A lot has changed. I mean, a fucking *lot* over the years.
Let's see: I finished my MA (some bloody use that was); I've taken up engineering (I'm done messing around in my arrogance and ineffective creativity - long, long story and argument, that one); I discovered that I like, well, unconventionally erotic things, and I don't mind admitting it; I met a woman I love very much (she's reciprocated that type of fondness very convincingly, even though I probably don't deserve it due to being a bit more of a cynical bastard than I already am); I've moved out of my childhood home again, and permanently; I still draw things, and really horrible ones at that, which is purely for my own pleasure (and everyone else's despondency).
And I am *writing* again. I'm writing big-big, now. I've written chapters. You know what that means? Thousands of fucking words. Novel-sized writing. It's becoming a pure joy as well. The thesaurus has become my bible. Books I have read are simply food to me as I gobble up their words and regurgitate them into my own paragraphs. Not writing words has become a bit of an itch I have every day now.
The book I am writing now was initially a fantasy set in a vast world that I had made some years back. I'm still working on the map and its locations, but I have managed to nail down the broad layout and actually attach names across the world. It *is* still a fantasy, but it was only yesterday that I decided to give this book I am writing over to the steampunk variation.
Why not fantasy? It's a very popular genre now. You've got George R.R Martin and Joe Abercrombie giving fantasy the most visceral medieval grit one could read in a book. Terry Pratchett (may he rest in peace) with his hugely loved satire that still captivates audiences across all age ranges, David Gemmell (another one taken from us and missed) and his unequalled works of heroic fantasy, Neil Gaiman and his hugely relevant look into mythology and the human imagination, the immortally quintessential tales of Middle-Earth by Tolkien, as well as the everlasting sword & sorcery that came from Robert E. Howard.
Hell, I'm currently reading Stephen King's seventh book of the Dark Tower series, which is now coming to a powerfully dramatic conclusion. It's emulating the same feeling of Frodo and Sam traversing the plains of Gorgoroth, and closing in on Mount Doom.
The thing is, as Stephen King has been pointing out more and more in this series, fantasy has all the authors it needs; both dead and alive.
So, this is why I've begun to lend this particular book to steampunk. It started out with reading a particularly funny series named after a dismally cynical character: Johannes Cabal.
You could say this is a book series with many elements: fantasy, Lovecraftian horror and humour and steampunk all blended in to a darkly comical series. And it's one that revolves around a near-terminally pessimistic and amoral necromancer, who is heavily armed and usually one step ahead of his foes. I loved reading every word of it.
And I have a love for anything with the slightest hint of gallows humour, or something with a poignant statement yet conveys it through caper means. My book, hopefully, will turn out to be such a work. I'm not mistaken, though. Writing is hard, but I'm getting used to it.
Anyway, it looks like I'll be using this spotblog thing a bit more often again. The only reason why it's occurred to me now is because I've ran out of lined paper to make lists and would-be author notes in relation to the literary endeavour at hand.
For a reminder, an extract of freshly written material:
Well now, that’s a new smell.
It had only been a full night and a day, yet the smell of the dead cleric in the now-opened sack of elder sprouts had filled the room of crates he was left in.
“I know one truth for certain, Seekers: whoever killed and left him here did so as a mark of contempt towards the Divine Order,” said another cleric, who was very much alive and offended.
Whoever killed him isn’t the only one, Gyles thought as he stood and looked at the body of the cleric that was partially pulled out of the sack, as he squeezed out a quiet fart in the direction of the cleric that stood behind him and blathered on about respect and insults and blah blah blah etc. Gyles almost wished the combined smell of fresh corpse and elder sprouts wasn’t there to mask the repugnance he left behind so that they would notice his own contempt towards the Order.
That's all I'll put on this blog for now.
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