Change of scenery
Sunday, November 15, 2009 ~ 1 comment so far
About the author: If you've followed a direct link to this page from elsewhere, here is a quick overview. My name is Gordon McLean, and this blog has been running for far far too long. You can get more information about this site, or dive into the archives.
-------------------------------------------------------------------Having a few days off, I had it in the back of my mind to do some writing. Nothing particularly serious but just to write and see what happened.
The problem I had was getting rid of distractions. If I sit at my desk, then there is always a wee pile of things to get done, various notes and other detritus to distract my attention … ohh that reminds, I need to order a replacement bank card, ack! see how easy it is.
I use programs like Q10 (for the PC) and WriteRoom (for the Mac) to help remove onscreen distractions, but I realised I need a cleaner physical space as well.
Until such times as I can completely clear out my ‘office’, I decided to relocate to the living room, and sit with the laptop at dining table. No distractions there, well not once I’d gotten rid of the ever curious cat.
And, a couple of hours later I sat back and metaphorically patted myself on the back, having written a couple of ‘chapters’ for that writing website of mine, as well as a couple of posts that just need a final edit before they can go up on my other blog.
I also felt a good deal more relaxed having gotten that particular monkey off my back, and I’ve got plans tomorrow to really gut my office space so I can achieve similar results in the future.
Now, where did I put the bin bags?
NaNoWriMo? No!
Wednesday, October 28, 2009 ~ 7 comments so far
I’d love to.
I really would.
Every year that rolls around finds me considering it.
Every year I start to jot down notes (where do you think one man tales came from?).
Every year I visit the website, and get excited at the thought.
Every year I think, yeah I COULD do that.
Every year I think, maybe I SHOULD do that.
Every year I think, maybe that’s just what I need.
Every year I think, yes, this is the year. I will do it!
But I won’t.
Not this year.
I just don’t have the time (such a lame excuse, really).
Even if I was to promise myself to MAKE the time.
I wouldn’t.
I SHOULD.
If it really meant that much to me I would.
But I won’t.
Maybe next year.
Maybe.
One Man Tales
Thursday, March 26, 2009 ~ 1 comment so far
“Once upon a time”, it says, in that time honoured tradition of old and so our story begins.
The story tells the tale of a man making his way through life. The man meanders his way along the path of his choosing, though he is only occasionally aware that he chose it, and most of the time his travels are accompanied by a sense of carefree naivety which he happily acknowledges but secretly and quietly despises.
In this tale we learn about the man, or at least the parts of his life that are featured. We learn about his troubles, his happiness, his moments of madness and fragments of beauty. We read odd glimpses that make no sense, and delve into the infinite detail of his soul. The tale has no direction to speak of nor does it care where it is headed for this, like many other tales, does not yet know when, where, or how it will end.
The threads of construction weave tightly, characters come and characters go, and all the while the man of the story maintains. Occasionally we are allowed glimpses of what the man thinks, and the narrative arc builds and ebbs, constantly teasing us with snippets of truth, spiderweb strands of life.
The man invites you to join him in the story but warns you that even he, the main character, is unsure of what you may find. He offers no explanation or reasoning of what may unfold, and he certainly doesn’t consider his story an interesting one. All he knows is that, apparently, he is one man who is driven to tell tales.
And, with a doff of his cap, he humbly asks you to join him.
—
In other words, I’ve launched a new blog, this one dedicated to the more fictional writing that I occasionally post here. I’ve copied all of the posts that are listed in the Writing category here, over to the new website.
Rebuilding the man
Thursday, March 5, 2009 ~ 5 comments so far
Slowly he breaks down, carefully deconstructed. The sum of these parts he is not, nor is he whole without them. He is apart and incomplete, still searching for something unknown and out of reach. He is content and sated for now, happy with what he has, disillusionment hovering out of sight.
Childlike he studies each piece, wonder creases his face as he tumbles the shapes between his fingers, marvelling at curves and crevices, skin catching on ripped edges. Gently he places them back down, carefully, orderly and correct.
Each piece tells a story, some laugh merrily, others are inconsolable behind heaves and sobs. Some shriek and wail, others tra-la-la to an unknown tune with a familiar chorus. Some lie dormant as their time has passed, yet their role does not diminish. The naked structure gapes and glares, absorbing them all.
The pieces shimmer and shake, languid in their motion, certain in their reason, and knowing they too will return to their rightful place. None will be left behind, none will float away on the tide of change, they will be reborne and reconsidered, polished and primed.
His thoughts turn elsewhere, the light bends, dazzling and brilliant, and the newest pieces of him are borne, joining the other pieces before him, sliding into place as if they’ve been there all along. Happy and content he can rebuild.
He turns his thoughts to the task at hand and the air crackles as the energy builds. One by one, the pieces start their journey, each is paused for a second, a final inspection, a last glimpse of the separation and purpose, before once again being consumed. The structure slowly fills, orderly and considered, the new jostling with the old.
Some time later he sits on the bed. Quietly contemplative of himself. Each part of him nestles in place, content and happy, complete.
Writers’ Bloc
Monday, February 23, 2009 ~ 3 comments so far
It is somewhat timely that, as Post of the Week has died a death (lack of interest, unfortunately), another website that focusses on good writing has been born, Writers’ Bloc.
It’s still new and shiny, but like most of these things it will live and die by the likes of you and I, and your friends, visiting and contributing. On that note the submission guidelines are nice and friendly:
With a title like Writers’ Bloc – even though it’s a dreadful pun on suffering from a lack of inspiration – it would be mean-spirited to insist that your work should not have been appeared anywhere else online or in print before it reaches us. We don’t care about that, and in fact we tend to loathe that rule of literary magazines, especially if they’re all about ‘discovering the best new writing’. All we ask is that you retained the original copyright, since we don’t want to tread on anyone’s toes.
So go and have a look and, if you have ever written something that you feel deserved (demanded!) a wider audience then perhaps consider submitting it, what harm can it do?
Shortly written
Tuesday, February 17, 2009 ~ 1 comment so far
The act of writing fiction, of considering the flow and cadence of certain words, the structure and pace of a sentence, the building of a paragraph, laying the foundations for something bigger is something with which I flirt. Most of my flirtations make their way here in the form of odd and completely random blog posts.
A few people have said to me that I should consider writing something longer, bigger in scale but my attention span doesn’t really lend it to such a venture. I’ve made my peace with that as I think I’d have to quit my day job to have anything approaching a chance of writing a novel, but it’s only just occurred to me (yesterday morning) that I might be able to tackle a short story.
Now, at the risk of getting my Mother all excited (she’s my biggest fan, obv), the idea has a lot of appeal. It’s not something I’ll be able to tackle at the moment but I might do some background research anyway…
I should point out that I have the beginnings of a short story already in place, something I’ve dipped in and out of for a long time but I never really (weirdly) considered it a short story as such, more just a consistent place to enjoy the process of writing.
And no, I’m NOT going to publish that little piece of nonsense.
I know a few of you have written short stories (and a few of you have books, gasp!) so if you have any tips or advice I’d welcome them. I’m not overly bothered about getting published (modesty suggests I’m not that good) but I would like to take a proper stab at it… if I do it at all, I fear this may be another flash in the pan idea but, whilst the iron is hot.. no wait, which metaphor am I using??
I went for a walk today
Sunday, February 8, 2009 ~ 1 comment so far
The childlike wonder is written on his face, the gentle corners of a smile and wide-eyed fascination. He watches the magic float and dance before him, cosseted and warm, whilst long slender tendrils tease at the folds of his scarf.
His face upturned to the thin grey canvas feels vibrant, singing the easy lyrics of the breeze, wafting from chorus to chorus. A tender moment, a subtle and shallow movement is all he can see, as deep within him something stirs, a memory dislodged on the wind.
He knows what this is, he knows why and how this happens yet the wonder it conveys, the soft and transculent nature has him spellbound. The tiny crystals shimmer, pulling his focus this way and that, a sprinkling of wonder on an everyday postcard.
Lost to his memories he breathes in the sounds, hears every one and a million others from times gone past. He is now and then.
The taste of the air, the tang of cold fills his lungs as the glorious dull ache throbs at his fingertips. He glances around and watches them fall, each one doomed, a shattering moment of beauty all they can offer. He watches them fight the onrushing ground, shifting and pirouetting on the breeze, desperate to be noticed, to be seen.
And still the sparkling magic falls, glinting shards marking each tiny story as they knit together, cleaning everything they touch. The light builds and builds, crisp, brilliant, dazzling, as everything is washed white, virginal, pure and untainted.
He breathes out and watches his breath float away, and all around him the snow falls.