However in saying that, character X does have his own charms. He knows who he is, what he is capable of and how it will end (for him anyway). He will not make as many mistakes, but may miss out on other opportunities.

Besides this fleeting enigma (or so I thought) is another lapse in imaginative guile: I cannot decide in what kind of reality this is set. I am aiming for a visceral, punchier existence for my creatures, but something keeps telling me I cannot have it this way. Angels, wings, realms of existence and otherworldly developments – how can I be so grungy when the foundations of my story are so… ethereal?

As well as the idea of grounding my characters and that basis being a post-requisite of the very reality and rules they abide by, this further indulges my confused cognitive reasoning and makes me wonder, how true to themselves and their emotions can they be? On a stage with puppets, I’m trying to figure out how in-touch with the human emotive response they are.

Sorry if this has gotten a little existential, but I’m playing with angelic creatures based in a human-painted world. I want buildings and vehicles, but in what manner do they exist? I’m trying to imagine what a world of angels would be like without the clouds and the human-afflicted tapestry of our own weathered planet.

Maybe I’m trying too hard to create a pseudo-understandable realm of existence for this story. Perhaps I need to make is simpler… but that doesn’t feel right. I can sense an answer; a one true vision that encapsulates everything I’m trying to accomplish. At the moment though, I feel like I’m ramming ingredients together and hoping a pie will suddenly appear.