The Flameseeker

Everything was going just as planned, until Barney barged in. “Don’t you fackin m-move!” his Russian accent jackrabbits as his greasy hands rattle-snaked the gun which he held leveled at my torso. I looked down at the little red dot from his sight which buzzed like a bee over my belly, off to the ficus-plant on the desk, back to my chest and down again to my belly. “Doncha fackin’ m-move or I’ll shoot-t-t” Phlegm jettisoned from his tongue. Barney had limits I apparently underestimated or misunderstood. He can’t kill though. “If you’re going to shoot me you will need to take the safety off.”
“Fack…” Barney jumped and checked the side of the gun, the bee buzzed off settling on one of the cashiers forehead. She stared into the barrel, eyes bulging in curious shock. “No no! The switch on the left Barney for Christ sake!”
A click sent the magazine free-falling to the bank floor. “Fack!” Barney bellowed swaying the gun down in an attempt to catch it.

-Click

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It has been a long time since anything at all happened here at The Flameseeker. That does not mean that nothing is happening. One of the nice things about writing is that you are always “working”. The biggest process of writing a story is creating a story in your head. And this is where I become tangled within. The contraints, or lacking of contraints in my mind allow stories to begin and bud. It becomes a problem when my brain cannot accomodate for all these saplings. It was clear last semester, when writing short stories. I start in my head, put it to paper, and start something else in my head.

The first draft…

Forget dragons, dryads, harpies and orcs. Because when it comes to mean creatures, there is none worse than a Gibbelin. Their size fails completely to resemble their strength and above all: their wit. The great tower in which they live is surrounded by challenging waters, and razor-sharp rocks, connected to the human world with only one small rope bridge, that no grown man trusts their life on. And in this isolation they live, dance and play all night and day. Unable to have children of their own, they stalk the nights, stealing them from the cities, in order to fill their ranks. For once a child is taken, it takes just one moon cycle to change forever into a Gibbelin, turning dark green with pale gold eyes. In this is their strength you see, for no man dares kill a child, for they fear it might be one of their own. A nephew, niece, grandchild or worse: Their own blood.

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I’ts been shamefully long since I updated this blog. Time has not stood still, neither have I. So this post is one of my last posts in England for now.

Although in constant thought about my writing and the assignment, no words have actually hit paper. But they will. Worlds will collide. All in this entry to end all entries. On this, the day of days I’m feeling confident, but insecure about my writing. Reasons for this are of course the mellowed out holidays that leave much room, but little space to write. The previous assignment has also put me back a little. Let’s look at that first.

The assignment went all right. The story was weak, but in a good way. Leaving ample opportunity for me to reflect, analyse and best of all: Improve. The story did make me feel one thing in particular: Angry. Angry at the fact that I know I can do better, but just roll up my sleeve to do so. Everything is rushed, and in this pressurized environment I feel comfortably at home. I thrive under pressure, but is depletes me. I know therefore that if I would have forced myself, the story would have been better, much better.

The document I handed in was a reflection of my state of mind at the time: Unfocussed, playful and irresponsible. Where usually I know to read and re-read the final work, in this case I didn’t. Leaving the final version pot marked with grammatical errors, spelling mistakes and stylistic faults. It wasn’t my work, as I wasn’t completely me at the time.

All this makes me mad at myself. I’ve always known myself the best and I understand the boundaries of my own mind. I know my capabilities as a promising writer of fantasy fiction. Walking around like a story brooding ground. But none of that came out in the assignment. So it’s time now. Time to show you all that I can do it. That I will do it. I need to do it to prove myself wrong once again: I’m not weak

Spring brings with it a chilly western wind that breaks sometimes revealing the suns full potential. Rays brush my face, leaving a warm glow in its ultraviolet aftermath. It’s said that time is connected to these rays and the way we experience time is related to the frequency with which our brain can read the rays. Flies and other insects have a more rapid reading frequency, which makes the experience of time a slower one. One of the main reasons why you often enough fail to swat the fly. You can experience this yourself daily, by yawning while listening to music. Yawning delivers a large quantity of oxygen to the brain, changing its reading frequency slightly and this causes the pitch of the music to change slightly. But that’s as far as we humans can actually go today. This wasn’t always the case however. There was a time where this ability was practiced and studied among the people.

Nice little framework for a story, thanks for listening.

But that was just a warm up for the main events. My brain is bubbling with characters, plots and images. Recently I’ve been exposed to a number of characters that could be very useful in my stories. And that has become quite a problem. How do I keep the story in my head under control as the characters develop around me? Interesting question I know. No answer as of yet due to lack of experience. But then again, that’s the fun part of this whole experience: Learning.

I’m feeling a bit better this week. And although this is not a diary, I do treat it like one. Not because I describe my daily events, but because my mood effects my writing. It seems to be a nice vent for my sadness, which you will clearly see in this next extract. This writers course is causing some problems though, as it’s taken priority on all the other subjects. But then again, this is the only subject I actually chose.

So are you enjoying it then?

Definitely. But it’s way more trickier then I expected. So yes I’ve started writing the Tales of Rain, but it is posing a number of difficulties:

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I shall be bold, and state that I’m not having a good week. Makes me wonder how writers not let their daily emotions influence their abilities. Or should it? Is that what makes it such a dynamic art? Let it flow then, and let’s see what happens.

Aah the city of Rain. A home for many people of Rainland, a country named so because of the thick rainclouds that seem to cling to the sky, causing an almost continuous downpour on the city. And you’re probably thinking: why would people want to live in a constant shower. Rainlanders, that’s what the people call themselves, are actually quite used to it. The buildings are built to accommodate the flow of water, and often enough you will see that the houses actually play with the rain by having it run down small decorative stairs or have it coming out of a fountain. In fact, the city is so engineered to the weather, it’s boring on a dry day, which is like once or twice a year.

The water itself is not quite like tap water. It’s thinner, and lighter, and tastes a bit like sweet corn. This devours the city in a cloud of popcorn smelling air. Drops do not form on the windows, instead the run down swiftly and flow into the many sewers, canals or waterways, like water of a ducks back.

The inhabitants of Rain are sometimes darker then the sky. Rain’s constant overshadowing allows rogues, assassins and
bounty hunters to move around freely. And this is where many of the Fables of Rain originate from. They come in all shapes and sizes, versions and adaptations. The taverns of Rain brew these Fables among its visitors and strangers.

And so I’ve set up a scenario for many tales. The first of which is called The Silver Warden. Many more will follow. On a more analytical note, the city of Rain represents my current emotional status, but at the same time, has always been in the back of my head along with all the other stories in there. Read the rest of this entry »

Travellian versus the Gibbelings

First draft adaptation and analysis of Lord Dunsany’s “The hoard of the Gibbelings”

Adapting a story for a younger audience forces us to look at many aspects of storytelling. This essay aims to analyse the adaptation process used for “Travellian versus the Gibbelings”. Firstly we will look at the main dilemma’s that were encountered when adapting the story for a younger audience. Secondly we will look at the language used in the adaptation, and how that has changed to suit the audience, and finally we will look at the content of the characters and the message within the story. Read the rest of this entry »

Travellian versus the Gibbelings

The Gibbelings are a mean bunch of characters. They live in their big black tower out at sea. Here they hold our children captive, until they too become Gibbelings: small, grey and mean creatures that kill any human that is unlucky enough to cross their path. Once each moon cycle they come, and take one of our children. If they did not do this it is said that the tower would crack and fall into the sea, killing all Gibbelings who where once our precious children. Read the rest of this entry »

Here are some piccies from the Juwellery Quarter Museum in Birmingham. Very interesting place to check when you come here. Trying to capture that “old-school” work methods.

Another week gone, another entry to this log. And as shapes and figures start to rise from the dust in my mind, I find myself surrounded with opportunity. Overwhelmed even. A satisfying surge of power I get when I look at the power a writer has. The many paths that can be taken, the twists, changes and events that come through my head like a movie. So let’s sit down and talk again, like we always do, about my mind, my twisted mind and the products. Read the rest of this entry »