Tag Archives: raziel 4707

And so I’m back… from outer space… I just walked in to find you here with that sad look upon your face. Presumably because you’re in my house and shouldn’t be. Now… get out…

So… it’s been a while. How are you? How are the kids? How’s the WEATHER?

I think that’s still how people speak to each other, but hey, I’m no expert.

Anyhoo…

I’ve been busy. I’ve had exams of the HOLY FUCK I REALLY HAVE TO PASS THIS variety. I’ve had a lot on writing-wise and that’s only going to get worse. Well, better, depending on how you look at it. There’s going to be more of it, put it that way.

Currently:

Spares (in novella form) was submitted to and then rejected by a very nice publishers who liked the idea, liked the writing and are keen for me to submit further writing to them. Super! It’s a rejection of the very best kind so I’m feeling highly confident and happy at the moment and it’s really spurred me on. Not bad at all for a “thanks, but fuck off” letter!

My magnum opus (Coburn: The Black Saint cycle) is in the planning stages and will remain so for “some time.” I’m not rushing this one and it will be going on in the background for as long as it takes to do it right and get it finished. It will be a trilogy and, once I’m done writing it, I will start to pimp out the first book. This is going to take YEARS, so I may be boring you with updates on it infrequently but for a long time. Haha.

I have three short stories in with publishers and am waiting with baited wotsits for news on those. One of which I would have expected to hear about if it had been accepted, so I’m writing it off as a dead ‘un. One I should hear about this month at some point, probably, and the third I’ll hear about sometime in September, probably. I’ve got one more to write for one of these publishers and will then be off

One other short story I have written was done to spec, so that’s in with the editors at the moment and there’ll be a proper announcement for the anthology once we’ve got dates and artwork to bandy about. The anthology is going to be called “The Night Wind’s Whispers” and features myself and several others writers from the Black Library Bolthole, talented bastards all. More on that soon…..

Now; current project. I can hammer out short stories pretty fast and novellas with reasonable alacrity, so I’m going full-bore to write a novel as quickly as possible. There will be semi-regular updates on this one (semi-regular like someone who eats only bananas and prunes, presumably) and this one will be a little… erm… it’ll be odd.

Expect to hear about the completed “Gumptions Follies” in the next four months. I aim to have it done (first draft form of course) by the end October. Why? Well, it’s fun writing to a deadline and the anthology I’m to be a part of is to be released in time for Halloween, so I’ll be racing alongside. This gives me four months to complete the project and, hopefully, that will be plenty.

Watch this space for a sample in the next couple of weeks!

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Are you a writer? Well? Are you?

You can’t do it. You lack the inspiration, the drive, the capabilities or the creativity. You have the time     management skills that the White Rabbit would have if he was off his furry little tits on absinthe and weapons-grade ganja. You’re never going to get published because you have three pounds of goat shit where your brains are supposed to be. Your typing fingers are greasy, flaccid nubs, incapable of creating superlative prose or pleasing a woman. You have the creative aptitude of a two inch rubber cock. You suck, like, really bad, you dumb fuck. Put that pen down and back AWAY from the writing industry and go do something you were born to do. Wanking yourself silly into a paper bag on Wimbledon Common or something, like some sort of filthy-minded, indecent Womble. If you’re female then substitute the last few details for Smurfette, Alan Carr’s back garden and a rolled up copy of the Radio Times. It doesn’t matter. You’re still rubbish.

I very much doubt anyone has ever said any of the above to you but these are the sorts of things that go through my head after falling into the negativity traps that lie all over the bleedin’ shop when you’re an aspiring writer. It often feels to me like you’ve got a writer or interested party on each hand pulling you up, while an entire PACK of bastards are either yanking you back down or standing there with their foot on your head. Everyone has an opinion on what it takes to be considered a writer and a lot of the time, you’re going to find out that you’re not it. In their opinion, at the very least.

My advice to you is two-fold. Firstly, define and describe yourself however the fuck you want to. Fine, you’re going to come over as a twat if you introduce yourself as a writer and will look a prize cock if they ask what you’ve written and you have nothing to tell them, but you can qualify it however you like. Writer in my spare time, shit-house poet or the man with the golden pen. If you love to write, like to write or just do write, no matter how much or how little, as far as I’m concerned you are a writer. How good you are is your fucking problem, right? But that brings me on to the second piece of advice: fuck’em. Conceptually, not actually. Unless you want to, you sick puppy. “Writer” is a vague term. Just because someone else’s personal definition precludes you, don’t let that ruin your day. There are a great many people that I both respect and like that would not consider me a writer and, on that one key point alone, I couldn’t give a flying basket full of tortoise turds what they think and neither should you.

YOU know what you consider makes someone a writer. If that is your goal then aim for it and go balls-out to get it, and don’t allow self-doubt to creep in because some asshole has a different set of criteria. Let’s use a crude analogy, shall we? What makes someone a good lover? Some like it long, some like it quick and some like it while being hung upside down by the ankles while being shot repeatedly in the ass with paintballs. One term, millions of definitions, and only one set of criteria that you should value in any way: YOUR OWN.

The best inventors in the world create a few great things while standing on top of a fucking MOUNTAIN of failures that would fill a hundred sheds, stacks of blueprints for daft things like grape-toasters and thermal-imaging goggles for aphids and dozens of rejected patent applications because the patent office couldn’t be arsed to register the “intercontinental ballistic hamster magnet.”

As and when you get to where you want to be, you’re going to need a thick skin. Those who love your work might praise you but they will be drowned out by those that don’t like it, and who have the many tools of the internet at their disposal and will do their best to stop you ever producing anything else, simply because they mistake their own opinion for cold, hard fact. Oh, that and because they’re pricks.

You have a hard enough path ahead of you and, believe me, it is LINED with bastards. At some point you will need to realise that you must judge yourself on your own terms, identify the helpful noises in the deafening cacophony of bullshit and ignore the twats. Might as well start as you mean to go on, really.

 

 


The Importance of Freeing Norris.

I don’t know about the rest of you, but I find that at times, being a naturally creative person SUCKS. There’s nothing wrong with referring to yourself as creative by the way, you don’t even have to be good at anything to be creative, you just need to have that urge to make stuff where there was previously no stuff. It’s a free-to-join club that simply lets you say to the world hey, I want to add to you, and that’s a pretty cool club to be in. It’s better than being destructive, though now actually I think we should call a vote that allows me to ban people who want to make stuff as in “smoking craters in the ground where there was previously stuff” from the club. Or at least they should have their own night and hold their meetings in a subterranean lair that can withstand a nuclear blast from the inside.

And that, my good people (and assorted pricks, I’m being inclusive here) is a fair example of what I mean. Creativity isn’t like a lot of other aspects of a person’s makeup in that creativity just won’t leave you the fuck alone. It’s always there at the back of your mind, telling you to do stuff, invent stuff or just prodding at you with ideas and images that you should TOTALLY use for stuff later on. Your creative mind (hereafter referred to as “Norris”) is basically sat there with a sheet of sugar paper the size of a universe and a Pritt Stick the size of my schlong (helloooooo ladies) urging you to turn your life, your friends, your family and everything around you into one giant collage. That would have totally been a poetic reference without the dick joke. Damn it, Norris! Back in your basket.

I find being creative to be, at times, enormously frustrating. Like most of us I work regular hours, have a regular schedule and in general do things as regularly as a clockwork ass. Norris, on the other hand, doesn’t work that way. Norris likes to shout things at random when I’m trying to get to sleep, which usually results in me having to wake up, reach over to the BlackBerry and email these things to myself so that Norris will go back to thinking about pornography and let me go back to sleep. Norris also likes to yell things at me during phone calls to boring members of the public or while I’m driving, while I’m doing something I actually get paid for or, with rather embarrassing regularity, when I’m on the toilet. I now with absolute honesty take my BlackBerry with me every time I go to the toilet and, I’m sorry to say, that every one of you that has read more than a couple of pieces of my work has almost certainly taken a little mental jaunt with me to wherever my mind goes when I’m on the toilet. But don’t blame me, blame Norris.
Sometimes, for me at least, having Norris on my shoulder at all hours of the day can colour things in my routine rather darkly. It makes me feel like I’d rather be anywhere other than at work and doing something that I feel I was born to do, rather than something that, while I enjoy doing it, is something that I do for practical reasons and to put food on the table. This isn’t a stab at work, I’ll have you know, because it has been the same with every job I have ever had regardless of my level of enjoyment within that position. The fact seems to be that Norris simply does not do well with an imposed structure and, at times, seems to actively rebel against it. The greater the level of external control within my environment, the harder Norris pushes against his restraints and tries to get me the hell out of there, leaving me very frustrated and unfulfilled by anything other than pouring these ideas and flights of fantasy out onto paper.

This isn’t all a bad thing but at times I’m certain that it makes life difficult for all owners of a Norris, who is constantly trying to draw their eyes away from their Excel spread sheet so he can have a look out of the window. It leads to resentment and to itchy feet, combined with a longing to escape that you are neither willing or really able to fulfil when you have commitments, such as family, that are far more important to you in real terms than the screaming, demanding Norris that won’t leave you alone.

So what does this mean for those of us on the nine-to-five grind? (I’m on eight to five, you bloody part-timer). It certainly doesn’t mean that you have to suffer endlessly with that voice in your ear and that constant tapping on your shoulder, but it does mean that you need to find an outlet. It isn’t easy to make time for that creative output when you have a career, a family and all of the other commitments that most of us have, but if you want to shut Norris up for long enough to let you get on with your life free of interruptions and the stress that comes with the horrible feeling of being trapped that you sometimes experience, you have to find some. If that means half an hour of frantic typing of an evening or relentless scribbling of notes during your lunch break then do it. Keep a pad of paper to hand to jot those notes on (just so long as it doesn’t take you away from your actual job for more than a few seconds), keep ideas on your phone or put up a whiteboard in your bathroom. Maybe you won’t have time to write, draw, paint, sing, perform or achieve everything that your Norris wants you to, but by adding that pressure relief valve to your world you will at least be able to take the edge off.

The more time you make for Norris, the better off you will be, though I’m not telling you for a moment to drop everything and indulge fully in your passion when you have bills that need paying unless Norris is in a position to pay those bills for you. You have nothing to feel guilty about if you have a Norris on your shoulder and you certainly do not have to feel like a failure for slogging away at the grindstone with the rest of us, even when you feel you should be holed up in a shack somewhere drawing a picture of a squirrel that should grace the walls of the Louvre. Creative output is good for the soul and utterly essential to those of us who have creativity in our veins.

Whatever the avenue you choose, good luck, I hope you find a way to shut the little bastard up, because I know my own Norris is driving me insane. That said, since I started writing a daily blog, taking more notes, completed another draft of my novella and hammered out the plans for more creative writing over the rest of this year and well into the next, he’s been giving me a lot less hassle. He’s even been quite affectionate of late, for a hypothetically constructed creativity daemon.

Perhaps all he really wanted was to be let out to play.


To milestones. Hip-hip, somethingorother.

Today is a milestone day for me. Well, the milestone itself technically came yesterday, but while the completion of a project might make you want to celebrate, it also sometimes makes you want to slump. I chose the latter, in as much as it’s possible to slump a few hours before waddling off to my Thursday evening Muay Thai class.

As usual, I digress. I’ll probably do so again in a moment.

I completed a full chapter-by-chapter plan for my first novel, currently entitled “Lucher,” yesterday afternoon. So ok, it’s a part of a project as opposed to the project itself, but there is a very good reason for this being a milestone for me that is perhaps greater than the completion of a piece of writing in and of itself: I never plan anything.

Beyond a swirling vortex of notes on paper, my computers at home and at work, my laptop and my BlackBerry, there is never anything resembling a structure on which to pin my ideas, an idea of where I’m going or how I’m going to get there. I’m a disorganised mess in many aspects of my life and it has served me very well, or at least it did up until the point where I had a family and decided that somehow, more was expected of me. This has rubbed off on me from my wife who is super organised, makes lists, keeps large sections of my brain in her diary and generally is the scaffolding that holds our family together. I won’t gush but she’s brilliant and, thankfully, quite tolerant of my slightly erratic nature. Very fond of my wife. I’ll probably name the planet after her once I take over.

It’s not all bad though; it isn’t that I don’t get things done it’s just that I have a very direct approach to things in general. Life’s planners are often highly valued and rightly so, as they make the world go around and keep the buses running on time (har-de-har-har) and that is a strength that my wife has in abundance. I, on the other hand, have an entirely different skill set. If you want to organise a music festival (for example), Kat would find a way. She would remember to book the porta-loos, would get estimates on the numbers expected and how many cars to prepare for and would have ample first aiders on hand. All the required permits and licensing would be dealt with and for every eventuality she would have a contingency, within reason, that would make the whole thing a success. She’d also have organised a clean up crew and would leave the place as she found it, with everyone having been paid and having fully enjoyed themselves.

But what if aliens invaded during Iron Maiden’s encore?

That’s where people like me come in. I would probably make a reasonable go at the organisation if I put my mind to it, but it would cause a major headache for me as it goes against my nature. Kat would have it all running smoothly until the first mothership loomed overhead, and then she would phone me. I’m the sort of person you drop into the centre of unmitigated chaos and then stand back and let them get on with it. I think on my feet, deciding on solutions and dishing out tasks to other people and shooting from the hip, grabbing anarchy by its dreadlocked testicles and pounding it with sheer determination until it gives up and does as it’s bloody told.

When things go wrong, I’m your man. When you want to plan something so it probably won’t go wrong, Kat’s your lady, and between us there is nothing we can’t manage.

But, ever eager to improve myself, I thought I’d give this planning thing a go, and I have to admit that it has gone fairly well.

It isn’t the super-anal, well thought out and bullet-pointed sort of a plan that some other people seem to swear by, but it’s certainly a happy medium that will make writing this novel considerably easier for me. It’s very “stream of consciousness,” not a little disjointed and quite scrappy in places, but it undoubtedly plots the entire story from beginning to end with all of the appropriate stops, character points and even some “witty” dialogue options inserted along the way. It isn’t the sort of thing I would send to an editor who insisted upon seeing one (let’s hope I can avoid that for the time being) but it represents a point of personal and, hopefully, professional growth for me as a writer, and as a person.

This may be the last of these that I ever write but it might well also be the first of many. This could mark a failed experiment in altering my approach to my work or it might represent an epiphany that leads to a smoother, more productive creative process for me. I’m betting on the latter, and it has to be said that I have my wife’s example to thank for that.

While I’ve got you here…

Quick blog-plug for all-round good egg and Mslexia runner up Nichola Vincent-Abnett, who is celebrating her 100th blog post! She’s written a blog every day for the last 100 days and I think you may enjoy them.

http://www.nicolavincent-abnett.com/


Progress report on “Spares” and the following novel.

Well I’ve been busy, to say the very least. The novella is very nearly complete and I am simply awaiting feedback from a couple of truly wonderful people (cheques are in the mail, honest) before I can get it totally polished, completed, formatted and ready to publish, which I intend to do via the self publishing route.

Other projects have been leaping up and down in my field of vision but I’ve swatted those aside in favour of going straight into the novel itself, so that when I come to actually publish the novella the novel will be very much in progress. I get the feeling that it won’t take too long to write either, given the level of information and inspiration I have for this book, and I hope to be able to make it available to agents and publishers at some point in either late 2012 or early 2013. The novella will be on sale and will serve as an introduction to the world I’ve created but, of course, the novel will be written in such a way that you won’t have to have read the novella for it all to make sense. I’m doing this in the main to ensure that when I approach an agent or publisher, they won’t be given a product that makes no sense without something published elsewhere, from which they will possibly never see a penny. If I can persuade them to include it as a promotional download or similar than I will, because the novella is a story in its own right and adds something to the story, but no-one’s going to be scratching their heads if they don’t ever see it.

Cool, huh?

In the meanwhile I’m busily planning away and have the beginning of the novel plotted and ready for writing, shifting everything forward several years and shifting the focus of the novel away from the first person and into more familiar third person territory.

Over the next few months I’ll keep you all posted with updates, samples and any news I have about the progress of the novella reaching the weird, digital shelves of Amazon and the like.

You never know, this could just work.


Warhammer 40K flash-fiction piece: The Audacity of Hope.

Written for the Black Library Bolthole’s monthly “Read in a Rush” competition. Give it a read and then go give them a look. They’re a friendly bunch and there are some bloody talented writers on the roster, so head on over to http://www.thebolthole.org/forum if Warhammer, 40K and fan-fiction are your bag?

The Audacity of Hope – 1150 including title.

‘This could… it could change everything…’

Four pairs of red eye lenses gazed up at the monolith. Its surface was black and polished to mirror smoothness, its thousand tonne bulk resting on a lintel wrought of alloy the colour of weathered bone. Sergeant Geritsson scanned the atmospheric data as it flashed before his eyes and smiled thinly, noting that in spite of the calm there was a faint, but very real, trace signature coming from within the relic. Somewhere within the seamless, faultless construct, a power source was still active after countless millennia. The Standard Template Construct was still functioning.

‘The Forge Master will be here soon,’ murmured Captain Rasmusson, his enormous arms hanging by his sides as he tried and failed to give voice to the awe he felt. ‘He alone of us could discern its true function. Let alone the proper method of its activation. If our intelligence is correct … If the secrets lost to us can be revealed…’

The intelligence to which he referred had been taken from a fallen brother; a Relictor captured by pure chance as he attempted to land his damaged Storm Raven on a planet where the Ursus Gallack were engaged against the greenskins. It had been a training mission, the best and brightest of the chapter formed into a small strike force, tasked to assassinate a potential warlord before he could gain the support and momentum to begin a new Waaaaagh through the Ultima Segmentum. Brother Geritsson had torn the beast to ribbons with his lightning claws and cast its severed head into the dust, and for the chapter master and the Inquisition both this had been victory enough. But as the Storm Raven careered into the atmosphere a new prize had been theirs for the taking, ripped forcibly from the Relictor’s mind by Inquisitor Vheilan. On his travels he had happened upon the location of an STC, one containing the specifications for a form of shield generator far superior to any currently known to the Priests of Mars. If the Relictor’s beliefs proved to be true this reclaimed technology would render the ships of the Imperial Navy and the Adeptus Astartes nearly impervious to all known hostile weaponry, combining a series of overlapping Gellar Fields and reactive barriers that bolstered the shield strength by drawing directly on the diffused energy of the attack. If this was true the implications for warp travel alone were immense, not to mention the possibility of finally taking the fight to the Hive Fleets and Craft Worlds, the daemon-seeded wastelands of the Occulus Terribus and the upstart empires of the eastern fringe.

No longer would mankind’s fight be one of furious preservation. The Great Crusade could begin anew and could be completed some ten thousand years after it began. Mankind’s manifest destiny could once more be within its grasp. For the first time in ten increasingly darkening millennia, mankind could permit itself the audacity of hope.

A deep rumble drew Geritsson from his thoughts, denoting the arrival of the Thunderhawk gunship that carried Forge Master Samuelsson and his tech-marine retinue. Within a few minutes the vast, many-armed silhouettes of the chapter’s finest technical minds appeared in the cave entrance, flanked by a half-dozen gun servitors on either side. The new arrivals stopped as they reached the advance party, all except Forge Master Samuelsson who strode forward to stand beside his captain.

‘I take your silence as a positive sign, brother?’ Rasmusson growled. ‘I trust you are suitably impressed?’

It took a moment for Samuelsson to reply, his communications with his cadre of servitors and tech-marines being carried out usually in hissing streams of binary code. ‘A still tongue denotes a virtuous soul, my brother, but yes. I feel the weight of all that was lost to us lifting from my shoulders in its presence. And still…’

There was a keen note of sadness in that tone, an edge of remorse inexpertly conveyed by a mouth unused to the crude nuances of High Gothic. Rasmusson made to question him but the words died in his mouth as a tingle ran the length of his spine, a chill he felt only in the presence of one man.

Inquisitor Vheilan had come unannounced, but not alone. Behind his hooded frame stood a figure clad in matt-black armour, its head concealed within a death-masked helmet etched with intricately designed patterns chased out in hardened lacquer that caught the light as he moved.

‘My Lord,’ Geritsson gasped, taking immediately to one knee as the Black Saint approached. ‘We did not know that you would be joining us.’

The death mask turned to regard him slowly, its head level with the enormous assault sergeant’s own even as he knelt. For a moment it seemed that he might speak, that something human remained of the creature within its inherited carapace, but as every figure save Vheilan followed Geritsson’s example he turned away and walked to the base of the monolith, placing one hand on its surface and becoming perfectly still.

‘For the love of the Emperor, rise,’ Vheilan hissed. ‘You know how your father would have hated to see you kneel.’

There was sadness in Vheilan’s words. Something had clearly shaken the usually callous Inquisitor and the effect was disturbing. All eyes but Geritsson’s turned to the Black Saint as he reached deep into the STC with his mind, seeking out its history from the dormant spirits within and bending his own extraordinary talents to the extrapolation of its future. For almost an hour he was still, the chamber silent as the assembled Imperial servants awaited his judgement. As he finally removed his hand and turned to Vheilan, shaking his head slowly before walking away and out of the cave, the Inquisitor gave out a deep sigh of resignation.

‘Forge Master, place the beacon and return to the ship. The rest of you would be well advised to do the same.’

-x-

Geritsson watched from orbit as the bombardment began, three Black Ships and two Strike Cruisers lending their firepower to the utter destruction of the STC and the planet on which it resided. He remained there until the guns fell silent and the planet’s crust broke apart, its molten core bursting forth as the broken sphere consumed itself in a firestorm of superheated rock.

With a heavy heart he turned away, knowing that the Saint must have had good reason to deny the human race this chance at vitality, this knowledge with which to finally take its rightful place as undisputed master of all. He returned to his arming chamber to meditate in the hope that the Emperor might grant him the serenity to understand, the insight to see anything but a mighty blow to the hopes for mankind’s future.

Hidden in the shadows beneath a vast statue of the Emperor, the Black Saint watched him go.


Everybody’s got one, or so they tell me…

What I would like, kind sirs and siresses, is an opinion. Not just any old opinion though, before you give me your views on Miliband’s leadership, Kim Kardashian’s arse to brain ratio or the loaded flight capabilities of various breeds of swallow. What I would like to know is your view on naughty language and how it applies to the novella I have in the pipeline.

Now make no mistake, this is not a children’s book. The themes are adult, it contains violence and “scenes which the viewer really bloody well should find disturbing,” including but certainly not limited to dismemberment, physical violence and at least one scene that would put Hannibal Lector off his Chianti. Now I would personally deem foul and often abusive language to be well suited to the environment that I am attempting to portray, but in such discussions in the past it has to be said that I have often found myself in the minority. People seem to have a high tolerance for gore, sex, violence and even gory sexual violence and yet, somewhat oddly I think, not for naughty language.

Now I am certainly, definitely not going to hack the novella apart for the sake of it but I have started to wonder if a slightly “abridged” version might be warranted so as not to alienate some of my potential readership. What I am quite willing to do however is to concurrently release an edited, curse-free version alongside the full novella for those who feel differently to me about what is and is not acceptable. I won’t do this if no-one thinks it is justified and so there, I am asking for your opinion.

Whether via the comments feed, my Facebook account (for those who know me in that twisted vista that we call “real life”) or via @Vampiricchicken over on Twitter, please let me know what you think I should do. Should I stick to my gut feeling and release it as I see it, should I be sensitive and release two versions or should I take my Encyclopaedia Profanica and throw myself into the nearest wood chipper?

Answers on a postcard, please. Or, you know, practically anything BUT a postcard.