Spark in the Umbra

When I was a student at Auckland university, I got involved with a number of student social clubs, as you do.

One was the university role playing club which was called AMERICA, a rather tortured acronym which stood for ‘Association for Middle-Earth Role playing and Individual Character Assimilation’.

Don’t blame me - I didn’t name it. I’m sure it seemed like a good idea at the time. I did get elected to be the club President at one point which meant I could make the obvious joke. It wasn’t funny then either.

But that’s not really the topic of this post.

More importantly, I was part of the formation of a completely new student group, the Auckland University Freethinkers, which was a small and loose association of assorted atheists, agnostics, and sceptics.

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I recently joined the Critters on-line critiquing group.

So far it’s been a great experience. I ended up chatting with one of the other writers whose story I had submitted a critique on.

We got to talking about how we came to love the genres of science fiction and fantasy.

I know where mine comes from and it’s part of what makes me want to be a writer.

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I was reading a fellow bloggers site today after he was kind enough to post a comment here.

In one of his recent posts, he talked about how he had seldom ventured into the topics of religion and evolution, despite the fact that he was quite passionate about them.

I commented that I personally wished he’d talk more about them, even though it can be rather controversial and could be a lot of work since they are topics dear to my heart and central in my thinking.

It then occurred to me that I would be being a little bit hypocritical if I didn’t do the same.

So here goes.

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Yeah, I know. Two posts in one night.

This was the post I was keen to write initially, but then I realised a whole lot had happened that I hadn’t written to give it context. So I’m on a roll.

Anyway, I mentioned that I’d decided to try my hand at writing some horror short stories.

A week or so ago, my wife and I were discussing our new vegetable garden and the predations of certain unwanted molluscs.

Which is a fancy way of saying that “slugs ate our radishes”.

Anyway, something happened during this discussion.

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Things have happened.

Good things.

And I figure this makes for a lousy journal if I don’t record them here since this is supposed to be all about my writing journey.

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Hrmm.. it’s been too long since I’ve written here. In the interim, I have been doing quite a bit of reading about writing (a weak excuse, I know).

Dwight Swain’s ‘Techniques of the Selling Writer’ in particular is a classic, amazingly written in 1965 but as fresh and inspiring as ever. I can also recommend James Scott Bell’s ‘Plot and Structure’, a far more recent but just as useful exposition on the nuts and bolts of building stories. Anyway. Enough about that.

You see, in some respects, I’ve gone and made this all rather difficult for myself. Which is rather typical of me, by the way. Most writers sensibly start with aiming at something small, like a short story or even a poem. Me, I had to pick a bloody novel. Which makes that whole virtuous feedback loop that comes from starting and then finishing something all rather distant. Hell, it’s makes it largely non-existent!

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This post has been a while in coming. I’ve been avoiding it. However, due to requests from my adoring (ahem) public I have been moved into action.

(Someone becomes a development manager and look what happens!)

This was a strange kind of writer’s block.

It’s not that I didn’t know what to write, rather that I was vacillating about whether to write it.

Why may soon become obvious. But more likely, it will remain opaque to you, dear reader, and the truth is that I’ve been soul-searching and agonising over reasons why I do or don’t need to write this for no valid external reason at all.

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You know you’ve passed a milestone (or is that millstone, or even worse, gallstone) when your doctor casually includes you in the class of middle-aged men for the first time.

You see, cholesterol is no longer my friend. Now I don’t have any of the true risk factors so whilst there is nothing to really worry about, she thinks it would be better for me to eat a little better and exercise a little more. No need to tempt fate.

Apparently, my situation is “classic for middle-aged men with young families”. Pow!

I suppose it’s fair enough - I have just turned 40 after all. But nevertheless, Ooof!

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It’s been a weird thing, deciding to actually post the initial drafts of the novel. Normally, what you see on the printed page is the result of much revision, editing, and rewriting.

First drafts are generally rough and flawed beasts, written to get the basics down. The author can take solace in the fact that no-one else ever needs to see them, with all their dialogue warts, plot holes, and missteps.

This helps to sustain the illusion that only polished, beguiling prose drips from the authors fingertips, like nectar. (Yeah, right!)

By choosing to post these drafts, I’ve effectively deprived myself of any such cover and that leaves me feeling rather exposed. I’m a bit of a perfectionist you see, and I have a bit too much tied up in maintaining that particular illusion.

So it’s probably healthy for me to push through this barrier, despite the fact that this pithy rationalisation is not doing much to calm my intemperate emotions.

Anyway, here is more of the introductory chapter which continues from where the previous post left off.

Please ignore the man behind the curtain.

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I can’t get to sleep. Too much coffee, too late perhaps. But I can usually get away with that for some reason. Maybe I metabolize coffee differently from normal humans. Whatever.

A swirl of ideas and images seem to clamor for release from the prison that is my head. Triggered perhaps by the clemency shown in finally freeing the prologue earlier. They too are crying out to be committed down to electrons for others to read and will give me no peace.

After much tossing and turning, I have finally yielded. Maybe once they’re out, they’ll let me alone. Don’t they know I have work in the morning? Writing is supposed to be a relaxing (hah!) night time hobby, not a torment in the wee hours, damnit!

After all, I still have to keep my day job.

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