The last few days (I tricked you didn't I?! You thought that the title was the title of something I'd been writing but you were wrong, right?) I have spent typing up some more stuff on Morto. I finalised the revision of the penultimate section of the book and have also prepared the writing of the last one.
I have also bought a cinema projector and have been watching some Battlestar Galactica episodes... the new series, obviously...
And even before I started watching I had already started plotting a whole new series...
I don't know why I do these things, but the fact is that the ideas started surfacing and I just went along for the ride...
Well, I do know why I do these things. I do them because they are related to themes that I'm very hooked on. Artificial Inteligence. Consciousness. Epic feel. Messianic Complex. You name it. It's probably there...
I have also been writing stuff down for The Lost Years.
On sunday, on my way to see my cousins in Billericay, I had quite a few ideas about this story. Some that I had had the previous day or two but that I had still not had time to note down. However my TI Voyage 200 (the granny of those palms or whatever they're called these days...) had no battery and so I had to keep them thoughts rolling around in my head...
I only wrote them that night but still, there were some pretty interesting ideas there that I'm hoping I will be able to explore. And that will make sense to those reading them. There's just so many books I'd love to write!
(and I know that this is an attachment... I'm just not too worried about it because I also know how to get rid of it if it gets to dangerous levels...)
Anyway, that's it for now!
I think I'm gonna write another post somewhere else... I'm in the mood it seems...
Peace
Thursday, 29 October 2009
Tomorrow
This was the third story that I wrote for the New Scientist Competition. This was probably the easiest one to write. I didn't really have a very clear idea in the beginning. I just had vague images in my head, more of a presence really, but the voices kept ringing inside my head and I had this bigger than life feel to it.
I decided to trust it and let it take me wherever it wanted...
TOMORROW
(514 word count)
“Tomorrow will always taste of Yesterday.” The voice echoed through the vast, shapeless chamber. “The consequential weight of history upon us. Any decision will bear this mark. Therefore we will not be creating something new but rather sustaining the past through engineered change.” The figure gazed around and then said, “I move against.”
The crowd swayed uncomfortably. The figure retreated back into their midst.
Another, vaguely feminine, suddenly became clearer while advancing to the exact same place where the other had been.
“But it is in Time that we inhabit. That has been our choice. Our initial choice. For most of us at least…” it said with a vague air of contempt. “I believe it would be inappropriate to leave now. However, I would venture that those of us that do not wish to share the responsibility of decision should also abandon our gathering. And any subsequent interaction.” The figure wrapped itself tightly and said, “I move in favour.” Then it bowed respectfully and faded into the background.
“It is precisely because our nature is different that we should stay. For too long the rules have been set.” The being glimmered in dark blue as it spoke. The chamber grew colder. “If we are to change things we must change them on a fundamental level. Remember what we have suffered! For too long we have been dismissed and forgotten!” A burst of blue and white lit the endless room. “I move against!”
A somewhat short figure came forth.
“That maybe so. But this decision concerns them. Not us. Correct? We are as we’ve always been, as we always will be, the agents and nothing else. They are our mission. That they recognize us or not as being so is ultimately unimportant. I move in favour.”
Without waiting for the previous speaker to disappear completely, another came into play.
“Indeed. But you forget that we too have been changed by them. That we were despised for centuries. And now, only now, do they return to us? Out of need rather than respect? I move against.” Its dark figure disappeared instantly.
A golden light began to fill the chamber, making the edges go softer.
“Certainly. That has always been their nature. This is what we have always known. Listen, all of you know that I have always been in favour of change and adaptation. This has always been the core of our presence here. It is necessary that we continue this work. Not abandon it. In doing so we will not only fail them – and thus prove their dissatisfaction – but also fail ourselves and our initial intents. They are our chance too. Let us not forget it. I move in favour.”
A low rushing sound began as a figure approached.
“And so do I.” it said. “This is the perfect opportunity after all.” It looked around defiantly. “They may have forgotten that their gods exist. But I believe we can begin to show them we are ready to come back.” It’s voice was soft and alluring. “And take what’s ours.”
She smiled.
“I move in favour.”
END
In all honesty I have to say that I thought a lot about Neil Gaiman (and, yes, The Sandman...) as I wrote this one.
But also Gene Wolfe.
I was thinking this one was truly inspired by them but, hopefully, was also a tribute to them. Something they would be proud if they ever got to read it. And yet, at the same time, I felt that there was a unique voice here. Or rather, unique voices.
I don't know which of the characters or archetypes each of these voices could represent (though I have some vague ideas on two or three of them...) but they were really there.
This was one of those stories that just wants to get out and get out of the way.
Hope you enjoyed it!
And so it is...
Peace.
I decided to trust it and let it take me wherever it wanted...
TOMORROW
(514 word count)
“Tomorrow will always taste of Yesterday.” The voice echoed through the vast, shapeless chamber. “The consequential weight of history upon us. Any decision will bear this mark. Therefore we will not be creating something new but rather sustaining the past through engineered change.” The figure gazed around and then said, “I move against.”
The crowd swayed uncomfortably. The figure retreated back into their midst.
Another, vaguely feminine, suddenly became clearer while advancing to the exact same place where the other had been.
“But it is in Time that we inhabit. That has been our choice. Our initial choice. For most of us at least…” it said with a vague air of contempt. “I believe it would be inappropriate to leave now. However, I would venture that those of us that do not wish to share the responsibility of decision should also abandon our gathering. And any subsequent interaction.” The figure wrapped itself tightly and said, “I move in favour.” Then it bowed respectfully and faded into the background.
“It is precisely because our nature is different that we should stay. For too long the rules have been set.” The being glimmered in dark blue as it spoke. The chamber grew colder. “If we are to change things we must change them on a fundamental level. Remember what we have suffered! For too long we have been dismissed and forgotten!” A burst of blue and white lit the endless room. “I move against!”
A somewhat short figure came forth.
“That maybe so. But this decision concerns them. Not us. Correct? We are as we’ve always been, as we always will be, the agents and nothing else. They are our mission. That they recognize us or not as being so is ultimately unimportant. I move in favour.”
Without waiting for the previous speaker to disappear completely, another came into play.
“Indeed. But you forget that we too have been changed by them. That we were despised for centuries. And now, only now, do they return to us? Out of need rather than respect? I move against.” Its dark figure disappeared instantly.
A golden light began to fill the chamber, making the edges go softer.
“Certainly. That has always been their nature. This is what we have always known. Listen, all of you know that I have always been in favour of change and adaptation. This has always been the core of our presence here. It is necessary that we continue this work. Not abandon it. In doing so we will not only fail them – and thus prove their dissatisfaction – but also fail ourselves and our initial intents. They are our chance too. Let us not forget it. I move in favour.”
A low rushing sound began as a figure approached.
“And so do I.” it said. “This is the perfect opportunity after all.” It looked around defiantly. “They may have forgotten that their gods exist. But I believe we can begin to show them we are ready to come back.” It’s voice was soft and alluring. “And take what’s ours.”
She smiled.
“I move in favour.”
END
In all honesty I have to say that I thought a lot about Neil Gaiman (and, yes, The Sandman...) as I wrote this one.
But also Gene Wolfe.
I was thinking this one was truly inspired by them but, hopefully, was also a tribute to them. Something they would be proud if they ever got to read it. And yet, at the same time, I felt that there was a unique voice here. Or rather, unique voices.
I don't know which of the characters or archetypes each of these voices could represent (though I have some vague ideas on two or three of them...) but they were really there.
This was one of those stories that just wants to get out and get out of the way.
Hope you enjoyed it!
And so it is...
Peace.
Wednesday, 21 October 2009
The Moment
Hi,
As promised, here it is, the second story that I wrote for this October's New Scientist Flash Fiction competition.
If I recall correctly, I wrote the first draft of the first four stories in one go. Unsurprisingly so, these were the easiest ones to revise and the ones that always felt the more solid. Still, i felt quite good to have been able to finish the others. And I think I managed to make them have this same feel of continuity and lightness that these initial ones have.
Enjoy!
THE MOMENT
(332 word count)
“I have searched long for this moment. I have turned myself inside out and back in again. I have undertaken the strangest and longest of journeys in order to find this. My home. Slowly I have reached understanding. I have abandoned recognition. Passed all the ruins of villages and monasteries. Climbed the snows alone. Endured the silence. The rarefaction of the air. The cold. The hopelessness. Anxiety collapsing my chest. And the slow movement of time flowing through me.”
“I search within knowing that mine is the history of humanity. The ever expanding product of generations, evolution and factors unknown. I have seen life. I have seen death. And all conquests crumble before my eyes.”
“I have grown tired of despair. My own and that of others. I cannot bear to see our legacy be destroyed day after day.”
“But we can be as relentless as our fear.”
“The giants of the past are quickly becoming myths and fantasies. Another generation and how much more will be lost? This is why I must be here, away from it all.”
“We are being unmade by our doings.”
“Time is always ripe. And we are always ready. I can wait. Just a little longer.
It’s summer. Sunny. Cold, even with almost no wind. My eyes are closed. I can feel so much inside of me.”
“History dilutes at each long, sharp breath.”
“I feel the earth. I feel the air. All of my body touches. Sounds coming from every direction.”
“I can taste the air.”
“I can see my thoughts moving like waves in the sea. Ceaseless. The cold air mixing with the warmth at the pit of my belly. A soft knife stabbing me. Rhythmically.”
“Everything begins to disappear.”
“My senses.”
“My thoughts.”
“I’m no longer here.”
“Nor anywhere else.”
“There is nothing.”
“And yet…”
“Transposing…”
The machine glitched for a moment but caught on, the vast array of connections suddenly firing up.
Throughout the world a single message echoed
“I alone, am…”
END
The premise for this one was quite simple. How different would it be enlightenment in the 22nd century?
For me the answer was obvious: not at all.
That was the idea behind this and some of the other stories: the illusion of change that we create based on artificial concepts like progress, technology or even history itself.
But, as I was writing about the experience itself I felt that i was just stating it and that there was no punchline at the end.
The I thought of re-writing it more from the perspective of someone immersed in virtual reality. Using VR to attain that state artificially.
I really liked this idea but I felt that it would take me more than 350 words to convey it in a subtle enough way.
So, while revising, I just thought of making it all the experience of a machine rather than a human. I thought of Ghost In The Shell, obviously, but did not think of The Matrix, like my brother did.
Stories like these have been around for a while, of course. It's a kind of a small tribute to a theme that I love so much, both in science fiction and in science.
A theme that I find crucial because, more than reveal unknown things about machines, it reveals how much we don't know about ourselves.
Peace.
As promised, here it is, the second story that I wrote for this October's New Scientist Flash Fiction competition.
If I recall correctly, I wrote the first draft of the first four stories in one go. Unsurprisingly so, these were the easiest ones to revise and the ones that always felt the more solid. Still, i felt quite good to have been able to finish the others. And I think I managed to make them have this same feel of continuity and lightness that these initial ones have.
Enjoy!
THE MOMENT
(332 word count)
“I have searched long for this moment. I have turned myself inside out and back in again. I have undertaken the strangest and longest of journeys in order to find this. My home. Slowly I have reached understanding. I have abandoned recognition. Passed all the ruins of villages and monasteries. Climbed the snows alone. Endured the silence. The rarefaction of the air. The cold. The hopelessness. Anxiety collapsing my chest. And the slow movement of time flowing through me.”
“I search within knowing that mine is the history of humanity. The ever expanding product of generations, evolution and factors unknown. I have seen life. I have seen death. And all conquests crumble before my eyes.”
“I have grown tired of despair. My own and that of others. I cannot bear to see our legacy be destroyed day after day.”
“But we can be as relentless as our fear.”
“The giants of the past are quickly becoming myths and fantasies. Another generation and how much more will be lost? This is why I must be here, away from it all.”
“We are being unmade by our doings.”
“Time is always ripe. And we are always ready. I can wait. Just a little longer.
It’s summer. Sunny. Cold, even with almost no wind. My eyes are closed. I can feel so much inside of me.”
“History dilutes at each long, sharp breath.”
“I feel the earth. I feel the air. All of my body touches. Sounds coming from every direction.”
“I can taste the air.”
“I can see my thoughts moving like waves in the sea. Ceaseless. The cold air mixing with the warmth at the pit of my belly. A soft knife stabbing me. Rhythmically.”
“Everything begins to disappear.”
“My senses.”
“My thoughts.”
“I’m no longer here.”
“Nor anywhere else.”
“There is nothing.”
“And yet…”
“Transposing…”
The machine glitched for a moment but caught on, the vast array of connections suddenly firing up.
Throughout the world a single message echoed
“I alone, am…”
END
The premise for this one was quite simple. How different would it be enlightenment in the 22nd century?
For me the answer was obvious: not at all.
That was the idea behind this and some of the other stories: the illusion of change that we create based on artificial concepts like progress, technology or even history itself.
But, as I was writing about the experience itself I felt that i was just stating it and that there was no punchline at the end.
The I thought of re-writing it more from the perspective of someone immersed in virtual reality. Using VR to attain that state artificially.
I really liked this idea but I felt that it would take me more than 350 words to convey it in a subtle enough way.
So, while revising, I just thought of making it all the experience of a machine rather than a human. I thought of Ghost In The Shell, obviously, but did not think of The Matrix, like my brother did.
Stories like these have been around for a while, of course. It's a kind of a small tribute to a theme that I love so much, both in science fiction and in science.
A theme that I find crucial because, more than reveal unknown things about machines, it reveals how much we don't know about ourselves.
Peace.
Death And Homecoming
During the last few days I've been revising the Friends section in my book. It has taken me quite a while because when I initially wrote it I didn't have the characters defined at all. I defined them while writing about them and, obviously, now there's a lot of stuff that no longer makes sense or is contradictory.
But I am close to the finish line! I can see it looming in the horizon!
I've realised as well that some of the stuff here actually belongs to another section but that's something easily solved.
Today I was focussing on quite a few of the friends.
Paula and her relationship with his parents, coming to life via what her parents have to say about the situation.
Rita's relationship with her mom, also steming from her reaction to a chat she's had with Cristina (just returned from the funeral).
How the news of his death are released onto the group of friends.
And finally, a broad view of the various parents and their children while uncovering Cristina's feelings about the whole ordeal.
All of these chapters focus much more on dialogue (with minimal visual description) than in internalized monologue, heavy on description.
I still need to finish Cristina's chapter. I don't think I'm gonna write (or re-write, rather) a long chapter for João. I think I'll stick to the one page one that I did today. We'll find out more about what he feels later on anyway.
Maybe I'll do a kind of a meddley chapter for Tomás, Rui and António.
maybe.
But, if so, it will be a short one as well. Maybe a paragraph for Tomás and a page for each of the other two.
And maybe I'll end it (or do another one, also a page, page and a half long) with a brief description of what every one of his friends does in that first night after knowing that he is dead.
Maybe... I've just looked at what I had written and there's some stuff there that I enjoy so...~
Still have another chapter, this one about Paulo, but I don't know if I'm gonna use it or not. It's quite strong but I don't really know if it's necessary at this point or not...
Anyway, that's all for today!
peace.
But I am close to the finish line! I can see it looming in the horizon!
I've realised as well that some of the stuff here actually belongs to another section but that's something easily solved.
Today I was focussing on quite a few of the friends.
Paula and her relationship with his parents, coming to life via what her parents have to say about the situation.
Rita's relationship with her mom, also steming from her reaction to a chat she's had with Cristina (just returned from the funeral).
How the news of his death are released onto the group of friends.
And finally, a broad view of the various parents and their children while uncovering Cristina's feelings about the whole ordeal.
All of these chapters focus much more on dialogue (with minimal visual description) than in internalized monologue, heavy on description.
I still need to finish Cristina's chapter. I don't think I'm gonna write (or re-write, rather) a long chapter for João. I think I'll stick to the one page one that I did today. We'll find out more about what he feels later on anyway.
Maybe I'll do a kind of a meddley chapter for Tomás, Rui and António.
maybe.
But, if so, it will be a short one as well. Maybe a paragraph for Tomás and a page for each of the other two.
And maybe I'll end it (or do another one, also a page, page and a half long) with a brief description of what every one of his friends does in that first night after knowing that he is dead.
Maybe... I've just looked at what I had written and there's some stuff there that I enjoy so...~
Still have another chapter, this one about Paulo, but I don't know if I'm gonna use it or not. It's quite strong but I don't really know if it's necessary at this point or not...
Anyway, that's all for today!
peace.
Friday, 16 October 2009
The Resonance Of Silence
Believe it or not, I've been working on my book...
These last few weeks have been crazy and I've been far from any sort of serious commitments to anything really...
Still, last saturday afternoon I managed to go to my friend Dickon's Zine Picnic held outside, on the Royal Festival Hall balcony!
Met some interesting chaps and basically talked the whole time... just scribbled a couple of ideas I had on my way there on a sheet of paper and that was it.
But I think the last week or so has been productive. I managed to finish 7 stories for the New Scientist competition.
I sent one today.
Not the one I had told people I was going to, but rather the one people kept mentioning.
So, Collapse, rather than Legacy.
What I'm planning on doing is posting here these stories one after another.
And I'm gonna leave Collapse and Legacy to the end...
Not all of the stories met the 350 word maximum that the competition hailed but, there you go... you got to let your ideas breathe!
So, without any other delay...
THE RESONANCE OF SILENCE
(491 word count)
The sun shone on the beach and, apart from the man that stood reading by the edge of the water, there was no one in sight.
Taking a deep breath he closed the book he held in his hands and looked around, observing the long deserted beach, the line of trees whispering in the wind and the rhythmic crash of the waves. And he found himself incredibly close to everything.
He shivered.
“Daddy! Daddy!” He heard his daughter call out behind him. “Mommy wants you!”
“Does she now?” He said. “And what is it this time?”
“It’s a surprise!” said the little girl, grabbing his hand, pulling him away from his reveries.
He smiled and began to follow up the pebbled path.
“How frail is memory”, he mused. “And how frail are we…”
The irregular trail led to an old asphalt road, gnawed away by the seasons.
“Gaia has proven quite resilient… to be expected I suppose...”
His daughter picked a red and blue flower from a crack in the pavement. Then she started to dance and swirl around with it, singing a melody that kept changing, including whatever sounds fancied her attention.
“-though we naturally tend to assume that simply because we have intelligence this somehow enables us to escape consequences.” He looked at the small child, taking in more than what his eyes could see.“I think we can say in all probability that, in fact, it’s the other way around. We create more consequence rather than escape it. Still… not all outcomes are bad…” He gave a short run and picked up the girl. She giggled in delight. Kissing her, he placed her on his shoulders.
“Honey, daddy is getting old.” He said. “And you’re getting heavy!”
She looked at him in childlike seriousness.
“I don’t feel heavy. Plus I exercise plenty.”
He smiled but said nothing.
“Daddy?”
“Hmm?”
“How was it like when you were growing up? Was it very different?”
He looked up, not knowing what to say. She peered down, grinning widely.
“Nah… I suppose it was more or less the same. Only with more people. And less water… But, people will be people. And water hasn’t changed that much either.” He looked up at her, smiling.
“So why are you always thinking?” she said.
“I don’t know. It’s not like I can change anything. But sometimes… sometimes I wonder if there truly ever was a choice.” He said. “Knowing ourselves as we do… perhaps this was what had to happen.”
“I don’t think that’s it.” She said, trying to stare at him from above.
“Really? What is it then?!”
“Mommy says it’s the silence. That’s what you really like.”
“Aah… maybe.” He said. “Maybe you’re right. It’s deeper and richer now. The silence is the only thing we didn’t leave behind.” He took another deep breath, gazing at the empty highway, stretching endlessly into the horizon. “The silence is our true legacy to the future…”
END
peace
These last few weeks have been crazy and I've been far from any sort of serious commitments to anything really...
Still, last saturday afternoon I managed to go to my friend Dickon's Zine Picnic held outside, on the Royal Festival Hall balcony!
Met some interesting chaps and basically talked the whole time... just scribbled a couple of ideas I had on my way there on a sheet of paper and that was it.
But I think the last week or so has been productive. I managed to finish 7 stories for the New Scientist competition.
I sent one today.
Not the one I had told people I was going to, but rather the one people kept mentioning.
So, Collapse, rather than Legacy.
What I'm planning on doing is posting here these stories one after another.
And I'm gonna leave Collapse and Legacy to the end...
Not all of the stories met the 350 word maximum that the competition hailed but, there you go... you got to let your ideas breathe!
So, without any other delay...
THE RESONANCE OF SILENCE
(491 word count)
The sun shone on the beach and, apart from the man that stood reading by the edge of the water, there was no one in sight.
Taking a deep breath he closed the book he held in his hands and looked around, observing the long deserted beach, the line of trees whispering in the wind and the rhythmic crash of the waves. And he found himself incredibly close to everything.
He shivered.
“Daddy! Daddy!” He heard his daughter call out behind him. “Mommy wants you!”
“Does she now?” He said. “And what is it this time?”
“It’s a surprise!” said the little girl, grabbing his hand, pulling him away from his reveries.
He smiled and began to follow up the pebbled path.
“How frail is memory”, he mused. “And how frail are we…”
The irregular trail led to an old asphalt road, gnawed away by the seasons.
“Gaia has proven quite resilient… to be expected I suppose...”
His daughter picked a red and blue flower from a crack in the pavement. Then she started to dance and swirl around with it, singing a melody that kept changing, including whatever sounds fancied her attention.
“-though we naturally tend to assume that simply because we have intelligence this somehow enables us to escape consequences.” He looked at the small child, taking in more than what his eyes could see.“I think we can say in all probability that, in fact, it’s the other way around. We create more consequence rather than escape it. Still… not all outcomes are bad…” He gave a short run and picked up the girl. She giggled in delight. Kissing her, he placed her on his shoulders.
“Honey, daddy is getting old.” He said. “And you’re getting heavy!”
She looked at him in childlike seriousness.
“I don’t feel heavy. Plus I exercise plenty.”
He smiled but said nothing.
“Daddy?”
“Hmm?”
“How was it like when you were growing up? Was it very different?”
He looked up, not knowing what to say. She peered down, grinning widely.
“Nah… I suppose it was more or less the same. Only with more people. And less water… But, people will be people. And water hasn’t changed that much either.” He looked up at her, smiling.
“So why are you always thinking?” she said.
“I don’t know. It’s not like I can change anything. But sometimes… sometimes I wonder if there truly ever was a choice.” He said. “Knowing ourselves as we do… perhaps this was what had to happen.”
“I don’t think that’s it.” She said, trying to stare at him from above.
“Really? What is it then?!”
“Mommy says it’s the silence. That’s what you really like.”
“Aah… maybe.” He said. “Maybe you’re right. It’s deeper and richer now. The silence is the only thing we didn’t leave behind.” He took another deep breath, gazing at the empty highway, stretching endlessly into the horizon. “The silence is our true legacy to the future…”
END
peace
Saturday, 3 October 2009
God in all His ways
I've just finished revising the last two chapters of this section. One was about a priest and another about an old neighbour. I knew I couldn't keep them in the way they were structure and so this felt more like remixing than plain, straight forward revising.
Once again I had some pleasant surprises with the way the chapters unfolded. Writing does seem to take on a life of its own, especially when you start to believe in it even more than you think you could (or should...)
Today, while at work, I told a colleague of mine that the book was going to be more than 400 pages long. He said, cut it down... but, perhaps for the first time, I didn't really withdraw inside and worry about the possibility of doing it all wrong. It was more like, this is how this book is.
And that's what really matters.
That's why I started to write it.
I didn't write it thinking of a particular format, thinking of how it should be in formal terms. I just wanted to say something, to say it well and, above all, to actually let these things speak for themselves.
I want this book to feel alive.
And this is what I've been feeling sometimes. Through the hours where I'd rather be watching a film or reading someone else's book. Seeing time go by and this path ahead of me which, if I refuse to walk it, will never take me anywhere.
So I wrote today again amazed at the magic that sometimes happens on the page. In all honesty, I don't really feel that I'm doing it. I feel I'm the scribe more than the author. It's like looking at a puzzle. With time the pieces start to fit and make sense. But did you create it?
Anyway, two chapters that didn't seem to have much going for them have turned into something deeply interwoven into the book.
(and if I ever get an editor for this book I'm gonna have a tough time to cut stuff out...)
Besides this I read vols. 26 and 27 of Takehiko Inoue's Vagabond.
No reviews for any of these yet. I love this series so much that I'm not the least worried in doing what would probably prove itself to be a rushed review. I think I'll probably wait until the series ends (within a few years) and, from the vantage point of completion, then discuss it in some length. Suffice to say that this series has taken me through some terrible and yet very beautiful places. It all makes sense. You just gotta let it breathe...
It's past 3am. I should be sleeping. I have to wake up at 7.30am.
I shouldn't be here talking to you.
But I am.
peace.
Once again I had some pleasant surprises with the way the chapters unfolded. Writing does seem to take on a life of its own, especially when you start to believe in it even more than you think you could (or should...)
Today, while at work, I told a colleague of mine that the book was going to be more than 400 pages long. He said, cut it down... but, perhaps for the first time, I didn't really withdraw inside and worry about the possibility of doing it all wrong. It was more like, this is how this book is.
And that's what really matters.
That's why I started to write it.
I didn't write it thinking of a particular format, thinking of how it should be in formal terms. I just wanted to say something, to say it well and, above all, to actually let these things speak for themselves.
I want this book to feel alive.
And this is what I've been feeling sometimes. Through the hours where I'd rather be watching a film or reading someone else's book. Seeing time go by and this path ahead of me which, if I refuse to walk it, will never take me anywhere.
So I wrote today again amazed at the magic that sometimes happens on the page. In all honesty, I don't really feel that I'm doing it. I feel I'm the scribe more than the author. It's like looking at a puzzle. With time the pieces start to fit and make sense. But did you create it?
Anyway, two chapters that didn't seem to have much going for them have turned into something deeply interwoven into the book.
(and if I ever get an editor for this book I'm gonna have a tough time to cut stuff out...)
Besides this I read vols. 26 and 27 of Takehiko Inoue's Vagabond.
No reviews for any of these yet. I love this series so much that I'm not the least worried in doing what would probably prove itself to be a rushed review. I think I'll probably wait until the series ends (within a few years) and, from the vantage point of completion, then discuss it in some length. Suffice to say that this series has taken me through some terrible and yet very beautiful places. It all makes sense. You just gotta let it breathe...
It's past 3am. I should be sleeping. I have to wake up at 7.30am.
I shouldn't be here talking to you.
But I am.
peace.
Friday, 2 October 2009
Two girls, a gravedigger and someone that knows the dead better than the living...
I arrived home later than I expected but eager to get my mittens on those pages...
I didn't do that many pages (only 7) but i still manage to re-write 3 chapters.
The first one was about two friends that chat in Bairro Alto about decisions and the unwillingness of the past to go away.
The second one is about an old lady that spends more time with the dead than with the living. Obviously a chat with a gravedigger is more or less in order...
The third one is about the gravedigger himself, as he fills yet another grave, taking pride in his work - even if the living don't care anymore.
These are short chapters (especially the last two) but I think all of them round up the story more by giving the reader a clearer picture of the characters. I want a feeling of completeness to exude from this book. I think it is important and makes sense in the broader scope i'm aiming this book towards.
Before all this however, I read Grant Morrison's and Klaus Janson's Batman: Gothic.
I think I read it many years ago, when i was 16 or 17, quite possibly in a Brazilian edition bought in Portugal. I remembered the story only vaguely but enough to know that this had been one of those comics that had shifted my perspective about them.
Even after all this time, it was still a very powerful journey.
I wrote a review about it as well. Also to be posted in the near future...
Tomorrow may well be another long day at work but I'm determined to sink my teeth in another chapter or two as soon as I get home...
Until then...
peace
I didn't do that many pages (only 7) but i still manage to re-write 3 chapters.
The first one was about two friends that chat in Bairro Alto about decisions and the unwillingness of the past to go away.
The second one is about an old lady that spends more time with the dead than with the living. Obviously a chat with a gravedigger is more or less in order...
The third one is about the gravedigger himself, as he fills yet another grave, taking pride in his work - even if the living don't care anymore.
These are short chapters (especially the last two) but I think all of them round up the story more by giving the reader a clearer picture of the characters. I want a feeling of completeness to exude from this book. I think it is important and makes sense in the broader scope i'm aiming this book towards.
Before all this however, I read Grant Morrison's and Klaus Janson's Batman: Gothic.
I think I read it many years ago, when i was 16 or 17, quite possibly in a Brazilian edition bought in Portugal. I remembered the story only vaguely but enough to know that this had been one of those comics that had shifted my perspective about them.
Even after all this time, it was still a very powerful journey.
I wrote a review about it as well. Also to be posted in the near future...
Tomorrow may well be another long day at work but I'm determined to sink my teeth in another chapter or two as soon as I get home...
Until then...
peace
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