Hi again, Blog Reader! With this post, I have a little freebie treat for you all. The following is a short story I wrote a few years ago for submission to a contest. The rules were:- 1. Must be under 1,500 words (Its actually 1,559 but whats 59 words between friends) 2. Themed around the words creepy or sinister I finished and promptly bottled entering - Oh well. The Bear RoomThe room spins as I open my eyes. A faint, dim light spreads about the room as if poured in from the grimy, web strewn skylight above. I sit up and hold my head in my hands for a few moments. I take a few deep breaths in an attempt to assuage the nauseous feeling creeping into me. I'm sweating. My jaw subconsciously tenses as I feel my teeth press hard against each other, almost as if they are trying to prevent the gag I can feel beginning in my throat. I retch a few times and spit bile before my stomach realises that there is nothing to expel. My breathing slows, and the spinning wanes. I cast an eye over my featureless, dismal surroundings and try to assess where I am. The light throws strange shadows against the walls and floor. I stare at each one, in turn, mentally daring it to move, even in the slightest. When I am finally satisfied the shadows hold no danger, I stand. It takes me a second to get to my feet. I stumble as I rise, almost toppling back to the cold stone floor before I catch myself. The room is a box, grey concrete ceiling atop grey concrete walls atop a grey concrete floor, each as dazzlingly grim as the rest. There are few features beyond a tatty camp bed and steel sink. The skylight is too high to reach, even stood atop the bed. I cannot tell whether the light seeping through is natural or artificial; there is a thin yellow glaze adhered to each small rectangular pane. There is one door into the room. It is set into the wall, higher than the floor level. Three small concrete steps and a metal railing leading up to it. I gingerly climb the steps and automatically reach out to take the handle. I grip air as my hand passes through the space where I expect to feel cold metal. There is no handle on my side of the door. I look at the stark metal plate covering where the handle should be. Five screws are holding it in place and a sixth screwless hole, a visible testament to someone's idleness. Each of the screw heads was scratched and deformed. Their original crosses brutally worked into cones. I turn and look back into the room from my slightly elevated vantage point. It is not a large space; somewhat like a single garage, yet without the large door to admit or expel a vehicle. There is no feel to the temperature of the room. It is neither warm nor cold, merely ambient. There is no breeze or feeling of air movement of any kind. All is still, and all is grey. My eyes catch on something strange. In the centre of the room is a child's teddy bear. Was it there before? Did I walk past it and not notice it? It sits, its head slightly cocked as if awaiting a reply to a simple question. I walk closer, a strange feeling of dread filling me further at each step. I stand over it for a short while and watch as its unmoving form stares at my ankles. I squat and stare into its eyes for a few moments as it continues its silent vigil. I reach out, my fingers shaking slightly, and stop. Ever so gently the head of the bear rolls slowly upwards. It's eyes staring directly into mine. My heart freezes in my chest, and my lungs stiffen. I pull my hand away as if my fingers were burned and begin to overbalance. The bear's eyes are slightly chipped making them seem accusing and menacing. The stare continues as I attempt to regain my balance, the seconds stretching into hours until gravity finally claims me. Almost as mirror images, both the bear and I topple backwards to lay staring at the skylight. I wait a few moments, catching my breath and waiting for my now thumping heart to slow. I prop myself up and look at the empty patch of concrete where I had last seen the bear. I scrambled backwards, kicking myself along with my feet and scrabbling with my hands until my back hit the wall with a thump. Where had it gone? Had it been there at all? I sit there and breathe deeply, desperately trying to regain control of the terror slowly taking over my mind. I barely have myself under control when my eyes catch something in the corner of the room. The dim light makes it difficult to see, but I know the shape. The bear. I watch it for a second or two while I convince myself that I must have kicked it over there as I fell backwards. I don’t believe myself, but I repeat it over and over under my breath. I blink, and in the tiny amount between my eyes closing and reopening, the room goes black. I open them to nothing. No light. No sound. I panic and shuffle myself along the wall until I reach the corner. I bury my shoulders as far as I can into the right angle and hug my knees. I pray for the light to return as I begin to sob. I can feel the wet patch start to spread as my tears soak into my jeans. The light begins to return, slow at first, gently building to its pre-darkness level. My sobs slow and stop. I wipe my cheeks and my nose dry and stand once more. I turn my head and stare at the bear in the corner. It sits on its side now, head still facing me, eyes still staring out into the room. An uncontrollable rage seizes me. I blame the bear for terrifying me and stride angrily towards it. I snatch it up from where it lay and grip it tightly, snarling and swearing at it as I rant. The bear stares blankly back at my rage, once again inert. My anger grows further as I throw it to the floor and stomp on it with one foot. I jump and land both feet on the bear. I smile and snarl at the same time. A guilty pleasure comes over me as I squat to lift the bear to my face. It's now scratched eyes stare at me, their blackness rivalling the feeling inside me. I notice the seam has split down the bear's side. Small pieces of its clean white stuffing tumble and glide to the floor as I watch. An evil thought pushes me to begin pulling at the stuffing, faster and faster I rip out the bear's innards. I kick and throw the small balls of fluff around the room as if I am trying to coat every millimetre of the floor. I look at the sad remains of the bear in my hands, its body deflated, and one ear is missing. The rage inside me subsides as I look once more into its cold, dead eyes. Ashamed, I place the head of the bear in the corner facing the wall and return to my own. Suddenly there is a noise. A jangle of keys. A metallic thump as a lock turns and a squeal of old hinges as they resist opening the heavy door. I count the seconds in my head, waiting for someone or something to step through. Nobody enters. Gingerly I return to my feet. I take slow, cautious steps towards my exit, hugging the wall and watching the back of the bear's head. I stop before I reach the first step and stare at the door. It opens out of the room and is slightly ajar. It beckons to me. It sits and quietly screams at freedom. I gulp and restrain my urge to rush the door. I place my hand on the rail and lift my right foot. I set it down on the first step and pull myself up. My left foot takes the initiative and swings upwards onto the second where my right foot joins it. I stare back into the room. Pieces of the bear litter the floor, and tiny motes of stuffing are floating gently in the air. I feel a pang of guilt at my outburst. The bear had done nothing wrong. It was merely a focus for my fear and paranoia. I smile as I realise my flaws and step up to the door. I push it outwards and step out of the room. I take a few steps away from the door and turn to see it closing behind me. I say a farewell to the room and take in my freedom. At first, I don’t believe the evidence of my own eyes. I turn and see the doorway is concealed on this side; the faintest of seams in the concrete betraying its existence. I look around me, and it is then I recognise the noise of myself screaming. The room is a box, grey concrete ceiling atop grey concrete walls atop a grey concrete floor, each as dazzlingly grim as the rest. There are few features beyond a tatty camp bed and steel sink. In the centre of the room is a child's teddy bear. It sits, its head slightly cocked as if awaiting a reply to a simple question. Hope you enjoyed it. Marks out of 10 in the comments section
See you next time
0 Comments
Thanks for coming back, blog reader! Anyone who has read my post on How To Be an Author will see Robert Jordan listed as one of my favourite authors, and reading the books you will see why. I know a year is a significant commitment, but if you take my recommendation, I think its worth the effort. First of all, no, they are not short books, and I'm not a slow reader. Each book is in the region of 800 to 1000 pages, so if you want to get this polished off in a year, you are looking at about 30 pages a day on average. It's also not the type of book to have large words and wide margins; the writing is small and as much space is taken up on the page as possible - my kind of book! The Wheel of Time series was also the first fiction book I had ever read with a glossary at the back of each volume. Not only do you have a wealth of information in the books themselves, but you can also gain additional fun information by going through the back pages. The series follows many main characters and periodically changes point of view to follow these stories, but the main arc centres on a young man and his discovery of his ability to wield the source. A terrifying find when it is something men cannot do without going mad. As he learns to control the force, gathers allies and fulfils prophecies, his eventual showdown with the evil entity known as "the dark one" seems inevitable. In the very simplest of terms, it is a story about a young man who finds himself out of his depth in a vast new world as everyone looks to him to save them. He is helped and hindered in equal measure by both friends and enemies. You can see the questions in my post How to Plan a Novel have been used perfectly in each of the books. Without giving away any spoilers, I always thought the ending of book one seemed like there was only ever to be book one, but the depth of detail created by Jordan is so significant and believable it stretches out into an epic saga of fourteen books - yep fourteen! As you can see below, they changed the covers after book nine (still prefer the colour ones) I first started reading these books in my early teens (around the millennium), ploughing through them at pace and hunting down the next book before beginning the last chapter of the previous one. The first book was published in 1990, so I was in luck as I had a few to catch up on, before having to wait for another to be released. I came to the point where I was waiting for the next book in the series and then disaster! In 2007 with the stories beginning to culminate and the reader kept guessing, Jordan, unfortunately, passed away from heart disease. Fortunately, following Jordan's diagnosis, he left substantial notes and instructions to allow another author to finish the series to his wishes. Therefore the last three books were ghostwritten by Brandon Sanderson. While the style changes slightly for these last three, it is not enough to be significant, and Sanderson keeps so close to the subject matter, it's almost as if Jordan had written it himself. At the time I didn't know any of this. I had found out about the death of the author and given up on ever seeing the fruition of the series, resigning the volumes to my bookshelf to be little more than ornaments. After all, with all the other books I had to read and no ending to The Wheel of Time, what was the point in re-reading them? It wasn't until after the release of the final book a few years later I found out Sanderson had finished the saga. I immediately went out and bought the last three. However, this left me with a predicament. It had been years since I had read any of the others and I didn't think I could remember them in enough detail to enjoy them truly, so I made a decision. I placed the three books on my bookshelf, untouched, and started again. Knowing it would take me the better part of a year to get to them, but those volumes would be all the better for me re-reading the preceding eleven, and it was worth every late night, lunch break and quick half hour reading my way through.
I had forgotten so much of the nuances of the plot and various groups within, that I know I would not have done the last three books justice. After finishing the last page of the final book I felt as if a weight had been lifted, I had a sense of accomplishment I hadn't had reading other book series. I never really understood how this series didn't have the reach of the Lord of the Rings trilogy; the world is equally, if not more, substantive and has plenty of action and drama to be a rival. Although I am speaking from a UK perspective, and I believe there is a cult following of the series in America with an annual convention. There are even rumours there is to be a TV series based on the books. Now I don't watch a great deal of TV anymore, but count me glued to the screen and uncontactable for the duration of this program if or when it appears. So in conclusion, I would heartily recommend setting aside a year of your reading time and stacking all of your other "to read" pile to one side, to work your way through the epic saga of The Wheel of Time. If you are a reader, this is the kind of book series which you will hold dear for years to come, and if you are a writer, it is a masterclass in world creation. Without wanting to sound cheesy, I would give the series 70 stars - 5 for each book! Hello again, dear blog reader. In this post, I will tackle the arduous task of outlining a novel, and then blow that out of the water with a radically different theory. First, I don’t want to put you off, but every story has been told before in one way or another. Details change here and there, and characters names vary, but overall it has been done before. With that in mind, here are a few questions you should be asking yourself to be able to outline a book, generally before you even put the first words down. Question 1 – Are you creating your own world or using ours?There is a reason why fantasy novels are generally about 120,000 words whereas real-world mystery or crime novels are closer to 70,000. Creating your own world is hard work, but not as hard as it is explaining that world to someone who has never seen it. A borough of London or New York is more natural to describe because you can actually go there, make notes and take pictures. Generally, the people you explain it to will have done some of the list themselves. Taking the time to describe a new world takes up reader time. It's a knife-edge balance between over explaining the magical type of plant which can cure this particular curse (thus grinding the story to a halt) and grabbing a curing plant (thus robbing the reader of the what and why behind the cure) Even the late great Terry Pratchett, who I rank among my favourite authors of all time, created his own world and then used variations of real-world situations to excellent effect, sometimes even taking other stories and twisting them to fit his world. Masquerade, for instance, is a superb Discworldification (yes I made that up, but it works well) of Phantom of the Opera. Question 2 - What do you want your character to overcome?Every story has something for the main character to overcome. Harry had an evil wizard and growing up at school. Romeo had the family feud. Katniss had a corrupt government and leader. It doesn’t have to be world shattering. You can tell a good story in making a cup of tea if it isn’t something your main character (MC) can do easily. Perhaps water is tightly rationed or expensive, and MC goes through hardship to provide a tea so their grandfather can toast their departed grandmother. Perhaps an accident has paralysed MC and being able to make a cup of tea on their own is the first step to coping. My point is, nothing comes easy to anyone so why should it to your MC? Put obstacles in their way, especially if they don’t see them coming, and make them overcome it. Better yet, make them struggle to overcome it. Will a choice take something from them? Are you going to have a “Needs of the many” moment? A book where your MC easily overcomes the issues is not exciting, not gripping and most importantly, not very good. BUT, and I say this with all the importance I can, don’t go too far the other way. You don’t want them climbing Everest with a spork. It still has to be believable. Question 3 - Who will help or hinder them along the way?The one-man army doesn’t work anymore. Even Bond has Q and the gadgets. Frodo had Sam and Gollum. Luke had Yoda and Han. Will there be a circle of friends or an organisation to call on for help? Will some of those friends turn out to be working for the other side? Will those frenemies have a last minute change of heart and turn to the good? Will the friend have a last minute change of heart and turn to the bad? Secondary and tertiary characters aren’t just there to provide options for dialogue, character levels can be fluid, and sometimes a secondary character can become the MC for a while. Is Gru the MC or are the minions? They can provide twists and turns to the plot and can check the behaviour of the MC. You can write the MC off a cliff if there is a secondary character to pull them back. Sometimes that’s the entire plot. Question 4 - Does the book warrant a happy ending or a realistic ending.Let’s face it, MC’s get shot, stabbed, electrocuted, blown up and burned. While it generally makes good reading, you have to decide whether you want your MC to walk away at the end, having just escaped a building exploding, being shot multiple times and after an extended fist fight, or something more akin to the end of The Boy In The Striped Pyjamas. Will the love interest walk away with the MC? Will the MC mourn the love interest, or will the love interest walk away mourning the MC, or will nobody walk away? The Radical TheoryLots of writers and authors plan their books methodically down to the last detail. It helps to have a clear path from page one to “The End”.
However, I count myself among those who write with only a vague idea of the story we want to tell. We write the first short draft like the skeleton of the book, then go back through and add the organs in the second write, the muscles in the third, the skin in the next and the clothes in the last. Once that is all done, only then is the story complete and the editing can begin. It’s reminiscent of being back in the playground making up worlds and games with your friends; you didn’t need an eighteen point plan to turn your stick into a light sabre or your bed into the bridge of a starship. Not everyone can do it. Not everyone should do it. But if you can, why not see where it takes you. You can always change it when you finish. Hello again, blog reader. Welcome back! For most people, there is a simple answer to the question in the title of this blog post - write! A lot of people say the mere fact you are putting pen to paper or pressing letters on a keyboard makes you an author. I don't think that is quite right. Now, before I go any further, I have to quantify this by saying it is only my own opinion and is limited to books. I'm not trying to say this is how it should be, merely that it is a standard to which I hold myself. I'm sure many people will see this differently, but here goes. I've always had the idea of an Author in my mind. People like JRR Tolkien, Terry Pratchett, Robert Jordan, JK Rowling, Sophie Kinsella and Milly Johnson, to name a few, but I think there are specific criteria for being described as an Author. Firstly, yes you should be writing. Nobody ever became an author without first writing things down. Spinning those idle flights of fancy and sudden inspirations into words on a page takes effort and skill, and simply put - the whole point of the endeavour. Cat owners rejoice! My acronym for this is PURR - Practice - The more writing you do, the better at it you will become Understand - the more you research your story components, the better you will become Repeat - the more often you write, the better you will become Replicate- the more you read, the better you will become Secondly, you should have at least one of your pieces of work out in the world for the consumption of the public (preferably for sale, but not always). Being a serial loner and generally antisocial, this is the bit I struggle with most of all - getting work out into the world. Will they like it? Is it good enough? Will it sell? All doubts and self-deceptions which you shouldn't listen to or at least must try to suppress as best you can. Finally, and this is the crucial bit for my theory, you should have a modicum of success. Lots of people should have read your work, purchased it, talked about it, enjoyed it, etc. I'm not talking number 1 bestseller for weeks and weeks. If you can make a living from doing it, or have done in the past, then I think you are about there.
It's this final step which really makes the difference for me. A lot of people believe being self-published on Amazon because they have managed to string three or four pages of text together, makes them an author. I have no problem with people doing this. Everybody should be proud to show the effort they have put into a piece of work and have the ability to put that work out into the wider world. I just don't think they are authors. So far I still would only call myself a writer. I have the two blogs, a self-published novel on Amazon, a half-written second book under construction and a folder with several others to start once this one is complete (in varying stages from thoroughly planned to a fundamental rough idea) I call myself a writer happily. It gives me a lot of pleasure to put my thoughts down in text and even more to think someone else may be gleaning a little enjoyment out of it too, and I would like nothing more than to spend all day writing. But one day, I would like to be an Author. |
Craig BoldyBorn in South Yorkshire, he lives there with his wife and Labrador. Working a normal 9-5 while filling his nights with writing. Categories
All
Archives
November 2018
|