Alex Laybourne's Blog, page 107

ROW80: Reflections.

I only have time for a very quick update at the moment, but will post something longer later on. Having missed posting yesterday I wanted to put something up during my lunch hours (30 minutes)

I had hoped to finish editing my novel during this round, and alas that hasn't happened. However, I am onto the last 20 pages or so which means in approximately two weeks time I will be done and ready to send it away to the copy editors.

I have averaged over 1000 words a day the last ten days or so which I am delighted about, and on the Cover Art front, my brother-in-law who has just started his own business as a graphic designer – watch this space for some promo work for him – has agreed to help me and take care of the book cover for me. I have the image already so things are really moving forward.

 

For me the real struggles start once the book is out there. Promoting myself and my writing, spreading my name and socializing. These are the aspects of being an indie writer that hinder me more than the writing of the novel itself.

I also plan to go through and re-edit my short story collection as in all honesty it was rushed and rather unprofessional when I brought it out earlier this year… hence my total lack of sales push for it.

 

Anyway, lunch is over (SIGH) and the afternoon / home stretch has begun. only 3 hours remaining and I can once again head home.

Thanks for reading.

The Great Thing About Bad Movies…

I watch a lot of movies. Not as many as I used to, but by everyday standards I watch a lot of movies. I am a fan of movies, but not one of those people who only watches classic's or those that have cult status etc. I simply search around, see a movie or a title that looks half way interesting and then I watch it.

I look for no hidden meanings or cultural awakenings, at least not the majority of the time. I simply look to a movie to entertain me.  You can therefore understand when I saw that I have also soon a lot of crap movies. I'm talking Uwe Boll-esque piles of nonsense.

One such farce, and I say it with a moderately heavy heart due to Nichol's Cage's presence, is Season Of The Witch – a religious-historical-supernatural action film. This has to be one of the worst movies I have seen in a long time. I mean America's in the Crusades!!!!!!! At least try to hide your accents. It would never be worse the Dick Van Dyke and Mary Poppins is a classic.

The terrible plot; including an ending that beggars belief, directing that never made me feel like I was anywhere near the 1300′s and foolish geographical errors that rival The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull aside, the real reason I loved this appalling movie is the script.

Any movie where a Knight of the Crusades just walks up to a walled city in or around Turkey/Syria, knocks on the fortified gates with his fist to say (and I quote) Hello, Is there anybody there? needs to be applauded.  Not to mention the majestic line of We're going to need more Holy Water, along with a plethora of modern swearwords and terminologies that will leave you with a smile on your face and a feeling of unbreakable optimism in your heart.

For much like watching an UWE BOLL movie, Season of the Witch will leave you all thinking.

IF SOMETHING LIKE THAT CAN BE MADE IN HOLLYWOOD, THEN I AM DESTINED FOR SUCCESS.

ROW80: Business Meetings and Late Nights

I had expected to get nothing done in the second half of last week. I was back at work, with 1800 emails to read, I had a two-day business meeting with one of my clients who had come over from London and two (of the three) kids filled with cold.

You can imagine my surprise when I finished writing last night to see I have averaged over 1000 words a day!!

I am officially on the editing home stretch now, and it feels great. My brain is just itching to start the second installment of the series.  I have approximately 20,000 words to go.

I do know that the next two weeks - before I go away on holiday – are going to be super busy at work, as I have to catch up on outstanding work from my week off last week, and also oversee a systems migration for another client of mine. However, I am sure I will be fine.

If you have read some of my previous posts, you may have found one referencing time as being a fickle son of a bitch. This is true and I stand by it. However, I have also learned something else about this keeper of all things.

Time is magic. When we need it, really need it, time can be conjured up from thin air (why thin air? I once heard Sir Alfred Hitchcock ask). So I know I will be fine.

That's pretty much it for this check-in. It's early, I'm still waking up and my finer motor skills seem to be another step behind.

Are You Game?

Phillip Lendon walked through the arcade looking for a machine that he hadn't already completed at least once, in an attempt to take his mind off the world around him. He had three Dollars in his pocket, and with his gaming skills it would be enough to keep him away from home, away from his drunken father and semi-catatonic mother until the early evening.

He strolled passed the virtual sports games, the Virtual Fighters, Street Fighters and Shoot 'em ups that filled the middle portion of the arcade. He breezed through the slot machines. He had never touched them and never would. He paused a moment by the fishing game in the back corner, his name was one all of the top 10 positions, but he doubted anybody else played it. Then, something caught his eye, hidden away in the opposite corner was a new machine. Even though it was 'out back', a place reserved for old machines, Phillip had never seen it before, and he knew the arcade better than anyone.

It was blue, electric blue and there was a screaming face painted in white on the right hand side. A strange yellow glow was cast up from the screen and seemed to beckon Phillip to it.

Without knowing why, Phillip slipped all his coins into the machines hungry slot and gripped the handles. They were warm. It was an old-fashioned sort of game, there were two joysticks each one with two buttons, one on the top, one on the backbone. The purpose of the game was unclear, even at the start screen. Suddenly the handles started to vibrate, ever so slightly and the screen burst into life.

It was a simple game, a 3-D maze, where the objective of each level was simply to reach the centre of the maze; never the exit. Each stage was different, some traditional garden mazes, another was in what looked like a prison, with corridors and barred doors. One was on a space station and another in the Wild West.

Phillip had lost all track of time, his credit never seemed to reduce even though he died multiple times. His attention was absorbed by the game. Everything felt so lifelike, look so real. He raised his hand to wipe the sweat from his brow, his hand came away from the handle with a strange ripping sound like sitting on leather seats for long.

Phillip resumed playing. His eyes were red and sore, his mouth dry. Large purple bags had appeared beneath his eyes, and now began to swell. He didn't notice. The game had taken its hold.

The arcade closed, the lights went out, and nobody saw Phillip. He didn't need lights to play and so the no longer held a purpose in his life. Every level he advanced Phillip felt the world he knew slip further away from him. His abusive father, the man who would beat and abuse him. The mother whose only care was getting her pills on time each day. He felt the school and the bullies rip away; aborted from his life.

Sweat covered his brow, and when he went to wipe it away his hand refused to let go; cramp. Or so he thought.

Phillip focused his thoughts, breaking his gaze on the screen, suddenly aware of how tired he felt and the darkness around him. Trying again his hand finally came away from the stick, only he never actually let go.His fingers refused to release their grip and so stretched like hot mozzarella on a fresh pizza. Blood coursed through the rubberized skin fold, the bones disappeared.

"What the fuck" Phillip cried. He raised blinked hard, trying to clear his tired vision. When that didn't work he raised his right hand to rub his eyes, only to find the skin stretch in the same fashion.

The music erupted from the machine; which until that point Phillip hadn't noticed had been silent. It was heavy music, dark; it sounded like laughter. Phillip began to struggle, desperate to get away from, only it did no good. Every jerked movement he made, every pull and twist actually brought his hands closer to the game once more.

In his mouth, Phillips tongue fell still between his lower teeth. Useless and dead it soon became cold and hard, almost leathery.

The tips of his fingers were the first thing to change. They became hard. Not that they were regaining their normal solid form, but rather turning black. They fused to the joysticks and in doing so pulled Phillip back to the game. He was helpless, the sticks moved of their accord, the buttons fired and launched without command much like a Pianola.

"Help" Phillips called again, knowing it was futile.

His now plastic fingers had fused with the control sticks down to the second knuckle by the time Phillips pulled up the courage to yank himself away. Pain erupted in his head, his vision exploded with bright sparks of pain. He heard his fingers snap and dislocate at the main knuckle that sprung from his palms, but their fusion would not be undone. Phillip cried out, his mouth fell open and a road flew from his lips.

As if woken from a slumber, Phillips tongue sprang to life and fell from his mouth. Like his fingers it stretched and pulled. It thinned out once it left the warmth of the mouth, and hung down past his chin; resting.

Tears welled in his eyes and flowed over his cheeks, dripping onto the console beneath him. Each second he was pulled closer and his face was now no more than 12 inches away from the screen. His fingers fully fused, his palms cupped, gripping the controls. Phillip grunted as the bones in his hands were crushed allowing the loose skin to fold over the controls until his wrists. The music continued to laugh at him.

The final level was reaching completion, the boss just one stage away. Phillip no longer saw the game, only his own face reflected in the monitor. His eyes were black; the entire ball, his tongue hung long and thin from his mouth and seemed to flickers like a snakes, feeling the air. With alarming speed to shot out, snaking its way over the console ripping away its oral foundations. Blood flowed out of Phillips open mouth, it was thick and black, it ran down his chin as each movement his tongue made ripped him further. He watched as the tip disappeared around behind the machine, finding the port where the power cable should have been. It penetrated the machine and began to pulse, draining Phillip. The flow of blood from his mouth stemmed as it got diverted through his tongue and into the machine. Large balls passed through it, like a garden hose in a Disney cartoon.

His feet were planted to the floor, and no matter how much he struggled Phillip couldn't break the hold of the machine. He felt his body empty, the world around began to blur, and finally, when the darkness over took him he fell to the floor. The joysticks pulled out of the machine as he collapsed, their wires dripping blood, bright and red.

The next morning when the Arcades manager opened up he found body of a young boy in the back next to a machine he didn't recognize. It was blue and had two strange-looking faces painted onto the side.

He reached into his pocket and unknowingly pulled out 50 cents. He stepped over the body - which he no longer saw – and into the powerful yellow glow of the game.

ROW80: Back to Work

Well my holiday is over and the office has returned to my life.

Don't you love that relaxed feeling you have after a holiday. Don't you hate it when after 15 minutes back in the office that feeling has gone, and you feel just as stressed as before you went away.

In total I had almost 1800 emails waiting for me after but a week and a half away. This, coupled with the visit of my number 1 client today and tomorrow means I will not actually be behind my desk to begin working my way through the emails until Friday.

I had managed to sort through them yesterday and filter out the junk and items that had been taken care of for me, but still I have more than enough sitting there to keep me more than busy. Thus removing my lunch breaks from me for the rest of the week and ridding me of my chance to write.

I also have two children with horrible colds and I think the eldest is also coming down with it. (Me too but that doesn't count.) Needless to say writing will not be my number one priority this week (as much as it pains me to admit it) so I will just do my best to get whatever done that I can and hope for a better run next week.

I hope that all of you are having a more productive week and if not, keep your chin up. Next week will bring clearer skies and smoother waters, and just don't forget that even 10 words written is 10 words closer to the goal. That is not nothing. We should be proud of every word we get down and it is these difficult times that allow us to prove to ourselves just how badly we want it.

 

What Do You Call A Group Of Writers? Part 1

For many years the idea of a writers group has called to me. I loved the idea of it, sitting down with others, sharing ideas and work.  Deliberating over each others work, projections past present and future. Brainstorming plot lines and characters, and having a group of 'friends' around you that you know you can turn to for advice. Honest advise from not only other writers, but other readers.

The other week the opportunity to join a writer's group came to me. I was delighted. Living in a small town in a non-english speak country had limited my options in terms of groups and 'real'(non internet) friends. Of course I jumped at the chance. However I soon got to thinking. Was a writers group really the best thing for me?

I work 40 hours a week and with the commute is 10 hours a day I'm gone. I have three young kids at home, a house to help keep clean, words to write, a blog to update and a wife that would like to see me at least a fe minutes a day. Do I have time to make the 90 min (round trip) journey to the writers group? to commit myself to reading other's work and offering my advice? Am I a good enough writer to offer advice on somebody's writing. There were a lot of questions floating through my mind; call them doubts or insecurities if you wish… I do. So I didn't go, I offered my excuses and skipped it. Not because I didn't want to go, or because I didn't dare………

well maybe just a little,

but mainly because if I can't commit to it 100% then it would be wrong of me to use the advice of others and not offer that same level of attention in return. The option is still there for me to go, and maybe I will. One day, it's just once a month after all.

 

What Makes Me Tick: Werewolves

What is not to love about Werewolves. Out of all the supernatural characters they are without shadow of a doubt my favourite.

They are powerful animals, savages. They are wild and uncontrollable. Yet in my opinion they are one of the most versatile when it comes to writing. There are just so many ways you can use them.

From spicing up a horror story to all manner of metaphors about change and the duality of man.

There is a lot of depth to the werewolf mythos, from how to become a werewolf; how you acquire the curse, the process of changing; manner, speed etc and also what the final wolf looks like.

Personally I like the theory that a werewolf becomes a real wolf, although I have written tales where they are slightly more 'human' in their development, but more to the point that they do not lose all of their humanity. They retain their intelligence and can -to an extent – control their actions.

I am also a big fan of werewolves in artwork. I think there is no horror creature that is more pleasing to the eye than werewolf art. Just have a search in Google or wherever and just look at the rich and varied images that are found.

Werewolves have achieved iconic status in the movie world also. Beginning (as far as my movie viewing is concerned) with the wonderful horror film The Wolf Man with Lon Chaney Jr creating the character that would terrorize and inspire countless generations.

Through the years there have been Werewolves appear in every genre from horror and cartoons to Comedy and TV Series. They have been heroes and villains, lovers and fighters.

There are countless ways to use Werewolves not just to scare but to emphasize a point, and in my own honest opinion the movie Ginger Snaps (only the first one) does this perfectly. The movie is about the werwolf at all, but about the changes our bodies go through when we hit puberty, and seeing this done with a female lead was refreshing. If you haven't seen this movie, I recommend you check it out.  

Is it just me or is there something about looking at a full moon (in real life) that makes you wonder more than any other supernatural being…. What if?

 

 

The Sunday Slump

This is something that I have noticed pretty much ever since I started this blog. (way back in February). At first I just thought that it was because I was new, and my number of visitors would fluctuate and my postings would be irregular at best.

However, I have gotten into the habit of posting something every day and if I can manage it, around the same time each day also. That way I hope people will get used to seeing my blog / tweets / Facebook and Hyves messages at a regular time of day and eventually become intrigued as to what this is all about.

Over the last two weeks I have not only seen a very large increase in my traffic, it is also at a constant level. I get around the same number of visitors each day, and my minimum number has tripled. You can therefore understand that I am delighted.

The only thing is that Sunday's seem to be a statistic on their own. Every week since I began my visitors on a Sunday were near nonexistent, and this trend continued over the last two (today will make 3) Sundays. On a number of Sundays I have had no visitors at all, and on good ones I get maybe 3 or 4. Now of course I value those three of four people and their visit as I do everyone taking the time to read my thoughts and fiction. I was merely wondering if this strange Sunday Slump as I have labeled it is something that only I suffer from, or is it an internet epidemic?

I can understand why in a way. Sunday is a day of rest, a day for church and a day for visiting family in many countries around the world, and so maybe it is just that internet traffic as a whole is lower on Sunday.

Have any of you noticed this trend and if so what did steps have you take if any to try to combat this?

ROW80: Blowin Hot and Cold

Well, in all it has been a successful week. I feel great for having a week away from the office. Even if I am dreading going back (maybe we should just go on the run) I feel refreshed and have loved having some time to spend with the kids. Taking my eldest to school etc. All of the things I miss thanks to my job.

I also made some great progress with my novel. I have changed the name, but only because I found the perfect piece of cover art that I plan to use when creating the cover which I think I will have to do myself as my budget just cannot stretch to both a proofreader and artist.

Where do I start with the summary of the second half of this week. Well Wednesday saw me edit 3,666 words in one evening. I was delighted. The following days were less productive but I was busy with the kids, and spent the evenings watching a few movies with my wife. I hit 500 words on Thursday and approx 800 words on Friday. Nothing compared to the total on Wednesday but still I am now on page 115 of 161 and feel confident that I can still get the edit / rewrite completed before I head off on my Summer holiday. My plan is to send the finished novel away to the proofreader for a grammar edit. I am happy with how tight the story is currently so there is no need for anything more than checking all of the t's are dotted and i's are crossed.

On top of the editing I also got two short stories written yesterday. Circa 500 words each, and they have received positive reactions so far which is pleasing.

My main aim for the coming weeks is to try to hit 1000 words a day in terms of editing. I can easily manage 750 so fitting in those extra 250 words should be a synch, and of course I will keep you all posted.

For the rest all I want to say is have a great weekend, wherever you are and thank you for taking the time to read this post and feel free to browse further. If you break something no worries, you don't have to buy it, and maybe you will like what you see. If so, just click that follow button and never miss a beat.

I'm off to watch the thunderstorm.

Cave of Memories

When I was 16 my grandparents died in a car crash. It wasn't their fault.

We lived in the country, the roads were winding and many bends were blind. The roads were wet and other car couldn't react.

There is this cave in the woods behind our house. It cuts into the hill and sometimes when I go there I still hear them. They used to take me there for picnics when I was a kid. It was our special place. We would sit inside the cavernous opening and eat sandwiches and cake, then drink soda that made my nose fizz. I thought it looked like the earth was tired, yawning. That is why I never ventured too deep.

When I was 16 my parents died in a car crash. It wasn't their fault.

We lived in the country, the roads were winding and many bends were blind. The roads were wet and other car couldn't react.

There is this cave in the woods behind our house. It cuts into the hill and sometimes when I go there I still hear them. Beside the cave is a large tree. Four thick branches splintered from the trunk just a few feet above the ground. Dad taught me how to climb it. He built me a swing that hung from it, and on hot summer days Mother would sit against the trunk and read to me as I sat on one of the lower branches. 

I used to think the tree looked like the Earth's hand reaching up to grab anybody who rose too high into its fingers and shovel them into its tired mouth. That is why I never climbed too high.

I stand here today and I look at the cave and I look at the tree. I see no mouth and I see no hand. I see them for what they are. And so I climb that tree to the very top, and I stand before the cave. I hear their voices echoing to me from the dark. I am not afraid, so I enter the cave and walk into the darkness, where I know they are waiting for me.

For when I was 16 I died in a car crash. It was my fault.

We lived in the country, the roads were winding and many bends were blind. The roads were wet and I drove far too fast.

As the darkness surrounds me I call to them.

"I'm Sorry"