Three Little Poems

 

I'm not much for romance, but here's an attempt or three at writing a love poem. One to a dream, one to a lover far away, and one all too present.

---

Against Reality

Broken by birdsong, abashed by the lark,
Shall the sun shut down, so surely, my dreams?
Never to notice, so novice the wretch,
Seedlings of stories ascend from the ash?

Let not the light mark the last of our meetings!
In dreams, our condition (though dismal in truth)
Will soar past restrictions of spiritless flesh
And bring in a bounty; unbearable joy
In fiction I find you, though facts be unkind
In dreams you adore me, by day you are gone
My mind be my master – what matters the world?

– Kell Willsen 

---

The Inadequacy of Language

Can any words describe my dear?
What depths within, what grace without,
When love-in-action makes it clear
That words cannot be set about.

But words are all I have, so please,
Accept the love poured into these,
Forgive that I must tell, not show it,
Your distant, yet devoted, poet.

– Kell Willsen 

---

Pretty

Oh, what a pretty thing is love!
And so are you.
As pretty as a collared dove
Oh, what a pretty thing is love!
Reminds me of
That blasted bird’s non-stop “hoo-hoo”
Oh, what a pretty thing is love!
And so are you.

– Kell Willsen 

On Fiction

A sestina

So spin for us a tale
With hidden seeds of truth
Suspended in a lie.
Wise words for those who hear,
Bright gems for those who see;
Now let the fiction grow.

The simple facts will grow
To be a thrilling tale
But still, within, we see
The origins of truth
By sifting what we hear
We deconstruct the lie

But let the fiction lie
And let the stories grow
There is no malice here
In spreading such a tale
While all still know the truth
Unchanging as the sea

And so, until the sea
Shall dust and barren lie
Shall fiction hold the truth
And let the story grow
The wisdom of the tale
Is there for all to hear

And those who will not hear
And those who will not see
Enjoy the simple tale
Dismiss it as a lie
The seed will only grow
In those who seek for truth

As fiction holds the truth
So truth is ever here
Where there is room to grow
Upon the endless sea
Immortalised to lie
And thus concludes my tale

That this is truth, now see
Sestina here shall lie
To fully grow this tale.

– Kell Willsen

Procrastinator's Pantoum

Playing catch-up isn't fun
Time is fleeting, all too short
Chasing deadlines at a run
Often glimpsed, never caught.

Time is fleeting, all too short
Moments of a brief respite
Often glimpsed, never caught
Rushing onwards out of sight

Moments of a brief respite
[[Write a line here to repeat]]
Rushing onwards out of sight
[[Need to make this verse complete]]

[[Write a line here to repeat]]
Chasing deadlines at a run
[[Need to make this verse complete]]
Playing catch-up isn't fun.

– Kell Willsen

Formal Poetry – Why Bother?

Although I have always had at least a passing interest in poetry, I can point to one book that took me from mild curiosity to keen student. That book is The Ode Less Travelled, by Stephen Fry. Be warned, his language in places can get a bit... well, let's just say I applied judicious amounts of Tippex before lending my copy to a friend's daughter. However, DIY expurgation aside, it really is a brilliant book. For why? It teaches you how to write poetry.

But surely poetry is something that can't be taught? It must be honest and free, not taught by numbers like learning how to wire a plug! Well, to quote from the book's own introduction:

"Talent is inborn, technique is learned."

I'm still working through this book, with its many helpful exercises and examples, but I have already learned one important lesson: Before you can break the rules, you have to know them. The rules of form aren't the be-all and end-all of poetry, but they do matter.

As Pascal said: "It is superstition to put one's hope in formalities, but it is pride to be unwilling to submit to them." This is as true in poetry as in anything else: music, art, science, or even just everyday good manners. You are perfectly at liberty to do your own thing, but you ought to know what that is, not just blunder around in the dark.

Once you understand the various forms and techniques at your disposal, you can use them in combination to create something new. You can invert or alter the forms, discard certain rules and even add your own - doing what has been done for thousands of years by poets in every part of the world, in every language. You might rediscover a form that has fallen out of fashion, or re-invent a tired, old pattern.

If there's one thing I'd like people to take from my posts this month, it is that poetry is worth studying. It's not elitist, and it won't strangle your self-expression. There are many resources out there, so why not look around for a book or website that appeals to you. It might be Shadow Poetry, or Young Writers or the Poetry Foundation, or even Wikipedia (hey, it's a place to start).

I'd like to close with another quote from "The Ode Less Travelled", a slightly longer one this time. After discussing the emotional impact of various types of meter, Fry writes:

"These effects are not accidental, the substitutions do not come about by chance or through some carefree inability to adhere to the form and hoping for the best. They (the poets discussed in this chapter) studied meter and form constantly... They would no more be unaware of what they were doing than Rubens could be unaware of what he was doing when he added an impasto dot of white to give shine to an eye, or than Beethoven could be unaware of what happened when he diminished a seventh or syncopated a beat. The freedom and ease with which a master can do these things belies immense skill derived from practice."

Even the most radical, abstract and avant-garde artists started out as diligent students of the established rules, and put in their years of "apprenticeship" on the way to becoming masters. It's a hard road, but a necessary one - and it really is worth it in the end.

TL;DR? Try this:

Liberation

Such a lengthy editorial
Means a short verse of the day.
If you skipped the long tutorial
Let me sum it up this way:

Learn the rules before you break them,
Art is made by choice, not chance,
Dig up old forms once forsaken,
Then you can turn all the established meters on their heads or inside out and do whatever
you want so long as you do it because you choose to and not because you don't know
any better. Bon chance!

– Kell Willsen

Uncomfortably Relatable

It’s great when we see ourselves in stories, isn’t it? And I don’t just mean characters who match our appearance, neurotype, or other group identity, I mean when characters do or say or think things that make us go, “Wow, that’s me!” Or when the narrative gives the reason for what the character does and it could have been written about you.

Yes, it’s great — usually. We love to find heroic, funny, clever characters to be relatable. We even like having flaws in common with them. But what happens when we relate to the “wrong” character?

This happened to me when I read the first “Red Dwarf” novelisation, Infinity Welcomes Careful Drivers. The TV series showed what the characters said and did, but the beauty of a novel is that it allows the author to show characters’ thoughts as well. On top of that, novels can easily incorporate backstory elements; so we got to see the past experiences of the characters instead of just hearing about them in bits of dialogue. 

Here’s a passage that I found to be painfully relatable: 

He found the process of revising so gruellingly unpleasant, so galling, so noxious that, like most people faced with task they find hateful, he devised more and more elaborate ways of not doing it in a ‘doing it’ kind of way.

In fact, it was now possible for him to revise solidly for three months and not learn anything at all.

The first week of study, he would always devote to the construction of a revision timetable. [...] Every hour of every day was subdivided into different study periods, each labelled in his lovely, tiny copperplate hand; then painted over in watercolours, a different colour for each subject, the colours gradually becoming bolder and more urgent shades as the exam time approached. The effect was as if a myriad tiny rainbow had splintered and sprinkled across the poster-sized sheet of creamwove card.

The only problem was this: because the timetables often took seven or eight weeks, and sometimes more, to complete, by the time he’d finished them the exam was almost on him. He’d then have to cram three months of revision into a single week. Gripped by an almost deranging panic, he’d then decide to sacrifice the first two days of that final week to the making of another timetable. This time for someone who had to pack three months of revision into five days. 

[A few anxiety-ridden days later, filled with everything except revision…]

...the final day’s revision before his exam.

Waking at four-thirty in the morning, after exercising, showering and breakfasting, he would sit down to prepare a final, final revision timetable, which would condense three months of revision into twelve short hours. This done, he would give up and go back to bed.

Which was why he failed exams.

Now, as the narration says, most people do this kind of “busy work” to avoid hated tasks. So this character’s pretty relatable, isn’t he? Great!

Wait, who is he again? 

It’s Rimmer.

Yes, we just related to Arnold J. Rimmer. Are you horrified yet? If not, I’m going to assume it’s because you don’t know who he is. Trust me, you do not want to have anything in common with this character. Only you might just have discovered — like I did — that you do, actually, share a flaw with him.

Now what?

Well, one result is that I developed a degree of empathy for this character. Hats off to Grant & Naylor, they created a joke character and then humanised him. And, if there’s a human side to Rimmer of all people, then maybe there’s a human side to the real-life cringe characters out there, even the really annoying ones. 

Well, maybe.

The other result is that whenever I catch myself procrastinating by making increasing detailed plans, I can tell myself that I’m being like Rimmer and I need to stop. 

Now.

Because, there might be a human side to Rimmer, but he’s still Rimmer. 

Eugh!

SpecFic on the Spectrum

One of the (many) misconceptions that seem to exist around neurodivergent brains is that autistic people don’t like fiction. Something about a fondness for accuracy and a desire to research things deeply seems to come across to neurotypical brains as “having no imagination”, or “being obsessed with facts”. And, to a neurotypical mind, these traits are incompatible with enjoying fiction.

Now, I can only speak for myself (obviously) but I love stories. I read them, I watch them, I listen to them, I play them — I even write them! Stories, when well-constructed, make sense. And nowhere is this more evident than is the realm of Speculative Fiction, or SpecFic. 

Stories set in the real world don’t bother to explain things that the authors see as obvious. If you read a contemporary drama, you are expected to “just know” a number of things, and the author only explains when they differ from the expected norm — which can provide a fascinating glimpse into the author’s definition of “normal”, by the way.

Speculative fiction doesn’t have that luxury. A writer of SpecFic has to do their own world-building, and the reader is not expected to “just know” any of it. Good SpecFic writers reveal their worlds through the words and actions of the characters; bad writers deliver pages of pointless info dumping. But either way, the writers explain their world.

Likewise, the character actions are meant to flow in a logical way, and the dialogue is stylised so as to strip out most of the small talk. Good quality fiction relates to the real world but with a much better signal-to-noise ratio. Also better plotlines, but I digress. 

Anyway, my point isn’t to claim that all neurodivergent people love SpecFic, or even that fiction is somehow “better” than non-fiction. My point is that I am autistic, and I enjoy SpecFic, and therefore the “fact” that all autistic people prefer non-fiction is demonstrably false. 

Lesson: It’s pretty pointless to try to predict people’s preferences predicated on only one parameter.

Addendum: Alliteration is awesome. 😁

Rallying

Coming back from the slumping middle, expect backdated updates over the next few days months.

The uphill battle that is catching up is rather discouraging, and it's tempting to give up at this point. I'll have to work at double speed to finish on time, and that seems a pretty big ask considering how slowly I've been going so far. Perhaps it's time to chalk this up as one big Bad Idea and call it a day? 

It's at times like this that I need to remember the heroic and tragic "plot embryo" structures. When I first learned about these two character arc templates, I was surprised to realise that they are almost identical at the start. 

Both the heroic and the tragic protagonist discover a need, set a goal, and take steps to achieve it. Both meet with and overcome various obstacles, until they hit their lowest point. Then the paths diverge.

The tragic protagonist becomes overwhelmed by despair, and their story ends. Often in death, either of the character or of their dreams. There's no way back from this, and the character is lost. The heroic protagonist also faces despair, but is able to resist it and move on to the rest of their story. 

Although the tragedy is usually foreshadowed, there is often a moment where the tragic protagonist could have turned the story around. The Valjean/Javert contrast, where they both have their lives turned upside down by a single act of kindness -- and the different reactions they have to that moment. One to hope, a new life, and a sense of purpose; the other to despair and death. 

The tragic and heroic are so closely intertwined that we usually can't tell which path we're on until we look back. In this moment, I choose to see how much work lies ahead of me, accept that I haven't made the best choices with respect to my stated goals, and then keep going. 

Outlines: Love 'Em or Hate 'Em?

I’ve been a committed planner ever since I started to write. Words have always felt too slow, even while I loved them, so I had to tell my stories in big, sweeping strokes first, just to capture it before it could get away. This may be an AuDHD thing, but no-one knew that at the time. All I knew was that I wanted to tell people my awesome story now, and not after ten minutes’ set-up — but without that set-up the story made no sense. So...

So my oral stories were pretty much impossible for anyone to understand, and they’d slip through my fingers before I could get a proper hold on them. There was a sort of transporter-portal thing, and a flooded castle (mansion?) and a feud and a pending disaster and...

And then I began to write.

Suddenly I could get the bones down on paper and fill in the gaps later. The core ideas were captured, and the story could grow from this seed (to thoroughly mix my metaphors) into something like the magnificent whole I had glimpsed when the story first arrived in my head.

I fell in love with outlining. And while I understand people who feel that an outline restricts their creativity, I know that for me an outline is more like a climbing frame. It gives me a solid structure on which to build, and lets me go higher and further than I could on open ground. 

A recent conversation with a friend provided another reason I might be attracted to outlines. We were talking about memory, and how odd it can be. My friend said that when she thinks back on her day, she can remember the “bullet points” — where she went, what tasks she did, and so on; but she struggles to remember the “in between” moments: how she got from A to B, brief conversations between important tasks, etc. When she said that, I realised that my memory works in a similar way. For example, I can remember that conversation, but not what was said before or after.

In other words, when I write an outline for a story I’m thinking about it in the same way that I process real-life events. I think in bullet points, and fill in the details later. And because different brains work in different ways, other people probably have different ways of processing memories. 

When I read novels that included diary entries, I used to feel that the novelist was using a bit — or a lot — of poetic license with how people write real diaries. Surely there’s no dialogue, no detailed descriptions, no smooth flow of events in chronological order in a real diary? It’s more likely to be a collection of isolated incidents, or a simple list of events, or a rant about the weather. 

Well, that’s what my diaries were like. 

But perhaps there really are people who can sit down and write a scene — invented or remembered — as a coherent narrative right out of the gate. Who don’t need to jump right to the most important part and then go back and do the build-up afterwards. There might be people who can type at the speed of thought, and get their stories down entire and complete in one go. 

But I am not one of those people, and so I will go right on using outlines. And telling long, rambling stories that branch off and circle around, and lose themselves in…

[This post was written without the benefit of an outline.]

NaNoWriMo: Y/N?

National Novel Writing Month has been a thing since 1999, growing organically from a small group of friends in one town to a huge non-profit spanning the globe. The whole story can be found here, and the official website can tell you anything you want to know about what it is and how to get involved. I'm here to discuss why I join the challenge most years, and why I sometimes don't.

It's a Challenge, Not a Contest

One of the things I like best about NaNoWriMo is that it encourages writers to see each other as companions, not competitors. It doesn't matter how many people reach their target, or how quickly they do it. The only metric of success is: "Did I reach my goal?" Not being the fastest, or the furthest, or the most published, or the more popular. It's a personal challenge that you work on in company with other writers.

This is an important point for writers, especially fiction writers, to take on board: We're not competing with other writers in our genres.  If someone enjoys my book, and I enjoy your book, then I'm going to send my readers to you and (I hope) vice-versa. The reader gets more to enjoy, and the writers get to grow and share their audience. NaNoWriMo is a good way of promoting that mindset, and reminding ourselves that we are storytellers first and foremost.

It's Still a Numbers Game, Though

As I'll be discussing in a couple of days, raw numbers aren't always the best way to measure success. I'm still discovering the needs of my AuDHD brain, but one possibility is that numbered goals can be a source of stress rather than motivation. Last November I didn't get anywhere near my 50k goal, but I did manage to write something every day for 30 days straight. And that felt like a real achievement!

I normally resist "streak" thinking, because it only takes one bad day to ruin months of work. So a workable metric for me is to set myself a target percentage, rather than counting unbroken streaks. Missing three days in a month is a 90% success rate. Missing 36 days across a year is a better than 90% success rate, even though that's more than five weeks' worth of missed days.

 Most productivity and self-study guides suggest that anything above 80% is a pass, and so that's my target. Anything over that 80% is a bonus, not the new baseline standard. 

So: NaNo yes or NaNo no? It depends entirely on how you like to write, and what you find motivating. Sometimes I'm in a "numbers" mood, and take pleasure in charting my progress. Other times, I simply get frustrated and blocked over how far behind I am. When I'm in that kind of headspace, I need to find a different motivator. But I do recommend checking it out. The community forums are amazing, and the pep talks are available in the archives. Take a look, use what you can, and don't force yourself into anything that isn't a good fit.

Actually, that's a pretty good rule for most advice now that I come to think about it.

Middles

Those of you following these posts live will have noticed that there is a gap in posting, which is in the process of being filled. (If you’re here on an archive crawl from the future, then please pretend that I was supremely organised and had everything queued up weeks in advance.) This “slump” is the curse of the middle: my constant companion in all projects, great and small.

Case in point: Act Two of The Avlem Burden is doing my head in. 

I know where the story is going. I know what the characters are doing. I know why, and how, and all the things, because I’ve procrastinated on the writing by overthinking every detail of this story. The only thing left to do is write the draft, and that’s exactly what I’m not doing. 

Why do you think I impulsively jumped into the A-Z challenge this year? To avoid working on TAB, of course!

And now this challenge is also a project, and has reached the middle, and is, of course, becoming a chore. I thought I might trick myself into writing TAB in order to avoid blogging, but that didn’t work. It’s hard to outsmart your own brain, especially on purpose.

I have two options now, as I see it. Well, three if you count “giving up” but I’m not going to so that’s out and we’re back to two. 

1. I could summon up all of my (meagre) willpower and make myself sit down and write.
2. I could step back and remind myself why I want to write, and where I’m going with all these words. 

Willpower on its own simply doesn’t work for me. I know it works for some people, and I watch in amazement as they show up day after day no matter their mood out of sheer determination. 

I am not filled with determination. I am filled with procrastination. 

But option two doesn’t work on its own, either. I can think about how much the Fragments cycle means to me, and why the A-Z challenge is so much fun — think and think and think! It ramps up my desire to finish, but does nothing to move me forward. 

Engaging the gears is useless without also pressing the accelerator.

Pressing the accelerator is useless without also engaging the gears. 

I need both drive and determination if I’m going to get through this murky middle and catch up with my goals on the other side. Drive, determination, and a little help from my friends. 

Thank you to everyone who’s commented so far. I will be returning the favour ASAP. Meanwhile, I’ll be over here, catching up on my work and trying to avoid stalling. 

 Again.

Light Verse

April is the cruellest, um, I mean poetry month. The internet is breaking out in ballads, getting drenched in doggerel, and lighting up with light verse.

Light verse is often set in opposition to “serious” poetry, an insubstantial bit of froth compared to the deep, intellectual, and meaningful efforts of Real Poets™.

“The interesting thing is that you don’t often meet a poet who doesn’t have a sense of humour, and some of them do keep it out of their poems because they’re afraid of being seen as light versifiers.” — Wendy Cope

The finest celebration of light verse I’ve read lately is Diary of a Somebody by Brian Bilston. This delightful slice-of-life mystery comic thriller holds a whole year’s worth of poetry which, in the words Bilston’s hated rival, Toby Salt, “lacks gravitas and soul”. But not even Salt could claim that Brian Bilston’s work lacks heart. 

The book makes a lot of references, and there is a helpful list in the back in case you don’t recognise anything. The jokes are funnier if you spot the references, but I think most of them stand up quite well just on their own (well, maybe not 27th June).

Where is Toby Salt? Who is Liz interested in? What terrible secret is hiding in the shed? Will the man at No. 29 ever put his bins out correctly? All this, and plenty of light verse, in Diary of a Somebody.

Lesson: Don't let fear of ridicule stifle your voice. 

Kindness

Content Warning

This post is the third and last on the theme of sensitivity and offence – deliberate or otherwise. Everything will be from my perspective, and the views expressed are not intended as guidance of any kind.

If this is a delicate subject for you, please skip forward to tomorrow’s topic: Light Verse. Thank you.

Justification

Content Warning

This post and the next are continuing the theme of sensitivity and offence – deliberate or otherwise. Everything will be from my perspective, and the views expressed are not intended as guidance of any kind.

If this is a delicate subject for you, please skip forward to Light Verse. Thank you.

Intent and Injury

 

Content Warning

These next three posts are going to be about the minefield that is sensitivity and offence – deliberate or otherwise. Everything will be from my perspective, and the views expressed are not intended as guidance of any kind.

If this is a delicate subject for you, please skip forward to Light Verse. Thank you.

How Do You Say...?

 

I try to be light on the personal details in this blog, but it's not giving away any secrets to reveal that I've recently moved (back) to Wales. Despite having family there, and thinking of it as "home away from home" for most of my life, I've never managed to get to grips with the Welsh language. Well, now I'm trying again.

Being a language learner who is first-language English is a mixed blessing in this information age. Resources are plentiful, and it's easy to find other learners, but the sheer ubiquity of English means that most Welsh speakers can speak and understand English. And so, when I begin to struggle, they switch to my language out of a desire to be polite and/or speed the conversation along a bit. 

This makes me self-conscious about making mistakes, hesitating, or even looking confused. And because I'm self-conscious, I make more mistakes, hesitate more, and spend most interactions looking (and feeling) confused; not to mention more than a little stupid.

But why? I don't think that other people are stupid, slow, or annoying if they don't speak perfect English. And I'm confident enough in BSL (British Sign Language) even though I know that I still make mistakes. There are probably lots of reasons, but I think that part of it could be about immersion. 

When someone struggles with English, and I can't speak their first language, we have no choice but to keep going. With BSL, switching to English takes more effort than sticking to sign. But with Welsh, it's quicker and easier to use English when the I can't think of a word. 

Having the "easy out" of using English, I don't try to rephrase my sentences or get creative with descriptors – I just say the word in English. And once the conversation is in English, that tends to be where it stays. 😕

Lesson Eight

It's OK to make mistakes. Say something instead of awkward silence. And remember how to say, "Please speak Welsh to me, I want to learn."

Gritty vs. Grown Up

 

I write for adults, in that my characters are adults and I don't generally write "coming of age" or similarly YA-focused themes. But I don't write "adult" as in smut, gore, and foul language. Neither do I require exceptional levels of erudition of my audience 😉 because plain language can work just as well to tell a story.

No, there's nothing "inappropriate" in my writing – but it's still not for children. Children are perfectly welcome to read it, and some have, but I write for adults. For people with old scars, buried regrets, and long-held beliefs. There are many highly intelligent children in the world who will be able to understand the stories, and even the themes; but they will probably struggle to empathise with the characters just because they haven't been alive for long enough.

So, if I'm writing for adults, why don't my stories have explicit  content? Well, to be blunt, it's because I'm writing for adults. Actual adults, not overage kids. 

I think that most of us go through a phase where we revel in being old enough for "grown up" things, and seek out all the previously forbidden delights. At the same time, we develop a horror of anything that might been seen as "for kids". Cue sex, drugs, blood, and profanity, served up with a hefty helping of cynicism. 

But eventually we grow to develop our own tastes, independent of what we're "supposed" to like or dislike. To quote C.S. Lewis, “To be concerned about being grown up, to admire the grown up because it is grown up, to blush at the suspicion of being childish; these things are the marks of childhood and adolescence ... When I became a man I put away childish things, including the fear of childishness and the desire to be very grown up.”

Lesson Seven

What we read, watch, listen to – or choose to avoid, as the case may be – is a personal choice. I don't want to be judged on my personal choices, and have no business judging anyone else's. Stories don't have to be "gritty" to be mature, but the reverse is also true: grim and dark stories are not automatically immature.

First Draft Flargh

 

So, the first draft continues s-l-o-w-l-y. I'm being lazy today (also, running late) so I'm just going to share an extract with you guys. This may become interesting for me in the future, because I don't keep old versions when I'm editing. Let's see how things change from this "flargh" of a first draft...

Chapter Fifteen

After minutes, which felt like hours, of calling and searching, they found Madrigal in the stream where she’d been holding her breath under the water, playing at being a fish. Or maybe actually being a fish – Nesh didn’t really understand Sidrax shape-shifting.

Volnar got hold of a fish to show Maddie something or other, and then the children were both surprised when the fish died. Volnar wasted no time getting it cleaned and cooked, though Nesh felt that there was something a bit odd about using the scales and guts as fuel for the cooking fire.

The Earther showed a surprising amount of tact by taking the young Sidrax away to get her own dinner elsewhere. Nesh realised, a little too late, that Madrigal might not like to see one of her new friends being cooked and eaten. The thought irritated her, though whether because of her own lack of consideration or because of the Earther’s unexpected kindness, she couldn’t say.

Just when she thought she had him clearly defined as a bitter old man, he went and did something completely out of character, just to spite her. Life blight the wretched creature! Nesh finished her share of the fish, and then got ready for bed. She thought she’d rather be asleep when Maddie and the Earther – what was his name, anyway? – got back.

It was hard to get to sleep with so many thoughts racing around her brain, but Nesh did her best. She was very nearly almost asleep by the time she heard Maddie trotting through the stream, and barely noticed when the ground beneath her body softened and reshaped itself around her.

______________________

A bit heavy on the telling, but that's what early drafts are for. The style and polish come later. And, that's the lesson, I suppose. Let's make it official:

Lesson Six:

Rough drafts are allowed to be rough!

Elephants and Expectations

 

The person you meet through the pages of this biog, my social media, or even the author as unconsciously revealed in my stories is not the real me. Not because I'm lying to you. but because it's impossible to fit a real person into a persona.

Again, when I say "persona", I don't mean a fake personality. What you see here is the truth and nothing but the truth – but it's not the whole truth. That would be impossible.

We are all in the same position as those blind sages who tried to describe an elephant, arguing back and forth about whether an elephant was most like a wall, a tree, a rope, a fan, a snake, or a spear. We want to have neat, familiar descriptions for people: Agatha Christie = murder mysteries, Jane Austen = witty romances, Terry Pratchett = absurdist fantasy, Malorie Blackman = dystopian YA, etc.

It's not that these descriptors are wrong exactly, but they are certainly incomplete. 

 Labels are useful, though. They help us to find what we're looking for, and to describe things to each other. If you're after a fast-paced action thriller, then Jane Austen probably isn't the best fit. But she's perfect if you want a subtle piece of social satire, or a contemporary view of that particular bit of history.

So, we can't completely do without labels, but labels are not enough. This is part of the trouble I'm having with creating my "author brand". Every time I try to fit my writing under a helpful label, I find myself thinking about all the ways that label doesn't quite fit. Even this portfolio-blog (blog-folio?) is hard to categorise, and this is a curated collection. 

 (Suggestions welcome, by the way.)

I know my stories won't appeal to everyone – that would be impossible, even if I wanted to do it – but I don't know how best to label myself so that the people who might like my work will be able to find me.

What am I: A poet? A novelist? A blogger? Songwriter? Game designer?

What's my genre: Fantasy? Historical? Superhero? Dystopian? Fairy tales? 

What kind of narrative voice do I use? Comedic? Serious? Literary? Accessible? 

Well... yes. All of the above. Some of those things haven't been uploaded here yet, but I've done them. And that's not even counting the projects I have in my queue, where many new and strange things are waiting to be explored. 

Lesson Five:

Labels are OK, but I shouldn't get too worked up about them. They're useful indicators, not hard limits.

Days and Dates

 

I've just spent half the morning on Universe Sandbox. Investigate at your own risk!

And all because I'm trying to establish some kind of calendar for my fantasy planet, and I wanted to know if my ideas about two moons would work. I started by thinking that I could just copy Mars' set-up, but those moons zip round mere hours. Blink and you'd miss it, not to mention that they're both really tiny.

I'm hoping more for an inner orbit that defines a "week" (of however many days) and slower, outer orbit of between 3-5 "weeks". I was even OK with a "weird" ratio, like 3:8 or something, so that a double full moon would be a notable affair. But it turns out that astrophysics is complicated. Who'da thunk?

 This all started because I've been thinking about special dates recently, and that I really need to come up with a calendar for my fantasy world. Book one got away with hand-waving it because Kerrig doesn't care about dates much, but other books in the Fragments series cover different time periods, and reflect a variety of cultures. I need to start syncing things up, and figuring out how these different cultures mark out their weeks, months, and seasons.

Tasty, tasty research! World building! Orbital periods, annual ceremonies, climate patterns and socio-geographic culture building! The sweet, sweet crossover between physics, humanities, and art. All fun stuff, but not actually writing. 

Oops. 

I think I need to re-read last Saturday's post, and then put all this world-building into the "not now" pile until the draft if done. And by then, I'll know where to find the most narratively satisfying place for the special days. Because physics is cool, but what really matters is telling a good story.

Lesson: Basically, this:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u1J8nul74BM

Clutter, Chaos, and Cardboard Boxes

 

Last September I moved from a small place to an even smaller place. It was for a good reason, and I'm happy about it, but there's nothing like moving house to make a person realise how much stuff has accumulated over the years. 

Even after getting rid of more than half of it, it's still a struggle to find room for the rest in the new place. But I haven't given up anything that I miss, so what was all that extra? It was “filler”. Excess baggage. Unnecessary detail. 

Yes, I'm editing my possessions like a draft of a novel. It's always interesting to me when writing advice has a wider application.The focus on editing in this entry, though, means that I've come to the end of what I wanted to say, so I'll stop.

Beginnings

 

Beginnings are a popular topic among writers. Take, for example:

“Begin at the beginning, ... and go on till you come to the end: then stop.” –  Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

"Let's start at the very beginning, a very good place to start." –  Rogers & Hammerstein, Do-Re-Mi

“The beginning is the most important part of the work.” ― Plato, The Republic

And, my personal favourite:

“Everything starts somewhere, though many physicists disagree.” ― Terry Pratchett, Hogfather

My stories usually begin as ideas, stewing quietly in my head for a while. But when I'm ready to put pen to paper, I begin with an outline.

Wait! Don't comment yet! This is not going to be 500 words of "use my new and brilliant outlining method". Instead, I want to show you how I took inspiration from several methods, and how you can do something similar customise your own outline.

Avoiding outlines on principle? I've got an upcoming post for you on the eighteenth: Outlines: Love 'Em or Hate 'Em? 

My brain likes patterns, so outlining has always appealed to me. But even after many years of experimenting, I couldn’t seem to find “the one”, the perfect outlining method for me. Many writers at this point tend to do one of two things: Give up on outlining, or invent a brand new method of their own. I don’t have the right kind of brain for the first, or enough confidence for the second, so I had a problem – until I realised that I didn’t have to pick just one method, nor was I actually obliged to use every part of any given outline. No-one was looking over my shoulder to make sure I was using their method “correctly”.

After a lifetime of being constantly “put right”, this realisation was something of a bombshell. But after the shock wore off, and I’d done a bit more testing, I finally had my own, home-brewed outlining method. As promised, I’m not going to share it here, or anywhere else, because that’s not the point of this post. The point of this post is to encourage you to develop your own method. 

I like top-down outlining, so the Snowflake Method and the 3/9/27 method appealed to me most. The Hero’s Journey and the Heroine’s Journey were interesting, but too specific for my style. I found the Plot Embryo to be the best fit in the end, especially with the tragic and heroic patterns having so many parallels.But you might find that you prefer a more linear, discovery-type of outlining, such as the Pixar method. Or a method more focused on the world-building, asking what would happen given a particular set of circumstances. 

The array of outlining methods out there offers near-endless combinations to suit every taste. Spend a bit of time exploring, and refine your plan to fit your own story and style. But remember:

Lesson Two: A plan is only a plan

Plans that change are still worth having. It’s always a good idea to have a direction in mind when you set out, even if you change it later.

April Already? I'm Not Ready!

Hello, April. What are you doing here so early? 

*checks calendar*

O...kay. It's April. For real. Lots to do. Let's start with the A-Z Challenge...

Oh well, it's not as if I really have a theme yet anyway. Next step is to sign up to the Master List...

Hmm, turns out I do need a theme after all. Lets choose "Author/Writing (mixed bag)". And links, I need links. FB & IG will have to do for now. 

And another place to state the theme. A restatement of the theme, if you will. How about: "Tracking progress on too many writing goals, and the lessons learned along the way". 

This month I'm aiming to:

• Finish the first draft of The Avlem Burden for Camp NaNoWriMo 
  
• Create a comprehensive outline for the sequel: Marshlander's Betrayal
• Complete the A-Z Challenge 

And, over at my other blog: Eto ag Eto:

• Keep up with the ROW80 Challenge
• Build fluency with the CC1 

Meanwhile, in my offline life, I need to:

• Finish unpacking from the move (which was seven months ago!)
• Keep going with my language studies

 Too much? Almost certainly. Bring on the life-lessons; I am clearly in need of a few.

 

 * * *

Lesson One: Advance the Story

The scene I'm working on at the moment is a conversation between two very angry characters. There are many, many things they could say to each other, so I need to pare the scene down to the essentials. That or write ten pages of bickering. Every line needs to serve the narrative by:

1. Moving the plot forward,
2. Revealing important details,
3. Developing one or more characters' arcs, or
4. All of the above.

This being a first draft, I'm not going to worry too much about conservation of dialogue. But having the rule in mind while drafting will make the edit go more smoothly than it otherwise would. 

 

Which brings us neatly to the first lesson:

Everything I do this month needs to be either:

 1. Taking care of my health,
 2. Advancing one or more of my goals,
 3. Fulfilling pre-existing responsibilities, or
 4. All of the above.

This being a trial run, I'm not going to worry too much efficiency. But having this aim in mind will help with my long-term goal: Sustainable Adulting. 

 

Don't laugh! I can dream, can't I?

Spring

Come the Spring, come the rain, come the greening leaves,
Come the days getting longer, the evenings bright,
Hear the birds making homes in the shady eaves,
Hear the bees softly drone in the morning light,

See the coats coming off, showing shorter sleeves
See the snow clinging on to the mountain heights
As the year comes of age, so the heart of Spring,
As the youth of the year, is a fleeting thing.

 – Kell Willsen

Magnificent Difference

Magnificent panorama
Slow-motion natural drama
A million years in the telling
And barely begun, compelling
Each step of man's advance, mal- or beneficent
To factor in Earth's structural magnificence.

That difference in scale at once
Brings home our insignificance,
And shows the power we command
To treat the planet out-of-hand
Blind, blunt, relentless progress shows us, in a sense,
That nature and her children aren't that different.

– Kell Willsen

Old Heroes Never Die

by Kell Willsen 

Miss Meera Jones, room 37, was back from breakfast; having been washed, dressed, and medicated as per usual. The new carer really was very good, she thought. Efficient, gentle, and with a wonderful memory for what made the residents happy. Such a nice young man, and marvellously self-effacing. He had one of those faces that won't stick in the memory no matter what; broadcasting "I am not important or memorable" to every subconscious in the area. 

Miss Meera sighed inwardly at the decline in standards since her time at the Academy. But Doctor Clarivos was not a man famed for subtlety.

She spent the morning in her room, gazing out of her window at the busy streets below. Her family had tried to get her into a care home out in the countryside, but she'd refused to leave her city. This community care home was overcrowded, poorly funded, and lacking in all the amenities of art and nature that other homes provided. The staff were stretched thin, and rarely had time for more than a word or two of conversation during their duties. So if Miss Meera wanted to spend all day quietly in her room, no-one here had the time or energy to object.

The world outside her window was as hustling and bustling as it had been in her day. Things looked and sounded different in many ways, but the essentials hadn't changed. People were still people, and Miss Meera still loved them dearly. She watched a mother struggling along with a baby in a buggy and two older children tagging along behind, all loaded down with shopping. A casual thought nudged the oldest child's foot from going off the edge of the pavement, averting what could have been a nasty fall. Another effort steadied the cyclist who'd been distracted by the family, and was losing his balance. And so nothing happened, and the day was uneventful for all concerned.

The new carer was still on duty at lunchtime, and Miss Meera scanned him quietly while he helped her on with her slippers and prepared to escort her down to the dining hall. She found what she was looking for on a pendant he wore, and gave it a mental tug so that it spilled out of his shirt as he bent over her.

He apologised and moved to tuck it away, but Miss Meera stopped him and admired the pendant. It was engraved with her own likeness - or at least, with Mesmera's likeness, from back in the day.

"Who's your lady friend?" she asked, as she turned the psychic presence on it down from "PAY NO ATTENTION!" to "who, me?"

The young man's face broke into a nostalgic smile. "That's the fantastic Mesmera," he said. "She saved my grandma's life more than fifty years ago. If not for Mesmera, my mama wouldn't even have been born."

He brushed his thumb over the face on the pendant before tucking it back inside his shirt. "I found this in a jumble sale a few years back, and bought it to remind myself how much one person can affect the lives of others."

Then Miss Meera Jones was seated at her table, and the nice young man disappeared back into the crowd. She idly wondered what his hero name was, but she didn't really keep up with that scene these days. Young things running about in costumes and saving the world.

Miss Meera smiled, and reached out a mental hand to stop old Mrs. Brampton from spilling her soup.

Not So Much of the “Common”, If You Don’t Mind

It’s very well to tell me I should use my common sense,
But senses are susceptible to all kinds of pretence.
I do not trust my eyes or ears, I daren’t follow my nose,
(It sticks in where it shouldn’t be, inviting nasty blows)
While taste and touch just sit around, as passive as you please.
I do not think that common sense is any one of these.

As for my other senses, as intangible as air,
I doubt that I would find much commonality in there
My sense of humour is a joke, my sense of timing’s slow,
My sense of the occasion never knows when it should show.
As for my sense of balance, that’s been slowly winding down
'Til it’s quite a big achievement to stand firm on solid ground.

I had a sense of fashion once, I’m not sure when or why.
But if we wait here long enough, it might come wandering by.
For all the good that does us – look, I hate to let you down,
But I have to say I think you’d better try another town.
It seems I have no common sense, you’ll have to look elsewhere.
My senses, like my self, are all incredibly rare.

– Kell Willsen

Gorilla

What you’ve got here, is a gorilla
Can’t be more helpful than that
Learn to train it, you can’t contain it
Gorillas can stomp you flat

It’s in your life now, this gorilla
What to do next’s up to you
You can’t contain it; learn to train it
There’s not much else you can do.

I know you don’t want the gorilla
But it has decided to stay
Learn to train it, you can’t contain it
Or wrestle the thing out the way

It’s a three-hundred pound gorilla,
People are going to stare
You can’t contain it; learn to train it
You can’t just pretend that it’s not there

So go on and train your gorilla
You’ll find it well worth the strife
Learn to train it, you can’t contain it
But you can still get on with your life. 

– Kell Willsen

---

Inspired by “The Gorilla in Your House“, a disability analogy which grew out of a discussion on the old BBC Ouch! message boards.

Compare and contrast “The Spoon Theory” by Christine Miserandino.

Optimism

I haven’t met with much success
In fact I’m barely getting by,
Though failure dogs my heals, I guess
I’ll always have just one more try.
Though I may never “do or die”
Or shake the world, I’m not without
My own, unfailing battle cry:
“I’m often down, but never out.”

It’s tempting simply to regress
To sweet inaction, days slip by
In peaceful slumber, but unless
I stand again, I’ll never fly.
Despair may sing its lullaby
“Give up, give in, drop off, drop out.”
My stubborn soul will still reply;
“I’m often down, but never out.”

So onward, to a clearer sky
Soon all dark days must turn about
Let this persistence signify
I’m often down, but never out

– Kell Willsen

Frozen

Apathy, unfeeling emptiness,
    is both more and less than nothing.
True nothing offers space for new growth,
    but apathy stifles all hope.

Emptiness too vast for happiness
    paralysing and unending.
No sadness, no anger, just nothing,
    Forever and for evermore.

Happiness, a distant memory,
    taunts me with its elusiveness.
I don't mind; I feel nothing at all,
    not even regret for what's lost.

When feeling returns to frozen limbs
    the first sensation is acute pain.
When feeling returns to a frozen heart
    the pain can be unbearable.

So don't be upset by my coolness
    when you try to make me happy.
My heart is just beginning to thaw;
    releasing pent-up tears at last.

– Kell Willsen