For reasons that I will not go into, I have not really been home much over the last couple of weeks and while I have had some opportunity to get some writing done I have mostly spent it reading and/or doing research on story ideas (also Deus Ex came out a couple of days ago so I have been busy doing a speed run through that - angry Jensen all the time).
In keeping with my call for story ideas I have made a few attempts on a story based on "A day in the life of a stockbroker" as James suggested.
I have not had much success.
At the start of the week I had a poke around in some economic websites and watched a couple of video interviews with young, seemingly 'hip' stockbrokers who had been chosen by which ever corporation they work for to act as promotion/information source on what stockbroking actually is and/or why the person watching should choose it as a career.
In my case it pretty much had the opposite effect - I found the whole thing rather soul sucking.
I'm not normally one to criticise people (or if I do it's generally for of a 'poking fun' sort of criticism) but to be honest after watching a few of these videos I came to rather quickly dislike everything about them and the world they live in.
I have a problem with any culture that is centred around an obsession with acquiring money for moneys sake, where it is treated as the only important thing in the world and how ever much you have is almost taken as some form of points systems indicating your value as an individual (if you have none you are not worth attention, if you have lots you win at life, if you have more you win several times?).
I have issues with the servile pandering of stockbrokers towards their monied clients.
I dislike how they sell themselves, both in the usually accepted meaning of the word, as in presenting themselves as best for the job (all the while surely lying, glossing over and over embellishing) and in the way in which they sycophantically trot along at the heels of their clients - leeching off scraps of wealth while they try to make as much short term profit off a system that should really be focused on long term goals and long term stability.
I will admit that my grasp on how the international economy works is rather weak at best but, given the current climate it seems to me that they way it does work is fundamentally broken and in the future a lot of people are going to have to pay a very dear price for the greed and happiness of a very few.
It makes you wonder what the world would be like if people were slightly different. If the average world view was skewed just slightly further away from selfishness, self aggrandisement and 'I'm better than you'.
Anyway, the whole purpose of this rant was really to explain that I was going to have to shelve the whole writing about a stockbroker for the moment as the whole thing made me rather uncomfortable and I the only story ideas that I could think of that seemingly had enough tension in them to be interesting were of the 'stockmarket crashes, stockbroker throws himself/herself out a window - or - stockbroker embezzles, becomes paranoid and is eventually found out and then throws himself/herself out a window' type and to me that felt a little on the boringly clichéd side.
Still it has been a little while since any writing went up so I will be hard at work on something more interesting over the next few days so then you can come poke holes in that.
*edit*
Here are a couple of the videos I watched
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hnkQtCdFY0A
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ATlRemuKN_o
Love how in the one with the woman in it she talks about her parents said they would pay for her arts degree as long as she did a 'sensible' course as well.
Also possible reason for why world economy is doing so poorly - people on stock exchange floors just spend the entire time fucking around just like everyone else.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yUlVDqHG3X4&feature=related
M.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Friday, August 12, 2011
Darkness; Dreaming
The Life and Death of Alistair Grout - Part 3
*Again this is a little short but it is pretty well contained so it seemed silly to keep on going past where I ended up cutting it off.*
The sun is low on the horizon by the time that Alistair stumbles back to his apartment door, cold sweat drenching his clothes and causing his skin prickle and burn. He searches for his keys, fumbles and swears before slotting the right on in the lock. He twists – his palms itch and his mouth feels dry – the lock is slow to give and once it does he is forced to shoulder the door open as it catches on the jamb. Relieved he pulls the chain across the door and throws himself down upon the bed. Every part of his body aches, as if something vital deep inside him were broken or suddenly missing. Unable to bring himself to move he surrenders himself to sleep and the myriad of twisted imagery that nightmares bring.
The sky is a long time dark by the time he finally comes to and for a brief moment he has trouble determining where he is. Anxiously he gropes in the darkness for the reading light beside the bed and is rewarded with a stabbing pain in the back of his eyes when he eventually finds it and flicks it on. He coughs and tries to cover them, only to retch at the horrible sour taste that has pooled in the back of his throat while he slept. He rises slowly, still shielding his eyes, and moves toward the sink for a glass of water – he makes it half way before he realises that his apartment is not how he had left it.
All about him is chaos: his suitcase has been ripped open and the contents tipped out and then rummaged through; kitchen drawers hang half open, a dirty plate is shattered upon the floor. Frantically he checks through everything and then breathes a sigh of relief when it becomes clear that nothing seems to be missing, although, he now admits to himself, it is not as if he really owns anything worth stealing any more. Nothing valuable... he sits amongst his scattered possessions and thinks for a moment and then his gaze is slowly drawn to where he had left the silver flask the day before: The kitchen bench is bare.
He trembles despite himself, looking towards the door, still shut, still locked and yet someone has been here while he slept. A liquid chill seem to roll down his back and he shivers involuntarily and suddenly the room seems very small and very dark; the light by his bed almost struggling to keep the shadows at bay. He no longer feels safe. He has to leave.
Frantically he jams everything back into his suitcase and pulls on his jacket and moves to go. Something bumps against his chest. He freezes. Slowly his hand goes to his pocket and quickly darts inside. There is a sloshing and a shifting of weight. The flask, except now half full. He stares at it like he would have a venomous snake.
His mind races and he begins to shake. Nothings wrong. Nothings wrong. Someone is just playing a prank. Someone is just messing with me. Having a bit of fun...
He breathes deeply and tries to push the thought away. The flask glints dully in his hand and completely illogically he begins to remember how thirsty he is. The flask seem to call to him. It warms in his hand, first pleasantly and then as he resists, with enough heat to burn skin.
He yelps in alarm and hurls it across the room where it clangs against a wall and comes unstopped, splashing dark fluid all about before it drops and vanishes behind the bed.
The pain is slow to fade and for a long moment he simply stands there twitching and wondering if he is beginning to lose his mind. How can it have done that? How could it have gotten hot? Blankly he stares down at his hand, at skin burnt pink. He swallows, his throat grinding on itself as if it were made of sandpaper. Somewhere in the back of his mind it occurs to him that if he were to leap across the bed now he might be able to save whatever was left before it all spilled out onto the carpet. At the thought his muscles snap taught and it is all he can do to stop himself from doing so.
Something is very wrong here.
He tries to move towards the door instead, his body fights him for a moment and then surrenders, a mournful cry bubbling up unbidden from deep within.
As if released he bolts and runs. Out the door and down the stairs.
He does not look back.
Outside the sun has now well and truly set, but Alistair pays no mind and pulls himself out into the night. He passes people, he passes bars, he does not stop; all distractions driven from his head and his mind burning with with apprehension and paranoia. He watches everyone, watches how they move, how they act, half expecting one to come at him at any moment.
From far behind he is watched as well. Studied. Observed. The watcher follows and decides to wait.
The start of this last part gave me a little bit of trouble, namely because although I felt it was necessary, the skipping of most a day still seemed a little jarring - I have had an idea for a transitional scene that I think would make it less so but strangely I I can only see it working if the story were a film or a television show - as I have yet to find a way to translate something purely visual into writing in a way that I am satisfied with.
Different ideas and pacing work better for different mediums I guess.
For the moment this may have to go unresolved however as although I am enjoying writing this story and I have rather a large amount of it already plotted out I need to work on other stuff as well, seeing as I do still have a number of other decent other story ideas rattling around in the old birdcage that I want to test out as well as a desire to revisit some of my earlier stuff (edits, re-dos etc.) just to see what happens.
I will, hopefully, come back to it eventually - especially if there is a request to do so - but for the moment WATCH THIS SPACE - there be new stuff on the horizon and I am feeling more confident about my writing (for no real apparent reason) so it might actually be readable.
Stay tuned,
M.
*Again this is a little short but it is pretty well contained so it seemed silly to keep on going past where I ended up cutting it off.*
The sun is low on the horizon by the time that Alistair stumbles back to his apartment door, cold sweat drenching his clothes and causing his skin prickle and burn. He searches for his keys, fumbles and swears before slotting the right on in the lock. He twists – his palms itch and his mouth feels dry – the lock is slow to give and once it does he is forced to shoulder the door open as it catches on the jamb. Relieved he pulls the chain across the door and throws himself down upon the bed. Every part of his body aches, as if something vital deep inside him were broken or suddenly missing. Unable to bring himself to move he surrenders himself to sleep and the myriad of twisted imagery that nightmares bring.
The sky is a long time dark by the time he finally comes to and for a brief moment he has trouble determining where he is. Anxiously he gropes in the darkness for the reading light beside the bed and is rewarded with a stabbing pain in the back of his eyes when he eventually finds it and flicks it on. He coughs and tries to cover them, only to retch at the horrible sour taste that has pooled in the back of his throat while he slept. He rises slowly, still shielding his eyes, and moves toward the sink for a glass of water – he makes it half way before he realises that his apartment is not how he had left it.
All about him is chaos: his suitcase has been ripped open and the contents tipped out and then rummaged through; kitchen drawers hang half open, a dirty plate is shattered upon the floor. Frantically he checks through everything and then breathes a sigh of relief when it becomes clear that nothing seems to be missing, although, he now admits to himself, it is not as if he really owns anything worth stealing any more. Nothing valuable... he sits amongst his scattered possessions and thinks for a moment and then his gaze is slowly drawn to where he had left the silver flask the day before: The kitchen bench is bare.
He trembles despite himself, looking towards the door, still shut, still locked and yet someone has been here while he slept. A liquid chill seem to roll down his back and he shivers involuntarily and suddenly the room seems very small and very dark; the light by his bed almost struggling to keep the shadows at bay. He no longer feels safe. He has to leave.
Frantically he jams everything back into his suitcase and pulls on his jacket and moves to go. Something bumps against his chest. He freezes. Slowly his hand goes to his pocket and quickly darts inside. There is a sloshing and a shifting of weight. The flask, except now half full. He stares at it like he would have a venomous snake.
His mind races and he begins to shake. Nothings wrong. Nothings wrong. Someone is just playing a prank. Someone is just messing with me. Having a bit of fun...
He breathes deeply and tries to push the thought away. The flask glints dully in his hand and completely illogically he begins to remember how thirsty he is. The flask seem to call to him. It warms in his hand, first pleasantly and then as he resists, with enough heat to burn skin.
He yelps in alarm and hurls it across the room where it clangs against a wall and comes unstopped, splashing dark fluid all about before it drops and vanishes behind the bed.
The pain is slow to fade and for a long moment he simply stands there twitching and wondering if he is beginning to lose his mind. How can it have done that? How could it have gotten hot? Blankly he stares down at his hand, at skin burnt pink. He swallows, his throat grinding on itself as if it were made of sandpaper. Somewhere in the back of his mind it occurs to him that if he were to leap across the bed now he might be able to save whatever was left before it all spilled out onto the carpet. At the thought his muscles snap taught and it is all he can do to stop himself from doing so.
Something is very wrong here.
He tries to move towards the door instead, his body fights him for a moment and then surrenders, a mournful cry bubbling up unbidden from deep within.
As if released he bolts and runs. Out the door and down the stairs.
He does not look back.
Outside the sun has now well and truly set, but Alistair pays no mind and pulls himself out into the night. He passes people, he passes bars, he does not stop; all distractions driven from his head and his mind burning with with apprehension and paranoia. He watches everyone, watches how they move, how they act, half expecting one to come at him at any moment.
From far behind he is watched as well. Studied. Observed. The watcher follows and decides to wait.
The start of this last part gave me a little bit of trouble, namely because although I felt it was necessary, the skipping of most a day still seemed a little jarring - I have had an idea for a transitional scene that I think would make it less so but strangely I I can only see it working if the story were a film or a television show - as I have yet to find a way to translate something purely visual into writing in a way that I am satisfied with.
Different ideas and pacing work better for different mediums I guess.
For the moment this may have to go unresolved however as although I am enjoying writing this story and I have rather a large amount of it already plotted out I need to work on other stuff as well, seeing as I do still have a number of other decent other story ideas rattling around in the old birdcage that I want to test out as well as a desire to revisit some of my earlier stuff (edits, re-dos etc.) just to see what happens.
I will, hopefully, come back to it eventually - especially if there is a request to do so - but for the moment WATCH THIS SPACE - there be new stuff on the horizon and I am feeling more confident about my writing (for no real apparent reason) so it might actually be readable.
Stay tuned,
M.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
The deep breath before the plunge
Okay boys and girls I think it is high time for me to kick this shit up a notch.
As has been pointed out to me several people now, I have a decent amount of time on my hands seeing as I have finished my under-grad (my actual possession of a physical diploma being beside the point) and so if I really want to take this whole writing thing seriously (which I do) then I need to start:
a) writing as much as I possibly can.
and,
b) submitting work to anyone and anything that will take it in an attempt to get feedback from people who are both in the know and not people that I know.
With this in mind - and with this* helpful list in hand I am going to do just that.
*http://www.austwriters.com/AWRfiles/competitions.htm
At this point my expectations are not overly high - I am not going to win anything straight off the bat, and, if and when I start getting feedback it will most likely tear into whatever it is that I have put out there - still this is a necessary process - If my writing is going to develop past what it is now I need to practice, I need to have stuff torn to pieces so that I can sift through the remains and gather up the good bits (if indeed there are any).
Anyway, current story will be updated tomorrow, then it is my birthday this weekend (22 - how the fuck did that happen) and then once that is done with updates will resume - but, to quote a phrase, "faster and more intense."
Also advice on entries for competitions will be extremely welcome (that especially goes for you my dear lurkers and people who have forgotten that they should be reading this).
Till tomorrow,
M.
As has been pointed out to me several people now, I have a decent amount of time on my hands seeing as I have finished my under-grad (my actual possession of a physical diploma being beside the point) and so if I really want to take this whole writing thing seriously (which I do) then I need to start:
a) writing as much as I possibly can.
and,
b) submitting work to anyone and anything that will take it in an attempt to get feedback from people who are both in the know and not people that I know.
With this in mind - and with this* helpful list in hand I am going to do just that.
*http://www.austwriters.com/AWRfiles/competitions.htm
At this point my expectations are not overly high - I am not going to win anything straight off the bat, and, if and when I start getting feedback it will most likely tear into whatever it is that I have put out there - still this is a necessary process - If my writing is going to develop past what it is now I need to practice, I need to have stuff torn to pieces so that I can sift through the remains and gather up the good bits (if indeed there are any).
Anyway, current story will be updated tomorrow, then it is my birthday this weekend (22 - how the fuck did that happen) and then once that is done with updates will resume - but, to quote a phrase, "faster and more intense."
Also advice on entries for competitions will be extremely welcome (that especially goes for you my dear lurkers and people who have forgotten that they should be reading this).
Till tomorrow,
M.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Red Sea
Over the last few weeks I've been making a conscious effort to get more reading done, and, rather than just letting my self slip into the escapism that a good (or sometimes bad) book will offer, I've also been trying to pay more attention to writing style, flow, forms of expression etc...
*On a side note I think this shows on of the major issues with growing up reading from a selective pool of literature (especially if that pool is fantasy or something similar) in that most of the works that you will read will be written on what can only be described as a middling quality - in that while they are not, for the most part, horribly written, they are, also for the most part, nothing overwhelmingly fantastic either - something which causes the physical writing aspects to take a bit of a back seat to world building and ideas, making it difficult to learn anything, about writing, beyond a certain point*
Anyway, I think it is helping. Though strangely, while I am attempting to read more broadly than I have in the past - it seems that I am getting just as much out of reading works (both excerpts from novels and short stories) that I know to have been written early of a writer - as they are, while showing promise, often more clunky than the works that will come after - something that, firstly, forces you to pay attention to the writing and, secondly, forces you to ask yourself "If I have a problem with this small excerpt - how would I alter it to make it better if I was the author?"
Anyway, it has been a little bit since my last story update, so here is the next bit from the story I put up last
The Life and Death of Alistair Grout: Part 2
The sun was slow in coming and once it arrived it remained long hidden behind a blanket of thick fog that had rolled in off the ocean during the night, only to become caught, like thick cobwebs, between the buildings where it now flitted and flickered in the morning breeze.
Slowly light began to fall upon the city and down below the inhabitants emerged as if ants, shivering in winter clothes and then scurrying this way and that, which each breath trailing behind them in the cold air. The smell of coffee drifts out from alleyway cafés and the people yawn, rub their eyes and drink, resigning themselves to another start of a working week.
From his apartment Alistair tries not to notice and instead pulls a pillow over his head and attempts to burrow further down below his blankets where it is warm.
He is expecting a hangover and he is expecting it to be bad and although he know that it will not work he hopes that if he keeps himself away from the piercing light of the morning sun for long enough he will be able to avoid, or at least delay the onset of the splitting headache that he knew would eventually sneak up behind him and hit him over the head like a hammer.
The sun, however, has other ideas and even as he retreats further under his blankets it begins a probing advance through the window and into the room where it ever so gradually begins to climb up the side of the bed and onto the sheets. He groans and tries to roll over and face away from the window but knocks the pillow from the bed in the process and in doing so catches a face full of sunlight. He clutches his hands to his head, expecting the worst...
... Nothing. No ache, no pain. Slowly he removes his hands and then sits there blinking in the morning light.
No hangover.
He stifles a yawn and then stretches.
He feels good. Really good.
Confused he pulls himself from the bed cautiously. Pale walls stare back at him, unadorned except for splotches of sunlight. The room is empty and largely unadorned, at the other end of the room plain green carpet gives way to tiles and a small kitchen. Had he wanted to he could have made it over from the bed to the microwave and the fridge (there is no oven) in half a dozen steps and would have only had to avoid the large brown suitcase that sat in the centre of the room and was overflowing with essentially everything that he owned.
He sighed: “Home sweet home.”
At least he had ended up here and not dozing on some park bench:- something that had happened before.
He tries to cover another yawn and moves over the suitcase. He had been living out of it for more than a week now and, he acknowledged, it was possible that he would be living out of it in the many weeks to come. He grabbed a towel and moved towards the shower, glancing at something that caught his eye on the kitchen bench as he passed. He stopped.
The flask.
He picked it up and looked at it, turning it over in his hand. Simple silver, no engravings, no marks. He shakes it. Empty.
Slowly he begins to remember the details of the previous night and he then looks around the room alarmed, as it suddenly occurs to him that he might not be alone. After a few seconds he chuckles to himself, and slaps his face lightly with his hand in a mild form of self-abasement: If he hadn't noticed anyone in the apartment yet it was unlikely that there was anyone here. After all there were not exactly too many places that that anyone could hide.
Though, it occurred to him strangely, he would not have been too surprised if the he had found the woman from last night hiding somewhere, there had been something odd about her.
He moved into the bathroom, looking around unconsciously before stripping off and climbing in to the shower. The water was cold and it stayed cold so he quickly towelled of and pulled on some relatively fresh clothes.
Back in the main room the sun has risen considerably in the sky and so everything is now bathed in light. He stands there for a moment, drinking it all in. He feels fantastic, he realises again and for the first time in what seems like forever he contemplates going out during the day.
It seemed clear now that he would not be going home again, for even if everything was forgiven, he knew that he would not be able to live with the guilt. He runs his hand through thinning hair and tries to push the feeling to the back of his mind, though in a way he was already feeling better for having made the decision.
Still, if he was going to be staying in the city from now on he knew he had to do something new, at the moment he felt so full of energy that just the idea of staying in the apartment all day was enough to drive him stir-crazy.
Grinning he pulls on his jacket and makes his way toward the door, feeling something he thought he had long ago lost - a curiosity for what the day might bring.
Little short, but it seems like as good a place as any to cut it off - the next bit is well and truly done, but the tone is quite different so it seems like a good idea to save it until later.
Next post will be up soon - and I may also be taking part in a play by post adventure at some point in the near future which I may link to on here.
M
*On a side note I think this shows on of the major issues with growing up reading from a selective pool of literature (especially if that pool is fantasy or something similar) in that most of the works that you will read will be written on what can only be described as a middling quality - in that while they are not, for the most part, horribly written, they are, also for the most part, nothing overwhelmingly fantastic either - something which causes the physical writing aspects to take a bit of a back seat to world building and ideas, making it difficult to learn anything, about writing, beyond a certain point*
Anyway, I think it is helping. Though strangely, while I am attempting to read more broadly than I have in the past - it seems that I am getting just as much out of reading works (both excerpts from novels and short stories) that I know to have been written early of a writer - as they are, while showing promise, often more clunky than the works that will come after - something that, firstly, forces you to pay attention to the writing and, secondly, forces you to ask yourself "If I have a problem with this small excerpt - how would I alter it to make it better if I was the author?"
Anyway, it has been a little bit since my last story update, so here is the next bit from the story I put up last
The Life and Death of Alistair Grout: Part 2
The sun was slow in coming and once it arrived it remained long hidden behind a blanket of thick fog that had rolled in off the ocean during the night, only to become caught, like thick cobwebs, between the buildings where it now flitted and flickered in the morning breeze.
Slowly light began to fall upon the city and down below the inhabitants emerged as if ants, shivering in winter clothes and then scurrying this way and that, which each breath trailing behind them in the cold air. The smell of coffee drifts out from alleyway cafés and the people yawn, rub their eyes and drink, resigning themselves to another start of a working week.
From his apartment Alistair tries not to notice and instead pulls a pillow over his head and attempts to burrow further down below his blankets where it is warm.
He is expecting a hangover and he is expecting it to be bad and although he know that it will not work he hopes that if he keeps himself away from the piercing light of the morning sun for long enough he will be able to avoid, or at least delay the onset of the splitting headache that he knew would eventually sneak up behind him and hit him over the head like a hammer.
The sun, however, has other ideas and even as he retreats further under his blankets it begins a probing advance through the window and into the room where it ever so gradually begins to climb up the side of the bed and onto the sheets. He groans and tries to roll over and face away from the window but knocks the pillow from the bed in the process and in doing so catches a face full of sunlight. He clutches his hands to his head, expecting the worst...
... Nothing. No ache, no pain. Slowly he removes his hands and then sits there blinking in the morning light.
No hangover.
He stifles a yawn and then stretches.
He feels good. Really good.
Confused he pulls himself from the bed cautiously. Pale walls stare back at him, unadorned except for splotches of sunlight. The room is empty and largely unadorned, at the other end of the room plain green carpet gives way to tiles and a small kitchen. Had he wanted to he could have made it over from the bed to the microwave and the fridge (there is no oven) in half a dozen steps and would have only had to avoid the large brown suitcase that sat in the centre of the room and was overflowing with essentially everything that he owned.
He sighed: “Home sweet home.”
At least he had ended up here and not dozing on some park bench:- something that had happened before.
He tries to cover another yawn and moves over the suitcase. He had been living out of it for more than a week now and, he acknowledged, it was possible that he would be living out of it in the many weeks to come. He grabbed a towel and moved towards the shower, glancing at something that caught his eye on the kitchen bench as he passed. He stopped.
The flask.
He picked it up and looked at it, turning it over in his hand. Simple silver, no engravings, no marks. He shakes it. Empty.
Slowly he begins to remember the details of the previous night and he then looks around the room alarmed, as it suddenly occurs to him that he might not be alone. After a few seconds he chuckles to himself, and slaps his face lightly with his hand in a mild form of self-abasement: If he hadn't noticed anyone in the apartment yet it was unlikely that there was anyone here. After all there were not exactly too many places that that anyone could hide.
Though, it occurred to him strangely, he would not have been too surprised if the he had found the woman from last night hiding somewhere, there had been something odd about her.
He moved into the bathroom, looking around unconsciously before stripping off and climbing in to the shower. The water was cold and it stayed cold so he quickly towelled of and pulled on some relatively fresh clothes.
Back in the main room the sun has risen considerably in the sky and so everything is now bathed in light. He stands there for a moment, drinking it all in. He feels fantastic, he realises again and for the first time in what seems like forever he contemplates going out during the day.
It seemed clear now that he would not be going home again, for even if everything was forgiven, he knew that he would not be able to live with the guilt. He runs his hand through thinning hair and tries to push the feeling to the back of his mind, though in a way he was already feeling better for having made the decision.
Still, if he was going to be staying in the city from now on he knew he had to do something new, at the moment he felt so full of energy that just the idea of staying in the apartment all day was enough to drive him stir-crazy.
Grinning he pulls on his jacket and makes his way toward the door, feeling something he thought he had long ago lost - a curiosity for what the day might bring.
Little short, but it seems like as good a place as any to cut it off - the next bit is well and truly done, but the tone is quite different so it seems like a good idea to save it until later.
Next post will be up soon - and I may also be taking part in a play by post adventure at some point in the near future which I may link to on here.
M
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