Today was a pretty good day. I woke and decided that I would stay in bed, drink tea and read for an hour or so. This, supplemented with cold pizza, was a pleasant experience. By one o'clock I figured I should probably head into town, seeing as I'd promised a colleague I'd pick up a Postman Pat beanie toy for her one year old son. Sadly, Eric Snooks no longer sells the Postman Pat beanie.
When I was out last night with some friends, I heard an interesting morsel of news through the grapevine. It appears Philip Reeve may possibly be writing a prequel to the Mortal Engines quartet. I'm more than a little excited about this prospect. If you haven't read much Philip Reeve, I'd urge you to do so, he is very good (even Here Lies Arthur, which is an odd one for sure). Mortal Engines is one of those great ideas that seems unlikely to work - or even make sense - but is actually extraordinary. Massive cities on gigantic wheels hurling around the continents in a cat-and-mouse game, devouring moving towns who in turn consume villages, all in a desperate attempt to maintain functioning tech and economies. Sounds crazy, right? Good crazy.
Other news is varied. I'm reading a fair bit, but quit recording my reading habits on my Windows Live Space. In fact, I'm attempting to close and clear out my Windows Live account entirely as I'm quite happy with my Google (i.e. Blogger) and Facebook setups. However, still showing MS love as I'm currently running Windows 7 (it's pretty swish - except for an annoying MP3 codec issue with WMP12). Guess I might continue using this blog to reflect on what I'm reading, playing, listening to, etc. It's sees very little use otherwise (*guilty ahem*).
I have actually been thinking about writing again, surprising even myself. However, I'm currently surrounded by a lot of creative types and their relative success stories (including five-digit book deals), which shamefully conjures the cynic in me. Strange, as I'd have thought that I'd be inspired. Evidently I'm lacking substantial resolve. Huh.
Oh, one last comment. I watched a film called Pathfinder this evening. Avoid.
Saturday, 28 February 2009
Sunday, 12 October 2008
Dark in the afternoon
Wow. October. Oops. Well, it's only eleven months I guess. Greater expanses of time have slipped by before.
Anyways, during the last, um, year, I haven't really spent much time thinking about my little mirage/oasis of an idea. Thus I wrote nothing. However, last month a close friend of mine posted this:
And, well, you'd kinda have to know more about it to fully understand why I got quite so excited, but you'll see it's a great image nonetheless. (He's an illustrator.) And excited I was, excited enough to write a very short set piece of a story.
The important thing to remember is that the characters (hell, and the world) aren't mine. I wasn't sure I'd portrayed Deathwatch Bastard and Johnny Omens true to David's vision. I'm still not. But I think it was an interesting exercise.
Oh, and it hasn't been edited. It's all 'first take'...
Plans
‘Ah shit.’
Plan A hadn’t gone to plan. Neither had Plan B. Plan C… well, calling it a plan was a slight misnomer. It was more an instinct to run the hell away.
Gritting his teeth, Deathwatch Bastard looked to his right where his partner stood. With remarkable calm, Johnny was casually sizing up the wall blocking their escape route. Of course, Johnny always appeared remarkably calm. He was, after all, Johnny Omens.
Anyways, during the last, um, year, I haven't really spent much time thinking about my little mirage/oasis of an idea. Thus I wrote nothing. However, last month a close friend of mine posted this:
And, well, you'd kinda have to know more about it to fully understand why I got quite so excited, but you'll see it's a great image nonetheless. (He's an illustrator.) And excited I was, excited enough to write a very short set piece of a story.
The important thing to remember is that the characters (hell, and the world) aren't mine. I wasn't sure I'd portrayed Deathwatch Bastard and Johnny Omens true to David's vision. I'm still not. But I think it was an interesting exercise.
Oh, and it hasn't been edited. It's all 'first take'...
Plans
‘Ah shit.’
Plan A hadn’t gone to plan. Neither had Plan B. Plan C… well, calling it a plan was a slight misnomer. It was more an instinct to run the hell away.
Gritting his teeth, Deathwatch Bastard looked to his right where his partner stood. With remarkable calm, Johnny was casually sizing up the wall blocking their escape route. Of course, Johnny always appeared remarkably calm. He was, after all, Johnny Omens.
Deathwatch span on his heels and turned to look down the alley they’d just run. Dragging a sleeve across his nose, he quickly dropped his backpack and shoved both hands into his pockets, fingers desperately searching.
‘Ah hell.’ No smokes.
‘Drop them?’ Johnny’s voice, somehow simultaneously flat and melodic, was particularly irritating given their imminent predicament.
‘How long you reckon till they sniff us out?’ growled Deathwatch, ignoring the question. ‘Reckon not long.’ He hated it when they had to revert to Plan C. Especially when Plan C led to a dead-end alley.
‘Mmm, I’m sure,’ whispered Johnny. His right hand closed around the sheathed blade of his sword – always Omen’s weapon of choice – a movement that never suggested anything good was about to happen.
Suddenly the dim twilight was breached by the intense flare of a flood light. Deathwatch squinted as he reached around his back and freed a grenade from its strap. Popping the pin, he kept the trigger closed and pushed the explosive into his trouser pocket. ‘Ain’t gonna see this coming.’
Just beyond the shadow there sounded a throaty snarl, followed by several irregular figures shuffling toward them in the darkness. As the zombies closed in, Deathwatch Bastard nervously thumbed the explosive in his hand.
Then he grinned.
Time for Plan D.
http://davidraymondgibbons.blogspot.com (Click it!)
‘Ah hell.’ No smokes.
‘Drop them?’ Johnny’s voice, somehow simultaneously flat and melodic, was particularly irritating given their imminent predicament.
‘How long you reckon till they sniff us out?’ growled Deathwatch, ignoring the question. ‘Reckon not long.’ He hated it when they had to revert to Plan C. Especially when Plan C led to a dead-end alley.
‘Mmm, I’m sure,’ whispered Johnny. His right hand closed around the sheathed blade of his sword – always Omen’s weapon of choice – a movement that never suggested anything good was about to happen.
Suddenly the dim twilight was breached by the intense flare of a flood light. Deathwatch squinted as he reached around his back and freed a grenade from its strap. Popping the pin, he kept the trigger closed and pushed the explosive into his trouser pocket. ‘Ain’t gonna see this coming.’
Just beyond the shadow there sounded a throaty snarl, followed by several irregular figures shuffling toward them in the darkness. As the zombies closed in, Deathwatch Bastard nervously thumbed the explosive in his hand.
Then he grinned.
Time for Plan D.
http://davidraymondgibbons.blogspot.com (Click it!)
Thursday, 15 November 2007
I know what the sun's all about
Discipline appears to be something you learn. I haven't written anything because I haven't the discipline to follow through my ideas. I can sit and daydream all day and still fail to capture a single wisp of fantasy on paper or disk. Those ideas will continue to rattle about at the risk of loss until I can summon the discipline to give them form on a page.
But this can change - so I make a promise, in the hope of aiding the development of good discipline: my next post will include some new (with any luck, noteworthy) scribbles.
We'll see.
But this can change - so I make a promise, in the hope of aiding the development of good discipline: my next post will include some new (with any luck, noteworthy) scribbles.
We'll see.
Friday, 5 October 2007
Passive descension
I've read more books in the last ten days than I have in the past three months. It's good; it's brain food.
I'm very into children's books right now - currently the Edge Chronicles, a series that is very in keeping with my notions of fantasticism, especially with regard to the age range (~9-12). It creates a place wholly separate to our world and populates it accordingly - new flora, new fauna, different physical, chemical and biological laws. There are obviously strong similarities to our world and this new one, yet they are base; banderbears appear, at first, like brown bears, until we learn that they possess language skills (of a sort) such as yodelling, that they are herbivores, and that their fur is covered in a green moss. Even subtle social perceptions differ - for example, the slaughters spend all their lives hunting, killing and trading the flesh of beasts, yet they are arguably the most welcoming and kind-hearted people encountered during the course of the first book.
Ideas like these, although simple in realisation, are what inspire me.
I'm very into children's books right now - currently the Edge Chronicles, a series that is very in keeping with my notions of fantasticism, especially with regard to the age range (~9-12). It creates a place wholly separate to our world and populates it accordingly - new flora, new fauna, different physical, chemical and biological laws. There are obviously strong similarities to our world and this new one, yet they are base; banderbears appear, at first, like brown bears, until we learn that they possess language skills (of a sort) such as yodelling, that they are herbivores, and that their fur is covered in a green moss. Even subtle social perceptions differ - for example, the slaughters spend all their lives hunting, killing and trading the flesh of beasts, yet they are arguably the most welcoming and kind-hearted people encountered during the course of the first book.
Ideas like these, although simple in realisation, are what inspire me.
Friday, 14 September 2007
Arranged in Feng Shui
Although I haven't written anything for a long time, I spend a lot of time daydreaming, which is especially true during the course of the last week. I often retreat to within my imagination where I'm slowly putting together ideas that are beginning to interlock. The ideas don't tend to be heavily narrative-driven, rather set-pieces or scenes, crystallising detail in a landscape on an imaginary canvas. Eventually I'd like to tell a series of tales, as opposed to a singular arc or epic, maybe in the form of memoirs provided by a central character. Perhaps one day everything'll come into focus.
Wednesday, 5 September 2007
Twenty-five dollars and pieces of silver
A few days ago, maybe even yesterday, it was suggested to me that I should try writing poetry. Poetry isn't really my thing, but the advice remained a presence in my mind, and I thought maybe I should make something of it.
This short piece was originally written almost five years ago, and was somewhat longer back then - I think about twice the word count. I've trimmed the fat and rearranged some elements. I'm not great at writing, so getting things down is an achievement.
Lotsa ideas, insufficient grasp of the language I guess...
Respite
Droplets formed and fell from an overhanging leaf, hitting the moist grass and adding sharp pitter-patterings to a choir of sounds: distant rain, buzzing insects, foraging fauna. The old man sighed and pulled back on his pipe. He felt his eyelids grow heavy under the serenity of the canopy, a calming peace causing him to nestle closer between ancient tree roots.
Tugging at the rim of his pointed travelling hat, he felt his ears prick at distant thunder. He looked up with bleary eyes. The woodland itself was a paradise. Rich greenery shadowed with shades of subtle brown, verdant vines on branch and trunk alike. Massive plants with leaves over a foot long and dripping rain water. Huge toadstools of swaggering magnificence sporting brilliant white stems and enticingly soft flesh. Small extended grasses bearing tiny buds that reached out and over the rest of their brethren as if stretching for Heaven itself.
Puffing out a thick and wispy cloud of smoke, the old man shuffled a little to encourage blood circulation. The coarse woollen travelling garb he wore hung close and kept his frail body warm, warding off the cool, wet rainforest air. He smiled, a slow movement that divided the long white beard around his mouth, his elderly lips parting slightly.
Soon his lids grew onerous once more, finally settling on a blue butterfly. Its fluttering, seemingly slow and haphazard, danced before his unfocused vision. He watched it as it flapped and flurried, fought air and droplets, struggling against the breeze in an attempt to breach the chasm from one flower to another. The wizened old man smiled again, sucking his cheeks in as he placed the pipe between his teeth. He was no different.
This short piece was originally written almost five years ago, and was somewhat longer back then - I think about twice the word count. I've trimmed the fat and rearranged some elements. I'm not great at writing, so getting things down is an achievement.
Lotsa ideas, insufficient grasp of the language I guess...
Respite
Droplets formed and fell from an overhanging leaf, hitting the moist grass and adding sharp pitter-patterings to a choir of sounds: distant rain, buzzing insects, foraging fauna. The old man sighed and pulled back on his pipe. He felt his eyelids grow heavy under the serenity of the canopy, a calming peace causing him to nestle closer between ancient tree roots.
Tugging at the rim of his pointed travelling hat, he felt his ears prick at distant thunder. He looked up with bleary eyes. The woodland itself was a paradise. Rich greenery shadowed with shades of subtle brown, verdant vines on branch and trunk alike. Massive plants with leaves over a foot long and dripping rain water. Huge toadstools of swaggering magnificence sporting brilliant white stems and enticingly soft flesh. Small extended grasses bearing tiny buds that reached out and over the rest of their brethren as if stretching for Heaven itself.
Puffing out a thick and wispy cloud of smoke, the old man shuffled a little to encourage blood circulation. The coarse woollen travelling garb he wore hung close and kept his frail body warm, warding off the cool, wet rainforest air. He smiled, a slow movement that divided the long white beard around his mouth, his elderly lips parting slightly.
Soon his lids grew onerous once more, finally settling on a blue butterfly. Its fluttering, seemingly slow and haphazard, danced before his unfocused vision. He watched it as it flapped and flurried, fought air and droplets, struggling against the breeze in an attempt to breach the chasm from one flower to another. The wizened old man smiled again, sucking his cheeks in as he placed the pipe between his teeth. He was no different.
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