The Seed of the Story

Last week, at long last, I made some progress with my novel Lucian (or The Shadows at Sunrise, whichever I decide to call it). It had been on standstill for almost two years, a combination of plot trouble and a writer's block caused largely by my father's death.
When I sat down to write, I realised that sinking back into that world, of cobblestones and clockwork, to be easier than I had anticipated. Sure, the writing is a little haphazard through lack of practice, and I feel like I'm floundering to find my footing once again, but the world was still there, like nothing had happened. My characters were still waiting for me, still willing to say 'okay, here is what happens next', and all I had to do was put my fingers to the keys and let myself write.
Part of this is silencing my inner critic, that constant nagging voice that everything I write is terrible and that nobody will ever want to read it. This is, however, a first draft, and as Hemingway once said 'the first draft of everything is shit'. So, I have to let myself be shit, don't I? I have to allow for bad writing, for less than fully three dimensional characters, and just focus on the story.
Some of it came easier than other bits. One of my characters, having left the story only a chapter previously and who I had not planned on returning for a while, decided she wanted a viewpoint scene. This was fine by me, to a degree - I realised half way through my current draft that I needed more scenes from her point of view and that I would need to work on that in the second draft. So, I gave her a scene. She contemplated the events of the chapter previous and, as is in her nature to be strong-willed and stubborn, she told me that she wouldn't be kept out of the loop. She wanted back, she said, she had a part to play in the coming events and she wouldn't sit and let the other characters have all the fun.
For those fellow novelists reading this, you'll know how this feels. Those of you who don't write, this will sound strange to you. 'Has Matt gone crazy?' you may ask. 'Does he think his characters are real?'
Well, yes and no. I went crazy a long time ago. It's strange when a character does something unexpected, something unplanned, but they really do take on a life of their own sometimes. Aurora's decision to come back has thrown the next few chapters into a dark place which I have not considered. It adds a certain degree of conflict to the plot which is, of course, always good - she left following a fight with my MMC, David, when he told her that she was slowing him down in an effort to protect her. But what part will she play in the events that follow? What effect will her presence have?
This is entirely unplanned, but while it is worrying it's also exciting. I want to see what she does. I want to see what she's made of. So, I'll let her have her moment. I'll let her confront David and see what she says to him.
While I didn't write at the weekend (due to being away on a small holiday and not wanting to pack my laptop), I hope to launch back into things now. I set myself a 1st of October deadline, during which I need to get from 66,000 words to roughly 100,000. This is an immensely doable task. Even if I only write 400 words a day, I will reach my deadline with time to spare. On average, on a good day, I can write upwards of 1500-2000 words, so I might even reach my deadline long before then.


I hadn't planned for this entry to be so long, so if you're still reading, thank you. I have a bit of a treat for you, so please, go a little further. Late last night, a friend of mine said she was clearing out an old hard drive and found something I might be interested in. This was, it transpired, the very first thing I wrote of my novel.
A few entries ago I talked about how the story came to me - how a character appeared in my mind's eye and, as all good characters do, began to tell me their story. I had to listen. From that I began to write, just a few hundred words, which over the next few years morphed into something entirely different to how it began. My writing style here is, at the very least, nowhere near as strong as my writing is now. But this is what I wrote.

The flame flickered over the end of the cigarette, illuminating the man’s face for just a second, before he was plunged into near-darkness once more. The smoke rose and swirled about his darkened features, causing him to appear like a mirage across the dank and grimy table. He stared down the stick into the embers, twirling the cigarette around his fingers in an absent minded way. Then he began to speak.

‘What I am about to tell you is the truth. You can choose to believe me, or walk back out of that door.’ he said, pointing through the crowds of the pub to the heavy door at its entrance. ‘I don’t care either way.’

The man waited for an answer, but the solitary figure before him did not speak. He merely watched inquisitively, wondering if this stranger could be trusted. It seemed he chose to believe him, for he did not speak a word, nor did he leave. He simply took a swig of the pint in his hand, and let him continue. Almost instinctively, the smoking man continued.

‘It is said that many worlds exist outside this one; that we cannot see the boundaries and doorways that lead between and cross into ours. From time to time, however, we catch a momentary glimpse - a spectre of something that resides where we may not wander.’

His voice was calm, as though talking about the ordinary and the mundane. As he folded his arms and savoured another drag, he closed his heavy eyes for a moment longer than a blink.

‘Most live their lives without ever glimpsing this world, while some…’ he said, pausing to choose the words, ‘…some have to live with it all their lives. I am one of those people - the ones lucky enough to have to fight.’

As the light changed in the bar, the listening man caught a glimpse of his storyteller’s features. He was in his mid thirties, with ragged short hair and an unshaven mask of stubble. He seemed like he had been through battle, he thought, as darkness closed in once more.

‘The world outside ours isn’t like the fairytales’ he continued, ‘isn’t so peaceful and idyllic. Things reside in the Otherworld more terrible than your most terrible nightmares.’

For the first time, the second man spoke. He was younger than the first - clean shaven and with ashy blonde hair. When he spoke, he sounded inquisitive - almost childlike in his simplicity.

‘So they exist then? Faeries?’

The smoking man laughed. ‘Not in the way you think.’ he answered plainly, ‘Not in your storybook world. The beings that reside in that world - some are peaceful. Most are not. Most would not hesitate in devouring you alive, taking everything you own and then taking your very soul.’

The younger man was taken aback. He did not expect such a straight and bitter answer. Admittedly, the thought of faeries and goblins still made him think of the Brothers Grimm, of Hansel and Gretel and those cautionary children’s tales of the nineteenth century. But the idea that they could all be real? He had always passed it off as childhood fancies. These things could not exist - not in the real world, not in the rational world. But as this man insisted, they lay outside the rational world.

And yet, it was something he had always been fascinated with - something that he had researched in his spare time. He devoured book after book on the subject - accounts of meetings with the fair folk, of baby snatches and banshees. But until now - until tonight - it had only been an interest. Now, when this man had come to him, he was being forced to admit it was all true.

His attention turned back to the speaker. He was taking another drag from his cigarette, and taking the chance to speak, asked him a question that was troubling him.

‘Why are you telling me this’, knowing full well why. He pulled his bag closer to his waist, as though protecting it.

‘Because I have come to this pub every night for the past two weeks, and I have seen you in the same seat; reading the same books. “History of Folklore”, “The Court of Unseelie”, “The Revolt of the Faeries and the Elves”. All books which I, too, own.”

The younger man was taken back again. Had this man been following him? Had he been stalking him every night for the past fortnight? He was right, though - they were books which he had in his bag even now. Every night, he would come into this bar, choose a private cubicle, and read for hours. Normally, he would be left alone, but not tonight. Tonight, he had been approached.

Trying not to show his surprise, he took another sip from his pint and asked another question. ‘So what can I call you?’

The smoking man smiled, knowing he had really captured his audience’s interest now. ‘You may call me Lucian’ he said, holding out his hand to invite the same question.

‘David. David Singer’ he replied, extending a handshake but being met only with air; Lucian had already retracted his hand and laid it back on the table. David took his hand away feeling rejected, and took another swig of his pint.

‘Well, Mister Singer’ Lucian said, ‘I have more to tell you, if you wish to listen. I realise this may all come new to you, but you strike me as…interesting. The question is, are you capable to stomaching the things I will tell you?’

David blinked, uncomfortable of being put on the spot. He had only met this man, who had sat down across from him so suddenly and started telling him that faeries were real. For all he knew, he could be a raving lunatic who would take him into a dark alleyway and kill him. But yet, in that momentary glimpse he caught of the man’s features, he saw a sincerity that would only come from heartache. Heartache, and trouble. If this man was indeed mad, he certainly believed his own delusions with enthusiasm. Choosing to throw caution to the wind, he nodded.

‘Good’ Lucian said, without a hint of emotion. David wondered if he was smiling through the darkness, and hoped that if he was, it was not delight that he had found a new victim. ‘But here is not safe. We can meet somewhere more private, where I may properly tell you what I know.’

David’s heart skipped a worried beat, but as though Lucian had read his mind, he continued to speak. ‘It will not be devoid of people - you are at no personal risk, Mister Singer. Meet me in Botanic Gardens tomorrow morning at eleven. At the entrance.’

Without so much as another glance, Lucian got to his feet and edged out of the private box. His long coat billowed behind him, caught in the wind from the open door. The pub was emptying now, but the patrons left were eyeing him suspiciously. As he began to walk towards the door, though, David called after him.

‘Why me, Lucian?’

Lucian stopped in his tracks, turned around just a little, and replied. David could not properly see him, still. Just the wild ragged dark hair, the heavy eyes, and billowing coat.

‘Like I said’, he answered, ‘you interest me. Do not be late, Mister Singer, as I will not wait for you.’

With that, Lucian left the pub, leaving David alone with his books and the remainder of his pint.

Here, David is more wholly me than he would eventually become, partly because it was I that Lucian was talking to in my mind's eye, not David. Lucian also changed - he no longer smokes, and his personality here is more akin to how he will be at the end of the story. At this point in my current draft he has not suffered, not experienced the heartache I saw when I met him. He came to me from a point after the story's conclusion, a point where all had been said and done.
When I wrote this, I had no idea that I was writing the seed that would, inevitably, lead to my first novel. I had not yet studied my Yeats module at university, not yet made the link between the story's seed and the Occult Renaissance of the Late 19th Century. The filename itself shows this - 'Two Guys in a Bar - A New Thing'. I had no idea what I was getting myself into.
Last but not least is the time stamp on the file. I wrote this on 2nd of October 2007. My current deadline of 1st October is, unknowingly, almost 5 years from the day I first met Lucian and David, the day I first peeked into the world of cobbles and clockwork. Perhaps I should celebrate that day by, finally, reaching the end of this road I set out on so long ago.
This might just be my longest blog entry to date, so if you've come this far then, as always, thank you for reading. I hope this has been interesting for you.
Tell me, how did your novel come to you? What was the first thing you wrote? Sound off in the comments below, and I look forward to reading whatever you have to say =)

Until next time, dear readers. Keep writing.

Matt

Why Do We Fear The Doppelganger?

When I was a kid, I had the same recurring nightmare that, it seems, I shared with most children. I would be in my house, where everything would seem fine. My mother and father would be there in the living room. I would leave for the kitchen...and there, standing at the sink, would be my mother. I'd know instantly that this was not her, my real mother was in the living room, this was some sort of monster or impostor, and when she turned around I could see the evil on her face. She would chase me back to my parents, or catch me and I would wake just as those hands that were not hers took hold of me.

But I wasn't alone in this. Talking to a few friends, I found that they had exactly the same type of nightmare. Even thinking about it now that dream still creeps me out, and it seems it's left its mark on my writing.

Tonight I read a post on Facebook which, summarising, said this - You hear a voice from the kitchen, your mother, asking you to come downstairs. On your way down you hear your mother calling from the bedroom, saying not to go down, she heard it too. Which do you believe?

Chills, right? Something so simple it borders on the cliché, but for some reason this really gets to me. Something which is not your mother, using her voice, screams malevolence. I'm not the only one who thinks so. Neil Gaiman's novel 'Coraline' features a young girl, the titular character, who, finding her way into a parallel world, discovers her 'Other Mother'. The main difference is that this Other Mother has buttons for eyes and means, in the end, to eat Coraline. A simplification of the plot, you understand, but there you have that old fear that one's mother is not who she says she is.

Let's widen the scope a little. In TV's 'Supernatural', there is an episode featuring the folkloric 'wendigo' - a creature into which humans could transform if they commit acts of cannibalism. The show's incarnation possesses one particular ability - the ability to mimic the voice of any human. Lying in wait in the woods, it calls out for help using the voice of one of the missing group. The group goes looking, and the creature devours them. In real-world Ethiopia, there is talk of a wolf-like creature called a 'corocotta' which has the ability to mimic the human voice, and lures its victims by calling them by name.

Sound familiar? In 'The Blair Witch Project', the antagonistic force in the woods calls out to the two remaining characters using the voice of their missing friend. It screams for help in the night, luring them into a trap. Therein, I believe, lies what is so unsettling about these dreams of the 'Other Mother'. It can also, I think, be seen in the folkloric changeling faery. A creature mimicking the voice, the appearance, or otherwise characteristic of what we know, what is familiar, what is safe. As human beings we, in our arrogance, consider ourselves to the apex of our ecosystem, so when something inhuman is able to mimic our voice, our intelligence, the thing that makes us human, it shakes us to our core.

I leave you with a personal note. In my story 'A Letter Found Amongst the Dead', a town is laid siege to by Knockers from the nearby mine. As usual it can be read on the left hand side of your screen, but I will quote a passage here:

The Knockers are on the roof again, clawing at the clay tiles, trying to get in. They call out with human voices, trying to lure us out, then cackle at their own cunning. They have learned our names, somehow, and call out to us using them, including the children.


The mimicking of the human soul - every writer has their major themes they revisit time and time again, and I think this is something that I will continue to write about. We write about both what we understand and what we hope to understand, so it is no surprise that our deepest fears creep their way into our stories too, whether they be the work of modern fiction or the whispered fears of our folkloric ancestry.

Until next time,

Matt

Why I Write (at least at the moment)

'I'll be a story in your head, but that's OK. We're all stories in the end.'

- The Eleventh Doctor, Doctor Who S31E13

Here be minor spoilers for Doctor Who. Read at your peril.

A few days ago, in the midst of ignoring my manuscript and the short stories I'm meant to be working on, I got around to watching Season 5 of the Doctor Who Reboot. In the midst of the season finale the above line stuck out like a splinter. I had chills. Sure, in many ways the line is a glaringly obvious one bordering on pop philosophy, but sometimes something is worded so simply that it shines with charm.

I'm not the only one who honed in on this line - many clearly have judging by the amount of fan videos that popped up when I googled it. But it struck a chord with me, and made me realise something about my writing for this past year.

Since the sudden death of my father in May of last year, my writing has taken on a preoccupation with death, and dying, and any facet of the last days of our lives. Everywhere I look there is a body, or bodies, from the clandestine burial in the snowy woods of 'The Keeper of Tales', to the world of the dead in my current novelette 'The Shadow of Death'. Even 'A Letter Found Amongst the Dead', which you can read in Eschatology Journal on the left hand side of this page, needs no explanation. There are many more unfinished pieces besides, little flash fiction stories and snippets of dialogue which I have collected but never completed.

The shadow of Death looms over us every day, and for a long time I wasn't dealing with my Dad's death. So it subconsciously came out in my writing; all those mixed up feelings, those nightmares I was having, became words on the page. And if that is the case then what do we become, in the end, to the ones we leave behind?

Faced with not only death but being erased from existence, the Eleventh Doctor tells Amy Pond that he will be a story in her head, the imaginary friend she had as a child. Now that my dad is gone, all I'm left with is stories; the things he did in his amazing life, the things he saw around the world when he was a merchant sailor. But even that isn't what I've focused on; I've focused on his body, on how he looked after death. I've focused on the burial, standing by his graveside as the funeral director hands me a flower to drop on top of the coffin. My dad has become a story in my head, and I've focused on this age old question, perhaps the greatest of them all - What happens after we die?

There's so much more I could write here - many of my stories come from dreams, and if that is so then some amount of analysis of the subconscious mind is in order, but I'll save that for another time. For now, what I'll say is this: I have, for months, been working out my dad's death through my writing, entirely subconsciously, and I will continue to do so. I'm going to get back to working on 'The Shadow of Death', which I think focuses mainly on my discontent with the conventional afterlife with some funereal imagery thrown in for good measure. Now that I'm more conscious of my preoccupation with death, perhaps I can improve on what I was writing before.

Until next time, readers.

Matt