Writing Fantasy, a quick how-to introduction

This time, to spark off the New year; lots of people will want to start off the new year saying, ‘this year I will write a book’ and then have no idea where to start. I’m going to borrow words from many well respected writers, to name one, Terry Pratchett, who have donated words of pure gold in the leaves on our shelves, and given us threads of silver to stich and weave into our own masterpieces.

So let us tackle some theory; for all those aiming to be fantasy writers, we have to ask the question of what is fantasy? Then we must ask, how is it written well? But finally a third question, what genres of fantasy are there?

Fantasy is a difficult genre to pin down, like Science Fiction (which I’ll tackle another day). This is because it bears the features of many other genres, fantasy can talk about a love story between mythical creatures and humans, it can be an adventure to destroy some dark artefact, or even about people waving magic sticks at one-another. The main defining feature of Fantasy is that it involves some kind of supernatural, or other-worldly (rather than extra-terrestrial) power that takes a foreground position throughout the work.

A final note on this is that in some cases where you create realist fantasy, something I’m very interested in due to my dissertation subject, Fantasy does not have to contain anything I have just mentioned, but it can simply borrow from what has been, and transform it into a story. where nothing and everything can be based on fact. Again, it’s a hard genre to pin down unless you spend a lot of time with it.

Secondly, how can we write it well? I refer you back to my post in December about how to write well generally, but here I will expand on how you should treat your reader, gently. I was told once, back when I started seriously chasing my dream by a much more experienced writer that ‘a reader is like a child, they do not like to be shocked or alienated. You must make each step small, take them by the hand and guide them, still filled with wonder, into the world you created’. Pratchett says something very similar, though I will only paraphrase his words; Fantasy is a genre where there are no rules, as long as you can explain why that person has two heads, or why this sword is the only one that can defeat the king of darkness, you can do anything your heart desires.

Finally, what other genres does Fantasy interact with? Well this is why it is the easiest genre (and for some the hardest) to write, it can interact with all of them! A short list of examples, in no particular order could be: High Fantasy, Dark Fantasy, Comic Fantasy and Heroic Fantasy. Fantasy can be funny, scary, charming, mysterious, in-your-face, anything at all, so long as it is written well.

I leave you with this thought, if it’s fiction, it can be Fantasy, but it is not we the writers who ultimately define our book’s genre but the readers. Aim for what you want, write it well (which means learning the rules of that literary genre, a more advanced talk) and then doing it well.

Until next time, read, write and learn.

Ciao

If you have any questions you can find me at:

https://www.facebook.com/joseph.clarkauthor

https://twitter.com/Realmskipper

And Now For Something Completely Light-Hearted

This will be the last post of the year, but that’s okay, I took some time off, got back on the horse and did well; and I’m sure all of you out there can say the same thing too about something or other this year. Today I don’t offer you advice, I’m not going to burden you with motivational speeches (not today anyway, pour yourself a drink, you’ve earned one). I just want to say happy holidays; because after all the beer, wine and tea has been drunk, the pork, beef and sprouts tucked away, presents unwrapped and crackers pulled; it will be time to get back on the treadmill and punch out that next achievement.

So, a gift from me to you, for following me so well and for just being you this year.

The crackers are there, we haven’t pulled them yet.

The presents all wrapped, out of sight.

The snowflakes are waiting, until the lights are out.

The world is cheering, but what about?

I’ve closed all the curtains, I’ve turned out the lights,

Cookies on the mantle, carrots in the chimney light.

I’m all tucked up in bed, I can’t see the stars,

But that doesn’t mean I’m not trying my hardest.

Like hell I’m asleep, I simply can’t wait. Night

Hasn’t fallen, and of course I’m still awake.

The family is calling; the presents all shout.

No cookies on the mantle. No carrot outlived the night.

There’s no more waiting and the end between us-

By the end of the day, I’ll be all tuckered out.

Not my best, but I think I’ve captured the mood, until the New Year, happy holidays. If you want to contact me before my next instalment:

https://www.facebook.com/joseph.clarkauthor

https://twitter.com/Realmskipper

Show Me a Story, Don’t Tell Me, a Much More Technical Approach

As Promised last time, today I am actually going to give writing advice, (yes batten down the hatches and close those blinkers). A newbie giving advice is not exactly a popular idea, but who better to guide the next latest release than the current, right? I’m intending to talk you through the whole process of how to write a story anyone interested in your genre would go wild to read, that is, one aspect that will aid you in this purpose.

So, let’s get theoretical, which makes more sense than starting with practical examples. A story, as with life is made up of a series of actions, you are born, you live, and you one day in the distant future die; three transitive acts in succession. Another example, meeting someone for the first time. You get to know each other by sharing a few facts, this would be the ‘tell’; but if you start ‘telling’ everything straight away, they are going to be put off you pretty quickly as I have learned.

So, rather than saying; I’m Joseph, I practice martial arts, I write and I have a rather avid fear of riding horses; I will spend time with people, let them watch me practice, show them my uniform, show them my books (and watch them scoff) and if I’m adventurous try to get on a horse let them see me unseated for the umpteenth time. The whole point of these examples is, telling someone these things tells them something, letting them see it can be done with words.

Two tips in avoiding ‘the tell’: Avoid the verb ‘to be’ guaranteed that 90% of the instances of ‘I am’ he/she is’ etc. are instances of telling the situation.

Instead I offer this comparison – ‘He was angry’, ‘His brow furrows as a dark look crossed his face’ a purple vein began to throb on his forehead. I knew I had said the wrong thing’. Note I have used the taboo verb in this sentence, but only as a re-affirmation of the situation, emphasis only.

Second tip for the day: adverbs are not your friend. This may seem woefully vague but I believe it was Stephen King who wrote this before me that they are just clutter to your word count: ‘He ran quickly’ could be written more dynamically as, ‘his feet became a blur as he launched himself down the path’. Simple but I know which I would prefer to read.

Technically these two rules, are a good starting point for anyone who is moving up from nowhere to somewhere should start with, all in the aim of taking the reader by the hand and letting them delicately tread into the world you have created.

Until next time, practice, experience and procrastinate, as writing needs a little of all three.

Ciao
Follow me at: https://www.facebook.com/joseph.clarkauthor
https://twitter.com/Realmskipper

Stop talking about it, write it!

It has come to my attention since the wonderful news of being taken on by Nocturnal Press that I have been surrounded by what I would like to kindly call ‘lifelong procrastinators’. I do not mean that these people are lazy, though some are (you know who you are) but what I would like to say is that though we all have a book inside us; we choose not to write it because we basically tell ourselves we just are not able to write one. Today I’m telling you all to shut up about wanting to write and make one day, today.

When I began this journey over thirteen years ago, I did not once tell myself I cannot do this, it is something I have learned from others telling me ‘you cannot do it’. Well I did, and you can do it too. We all have a hurdle to overcome and this one of writing is no higher than any other; admittedly I can give you several reasons why my hurdle was higher for my rather stout legs than yours, but there is no higher hurdle there is just high, have you jumped it yet?

My experience was probably not ideal to break into this tough and life-changing business, which existed in some shape or form before the written word, and in my view will never die out. I began by discovering poetry and novels. Though naturally adept to poetry and its formal forms I tackled what Jackie Kay puts as the hardest experience in one’s life, full of self-doubt, anxiety, depression, frustration – you get the idea. Today I am still working on that novel, hopefully one day it’ll be on your shelves.

But now, I poured my experiences and my obsessions into my latest book ‘Mr Locke’s Diary’ (Out in February 2014) and I hit gold. It takes lending your soul to the page, or to whatever else you want to achieve creatively, and not giving up at the first hurdle. This was certainly one of my harder short stories, due to tone, register and research involved in localizing it, but it was worth it, I can see myself before I finish a page and for an instant I fall in love – this is before I realise I’m supposed to be editing.

This I know is not much in the way of technical help, but those will follow. I have a few ideas including my next post ‘show me a story, don’t tell me’, a much more technical approach and so on. A writer is born to serve the people; whether it is with a story to teach the next generation or to fight political injustice and I intend to serve. Until next time, read, love, live.

 Ciao 

Re-Vamp

It has been a long time but I have returned! This time I bring the news that my first book, 'Mr Locke's Diary', will be released in February. Let me take you all back to where I started this blog though, a bit like the 50th Dr Who anniversary that just passed actually.

I’ve always known I wanted to write, I started when I was eight, on a series of books I’m still writing. This book was inspired my musings during a job I did over summer and my almost obsessive adoration for the music of Emilie Autumn, whose concert I saw in Nottingham before moving abroad.

My book will be available through Nocturnal Press and via me. Though my aims are to break into the retail chains with enough support from publishers and readers.

I’ve always known I wanted to write and I’ve never been short of a reason for doing it. It’s like asking a cat why it purrs, because it cannot bark, mine is similar; I think the best would be to lend a few words from John Keats, ‘the artist is the most unartistic person in the world, he is a conduit for this energy that he transforms into words’, is what I summarize from his work. In brief, I never chose to write; I always knew I was full of stories and they all had to be shared.

My Book, ‘Mr Locke’s Diary’, follows a young house maid in the service of Mr Locke who one day goes missing. She is forced to pose as a gentleman in order to save the house from bailiffs but in the process she finds she has a taste for the new found freedoms of being a young man. She discovers a dark work of seedy drinking establishments, violence and pornography, but once through the looking-glass, she can never turn back.

Her freedom is short lived and discovered posing as a man and she is locked away in the asylum for insane young ladies where her luck only deteriorates. Delusions trap her in a world made of metal, filled with soulless workers loading trolleys with boxes, where you are condemned to eternal punishment to survive in boredom. There is a box, just one will lead you out of this place. Will she choose to exist in this place forever or take the risk of leaving? We all have an ending, we just don’t know which it will be until it’s too late.

To follow my work you can go to the following sites:

https://www.facebook.com/joseph.clark.908 - public profile

https://twitter.com/JosephC95010475 - Another less frequently used public profile

http://realmskipper.blogspot.fr/ - for articles and poetry

http://www.wattpad.com/user/JosephClark - for other fiction

I hope to see you all soon. Ciao

From Cathy to Linton

I’ve learned lots of love letters

Their style, composure, and glee.

They’ve never set much in store

For little, lonely me.

- 

I was told, by dear Dean, no less

That the young start in passion-

The inexperienced finish loose.

I’ve heard her warn

 -

So this letter, my dear Linton

Is all that I should have said

Years back, when my tongue

Was new, yours glad.

 -

I’m sorry our letters stopped short,

Come to me, my love for you did not.

A Poet on stage

Tonight, for the first time in months, I treated myself to a night out, so of course I went with a friend to a much loved event; a poetry reading. This post decidedly will be a short review of Aurélia Lassaque’s reading at Palas Print dated 10/12/12.

Armed with a measure of good red wine and a delicious, not to mention sticky mince pie; sat in a tiny room where the Welsh, French, Spanish, English and whoever else sat shoulder to shoulder, waiting expectantly for the performance to begin.  I had no expectations of this poet, being out of the loop for some time, evident in my blog, I took my seat in the front row. The lovely Aurélia and her translator took their seats facing us. I could not even see a twinge of apprehension, something rare when reading to such a seasoned group of critics, and that was only the Welsh.

I was astounded and full of admiration at Lassaque’s first collection ‘The call of Janus’, tracking the progression of images over St John’s Day. Each image has its own page, and each page resonates with a different sense. ‘Sweet aromas of cut grass’ and ‘horses tramp hooves in a war dance’, are just two phrases from the opening, forbearing the naturalist and disturbing that Lassaque invokes more and more throughout this collection.

With each passage, Lassaque read more and more passionately, while maintaining her authorial distance, something I find admirable when faced with such emotive language such as ‘ blood quickens beneath the skin’ and many others I have little time to mention.

Overall this collection, talking not exclusively of Bella’s time spent in this unusual place, is truly breath taking and well worth a read. It is truly awe inspiring to think these poems were written over two weeks.

Quickly moving on to the rest of her book; there was a truly controversial, perhaps dark side to many of these poems. Lassaque ventured to read some in Catalan and Italian, other than Occitan, demonstrating prowess in major as well as minor languages. Fantasy, for its prude inspiring mention of defrocking monks, and invoking Mediterranean imagery with Greece an ‘an olive tree’, were truly captivating.

‘The king of golden silk’, was possibly the darkest of these poems, retaining its distance from the scene only made it stronger as this king was in fact a scarecrow. The poet mentions his guts are ‘scattered on the ground’. However, before judging any of her work pejoratively, it is essential to mention that no matter how dark the tones are; her poetry exemplifies beauty in a way I have seen very few poets do.  It is my opinion that Aurélia Lassaque’s long career will keep on crashing forwards, with many more books to come; myself, I look forward to her next release in March next year.

The sanity of silliness

So, entering my second year of French with English literature, and I have to ask myself, just how do I keep my sensibilities under all this work (made even harder by having to take time out to get my first Dan black belt in October), and also while wondering if I’ll ever get to work on the Realmskipper saga again soon?

                Well, the answer is, it’s the toons that keep me sane, no I jest not, I don’t talk to them, and I assure you, they don’t ask me to. Watching these figments of another’s imagination allows me to escape the universe I happen to be plonked in, and wander the glittering alleyways of another. The human brain is not a machine, and I never believe it should be treated as such, the least of my reasons is a abhor headaches.

                Are there any other ways, one might ask, of putting down the goblet of pressure, and brain ache of real life? Yes! Many writers subscribe to a healthy fitness regime, myself included.

Consider the following next time you feel the wear and tear of thorny life, or if you feel your wanderings becoming aimless and wholly unsatisfying:

·       -  Martial arts

·        - Cardio workouts

·        - Yoga

·         -Quidditch (The most ancient and silliest of wizarding sports)

·        - Cartoons

·        - Cooking something tricky but fabulous tasting

·        - And many more, leave me some suggestions!

Well, while I have to attempt to make coherent sense of why museums are instruments of political power in the fifth republic of France (which isn’t entirely boring) I’ll leave you all to go out and make your masterpieces, ciao.

Why Sit Alone Little Poet?

I've been a bad blogger lately, I hold my hands up to you who love my poetry and apologize. However, I have been busy, cooking things up for the future, my novel is currently in preparation to hit a few select agencies in the country in the hopes one will take on this poor poet so he can reach more people. I will strive to get something out when time presents itself. But for now, here's something from my collection that earned me a 1st in Poetry in Bangor University, year 1.

Why Sit Alone Little Poet?

 -

Why rest your feet alone timid poet?

The sun does burn harsh your small fantasies.

Kill them quick, darling, do be quaint and quit,

Maybe you have. Those feeble diseases

 -

Which bewitch your mind, your soft supple fingers.

Does shade not keep them deep cool as before?

Shake not your darling bends and breaks, bearers

Of Bangled wrists and bead bracelets. They bore

 -

The gents around town.  Lift yourself up, don’t cry

Your two fine friendly legs stop spirits sore

And your eyes which see the plain paved prairie

Betray thee, with those barred boards of your moor.

 -

As long as paths do wind, and grass does gleam

Follow the river and forget the stream.

A poem to say: I Miss You

This one was inspired by a number of things, boredom from editing my book for the umpteenth time, the poem 'I don't know,' by my acquaintance Nikola Madrizorv and missing my best friend Doug. So without further ado my poem:

I miss you

I miss you.

I miss the things we used to do together,

Like go to the Chinese and have rice, chips

And sweet and sour sauce every time.

That is, every time except for the last.

I miss you.

I miss our walks to all sorts of new places,

The way you’d show me everything, as if

You owned it all. The pier, hills and dive

Bars were just some of the wonders.

I miss you.

I miss cooking, having dinner with you.

The effort was more a privilege than chore.

The thrill of discovering a new recipe, and

Those sounds you make as you eat too quickly.

You miss me.

That is, I hope you think of me.

It’s only been a week, and already I want you back.

I want one more lunch, dinner, and ice cream on the pier.

One more story of your time abroad.

So I’m calling just to ask…

How are you doing, my old friend?

Baking Bread

In this post I shall recall one of my early experiences with cooking in my university's kitchen, without my trusty fajita maker (on which I cook everything now). This experience was making bread, as the title suggests. I managed to flood the kitchen with black smoke, almost setting off the smoke alarm. Yang, my Chinese flatmate and I spent the subsequent half an hour, choking on the fumes, and trying to air out the kitchen. Good times.
Here I present my poem:

Baking Bread

Pasty rolls and oven hot

Put away till tops get spots

Pre-rolled and pressed

Practically prepared

So what’s wrong with it?

My dear, why care?

Darkened top and oven hot

Put away rolls, with more than spots

Blackened smoke, panicked shouts

God, will someone stop these pouts?

The oven’s broke- well what’s new?

It’s college dear, what’s wrong with you?