|400 words, no fat||February 4, 2014, 10:45 pm|
think I nailed it pretty hard. Of course, I will wake up tomorrow and find it full of fail and delete it.
For posterity then.
|31 years old||January 31, 2014, 4:56 am|
|I am not mellowing with age.|
|chrischan burned his house down||January 11, 2014, 7:36 am|
|and I cannot stop laughing. Help me.|
|started so I'll not finish||January 9, 2014, 11:19 pm|
couldn't really stop tho.
|bringing the ruin to the local newsletter||January 3, 2014, 11:40 am|
|alcohol||December 17, 2013, 5:26 pm|
friday night: work's night out in hotel. Free Bar (eventual tab: 300+ quids). Behaved semi-reasonably by all accounts.
saturday night: woke up at 6pm and met up with old school friends. Forgot to eat before drinking. Got totally smashed on cheap beer before heading out for expensive beer. Might have had some (microwaved) stovies when I got home, evidence inconclusive.
sunday night: woke up feeling like a deep fried turd. throw clothes on, got on train to Glasgow. Cannot physically force myself to eat. Beer o'clock is 12 o'clock (afternoon). Got steaming minced ruined. Discover a 32% (ish) ale called a Tactical Nuclear Penguin and proceed to new heights of total destruction. Get into an argument with a Big Issue seller. Went to the O2 to watch Gogol Bordello. Amount of gig I can remember: none. Alcohol bill for weekend = two hundred quid and still rising. Return to youth hostel and experience extremely vivid nightmare about murdering the Queen of England. Awake at 4am and run around hostel room screaming about dead Queen (suspected alcohol induced psychotic break lol) with no clothes on. Other occupants of room (2 female) rather unimpressed with said behavior. Smoke cigarette through closed window to calm self down. Go to someone elses' bed still not wearing any pants.
monday night: liver in a state of severe distress. Finally ate a cheese sandwich. Bank account hanging in tatters. Still no idea if I like the new Gogol Bordello album or not.
|spacehulk||December 9, 2013, 2:16 pm|
|weird fucking dream that my subconcious subsequently made worse||December 3, 2013, 12:27 pm|
yeah, this sometimes happens. Mad dream that, upon entering that weird, semi-logical half-sleep state, somehow became rationalized enough to actually make enough sense for me to consider doing something with it.
|FINGERNAILS||November 6, 2013, 10:40 pm|
|justification||September 14, 2013, 7:18 pm|
so, rewrite number four of the dn novel is about to begin. writing a blog about it to solidify the reasons why rewrite number three didn't quite work. If you're interested then I applaud you, but this blog is mostly for me, to get my ideas straightened out. I need to examine why this latest period of editing has failed to produce the results I was hoping for.
brief synopsis of where the project currently stands; what has emerged from the rubble of yet another rewrite is a 90'000 word straight-line monologue. Every single piece of exterior dialogue has been stripped out and replaced.
This has been a huge, monstrous, pain in the ass. Writing a novel featuring multiple characters with their own actions and motivations entirely from the standpoint of one person, without the aid of dialogue? Not fucking likely.
And yet it was done.
Why? Mainly so the voice of the protagonist isn't forced down to bad, one actor radio play status. The "he said, I said, she said..." complete with bad impressions of the person being imitated. For one thing, nobody speaks like that in real life. It's a contrivance bad novelists (looking at you, Anne Rice) have now made the norm and I'll be fucked if I'm going to fall into that lazy bullshit trap.
I have also went with the principal of having the protagonist witness everything he reports. If a crucial piece of plot happens offscreen, away from the eyes of the narrator, then he does not know about it. If he mentions how he learned about it later on then that, in turn, suggests that the protagonist survives the events of the novel. Which fucks dramatic tension.
Bearing this in mind, having the narrator speak to the reader in the past-tense throughout the book was, perhaps hilariously obviously, a complete and total cocksnarfling fuckup on my part.
This is one of the problems the fourth edit will rectify. It is being rewritten in present tense.
During the second draft I came up with the concept (after watching far, far too much 24) that the novel should not skip from scene to scene, but rather flow in real-time. The novel is, in a sense, a single entity. There are no moments of unaccounted for time; we spend every second with the narrator over the course of two days with no convenient 'fade to black' or perspective change when things get quiet or plot holes (how did they get from A to B?) need convenienced out of existence. Again, this was done. Again, this was absolute, mental break-down inducing lunacy, but it was done none-the-less.
I quickly came to the conclusion that 80'000 words of straight-line, no-break monologue is just too much for someone to be expected to sit through without some form of relief. I introduced segues between chapters (mostly featuring previously excised material; these, I reasoned, could be considered flashbacks to previous days and help explain the origins / motivations of characters. These I did in the same signature monologue style as the rest of the novel.
So, to fix an 80'000 word non-stop monologue, I added a further 10'000 words of monologue. Because I am a fucking retard.
Reaching for the delete key when I put months of hard work into these segues is pretty fucking heartbreaking. And it leaves me with several fairly major fucking problems; if motivation for a character's actions during the course of the novel was explained in the now-deleted segue, then it must be reintroduced. Somehow.
A concept that I introduced mid-way through the third editing cycle (the narrator used to write shit-tier children's books) has now evolved into a secondary book, pages of which are inserted between chapters. I've got an artist whom I used to know at college drawing scenes of lemmings flying kites, stuff that is metaphorically connected with what is happening in the forthcoming chapter, sketch-lined Winnie the Pooh shit. These will be accompanied by court documents, lines of script, declassified medical records, newspaper cuttings, etc. etc. etc. that will deliver the same information as was present in the segues.
These, after more than three years of writing more-or-less in the first-person, are proving to be a challenge. I'm actually enjoying both the research and writing of these. It has been a long time since I have enjoyed doing anything connected to this fucking piece of shit book.
Finally, there is a stylistic change. Going from past to present-tense has forced my hand somewhat in this; the flowery, faggoty flowing prose of the third-edition edit simply will not survive the transition. Moving things to the immediate tense sharpens words, shortens them, events are happening NOW so there is no time to fuck about and prettify the language. This, again, I am enjoying.
Right, that's enough bullshit procrastination from me. The plan for the forth edit is now carved in stone. Fuck your mother and fuck her anus.