Hi,
Here is another chapter that I'd like you to look at and get feedback on. A particularly difficult one to write and one that gives a bit more insight into Raymond.
The chapter takes place after Raymond has had his breakdown, in a previous chapter he begins to look for answers as to why he had a panic attack and why he felt so down. He decides to make changes to his life in order to get himself back on track, but is he making the right ones?
(please forgive any spelling or grammar errors as this is still draft format)
Chapter 4 – Hope forsaken
Raymond stood in Esperanza’s living room, his palms sweaty; his heart beating fast; his stomach filled with a thousand butterflies. Even though his body felt like a charged electrical wire, the feeling was juxtaposed with a strange sense of comfort. He was no longer listening to his body. His mind was occupied with what he knew he had to do, not with evils lurking in the shadows. To Raymond, this was a sure sign he was making the right decision.
Esperanza stood over the kitchen sink, picking up another perfectly clean dish from the dish stack. She had taken one look at Raymond when he’d knocked on her door, before retreating to re-scrub the already pristine dishes. One look was all it took. Raymond had walked over to offer help but she waved him away. So he sat himself down on the couch, staring at the same photo of him and Spera, that he had over his TV. The only sound between them was the sloshing of suds. He waited. And he waited.
“Can I talk to you, Spera? Please?”
“I’ll just finish the dishes.”
“Ok,” he said and hit the remote. She didn’t use my name, he thought. Names, so simple and yet so meaningful – the first brick to be laid in the foundation of a relationship and the last to be razed when it crumbles. The last time Spera had dispensed with Raymond’s name was when he refused to go to her niece’s communion. So many relatives. All wanting to ask questions. “They’re my family,” she had said. “Why don’t you want to go?” He had made some excuse about catching up with work, but spent the whole afternoon downloading music from the Net to his MP3 player.
Raymond changed the channel on the TV. How am I ever going to do this? he thought, his determination wavering. He remembered the first time he had seen Esperanza, at a training course for Call Centre Managers. He had not been well, but his employer had paid good money to get him on the course at the last minute, so he’d been determined to be there. She had wandered over unasked, to offer him a tissue and a lozenge. Such a simple gesture but one that had resonated to his very core. It’d been a long time since anyone cared for his well being, unasked and unconditional. It had made him feel beyond good; a feeling that he’d previously learned to do without.
“Can I help you finish off those dishes?” he asked.
“No, it’s ok,” she replied.
He remembered that day on the course like it was yesterday, looking up to accept the tissue and seeing Esperanza for the first time. He’d had many experiences with women before her, he was not without his charms; but with the others his eye had been drawn by the physical, his lust stirred. She had been different. Eyes that spoke of warmth and kindness. Her hair as black as a crow’s feather, thick and lustrous, hung down over her shoulders to fall about her breast. A fullness of curve that had captivated many of the men in that training room, but unlike them, Raymond had felt her spirit touch him more than her sensuality.
“Have you nearly finished, Spera?”
She ignored him and continued wiping down the sink, a sink that had been spotless for the past 10 minutes.
Raymond turned back to stare at the television; his mind still replaying the events of that first meeting on the training course more than 2 years ago. How he’d chanced many a furtive glance her way, reddening on the odd occasion as she turned to catch him in the act, but feeling his spirit soar as she smiled warmly at his obvious embarrassment. He’d learned nothing that would have been of value to his employer on that day. His body had been infused with an unusual desire, one that he had not felt before, one that he felt through his whole body, one that was not a rush of blood, an eruption of heat. He desired to hold her hand. He desired to feel her warmth flow through him.
He changed channel on the television once again, hoping the invisible beam from the remote would do the same to the images in his head: stolen kisses, laughter, hugs, closeness. He had sought her closeness often when they had first begun to share their lives. Sometimes he’d felt like holding her tight enough to squeeze himself into her very soul. And she had given of herself without question, asking little of him in return for she had sensed in him a desperate need to be held. Esperanza been happy for Raymond to bask in the warmth of her love, but as they became closer, she wanted to know more.
“Spera, I really need to talk to you,” he said.
She’d wanted to know everything about him, why he could be so euphoric about his dreams and yet have periods of melancholy and reflection that would see him become distant. She’d pressed him to share his thoughts in times when the world weighed heavy on him, but he could not. Not out of cowardice or shame but because he did not truly know what it was that had changed his mood. He preferred to push all her questions aside, telling her not to worry about it.
“Spera, if you don’t come and sit down, I’ll come over to you.”
“Would you like me to make an espresso?” she asked.
“No, please, come sit down.”
But as lovers do, she had worried about it. Esperanza had wanted to know why. Why he’d been spending so much time on Facebook, why he’d spent so much time at work, why he’d go out and get drunk every Friday night. “Why won’t you let me in, Raymond?” she used to say. He had not been able to tell her, he didn’t know.
Esperanza’s return to the couch broke Raymond out of his silent reverie. He watched her pick up the remote and press the button to silence the TV. There was no lightness about her movement as she sat down beside him, slumping into the couch with the heaviness of one who has just given up. As he met her eyes he could see that they were moist.
“You know,” she said, “you used to call me sweetheart all the time, sweetie, honey, my love…” she let the words trail, shook her head and closed her eyes. “For the last few weeks it’s been Spera.” She stared at Raymond looking for signs that she was overreacting, but what she saw only confirmed her worst fears. She should never have let him have his two weeks to ‘think’. But what could she have done, as her mother would say, souls are not birds to be caged.
“You want to leave me, don’t you?”
Raymond could not look at her. There was a part of him that hoped she would eventually tell him to go, that enough was enough, it would have be so much easier. Everyday for the last few months he felt like he had let her down. She was so full of life, so giving. And he, was no longer the man she had fallen in love with. He did knot know why, but he knew it to be true.
“You could at least look at me,” she said.
He met her eyes. Here was his opportunity. He doubted he would ever have the courage to finally say what he felt he needed to say even though he had attempted it many times before. He decided his silence would do the talking for him.
“I always thought,” Spera said. “I’d never ask this question if I ever got into this situation…” she paused. “I always thought I wouldn’t want to know.” She searched Raymond’s eyes making him feel as if his insides were being scorched. “Is there someone else?”
No. No one he’d ever contemplated being intimate with. There were women with whom he’d held alcohol-fuelled conversations with on Friday nights, after work. Women that had not known him, that hadn’t got close enough to him to see the emptiness behind his alcohol-fuelled bravado. In that Friday-night world, he could be whatever he wanted, dream the big dreams, and the potent elixir of attention and alcohol added fuel to the fire of his convictions, intoxicating him beyond any self-doubts and releasing him from the chains of his melancholy, even if it was just in that Friday-night world.
Raymond shook his head.
Esperanza looked at him. “Then why? Why? Is it worth talking about?”
They’d had their troubles before. They’d talked about them before, always scratching at the surface only for the real issues to remain hidden, buried by an avalanche of logistical concerns. They had resolved their issues by making monumental decisions – buying a ring, booking a holiday. Always it had been Esperanza who proposed the jump. Hoping that these acts of union would somehow provide the gel to bring them closer. It had not; all it had done was make her feel guilty for the attempt.
“You’ve made your mind up, haven’t you?” she asked.
Again, Raymond met her question with silence.
Esperanza dropped her eyes away from Raymond and turned to look into space. He could see the tear rolling down her cheek. “Do you remember,” she said into space, “how we used to sit on this couch on Sunday’s and-” She stopped and wiped away the tear and then let out a mock chuckle. “Yes I know, we’ve been over all this before. I tried to prepare myself for this…” the words got caught in her throat. She pulled her knees up to her chin and hid her face in her lap. Raymond could see her shoulders convulse as she tried to muffle her crying. He had never dealt well with her tears before and even now at the end, she still tried to do the best by him in her attempt to hide them.
He remained mute.
Esperanza lifted her head and looked back at Raymond, her eyes now dripped her sorrow. “Did you ever love me?”
He truly did not know the answer. His father had loved his mother and now she was with another man, his sister had loved her husband and now he was gone as well.
“I love you, Raymond Figg,” Esperanza said imploringly. She no longer held back the tears. She sobbed as she stared at him with fear and the fading light of hope in her eyes.
Raymond wanted to reach over and tell her everything would be all right. That he just needed some space to work some stuff out. But as he formed the words in his mind, they sounded empty and clichéd, selfish even, and he wasn’t even sure if those words would be spoken in truth. Esperanza had given him everything, opened up her heart and soul and what had he given her in return? Nothing. And now he was giving up, he had no stomach for the fight; instead he sought the smoother cobblestones of the path of least resistance. And after all, he did need to make some big changes to his life if he wanted to stop feeling like crap.
He stood.
Esperanza watched him from the couch, her cheeks forming a canvass for the trails of mascara that ran from her eyes. He paused to look at her, his face betraying the signs of inner turmoil, igniting the light of hope in her eyes to a brilliant flame. She was about to leap up from the couch and take him into her arms when he turned away.
She watched him rush towards the door and fumble the locks in a desperate attempt to leave. She watched him burst through the entrance like a thief making a getaway. The door banged back into place. It all happened so quickly; one moment he was there and the next, gone.
Esperanza sat on the couch mired in her grief. Tears rolled unchecked. A thousand thoughts raced through her mind - Did I tell him I loved him enough? Was it my fault? What am I going to tell people? She could not understand how everything could have gone so wrong for her. She had been brought up to believe true love would get you through any hardship. An unshakeable bond. She had seen as much in her parents, in her family. She came from a world of love, hope and faith.
She turned her attention back to the door, she did not know what else to do. And there she sat, on her couch, hour on hour, staring at the door. Until finally, in the hour before dawn, she cried her last tear. She rested her head on the pillow and closed her eyelids. And finally, the last dying embers of hope in her eyes were extinguished.
Raymond Figg was not coming back. He was gone. And with him went her faith in love.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Quandary
Hi everyone,
Hope you're all well.
As all writers do, I've found myself in a bit of a quandary over Raymond's story. I had written 8 chapters and then started questioning myself over the order of the chapters and the flow of the story.
Initially, I started in the present with Raymond on the pier wondering where everything had gone wrong, before dropping back in the past and telling the story of the buildup to Raymond's breakdown (you can see these 2 early chapters posted in previous posts). My thinking was, we often see people at there very worst before we ever realise anything was wrong, but we are curious as to how they got themselves in such a mess. Slowly, over the ensuing chapters I planned to give readers more and more background on Raymond's life and in the process, insight as to how he came to melting point.
Then I thought, is it better to start of with Raymond's life, the reader knowing that he is not happy but with no idea that he's on the road to a breakdown and slowly build to the breakdown point.
Hmmm....not sure which would be more interesting to the reader?
Any comments appreciated.
Joe
Hope you're all well.
As all writers do, I've found myself in a bit of a quandary over Raymond's story. I had written 8 chapters and then started questioning myself over the order of the chapters and the flow of the story.
Initially, I started in the present with Raymond on the pier wondering where everything had gone wrong, before dropping back in the past and telling the story of the buildup to Raymond's breakdown (you can see these 2 early chapters posted in previous posts). My thinking was, we often see people at there very worst before we ever realise anything was wrong, but we are curious as to how they got themselves in such a mess. Slowly, over the ensuing chapters I planned to give readers more and more background on Raymond's life and in the process, insight as to how he came to melting point.
Then I thought, is it better to start of with Raymond's life, the reader knowing that he is not happy but with no idea that he's on the road to a breakdown and slowly build to the breakdown point.
Hmmm....not sure which would be more interesting to the reader?
Any comments appreciated.
Joe
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Raymond's meltdown
Another extract from my book - tell me what you think
regards,
Joe
Chapter 2 – Meltdown
12 months ago.
Raymond Figg stirred half an hour before his alarm was due to sound. He remained in bed stuck in that half-world between dream and consciousness, not able to return to a peaceful sleep and not willing to come fully to his senses. Before long, images and thoughts of the day ahead began to knock at the door of his mind with a ferocity that demanded they be let in: meetings, angry customers, stressed co-workers and managers needing answers ‘pronto’.
He propped himself up on his elbow and groggily pulled the sheets away from his body before moving into a seated position on the edge of the bed; he realised he still felt very tired. The day through his window was gloomy and overcast, all of which seemed to add to Raymond’s lack of motivation. He thought about returning his head to the pillow, pulling the sheets back up to his chin and closing his eyes; even if he couldn’t sleep, he could rest.
Raymond reached over to the bedside table to grab his PDA, yawning repeatedly as he flipped it open and retrieved the stylus. Part of him hoped that checking his diary would provide the jolt he needed to get himself going but in reality, checking his diary only heightened his level of disinterest.
He let out a sigh of frustration. Being a team leader in a call centre had its advantages, he got to work closely with other people, and sometimes he even felt like he made a difference in their lives. On top of that, the money was good; the company share plan a bonus, nice office buildings, superannuation and free health. I should count myself lucky, he thought as he summoned the energy to push himself up off of the bed.
He stood and swayed on the spot for a few seconds while he waited for his body to adjust to the pull of gravity. Once he felt steady on his feet, he shuffled slowly from the bedroom to the bathroom, yawning again as he lifted the toilet seat and emptied his bladder. An image of himself as a boy flashed in his mind – he was urinating off of the pier, his father laughing, telling the young Raymond he was about to kill all the fish. He shook his head in an effort to clear it.
Strange. Memories of past days seemed to be visiting him more and more frequently in recent times. Wisps of disconnected images that lacked clear form; a mist of faces and places that always left him with an uncomfortable sense of melancholy. These were interspersed with images of times present, igniting in his mind like rapid-fire flashes from a camera’s bulb, illuminating brilliantly for a split second before disappearing an instant later; their phosphorescent wake leaving Raymond feeling anxious. Making him feel out of control: did I send that email, was I fair to the staff when I asked them to work after-hours?
Raymond walked over to the shower and drew back the curtain. He turned on the taps and stretched as he waited for the water pressure to improve, and finally, after seemingly hundreds of corrective adjustments, he stepped under the shower’s flow. The feeling of water cascading down his face elicited a memory of himself as a child swimming in the shallows of the beach where his family holidayed during the summer. The memory was so strong he could almost taste salt on the shower water as it passed over his lips.
Raymond shook his head trying valiantly to clear it. Why am I remembering this stuff? He knew the recollection to be a harbinger of mixed emotions and he was in no mood to deal with them. I haven’t got time for this, he thought and began furiously and systematically lathering and rinsing. His demeanour not helped by a lava-hot spurt of water that scorched his chest, causing him to slip as he jerked sideways to escape the heat.
He turned off the fickle water supply, exited the shower and yanked a towel from the towel rack, vigorously moving it over his body. The pit of stomach broiling with the emotions that he’d tried so hard to ignore; each one churning the mixture in rebellion, leaving Raymond in a state of agitation.
He wrapped the towel around his torso and retrieved his foam and blade from the cupboard underneath the hand basin. A quick swipe of the mirror with his other hand removed enough of the mist for him to see a foggy reflection. Raymond paused, examining his image in the mirror; it felt as though someone else was staring back at him, a momentary feeling of disconnection that was so disconcerting he had to look away. He stared down at the basin as he applied the foam to his face and neck. When he looked up once again, he felt a sense of relief - the reflection appeared with a generous covering of foam.
After shaving, he headed back to his bedroom. Normally, he would go straight to the closet and select his clothes for the day ahead. Instead, he felt light-headed, like he had risen from a seated position too quickly; he felt the onset of something like nausea. The feeling came on suddenly. The emotions fighting for their head in the pit of stomach ceased their agitation as they were smothered by a cold blanket of worry, overpowered by the more powerful and primal emotions of confusion and fear. Instead of selecting his clothes, he headed for the bed where he sat on its edge to wait for whatever it was that was making him feel strange to go away.
Couldn’t have been something I ate, I haven’t eaten anything yet, he thought. Raymond focused on the walls so as to give his eyes a balance-point and noticed the walls in a way he had never noticed them before. Are they real? he thought, and then tried to shake the thought out of his head. He took another look at the walls, now they seemed animate, capable of moving. He felt his heart quicken. He felt heat rush to his face; he felt his sphincter tighten. He felt as though he was about to collapse. What the hell is going on?
This was not a simple bout of light-headedness and the realisation made Raymond feel scared in the same way he had felt scared when he first saw his father collapse; the image of which now flickered in his mind, unformed and disjointed, like poor reception on a TV screen. Was this how it started for dad?
He desperately looked around the room - the alarm clock, the wardrobe, the posters and paintings. All of them seemed ethereal. His breathing began to shorten; the tendrils of a cold sweat climbed from his thighs, up his spine and over his crown to form beads on his forehead.
He reached over to the bedside table and quickly touched the copy of ‘Harry Potter’ to make sure it was real. His breathing continued to shorten to the point where he could feel his throat tighten and his chest heave, he felt as though he was about to empty his bladder. What is happening to me?
He wanted to get up off the bed but the floor seemed insubstantial, incapable of supporting his weight. He felt trapped. One step from the bed would mean falling into an unknown abyss. How am I going to get to the phone? He felt a steel collar clamp around his windpipe; he felt his heart pounding against his ribcage threatening to beat its way out of his chest. What’s wrong with me!!!
He felt the need to run but his feet where rooted to the floor. He began to hyperventilate. His brain went blank; his body flooding with adrenalin. He felt like his limbs were charged with electricity. He leapt off the bed and charged down the hallway to his study, wheezing loudly as he tried to suck oxygen into his lungs. He burst through the door and spotted the mobile phone resting in its charging cradle. He snatched at it, knocking the charger and phone to the floor underneath his desk. He fell on hands and knees, trying desperately to locate the phone that had bounced into a jungle of cables, adaptors and power boards. When he did sight the elusive object, his arm flashed out at it like a striking cobra, his hand clutching at cables, missing the target several times before finally getting a firm grip on the phone. His fingers shook violently as he flipped it open, his chest continued to heave as his lungs desperately sought air. I don’t want to die, he said to himself as he struggled to focus, as he struggled to aim for the three numbers that would dial “Emergency”.
regards,
Joe
Chapter 2 – Meltdown
12 months ago.
Raymond Figg stirred half an hour before his alarm was due to sound. He remained in bed stuck in that half-world between dream and consciousness, not able to return to a peaceful sleep and not willing to come fully to his senses. Before long, images and thoughts of the day ahead began to knock at the door of his mind with a ferocity that demanded they be let in: meetings, angry customers, stressed co-workers and managers needing answers ‘pronto’.
He propped himself up on his elbow and groggily pulled the sheets away from his body before moving into a seated position on the edge of the bed; he realised he still felt very tired. The day through his window was gloomy and overcast, all of which seemed to add to Raymond’s lack of motivation. He thought about returning his head to the pillow, pulling the sheets back up to his chin and closing his eyes; even if he couldn’t sleep, he could rest.
Raymond reached over to the bedside table to grab his PDA, yawning repeatedly as he flipped it open and retrieved the stylus. Part of him hoped that checking his diary would provide the jolt he needed to get himself going but in reality, checking his diary only heightened his level of disinterest.
He let out a sigh of frustration. Being a team leader in a call centre had its advantages, he got to work closely with other people, and sometimes he even felt like he made a difference in their lives. On top of that, the money was good; the company share plan a bonus, nice office buildings, superannuation and free health. I should count myself lucky, he thought as he summoned the energy to push himself up off of the bed.
He stood and swayed on the spot for a few seconds while he waited for his body to adjust to the pull of gravity. Once he felt steady on his feet, he shuffled slowly from the bedroom to the bathroom, yawning again as he lifted the toilet seat and emptied his bladder. An image of himself as a boy flashed in his mind – he was urinating off of the pier, his father laughing, telling the young Raymond he was about to kill all the fish. He shook his head in an effort to clear it.
Strange. Memories of past days seemed to be visiting him more and more frequently in recent times. Wisps of disconnected images that lacked clear form; a mist of faces and places that always left him with an uncomfortable sense of melancholy. These were interspersed with images of times present, igniting in his mind like rapid-fire flashes from a camera’s bulb, illuminating brilliantly for a split second before disappearing an instant later; their phosphorescent wake leaving Raymond feeling anxious. Making him feel out of control: did I send that email, was I fair to the staff when I asked them to work after-hours?
Raymond walked over to the shower and drew back the curtain. He turned on the taps and stretched as he waited for the water pressure to improve, and finally, after seemingly hundreds of corrective adjustments, he stepped under the shower’s flow. The feeling of water cascading down his face elicited a memory of himself as a child swimming in the shallows of the beach where his family holidayed during the summer. The memory was so strong he could almost taste salt on the shower water as it passed over his lips.
Raymond shook his head trying valiantly to clear it. Why am I remembering this stuff? He knew the recollection to be a harbinger of mixed emotions and he was in no mood to deal with them. I haven’t got time for this, he thought and began furiously and systematically lathering and rinsing. His demeanour not helped by a lava-hot spurt of water that scorched his chest, causing him to slip as he jerked sideways to escape the heat.
He turned off the fickle water supply, exited the shower and yanked a towel from the towel rack, vigorously moving it over his body. The pit of stomach broiling with the emotions that he’d tried so hard to ignore; each one churning the mixture in rebellion, leaving Raymond in a state of agitation.
He wrapped the towel around his torso and retrieved his foam and blade from the cupboard underneath the hand basin. A quick swipe of the mirror with his other hand removed enough of the mist for him to see a foggy reflection. Raymond paused, examining his image in the mirror; it felt as though someone else was staring back at him, a momentary feeling of disconnection that was so disconcerting he had to look away. He stared down at the basin as he applied the foam to his face and neck. When he looked up once again, he felt a sense of relief - the reflection appeared with a generous covering of foam.
After shaving, he headed back to his bedroom. Normally, he would go straight to the closet and select his clothes for the day ahead. Instead, he felt light-headed, like he had risen from a seated position too quickly; he felt the onset of something like nausea. The feeling came on suddenly. The emotions fighting for their head in the pit of stomach ceased their agitation as they were smothered by a cold blanket of worry, overpowered by the more powerful and primal emotions of confusion and fear. Instead of selecting his clothes, he headed for the bed where he sat on its edge to wait for whatever it was that was making him feel strange to go away.
Couldn’t have been something I ate, I haven’t eaten anything yet, he thought. Raymond focused on the walls so as to give his eyes a balance-point and noticed the walls in a way he had never noticed them before. Are they real? he thought, and then tried to shake the thought out of his head. He took another look at the walls, now they seemed animate, capable of moving. He felt his heart quicken. He felt heat rush to his face; he felt his sphincter tighten. He felt as though he was about to collapse. What the hell is going on?
This was not a simple bout of light-headedness and the realisation made Raymond feel scared in the same way he had felt scared when he first saw his father collapse; the image of which now flickered in his mind, unformed and disjointed, like poor reception on a TV screen. Was this how it started for dad?
He desperately looked around the room - the alarm clock, the wardrobe, the posters and paintings. All of them seemed ethereal. His breathing began to shorten; the tendrils of a cold sweat climbed from his thighs, up his spine and over his crown to form beads on his forehead.
He reached over to the bedside table and quickly touched the copy of ‘Harry Potter’ to make sure it was real. His breathing continued to shorten to the point where he could feel his throat tighten and his chest heave, he felt as though he was about to empty his bladder. What is happening to me?
He wanted to get up off the bed but the floor seemed insubstantial, incapable of supporting his weight. He felt trapped. One step from the bed would mean falling into an unknown abyss. How am I going to get to the phone? He felt a steel collar clamp around his windpipe; he felt his heart pounding against his ribcage threatening to beat its way out of his chest. What’s wrong with me!!!
He felt the need to run but his feet where rooted to the floor. He began to hyperventilate. His brain went blank; his body flooding with adrenalin. He felt like his limbs were charged with electricity. He leapt off the bed and charged down the hallway to his study, wheezing loudly as he tried to suck oxygen into his lungs. He burst through the door and spotted the mobile phone resting in its charging cradle. He snatched at it, knocking the charger and phone to the floor underneath his desk. He fell on hands and knees, trying desperately to locate the phone that had bounced into a jungle of cables, adaptors and power boards. When he did sight the elusive object, his arm flashed out at it like a striking cobra, his hand clutching at cables, missing the target several times before finally getting a firm grip on the phone. His fingers shook violently as he flipped it open, his chest continued to heave as his lungs desperately sought air. I don’t want to die, he said to himself as he struggled to focus, as he struggled to aim for the three numbers that would dial “Emergency”.
Monday, June 16, 2008
My place
My Sunset
My friends
So how did I get over not feeling like writing - I spent time on my balcony staring out to sea, daydreaming; then I watched the sunset and wondered what the captain's boat would look like if it sailed past me, all the while I listened to opera, namely the "flower duet" from Lakme. And then my friends took me out (me in the turtleneck) and we drank Butterscotch Schnapps, danced and had some fun...too much fun perhaps, because I woke with a very sore head...
BUT my spirit was soaring.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Moods
Hi everyone,
Well after a frenetic start to writing the manuscript - 7 chapters boom boom boom - I have done the writer's equivalent of a hamstring injury.
I am struggling to get myself to the keyboard to continue exploring the incredible lives of Raymond and Captain Angus. Some of it has been forced on me, in that I have had to hold the narrative while I research some of the more technical details of the story - like the boat. My vision of Captain Angus's boat is that of an old wooden schooner. I have had to undertake a lot of research to get the terminology, sailing lore and stuff like rigging, dimensions, construction material and so on down pat. I have even visited many docks to try to find a model upon which I can base my descriptions. Although the boat is not a major part of the story, I feel I need to paint the picture accurately if I am to make the reader's experience a believable one.
I have also had to refresh my knowledge of Scottish folktales, common language and geography so I can be true to Captain Angus's background. I have used many friends and associates to check my interpretations as well as devouring volumes on Scotland and its people (I have visited myself but it was a while ago now. I fell in love with the place and maybe that's the reason for Captain Angus's background).
So anyway, all of this has distracted me from the lives of Raymond and the Captain, a necessary distraction though. The upside is I have much more landscape information from which to draw upon to add to the tapestry of the story. The downside is I now find it difficult to steel myself for the challenge of reentering into the Captain and Raymond's lives and tackling the enormous challenges that I know they are both facing.
So, in a nutshell, I am looking for every excuse possible to ignore Raymond and the Captain at the moment: beautiful day so I'll go for a walk, do my tax return, clean the house....I've even set up a group for writers in Facebook called "Writer's Almanac" just so I feel like I'm doing something productive while I steer clear of Raymond and Captain Angus.
And, everything seems to be magnified a thousand times over. Jack the cat, whom I love very dearly is dying, he is not in pain but he is not long for this world. He is not even my cat but has been a big part of my life - am I being overly sensitive here? The news depresses me so I don't watch it anymore. I watched a documentary on a group of people, volunteers, that look after orphaned elephants. I watched a baby elephant trying to get it's dead mother to stand up and the vision tore me in two.
So I need to get back my inspiration and courage to tackle what I know I must, and that is the story of Raymond and his battle with anxiety and depression, his battle to find happiness; and Captain Angus's struggle to fulfil his last promise to his beloved wife. The story of the unlikely friendship and bond that these two men strike up, and the beauty of hope, love and faith.
I don't have writer's block, I know what I need to do. I just need a little push to get back into the zone. If anyone has any good tips on how I can get back in the zone, I would love to hear from you. Usually watching an inspirational movie, or listening to music does it for me, but not this time. Maybe I need to get horribly drunk...hmmm maybe not.
Joe.
Well after a frenetic start to writing the manuscript - 7 chapters boom boom boom - I have done the writer's equivalent of a hamstring injury.
I am struggling to get myself to the keyboard to continue exploring the incredible lives of Raymond and Captain Angus. Some of it has been forced on me, in that I have had to hold the narrative while I research some of the more technical details of the story - like the boat. My vision of Captain Angus's boat is that of an old wooden schooner. I have had to undertake a lot of research to get the terminology, sailing lore and stuff like rigging, dimensions, construction material and so on down pat. I have even visited many docks to try to find a model upon which I can base my descriptions. Although the boat is not a major part of the story, I feel I need to paint the picture accurately if I am to make the reader's experience a believable one.
I have also had to refresh my knowledge of Scottish folktales, common language and geography so I can be true to Captain Angus's background. I have used many friends and associates to check my interpretations as well as devouring volumes on Scotland and its people (I have visited myself but it was a while ago now. I fell in love with the place and maybe that's the reason for Captain Angus's background).
So anyway, all of this has distracted me from the lives of Raymond and the Captain, a necessary distraction though. The upside is I have much more landscape information from which to draw upon to add to the tapestry of the story. The downside is I now find it difficult to steel myself for the challenge of reentering into the Captain and Raymond's lives and tackling the enormous challenges that I know they are both facing.
So, in a nutshell, I am looking for every excuse possible to ignore Raymond and the Captain at the moment: beautiful day so I'll go for a walk, do my tax return, clean the house....I've even set up a group for writers in Facebook called "Writer's Almanac" just so I feel like I'm doing something productive while I steer clear of Raymond and Captain Angus.
And, everything seems to be magnified a thousand times over. Jack the cat, whom I love very dearly is dying, he is not in pain but he is not long for this world. He is not even my cat but has been a big part of my life - am I being overly sensitive here? The news depresses me so I don't watch it anymore. I watched a documentary on a group of people, volunteers, that look after orphaned elephants. I watched a baby elephant trying to get it's dead mother to stand up and the vision tore me in two.
So I need to get back my inspiration and courage to tackle what I know I must, and that is the story of Raymond and his battle with anxiety and depression, his battle to find happiness; and Captain Angus's struggle to fulfil his last promise to his beloved wife. The story of the unlikely friendship and bond that these two men strike up, and the beauty of hope, love and faith.
I don't have writer's block, I know what I need to do. I just need a little push to get back into the zone. If anyone has any good tips on how I can get back in the zone, I would love to hear from you. Usually watching an inspirational movie, or listening to music does it for me, but not this time. Maybe I need to get horribly drunk...hmmm maybe not.
Joe.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
What is the "glue" that binds?
Hi,
I hope everyone is doing well. I have received many positive comments about the poem by Zephyr which is great. Some readers were moved to tears which is testimony to the power of the writing.
I have discovered through many and varied discussions with Captain Angus that he has had a wonderful life with his soulmate, lover and wife. But she is gone and all he has are his memories of her and their love. He is on the verge of giving up on his last quest, and joining her in the hereafter, he misses her that much. I wonder what it is that makes two people stay together for a lifetime? What is the glue? Is it one thing or many?
I wonder what you think?
A lot of people have stayed together for their kids, because their is no better option, because of threats of violence, because of the stigma of divorce, because of money. Occasionally though, we have all met couples who we just know are genuinely happy, who were meant to be together. You see it in the way they look at each other, there is a glow and energy about them. Couples whose love is so strong that when one passes away, the other dies as well or simply becomes lost. What is this glue that keeps a couple together so that they become one, and they are happy?
What does it mean to love another human being so deeply that the thought of ever being with someone else is never entertained? Is this a natural state or do we give up something of ourselves when we love with this intensity?
Does love need to be sowed, planted and watered like a field of barley so the harvest can be continually reaped? I have heard men brag about serenading their wives, on a monthly basis, with guitars while watching sunsets. I have seen their partners swoon as the tale of the serenading is told. I have seen onlookers wonder why their partners do not do the same. And I have seen the serenading couple separate a year later. And yet I have seen couples who show very little in the form of public intimacy that have remained together and happy for a lifetime. So what is this glue? Is it practical and logistical, is it the physical, the spiritual, or is it undefinable? What is the glue that holds a couple together, forever?
Captain Angus has given me his answers, I wonder what you think.
regards,
Joe.
I hope everyone is doing well. I have received many positive comments about the poem by Zephyr which is great. Some readers were moved to tears which is testimony to the power of the writing.
I have discovered through many and varied discussions with Captain Angus that he has had a wonderful life with his soulmate, lover and wife. But she is gone and all he has are his memories of her and their love. He is on the verge of giving up on his last quest, and joining her in the hereafter, he misses her that much. I wonder what it is that makes two people stay together for a lifetime? What is the glue? Is it one thing or many?
I wonder what you think?
A lot of people have stayed together for their kids, because their is no better option, because of threats of violence, because of the stigma of divorce, because of money. Occasionally though, we have all met couples who we just know are genuinely happy, who were meant to be together. You see it in the way they look at each other, there is a glow and energy about them. Couples whose love is so strong that when one passes away, the other dies as well or simply becomes lost. What is this glue that keeps a couple together so that they become one, and they are happy?
What does it mean to love another human being so deeply that the thought of ever being with someone else is never entertained? Is this a natural state or do we give up something of ourselves when we love with this intensity?
Does love need to be sowed, planted and watered like a field of barley so the harvest can be continually reaped? I have heard men brag about serenading their wives, on a monthly basis, with guitars while watching sunsets. I have seen their partners swoon as the tale of the serenading is told. I have seen onlookers wonder why their partners do not do the same. And I have seen the serenading couple separate a year later. And yet I have seen couples who show very little in the form of public intimacy that have remained together and happy for a lifetime. So what is this glue? Is it practical and logistical, is it the physical, the spiritual, or is it undefinable? What is the glue that holds a couple together, forever?
Captain Angus has given me his answers, I wonder what you think.
regards,
Joe.
Monday, May 26, 2008
The beautiful things you find on the net
Hi everyone,
Hope you had a great weekend. The Internet is an amazing tool. To be able to share my thoughts with people I have never met face-to-face, from all parts of the globe is truly a gift. It also allows me to see what others are writing and thinking out there, and I am thankful for that because I have come across some real gems. Firstly thanks to Shannon for the link. It was so great to get another persons perspective on mental health and happiness, and it will help me in my writing - the more knowledge you have the better your frame of reference, which all leads to better writing.
I have realised that most of this blog has been one-way traffic, the nature of blogging I guess. But I just want to share a poem that I came across as part of my research. I find it astoundingly beautiful and insightful, I have asked the author for permission to put it on my blog and she has graciously said yes. When I read it, I think of a young Captain Angus.
If anyone has anything they would like to share with me on the nature of love and happiness which inspires or causes us to think, feel free to pass it on. So without further ado, here is the poem
To a Soulmate - By Zephyr
If I tell you my story and explain who I am, would you listen and love me as me?
If I paint you a picture to explain how I feel,
would you open your eyes to see?
If I sang you a song about what makes me laugh,
would you hum to the tune everyday?
If I wrote you a poem about what makes me sad,
would you kiss all my sadness away?
******
If you ever felt down when you were alone,
if your face was missing its smile,
If a voice in your head, told you what id have said,
would that sad moment to you be worthwhile?
If I waited till you were asleep late at night to whisper my feelings for you,
Would those words stay stored so deep in your heart that no other words could get through?
******
Do you know how complete you could make me feel,
just by saying you understand?
When these thoughts in my head don’t make any sense,
but you’ll still reach out and take my hand.
Or In a crowded room as you catch my eye,
at that moment my heart skips a beat,
Would you turn round to see,
no-one else there but me... and feel that your life was complete?
******
What if one night I was miles away,
blank expression, away in a dream…
Would you wonder what I was thinking about and play out your own little scene?
Do you miss that feeling when you’re so full of hope,
looking forward to what lies ahead?
Do you miss lazy Sunday mornings, just cuddling up in bed?
******
There are wonderful places I’ve seen in my dreams,
where the stars are like jewels in the skies Faraway places that exist just for me,
that I’ll see when I look in your eyes.
Will you be thankful for all that we get to share,
the giggles, tears, smiles and laughs?
And when we’re apart and miss each other,
the late night texts and photographs?
******
There’s a saying which states that when we are born,
our hearts are divided in two,
One half goes to your soul mate,
and the other half stays with you.
We spend our lives searching till one day we meet,
so our hearts can then reunite,
So keep searching for me,
as I will for you,
so we can find our wings and take flight.
To see more of Zephyr's work - go to http://www.writers-network.com/index.cgi?m=1&view=48423
Hope you had a great weekend. The Internet is an amazing tool. To be able to share my thoughts with people I have never met face-to-face, from all parts of the globe is truly a gift. It also allows me to see what others are writing and thinking out there, and I am thankful for that because I have come across some real gems. Firstly thanks to Shannon for the link. It was so great to get another persons perspective on mental health and happiness, and it will help me in my writing - the more knowledge you have the better your frame of reference, which all leads to better writing.
I have realised that most of this blog has been one-way traffic, the nature of blogging I guess. But I just want to share a poem that I came across as part of my research. I find it astoundingly beautiful and insightful, I have asked the author for permission to put it on my blog and she has graciously said yes. When I read it, I think of a young Captain Angus.
If anyone has anything they would like to share with me on the nature of love and happiness which inspires or causes us to think, feel free to pass it on. So without further ado, here is the poem
To a Soulmate - By Zephyr
If I tell you my story and explain who I am, would you listen and love me as me?
If I paint you a picture to explain how I feel,
would you open your eyes to see?
If I sang you a song about what makes me laugh,
would you hum to the tune everyday?
If I wrote you a poem about what makes me sad,
would you kiss all my sadness away?
******
If you ever felt down when you were alone,
if your face was missing its smile,
If a voice in your head, told you what id have said,
would that sad moment to you be worthwhile?
If I waited till you were asleep late at night to whisper my feelings for you,
Would those words stay stored so deep in your heart that no other words could get through?
******
Do you know how complete you could make me feel,
just by saying you understand?
When these thoughts in my head don’t make any sense,
but you’ll still reach out and take my hand.
Or In a crowded room as you catch my eye,
at that moment my heart skips a beat,
Would you turn round to see,
no-one else there but me... and feel that your life was complete?
******
What if one night I was miles away,
blank expression, away in a dream…
Would you wonder what I was thinking about and play out your own little scene?
Do you miss that feeling when you’re so full of hope,
looking forward to what lies ahead?
Do you miss lazy Sunday mornings, just cuddling up in bed?
******
There are wonderful places I’ve seen in my dreams,
where the stars are like jewels in the skies Faraway places that exist just for me,
that I’ll see when I look in your eyes.
Will you be thankful for all that we get to share,
the giggles, tears, smiles and laughs?
And when we’re apart and miss each other,
the late night texts and photographs?
******
There’s a saying which states that when we are born,
our hearts are divided in two,
One half goes to your soul mate,
and the other half stays with you.
We spend our lives searching till one day we meet,
so our hearts can then reunite,
So keep searching for me,
as I will for you,
so we can find our wings and take flight.
To see more of Zephyr's work - go to http://www.writers-network.com/index.cgi?m=1&view=48423
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Mental health
Hi to everyone reading this blog.
One of the main themes that forms the bones of my new work is mental health. I have spent a lot of time with Raymond this week and writing the chapter that describes his mental breakdown was very taxing for me to say the least. I had to go to places in my mind that I have not been to for a while, to do the writing justice. I don't know if I would ever attempt to write a chapter like that if I had never been there myself to some degree.
I have thought much on this theme of mental health over the years and had previously attempted writing about it, but my characters and voice were immature and so were my technical capabilities as a writer. But more than anything, I had not met and spoken to enough people to get a broad enough landscape in my mind to write with sincerity on the topic.
Mental health issues are reaching epidemic proportions in Australia, and though I cannot vouch for the rest of the world, everything I hear seems to suggest that this is also the case in most of the developed nations - maybe there is something in that. Westernised society of fast-paced-big-city lifestyles may be having a negative impact on our mental health; developing nations, on the other hand, may have too many other epidemics to worry about - like famine, disease and war -for mental health issues like stress and anxiety to be major issues. Hmmm...this may be naive and too simplistic a view. Anyway, I am no expert on developing countries but have lived in developed countries most of my life, so I'll stick to what I am familiar with.
In Australia, there seems to be a growing number of people in the mid-to-late 20's to around 40 that are experiencing a feeling of being lost and unfulfilled. Maybe the mid-life crisis has shifted forward 10 years to reflect our faster pace of life. I am not talking about those who have medically diagnosed mental health problems like depression, bi-polar and anxiety related disorders, for which they are taking medication or undergoing cognitive therapies. My interest is in those men and women with no history of mental health issues in their family, no predisposition to mental health issues through abuse of alcohol or drugs. I am specifically interested in men and women who have been well adjusted and relatively happy with their lot until all of a sudden, seemingly out of the blue (or so it seems to the sufferer) they experience panic or anxiety attacks, feelings of melancholy and isolation and a feeling of being lost.
In my experience and talking to many others, there are nearly always underlying issues that may have been suppressed that come to the fore and trigger all the feelings mentioned above. I am sure this will also be the case for Raymond Figg. It's the triggers that intrigue me, what are they, and are there more of them in the modern world? Did communities of the past experience as many mental health challenges and if not why not? Maybe we have too much time on our hands to think, maybe the modern world allows us to be selfish; a world where we can exist by ourselves without depending on others for food, shelter and entertainment. We no longer need love or community to exist but at what cost?
As I learn more about Raymond, I learn that he has, even without knowing it himself, started a process of isolation long before his breakdown. Isolating his feelings, his emotions, isolating himself in front of the computer, the TV, in his work. We can have people around us and still be isolated and it is becoming clear to me that this is the case for Raymond.
Isolation is just one of the triggers for unhappiness, at least for Raymond, but there are many more: lost dreams, crappy job, everyday like the last, no adventure, no magic, broken heart, lost love, grief and so on. I wonder if I have missed any. Raymond is not dying, he is not physically ill, he has food, shelter, income and love if he wants it - but - he is desperately lost and unhappy. I wonder how many 'Raymond Figg's' are out there? I wonder.
joe
One of the main themes that forms the bones of my new work is mental health. I have spent a lot of time with Raymond this week and writing the chapter that describes his mental breakdown was very taxing for me to say the least. I had to go to places in my mind that I have not been to for a while, to do the writing justice. I don't know if I would ever attempt to write a chapter like that if I had never been there myself to some degree.
I have thought much on this theme of mental health over the years and had previously attempted writing about it, but my characters and voice were immature and so were my technical capabilities as a writer. But more than anything, I had not met and spoken to enough people to get a broad enough landscape in my mind to write with sincerity on the topic.
Mental health issues are reaching epidemic proportions in Australia, and though I cannot vouch for the rest of the world, everything I hear seems to suggest that this is also the case in most of the developed nations - maybe there is something in that. Westernised society of fast-paced-big-city lifestyles may be having a negative impact on our mental health; developing nations, on the other hand, may have too many other epidemics to worry about - like famine, disease and war -for mental health issues like stress and anxiety to be major issues. Hmmm...this may be naive and too simplistic a view. Anyway, I am no expert on developing countries but have lived in developed countries most of my life, so I'll stick to what I am familiar with.
In Australia, there seems to be a growing number of people in the mid-to-late 20's to around 40 that are experiencing a feeling of being lost and unfulfilled. Maybe the mid-life crisis has shifted forward 10 years to reflect our faster pace of life. I am not talking about those who have medically diagnosed mental health problems like depression, bi-polar and anxiety related disorders, for which they are taking medication or undergoing cognitive therapies. My interest is in those men and women with no history of mental health issues in their family, no predisposition to mental health issues through abuse of alcohol or drugs. I am specifically interested in men and women who have been well adjusted and relatively happy with their lot until all of a sudden, seemingly out of the blue (or so it seems to the sufferer) they experience panic or anxiety attacks, feelings of melancholy and isolation and a feeling of being lost.
In my experience and talking to many others, there are nearly always underlying issues that may have been suppressed that come to the fore and trigger all the feelings mentioned above. I am sure this will also be the case for Raymond Figg. It's the triggers that intrigue me, what are they, and are there more of them in the modern world? Did communities of the past experience as many mental health challenges and if not why not? Maybe we have too much time on our hands to think, maybe the modern world allows us to be selfish; a world where we can exist by ourselves without depending on others for food, shelter and entertainment. We no longer need love or community to exist but at what cost?
As I learn more about Raymond, I learn that he has, even without knowing it himself, started a process of isolation long before his breakdown. Isolating his feelings, his emotions, isolating himself in front of the computer, the TV, in his work. We can have people around us and still be isolated and it is becoming clear to me that this is the case for Raymond.
Isolation is just one of the triggers for unhappiness, at least for Raymond, but there are many more: lost dreams, crappy job, everyday like the last, no adventure, no magic, broken heart, lost love, grief and so on. I wonder if I have missed any. Raymond is not dying, he is not physically ill, he has food, shelter, income and love if he wants it - but - he is desperately lost and unhappy. I wonder how many 'Raymond Figg's' are out there? I wonder.
joe
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Prologue - The captain and his mate
Hi everyone,
so here it is, the first chapter/Prologue/Introduction, let me know what you think.
The captain and his mate
It was a balmy summer’s eve and Raymond Figg sat on the edge of the pier, legs dangling over the side, staring at his kneecaps, deep in thought. The very same pier he used to visit with his dad when he was just a boy; the very same spot where he and his dad had spent many an afternoon watching the boats hoist their sails as they made their way out to sea. One day we will have our own boat, Raymond’s dad used to say, you and me, son, the captain and his mate.
Raymond allowed a smile to escape his lips as he remembered those afternoons; they seemed so long ago now, like they belonged to someone else. They dreamed big dreams on that pier, Raymond and his dad. The world, it had seemed, was a place full of magic where anything was possible: a world where Raymond had felt 10 feet tall. No matter where or what you are in life, his father would say, the only things you need are dreams, faith and a kind heart and you will do great things, my beautiful son.
Raymond could feel a lump begin to form in his throat. He lifted his head and scanned the marina looking for the boat that his dad had loved so much, an old fashioned thing that looked like a mini-pirate boat. We’ll buy one just like that one, son, his dad used to say, can you draw it for me? We’ll need the drawings when we build it. But Raymond could not see the boat, not that he expected to, so much had changed since he was a boy.
A lone seagull landed next to Raymond on the pier. They never did get to build the boat of their dreams, he and his dad. As Raymond approached his 9th birthday, the visits to the pier became more and more infrequent. And when they did visit, his dad spent a lot of time just staring at nothing. If he did speak, he would repeat the same words over and over, Raymond, he would say, promise me something, remember how I told you to have faith, have faith in this, if ever your mind is troubled then come sit by the sea, you may not be able to see me, but I will always be here and you can talk to me. And I promise I will be listening.
The lump in Raymond’s throat had turned into a ball, his eyes began to moisten and his chest felt as though it was held firm in a tight clamp. He had not cried since he was 9 years old and he fought it. Coming to the pier was not such a good idea. Everything he’d read told him he must confront the past if he was to heal and grow, but all could feel as he sat on that pier was pain. He turned to the seagull and shouted, “He is not here is he? He’s not anywhere. He’s gone! No more dreams. Its all gone!”
The seagull, used to such vitriolic tirades, flapped its wings slowly but stood firm in a brazen show of courage and hope. “Piss off,” Raymond shouted at it and then stood. I came dad, he thought, just like you said, but I’m not coming again. He turned to walk back down the pier, back to his car, back to his home, but found his way barred by promenaders who had come to a standstill, staring at him with their mouths agape. So Raymond turned and walked the other way, towards the sea; the sea that his dad had loved so much. The seagull, bless his hardy soul, followed.
Joe.
so here it is, the first chapter/Prologue/Introduction, let me know what you think.
The captain and his mate
It was a balmy summer’s eve and Raymond Figg sat on the edge of the pier, legs dangling over the side, staring at his kneecaps, deep in thought. The very same pier he used to visit with his dad when he was just a boy; the very same spot where he and his dad had spent many an afternoon watching the boats hoist their sails as they made their way out to sea. One day we will have our own boat, Raymond’s dad used to say, you and me, son, the captain and his mate.
Raymond allowed a smile to escape his lips as he remembered those afternoons; they seemed so long ago now, like they belonged to someone else. They dreamed big dreams on that pier, Raymond and his dad. The world, it had seemed, was a place full of magic where anything was possible: a world where Raymond had felt 10 feet tall. No matter where or what you are in life, his father would say, the only things you need are dreams, faith and a kind heart and you will do great things, my beautiful son.
Raymond could feel a lump begin to form in his throat. He lifted his head and scanned the marina looking for the boat that his dad had loved so much, an old fashioned thing that looked like a mini-pirate boat. We’ll buy one just like that one, son, his dad used to say, can you draw it for me? We’ll need the drawings when we build it. But Raymond could not see the boat, not that he expected to, so much had changed since he was a boy.
A lone seagull landed next to Raymond on the pier. They never did get to build the boat of their dreams, he and his dad. As Raymond approached his 9th birthday, the visits to the pier became more and more infrequent. And when they did visit, his dad spent a lot of time just staring at nothing. If he did speak, he would repeat the same words over and over, Raymond, he would say, promise me something, remember how I told you to have faith, have faith in this, if ever your mind is troubled then come sit by the sea, you may not be able to see me, but I will always be here and you can talk to me. And I promise I will be listening.
The lump in Raymond’s throat had turned into a ball, his eyes began to moisten and his chest felt as though it was held firm in a tight clamp. He had not cried since he was 9 years old and he fought it. Coming to the pier was not such a good idea. Everything he’d read told him he must confront the past if he was to heal and grow, but all could feel as he sat on that pier was pain. He turned to the seagull and shouted, “He is not here is he? He’s not anywhere. He’s gone! No more dreams. Its all gone!”
The seagull, used to such vitriolic tirades, flapped its wings slowly but stood firm in a brazen show of courage and hope. “Piss off,” Raymond shouted at it and then stood. I came dad, he thought, just like you said, but I’m not coming again. He turned to walk back down the pier, back to his car, back to his home, but found his way barred by promenaders who had come to a standstill, staring at him with their mouths agape. So Raymond turned and walked the other way, towards the sea; the sea that his dad had loved so much. The seagull, bless his hardy soul, followed.
Joe.
Monday, May 12, 2008
All you need is love...da dadada
Hello to anyone reading this blog.
Yes, Sarah, thanks for your comments. Yes you are a romantic at heart and bless your soul for it.
This theme of love is so central to this story. Captain Angus's love for his wife, the lack of love in Raymond's life after such a love-filled childhood. I often wonder what the 'true' nature of love is. Is there one love that is more powerful than another? Does the eternal love of a couple outshine the love a man who has spent his life engrossed in the photography of nature so the world can see its beauty, or the love of a single mum for her child? Is there an underlying principle that forms the bedrock for all forms of love.
One of the reader's comments are interesting in that she says serial killers and dictators do what they do because they do not know love. I am not sure I agree, I want to agree but I am not sure I can. Often through history, these people had lovers, wives, husbands. Some of them had a love for their people that seemed to be all-consuming. To me, there seems to be many types of love; love that can inspire, comfort, sustain, and love that can fracture, enslave, rent and destroy - and all shades in-between. Whether we consider these forms of love to be worthy or not, they are there. Many a wonder has been created out of love - the Taj Mahal for example and on the other hand, many a travesty has been enacted in the name of love.
What I am particularly interested to discover and explore for Raymond and The captain; is what makes the love that binds a couple together forever? What are the ingredients that sustain the all-powerful feeling of wanting to be with another human being for the rest of our lives? Is that possible at all in this modern world where people can live without a partner or family unit more easily than they have ever been able to do so in the past (at least in the western world); a world where men and women are more independent and their expectations are higher.
The facts and figures suggest that a sole partner relationships that extend past 20 years are becoming rare. I want to know why. Can we love more than one person in our lives and is each love as strong as the previous?
And the big questions...
Can we be truly happy in this world without being in a love-filled monogamous relationship with another? Are there other forms of love besides one-to-one relationships that can sustain us? A love of god? A love of the world and its people? A love for your art, your vocation? A love of oneself? A love of a dependant? What is the true definition of love in the modern world? And finally, what is the meaning of 'true' love and what is the power of love in the modern world?
Like Sarah, I want to know more about Captain Angus. He has a love that has sustained him into old age. How did that happen? What has made his love so eternal? Is it him, was it his wife, both, or love itself, that has kept them together? And Raymond, he is young in this modern world, he had a loving partner but left her, he is not sure what love is and does not search for it. Why? What difference would it make to his life, his mental health?
I will be asking Raymond and the Captain all these questions in the next few months. We have plenty of time the three of us, they are now as much a part of my life as my 'flesh and blood' friends are.
I welcome your thoughts and comments as always.
Joe.
P.S I have written the first 6 chapters in draft. I showed a friend the prologue and she said it made her very emotional as she has young boys and the prologue revolves around Raymond as a young boy sitting on the pier with his dad, happy in dreams of pirate ships and adventures.
I'm not sure about publishing any of it on this forum due to copyright, I'll have to check. Extracts may be fine though.
Yes, Sarah, thanks for your comments. Yes you are a romantic at heart and bless your soul for it.
This theme of love is so central to this story. Captain Angus's love for his wife, the lack of love in Raymond's life after such a love-filled childhood. I often wonder what the 'true' nature of love is. Is there one love that is more powerful than another? Does the eternal love of a couple outshine the love a man who has spent his life engrossed in the photography of nature so the world can see its beauty, or the love of a single mum for her child? Is there an underlying principle that forms the bedrock for all forms of love.
One of the reader's comments are interesting in that she says serial killers and dictators do what they do because they do not know love. I am not sure I agree, I want to agree but I am not sure I can. Often through history, these people had lovers, wives, husbands. Some of them had a love for their people that seemed to be all-consuming. To me, there seems to be many types of love; love that can inspire, comfort, sustain, and love that can fracture, enslave, rent and destroy - and all shades in-between. Whether we consider these forms of love to be worthy or not, they are there. Many a wonder has been created out of love - the Taj Mahal for example and on the other hand, many a travesty has been enacted in the name of love.
What I am particularly interested to discover and explore for Raymond and The captain; is what makes the love that binds a couple together forever? What are the ingredients that sustain the all-powerful feeling of wanting to be with another human being for the rest of our lives? Is that possible at all in this modern world where people can live without a partner or family unit more easily than they have ever been able to do so in the past (at least in the western world); a world where men and women are more independent and their expectations are higher.
The facts and figures suggest that a sole partner relationships that extend past 20 years are becoming rare. I want to know why. Can we love more than one person in our lives and is each love as strong as the previous?
And the big questions...
Can we be truly happy in this world without being in a love-filled monogamous relationship with another? Are there other forms of love besides one-to-one relationships that can sustain us? A love of god? A love of the world and its people? A love for your art, your vocation? A love of oneself? A love of a dependant? What is the true definition of love in the modern world? And finally, what is the meaning of 'true' love and what is the power of love in the modern world?
Like Sarah, I want to know more about Captain Angus. He has a love that has sustained him into old age. How did that happen? What has made his love so eternal? Is it him, was it his wife, both, or love itself, that has kept them together? And Raymond, he is young in this modern world, he had a loving partner but left her, he is not sure what love is and does not search for it. Why? What difference would it make to his life, his mental health?
I will be asking Raymond and the Captain all these questions in the next few months. We have plenty of time the three of us, they are now as much a part of my life as my 'flesh and blood' friends are.
I welcome your thoughts and comments as always.
Joe.
P.S I have written the first 6 chapters in draft. I showed a friend the prologue and she said it made her very emotional as she has young boys and the prologue revolves around Raymond as a young boy sitting on the pier with his dad, happy in dreams of pirate ships and adventures.
I'm not sure about publishing any of it on this forum due to copyright, I'll have to check. Extracts may be fine though.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Raymond Figg
Again,
thanks for the feedback and comments from Shannon, Kisatrtle and Rocky.
I was just wondering if you guys, or anyone else who stumbles upon my rantings, knows of any good tools or applications that I should put on the blog. My main aim is to be able to communicate easily with people who view my blog and highlight comments from contributors as a thank-you for their effort. I want people to contribute to the development of this story and I want to make it as easy as possible.
Back to Raymond Figg. Rocky has asked about the root cause of his breakdown.
I am not entirely sure yet myself. Raymond has been with me now for a few days and like meeting a new friend, slowly I am learning more and more and where once he was like the silhouette of a stranger passing by me on a foggy night, I can now see him with increasing clarity, his physical features at least.
I make him to be in his early 30's and attractive not in your archetypal square-jawed, tall dark and handsome way, but in a boyish way. You can still see the boy in his face and eyes. About 5f10, with curly brown hair and soft eyes.
In my mind's eye his sits with me on a beach and we are staring out over the water towards a sunset. I wonder why he chose to bring me here. Off to our left I see a pier and there I see "The Selkie" with Captain Angus sitting on its deck. I turn my mind's eye back to Raymond; he seems pensive and his face is downcast. I wonder if it has always been this way. I think about what question to ask him first but he beats me to the punch:
"What's happened to me?" he asks himself more than me. "I used to be happy. Great job managing a team in a call-centre. Great girl. Great friends. Great life." He picks up a shell and casts it towards the water. "I was the life of the party, full of energy, looked forward always." He turns to face me. "I had dreams, Joe," he says. "I believed I could do great things. The world was full of magic and opportunities..." he turns away again and picks up another shell which he throws with venom into the water. "Now my life's gone to crap and I don't know why." He shakes his head. "What happened to the old Raymond Figg. I want him back. Now."
I can't help but feel for Raymond. There are a thousand questions I want to ask but this will take time, I need to go slowly and ask the right questions as you would with anyone in pain whom you hope will become a friend. Instinct tells me the questions can wait and it is more important to listen.
"12 months ago," he continues. "Out of nowhere. I wake up feeling a bit funny. I had a lot on at work. I try to get ready but this funny feeling doesn't go away. I feel light-headed, like I've eaten something spoiled. I sit down on my bed and I start to think the walls aren't real. Can you believe it? I'm sitting on my bed looking at the walls thinking, my goodness are they real and then I start to think the same about the floor, I feel like it's insubstantial, incapable of supporting my weight, that If I step onto it I am going to fall into some abyss. My heart starts to pound trying to force it's way out of my ribcage, there's a steel collar around my throat and I'm finding it hard to breathe, I feel like I'm going to soil myself, a cold sweat forms on my forehead. I want to get to the phone but I'm scared of getting off my bed...I feel like I'm going to die."
I nod.
He stands and walks to the water's edge; he is facing away from me looking out to sea. "Where did this come from? Why?" He turns back to me. "I'm 32 and I had to call an ambulance. And there was nothing wrong with me. Panic attack the doctor's said. See your mental health professional. I AM NOT CRAZY!"
He walks back and resumes his seat. "Ever since that day I've changed. Every little spike in my body and I think Oh Oh here we go again. I check my pulse every day. I check for hospital locations when I go out just in case...." He pauses. "Does this sound like a normal 32 year old to you?"
I'm not sure if he wants me to answer so I remain silent.
"Well?" he asks.
"Have you sought help, Ray?" I ask.
"Mental health professionals?"
"Yes."
"No. I'll get through this. I'm no quitter. I've done some research on the net. Read the forums. I've learned how to control the panic. I'll find myself again. This is just a rough patch."
"You need to talk to people," I say.
"I'm talking to you."
"Not just me. What about your friends? Family?"
"I don't see my friends much anymore."
"Why?" I ask but he doesn't answer. "What about your family?"
Raymond gets up again and stares at the pier 200 metres to our left. "My father used to take me there when I was little," he says. "Loved boats, he did. We were going to buy our own boat one day, dad and I. There was an old boat at that pier, one that dad used to get me to draw when I was little, so we could build it when I got old enough."
Raymond turns back to face me, there are tears in his eyes. "My dad used to say, 'Imagine the adventures, son. You and me. The captain and his mate.'" He kicks the sand and scoffs. "All gone," he says.
"The Boat?" I ask.
"The Boat. Our Adventures. My dad."
Before I have a chance to say anything, he leaves me. And I am left with a 1000 more questions.
thanks for the feedback and comments from Shannon, Kisatrtle and Rocky.
I was just wondering if you guys, or anyone else who stumbles upon my rantings, knows of any good tools or applications that I should put on the blog. My main aim is to be able to communicate easily with people who view my blog and highlight comments from contributors as a thank-you for their effort. I want people to contribute to the development of this story and I want to make it as easy as possible.
Back to Raymond Figg. Rocky has asked about the root cause of his breakdown.
I am not entirely sure yet myself. Raymond has been with me now for a few days and like meeting a new friend, slowly I am learning more and more and where once he was like the silhouette of a stranger passing by me on a foggy night, I can now see him with increasing clarity, his physical features at least.
I make him to be in his early 30's and attractive not in your archetypal square-jawed, tall dark and handsome way, but in a boyish way. You can still see the boy in his face and eyes. About 5f10, with curly brown hair and soft eyes.
In my mind's eye his sits with me on a beach and we are staring out over the water towards a sunset. I wonder why he chose to bring me here. Off to our left I see a pier and there I see "The Selkie" with Captain Angus sitting on its deck. I turn my mind's eye back to Raymond; he seems pensive and his face is downcast. I wonder if it has always been this way. I think about what question to ask him first but he beats me to the punch:
"What's happened to me?" he asks himself more than me. "I used to be happy. Great job managing a team in a call-centre. Great girl. Great friends. Great life." He picks up a shell and casts it towards the water. "I was the life of the party, full of energy, looked forward always." He turns to face me. "I had dreams, Joe," he says. "I believed I could do great things. The world was full of magic and opportunities..." he turns away again and picks up another shell which he throws with venom into the water. "Now my life's gone to crap and I don't know why." He shakes his head. "What happened to the old Raymond Figg. I want him back. Now."
I can't help but feel for Raymond. There are a thousand questions I want to ask but this will take time, I need to go slowly and ask the right questions as you would with anyone in pain whom you hope will become a friend. Instinct tells me the questions can wait and it is more important to listen.
"12 months ago," he continues. "Out of nowhere. I wake up feeling a bit funny. I had a lot on at work. I try to get ready but this funny feeling doesn't go away. I feel light-headed, like I've eaten something spoiled. I sit down on my bed and I start to think the walls aren't real. Can you believe it? I'm sitting on my bed looking at the walls thinking, my goodness are they real and then I start to think the same about the floor, I feel like it's insubstantial, incapable of supporting my weight, that If I step onto it I am going to fall into some abyss. My heart starts to pound trying to force it's way out of my ribcage, there's a steel collar around my throat and I'm finding it hard to breathe, I feel like I'm going to soil myself, a cold sweat forms on my forehead. I want to get to the phone but I'm scared of getting off my bed...I feel like I'm going to die."
I nod.
He stands and walks to the water's edge; he is facing away from me looking out to sea. "Where did this come from? Why?" He turns back to me. "I'm 32 and I had to call an ambulance. And there was nothing wrong with me. Panic attack the doctor's said. See your mental health professional. I AM NOT CRAZY!"
He walks back and resumes his seat. "Ever since that day I've changed. Every little spike in my body and I think Oh Oh here we go again. I check my pulse every day. I check for hospital locations when I go out just in case...." He pauses. "Does this sound like a normal 32 year old to you?"
I'm not sure if he wants me to answer so I remain silent.
"Well?" he asks.
"Have you sought help, Ray?" I ask.
"Mental health professionals?"
"Yes."
"No. I'll get through this. I'm no quitter. I've done some research on the net. Read the forums. I've learned how to control the panic. I'll find myself again. This is just a rough patch."
"You need to talk to people," I say.
"I'm talking to you."
"Not just me. What about your friends? Family?"
"I don't see my friends much anymore."
"Why?" I ask but he doesn't answer. "What about your family?"
Raymond gets up again and stares at the pier 200 metres to our left. "My father used to take me there when I was little," he says. "Loved boats, he did. We were going to buy our own boat one day, dad and I. There was an old boat at that pier, one that dad used to get me to draw when I was little, so we could build it when I got old enough."
Raymond turns back to face me, there are tears in his eyes. "My dad used to say, 'Imagine the adventures, son. You and me. The captain and his mate.'" He kicks the sand and scoffs. "All gone," he says.
"The Boat?" I ask.
"The Boat. Our Adventures. My dad."
Before I have a chance to say anything, he leaves me. And I am left with a 1000 more questions.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Captain Angus Cargill
Firstly let me say an enormous thanks to Shannon and Kisatrtle for reading my blog. I am truly honoured.
Everywhere I look at the moment, and maybe because I have a heightened sensitivity to it due to story that is forming in my head, I see and hear people extolling the virtues of new age spirituality, of modern day guides: The celestine philosophy, The secret, the works of Eckhart Tolle, just to name a few.
Tolle is now a household name due mainly in part to Oprah and the online classes discussing his work. I have read his latest and many other works by philosophers new and old when I felt my mind becoming receptive to the ideas of happiness and meaning in the modern world.
I have no doubt that the teachings of spiritual leaders and philosophers help many to find happiness. But I also wonder if it is sustainable, will the works of some of these teachers still be mentioned in years to come or are they cyclical? Do they hold the same value to all or are they simply products of the western world's desire to get away from the 'rat race'? How does "the secret" help a starving child in Africa? How does "living in the now" help a family that is starving with no money? Would significant human achievements like those of Martin Luther King have happened if the man did not have a vision for the future?
Physicists search for unification. The unifying law that brings together the various theories: string, quantum, relativity... and unites them all in an single unquestionable truth.
Do we have a single unifying law for the soul and spirit?
John Lennon famously said "all you need is love." Is that true? Can serial killers love? Dictators bent on shaping the world in their own image, are they capable of love?
Is faith that unifying law? God? And is he for everyone?
What is that single undeniable truth for happiness? Is there just one? Is there any?
All these questions form a maelstrom of ideas, doubts and questions in my mind. My mind is set on a track to write this book and Raymond Figg has appeared in my head. But writing is not a start at A finish at B process. My mind having focused on the theme of my story now begins to explore all the tangents and in the maelstrom, seeds begin to be planted. I feed them with information relating to the story I want to write and the seeds begin to germinate, their young and delicate shoots are buffeted by the winds of the maelstrom - but the seedlings have taken hold and they are strong.
One of these seedlings is Captain Angus Cargill. The maelstrom in my mind ceases and clarity sharp and vivid takes over. I see the Captain sitting on his boat. He is weather worn and ancient, wisps of white hair float around his head on the gentle sea breezes. His boat seems in a similar state of disrepair, detritus strewn all over its deck. He looks at me with eyes that are sharp and strong but full of sorrow. "It is time for me to go," he says. "Where?" I ask. "I wish to go to my love." A solitary tear rolls down his cheek. "Where is your love?" I ask. "She rests with the seals," he replies. I notice the name of his boat "The Selkie". The legendary seal people of Ireland and Scotland. "That's impossible," I say. He looks at me and through his eyes I see his will begin to fall apart. "You are right," he says. "But not because I do not ever have faith but because my body fails me and I cannot ready this ship for my last voyage."
I am not sure what to say to him, his sorrow has touched me. "She," he begins, "was my soul's partner." He looks away. "With her last breaths, she took my hand and kissed it, 'I love you Angus Cargill' she said to me, 'keep me in your mind and have faith that I will be near you always, in the sea that you love, with seals that we both loved.'" The captain seems to have become older in front of me with the burden of his sorrow. "I've failed her memory," he says. "This boat will not be ready and I have lost my strength and my faith." He looks back to me and the fire and intensity has returned to his eyes. "So it is time for me to go, maybe you can help me young man. If you cannot I will go of my own accord, I have had a good life, travelled the world, met many people, I have loved and learned but now there is nothing left for me here."
I don't know what to say, the captain's image stays fixed in my mind and I feel a ball in my throat at his plight. "You can't go," I scream in my mind's eye. "You can't. You still have so much to give." The Captain looks at me with a mixture of hope, confusion and sorrow. "I am old and beaten," he says, "I have nothing left for you." I physically shake my head even though my conversation with the captain is happening in my imagination. "NO YOU CAN'T GO ANGUS. I have someone for you to meet," I say. "Raymond Figg is his name. He needs you. And you need him. Please."
The Captain of the Selkie nods. I am mentally exhausted but happy.
Raymond Figg wants to talk, he has something to tell me about his father. I don't have the energy. I need to go outside and see the world. Talk to people of flesh and blood.
Joe.
Everywhere I look at the moment, and maybe because I have a heightened sensitivity to it due to story that is forming in my head, I see and hear people extolling the virtues of new age spirituality, of modern day guides: The celestine philosophy, The secret, the works of Eckhart Tolle, just to name a few.
Tolle is now a household name due mainly in part to Oprah and the online classes discussing his work. I have read his latest and many other works by philosophers new and old when I felt my mind becoming receptive to the ideas of happiness and meaning in the modern world.
I have no doubt that the teachings of spiritual leaders and philosophers help many to find happiness. But I also wonder if it is sustainable, will the works of some of these teachers still be mentioned in years to come or are they cyclical? Do they hold the same value to all or are they simply products of the western world's desire to get away from the 'rat race'? How does "the secret" help a starving child in Africa? How does "living in the now" help a family that is starving with no money? Would significant human achievements like those of Martin Luther King have happened if the man did not have a vision for the future?
Physicists search for unification. The unifying law that brings together the various theories: string, quantum, relativity... and unites them all in an single unquestionable truth.
Do we have a single unifying law for the soul and spirit?
John Lennon famously said "all you need is love." Is that true? Can serial killers love? Dictators bent on shaping the world in their own image, are they capable of love?
Is faith that unifying law? God? And is he for everyone?
What is that single undeniable truth for happiness? Is there just one? Is there any?
All these questions form a maelstrom of ideas, doubts and questions in my mind. My mind is set on a track to write this book and Raymond Figg has appeared in my head. But writing is not a start at A finish at B process. My mind having focused on the theme of my story now begins to explore all the tangents and in the maelstrom, seeds begin to be planted. I feed them with information relating to the story I want to write and the seeds begin to germinate, their young and delicate shoots are buffeted by the winds of the maelstrom - but the seedlings have taken hold and they are strong.
One of these seedlings is Captain Angus Cargill. The maelstrom in my mind ceases and clarity sharp and vivid takes over. I see the Captain sitting on his boat. He is weather worn and ancient, wisps of white hair float around his head on the gentle sea breezes. His boat seems in a similar state of disrepair, detritus strewn all over its deck. He looks at me with eyes that are sharp and strong but full of sorrow. "It is time for me to go," he says. "Where?" I ask. "I wish to go to my love." A solitary tear rolls down his cheek. "Where is your love?" I ask. "She rests with the seals," he replies. I notice the name of his boat "The Selkie". The legendary seal people of Ireland and Scotland. "That's impossible," I say. He looks at me and through his eyes I see his will begin to fall apart. "You are right," he says. "But not because I do not ever have faith but because my body fails me and I cannot ready this ship for my last voyage."
I am not sure what to say to him, his sorrow has touched me. "She," he begins, "was my soul's partner." He looks away. "With her last breaths, she took my hand and kissed it, 'I love you Angus Cargill' she said to me, 'keep me in your mind and have faith that I will be near you always, in the sea that you love, with seals that we both loved.'" The captain seems to have become older in front of me with the burden of his sorrow. "I've failed her memory," he says. "This boat will not be ready and I have lost my strength and my faith." He looks back to me and the fire and intensity has returned to his eyes. "So it is time for me to go, maybe you can help me young man. If you cannot I will go of my own accord, I have had a good life, travelled the world, met many people, I have loved and learned but now there is nothing left for me here."
I don't know what to say, the captain's image stays fixed in my mind and I feel a ball in my throat at his plight. "You can't go," I scream in my mind's eye. "You can't. You still have so much to give." The Captain looks at me with a mixture of hope, confusion and sorrow. "I am old and beaten," he says, "I have nothing left for you." I physically shake my head even though my conversation with the captain is happening in my imagination. "NO YOU CAN'T GO ANGUS. I have someone for you to meet," I say. "Raymond Figg is his name. He needs you. And you need him. Please."
The Captain of the Selkie nods. I am mentally exhausted but happy.
Raymond Figg wants to talk, he has something to tell me about his father. I don't have the energy. I need to go outside and see the world. Talk to people of flesh and blood.
Joe.
Monday, May 5, 2008
The seeds have been planted
0 comments, o views. Funny. Maybe I should concentrate more on writing my ms (manuscript) then on blogging. But something tells me that I should be doing this, for a number of reasons, and I have learned to trust my instincts even if I 'm not sure of the language they are using to speak to me.
I briefly toyed with the idea of researching strategies to supercharge the traffic to my blog but then thought otherwise. I've had to scratch and fight so hard to get my other projects to publication that I feel like I deserve a crack at trusting to fate. So I've decided I'm going to leave the blog in the hands of the of the "word-of-mouth gods" and if interest is generated then so be it.
The central theme of "happiness in the modern world" has been bouncing off of the grey-matter walls in my head for days. Pressure creates diamonds and I think the same applies with ideas. Constant musing on ideas - with numerous iterations, changes of mind, reshaping, going off on tangents - generally leads to moments of clarity. These moments usually occur when you've taken a rest from staring at the same spot, like some madman, talking to yourself while trying to reach a revelation on the central theme of the story you're going to tell. Out of habit, I try to frame the central theme into one sentence that will encapsulate the story that I wish to tell. I find that this technique stops me from trying to write about too many themes and muddling the true message of what I want to get across. My father, a very wise man, once told me that the best tasting pizza is the one that is simplest, because you can be sure to taste the flavour -too many ingredients and the flavours are lost.
Anyhow, I digress, please forgive me.
Back to the central theme of "happiness in the modern world". I have a character forming in my head and his name is Raymond Figg. He is sitting on the side of his bed with his head held in his hands. A year ago he suffered an anxiety attack and the resulting depression has changed his world forever. Before his anxiety episode he had everything a successful guy could want: a great job, a loving partner, friends. He has told no one that he's suffering, not even his family, and he refuses to seek help. He thinks he'll be alright. I (the writer) am not so sure and I begin to worry for him. I want to know more about him? What happened? Where did the anxiety and depression come from if he had such a good life?
It's time for bed (for me the writer) and as I close my eyes, Raymond's face appears and he begins to talk to me. Here we go, the madness of creation begins.
I briefly toyed with the idea of researching strategies to supercharge the traffic to my blog but then thought otherwise. I've had to scratch and fight so hard to get my other projects to publication that I feel like I deserve a crack at trusting to fate. So I've decided I'm going to leave the blog in the hands of the of the "word-of-mouth gods" and if interest is generated then so be it.
The central theme of "happiness in the modern world" has been bouncing off of the grey-matter walls in my head for days. Pressure creates diamonds and I think the same applies with ideas. Constant musing on ideas - with numerous iterations, changes of mind, reshaping, going off on tangents - generally leads to moments of clarity. These moments usually occur when you've taken a rest from staring at the same spot, like some madman, talking to yourself while trying to reach a revelation on the central theme of the story you're going to tell. Out of habit, I try to frame the central theme into one sentence that will encapsulate the story that I wish to tell. I find that this technique stops me from trying to write about too many themes and muddling the true message of what I want to get across. My father, a very wise man, once told me that the best tasting pizza is the one that is simplest, because you can be sure to taste the flavour -too many ingredients and the flavours are lost.
Anyhow, I digress, please forgive me.
Back to the central theme of "happiness in the modern world". I have a character forming in my head and his name is Raymond Figg. He is sitting on the side of his bed with his head held in his hands. A year ago he suffered an anxiety attack and the resulting depression has changed his world forever. Before his anxiety episode he had everything a successful guy could want: a great job, a loving partner, friends. He has told no one that he's suffering, not even his family, and he refuses to seek help. He thinks he'll be alright. I (the writer) am not so sure and I begin to worry for him. I want to know more about him? What happened? Where did the anxiety and depression come from if he had such a good life?
It's time for bed (for me the writer) and as I close my eyes, Raymond's face appears and he begins to talk to me. Here we go, the madness of creation begins.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
It starts with an idea
Have you ever wondered where your favourite book started? What was the original thought that prompted J.K Rowling to begin creating the world of Harry Potter? Where did Willy Wonka come from?
The genesis of such incredible feats of imagination always intrigues me. Now I don't profess to be Rowling or Dahl, I have been lucky enough to see a few of my works go to publication and more importantly, have people enjoy my work. For me, the idea for a book rarely comes when I am striving to think about an idea for a book. Sitting in front of a computer thinking, Right what's my next book going to be about, is never a very productive or fruitful exercise. For me, ideas come when I immerse myself and become receptive to all that goes on around me, where all forms of stimulus - TV, other books, the net, world news, people, nature, conversation - spark my imagination into action. Where information is stored in my brain in the form of an abstract melting pot of unrelated events, people and raw data. As time passes, as I continue to take in more of the world around me, a single event, person of raw piece of data will trigger a link to something already stored in my brain and the genesis of an idea begins to form.
Sounds confusing? Let me illustrate the above by telling you how the idea for my new project came along.
It's been a year or so since I finished my last project and I had decided to take a rest from writing. Plus a few dramatic personal issues got in the way of my muse. Funny but for me I can feel myself entering into a state where I need to begin writing and creating, it is like a physical pull that I can't resist and if I ignore it, it drives me insane. A few months ago I felt the push to begin to create, so my mind automatically became hypersensitive to all that was going on around me: wars, starvation, drought, terrorism. The world seemed an unhappy place. When I ventured out I noticed that a lot of my friends seemed to be unhappy, and others I spoke too were not happy. This pall of pessimism and unhappiness seemed to be penetrating to individuals and to the souls of individuals. At this stage this was merely an observation on my part but then I began to notice the amount of ads on mental illness, anxiety, depression. I began to notice the amount of people spruiking knowledge on how to be happy. I sat at cafes where well dressed people digested gourmet meals and the words of Eckhart Tolle. I listened to talk back radio where people swore by "The Secret". Everywhere I looked there seemed to be people searching for happiness and meaning and others that claimed to have found it.
It got me to thinking, why are so many people unhappy these days? Why are so many people, many of them young searching for answers? Has the mid-life crisis shifted forward 20 years? Is the spiritual and religious world not enough to sustain the lost souls of the modern world? How much has modern society got to do with this epidemic of the lost and sad? Many of the people I spoke to were well off, in loving relationships and yet they still felt they were missing something.
And then I saw the old man sitting on a park bench seemingly smiling at nothing. Was he a senile old bugger? Or did he know something that I didn't, that most of us younger than he do not? Has anyone ever bothered to ask him?
And the idea for my next book began to take shape. We look for knowledge on how to be happy from texts, tv, radio, newspapers and yet for the most part we ignore the wisdom of those who would be in the best position to provide insight; those that have actually lived a life and can still smile. Maybe we are all looking for happiness in the wrong place.
So I have the idea. Synapses in my brain are firing into life. Characters are beginning to form in my head of their own volition; the characters are wispy and ethereal and I try to stem the tide telling myself that there is still work to do on the concept before I can even think about the landscape and characters of the book.
I have an idea, but I need to be clear on what this story will be about, or risk beginning the writing process and stopping half way because the idea was jumbled from the outset.
I grab my coat, walk down to the beach and go for a walk, all the while thinking to myself. Here we go again. The writing process is about to begin and it's a long and arduous journey. Are you up for it? I ask myself. I know the answer. I have no choice. If I was to ignore this idea it would chatter at me inside my brain demanding to be formed. Yep, I have no choice and I am glad for that.
So now the hard work begins, I hope you follow my journey and I welcome your company and your comments and maybe even your friendship.
regards,
Joe.
Next: The characters begin to form in my mind
The genesis of such incredible feats of imagination always intrigues me. Now I don't profess to be Rowling or Dahl, I have been lucky enough to see a few of my works go to publication and more importantly, have people enjoy my work. For me, the idea for a book rarely comes when I am striving to think about an idea for a book. Sitting in front of a computer thinking, Right what's my next book going to be about, is never a very productive or fruitful exercise. For me, ideas come when I immerse myself and become receptive to all that goes on around me, where all forms of stimulus - TV, other books, the net, world news, people, nature, conversation - spark my imagination into action. Where information is stored in my brain in the form of an abstract melting pot of unrelated events, people and raw data. As time passes, as I continue to take in more of the world around me, a single event, person of raw piece of data will trigger a link to something already stored in my brain and the genesis of an idea begins to form.
Sounds confusing? Let me illustrate the above by telling you how the idea for my new project came along.
It's been a year or so since I finished my last project and I had decided to take a rest from writing. Plus a few dramatic personal issues got in the way of my muse. Funny but for me I can feel myself entering into a state where I need to begin writing and creating, it is like a physical pull that I can't resist and if I ignore it, it drives me insane. A few months ago I felt the push to begin to create, so my mind automatically became hypersensitive to all that was going on around me: wars, starvation, drought, terrorism. The world seemed an unhappy place. When I ventured out I noticed that a lot of my friends seemed to be unhappy, and others I spoke too were not happy. This pall of pessimism and unhappiness seemed to be penetrating to individuals and to the souls of individuals. At this stage this was merely an observation on my part but then I began to notice the amount of ads on mental illness, anxiety, depression. I began to notice the amount of people spruiking knowledge on how to be happy. I sat at cafes where well dressed people digested gourmet meals and the words of Eckhart Tolle. I listened to talk back radio where people swore by "The Secret". Everywhere I looked there seemed to be people searching for happiness and meaning and others that claimed to have found it.
It got me to thinking, why are so many people unhappy these days? Why are so many people, many of them young searching for answers? Has the mid-life crisis shifted forward 20 years? Is the spiritual and religious world not enough to sustain the lost souls of the modern world? How much has modern society got to do with this epidemic of the lost and sad? Many of the people I spoke to were well off, in loving relationships and yet they still felt they were missing something.
And then I saw the old man sitting on a park bench seemingly smiling at nothing. Was he a senile old bugger? Or did he know something that I didn't, that most of us younger than he do not? Has anyone ever bothered to ask him?
And the idea for my next book began to take shape. We look for knowledge on how to be happy from texts, tv, radio, newspapers and yet for the most part we ignore the wisdom of those who would be in the best position to provide insight; those that have actually lived a life and can still smile. Maybe we are all looking for happiness in the wrong place.
So I have the idea. Synapses in my brain are firing into life. Characters are beginning to form in my head of their own volition; the characters are wispy and ethereal and I try to stem the tide telling myself that there is still work to do on the concept before I can even think about the landscape and characters of the book.
I have an idea, but I need to be clear on what this story will be about, or risk beginning the writing process and stopping half way because the idea was jumbled from the outset.
I grab my coat, walk down to the beach and go for a walk, all the while thinking to myself. Here we go again. The writing process is about to begin and it's a long and arduous journey. Are you up for it? I ask myself. I know the answer. I have no choice. If I was to ignore this idea it would chatter at me inside my brain demanding to be formed. Yep, I have no choice and I am glad for that.
So now the hard work begins, I hope you follow my journey and I welcome your company and your comments and maybe even your friendship.
regards,
Joe.
Next: The characters begin to form in my mind
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