B.J. Edwards's Blog, page 4

Imagination

When I was a child, I remember vividly, being able to buy transfers from pretty much any cornery type shop. These were simple, and fantastic. You could get so many themes; Jungle, Wild West,’ Space, Fantasy, Sea. I would put them on the back of rolls of wallpaper and create my own stories. I would put them on windows, and randomly, I remember putting them on some of my Star Wars vehicles. I know, because just recently I came across my old AT-AT, and it still had some transfers on it. Specifically a ladybird and part of an eagle! If you were to give a set of transfers to a child today, they would doubtlessly be very unimpressed, but to me, it was great, a quick way to create a world, a story, a narrative. 

I’ve always loved making-up stories and characters. As I sit here, I recall my first brush with drama. I was very young, and I was in a production of the Nutcracker. I only played a soldier, but I loved it. After this, at around the age of 8 or 9, I played Scrooge in a school play, and loved it. 

I remember with fondness, a teacher called Mr Morgan. I think he tought Geography at John Aird. We read, and acted out a play set in Roman Saint Albans. The play wasn’t all that good, but I loved it. Seeds are sewn early. Drama at school, my dad telling me stories, my mum taking me to the library. Creativity is vital, a oasis in our modern lives. I’m now writing books, and writing and directing plays, not because I’m talented or gifted, but because of some cheap transfers, and the fact that I’ve always been encouraged to use my imagination. 

George

And once again we mark Saint George’s day. A man shrowded in myth, mystery, legend and ambiguity. A man who is neither English or British. A man who, doubtlessly, has never seen a dragon, let alone slain one. So what does he offer the English psyche? Well, not much. He is largely uncelebrated and unremarked upon. We have to thank Shakespeare’s Henry V for invoking his name in battle, and thank the spirit of Henry for lending us war-like qualities. In truth, George’s identity has been mixed up with a promise of a hope. A hope of glory and protection for England. But, surely, someone equally as mythic like King arthur, would make a much better patron saint.

In a time when celebrating national identity is somewhat frowned upon, with David, Andrew and of course Pattrick being celebrated through party and booze the world over, isn’t it time we reclaimed some pride in our saint? Whatever nationality he was, whatever he did, the idea, the thought, the notion that some bloke in plate armour, once slew a dragon and rescued a virgin, is surely a romantic and inspiring concept. A concept we must read as a metaphor for a nation who struggled, and struggles with notions of identity and culture. So, “Cry havoc, for Harry, and Saint George!” 

The evolution of a tale

The evolution of a tale, is in itself, an interesting story. It starts as an idea, a concept, a feeling, an urge. It gradually grows into a short story, and then, I have to decide to prune or fertilise, to turn it into a novel, or to leave it as a short story. More often than not, the initial story is adapted into a play, adapting and evolving further. I find short stories are fertile ground; ground that will allow germination and growth into either a mighty tree, or a delicate flower. In some cases, the idea is turned into multiple formats, a short story and a play, and in some cases a screen play as well. Poems are from different seeds, seeds that sring from emotion, hunger or the need to communicate a feeling or emotion. Poems invariably remain poems, and do not grow into anything longer or taller. The decision I am wrestling with at the moment, pertains to one of my favourite short stories and screen plays. Should I take the short story blue print and evolve it into a novel..? The issue with this, is always one of padding and over writing. In the same way, forcing a plant to become a tree is unnatural, forcing a story to become a novel is equally so. Most of my short stories have become plays, and one of my short stories has become a series of novels. In the case of the Ancient Destiny series, they were fertilised by the sunshine of thought, watered by imagination, and pruned by a little art. 

So, next time you write something, don’t be afraid to let it find its natural size, be that a three line poem, a 5000 word story, a 45000 word novella, or a 150000 word novel. 

Balor Rising

Books

Ok, so today we came across a chap, a chap who, frankly m...

Ok, so today we came across a chap, a chap who, frankly made my blood boil. He said he had a guide dog. He went on to say that he wasn’t working her today. I asked him’ how he coped, how he’ successfuly negotiated a long journey without his dog. He told me that it was fine because he didn’t even need a cane. This guy is, to all intense” of purpose, fully sighted. He can read and write print, travel and shop independantly, use IT without access technology. But, when it’s dark, his eyesight fails. So, if I was being very generous, I might be able to understand why he might need a dog if he had a nocturnal lifestyle; if he worked at night, and that work involved travel. But that is not the case. His dog will get very little work, and in the Summer months, next to no work. I think it scanelous that GDBO give guide dogs to people with such high levels of eyesight. It must confuse the public no end, when on one day they come across a totally blind person who may need assistance, and on another day a guide dog owner who virtually has a driving license. Guide dogs used to be given to people with little or no eyesight, but now they are given to anyone who may have the vaguest of vague visual impairments. Having a guide dog is a honour, a previlage and a huge responsability. But this life enhanceing commodity is now akin to a disposable symbol cane. If you can see perfectly well most of the time, don’t have a valuable dog that can go to someone who can’t see, get some cane training instead. In my opinion, GDBO are changing the very notion and perception of visual impairment to the point where totals are even more marginalised than ever. 

#febooary17 d12

Her

In honour of today, here’s a poem from my collection, Tesserae…

Her

Carve me a heart from an apple,

A kind seed that holds within it trust.

Carve me a smile from a memory,

A lilac scented breath, a whisper of longing in the night.

Speak to me of love,

Of wondering hands and urgent pulses;

Reach out with thought and taste the energy of belonging, the radiance of joy.

For you are the sum of all the strewn petals,

The multitudinous dreams of far off summers.

Waste not your light,

Do not blink away the tear, for it reminds you of me.

Secrets are promises,

Promises are secrets.

Our secret is the beauty of dawn,

The calm of moonlight on moist skin.

If you are brave, remember me,

If you are strong, forget me.

When time’s treachery breaks the blessings of youth,

And when a treasure found is lost anew,

Look into your heart and find me there,

Entrancing you with words of silk,

Honeying reminders of fingers and lips,

Bodies pressing, bodies melting.

For I am your ecstasy, your untamed pulse.

You are my muse, my unwavering ghost of what must be.

And now we linger, caught in the paper tapestry of a thousand if onlys.

We are the frantic call, the urgent heat,

The forbidden apple that is the heart of light.

Come, caress me with thought, kiss me with words,

Hunger after me, desire me with the longing of sorrow, the desperation of lust.

For what we find is ours,

What we have is sacred.

#febooary17 day 8

Thankfuly, storytelling is not quite dead. I’m writing this from a train, a slow, London Midland train. So far I’ve heard two different men, one middle aged, one younger, both with sons of around 2 or 3 years of age. It’s heartening to witness that both da