JulNoWriMo

Rather like NaNoWriMo, the goal of JulNoWriMo is to write 50,000 words to a novel. Although by no means as large or as dominant across literature as the former (only 194 participants last year!), JulNo is a great break to the year for those who want an incentive to write, can’t wait for NaNo, or are too busy in November – or all three. Basically, a summer NaNo. But should NaNo be NoNo? Is it worthwhile?

I think it is.fficult to stick with a plot, largely because I never plan and get lost at chapter five, so much so that I’m thinking of setting up camp at Writer’s Block Causeway. But this time is different. I planned. Sort of. I’ve got the main points written down in an order I’m sort of happy with and I’ve got a shot. I’m writing, basically, as much as possible to my current novel. I don’t think I’m going to make 50,000, though. XD

Fun with Necrophiles.

I like that title. A bit. Kind of. Meh. I did only 800 words yesterday, but would like to do another 1000 today. It’s not enough to get 50,000, but it’s a fair amount for me.

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And now for another disgraceful, self-published by PublishAmerica novel:

Sorry for these; I’m just ovewhelmed by the amount lulz, which again Robert found. xD This one’s better, though; the author’s writing a script based on a trailer to a book-adapted film that hasn’t even been made. Watch it and weep. I genuinly thought it was a joke. Heh.

Poetry – W.H. Auden’s Funeral Blues

Had a rather depressing English lesson about death poems today, but this one has only one word: beautiful.

#

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
silence the pianos and with muffled drum
bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
my working week and my Sunday rest,
my noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
for nothing now can ever come to any good.

#

I just like it. =] Getting into poetry a bit myself, and I particularly liked a comment someone in my class made:

“Why would a poet write poetry?”

“becuz theyr sadd!!!!1!11one”

And this is while he’s exercising he’s rather thrilling variety of life, or rather, flicking bits of paper at people. Yah. He’s cool. I want to be him.

I think it’ll be a while before I post any of mine, though. XD

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

What would you ask them?

Christopher Paolini, Gloria Tesch, all those self-published self-loving writers. What would to ask them? For Paolini, I’d probably ask which novel he sees as his best and why he ignores criticism so much. Being slightly more civilised, he’d probably provide a somewhat comprehensible answer – if a bad one. Tesch on the other hand, would probably just scream at me. XD

But what specific questions would you ask Gloria Tesch? Robert wants to know.

So, yeah. Robert (Svivality) also came across this little gem. That link should send you to the amazon reader, and just flicking through it, I think we’ve found another lulzworthy self-published book. I like how it says she got a train through Britain then went to England. Because obviously England is not the largest province in the UK – no, no. Course. The writing is, I think, slightly better – if only by the slightest – than Maradonia. Tesch, ma dear, you’ve competition.

She doesn’t seem to have an email so I can’t email her. =( Ah well. Apparently, if you criticise it, she’ll appear nearby and say that it’s a children’s book so you have no right. XD Neil Gaiman said something about Children’s fiction being banned. And I agree with him. People like this woman basically say, “ZOMG CHILDREN ARE STEWPID THEY CANT HANDLE PROPA BOOKS HAHAHA.”

Adults shouldn’t be reading her books. Only 9- to 14-year-olds. Anyone else who reads it or writes a review about it is weird and sick.

But this particular book brings a storm. You can find it in Waterstones and Barnes and Noble. That’s right. Two of the largest book shop chains in the world, and they stock Antigua. There is no hope.

I thought I should update this blog.

But for the benefit of this not going entirely about weird self-published literary crap, let’s talk about me. ME ME ME ME ME. Merry Mourners is coming along nicely – but I lost my train of thought with it with all the exams, so I’ve only done about 3000 words in two weeks. Rubbish. Now all I’ve got his history coursework which, as soon as it’s done (by preferably tonight) I can do moar writin and cool stuff.

I’m so booooring.

Hmm.

Oh, and watch this:

XD Maybe you just have to watch the Apprentice to find it funny.

Waterstones Bastards

And here is Gloria Tesch going to a fancy dress party as an insane kettle-shaped liquorice allsort.

Just had to post that. xD

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Anyway.

Sorry for not posting or doing anything that might involve this blog for a while. I’ve been doing so much of everything. Grr. On a lighter note, I have raped Waterstones once again–there have to be a few illegetimate children in there somewhere.

I bought Neil Gaiman’s American Gods, and The Bell Jar, by Sylvia Plath. Good books. Anywho. Need to find something worthwhile to blog about.

I’ve started writing a novel! I actually like the idea–it’s friendly, interesting and not stupidly wannabe philosophical. Guy wakes up on an island with a dead man next to him. He spends a few days wondering how he got there, and stuggling to survive, and it turns into a long murder mystery. It has a clever ending (or at least in my opinion) but meh.

So.

I will think of something clever to write about in my next blog entry.

I just thought that picture was funny.

Maradonia and the Seven Bridges

Disgusting, no? I found the file where I saved the first forty pages at school, when I should have been revising – rather like now – and thus I offer you a few of my favourite parts. It’s too long to post it all here. In fact… I’ve set up a page with it all on, found here.

I don’t own any of it, so the copyright is entirely upon Gloria Tesch of Maradonia.com. I promise. It’s not my fault.

Anyway, lol at this:

…the feast was being prepared at the palace of ‘Apollyon, the King of the Evil Empire’

I kid you not. That is it. She so used italics and quotation marks. She so started a novel with elipses. She so called the Empire the “Evil Empire”.

I mean, what? Did Hitler say “Vote for Evil Nazis! Slaughtering your family with you in mind!”

… or maybe Stalin:

“All people are equal, but some are more equal than others, like you. Don’t vote and we come round to your houses and butcher you like dogs!”

No! It didn’t happen! That’s why we need to care. I feel sorry for this guy. I mean, everyone’s insulting him and he’s done nothing wrong, and now he’s got an army of psychopathic teenagers with knives (chavs) knocking on his door. I’m rooting for him.

This is not who I think should be the good guy in her novel:

Unless, of course, they have good reason. They don't.

Tesch also thinks that empires are ruled by kings. She also thinks that people vote for kings. In fact, so does Paolini. Notice the similarities?

And yes, this book was self-published. And not to have a dig at home-schooled people, but Tesch was. In other words, her lack of cohesion with society and the fact that her parents are practically controlling and brainwashing her, everything they say boosts her ego with fear of upsetting her. Same thing with Paolini, only he’s a good salesperson, regardless of his crap writing.

Oh, and how could I forget? Her alter ego, hotrussian101, who decided to swear at me and try some terrible insults, posted a video of her fighting some girl called Cassie. When I drew it to her attention, she took it down, obviously to avoid bad publicity. I shall post some her “insults”, lol.

Still in suspense?

Lookies here:

I’ll pick out some more exciting things in the video spork, which will be posted on here and YouTube! When it comes out. Of course.

Oh, and guess what? I’m getting published! I submitted something for the YW Literary Journal back in February, and I got accepted! It’s only a short story, but I still felt great when I found out; ’tis called Burnt Sausages. I can’t wait! To see something that I wrote on paper, and I mean, like, book paper. I’ll post the link when it comes up for sale, and, if you want, you can buy it. Heh.

Sorry for the brief post once again! Just had some things I wanted to share. Heh. Oh, and no more exams for about a fortnight, methinks, so I have spare time.

Best,
Mark

Fighting with Crap

Londoners. They are insane. I promise.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2009/apr/24/espresso-book-machine-launches

I haven’t updated for a while, and in fact, I haven’t read or written much either. Too many exams, too little time, too little sleep, too much head-banging.

But!

With Obama’s fantastic decision to eliminate Guantanamo Bay, America needs a new torture device in three different varieties! It will make you want to be sick.

I really want to do a post on Maradonia and the Seven Bridges! It’s one of those crappy fantasy things written by an immature pre-pubescent girl on an ego-trip. I know that by mentioning its name, I am giving it yet more publicity, but to be honest, it’s just so funny!

I mean, it’s not meant to be; however… yeah. XD I’ve been writing a script for a video piss-take with my friend at school (he did most, in fact next to all, to be honest).

I’ll try and find the link for you–the first forty pages on the author’s “website”. (she puts random things in quotation marks). Now, you see, I like to help writers. Heck, on the Young Writers Society I do a lot of reviewing, and I try to improve their writing skills. I asked her to check out YWS for self-improvement, so that she wouldn’t have to self-publish it, and that she might one day improve. I meant it in genuine promise.

So far, she has only sworn grotesquely at me and claimed to be a best-seller and a better writer than me. I’m no Orwell, but she’s not better than me. Honestly. And I’m not trying to sound vain, or big myself up, because I’m still very bad and have a long time to go before publishing. I bet even you, reading this, are better than her. I cannot explain to you these atrocities without showing them to you. LOLLOLOLOL. She also believes she is the world’s youngest novelist.

(It seems she has removed the excerpt. I cannot find it through site-mapping. But nonetheless, it is of no disconcerting fact, as I have it stored on my computer in foreshadowing this wise move of hers, perhaps the first.)

Anyway. Before I get too caught up, I’ll direct you to some sporks already floating around the internet. I didn’t do them, obviously: respect to their rightful writers.

Impish Idea: Part One

Impish Idea:Part Two

Anti Shurtugal

They spork it much better than I. xD

I should be writing, shouldn’t I? Actually, I thought I’d post something or other. Little Redbreast. I’m quite pleased with it. *nods* Not far in, though. Here’s a little bitty:

A spectre in the sun’s glow. It shivers. A grey, unrelenting perversion upon the forest’s canopies. Birds begin to sing. Soft, treacle-glazed lullabies drift in their tunes; a chorus of voices lift the light in the sky. But still he sits in the shadow. Colours flourish under the golden sun but Robin’s breast is still dull. It does not glow. The world is moving on without him.

A choir of robins is scattered out there, somewhere. And he cannot see them. He shifts about in the dark. Robin is hidden. He wants to stretch out his wings, and his throat trembles with the urge to sing. But his beak will not open and the dark has bound him in. There is no room.

Notes flounder through the fields of spring and bubbles rise to the sky—

a flash of red—

the orange flails—

Little Redbreast floats ahead and stares at him. Two stars painted with black gloss watch him and the beak that does not sing protrudes ever so gently from the feathers. And then it is gone.

The sun is an eye. A big orange eye. It’s coming to get him. He knows this because the sun is an eye. The eye is staring. The sun is coming. Because the sun glowers. Scowling—scowling at its food. Hunger. Starvation. It’s coming.

‘Come here, little Robin,’ it says.

Robin screams and his tongue stammers into life. His heart squeals and the midday snatches him out of the shadow. The sun is watching. There are no clouds. Noises all around him. Monsters with wings fill the day with chants, ritualistic commands drilling into his skull. Pounding, pounding, the world shimmies in his eyes. More, more, chiselling in.

Cracking. His skull. Cracked.

Dizzy, dizzy, whining the skyline. Nests podded. Whistling at him. And then the spring awakens and the skin of green peels away and the red burns and there is no peace. Pounding, pounding, dressing the grass in fire.

His wings they reach first. Blowing such a blast upon his feathers that they tear from his skin and burst asunder and drizzle down upon the flame and they see him, so many eyes, so many birds, so many worms and all the king’s horses and all the king’s men—

Robin rocks in the hole. Back, back and forth.

He cannot go outside. The shadows mumble to him, cradling Robin as a mother in the alleys of nature. Hugging. The mother says nothing. The trees creak against the still air. He must eat. He must eat.

OMG vanity all the way. It’s not that good, but good for me. Just smile, dammit.

Best,
Mark

I Don’t Get Homophobia

Every now and again, be it YouTube, blogs, websites, or just day-to-day life, I come across homophobic comments, insults and downwright bullying. And I don’t understand it. I mean… why? Just why? What’s wrong with being gay?

The Bible says so.

Now, I’m atheist, so that argument is already completely flawed. Society is not governed by society, and vice versa, so they should be treated separately. Besides, the Bible says a load of other crap. It states that adulterers should be stoned (gays, too, in fact) and that woman is below man. Also, slavery is encouraged. If a son lies to his father, he is to be beaten. None of these confirm today’s society, and if you can’t pick, why ignore these? Days move forward, but if you are Christian you will stay with the Bible at its prime or none at all.

There is not a single secular argument against homosexuality–not one. I have heard many attempts, mind you, but they are all pathetic:

It’s unnatural.

I have been told by gays that for them, it is the most natural thing in the world. It is unnatural for them to think about heterosexual sex, and yet, that is not wrong. (See my last post.)

Animals don’t do it.

Firstly, they do. A lot of animals have had homosexual sex, or at least, have mated and been together. Baring in mind that humans don’t have mating seasons and are more interested in love, typically speaking, that argument goes out the window when we ask, “Since when have animals produced our modern moralities?”

We also eat them.

If everyone were gay, humans would die out.

So what? Just because we accept gay people doesn’t mean everyone will suddenly become one. I mean, any gay person will tell you that they never chose their life, just as heterosexuals didn’t decide to be straight. They just are. If everyone were female, the world would die out. Does that make it morally wrong to be female?

AIDs is nature’s way of killing off gays.

I laugh at this one. I mean, honestly? Are you saying that all the millions of people in Africa, where being gay can be a capital offence, are, in fact, gay themselves? Besides, gays can easily get round the AIDS problem–wear a condom. The problem was that they thought it was unnecessary since no one can get pregnant.

No one can reproduce

Good. Humans have already overpopulated the Earth. Should condoms be thus destroyed? Should infertile people be culled? Besides, they can adopt and give a lone orphan a home.

Anyway. I reckon that in a few years, homophobes will die out; it’s the sudden change in society. The same thing happened when slavery was banned. Except, America had a sivil war over it, so it’s a little more extreme situation. =]

I also thinks it barbaric how, in America, gays can’t serve in the military. I mean, that’s… well, yeah, babaric. I don’t understand it at all.

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Moral Relativism

Don’t worry; I won’t get all serious on you all the time, but I was thinking that I needed to get this off my chest.

• There is no right and wrong.
• There is no good and evil.
• There is only fact and fiction.

Morals do not universally exist; mine are different to yours and yours are different to mine. The only arguments I have ever heard against it are as follows:

• Are you saying that we are no better than Hitler and Stalin?

Yes.

• Should we therefore tolerate murderers and paedophiles?

It’s up to you. Since these are both defined by law, you can either go against society or accept it. Your choice. Personal ethics.

• If that’s the case, you’re saying that it is true (”right”) for there to be no morals, defeating your own point.

Nope. Fact is not moral relative. It just is. It’s how humans construct the idea that define whether it’s good or bad.

Freedom does not exist. Only in total anarchy would there be a chance, but even then, I cannot do what I want. I am restricted to gravity, to matter and to energy, for instance.

So many writers misuse these terms. Paolini, I’m looking at you. By calling your empire “evil”, I feel sorry for it, in fact, and I hate Eragon more. I mean, what’s Galby done? Poor guy. It’s about the struggle of the character, deciding what to do, not because it’s just bad. And besides, how does he know it’s bad if he cannot contrast it to another society? It’s all he knows, so…?

That is all.

(I also hate humanity. Slaughter everyone, I say, before we do any more damage. Perhaps this blog should “Diary of the Cynic”?)

Because You Care

I don’t do plans. They’re nasty. They hurt people. They kill more novels than they write. Or maybe that’s airbags.

I wrote a brief age thing for Eterne. What Logan does at different ages and stuff. And his brother. The good guy. I hate good guys. They’re so boring and unimaginative. Murderers are better. Murderers are more interesting. They rule.

Sadly.

I’m ust not diggin’ the plot. It’s original but it’s messy and kind of weird and overly philosophical. Meh. Whateverness.

I love Neil Gaiman and Cormac McCarthy. I had a discussion with one of the Waterstones’ people about the latter when I bought Blood Meridian. The Road was topic abound. It’s amazing. Read them both.

I saw Brokeback Mountain. It’s a sad film. Brilliant, but sad.

I’m feeling randomly empty and alone these days. I need cheering up. I’m off to London tomorrow. That should be fun.

Perhaps another mention about the modern disgraces upon literature soon. Paolini, I will get you again. And you Miss Gloria Tesch. Maradonia and the Seven Bridges my arse.

(She started swearing at me, pretending to be older than she was but forgot to change email address. If that’s literature…)

(Paolini, you are a disgrace to literature. Actually, you might be a nice guy, but your writing is the shit. You compromise my belief that everyone should be literate.)

This is so me right now:

(But I’m not an emo.)

Bonjour, kiddies.

On Dating Writers

I haven’t logged on for a long time, let alone approve comments and post. I mean, two months? Two and a half months? Also, allow me to apologise for the all kittens killed when I claimed DEM forums were Paolini fan content. They are not. Forgive me.

Right, so, what’s happened? Since last time? A lot has happened:

1) I wrote some flashfic; it didn’t work out. Don’t ask the details. I’m not in the mood.

2) I gave up on that story I was writing. With the weird name. The beggar dude. Yeah, had a complete rethink. But! I think the new idea is far better, and I’m about 12000 words in. It takes ideas from the old thing but it makes sense and isn’t so… pretentious. I also think my writing style has a improved a bit, but we’ll see about that. It’s called Eterne, featuring Logan and his brother, Finnian. They’re both idiots (one’s a murderer and the other’s a depressed, retired detective).

3) Just before I started Eterne, I was writing a different novel, which was what I was talking about before–the nightmare world? You won’t know it, i guess. That didn’t see the light of day, but I might continue without in the future.

4) And before that, even, I wrote 1800 words into a novel, Milkman, a single day. I actually think it was quite good (for me) but it was too random, and, well, humour isn’t my strong point. Go Terry Pratchett/Douglas Adams! On that note, I bought Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy and Nation. They are awesome novelists. Oh, and The Road by Cormac McCarthy is one the best books of the millennium, and Birdsong is also awesome.

So there you have it. =) I’m desperate to finish Eterne by my birthday in December–the sooner I can get away from the alarm clock, the better!

So that’s my personal update. I also love Neil Gaiman, which is a random footnote I thought I’d throw in there

Now, why would someone date a writer?

1. Writers are really passionate.
2. Writers will give you that tingy feeling when you know that you’ve been romanced.
3. Writers will join the crusade against accountants, for they understand the worth of love as glue and not money, or that fake hybrid rope of the two.
4. Writers will think about you when tey write, and you will book up a book or poem by him or her, and understand that you’re the protagonist or a sexy antagonist.
5. Writers discuss different perspectives; it’s part of their day.
6. Writers are intelligent. You can’t deny that. Unless they’re very bad, of course,
7. Writers can think through their feelings and give them to you.
8. Writers are creative.
9. Writers may be able to adjust their schedules for you, considering how plain it is.
10. Writers wear thesauruses in the heart. They’ll list the reasons for their love.
11. Writers don’t ask for much. A book or two won’t go amiss.
12. Writers are sexy. Well, I might be the only one, but oh well.

So? To date or not to date?