This is quite possibly the longest it has ever taken to write something. I don't just mean for me; I mean ever. Seriously. I started this a while before my exams, enjoyed it, wrote a huge chunk of it over a few days, then stopped. Then went back to it again and drew a complete blank, and did so every other time I attempted to add to it. It wasn't till I was utterly bored on a trip to Cambridge a few weeks ago that I went back to it, wrote another few thousand words, then abandoned it again. I finally put the finishing touches to it a few days ago. I'm still not sure about some of it (read, waiting for Sanjay to get back to me with some advice about editing), particularly the ending, but overall I'm very proud of it. It represents the most structured and longest thing I have written to date. It also has the tightest plotting. As in, it actually has a plot.

Also, The Isley Brothers write the creepiest songs ever. 'Behind a Painted Smile' is really really threatening.

Tune of the moment: Nobody puts baby in the corner - Fall Out Boy

Jac

Labels: fiction, magikal realism, Metafiction

This story has in fact been knocking around for ages. I was trawling through my moleskine yesterday and found it again. The entry in question is dated nineteenth of december, last year. It actually predates the conception of Magikal Realism, both as a website and as a collection of short stories. I was unsure about including it as such, instead of simply as miscellanious fiction. But then I realised it was pretty weird, and still qualified as being 'Midlands Gothic' so I decided to keep it. Plus I found a suitable quote, which swung it in the end.

And yes, there really is a hair dresser's near me called Mark Anthony's. Predictably, it is full of cheesey classical busts and the like. Watch this space; I'll see if can find a picture.

Tune of the moment: Wild Horses - The Sundays

Jac

Labels: fiction, Metafiction

This is an abortive short story that I wrote immeadiately after 'The Encyclical', and in interesting demonstration of when an idea goes awry. It was originally entitled Caution, Trip Hazard after a sign outside of the library that I though was something suitably banal to serve as an imaginative spring-board for writing a piece of short fiction from scratch. Hence the band, which appear briefly, were going to be the titular Caution, Trip, Hazard, since I thought it sounded suitably Emo to equate to a less than inivative band releasing Rock/Pop albums today. I gave up on the story after about a thousand words when I realised that it A) didn't really interest me after I stopped to take a break from it (the danger of writing short fiction in more than one sitting) and B) had started to focus on Micheal Bolton too much, rather than just using him as an observer to set the scene. Plus I realised I was creeping a little too much into Nick Hornby territiory, so I abandoned it.

The themes (music, recording studios, motown music and home-town bands) will be something I return to however, particularly since I want to write about my own experiences of 'playing in a band', and in particular about a bar which served as the hub of my social life for a few years before I left for Uni.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a supervision to go to.

Tune of the moment: This Charming Man - Death Cab For Cutie (awesome cover)

Jac

Labels: fiction, Metafiction

Well... the prologue to this short story kind of is the metafiction in this case. To recap; this short story was written earlier this term when I was just back at college, and playing around with the laptop. Before I started panicing about the volume of revision I have to get done before my exams. I just wanted to write something: without any inspiration or using up any others I might have. So I turned to 'The Apes of God', the topic of my dissertation and my pretence for being in the library in the first place.

And that's pretty much where the similarities to life end, except for the fact like everyone I've received loads of those annoying hotmail chain-letters telling me I'll have anus infested by bats if I don't forward a message about some girl comitting suicide...

Anyway, that's enough updating for today. I'm getting Thai takeaway with Sanjay and Rhys, and then I'm going back to cramming for my Medieval English paper. Chaucer. Troilus & Criseyde. Yay.

Tune of the moment: Kimi Toiu Hana - ASIAN KUNG-FU GENERATION

Jac

Labels: fiction, Metafiction

As I've sure you've realised by now if you've been checking the dates and times of these posts, I'm currently dumping a great deal of existing fiction onto this blog; some of it from a previous blog which I eventually abandoned, with a similar aim, and a lot of it from the hard-drive of my laptop. The laptop heralded an unprecedented jump in creativity for me, possibly because I can now blow off work to write no matter where I am.

This story in particular represents a few firsts for me. It's the first short story I wrote on the laptop. It's the first story of any substantial length I've felt comfortable with (approximately five thousand words; maybe twenty three pages worth in a standard novel). It's also the first short story to really have a conclusion, and the first that I've written in one setting no less. Finally its the first that I've really shown to anybody else; the brunette first, who made substantial grammar and spelling corrections, and to David Ashford, the post-grad supervising me for my dissertation this year. Over the course of our supervisions we got to talking about writing, and he expressed a desire to read something I'd written, particularly as a fellow brummie writing about home. I think he's envisaging some form of Mercian revival in fiction, and is looking to gather a movement. Below is an extract from the email I sent him, which places 'These Ancient Ruins' in some context:

"I wrote it a few days ago, and as of the moment it probably comprises the longest and most cohesive part of my short fiction explicitly concerned with the West Midlands. I'd be very happy to hear any criticism about it, or suggestions for improvements. I'm currently reading a lot of Gabriel Garcia Marquez, along with some post-Lovecraftian horror (Ramsey Campbell, and inparticular Poppy Z. Brite) both of which I would say were quite strong influences on my overall writing style. Another strong influence is Angela Carter, whom I encountered at A-level and really enjoyed. The short story itself is part of a collection of semi-narrative short stories still in progress which will feature Brown and probably Rex again later on, and in which Renaissance Drama is a leit-motiff."

In a reversal of our usual roles, Ashford is now avoiding me; he has yet to reply to my email. He has a deal for a novel himself apparently (or an agent at least), and mentioned showing this short story around to guage interest, so I'm quite eager for a reply from him. If only to confirm he's not now passing it off as his own....

The request for creative criticism goes for anyone else who might be reading this too.

Tune of the moment: I'm Only Happy When It Rains - Garbage

Jac

Labels: magikal realism, Metafiction