Why This Blog, and What the Hell is it.
Like most things worth time and effort, the idea for my novella-in-progress was spawned by a dream. It was murky, at best, this dream; and when I awoke I hastily scribbled down what I could remember. In the dream I was starving. The floor rocked to and fro beneath my feet -- I was aboard a mighty ship, shivering in the vast hold. There was a roar from above as the cargo doors opened, and a gigantic fish -- a full-sized tuna -- plummeted to the floor, where it flopped about as you'd imagine a full-sized tuna would do out of its natural habitat.
Suddenly, a spotlight shone down on the struggling behemoth. A metallic voice rang out from the emptiness around me, saying, "There's your food. Kill it." A flash of metal caught my eye; my captor had provided me with a weapon -- a knife. I knew then what I had to do. I picked up the knife and approached this giant fish, circling it, trying to visualise where and when my attack might prove most fruitful.
Details of how I ended up reigning victorious over my prey vanished into the ether upon awakening, but I still remember the blood that covered me head to foot, and how damn good the fish's flesh tasted as I cut it from the still-quivering body and ate it raw.
This dream was a good six years ago, and the scribbled notes I'd taken afterwards kept me intrigued. There was something about the visuals of this scene that I thought would make a fascinating short story. First, questions! From where did the metallic voice come? Who was I, and why was I aboard this vessel? How did the tuna get involved in this mess? Where was everybody else?
It was when I picked up One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn that the pieces of my dream memories began to coalesce in a meaningful way. My father's partner had recommended it to me, telling me stories she'd heard about the harsh brutality of life in Soviet gulags.
Dostoevsky's Brothers Karamazov, Tolstoy's War and Peace, and Vladimir Sorokin's The Blizzard, as well as Neil Gaiman's Neverwhere and the great Perdido Street Station by China Mieville all made my head spin and that is how I came to understand my novella-in-writing, Babushka.
I imagined the youngest son of a powerful shipping magnate, a runt of the litter who's despised by his family. I imagined a fleet of self-sufficient ships, run by radiation and artificial intelligence. I imagined a nightmarish authoritarian city-state, inspired by the writing of J.G. Ballard. And I imagined a dreadful disaster that overtook that city, turning its citizens into bloodthirsty murderers, that drives the youngest son -- Sergei, I called him -- into the hold of Babushka, one of the father's -- Vladimir -- prized vessels in his shipping fleet. The only problem is that Babushka is slightly deranged and Sergei has to use all his wits to survive aboard what turns out to be a nightmarish voyage.
Which brings me back to this blog. Over the last couple of years I've written over 15,000 words -- with many more to go. This blog is going to document my progress over the next couple of months as I try to reach 40,000. In this blog I hope to share my methods of working against a clock, overcoming writer's block, writing even when I don't really want to, and share some of my influences along the way.
I hope you enjoy this journey.
Suddenly, a spotlight shone down on the struggling behemoth. A metallic voice rang out from the emptiness around me, saying, "There's your food. Kill it." A flash of metal caught my eye; my captor had provided me with a weapon -- a knife. I knew then what I had to do. I picked up the knife and approached this giant fish, circling it, trying to visualise where and when my attack might prove most fruitful.
Details of how I ended up reigning victorious over my prey vanished into the ether upon awakening, but I still remember the blood that covered me head to foot, and how damn good the fish's flesh tasted as I cut it from the still-quivering body and ate it raw.
This dream was a good six years ago, and the scribbled notes I'd taken afterwards kept me intrigued. There was something about the visuals of this scene that I thought would make a fascinating short story. First, questions! From where did the metallic voice come? Who was I, and why was I aboard this vessel? How did the tuna get involved in this mess? Where was everybody else?
It was when I picked up One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn that the pieces of my dream memories began to coalesce in a meaningful way. My father's partner had recommended it to me, telling me stories she'd heard about the harsh brutality of life in Soviet gulags.
Dostoevsky's Brothers Karamazov, Tolstoy's War and Peace, and Vladimir Sorokin's The Blizzard, as well as Neil Gaiman's Neverwhere and the great Perdido Street Station by China Mieville all made my head spin and that is how I came to understand my novella-in-writing, Babushka.
I imagined the youngest son of a powerful shipping magnate, a runt of the litter who's despised by his family. I imagined a fleet of self-sufficient ships, run by radiation and artificial intelligence. I imagined a nightmarish authoritarian city-state, inspired by the writing of J.G. Ballard. And I imagined a dreadful disaster that overtook that city, turning its citizens into bloodthirsty murderers, that drives the youngest son -- Sergei, I called him -- into the hold of Babushka, one of the father's -- Vladimir -- prized vessels in his shipping fleet. The only problem is that Babushka is slightly deranged and Sergei has to use all his wits to survive aboard what turns out to be a nightmarish voyage.
Which brings me back to this blog. Over the last couple of years I've written over 15,000 words -- with many more to go. This blog is going to document my progress over the next couple of months as I try to reach 40,000. In this blog I hope to share my methods of working against a clock, overcoming writer's block, writing even when I don't really want to, and share some of my influences along the way.
I hope you enjoy this journey.
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