Here are a few things that I have been meaning to post about for ages, but always forget to include until after I hit "PUBLISH POST", by which time I can't be arsed to go in and add it.
So without further ado, I would suggest that you go and read/look at the following:
China Mieville - A top author, writes some really kooky and interesting fantasy, gives a great kick to the tired genre in my opinion. Probably his most notable work is on the New Crobuzon setting, which is set in his fantastical world of Bas Lag.
The first book in the set is called Perdido Street Station, and is a deep, involved read. He crafts his texts with a detail and intricacy that is seldom seen these days, armed as he is with an expansive knowledge of social and political elements of the world (his PhD was on such matters). A really worthwhile book to read if you are a fan of the fantasy genre, but are jaded by the same old rinse-repeat of generic hack and slash fanstasy. He happens to be anti-Tolkien and -CS Lewis, so if you dislike those, you may well enjoy this. Personally, I like them all.
But I digress. He has a few other books published set in New Crobuzon (The Scar and The Iron Council), as well as others called Looking For Jake (a collection of short stories), UnLunDun, King Rat, and the coming-this-year-I-can't-wait Kraken. Highly recommended.
Frank Beddor - ALSO on the recommended reading list is The Looking Glass Wars, Beddor's first novel, which plays with the original story of Alice in Wonderland. It is written well, and in an such a style as to be very easy to read. The simple language belies the often quite violent aspects of the book, such as the mad queen's killing of the Cat, and the Hatter's blademastery.
It is a very engaging tale that plays with commonly known aspects of the tale, and vividly brings the characters into new life. Beddor is concerned with the application of multiple media forms, and as such not only writes the novels (a trilogy - The Looking Glass Wars, and Seeing Redd are the first two books respectively), but also has plans to make a film based on the books, and also has a graphic novel series Hatter M. which is a closer look at the adventures of Hatter Madigan as he looks for Princess Alyss in the real world (drawn by Ben Templesmith, woohoo!).
Overall, you find yourself being drawn into a world that is very full of colour, vibrance and danger in such an unassuming way that you hardly even realise you are reading. Well done. Can't wait for the final book in the series and also the continuance of Hatter M's adventures. *Click on the link up top to go to the website*
Seeya! Blake.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Dr. Phil's Personality Test
Might I say before going on that:
1) I am not a Dr. Phil fan
2) Most personality tests don't get me
3) I don't often take personality tests
4) The internet is not really reliable, and I got this on Facebook, which I hate.
Now, I did on a Facebook application the Dr. Phil personality test:
"Your Score: 46.
Others see you as someone they should "handle with care." You're seen as vain, self-centered, and extremely dominant. Others may admire you, wishing they could be more like you. However, they don't always trust you, hesitating to become too deeply involved with you."
Now, usually I would scoff, although recent developments would lead me to believe that perhaps this isn't far wrong.
Have a nice weekend. Blake.
1) I am not a Dr. Phil fan
2) Most personality tests don't get me
3) I don't often take personality tests
4) The internet is not really reliable, and I got this on Facebook, which I hate.
Now, I did on a Facebook application the Dr. Phil personality test:
"Your Score: 46.
Others see you as someone they should "handle with care." You're seen as vain, self-centered, and extremely dominant. Others may admire you, wishing they could be more like you. However, they don't always trust you, hesitating to become too deeply involved with you."
Now, usually I would scoff, although recent developments would lead me to believe that perhaps this isn't far wrong.
Have a nice weekend. Blake.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Sigh. The Problem of Charcoal...
I did a rather good sketch this evening, as I was wondering what to do next with the Toby/Orphanage tale. It was pretty interesting. Unfortunately, I buggered it up, due to someone being "funny" and creeping up on me, scaring me shitless, and smudging the thing.
Oh well. By the way. Ta for the comments. Yes, Gaiman is great, I own most of The Sandman series, and the majority of his backlist. I am eagerly awaiting the new release later this year called The Graveyard Book. Over on his blog you can see the finished adult cover art, which is very nice.
I will be continuing to post up the Toby/Orphanage tale as I continue to write it. The bit already up has went through a few revisions before its posting, and I am still not happy with it. It sounds good, but the overall thing fails in the details. The children are going to be forced to work in a small cloth-making factory in one of the wings of the orphange. The sisters sell this off and make extra money on the side. Toby will get his education solely from sneaking into the sisters' private library after hours, and I think that its in one of these late night outings that the tale will move onwards.
Night. Blake.
Oh well. By the way. Ta for the comments. Yes, Gaiman is great, I own most of The Sandman series, and the majority of his backlist. I am eagerly awaiting the new release later this year called The Graveyard Book. Over on his blog you can see the finished adult cover art, which is very nice.
I will be continuing to post up the Toby/Orphanage tale as I continue to write it. The bit already up has went through a few revisions before its posting, and I am still not happy with it. It sounds good, but the overall thing fails in the details. The children are going to be forced to work in a small cloth-making factory in one of the wings of the orphange. The sisters sell this off and make extra money on the side. Toby will get his education solely from sneaking into the sisters' private library after hours, and I think that its in one of these late night outings that the tale will move onwards.
Night. Blake.
Self-Portrait
When I did this, I was very tired, in want of coffee, and slightly tipsy. Oh, and a shave wouldn't have gone astray.
Have a nice night.
PS - I am about halfway through the Mannequin Monologue. I'm hoping to have the first proper draft done by Friday. Since the change of tack with it the whole thing has been infinitely better to write.
Have a nice night.
PS - I am about halfway through the Mannequin Monologue. I'm hoping to have the first proper draft done by Friday. Since the change of tack with it the whole thing has been infinitely better to write.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
A rather big blog, with pictures, and story...
In order to update a whole load of stuff I've been doing (amidst uni and work) I have decided to do a really big blog, so apologies for anyone for whom it took ages to load.
Firstly - Pictures. Here is one of a tree that I did one day to see if it would turn out crap. I think it's ok...
This next one is the product of boring lectures. Doug is a cantankerous teddybear who is a 3-pack-a-day smoker, and caffeine addict. Frank is a small devil (I tend to think that devils are small mischief-makers, while demons are bigger and more malicious.
Secondly - Story: This is the intro (has seen a bit of revision) to the story that will be I think the third one for The Witching Hour. Its about an orphanage, and one child in particular who lives there. It revolves around the same idea as the much earlier version ('snapshot') of the same tale. Remember that the time peroid is somewhere in the 1800s, hence the kicking out of kids. I have to alter part of it to have mention of sweatshop labour. I will be changing parts of it, such as the education. I am thinking that they are funded by some benefactor who wants to see the children get a basic education, or something to that effect... Anyway, here it is currently, as the intro story:
St. Jacinta's Orphanage perches menacingly at the top of a tall hill, overlooking the town that lies to the East, a little way off. An old converted convent, St. Jacinta's is all brown archaic brick and grey slate; it has been on the hill before the first foundations were laid in the little town below. It was run by two old sisters, black-clad and spiderlike and they lorded over the children with an iron fist. Aiding them in their tyranny was an equally-old groundskeeper (who was cantankerous at the best of times, and worse when his arthritis took hold), and a rough stick they affectionately called "the Tickler". Surrounding the actual building, which itself is very large and contains multiple wings, are rather extensive grounds that encompass a small part of the forest to the west, and a graveyard just to the south. The grounds were kept impeccably tidy and the children were never, under any circumstances, to leave the grounds.
Toby had lived at the orphanage all his life. He had been deposited with minimal ceremony at the gates of the orphahge some 11 years ago, in a size 8 ladies shoe box, wrapped in the remnants of a tattered raincoat. Other children came periodically, usually due to the death of their parents and the absence of any living (or willing) relatives. In this respect, Toby thought that he had some luck; he had never known his parents, and told himself frequently, only half-believing, that you couldn't miss something you never had. Despite this, he often found himself wondering at night, while slivers of moonlight crept across the sleeping forms of the other children, about what his parents were like and whether or not they were still alive.
It was generally unpleasant at the orphanage, although Toby had little enough to complain about, because he had never known any other life. The rudiments of education were doled out by the sisters, who seemed to loathe children almost as much as the rest of the world, and they gave them rigorous amounts of work to do, which was never checked. Toby taught himself to read in the great library during free time on weekends, or after lessons. There wasn't a lot to do, really. Television was something he had heard of from some of the other students, and he had seen it, once, on an errand to the groundskeepers shed, a faint glimmer of wonder through the crack in the door. The children were forbidden to play in the graveyard and the forest, and the run-down sections of the old wings were out of bounds; with no toys and few real friends, Toby consoled himself in books. In books he found out about love and adventure and monsters and heroes. He wanted it all, anything that was different to the humdrum of the orphanage.
Now, it was customary that on the twelfth birthday of each child, if they had not been adopted, they would be sent out onto the streets to fend for themselves. This became over time a chief concern for Toby, who had (to the best of his reckoning) about five months or so before he was going to be out on his ear. While the wide world was something he was fascinated and tantalised by, he also knew that it wasn't always a nice place, especially to unaccompanied youngsters.
So there you have it. A fair bit of random stuff there, to show that I have in fact been doing something, rather than just being a lazypoo (which I have also been doing...).
Adieu, Blake.
Firstly - Pictures. Here is one of a tree that I did one day to see if it would turn out crap. I think it's ok...
This next one is the product of boring lectures. Doug is a cantankerous teddybear who is a 3-pack-a-day smoker, and caffeine addict. Frank is a small devil (I tend to think that devils are small mischief-makers, while demons are bigger and more malicious.
Secondly - Story: This is the intro (has seen a bit of revision) to the story that will be I think the third one for The Witching Hour. Its about an orphanage, and one child in particular who lives there. It revolves around the same idea as the much earlier version ('snapshot') of the same tale. Remember that the time peroid is somewhere in the 1800s, hence the kicking out of kids. I have to alter part of it to have mention of sweatshop labour. I will be changing parts of it, such as the education. I am thinking that they are funded by some benefactor who wants to see the children get a basic education, or something to that effect... Anyway, here it is currently, as the intro story:
St. Jacinta's Orphanage perches menacingly at the top of a tall hill, overlooking the town that lies to the East, a little way off. An old converted convent, St. Jacinta's is all brown archaic brick and grey slate; it has been on the hill before the first foundations were laid in the little town below. It was run by two old sisters, black-clad and spiderlike and they lorded over the children with an iron fist. Aiding them in their tyranny was an equally-old groundskeeper (who was cantankerous at the best of times, and worse when his arthritis took hold), and a rough stick they affectionately called "the Tickler". Surrounding the actual building, which itself is very large and contains multiple wings, are rather extensive grounds that encompass a small part of the forest to the west, and a graveyard just to the south. The grounds were kept impeccably tidy and the children were never, under any circumstances, to leave the grounds.
Toby had lived at the orphanage all his life. He had been deposited with minimal ceremony at the gates of the orphahge some 11 years ago, in a size 8 ladies shoe box, wrapped in the remnants of a tattered raincoat. Other children came periodically, usually due to the death of their parents and the absence of any living (or willing) relatives. In this respect, Toby thought that he had some luck; he had never known his parents, and told himself frequently, only half-believing, that you couldn't miss something you never had. Despite this, he often found himself wondering at night, while slivers of moonlight crept across the sleeping forms of the other children, about what his parents were like and whether or not they were still alive.
It was generally unpleasant at the orphanage, although Toby had little enough to complain about, because he had never known any other life. The rudiments of education were doled out by the sisters, who seemed to loathe children almost as much as the rest of the world, and they gave them rigorous amounts of work to do, which was never checked. Toby taught himself to read in the great library during free time on weekends, or after lessons. There wasn't a lot to do, really. Television was something he had heard of from some of the other students, and he had seen it, once, on an errand to the groundskeepers shed, a faint glimmer of wonder through the crack in the door. The children were forbidden to play in the graveyard and the forest, and the run-down sections of the old wings were out of bounds; with no toys and few real friends, Toby consoled himself in books. In books he found out about love and adventure and monsters and heroes. He wanted it all, anything that was different to the humdrum of the orphanage.
Now, it was customary that on the twelfth birthday of each child, if they had not been adopted, they would be sent out onto the streets to fend for themselves. This became over time a chief concern for Toby, who had (to the best of his reckoning) about five months or so before he was going to be out on his ear. While the wide world was something he was fascinated and tantalised by, he also knew that it wasn't always a nice place, especially to unaccompanied youngsters.
So there you have it. A fair bit of random stuff there, to show that I have in fact been doing something, rather than just being a lazypoo (which I have also been doing...).
Adieu, Blake.
Monday, March 24, 2008
A drawing of a scary clown, and general ramblings.
"To me, clowns aren't funny. In fact, they're kind of scary. I've wondered where this started, and I think it goes back to the time I went to the circus, and a clown killed my dad."
Coloured and blah:
This is the original picture:
So yeah. I don't like the green thing, but can't be arsed fixing it. Meh. I'll be doing uni work tomorrow, which means you can rely on hearing from me.
Have a nice week. Blake.
A friend sent me that, and I thought it was funny enough to go to the effort of putting here, along with a charcoal drawing I did on Friday of a clown with scary teeth. It was done on Moleskine, and coloured in Photoshop.
Coloured and blah:
This is the original picture:
So yeah. I don't like the green thing, but can't be arsed fixing it. Meh. I'll be doing uni work tomorrow, which means you can rely on hearing from me.
Have a nice week. Blake.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Having a Gaiman-gasm
I just had a Gaimangasm. It was pleasant, unexpected, and wholly amusing. The term is coined by my good friend Captain Dave, and relates to my experience reading Anansi Boys. I will be honest here, and say that despite my love of all things Neil Gaiman, I was struggling with this book.
It was wandering, and I felt that it was taking a long time to get to the point. I had suspected for a fair while that there was a lot more to the Spider/Fat Charlie, but when it happened, I was delighted, and there were a great number of other elements that suddenly fell into place all of a sudden. This brought me great joy, and the aforementioned Gaiman-gasm.
PS - read Anansi Boys.
PPS - it is NOT an American Gods sequel
PPPS - buy Fragile Things if you want more Shadow, there is a great story at the end of that which deals with him.
Happy Easter. Blake.
It was wandering, and I felt that it was taking a long time to get to the point. I had suspected for a fair while that there was a lot more to the Spider/Fat Charlie, but when it happened, I was delighted, and there were a great number of other elements that suddenly fell into place all of a sudden. This brought me great joy, and the aforementioned Gaiman-gasm.
PS - read Anansi Boys.
PPS - it is NOT an American Gods sequel
PPPS - buy Fragile Things if you want more Shadow, there is a great story at the end of that which deals with him.
Happy Easter. Blake.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Easter Greetings, and a few films worth watching, a book worth avoiding, and one I'd recommend you buy.
Firstly, I would like to wish you all a very happy, and safe Easter. I wish those of you who are having time off a relaxing break, and all those poor buggers (like me) who are working all the enjoyment that comes from double-time-and-a-half.
Films
Gabriel - An Aussie film, which endears it to me immediately, along with its dark gothic nature and general film noir, Bladerunner-esque feel. It was made on next to no budget, and considering, did a very good job of things. The acting was by and large good, although certain bits were a little cliche. Camera work and lighting, as well as the look of the film was quite good. It centres around the fight of the Arc angels against the top demons for the souls of humans living in Pergatory. There are a few blazing inconsistencies, which aren't explained, and the final scene on the roof is so similar to that of Bladerunner it comes close to blatant plagiarism (including the baddie looking suspiciously like Rutger Hauer). Overall though, a good film, and a decent plug for the Aussies. 4/5
Sweeny Todd -Let me state firstly that I like musicals. And Johnny Depp, and also Helena Bonham Carter. And Victorian England. But there was something (that although I liked the film a lot) that irked me. In a film so devoted to bloodshed, the blood itself looked rather fake. It sounds like a poor complaint, I know, but when the violence and pure evil looks more like tomato sauce than blood (although pies were involved...), its a little hard to swallow (again, like the pies). That being said, the cast was wonderful, the acting superb, and the story great. I was a litte creeped out by the young boy who looked like a girl and sang about feeling the girl all the time, and about standing near her in the dark, but I suppose it offered a light-hearted aspect to the proceedings. Some amazing shots, with truly creepy performances by Depp, Bonham Carter, and Rickman. If you liked Sleepy Hollow or From Hell, you'll like this film. 3.5/5
Books
Mister B. Gone (by Clive Barker) - Some people will say that the first problem is that I bought a book by Clive Barker. It's his latest book, and although I haven't read his other works, this title (his first after some time, evidently) makes me uninclined to. I found myself drawn in by the premise, only to be let down by the self-indulgent ramblings (bearing no resemblance to any blog...) of a so-called demon from yester-century. Great premise, poor execution. I'm not going to bother with his other stuff. If you think this is heresy, I don't wanna know. 2/10.
Dark Alchemy (collection of short stories, edited by Jack Dann and Gardner Dozois) - This is great. I am biased (but then, I normally love demon tales and medieval woes, and I hated the previous book...) towards a good fantasy book, and especially to a great short story. I will digress briefly to say that I believe a great short story is something that outstrips many other literary forms, due to their concise, and very formulated nature. Back to the point - but this book! It includes tales from such luminaries as Neil Gaiman (Sandman, American Gods), Garth Nix (Sabriel, Abhorsen), Eion Colfer (the Artemis Fowl series), not to mention Orson Scott Card (Ender's Game). A great collection, which, it bears mentioning, contains the tale "The Witch's Headstone", which formes a chapter of Neil Gaiman's book coming out soon under the title The Graveyard Book *plug, plug*. I'll go out on a limb, and give it 9/10.
*Work continues apace on the Mannequin Monologue, and I have come out of my month-long creative rut, and am back on the straight and not-so-narrow. I am hoping to have a finished first draft done early next week. Because I am writing the monologue on computer, I will put it up when I have done a completed draft. Also, work continues on The Witching Hour, which has now definately made itself into a long-term work, not simply one short story, but twelve. I am dropping the burning witch though. Its going to be set in the 1800s, and loosely around England, and its mythical surroundings and parallel realms (eg, Faerie).
So, have a great weekend folks. Blake.
Films
Gabriel - An Aussie film, which endears it to me immediately, along with its dark gothic nature and general film noir, Bladerunner-esque feel. It was made on next to no budget, and considering, did a very good job of things. The acting was by and large good, although certain bits were a little cliche. Camera work and lighting, as well as the look of the film was quite good. It centres around the fight of the Arc angels against the top demons for the souls of humans living in Pergatory. There are a few blazing inconsistencies, which aren't explained, and the final scene on the roof is so similar to that of Bladerunner it comes close to blatant plagiarism (including the baddie looking suspiciously like Rutger Hauer). Overall though, a good film, and a decent plug for the Aussies. 4/5
Sweeny Todd -Let me state firstly that I like musicals. And Johnny Depp, and also Helena Bonham Carter. And Victorian England. But there was something (that although I liked the film a lot) that irked me. In a film so devoted to bloodshed, the blood itself looked rather fake. It sounds like a poor complaint, I know, but when the violence and pure evil looks more like tomato sauce than blood (although pies were involved...), its a little hard to swallow (again, like the pies). That being said, the cast was wonderful, the acting superb, and the story great. I was a litte creeped out by the young boy who looked like a girl and sang about feeling the girl all the time, and about standing near her in the dark, but I suppose it offered a light-hearted aspect to the proceedings. Some amazing shots, with truly creepy performances by Depp, Bonham Carter, and Rickman. If you liked Sleepy Hollow or From Hell, you'll like this film. 3.5/5
Books
Mister B. Gone (by Clive Barker) - Some people will say that the first problem is that I bought a book by Clive Barker. It's his latest book, and although I haven't read his other works, this title (his first after some time, evidently) makes me uninclined to. I found myself drawn in by the premise, only to be let down by the self-indulgent ramblings (bearing no resemblance to any blog...) of a so-called demon from yester-century. Great premise, poor execution. I'm not going to bother with his other stuff. If you think this is heresy, I don't wanna know. 2/10.
Dark Alchemy (collection of short stories, edited by Jack Dann and Gardner Dozois) - This is great. I am biased (but then, I normally love demon tales and medieval woes, and I hated the previous book...) towards a good fantasy book, and especially to a great short story. I will digress briefly to say that I believe a great short story is something that outstrips many other literary forms, due to their concise, and very formulated nature. Back to the point - but this book! It includes tales from such luminaries as Neil Gaiman (Sandman, American Gods), Garth Nix (Sabriel, Abhorsen), Eion Colfer (the Artemis Fowl series), not to mention Orson Scott Card (Ender's Game). A great collection, which, it bears mentioning, contains the tale "The Witch's Headstone", which formes a chapter of Neil Gaiman's book coming out soon under the title The Graveyard Book *plug, plug*. I'll go out on a limb, and give it 9/10.
*Work continues apace on the Mannequin Monologue, and I have come out of my month-long creative rut, and am back on the straight and not-so-narrow. I am hoping to have a finished first draft done early next week. Because I am writing the monologue on computer, I will put it up when I have done a completed draft. Also, work continues on The Witching Hour, which has now definately made itself into a long-term work, not simply one short story, but twelve. I am dropping the burning witch though. Its going to be set in the 1800s, and loosely around England, and its mythical surroundings and parallel realms (eg, Faerie).
So, have a great weekend folks. Blake.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
A productive hour
I find that I am most productive when I am unable to waste time in ways I enjoy; a lack of anything immediate to waste time on leads me into doing useful things.
This is never more true of when my internet decides not to work. Last time it was down, it was a full three days before it was working again, and I very nearly went mad. However, after a late rise, and a leisurely breakfast, I went to Sanity and bought the wonderful Gabriel, released on DVD today, and came home to no internet.
Unperturbed, I sat down and began an assignment that is not due for a full three weeks, and completely re-wrote the mannequin stuff, so that instead of being useless, pretentious bullshit, it is now a coherent, focussed, and in-progress work. Hurrah! I have to say that the way I go is usually a few weeks of remarkable stuff, great ideas and the words to convey them, and then a few weeks of no ability to write anything (assignments included) at all that is any good.
So hopefully this signals the start of the on-cycle, and away we go.
See ya! Blake.
PS - as you no doubt observed, my internet is now working again, after I fiddled with some cables and so on, and now all hope of doing anything much for the remainder of the day is shot to bits.
This is never more true of when my internet decides not to work. Last time it was down, it was a full three days before it was working again, and I very nearly went mad. However, after a late rise, and a leisurely breakfast, I went to Sanity and bought the wonderful Gabriel, released on DVD today, and came home to no internet.
Unperturbed, I sat down and began an assignment that is not due for a full three weeks, and completely re-wrote the mannequin stuff, so that instead of being useless, pretentious bullshit, it is now a coherent, focussed, and in-progress work. Hurrah! I have to say that the way I go is usually a few weeks of remarkable stuff, great ideas and the words to convey them, and then a few weeks of no ability to write anything (assignments included) at all that is any good.
So hopefully this signals the start of the on-cycle, and away we go.
See ya! Blake.
PS - as you no doubt observed, my internet is now working again, after I fiddled with some cables and so on, and now all hope of doing anything much for the remainder of the day is shot to bits.
The THING That You Don't Want To EVER Happen
Occasionally when you write stuff (I've found anyway) you look back on where you are going and think "This is utter crap, how on earth did I think it was any good?"
It was this unfortunate point that I came to today in regards to the piece I am writing for my friend's monologue about mannequins. I looked at the stuff I had drafted and put up here, as well as other stuff that hadn't been typed yet, and realised that what had seemed like a good idea at the time, was actually far from a good idea.
So I am changing it. I'm going to work with the idea of a mannequin author who is giving some kind of interview/speech about her process as an author, and where she gets her ideas, and the pressures of trying to follow up a best-seller.
I am not going to post anything up for it until it's done, and I have as of now, about a month to complete it. So no more pointless snippets of drafts, I'll give you a full piece once it's been edited and so on.
Good night. Blake.
It was this unfortunate point that I came to today in regards to the piece I am writing for my friend's monologue about mannequins. I looked at the stuff I had drafted and put up here, as well as other stuff that hadn't been typed yet, and realised that what had seemed like a good idea at the time, was actually far from a good idea.
So I am changing it. I'm going to work with the idea of a mannequin author who is giving some kind of interview/speech about her process as an author, and where she gets her ideas, and the pressures of trying to follow up a best-seller.
I am not going to post anything up for it until it's done, and I have as of now, about a month to complete it. So no more pointless snippets of drafts, I'll give you a full piece once it's been edited and so on.
Good night. Blake.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
How you know the world isn't all bad...
This evening, while engaging in my mandatory time-wasting research into things I'll never need to know, I came across a wonderful headline at TheOnion.com. It read thus:
"Child Bankrupts Make-A-Wish Foundation With Wish For Unlimited Wishes"
It let me know that the world is ok.
Take care. Blake.
PS! I am writing something along a completely different line now for the mannequin thing (aargh! what a headache!) which is about a mannequin author who struggles to write anything of meaning. I have no idea which way to go about this whole thing. Night.
"Child Bankrupts Make-A-Wish Foundation With Wish For Unlimited Wishes"
It let me know that the world is ok.
Take care. Blake.
PS! I am writing something along a completely different line now for the mannequin thing (aargh! what a headache!) which is about a mannequin author who struggles to write anything of meaning. I have no idea which way to go about this whole thing. Night.
An afternoon well spent?
I spent most of this afternoon researching mannequins - mainly their history and evolution. At some point, I found myself delving into the fears of mannequins that people have, and how this relates to The Uncanny Valley theory.
This theory basically says that we as humans like to empathise with things that have human-like characteristics - we find them endearing, and quirky, and loveable. Because they are distinctly not human. There is a point, however, when the subject - be it a robot (this is what the theory originally applied to), a mannequin, a doll, or a puppet - becomes lifelike enough that it becomes scary. Instead of finding the similarities, and empathising with them, we find the differences, and are revolted by them.
So this is more or less (along with a bit of reading, and a little writing, and editing) is how I spent my afternoon. Hopefully this evening I will be able to make some headway through this mannequin thing, which I am honestly having trouble with. Its a good idea, but hard to work with in the monologue style. I'll get there.
Have a great night. Blake.
This theory basically says that we as humans like to empathise with things that have human-like characteristics - we find them endearing, and quirky, and loveable. Because they are distinctly not human. There is a point, however, when the subject - be it a robot (this is what the theory originally applied to), a mannequin, a doll, or a puppet - becomes lifelike enough that it becomes scary. Instead of finding the similarities, and empathising with them, we find the differences, and are revolted by them.
So this is more or less (along with a bit of reading, and a little writing, and editing) is how I spent my afternoon. Hopefully this evening I will be able to make some headway through this mannequin thing, which I am honestly having trouble with. Its a good idea, but hard to work with in the monologue style. I'll get there.
Have a great night. Blake.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
More Mannequin Madness! (part 2)
More of the Mannequin Monologue (continued on from this post):
But sometimes rules have to be ignored, and one of these times, I discovered, is when love comes calling. Over the course of a few weeks, we came to know each other - I shared my tales with him, as the others had when I arrived, and we became close. When he told me he loved me, I was so surprised and delighted, and we lay together until morning.
For so long, I had watched lovers pass by on the streets outside, arm in arm, enjoying the simple pleasure and warmth of love and the happiness it brings. I had envied them, as they had envied my designer fashions and shapely figure. There was, however, a side I had never seen to love - the sadness and pain it could bring were unknown to me.
All the next day, I stood motionless, waiting for the blissful hour when the store would close and we would be reunited again. As the lights dimmed to security setting, I ran from the FEMALE FASHION LABELS section, in which I modelled, to the MALE FASHION LABELS section, where he was. Or should have been. He was gone, though, and I was lost. I ran around, speaking to Armani and Gucci, who knew little, other than he had been damaged in an accident and had been taken away for repairs.
For a few days, I waited, hopeful, and then I began to give up. He was gone, and I doubted I would ever see him again. After nearly a month, on one of the aimless walks I had made part of my nightly routine, I saw him. He was back. I ran to him, and embraced him, but there was no return, no hint of recognition. He asked me who I was, and when I answered, said he had never met me.
I was crushed. My love had been stolen from me, and ruined, changed. I had to know what had happened, what had caused this horrible affair. And when I knew, I would strive to make ammends.
Well, there you have it for this evening. Remember, Rach, rough! draft only. It will look better after I have had more time to work on it thoroughly. Hopefully this will give you something to work with, and help me edit. If you can let me know about anything you are unhappy with, or and character elements that dont fit, its much easier at this stage to fix it then to let it go until the end... Cheers, hope all goes well. PS - this is the second bit - the beginning is underneath. bj.
But sometimes rules have to be ignored, and one of these times, I discovered, is when love comes calling. Over the course of a few weeks, we came to know each other - I shared my tales with him, as the others had when I arrived, and we became close. When he told me he loved me, I was so surprised and delighted, and we lay together until morning.
For so long, I had watched lovers pass by on the streets outside, arm in arm, enjoying the simple pleasure and warmth of love and the happiness it brings. I had envied them, as they had envied my designer fashions and shapely figure. There was, however, a side I had never seen to love - the sadness and pain it could bring were unknown to me.
All the next day, I stood motionless, waiting for the blissful hour when the store would close and we would be reunited again. As the lights dimmed to security setting, I ran from the FEMALE FASHION LABELS section, in which I modelled, to the MALE FASHION LABELS section, where he was. Or should have been. He was gone, though, and I was lost. I ran around, speaking to Armani and Gucci, who knew little, other than he had been damaged in an accident and had been taken away for repairs.
For a few days, I waited, hopeful, and then I began to give up. He was gone, and I doubted I would ever see him again. After nearly a month, on one of the aimless walks I had made part of my nightly routine, I saw him. He was back. I ran to him, and embraced him, but there was no return, no hint of recognition. He asked me who I was, and when I answered, said he had never met me.
I was crushed. My love had been stolen from me, and ruined, changed. I had to know what had happened, what had caused this horrible affair. And when I knew, I would strive to make ammends.
Well, there you have it for this evening. Remember, Rach, rough! draft only. It will look better after I have had more time to work on it thoroughly. Hopefully this will give you something to work with, and help me edit. If you can let me know about anything you are unhappy with, or and character elements that dont fit, its much easier at this stage to fix it then to let it go until the end... Cheers, hope all goes well. PS - this is the second bit - the beginning is underneath. bj.
Friday, March 14, 2008
The beginning - at last!
I have finally gotten by behind into proverbial gear and begun work proper on Rachel's monologue for Drama. It is based around a mannequin, who stands up for the rights of mannequins everywhere...
Inspired by numerous discussions of mannequin personality (including detailed interviews with high-standing members of the mannequin community), and this photo, the story begins thus...
(*I am uncertain where this photo came from, apologies if its from your website, please simply kill me if it is. You'll find me most obliging. Blake.*)
It is wonderful to see so many of you here tonight, gathered together mostly for the first time, and with one purpose, one goal in mind. Some of you only have snippets, sketchy information, so allow me to tell you my story, upon which account we find ourselves gathered here together...
Like all of us, I began life in a small mannequin factory just outside town. From there, still smelling of the releasing agent chemicals of the production line, I was shipped in pieces to a up-market store, assembled again, and dressed in the latest fashions.
Each night, after the store closed and the lights went out, I used to talk with the older mannequins, who taught me about life, told me stories of the people who bought the clothes we display, and how they were full of pain and anger and hatred for one another. They told me of love, and the joy that it brought humans. But not us. That was not for us. I always asked why. They always replied that it was not our lot, we were to model, to represent perfection to the masses.
But as the years wore on, I felt less and less perfect. Chips began to mark my once-shining finish, and age had worn me down. I no longer felt perfect, or even close to it. This went on, and on, monotonous days watching the people tread past, some dutifully eyeing off my wares. Until one day, I met him...
He was the new guy, the mannequin for the Trent Nathan suits. Handsome, chiselled, young. I knew I had no chance, and even if he was interested in me, it wasn't the way. Not for us. We are just mannequins. We mock life, not live it.
So that is the drafted introduction, needs a lot of work, including acting stuff, character gear and so on. Its from the perspective of a female mannequin, about 6 years old. In case you are interested.
Have a nice weekend peeps. Blake.
By Way of Explanation...
Hi all. I have decided that, by way of explaining my lack of material recently, I will post up the Discursive Writing assignment that I had to do. The task was to describe the noises outside your house at night. So here it is... (I'll let you know what I score for it as well):
Sitting on the back deck, the first thing I hear is the crickets singing their nightly tune. It is a chirruping symphony; clicking and whirring sounds so easily recognised permeate the air. A bird whistles softly, its calm flowing song complementing the crickets' score.
A little way down the street a car engine idles, periodically grunting mechanically as if it would rather be resting. Female voices cut through the air - sharp and high-pitched, they aggravate the otherwise calm atmosphere. Goodbyes are given; the car door closes with a gentle creak and the old vehicle rumbles off, sounding cantankerous. Newly laid tar grinds against rubber and spits out a harsh cackle.
Wind starts to gently stir the leaves of overhanging trees, which begin a sylvan rustling. The leaves scrape the iron roof of the car port, slow and methodical, scrape, scrape, they remind me of someone digging in moist earth with a shovel. My dog's leash hanging on the deck rail begins to swish, and then clap dryly against the solid wood.
The bug-zapper makes its trademark snap-hiss, a jolting, electric sound signifying the end for some poor bug or another. It fizzles momentarily, flaring white-noise for an instant, then the almost sub-sonic hum continues.
From next door comes a hollow click, and a strange blinking – almost like a spoon tapping glass - a fluorescent light is turned on. Padded footsteps descend the wooden stairs; muffled feet carry my neighbour to the garbage bin, which echoes dully as used bottles are thrown in. Clanking together, they strike something metallic with a sharp report.
During all this, my dog has padded up onto the deck, his overdue-for-a-clip toenails making a small clattering; he plonks unceremoniously down with a muted thud, and snorts loudly. He begins breathing with an odd whistle, and the occasional puff – sure signs he has gone to sleep.
Faintly in the distance an odd noise buzzes through the night, it pulsates at a deep, resonating level that is deeply unsettling for no apparent reason. There is something ominous to it, a deep throb that beats like some fearful heart – steadily it beats, not coming any closer but not moving away either. I have no idea what it is.
The wind is getting stronger; a rushing sound like water is pouring from the trees. The chime sways and pitches its mournfully ethereal song, tinkling in the darkness as the other sounds are engulfed by the night.
Sitting on the back deck, the first thing I hear is the crickets singing their nightly tune. It is a chirruping symphony; clicking and whirring sounds so easily recognised permeate the air. A bird whistles softly, its calm flowing song complementing the crickets' score.
A little way down the street a car engine idles, periodically grunting mechanically as if it would rather be resting. Female voices cut through the air - sharp and high-pitched, they aggravate the otherwise calm atmosphere. Goodbyes are given; the car door closes with a gentle creak and the old vehicle rumbles off, sounding cantankerous. Newly laid tar grinds against rubber and spits out a harsh cackle.
Wind starts to gently stir the leaves of overhanging trees, which begin a sylvan rustling. The leaves scrape the iron roof of the car port, slow and methodical, scrape, scrape, they remind me of someone digging in moist earth with a shovel. My dog's leash hanging on the deck rail begins to swish, and then clap dryly against the solid wood.
The bug-zapper makes its trademark snap-hiss, a jolting, electric sound signifying the end for some poor bug or another. It fizzles momentarily, flaring white-noise for an instant, then the almost sub-sonic hum continues.
From next door comes a hollow click, and a strange blinking – almost like a spoon tapping glass - a fluorescent light is turned on. Padded footsteps descend the wooden stairs; muffled feet carry my neighbour to the garbage bin, which echoes dully as used bottles are thrown in. Clanking together, they strike something metallic with a sharp report.
During all this, my dog has padded up onto the deck, his overdue-for-a-clip toenails making a small clattering; he plonks unceremoniously down with a muted thud, and snorts loudly. He begins breathing with an odd whistle, and the occasional puff – sure signs he has gone to sleep.
Faintly in the distance an odd noise buzzes through the night, it pulsates at a deep, resonating level that is deeply unsettling for no apparent reason. There is something ominous to it, a deep throb that beats like some fearful heart – steadily it beats, not coming any closer but not moving away either. I have no idea what it is.
The wind is getting stronger; a rushing sound like water is pouring from the trees. The chime sways and pitches its mournfully ethereal song, tinkling in the darkness as the other sounds are engulfed by the night.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Blech!
I never really liked writing creatively under duress (ie, being told I have to for uni, and being given a silly task). I have been plugging away now for a while on my Discursive Writing task due on Thursday, and am not getting anywhere huge. I've hand written stuff down, and now need to type and edit and put into order all the random stuff I have done.
On another note, I am reading more Sherlock Holmes, and am really enjoying it.
Currently, I am working on revamping the original Nivera setting, by which I mean altering the whole of the creation mythology and so on. Which is fun. Nivera, for those who haven't been in the know, is a setting I have been working on for a while now, and kinda went by the wayside a little. But back on track with some stuff. Hopefully will be fun.
I'm also researching the Hollow Earth theory in relation to the Nazis. Interesting stuff, I am considering writing something about that sometime in the future too. But for now, I am pretty hectic simply with uni work and work-work.
Take care peoples. Blake.
On another note, I am reading more Sherlock Holmes, and am really enjoying it.
Currently, I am working on revamping the original Nivera setting, by which I mean altering the whole of the creation mythology and so on. Which is fun. Nivera, for those who haven't been in the know, is a setting I have been working on for a while now, and kinda went by the wayside a little. But back on track with some stuff. Hopefully will be fun.
I'm also researching the Hollow Earth theory in relation to the Nazis. Interesting stuff, I am considering writing something about that sometime in the future too. But for now, I am pretty hectic simply with uni work and work-work.
Take care peoples. Blake.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Update, or Why I've Been So Lazy This Week
Hi all. I'm writing this mainly to let you know that I am not dead, but I am rather busy (probably so much so that the state of being dead is not far off). I have had a rather hectic week, which is not particularly unusual, although it has impeded my ability to write much of use.
I have pretty much decided that The Witching Hour needs massive revision, and extension, partly because I feel all the stories have more to offer (I for one don't want to see the children of St. Jacinta's Orphanage get eaten...), and partly because it allows me to roll a whole bunch of otherwise miscellanous and random material together with some cause for cohension.
Also, my father's aunty passed away, which has led to great consternation as my grandfather (being rather idiotic, as he is) blames this (as well as many other things, such as general ailments) on my father. I suggested to Dad that he may as well take up black magic and hex the old bugger, and at least in that way the abuse would be deserved. He was disinclined to do so.
In other news, I have had a little bit of a downer the last few days, as it feels like the world is out to get me (again, the paranoia sets in). It seems to me that no matter what you do for some people, and how hard you try to make things better or happier for them, you are still liable to be blamed or shunned for the smallest thing. A recent example of this hit home, especially when followed up with being told I should stop trying to "fix" things, and just leave it all be. So I did. And I am.
But I'm still a little taken aback, and if you meet me in a dark alley in the next day or two, be nice, or you may get shivved.
Blake.
I have pretty much decided that The Witching Hour needs massive revision, and extension, partly because I feel all the stories have more to offer (I for one don't want to see the children of St. Jacinta's Orphanage get eaten...), and partly because it allows me to roll a whole bunch of otherwise miscellanous and random material together with some cause for cohension.
Also, my father's aunty passed away, which has led to great consternation as my grandfather (being rather idiotic, as he is) blames this (as well as many other things, such as general ailments) on my father. I suggested to Dad that he may as well take up black magic and hex the old bugger, and at least in that way the abuse would be deserved. He was disinclined to do so.
In other news, I have had a little bit of a downer the last few days, as it feels like the world is out to get me (again, the paranoia sets in). It seems to me that no matter what you do for some people, and how hard you try to make things better or happier for them, you are still liable to be blamed or shunned for the smallest thing. A recent example of this hit home, especially when followed up with being told I should stop trying to "fix" things, and just leave it all be. So I did. And I am.
But I'm still a little taken aback, and if you meet me in a dark alley in the next day or two, be nice, or you may get shivved.
Blake.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Woohoo!
Today after class at uni, I went to the bookshop to purchase a textbook for Discursive Writing. Now, I need this text, on account of my being absent week one, and really wanting to know whats going on. So it came to pass that after some frustration getting to the proper section (due to a large box of books being in the way, and I do mean LARGE) I discovered, much to my annoyance, that the book had sold out.
Hmpf!
A friendly gent sidled up to me, asking if I needed a hand, I asked when the book would be back in stock. At this time, he disappeared mysteriously, and arrived a few moments later with "the last copy" of the text. Cheers, mate!
So I have the book, all is well.
The more I think about The Witching Hour, the more I think it could be more 'novel'-size, whatever that is, with a bunch of longer short stories (with content that mirrors that of the existing work), linked together by a prologue and an epilogue. Who knows? I think that may work better though...
Have a great night.
PS - I have seen the movie JUNO twice now, and would have to state that it has one of the best representations of teenage difficulty that exists in film form. The acting is superb, Ellen Page is wonderful, a very natural character. See this film! 5/5.
Hmpf!
A friendly gent sidled up to me, asking if I needed a hand, I asked when the book would be back in stock. At this time, he disappeared mysteriously, and arrived a few moments later with "the last copy" of the text. Cheers, mate!
So I have the book, all is well.
The more I think about The Witching Hour, the more I think it could be more 'novel'-size, whatever that is, with a bunch of longer short stories (with content that mirrors that of the existing work), linked together by a prologue and an epilogue. Who knows? I think that may work better though...
Have a great night.
PS - I have seen the movie JUNO twice now, and would have to state that it has one of the best representations of teenage difficulty that exists in film form. The acting is superb, Ellen Page is wonderful, a very natural character. See this film! 5/5.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Continuing "The Witching Hour" (Part 2)
Previously, I posted the beginning of The Witching Hour. I should mention that the fourth section is already on the blog in a separate post, called "Snapshots of Disturbance", but I have expanded it a little bit, it fits nicely in this tale I think.
It ended with the clock striking three, so I'll pick it up again from that point:
>>
Glong! the clock strikes three...
A sliver of moonlight peeks through the moth-ridden curtains, creeps its way across the sleeping forms of the children of St. Jacinta's Orphanage, beds all in a row.
The orphanage is very old (none of the children are sure how old), and it stands resolute on top of a tall hill in the country; the children are never allowed to leave the grounds.
Deep below the sleeping children, in ancient catacombs that most people have forgotten, the two spidery black-clad spinsters who run the orphanage make a deal with a blue-eyed devil. "Give me children to eat," he says in a voice sweet as honey, "and I will let you live forever, and your youth will be restored." Giggling in high-pitched voices, they sign with blood a contract written in the language of demons, not knowing that under the Terms and Conditions they will be eaten too (only after the last child is gone of course...).
The devil sits back and smiles quickly, then disappears in a puff of smoke and sulfur-smell; he takes his contract with him.
Glong! the clock strikes four...
The witch shrieks, her cries chill the hearts of those around despite the overbearing heat. She is tied in an embrace with a stake, the last embrace she will know, save that of oblivion. Or hell.
Her skin blackens and cracks, burning; now melting, liquifying in the flames as they rise higher and hotter around her. The moon, low and gibbous, frowns on the earth, and the clouds, looking angry rain blood down from the crimson skies.
The High Inquisitor stands, black cloak whipping around his gaunt frame. Pushing a lock of greasy hair out of his face, he allows a smile to play upon his thin, ugly lips.
Justice is being served.
The work is hard, and thankless.
But it is God's work.
And it is good.
As the Angel burns it sings a sweet song, and those who are responsible feel the weight of guilt upon them. The Trumpet sounds like a voice from the heavens condemning man for his sins. The angel's wings crumple and become charcoal, their beauty lost and blown away by the wind. Golden garments are tattered and hang loosely on the broken form of the holy being.
Stars fall from Heaven, God is angry with man and his wrath is growing.
A time of reckoning is coming.
This is the work of the Devil.
The Demon feels the bindings of the Tetragrammaton, the name of God, loosen; its wings unfurl and it flexes muscles long unused.
It tears at the ties around its neck, ichor flows freely from its wounds, but it cares not. The scent of Hell is in the air, scorching the nostrils of the onlookers.
Terrible bat-like wings beat the air, lifting destruction above the earth - it is free!
The horror is loose, death is coming.
This is man's work.
Glong! the clock strikes five...
>>
So that is the next little bit of The Witching Hour, hopefully there will be a bit more coming early next week. I am happier with the newer edit of the "snapshots of disturbance" post - it's a little more interesting, I think (it also makes a little more sense - to me, anyway).
Have a great weekend folks. Blake.
It ended with the clock striking three, so I'll pick it up again from that point:
>>
Glong! the clock strikes three...
A sliver of moonlight peeks through the moth-ridden curtains, creeps its way across the sleeping forms of the children of St. Jacinta's Orphanage, beds all in a row.
The orphanage is very old (none of the children are sure how old), and it stands resolute on top of a tall hill in the country; the children are never allowed to leave the grounds.
Deep below the sleeping children, in ancient catacombs that most people have forgotten, the two spidery black-clad spinsters who run the orphanage make a deal with a blue-eyed devil. "Give me children to eat," he says in a voice sweet as honey, "and I will let you live forever, and your youth will be restored." Giggling in high-pitched voices, they sign with blood a contract written in the language of demons, not knowing that under the Terms and Conditions they will be eaten too (only after the last child is gone of course...).
The devil sits back and smiles quickly, then disappears in a puff of smoke and sulfur-smell; he takes his contract with him.
Glong! the clock strikes four...
The witch shrieks, her cries chill the hearts of those around despite the overbearing heat. She is tied in an embrace with a stake, the last embrace she will know, save that of oblivion. Or hell.
Her skin blackens and cracks, burning; now melting, liquifying in the flames as they rise higher and hotter around her. The moon, low and gibbous, frowns on the earth, and the clouds, looking angry rain blood down from the crimson skies.
The High Inquisitor stands, black cloak whipping around his gaunt frame. Pushing a lock of greasy hair out of his face, he allows a smile to play upon his thin, ugly lips.
Justice is being served.
The work is hard, and thankless.
But it is God's work.
And it is good.
*
As the Angel burns it sings a sweet song, and those who are responsible feel the weight of guilt upon them. The Trumpet sounds like a voice from the heavens condemning man for his sins. The angel's wings crumple and become charcoal, their beauty lost and blown away by the wind. Golden garments are tattered and hang loosely on the broken form of the holy being.
Stars fall from Heaven, God is angry with man and his wrath is growing.
A time of reckoning is coming.
This is the work of the Devil.
*
The Demon feels the bindings of the Tetragrammaton, the name of God, loosen; its wings unfurl and it flexes muscles long unused.
It tears at the ties around its neck, ichor flows freely from its wounds, but it cares not. The scent of Hell is in the air, scorching the nostrils of the onlookers.
Terrible bat-like wings beat the air, lifting destruction above the earth - it is free!
The horror is loose, death is coming.
This is man's work.
Glong! the clock strikes five...
>>
So that is the next little bit of The Witching Hour, hopefully there will be a bit more coming early next week. I am happier with the newer edit of the "snapshots of disturbance" post - it's a little more interesting, I think (it also makes a little more sense - to me, anyway).
Have a great weekend folks. Blake.
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