There is a reason why most if not all of the “classic books” ie the ones that have gone down in history for being really good, break all the “rules” of writing you hear being batted around today, and its a good reason: there are no rules. None. Literally none. War and Peace has an uneven and “choppy” narrative, Crime and Punishment describes environments rather than “showing them” (what?) and Bleak House is so ridiculously long that it would never be published by anyone. I could go on with these examples all night but I have filming to do tomorrow and I am tired. There are so many. Write your stories because they are yours. 

“Life does not have to be this way.”

But I continued to think because life was as it was, not as the reflection in the mirror told me it could be. You are there, I am here, you are as you are, I am as I am. I wondered if I ought to record the whole ordeal in a series of metaphors of planets spinning about suns, or cross roads and moments which do not last forever and hopes which are never realised. And dreams that are everything but are dispelled in the morning. The world is such a bustling place, and, somehow, amongst six billion people, I had never felt more alone. Those six billion people were just people. They were not you. 

“Write a story. Write a song. Write something. Act. Sing. Do something.”

The mirror man continued to offer his demands, his instructions. I had heard of tortured artists, suffering endlessly and, in time, being bathed in the glamour of the horror that had destroyed their lives. Does hurt equal creativity? Perhaps I could make some use of it after all. Stories, poems and songs are not of this world, though, they are of the life within, which is the life without (without) and can alter nothing. They cannot call to you. They cannot and they will not call to you or help me. I began to wonder. If there was any reason. 

“Think of the future. Think of bright lights. Think of success. Think of achieving. Think of something.”

Which was true. Which was valid. These were and are my dreams but they are the future and the future is far away and far away is not now and thus far away is of no assistance. I began to eye that mirror man and wonder why he was here. The future was so far away. I wondered how I could survive in now and, even if the future was shaped into my wish, if I could even survive then. There are two lives. There is that life of success and aims and bright lights and there is that life within which demands, which needs (…)

“In which case, you had better not think. Do something to avoid thought.”

Even the mirror man offered this with irony, for he knew perfectly well, and I continued to think. I remembered my initial hopes for Me - to be made of metal, to be impenetrable, to have no feelings because feelings are weakness and weakness is silver bullets. Endless silver bullets arcing through the air. I would cheerfully have taken a metaphorical knife and removed from myself my metaphorical heart and tossed it into an equally metaphorical void. This was impossible though, and instead I thought of joint hurt, why another’s hurt could damage me, why everything was damaging me and why I dreamt of Monsters. 

“You must stop this at once.”

But I could not. And I thought of all the words I had never used and all those treasons which seemed like treason but were not, but were so much more. And what I wanted to do to help, to be of some use and to make things better. To make Happiness, which may not be real. The sickness was rising. 

One night the moon looked down upon the shattered earth and knew at last that from this dream, the world would not awake.

I thought, if only I could cry, I would feel better, but my eyes were like deserts. I tried to be God and make it rain, but there was nothing. There was such a universe of nothing. All those stars, those galaxies, those vast portions of vacuous black: mere nothingness, resonating, existing only inside me, so that I was the entire, sham universe, the entire, dead void. I am the black hole which ate reality and made it this: a blank. 

Time and I sat on the hillside, enjoying the peace of the summer time. Above was only placid blue, and Time, apparently at ease, had laid aside his scythe and sat contemplative, a smile of contentment upon his face as daisies and grasses grew about the scythe, partially concealing it. Truly, we had not a care in the world, and Time was a cheerful companion, for he would laugh and make jokes and tell such wonderful stories of what was and would be. Upon that hillside there was peace, an everlasting type of peace which shimmered through the distortion of the heat haze and the weight of the pollen scent, which lay thickly on the air. Our elevated position afforded us a panoramic of the surrounding countryside, but I would only look in one direction, out across the rolling hills, the farmland, the meadows of flowers, and Time would smile, and comment that it was indeed a glorious sight. Time was, however, not so unaware of the world around him, and I would occasionally catch him glancing in that other direction, for on the furthest reaches of the other horizon was a darkness which was either that of the night, or a tremendous storm. At first, Time would only glance there, in that fatal direction, but his eyes would linger upon the blackened line of the horizon longer than I felt they ought to. Still, though, he would avert his eyes, and be at ease, and we would be at peace upon our hillside, basking in the sunshine of the eternal summer. I would notice, though, that Time’s glances towards that horizon were growing more frequent, and gradually he seemed to grow a little anxious. He attempted to draw my attention to the darkness, gently at first, with only the mildest of warnings, but I would laugh aloud, dismiss his concerns, for the horizon was many miles away - more miles than I could ever imagine, and the darkness would disperse, would become meaningless, the winds would change, something would occur. It was too faraway to be of any concern, and I would turn back to the meadows and look upwards, feeling the warmth of the sun as it pressed keenly into my face.

My companion would not be pacified, though. He would nudge and poke me, chastise and warn me, and he grew increasingly determined to draw my attention towards that horizon. It was, I realized, the night, but it was a storm too - for giant, black mushroom clouds, charred and crackling with lightning had swollen themselves into life in the distance, but it was the distance, the very edge of the distance, and too far away to be of any concern. I turned angrily from my companion, who was beginning to disturb my peace, for I was beneath the sun, amongst the flowers. The storm was drawing closer, though, he would say, again and again, and there was genuine fear in his voice. Still, I would dismiss him, silence him, but the storm was drawing closer. Giant claps of thunder were audible through the fields, the earth began to quiver and Time’s chattering voice became incessant. I had turned my back on him though, towards a more pleasing view which still existed. He would not be ignored though, he grabbed me, shouted, pleaded and finally, determined to silence him once and for all, I turned.

I did not see my companion and friend, Time, though. Instead, all was black. The storm had been realized, the sky roared and rolled, lightning flashed in jagged scars into the earth and the rain, borne upon a howling gale, came lashing, icy, into my eyes. Blinking, struggling to defend myself from the weight of this onslaught, which must surely be the end of the world, I sought for my confident, my companion, Time, but he was not to be found. His voice remained, though, inexplicably audible above the cacophony of the storm and I found him at last, for he was in the sky, amongst the clouds, roaring with the thunder, and he mocked me, screamed at me with all his rage as the full might of his wrath came crashing into my tiny form. 

Sometimes, I would think that all the mistakes were a dream, and I would wake to the life I imagined; lived in hindsight, without hindsight.

Or not. Anyone with Twitter will no doubt have noticed that a good number of the trending topics have been writing related of late - which is obviously a good thing. Social networking (specifically tumblr and twitter) seems to have, dare I say it, reinvigorated creative writing, or at the very least connected writers and opened up the writing world so that it either seems larger, has grown larger or always was large, but now we can see just how many people are writing. Either way, I would suggest that social networks have done something to the writing world. Without a doubt, it is different now than it was. This is not, however, my main point. While those trending topics were writing related, they were mainly concerned with writing “tips,” the “dos and don’ts” of writing - effectively 140 character writing lessons. Obviously, there were some purposefully comical ones which did make me laugh, and not all of the “tips” were serious, but nonetheless it highlighted one of my pet hates. I really cannot stand many of the writing tips that get offered around, or the fact that there might be a “best way” to write, or that people think there is. I stayed well out of those trending topics and did approach most of what was tweeted with a certain amount of cynicism. What qualifies those people to give writing advise and say whats wrong and right in writing? What gives me the qualifications? The answer of course is nothing - I am not qualified to give writing advise, nobody is, because nobody has ever written the perfect book, and nobody ever will. The nature of writing is that it is almost entirely subjective. What makes something “good” for one will probably be a huge turn off for another - and the true magic of fiction, what truly makes a book great can’t be completely described or even known. At the heart of fiction is a hidden quality that will always remain undefinable.

This is not to say that I am completely against advise. If Roger Federer offered me tennis lessons, or Slash said he’d teach me some riffs, I would listen. Indeed, if J.K Rowling sent some writing tips my way, or a magically reanimated Shakespeare or Tolstoy offered me some advise I would probably be inclined to listen. It wouldn’t do a great deal of good, though. These people are unique - they are legends because they are themselves - attempting to copy them would only open up a vast and miserable path to failure. The only strategy in life is to be yourself and do what you do your way - I honestly do believe that that is the key to success. You are by definition unique, and therefore, if you work in a way which is true to yourself, it logically follows that your output will be unique. In an ever crowded market this is especially vital. Attempting to push everyone along a similar path is frustrating to see, even if those tips are all meant in the best possible spirit, which I am sure that they are. It just suggests that there is a “best practice” which of course there isn’t. Furthermore, the endless lists of tips hinted faintly at what I have long felt about writing - it still has a certain type of elitist feeling about it. Even those people of the supposed independent revolution (a phrase I despise in itself - independent publishing is not arevolution - the French Revolution was, this isn’t) seem to feel that they harbour the specific knowledge to be a success - that having anything published by default puts a person in a place to offer all manner of coaching. Certainly, this is not the case. Being published is an accomplishment for sure, but many amazing people haven’t been yet - and leaving them to their own devices seems to me to be the best way.

I understand that sharing knowledge is a nice thing to do, but in this case it feels to me as though it is counter productive and unnecessary. And don’t get me started on agent related ones. Not only have I never struck upon a single piece of advise in this twitter trends which has been of even minor use, but if someone who is insecure about their writing goes on there, reads and attempts to follow every single tip from every single person the result would be disastrous. Information overload. Its great to see so many people interested in writing, but the fact remains - there is no golden key, no perfect way, and certainly, nobody on earth is really in a position to say just what is right and wrong. Only individual writers are - if it works for you, it works 100%, if it doesn’t, it doesn’t - writing is as simple and as uncomplicated as that. 

I gazed out over the ruined fields, the desecrated meadows, the dead flowers, and knew, finally and for certain, that there was no contentment anywhere in the world. Happiness, perhaps, because happiness is transient, it is by definition fleeting, but contentment is only thus when it lasts. In my eyes, I saw what was in my heart. Everything cherished is eventually corrupted and ruined beyond all repair, be it due simply to time, or due to the actions and intrusions of other people - pollutants and creatures who will squirm their way into the pure. Some wind, some breeze, surely, must stir those ruins, but if it did it would only cause the scent of decay to come rasping into the city. The ruined should remain ruined, that is the only hope, that what has been destroyed remains destroyed, and does not stir into some nightmarish half life as a charade of what it once was. There is no place for the living dead. Loss is the moment when something can no longer be sustained, when those events surrounding it ruin it and render it untenable. Certainly, the world was ruined and untenable. I wanted the past back. I wanted it back. But it was the past, and as dead as the landscape. Turn away, turn far away. 

Chapters are strange things. They certainly do perform a technical function for the reader - having somewhere to stop reading and put a book down for the night is useful, and they similarly allow for the creation of a coherent place to restart the reading process the following day. Without them, it would be difficult to know when best to stop reading, and where best to start again. For the writer, too, they are of use - they give shape to a narrative, the sort of shape which rises and falls, builds, climaxes, leaves suspense and then resolves. They allow for those “cliff hanger” moments at the end of a chapter, for the build of anticipation, and then the ensuing resolution. This episodic structure aids the writing process and of course makes planning a novel all the easier, if you prefer to map out a plot first, which I generally don’t in any tight sense. Apart from a few books (His Dark Materials, Harry Potter) I would suggest that a novel certainly will not have its chapters remembered or even referenced, and generally speaking its unlikely that a book will go down in history for its exemplary use of chapters and perfect structure. However, some novels are in my memory with regard to chaptering, and my favourite uses of the chapter format are in The Amber Spyglass, War and Peace and The Deathly Hallows - the latter largely because I remember most of the major scenes in that novel by their chapter headings. In the Amber Spyglass, it was those snippets of poetry at the start of every chapter which I found quite fascinating, and they certainly contributed to the feel and atmosphere of that novel. As for War and Peace, the intermingling of “historical” chapters with chapters charting person history largely grant that work its “epic” proportions.

As I mentioned, though, I don’t plan my novels out on paper beforehand. This is not to say that I don’t know the story. I have never commenced writing anything without knowing everything that happens, how the plot develops, culminates, what happens to the characters - but it is not written down in terms of an actual step by step plan, as I feel this stifles creativity. Instead, I have my idea, the plot written down, loads of disordered notes written in various places, and then I write. Which is why I find chapters more problematic, and why I consider them as a secondary concern. I would never write such a tight plan that lists a chapter by chapter development, ever. I can hardly understand the reasons to do so, either. The chapters in my previous novels have been ordered and apparently coherent. The only thing unusual about Lilith’s Tears  was the three uneven book structure - not especially unusual really, only the lengths, the short part one, and the very long book three, which was essential. Again, The Travelling Circus of Lacrimosa was only unusual in that it was structured in terms of a play, rather than a novel - a choice that I won’t go into, but have done elsewhere. It still is structured, only in scenes rather than chapters, and acts rather than parts. Christmas Crossings, being a novella, had no chapters whatsoever and, at the moment, as I continue to write the first draft, The Blue Bricks Part I, despite being over 130 pages long, is completely devoid of chapters. It will, in fact, have no chapters until the very end, if it gets any at all.

This has been the way with all my novels. Lilith’s Tears was always going to have the three part structure, even as I hand wrote that first draft, it was written in those sections. The same is true of The Travelling Circus of Lacrimosa, the Acts, or parts, were always there, but there was nothing else, no chapters in between. The Blue Bricks Part I is divided, there are roughly two parts, similar to those in Lilith’s Tears, but no chapters. I cannot be entirely sure whether or not this next book will end up with chapters or not, but I always leave them until the end. Trying to write in a chapter format creates all kinds of issues - there is chapter length, keeping them reasonably uniform, limiting or expanding “action” accordingly, requiring a certain type of “cliff hanger,” having to effectively write for the end of a chapter, and then write again as if restarting the narrative. Personally, I would like to keep the writing process as free as possible, focus only on the narrative I planned and not attempt to squash it into a pre determined structure. For something which is meant to be creative, this is surely the best thing to do. As a concession to the fact that chapters probably are needed, I will put them in properly at the end. Which leads me to an interesting point.  Writing is by nature episodic. A story is one extended episode, divided into a series of smaller events. Despite not giving chapters a second thought while writing, all of my books are easily divisible into their respective chapters. When going through Lilith’s Tears after it had been typed, edited etc - it took no effort whatsoever to divide it up, it was done in minutes. Chapters formed, ended and began naturally: the novel fell organically into an episodic structure, essentially that up and down structure of ending and commencing dramas and events which I talked about earlier. This is the natural form of a narrative, of course it is - because it is the natural form of life.

Chapters? Useful to format a book - but, as far as I am concerned, useful practically rather than creatively. Like the book spine, the paper its made out of, and the size, chapters are more of a practical choice. They give us somewhere to stop reading, somewhere to start again, and divide the action helpfully into chunks which are easier to digest, rather than forcing us to keep reading endlessly and get no sleep at all.

“Hatred isn’t something you’re born with.” I had heard that quote often. I had heard it in the film, I had heard it in the song - I had heard it in my own head until, quite suddenly, it seemed to gain resonance. I knew of hatred as a real thing - not the ignorant, bigoted hatred that the quote referred to, but the hatred at wrongs, the hatred towards hateful people, the hatred towards the bad, the hatred towards those who are monsters, the hatred towards those ones who corrupt and do endless harm. This hatred would rear on occasion, recede, and then rear again. In time, though, it would never quite recede, it would be ever present. Sometimes it would simmer, at other times, usually when something recalled me to the object of hate, it would brim and boil. The world seemed an increasingly dark place, and that darkness hovered around me, hovered with all manner of other darkness, the loss, the hopelessness, the fear, the corruption, the scheming, the using, the impossibility of remaining and the impossibility of leaving. Gradually, I came to realise that the nightmare was as it was because it would not end - that shadow would always be there, would always be lingering in the background as it desired. I had taken steps to purge it, I had felt that I was strong enough to sever myself from what I could not be severed from - but this was not true - and it was attached. The darkness was attached to the only light. It was in the air around me, certainly, all those negative emotions, all those various pollutants, and eventually I grew convinced that I was breathing them in so that I became dark too, became a creature of the night, a twisted monster, lumbering through the streets after midnight. In time, I was sure, I would simply melt into the night, for my own saturation into it was a fog, was hindering my relations with others, was making me seem careless and cruel when in fact I was the opposite - when in fact I was being slowly consumed against my will. Every memory, every feeling, ever tiny speck of darkness was in my blood stream, in my veins and I felt it course through my arms, its pulsating voice asking for it to be removed, for it to be let out and freed. 

This could continue no longer. I knew very well, and I eyed the forest.

That some people - regardless of what happens in life, regardless of everything and anything, in fact - never stop caring for another person until the day they die, and there isn’t anything they can do about it. What do we think?? Agree/disagree?? In the words of old school exam papers…discuss..

I saw them all: the man on the cathedral steps who I gave the money to, who didn’t help me, the drunkards by the bus stop, clamouring, loud, who demanded the money, even the people I passed, the people I spoke to. I saw them all, floating, disembodied faces at the side of the road, replaying themselves endlessly, speaking into the silence. I remembered all the others, too, and at first my guilt at them being faraway, at them being severed from me, was all I was, then my guilt was the road upon which I walked, the road from darkness to the darkness, and then I was the road, and I walked. 

Is frustrating. Anything can happen with any word at any time.

Anyone following me on Twitter will be well aware of my rants and constant tirades about hatred for Facebook/what goes on on there. So, I finally deleted it, and at the same time proved how deeply ingrained it is in everyday life. Like iPods, computers and other such things, its so much a part of life that it isn’t something you even notice until its gone (I once dropped my iPod down the stairs…and then I was more than aware of what I’d lost..) and I keep absently attempting to go on it. Anyway, it has gone, so here are some of my findings. Its worth noting that I didn’t even delete it with the aim of saving time, there were innumerable others reasons, but I have saved A LOT of time, this is how my day, without Facebook, has gone:

1) Edited LOADS of the Travelling Circus of Lacrimosa, seriously, the edits have come on so far today, it will be done well in time for December 1st. 

2) Written tonnes of the novel to be released after that, The Blue Bricks Part I. And by tonnes..I really do mean a lot.

3) Recorded the guitar parts for a whole song.

4) Wrote the lyrics for another song.

5) Prepared and ate a massive sandwich. It was good.

6) Watched an entire film.

7) Wrote several more sonnets.

8) Began typing up the handwritten parts of the Blue Bricks Part I.

9) Sketched out/planned what the cover for the Travelling Circus of Lacrimosa will look like.

10) Started mixing the guitar parts I recorded in Garageband.

11) Not been put in a bad mood by something on Facebook.

I think this proves beyond all reasonable doubt that Facebook eats time, lots of time. I haven’t liked a single status for an entire day..feels kinda weird. In fairness, I will probably surrender to crippling withdrawal symptoms and return with a new profile sometime in the not too distant future..