{"@context":{"rdf":"http://www.w3.org/1999/02/22-rdf-syntax-ns#","rdfs":"http://www.w3.org/2000/01/rdf-schema#","owl":"http://www.w3.org/2002/07/owl#","foaf":"http://xmlns.com/foaf/0.1/","dc":"http://purl.org/dc/elements/1.1/","dct":"http://purl.org/dc/terms/","sioc":"http://rdfs.org/sioc/types#","blog":"http://vocab.amy.so/blog#","as":"https://www.w3.org/ns/activitystreams#","mf2":"http://microformats.org/profile/","ldp":"http://www.w3.org/ns/ldp#","solid":"http://www.w3.org/ns/solid#","view":"https://terms.rhiaro.co.uk/view#","asext":"https://terms.rhiaro.co.uk/as#","dbp":"http://dbpedia.org/property/","geo":"http://www.w3.org/2003/01/geo/wgs84_pos#","doap":"http://usefulinc.com/ns/doap#","time":"http://www.w3.org/2006/time#"},"@graph":[{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/2011/08/fiction-more","@type":"as:Article","blog:bloggerid":"tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18505529.post-4249352792275276195","as:actor":{"@id":"http://www.blogger.com/profile/12227954801080178130"},"as:content":"
I wrote two stories today! Without even the random words. I'm on fire. One was\r\ninspired by old people at the bus stop (maybe getting out of the house\r\nhelped?) and I titled it An Inconvenient Youth. I'm still in debates with\r\nmyself about this. The second was a ten minute jobby that I started two\r\nparagraphs before I finished the first (indeed, on the same document) and I\r\ncalled Whut is Lurve Anyhaw?. It similarly takes place on a bus, but is a\r\nprimarily a monologue in what I hope is a southern US accent.
\r\nBoth of these stories are currently on an adventure along with the\r\nconspicuously absent Ethel and Jake, which should take no longer than two\r\nmonths or so to complete. Depending on the outcome of the adventure, they may\r\narrive here.
","as:name":"Fiction and more fiction!","as:published":{"@type":"http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#datetime","@value":"2011-08-30T21:58:00.000Z"},"as:tag":[{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/doing"},{"@id":"blog:Doing"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/fiction"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/story"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/writing"}],"as:updated":{"@type":"http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#datetime","@value":"2013-03-23T02:17:42.113Z"}},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/2011/08/forced-fiction-2","@type":"as:Article","blog:bloggerid":"tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18505529.post-6649387906420521642","as:actor":{"@id":"http://www.blogger.com/profile/12227954801080178130"},"as:content":"\r\n[Words were generated randomly. I swear I didn't expect them to be this\r\ntopical.]
\r\nLittle Steve poked at the pile of circuitry in front of him with a screwdriver\r\nthe length of his forearm. His nose wrinkled with concentration as he\r\ncarefully extracted a string of spaghetti. His father would not be pleased.
\r\nAs usual, the aliens had come whilst his parents were sleeping. Last time it\r\nhad only been the TV remote that they'd abducted. The time before that it was\r\na standing lamp. This time, it was his father's brand new Macintosh computer.\r\nSteve did not want to be around for his dad's reaction, but being four-years-\r\nand-seven-months old, he struggled to find excuses to be absent from the\r\nhouse. So he would have to face the consequences.
\r\nThey always blamed him of course; not when things went missing, but when they\r\ncame back. Because most of the time, things came back having been partially\r\ntransformed into something tasty. The lamp had been embedded with chocolate\r\nchips. The insides of the remote, filled with ice cream. They never believed\r\nhim when he explained about the aliens and their faulty teleporter. His mother\r\njust eyed him with suspicious terror, and his father talked in a stern voice\r\nabout respecting peoples' things, and the cost of psychological counselling.
\r\nSteve reached for tweezers in an attempt to extract flecks of bolognese. The\r\nmachine had been quite literally turned inside out before being dosed with a\r\nhearty Italian meal. It may well be beyond salvation.
\r\nHe sighed, rolling his eyes at the spot in the night sky in which he knew\r\ntheir mothership resided. If their pattern of taking increasingly\r\nsophisticated devices was to continue, something must be done.
\r\nSteve crept through the dark house and reached a tiny hand onto the desk in\r\nthe study. The hand withdrew with his father's billfold clutched firmly\r\ninside. He extracted all of the notes, and returned the wallet to its previous\r\nposition. Tiptoeing through the kitchen, tiles chilling his bare feet, Steve\r\ntucked the money between his lips and shrunk to all fours to squeeze through\r\nthe dog-flap in the back door.
\r\nThe plantpot where he made his offerings was beside the door; Steve squashed\r\nthe cash into the mud, making sure it was covered, then popped a marble on top\r\nso they'd know.
\r\n"Fix your teleporter," he hissed into the darkness.
\r\nSteve returned to bed, hoping sincerely that the aliens would deal with their\r\ntechnical problems before it was his turn.
","as:name":"Forced fiction 2: billfold, circuitry, macintosh, reaction, usual","as:published":{"@type":"http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#datetime","@value":"2011-08-25T23:34:00.006Z"},"as:tag":[{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/doing"},{"@id":"blog:Doing"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/fiction"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/flash"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/forced+fiction"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/story"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/writing"}],"as:updated":{"@type":"http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#datetime","@value":"2013-03-23T02:18:03.400Z"}},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/2011/08/forced-fiction-3","@type":"as:Article","blog:bloggerid":"tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18505529.post-5937009293604152759","as:actor":{"@id":"http://www.blogger.com/profile/12227954801080178130"},"as:content":"\r\n[This one was tough. Two two-hundred-word false starts, at least twenty four\r\nhours of unproductivity and a session on 750words to\r\nforce extraction of every thought that drifted through my mind, however\r\ninsignificant, later...]
\r\n[Disclaimer: All persons and scenarios portrayed her are fictional, and any\r\nresemblance to real people and places is entirely coincidental.]
\r\nLife circumstances twisted and turned, times changed, redundancies occurred,\r\nand one way or another, I found myself living with my mother again. I'd been\r\nback in the family home for two whole weeks before I became suspicious. The\r\nhouse routine had changed little in the years I'd been away. My mother worked\r\nher way through consistent mountains of laundry and ironing, courtesy of my\r\nsiblings. She cooked and cleaned and tended the garden. She complained that\r\nthe house was always a mess and that she never had time to read or play the\r\npiano. She claimed to relish rainy days because she could resist the allure of\r\nthe outside world, and do chores in the house.
\r\nShe incorporated my laundry into the household cycle and it was easy to let\r\nher take over. She ironed clothes of mine that I hadn't ironed in years,\r\ninsisting it was necessary. She was critical in conversations with neighbours\r\nand family friends about having to 'look after' me again now I was home, but\r\nwouldn't let me cook for myself and swore she loved having me around the\r\nhouse.
\r\nShe was at home all the time during the summer. She had a job change to look\r\nforward to at the beginning of the next school year. It involved fewer hours\r\nand less responsibility. To her, this was a promotion, and she frequently\r\nmentioned how much she anticipated creating a new routine around her work,\r\nfinishing chores in the afternoons and having weekends free for gardening and\r\nbaking.
\r\nHer hobbies truly were the household tasks, and she was always engaged with\r\nthem. But she was right. The house was always a mess. Not dirty, just\r\nuntidy. Disorganised, cluttered, in a way that is entirely excusable for a\r\nfamily with toddlers, for example. It had been in this state for my entire\r\nlife, so it took a while for me to notice. I confined my own mess to my\r\nbedroom, and my slothful brother and workaholic sister had organised their\r\nlifestyles to create barely a ripple in our mother's day-to-day running of the\r\nhome. So as a lifelong and proud homemaker with near-enough grown up\r\nchildren... why wasn't every room spotless? I'm not just criticising. She\r\nregularly bemoaned this fact. She had time and inclination and no-one to\r\nhinder her. In addition, the hours she spent in the garden resulted in fresh\r\nvegetables and endless fresh floral arrangements in the kitchen. Yet the\r\ngarden was in a similar state of disarray to the house. There were weeds; vine\r\nplants spreading well beyond their allocated area; paving slabs misaligned;\r\nborders overflowing onto footpaths.
\r\nI reiterate that I never had a problem with this habitat. The place was homely\r\nrather than cold and inhuman as an immaculate room can be, and the garden had\r\ncharacter. I was simply baffled by her unexplainable inability to control this\r\nentirely normal environment, despite an obvious desire to do so.
\r\nThat's when I started to wonder if my mother was not all she appeared to be.\r\nThe more I thought about it, the more I became convinced that she was\r\nconcealing something.
\r\nFrom my bedroom window one morning, I watched her make her way slowly down the\r\ngarden path, stopping every now and again to turn the head of a flower, or\r\npull up a weed. She made it to the vegetable patch at the bottom of the garden\r\nand spent five minutes hunched over the cabbages; I assumed, picking off the\r\ncaterpillars.
\r\nThen she vanished.
\r\nI blinked, and squinted at the spot where she had been kneeling. There was no\r\ncorner for her to have disappeared round, and no mysterious hole in the earth\r\nthrough which she could have fallen. I figured if I was ever going to find out\r\nwhat was going on, now was the time.
\r\nI noticed nothing unusual as I approached the vegetable patch. Crouching down\r\nin the same place my mother had been, I peered at the leaves of the first\r\ncabbage, mostly shredded to lace by the caterpillars that were creeping over\r\nthe surface. I remember thinking how big some of the caterpillars seemed to\r\nbe. Then how big the cabbage was, then all at once the ground beneath me had\r\ntransformed from soil to some kind of soft, green, fibrous fabric.
\r\nI froze as I realised I had materialised in the midst of a hub of bustling\r\nactivity. People... creatures... flurried around me, mostly carrying things,\r\nsometimes dragging things. Seconds passed, and my presence didn't appear to\r\nhave altered anyone's course so I relaxed a little.
\r\nAhead of me, the green expanse stretched out for perhaps a mile before the\r\nground started to curve upwards, becoming almost vertical before disappearing\r\nfrom view into a tangle of vine-like tendrils. The surface itself was divided\r\ninto sections by smooth, pale green elevations that looked a bit like really\r\nlong, curving speed bumps, and it was between - never over - these divisions\r\nthat the residents of this populous land scurried. And as for those\r\nresidents... My first assumption had been that they were oversized bugs, but\r\nsurreptitious closer inspection made apparent various more humanoid features,\r\nexaggerated into insect-like shapes. Human hands on the end of an elongated\r\narm with a backward elbow joint; an extra pair of otherwise perfectly ordinary\r\njean-clad legs; shining organic body armour; curling antennae; uncomfortable\r\nlooking food pipes replacing noses and mouths. I observed all of this as an\r\naside, however, as my primary focus at that moment was locating my mother, who\r\nI assumed had to be here somewhere. Seeing nothing in the immediate vicinity,\r\nI rotated one-hundred-and-eighty degrees and was confronted by an infinitely\r\nmore explorable landscape. I appeared to be at the end of an enormous\r\ndriveway, lined on either side by slim, but unsymmetrical, strips of partially\r\npolished tree bark. Each strip was about twelve feet tall (twelve feet, that\r\nis, relative to my current scale) and angled a little outwards. At the end of\r\nthis driveway stood a grand, turreted structure; immense, green, and in\r\nplaces, shimmering. It was a palace for sure, and it was in that direction I\r\nheaded.
\r\nSurrounding the entrance there were no guards, just an increase in the density\r\nof busy looking individuals. I crept through easily, taking care not to bump\r\nanyone, and entered through an open archway. This entrance hall was at least\r\nthe size of a football field and had a floor of polished tiles which contained\r\nanimated patterns of swirling green and white. Matching flights of similarly\r\nextravagant stairs to my left and right spiralled upward to meet a balcony\r\nabove the doorway, and above my head. A small and oddly proportioned crowd was\r\ngathered at the other side of the hall, and in the centre of them I could see\r\nthe back of a familiar head. I darted left and climbed a little, both to hide\r\nbehind stair railings and to gain a better vantage point from which to watch\r\nthe scene before me unfold.
\r\nMy mother was flapping and flustering and apparently issuing instructions to\r\nthose around her, as every few seconds a creature would stand to attention and\r\nscuttle off purposefully, and mum would relax for a moment. I wanted to hear\r\nwhat was being said before I made my presence known. At the top of the stairs\r\nit became apparent that the balcony continued inside the walls of the room,\r\nand was connected to an opening at the top of another flight of stairs I could\r\nsee further in, almost above my mother and her entourage. This passageway was\r\nunlit, and I encountered no opposition. I stuck my head out of the final,\r\nsmaller, doorway, and was able to hear everything. But by this time, only five\r\ninsect-men remained, and she appeared to have finished her list of commands.\r\nShe had had a list, as well. I saw her tucking it into her apron's front\r\npocket, before sighing, placing her hands on her hips, and surveying the room.
\r\n"I wish that mess was cleaned up," she tutted, frowning at a vase in the\r\ncorner. The vase had been upturned, and shards of porcelain poked out from a\r\nheap of soil and scattered petals. Muddy water was starting to pool across the\r\nglossy floor.
\r\nNothing's different then, I started to think; she still hates untidiness here,\r\nbut still can't find the time to cl... But it was clean. My mum was leaving\r\nthe chamber, entourage in tow, through a small doorway nearby, and the vase\r\nwas intact again, back in place upon its table. Jaw still hanging, I scrambled\r\ndown from my hiding place and crossed the now deserted chamber to peer through\r\nafter her.
\r\nHer pace was fast, and she was almost at the far end of a dimly lit corridor\r\nby the time I got there. Her posse and she turned a corner and the light\r\ndisappeared completely; I ran on tip-toes to catch up, and realised that the\r\ngreen glow illuminating the area around her was provided by the bulbous rear\r\nend of one of her minions. Keeping my distance, I followed the now silent\r\nparty through corridors for a few more minutes. They stopped, and I couldn't\r\nsee why until I heard the turning of a key in a lock, and a heavy sounding\r\ndoor creaked open. They entered swiftly and the door clicked closed; there was\r\nno way I could have manoeuvred through it in that time without being seen. I\r\ncontented myself with peering through the amply sized keyhole.
\r\nThe room beyond was high-ceilinged and decorated with luxurious red\r\nupholstery. Several of the squishiest looking armchairs I have ever seen were\r\narranged around an empty fireplace, and a huge and intricate tapestry adorned\r\none wall.
\r\n"I wish someone had arranged my cushions for me," I heard my mother whine.\r\nNobody in the room moved, but a satisfied smile appeared on her face, so I\r\ncould only presume the cushions had just arranged themselves. She slumped into\r\none of the chairs and groaned "there's a whole stack of old books that need\r\nsorting out and getting rid of, that bookshelf is just overflowing with\r\njunk."
\r\nThe bookshelf in question was also out of my sight line, but three bin liners\r\nappeared behind my mother's chair, packed full of angular objects that looked\r\nsuspiciously like books. One was labelled 'Charity Shop', one 'Car Boot Sale'\r\nand one 'Recycling'. One of the insect-men who had been on standby reached for\r\nthem all with three of his six arms, and heaved them over three of his six\r\nshoulders.
\r\nI leapt back from the door as he approached and spun around, backing against\r\nthe wall and holding my breath. If he saw me, he gave no indication, and\r\ncontinued down the corridor, back the way they had entered.
\r\nI pressed my face to the keyhole once again, in time to hear my mother\r\ncomplain that a fire had not been prepared nor lit, and to see one spring into\r\nlife in the fireplace. She leaned back into the chair and reached around to a\r\ncoffee table by her side. Her hand met with a bare glass surface and she\r\nmoaned. "Oh, no-one fetched the post in!"
\r\nA stack of unopened mail materialised on the table, and she flicked through,\r\nextracting a magazine sealed in plastic wrap. The wrap was removed, tossed\r\naside, and taken care of by a plea for her floor to be litter-free. I heard\r\nher slowly turning the pages of the magazine, and decided I'd seen enough.
\r\nThat explains everything, then.
","as:name":"Forced fiction 3: bottom, cabbage, concealing, promotion, strip","as:published":{"@type":"http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#datetime","@value":"2011-08-29T21:16:00.000Z"},"as:tag":[{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/doing"},{"@id":"blog:Doing"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/fiction"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/forced+fiction"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/story"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/writing"}],"as:updated":{"@type":"http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#datetime","@value":"2013-03-23T02:17:52.503Z"}},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/2011/08/story-about-being","@type":"as:Article","blog:bloggerid":"tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18505529.post-2469134646843477339","as:actor":{"@id":"http://www.blogger.com/profile/12227954801080178130"},"as:content":"[13th August 2011]
\r\nThe grazes on Kip's palms stung, pressed tightly against the icy cold rock.\r\nWater seeped into the belly of his tshirt and front of his tattered pants as\r\nhe scraped his body along the unforgiving stone. Though the crevasse through\r\nwhich he crawled was getting smaller, he continued to inch onward.
\r\nKip had an inkling that his father's life depended on his progress, and the\r\nseveral tonnes of grey rock closing in on him from every direction did nothing\r\nto persuade him to give in. For the tenth time in as many minutes, the boy\r\nswallowed his fear and crept forward another arms length.
\r\nHis breaths became shallower as space in which to expand his lungs decreased;\r\ncheek pressed against stone, a single tear merged with the veins of water\r\nalready tracing the surface.
\r\nHe tried to move again, an inch, a millimetre. He squeezed his eyes closed and\r\npushed his head until his temples groaned, but the barrier would not yield.
","as:name":"A story about being trapped, which presently has no end.","as:published":{"@type":"http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#datetime","@value":"2011-08-26T22:38:00.000Z"},"as:tag":[{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/doing"},{"@id":"blog:Doing"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/fiction"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/story"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/writing"}],"as:updated":{"@type":"http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#datetime","@value":"2013-04-01T01:51:23.065Z"}},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/2011/10/fiction-hero","@type":"as:Article","blog:bloggerid":"tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18505529.post-114047751981265645","as:actor":{"@id":"http://www.blogger.com/profile/12227954801080178130"},"as:content":"[February 2009]
\r\n“Ours is but a small existence. We are but simple people. On this planet of\r\nours, superheroes were but stories. Until today. We are gathered here to give\r\nthanks to the new Hero of Monarar, the almighty Ora. No-one knows from whence\r\nhe came or where he goes. No-one knows how it comes that he moves so fast,\r\npredicts events with such precision. No-one knows why he has no tail, why his\r\nskin is dark, why his ears are sideways on his head. But it is to him we owe\r\nour utmost gratitude. It is he who freed us – who will continue to free us –\r\nfrom those that seek to imprison and enslave.
\r\n“We must support him as he travels our planet, rescuing villages, saving\r\nfamilies.
\r\n“Here is to Ora the tailless, Ora the Hero of Monarar!⁂
\r\nThe applause was deafening.
\r\n“Why didn’t I take the gloves?⁂ Ora mumbled to himself. The rock was grazing\r\nhis palms as he scrambled up the near-vertical cliff face.
\r\n“Because you’re a moron,⁂ replied his subconscious. “Oh, I won’t need gloves.\r\nIt’s not like I’ll be going anywhere cold, or, or doing any climbing. Moron.⁂
\r\n“Shuddup,⁂ Ora spat. “Either shuddup or get out of my head and help, why\r\ndontcha? Huh?⁂
\r\n“Hows about you keep climbing, how about that? Oh, watch out.⁂
\r\nThe blast of a laser smacked into the rock an arm’s reach above his head, and\r\nOra ducked in time to dodge the heap of dislodged stone that tumbled down onto\r\nhim.
\r\n“Oh some sixth sense you are. Warn me about a laser blast that’s already hit\r\nthe rock. Nice work.⁂
\r\n“I warned you! It didn’t hit you, did it?⁂
\r\n“Waste of good coin you were. ‘Revolutionise your life’ my rear end. Just a\r\npity you don’t come with a mute function,⁂ Ora continued to grumble as he\r\nclimbed. His subconscious reluctantly helped guide his limbs, warning him\r\nbefore he put his weight on unsteady outcrops, or grasped at stones that were\r\nnot well attached to the surface, and occasionally to hesitate in time to\r\navoid the lasers of those that were targeting him.
\r\nIn the village, children were crying for their mothers. Mothers they could\r\nsee, but not reach. A wall of men with guns divided the room into three\r\nsections; one for the mothers, one for the boys and one for the girls.
\r\nThe men had once been fathers, husbands, sons, but now were faceless, armoured\r\nrobots, unrecognizable to the ones they had once loved. They were hardly men\r\nat all.
\r\nTwo days ago, Millsy and her brother had been collecting berries on the\r\noutskirts of the village. Her brother had paused for a rest, falling asleep by\r\na bush beneath the warm, afternoon sun, and Millsy had wandered off alone, in\r\nsearch of adventure.
\r\nAs she skipped further and further from the village boundaries, her mother’s\r\nwords had begun to echo through her mind.
\r\n“Stay together when you’re out now. When you’re on the edge of the village,\r\nalways keep one eye on the horizon. Keep a lookout, and if you see them\r\ncoming, you run back and warn us all so we can get ourselves hidden, you\r\nunderstand?⁂
\r\nNo-one had bothered to explain to Millsy exactly who them was, but she had\r\ncaught enough glimpses of the news over the past few weeks that she knew that\r\nvillage after village on her tiny planet were disappearing off the map.
\r\nHer brother said it was invaders from outer space, and that had scared her\r\nuntil he had pulled her tail and run away, giggling “no such thing! No such\r\nthing! Millsy believes in aliens, there’s no such thing!⁂
\r\nAnd so despite her mother’s warnings, Millsy wandered away from the village,\r\nencouraged by her childish confidence that there were no alien invaders, and\r\nso nothing could be coming that was a danger.
\r\nWhen she saw the lights on the horizon, she stopped to watch. Darting,\r\nflashing beams. Bright colours, sparkling, glimmering, dashing through the sky\r\nand across the ground. Her neck craned farther and farther back as she watched\r\nthose in the sky. Soon they were above her and surrounding her. There were\r\nstraight flashes, like lightning; curling spirals of colour; pulsating circles\r\nand tiny pinpricks in the sky.
\r\nThey overtook her, and Millsy spun around at once, chasing them back towards\r\nthe village, not wanting to miss out on the display.
\r\n“You still haven’t justified why I paid so much for you,⁂
\r\n“Duck – incoming, eleven o’clock. Because I’m the best. There are no other\r\nwarning systems like a sixth sense.⁂
\r\n“So far you’ve just been an annoyance.⁂
\r\n“Oh, and all those laser blasts, you could have dodged without my help?⁂
\r\n“I wouldn’t be here at all if it wasn’t for you. I’d still be enjoying myself\r\non the Fourth Moon of Rasta.⁂
\r\n“You’re blaming me for your insatiable need to try new, mind-altering\r\ntechnologies? It’s my fault that you got me installed in the first place? And\r\nwhere… Not that one, it’s loose. And where did you get me installed, again?⁂
\r\nOra mumbled.
\r\n“What was that? A back alley in Rasta’s infamous Flea Market? I’m certain you\r\nonly have yourself to blame if I’m not what you expected.⁂
\r\nOra growled. “Look, are we nearly at the top yet?⁂
\r\n“Not too far now.⁂
\r\nThen the device attached to his belt began to beep slowly, and Ora smiled.\r\n“Right you are.⁂
\r\nThe beeps became more high pitched and more frequent as he continued to\r\nascend. The relief was enormous when he could finally see the top of the\r\ncliff.
\r\nMillsy was whimpering alongside the others. She could see her mother across\r\nthe room, but her brother was not to be found, and this upset her more.
\r\nA small arm snaked around her shoulders. Her best friend, Lella.
\r\n“Don’t cry Mills. You believe in the Hero of Monarar, don’t you? You know he\r\nwill come to rescue us. He’ll set us free and put the men right again, just\r\nlike he did in the other villages. It was on the news, my Mummy said. You’ll\r\nsee.⁂
\r\n“How many more do I need?⁂
\r\n“Just one.⁂
\r\n“Really?⁂
\r\n“Yes, really. But what am I, your secretary? You shouldn’t rely on me to know\r\nthese things for you, I’m an extra sense not more memory.⁂
\r\n“Well you might have to start learning to be memory, it’s a damn sight more\r\nuseful than whatever else you do, and I’ve already gone over the maximum safe\r\nnumber of extra memory installations I can have.⁂
\r\nOra heaved himself the last few inches of the climb and rolled over the ground\r\nat the top, breathing heavily.
\r\n“Move a foot to the left.⁂
\r\nHe obeyed at once, rolling out of the way of yet another laser blast.
\r\n“Haven’t they given up yet,⁂ he grumbled.
\r\n“Apparently not,⁂ replied his mind. “Maybe you should find some shelter while\r\nyou work out where the next device is.⁂
\r\nHe pulled out his frantically beeping scanner. “Whatever, it can’t be far.⁂
\r\nOra stood up, trusting his sixth sense to warn him of any more incoming\r\nlasers, and scanned the landscape. He could see buildings in the distance.
\r\n“Looks like they’ve got a fireworks show or something going on over there like\r\nat the last place. For a backward developing planet, they sure are celebrating\r\na lot.⁂
\r\n“You should run,⁂ suggested his subconscious, and Ora complied.
\r\n“Of all the planets to crash on, I not only hit a backward one, but a backward\r\none that keep their nuclear cells inside yooge great fireworks machines.⁂
\r\n“Did it occur to you that the cells might be powering the fireworks\r\nmachines?⁂
\r\nOra was lying flat on his belly beneath what appeared to be a carpenters\r\nworkbench. The workshop had apparently been cleared out – equipment heaped\r\ncarelessly against the walls – to make room for the enormous multi-faceted\r\nmachine in the centre. It was shooting out streak after streak of light in\r\nevery direction. The beams rebounded off walls and furniture until they\r\nescaped through windows, or through the increasing number of holes in the\r\nwalls.
\r\nThe machine was slightly translucent, and Ora could see the power source he\r\nneeded behind a series of hinged flaps leading to the heart of the thing.
\r\n“Here we go again.⁂
\r\n“You shouldn’t steal.⁂
\r\nThere was a pause.
\r\n“Sorry,⁂ said his subconscious. “Still a bit of official programming in me.\r\nI’ll work on it.⁂
\r\nOra rolled his eyes and began to creep forwards. He had ordered a fully\r\nstripped down version of the sixth sense; it was all very well programming\r\nmorals into mindware, but it didn’t half screw them up in conflicting\r\nsituations.
\r\nA number of the women leapt to their feet, squealing and crying as the not-men\r\nmoved to surround the small huddle of boys. The terrified lads were ushered to\r\nstand and guided slowly out of the room. The mothers wailed, pushing against\r\nthe unmoving wall of men as they tried to reach their children. The boys\r\nthemselves were silent, too terrified even to cry, panicked eyes staring back\r\nfor one last time at their mothers and sisters before they were lead across a\r\ncourtyard to the carpenters workshop.
\r\n“There are people coming.⁂
\r\nOra froze. He had got through two of the compartment doors – there were just\r\ntwo more layers between his hand and the nuclear cell. His fingers brushed the\r\nthird door, searching for the minuscule lock.
\r\n“I can do this. I can’t stop now.⁂
\r\n“It’s too late for you to hide now. But they won’t see you from the doorway.\r\nJust hurry.⁂
\r\nThe first boy was pushed in front of the machine. He stood there, trembling,\r\nstaring up at the dark, hulking construction. It was spewing sheets of light\r\nfrom every surface. Ora could roughly make the lad out through the semi-\r\ntransparent innards of the machine. Nothing else seemed to be happening as Ora\r\nscrabbled frantically with the third lock, breaking it, reaching further in to\r\nmove on to the fourth.
\r\nThe boy flinched as a rebounding streak of light hit him in the chest. Ora did\r\nnot see the child crumple to the ground, or begin to twitch as plates of\r\narmour appeared from nowhere, sliding themselves over the small limbs. The boy\r\nbecame upright as the armour covered him. He was standing by the time a helmet\r\ngrew over his head. Then he walked stiffly, as if controlled by strings, to\r\njoin the ranks of the other not-men.
\r\nThe next terrified child was pushed into position.
\r\nOra had missed the entire transformation, squinting upwards with his tongue\r\nsticking out as he worked the fourth and final lock.
\r\nThe lock broke, the door swung in, and he pushed his arm further into the\r\nmachine, straining to wrap his fingers around the cell.
\r\nThe second boy, hands over his mouth as he awaited his fate, caught sight of\r\nmovement through the machine. He saw the hand in the centre, followed the arm\r\nback to a face wrought with concentration.
\r\nHis eyes widened. “Ora, Hero of Monarar,⁂ he breathed. The stories were true.\r\nThe legendary hero was here, was going to save him, as he had saved so many\r\nothers. The lad watched in awe as Ora’s hand closed around the heart of the\r\nlightning beast, and wrenched it directly from its body. The beast shuddered\r\nand died, spitting out a final few shards of light as it did so. The not-men\r\ncrumpled to the floor, armour plates dissolving into nothing as they\r\nretransformed.
\r\nThe boy cried in relief and turned to the others to tell them what he had seen\r\n– who he had seen.
\r\n“Leggit!⁂ Shouted Ora’s both conscious and subconscious simultaneously, and\r\nthe hero bolted out of the workshop, back in the direction of his ship.
","as:name":"Fiction: The Hero of Monarar","as:published":{"@type":"http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#datetime","@value":"2011-10-05T16:46:00.000Z"},"as:tag":[{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/fiction"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/flash"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/story"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/writing"}],"as:updated":{"@type":"http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#datetime","@value":"2013-03-23T02:17:12.752Z"}},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/2011/10/interactive-bliction-2","@type":"as:Article","blog:bloggerid":"tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18505529.post-3149512785497720837","as:actor":{"@id":"http://www.blogger.com/profile/12227954801080178130"},"as:content":"\r\n\r\nInvestigate door.
\r\n
Your eyes are drawn again to the marks on the small door, and you squint,\r\ntaking a tentative step forward. A small cloud of powder rises around your\r\nfoot, and a floorboard creaks. The creak is low, and to you, sounds welcoming.\r\nLike the house is inviting you in.
\r\nEncouraged by this, you continue. You have to watch out for the things\r\ncluttering the floor, and step carefully around an upturned plastic chair.\r\nThat obviously wasn't part of the original décor, and despite the heavy\r\ncoating of dust, you assume it must have been left by the documentary crew.\r\nYour foot clacks against something heavy.
\r\n\r\n\r\nLook at floor.
\r\n
The dust makes everything the same dark grey, but there are distinct shapes\r\nthat you can see. Several small plastic chairs are visible, laying on their\r\nsides or with their legs pointing into the air. A standing lamp with a wide\r\nshade has fallen over at the foot of the stairs, to your left. There's a knee-\r\nhight rectangular box against a wall to your right, with what looks like a\r\npadlock hanging from the front, and beside it lie pieces of a large and once-\r\nornate vase. At your feet is something long and narrow, and a glimmer of metal\r\npeeks through the dust. When your foot made contact, it felt pretty solid. You\r\nkick it again to roll it over, and dust peels away to reveal a brassy\r\ncandlestick holder.
\r\n\r\n\r\nTake candlestick holder.
\r\n
You pick up the object, about half the length of your forearm. The metal is\r\ncool, but surprisingly not cold. Feeling like you need a souvenir, you tuck it\r\ninto your coat pocket, and continue to pick your way across the hall.
\r\n\r\n\r\nInventory.
\r\n
In your coat pockets you have the candlestick holder, half a bar of Dairy\r\nMilk, and the keys to your flat. In your trouser pocket is your mobile phone,\r\nwhich is turned off so your friends won't disturb you, and some change.
\r\n\r\n\r\nInvestigate door.
\r\n
The small door is in front of you, and to your left is the sturdy looking\r\nbannister that runs up the side of the staircase. You could touch the\r\nbannister and the wall to your right at the same time, if you stretched out\r\nyour arms. It's harder to see because you're no longer in direct line of the\r\nlight from the entrance (which you left open), but you lean to inspect the\r\nfront of the door. Cobweb trails curl around your finger tips as you run your\r\nhand down the dark wood. You can feel carvings on the surface, and blow and\r\nswipe at the dusty layer until the patterns are no longer so obscured.
\r\nYou suppress a splutter at the thick and itchy air you're breathing. Some of\r\nthe shapes carved into the door feel like cogs, but there's something else as\r\nwell. Something winding, with a shape more organic. You only wish you could\r\nsee all of the details.
\r\nYour wandering hand finds a wooden protrusion at waist height, and you try to\r\nturn the handle. It moves stiffly, but the door itself doesn't budge.\r\nCarefully, you lean your shoulder against it and push harder, but to no avail.
\r\n\r\n\r\n_
\r\n
[What do you do next? Comment!]
","as:name":"Interactive-Bliction: > Investigate door.","as:published":{"@type":"http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#datetime","@value":"2011-10-06T16:14:00.002Z"},"as:tag":[{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/done"},{"@id":"blog:Done"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/fiction"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/IF"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/interactive+bliction"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/interactive+fiction"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/story"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/writing"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/if"}],"as:updated":{"@type":"http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#datetime","@value":"2013-04-01T01:51:11.712Z"}},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/2011/10/nanowrimo-pre","@type":"as:Article","blog:bloggerid":"tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18505529.post-5807979824494744510","as:actor":{"@id":"http://www.blogger.com/profile/12227954801080178130"},"as:content":"I've never sat up and counted down to the first of November before.
\r\nIn 2007 I used Nanowrimo as an opportunity to kick myself into writing some\r\nmore of a novel I started many years ago (reaching 35k new words by the end of\r\nthe month) and in 2008 I took part in earnest, came up with a totally fresh\r\nidea the night before and hit the fifty thousand, two hundred and twenty ninth\r\nword of Milo's World before midnight on the 30th. It was, quite simply, the\r\nbest feeling.
\r\nIn both 2009 and 2010, my degree objected strongly, and I didn't even try.
\r\nThis year, I know what being too busy to take part feels like, and I know what\r\nmissing out feels like. But I also know what taking part feels like, and I\r\nknow what winning feels like.
\r\nThis year, I'm writing an old idea in a new way. A short story from around\r\n2007 sparked novel scribblings in 2009, which got left to fester. Looking at\r\nthese scribblings with eyes two years older, I plan to take the core concept\r\nand solidify it into something readable.
\r\nThat's the theory, at least.
\r\nI'm terribly excited about creating some new lives. Then destroying one of\r\nthose lives, and watching the effects cascade.
\r\nI'm mostly nervous because I've never written anything set truly in this\r\nuniverse before. Fifty percent of Milo's World was, and that fifty percent was\r\nfrom the point of view of a child with an enormously vivid imagination, so\r\nthat doesn't really count.
\r\nA good chunk of Currently Untitled will be set inside the main character's\r\nhead; a head which is subject to the physics and realities of this universe\r\nregardless of how much her mind tries rebel against them.
\r\nHer name is Harriet, by the way, and her little daughter is Rosy. I'll\r\nprobably tweet about them as real people, because for the next 30 days, they\r\nmight as well be. Rosy's dad is called Zeke, and Harriet's inconsequential\r\nboyfriend's name is Paul, as far as I know. I'm also aware of the existence of\r\nPatrice, a panda with an eye patch, and Arthur, a tiny penguin.
\r\nI'll probably post some extracts here. But I can't post daily progress,\r\nbecause of various linearity issues that I may or may not elaborate on in\r\ntime.
\r\nBut now, I'm going to stare at the counter on the front page of the Nanowrimo\r\nsite, and try to figure out that first line...
","as:name":"Nanowrimo: Pre-madness","as:published":{"@type":"http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#datetime","@value":"2011-10-31T23:52:00.000Z"},"as:tag":[{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/done"},{"@id":"blog:Done"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/fiction"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/nanowrimo"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/writing"}],"as:updated":{"@type":"http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#datetime","@value":"2013-04-01T01:51:01.153Z"}},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/2011/10/spells-wear-out","@type":"as:Article","blog:bloggerid":"tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18505529.post-173028562666338053","as:actor":{"@id":"http://www.blogger.com/profile/12227954801080178130"},"as:content":"One of the first lessons Turald learned during his time at Castle Qythe was\r\nthat spells wear out. They weaken, they lose their power, the more they are\r\nused. They were all taught this, he and his classmates, probably in their very\r\nfirst week of study. But few eight year olds take this kind of wisdom to\r\nheart. Most are keen to crack on with casting, and nobody thought to question\r\nwhy some of their oldest tutors never demonstrated even the simplest of\r\nenchantments.
\r\nFor as long as he could remember, Turald had loved to explore dark places. He\r\nloved to see what was out of sight; to make known the unknown. When he was\r\nfifteen, he discovered a whole section of the castle's cellars that had been\r\nlost for centuries. To the delight of his wizened mentors, the expanse he\r\nfound was filled with age-old liquor which had been promptly and\r\nenthusiastically excavated. It was from then that his freedom had been\r\nunofficially granted to roam and explore the castle grounds as extensively as\r\nhe saw fit. Recognising his gift for discovery, Turald's studymaster, the\r\nancient but sprightly Professor Chalmak, quietly overlooked Turald's disregard\r\nfor out-of-hours and restricted-area rules that were strictly imposed upon the\r\nother students.
\r\nIn a broom cupboard, Turald once found a mousehole that lead two hundred\r\nmetres north and seventy four years into the past. One of the seniors had been\r\nable to use this to make peace with a long-dead, estranged father who had been\r\nin that classroom, all those years ago.
\r\nIn the shadowy corner of the library marked 'secret', Turald had found the\r\nheadmaster's daughter, missing for over forty years.
\r\nIn a tunnel that he had found through crawling into a large oak chest, Turald\r\nuncovered a delicate glass vial containing the last breath of the first\r\nphilosopher.
\r\nWhen Turald realised that his elders thought him special for his findings, he\r\nbegan to keep a diary of them. Through his diary entries, he noticed patterns\r\nin his actions. Or rather, repetitions. The shedding of light was the key.\r\nIllumination was all he needed to do to bring something once hidden out into\r\nthe open. His ability to conjure just the right incandescence became his\r\ngreatest gift. Thus, he practised with vigour.
\r\nCaves, caverns, abandoned ruins: Turald devoured their secrets, consumed their\r\nstories. He exhausted the castle grounds, graduated from the Qythe Academy,\r\nand ventured forth into the Olde Lande, searching without hesitation for doors\r\nto throw open. Eyes aglow with his own special kind of vision, he absorbed the\r\nmysteries of a world in shadow.
\r\nBut spells wear out.
\r\nHe recalled this first in a forest, under a bristling canopy so thick that the\r\nblackened foliage groping at his legs had long since found ways to sustain\r\nitself that did not rely on the land's pale sun. He could see the trinkets\r\nthat had been stowed away by blind magpies in treetrunk nests; the hoards of\r\nstolen food secreted into the undergrowth by milky-eyed squirrels. And then,\r\nhe couldn't.
\r\nThe flicker in his vision was fleeting, but enough to panic Turald, just for a\r\nmoment. Enough to make that first ever lesson come rushing back. Still young,\r\nstill adventurous, Turald shook his concern aside.
\r\nDeeper in the forest, he found a well; a man-made hole into the earth, darker\r\neven than woods entombing it.
\r\nWhy had man built such a thing so far into the shade? Turald could not resist.
\r\nHe descended, uncovering a concealed tunnel with his brilliant sight. Time\r\nhaving vacated entirely, Turald followed the route that stretched before him.\r\nNo magic nor mystery, nor hidden treasure presented itself, and the rhythm of\r\nhis steps lulled him into a trance. He walked blind for many hours before he\r\nrealised he was doing so.
\r\nA droplet of water striking the tip of his nose roused him enough for him to\r\nrealise he saw nothing. Turald stopped. The sudden lack of motion was jarring,\r\ndizzying. Turald sat. Water seeped into the hem of his robes, and he sat.\r\nYears of advice, words of warning, from teachers, mentors, elders, echoed\r\nthrough his mind.
\r\nSpells wear out.
\r\nSpells lose their power. Lose their potency. Lose their meaning.
\r\nSave the important spells for when you need them the most. Best to leave this\r\nworld with a spell in your heart, than to leave it because your spells have\r\nrun out.
\r\nTurald's light had run out, so he sat.
","as:name":"Spells wear out","as:published":{"@type":"http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#datetime","@value":"2011-10-29T13:52:00.003Z"},"as:tag":[{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/doing"},{"@id":"blog:Doing"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/fiction"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/story"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/writing"}],"as:updated":{"@type":"http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#datetime","@value":"2013-04-01T01:51:07.104Z"}},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/2012/05/character","@type":"as:Article","blog:bloggerid":"tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18505529.post-359769274262582498","as:actor":{"@id":"http://www.blogger.com/profile/12227954801080178130"},"as:content":"Suddenly I find myself having to write some fiction to a deadline. A deadline\r\nthat isn't Nanowrimo, that is. This isn't something I've had to do since my\r\nEnglish language GCSE. I deliberately avoided pursuing creative writing in\r\nany formal or academic manner, for fear the joy would be sucked from something\r\nI love; for fear it would become a chore, or an obligation.
\r\nBut this semester I've imposed this on myself out of determination that my\r\nsupposedly 'interdisciplinary' masters actually deviate from Web or software\r\ndevelopment at some point. Not that making writing fiction a part of my final\r\nproject has in any way reduced the programming. Indeed, I've just added it on\r\ntop of an already substantial project outcome.
\r\nBut making an Interactive Fiction engine feels much more valuable if I\r\nactually write some fiction for it, doesn't it?
\r\nSuddenly, realistically, I have mere weeks to get this done. My subconscious\r\nhas been working on it since about December of last year, but I haven't had\r\nmany committal thoughts. So it's time to make (and justify) some decisions.
\r\nI already decided that, quite obviously really, the piece needs to revolve\r\nheavily around the city of Edinburgh. (Obvious, as the reader will be\r\nexperiencing it whilst wandering around the city, and I'm studying the affects\r\nof physical environment on immersion in a text). As such, I figured doing\r\nresearch about local myths and legends, particularly stories relevant to\r\nspecific places, is pertinent. Look out for updates on that. Historic and\r\nmythical local characters might be useful too.
\r\nIan Rankin has famed the Edinburgh\r\nstreets with his novels, but I'm no crime writer, nor mystery nor thriller. I\r\nwrite science fiction and fantasy; imagining new worlds comes far more\r\nnaturally to me than conjuring stories in this one. And my time is too short\r\nto venture into an unfamiliar genre. So this leaves me trying to figure out\r\nhow to set a story on the real world streets of Edinburgh whilst maintaining a\r\nfantastical element so that I keep my sanity and confidence in the prose.
\r\nOne potentially helpful aspect of Interactive Fiction, is that generally the\r\nstories are written in the second person. The main character is a perspective\r\ntaken by the user/reader/player. This means there is a primary role that I\r\ndon't have to develop too much as a character. Just enough to fit in with the\r\ncontext of whatever plot starts to develop, but with adequate openness to\r\nallow the user to project themselves into the character's place. Nonetheless,\r\nI'm going to need some attachment to this character in order to engage myself\r\nin the writing process. I know from experience that I'm far less motivated to\r\nwrite about/for characters who don't interest me, but when I discover a\r\ncharacter I feel really involved with, I miss them and desire to write more.
\r\nThat's the interesting point, really. I don't feel much as though I'm writing\r\ncharacters or their stories, but discovering them and learning about them\r\nthrough the writing process. I've lost control of characters before; they've\r\nbehaved unexpectedly or undesirably, sometimes even changing the whole course\r\nof a previously loosely planned plot. The same might apply to imaginary places\r\nor even objects.
\r\nBecause I don't have time to find a fresh character, world, setting that I\r\nlove, I have concluded that I need to hook this story back to something I've\r\nwritten in the past. Something I'm already invested in. This connection is\r\nonly meaningful to me (until the glorious day the still unfinished, few-year-\r\nold novel gets published!) so it needs to be loose. But enough to give me\r\ncontext. The connection I have settled on is Milo's World, the subject of\r\nmy 2008 Nanowrimo; my only successful attempt at reaching fifty thousand words\r\nin thirty days, though I have yet to write the ending to the story. Also part\r\nthree needs rewriting completely, those were dark days. Not to mention the\r\nrest of it. But that's neither here nor there.
\r\nThe important thing is, I met a couple of characters with whom I had great\r\nfun. I hung out with them for massive chunks of their childhoods. I learnt\r\nwhat makes them tick, and I learnt their secrets.
\r\nThe point-of-view character in Milo's World is Dusty. I first met him as a\r\nfour year old, and quickly discovered he had access to a secret world, where\r\nhe regularly snuck off to play with a boy his own age, Milo, who seemed to\r\nlive full-time in this world. They had all sorts of innocent adventures, and\r\ngradually met other occupants. I spent time with Dusty and Milo again aged\r\neight, to find that not much had changed. They had befriended some strange\r\ncreatures, and were privvy to experiences they could not understand yet. At\r\nage twelve, they were growing up. Dusty has gained a few home-world friends,\r\nhas developed an amazing talent for drawing caricatures, and his parents have\r\nlong since assumed that he's over the 'imaginary friend' stage. But his grip\r\non their 'reality' is disjointed. There are more kids around in Milo's world,\r\nliving in a network of tunnels and working and playing together, and with the\r\ncreatures of the world. One species of creatures in particular have\r\nintroduced curious technologies and ways of thinking. When Dusty is sixteen\r\nyears old, he is balancing regular high school drama with other-worldly\r\nadventures, but just barely. He and Milo are working with one of the\r\ncreatures to learn about a contraption that they played with in their youth,\r\nand have dubbed The Reality Machine. Using it is hit and miss, and many of\r\nthe things they find out about it, they learn the hard way. When Milo's world\r\nand Dusty's home-world begin to bleed together through misuse of the Machine,\r\nthings start to take a turn for the confusing. Cue the hilarious, semi-\r\ncliffhanger ending, strongly linked with Dusty's drawing skills, I haven't\r\nwritten yet.
\r\nSo where am I going with this? In my Palimpsest story, Dusty is grown up.\r\nLong since grown up. He is old, mad-scientist-proffesor-ly, and living in a\r\nworld that bears the consequences of his actions as a child. Right away we\r\nhave the existence of and ability to cross between alternative realities (via\r\nan understood and controllable Reality Machine, in case you hadn't cottoned).\r\nSplendid. I'm in my comfort zone already. So how about... the playable\r\ncharacter is Dusty's lab assistant. Their age, gender, appearance, don't\r\nmatter. Their temperament matters probably only a little bit. What matters\r\nis the fact that they have the ability to zip around in space and time.\r\nWhaddya know? Every single exciting era of Edinburgh's history is open to us\r\nto explore.
\r\nAll I need now is a reason Dusty might have sent his assistant across to\r\nEdinburgh in our version of reality; something to pursue, something to figure\r\nout. Or just a malfunctioning Reality Machine.
\r\nI call this a start.
\r\nAs always, comments and suggestions welcome!
","as:name":"Character sketching","as:published":{"@type":"http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#datetime","@value":"2012-05-24T23:38:00.000Z"},"as:tag":[{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/milos+world"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/done"},{"@id":"blog:Done"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/fantasy"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/fiction"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/icp"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/icpLog"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/Milo%27s+World"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/msc"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/nanowrimo"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/Palimpsest"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/writing+challenges"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/writing"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/palimpsest"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/icplog"}],"as:updated":{"@type":"http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#datetime","@value":"2013-04-01T00:11:29.385Z"}},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/2012/11/national-novel-procrastinating","@type":"as:Article","blog:bloggerid":"tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18505529.post-1244692952202844188","as:actor":{"@id":"http://www.blogger.com/profile/12227954801080178130"},"as:content":"It's day nine, and I'm on two thousand, eight hundred and seventy words.
\r\nA quick calculation might tell you that that means I'm quite behind\r\nschedule. This may be my worst year yet. There's still\r\nplenty of time to get back on track though! Right..?!
I've only spent any time writing on about three or four of those nine days so\r\nfar. But I have been to a conference, organised some\r\nSocieTea events, read bits and pieces\r\nrelated to my PhD, cleaned my flat, watched a few episodes of Arrested\r\nDevelopment, learnt some new crochet stitches and started crocheting a hat,\r\nand baked a lot.
\r\nI did meet the Edinburgh NanoBeans and had a great time at the write-in in\r\nPulp Fiction last Wednesday. We may have spent\r\nmore time collaboratively developing the backstory of Pedro the Guide Bear (a\r\ntroubled young grizzly attired in an Elvis costume and boater hat who\r\nconstantly struggles against his estranged father, Yogi, the leader of an\r\norganised crime syndicate) than actually writing our novels though.
\r\nI have learnt one particularly important thing this year, that's never come up\r\nbefore.
\r\nTalking ideas through with other people is really useful!
\r\nLast Sunday, Beth helped me explain\r\nthe absence of a main character's mother and fix a potential looming plot hole\r\nwith one fell swoop. Telling Kit about the\r\nvarious civilisations and layout of the land in my world allowed him to pick\r\nholes and question things, raising, and partially solving, some things that\r\ndidn't make sense or yet more potential looming plotholes. And\r\nCaitlin (a new\r\nNanoBeans writing buddy) pointed out that just because a character had been\r\nanticipating reading a letter for the last thousand words, didn't necessarily\r\nmean the letter had to contain anything interesting... it could be a\r\ndisappointment to the character... which helped, as I hadn't figured out what\r\nthe letter said, and all of a sudden the character was opening it.
\r\nI sure wish blogging about Nano counted towards the word count.
","as:name":"National Novel Procrastinating Month","as:published":{"@type":"http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#datetime","@value":"2012-11-09T15:58:00.003Z"},"as:tag":[{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/done"},{"@id":"blog:Done"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/fiction"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/nanowrimo"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/tips"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/writing+challenges"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/writing"}],"as:updated":{"@type":"http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#datetime","@value":"2012-11-09T15:59:04.888Z"}},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/2015/08/1440925932","@type":"as:Like","as:actor":{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/about#me"},"as:object":{"@id":"https://twitter.com/lynncyrin/status/637883844977274882"},"as:published":{"@type":"http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#datetime","@value":"2015-08-30T10:12:12+0100"},"as:summary":"Amy liked https://twitter.com/lynncyrin/status/637883844977274882","as:tag":[{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/fiction"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/polyamory"}]},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/2017/09/nanowrimo","@type":"as:Note","as:content":"I'm thinking about doing NaNoWriMo this year. I last took part in 2013 (and feebly at that), before my phd and associated distractions took over. That was a long time ago. My fiction writing foo is completely out of whack. I can barely remember how. I don't know what to write about. This definitely means I should commit to it, I guess.
","as:published":{"@type":"http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#dateTime","@value":"2017-09-30T15:44:00+02:00"},"as:tag":[{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/fiction"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/writing"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/nanowrimo"}]},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/2017/10/nanowrimo","@type":"as:Note","as:content":"Since I started thinking about nanowrimo, my brain has changed mode. It's like I'm listening on frequencies I haven't listened on for a long time.
\r\nTo start with, there was nothing. It was horrifying. Where did story ideas even come from before? Have I lost the connection with that part of myself? Total static. An endless black page with nothing to write about.
\r\nA couple of days in - not specifically trying to think of ideas, but just having opened that door in my mind again - I started to hear sounds in the distance. Whispers.
\r\nThen I saw a place. Felt an atmosphere. Then I met my character. She introduced herself and showed me around. Very slowly, she has been feeding me tidbits about her life. Out of nowhere, when I'm wrapped up in something else - from yoga, to buying groceries, to writing bash scripts - I gain another little insight. She tells me something new about herself. She hints at what she's up to, and what might happen in the future. Just hints.
\r\nAt the same time, I can feel echoes of things I have written in the past and media I am consuming recently, as well as things in my own life. I can really feel these influences painting the backdrop in a way I'd never noticed before.
\r\nIt is absolutely thrilling to have made this connection. I used to have this all the time, when I wrote a lot. Non-stop, characters were chattering at me, spaces were inviting me to explore them. I got used to it I guess, and then didn't notice when it went quiet.
\r\nNow it's back, I realise what I was missing.
\r\nI have a person and a place, and a general sense of the world, but no plot. I get the feeling we're going to find out what happens together, in November.
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