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February 27, 2007

The Black Plagiarist.

Stumpy interrupted my writing time today. Don't be concerned. I let him live.

He wanted to tell me about a story idea he had. I reacted to this, as I always do, with grace, poise, and mature sophistication.

I stuck my fingers in my ears and bellowed 'La la la' to no particular tune until he left the room.

What non-writers never realise is that story ideas are ten a penny. Finding the time to construct a story around them, and making the idea come to bleeding, screaming, suppurating life is the hard part. If someone tells you an idea, and you use it, they expect recompense. If they tell you an idea and you've already written and published a story using that same basic plot, they'll still claim you stole it. It's best not to hear the idea in the first place.

Every writer has heard the 'I can sell you a great idea for a story' line, or one of its variants. Never, ever, let them speak the idea aloud. Never.

Some writers are worried that if they show their work to others, their idea will get stolen. So what if it does? If someone needs to steal your idea, then they have no imagination of their own. They might scribble something but without imagination, it won't be any good at all. If I let you in on some ideas I've been batting around, you might well go off and use them. I don't care.

Sometimes I put up ideas I've been thinking about. I might write a hundred words about an idea for a novel. That's going to end up at around 80-100,000 words when it's all done. If it ever gets done. Let's suppose someone reads the idea and decides to use it themselves.

Why would I care? They'll turn that 100-word outline into a story, maybe even a very good one. It will be nothing like the one I'll write from the same outline. If you give an outline to a hundred writers, they'll come up with a hundred different stories. An outline is like the signpost in the swamp that says 'You are here'. Where you go next is up to you.

Ideas are not sacred. Ideas are not valuable commodities. Ideas cannot even be copyrighted. Ideas are easy. Clamping your backside to a chair (I use Mole grips for the fast-release function) and writing the wretched thing is the hard part.

If you read an idea here and are inspired by it, good. I'm not going to come to your millionaire's mansion in ten years and demand a cut of the proceeds. I might send Stumpy, but I won't be there. I'll be here. Writing something else.

Any idea you read here is free. Public domain and all that. If you do use one, I'd like a footnote (inspired by Dr. Dume, please visit his castle but don't tell anyone where you're going) but even that's not compulsory. If I find an idea posted here has been written up and published, I'll feel a warm glow from the thought that I might have inspired it. I'm not going to stalk you. I hear people get quite upset about that sort of thing.

There are something like six billion heads in the world. My good friend, Romulus, would say that most of them are empty but even so, the chances of anyone having a unique thought are slim. Whatever you've written, someone else has thought of it. If you're lucky, they haven't bothered to write it.

Don't worry about people stealing your ideas. Those who could actually make use of the idea have no need to steal it. Those who would steal it are unlikely to be able to use it.

Don't listen to anyone who offers you an idea. You don't need it, and you're just opening yourself up to future problems if you use it. Unless, as here and in the Alienskin articles, you have a written assurance that the idea is offered for free and completely free of strings, threads, and trails of mucus. Well, no strings or threads anyway.

Active discussions of this subject are currently going on all over the Internet, on blogs and writer's groups. That's where I stole the idea for this entry.

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February 23, 2007

Invisibility.

Scientists out in the Conventional World have, at last, made the first steps to creating a material that makes whatever it covers invisible.

About time. I invented an invisibility suit a long time ago. As I told the sneering Stumpy, my assistant, I created a suit which made the wearer completely invisible. I even used it to visit the village a few times.

"Oh, really?" Stumpy curled the still-working part of his mouth. "Let's see it then."

"You can't see it. That's the point." Sometimes I despair.

"Where is it?"

"Damned if I know." That's the trouble with invisibility suits. Once you take them off, it's very hard to find them again. Stumpy says he's going to look for it. Sounds like a futile endeavour to me.

 

 

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February 18, 2007

Deep thinking

I took a walk today, since the weather was good. The rain was warm for the time of year, and only mildly acidic, and the wind had only reached gale force four.

On the track that leads to the village, the weekly bus rattled past me. I stopped and stood well back since this bus has been known to shed a rusty panel or two on the rare occasions where it accelerates above walking pace.

Form one of the windows, a girl waved and smiled. I waved and smiled back: a magnanimous gesture on my part since I have no idea who she was. The incident preyed on my mind for the rest of my walk. It was only later, when I tried to describe the girl to Stumpy, that I realised something important.

Women and men observe in radically different ways.

My description of this girl amounted to 'Well, she was blonde, and...um...she had a face.' That was the extent of it, even though I can still form a clear picture of her in my head. A blonde girl with a face. A woman's description of the same incident would have included 'honey/platinum/strawberry' or some other additional information in front of the 'blonde'. These are meaningless adjectives to men. Blonde is blonde. We don't differentiate.

Consider a crime committed by a man wearing a football shirt. On giving a description to police, a man might say 'It was a Manchester United shirt, but the 2005 version, not the 2007 version' (don't worry, it means nothing to me either). A woman would say 'He had a red top'.

Consider a speeding car. A woman might say 'It was a blue car and it was going too fast'. A man would give the make, model, year of manufacture, registration, an estimate of its speed, the exact code for the colour of the paint and the engine block number. Okay, that's a slight exaggeration. Not all men can do all of that, in fact I only know of two.

This is why men think women are stupid. Conversely, women are equally convinced that men are stupid for very similar reasons.

Suppose a man and a woman enter a tea-room, have a cup of tea, then leave, and are then asked to describe the room.

The man will say ' Oh... tables, cup of tea, that sort of thing'. The woman will have memorised the shade of paint on the walls, what the tables were made of, how clean they were, how the waitress was dressed, whether she seemed in a good or a bad mood, and many other things I, as a man, can only guess at.

If these same two are passed in the street by a scantily-clad nymphet, the man's eyes will be riveted to her throughout her approach. He will probably find an excuse to turn around after she's passed. The woman will spare her only a glance.

The man's description: 'Long black hair, slim, big chest, long legs." Ask him what she was wearing. "Uh.. a short skirt." What colour was it? He has no idea, yet he has stared at her for several minutes. He's not seeing those clothes, in fact he's deliberately, if unconsciously, trying not to see them. He's trying to see through them.

Ask the woman for a description. In one short glance she has assessed the nymphet's clothes, their colours, whether they match, whether they are in fashion, the style and make of her shoes, whether she's too old/young to wear such an outfit. The woman can tell you the cost of each individual garment and where to buy them. She will critique the nymphet's makeup and hair, and usually end with some descriptive term such as tart, bimbo, floozy or slut. With, of course, the inevitable curl of the lip. This contemptuous sneer is a mystery to men since women who fit those descriptions are much sought after.

So there is a massive difference in what a woman will notice in any situation, and what a man will notice in the same situation. Dust, for example, is invisible to male sight but is evidently luminous when seen through a woman's eyes.

What's the point of all this? Well, it's important information for any writer, especially when writing from the alternative gender's point of view.

No man will notice what another man is wearing unless it's something bizarre, like a dress or a banana suit. The dress will definitely get noticed, the banana suit might. If you write from a male POV, then having the character notice a loose thread on someone's clothing is completely unrealistic (unless it's interfering with his view of a cleavage). He might not notice if his friend grows a beard, but he will notice immediately if that same friend adds a new spotlight to his car.

Women notice things invisible to men. It's perfectly reasonable, from a female POV, to give a detailed description of a room. If it's dusty, female characters notice. Male ones don't unless it's really bad.

Don't forget your readers when using combinations of descriptions through male or female POV's. A male reader, reading a female character who thinks 'the room is dusty' pictures a thin film of dust that really doesn't need to be cleaned up yet. If he reads a male character thinking the same thing, he imagines that the dust is probably at that stage where something should be done.

A female reader in the same situation will, on hearing the female POV on dust, think of a visible layer of dust. On reading the male character comment on the dust, she'll imagine it must be up to his knees. Men and women are aware of each other's limitations, though rarely of their own. Consider, when writing male and female POV's, how those will translate in the male or female reader's head.

I'll have to think on this further, but I sense the basis of an article forming here.

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February 17, 2007

Fie and forsooth!

sword.jpg

I concede that, on this occasion, Stumpy was right. Sword fighting is not as easy as it looks.

When my arm grows back, I'll give him a thrashing. 

In the meantime, this is going to severely affect my typing speed for the next few days.

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February 16, 2007

Swords and portcullis

The Spammers are at the gate. So comment moderation is on. I hope that doesn't cause a glitch.

On a separate note, Stumpy insists that sword-fighting is difficult. Ridiculous, I said. It's a long blade you swing around. How hard can it be?

He says he's going to demonstrate over the weekend. Shouldn't be a problem. He can't reach too far.

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Twisted thinking.

I've thought up a fantasy-ish story.

Now don't panic, it won't have magic or all-powerful fiendish magicians. There won't be any magic at all. There will be a goblin. And an elf. They're on the same side. No Orcs. No Dwarves. No magic swords - just the plain steel ones. Arrows will not always hit their targets. Doors will not open with a word.

There will be a Quest, but I'm not going to tell the main characters what it is until it's too late for them to back out of it.

There will be a Chosen One, but I'm going to kill him in Chapter 1, along with the only other character who knows he's the Chosen One.

The 'bad guy' will be truly unkillable, as all bad guys claim to be in fantasy. I'm not having my bad guy beaten by something as simple as a melted ring. Oh, no. This one isn't going to die. In fact, those behind the quest don't want him killed. Nor do they want to use him as a weapon. The 'Alien' films have that angle covered.

I won't say what they want him for, nor how he came to be, until close to the end. He has no fortress, no army, no weapons. He's the unkillable bad guy. He needs none of that stuff. Furthermore, he has no interest in world domination. He will, of course, do horrible, horrible things.

There will, of course, be a hero. He's the goblin, and he's in it for the money. There'll be none of this 'sacrifice of the self for the greater good' nonsense. He'll subcontract that part to a sucker.

I intend to make it difficult to decide, at the end, who was the real bad guy in the story. The reader can choose which side to root for.

It'll be interesting to see who chooses which side.

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February 14, 2007

The Valentine dilemma.

Ah, I have a shortage of hearts. Stumpy has one, but he says he's using it.

So apologies to those ladies who won't get a Valentine's gift from me this year. I thought of cutting up the ones I have but I don't want to send half-hearted gifts.

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February 13, 2007

The February ritual.

I've just remembered it's Valentine's Day tomorrow. I have to send hearts to all the women I know.

I hope the butcher's shop is well stocked. I have only a few in my personal supply.

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Proddings of the Muse.

If you've found your way here, you probably already know I write horror articles for AlienSkin magazine.

Now that my new assistant, Stumpy, is taking care of some of the day-to-day running of the place, I find I have more time to myself. I've been wondering about compiling some of those articles into a little book.

I know some of the earlier ones will need work. I know some of them can be combined because they repeat themes. Still, I think there might be enough--and every two months, there's another one to add to the pile.

The muse has stirred from his usual miserable torpor to give the idea the nod, but I wondered if anyone out there would be interested, if I were to compile such a book.

It wouldn't be your standard 'write this way' book, but would follow the style of current articles, with perhaps a few diary entries thrown in to break it up.

Opinions, anyone?

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February 12, 2007

My name is Leg-iron, and we are merry.

I have decided it's time I took on an assistant. I can't work in my lab and watch out for Ferals, flying monkeys, the scaly swamp thing, salesmen and relatives all at the same time. So I selected the village cripple, known as Leg-iron because of the steel rods that hold him up. Well, nobody else had any use for him, and he's the only customer in the local pub, the 'Throat and Razor', who ever speaks to me. He shares my contempt for all things that breathe, which is a good sign.

I know, I'm not supposed to call him a cripple these days. I'm supposed to use some politically correct term like 'leg-illy challenged' or some similar nonsense.

I call him 'Stumpy'.

If you're shocked and horrified at that, you should hear what he calls me.

So far he seems to be getting along fine. He doesn't bother me with trivia, such as when the swamp's entire population of two-headed lizards try to climb the castle walls. He just heats up the lead and deals with it.

So maybe he'll last longer than my previous assistants. We shall see.

 

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February 10, 2007

Dance of the Spheres

I've been watching the Phantasm films again. They have some atrocious acting and some of the links between films are wince-inducing, but I keep watching for two reasons - the Tall Man and the spheres.

I haven't yet managed to find a suitable base for a model of the Tall Man, but the spheres are another matter. I've made several, but can't get them to work properly. Those that work are hard to control. There's one loose in the castle somewhere, which means I have the inconvenience of wearing a steel helmet all the time until I find it.

What I need is bait. Wait, is that the doorbell?

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February 05, 2007

Double glazing?

A madman rang my doorbell today. Dressed as a salesman, he waved glossy brochures and said he had come to sell me double glazing. It's a big castle, he said, with lots of windows. Doesn't it get draughty?

"It's a castle," I said. "It's supposed to be draughty. Prevents the buildup of undesirable odours." I sized him up. One of my life-sized models needed a new chassis, but he was far too short to be useful. Even a few days on the rack wouldn't fix him. Besides, I was intrigued by the idea of double glazing, whatever that might be. I tried to imagine windows fitted with glass twice as wide as the opening but couldn't for the life of me work out why anyone would want that.

"It cuts down noise, too." He was making this up, I was sure. I folded my arms and nodded at him to continue. He did. "Double glazing can block disturbing noise, leaving a peaceful and calm environment."

I considered this. "A peaceful and calm environment is not really what I intend for my swamp. Besides, this castle is far enough from the village that they are unlikely to be disturbed by the noises."

The madman cleared his throat. He took a step back and pointed upwards. "You have a window up there with no glass at all. My company could fit a nice PVC frame in there in no time, and it would be much warmer inside."

I rolled my eyes at this and spoke very slowly. "If I were to plug that window with glass, it would shatter next time I shot at the Ferals, now wouldn't it?" That was, in fact, what had happened to the original glass but he seemed to have difficulty absorbing what I had already told him so I decided not to explain further.

"Ferals? What are Ferals?"

That was it. This double glazing sounded like something I really didn't want to buy, and I could think of no experimental or decorative use for this man, so I handed him a flashlight and an airhorn. "Blast the horn and wave the light, and you'll see them for yourself."

I closed and locked the door and ran upstairs to fetch my crossbow. He had sounded the horn twice before I reached the window, but I still managed to bag a few as they carried him away.

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February 03, 2007

Fear the English.

I've noticed a tendency in American films for the bad guy to always be English. Not just English, but upper-class, what-ho, by-jingo English.

Not being English myself, and having met a few of them, I can see why that might be, but once in a while Hollywood take it just that little bit too far.

I watched 'Dreamcatcher' recently. An excellent film, featuring the sort of mouth dentists dream about. The heroes are American, naturally, since it's an American film, and the bad guy is, once more, English. The trouble is that this time, the bad guy is from another planet.

Now, the English did indeed have an empire once, but I honestly don't think it was that big.

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Suppertime rumblings.

Apparently it's something called Groundhog Day today, or maybe it was yesterday. Anyway, I ignored it because I don't like groundhogs. Very little meat on them, once you have them cleaned and ready for the pot. Besides, I always spend the whole night picking them out of my teeth, and I've never worked out why eating them makes me watch my shadow. So I just snacked on some leftovers from my last experimental subject.

I've been wondering what the Rarely-Glimpsed Slimy Swamp Thing tastes like. Apparently oily fish is good for you, and the Swamp Thing, while it's definitely not a fish, is very oily indeed.

Originally, I assumed the Swamp Thing was Grandmother Dume, but it can't be. I had one of those rare glimpses of it recently and it has two eyes, not one, and neither is on a stalk. So it can't be Granny. Her disappearance at around the time of the first Glimpse of the Swamp Thing must be coincidence. Unless, of course, it wondered what she tasted like.

I expect she was a bit chewy.

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