Well, it's six months now since I started this blog. I still have a lot of novel still to write, but I feel that I'm settling nicely into the style, if not the routine of actually writing enough.
Ages of Man is dead, long live Upbeat. I still don't intend posting any more material that is destined for said book, but here I'm going to throw together a sketch to fill out back-story, and to try to develop a voice for Ellen. I recently wrote a scene from her perspective (probably the only one in the book), and realised that her character could do with a bit more development, as could my writing of her voice. This is a not-very-thought-out attempt at so doing.
---
Ellen heard the 'phone ring, and knew without looking who was calling. She didn't rush to answer it.
"Hello, mother, how lovely to - "
"Ellen, darling, how was last night? When do I get to meet him?"
"Mother! He only took me out for dinner!"
"Well I want to know everything about him. Gary, you said his name was?"
"Harry. He's a - "
"Prince Harry? Wouldn't it be wonderful if you married a Prince!"
"He's a history student, we met at - "
"Is he as handsome as Timmy was?"
"Mother!" The conversation was settling into a familiar pattern.
"I'm only asking."
"Well, yes as a matter of fact. He's quite tall, with curly blond hair. We met at a party, his flatmate is one of my old school friends. He's - "
"Good. I wish I still looked as stunning as you, then I'd find myself some dishy young man."
"Mother! Don't let daddy hear you say that, it's not nice!"
"Speaking of daddy, he's having a shoot next weekend, would Gary like to come? I'm just dying to meet him."
Conversation, such as it was, continued for a quarter of an hour. Ellen's normally endless patience generally wore thin during conversations with her mother, especially the ones about her love-life, which most of them were. To her mother it was absolutely imperative that she found a suitable match before she was too old (i.e. 22) and it was even more imperative that he be handsome, athletic, charming, and from "good stock". If Ellen actually liked him, then so much the better.
Tuesday, 16 December 2008
Monday, 6 October 2008
Half-formed idea
The musing following my previous post has lead me to think about why the setting is weak, and I've come to realise that this is due a lack of any narrative drive. It is simply there as a backdrop to the action.
It's occurred to me that an underlying assumption in the majority of amateur performance - be it theatre, orchestra, choir or whatever - is that people will go out of their way to see it. In reality, audiences are generally strongly biased towards friends/relatives of the performers, who will have been 'encouraged' to attend. There are exceptions of course, but if an amateur group suddenly ceased to exist, hardly anyone not involved would notice or care. This is in stark contrast to professional groups. Furthermore, the audience's appreciation is often insensitive to the quality of the performance. The performers tend to behave as if the performance were as important as for a professional group - understandable, as it is their pastime - even if the standard falls far short of that (talking the talk?). Would the performers actually like it if they got what they wished for? Would an audience of 3000 and a frank review in The Times really please an amateur group?
Bearing this in mind, I wonder if the orchestra storyline could be made to stand up on its own by turning this on its head - perhaps setting it in a world in which amateur performances share the same properties as professional ones (large audiences, reviews in major newspapers etc.), perhaps setting it in reality but having the (poor) orchestra suddenly become famous.
It's not quite right yet, but I think it's a thread worthy of more thought.
It's occurred to me that an underlying assumption in the majority of amateur performance - be it theatre, orchestra, choir or whatever - is that people will go out of their way to see it. In reality, audiences are generally strongly biased towards friends/relatives of the performers, who will have been 'encouraged' to attend. There are exceptions of course, but if an amateur group suddenly ceased to exist, hardly anyone not involved would notice or care. This is in stark contrast to professional groups. Furthermore, the audience's appreciation is often insensitive to the quality of the performance. The performers tend to behave as if the performance were as important as for a professional group - understandable, as it is their pastime - even if the standard falls far short of that (talking the talk?). Would the performers actually like it if they got what they wished for? Would an audience of 3000 and a frank review in The Times really please an amateur group?
Bearing this in mind, I wonder if the orchestra storyline could be made to stand up on its own by turning this on its head - perhaps setting it in a world in which amateur performances share the same properties as professional ones (large audiences, reviews in major newspapers etc.), perhaps setting it in reality but having the (poor) orchestra suddenly become famous.
It's not quite right yet, but I think it's a thread worthy of more thought.
Saturday, 4 October 2008
Why aren't I writing another show?
I've just listened to some recordings of Guilds, the musical I co-wrote (a working DVD, alas, hasn't yet reached me), and was at once reminded of several of the most satisfying aspects of writing a show. My writing, such as it is, came alive in a way that simply isn't possible with a book. I would send off fresh lyrics to the show's composer, and in return would receive a recording of a new song. The characters, previously existing only in our imaginations, took on a life of their own when the roles were filled by real actors, most of them close friends. Being among the cast/crew and seeing how much joy the show was obviously bringing them. Watching audiences being entertained, laughing (in most of the right places...) and applauding. None of these happens to an author, at least until he gets so famous that his work is adapted for the screen or stage - hardly something to assume will happen!
Why throw that away and write a book instead? Why confine myself into one of the most solitary processes possible? Several reasons. The first is purely pragmatic; when I'd decided to start writing again, my previous collaborator was not available, and I wasn't desirous of trying to find another and trying to develop a similar rapport. Second, I'd found that the plot and dialogue had come much more naturally to me than the lyrics, and while I believe that my lyrics show a strong degree of craftsmanship, they lack somewhat in emotional clout. I can do 'clever' a lot better than I can do 'sincere', and that is a limitation indeed for a lyricist. I want to try a different medium, and see if I am more suited to writing in it. I'm not a huge fan of straight theatre, so it was either through-composed opera (probably something like Britten) or a novel. Opera librettists are unquestionably second-class citizens, and I fancied finding an appropriate composer even less than for musicals. So a novel it is.
My writing style is increasingly turning out like early Pratchett, but without the fantasy. While pleasing, and a little unsurprsiing, this worries me, because early Pratchett used the fantasy to drive the plot and to provide interesting situations for his strong characters to deal with in a decidedly non-fantastic manner. His later work is more character-driven, but still retains the complexity of plot and setting afforded by his rich fantasy world. Guilds, if anything, fitted this mould better - it had real characters in a ridiculous setting that was self-consistent and fully real to its inhabitants, and a lot of the (plot-driven) show's freshness derived directly from its setting - this aspect of the show is one that I think we did very well indeed. Leaves of plausibility floating on a lake of silliness. Upbeat worries me because it is, if anything, too real - it is a very mundane setting and the plot is, frankly, uninspired. I think the characters are strong and the story a good one, and I think the book will be funny, but I'm worried that the plot and setting are insufficiently interesting to provide a good enough backdrop to a character-driven novel. Having realistic characters is essential for any writing, and the interest must ultimately derive from them. I worry that I'm turning away from the most successful aspect of my one previous project.
(On a side note, I find the Discworld novels are relying less and less on the fantasy, and there are times now when the fantasy actually gets in the way - pretty much all the fantasy (setting excpeted) in Making Money could be cut without harming the book, except for the Deus Ex Machina golden golems. Not his best.)
Perhaps the solution to this is to keep the characters and the basic story, but dump the orchestra tour and move the story somewhere more interesting. One of the strengths of the project so far is in making humour from the extremely mundane (the edited stuff does this better than the blog posts!), but this is possible in pretty much any setting.
Hmmm.
Why throw that away and write a book instead? Why confine myself into one of the most solitary processes possible? Several reasons. The first is purely pragmatic; when I'd decided to start writing again, my previous collaborator was not available, and I wasn't desirous of trying to find another and trying to develop a similar rapport. Second, I'd found that the plot and dialogue had come much more naturally to me than the lyrics, and while I believe that my lyrics show a strong degree of craftsmanship, they lack somewhat in emotional clout. I can do 'clever' a lot better than I can do 'sincere', and that is a limitation indeed for a lyricist. I want to try a different medium, and see if I am more suited to writing in it. I'm not a huge fan of straight theatre, so it was either through-composed opera (probably something like Britten) or a novel. Opera librettists are unquestionably second-class citizens, and I fancied finding an appropriate composer even less than for musicals. So a novel it is.
My writing style is increasingly turning out like early Pratchett, but without the fantasy. While pleasing, and a little unsurprsiing, this worries me, because early Pratchett used the fantasy to drive the plot and to provide interesting situations for his strong characters to deal with in a decidedly non-fantastic manner. His later work is more character-driven, but still retains the complexity of plot and setting afforded by his rich fantasy world. Guilds, if anything, fitted this mould better - it had real characters in a ridiculous setting that was self-consistent and fully real to its inhabitants, and a lot of the (plot-driven) show's freshness derived directly from its setting - this aspect of the show is one that I think we did very well indeed. Leaves of plausibility floating on a lake of silliness. Upbeat worries me because it is, if anything, too real - it is a very mundane setting and the plot is, frankly, uninspired. I think the characters are strong and the story a good one, and I think the book will be funny, but I'm worried that the plot and setting are insufficiently interesting to provide a good enough backdrop to a character-driven novel. Having realistic characters is essential for any writing, and the interest must ultimately derive from them. I worry that I'm turning away from the most successful aspect of my one previous project.
(On a side note, I find the Discworld novels are relying less and less on the fantasy, and there are times now when the fantasy actually gets in the way - pretty much all the fantasy (setting excpeted) in Making Money could be cut without harming the book, except for the Deus Ex Machina golden golems. Not his best.)
Perhaps the solution to this is to keep the characters and the basic story, but dump the orchestra tour and move the story somewhere more interesting. One of the strengths of the project so far is in making humour from the extremely mundane (the edited stuff does this better than the blog posts!), but this is possible in pretty much any setting.
Hmmm.
Thursday, 18 September 2008
Insert Title Here
I have just got back from the first dissection meeting of a new and very promising writers' group, at which I got a lot of useful feedback. I am taking away the message that I am on the right track and am worrying about the right things, though I may need to be a little more careful about some of them.
I have a prospective title.
This was in no way discussed, but an idea has spontaneously occurred anyway. I very much admire the Woody Allen film Match Point, particularly the way that the title tied in not just with the setting, but with the structure as well. The film opens with a tennis player describing how a match can be won or lost if the ball hits the net cord, as it is little more than a coin toss which side of the net the ball will land, causing jubilation to one player and despair to the other. This theme is repeated later in the film, and how the film ends depends on a very similar event (which I won't spoil).
The ending of the novel is very clear to me. George will finish it single (again...), but very much changed for the experience, and he will set off to start university with a new, justified, sense of optimism (not revealing details!). Upbeat is a possible title. It means two things - optimistic in mood, and, musically, the unstressed beat preceding a (more 'interesting') bar/phrase/movement. Both of these fit the feeling with which the novel ends. A paragraph setting this up at the beginning, and another at the end would tie the plot, the setting and the title together nicely I think.
I have a prospective title.
This was in no way discussed, but an idea has spontaneously occurred anyway. I very much admire the Woody Allen film Match Point, particularly the way that the title tied in not just with the setting, but with the structure as well. The film opens with a tennis player describing how a match can be won or lost if the ball hits the net cord, as it is little more than a coin toss which side of the net the ball will land, causing jubilation to one player and despair to the other. This theme is repeated later in the film, and how the film ends depends on a very similar event (which I won't spoil).
The ending of the novel is very clear to me. George will finish it single (again...), but very much changed for the experience, and he will set off to start university with a new, justified, sense of optimism (not revealing details!). Upbeat is a possible title. It means two things - optimistic in mood, and, musically, the unstressed beat preceding a (more 'interesting') bar/phrase/movement. Both of these fit the feeling with which the novel ends. A paragraph setting this up at the beginning, and another at the end would tie the plot, the setting and the title together nicely I think.
Tuesday, 2 September 2008
Update
Just a brief update on the situation of this hugely unpopular blog. I intend to discontinue posting new material on Ages of Man (or whatever it eventually gets called) as I believe the project is viable and do not want to have any more material in the public domain. I will continue using this blog to post about the process of writing itself. I will also use it for writing exercises - I have acquired books on good writing technique, and while I'm delighted that there were a number of chapters which taught me nothing new, there are areas which would benefit from working through given exercises, which I will do in due course. I intend to work on a detailed plot for the novel next.
I've also been pretty busy with Real Life lately and haven't had any time to write, but this will hopefully cease to be the case soon.
I've also been pretty busy with Real Life lately and haven't had any time to write, but this will hopefully cease to be the case soon.
Friday, 29 August 2008
Titian Encryption
This has provided me with a perfect excuse to recycle shamelessly this parody which I wrote a few years back.
THE TITIAN ENCRYPTION
---------------------
A short story by Now Brand, the famous author.
Author's note: "All buildings and paintings in this story exist and are faithfully represented.
Furthermore, I did not make up any of the analysis or history whatsoever. None at all. Honest."
-------
Robbie felt confused. He'd been called at night to the National Gallery of Scotland in an emergency, but he couldn't understand why. An academic, he was dressed in his usual festive reindeer woolly jumper with leather patches on the elbows. He couldn't understand why he had been called in so urgently. Why have I been called in urgently? I don't understand it.
The gallery had a Titian (the famous artist) exhibition running, but had been emptied by police chief Vache due to an incident. Robbie entered the gallery, his Oxford Brogues with half-inch heel and carefully-tied laces resounding against the white marble stone floor as he walked at 72 steps per minute. Vache lead him into the gallery, which the forensic team had lit dramatically with spotlights perfect for the forthcoming film. On the floor lay a dead female deer, and next to it was written, in blood, the following legend:
3.14159
O DNA DATA: A CANINE!
(VIZ I NOTE A COLLIE)
R.S.V.P. ROBBIE BLAGDON KILLED ME
"Incriminate yourself" barked Vache.
"No." replied Blagdon.
"Here is Scaffy Nephew, our resident cruciverbalist."
Robbie's eyes moved across the room and met Scaffy's. Hastily putting them back in their sockets, Robbie shook her hand. Scaffy was like an Egyptian obelisk - she was tall, slim, attractive and moved with the lithe grace of a hummingbird.
"I will leave you alone for no good reason" said Vache, leaving them alone for no good reason.
"What does this writing mean?" enquired Robbie.
"The number is only pi"
"But pi is the divine number! That has symbolic significance of the highest order!"
"No it hasn't."
"But the words! All about dogs - we should look at local pet cemetaries for hidden messages on dogs' tombs!"
"No. They are anagrams. They say 'Tiziano Vecellio' and 'Diana and Actaeon'."
"The famous Titian painting! It's right here in this gallery!"
"What a coincidence."
They left the female deer carcass and moved to the famous painting. It depicts the myth of Actaeon hunting in the woods with his dogs and chancing upon Diana (Artemis in Roman myth) bathing with her nymphs in a stream. Diana was embarrassed to be seen naked, and changed him into a deer. His own dogs then chased and killed him.
"This painting has hidden meaning. Look from Actaeon's point-of-view - Diana is not recoiling but opening her legs to him! Renowned scholars consider these two as a couple. Also Actaeon's legs meet a nymph's legs at right-angles, signifying unity between the sexes - male and female in perfect balance, black and white, yin and yang, Torville and Dean. Actaeon is gesturing towards the stag's head on the pillar, suggesting how 'dear' Diana is to him. This entire painting is intended as a hidden message that Diana did not kill Actaeon, but was his lover."
"But I thought there were contradictory hidden messages in another famous paintings by the same artist? Doesn't this cause a major symbolic dichotomy?"
"A clash of the Titians? No - I ignore all evidence that doesn't support my claims. Perhaps the dead deer is a message from the mysterious Brotherhood of Oxfam"
"The brotherhood of what?"
"Oxfam - an ancient charity order with spurious links to freemasonry. Although everyone rightly thinks they are a great force for good, soon stupid people will believe they are evil because of the following blatant falsehoods."
"What does Oxfam mean?"
"Ox in Portuguese is 'boi' and 'fam' is a contraction of 'familiar'. Conspiracy nuts say it means 'familiar with boys' - suggesting this group may practice secret sex rites with children. Incidentally, Titian was once head boi of Oxfam, as were Renoir and Da Vinci. Also, Titian, Renoir and Da Vinci were in the group, as were Titian, Renoir and Da Vinci."
"So they painted and deflorated? Fascinating."
"So much in life is hidden in plain sight. Like the symbolic significance of tobacco packaging"
"But sometimes a cigar is just a cigar."
"Shut up." Robbie sensed his incessant lecturing was losing people's attention.
"So, back to the message. What does RSVP mean?"
"RSVP is a mystical abbreviation used in brotherhood communication to confirm attendance at meetings."
"Wow - my grandfather used to call me 'Really Silly Villy Pilly' - does that mean this message is for me?"
"It must do - perhaps he is in the order!"
"I once saw him in a sex rite, but I just thought he was a pervert."
"For centuries Oxfam has concealed the secret that Actaeon and Diana married, and that their descendants are still alive today. They hid their family tree, called the Gruel, and one day they will use its secrets to fight all the other charities!"
"Gruella warfare?"
"The Gruel is like Pandora's box - it is just the tip of the iceberg, and when the ice is broken, a can of worms will be opened and all hell will break loose!". Robbie didn't tell the whole story yet to build dramatic tension.
"Where do we go now?"
"Someone has written 'Go to Teviot' on the wall next to the painting."
"Let's go!"
"The Teviot Row House building is a renowed and historic building, built as a building for students as a student union building. It is the oldest purpose-built student union building in the world." explained Blagdon as they entered the building. Robbie looked tense. He looked at Scaffy and saw that she was just as tense as he was. This made him feel equally tense, and when she noticed she also became as tense as him, which made him similarly tense.
"I have an idea" said Robbie, tensely. He lead them upstairs to the canteen and joined the queue for lunch (it suddenly no longer being night). After a long wait, he arrived at the counter and was served some venison pie.
"I told you pi had some significance! Pi sounds like pie, and Venison is deer meat. Also, pi comes from circles, and this pie is circular! Pi is an an irrational transcendental number, and my arguments are irrational and transcend logic. The symbolic links are irrefutable! I am very clever indeed!"
Scaffy didn't look impressed. They took the pie to a table and sat down. Cutting open the pastry, Scaffy pulled out a filled pancake from inside.
"I have seen these before! My grandfather cooks them. They are very difficult pancakes to open and contain hidden messages. It's a crepe-tex! But why would Teviot have them?"
"Perhaps they are in the conspiracy as well! Maybe they are funded by Oxfam? Or the Freemasons?!"
Robbie was excited now.
"There is a note inside the pie:"
GO AWAY YOU NOSEY BITCH
"The meaning of this is obvious - a bitch is a female dog, and black Collies have long noses, and if you tell them to go away, they do! The password is definitely Collie! This is easy!"
"A collie-dog's cakewalk?" Scaffy carved 'Collie' into the pancake using a knife, which then opened. So did the pancake. Inside the crepe-tex was another note:
I AM SICK OF ALL YOUR POINTLESS ANALYSES SO SHUT UP
V.P.L. LOOK UNDER THE MOOSE
"So, what is the symbolic meaning of that then, smarty-pants?"
"Erm, I'm not sure. We should consult Surly Teabag, the renowned English stereotype."
They walked downstairs to a large, mounted, moose's head. Underneath was a handful of off-white, gooey mess stuck to the wall.
"Ah, one of Oxfam's secret methods to hide documents, having symbolic meaning referencing the sacred feminine deer. Diana and Actaeon were united as humans, but also as deer, and Oxfam use the feminine deer as a symbol of unity between the two gods".
Scaffy pulled the sticky mess off the wall and found a note underneath.
"But why use this floury goo to attach things to walls?"
"The symbolic links are obvious. Dough adhere: a female deer".
At that moment, Bishop Ringaringaroses, international man of ministry, burst through the door with his sidekick Silage, who snatched the message from Scaffy's hand and gave it to the Bishop.
"Hahahaha! I have the gruel", shouted the Bishop, enunciating his words like the report of a Heckler & Koch MP5/10A1 submachinegun (the special version chambered for a 10mm hollow-point round rather than the usual 9mm with full-metal-jacket) in three-round-burst mode.
"But this is not enough - please sir, I want some more! Give me the crepe-tex" said the Bishop, taking the pancake from Scaffy. "Thank-you Silage. Have some cognac". Silage drank from the proffered flask, and collapsed on the floor.
"He is fatally allergic to the carpet-fluff I put in the cognac. I am from the RSPCA and want to take the Gruel from Oxfam and use it against them!". He opened the slip of paper.
SILAGE IS OF THE BLOOD OF ACTAEON
"You fool, you just killed the only surviving descendant of Diana and Actaeon. The holy bloodline is lost forever".
"Oh well. Anyone fancy a game of pool?"
EPILOGUE
--------
And so, with the pointless destruction of thousands of years of history, the holy and wholly holey plot comes to an abrupt end. Silage lies dead, Robbie and Scaffy look lovingly into each others' eyes in a crude attempt at inserting romantic undertones and Ringaringaroses continues his cunning diagonal moves. Tune in next week for "Cherubs and Imps", an identical adventure by the same author starring Robbie and some snazzy upside-down writing. Now the mysteries of Titian's paintings remain hidden in plain sight, waiting to be discovered again.
Titian Pish.
THE TITIAN ENCRYPTION
---------------------
A short story by Now Brand, the famous author.
Author's note: "All buildings and paintings in this story exist and are faithfully represented.
Furthermore, I did not make up any of the analysis or history whatsoever. None at all. Honest."
-------
Robbie felt confused. He'd been called at night to the National Gallery of Scotland in an emergency, but he couldn't understand why. An academic, he was dressed in his usual festive reindeer woolly jumper with leather patches on the elbows. He couldn't understand why he had been called in so urgently. Why have I been called in urgently? I don't understand it.
The gallery had a Titian (the famous artist) exhibition running, but had been emptied by police chief Vache due to an incident. Robbie entered the gallery, his Oxford Brogues with half-inch heel and carefully-tied laces resounding against the white marble stone floor as he walked at 72 steps per minute. Vache lead him into the gallery, which the forensic team had lit dramatically with spotlights perfect for the forthcoming film. On the floor lay a dead female deer, and next to it was written, in blood, the following legend:
3.14159
O DNA DATA: A CANINE!
(VIZ I NOTE A COLLIE)
R.S.V.P. ROBBIE BLAGDON KILLED ME
"Incriminate yourself" barked Vache.
"No." replied Blagdon.
"Here is Scaffy Nephew, our resident cruciverbalist."
Robbie's eyes moved across the room and met Scaffy's. Hastily putting them back in their sockets, Robbie shook her hand. Scaffy was like an Egyptian obelisk - she was tall, slim, attractive and moved with the lithe grace of a hummingbird.
"I will leave you alone for no good reason" said Vache, leaving them alone for no good reason.
"What does this writing mean?" enquired Robbie.
"The number is only pi"
"But pi is the divine number! That has symbolic significance of the highest order!"
"No it hasn't."
"But the words! All about dogs - we should look at local pet cemetaries for hidden messages on dogs' tombs!"
"No. They are anagrams. They say 'Tiziano Vecellio' and 'Diana and Actaeon'."
"The famous Titian painting! It's right here in this gallery!"
"What a coincidence."
They left the female deer carcass and moved to the famous painting. It depicts the myth of Actaeon hunting in the woods with his dogs and chancing upon Diana (Artemis in Roman myth) bathing with her nymphs in a stream. Diana was embarrassed to be seen naked, and changed him into a deer. His own dogs then chased and killed him.
"This painting has hidden meaning. Look from Actaeon's point-of-view - Diana is not recoiling but opening her legs to him! Renowned scholars consider these two as a couple. Also Actaeon's legs meet a nymph's legs at right-angles, signifying unity between the sexes - male and female in perfect balance, black and white, yin and yang, Torville and Dean. Actaeon is gesturing towards the stag's head on the pillar, suggesting how 'dear' Diana is to him. This entire painting is intended as a hidden message that Diana did not kill Actaeon, but was his lover."
"But I thought there were contradictory hidden messages in another famous paintings by the same artist? Doesn't this cause a major symbolic dichotomy?"
"A clash of the Titians? No - I ignore all evidence that doesn't support my claims. Perhaps the dead deer is a message from the mysterious Brotherhood of Oxfam"
"The brotherhood of what?"
"Oxfam - an ancient charity order with spurious links to freemasonry. Although everyone rightly thinks they are a great force for good, soon stupid people will believe they are evil because of the following blatant falsehoods."
"What does Oxfam mean?"
"Ox in Portuguese is 'boi' and 'fam' is a contraction of 'familiar'. Conspiracy nuts say it means 'familiar with boys' - suggesting this group may practice secret sex rites with children. Incidentally, Titian was once head boi of Oxfam, as were Renoir and Da Vinci. Also, Titian, Renoir and Da Vinci were in the group, as were Titian, Renoir and Da Vinci."
"So they painted and deflorated? Fascinating."
"So much in life is hidden in plain sight. Like the symbolic significance of tobacco packaging"
"But sometimes a cigar is just a cigar."
"Shut up." Robbie sensed his incessant lecturing was losing people's attention.
"So, back to the message. What does RSVP mean?"
"RSVP is a mystical abbreviation used in brotherhood communication to confirm attendance at meetings."
"Wow - my grandfather used to call me 'Really Silly Villy Pilly' - does that mean this message is for me?"
"It must do - perhaps he is in the order!"
"I once saw him in a sex rite, but I just thought he was a pervert."
"For centuries Oxfam has concealed the secret that Actaeon and Diana married, and that their descendants are still alive today. They hid their family tree, called the Gruel, and one day they will use its secrets to fight all the other charities!"
"Gruella warfare?"
"The Gruel is like Pandora's box - it is just the tip of the iceberg, and when the ice is broken, a can of worms will be opened and all hell will break loose!". Robbie didn't tell the whole story yet to build dramatic tension.
"Where do we go now?"
"Someone has written 'Go to Teviot' on the wall next to the painting."
"Let's go!"
"The Teviot Row House building is a renowed and historic building, built as a building for students as a student union building. It is the oldest purpose-built student union building in the world." explained Blagdon as they entered the building. Robbie looked tense. He looked at Scaffy and saw that she was just as tense as he was. This made him feel equally tense, and when she noticed she also became as tense as him, which made him similarly tense.
"I have an idea" said Robbie, tensely. He lead them upstairs to the canteen and joined the queue for lunch (it suddenly no longer being night). After a long wait, he arrived at the counter and was served some venison pie.
"I told you pi had some significance! Pi sounds like pie, and Venison is deer meat. Also, pi comes from circles, and this pie is circular! Pi is an an irrational transcendental number, and my arguments are irrational and transcend logic. The symbolic links are irrefutable! I am very clever indeed!"
Scaffy didn't look impressed. They took the pie to a table and sat down. Cutting open the pastry, Scaffy pulled out a filled pancake from inside.
"I have seen these before! My grandfather cooks them. They are very difficult pancakes to open and contain hidden messages. It's a crepe-tex! But why would Teviot have them?"
"Perhaps they are in the conspiracy as well! Maybe they are funded by Oxfam? Or the Freemasons?!"
Robbie was excited now.
"There is a note inside the pie:"
GO AWAY YOU NOSEY BITCH
"The meaning of this is obvious - a bitch is a female dog, and black Collies have long noses, and if you tell them to go away, they do! The password is definitely Collie! This is easy!"
"A collie-dog's cakewalk?" Scaffy carved 'Collie' into the pancake using a knife, which then opened. So did the pancake. Inside the crepe-tex was another note:
I AM SICK OF ALL YOUR POINTLESS ANALYSES SO SHUT UP
V.P.L. LOOK UNDER THE MOOSE
"So, what is the symbolic meaning of that then, smarty-pants?"
"Erm, I'm not sure. We should consult Surly Teabag, the renowned English stereotype."
They walked downstairs to a large, mounted, moose's head. Underneath was a handful of off-white, gooey mess stuck to the wall.
"Ah, one of Oxfam's secret methods to hide documents, having symbolic meaning referencing the sacred feminine deer. Diana and Actaeon were united as humans, but also as deer, and Oxfam use the feminine deer as a symbol of unity between the two gods".
Scaffy pulled the sticky mess off the wall and found a note underneath.
"But why use this floury goo to attach things to walls?"
"The symbolic links are obvious. Dough adhere: a female deer".
At that moment, Bishop Ringaringaroses, international man of ministry, burst through the door with his sidekick Silage, who snatched the message from Scaffy's hand and gave it to the Bishop.
"Hahahaha! I have the gruel", shouted the Bishop, enunciating his words like the report of a Heckler & Koch MP5/10A1 submachinegun (the special version chambered for a 10mm hollow-point round rather than the usual 9mm with full-metal-jacket) in three-round-burst mode.
"But this is not enough - please sir, I want some more! Give me the crepe-tex" said the Bishop, taking the pancake from Scaffy. "Thank-you Silage. Have some cognac". Silage drank from the proffered flask, and collapsed on the floor.
"He is fatally allergic to the carpet-fluff I put in the cognac. I am from the RSPCA and want to take the Gruel from Oxfam and use it against them!". He opened the slip of paper.
SILAGE IS OF THE BLOOD OF ACTAEON
"You fool, you just killed the only surviving descendant of Diana and Actaeon. The holy bloodline is lost forever".
"Oh well. Anyone fancy a game of pool?"
EPILOGUE
--------
And so, with the pointless destruction of thousands of years of history, the holy and wholly holey plot comes to an abrupt end. Silage lies dead, Robbie and Scaffy look lovingly into each others' eyes in a crude attempt at inserting romantic undertones and Ringaringaroses continues his cunning diagonal moves. Tune in next week for "Cherubs and Imps", an identical adventure by the same author starring Robbie and some snazzy upside-down writing. Now the mysteries of Titian's paintings remain hidden in plain sight, waiting to be discovered again.
Titian Pish.
Monday, 4 August 2008
Other projects
The purpose of this blog is to explore and flesh out unfinished ideas, and to experiment with different writing tasks. Ages of Man is feeling pretty fleshed out now, and while it could do with some re-examination (and editing!), I have a pretty clear concept of how I want it to develop. At some point I will start writing it in full, which I do not intend to post on a public forum such as this (neglecting the obvious lack of readership...).
It thus falls to think about some other ideas that I have kicking around. I saw this article on BBC News, describing a group of people who genuinely believe that the Earth is flat, and in a worldwide conspiracy to convince us otherwise. The human mind is capable of believing in pretty much anything rather than discard its own axioms, and it is quite clear that these people would subscribe to the most ludicrous explanations imaginable - especially as regards evidence - rather than discard their underlying axiomatic belief in a flat Earth. This link demonstrates something similar- of people searching for evidence to prove their ideas, despite rejecting similar and overwhelming evidence that disproves them. We do not worry about the Flat Earth Society because they are a harmless minority - but what if they were actually dangerous? How would we cope with them?
This brings me onto the idea of someone committing unspeakable atrocities with only the purest intentions, albeit in the name of misguided piety in a (preferably) fictional religion. What if Hitler/ Stalin/ Pol Pot did what they did in a genuine belief that they were benevolently acting in the best interests of mankind and/or their god? Given the lengths to which people are capable of deluding themselves, this is not beyond the bounds of credibility. Such a character would raise some interesting and pertinent questions, and would probably be well suited to a musical/opera of the most dramatic and emotional kind.
It thus falls to think about some other ideas that I have kicking around. I saw this article on BBC News, describing a group of people who genuinely believe that the Earth is flat, and in a worldwide conspiracy to convince us otherwise. The human mind is capable of believing in pretty much anything rather than discard its own axioms, and it is quite clear that these people would subscribe to the most ludicrous explanations imaginable - especially as regards evidence - rather than discard their underlying axiomatic belief in a flat Earth. This link demonstrates something similar- of people searching for evidence to prove their ideas, despite rejecting similar and overwhelming evidence that disproves them. We do not worry about the Flat Earth Society because they are a harmless minority - but what if they were actually dangerous? How would we cope with them?
This brings me onto the idea of someone committing unspeakable atrocities with only the purest intentions, albeit in the name of misguided piety in a (preferably) fictional religion. What if Hitler/ Stalin/ Pol Pot did what they did in a genuine belief that they were benevolently acting in the best interests of mankind and/or their god? Given the lengths to which people are capable of deluding themselves, this is not beyond the bounds of credibility. Such a character would raise some interesting and pertinent questions, and would probably be well suited to a musical/opera of the most dramatic and emotional kind.
Sunday, 3 August 2008
Ages of Man IX : Back on the shelf
(Badly need Edward to develop some depth and elicit some sympathy from the readers. This is also the scene where the main idea in the book is first hinted at)
After the rehearsal, the orchestra had decamped en masse to the nearest pub, where they promptly overwhelmed the cook with a massive backlog of food orders. It was the kind of pub with numbered tables in a strictly regimented layout; the orchestra had fragmented into a series of small groups. Most groups had pushed their tables together (to the disapproving glares of the landlord), but Edward and George now found themselves at a small table some distance from the rest of the orchestra.
Edward was a Social Drinker. To him, this meant that he had the occasional drink when out with others "to keep them company". To everyone else, it meant that he quickly became drunk on booze that he wasn't used to, and trampled blindly into awkward conversations. He was attacking a pint of the local brewery's stronger ale with suicidal enthusiasm. George had once tried a sip of wine when he was ten and hadn't liked it. He hadn't touched a drop of alcohol since and was horrified at the mere thought of further experimentation. He was making the most of still being too young to drink legally in pubs; goodness knows what excuse he would be compelled to resort to after his birthday next month. He nursed a lime cordial as though it was served in the Holy Grail.
"You and Ellen seemed to be getting on well."
"Er, we've only really introduced ourselves. She seems very friendly."
"You sly old dog. I bet you have the pick of the girls at school!"
"No more than anyone else - it's a boys' school."
"In the holidays? Lots of nice local girls - they must be fighting over you!"
George paused; the conversation was getting painfully close to the nerve. "Not really, I don't tend to get out very much in the holidays. Mum needs a lot of help decorating and so on."
"Oh, so you're not a ladies' man?"
"I wish. Maybe after I start university?"
This derailed Edward somewhat. His own love-life was a complete non-starter, and he had it set out in his mind that youthful advice from a young stud like George would be just right to set him on the road to success. He was determined that the tour was the perfect time to 'score', and that he should get some guaranteed hints as soon as possible. Finding out that George was clearly even more clueless was something of a disappointment. Not being one to change his mind, he ploughed on ahead anyway.
"I was rather hoping for your help. It's been a long time now since Marjorie passed on. Since your father left home all those years ago it's just been the two of us in that big house, and without her I'm just rattling around on my own. I think it's about time I found someone else, someone I could settle down and enjoy my retirement with."
"Sounds like a wonderful idea. I know Mum & Dad would be delighted if you found someone else."
"I know it sounds silly, but I don't want to be one of those people you read about who die in their sleep, but no-one notices and their corpse lies in their bed for weeks on end before it gets found."
"That's a bit morbid! Surely you don't have to worry about that at your age?"
"I know, I know, but it scares me. I don't get a lot of visitors, so I do worry about it. I've never lived on my own before. It was nice at first, having all the freedom, but now it just seems like the house is a great big empty hole waiting to swallow me up." Edward had a singular ability to sound cheerful even when saying these things.
"Well a nice companion for you would do you a lot of good. I'm sure it's what she would have wanted" George was beginning to worry what was coming next.
"I agree. Trouble is, between you and me, Marjorie was, well, she was my sweetheart in the sixth form, and you got married young in those days. She was the only girlfriend I've ever had, so it's 45 years since I was last, well, in the market as it were."
"I'm sure it will all come flooding back to you. I expect it's like riding a bicycle - you never forget how."
"I wish." said Edward, who actually had forgotten how to ride a bicycle.
"Are there any single ladies in the orchestra?"
"Actually quite a few. I talked to Ted Coote, who sorted out all the hotel bookings, and there's a surprising number of potential targets. Quite a few girls around your age too."
The two of them exchanged a look, and in that moment they realised that they weren't so different. George looked away first, stifling a smile of newly-kindled optimism. Edward didn't get the hunting tips that he wanted, but at least he had a hunting partner of sorts. He felt better already.
There are times in cricket matches where a batting side is struggling to avoid a follow-on and the probable heavy defeat that follows. Two hapless tail-enders find themselves at the crease knowing that all their best batsmen have failed, and that they are facing 90mph deliveries whistling past their noses. It is only a matter of time before they have their stumps torn out, yet they soldier on, pluckily offering weak defensive prods at the incoming onslaught. Spectators of both teams tend to enjoy watching these gladiatorial passages of play, partly because they admire the bravery, but mostly out of schadenfreude. George and Edward were to womankind what these beleaguered tail-enders were to Brett Lee, but without the protective padding.
After the rehearsal, the orchestra had decamped en masse to the nearest pub, where they promptly overwhelmed the cook with a massive backlog of food orders. It was the kind of pub with numbered tables in a strictly regimented layout; the orchestra had fragmented into a series of small groups. Most groups had pushed their tables together (to the disapproving glares of the landlord), but Edward and George now found themselves at a small table some distance from the rest of the orchestra.
Edward was a Social Drinker. To him, this meant that he had the occasional drink when out with others "to keep them company". To everyone else, it meant that he quickly became drunk on booze that he wasn't used to, and trampled blindly into awkward conversations. He was attacking a pint of the local brewery's stronger ale with suicidal enthusiasm. George had once tried a sip of wine when he was ten and hadn't liked it. He hadn't touched a drop of alcohol since and was horrified at the mere thought of further experimentation. He was making the most of still being too young to drink legally in pubs; goodness knows what excuse he would be compelled to resort to after his birthday next month. He nursed a lime cordial as though it was served in the Holy Grail.
"You and Ellen seemed to be getting on well."
"Er, we've only really introduced ourselves. She seems very friendly."
"You sly old dog. I bet you have the pick of the girls at school!"
"No more than anyone else - it's a boys' school."
"In the holidays? Lots of nice local girls - they must be fighting over you!"
George paused; the conversation was getting painfully close to the nerve. "Not really, I don't tend to get out very much in the holidays. Mum needs a lot of help decorating and so on."
"Oh, so you're not a ladies' man?"
"I wish. Maybe after I start university?"
This derailed Edward somewhat. His own love-life was a complete non-starter, and he had it set out in his mind that youthful advice from a young stud like George would be just right to set him on the road to success. He was determined that the tour was the perfect time to 'score', and that he should get some guaranteed hints as soon as possible. Finding out that George was clearly even more clueless was something of a disappointment. Not being one to change his mind, he ploughed on ahead anyway.
"I was rather hoping for your help. It's been a long time now since Marjorie passed on. Since your father left home all those years ago it's just been the two of us in that big house, and without her I'm just rattling around on my own. I think it's about time I found someone else, someone I could settle down and enjoy my retirement with."
"Sounds like a wonderful idea. I know Mum & Dad would be delighted if you found someone else."
"I know it sounds silly, but I don't want to be one of those people you read about who die in their sleep, but no-one notices and their corpse lies in their bed for weeks on end before it gets found."
"That's a bit morbid! Surely you don't have to worry about that at your age?"
"I know, I know, but it scares me. I don't get a lot of visitors, so I do worry about it. I've never lived on my own before. It was nice at first, having all the freedom, but now it just seems like the house is a great big empty hole waiting to swallow me up." Edward had a singular ability to sound cheerful even when saying these things.
"Well a nice companion for you would do you a lot of good. I'm sure it's what she would have wanted" George was beginning to worry what was coming next.
"I agree. Trouble is, between you and me, Marjorie was, well, she was my sweetheart in the sixth form, and you got married young in those days. She was the only girlfriend I've ever had, so it's 45 years since I was last, well, in the market as it were."
"I'm sure it will all come flooding back to you. I expect it's like riding a bicycle - you never forget how."
"I wish." said Edward, who actually had forgotten how to ride a bicycle.
"Are there any single ladies in the orchestra?"
"Actually quite a few. I talked to Ted Coote, who sorted out all the hotel bookings, and there's a surprising number of potential targets. Quite a few girls around your age too."
The two of them exchanged a look, and in that moment they realised that they weren't so different. George looked away first, stifling a smile of newly-kindled optimism. Edward didn't get the hunting tips that he wanted, but at least he had a hunting partner of sorts. He felt better already.
There are times in cricket matches where a batting side is struggling to avoid a follow-on and the probable heavy defeat that follows. Two hapless tail-enders find themselves at the crease knowing that all their best batsmen have failed, and that they are facing 90mph deliveries whistling past their noses. It is only a matter of time before they have their stumps torn out, yet they soldier on, pluckily offering weak defensive prods at the incoming onslaught. Spectators of both teams tend to enjoy watching these gladiatorial passages of play, partly because they admire the bravery, but mostly out of schadenfreude. George and Edward were to womankind what these beleaguered tail-enders were to Brett Lee, but without the protective padding.
Pretty Women
I've been listening again to Sweeney Todd (the Cariou/Lansbury recording) and was again struck by the brilliance of one particular scene. Todd has the hated Judge in his chair; they exchange ordinary barber-customer conversation as Todd lulls his victim into security, through with the audience's tension gradually mounts in expectation of Todd fulfilling his obvious murderous intentions. Sondheim then, quite brilliantly, has them sing Pretty Women, a tender duet about the only thing they could possibly have in common (the Judge pursued Todd's wife and is shortly to marry his daughter) - Todd gets wrapped up in the moment and almost forgets himself. However much they hate each other, and however bitter and twisted they both are, they still share this same warmth; expressing it in this way - and, almost as a by-product, ratcheting up the tension almost unbearably - and at this time nothing short of genius.
It also reminded me how powerful musicals/opera can be. I'm trying to switch from libretti to a novel, and there are a lot of things which are much easier in novels, but there are also some things which simply cannot work on paper. The above is, for me, a definitive example. I recognise that I could not write anything approaching this no matter what the medium (frankly, few people can), but it has reminded me that while I have a stack of new tools at my disposal, I have also put a stack of others away. Ages of Man could never work as a musical and would require a rather different approach to work as a play, but a few musical numbers in the novel would solve a few problems!
It also reminded me how powerful musicals/opera can be. I'm trying to switch from libretti to a novel, and there are a lot of things which are much easier in novels, but there are also some things which simply cannot work on paper. The above is, for me, a definitive example. I recognise that I could not write anything approaching this no matter what the medium (frankly, few people can), but it has reminded me that while I have a stack of new tools at my disposal, I have also put a stack of others away. Ages of Man could never work as a musical and would require a rather different approach to work as a play, but a few musical numbers in the novel would solve a few problems!
Friday, 1 August 2008
Ages of Man : Comments
I've had a look back over the initial character descriptions I wrote, and in both cases my perception of how they will be has shifted. Not hugely - the basic idea is still the same - but enough to warrant a re-write of the description! One of the reasons for experimenting like this on a blog is to solidify such things before I start writing proper, so I suppose it is serving its purpose. I had previously expected that Edward would be on at least an equal footing with George, but I'm increasingly thinking of George as the lead.
As for plot, I'm keen on the idea of George unsuccessfully pursuing Ellen, unaware of the fact that she is way, way out of his league. I think that she might end up having a little soft spot for him simply because he is brave enough to try, and is probably quite different from the rest of the small subset of men who are brave enough to hit on her.
One problem that has to be addressed is making sure that the readers sympathise with both the characters. George is quirky, shy, and naive, whereas Edward is tactless and inconsiderate. Trying to make them both likeable in spite of this is difficult. The story is essentially a coming-of-age tail, with the spin being that there are two of them doing it at very different times of life. If people don't like the characters 'before' then they aren't going to stay interested long enough to enjoy 'after'.
Another note on characters; no character of any significance is based on a single real person, but I definitely draw inspiration from real life. Generally this is blending together several people I have known, exaggerating some features and discarding others, arriving at someone who is not the same as anybody, but is (hopefully!) nevertheless believable, interesting, and deep. I find Edward more difficult to write, perhaps because I don't/didn't particularly like the people he is drawn from!
I really hate the working title now. Will have to think of something better. I'm also starting to think that the parents will not appear at all, except perhaps over the 'phone.
As for plot, I'm keen on the idea of George unsuccessfully pursuing Ellen, unaware of the fact that she is way, way out of his league. I think that she might end up having a little soft spot for him simply because he is brave enough to try, and is probably quite different from the rest of the small subset of men who are brave enough to hit on her.
One problem that has to be addressed is making sure that the readers sympathise with both the characters. George is quirky, shy, and naive, whereas Edward is tactless and inconsiderate. Trying to make them both likeable in spite of this is difficult. The story is essentially a coming-of-age tail, with the spin being that there are two of them doing it at very different times of life. If people don't like the characters 'before' then they aren't going to stay interested long enough to enjoy 'after'.
Another note on characters; no character of any significance is based on a single real person, but I definitely draw inspiration from real life. Generally this is blending together several people I have known, exaggerating some features and discarding others, arriving at someone who is not the same as anybody, but is (hopefully!) nevertheless believable, interesting, and deep. I find Edward more difficult to write, perhaps because I don't/didn't particularly like the people he is drawn from!
I really hate the working title now. Will have to think of something better. I'm also starting to think that the parents will not appear at all, except perhaps over the 'phone.
Monday, 28 July 2008
Ages of Man VIII : Tally ho?
(about time the guys started interacting with women, or at least trying to...)
After a slightly panicked hour of rehearsal, George was visibly relieved when Mr Sharpe called a ten-minute break. He had every intention of spending it all in the gents' loos, not out of any lavatorial necessity but simply for the sake of having some comforting walls between him and other people. His escape was intercepted by an unstoppable onslaught of Well-Brought-Up-Young-Lady-Being-Friendly-To-A-Newcomer.
"Hello there, I'm Ellen, I don't think we've met." said she with an expensive accent, extending the hand not carrying her cello.
"How do you do? I'm George". He hoped his intention to hide in a cubicle was imperceptible in his tone of voice, but he felt it twice as acutely at the prospect of making small talk with his new acquaintance. She was a few years older than he, tall and slender with dark hair and a friendly smile. She radiated casual class and was immaculately dressed; the Venn Diagram of women who wear tight white jeans, and women who could carry off tight white jeans had a happy intersection with Ellen. That part of him which didn't want him to flee wanted him very, very much to stay where he was.
"Pleased to meet you, George. You play wonderfully." Ellen was determined to
put him at his ease.
"That's very generous of you to say so, thank-you. I thought I'd made a bit of a mess of it, actually." He was beginning to talk to his shoes.
"Don't be silly! You're doing very well. Don't worry about Mr Sharpe, he's like that to everyone. The nastier he is to you, the more highly he thinks of you."
"He must be positively horrible to you then!" said George slightly too quickly, and immediately worried that it sounded corny.
"Talented and charming! What a catch you are for the orchestra!" Ellen did indeed think his jabbered compliment was corny, but she had a wonderful knack for making people feel good about themselves. "How did you come to join us for the tour?"
He gestured across the room towards his grandfather. "I'm Edward Kent's grandson, he said there was a shortage of violas and that I should come along. I'd only have been sitting around at home, so I thought I ought to. I need the practice! How about yourself?"
"I've been here since I was a girl. Mother's absolutely potty about music, she's in every orchestra within 50 miles, and I simply got swept along."
"Tally ho!" Edward had misinterpreted George's gesturing as a summons, and rampaged over to join them. "I see you've met Ellen, wasting no time there, you young stud!"
Ellen saw the look of sheer horror on his face, and deftly defused the situation.
"I was just telling him about Mother, about how she's been with the orchestra for twenty years. You've been here almost as long, haven't you? You and she must have some memories!"
"Well I'm just a newcomer, I've only been here fifteen years! Still, your mother and I have done a few concerts together since then! Nothing will ever quite compare with the time we played..."
Before the monologue got into full swing, George took the opportunity to excuse himself quietly, and rushed to the gents to spend the rest of the break cringing in the corner of a cubicle.
After a slightly panicked hour of rehearsal, George was visibly relieved when Mr Sharpe called a ten-minute break. He had every intention of spending it all in the gents' loos, not out of any lavatorial necessity but simply for the sake of having some comforting walls between him and other people. His escape was intercepted by an unstoppable onslaught of Well-Brought-Up-Young-Lady-Being-Friendly-To-A-Newcomer.
"Hello there, I'm Ellen, I don't think we've met." said she with an expensive accent, extending the hand not carrying her cello.
"How do you do? I'm George". He hoped his intention to hide in a cubicle was imperceptible in his tone of voice, but he felt it twice as acutely at the prospect of making small talk with his new acquaintance. She was a few years older than he, tall and slender with dark hair and a friendly smile. She radiated casual class and was immaculately dressed; the Venn Diagram of women who wear tight white jeans, and women who could carry off tight white jeans had a happy intersection with Ellen. That part of him which didn't want him to flee wanted him very, very much to stay where he was.
"Pleased to meet you, George. You play wonderfully." Ellen was determined to
put him at his ease.
"That's very generous of you to say so, thank-you. I thought I'd made a bit of a mess of it, actually." He was beginning to talk to his shoes.
"Don't be silly! You're doing very well. Don't worry about Mr Sharpe, he's like that to everyone. The nastier he is to you, the more highly he thinks of you."
"He must be positively horrible to you then!" said George slightly too quickly, and immediately worried that it sounded corny.
"Talented and charming! What a catch you are for the orchestra!" Ellen did indeed think his jabbered compliment was corny, but she had a wonderful knack for making people feel good about themselves. "How did you come to join us for the tour?"
He gestured across the room towards his grandfather. "I'm Edward Kent's grandson, he said there was a shortage of violas and that I should come along. I'd only have been sitting around at home, so I thought I ought to. I need the practice! How about yourself?"
"I've been here since I was a girl. Mother's absolutely potty about music, she's in every orchestra within 50 miles, and I simply got swept along."
"Tally ho!" Edward had misinterpreted George's gesturing as a summons, and rampaged over to join them. "I see you've met Ellen, wasting no time there, you young stud!"
Ellen saw the look of sheer horror on his face, and deftly defused the situation.
"I was just telling him about Mother, about how she's been with the orchestra for twenty years. You've been here almost as long, haven't you? You and she must have some memories!"
"Well I'm just a newcomer, I've only been here fifteen years! Still, your mother and I have done a few concerts together since then! Nothing will ever quite compare with the time we played..."
Before the monologue got into full swing, George took the opportunity to excuse himself quietly, and rushed to the gents to spend the rest of the break cringing in the corner of a cubicle.
Monday, 21 July 2008
Ages of Man : VII
"So, what's the plan for today?" said George, as they pulled off the motorway.
"We're going straight to a rehearsal now, then we'll check into the hotel later. First concert is this evening."
"Fair enough. Which pieces are we doing?"
"Carmina Burana is the main piece, we're doing Tannhauser Overture in the first half along with a song cycle by some German composer no-one's heard of."
"Sounds very good. I've got Tannhauser on LP."
"LP? Don't they allows CDs in your dormitory?"
George didn't answer. He was considered among his friends as something of a technophile, and was as adept with cutting-edge technology as anyone, so it generally came as a surprise when people found out that he had a vast arsenal of 12" vinyl records. His love of modern technology had somehow become intertwined with his calculatedly old-fashioned streak, and the result was a fascinating clash of cultures. He had spent a week of his previous holiday creating a beautifully-designed website containing artistic photographs of his collection of rotary-dial telephones; he took the photos with his high-end DSLR camera.
"Do you know which desk I will be playing in?"
"Didn't I tell you? You're principal viola."
"Principal? Gosh, I didn't realise that. Can't a someone from the orchestra do it?"
"Not really, the only other violas who are coming are Mrs Atkinson, who hasn't been up to much playing since her arthritis set in, and Helen and David, but they both said they didn't want the job."
"But I've never played as principal. I thought I'd just be making up the numbers."
"Oh don't worry about it. The music's quite easy." Edward was not the type to embarrass easily. It wasn't that he didn't care about making a fool of himself, rather it never occurred to him that anyone could make a fool of themselves. To do so would require a sense of dignity, which he utterly lacked. He therefore assumed that everyone else was the same, and hadn't the faintest sense of when other people were embarrassed, especially when it was he who was embarrassing them. It hadn't occurred to him that George might have preferred a less prominent part in the orchestra - he didn't care what people thought of his playing, why should anyone else? Sadly, not caring how you sound is not conducive to musical excellence - he was a dreadful musician, but he neither realised this nor cared.
George, on the other hand, was mortified at the thought of leading the section, small though it was. Some orchestral players didn't care a jot about which part they played, would happily play anything that was put in front of them egolessly. Some sections would think nothing of rotating parts for different pieces. String players, on the other hand, defended their desk position with the same enraged defiance as certain middle-aged women defend their right to be called 'Ms'. The orchestra's few good players percolated to the front desks, and stayed there. Shy players, and those who knew their own limitations, stayed at the back. The middle desks were occupied by mediocre players who were either inadvisably trying to work their way forwards, or fighting to avoid the ignominy of being moved back; sometimes both at once. To be in a middle desk was to wear a symbol of status, however microscopic, and it meant having someone to look down on in order to feel better.
George was one of nature's back-deskers, though he was afflicted with the unfortunate ability to play very well indeed. He would far rather sit behind row upon row of inferior violists, secure in his anonymity and, though he'd never admit it to himself, a buried sensation of smugness at being better than those in front of him. Being principal terrified him, even though the music would be essentially identical. He would far rather be surprisingly good (or, in his unswervingly-modest words, 'not disastrous') than disappointingly bad, and the thought of being compared unfavourably to the other players turned his stomach into knots. George had, however, made one error of judgement: he had grossly over-estimated the skill of the other players.
"We're going straight to a rehearsal now, then we'll check into the hotel later. First concert is this evening."
"Fair enough. Which pieces are we doing?"
"Carmina Burana is the main piece, we're doing Tannhauser Overture in the first half along with a song cycle by some German composer no-one's heard of."
"Sounds very good. I've got Tannhauser on LP."
"LP? Don't they allows CDs in your dormitory?"
George didn't answer. He was considered among his friends as something of a technophile, and was as adept with cutting-edge technology as anyone, so it generally came as a surprise when people found out that he had a vast arsenal of 12" vinyl records. His love of modern technology had somehow become intertwined with his calculatedly old-fashioned streak, and the result was a fascinating clash of cultures. He had spent a week of his previous holiday creating a beautifully-designed website containing artistic photographs of his collection of rotary-dial telephones; he took the photos with his high-end DSLR camera.
"Do you know which desk I will be playing in?"
"Didn't I tell you? You're principal viola."
"Principal? Gosh, I didn't realise that. Can't a someone from the orchestra do it?"
"Not really, the only other violas who are coming are Mrs Atkinson, who hasn't been up to much playing since her arthritis set in, and Helen and David, but they both said they didn't want the job."
"But I've never played as principal. I thought I'd just be making up the numbers."
"Oh don't worry about it. The music's quite easy." Edward was not the type to embarrass easily. It wasn't that he didn't care about making a fool of himself, rather it never occurred to him that anyone could make a fool of themselves. To do so would require a sense of dignity, which he utterly lacked. He therefore assumed that everyone else was the same, and hadn't the faintest sense of when other people were embarrassed, especially when it was he who was embarrassing them. It hadn't occurred to him that George might have preferred a less prominent part in the orchestra - he didn't care what people thought of his playing, why should anyone else? Sadly, not caring how you sound is not conducive to musical excellence - he was a dreadful musician, but he neither realised this nor cared.
George, on the other hand, was mortified at the thought of leading the section, small though it was. Some orchestral players didn't care a jot about which part they played, would happily play anything that was put in front of them egolessly. Some sections would think nothing of rotating parts for different pieces. String players, on the other hand, defended their desk position with the same enraged defiance as certain middle-aged women defend their right to be called 'Ms'. The orchestra's few good players percolated to the front desks, and stayed there. Shy players, and those who knew their own limitations, stayed at the back. The middle desks were occupied by mediocre players who were either inadvisably trying to work their way forwards, or fighting to avoid the ignominy of being moved back; sometimes both at once. To be in a middle desk was to wear a symbol of status, however microscopic, and it meant having someone to look down on in order to feel better.
George was one of nature's back-deskers, though he was afflicted with the unfortunate ability to play very well indeed. He would far rather sit behind row upon row of inferior violists, secure in his anonymity and, though he'd never admit it to himself, a buried sensation of smugness at being better than those in front of him. Being principal terrified him, even though the music would be essentially identical. He would far rather be surprisingly good (or, in his unswervingly-modest words, 'not disastrous') than disappointingly bad, and the thought of being compared unfavourably to the other players turned his stomach into knots. George had, however, made one error of judgement: he had grossly over-estimated the skill of the other players.
Saturday, 19 July 2008
BOOK IV: HARRY PINTER AND THE GOBBET OF PHLEGM
Harry has entered an international music competition; he consults Dumdedum for repertoire advice.
"Harry, I have a very difficult choral piece for you to conduct" said Dumdedum.
"I hate you! That's so unfair!" said Harry's hormones.
"It is a vital part of any hero's repertoire - you never know when you might need it. It is called 'Deus Ex Machina' - learn it well."
"God used to be a robot?" said Harry, whose Latin left something to be desired. "I can't conduct that. I'll just do all the stuff I learned in first year, that'll always beat everyone!
At the competition, Harry's splendid performance wins tuition from a world-famous conductor, who later turns out to be Baron VoleKiller, or 'He From Whom No Arboreal Rodent Is Safe'. Challenging Harry to a showdown, the Baron flourishes his baton with consummate skill; he is clearly a superb conductor at the height of his powers.
"Hahahaha!" said VoleKiller.
Harry, a pimply teenager who never does his homework, despairs at the hopelessness of VoleKiller's obvious superiority. He then remembers the uncannily useful solution that Q gave him.
"Holy Android!" screams Harry, and successfully conducts 'Deus Ex Machina', a piece he hadn't a hope of conducting correctly when it wasn't a dramatic necessity. The amazing music summons Rowan, who lobs a handful of snot in VoleKiller's face, incapacitating him and thus resolving a hopeless situation with an unstoppable attack of slapstick.
"I told you bogeys were important!" shouts Rowan. "That Deus Ex stuff is well powerful."
"This could be the start of a beautiful friendship..." said Harry.
"Harry, I have a very difficult choral piece for you to conduct" said Dumdedum.
"I hate you! That's so unfair!" said Harry's hormones.
"It is a vital part of any hero's repertoire - you never know when you might need it. It is called 'Deus Ex Machina' - learn it well."
"God used to be a robot?" said Harry, whose Latin left something to be desired. "I can't conduct that. I'll just do all the stuff I learned in first year, that'll always beat everyone!
At the competition, Harry's splendid performance wins tuition from a world-famous conductor, who later turns out to be Baron VoleKiller, or 'He From Whom No Arboreal Rodent Is Safe'. Challenging Harry to a showdown, the Baron flourishes his baton with consummate skill; he is clearly a superb conductor at the height of his powers.
"Hahahaha!" said VoleKiller.
Harry, a pimply teenager who never does his homework, despairs at the hopelessness of VoleKiller's obvious superiority. He then remembers the uncannily useful solution that Q gave him.
"Holy Android!" screams Harry, and successfully conducts 'Deus Ex Machina', a piece he hadn't a hope of conducting correctly when it wasn't a dramatic necessity. The amazing music summons Rowan, who lobs a handful of snot in VoleKiller's face, incapacitating him and thus resolving a hopeless situation with an unstoppable attack of slapstick.
"I told you bogeys were important!" shouts Rowan. "That Deus Ex stuff is well powerful."
"This could be the start of a beautiful friendship..." said Harry.
Wednesday, 16 July 2008
Ages of Man : VI
Item 3: To receive the tour manager's report
Mr Coote stood to say that he had successfully secured a rehearsal venue for the first afternoon of the tour (c.f item 2 of previous meetings minutes re: Mr Sharpe's concerns about guest players not attending earlier rehearsals). He expressed that he was having difficulty with the logistics of transporting around so much percussion and asked that for future tours consideration be given to this before choosing pieces because the seven percussion parts in Carmina Burana by Carl Orff were causing him grief. Mr Kent helpfully offered to bang a few pots and pans when the bassoons weren't busy. Mr Sharpe said this wouldn't be neccesary. Mr Kent said that he had played some lovely bongos in his time to which Mrs Sharpe replied that there was no need for that sort of language. Mr Coote then gave a detailed account of the transport arrangements for the many instruments on the many legs of the journey. Both pages of this account are attached to these minutes. Mr Coote was thanked by the committee for the lengthy trouble which he had obviously gone to.
Mr Coote stood to say that he had successfully secured a rehearsal venue for the first afternoon of the tour (c.f item 2 of previous meetings minutes re: Mr Sharpe's concerns about guest players not attending earlier rehearsals). He expressed that he was having difficulty with the logistics of transporting around so much percussion and asked that for future tours consideration be given to this before choosing pieces because the seven percussion parts in Carmina Burana by Carl Orff were causing him grief. Mr Kent helpfully offered to bang a few pots and pans when the bassoons weren't busy. Mr Sharpe said this wouldn't be neccesary. Mr Kent said that he had played some lovely bongos in his time to which Mrs Sharpe replied that there was no need for that sort of language. Mr Coote then gave a detailed account of the transport arrangements for the many instruments on the many legs of the journey. Both pages of this account are attached to these minutes. Mr Coote was thanked by the committee for the lengthy trouble which he had obviously gone to.
Saturday, 12 July 2008
Ages of Man : V
(attempt at sustained dialogue, and at creating impressions for the reader without explicitly stating them. Nothing startling, just some basic character exposition.)
It was some minutes after they had left the house before conversation started in earnest. Edward's 'driving head' appeared to require such concentration as rendered him incapable of speech, at least until they reached the motorway, where he steadfastly drove in the middle lane irrespective of his or anyone else's velocity.
"That's better. Always good to get out on the open road and stretch the old wheels!" said Edward in enthusiastic tones.
"Quite." said George, at once relieved to break the silence and shy of the impending conversation.
"Second lane to the right, and straight on 'til morning!"
"I hope it won't take that long."
"Won't be much more than an hour."
"That's not so bad."
"So, tell me. Glad to be rid of school?"
"It hasn't really sunk in yet that I've left for good. I'm well accustomed to moving between there and home, so it just feels like another summer holiday. Funny to think I won't be going back."
"Did you like it there?"
George paused. "Yes, I suppose I did. A lot of the other boys hated it and couldn't wait to leave, but I never felt like that."
"Home from home, eh?"
"Quite."
"I remember the day I left school. We bounced the headmaster's car between two trees so that he couldn't drive it home. Goodness knows how he got it out again."
"I never thought of you as a troublemaker."
"I didn't actually bounce the car myself, but I helped them by watching out for teachers. Not that they could have done anything to stop them."
"There was a big water-fight around the school grounds."
"Get very wet?"
"Not really, we went and played croquet instead."
"Croquet? How civilised! Does anybody still play that these days?"
"They certainly do. At least, we did. For all its apparent gentility, it is a vicious game, and excellent fun. There was a group of us played every Sunday. We thought we wouldn't get another chance to play at all, let alone with each other, so it seemed a good idea to get one last game in."
Edward considered this for a moment. "I bet you'll miss your friends."
"We'll keep in touch, by post, or possibly by electronic mail. We've already arranged to meet up again after the first university term."
"What are you going to study?"
"Aeronautical Engineering at Bristol."
"Oxbridge not appeal to you? I'd have thought the cloistered passageways were right up your alley!". Edward beamed, pleased with himself.
"Shall we say they appealed to me, but the feeling wasn't mutual. Still, Bristol is closer to home, and it has a very good reputation. Most of my friends are going to Cambridge, though."
"Must be a bit of a disappointment! All your friends off to Cambridge and you to Bristol, talk about kicking you when you're down."
"Hadn't thought about it that way, really." He hadn't, but he did now. Conversation halted while George gazed blankly out of the passenger window and realised that he was the only member of his beloved Croquet Club who wasn't going to Cambridge. He wasn't ambitious by nature, and felt no envy for his more successful friends, but instead he felt left out of all the fun. Being a Cambridge undergraduate fitted his self-image so perfectly that he couldn't imagine fitting in anywhere else. He didn't like where this new train of thought was going, having boarded it so suddenly thanks to his grandfather's tactless questioning, and after a while he restarted conversation purely to stop having to think about it.
"How is work going?"
"Still chuntering away, pretty quiet for me at the moment."
"Not much business these days?". George wondered if 'chuntering' was a real word.
"Hardly, we've the highest utilisation on record, we've a huge backlog of orders. I've been back at work nine months now, they gave me lots of compassionate leave after Marjorie passed on, were very good about it."
"It must be good to be working again."
"I've been with the company for a quarter of a century now. I've got the gold pen and everything. Nothing surprises me any more. No point getting another job at 63, not that I could, so I'll just hang in there for another couple of years and top up my pension fund. Still, keeps me out the house!"
"Remind me exactly what it is you do?"
"I'm a chemical engineer. I work down at the plant, making chemicals for industry. Compressed nitrogen and oxygen, mostly."
"Do you work a lot with the machinery?"
"All the time. Well, I spend more time in the office than the crawl-spaces these days, the younger lads do that.
George gazed again out of the passenger window, and spent the next half-an-hour in silence, watching cars under-taking them.
It was some minutes after they had left the house before conversation started in earnest. Edward's 'driving head' appeared to require such concentration as rendered him incapable of speech, at least until they reached the motorway, where he steadfastly drove in the middle lane irrespective of his or anyone else's velocity.
"That's better. Always good to get out on the open road and stretch the old wheels!" said Edward in enthusiastic tones.
"Quite." said George, at once relieved to break the silence and shy of the impending conversation.
"Second lane to the right, and straight on 'til morning!"
"I hope it won't take that long."
"Won't be much more than an hour."
"That's not so bad."
"So, tell me. Glad to be rid of school?"
"It hasn't really sunk in yet that I've left for good. I'm well accustomed to moving between there and home, so it just feels like another summer holiday. Funny to think I won't be going back."
"Did you like it there?"
George paused. "Yes, I suppose I did. A lot of the other boys hated it and couldn't wait to leave, but I never felt like that."
"Home from home, eh?"
"Quite."
"I remember the day I left school. We bounced the headmaster's car between two trees so that he couldn't drive it home. Goodness knows how he got it out again."
"I never thought of you as a troublemaker."
"I didn't actually bounce the car myself, but I helped them by watching out for teachers. Not that they could have done anything to stop them."
"There was a big water-fight around the school grounds."
"Get very wet?"
"Not really, we went and played croquet instead."
"Croquet? How civilised! Does anybody still play that these days?"
"They certainly do. At least, we did. For all its apparent gentility, it is a vicious game, and excellent fun. There was a group of us played every Sunday. We thought we wouldn't get another chance to play at all, let alone with each other, so it seemed a good idea to get one last game in."
Edward considered this for a moment. "I bet you'll miss your friends."
"We'll keep in touch, by post, or possibly by electronic mail. We've already arranged to meet up again after the first university term."
"What are you going to study?"
"Aeronautical Engineering at Bristol."
"Oxbridge not appeal to you? I'd have thought the cloistered passageways were right up your alley!". Edward beamed, pleased with himself.
"Shall we say they appealed to me, but the feeling wasn't mutual. Still, Bristol is closer to home, and it has a very good reputation. Most of my friends are going to Cambridge, though."
"Must be a bit of a disappointment! All your friends off to Cambridge and you to Bristol, talk about kicking you when you're down."
"Hadn't thought about it that way, really." He hadn't, but he did now. Conversation halted while George gazed blankly out of the passenger window and realised that he was the only member of his beloved Croquet Club who wasn't going to Cambridge. He wasn't ambitious by nature, and felt no envy for his more successful friends, but instead he felt left out of all the fun. Being a Cambridge undergraduate fitted his self-image so perfectly that he couldn't imagine fitting in anywhere else. He didn't like where this new train of thought was going, having boarded it so suddenly thanks to his grandfather's tactless questioning, and after a while he restarted conversation purely to stop having to think about it.
"How is work going?"
"Still chuntering away, pretty quiet for me at the moment."
"Not much business these days?". George wondered if 'chuntering' was a real word.
"Hardly, we've the highest utilisation on record, we've a huge backlog of orders. I've been back at work nine months now, they gave me lots of compassionate leave after Marjorie passed on, were very good about it."
"It must be good to be working again."
"I've been with the company for a quarter of a century now. I've got the gold pen and everything. Nothing surprises me any more. No point getting another job at 63, not that I could, so I'll just hang in there for another couple of years and top up my pension fund. Still, keeps me out the house!"
"Remind me exactly what it is you do?"
"I'm a chemical engineer. I work down at the plant, making chemicals for industry. Compressed nitrogen and oxygen, mostly."
"Do you work a lot with the machinery?"
"All the time. Well, I spend more time in the office than the crawl-spaces these days, the younger lads do that.
George gazed again out of the passenger window, and spent the next half-an-hour in silence, watching cars under-taking them.
Wednesday, 2 July 2008
Ages of man : IV
(attempt at a vivid description of a minor character who will appear in only one scene, vaguely in the manner of Dickens.)
After the previous night's exertions, Edward and George surfaced too late for breakfast at the hotel, and set forth in search of a greasy spoon cafe recommended to them by the ineffectual girl at reception. They eventually located it, through a process of elimination, by walking in the opposite direction to that in which she pointed them, and then finding it across the street from the petrol station to which it was allegedly next door.
Taking seats at the only vacant table, it was immediately apparent that this was a very popular establishment. Unending legions of worried-looking waiting staff charged about the place carrying vast platters of cholesterol. Each of them paused at their table just long enough to insist on taking an order for tea. Edward expected being given a cup of tea from each of half-a-dozen waitresses, which George rather liked the sound of. They found it difficult to maintain conversation over the most penetrative voice imaginable, which belonged to a small lady in an apron barking orders at the cholesterol legions; the Napoleon of grime. At once nasal and gravelly, with a distinct Irish burr, her voice was clearly audible from behind the kitchen door. Mrs O'Neill was unquestionably the proprietor of the cafe; any attempts to imagine her boss started and ended with Zeus, and even then there would be a power struggle. She was very short and slender, but her sheer presence would stop armies in their tracks; she would stride into a war-zone to tell them to keep the noise down. They would. She patrolled around the cafe, ensuring good order and making light chit-chat with her customers. At least, she believed it was light, and she was genuinely trying to be friendly, but a barked interrogation as to George's satisfaction with his breakfast elicited no more than a whimper. He would happily have rubbed his stomach and made yummy noises before a plate of fresh turd if Mrs O'Neill were watching; happily this was not the case, because the food was genuinely excellent. She clearly ran a very tight ship; customers were left in no doubt that they would get exactly what they wanted, generally before they ordered it, but this was not a place to linger, particularly if one wanted to keep one's hearing. Some eating establishments hire cocktail pianists to add quiet background music; Mrs O'Neill could hire a military marching band.
After the previous night's exertions, Edward and George surfaced too late for breakfast at the hotel, and set forth in search of a greasy spoon cafe recommended to them by the ineffectual girl at reception. They eventually located it, through a process of elimination, by walking in the opposite direction to that in which she pointed them, and then finding it across the street from the petrol station to which it was allegedly next door.
Taking seats at the only vacant table, it was immediately apparent that this was a very popular establishment. Unending legions of worried-looking waiting staff charged about the place carrying vast platters of cholesterol. Each of them paused at their table just long enough to insist on taking an order for tea. Edward expected being given a cup of tea from each of half-a-dozen waitresses, which George rather liked the sound of. They found it difficult to maintain conversation over the most penetrative voice imaginable, which belonged to a small lady in an apron barking orders at the cholesterol legions; the Napoleon of grime. At once nasal and gravelly, with a distinct Irish burr, her voice was clearly audible from behind the kitchen door. Mrs O'Neill was unquestionably the proprietor of the cafe; any attempts to imagine her boss started and ended with Zeus, and even then there would be a power struggle. She was very short and slender, but her sheer presence would stop armies in their tracks; she would stride into a war-zone to tell them to keep the noise down. They would. She patrolled around the cafe, ensuring good order and making light chit-chat with her customers. At least, she believed it was light, and she was genuinely trying to be friendly, but a barked interrogation as to George's satisfaction with his breakfast elicited no more than a whimper. He would happily have rubbed his stomach and made yummy noises before a plate of fresh turd if Mrs O'Neill were watching; happily this was not the case, because the food was genuinely excellent. She clearly ran a very tight ship; customers were left in no doubt that they would get exactly what they wanted, generally before they ordered it, but this was not a place to linger, particularly if one wanted to keep one's hearing. Some eating establishments hire cocktail pianists to add quiet background music; Mrs O'Neill could hire a military marching band.
Monday, 30 June 2008
Bad writing
Part of being a good author is not being a bad author. Tautologous though this may sound, I think there is a distinction. There are competent but uninspired authors, and there are inspired but flawed authors (some of whom sell extremely well!). Good writing needs both creativity and technical ability, and a lot of that technique is the avoidance of flaws. Some things that I try actively to avoid, and also those that make others' writing at best tiresome and at worse unreadable, as follows:
- Character inconsistency. People acting 'out of character' and doing/saying things which that character would not do/say is the most cardinal of sins. At all times must every character stay within their own bounds (development aside), and at all times must they be believable as people.
- One-dimensional characters. Finding the balance between this and the above is tricky, but shallow characters who have a very limited range of predictable behaviour can be very tedious.
- Continuity errors, anachronisms etc.
- Cliche. Not all university professors wear tweed jackets with leather patches, not all secretaries chew gum incessantly and speak in a nasal Jewish-American accent, not all villains cackle maniacally and rant about power, but lazy writers don't take the trouble to create characters outside these stereotypes. Also, adding miscellaneous physical impairments, bleeding eyes and so forth, does not add depth to a character.
- Focus on the world, not the people. This is especially a problem in (bad) sci-fi/fantasy, where one feels that the author has thought a lot about all the cool things in the world they have created, and the people/lifeforms running around inside it are merely there to wield the Sword of Deity Slaying or fly the VPL-0134 Super Starfighter of Doom. Sure, fantastic scenarios can provide very interesting backdrops for good stories, but they should not be the story itself. People are interesting, made-up things aren't.
- Deus Ex Machina. All the tension built up through the plot is diffused in one lazy magic ending.
- Pace. Things that are not interesting but are necessary take far too long to exposit, or things that are interesting are not dwelled on enough.
- Self-parody. Usually the sign of a long-running series running out of steam, this is a sure-fire sign of a shortage of ideas.
Friday, 27 June 2008
Ages of Man : III
(this is Edward & George's first scene together).
George was sitting by the window, waiting for the arrival of his grandfather. He wasn't expecting him for another quarter of an hour, but George had nevertheless been staring out of the window for twenty minutes already. His parents were the proud owners of a perfectly functioning doorbell, and he had no reason to believe that his grandfather had any serious lack of skill in its operation, but he still felt the urgent desire to watch his ancestor inaccurately park his estate car and, it was hoped, walk up the garden path to seek admission. He didn't know why he felt such urges, but his mother always kept vigil for at least an hour in advance of any ETA, and it wouldn't do to insult the family solidarity.
Having successfully deposited his enormous car, Edward was beginning to contemplate the tricky doorbell conundrum when the door opened of its own accord, revealing behind it a pasty teenage boy with a runaway fringe who was vainly, and indeed vainly, trying to disguise his obvious nervousness.
"Hello, Grandpa" said he, proffering a hand.
"Hello there, lad!" said Edward, taking it. "You're looking ever so much taller than when I last saw you".
"You're looking ever so much shorter since I last saw you!" replied George, with just enough edge in his voice to discourage any further discussion of the subject; in his experience no-one over the age of twenty had the faintest recollection of the hideous embarrassment inherent in being the object of such a conversation, and he went out of his way to remind them as politely as he could manage. He also didn't like to point out that they'd seen each other some nine months previously at his grandmother's funeral, and any subsequent increase in height was attributable exclusively to the growth of his hair. "Do come in. Good journey over?"
"Bit of traffic on the ring-road, but I'd expected it and left in good time."
"Can I offer you a drink? I have some tea in the pot." George was an excellent host, but very seldom had anyone to practise on.
"No thanks, I'd like to get straight on, got my driving head on now!"
George gave the mildly sycophantic guffaw he had been taught to use in such situations. "Right well I'd better tidy up the kitchen before I leave." It was spotless apart from a steaming teapot, two matching mugs and a plate of biscuits in protractor-perfect formation.
"Your parents about?"
"They're at Pilates."
"Oh well, I'll see them next week I suppose. Is this your luggage?" exclaimed Edward, gesturing at three old-fashioned leather suitcases in the hallway. "Are these your father's tatty old cases? Yes, they have his initials. I thought these got thrown out years ago. No matter, I'll pop them in the car. Are you quite sure you need to take this much stuff?"
George was proud of his ancient family luggage, and had expected his grandfather to be rather more pleased to see it. Having tidied the kitchen, he picked up his viola case, locked the front door behind him, and went out to the car. He then pretended to have forgotten something, and went back into the house to check that he hadn't left the gas on, even though he hadn't used it all morning. Thus satisfied, he locked the front door again and took his seat in the car, worrying that he hadn't locked the front door but being too proud to turn back a second time. He wondered for a moment why he'd agreed to come on the trip - he wasn't used to being with groups of people he didn't know, and he certainly wasn't used to being with his grandfather without his parents being there.
Ah well, he thought, it will be an adventure.
George was sitting by the window, waiting for the arrival of his grandfather. He wasn't expecting him for another quarter of an hour, but George had nevertheless been staring out of the window for twenty minutes already. His parents were the proud owners of a perfectly functioning doorbell, and he had no reason to believe that his grandfather had any serious lack of skill in its operation, but he still felt the urgent desire to watch his ancestor inaccurately park his estate car and, it was hoped, walk up the garden path to seek admission. He didn't know why he felt such urges, but his mother always kept vigil for at least an hour in advance of any ETA, and it wouldn't do to insult the family solidarity.
Having successfully deposited his enormous car, Edward was beginning to contemplate the tricky doorbell conundrum when the door opened of its own accord, revealing behind it a pasty teenage boy with a runaway fringe who was vainly, and indeed vainly, trying to disguise his obvious nervousness.
"Hello, Grandpa" said he, proffering a hand.
"Hello there, lad!" said Edward, taking it. "You're looking ever so much taller than when I last saw you".
"You're looking ever so much shorter since I last saw you!" replied George, with just enough edge in his voice to discourage any further discussion of the subject; in his experience no-one over the age of twenty had the faintest recollection of the hideous embarrassment inherent in being the object of such a conversation, and he went out of his way to remind them as politely as he could manage. He also didn't like to point out that they'd seen each other some nine months previously at his grandmother's funeral, and any subsequent increase in height was attributable exclusively to the growth of his hair. "Do come in. Good journey over?"
"Bit of traffic on the ring-road, but I'd expected it and left in good time."
"Can I offer you a drink? I have some tea in the pot." George was an excellent host, but very seldom had anyone to practise on.
"No thanks, I'd like to get straight on, got my driving head on now!"
George gave the mildly sycophantic guffaw he had been taught to use in such situations. "Right well I'd better tidy up the kitchen before I leave." It was spotless apart from a steaming teapot, two matching mugs and a plate of biscuits in protractor-perfect formation.
"Your parents about?"
"They're at Pilates."
"Oh well, I'll see them next week I suppose. Is this your luggage?" exclaimed Edward, gesturing at three old-fashioned leather suitcases in the hallway. "Are these your father's tatty old cases? Yes, they have his initials. I thought these got thrown out years ago. No matter, I'll pop them in the car. Are you quite sure you need to take this much stuff?"
George was proud of his ancient family luggage, and had expected his grandfather to be rather more pleased to see it. Having tidied the kitchen, he picked up his viola case, locked the front door behind him, and went out to the car. He then pretended to have forgotten something, and went back into the house to check that he hadn't left the gas on, even though he hadn't used it all morning. Thus satisfied, he locked the front door again and took his seat in the car, worrying that he hadn't locked the front door but being too proud to turn back a second time. He wondered for a moment why he'd agreed to come on the trip - he wasn't used to being with groups of people he didn't know, and he certainly wasn't used to being with his grandfather without his parents being there.
Ah well, he thought, it will be an adventure.
Monday, 23 June 2008
Ages of Man : thoughts so far
I've got quite a strong idea now of what the two main characters will be like, and I'm finding it fairly easy to write things in their voices. The two pieces I've written are the first contact the reader will have with the characters, so they essentially serve the same purpose as the descriptions I set out earlier (obviously less explicitly). Little set-pieces like the letter, and the minutes (which I think can work as a thread running through the book), are fun, but I'm a little worried about writing long passages of bog-standard descriptive prose. Dialogue is fine - I've done this before for the stage - but descriptive text is something I will have to learn how to do. The whole public school setting is a little cliched, but this is I think justified to introduce the character quickly, and it really won't be dwelled on.
I'm already regretting the working title of Ages of Man, which doesn't really capture where I want to go. I don't think now that it will have much about one person growing up to be like another, which is something that I would like to explore in future, but I don't think this is the right outlet. I haven't a good alternative yet. They say you should think of the title first and write the rest later, because by the time the work is finished you stand no chance of changing the name. This is exactly what happened with Guilds, which at no point did we ever think was the perfect title, but we never came up with anything better, so it stuck.
I don't know yet where the book is going, whether it will be largely character-based humour, or possibly turn into a total farce a la Tom Sharpe. I've also got to figure out where the narrative voice sits, whether it will change to see the world in the same way as the main character in the scene, or whether there will be a fixed viewpoint.
Plenty to think about!
I'm already regretting the working title of Ages of Man, which doesn't really capture where I want to go. I don't think now that it will have much about one person growing up to be like another, which is something that I would like to explore in future, but I don't think this is the right outlet. I haven't a good alternative yet. They say you should think of the title first and write the rest later, because by the time the work is finished you stand no chance of changing the name. This is exactly what happened with Guilds, which at no point did we ever think was the perfect title, but we never came up with anything better, so it stuck.
I don't know yet where the book is going, whether it will be largely character-based humour, or possibly turn into a total farce a la Tom Sharpe. I've also got to figure out where the narrative voice sits, whether it will change to see the world in the same way as the main character in the scene, or whether there will be a fixed viewpoint.
Plenty to think about!
Ages of Man: II
Dear Grandfather,
Thank-you very much again for your kind invitation to join your orchestra for the coming tour. As I said on the telephone, it is very gracious of you and the orchestra to consent to have me play with you. It will be very educational playing with so many experienced players, and I hope to learn a lot by it. It will be jolly nice to spend some time with you as it's been a few years now since the days when you taught me to skim stones on the beach! Perhaps we could find a nice shingly beach somewhere and try again?
Time at school is passing swiftly, though I'm looking forward to coming home for the summer. I was in a play last week; we did A Midsummer Night's Dream along with the local girls' school. I was only one of the Rude Mechanicals, but I got cheers when I tripped up Bottom and hit him over the head with my shovel. He thinks it was all an accident, but I had such a small part that I thought I ought to do something interesting. Daniel Chorley-Phillips told me it was the only funny thing he'd ever seen me do, and he's never nice to anybody. I rather think I have acquired a Reputation. I even got double-helpings of custard all week!
I hope you have heard from Father; he was meant to come to see the play, but he had to cancel. I don't think he's coping very well with all that has happened; he's a tough fellow and I'm sure he'll be alright, but I'm a little worried about him. He seems a little distant on the telephone, which isn't like him.
Anyway, I must sign off, I've got plenty to do this evening.
Looking forward to seeing you soon,
George.
Thank-you very much again for your kind invitation to join your orchestra for the coming tour. As I said on the telephone, it is very gracious of you and the orchestra to consent to have me play with you. It will be very educational playing with so many experienced players, and I hope to learn a lot by it. It will be jolly nice to spend some time with you as it's been a few years now since the days when you taught me to skim stones on the beach! Perhaps we could find a nice shingly beach somewhere and try again?
Time at school is passing swiftly, though I'm looking forward to coming home for the summer. I was in a play last week; we did A Midsummer Night's Dream along with the local girls' school. I was only one of the Rude Mechanicals, but I got cheers when I tripped up Bottom and hit him over the head with my shovel. He thinks it was all an accident, but I had such a small part that I thought I ought to do something interesting. Daniel Chorley-Phillips told me it was the only funny thing he'd ever seen me do, and he's never nice to anybody. I rather think I have acquired a Reputation. I even got double-helpings of custard all week!
I hope you have heard from Father; he was meant to come to see the play, but he had to cancel. I don't think he's coping very well with all that has happened; he's a tough fellow and I'm sure he'll be alright, but I'm a little worried about him. He seems a little distant on the telephone, which isn't like him.
Anyway, I must sign off, I've got plenty to do this evening.
Looking forward to seeing you soon,
George.
BOOK III: HARRY PINTER AND THE PENSIONER ASHKENAZY
Harry hears news of an evil old man called Ashkenazy who, not content
with terrorising young conductors with a piano (by which to say he has
the piano, not the young conductor (by which to say he does not have the
young conductor - this is a family book)), seeks to hunt them down and
exterminate them.
Higher-E, meanwhile, has a magic artifact which allows her to travel in
time but not, alas, sing in time. She remains one step ahead of
everyone else, which gets tedious after a while.
After some confusing revelations, it turns out that a bad guy had
been handed down through generations of Rowan's family, disguised as
their beloved pet onion. Ashkenazy turns to Harry, black-gloved hand
extended:
"I am your God-father".
"Nooooooooo!" said Harry.
with terrorising young conductors with a piano (by which to say he has
the piano, not the young conductor (by which to say he does not have the
young conductor - this is a family book)), seeks to hunt them down and
exterminate them.
Higher-E, meanwhile, has a magic artifact which allows her to travel in
time but not, alas, sing in time. She remains one step ahead of
everyone else, which gets tedious after a while.
After some confusing revelations, it turns out that a bad guy had
been handed down through generations of Rowan's family, disguised as
their beloved pet onion. Ashkenazy turns to Harry, black-gloved hand
extended:
"I am your God-father".
"Nooooooooo!" said Harry.
One little, two little, three little Endian?
The date and time are now, roughly, 13:08, 23rd Jun 2008. Seems correct to you?
It makes no sense.
Why do we habitually mix endian-ness? This is a term used to denote whether the most significant digit (in this case the year) is placed on the left, with successively smaller digits on its right, or on the right, with successively smaller digits on its left. You read 1,234 as 'one thousand, two hundred and thirty-four' (big-endian), not as 'four thousand, three hundred and twenty-one' (little endian). (The name, incidentally, comes from Gulliver's Travels, where two rival factions were at war over which end of a boiled egg should be eaten first).
Big-endian and little-endian make an equal amount of sense - either is an arbitrary choice. Mixed endian-ness, however, makes no sense. No-one these days would say 'one thousand, two hundred, four-and-thirty', because that would be reading the digits out of order. Yet we are happy to do this with dates! Hour:minute:second, day/month/year is small:smaller:smallest, big/bigger/biggest (The US system even more so - 07/11/08 is the 11th July, so the numbers are ordered: bigger/big/biggest!). I, for one, would write the current time as 2008/06/23 13:16:23, which maintains a consistent endian-ness throughout. This blogging software, alas, does not support this option (neither does Microsoft Excel!), even though it is one of only two possible formats which makes logical sense (the other being 23:16:13 07/11/08, which few people would use!).
The same concept applies to domain names, which start little endian (news.bbc.co.uk) up to the first slash, when they magically become big-endian (/sport1/hi/cricket/default.stm). Tim Berners-Lee himself says that he wishes he'd made web-addresses consistently big-endian (e.g. uk.co.bbc.news/sport/) .
It is too late now...
It makes no sense.
Why do we habitually mix endian-ness? This is a term used to denote whether the most significant digit (in this case the year) is placed on the left, with successively smaller digits on its right, or on the right, with successively smaller digits on its left. You read 1,234 as 'one thousand, two hundred and thirty-four' (big-endian), not as 'four thousand, three hundred and twenty-one' (little endian). (The name, incidentally, comes from Gulliver's Travels, where two rival factions were at war over which end of a boiled egg should be eaten first).
Big-endian and little-endian make an equal amount of sense - either is an arbitrary choice. Mixed endian-ness, however, makes no sense. No-one these days would say 'one thousand, two hundred, four-and-thirty', because that would be reading the digits out of order. Yet we are happy to do this with dates! Hour:minute:second, day/month/year is small:smaller:smallest, big/bigger/biggest (The US system even more so - 07/11/08 is the 11th July, so the numbers are ordered: bigger/big/biggest!). I, for one, would write the current time as 2008/06/23 13:16:23, which maintains a consistent endian-ness throughout. This blogging software, alas, does not support this option (neither does Microsoft Excel!), even though it is one of only two possible formats which makes logical sense (the other being 23:16:13 07/11/08, which few people would use!).
The same concept applies to domain names, which start little endian (news.bbc.co.uk) up to the first slash, when they magically become big-endian (/sport1/hi/cricket/default.stm). Tim Berners-Lee himself says that he wishes he'd made web-addresses consistently big-endian (e.g. uk.co.bbc.news/sport/) .
It is too late now...
Saturday, 21 June 2008
Ages of Man : I
(note: this is experimental writing on my part, and I reserve the right to change things arbitrarily, and to jump around the plot as suits. This is a first attempt at an opening section.)
Edward heard the post land heavily on the mat, and knew without looking what had arrived. Hurriedly opening a thick envelope, he pulled out the minutes from last week's orchestra committee meeting. Poring over them, his breakfast getting cold, his gleeful expression was interrupted only by the occasional tut at the spelling of Mrs Sharpe, the reluctant minutes secretary. He picked up the telephone and punched in a number from memory.
"Ah, Mrs Sharpe. Edward Kent here. Yes. I hate to bother you with more of that cursed committee business, but I just got the minutes from the last meeting and have a few comments. Oh don't worry, it's no trouble at all. No, really. You know I don't like to nitpick, but you have some spelling errors under item 3 - accommodation has two 'm's, and liaise takes two 'i's - one either side of the 'a', like two thorns straddling a rose. No, "a rose", not "arose". You missed some punctuation as w--, oh, I'll bring them in for the next meeting. Quite. Funny this, me telling you about your language after you telling me off for mine! All in good fun, you know, just trying to brighten up another boring old meeting. You know if you ever need any help I'm on the end of a telephone. No, I'm not saying that you need help, but I'm here all the same. It's no trouble. See you on Thursday. Bye."
Item 3: To receive the Tour Manager's report
Mr Coote stood to deliver his report on the forthcoming tour of the South Coast. The coach is booked within the budget set. Accomodation has been booked for all four legs of the tour, but in some cases the orchestra will be split between several bed and breakfasts as it is too large to fit in one, and that single members would have to share a twin room. Mr Kent pointed out he could think of a few people he would like to share with, to which Mr Coote responded that sharers would be put together on the grounds of their sex. Mr Kent said that this was exactly what he had in mind to which Mrs Sharpe replied that there was no need for that sort of language. Mr Coote continued, saying that he had liased with his counterpart in the choir. They are having trouble raising interest for the tour, but still expect to go ahead. Mr Sharpe then asked Mr Kent how he was getting on with filling the gaps in the orchestra for the tour Mr Kent replied to state that he had sorted out his viol tendencies, but had a distinct pain in the brass. Mrs Sharpe reminded Mr Kent that there was no need for that sort of language. It was generally agreed that the tour was shaping up nicely, and the chair asked for his thanks to the organisational team's efforts to be recorded.
Mr Coote stood to deliver his report on the forthcoming tour of the South Coast. The coach is booked within the budget set. Accomodation has been booked for all four legs of the tour, but in some cases the orchestra will be split between several bed and breakfasts as it is too large to fit in one, and that single members would have to share a twin room. Mr Kent pointed out he could think of a few people he would like to share with, to which Mr Coote responded that sharers would be put together on the grounds of their sex. Mr Kent said that this was exactly what he had in mind to which Mrs Sharpe replied that there was no need for that sort of language. Mr Coote continued, saying that he had liased with his counterpart in the choir. They are having trouble raising interest for the tour, but still expect to go ahead. Mr Sharpe then asked Mr Kent how he was getting on with filling the gaps in the orchestra for the tour Mr Kent replied to state that he had sorted out his viol tendencies, but had a distinct pain in the brass. Mrs Sharpe reminded Mr Kent that there was no need for that sort of language. It was generally agreed that the tour was shaping up nicely, and the chair asked for his thanks to the organisational team's efforts to be recorded.
Edward heard the post land heavily on the mat, and knew without looking what had arrived. Hurriedly opening a thick envelope, he pulled out the minutes from last week's orchestra committee meeting. Poring over them, his breakfast getting cold, his gleeful expression was interrupted only by the occasional tut at the spelling of Mrs Sharpe, the reluctant minutes secretary. He picked up the telephone and punched in a number from memory.
"Ah, Mrs Sharpe. Edward Kent here. Yes. I hate to bother you with more of that cursed committee business, but I just got the minutes from the last meeting and have a few comments. Oh don't worry, it's no trouble at all. No, really. You know I don't like to nitpick, but you have some spelling errors under item 3 - accommodation has two 'm's, and liaise takes two 'i's - one either side of the 'a', like two thorns straddling a rose. No, "a rose", not "arose". You missed some punctuation as w--, oh, I'll bring them in for the next meeting. Quite. Funny this, me telling you about your language after you telling me off for mine! All in good fun, you know, just trying to brighten up another boring old meeting. You know if you ever need any help I'm on the end of a telephone. No, I'm not saying that you need help, but I'm here all the same. It's no trouble. See you on Thursday. Bye."
BOOK II: HARRY PINTER AND THE CHAMBER-MUSIC OF SECRETS
(note: I wrote these some time ago, but am posting them now to help fill out the blog in its early stages. )
We rejoin Harry in his second year as a music student, in which time he has learnt how to conduct in 4 in a slowly-decreasing tempo that was too slow to start with. He is now learning the rules of Orquichtra, a favourite sport for musicians. Oliver Offenbach is explaining the rules.
"Each team has ninety-two players and one conductor. The players do a variety of very difficult things you needn't worry about, each of which scores one point. The conductor does something very easy indeed, and gets awarded one hundred million points" said Oliver.
"Doesn't that render the other players a bit pointless?" said Harry.
"Typical conductor!" tutted Oliver.
"This could be the start of a beautiful friendship" said Harry.
Dumdedum exposes the plot:
"You were struck as a fetus by the baton of Baron VoleKiller. He wrote a book of chamber music for the serpent, a renaissance instrument. It is much too difficult for a twelve-year-old, but you must conduct it." said Dumdedum.
"Aren't serpents brass instruments? Surely they listen to no conductor?!" said Harry.
"Only you and the Baron are able to talk to serpent-players." said Dumdedum.
Harry finds a few serpents, and opens the score. He starts to beat a 4-4 time in which every beat is a slightly different length, and blames the resulting mess on the players not watching him properly. He is savagely attacked by the D.C. Al Cobra hidden on the last page, but vanquishes it by realising that "Baron VoleKiller" is simply an obvious anagram of his enemy's real name: "Ron Aieolllrv Baker".
"Ron Baker! How could I miss such an obvious anagram? Gosh, his everyday name rearranges to an amazing super-villain alias, with title and everything!" said Higher-E, resolving whole chapters of tension with one hackneyed plot device.
"Snot" said Rowan, feeling he should contribute something.
We rejoin Harry in his second year as a music student, in which time he has learnt how to conduct in 4 in a slowly-decreasing tempo that was too slow to start with. He is now learning the rules of Orquichtra, a favourite sport for musicians. Oliver Offenbach is explaining the rules.
"Each team has ninety-two players and one conductor. The players do a variety of very difficult things you needn't worry about, each of which scores one point. The conductor does something very easy indeed, and gets awarded one hundred million points" said Oliver.
"Doesn't that render the other players a bit pointless?" said Harry.
"Typical conductor!" tutted Oliver.
"This could be the start of a beautiful friendship" said Harry.
Dumdedum exposes the plot:
"You were struck as a fetus by the baton of Baron VoleKiller. He wrote a book of chamber music for the serpent, a renaissance instrument. It is much too difficult for a twelve-year-old, but you must conduct it." said Dumdedum.
"Aren't serpents brass instruments? Surely they listen to no conductor?!" said Harry.
"Only you and the Baron are able to talk to serpent-players." said Dumdedum.
Harry finds a few serpents, and opens the score. He starts to beat a 4-4 time in which every beat is a slightly different length, and blames the resulting mess on the players not watching him properly. He is savagely attacked by the D.C. Al Cobra hidden on the last page, but vanquishes it by realising that "Baron VoleKiller" is simply an obvious anagram of his enemy's real name: "Ron Aieolllrv Baker".
"Ron Baker! How could I miss such an obvious anagram? Gosh, his everyday name rearranges to an amazing super-villain alias, with title and everything!" said Higher-E, resolving whole chapters of tension with one hackneyed plot device.
"Snot" said Rowan, feeling he should contribute something.
Is this a pun?
If forced at gunpoint to name a favourite book, I would choose Jingo, by Terry Pratchett. Its many merits I will not extol here, but will instead speculate on a throwaway line near the end:
"Veni, vici ... Vetinari".
Vetinari is the name of a character who has been around for some twenty books prior to this, and spent the duration of the book attempting to prevent a war (and succeeding). Knowing TP's propensity for punnery, especially in (sometimes approximate) Latin (cf. Feet of Clay), I find it hard to believe that he lazily stuck one of his characters' names on the end of a well-known phrase without considering what it means. I am far from an expert in Latin, so looking into this involved electronic translation tools, with all the attendant problems. Using the downloaded tool QuickLatin I punched in the offending phrase. There is apparently no exact translation, but the only close match is vetare, which is "To prevent" (deriving from veto), making the phrase approximately "I came, I conquered to prevent".
Accepting the speculation inherent in using such a tool, and my own incompetence in the language, this is a very compelling translation - it is precisely what the Vetinari character did in the book. It follows that TP probably thought of the pun first, and then wrote a book purely to have the perfect opportunity to use it. If this is true, then the crowning glory comes earlier in the book, where he riffs on the subject of General Tacticus' use of the phrase "Veni Vidi Vici", stating that he must have thought of this pithy phrase first and then looked for somewhere to go and conquer so that he could use it. If TP has indeed written a (marvellous) book around a three-word pun, and told us that was what he did, then I am hopelessly lost in admiration.
I can't find anywhere on the web that attempts to translate this phrase, and if anyone reading this is more competent to comment then I would be delighted to hear from you.
"Veni, vici ... Vetinari".
Vetinari is the name of a character who has been around for some twenty books prior to this, and spent the duration of the book attempting to prevent a war (and succeeding). Knowing TP's propensity for punnery, especially in (sometimes approximate) Latin (cf. Feet of Clay), I find it hard to believe that he lazily stuck one of his characters' names on the end of a well-known phrase without considering what it means. I am far from an expert in Latin, so looking into this involved electronic translation tools, with all the attendant problems. Using the downloaded tool QuickLatin I punched in the offending phrase. There is apparently no exact translation, but the only close match is vetare, which is "To prevent" (deriving from veto), making the phrase approximately "I came, I conquered to prevent".
Accepting the speculation inherent in using such a tool, and my own incompetence in the language, this is a very compelling translation - it is precisely what the Vetinari character did in the book. It follows that TP probably thought of the pun first, and then wrote a book purely to have the perfect opportunity to use it. If this is true, then the crowning glory comes earlier in the book, where he riffs on the subject of General Tacticus' use of the phrase "Veni Vidi Vici", stating that he must have thought of this pithy phrase first and then looked for somewhere to go and conquer so that he could use it. If TP has indeed written a (marvellous) book around a three-word pun, and told us that was what he did, then I am hopelessly lost in admiration.
I can't find anywhere on the web that attempts to translate this phrase, and if anyone reading this is more competent to comment then I would be delighted to hear from you.
Friday, 20 June 2008
Ages of Man : Background
Of the ideas I'm currently toying with, one of the more promising is a story (I think a novel rather than a stage performance of some kind) about a middle-aged man nearing retirement - Edward - and his teenaged grandson - George. Edward is a fairly recent widower after forty years of marriage to his first sweetheart, and both he and his grandson are stumbling for the first time into the arena of romance, and form an unexpected bond through their shared experiences. The setting for the action is the tour of an amateur orchestra of which they are both members, which affords ample opportunity to poke gentle observational fun at the English middle class, and at amateur musicians. The working title derives from a Titian painting Three Ages of Man, which depicts the same person as a baby, a man in his prime, and an old man contemplating death (link). In this instance, it is not the same person, but three (the father playing a supporting role) who share a strong family resemblance but have their own distinct characteristics. (Anyone who has met the men in my paternal family will not doubt where I draw this from...)
Edward is sixty-four, and is approaching retirement from a moderately successful career as a civil engineer. He believes himself to be smartly dressed at all times, but his clothes are too threadbare these days for this to be true. His wife died a year ago, and he now feels ready to find someone else; he wants someone bright and energetic, in contrast to his brooding wife. He is terrified of dying alone. He is generally cheerful and friendly, and superficially well-liked, but people tend not to want to get to know him well. He bumbles. He plays bassoon, and has been an enthusiastic member of the orchestra since its foundation in 1980; he is no better a player now than then. He makes jokes about the committee being boring and pointless, but is its keenest and most diligent member.
George is seventeen, and in his final year at an all-boys school and looking forward to university. He is a little awkward and inexperienced socially, but is surprisingly perceptive, and in many ways sees the world far more clearly than does his grandfather. He has a tendency towards cynicism, and is considered by his peers to be an "old man" already. He has few friends, but those he has he adores and shares everything with. Most of his clothes were bought by his mother, who keeps him firmly under her wing. He was brought into the orchestra to make up the numbers for the tour, and plays viola rather better than he lets himself believe.
I find the possibilities afforded by letting these two loose on womankind to be fascinating, and I think they will give plenty of opportunity both for comedy and poignancy. I love looking at situations from people's different points of view, and I think these two will give plenty of scope for that. Dickens was a master at painting vivid portraits of ordinary people, invariably reminding the reader of someone they had met themselves; I admire this greatly and try hard for all my characters (and there is opportunity for them to meet plenty of minor characters) to be "real" in this way. Terry Pratchett, when asked if there are any real people in his books, responds "I hope so", which for me sums this up wonderfully.
I hope to make a first attempt at a scene from this in the near future.
Edward is sixty-four, and is approaching retirement from a moderately successful career as a civil engineer. He believes himself to be smartly dressed at all times, but his clothes are too threadbare these days for this to be true. His wife died a year ago, and he now feels ready to find someone else; he wants someone bright and energetic, in contrast to his brooding wife. He is terrified of dying alone. He is generally cheerful and friendly, and superficially well-liked, but people tend not to want to get to know him well. He bumbles. He plays bassoon, and has been an enthusiastic member of the orchestra since its foundation in 1980; he is no better a player now than then. He makes jokes about the committee being boring and pointless, but is its keenest and most diligent member.
George is seventeen, and in his final year at an all-boys school and looking forward to university. He is a little awkward and inexperienced socially, but is surprisingly perceptive, and in many ways sees the world far more clearly than does his grandfather. He has a tendency towards cynicism, and is considered by his peers to be an "old man" already. He has few friends, but those he has he adores and shares everything with. Most of his clothes were bought by his mother, who keeps him firmly under her wing. He was brought into the orchestra to make up the numbers for the tour, and plays viola rather better than he lets himself believe.
I find the possibilities afforded by letting these two loose on womankind to be fascinating, and I think they will give plenty of opportunity both for comedy and poignancy. I love looking at situations from people's different points of view, and I think these two will give plenty of scope for that. Dickens was a master at painting vivid portraits of ordinary people, invariably reminding the reader of someone they had met themselves; I admire this greatly and try hard for all my characters (and there is opportunity for them to meet plenty of minor characters) to be "real" in this way. Terry Pratchett, when asked if there are any real people in his books, responds "I hope so", which for me sums this up wonderfully.
I hope to make a first attempt at a scene from this in the near future.
BOOK I: HARRY PINTER AND THE KIDNEY STONE
THE HARRY PINTER SAGA
A seven-part saga in seven parts, by OK? Rowling-in-it.
BOOK I: HARRY PINTER AND THE KIDNEY STONE
Harry Pinter was just an ordinary fetus, until he was struck by the baton of a famous conductor, and was imbued with special musical powers. He first knew of this when, on his eleventh birthday, a letter invited him to Warthogs School of Sacred Music (motto 'Celli et Coeli').
Arriving at his new school, brandishing his new conducting baton, he meets another newcomer, a violinist:
"Hi, I'm Harry", said Harry.
"Harold Pinter? You're very famous. I'm Gary. Do you want to be in my gang?" said Gary to Harry.
"No thanks, your hair is greasy, so you are self-evidently a bad guy" said Harry to Gary.
"You smell" said Gary to Harry.
Harry said: "This could be the start of a beautiful friendship", said Harry to Gary. This was said by Harry to Gary, in case there was any remaining doubt as to the protagonists of this conversation. Gary went off to count his collection of vintage G-strings, and Harry met two more youngsters.
"Hello, I'm Higher-E, a soprano. My purpose is to make up for your incompetence so the plot will still work" said Higher-E.
"Hello, I'm Rowan, a bass trombonist. I make bogey jokes" said Rowan.
"This could be the start of a beautiful friendship", said Harry.
There followed a solemn academic ceremony involving an ancient hat (a notion preposterous to anyone not from Edinburgh University). This magic bonnet sang a crap song and sorted the newcomers into houses, which were named after their founders: Nobby Nobilmente (the house for noble people), Bacchus Backstabbicus (for the untrustworthy), Anna Anonymosa (for people not interesting to the story) and Connie Christie Christmas Crossword Contrivicus (for those with unlikely alliterative names). Our heroes retire to Nobilmente common room, which, despite being home to 200 people, is invariably empty, and spin unlikely tales about their harmony professor, whom they suspect of having greasy hair.
Harry is summoned to the office of Dumdedum, the headmaster of the musical school.
"Harry, I want to have a word with you: Grimblebundleswup" said Dumdedum, displaying a delighfully eccentric streak which will be long forgotten by book 3.
"This could be the start of a beautiful friendship", said Harry, who was developing an irritating habit of repeating himself.
"Fearing its theft, I have hidden my precious kidney stone behind a series of lethal traps so fiendishly ingenious that even an eleven-year-old can get past them unscathed." said Dumdedum.
Unable to resist the obvious invitation, Harry triumphantly rescues the kidney stone and gives it straight back to Dumdedum, thus achieving nothing.
A seven-part saga in seven parts, by OK? Rowling-in-it.
BOOK I: HARRY PINTER AND THE KIDNEY STONE
Harry Pinter was just an ordinary fetus, until he was struck by the baton of a famous conductor, and was imbued with special musical powers. He first knew of this when, on his eleventh birthday, a letter invited him to Warthogs School of Sacred Music (motto 'Celli et Coeli').
Arriving at his new school, brandishing his new conducting baton, he meets another newcomer, a violinist:
"Hi, I'm Harry", said Harry.
"Harold Pinter? You're very famous. I'm Gary. Do you want to be in my gang?" said Gary to Harry.
"No thanks, your hair is greasy, so you are self-evidently a bad guy" said Harry to Gary.
"You smell" said Gary to Harry.
Harry said: "This could be the start of a beautiful friendship", said Harry to Gary. This was said by Harry to Gary, in case there was any remaining doubt as to the protagonists of this conversation. Gary went off to count his collection of vintage G-strings, and Harry met two more youngsters.
"Hello, I'm Higher-E, a soprano. My purpose is to make up for your incompetence so the plot will still work" said Higher-E.
"Hello, I'm Rowan, a bass trombonist. I make bogey jokes" said Rowan.
"This could be the start of a beautiful friendship", said Harry.
There followed a solemn academic ceremony involving an ancient hat (a notion preposterous to anyone not from Edinburgh University). This magic bonnet sang a crap song and sorted the newcomers into houses, which were named after their founders: Nobby Nobilmente (the house for noble people), Bacchus Backstabbicus (for the untrustworthy), Anna Anonymosa (for people not interesting to the story) and Connie Christie Christmas Crossword Contrivicus (for those with unlikely alliterative names). Our heroes retire to Nobilmente common room, which, despite being home to 200 people, is invariably empty, and spin unlikely tales about their harmony professor, whom they suspect of having greasy hair.
Harry is summoned to the office of Dumdedum, the headmaster of the musical school.
"Harry, I want to have a word with you: Grimblebundleswup" said Dumdedum, displaying a delighfully eccentric streak which will be long forgotten by book 3.
"This could be the start of a beautiful friendship", said Harry, who was developing an irritating habit of repeating himself.
"Fearing its theft, I have hidden my precious kidney stone behind a series of lethal traps so fiendishly ingenious that even an eleven-year-old can get past them unscathed." said Dumdedum.
Unable to resist the obvious invitation, Harry triumphantly rescues the kidney stone and gives it straight back to Dumdedum, thus achieving nothing.
In the beginning was the word
...and the word was 'stagnation'. This is what is happening to my mind, and to my creativity. My work as a software engineer is challenging and, to an extent, interesting, but one thing it certainly isn't is stimulating. Large portions of my mind, which I have gone to some considerable length to cultivate, are running to seed. I don't like this. This blog is an attempt to reinvigorate various otherwise-dormant parts of my mind.
Primary among these is creativity. I wrote the libretto for a successful musical comedy Guilds at the 2008 Edinburgh Festival Fringe, which took 9 months of hard work and eventually opened some six years after its inception (this blog takes its name from within this show) and proved to be a truly memorable and cherished event for all ~40 people involved. Since then my creative output has consisted of little more than a few limericks. This blog is an attempt to start writing again; I have a number of ideas and half-ideas kicking around for my next major writing project (which may be anything from a novel to an opera libretto), all of which need further exploration; I will use this blog to explore these ideas in small pieces, in whatever form occurs. If you're really lucky, I may also write other short essays on whatever subject takes my fancy. I am, by nature, a polymath (or 'jack-of-all-trades' if you prefer a more pejorative term) with a wide range of interests, and intend to spout words on any subject which captures my fancy.
I don't seriously expect that a lot of people will read this blog. I hope they do, and I hope they find it as stimulating to read as I hope it will be to write, but ultimately, I write this blog because I need to write something, and that is that. This post is the dullest I intend to write...
Primary among these is creativity. I wrote the libretto for a successful musical comedy Guilds at the 2008 Edinburgh Festival Fringe, which took 9 months of hard work and eventually opened some six years after its inception (this blog takes its name from within this show) and proved to be a truly memorable and cherished event for all ~40 people involved. Since then my creative output has consisted of little more than a few limericks. This blog is an attempt to start writing again; I have a number of ideas and half-ideas kicking around for my next major writing project (which may be anything from a novel to an opera libretto), all of which need further exploration; I will use this blog to explore these ideas in small pieces, in whatever form occurs. If you're really lucky, I may also write other short essays on whatever subject takes my fancy. I am, by nature, a polymath (or 'jack-of-all-trades' if you prefer a more pejorative term) with a wide range of interests, and intend to spout words on any subject which captures my fancy.
I don't seriously expect that a lot of people will read this blog. I hope they do, and I hope they find it as stimulating to read as I hope it will be to write, but ultimately, I write this blog because I need to write something, and that is that. This post is the dullest I intend to write...
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