Being a Writer...

Quite simply, being a writer SUCKS.

Why? Well, being a writer is not a stable career choice on it's own unless you become The next J. K. Rowling or Steven King. There are others who do it, but those are two examples of people who have made it work. Most people have to supplement their writing with another form of income, sometimes not even directly related to that field and that can only impact on the amount of writing they get to do, and influences deadlines and such.


With the introduction of E-books, piracy becomes an issue. I doubt it'll ever be as a big a problem as it is in the TV/Film and Music industries but it is there. Then again, E-books are usually pretty cheap pretty soon after release but I'm pretty sure that doesn't solve the problem entirely.

Writers are rarely goign to be famous icons for people to look up to. Discounting Shakespeare, what other writer do we learn about year in and year out through our education? I don't think any writer is included that much and then there's the whole conspiracy theories surrounding him and UGH. I hate Shakespeare anyway, but that's another story.


Despite this, being a writer can be really rewarding. I've met people who have read my work and it's had a substantial impact on them. It's surreal and I suppose it's quite like a musician hearing the same. It give syou the drive to go on but the task of writing a book, even one the length of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone (set at just under 77K words) is a huge ask, taking an enormous amount of time. This may be the average book length but I've noticed more and more books being longer and longer, adding to the task.


I've found instructing writing workshops to be really fulfilling and valuable experiene for myself. With it being outside the mundane learning of our curriculum, students are actually interested in what you have to say. I don't think I could go into a school and teacher five days a week, I just don't have the interest in what they HAVE to know but to do that, yeah, I enjoy it a lot.

I've been writing for years. I have a novella being converted into a novel (at some point), another novel in its first draft and being reviewed by some varying readers and working on my university dissertation, which is part of another novel I want to write. Normally, I have a much bigger drive to write than what I have this time (and with such an idea and strict deadlines) I'm happy to devote myself but lethargy has taken over. January blues? Perhaps but I've never really noticed them hit me much until this year.


Writing a book is largely rewarding to the writer, more than anything. That sense of accomplishment is brilliant. I've heard so many people say "I can never write a book but I really want to try" or something along those lines and all I can say is to just do it. You never know until you try and failing is part of the course. Things have ot fall apart so we can find what works and what to take with us.
There are several things you need to write a book:

• Patience - it takes time and a lot of planning or you'll find yourself with characters and scenes not making any sense overall
• Research - Anything relating to your story or genre. I write in fantasy and sci-fi mainly, so I read a lot of books in those genres, watch a lot of films and play a lot of games in those genres. You pick up things without even realising it
• Determination - You'll hit walls. You'll have days where you're just not in the mood. That's fine, don't give up, just do something else and let your mind relax a bit. It's hugely taxing to write a book. Give a short story a go
• Originality - No one will give you the time of day if it's not original. The whole thing doesn't have to be original. A lot of stories are based on myths and/or concepts writers have come across themselves and want to explore or take in a new direction. That's great, but you need SOMETHING to set you apart from everyone else doing the exact same thing. The deeper that aspect, the more involved it is to your story, the better it will be to your reader
• Audience Awareness - Know who you're writing for before you write it. Sounds simple, right? Wrong. Research into the market of what people want to read and tie it in to what you can do. Writing a book that appeals to the majority of readers/everyone is something few writers can do. If someone does figure it out, let me know
• Experience - You can't write about something you don't know or that you haven't researched. I'm not saying if you're writing about drug use and abuse to go and do drugs. Quite the opposite, there are people out there who would be willing to talk to you about it, or plenty of things in books and articles (both online and in print) for you to learn about it. They have stories to tell just like you and that's a good common ground to start from

Redrafting is hell. It's also one of the most boring parts to writing but very important. I don't know about anyone else, but I hate reading a book with a typo, or where grammar is wrong. It annoys me as a reader, never mind as a writer. Find a friend to help you look for such mistakes.

Through all this, there is nothing else in the world I can imagine being, or doing. Writing is my passion and if being a writer really does suck, then I'm going to be in a sucky career for the rest of my life. I hope some of you decide to join me!


Phew! Hope this helps some of you and answers some questions you all seem to ask me :) Drop me a line if you have other questions or you want to discuss something further. For now, back to the grind!

Sherlock Holmes: Game of Shadows

I FINALLY got to see this film last night! Took me long enough, considering I work in a cinema! Ach well, better late than never.

Having heard mixed reviews about it, I didn't have my hopes set too high (but I do think Downey Jr. is superb as Holmes - and also Iron Man!) but I have to say I thoroughly enjoy it, perhaps more than the first one.

The first film was very much a light hearted story and despite the setting of the the film and characters being quite dark, they were the points of light and were of outstanding contrast - a brilliant balance. It didn't require a lot of concentration to watch, meaning it's a good film to actually settle down and watch or have on in the background.

Game of Shadows was a little different. The characters were portrayed darker than in the previous film and their relationship strained but not lacking in care and wit at each other's expense. This film had a much faster pace and you had to keep up and pay attention or you were going to be left behind. There were fewer scenes focused on the interaction of Holmes and Watson and these were merged with other things going on. It worked, but it lost something for me there.

Two different films but both worked wonderfully. I'm finding it hard deciding which one I like more. The darkness and edge of Game of Shadows or the lighter and boyish original. Very hard to decide...

It's old, but it's one of my favourites

The Honour of Dying is No Honour At All (2004)

   Blood ran down my face, gushing from the wounds I had suffered from the battle. I was tired, and my vision was hazy, but nothing would let me forget the sight of blood and mud as I looked at my torn uniform. My wounds were restricting my movements as I tried to walk away with my comrades, and every movement I made sent pain shooting through me trying to force me into submission.

   I did not succumb, I would not succumb.

   My companions were suffering just as much as I was, if not more. It was hard to look at them, to see the pain in their eyes, the fear, but the determination they still clung to gave me strength enough to continue forward in the slow walk to freedom. Taking one last look behind us, I started walking forward, but still could not escape the feeling of guilt for leading them into this hellish battle.

   Walking away from the battle, I felt as hollow as an empty tree, one without life, and without enough strength to beat off the ones who would destroy it. Sounds of the other soldiers still fighting, dying for their country rang through me. But my duty was to ensure the survival of my men, even if I died doing it.

   War cries pierced my heart.

   Explosions rattled my skull.

   Weapon fire made me look at my own weapon, being carried in one, blood covered arm. Grunting in disgust, I threw it down into the mud before my feet and walked over it. My men followed suit. All of these sounds and all of these sights were more deadly than any weapon that could be used against us.

   Our progress slowed every second. Fatigue was taking its toll on us, as was the pain from our injuries. Some fell, and were helped back to their feet. Even in the midst of all the bloodshed, I was proud to see my men helping each other.

   Not while I still draw breath will I leave anyone behind.

   I was out of breath, panting like a dog that had been running for all its life. What most people took for granted seemed like the hardest thing I, or any of my men, could do.

   A new thought dawned on me then. All it would take is for one man to see us and we would be gone, like the sands of time. Traitors or enemies, it did not really matter anymore. Either way, we were vulnerable.

   Fear of death kept us moving; determination to survive kept us from stopping. Will it be enough?

   Who knew what was out there?

   There was a small splash in the mud near me. Looking desperately around, I soon found the source…a gas canister, and it was already releasing the lethal, green cloud. “Watch out!” I cried, my voice was hoarse and every letter clawed its way out of my mouth painfully. “Watch out! Use your masks!”

   I pulled my gas mask on easily. Looking around however, I saw how quickly the gas was spreading. It became clear how fortunate I was when the effects of the gas started to show on my soldiers. One man, the only one I could see in the smog, was coughing violently, as were others somewhere else in the green mist. His arm was severely injured, which was stopping him from putting his mask on. More coughs came, and now blood from his mouth.

   He dropped his mask.

   More gas was inhaled into his body as he struggled to breathe properly, and the only result was more desperate coughs and wheezes. His agonising screams came through the coughs like gunshots, tearing through my heart. It would only get worse for him.

   Two other men came from the smog and picked him up by the arms, and started to walk, carrying his weight between them.

   In my heart, I knew it was too late for him, but there was still the promise to them that they would get out, and I would do my best to keep it, for every soldier under my command.

   I continued to walk, but his torturous screams still tore at my heart.

   The green smog only intensified as we walked, and I began to worry about whether we were being followed. It was incredibly hard to see beyond the end of my mask, but still I walked forward, awkwardly and cautiously so as not to fall. More cries rang in the smoke, and I turned to find the source, but the cloud had completely hidden whoever it was from view. A few moments later, a lone figure stumbled out of the smog.

   He tripped and fell onto me, grasping with a strength he should not have had. Gunfire sounded closer than ever, and the two men who had been supporting him hit the ground with a thud – both dead.

   I turned back to the man holding me. Blood ran from his mouth, his nose, his ears and even his eyes, and it made me sick to my stomach, but I stared at him, straight into what remained of his blood streaked eyes. I wanted to convey confidence to him, that he would be all right, but the fear was always there.

   The fear is always there.

   Imagine yourself in my shoes. How would you react to this sight or the imminent death of your comrade in arms? His constant coughs adding more blood to your already tattered and blood soaked garments as you finally pull him out of the gas, the mud absorbing your feet, trying to stop you from reaching safety. Can you feel the tension in the air as the dying man is thrown violently into a horse-drawn cart? How would you feel?

   A trail of blood from the dying man’s mouth ran onto the cart which then dripped into the soggy mod underneath. It was showing our path clearly but no one cared anymore. All of my men, and I myself, had lost the will to live and none of us expected to – but I intended for them to live, at least.

   The man was writhing in pain, and there was nothing that could be done. The rest of us followed the cart silently, solemnly remembering the dead on both sides of this war. Fear for his life increases with every step I take, with every beat of my heart, yet aside from all the wishing in the world, nothing could be done to save him.

   Nothing…

   Have you ever felt it? The helplessness of watching someone suffer in a hellish way before the end of their life cannot be described in mere words, but only as a series of feelings that are so extreme, they could traumatise you.

   To die for your country could be counted as honourable, but place yourself in that dying man’s shoes. Had you experienced what he had, gone through what he had, would you still be willing and honoured to die for your country?

   The honour of dying is no honour at all.

Well...

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I finally have a blog! Taken me much longer than it should have, I guess but late than never. I'll be posting about anything that catches my interest - both good and bad) as well as pieces of my writings that I feel happy enough to share.

Cya soon!