Author Archives: Cas

Excerpt 1

Because he asked so nicely, this is for Josh. It’s unfinished. I’m still not sure where it fits into the whole picture (though from the character interaction we’re talking later on in the story) and I’m still not totally convinced I’ve separated the two world-views out enough, but enjoy…
p.s. – any comments on how art mirrors life, and I will take my revenge by eviscerating you in fiction. I know that I use my writing to work things through. I don’t need my nose rubbed in it :p

She sat there, watching quietly as Luk stirred the fire, making the coals collapse against one another and give out more heat in preference to light. She loved how the amber glinted off his bones, spare with decades of fighting, making them softer; the bones he would have had had fate not stepped in.

“What is it, mei sa?” Luke turned to look at her over his shoulder. “You’re quiet tonight, quiet even for you”.
“Just thinking, ma sona. Thinking what life would have been”.
“Deep thoughts, Je-Je, but why think them? Life is as it is. We have nothing to gain by pondering on how it might have been different”.
“Now who sounds like a Healer, hey?” Jariel grinned. “I know thinking this line won’t get the horses watered, but it intrigues me. How much of life comes because of our actions and responses to situations, and how much was predestined for us. Would I be here to today, the person I am, if a Healer two centuries ago had not fore-spoken my birth and my actions? Or of if the Shantarican had not ordered the death of the Kainapas because of prophecy — would I still be Saiauri? Jariel Janir?”
“You would be who you are”.

Luk got to his feet and walked over to where their saddle packs were slung on a high branch against night-crawlers. He rummaged for a pack of trail bread and split it as he came back to the blankets. He tossed half over to her and flopped back to the ground. “There is no point in wondering what this alternate Jariel would be like because you are here. Those things did happen. The result is the lady who sits beside me, chewing her thumbnail, worrying about things even she lacks the Power to change. You are Saiauri. There is no changing that. You are Fomori and Kainapas. You are respected. You are feared. You are loved. You just are”.

“I worry you miss my point, Rikart Lukam. I am not saying I want to change the me I am now. I am just wondering if an alternate route would still have brought us to this point in time. Fireside conjecture, but I am too much a guide not to wonder about shortcuts and the paths not taken”.
“Mei sa, I am a mercenary, a fighting man. I deal with the enemy and the life I see before me. More than that I cannot manage. I leave the deep thinking and route finding to those better trained for it. But I will say this – I am here with this Saiauri, with this Jariel Janir. I know that it is the she who sits beside me, and she alone who could have brought me over to the Tribes. Factor that into your thinking, dear Guide of my life. If you look at an alternate you, you need to look at alternates of everyone else, and personally? I like the version we are today”.

On that, Luke turned back to the fire, carefully adjusting the pot so it sat in the best cooking coals. Jariel sat and watched him for a long time. Could the mercenary be right with his Northern pragmatism? She was trained to look for the complexities in every argument. Could it really be as simple as making the decision to be the person you saw in the mirror each day and to ignore the “what if’s”?

Sunday Roast: I like to pretend I’m a minimalist

So after last weeks blissful holiday, how did this week go? Um, not quite so blissfully if I’m being honest. You know every now and again you have one of those days. Now, imagine a whole week made up of those days, and you will have a pretty good idea of how pancake-flat I felt by the end of the week. But then we all had tea and cookies and a good gossip yesterday, so now I feel all 🙂 once more. Almost ready for next week. Almost…

Not just interested in jam and Jerusalem, the WI are calling for legalised brothels.

Bill Thompson’s latest column made me prick my ears up, not because of the warning about a viable Mac trojan (though that’s important too), but because of its call for better media literacy tuition in schools. This fits with a few other things I’ve been reading lately that are starting to tickle the back of my brain with interest.

A Japanese study has shown that children will bond with robot playmates. I guess it’s good to see proven something Asimov wrote about half a century ago, but at the same time it’s mildly concerning me. Why should these children have to bond with a robot? I’m also intrigued as to how the changes affect them over a longer period. Only in Japan I guess.

I’m not sure anyone with a full helping of common sense believes that automatic translators like Babel Fish are really reliable, but clearly diplomats don’t have a full helping of common sense.

Apparently, there are around four million UK bloggers. Guess I should be honoured that I was chosen as the joint-ninth then?

What’s your favourite flavor of death?

I’m not sure it’s exactly RSI friendly, but hot damn this steampunk laptop is gorgeous!

Want to know what to get me for Christmas? I wouldn’t say no to one of these Inka Pens (via David Seah‘s very persuasive review).

I just found out one of my pictures made it into Flickr Explore! So it made it on to page 20, but still 😛 I’m trying not to be miffed that it was a quick five second snap to show of my tattoo that made it into Explore as opposed to some of the other shots I worry hours over, but never mind. It’s a pretty tattoo and deserves to be shared.

Talking of pretty tattoos, I’m trying very hard not to be inspired by some of these designs…

Like postcards? Love MOO postcards (though why a UK based company automatically presents all it’s prices in dollars is confusing, and annoying, me).

I’m reaching the point where I’m scouring charity shops for good/trashy books to read. I always want to read more, never seem to make it to the library, and have to really love a book before I’ll shell out full price in Waterstones – so these 17 ways to get free books could come in very handy.

Only one trailer this week, but it is a good one – the full trailer for I Am Legend. Now, I’ve read and loved the book, so I’m eager/anxious about the movie. I’m really not sure how the book ending is going to translate to a Hollywood ending, so I’m preparing myself for a favourite to get butchered. But I will admit that the full length trailer is getting the tingles flowing.

And now, if you will excuse me, I am off to brave the weather to buy some groceries. And then do the washing up. Oh, I do have fun-filled weekends, don’t I? I just know that on Monday the EDLO is going to be full of tales of his action packed weekend, whilst I’m going to be “um, well, I had tea and cookies and slept a lot and watched lots of Bones… And went to Waitrose…” Yes, somewhere along the way I seem to have lost the party-animal Cas. I need to find her again.

A question of semantics

When I’m not at work, or out with friends, or indulging in a Bones marathon, I write. It’s what I do. How I de-stress. Sometimes I write for Bright Meadow, other times I write for me. And it’s got to the point in my own writing that I am having to describe what exactly it is that I’m writing to people. Real people. People I know, love and respect. People whose opinions I trust. I’m not talking about my blog-writing here – I’m pretty ok with talking about that now – but the writing I am doing on a much longer fiction piece.

Which is where I start to get trapped in semantics. I don’t feel comfortable calling it a ‘novel’ or even a book, because if nothing else, ‘book’ implies being published and we’ll probably be knee deep in flying pigs before that ever happens. And then there’s the fact that ‘novel’ implies a work with some serious message to impart. Or, at the very least, something set in the real world!

What I’m writing is neither of those things. It’s escapist fantasy pure and simple, set in a world of my own imagining, with characters that started life in my head because I was a lonely 17 year old who yearned to be the heroine. Sure they’ve fleshed out some since then, but still, we’re more in the realms of Robin Hobb than Zadie Smith here.

I’ve got the arc of what happens, though I’m worried I’ve over-reached because I really don’t have the skills to write the apocalyptic culminating battle I know in my head has to occur. I know the main characters like old friends and I am totally head-over-heals in love with one of the minor characters (already she’s gone from being a walk-on plot device part, to being a minor-but-pivotal character in her own right who is going to have to end up with at least a sequel all to her own). I know the world they all walk intimately, and have gone to the point that I’ve fleshed out whole patterns of trade and politics for socio-economically viable cultures, who are mentioned in just one passing line in the whole bloody thing. The only thing I’m still not sure on is the ending. On paper I know X fights Y. I know A betrays his people. I know he does this because B tells him to. But… things are still twisting in my head with that regard. There is a missing piece of the puzzle and till I’ve re-written what I plotted out last time I seriously put effort into it (a good couple of years back), I’m not sure where it’s all going to end up.

I got a little sidetracked there, sorry.

What I am try to impress on you all is that, regardless of what the finished product is, this story is in my head and forcing its way out of my fingers and onto the page. I can’t help it. Sometimes I lie awake at night and I can hear whole chunks of dialogue, just playing out. Scenes will scroll across my mind, making me lunge for a notebook so I don’t forget them. And that’s fine by me. I enjoy it. It would be lovely if I could do it all the time, but I can’t.

Which is where I start to stumble with language.

People ask me what I did at the weekend, for example, or what I did on my holiday. And I will, quite truthfully, tell them that I wrote.
“You write?” Slight taken aback pause, followed by (slightly) feigned interest. “What are you writing?”
“Um, this fantasy story set on an imaginary world with two warring cultures, and it’s all about one mercenary and how he brings about an apocalyptic war because he might want to change sides. But he doesn’t really. There’s this whole theme of love, and choice, and fate and…” That’s when I start to trail off because the blank look in most people’s eyes when you mention ‘fantasy’ really doesn’t encourage further elaboration. Fantasy is the realm of pimply fourteen year old losers who dress in black. It’s for the people who couldn’t get a date to prom. For the dorky among us. The geeks. Those not quite in touch with reality. The people who really could do with going back on their medication. And the people who write fantasy are the people who can’t write “properly”.

I’m not saying that that is who reads fantasy. My boss reads books about werewolves. Moose reads books about magicians and people with daemons. Lord of the Rings made being a fanboi/geek cool and pretty much socially acceptable. Nor am I someone who really subscribes to the belief that fantasy is a lesser genre (though it does seem that some god-awful dross gets published just because “it’s fantasy, so we don’t need standards”).

But still, say ‘fantasy’ and I challenge you not to think immediately of a dysfunctional teenager who wears a lot of spiky jewellery, listens to loud music, and who the FBI would question first if there was a suspected bombing at a high-school, because everyone knows that Johnny is just weird. I mean he reads books with pictures of swords, scantily leather-clad busty women, and dragons on the front. Right?

So I’m not writing a ‘book’ and I’m reluctant to mention the genre it really belongs in if I’m being honest. It would be lovely to think that I am writing a seminal work which later generations will analyse in depth and admire the skill with which I wove the many intricate themes throughout the story. To think that maybe scholars would marvel at how such an elegantly simple piece could still have relevance. And I get a perverse kind of glee thinking that it could end up being some school set-text. But that’s never going to happen. I’m not writing a modern classic, even if it was going to get published. I’m simply putting it all down on the page because I get a kick out of it and because there’s a hoard of little people fighting in my skull who really want to make sure their story gets heard.

I just wish I had some easy way to describe it to my mum is all. Or my brother, because I know the explanation I have right now is just going to have him mocking me over the sprouts at Christmas.

Sunday Roast: asparagus is almost sausage shaped

So how has this week gone? Really rather blissfully actually as I’ve had the week off from work. I really can’t deny that a week of drunken debauchery and dancing, shopping, writing, fireworks, curry, gossip, season 2 of Bones finally arriving on DVD, the odd plumbing emergency and lots of sleep was just what the doctor ordered. I feel human once more and ready to face whatever work has in store for me. Apart from maybe dealing with the Temp Lottery again – I might need another couple of weeks before I am ready for that! The week could only have been improved by the presence of a certain eligible bachelor, hell! I’m getting to the point that any bachelor would be quite nice. I once again put out the call to my friends to cast about their assorted and various acquaintance and I think they might be starting to believe me. That’s the problem when all your friends are disgustingly happy with their Other Halves and their friends are also hooked up. There must be single men out there in Southampton. There must.

Grrr.

Not that I want to give the impression that I am a desperate man-seeking missile. I mean, what on earth would give you that impression?! There are just times I think it might be quite nice to have someone else around. He’d have to be f***ing fantastic to be worthy of my blogging greatness, that goes without saying, but… I repeat. There must be single men out there in Southampton. There must.

And now I have splurged far more information that my Dad probably wants to be reading over the ‘Net, let’s get on with the Roast, shall we?

You know that gun crime is a problem when even the dogs are in on the act.

Followers of my Twitter feed might have noticed me getting a bit irrate with Royal Mail over their inability to deliver a simple parcel. Which makes this news item all the more galling.

I don’t really care for whether or not Digg opens itself up so it can grown. What I do care about, and find rather amusing, is that (and I quote): “There is value in vertical focus… but there may be a vertical which we would choose not to go into”. Now, it’s been a while since I did maths or Physics, but isn’t there just one vertical? I mean, gravity and all that kinda relies on there just being one up-down, doesn’t it?

Not that I’m pissed off with Royal Mail or anything, but how can they justify giving the boss a pay rise when they can’t actually do what they claim to do – i.e., deliver letters?!

Alonso has left McLaren. Well, that’s a surprise.

Now I am the proud owner of an external harddrive, I can finally do what I’ve been promising myself I’d do since I made the mistake of installing Tiger over the top of 10.3, nuke my HD back to factory fresh and hopefully reclaim some memory. The problem with doing this is you’re never totally sure you’ve backed up all the programs you rely on. Which is where this little list might come in handy.

I love me my keyboard shortcuts – CMD+W to close tabs is just great. The problem being I keep hitting CMD+Q to quit Safari instead with enough regularity to annoy myself. It’s especially annoying when I’m in the middle of a Roast and have twenty or thirty tabs open… You can imagine the language. So this little trick looks very handy. (Thanks Justin for responding to my Twitter wail 🙂 )

How to buy Leopard for $40. Legally.

Thinking of what Christmas cards to buy? You could worse than these Moo cards.

At last! Someone who shares my postcard obsession

And time for Abi’s favourite part of the Roast – Movie Corner
Not technically a movie, but the latest mindbending animation from The Other Side.

The Golden Compass – so I’ve linked to this trailer oodles of times already, but I am looking forward to the film, damn it!

Jumper – sci-fi, mutants, genetic alteration, evolution…

What Would Jesus Buy?

To Desk, or not to Desk

For the last few weeks – it might be longer than that actually if I’m being truthful – I’ve eschewed my carefully ergonomically set up workstation in favour of just the PocketCalculator on the living/dining room table. Well, WiFi means I can browse anywhere in Meadow Towers and there is a power socket near the table, so why not? I can be merrily computing away whilst Moose is watching something on the TV just a few feet away – companionable, but separate. Perfect.

Plus, the living room is a bit warmer.

OK, the main reason I haven’t been sitting at my desk lately is that I can’t actually see my desk for the mounds of crap that have accumulated all over it. I’m not sure which came first, the not using the desk, or the mounds of crap, but right now it’s gonna take a concerted effort, with backup teams of sherpas and medics standing by at base camp, just to find my keyboard, second screen and laptop stand under all the mess, and frankly sitting in the living room is just nicer.

I am seriously contemplating putting my computing life back where it belongs however, if only because Moose wants to make a cover for the sofa this weekend, and needs to set the sewing machine up where the PocketCalculator currently resides. Plus, you know, RSI is no laughing matter, and I’m just courting disaster with the setup I am using at this moment. And it might be nice to be able to eat dinner at the table without having to push my desk-crap to one side every time.

But… Well, here’s the rub. I have realised that I don’t like to write on the fancy duel screen set up, with the full sized keyboard and mouse. It doesn’t feel right to write like that. I much prefer the intimacy… no, intimacy is the wrong word… immediacy, of using just the laptop. I’m right there. Just my fingers on the keypad and the words appearing on the blue screen right in front of me. No distractions (when I’ve got the second screen up, it’s invariably the ‘browser’ window). Just me and the words. There’s more to it than that, I know, but at the root of it, the feel is just wrong. I never used to feel that way, then I spent a week writing, just me and the laptop, and realised that this was my preferred writing method. There wasn’t anything wrong with the other way and I demonstrably can work that way, but…

I’m not expressing myself very well.

I’m thinking back to that piece the Guardian did a while ago about different writers and their workspaces. Some people took away from that how different writers can/can’t work with computers and hailed it as the death knell of one form or the other. What I took away from it is that I’m not the only remarkably territorial writer out there. Everyone of them had a workspace that was uniquely theirs. It had to be set up just so, so they could write their best. Now, I’m not saying that what I’m bashing out in my spare time is even remotely decent or will ever see the light of day, but I do write. It’s inescapable. Writing, I have come to realise, is my thing. When I can’t do it I feel grumpy. When I don’t do it I feel grumpy. And when it’s not going well (for however you measure ‘well’), I feel grumpy.

So there’s my dilemma.

Put my computer back where it belongs on the shiny, ergonomic goodness that is my proper desk with the dual-screen setup; return the living room to being, well, the living room; maintain harmony at Meadow Towers; but not feel totally comfortable writing. Or stay on the living/dining table, court RSI and a pissed-off Moose, but be happy writing.

Logic would suggest that I go back to my desk and just not use the dual-screen etc, but since when have I ever been logical?

*sigh*

I’ve answered my own question really, haven’t I? It’s time to go back to the desk. Because after all, the PocketCalculator is just that – a laptop – and supremely portable. Just because I am doing the majority of my computing where I should be, it doesn’t mean I can’t make the odd excursion to the living room when the muse has descended. So if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to perform an archaeological investigation of my desk. If I’m not back in three hours, send in Indiana Jones will you?

I’m a finalist in the 2007 Weblog Awards!

Vote for me in the 2007 Weblog Awards

So, it turns out that I’m a finalist in the 2007 Weblog Awards. Apparently I’m one of the ten best UK blogs. I’m not sure how stiff the competition is because, at the time I write, there aren’t links to anyone in my category (grrr), but I’m sure they are all glitteringly wonderful and that I stand no chance of winning. It sure is nice to be nominated however.

This news, as you might expect, has pretty much knocked me for a loop. I first saw that I’d been nominated this morning when Lifecruiser and Abi told me in the comments. Now, I was drinking my morning cup of tea at the time I read the comment. I jumped up from the table to do a little Woot! of joy, tripped over the table leg, knocked the table, split my tea (narrowly missing my computer), and then I stubbed my toe.

The pain is worth it though. It’s the first time I’ve been nominated for anything!

Clearly I got this nomination because the armies of 9rules went out and did their “nominate THIS person or you’ll regret it” thing I totally rock and rule the world 😉

Seriously, however I got it, I am ready to be bowled over by something that is very good at bowling people over. And yes, I will be bragging about it down the pub tonight! (I am that sad)

So, what can you do now? Well, the best thing you can all do, dear readers, is hike your cute little behinds over to the voting page and vote for me. You can vote once a day till the closing date, which is the 8th November.

There are oodles of other awards which I’m not up for, but other spankingly great blogs are, so whilst you’re there I would recommend seeing if any of your other favourite blogs are included in the list.

I refuse to pick favourites, but you could do worse than voting for my One True Blog Love, Roro in the Best Individual Blogger category. (I did a genuine punch-the-air, YES! when I saw her on the list).

Come on people, I need you. Bright Meadow is only as fantastic as it is because I know y’all are out there, reading, waiting and commenting, constantly forcing me to up my game. So I need you a bit more now – vote for me.

Please? If nothing else I want to be able to go “ner-nerny-ner-ner” and stick my tongue out at my brother this Christmas for daring to say my blog is “silly”. Who said sibling rivalry can’t spur you to greatness?

Sorry Mum

It occurred to me today as I put on my New Rocks that I probably owe my mum and dad an apology for turning out as I’ve turned out. I’m not a parent, but everything I’ve read seems to point to parents being pleased if their offspring follow in their footsteps, or are at least happy.

For the longest time I wasn’t even anything remotely approaching happy. It was no one’s fault but that of my own glitchy neurochemical make-up, but it did mean that I felt a total failure to those nearest and dearest to me. I mean, how hard can it really be to just be “happy”?

Very hard as it turns out.

Now, I’ve beaten that particular demon upside the head a few times with a frying pan, so I am happy to say that it’s taken a while, but I think I’ve got there – or at least have my feet firmly on the right path.

And as for following in their footsteps? Well, pah! to that. There’s a hackneyed phrase that would be appropriate right about now. Something to do with hell getting very, very cold…

So yes, I will admit I’m probably something of a disappointment to my parents. Or if not exactly a disappointment, I’m fairly convinced that my mother at least finds it hard to get a handle on me. She’s not quite as in touch with her kooky side as you’d expect from someone who’s lived in Glastonbury for nigh on 30 years.

I can still remember her face the first time I walked through the door in my New Rocks. And the time I cut off all my hair and dyed the remainder purple. Or the time I came home with my first tattoo. And then the second tattoo. Her resigned patience during my long fought campaign to wear nothing but black stays in my mind. Followed by her bemused acceptance of my seemingly abrupt about turn to embrace all colours, including pink. And let’s not forget her confusion when I started wearing skirts and heels after two decades of refusing point-blank to do anything remotely “girly girl”.

For now she seems to have come to terms with the prospect of no grandchildren from either my brother (for whom the phrase “not a sodding cat in hells chance!” was probably invented) or me (a 50/50 split between no inclination and no medical ability) and is dealing remarkably well with my determination to continue the student/single/rental/no-responsbiliies life style as long as feasibly possible.

But I know deep down I know she’d rather I was at least making a move in the direction of settling down with a significant other in tow and the 2.4 on the horizon. Sorry Mum.

Really, I think my parents have only themselves to blame. They raised us to be confident in who we are and to be individuals. I’ve taken the Kemp/Buchanan pig-headed stubbornness and refusal to conform a little bit further than my brother, I will admit, but I like to think I’m being true to my upbringing. As I’ve said before, I grew up in Glastonbury which is arguably the New Age capital of the world. I hadn’t realised quite the influence the place had had on me till the day I walked out of the doctors and had to fight the urge to go buy the appropriate crystal to heal my particular ailment. Even now the smell of incense mixed with a hint of weed, and the sound of a West Country burr cut with Home Counties vowels can instantly transport me home. I think I’m relaxed then I walk down the high street and… something in me unwinds and I really am at peace.

Re-read that last section for me will you?

Really, you need no other clue as to the influence growing up in Somerset had on me. For the child of a “suit” and a bank clerk, I am more than a little… bohemian. Which, as the bohemian in this equation, I find totally cool and more than a little amusing.

We are all the products of our upbringing and I expect my upbringing was no stranger than many – in fact in many ways, it is was as “normal” as they could make it. But I grew up in a town where it’s normal for people to rush across the street and hug total strangers, crying “Happy Solstice!”. My dad lives on a narrow boat. Really, what chance did I have?

So sorry Mum. I know the chances of you ever actually understanding me are somewhere between slim to none, and I know the fact I am blogging this instead of telling you to your face will just add to the confusion, but know I love you. I wish I could be the daughter I think you secretly want but I’m what you’ve got. I am wonderful and I am that way because you gave me the space to be who I wanted to be.

Oh, and I’ve cut all my hair off again.