It was a strange tension even then and it has never really left me.

Whilst geeks often have a fairly wide and eclectic palette of interests, most of my friends still had a single centre of geek gravity.

I definitely seemed to have two and they pulled in decidedly different directions, so I was forever caught between the worlds of Intellect and Emotion.

Outside school, computers were also a major passion and if that had been offered as a subject at school, it would have probably have eclipsed Physics.

Still, being self-taught on that front had it’s advantages as I lucked into a part time job as as a software developer even though I was only 16.

This also paid considerably better than working at McDonald’s or a local supermarket, much to my school mates envy and disgust.

When school ended and it came time to decide about University, I was torn over whether to pursue either an Arts degree with an English major or a Science degree with a Computer Science major.

Whilst you could do conjoint degrees that let you study both Commerce and Arts or Science, you couldn’t combine the two. This was all over 20 years ago so things may have changed a lot since.

The Arts and Science faculties were decidedly separate and jealous parents with shared custody of the Psychology department amongst the Human Sciences (a curious and oxymoronic name – who else could they belong to?).

The Psychology department was obviously traumatised and scarred by it’s parents nasty divorce and continuing mutual distrust. It was very touchy about being taken seriously as a Science. Mislabel the axis of a graph in your assignment and it was an F for you. My Science faculty subjects seemed far more relaxed and less shrill about such matters.

Anyway, it looked like if I wanted to embrace both sides of my nature, it would have to be as two separate degrees so now, the question was which to do first.

On balance, the Science faculty was more dismissive of the Arts than the reverse.

You could cross-credit a fair bit of a Science degree to a subsequent Arts degree but it was very hard to go the other way. Psychology counted in both degrees so that was an easy choice but outside that, you could only do two Arts papers as part of a Science degree if you wanted any credit for them.

And Computer Science was also the more practical choice and much more likely to lead to continued employability.

So I pursued my Computer Science degree adding some Psychology and Anthropology papers alongside it.

In my second year when I wanted to take a further Anthropology paper, I remember the Dean of Science recoiling and asking why on Earth I wanted to keep studying that as if he’d spied a noxious insect stuck to my course transcript.

I got the distinct impression that dallying briefly with an Arts subject was an excusable sin in a curious young scientist. A blind eye could be turned to such conduct.

But by choosing to continue this illicit liaison, he was beginning to harbour serious doubts about my moral character.

Still, it was within the letter of the Science regulations so he reluctantly signed off, shaking his head and muttering as I turned and left.

To be continued…

The week is a project of SpecFicNZ, a group of passionate and wildly creative individuals I’ve had the pleasure of working alongside as we build an organisation for the support and promotion of Speculative Fiction writers in our little corner of the world.

Personally, I’ve always loved Speculative Fiction, well before I even knew of the concept. On the surface, Speculative Fiction is an umbrella term which spans across the genres of Fantasy, Science Fiction, and Horror which just happen to be my 3 favourite genres.

To my mind, what the 3 genres have in common and what I love so much is that they are all stories of encounters with The Other, something that transcends the everyday, whether it’s Other worlds, Other species, Other times, or the Other hidden within us.

For me, Speculative Fiction is all about Tales of the Other.

There’s a concept in evolutionary biology called Hybrid Vigour (or Heterosis) which describes the phenomenon where a cross-breed is often a superior individual with the best qualities of both parents and novel adaptive features as well. It’s how new species are made and how Yggdrasil, the Tree of Life branches out and creates new forms to explore our planet and the Universe.

So one of the really cool things about SpecFic is that it breaks through the somewhat blurry and artificial distinctions between the 3 genres (which are partly a marketing convenience) and includes and encourages novel fusions and hybrids of those genres which includes some of my personal favourites like Steampunk and Science Noir. I think Star Wars is a Science Fantasy fusion which explains it’s wide appeal. Hybrid vigour indeed!

The link I’m making here between biology and story-telling is not an idle one.

Stories are examples of Memes, an informational parallel to genes – a way of looking at the spread and development of ideas through the eyes of evolutionary theory. In the last 150,000 years, what it means to be human has changed radically.

We discovered language.

With language has came civilisation, culture, mythology, religion, science – a veritable Tree of Narrative branching and filling our heads and our hearts. With language, ideas and experiences could now spread from mind to mind, outliving their originator and achieving a kind of immortality as different elaborations and combinations are created.

Now, this all brings me now to the New Zealand dimension.

For our size, we have an incredible diversity with multiple climates, multiple ecological niches, exotic flora and fauna which all stem from our geographic and genetic isolation.

For a lot of people outside NZ, it’s already kind of an otherworldly place. Part of what I think made NZ so right for the Lord of the Rings is that Middle Earth is like the Earth we know, but also different and mythical and the NZ landscape offered that variety and sense of the familiar yet also magical.

New Zealand also builds on our biological and ecological diversity as we’re also a memetic melting pot with multiple cultures, multiple languages, and multiple world views all rubbing shoulders. Our isolation has encouraged a kind of primal pioneering creativity, a willingness to try new things in new ways and find ways to make them work.

So I can think of no better place to be writing and supporting Speculative Fiction.

For we are truly the Land of The Other.

And we have Tales to tell.

(No shit, Sherlock!)

I could make excuses about ‘life being busy’ and all that, but they would be just that.

Excuses.

You see, the truth is that my inner critic and my writing persona  have been having an extended skirmish of late.

For me, writing seems to get harder the longer I leave it. And 7 months is pretty bad.

My critic wants everything to be perfect, so I can be safe from laughter, and he can always imagine that there is something better, something brighter, I could have written, but don’t have the skill for.

So I write nothing at all instead. Ugh!

So anyway, here I am, thumbing my nose and blowing raspberries at my inner critic, in a bad parody of a certain Monty Python scene. You know, the one about elderberries and Frenchmen.

For the record, you can picture my writing persona as windswept and interesting – Billy Connolly would approve.

Valerie Aurora  (who is very cool) wrote on her blog that the secret to being prolific is having a low quality bar. I could put a link to her blog here but I’m too lazy – so go google her yourself. And anyway, my laziness fits in with the whole low quality theme.

So there.

Now, it will be interesting watching my inner critic turn various shades of purple at the utter horror of this vacuous post.

Oh, I suppose I shouldn’t be so  mean to him. In a way, he is just trying to protect me. His intentions are good and noble, but his sense of risk is all out of kilter.

I’m going to go out on a limb here and observe that if you scratch most writers (and a fair few devoted readers too I imagine), you’ll find a kid who got mocked or bullied for being ‘different’, or was made to feel on the ‘outer’ in some way. Such is life.

I know I developed a detailed and rich inner world I could retreat to as a respite. And that inner kingdom was populated with pieces of my favourite books, with various annexes and additions of my own making.

For me, writing is really about trying to share that inner world with others, to give something back to the speculative fiction writing tradition that helped sustain me all those years ago.

Maybe one day, some piece of what I write might find a home in some other kids inner world, where it can keep them warm and safe from the occasional slings and arrows of a bumpy childhood.

I like to think so.

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.

My father introduced me to fantasy and science fiction. When I was aged 8 or so, he sat at my bedside for many nights, reading JRR Tolkien’s “The Hobbit” to me. I could just snuggle up under the covers and immerse myself in the tale, picturing everything.

It was a book he loved and he wanted to share that love with me. I’ve never felt closer to my father or more loved by him than on those magical evenings. They were truly special and I will treasure them all my life.

He also had Tolkien’s “Lord of the Rings” and Frank Herbert’s “Dune” trilogy on his bookshelf. They were his favourites. He said I wasn’t old enough yet to read them, but that one day I would.

Well, that day did come when I got to read those stories and I loved them too.

Only my father wasn’t around to talk about them with.

I lost my father when I was 12 years old. He committed suicide 18 months after my parents marriage broke up, swallowed by the major depression that he had struggled with all his life.

He was in so much pain that even the love he felt for us, his children, was not enough to keep him here.

Even as a 12 year old, I knew on some level that I was losing my father. I could sense the aching sadness slowly eating him. My sister and I used to stay with him on weekends as part of the access arrangement and each time, a little more of his will to live had faded.

But I was just a kid, and there was nothing I could do.

Nothing except feel the aching hole in my life when he was gone.

That was 28 years ago now, and I don’t feel the loss every day any more, but when I do remember him, it still hurts just the same.

I’m a father with a son and daughter of my own now.

When my wife and I were at that stage when you decide to start telling people close to you the happy news, I’m always aware there is one person I would dearly love to tell.

But I can’t.

As I’ve grown up, I’ve visited some of the same dark places my father did. But I had more resources around me – so I’m still here.

My heartfelt thanks goes out to all the counsellors, loved ones and friends who helped me make it through those long dark nights of the soul.

I’ve spent 7 years in Men’s Support Group work, initially as a participant and later as a facilitator to give back something to the men whose stories, love and compassion helped save my life.

I wasn’t able to save my father. But maybe, by being there for other men suffering like he was, I’ve been able to stop some other little boy losing his father and having to suffer like I do. I like to think so.

The title of this post is a Pink Floyd song that I remember my father playing on his stereo. He loved music too, another gift he shared with me. The song is about Syd Barrett, one of the original members of Pink Floyd, who also succumbed to mental illness.

Dad, for you, I have cried a river. And I’m crying still.

So, so you think you can tell Heaven from Hell,
blue skies from pain.
Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?
And did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
And did you exchange a walk on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?
How I wish, how I wish you were here.
We’re just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year,
Running over the same old ground.
What have you found? The same old fears.
Wish you were here.

- Wish You Were Here, Pink Floyd (1975)

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.

I suddenly felt that there might be a story in there somewhere. And that feeling just grew stronger and stronger.

In the end, it wouldn’t let me sleep. Out came a whole short story with character, setting, plot – all in one feverish burst.

In fact, It didn’t feel so much like I had a story, it felt more like the story had me.

Compared to the work I’ve been doing on the novel, it was a totally different experience.

With the novel, I’m fussing with the character development, obsessing over about the setting and it’s internal consistency, anxious about getting the story arc to work. It’s all a conscious mental effort.

It feels like I’m crawling uphill with my fingernails, inch by bloody inch.

With the short story, I’m channelling some kind of mad flood bubbling up from my subconscious, trying to keep up.

What comes out is raw, rough – a first draft in dire need of polish – but it sure courses through me with a furious pace.

I feel like I’m already over the hump of the aforementioned hill, and I’m racing downhill, pulled forward by some kind of story gravity.

It was an exhausting yet magical experience. I was afraid it wouldn’t happen again.

I was wrong.

Another chance conversation with my wife today, and again, I have that urgent feeling growing that there might be a story there.

And yes, there is. Character, setting, plot – all twisting and tumbling, pressing to come flowing up out of my subconscious.

So, it would appear I have found my muse.

Now, I feel I truly understand what other writers meant when they spoke of the power of the muse and how it transforms the writing experience.

Of course, I fully realise that to be a real writer, I need to be able to produce whether inspired by the muse or not. Yes, sometimes, you just have to slog away. And what you actually write may not seem that different in the end.

It’s the process that is very different, rather than the output.

Hopefully, writing about the inspiration will calm the demon enough to let me sleep. Provided I offer it a pact to write the actual story tomorrow night.

Demons are rather picky about such contracts.

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.

Firstly, I joined the kiwiwriters.org site.

Sure, it’s great to connect with other Kiwi writers and it’s already been really useful for advice on a few nagging questions I had. (One of which was rather pertinent to this blog – I’ll get to that in a minute).

But selfishly, it was so I could post the novel draft I’ve written so far to get some critique and feedback.

The feedback I received is that so much back story in one burst so early in the novel robs the text of forward motion. But the back story and the character development it represents is actually good and worth keeping.

This nicely sums up and confirms my own mixed feelings about the draft so far, so I’m not completely wasting my time.

This is a relief.

Relating this to my wife, she looked at me and said “See, I told you I thought it had promise”. I could only grin somewhat sheepishly.

Here’s the thing, I feel asking people close to me about my writing is a two-edged sword. I want them to like it but it puts them in a rather awkward position.

I’m sure it’s the writers equivalent of the question every man dreads:

“Does my bum look too big in this?”

It’s a no win question. (No shit, sherlock!)

If you say no, they feel it’s only because you love them.
And if you say yes, well… let’s not go there.

Secondly, I found an experienced NZ writer of horror, Lee Pletzers, who has been a fount of knowledge and encouragement. We seem to have similar tastes in fiction and even similar first experiences of horror – The Sunday Horrors.

This was a fixture of NZ television when we were both nippers (i.e. decades ago) and showed various classic horror films. We both managed to escape appropriate parental supervision one evening and were never the same again.

For me, it was the original B&W movie ‘The Fly’. I saw it whilst staying overnight at my grandparents. It blew my young mind.

The tension, the excitement, the dread.

It had never occurred to me that people could even think such thoughts, let alone make a movie about them.

The guest bedroom was down a long hallway at the other end of their house. Boy, that was one scary journey.

And the light switch was on the other side of the room from my bed. I figured if I hit the switch as fast as I could and leapt across the room, I could get into bed and under the covers before the darkness reached me.

As a child, I knew that monsters can’t get you if you’re hiding under the covers. It’s some sort of a universal code of childhood monster conduct.

However, crouching down and looking under the bed is an absolute no-no and breaks the above covenant. It’s positively asking for trouble.

Anyway, I damn near broke the light switch I hit it so hard. But I survived so, it was justified.

Anyway, Lee confirmed my feeling that I needed to write some short stories. Both to build up my writing muscles, and to get some closure. As in, start something, rewrite, and then finish a story.

Sage advice.

Hell, I could even try submitting and maybe even get them published somewhere. Now, wouldn’t that be cool!

Speaking of advice, sadly, I shall not be featuring more of the novel draft on this blog.

Courtesy of the Kiwi Writers site, I’ve learned that there’s a rule of thumb that many publishers use:

If more than 10% of a work is put up on-line on a non-password protected site, they consider that you’ve effectively used up your first publishing rights.

So if I were to post much more, I would be getting dangerously close to crossing that threshold. And that would suck since I do hold the dream of one day getting this novel published.

That may be wildly optimistic, of course, but that optimism is what keeps me going. Novels are hard work so I need all the motivation I can get.

The short stories I’m writing, since I want to try submitting them, fall under the same knife. Bugger.

So this blog ends up needing to be about my process of writing and not the stories themselves, kind of like it was supposed to be.

Of course, if any of these short stories are soundly rejected by all markets, then I could put them here.

But that probably means they are crappy stories, so that might be kind of pointless.

Still, if it’s one of the on-line horror fiction e-zines that takes me up, I will be able to link to them with great pride.

It’s an amazingly powerful feeling so have someone like what I wrote.

I’m hooked.

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!

But I have more ideas than seems to fit in a short story and they are the ideas that I currently have and they are what excites me – when they’re not making me despair at how much work I’ve taken on that is.

To be fair, in the interim, I have had the odd germ of an idea for a short story. Maybe I should follow that whim, finish something and get some closure. But the black hole that is this ghost of a novel sucks me back in with it’s gravity, dragged into it’s unholy orbit, where it tears me apart sentence by unwritten sentence.

How did I get here?

This fictional work all originally started as a roleplaying game project – yes, I’m a roleplaying gamer – have been for some 25 or so years now, on and off. Yes, I’ve earned my geek stripes, thank you very much.

Actually, I’m more often in the role of game master, which for those unfamiliar with the structure of gaming is the one who shapes the world and plays all the other parts (large and small) that are not played by the protagonists or major characters of the piece which are enacted by the other players.

Being a game master is a lot of work, a real labour of love. If you want to do it well, it is anyway. That probably sounds rather arrogant and elitist. Bugger it – it’s still true!

Anyway, I was toying with the idea of running a game which combined as many of my favourite genres and ideas as I could, both ones I had done before, and others I’d like to do.

In the past, the longest running games I’ve run have been grounded in fantasy with an occasional flirtation with horror.

(For those of you that care, RuneQuest in Greg Stafford’s world of Glorantha, Elric/Stormbringer in Michael Moorcocks’ world of the Young Kingdoms, and Call of Cthulhu in H P Lovecraft’s world of the Cthulhu Mythos).

But I also have a love of science fiction (Neal Stephenson, William Gibson, Ian M Banks, etc.) as well as a smaller interest in the Technothriller genre (think action movies like Die Hard, anything by Tom Clancy, etc).

So since I was looking for a break from running fantasy, I was keen to try something a bit different. Perhaps I could try to combine horror, science fiction, and possibly the technothriller genre all together into a coherent (hopefully!) whole.

Anyway, as I was working on building this fictional world for gaming purposes, it started getting a bit daunting and hard to sustain forward momentum – too many directions to go in, pieces to design and detail. As usual, I had gone and picked something overly ambitious and damn difficult.

Then I had this great idea! Maybe if I put myself in the head of the characters, I can get an idea of the directions the other players might go in initially and thus pare down and focus the number of questions I had to answer and develop up front. That’s the ticket!

But then bugger me if these damn imaginary characters I came up didn’t start taking on a life of their own. Dialogues, conflicts, histories, back story, I was getting more interested and invested in them.

That’s when I finally started to realise that what I actually wanted to do was tell a story. In fact, a fair bit of my gaming has really been about trying to tell stories all along. I just didn’t know that.

Until now.

Of course, I know now that writing a novel is just as much work (if not more) than building a gaming world, just a different kind of work. So much for that great idea.

I’ve also realised that underpinning all of this are a number of deeper, more personal themes.

But they’ll have to wait for a different post. After all, I’ve got to have something left to write about.

(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.

To whit, some examples:

Con: The story doesn’t need this bit. This chapter is getting too long already. People are wondering about what the hell that prologue was all about. It’s just back story. All this characterisation is unnecessary.

Pro: Novel writing 101 – Characterisation is everything. If readers are going to stick with your story, it’s generally because of the characters.  Sure the plot may entertain and engage, the lyrical (hah!) description may inspire, but ultimately, characters is what makes the reader CARE.

Such decisions are the fate of the tortured artist.

RIGHT. That’s it. What a pile of melodramatic crap!

[editor's note: An angry looking and somewhat unshaven individual has burst in and grabbed control of the keyboard. Law enforcement has been notified by silent alarm.]

The REAL reason is that you’re too much of a people pleaser and all that TALK about being courageous and writing what was ‘true’ and taking RISKS was all lip service. This is where the rubber hits the ROAD, pal! Grow some BALLS. Write the damn thing. Stop being so politically correct and grow a BACKBONE, you lilly-livered COWARD!

[editor's note: The interloper has been restrained and muzzled by security and is now limited to merely glowering angrily and making occasional muffled growling noises. We apologise and return you to our original programming.]

Chapter 1: Not Waving, but Drowning [continued]

Cassandra wakes up, nauseous and headachey. She is eighteen years old. The light leaking in around a ragged and mildewy curtain seems overly bright. The unfamiliar room smells of unwashed socks and the bed is lumpy and uncomfortable. The flannelete sheets feel slightly sticky and unclean against her naked skin.

Looking over the edge of the bed, she recognises her Levis, t-shirt, bra and panties scattered haphazardly across the messy floor, interspersed with other unfamiliar clothes. The intermittent snoring coming from over her shoulder alerts her to the presence of another. Rolling over, she feels a sudden twinge of pain from her groin, which then recedes to a dull ache.

Lying on his back in the bed, blonde hair tussled, mouth agape is Anthony, one of her fellow Civil Engineering students from Monash University.

Most of the male students in her classes don’t seem to know what to make of Cassandra’s private and serious manner. Some leered and made awkward passes at her. Most eventually ended up ignoring her.

Not Anthony.

Anthony was the de facto ring leader of a small band of like-minded guys who’d known each other since high school. He had persisted in trying to get to know Cassandra. When she talked, she felt like he really seemed to listen and take an interest in her opinions. With his good looks, cocky grin, and easy laugh, he reminded Cassandra a bit of her father. At least, her father in his more carefree times, before…

Last night Anthony had finally convinced a reluctant Cassandra to come out with their group, first to a local pub ‘for a few warm-up rounds’ as he put it, and then on to a party. Cassandra remembered the pub and the first few beers, high spirited conversation, Anthony’s hand on her knee, but it was all a blur after that. Her pounding head doesn’t help with the remembrance and even thinking about beer makes her nausea worsen.

Anthony stretches out his arms and yawns. Sitting up, he opens his eyes. He sees her looking at him and smiles.

“Morning babe. How’s it going?” he asks.

“I feel like shit.” she replies.

“Well, you did drink quite a bit last night…” he explains, wagging his finger at her.

As she sits up, the pounding in her head intensifies. She groans and rubs her eyes. Then a thought occurs to her, crawling sluggishly and unwelcomely into awareness. She sits with it, a dim sense of horror dawning.

“Did we…” she trails off, afraid to say it.

“Yeah.” he grins, then frowns. “Hey, if I’d known you were a virgin, I’d have been more gentle.” he adds.

Cassandra just looks at him, stunned.

“Don’t you remember?” he asks after an uncomfortable pause.

“No – I don’t!” she insists, clutching her aching head in her hands.

“Hey, you were into it.” he says. “You’re just not used to drinking, are you?” he adds, putting his arm across her shoulder, a somewhat false sense of helpfulness in his tone.

Cassandra shrugs him off.

“Hey. Don’t be like that.” he says.

Cassandra sits hunched in the bed, a deep sadness washing over her. A tear runs down her cheek. Then a hotness overrides the churn in her stomach, fighting through the throb of her temples. Angrily, she wipes the tear away and looks back at him, a fire now in her gaze.

Anthony meets her eyes and swallows hesitantly. Then his smile slowly fades and his cheeks redden.

“Look. What are you saying?” he asks.

Cassandra keeps his gaze, daring him to look away. As he looks back, his expression hardens.

“Hey. What kind of guy do you think I am?” he demands, looking away now.

“I think that’s pretty obvious!” she hisses, angrily leaping out of bed. She starts hurriedly putting on her clothes.

Anthony sits in the bed and throws up his hands in mock exasperation.

“Did you even use a condom?” she demands, over her shoulder, as she pulls on her jeans. She is so full of hatred, she couldn’t bring herself to even look at him.

“Uh.. You said you were on the pill.” he replies.

“WHAT UTTER BULLSHIT!” she explodes.

“Jeez. Keep it down! My flatmates will hear you.” he hisses.

“FUCK YOU!” she yells, slamming his bedroom door behind her.

Blink

Cassandra is standing impatiently at the counter in the pharmacy, waiting for the assistant to come back with her prescription. It’s been taking for ever. She can hear the hushed voices of the assistant and the pharmacist in the back of the store, and she is sure they are talking about her. She feels another wave of shame and a sense of uncleanness. She just wants the ordeal to be over and to be anywhere else but here.

Finally, the assistant saunters back over to the counter, the prescription in her hand.

“Here you go. ” she says smiling. “You do realise that the morning after pill is not a substitute for birth control?” she adds.

Cassandra can hear the unspoken judgement in her tone. And with that, her sense of shame fades and the hot burning in the pit of her stomach returns.

“Can I have it please.” Cassandra asks, firmly, hand outstretched.

“Oh, sure.” the assistant replies, feigning surprise.

Cassandra takes the prescription, abruptly turns and starts walking.

“You forgot your change.” the assistant calls out.

Cassandra doesn’t look back.

Blink

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!

So I was instant messaging with a friend yesterday, talking about the blog and generally shooting the breeze as us old folks do. In the process, I remembered how much I enjoy talking with him, so it’s something I definitely should do more of – Timezones be damned. He’s in the USA and I’m in New Zealand you see.

Anyway, we got to chatting about the process of writing and the self-consciousness that goes with it which he could relate to. And then he made the insightful comment that he reckons it’s harder for us old fogies (Ooof!) compared with todays youth who seem pretty blase about it.

See, they write stuff and ‘publish’ themselves on Facebook, mySpace, Flickr, their blog, etc every day and are often TXTing (which is what SMS is called here in NZ) on their cellphones late into the night and even into the wee hours (if their parents will let them).

As for TXTing, I’ve heard stuffy English profs bemoan this trend and complain that TXTspeak with it’s very loose relationship with spelling and grammar is going to “degrade the future of literature”. Shit, at least they are writing something, which is a fuck load more than I manage on any given day and I’m the one that fancies himself as a writer. (Note to self: writers WRITE!)

Last year, I remember watching our teenage baby sitter, sitting on the couch with a cellphone in each hand TXTing on them simultaneously, both thumbs a blur of motion and she wasn’t even looking at the screens!

Boy, did I feel old watching that. Not quite middle-aged old though I should point out.

Me, I hate TXTing on those horrible cellphone keypads. 4 jabs to get an S and bugger, I’ve gone past it so I have to go around the horn. And where is the damn full stop? In my day, sentences use to end with them.

Shit, at my snail-like TXTing pace, it’d be quicker to just call the damn person and tell them. You know, by talking. In my day, that was what phones were for. Quaint but true.

Anyway, all this talking about writing is really just letting me avoid doing more of it.

Best get on with it.

Chapter 1: Not Waving, but Drowning [continued]

Cassandra is in the kitchen, standing at the stove. She is thirteen years old. She checks to see if the rice is done yet. Nope – not quite. She cooks most nights now and Beef Stroganof is her fathers favourite. She reckons she makes it as well now as her Mum used to.

It’s Friday night and she’s feeling pretty excited. Her father has agreed to take her hunting tomorrow for the first time. She’s done lots of hiking, camping, and fishing with him – but letting her come hunting and being taught to use the rifle is special. It’s testimony to her growing up, and something far better than the awkwardness she feels about her changing body. She remembers having to talk with Rita about periods and shudders.

She walks over to the back door which is ajar and the evening breeze gently strokes her face. Her father is sitting on the back step, wistfully looking out into the orange and purple clouds scattered across the sky. His left hand is resting on his knee, a cigarette sitting between his fingers, largely forgotten, a limp arch of curving ash.

“It’s almost ready. 10 more minutes.” Cassandra says.

He doesn’t respond.

“Dad, dinner will be ready soon.” she repeats, reaching down to touch his shoulder.

“Huh… Oh, sorry. What did you say?” he says, turning and blinking.

“Dinner is almost ready.” Cassandra says, smiling.

He nods, absently, drifting way again.

“You’re thinking about Mum, aren’t you. I can always tell.” she says, after a pause.

“Yeah, I guess it was the smell of the Stroganof. It was my favourite and…” he says, trailing off. He sighs.

“I miss her too.” Cassandra says, squeezing down beside him on the step. He puts his right arm around her shoulders and they both look out at the sunset.

Disturbed by the motion, the ash has fallen from the cigarette and left a grey smear down his trouser leg.

“You really should stop smoking those things, Dad. Smoking can kill you.” Cassandra says.

“Yes, yes. So you keep telling me.” he replies, smiling now, and tussling her hair.

Blink

]]> http://sparkintheumbra.com/writing/novel/talkin-bout-my-generation/feed/ 1 http://sparkintheumbra.com/writing/novel/more-of-the-same/ http://sparkintheumbra.com/writing/novel/more-of-the-same/#comments Wed, 28 May 2008 09:03:28 +0000 Paul http://sparkintheumbra.com/?p=8 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.

Chapter 1: Not Waving, but Drowning [continued]

Cassandra is standing in the the hospital by a nurses station. Her hand aches from Rita holding it too tightly. The hospital has a disconcerting sterile smell. A nurse kneels down in front of her and puts a hand gently on her shoulder.

“Hello, it’s Cassandra, isn’t it?” she asks.
Cassandra nods mutely.

“My name is Beth and I’m looking after your mother.
“She’s in that room over there.” she says, glancing back over her shoulder at a pair of doors.
“You can go in and see her when you’re ready. Would you like that?”
Cassandra nods again.

“She’s been in an accident and she got hurt so –”
“Is this really necessary?” interrupts Rita.
The nurse keeps her eyes on Cassandra and calmly continues.

“So I’m going to tell you what you’re going to see, OK?”
“…OK …” says Cassandra, hesitantly. Rita is squeezing her hand even tighter now.

“Your mother’s head and arm got very hurt.” the nurse says.
“There are some tubes in her mouth connected to a machine which is helping her to breathe.”
“She’s… asleep… now but she was asking to see you before.”
“Do you want to ask me any questions?”
Cassandra shakes her head.

“Would you like me to take you in?”
Cassandra nods.

The nurse stands and takes Cassandra’s other hand and together, they walk through the doors. Her mother is lying on the bed in the centre of the room. Just like the nurse said, her left side of her face is an angry, swollen mess and tubes run from her mouth to a machine which wheezes and sighs mechanically. Her father is sitting by her bedside, with his head in his hands. He stands as they walk in, revealing tears streaked down his cheeks. This is the first time Cassandra has ever seen her father cry. It won’t be the last.

Blink

Cassandra is back at the hospital with her father. Her father is looking haggard and unshaven. It’s been over four weeks and her mother has still not woken up.

Her father looks over at the doctor, swallows, and then nods. The doctor reaches behind the machine and clicks a switch. The bellows in the machine sigh one last time, and are then still.

Suddenly filled with panic, Cassandra breaks free from her father’s hands and runs over to the doctor, hitting him in the back.

“No! Turn it back on!” she screams.

Her father catches up with her, wrapping his arms around her struggling body. She twists in his embrace, pounding futilely with her fists on his broad chest. He holds her firmly about the waist, letting her hit him.

“I’m so sorry.” he says, his chest shaking, racked with sobs.

“I’m sorry.” he says again, repeating it over and over, a mantra of guilt.

After countless blows, growing ever feebler, Cassandra strength fades. She goes limp in her father’s arms, her tears mingling with his.

Blink

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